Charles Shaw thought he had it made. Nothing new to ol’ Charlie.

He’d thought that many times before he got himself in this mess. He sat now in his cell all alone and thought back to that night he met up with Bleeny Handers. Bleeny wasn’t his real name, just a handle a kid hung on him when they were in second grade. Joseph, that was his real name, had one of those funny little hats, and a kid with a speech problem couldn't pronounce beanie, so he asked, "Where'd you get that funny bleeny, Joseph?" Stuck like Mississippi mud to a new shoe: Bleeny for life.

Charlie’s life of crime progressed to a few stints in jail, and one five 'n dime sentence in prison that he had to do six years of before getting back out on the street. The day he left prison the warden said, "Better straighten up Charlie or you're gonna be in here for life one of these days." He hated the term LIFE. Life of crime. This is your life. Life in the fast lane. Life—life—life. He even quit sucking on the lifesavers he had always loved. Things change though, and right now LIFE was starting to sound pretty good.

Charlie blamed Bleeny for a while, but he knew all along that it was the lawyers that made Bleeny say, "It was Charley. Charley killed that old man."

Bleeny knew it was him what shot the old guy. Man, I ain’t never used a gun in m’whole lifetime: nossir. As Charlie sat in his cell waiting for the jury to return, he clung to the only hope he had. I ain’t never hurt a person yet in any of my burglaries.

Before he and Bleeny drove over to Beaumont Texas from Louisiana he expressed his concerns. "Bleeny why don’t we just stay the heck outta Texas? That Governor’s tryin’ to be President, and he’s frying guys like us quicker 'n their mamas can get ‘em outta short pants."

Joseph Handers just looked at his diminutive lifetime friend and smiled his best ‘trust me’ smile. "Man, we ain’t goin’ over there to kill nobody. That old car dealer’s got a million bucks somewhere in that place, and all we’re gonna do is git it from him."

When Charlie heard the cell door opening he opened his eyes. He knew it was late at night because the lights in the hall were turned down. Enough filtered into the cell for him to see the flash of the badges as they moved toward him.

The first kicks weren’t landing where they could knock him out. Legs—hips—ribs—shoulders. Finally one of then landed between his short, spidery legs. It emptied the stale bread and lousy gravy he'd eaten earlier.

One cop leaned down close, "We don’t want you bayou boys coming down here and shooting our friends." When the man stood up he brought his huge, black boot back.

He’s gonna kick my brains out. Help me, please somebody help me. Charlie began shaking . . . "No! No!" . . . . Someone was shaking him.

"Wake up man, you were having a dream."

He looked into the eyes of two jailers, and breathed a sigh of relief. "Not really. Ain’t never had a dream in m’life; they all been nightmares."

Artist: Victor Aponte Email: MrFunnyMan@aol.com

"How you know this old man’s got a buncha money in there?"

"I come over here a lot and a guy I was drinking with tole me."

"How long are we gonna sit out here in these bushes?"

"Won’t be much longer fore them two salesmen take off and he’ll lock up. That’s when he goes back to his office to count his money."

"How we gonna get in?"

"Back door’s a snap ‘cause I came here one night and picked the lock. I went in to see if I could find that safe. Soon's he goes in his office I’ll pick it again and we’ll go git that dough."

"You couldn’t find the safe?"

"Would we be hiding here in these bushes if I had?"

As Charlie struggled for an answer, they heard the front door open. The two salesmen drove away then in separate cars.

"C’mon Charlie, let’s go get that dough, I’m ready to go to Corpus Christi and buy me a shrimp boat."

The door opened easily, and they quietly entered the man’s office down the hall. Being robbed was not a new experience to the old Texan sitting at the desk. He smiled at the two men as his knee pressed the silent alarm. It surprised Charlie when Bleeny produced a pistol in his gloved hand. He hadn’t seen a pistol and Bleeny hadn’t been wearing gloves.

"Six thousand bucks boys, right here in this drawer; take it and leave." The old Texan pulled the desk drawer open and was coming out with a 357 magnum when Bleeny fired. He shot the old man two more times, then handed the pistol to Charlie, "Keep an eye on that front window in case someone comes drivin’ up while I’m getting the money."

Charlie grabbed the pistol and did as he was told. Two police cars drove in and Charlie just stood there shaking and putting the only prints on the gun that would ever be found.

Handcuffed in the cruiser’s back seat, Bleeny turned to Charlie, "Wasn’t but a few bucks in that drawer."

During the wait for their trial, they were housed in separate sections. It was no accident because from the start the lead investigator knew he had a couple of (As he described it) ‘Dumb Louisiana swamp rats’ and he felt sure he could get one to roll over on the other so he could wrap this one up quick. He was right!

"I sure as heck didn’t know ol’ Charlie had a gun with him. I didn’t even wanna come over here, but he kept beggin’ me to drive him to that car dealer cause he said the old guy had lots of money." Bleeny put on a real opera. "Gotta hand it to him though ‘cause soon's the old guy came out with that gun, Charlie drilled him."

Joseph Handers spent a lifetime trying to imitate scenes and dialog from thousands of grade B movies. He was switching back and forth from James Cagney to Humphrey Bogart as the two detectives questioned him. He could tell he was impressing them by the way they listened carefully when he spoke.

"Saw the whole deal go down, didja?"

"Yessir, I was standin’ there waiting for Charlie to tell me what to do when, "BLAM." Bleeny’s right arm shot out as he demonstrated how Charlie shot the car dealer. "BLAM, BLAM," he repeated the sounds, "plugged the guy right in the bread basket then drilled him two more times just for good measure." Bleeny was feeling confident when the lead detective shook his head slowly from side to side.

"Sounds to me like you just hitched your wagon to the wrong horse pardner." He coughed then looked at Bleeny, "I’ve got this all on tape since you say you can’t read or write, and as soon as it’s typed up all you gotta do is sign it in front of witnesses to keep yourself off the needle express. Okay?"

That’s exactly what he did. When the two detectives left the cell with Bleeny’s signed confession, the lead man looked at his partner, "He’s the shooter."

"Yep, that other scrawny little guy’s too stupid to put something like this together. He’s still saying it was the third guy that did the shooting."

The fat detective wiped the remains of the glazed donut from his lips. "We got us a signed confession so this guy goes to Huntsville for a long vacation, and we send the runt over for a chemical rush."

The detective with shoulder length hair, and an Elliot Gould mustache grinned at his partner, "That’s a wrap amigo."

Charlie was still pleading innocent as they led him to the execution chamber. "Man I ain’t ever even shot a gun." He looked in panic from one guard to the other. "I wouldn’t even know how to put bullets in one." They helped him up on the table, and strapped his outstretched arms to the protruding extensions. He was still begging, "This just ain’t right. Please! Please!" He was crying as he looked from one to the other, "Go see if the Governor’s called yet, please."

The guards and the Chaplain watched as the needles were inserted into Charlie’s arms. Charlie’s eyes bulged from their sockets as he watched the needles go in. He turned to the window where the old car dealer’s family sat watching him while clapping their hands. One was pulling his tie up as he shoved his tongue out and shook his head. A young boy had his thumbs in his ears as he wriggled his fingers. Charlie looked at the window where his mother was sitting with his aunt. They were talking animatedly as they laughed.

Charlie felt a slight pain as the first chemical began flowing into his body. He turned toward his mother, but she was turned sideways talking to her sister. "Mama! Mama!" He screamed as loud as he could, "Mama, help me." Charlie screamed so loud that it brought him out of the temporary stupor he had fallen into when they gave him the sedative. His eyes popped open, and he looked at the white ceiling above him.

Thank God, he thought. He was stretched out comfortably as he looked up. "Thank God, just another nightmare." He felt the pain again though, and raised his head as far as he could above his strapped down chest. Charlie looked in confusion from the guard to the attendant to the needle in the back of his hand to the Chaplain. He turned quickly and saw the somber faces of the strangers behind glass. He turned and saw his old mother sitting all alone with tears streaming down her weathered face.

Charles Shaw thought he had it made when he awoke from the nightmare, but as the room began getting darker and darker he knew he was dead wrong.

He began falling-falling-falling.

 

 

Rick Magers was a commercial lobsterman in the Caribbean. He's a licensed pilot, boat captain and diver. Many of his short stories have been published in national magazines. He is nominated for the 2002 PUSHCART AWARD by Futures.