Read Online Against the Wind by J. F. Freedman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: J. F. Freedman
Tags: Suspense
Ads: Link
payoff this time. When they told me there was nothing to the armed robbery charge I believed them flat-out, but I’m not totally convinced about this one, there’s something nagging. I’m inclined to believe them, the absolute lack of recognition when I first brought it up can’t be faked, ninety-nine out of a hundred people would’ve revealed something; but they’re one-percenters, they survive by walking the tightrope. Maybe, even probably, they didn’t do it; but it’s the kind of barbaric act these men are certainly capable of.
But until they change their story, or a piece of evidence comes along that proves them liars, I’ll take them at their word. I have Dr. Grade’s report with me, I open it and follow it side-by-side as they recite their recollection of the events of the last few days, looking for discrepancies.
They’d been in town, they’d picked up some low-rent girl in a bar (willingly, they make sure I know that and believe it), okay so she was drunk but there was absolutely no coercion, there’s a couple hundred witnesses out there to that (Dutchboy luckily kept a book of matches from the bar, it’ll be the first thing I check out), they rode around a couple hours …
“Did you have intercourse with her?” I interrupt them.
“No, man, we sat around the campfire and read Rod McKuen. What do you think we are, faggots? ’Course we fucked her,” Lone Wolf tells me, almost with contempt. “If we don’t fuck ’em they ain’t worth fucking.”
“All of you?”
He looks around. “Anybody fake his orgasm?” They guffaw, a good belly laugh. “Yeh, man. We all fucked her.”
“Some better’n others,” Roach kicks in.
“You’re on my list,” Lone Wolf tells him, pointing a finger. I admire their composure; I don’t think I could be telling jokes with a murder charge hanging over me, even if I absolutely didn’t do it.
“You raped her.”
This is taking a wrong turn; this girl, whoever she is, definitely won’t be a witness for the defense. If I’m lucky she’ll never turn up.
“No rape,” Lone Wolf says emphatically. “She was hot to trot. Any of y’all hear any complaints?” he asks the others.
They all shake their heads.
“Hot for all of you? You’re positive? Because if she was madly in love with three of you but didn’t want the fourth,” I continue, “that is rape. Uncontestable.”
“She was more than willing,” Lone Wolf insists. “She never once asked us to stop.” He knows the jargon; he should, he’s been hearing it most of his life.
I ruminate on it. It’s a fine line; if an average citizen was on trial for that, he’d probably walk. There isn’t a jury in this country that wouldn’t convict these four.
We press on. They took the girl back to some motel in the low-rent section where she was staying (not far, I realize with chagrin, from where Patricia and Claudia live), then rode south to Albuquerque on New Mexico 14, the picturesque back road that goes through Madrid, an abandoned railroad and mining town that’s now a hippie-artist tourist attraction. They’d stopped on the way for gasoline, got to Madrid around seven in the morning. I quiz them on this; how sure are they about the time? They’re sure; they’d had to wait until seven-thirty to get breakfast, the only restaurant in town didn’t open until then. The waitress, who was also the cook, would remember them; she was a real character, she hadn’t been intimidated in the least, they’d traded insults all during the meal. They have a credit card receipt for the gasoline. Thank God for plastic, I think, pocketing the receipt: even society’s outcasts use it.
They tell me about their sojourn in Albuquerque. I get them to pass over it quickly: the details are boring, repetitive, childish, they remind me of bad fraternity weekends with a lot of blood and guts thrown in. But the good thing about the yarn they’re telling me, underneath all the junk, is that they were
But until they change their story, or a piece of evidence comes along that proves them liars, I’ll take them at their word. I have Dr. Grade’s report with me, I open it and follow it side-by-side as they recite their recollection of the events of the last few days, looking for discrepancies.
They’d been in town, they’d picked up some low-rent girl in a bar (willingly, they make sure I know that and believe it), okay so she was drunk but there was absolutely no coercion, there’s a couple hundred witnesses out there to that (Dutchboy luckily kept a book of matches from the bar, it’ll be the first thing I check out), they rode around a couple hours …
“Did you have intercourse with her?” I interrupt them.
“No, man, we sat around the campfire and read Rod McKuen. What do you think we are, faggots? ’Course we fucked her,” Lone Wolf tells me, almost with contempt. “If we don’t fuck ’em they ain’t worth fucking.”
“All of you?”
He looks around. “Anybody fake his orgasm?” They guffaw, a good belly laugh. “Yeh, man. We all fucked her.”
“Some better’n others,” Roach kicks in.
“You’re on my list,” Lone Wolf tells him, pointing a finger. I admire their composure; I don’t think I could be telling jokes with a murder charge hanging over me, even if I absolutely didn’t do it.
“You raped her.”
This is taking a wrong turn; this girl, whoever she is, definitely won’t be a witness for the defense. If I’m lucky she’ll never turn up.
“No rape,” Lone Wolf says emphatically. “She was hot to trot. Any of y’all hear any complaints?” he asks the others.
They all shake their heads.
“Hot for all of you? You’re positive? Because if she was madly in love with three of you but didn’t want the fourth,” I continue, “that is rape. Uncontestable.”
“She was more than willing,” Lone Wolf insists. “She never once asked us to stop.” He knows the jargon; he should, he’s been hearing it most of his life.
I ruminate on it. It’s a fine line; if an average citizen was on trial for that, he’d probably walk. There isn’t a jury in this country that wouldn’t convict these four.
We press on. They took the girl back to some motel in the low-rent section where she was staying (not far, I realize with chagrin, from where Patricia and Claudia live), then rode south to Albuquerque on New Mexico 14, the picturesque back road that goes through Madrid, an abandoned railroad and mining town that’s now a hippie-artist tourist attraction. They’d stopped on the way for gasoline, got to Madrid around seven in the morning. I quiz them on this; how sure are they about the time? They’re sure; they’d had to wait until seven-thirty to get breakfast, the only restaurant in town didn’t open until then. The waitress, who was also the cook, would remember them; she was a real character, she hadn’t been intimidated in the least, they’d traded insults all during the meal. They have a credit card receipt for the gasoline. Thank God for plastic, I think, pocketing the receipt: even society’s outcasts use it.
They tell me about their sojourn in Albuquerque. I get them to pass over it quickly: the details are boring, repetitive, childish, they remind me of bad fraternity weekends with a lot of blood and guts thrown in. But the good thing about the yarn they’re telling me, underneath all the junk, is that they were
Similar Books
