Willie B Good

After thirty years I still awaken screaming, covered with sweat in the middle of the night. It's the same nightmare over and over. I'm on a hot asphalt roof sweltering in one-hundred and twenty degree heat. Long sleeves and gloves cover blistering skin. Sweat rolls into my burning eyes tinting everything red. I turn toward a cackling laugh to see a pale puffy long face, extended yellow teeth, black matted hair jutting in all directions and intense beady eyes that dig into my soul. William Benjamin Good licks the blade of his knife and sneers. "Willy B Good?" He slobbers and I feel the cold steel against my neck.

- - -

The greasy guy in cut-off green trousers, combat boots and tee shirt poking at the 200 gallon asphalt kettle squinted up through bushy unkempt eyebrows. In a raspy voice he said, "I'm Willie Good." The right side of his mouth curled up like a snarling wolf. "If you don't believe me, just ask my girlfriend." Then he broke out into an eerie cackling snorting laugh.

Larry and I stood there, with our mouths hanging open not knowing what to expect next. It was six o'clock, Monday morning -- the first day of our summer job in Larry's uncle's roofing business. Willie was in charge of our crew of five.

I helped the two Mexicans load the truck with rolls of black roofing felt and plugs of asphalt while Willie instructed Larry on how to tend the trailer mounted kettle. At the job site, which was an old brick, flat-roof auto repair shop , Larry would holler, "Hot stuff, coming up!" and hoist up five gallon buckets of 400 degree liquid asphalt. Swinging the hoist over the roof, I took them off the hook and carried them over to where the two Mexicans mopped a strip across the building, followed by Willie kicking out the roll of black felt.

At the end of each row, Willie grabbed a knife from his back pocket and cut the felt cleanly and began another row. The first time I saw him do this my eyes glommed onto that knife. It had an ivory handle and a long blade curved like a scimitar. The distraction caused me to set the bucket down with an abruptness that spurted a drop of asphalt in an arc landing on bare skin just above Willie's combat boot. "Shit!" He hollered and whirled around, grabbing my collar with one hand and brandishing his knife in the other. Terror shook my entire body, but just as suddenly as he had reacted he let go and broke out into that eerie cackling laugh. Still laughing he pointed at the spot on his shin where a blister swelled like a tiny volcano. He squinted toward the Mexicans. "What do you think Jose? Willie B Good to throw this runt in the kettle?"

By the end of our first week we had a taste of what the blistering summer might be like. Saturday evening Larry and I hung out, cruising main street in his dad's Chevy truck, drinking beer and praying for rain.

"Hey man, does Willie creep you out as much as he does me?" I asked.

"Does he ever? He came up behind me when I was trying to heave a chunk of asphalt into the kettle and ran those long dirty fingernails down the side of my face. Excuse the pun, but that really gave me the willies. I almost fell into a bath of hot asphalt."

The next week our prayers were answered as a storm moved up from the gulf bringing intermittent showers -- just enough to send us home when we showed up each morning. But our reprieve ended the following Monday when the Sun bore down hot and steamy. Our new job was to replace the roof on a school ninety miles to the east. Even with two crews we would be there all week spending nights in the Gates Motor Hotel, the only motel in that godforsaken town. After loading the trucks and trailers we slumped along the narrow state highway half asleep until a shadow whizzed by at three times our speed causing us and the oncoming traffic to weave off onto the shoulder.

Larry bounced forward. "What the hell was that?"

Jose, the driver wrestled the rig back on the road, first swearing in Spanish and then answering. "That crazy ass Willie gone get us all killed."

We spent the first day tearing the roof off of the old school building. It turned out to be made of pitch that produced fumes burning our eyes and causing welts wherever it touched our skin. Load upon load we wrestled the chunks of pitch, paper and roofing nails off the roof. Working until after dark, we stumbled into the City Cafe and quickly choked down the chicken fried steak dinner and then hauled ourselves across the street to the Gates with only one thought in mind -- to get some sleep before the foreman banged on our door at five the next morning. It didn't help that the air conditioner was crap and intermittently squeaked, while next door Willie and the Mexicans shouted threats at each other over their poker game until after midnight.

Although the heat became more intense the next day, we finished tearing off the old stuff and got the first layer of roofing felt nailed down in the afternoon. The foreman decided it was too late in the day to fire up the kettle, so we knocked off early. After a welcome shower we began to feel almost human again. Larry and I teamed up with Fred, a new kid who mopped for the other crew. and we decided to check out the action in town. Strolling down Main Street proved to be a waste, but taking a hint from a couple of pickups loaded with teenagers, we followed their dust down a side street and found the ball park where baseball practice was the town's big excitement.

On the portable bleachers we sat two rows behind a group of curly haired giggly girls. The brunette sitting in front of Fred kept tossing her hair back and reaching around for her scarf; each time flashing just a hint of a smile. It wasn't wasted on Fred who went dashing after the scarf when she finally got it to catch the wind.

Larry looked over with that bored look he gets when he thinks it's time to move on, so I said, "You think we should check out the suds at the local bar."

"Damn, how is it that such a brilliant idea can work its way into that dense skull?" He rapped his knuckles against the side of my head and then turned toward Fred who by this time sitting down by the brunette. "Hey Fred, we're going to catch a brew, want to come along?"

Fred gave us a "don't bother me" shake of the head so out the gate we went just as it was starting to get dark.

The ball park lights burst on all of a sudden illuminating the parking area like a stage. At stage center sat a car like no other, dark and ominous, yet intriguing. It was painted flat black all over. All the chrome had been removed. The wheels were flat black disks and the grill was like a set of fangs also flat black. The windows were tinted so dark it was impossible to see inside. Barely perceptible, over the rear fender well, shiny black block letters declared: BADMOBILE. All I could say was, "Wow! Man! Is that some car or what?"

"That's the car Willie was driving." Larry gave a low whistle. "A fifty Merc, that baby has been chopped and lowered to the max. Nice job too."

I ran my finger down the smooth fender line. "Where does a kicker like Willie get that kind of money?" The next thing I knew, I was spun around and thrown against the fender -- it caught the small of my back forcing my spine in an unnatural curve and slinging my eyeballs backward. Regaining my vision I found Willie's snarling, slobbering mouth two inches in front of my face -- like his long yellow teeth were about to take a bite out of my nose.

"Don't touch the car," he said, and then backed off.

Larry gave me a hand and said, "Hey man, he was just admiring the machinery."

The sneer remained, but Willie's bloodshot eyes contorted, each out of sync with the other. He unscrewed the rusty lid of a fruit jar and held it up. "How about a little drink?"

"No thanks," I said, still grimacing, "we have to get back."

Roofing business got back to normal the next day -- hot stuff on the roof, mop, kick and repeat while fighting sweat and blisters. Fred was antsy all day thinking about his date with the ball-field brunette. Larry and I were just trying to make it through the week and Willie, although creepy as ever, seemed to have slipped into another dimension.

That evening Larry and I made our way back to the little bar we had found on main street. If you didn't mind the smell it was okay. Quiet, a few blinking beer signs, and a lopsided pinball machine. We sat at the bar, had a few beers and played liars dice until a lawyer looking guy in a dark suit sat down next to us.

"You guys live here?" he asked.

"Nope," Larry said, "here for a week on a roofing job."

The guy studied his beer for a minute. "Anybody in your crew with a last name of Williams?"

I looked at Larry and shrugged. He said, "Nope. Is he a friend of yours?"

The guy looked back at his beer. "Hardly. He escaped from the Nevada state pen last year. We got a lead about four months ago that he had made contact with friends in Tulsa."

"So," I said, "he could be anywhere now."

"True, but our latest source leads to this area." He pulled a wallet out of his suit pocket and flipped up the cover to show a badge. "Federal Martial." He slipped a black and white, two by three photo out of the wallet and handed it to Larry and got up to leave. "If you see anyone who looks like this, call me at the number on the back."

Larry glanced at the picture as the guy headed for the door. "Hey, what was he in prison for?"

"Serial killing." The door on the bar swung slowly shut behind him.

Larry slid the picture in front of me. In the light from the blinking colored signs it looked like any prisoner's mug shot -- shaved head, no eye brows, blank expression. I shoved it back to Larry. "Wow, I don't know. Stick it in your pocket and let's look at it later when we have some light."

Main Street was totally dead as we started to walk back to the motel. I caught a glimpse of the half moon darting in and out behind rapid dark clouds. A paper bag blew across the sidewalk against my leg as I stepped off the curb. When I reached for it, Larry grabbed my arm and I heard the squeal of tires on the pavement. The bumper of a blue four-door Camaro stopped a couple of feet away.

A girl leaned out of the passenger side window and shouted, "Have you seen Fred or Marilyn?" It was one of the girls who was at the ball park the night before.

"No," I said, "I think Fred had a date with your friend."

"Yeah, that's Marilyn. She was supposed to meet us an hour ago and we're worried about her. Will you help us look for them?"

"Uh, well, we can check to see if Fred's back at the motel."

"I mean can you go with us. We think they're out by the lake, and we're afraid to go there by ourselves."

I looked at Larry and he looked at me. We both shrugged our shoulders and climbed into the back seat.

Beth drove and Sheila talked constantly. On the drive toward the lake they told us how they were always trying to bail Marilyn out of trouble, and this wasn't the first time this had happened. The main lake road was narrow, but nothing like the winding dirt road we turned onto.

"Just over this next hill," Beth said. And then, suddenly everything lit up as a car hurdled over the crest and shot toward us. Sheila screamed and Beth wrestled the steering wheel as we skidded on the dirt shoulder and into the ditch, miraculously missing the car that continued speeding away.

We climbed out and determined no one was hurt. Beth sobbed softly into her handkerchief, Sheila rambled on about everything, Larry checked to see if there was any chance of getting the car out of the ditch and I stood there looking toward the lake wondering how this could possibly be happening.

Beth pulled on my shirt sleeve and pointed toward the lake. "Can you see Marilyn's convertible down there by the trees?"

It took a minute for a brief ray of moonlight to break through the clouds and I caught a reflection off of the car. "Un-huh."

She sobbed again. "Would, would you go down there and tell them to come give us a ride?"

"Sure." It looked to be less than a quarter of a mile and that seemed a lot closer that the eight miles back to town. Larry and I talked it over and he asked if we both should go, but I told him I thought it would be quicker if I went alone.

It was an easy downhill jog. Even though it was almost pitch dark I could barely make out the fence row and trees on each side and stay in the center of the deserted dirt road. As I approached the car I thought I could just make out the two of them sitting there. I didn't want to alarm them so I called out, "Hey Fred." Without a response I continued, thinking maybe they had fallen asleep.

I was almost to the door when the clouds parted revealing the surreal scene washed in moonlight. I froze. Fred's head was tilted awkwardly to one side. From his twisted neck a dark stain played down his plaid shirt. Marilyn's body was bent around, her hair matted over her face. Even in the half moonlight I could tell, it was blood -- blood everywhere.

The night was warm, but I began to shiver uncontrollably. A voice behind me whispered, "What do you think of my little party? Willy Good, Huh." I felt the cold steel blade press against the side of my neck.

"Let's go," he said, "this party's over. We can go somewhere and have ourselves a real party. Just the two of us." He grabbed my shoulder spinning me around and the dark car, like a chariot from hell, stood in front of me. I couldn't believe that I hadn't seen it before. He touched the side of the handleless door and it sprang open. "Be my guest." He motioned with his left hand while his right hand pressed the knife against my neck. When he closed the door I realized there was no handle on the inside either.

Every surface of the interior was a deep dark red. It was lighted by a red radiance but I couldn't make out the source of the light. It was if every surface glowed. He began to drive on a road that went along the shore of the lake, a little too fast. In the red light of the car his face took on a fiery glow. His eyes became two glowing cinders. He gave a low throaty cackle and reached to the cup holder and picked up the fruit jar and held it under my nose until my eyes began to water. "How about a little drink? W-i-l-l-y Good." The cackle burst out of his throat and into a series of snorts. He gulped heavily from the jar, threw back his head and pressed harder on the accelerator.

The repulsion that I felt for Willie and what he had done paled in comparison to the fear of what I figured his warped mind had in store for me. I couldn't open the door and escape. Even if the windows were open, which they weren't, the top was so low no one could squeeze through. He had tucked his knife into his belt away from me. And then there was the problem that he was twice my size.

Going ever faster, I wasn't sure how he was could stay on the road with such a limited view through the slit of a windshield. I could feel the car drift side to side on each turn. I squinted trying to see through the darkness. The road straightened out for a short run before it disappeared between a drop off on the left and a steep bank on the right. I decided if I were going to die anyway I should do something even if it turned out wrong. Willie picked up the fruit jar and took another drink. Before he could take it away from his lips I came around with my right smashing the glass in his face. Then grabbing the wheel I jerked it toward me as hard as I could. The car swerved barely enough to catch the bank on the right and careen back over the cliff on the left.

I was thrown from the roof to the floor, back and forth, into the dash and back against the seat. It seemed to tumble forever ending in the water. I was sure I was going to drown but somehow in the crash the door must have torn off. I don't remember how I got up to the road but that's where they said they found me.

In the hospital everything was weird as I drifted in and out of semi-consciousness. I rested a lot catching glimpses of bustling nurses and doctors. Family visitors filtered in and out but they seemed to guard what they talked about. Then early one morning Larry and the Martial, who we met in the bar, walked in.

"Hey man, how are they treating you in here?"

It began with small talk that gradually led into the murders. Yes, Fred and Marilyn were brutally killed. Yes, the evidence all led to Willie. No, no one else was killed.

"What about Willie," I asked, "is he alive?"

"We think so," the Martial said, "we haven't found him."

"What! Wasn't he at the crash site?"

"Crash site? What crash site?"

I sprang up in the bed. "Look at me! I was in a crash -- in Willie's car -- in the lake. Didn't you find the car?"

"Hey, hey. Take it easy. You took a bad fall on those rocks. Willie got away in his car, but by now he's ditched it somewhere. That's his modus operandi."

About six months after I got out of the hospital I drove back to where the murder happened. I could see where Beth's car went into the ditch. The scars were still there. The crime scene itself was pretty clean. From the looks of the weeds it didn't appear that anyone parked there at night anymore. I drove on the road that followed the lake shore. It didn't mean much until I recognized the spot with the high bank on the right and the drop off on the left into the lake. I parked the car and walked over to the edge of the bluff. There was a new guardrail alongside the road. I stood there gazing down at the lake and then reached into my pocket for a card that came in the mail a few months back. It was handwritten:

We're going to have to get back to that party sometime.

A "Willie Good" Party.

Underneath was a finely detailed drawing of a knife -- with a curved blade and an ivory handle.

         Willie's out there.

Somewhere.