Vivian and Bobby Ray

by Harry Hunsicker

Bobby Ray pointed the muzzle of his Glock at the clerk in the Keep Your Spirts Up Liquor Store. He smiled the smile that used to make the crack dealers and pimps on South Lamar go shaky and cross the street to get out of his way.

The clerk gulped, raised his arms.

Bobby Ray patted the cash register with his free hand and glanced toward the corner of the narrow room where a video camera leered over the shelves of discount-brand vodka and screw-top wine.

“Please, mister.” The clerk’s face was gray, beaded with sweat.

Bobby Ray slapped the register, the blow so hard it made the pennies in the take-one-if-you-need-one saucer rattle.

“D-d-don’t shoot me.” The man’s mouth fell open, tongue hanging loose on his bottom lip like he couldn’t get enough oxygen.

“Don’t be stupid then.” Bobby Ray felt a trickle of sweat slide down the small of his back. The two patrol units assigned to this sector were getting lunch a few blocks over. Vivian was in the car outside, motor idling. Everything was cool. For the moment.

The clerk lowered his hands and opened the register, hyperventilating so hard his cheeks puffed up like he was blowing on a trumpet. He stuffed a wad of cash into a paper sack and pushed it across the worn Formica counter top.

“And a can of Skoal.” Bobby Ray smiled and winked at the man.

“Huh?” The clerk frowned and raised his hands again.

“Skoal.” Bobby Ray used the pistol to point at the metal rack of chewing tobacco. “Gimme. A can. Of Skoal.”

The man grabbed a container of snuff and tossed it on top of the paper bag.

“Thanks.”

The clerk smiled nervously and let his breath out.

Bobby Ray shot him in the forehead, the bullet leaving a ragged .40-caliber hole just above his left eye. Blood from the exit wound sprayed the pint bottles behind the register with a red mist that reminded Bobby Ray of when he’d found his mother. He ran to the back room where he knew the video recorder was. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves, grabbed the tape, and left.

Vivian was in the Mustang with the top down, puffing on a Capri menthol.

Bobby Ray hopped in the passenger seat and said, “Go.”

Vivian gunned the engine and headed south on Ervay Street, away from the concrete and glass canyons that formed the Dallas skyline. The one-bedroom apartment they’d just moved into was a dozen blocks away, next to a pawnshop and a biker bar. The rent was not much more than what Bobby Ray had been paying for electricity at his house in the suburbs, the one where his ex-wife still lived.

“Everything cool?” Vivian tossed her cigarette.

“Yeah.” Bobby pulled the wad of currency out from the sack and rifled through it. “Maybe a grand or a little more.”

“We’re getting close.” Vivian smiled.

“Yep, guess so.” Bobby Ray nodded slowly and put a pinch of chewing tobacco in his mouth. He watched the rundown houses and dilapidated storefronts peel by as the nicotine wormed its way into his blood.

“It’s what I want, Baby.” Vivian spoke quietly as she stopped for a red light. She slid one hand across the console and rubbed her fingers slowly up and down Bobby Ray’s thigh. “You promised me, remember?”

Neither of them said anything else as they waited at the deserted intersection for the signal to turn. Bobby Ray had made a lot of promises to a lot of people; keeping them was another thing. But he’d do whatever Vivian wanted. They’d known each other for a long time, since they were kids in Waco, in the trailer park by the river.

They’d been back together for almost six months now, ever since he’d found her dancing in that topless bar near Love Field. She’d been messed up pretty badly, strung out on coke and pills courtesy of a Russian pimp nicknamed Ivan the Terrible. Bobby Ray hadn’t liked the situation very much. The commie’s new nickname was Ivan the Wheelchair Guy.

The light changed. Vivian moved her hand and drove a few more blocks until she turned right into the gravel parking lot of the Wayside Apartments. She slipped the car into a partially hidden spot near the end of the building, farthest from the street, under the shade of a hackberry tree.

The heat and humidity of early autumn in Texas engulfed Bobby Ray, the gray tee shirt he wore sticky against his chest, the metal of the pistol in his waistband hot against the flesh above his hip.

He clutched the bag of cash in one hand as Vivian opened the driver’s door and swung her good leg out, reaching for the crutches tucked behind the seat. She pushed the door shut and hobbled toward their apartment. The leaves overhead dappled the afternoon sunlight on her face, making her appear soft and vulnerable.

Bobby Ray never got tired of looking at Vivian. She was so pretty, eyes blue like the spring sky after a hard rain. The thin cotton dress she wore accentuated her long torso and hips, the cleavage deep enough to show the tops of her tanned breasts. He stared at the space where her left leg should have been and imagined it there, looking as lovely and shapely as the right one.

“You coming or not?” She stopped at the entrance to their apartment, fumbling with the key and the crutches.

Bobby Ray got out of the Mustang, stuck a finger in his mouth, and flicked the wad of tobacco across the parking lot. He followed her inside where the window AC unit wheezed, trying to keep the heat at bay. He dropped the bag of money on the coffee table they’d pulled from the Dumpster down the street.

Vivian made her way into the tiny kitchen. Bobby Ray heard rustling followed by the refrigerator opening and shutting. Vivian hobbled back to the living room, dangling a plastic grocery sack in one hand, its contents clinking against her aluminum crutch.

“You got time for a beer and maybe a little loving before you go to work?” She grinned and awkwardly pulled a Bud Lite out of the sack, holding it in Bobby Ray’s direction.

“Sure.” He grabbed the bottle and opened it. She did likewise with the other beer in the sack, and they drank a silent toast to the growing pile of money hidden under the mattress.

He placed the bottle on the coffee table and said, “Maybe this time we could do it . . . you know, regular.”

Vivian sighed and drained her beer. She looked at Bobby Ray with the half-smile, half-grimace that reminded him of when they were kids and her mama came to visit with her new husband.

“Bobby Ray,” she said. “You’re gonna have to get used to it.”

“I know.” He pulled the Glock out of his waistband and placed it on the coffee table next to the Sam Browne holster and bag of cash.

Vivian leaned her crutches against the wall and stared at a greasy spot by the window. “I suppose one more time will be okay.” She crossed her arms, elbows cupped tightly in each hand like she used to do when her mama’s new husband looked at her.

Bobby Ray pulled off his tee shirt.

Vivian grabbed the hem of her dress and tugged it up and over her hips and shoulders before dropping it to the floor. She balanced on one leg, wearing a black bra and matching high-cut panties. Her left thigh was encased in flesh-colored elastic bandages from knee to crotch.

She slowly unwound the bandages, letting them fall in a pile on the dirty carpet. When the last one touched the floor, she extended her knee and eased down the lower half of her left leg from where it had been bound behind her thigh. Her left foot touched the carpet next to the bandages, a few inches from her right one.

Bobby Ray smiled and kicked off his cowboy boots.

She limped a few steps toward the bedroom and winced. “Damn, that hurts.”

“You could always leave it down, you know.” Bobby Ray kept his voice low and hesitant.

“No, Baby, I can’t.” She wipes her eyes with the back of one hand.

Bobby Ray scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the lumpy double bed in the darkened room where they slept.

When they were finished, Bobby Ray took a shower in the cramped bathroom, letting the tepid water drum against his face for a long time. When the water ran cold, he stepped out, dried himself, and brushed his teeth twice to get rid of the beer on his breath. He walked into the bedroom, a threadbare towel around his waist.

“We got three thousand and twenty-seven dollars.” Vivian said. She was on the bed, naked, with her left leg bound again, calf to thigh. Light from the ancient Magnavox that they’d bought from the pawn shop next door flickered across the room, the sound down low. Oprah was on, talking to some chick with orange hair.

Bobby Ray tried not to look at Vivian as he dressed in his starched blue work uniform.

“Five hundred more is all we need.” Vivian reached for her cigarettes on the nightstand.

He didn’t reply.

“You want me to be happy, dontcha?” She blew a plume of smoke into the still air of the bedroom.

Bobby Ray nodded slowly and went into the living room. He grabbed the Glock and the belt and holster and put them on, along with his Dallas Police Department badge and name tag.

“Dammit, Bobby Ray.” Vivian was in the doorway on her crutches, still naked, tears in her eyes. “After all we’ve been through. You can’t let me down. You promised.”

“I told you I’d get the money for the operation.” He stood with his hand on the door, not looking back. “I’m gonna keep my word.”

“I love you,” Vivian said.

He left without saying anything.

Bobby Ray got in his GMC pickup, leaving the Mustang for Vivian to use if she needed. Even though the Ford hadn’t been reported stolen, there was no sense taking chances and driving it to work, especially with the owner in the trunk, getting riper by the hour. They’d probably have to get a new set of wheels for the next heist.

He headed toward the Dallas police auto pound and the cubicle he occupied there, the latest dumping ground for those on restricted duty. Excessive force, the weasels from Internal Affairs had called it, and not the first time either.

He took it like a man, like he was raised to, and tried not to think about the emaciated little boy he’d found locked in the closet two months ago. Instead he savored the look of surprise on the face of the boy’s father when the first blow from Bobby Ray’s baton connected with his stomach. Bobby Ray thought of his actions as justice, a strike for the little ones who couldn’t look out for themselves. He wished somebody had used a little excessive force on his old man.

With forty-five minutes to go before his shift started, Bobby Ray pulled into the handicap parking space in front of a popular neighborhood bar and grill on the west side of town. He hung Vivian’s counterfeit wheelchair tag on the mirror and walked inside.

The place was dim, the windows blacked out, most of the light coming from neon beer signs placed haphazardly around the room. Tables were to one side of the front door, a bar, billiards and shuffleboard to the other. The crowd was sparse, a mix of blue-collar workers eating chicken fried steaks and hamburgers, and guys in button downs and loosened ties, drinking the afternoon away.

Bobby Ray went to the bar and asked a woman wiping out ashtrays if the manager was around.

“That’d be Duane.” She motioned to a heavyset guy in his late forties at the end of the bar. The man, fighting the good fight against a receding hair line by having what was left styled in a mullet, sauntered to where Bobby Ray stood.

“What can I do for you, officer?” His accent was far east Texas, maybe Louisiana.

Bobby Ray introduced himself. “There’s been some holdups in the area.”

“That so?” Duane frowned.

“They tried to rob the Chili’s down the street.”

“Oh yeah.” Duane rubbed his chin and sat down on a barstool. “I think I heard about that. A bunch of black kids, wasn’t it?”

Bobby Ray looked toward the front door without replying, trying not to laugh. There had been no robbery attempt at Chili’s.

He turned back around and gave the man a raised eyebrow along with a sheepish grin, indicating that of course it was African American youths but with all the politically correct stuff these days . . . well you know.

“What’s their MO?” Duane leaned forward, all serious now with the TV police lingo. “Hey, you want some coffee or something?”

“No. Thanks.” Bobby Ray shook his head. “Here’s the deal. They’ve been hitting right after closing time, coming in the back way.”

Duane nodded thoughtfully, chewing on his lip.

“Officers from this substation are going around, checking out security.” Bobby Ray peered around the room. “You got cameras?”

“Oh, man, do we. The best money can buy.” Duane stood up. “You want to see?”

Bobby Ray smiled and nodded. Fifteen minutes later he walked outside, after thanking the manager for pointing out where everything was: alarm, video monitoring system, combination safe. He was especially thankful that Duane showed him the small-framed .380 he carried in his back pocket and the Remington 12 gauge behind the office door.

Duane stood on the sidewalk outside of the bar and shielded his eyes from the afternoon sun. He said, “Be a lot less crime out there if more people carried guns.”

“I hear you.” Bobby Ray was by the side of his pickup, keys in hand. “You be safe, okay, Duane.”

The afternoon shift at the auto pound ran from four to midnight. Bobby Ray worked steadily, processing paperwork for wrecks and recovered vehicles, filling out forms, typing memos, and all the other desk jockey stuff he was required to do.

His supervisor, Penelope, was barely thirty, five years younger than he, and had just made sergeant. When she wasn’t talking about how great her new age church was or telling sappy stories about her same-sex life partner, Sergeant Penelope delighted in making Bobby Ray retype things when there was just the smallest error on the page.

At eight Bobby Ray took his dinner break and bought a package of cheese and crackers and a Diet Coke from the vending machine. He ate at his desk. By the time he finished the third cracker, he realized that he wouldn’t be working for the Dallas Police Department anymore after tonight.

The thought made him smile for a few moments. He finished eating and logged onto the Internet, for the first time ignoring the software and disabling the filters designed to keep idle surfing to a minimum. Once there, he went to a webpage devoted to people who fantasize about amputation, the wannabes they call themselves, though the shrinks had a fancier name for it, some hard-to-pronounce Latin term. Apotemnophilia, or the desire to amputate a perfectly healthy limb in order to feel whole.

Bobby Ray looked at the pictures of people with missing pieces. Apparently, it was a sexual thing to some, though he had a hard time understanding that.

He read the personal ads before skimming the do-it-yourself tutorials, the talk of chainsaws and railroad tracks making him queasy. He tried to imagine Vivian with just one leg, what it would feel like to ease next to her, to stroke her hair, to kiss her. To be with her. He pushed those unpleasant thoughts out of his head and logged off the Internet.

If Vivian wanted it, so did he. They’d been looking out for each other since childhood, since even before the bad times and that hard knot of black anger had formed in his heart. Now was no time to go slack on her.

Bobby Ray looked at the card of the veterinarian he’d busted a few months ago for lewd conduct in the men’s room at Reverchon Park. The guy had a wife and three kids, and a penchant for quick, anonymous hookups with the young men in that part of town. Bobby Ray flipped the card over and read what the man had scribbled there: $3,500.

They needed five hundred more. Duane, Mr. Helpful Bar Manager, had said the typical take for a Friday was about four or five grand. Bobby Ray chewed on his lip for a moment before scribbling the figures on a sheet of scrap paper to make sure he got it right. That meant they might have up to forty-five hundred left over, after paying the vet. Bobby Ray drummed the desktop with his fingers, contemplating their options.

He’d always wanted to go to Vegas, see the Strip and maybe catch a Wayne Newton show. But that might be kind of tough with a one-legged girlfriend. That left Plan B, his cousin in Alpine, Texas, near the Big Bend country, a day’s drive west of Dallas. The money would go farther in a little town, plus his cousin said he could get him a job working security at Sul Ross University there.

The matter didn’t warrant further thinking; Alpine was the best option. He stuffed the business card in his shirt pocket, tossed the scrap of paper in the trash and resumed his work.

Ten minutes later Penelope waddled over, a thick sheaf of forms clutched between her fingers. She dropped them on his desk, and told him he’d entered the license plate information in the wrong box, again.

Bobby Ray looked at the clock on the far wall and started on the pile of papers.

They’d argued on the way over to Duane’s place, after Bobby Ray got home from work and had boosted a new car from the biker bar next door. Bobby Ray told Vivian that she was going to have to help with this one, more than just driving. The place was too big, too many nooks for a person to hide.

She was going inside with him, and that meant she had to be on two legs. He handed her the gun she’d need, a battered .38 Smith that he’d confiscated from a bookie a year ago. Vivian held the revolver between the tips of two fingers like it was diseased.

She’d finally relented after Bobby Ray pointed out that by using her two legs this last time she would reach her goal the next day of only having one. He patted his pocket where the vet’s card was.

The car, a mid-seventies Chevy Monte Carlo with curb feelers, held most of their possessions in the back seat: two suitcases of assorted clothes, Vivian’s crutches, and a framed picture of Bobby Ray’s mother taken a few days before she’d stuck a pistol in her mouth while her son was in the living room watching Cosby Show reruns.

Bobby Ray was still in his uniform. He parked in front of the bar and turned off the ignition. It was 2.20 am. There was only one other car in the parking lot, a late-model Honda.

Vivian pulled her dress up to her hips and undid the bandages holding her left calf pressed against her thigh.

“Let’s rock and roll.” Bobby Ray got out of the Monte Carlo and walked to the front door.

“What do you want me to do?” She limped after him, gun held awkwardly in one hand.

“Keep the piece hidden and your eyes open.” Bobby Ray tested the front door and saw it was locked. “Stand over there.” He pointed to a spot a few feet away, out of sight of anyone inside.

Vivian complied, holding the .38 behind her back.

Bobby Ray knocked on the front door.

Nothing happened.

“Hey, Duane.” He knocked again, harder. “It’s me, Bobby Ray. From this afternoon.”

The blinds on the glass door twitched. The deadbolt rattled.

“Hang on.” Duane opened the door a few inches. Light from the office in the back spilled into the darkened bar, silhouetting the manager’s mullet. “What’s up?”

“Just checking in,” Bobby Ray said. “Hooters got robbed a couple of hours ago.”

“Oh, man.” Duane opened the door another few inches. “Anybody hurt?”

Bobby Ray nodded. “The manager got popped in the chest, bled out on the floor with his wife there watching.”

Duane’s mouth went slack.

“That’s why I thought I’d stop by, see if everything was cool.” Bobby Ray leaned against the door frame.

“Yeah, sure.” Duane shook his head like he was trying to wake up from a bad dream. “C’mon in.”

Bobby Ray stepped inside, motioning for Vivian to follow.

“Who is she?” Duane stared at the woman in the short cotton dress favoring one leg.

“This is Vivian, my girlfriend.” Bobby Ray locked the front door. “She rides along with me sometimes.”

“Huh?”

“Let’s take a look in the back, make sure everything’s safe.” Bobby Ray headed toward the office, leaving Duane staring at Vivian

“What’re you holding behind your back?” Duane’s voice sounded suspicious.

“Baby, what do I do now?” Vivian said.

Bobby Ray turned, marveling in a detached way how a simple robbery had gotten messed up so quickly. He realized it was a big mistake bringing Vivian. People who wanted to have a portion of their body whacked off because it made them feel whole should not be brought along during armed robberies. Like Daddy always said before he locked himself in Bobby Ray’s half-sister’s room, you just can’t trust split tail; they’re only good for one thing.

Vivian was standing by the locked front door, holding the .38 in her right hand, pointed at the ground.

“She’s got a gun.” Duane reached for his back pocket.

Bobby Ray popped the thumb guard on his Sam Browne holster, grabbed the butt of the Glock.

Vivian’s revolver went off, still pointing to the floor. The muzzle blast was like a big loud flashbulb in the dim room. She yelled and ran toward the bar but fell after a few steps, her left leg giving out after the sudden exertion.

“What the hell?” Duane had his pistol out, aiming it at the woman on the dirty floor.

“Drop the gun.” Bobby Ray put the muzzle of the Glock in the man’s ear.

“You . . .” Duane dropped the weapon. “You’re robbing me?”

“Yep.” Bobby Ray holstered his piece and pulled the man’s hands behind his back, snapping on the cuffs in one easy movement honed to perfection after thirteen years on the job.

“I ain’t here alone.” Duane’s voice sounded panicky.

Vivian stood up and retrieved her gun.

“That’s what they all say.” Bobby Ray grabbed him by the elbow and walked toward the office, Vivian by his side.

A small, brown-skinned man wearing a dirty tee shirt and a chef’s hat stepped out of the office. He held the Remington 12 gauge pressed against his shoulder, the barrel shaking.

Duane dropped to the floor and yelled something in Spanish as Bobby Ray grabbed for his pistol.

The cook closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The muzzle blast seemed twice that of the earlier shot, a long oval of flame piercing the dark bar.

Vivian screamed and fell to the floor.

Bobby Ray cleared leather and fired twice, both shots hitting the cook in the stomach. He holstered the Glock and knelt beside Vivian. The blast, evidently a load of buckshot, had hit just below her right knee. Bobby Ray whipped off his belt and used it to make a tourniquet.

Then he went and got the money.

The vet’s name was Thurston, like the old rich dude on Gilligan’s Island. Thurston was pretty drunk when he met Bobby Ray and Vivian at his office on Lemmon Avenue a little after three in the morning. He told Bobby Ray not to worry as he had some pills that would sober him up in a jiffy.

Bobby Ray carried the unconscious Vivian into the operating room and placed her on the dog-sized surgery table, her arms flopping over the sides.

“What happened here?” Thurston squinted at the wounded leg.

“She got shot.” Bobby Ray tried not to look at the extensive damage done by the blast from the 12 gauge.

“That leg’ll have to come off.” The veterinarian blinked several times and placed a hand on the table to steady himself.

“No kidding.” Bobby Ray tried to control his anger. “That’s the whole point, remember?”

“She wanted the other leg taken.” Thurston burped and covered his mouth with one hand. “Her left one.”

“Change of plans, Doc.” Bobby Ray smelled the alcohol on the man’s breath. “You’re gonna go ahead and take the right one since it’s about to fall off anyway. And you’re gonna save her life.”

“She needs to be in a hospital.” Thurston pulled on a surgical gown. “Lost a lot of blood.”

“No can do.” Bobby Ray shook his head. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

“I’ve got plasma, but the shock . . . “ The man frowned and scratched his chin. “A long drive might kill her.”

“No choice at this point.”

“Let’s do it then.” Thurston opened a drawer and pulled out a vial of clear liquid and a syringe.

Seven hours later, on the highway outside of San Angelo, Vivian opened her eyes and moaned. Bobby Ray pulled the Monte Carlo to the side of the road and stopped.

“You okay?” He placed his palm on her forehead. Her skin was warm but pale like buttermilk. She didn’t reply.

“We’re almost halfway there. Everything went fine. Doc said you’re gonna be okay.”

Vivian blinked but didn’t speak.

“I-I-I’m sorry, how it went down.” Bobby Ray fought to keep the emotion out of his voice. “But you got what you want. You’re whole now.”

Vivian closed her eyes and sighed once.

“And now you can be happy and I can too and everything will be alright.” A single tear trickled down Bobby Ray’s cheek.

An eighteen-wheeler blew past, rocking the elderly Chevy. Vivian’s face got paler.

Bobby Ray clutched her hand. “We can be a real family, like we always talked about, you know, where everybody’s nice to each other and stuff.”

Something rattled deep inside Vivian chest. She took one more breath and then was still.

Bobby Ray put his head on his half-sister’s shoulder and wept.

Harry Hunsicker is the former executive vice president of the Mystery Writers of America and the author of eight crime thrillers and numerous short stories. His work has been short-listed for both the Shamus and Thriller Awards. www.harryhunsicker.com

Photo by Hennie Stander on Unsplash