Bobby Fix-It Does His Civic Duty: The Billy the Kid Chronicles Continue

Billy the Kid, also known as Bobby Fix-It, is on the job. His friend Mike is getting the shake-down by ex-con Max Piceen, and not only does Piceen want money but he also wants Mike sweating, so he’s threatened to harm Mike’s wife if the money isn’t paid.

Enter Billy the Kid, a guy who just can’t abide with that kind of behavior. Billy has set up a sting and Max is about to experience some frontier justice.

If you enjoy this chapter you’ll also enjoy the first novella in the Billy the Kid series, “The Blood Red Russian Moon,” and the second in the novella series, “Walking in a Dead Man’s Shoes” is being published this week and will be available on Amazon.

I figured for a long wait and Max didn’t disappoint me. No one goes into a shitkicker bar in Jackson and has just one drink. It’s just not done, especially by a con who has spent the better part of a decade swilling prison moonshine made from apple juice and champagne yeast. I figure, to such a con, Budweiser must taste like the nectar of the gods after that rotgut shit in prison.

I got comfortable in the pickup and thought about my changing life. Genna was literally days from delivery, a fact that scared the shit out of me. Is anyone ever ready for parenthood? Women always seem to be, and men always seem to be at the brink of terror just thinking about it. I won’t lie to you, I was feeling the pressure at that moment. Maybe I needed to back off fixing problems for friends and just shovel cow shit on the ranch and be happy with it. It was honest work, something I had very little experience with but probably needed to embrace. The street rat hustle was fine a year ago when it was just me doing what I did best in the Heights, running scams to put food on the table and trying not to get my damned head shot off, but with a kid on the way and a beautiful black pearl sharing my bed, it just wasn’t going to work for much longer.

But my old man would have said you can put a dress on a pig and it’s still a pig, meaning who the hell did I think I was kidding?

Here’s the thing, and when I’m dead they can tattoo it on my ass before they bury me: I can’t stand by and do nothing while the big dogs of society gnaw on the bones of the meek and mild. It just doesn’t set right with me and never will. Someone needs to stand up for the weak. I may not be some masked crusader with a lily-white resume. Shit, my resume reads like a horror novel compared to most of you all who paint your white picket fences and belong to the Rotary.

But I know what’s right and what sucks hind tit, and unlike many of you who would point a finger while sitting on your judgmental thrones, I do something about the shit storms that rain down on the innocents.

So there you go!

My thoughts were interrupted after two hours by the appearance of Max Piceen.

The game was on! It was time for me to do my thing.

Wyoming highways and back roads are lonely on any night. That’s just the truth of it. You get the wolves howling on a clear night when the stars compete with the moon for best show, the vastness of this country weighs down on you, and you’ll start to appreciate what lonely really means.

I watched Max pull out of the Antler parking lot, gravel spraying on a few parked cars as he heavy-footed it onto Highway Twenty-Two. His rear-end was dark, thanks to me breaking out the lights, and he showed no hesitation when he got in his car, meaning he never noticed the drugs behind his seat. It was time for the final act on this little drama so I could wrap Genna in my arms and show her my need.

One block down from the Antler was a gas station, closed and silent, its pumps sleeping off a busy day. I knew where Max was going, back to his motel, so I wasn’t too concerned with my little detour. I grabbed the rock next to me on the front seat, slowed up as I drove by the gas station office, and hurled the rock through the office window. Then back on Twenty-Two. Within five minutes Max was back in view.

I pulled out the disposable cell phone I had bought earlier in the day and called 911.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” I was asked by a velvety voice.

“I was heading home from the Antler on Twenty-Two and I saw this guy try to break into the Arco station. He tossed a rock through the window and then drove off in a 2005 Nissan Altima, dark blue in color. I can’t see his license plate; his brake lights are out and I can’t read them, but I’m behind him now, heading north. If you hurry you might still catch him.”

“Can I have your name, sir, so I……” but that’s all I heard as I ended the call.

So far so good. I had one more thing to do and then I could head home.

Why leave matters to chance when you can manipulate them and force an outcome you can live with?

I hit the gas, caught up with Max and then passed him on that lonely highway. I continued to put pedal to metal for a quarter mile and then I stopped, did a U-turn and slowly approached my prey from the opposite direction. I rolled down the window, barely moving as Max’s headlight illuminated the woods in front of me. I turned my headlights off, then on, off, then on, hoping to signify an emergency. It worked and he slowed, and as he was slowing the wolves howled and I pulled my Glock and coming abreast of him I shot out his front tire.

Then it was time for me to go home. Max was an ex-con with fifty bags of dust in his car and suspected of attempted burglary of a filling station. You could bet the farm he was over the legal limit on drinks and probably had a revolver on him.

In other words, Max was about to experience the bitter taste of karma.

In other words, he was screwed and tattooed by yours truly.

The white hats from Jackson passed me, lights flashing and sirens drowning out the wolves, going in the opposite direction by the time I got back to the Antler. Pretty fast response time; I was impressed. Your tax dollars at work, keeping us all safe from the likes of Max Piceen. I knew I’d sleep well knowing I was so protected from harm.

You should all be so lucky as to have a Genna waiting for you after a hard night of righteous behavior. I walked into the cabin and she was on the couch, watching television, the light from the screen dancing over her features, her chocolate skin glowing and her face settling on a smile that made me horny as hell. Patti was in a chair, still tied up, still blindfolded.

“Job done, Billy?”

I kissed her and tasted strawberries.

“Job done, lover, and nobody died. Mike and his wife can breathe easy. Max is about to ship upriver and probably never return. Let me drop this young lady off near her home and I'll be right back.”

And that's what I did. I informed Patti it would be in her best interests to just imagine this evening as one would a nightmare. She could now wake up, Max was out of her life, and she could go on selling homes. I untied her hands, wished her a good life and left her two blocks from her home, safe and wiser.

Back home to my lover.

I started to take off my jacket.

“You might as well leave it on, Billy, we have to leave.”

“Where are we going this late at night, hon?”

“The contractions have started. I think, Billy, you need to drive this woman into Jackson. Your child is about to enter this world and it feels like she’s in a hurry.”

Well my goodness gracious, as my grandma was fond of saying. It appears that Billy is about to experience responsibility in a way he never imagined one year ago.

I hope you join me, Genna and Billy next week. Look for us in the delivery room.

2016 William D. Holland (aka billybuc)