The Devil's Shoestring

By Allen Nesbitt

When the old man slowly shuffled along the streets mumbling and shouting, the people that he passed moved quickly past him. Some of them felt sorry for him, some wondered why the city didn’t address the homeless problem and others ignored him. He knew something. They didn’t know. But he knew. A passerby would take Waller for another unfortunate street person. Just an elderly, bearded fellow shuffling along, pack on his back, no future in front of him, commonplace in the nineties .The more astute observer would note that the hiking boots were of top quality and the trousers and shirt were clean. The pack and sleeping bag would fetch top dollar in a sporting goods store. The observer would not know of the aged money belt under the denim shirt, which was stuffed with twenty dollar bills, or of the Colt.38 special inside the pack. Waller was not a typical street person.Waller avoided contact with the other poor souls that aimlessly traversed the city. More money than he would ever spend was hidden. But his former life was shattered. He spent his days drinking and sometimes wondered how he had ended up this way. He had tugged on the devil’s shoestring and would forever be tormented by the terrible results of his complacency and lack of ambition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allen Nesbitt
• Release date: Nov 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310251795

Allen Nesbitt

Allen lives in Portland, OR with his wife and two dogs.

Book preview

THE DEVIL’S SHOESTRING

By Allen Nesbitt

Copywright 2015 Allen Nesbitt

Smashwords Edition

This book is available in print at most online retailers

"Don’t tug on the devil’s shoestring

It’s bad mojo they say

He’s gonna be haunting you

Every night and day."

Mississippi Slim

When the old man slowly shuffled along the downtown streets of Ft. Worth mumbling and shouting, the people that he encountered moved quickly past him. Some of them felt sorry for him, some wondered why the city didn’t address the homeless problem and others ignored him.

But the old man’s tortured mind held a horrible secret.

They didn’t know. Only he knew

Chapter One

Home, Sweet Home

The hot air of the Texas night shrouded Xerxes Waller as he shuffled along the empty street. As he moved past the barbeque joint, the lingering scent of spicy meat formed a fragrant fog which seemed to cling to him. A block further down the street, a leaking sewer thrust a disgusting odor into the black air. He covered his face and tried to hold his breath until he was past the flowing gutter.

Suddenly he doubled over in a spasm of coughing. He spat onto the gray pavement, bloody mucus sliding darkly into dusty weeds. As he reached the end of the defeated street, a pungent stab of creosote and an oily curtain of diesel fuel invaded his nostrils.

He climbed the slight embankment of rocky ballast, scrubby weeds and trash. He crested into the edge of a railroad yard. He turned left and followed a rusty track. On his right was the large rail yard. The tracks of several railroads merged into an orderly web of iron rails and switches. Strings of freight cars slumbered in the summer night. Red signals pierced the clear night like bloody lasers. A lone switch engine shunted a string of cars along on an inside track.

Further south was the tower and the crossing where the east-west tracks crossed and converged. The throbbing of the diesel locomotives blended with the wail of the air horns. Hissing air connections, squealing brakes and the thud of slack pulling formed the night music of Waller’s home.

When Waller had found the building, the cellar had been cluttered with trash and leaves. He purchased some heavy wire cutters and a roll of thick wire at a hardware store. He cut the fence above the stairs, then he cut the wire into lengths and bent each end to form a hook. When he left the cellar, or at night before he went to sleep, he would close the opening with the wire hooks. Only a close inspection would reveal the breach in the fence. He had removed the trash and leaves. He had stolen a broom from the bus station and swept one corner clean. Every day, he would sweep the floor before he departed.

Once, while in the library, Waller had read a story in the Star Telegram about his building. At one time it had housed a very successful wholesale operation. The aged owner had died. None of his five children had any interest in the company. They liquidated the operation and tried to sell the building. The location was not right for the price that they wanted. The family held out for over twenty years waiting for the land values in the area to increase. Finally, two of the siblings took sides and sued the others. The case was winding its way through the courts. It would be many years before resolution. So the old building continued to decay, and Waller continued staying there.

So on this hot July night, Waller slipped the pack from his back and walked carefully down the steps. He secured the fence back into place with the hooks. Then he removed an insulate pad from his pack and placed it on the smooth, concrete floor. He unrolled his sleeping bag and laid it along the wall in the corner. He removed his boots, wrapped his shirt around them and fashioned them into a pillow. He reached into the pack and pulled out a snub-nosed Colt .38 special and placed it next to his boots. As a long freight train labored into the yard, Waller dropped drunkenly into the velvet darkness.

The next day, Waller awoke slowly. He realized that he had not dreamed about it. That was always a relief. When he did dream of it, the tortuous nightmares shattered his rest and made him sweat and writhe in the night. He hadn’t dreamed of it in many nights. He was glad for this respite.

On this summer day in July, Waller lay on his back and looked up into a blue sky framing the roof of the cellar. It was going to be another hot day. Waller wore no watch, but guessed it to be around six thirty. Hours, days, weeks and months all blurred into a succession of sleep, eat and drink. He began to stir.

Waller retrieved his boots, sat up and laced them on. He put on his shirt and buttoned it up. He replaced the pistol in the pack and rolled up his sleeping bag. He picked up his gear, climbed the steps and opened the fence. After he passed through the opening, he fastened it back in place. He shouldered the pack and walked to a tree and pissed onto the dusty soil.

He took inventory. The burning pain in his stomach had yet to surface. His breathing was raspy and his right lung ached. Waller pulled a ragged pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket and lit one. The harsh smoke gave him a slight rush.

Waller ran a hand over his head, then through his beard. He decided to head over to the barbershop. He trudged toward the edge of downtown. It was still very early. The sound of the traffic to the south of him indicated that it was a weekday.

A passerby would take Waller for another unfortunate street person. Just an elderly, bearded fellow shuffling along, pack on his back, no future in front of him, commonplace in the nineties.

The more astute observer would note that the hiking boots were of top quality and the trousers and shirt were clean. The pack and sleeping bag would fetch top dollar in a sporting goods store. The observer would not know of the aged money belt under the denim shirt, which was stuffed with twenty dollar bills, or of the Colt.38 special inside the pack. Waller was not a typical street person.

Waller avoided contact with the other poor souls that aimlessly traversed the city.

Close to the Greyhound bus station was a small barbershop. It was a relic from the past. The two barbers were very old men. The shoeshine boy was even older. He was a Negro called, Cigar John.

Waller was the first customer of the day. John greeted him at the door.

Still wear’n dem boots. I can’t shine no boots.

Next time, I’ll wear wingtips, smiled Waller handing the old man a five dollar bill and settling in one of the barber chairs.

It was a long-standing joke between them. Waller had been getting his hair cut and his beard trimmed there for almost thirty years. He eschewed the small talk and opinions of the barbers, or the occasional other customers. Clement would ask him how he wanted it cut.

The usual, replied Waller and closed his eyes and dozed as Clement began to work. Clement would cut the white hair short, trim the white beard and hold up a hand mirror for Waller’s approval.

That will be eleven dollars, sir, the old barber said.

Waller pulled a roll of bills from the pocket of his faded pants and handed three five dollar bills to Clement. The old man offered four ones back and Waller refused them as always.

Thank you, sir, the old man said. Waller nodded, retrieved his pack and walked out of the shop.

As he walked slowly away from the shop, he stuffed the roll of fives into his pocket. He liked fives. Lincoln was on the five. He smiled as he walked along the sidewalk toward the old YMCA.

Waller maintained three identical sets of clothes. One set he wore, one set was folded neatly in his pack and the third set was at the cleaners. Waller reached the YMCA building and walked inside. He went to the third floor men’s locker room where he had a locker that he rented by the year.

Waller spun the combination lock and opened the door. Inside he kept a supply of shampoo, soap, deodorant, a comb, a brush and other sundries. Waller took the clean set of clothes from his pack and set them on a shelf in the locker. He placed the pack, sleeping bag and money belt into the locker. He stripped and put the dirty clothes inside of a plastic bag. He set them inside of the locker, shut the door and locked the lock.

He carried the shampoo and bar of soap to the shower room, grabbing a clean, white towel from a stack by the entrance of the large room. He headed toward a stall. A few businessmen who had just completed an early racquetball match had left the area steaming. Waller turned on the water full force and hot. He washed his hair and lathered with the soap. He let the heavy, hot spray cascade over him for a long time.

Finally, he turned off the water and toweled off. The other men had departed. Waller went to his locker and unlocked it. He applied the deodorant and combed his short hair. He dressed in the clean set of clothes. He circled the money belt around his lean waist and pulled the blue shirt over it. He retrieved his pack and sleeping bag. He locked the locker. He would return in a few days. The attendant sitting behind a counter nodded at Waller as he left the area. Waller ignored the man.

It was much warmer when Waller left the YMCA and headed toward a small diner on the next block. He had eaten breakfast there every day for a very long time. The faces of the employees and other customer changed, but his order was always the same; two eggs scrambled, sausage, toast and juice. Waller sat at the counter and ate with remote efficiency.

After paying his check, he walked to the cleaners. He turned in the plastic bag of clothes and picked up his clean set. He placed them inside of his pack. In addition to his clothes and gun, the pack held a rain suit with hood, a heavy parka for winter, spare socks and underwear, a ball cap, gloves and a woolen stocking hat. There was also a thick, waterproof bag inside.

Waller left the cleaners and headed to the public library four blocks away. The pain in his stomach grew fiery hot and ragged. Once inside the cool building, he went into a restroom. He sat doubled over on the toilet for a long time. Finally, he felt better. He went outside and had a smoke. Then he went back inside to the periodical section. He perused the Dallas Morning News and the Fort Worth Star Telegram for a while. Then he picked up a copy of the Wall Street Journal. He had never owned stocks or bonds, but he liked the crisp reporting and the lengthy paper consumed all of his morning.

The routine never varied. He would read until noon. The only exception was on Sunday when the library was closed. Then he would buy the Dallas paper and sit in the bus station.

At noon, Waller replaced the paper in the rack and walked outside. It was almost one hundred degrees and the heat slammed off the pavement. He walked two blocks to a small barbeque joint and ate a plate of brisket, sausage and beans. He washed it down with a mug of cold beer.

Waller went out of the dark place into the bright sunshine. He headed toward a small park that was along the river. Close to the park, he stopped in a small store and purchased several quarts of beer and a bag of ice. He removed the waterproof bag from his pack and filled it with the beer and ice. He ambled slowly to the park. At the edge of the river were some benches. Waller went to his bench and sat down. He removed one of the bottles from the bag and opened it. He took a long sip of the icy liquid.

The Trinity was a brown, smelly and unattractive river. The city had tried to make it more appealing by building several small parks in various spots. Because of this park’s proximity to a side of the city that few people ventured to, Waller was usually the only denizen of the benched area.

It would remain light until almost nine o’clock, so Waller had many hours to while away. Not far from his bench were some bushes and a small grove of trees. Waller used this spot to relieve himself during the long afternoons and evenings. Seldom did anyone venture into the area. There was a jogging path a hundred yards behind his bench. Sometimes, a policeman on a bicycle or a horse would pass by on the path. They never bothered him.

Waller was convinced that the sun could heal any ailment. He let the hot rays burn across his chest and stomach as he reclined on his bench.

So he lounged in the summer sun, sipped the golden liquid and let his mind wander. Sometimes, he focused on one topic, other times his thoughts were all jumbled. In the late afternoons, when he was drunk, he would mumble and laugh.

Often he would think of situations and circumstances in which, had he made a different choice, a different decision, things would be very different today.

What was the defining moment that had led him to this bench, drinking the day away, wandering the deteriorating blocks and sleeping in a cellar behind an abandoned building?

But no one event could be blamed. It was a web of decisions and a labyrinth of choices, any one of which could have kept him from this place. So on this hot summer day, his mind wandered back to his earliest memories.

Chapter Two

Sweet Home, Alabama

Waller’s earliest memories were of his childhood days in the hilly, green neighborhoods of Birmingham. The Great Depression had not touched his family or those of his friends. Now, the country was involved in a war and Birmingham was a beehive of activity. Iron was mined from the hills north of the city. It fed the huge steel mills. Long freight trains carried jeeps, tanks and munitions down to the Gulf for shipment to Europe. The Pittsburgh of the South was booming.

His house had a nice backyard with a swing set, but Xerxes and his pals roamed far and wide, climbing tall trees, wading in a creek and hunting rabbits and squirrels in a wooded area nearby. Two blocks away was a vacant lot that became a perfect baseball diamond during the long, hot summer days.

Around noon, someone would talk their mother into making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Kool-Aid. Then they would head off on their bikes to the old quarry to swim all afternoon, daring each other to dive from the high cliffs.

Summers were long and sweet. His school was a few blocks away from his house. During the school year, he would walk every day, meeting up with his buddies along the way. One kid had dug a cave in a hillside of his backyard. It was fun to stop and read comic books in the damp-smelling darkness by candlelight in the afternoons.

Waller was athletic and scrappy. He tanned well and at the end of summer, he was brown and battle scarred. He and his best friend, Gene, had explored some sewer tunnels, hopped a slow-moving freight train, climbed to the top of a church steeple and built a large fort from materials scavenged from the alleyways of the neighborhood.

Waller did well in school. He enjoyed learning and made excellent grades. He read many of the books in his father’s large library. He especially liked ones about the medieval period in Europe.

Sometimes, he envied the other kids who had brothers and sisters. But he had much more freedom than most of his friends, having only to be home by dinner time.

His father, Madison Waller, had a rigid work ethic that mandated an early bedtime, and usually the old man was asleep by nine o’clock. Minnie, the cook and housekeeper, liked to talk on the telephone to her mother. She would retire to her quarters in back of the house after cleaning up the kitchen. So it was easy for Xerxes to slip away and join some of his bolder friends for night sorties. They would sneak into movie theaters, climbed a water tower, peek into the windows of high school girls or smoke cigarettes by the creek.

Waller’s elementary school was one of four that fed into the junior high school. While the boys tended to stick together with their friends from their old school, the girls were a different matter. Xerxes was amazed to see so many pretty girls from other parts of the city. The girls that he had grown up with were merely buddies, but these girls seemed different somehow with their colorful dresses, pretty faces and flowing hair.

There was much discussion in Waller’s gang of friends about who was going to get whom. It seemed that most of the girls had boyfriends from their old school. They were also targets of the ninth grade studs.

After a few weeks, it all sorted out. Xerxes succeeded in latching onto Amy, a pretty dark-haired girl who was soon elected class president. In the sweet darkness of the dances after football games and in movie theaters, Xerxes honed his skills. After Amy, there was pretty blonde Susie, then Marcia. Junior high was fun.

Waller played football, basketball and baseball. He was not a star player, but was a solid contributor to the teams. He was quick and coordinated. His grades remained good.

High school proved to be even more fun. Madison had given Xerxes his 1938 De Soto when he had turned fifteen. Waller spent many hours cruising the city with his friends. Gasoline rationing had ceased after the war had ended, so he could range far and wide.

Madison spent more and more time at his office downtown. When he was home, he secluded himself in his study working on cases. The brute weight of the workload seemed to help ease his pain and help him carry on. He and Xerxes seldom saw each other. Madison travelled often. He was establishing his firm’s presence in England.

When Minnie, the aged Negro housekeeper and cook died, Xerxes was sixteen and Madison did not replace her. He gave Waller a generous allowance and Xerxes ate meals with friends or at local restaurants. A bowl of cold cereal or a ragged sandwich constituted his culinary efforts at home.

Madison’s trips to England were anticipated eagerly by Xerxes and his pals. Legendary parties were held in the old man’s absence. During one such event, Xerxes estimated that over one hundred kids were in the house or large backyard. It took him almost two days to clean up.

During the summer between his sophomore and junior years, his grandfather had gotten got him a job in Memphis on the Gulf, Mobile and Northern railroad. Thaddeus Hank was the president of the company which was headquartered in Mobile.

On a sunny Sunday, Waller boarded the Dixie Flyer for Memphis. When he arrived at the bustling station, he strode through the building and took a piece of paper from his pocket. He scanned the directions, then headed down the street. After three blocks, he located the railroad hotel. Waller entered, checked in and was told how to find his room.

Lunchroom is open all of the time. Food is good too, the clerk said as he handed Waller a large key.

Waller went up a flight of stairs and found his room. It was small, but clean. Down the hallway, he found the shower room and the bathroom. He returned to his room and unpacked. Hank’s secretary had sent him a typed list of what to bring. It was getting warm in the room. He found that the window could be opened wide, but the humidity and lack of a breeze was evident.

Waller went out, locked the door, and went to the lunch room. A waitress took his order for a burger and fries. He sipped on a soda as he waited for his food.

Memphis was a division headquarters, so the lunchroom was bustling at all hours. Crews from both freight and passenger trains changed here. Passenger train conductors, trainmen and brakemen in their navy blue uniforms with shiny buttons ate together. The engineers and firemen ate with the freight crews. In another lunchroom on the other side of the building, Pullman porters, cooks and waiters from the dining cars ate with the bartenders from the club cars.

The food came and it was