At Dewitt's End Page 3

  A nurse rushes from a hospital room and down the corridor to the nurses’ station. She grabs a microphone and yells “Code Blue, Fifth Floor! Code Blue, Fifth Floor!”

  In the Emergency Room five floors below the staff scrambles and several nurses, technicians and medical students rush toward the elevators and stairwells. Eddie runs flat-out and passes Dewitt, who can only “wheel” so fast.

  “Eddie, run the Code ‘til I get there,” Dewitt yells down the hall.

  Eddie half looks back and throws up an arm for “okay.”

  Dewitt is frustrated, wheeling towards an open elevator door. But, then he remembers Sarge’s new contraption and pulls a little handle on his wheelchair.

  “Saddle up!” he shouts. But there is only some condensation and a feeble hissing sound emitted from his giddy-up, and Dewitt gets only a modest, few feet boost. Dewitt throws up his arms. The idea, sadly, has failed.

  Eventually Dewitt is able to enter the fracas of the Code Blue room. Eddie gives him a brief update, noting that he has ordered the patient “shocked” twice, with good results. The patient now has a pulse and a decent blood pressure. Dewitt takes charge and soon the patient is stable and the code ends.

  “Excellent job, Eddie,” Dewitt says later, as he wheels along the corridor. “I’m going to have to start calling you ‘Doctor.’”

  Eddie grins with humble appreciation.

  “Thanks, Dr. D.”

  Eddie walks on away. Dewitt pats the little contraption attached to his wheelchair and talks to it.

  “I’m going back to Sarge. And we are trading you in on a V-8, double overhead cam, four-speed... ”

  Chapter Six

  Governor Dill and Mr. Nickels sit at a table, viewing an unfolded map. The Governor waves his hand over the map. He addresses Nickels and the Gofers.

  “So this area upstate is where you want to build your next ‘Honest Injun’ casino. Right near where there just may be a new stretch of Interstate and a new state road. And maybe a spanking new big shopping mall.”

  He looks around at everyone.

  “Hmmm. Well,” he says, “I have it on good authority that you may have chosen for yourselves a fortunate site, a fortunate site indeed!”

  Everyone laughs. The Gofers rub their hands greedily.

  “Now remember, Governor,” Nickels says, “we need your help about that ‘sacred burial site,’ using these old maps we, ahem, ‘found’ which authenticate our rights to the area.”

  Dill replies, “Yeah, the maps look real, all right. And I’m glad you shared them with me. We need each other. But you have to get busy on your end getting the locals agreeable about ‘their’ sacred burial ground. Then, it’s just a matter of throwing me, and my boys, a bone or two from the place.”

  He looks around. No one is laughing. Governor Dill is chagrined.

  “Uh, sorry. Poor choice of words there, fellows. That is – Give us our just dues from the proceeds of your ‘Honest Injun’ project. – You know what I mean?”

  Now everyone relaxes. They all nod and smile. The Governor looks at the map keenly and examines its markings more closely. He continues.

  “Now let’s see. Where exactly is the site-specific area under detail located as to the coordination of the coord-? – Oh, hell, where’s the damn graveyard?”

  Nickels gestures to his chief lieutenant, Running Fever.

  “Okay,” Nickels says, “Running Fever, show the ‘Gov’ where the damn, uh, the ‘sacred Indian burial ground’ is located.”

  “Here, Governor Dill, here.”

  Running Fever straightens up the map, seeking the correct coordinates.

  He says, “Uh, halfway between ‘B-Nine’ and ‘G-48’, Mister Governor.”

  Nickels shouts, “Bingo!” The Gofers laugh automatically.

  Running Fever circles the spot with a crayon.

  The Governor speaks.

  “So, this is the part of the site that is B-Nine?”

  Running Fever says, “That’s right, Governor.”

  “Hmmm. B-Nine. B-Nine. How do we know?”

  “Running Fever is our tribal medicine man, Governor,” intones Nickels. “If anyone would know that it was B-Nine, he would.”

  The governor drolly replies, “I see.”

  Dill picks up the map, keeping a finger on the general area. He continues.

  “And you’re sure it’s right there, Nickels? This very spot is what’s going to turn everything on, make everything happen, make us all rich?”

  “Yes, sir!” says Nickels.

  “Hmmm,” the Governor responds. “Oh, well. Let’s do it!”

  The Governor picks up the map and rolls it up. Nickels is relieved and commands the Gofers.

  “Alright, you heard the Governor. Let’s make it happen! And remember, men, the only thing which can stop us now is some bureaucratic mess-up way up the line. – You know, like that snail darter thing on the Tennessee-Valley-Damn-environmentalists!”

  Everyone whoops as Nickels exudes, “Meeting adjourned!”

  Governor Dill has a secretary. Of sorts. A nameplate on the desk of a dizzy blonde in the Governor’s office reads: Today’s Secretary. Handwritten below this is Steffanie and next to her name is a little smiley face. When the telephone rings, she very smartly answers. After dropping the handset.

  “Hello. Governor Dill’s office. ‘We’re elected, so you’re connected!’... Well in general, we don’t... Urgent?! Oh, my... And whom may I say is calling?... Colonel Houston? From Washington?... With major problems that are private! Oh, my. Let me put you through right away!”

  She can’t put the call through, having no idea how to use the intercom. She gives up and walks to the Governor’s open door and takes a deep breath.

  “Governor Major, General Washington is on the phone from Houston! He says his Privates are having an urgent problem or something!”

  The Governor is confused. He shakes his head. Behind him looms a large rendition of the famous painting “Washington Crossing The Delaware.” The Governor looks at it.

  “Who? What?”

  The secretary leaves, leaving the Governor flummoxed behind his overly large desk and his surrounding self-aggrandizing photographs and mementos.

  “Damn government cutbacks,” he intones. He picks up the phone.

  “Dill here!... What?... What?... An Indian tribe? Trying to get away with our public trust? That’s awful, just awful!... What?... There’s a secret you can’t even share with me?! – Hmmm.”

  He picks up a pen.

  “Could you spell your name for me, Colonel?... You know I’ll cooperate! Goodbye!”

  Dill hangs up the phone and steams.

  “Damn bureaucrats! Why I could have been in charge up there.”

  He spits in exasperation.

  “Why, why I could have been President if it hadn’t of been for my name!”

  Dill looks toward a corner where a life size campaign “mock up” rests. It show a distinguished older politician and Dill himself, their hands united, arms up stretched, in a “victory” pose. Behind them is a large red, white and blue campaign sign. It reads:

  Why Not DILL – DOLE Next Time?

  Dill is downcast. He’s crestfallen.

  “I’m ruined! Ruined!”

  He ponders. He calculates. He raises an eyebrow.

  “This,” he says aloud, rubbing his hands together, “this calls for sterner measures!”

  Chapter Seven

  It’s nighttime in a somewhat rundown outdoor used car lot, one housing dozens of older cars. All is quiet except for the grunts of a small-framed Indian, whose clean but inexpensive blue jeans have turned-up pants legs, and whose grunting is the result of trying to get the final hubcap off an old sedan. His other Indian partner in crime is trying to fit a lone car key into each and every
car on the lot, without luck. This is Willie. His grunting childlike partner is T. P.

  “Willie,” says T. P., “I can’t get this last hubbie off. What can I do, Willie?”

  “Just leave it and help me with this key. I’m tired.”

  “O.K., Willie. – Willie, tell me again this is how Sitting Bull got his start.”

  “No, I tells you! I didn’t say that, T. P. It was Sitting Bull’s grandson. Cars didn’t have hubcaps in Sitting Bull’s time. Anyone who has studied history knows that.”

  T. P. tries valiantly to loosen the last hubcap.

  “I didn’t know you knew Indian history, Willie.”

  “I don’t. Auto-mo-bile history, that’s my specialty. Studied it at every prison library I ever been to.”

  “O. K., O. K., Willie. You better make that key work or we ain’t gonna eat tonight. The ‘fence’ said be there by elevenses or he’s gone beddie-byes.”

  Willie growls and shakes his head.

  “T. P. would you please quit with that baby talk! You know how I hates it, uh, hate it, when you do that.”

  “O. K., Willie.”

  T. P. hangs his head. But not for long as, finally, the car key does work and Willie opens the latch on an old, full-size sedan. The boys joyfully get in, placing a big burlap bag of clanging hubcap loot into the back seat.

  T. P. is happy.

  “I’m glad we got a top on us tonight, Willie. It’s pretty cold to be exposed to the air.”

  “Oh, hush your whining,” Willie counters. “The old wheels make a great convertible. We’ll come back and pick it up early tomorrow, after we get our moolah.”

  Willie turns on the Accessories with the ignition switch. Really loud rock music blasts from the radio. Willie quickly turns it off. He lifts the receiver of a cheap car phone that has been installed in the floorboard.

  T. P. is beside himself.

  “Let’s check our messages! I hope we got messages! Oh boy, oh boy. Put it on the speaker, Willie.”

  “Shhh, I tells you! I swear, T. P., you’d wake up the dead if they weren’t already dead!”

  Willie carefully punches some buttons and puts the phone on speaker mode. The telephone line rings at the other end and Willie’s voice comes out of the speaker in the car.

  “We’re not here right now. We are out on a job... ”

  In the background of this sober message there appears a little high voice. It’s T. P.

  “... Say ‘Leave a message,’ Willie. Say ‘Leave a message.’”

  The message continues.

  “Leave a message... Beep.”

  In the car, Willie hits the buttons needed to retrieve messages and finds that there is, indeed, a message. A new voice emerges from the phone.

  “Willie,” intones a voice sounding deeper than it needs to be, “this is Nickels. The Big Man wants you to go to Washington to do a big job. This is your chance to redeem yourself, along with that idiot partner of yours.”

  T. P. pouts as Willie wags his finger at him in consternation and remembrance of some screwed up time past.

  The voice continues.

  “Meet me tomorrow at noon at the usual place.”

  T. P. pulls on Willie’s arm.

  “I wonder if all expenses are paid?” he asks Willie.

  The voice answers.

  “I know what you’re thinking. All expenses are paid. Now, get out your best East Coast suits and get ready for some equipment training. Bye. – And tell T. P. ‘bye-byes’ for me! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

  T. P. looks a little hurt and asks, “Willie, why does he always say that?”

  “Because he knows you!” puffs back Willie. “Let’s get this stuff a-juderated and go home. We soon got bigger fish to fry!”

  Willie starts the car and the boys begin their drive out of the lot and into the night. The left blinker goes on. Willie turns right.

  Chapter Eight

  Nickels’ Town Car speeds north on a two-lane blacktop highway, with a Gofer at the wheel. The land is flat and arid, save for a small river meandering off in the distance. Nonetheless, a large commercial real estate sign has a SOLD banner freshly plastered across it. Nickels, in the back seat with a couple of Gofers, points at the sign and then at his chest: He and his syndicate have already bought some of the land they want.

  Up front, riding “shotgun,” is Running Fever. The Town Car is passing five signs on the side of the roadway, a la the old “Burma Shave” signs. They read:

  AS YOU ENTER RESERVATION

  THINK OF US AS A NATION

  NOT JUST OTHER FILLING STATION

  OR RELIEF FROM CONSTIPATION

  ERMA SHAAVE, MAYOR

  Running Fever sinks into his seat. He is embarrassed and humiliated.

  “If she was not my sister,” he laments, “I would kill her.”

  Everyone laughs.

  Nickel’s car approaches the outskirts of this little Indian reservation village, a village sans casino, at least for now. The men pass the village welcoming sign. It reads:

  WELCOME TO FORKED KNIFE

  Where The Future Gets Here Tomorrow

  At the village center the car stops and two Gofers get out and take from the trunk an old-style cone loudspeaker and attach it to the car’s roof. They hand a wired microphone inside to Nickels, then jump back inside. Nickels taps the mic a couple of times to see that it is working, then nods to the driver.

  The car slowly rolls through the main street. The loudspeaker begins broadcasting Nickel’s voice. It’s the traditional Indian war chant, slow, deep-voiced and dramatic:

  “Ei yei yei yei, Ei yei yei yei... ”

  The village residents just go about their business. The chant continues. Finally, Nichol’s voice modulates to a faster “Ricky Ricardo” falsetto finish:

  “... Ei yei yei yei yei!!”

  At the end of the street, the car turns around.

  “This isn’t working,” says Nickels. “What the hell will the people of this village respond to?”

  Running Fever has an idea. He asks, “Uh, did you say people of this village?”

  Shortly thereafter, the car rolls again. This time music is coming from the loudspeaker. It’s the Village People’s “Y. M.C.A.” Now everyone is paying attention! The villagers begin to follow the car, dancing behind it as it rolls through the dusty main street.

  The music fades and Nickels and the Gofers step from the car and walk up onto an elevated sidewalk. Nickels prepares to speak. He motions for silence. The Gofers imitate him, also motioning for silence.

  After clearing his throat, Nickels pontificates to the crowd.

  “My fellow Native Americans,” he shouts, “I stand before you today as one of you, enriched by the history of our fellow native, uh, history. – You know, America. America before Columbus. – Uh, stuff like that.”

  The crowd is puzzled. The Gofers, though, point to Nickels and nod in agreement.

  “Now we are engaged in a great civil war. – No, wrong speech. Now we are faced with a time that, even though you don’t yet know it, is to be a turning point... ”

  The Gofers, listening intently, turn around and around.

  “... a turning point for this very tribe, this very town – this very street of ours.”

  Even the Gofers can’t figure out this nonsense. But the villagers listen quietly.

  Nickels takes from his jacket a small cloth bag, opens it, and dumps the sand-like contents into his hand. Holding this out, he continues.

  “For these, these my friends, my fellow Native Americans, are the very ashes of one of our late beloved ante-decedents – uh, pre-desestors – uh, an-desestors.”

  Pause.

  “The dead,” he adds drolly.

  The vaguely interested crowd strains to see what’s in his hand.


  Running Fever comes over to Nickels, shaking his head.

  “This isn’t working,” he says, sotto voce. “Just tell them the government may give them more money.”

  “The government may give you more money,” Nickels shouts.

  The crowd starts to whoop and shout! They give each other high-fives and listen now for more information.

  “So,” continues Nickels, “what you need to do is agree to let my associate here, Running Fever, who is the brother of your fine Mayor, Chief-ette Erma Shaave, speak to the government in your name, on your behalf... ”

  Nickels waves his arms mightily.

  “... and rest ipso locator and all that. Yes, and then, my fellow Native Americans, we, uh, or rather you, will become rich!”

  The people talk it over. Soon a spokesman, an Elder, comes out of the crowd and speaks.

  “You have our people’s permission. We have known Running Fever since he was just a sickly little boy. And, we trust Erma Shaave. After all, she is not just our Mayor; she is also our town’s marketing director!”

  Nickels, Running Fever and even the Gofers flinch at this, recalling the signs. But then they smile and assure the crowd that they have made a wise decision. The entourage departs. The song “We Are Family” blasts from the car’s loudspeaker.

  The people boogie in the street.

  Chapter Nine

  Dewitt sits in the bulkhead seat in coach class as his airliner begins its approach into Washington. His wheelchair sits in a storage area just in front of him. He looks out the window and sees the Washington Monument and the Capitol Building. Try as he might, though, he can’t spot Jesse’s government building, though he can see the area in Georgetown where Jesse’s condo is located.

  A velvety-throated, female voice comes over the intercom of the jetliner.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Big City Airways, the sophisticated airline, welcomes our arriving Atlanta passengers to Washington’s National Airport, located in the cart of our Haitian napital, er, fart of our Cajun crapitol, uh, heart, spart-... ah, sh-”

  Minutes later, leaving the jet, Dewitt wheels himself past the captain and crew as they bid everyone adieu. Dewitt smiles a devilish little smile toward the still-chagrined and red-faced flight attendant.