Sleight

Sleight 

Freddy Biggs sat in his country farm house feeling pretty small and thinking about the good old days. The radio played as he drank a glass of scotch and stared intently at his front door. Such were the extent of his days.

Freddy kept a toothpick in his mouth whenever he wasn’t smoking, even though he only had but a few teeth to speak of. He carried a Colt Peacemaker at his side. It was the type of gun people hadn’t seen slung in about forty years or so. That was back in wilder times. His amputated left hand lay comfortably on his arm rest. More than fifty stories, most having become lost to a bygone era, attributed to how he got it lopped off. None were remotely true. A rusty hook protruded from his wrist in its stead. He smelled like he spent his days sleeping in pig shit, drinking scotch, and smoking two packs of camel reds a day. He of course did all those things. 

Upon finishing his fifth glass for the evening, Freddy heard a knock at his door. A strange occurrence no doubt. He couldn’t remember the last time somebody had come to pay him a visit. People usually weren’t that stupid. Freddy, eager for a visitor, opened the door. He kept it half closed and poked his head through the opening.

“Sheriff...what brings you out this way?” 

“Mind letting me in, Freddy?”

Freddy opened the door all the way. He motioned for the sheriff to walk in. “Have a seat.” Freddy walked over to the bar that was in the corner of his living room. “Need anything to drink?”

“No...thank you.” The sheriff took a seat.

“Well...I need a drink.” 

With Freddy’s back turned, the sheriff unholstered his gun quietly and placed it on his knee. He then removed his hat and placed it on top of the gun. He combed his balding hair once over with his fingers. His reached into his front pocket and pulled out his pipe. He lit it just as Freddy came back to take his seat. The two sat opposite each other. 

“So...” Freddy continued, “what brings you way the hell out of town?”

The sheriff took two long drags of his pipe before answering. “When’s the last time you made it into town, Freddy?”

“Well,” Freddy chose his next words carefully, “I always go into town on Tuesday. That’s when I load up on stuff I’ll need throughout the week. Mostly just scotch and my camel reds.”

“So you stopped by Leonard’s Market...is that right?”

“Yeah...that’s the one. Nice fellow that Leonard guy.”

“Yes...he sure was.”

“Was?” Freddy took a drink.

“Leonard was shot and killed in his shop Tuesday evening. It was about six o’clock.”

“What’d he go and get himself shot for?”

“His wife...who was in the back of the store at the time and out of sight from everyone else,” Freddy broke eye contact and looked down at his drink upon hearing this news, “she says that there was a bit of a fight between her husband and a haggling customer.” 

“Oh...” was about all Freddy could muster.

“You see...Abigail...that’s Leonard’s wife...she knows her husband all too well. He comes from the same generation as you and I do...you know? She says...she knew that from the moment she heard the first liquor bottle crash to the floor...an act of anger no doubt from the customer...she knew that someone was about to die. She’d just hoped it would be the other guy and not her husband as you can understand.”

“Certainly.” Freddy pulled out a camel red from his pack and lit it.

“She then told me that after a few more bottles had fallen to the floor...that there was then a silence. A long silence she says...but...it’s never really as long as you think it is in those types of situations.”

“I know what you mean.” Freddy sprung up from his chair quickly. The sheriff casually leaned back in his seat to defend himself if need be. Freddy shook his empty glass in the air and walked back to his sacred corner. Freddy turned to his guest, “Sure you don’t want one?” The sheriff gave a stiff shake of his head. 

Freddy took his liter of half drunken scotch in his hand and popped the cap off. The sheriff’s eyes examined every movement Freddy made. Right down to the faintest detail. He needn’t have looked that closely. A giant crack ran from the neck of the bottle all the way down to the base. 

“Drop your scotch bottle there, Freddy?”

Freddy looked back at the sheriff then back at his bottle. “Oh! Yeah! Boy was I drunken mess last night. First I dropped my bottle...then I shot a hole in the damn ceiling.” The sheriff looked up and saw a bullet hole in the ceiling. “I even slept out back in the barn with a couple of my pigs. I gotta stop doing that. Makes it harder to eat em if you know what I mean. Sometimes I just like the company though. Anyhow...it sure is a real good fortune that the bottle cracked the way it did and didn’t break all the way through. I’d of been out two dollars if it had been any worse. Two dollars and a damn fine bottle of scotch.” Freddy poured quick and put the cap back on. He stumbled on his way back towards his chair but finally found his seat. “Where were we?”

“Abigale Davis.” 

“Right! That poor woman. Go on, please.”

“She heard one last thing before the person fired a shot that would kill her husband.” The sheriff gave Freddy time to respond with an expected follow up question. Freddy gave no follow up question. “She heard the man that wasn’t Leonard say the word ‘draw.’ He said it three times. Louder each time.” 

“Draw? What is this...the Wild West?” Freddy howled out a fake laugh. “Sounds to me like a man stuck dwelling on the past. Maybe you could start your search there. I know a half dozen or so gents that fit that description at the saloon in town. We’ll check em out first thing in the mornin. How’s that sound?”

“That won’t be necessary. Abigale narrowed down the search for me a little bit more.”

“She uh...she happen see this man who murdered her husband or something?”

“Not quite. She only saw his backside.” Freddy took a drink of relief. “But she did catch something...something I find rather interesting.”

Freddy choked on his scotch, “And that would be?” 

“She noticed something odd about the man’s left hand.”

“What about it?” regaining his voice.

“He didn’t have one. There was nothing but a rusty iron hook peeking out from under his jacket sleeve.” The sheriff offered Freddy another chance to speak. Freddy went quiet. “Where were you Tuesday night...at six o’clock...July 15...1919?”

“It’s getting late, sheriff. You probably want to be going home to your family soon.”

“Where were you?”

“You know...I got such a bad memory these days. I have a difficult time remembering dates...names...places...things like that.”

“I’m gonna give you one last chance to confess, Freddy.”

“Or what? You’re not gonna shoot me with that gun under your hat?”

The sheriff flipped his hat off his knee with a gentle flick of his finger. He put his hand around the grip of the gun and cocked it. He pointed it at Freddy.

“You ever hear the story about how I lost this here hand, sheriff?”

“Got shot off. Everybody knows that, Freddy.”

“That’s what everybody thinks. You know...when you’re the subject of a rumor...you’re always fascinated by how they spread...the stories spread like a sort of infection. It just grows and grows until it’s totally unrecognizable from the original. I guess I can’t complain about the lies and the slander too much. The bigger the mystery that surrounds it...the more power it brings me.” 

The sheriff couldn’t help but be intrigued. The hand had always been a choice topic of discussion amongst the people that knew of the outlaw Freddy Biggs. He figured he had a few minutes to learn the truth regarding the biggest mystery about the most notorious outlaw Wyoming had ever seen. Besides, he’d already won.

“The truth is, sheriff...no man’s gotten the better of me. Not ever.” Freddy paused for a self congratulatory drink. “Ha! Why do you think I’ve lived so long?” The sheriff leaned in closer with his gun still drawn. “But! Times have changed. They sure have. You see...back in my day...guys were fast...relatively fast...but...their guns were slow and I was always faster. Now days...the opposite is true. Sorta makes up for the difference...and then some. Put me at a slight disadvantage you could say. The game’s changed...but heaven knows...I wasn’t about to say goodbye to my old peacemaker here. But I’m not stubborn. So...I needed to find a creative way to stay competitive. I figured...if I could just give myself one more second...one measly second more...then maybe...just maybe I’d be able to keep up. Adapt or die as they say.”

“So your solution was too...”

“I cut it off myself,” the sheriff made a wry smile and rolled his eyes. “No real rhyme or reason to it...at least none that any man could decipher. That’s just the way I liked it. The less a man knows about you...” Freddy leaned in closely to share his secret, “the less he can use it against you.”

“My god...you’ve lost your mind.”

Freddy laughed. “Yep! Lost it long before I lost my hand though. Well...I just figured there’s no reason to hide the secret anymore. Glad someone finally knows the truth.”

“Thanks for that, Freddy.” The sheriff raised his gun, “Now put your hand and...uh...hook up. Put em on your head.”

Freddy complied. He made no commotion. He made no hassle. He stayed patient as ever. The sheriff arose slowly. Gun still locked on its target. Ready to fire at a moments notice. All he needed was Freddy to give him a chance. To make one sudden or aggressive move. Freddy made no move. He put nothing to chance. He stayed still. He stayed calm. He stayed as terrifying as he’d always been. The sheriff bent down at Freddy’s side. Freddy felt a slight tug at his holster. The sheriff waved the gun in Freddy’s face. Taunting Freddy at his own risk. He tossed the gun on the chair behind him. 

“Now...stand up...slowly.”

“You got it.”

“That thing come off easily” the sheriff said, referring to the hook.

“Yes...yes it does. You ain’t gonna let me keep it?”

“I’m not that stupid. First chance you get...you’ll gauge both my eyes out and slit my throat with it.”

“No...of course...I’d have done all those things.” Freddy extended his left arm out towards the sheriff, “Care to do the honors?”

“No chance in hell you were gonna do it.” The sheriff examined the hook, getting a good view of it from all different angles. This was a first for him in his thirty years as a lawman. “How does this thing work?”

“Roll up my shirt sleeve and undo the first buckle you see.”

The sheriff pushed the sleeve back with his left hand. The prosthetic went all the way up the forearm and stopped at the elbow. A long leather sleeve connected the hook to Freddy’s arm. A buckle wrapped around the forearm like Freddy had said. The sheriff undid it with his left hand, keeping his eyes locked on Freddy above. 

“That it?”

“Unhook those two straps at the elbow.” While the sheriff worked on the straps, Freddy asked, “Guessing the Calvary’s camped outside?”

“Nope...I came here alone. I was surprised you gave up so easily.”

“Why didn’t they come along?”

“They’re just kids. They’re not cut out for animals like you. Besides...you I wanted all for myself.”

“They were too scared of me...huh?”

“Yeah...I guess you could say that.”

A grotesque looking grin covered Freddy’s face, “But you’re not afraid...are you?”

“I’ve spent my entire life afraid of guys like you. Now you’re the last of em. Figured I could stomach one more.” 

“That’s the problem with the world today, sheriff. Those young kids of yours. I weep for the future. The better the gun in a man’s hand gets...the more cowardly the man gets behind it. Just as well that it had to come to an end. I’m content to admit it...I think I’ve finally outstayed my welcome.”

The sheriff stared Freddy in the eye, “You were never welcome.” The sheriff wrapped his hand around the hook and took a step back. “You know what my gravestone’s gonna read someday? ‘The man who finally brought Freddy Biggs to justice.’ It’s been a long time coming...but I finally got you.” The sheriff’s smile turned serious real quick, “So stop acting like you were just willing to hand it over freely. I won! You understand?!”

“And mine’ll say ‘Freddy Biggs...the last great outlaw. At least he died doing what he loved.’”

The sheriff ignored Freddy. He looked down at his hand. He squeezed the hook tighter. Slowly, his arm recoiled back towards his body, taking the prosthetic off with it. The leather sleeve slid down Freddy’s forearm and went flaccid as it came off. 

No! Impossible!

The sheriff’s body went numb. Knees wobbly. All breathing stopped at that moment. His grip on the faux hand weakened.

Thud. 

Freddy stretched wide the fingers of his “long lost” left hand. He wiggled them tauntingly. He’d given the sheriff no time. No time to react. No time to process. No time to understand what had even happened. No time for a breath of air. The sheriff felt a tug at his gun hand. By the time he could look up, the barrel of his own gun stared him down. 

“No man has ever gotten the better of Freddy Biggs.”