Sort ’Em Out Later

By Jim Wilsky

Malefactors is defined as “those who commit an offense against the law”, or more simply put, “one who does ill toward another”. This collection of short stories from Jim Wilsky is chock full of them. Tales that are all different, yet all the same.

The locales and characters range from rural to urban. Office buildings, swamps, wealthy estates and corn fields are some of the places. The people range from folks with money to flat broke, from those who have a lot on the line to those who have nothing to lose, old and young alike. There are stone cold killers to good guys and those in between. Those walking on that shaky bridge, that thin tightrope that connects good and evil.

The stories all share the same common ingredients though. Plots that are brutal, chaotic, desperate, vengeful and violent. These pages paint the rage and burning fire that dwells within almost everyone but only surface and re-erupt in some.

From guns, to knives, to swords and bare hands, this collection will push all the right buttons for crime fiction readers. These specially selected stories touch every base. So, buckle up and read on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Down & Out Books
• Release date: Aug 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463120323

Book preview

Black Velvet

It’s late and I’m a little in the tank when I slide the card down into the door lock. We had the retirement party for Tyler Drummond downstairs tonight. Tossed back drinks, shared some war stories, and then had a few more drinks. Steaks were excellent and the band they hired was damn good. When they played that one song, right out of the blue, the gal singing did it just right. It set me back some, though.

Ty put in twenty-five hard years. He’s a good man. Hell, they’re all good men. Solid boys. I don’t know if I’m gonna make it or not, though. I only have eleven years in.

I’m standing here in this fancy hotel room in the San Antonio Adam’s Mark and everything should be good. But it ain’t good. It’ll never be good, I suspect. I take my hat off, walk over to the window, and slide it open as far as it will go. The River Walk below still has a few people meandering around down there. Turning from the window, I pause at the desk and start to unbutton my shirt.

There’s a fresh pad of paper and pen by the phone. It crosses my mind, but I’m not much of a writer, except for incident reports, case notes and such. So, I walk to the dresser and set my hat on it; next comes my Ranger star and my duty belt. The holstered gun clunks on the mahogany dresser.

There is that voice in my head again, saying to write it down. Just try, write it down. So I walk back over and sit at the small desk. Staring down at the blank pad of paper, I don’t really know how to start this.

I figure almost every lawman has that one case, or one day that has stayed with him. One that he can’t forget and never will. Something or someone he could never drink away or shower off, no matter how hot the water is. The best you’ll ever do, over time, is just not think about it as much. You never get over it or have closure. A word I’ve come to hate. Well, I’m no different. I have one of those stories. So here you go.

It was a fine spring day, almost exactly one year ago. My shift was already over but I had gotten a good jump on tomorrow. I filed away the last case folder that I had been working on and slugged down the rest of my warm Coke. I put my hat on and had one foot out of my office when the phone rang.

It had that bad ring to it, you know, you can just tell, sometimes. Angry ring almost. I looked at it long and hard, but on the fifth ring I went ahead and answered.

Will Chapman here.

Will, this is Bryant over in Jackson. How you been, son?

Bryant Dendy, well I’ll be damned. I tipped my hat back and grinned up at the ceiling. Bryant and I had been in the Marines together. He was now a lieutenant with the Mississippi Highway Patrol. We’d kept in loose contact over the years.

Been good, Will, been real good…until a call I just got.

What’s goin’ on? Sheila okay, the kids?

No, no, nothin’ like that.

Well good. What then, Bryant? What can I do you for?

You got trouble headed your way. Almost sure of it.

Alrighty then. What’s trouble’s name?

Waylon Toler, he’s one of our own, a Mississippi boy. Born and bred.

Hold on now, Bryant. I took my hat off and sat back down, pulling out a worn-out little spiral notepad from my shirt pocket. Okay, go.

Y’all gonna have to move on this quick, now. His voice was a little shaky.

Understood.

I just got a call from Waylon’s momma about twenty minutes ago. They live down around Picayune. She’s all cryin’ and crazy. Says we got to stop her baby before he does something. She tells me that he’s gone chasin’ after his little girlfriend who’s done run off from him. Tells me that Waylon just loves her so much, he’s liable to do most anything.

Got anything on him?

White male, six-foot, one-eighty, twenty-four years old. Black hair, blue eyes. Done a little time here in Mississippi, Hattiesburg, and Forrest County. Drugs, couple of minors, assault, family disputes, nothing too bad.

Got you so far.

He cleared his throat and sighed. Well, it’s best to know he’s country, Will, but he’s been around some cities, too. He’s smooth and he’s a pretty boy. I swear he looks like a young Elvis. The kid is a real charmer with the ladies, a damn legend around Picayune, in fact.

Any distinguishing marks? Tats, scars…?

No sir, nothing on that. He’s a damn good lookin’ kid, but I always thought he was a little off. Something was missing with that boy—or maybe he had too much of something—never could figure out which.

Guns? Car? I was jotting down everything, even Bryant’s off-the-cuff remarks.

Nothing on guns but he took off in a souped-up ’69 GTO, light blue. His Daddy’s classic car, but he’s a smart little shit, so who knows if he’ll change tags or not. In case he don’t, his daddy’s Mississippi plate is NSW 104. Again, 1969 GTO, light blue hardtop.

All right, well, that shouldn’t be hard to spot. I’ll put this out to the boys here. Oh, what’s the little gal’s name?

Need a favor on that, Will, but first, her name is Callie. Callie Ann Mullins, white female, eighteen. One child, a boy, three. He’s with her. Boy’s name is Austin.

Jesus, eighteen and three?

Yessir. The child is not Waylon’s.

All right, what’s the favor?

There was silence on his end. Bryant cleared his throat again. Don’t tell your people yet. Don’t put it out on the system yet.

I don’t follow you.

…Waylon is, well, he’s my nephew. Can you just check it out for me first, Will?

Uh-huh. So how do we know he’s coming to Texas, anyway?

Callie is a Texas girl through and through. She grabbed her kid and ran home to her momma right there in San Antonio. Waylon’s momma told me that’s where she was headed. I guess they live way the hell outside a town, off of, let’s see here… There was some paper shuffling on the other end. Off of Bandera Road.

He gave me the Farm Road address and started giving me directions off the map he had pulled up, but I stopped him.

I know the road. I know right where that is. You’re right, it’s out there a ways. You got a phone for them?

I got no phone number, tried that. I don’t think Callie comes from much, Will.

"All right Bryant, listen now, I’ll go check it out for you. Sooner or later though, you and I got to put this out there if you think it could turn bad. You know that. At least we got some time. I understand you wanting to handle this quiet, though, and I don’t mind helping you on it.

Will, we got no time.

Well, hell, Bryant, there’s another state in between us, you know, and Texas ain’t exactly the size of Vermont, either.

My sister only called me a half hour ago, but she thinks old Waylon left early last night and he couldn’t have been far behind the little gal. Hell, they’re both probably already there.

It took me just a little over forty minutes to get out there. I signed out a DPS cruiser and lit it up. One thing about being a Ranger, you are given a long leash in terms of procedure and jurisdiction. That’s the whole state and beyond, if need be. Technically, you don’t answer to anyone but the damn governor and you can be involved at any level of public safety.

All that is just fine and good but you had best not break that long leash, or abuse those privileges. I was walking a very fine line on this one.

I pulled into the long dirt lane just past the thirty-two mile marker. I went up a slight rise. The lane leveled out but then dropped back down a little, curling left back around behind a big tree line. In a small clearing was an old, white double-wide trailer. You couldn’t even see the road from where it sat. Coming up to the trailer, I paused and looked around, kind of took things in. One truck, a beat-to-shit Silverado, with an assortment of household things piled on there every which way. The whole load was still half tarped and roped down. It looked like the girl hadn’t unloaded yet.

I drove up a little farther so I could sneak a look behind the trailer. There was nothing back there, either, except long weeds and an old rusty swing set with the swings hanging all crooked. As soon as I got out of the car, I heard the music. Somebody had it turned all the way up in there. I recognized the song, just couldn’t put a name to it. Slow beat, heavy bass guitar.

The gal singing about Mississippi being in the middle of a dry spell seemed to be talking right to me. I don’t spook easy, but something was telling me to get back in that cruiser and go. Just go. But I didn’t, of course. Sweet Jesus, that music was loud. I got up on the porch and knocked hard, three times. Waited. Nothing.

I looked at everything around me. Even though it was an old trailer, at least everything on the porch was clean and neat, flowers were watered, not a bunch of garbage and junk in the yard. Weeds were cut down in the front at least. Momma was tryin’.

I pounded on the door this time just to get over the noise.

Still no answer, which was no surprise, I’m sure they couldn’t hear a thing in there. I came down off the porch and tried to peek through some curtains.

The whole while, the music just keeps thumping, slow and deep. That girl’s slow, sultry voice with that heavy beat was now singing that some boy was in the heart of every schoolgirl.

I finally remembered the song. It had been big back in the eighties. Supposed to be about Elvis, I think, breaking all those young girls’ hearts.

Walking around the end of the trailer, I decided to try the back door. I went careful around the corner, taking a quick peek first, and then unsnapped my holster, just resting my hand there. No reason to be waving any guns around.

Although the sun had dropped, the day’s heat hadn’t given up yet, and I was sweating pretty good.

I remember thinking, this is wrong, somehow this is wrong. The loud music wasn’t helping any but there’s something else going on here, just under the surface. I could feel it, sense the trouble.

Now the girl singing that song is really belting it out. It’s the kind of song that will play in your head for a while, and it has that dark feeling, a feeling that no, everything ain’t gonna be all right. Full of sad reality.

I tried the back door and it was locked, but wobbly as hell. It was time to do something here. At least tell them to turn the damn music down. I pressed my shoulder into it high while lifting up and in with the doorknob. The door popped open pretty easy, but I didn’t swing it open, just left a little crack to look through.

At the same time, the singer’s mournful voice dies out on a high note. That heavy bass guitar thumps a few more times and the song was finally over.

I tried to listen for anything, voices, or something else in the ringing silence. My hand was gripping the door handle so hard, my knuckles were white. My other hand was a little firmer on the butt of my service pistol now, but I still didn’t draw it. Hell, for all I knew, they were in there on the living room couch, grinning at each other and eating peach pie.

Miss Mullins!

Silence inside and out. Not a spot of wind and it was getting a little darker. The sun had already set.

Miss Mullins…Callie? Callie Ann Mullins? Anyone in there? I didn’t yell it but it was close to it, and my voice was firm.

Somewhere inside, I heard a loud scratching sound, but then that stopped. I’m starting to feel that certain something, and any lawman, anywhere, knows what I’m talking about.

Miss Mullins, Sergeant Will Chapman, Texas Rangers. I need to see you. See you right now.

I did draw my weapon at this point, but held it straight down along my leg. I backed off two steps sideways and toed the door open.

It creaked on old hinges and stopped when it hit a faded wood-paneled wall. Then nothing. Quiet as a church on Monday.

MISSISSIPPI…The girl had started singing again, and the loud music was starting over. Scared the living hell out of me. I crouched down out of pure reflex, coming in low and quick.

I scanned everything once real quick, then again, slower, searching for any kind of movement. I was looking straight into an open kitchen area. A small dinette table with a Formica top had clean plates, silverware and glasses set out on it. I saw a washer and dryer closet on my right, its hinged doors slightly open. Nothing there.

Nothing in the empty living room on my left, either, but a narrow dark hallway is leading off the kitchen.

The pounding music was coming from the corner of the living room, an old-style record turntable, and on each side of the couch, an enormous speaker. Right out of the seventies.

I backed over to it, gun trained on the hallway. Reached around behind me without looking and knocked the needle off with the back of my hand. It made a loud ripping noise as it scratched across the vinyl. The volume was so loud that the speakers were humming, making the hair on my arms stand up.

I leaned forward slow and easy to get a better look down the hallway. There was a light switch but I didn’t turn it on. It was getting darker but I could tell the first door down there was the bathroom. The two closed doors down at the very end had to be the bedrooms.

Slow and easy now, I remember telling myself.

Bathroom first. Empty. Slid the shower curtain open just to make sure. I took a few more slow steps down the hallway and stopped at the first closed door. I stood there for a second, hoping that maybe, just maybe, nobody was home. As I slowly opened the first door, the mother came into view. She was leaning up against the headboard of the bed, head lolled over on her shoulder. Her arms were stretched straight out on either side of her, wrists tied to the bedposts with cord from the window blinds. She’d been badly cut, both shallow and deep, many times. A butcher knife, slathered in blood, lay next to her.

I leaned in closer from the side of the bed and saw a small, neat bullet hole in her forehead. Small caliber handgun, probably a .22. The headboard was splattered with gore. Sheets and pillows around her were drenched in her blood.

Luckily, the second bedroom was empty. I turned around quickly to leave but something out of the corner of my eye froze me. I saw the rounded edge of a dark pool that had come seeping out from under the closet door. I can tell you this for sure: that was a hard door to open.

They were both in there on the floor, jammed into the corner. All the hanging clothes had been shoved to the other side.

The little boy was halfway curled up in his momma’s arms. One limp arm was hanging down almost to the floor, the other still up by the girl’s shoulder, a girl so young she could have been the boy’s sister. Pretty little gal, too. As tore up as she was, you could still tell she was pretty. They both had been shot multiple times.

The pool of blood wasn’t even close to being congealed yet. I’m no forensics expert, then or now, but I knew I hadn’t missed the son of a bitch by much.

No doubt, they had tried hiding in there. I didn’t want to think about them waiting in there, scared and holding their breath. Or the moment he had slowly opened that door and looked down at them.

I’m pretty good about a crime scene anyway, but on my way out, I checked my boots for any blood. Wiped off all the doorknobs and shower curtain. Anything that I had touched, even the needle on the turntable.

I went outside, got in the cruiser, and started it up. My hand went to the gear shift and stopped. I was shook up and closed my eyes, taking a deep shaky breath. I just needed a minute to collect myself. Settle the hell down a little bit.

Instead, I just sat there and cried. Last time I did that had to be when I was a little kid. I’m not normally very emotional on the outside, but this wasn’t normal. Not even close.

So, I stared out that windshield and cried like a baby for what had happened to that young girl and her little boy. Cried for the girl’s mother, too. Cussed and pounded the steering wheel for not getting there a half hour earlier. Sure, I had seen the dead and dying before, plenty of times. Too many times, in fact, but this one was different. It bit me, bit me bad.

It was dark when I finally got my act together. I knew I had to call this in. Had no choice, really, but I needed to think this through a little more. I’d have some explaining to do and so would Bryant, back in Mississippi.

I was still looking at that trailer when lights swept across the field on my right. There was a car coming up the lane but still on the other side of the rise. I put the cruiser in gear and pulled a few feet up, all the way behind the back side of the trailer and shut her down. It was blacker than black out there, so I hustled out and eased the door shut quick because of the cruiser’s interior lights.

Drawing my gun again, I headed to the back corner of the trailer. The approaching car had a deep rumble and the sweeping headlights lit up the front yard as it got closer. Maybe it was my boy coming back for something he forgot, or it could be somebody else. I’d know soon enough.

The car stopped but was still running. Then I heard someone get out, and that’s when the question got answered: I heard the same song coming from the car that had been booming in the trailer.

I took my hat off and inched an eye around the corner. The trunk lid was up, blocking most of my view, but there was somebody back there doing something. Didn’t take him long, though. He walked quickly to the trailer porch, fumbled with keys for a second, and then went inside. I made a run for his car, staying out of the headlights.

As I came up on it, sure as hell, it was a light blue GTO. It idled with that low, powerful gurgle big engines with glass packs have. I got down behind it and saw that it had Louisiana plates, but there was another plate under it.

The song just kept playing.

Through the windows of the car, I caught movement up at the trailer front door. He was coming back out, and in a hurry. I remember wondering if he had noticed the record not playing in the house. Probably had.

Coming around the back of the car, he never saw me hunkered down behind the raised trunk lid.

I stood to meet him.

Waylon Toller?

He was looking right into my Sig Sauer from about four feet away. His eyes did a lightning fast flick to the open trunk and blinked back to me. You’d have missed it if you weren’t watching close. We stood in the red taillights and just looked at each other for a few more long seconds.

Just give me an excuse, boy. I will shoot you where you stand.

And yes, I’ll be damned if he didn’t look like a young Elvis. Baby face, jet black hair, and what looked to be ice blue eyes. Had a leather jacket on, jeans and boots. Nice boots. Bryant had said the boy was twenty-four and I’m sure he was, but he looked about eighteen to me.

No, sir. My name is John Tibbets, Officer. Honest, I can prove it, sir. Relaxed as hell. He smiled, all soft and bashful. I could just imagine what that smile did to the girls.

Get on the ground. Flat on your belly and arms outstretched. I won’t ask again.

His hands were up where they should be, but he kept smiling at me like he’d just won the lottery. He had dimples, too.

I was sure now that it was probably never going to be the same for me. No more strictly by the rules, and no more always going by the book. No sir, that just wasn’t going to work here. There were now exceptions. When I found the girl and her little boy in that closet, the rules changed. I would not take the chance that he might dodge this, that a judge or jury might give him sympathy and that ten years from now he’d still be appealing.

Yessir, I will. But y’all got the wrong boy, I…

If you can, the best time to act is always when they’re talking. So I took one quick step in and kicked him square in the balls as hard as I could.

For a quick second, he was still grinning that smooth smile but then he screamed and