A Native American

On the fifth weekend of the new semester, Betty came home and paid Jamie eight thousand for the third batch of marijuana he had grown. Even though Hank had doubled Jamie’s share, Jamie told her there were better ways to work their business.

“Hank is out. No more from me.”

Jamie didn’t expect or anticipate Betty’s reaction. She was furious.

“You say that? After all Hank has done for you! That’s not fair” she replied looking into space somewhere above Jamie’s head.

“Fair? I can’t believe you would talk to me about what’s fair. I think I understand. You only care about what pleases you! I think maybe all Hank has done for me is cheat me!”

Betty rolled her eyes, pouted and grumbled, then went back to her mother’s.

On Sunday afternoon, before Betty left to go back to school, she came over to Jamie’s apartment and told him she had promised Hank she would bring him another duffle bag of pot.”

After some thought, he told Betty, “I don’t have any ready now, but I’ll drive up and bring two duffle bags on Thursday evening. That’s it! No more!”

“You don’t even know where he lives. He has an off-campus apartment.”

“Well, I suppose you could give me his address.”

Betty was exasperated, but she agreed and wrote out directions to Hank’s apartment.

“Best come around seven in the evening, and be sure you call before you come. Here’s his number,” Betty said while adding Hank’s telephone number to the directions, “Hank’s got school and a job.”

Jamie showed up and knocked on Hank’s door at seven-thirty Wednesday morning. He did not call ahead. Betty opened the door half-asleep, wearing Hank’s white terry-cloth bathrobe. She was surprised, and so was Hank when he dragged himself out of bed a couple of minutes later.

Jamie didn’t say a thing. He looked at them, turned around, walked to his truck and drove back to Ripley—with both duffle bags.

The following weekend, Betty came to see Jamie.

“Hank says to tell you to give me three duffle bags to take back to him now or else.”

“Or else what?”

“Or else we’re calling the cops and getting you arrested, you dumb bastard.”

“We who?”

“Me ’n Hank.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ve had enough of this. Get the hell out of here!”

The next week, Jamie finished his harvesting and drying. He called his new friend in Charleston and worked out a deal for the balance of the crop—not the best deal he could have made, but it was acceptable.

He packed his pick-up with the remainder of his crop. His dog Babe jumped up to the shotgun seat. Jamie had stuffed most of the dried crop into old chicken feed sacks. Because the load was more than could be concealed below the bed of the truck, he strapped it tight as he could under an old canvas tarp he found in the barn.

On his drive to Charleston, Jamie was struck by a premonition. Things might not go the way he planned. His paranoia got the best of him, and he stopped at a gun shop outside the city. A Beretta .32 caliber semi-automatic pistol caught his eye. After buying it, he stashed it in the glove compartment.

The Charleston transaction was smooth, and Jamie and Babe started their drive back to Ripley. He now had sixty-five-thousand dollars stuffed into his jeans pockets and half a feed sack of pot for himself in the back of the truck. Jamie rolled a joint for the ride and played his Marine Band harmonica with his dog yodeling along.

Nearly home, just a couple of blocks from his apartment, a speeding police car, siren blaring, startled him. He almost ran off the road. Jamie changed his plan, made a right turn and parked mid-block. He got out, moved the sack into the cab, and walked towards his apartment, leaving Babe to guard the truck. From a block away, he could see four squad cars parked in front of his apartment. Through the windows illuminated by lights on in his apartment, he watched silhouettes of cops moving around.

Jamie walked back to his Chevy, jumped in and drove out of town.

All of the anger over Betty’s betrayal, exploded as he sped toward the little college town where she and Hank were in school. He smashed his fist into the dashboard and let out a terrifying yell. The dog curled up tight in the far corner of the floor.

Full of fury, on the run, Jamie hit Hank’s flimsy apartment door with his shoulder. He burst in. It was five-thirty in the morning. He entered the bedroom, threw back the covers and shot each of them once, pressing the barrel of his new .32 to their kneecaps.

Jamie had carried the feed sack from his truck and left it outside their door. Ducking back to the hallway, he grabbed it and dumped the pot all over the living room.

He ran to his truck. The screams faded.

At a pay phone next to a 7-Eleven outside town, Jamie made a quick stop and dialed 911.

“Two crazy druggies in my apartment building just shot each other. Send the police and an ambulance—quick!” He gave Hank’s name and address and hung up.