Chapter 17 Chapter 16

One day later, on June 23, a long white Coney sedan roared northward along National Highway 180 at a speed of 90 to 100 mph. .The rear view windows also reflect the glare of the sun. Polk and Lloyd were pretty much running around in the car after they killed the owner and stole the car somewhere south of Hashita.Up 81 to US 80, the turnpike, Polk and Lloyd began to feel nervous.They killed 6 people in the last 6 days, including the owner of Connie, his wife and daughter.But it wasn't the six victims that made them uneasy about being in the middle of the state, it was the drugs and the guns. 5 grams of white powder, a small snuffbox full of who knows how much cocaine, and 16 pounds of marijuana.There were also two . 38s, three . 45s, a . 357 that Polk called a killer, six shotguns, and a Schmeisser submachine gun.Killing people was a no-brainer, but they both knew that if the Arizona State Police found a stolen car full of marijuana and weapons, they'd be in trouble.Besides, they were interstate fugitives.They've been interstate since they crossed the Nevada state line.

Interstate fugitive.Lloyd Henrider liked the implications.Do something earth-shattering.Catch it, you scumbag.Get a peanut, you bastard cop. They turned north at Deming and are now on State Highway 180; they passed through Hurley, Bayard, and slightly larger Silver City, where Lloyd bought a sack of bread and 8 Ice cream gratin (oh my god why did he buy 8 of these crap? They're going to piss chocolate in no time). Past Silver City, the road now winds west again, just in the direction they didn't want to go.After Buckconn they were back in the country God Forget, the two-lane black-faced road stretching through sagebrush and sand in the background, sharp hills and square hills.Everything in one color makes one just want to spat on it.

"We're running low on gas," Polk said. "If you hadn't been driving so damn fast, this wouldn't have happened," Lloyd said.He took a sip from the third glass of ice cream custard, spat into it, rolled down the window, and threw out all the rest of it along with the three untouched ice cream custards. "Ha! Ha!" cried Pork.He started to increase the throttle.The Conny car sped forward and stopped, sped and stopped. "Stay on it, cowboy!" Lloyd yelled. "Ha ha!" "Do you want to smoke?" "I'll smoke it if you get it," said Pork. "Ha! Ha!"

On the floor of the car seat lay a large, heavy green bag in front of Lloyd's feet.It contained 16 pounds of marijuana, and he reached in, grabbed a handful, and started rolling a marijuana cigarette. "Ha! Ha!" Connie's car stopped and stopped on the white line. "What are you doing!" cried Lloyd. "Look at the sprinkles everywhere!" "So many, where did they come from... Hmm!" "Come on, buddy, we're going to suck this thing. We're gonna suck this thing, we're going to light it up and get high." "Okay, man." Pork began to drive the car smoothly again, but his expression was dark. "It was your idea, your fucking idea."

"You thought it was a good idea." "Yeah, but I didn't know we'd end up in fucking Arizona. How would we get to New York?" "Man, we're going to lose track," Lloyd said.In his mind's eye, he saw the doors of the police garages open, and thousands of cars with sirens from the 1940s driving into the night.Headlights shone on the brick wall.Come out, Kanarsi, we know you're hiding there. "Fucking luck," said Pork, still stern. "We don't do human work, you know, what do we have besides drugs and guns? We have 16 dollars and 300 credit cards that the fuck don't use. Fucking fuck, we don't even pay this There is not enough cash to add gasoline to pigs that can only be eaten.”

"God will," Lloyd said, spit on the joint.He lit it with the lighter on the dashboard of Connie's car. "What a fucking happy day." "Why would you smoke if you wanted to sell?" continued Poker, who took no more comfort in the idea that God would give. "Then let's sell less. Come on, Pork, have a bite." This trick was tried and tested, he laughed and took the cigarette.Between them stood a Schmeisser, with its iron stock turned down, fully loaded.The Conny was running wildly on the road, its gas gauge pointing to 1/8. Polk and Lloyd met a year ago on the Brownsville Correctional Farm in Nevada.Brownsville has 90 hectares of farmland and a jail about 60 miles north of Tonopah and 80 miles northeast of Garbus.Bullsville said it was a farm, but it didn't actually produce much.The carrots and lettuce were listlessly wilted and dead in the hot sun.Legumes and reeds should survive.The Warden (he prefers to be called "The Boss") is a hard-nosed, smug fellow, and he has the same kind of crew.He liked to tell every new inmate that Brownsville had minimal security, and when someone got away, he did what the song said: Nowhere to run, baby, nowhere to hide.Some people tried anyway, but most of them were arrested within two or three days. Some were burned by the sun, their eyes were blinded, and some begged the boss for a sip of water.Some of them laughed like mad, and a young man who had been away for three days claimed that he saw a large castle a few miles south of Garbus, a castle with a moat, which he said was built by riding The giant of the big black horse stands guard.When missionaries from the Colorado Evangelical Society preached in Brownsville a few months later, the young man embraced Jesus enthusiastically.

Andrew Pok Freeman came in just for beating someone once, and he was released in April 1989.He slept in the bed next to Lloyd.He told Lloyd that if he was interested in making a big buck, he knew there was something interesting in Las Vegas.Lloyd was more than willing to go big. Lloyd was released on June 1.He committed the crime in Reno, the crime was attempted rape.The woman, a nightclub showgirl, shot Lloyd in the eye with a tear gas-filled gun on her way home.He felt very lucky, minus the time in custody, and because of his good performance, he got a 4-year sentence commutation, and only served 2 years.It's too damn hot to do anything in Brownsville.

He boards a bus bound for Las Vegas, and Polk picks him up at the terminal.It was a big deal, Polk told him.He knew a guy who might best be described as a "one-time business partner."The guy was known in some circles as Gentle George.He did some piecework for a group of people with Italian and Sicilian names.Strictly speaking, George is a temporary helper.He's mostly fetching and carrying these Sicilian characters.Sometimes he picks things up from Las Vegas and sends them to Los Angeles.Sometimes he brings other stuff from Los Angeles to Las Vegas.Mostly humble drugs, given as freebies to high-class clients.Guns are always retrieved, never delivered.As Pork understands (Pork's understanding is always vague), these Sicilian characters sometimes sell the iron guy to some lone thief.Well, Polk said, when there were pretty good deals waiting not far away, the genteel George was willing to tell them when and where those deals were made.George asked for 25% of their success.Pork and Lloyd still needed to tie George up and gag him, take things away, maybe slap him twice, and give him a few extra slaps.It had to be done flawlessly, George cautioned, because none of these Sicilian guys could be fooled.

"Well," said Lloyd, "sounds good." The next day, Polk and Lloyd went to meet the suave George, a suave, six-foot man with a small head carried incongruously on top of his shoulders on a neck that looked like it hadn't.He has curly flaxen hair, which makes him look a bit like the famous wrestler. Lloyd had thought twice about the deal, but Polk had changed his mind once again.Polk is good at this.George told them to come back to his place next Friday night about six o'clock.He said: "It's going to have to wear a mask and beat me until my nose is bleeding and my eyes are blue. God, I really hope I don't get involved in this thing."

On the night of the action, Polk and Lloyd took a bus to the corner of George's street, got off and put on their ski masks.The door was locked, but not too tightly, as George had promised.There was a recreation room under the stairs, and there was George standing in front of a heavy bag full of marijuana leaves.The ping-pong table was piled with guns.George was a little scared. "Gosh, oh my god, I wish I hadn't been a part of this," he said as Lloyd tied his feet with a clothesline and Polk tied his hands with tape. Then Lloyd gave George a blow on the nose, and the blood came out, and Pork gave him a black eye, all as ordered.

"Ouch!" cried George, "do you have to be so hard?" Lloyd pointed out: "Don't you want to make sure you look clean?" Pork sticks a piece of tape over George's mouth.Then the two began to pack their belongings. Polk stopped and said, "Dude, what are you hiding?" Lloyd smirked nervously, "No, nothing." "I don't know if George can keep a secret." For Lloyd, this hadn't occurred to him.He looked at George thoughtfully for a long time.George stared at him in horror. Then Lloyd said, "Of course it's his fault." Polk smiled, "Oh, he'd probably just say, 'Hey guys, I ran into this old friend and his buddy, we talked a little bit, drank a few beers, and guess what, this Help the bastards come to my house and tie me up, of course I hope you get them both. Let me tell you what they look like.'” George shook his head desperately, his eyes staring like eggs with fear. By this time the gun was in a large laundry canvas bag they had found in the downstairs bathroom. Lloyd weighed the bag nervously and said, "Hey, what do we do?" "I guess we gotta get him done, man," said Pork regretfully. "That's all we have to do." Lloyd said: "It was a very difficult thing to do, and let's not forget that he helped us." "Non-toxic and no husband, man." "Yes," Lloyd sighed, and the two of them walked over to George. "Woooo..." George faltered, shaking his head desperately. "Woo...! Woo...!" "I know," Pork reassured him, "it's not fair, is it? I'm sorry, George, it can't be helped. It's none of our business. We want you to remember that. Come on, Lloyd, Hold his head down." Easier said than done.George swung his head wildly from side to side.He sat in the corner of the recreation room, the walls were cinder blocks.To dodge them, he kept bobbing his head from side to side. "Hold him," said Pork quietly, pulling another strip off the roll. Lloyd finally got hold of him by the hair, and managed to hold him for a while, long enough for Pork to stick a second piece of tape over George's nose, thus blocking all his ventilation. died.George really went crazy.He came round the corner and fell with a thud, bending over the floor, making a muffled sound that Lloyd assumed must be a scream.poor dude.It was only 5 minutes before and after George was completely silent.He rushed and struggled, his face was as red as a fire truck.The last thing they both did was lift his legs 8-10 inches off the floor and slam them down.It reminded Lloyd he'd seen it in a cartoon or something, and he chuckled to himself, feeling a little excited.Until now, this kind of thing had always been something he hated to see. Pork crouched beside George and felt his pulse with his hand. "How?" Lloyd asked. "It ain't ticking, it's just the watch running, man," said Pork. "Pick up the watch..." He lifted George's fleshy wrist and looked at it. "Well, it's just a Tissot watch. I thought it was a Casio. It kind of looks like it." He let go of George's wrist. George's car keys were in his front trouser pocket.In the upstairs closet they found a peanut butter jar filled with half-dimes, which they took out as well.That many dimes came to only $20 and 60 cents. George's car was an old Mustang with a four-cylinder engine mounted on the floor and it was bumpy and the tires were worn as smooth as bald heads.They left Las Vegas on State Highway 93 and headed southeast into Arizona.By noon the next day, the day before, they had circled Phoenix on their way back.About nine o'clock yesterday they pulled up in front of a dirty old general store two miles from Sheldon on Arizona 75.They knocked on the door and killed the owner, an elderly gentleman with mail-order dentures.They robbed $63 and the old guy's minivan. This morning, the pickup truck blew two tires at the same time.The two of them spent almost half an hour looking back and forth, rolling marijuana, but neither of them found thumbtacks or nails on the road.Polk concluded by saying that it must have been accidental.Lloyd said he'd heard of some strange things, as God can tell.Then came the white Coney sedan.They had crossed the state line earlier, from Arizona into New Mexico, and none of them knew it.In this way, they became the target of the FBI. The driver of the Connie backed up, leaned over and said, "Need help?" "Of course," said Poker, smacking him between the eyes with the . 357 automatic.The poor fool may never know what hit him. "Why don't you turn the corner here?" Lloyd said, pointing to an upcoming intersection.He let the drug narcotic very happily. "Certainly," said Polk briskly.He slowed Connie's speed from 80 to 60 mph, swung to the left, the right wheel almost left the ground, and a new road opened up in front of them.Route 78, west.And so, because he didn't know they had left here, or rather, they didn't know they were now what the papers called the Tri-State Killer, they drove into Arizona again. After about an hour, head on the right and see a sign: Route 6 in Black. "Blake?" Lloyd said vaguely. "Blake!" said Polk, and he began to turn Connie's wheel around to make a nice big loop across the road front and back. "Oh! Oh!" "Would you like to park there? Man, I'm hungry." "You're always hungry." "Fuck you, when I get high on weed, I need to eat." "How about you eat my 9-inch revolver? Ha! Ha!" "Seriously, Pork. Let's stop." "Okay. Get some cash by the way. We've lost our goddamn tails. Gotta get some money and head north. I can't get enough of this desolate place." "Okay," Lloyd said.He didn't know if the marijuana was working on him, or something else, and suddenly he felt paranoid, paranoid as hell, even worse than when he was on the highway.Polk is right.Park on the side of this black road like last time outside Sheldon, fuck it, get some money and some gas station maps, ditch the fucking Coney and turn around on the side road Go northeast.Get the fuck out of Arizona. "I'll tell you the truth, man," said Pork, "all of a sudden I feel like a long-tailed cat in the room, sitting on a rickety chair, all on my nerves." "I know what you mean, indecisive," Lloyd said lowly. Black is a wide part of the road.They gallop past, and at the other end there is a combination of cafes, shops and a petrol station.In the dirty parking lot, there is an old Ford and a dusty classic car, and behind it is a carriage.The horse glared at them as Pork drove Coney in. "The car looks like a ticket, it's so conspicuous," Lloyd said. Polk agreed.He reached back to pull out the . 357 pistol and checked the loading of the cartridges. "are you ready?" "I figured it out," Lloyd said.And grabbed the Schmeisser gun. They walked across the empty parking lot.It is now the fourth day that the police have identified them.They left fingerprints all over the elegant George's house, and in the shop where the exterminated old man with mail-order dentures was.The old man's pickup truck has been found, and police speculate that the man who killed George and the store owner also killed the three people.If they had been listening to the radio in Coney's car instead of tapes, they would have known that the Arizona and New Mexico police were cooperating in the biggest hunt in 40 years, all for these two humble crooks, and They couldn't possibly have gotten a better idea of ​​what they might have been up to for all the fuss. Refueling is self-service and staff have to turn on the pumps.So they went up the steps and into the house.Three aisles of canned goods are stacked inside the room leading to the counter.At the counter, a man in denim was paying for cigarettes, and in the middle aisle, a tired-looking woman with thick black hair was hesitating which brand of noodle sauce to buy.The place smelled of expired licorice, sun exposure, tobacco and some stale smells.The owner was a freckled man in a gray shirt.He wore a cap with "Shell" written in red on a white background.When the screen door slammed shut, he looked up, his eyes wide. Lloyd slung the Schmeisser over his shoulder and fired it toward the ceiling.Two chandelier bulbs exploded like bombs. Lloyd yelled, "Don't move, no one will get hurt!" But Pork immediately turned him into a liar, and he shot the woman choosing the sauce. "Oh, Pork!" cried Lloyd, "you don't have to..." "Get her off, man!" Pork yelled. "She'll never see Jerry Falwell again! Ha! Ha!" The man in the denim turned around.He holds a cigarette in his left hand.Blinding light streamed in from the display windows, and the screen door cast some specks of light on the black lenses of his sunglasses.In his belt was a .45 revolver, and now, while Lloyd and Pork were staring at the dead woman, he took his time to draw it, aim and shoot, and Pork's left cheek Suddenly blood splattered, revealing muscles and teeth. "Shoot!" Polk screamed, dropping the gun.The waving hands swept potato chips and biscuits onto the splintered wooden floor. "Shoot me, Lloyd! Watch out! Shoot me! Shoot me!" He rushed to the screen door and slammed it open.Pulling a loose old door jaw with difficulty, he sat at the door. Lloyd was stunned, not so much shooting in self-defense as shooting on conditioned reflex.Schmeisser guns vibrated in the room, soda cans flew all over the sky, glass bottles slammed, spilled tomato sauce, pickles and olives, pepper sauce and orange juice bottles shattered like ceramic targets.Foam is flowing everywhere.The man in the denim pulls the gun again with cool composure.The bullet whizzed by, nearly ripping Lloyd's hair apart, and he felt the bullet instead of hearing it.He picked up the gun and fired from left to right in the room.The man in the "Shell" cap quickly hid behind the counter, perhaps as a bystander expecting a floor door to open toward him.Ball bubble gum machine falling apart.Red, blue and green chewing gum rolled all over the floor.The glass bottles on the counter were bursting.Suddenly, the room was filled with a strong smell of vinegar. The Schmeisser pierced the cowboy's khaki shirt with three bullet holes, and most of the cowboy's guts leaked out, and he fell to the ground, his .45 still clasped in one hand and the other Holding the butt of a Lucky cigarette in his hand. Lloyd yelled in terror and continued to shoot.The automatic gun in his hand was getting hotter and hotter.Cases full of returnable soda bottles clanged.A calendar girl in shorts got shot in one of her glamorous pink thighs.A shelf of paperbacks without covers was strewn about.Then, the bullets from the Schmeiser gun ran out, and there was a sudden silence, and the disgusting smell of gunpowder was everywhere. "My gosh," Lloyd said.He looked at the cowboy warily.No one thought the Cowboy would be a problem in the near or distant future. "Kill me!" Pork shouted hoarsely, staggering into the house.He grabbed the screen door hard and pulled it, and the other snapped off, and it fell onto the porch. "Shoot me, Lloyd, be careful!" "I'll kill him, Pork," Lloyd reassured him, but Pork didn't seem to hear.He has become a hodgepodge.His right eye shone like an ominous sapphire.The left eye is gone.The left jaw is missing and the jaw bone can be seen when speaking.Most of the teeth in the upper jaw are also gone. "You fucking idiot, you're killing me!" Pork shrieked.He reached down and reached for a .375 caliber pistol. "I'll teach you how to shoot me, you fucking dumb!" He walked towards the cowboy.With one foot on the cowboy's ass, like a hunter posing with a bear for a picture that will soon be on the wall of his study, he's about to shoot all the . 357 bullets into him in the head.Lloyd stood there dumbfounded, the smoking automatic dangling from one hand, still trying to figure out how it all happened. That's when the man in the Shell hat popped out from behind the counter like a doll popping out of a doll's box.His face was tense, expressing a desperation, and he held a double-barreled musket in both hands. "Huh?" Polk said, raising his head, just facing the barrel of the gun.He fell, his face worse than it had been, nothing left. Lloyd decides to leave.Fucking money, money everywhere.He spun around and exited the store with unsteady strides, his boots nearly touching the cardboard. He was halfway down the steps when the Arizona State Police patrol car turned into the yard.A state trooper emerges from the sidewalk, pistol drawn. "Stand there! What's going on in there?" "Three dead!" Lloyd yelled. "What a mess! The guy who did it ran from behind! I let the bastard slip!" He ran to the Coney and slipped behind the wheel before he remembered that the keys were still in Pork's pocket. At this moment, the state trooper shouted: "Stop! Stop! Or I'm going to shoot!" Lloyd stopped.After a basic surgical examination of Polk's face, it didn't take long to determine that he had just died. Another policeman put a big, heavy pistol to his head, and he said miserably, "Jesus."The first policeman handcuffed him. "Sonny Jim, get behind the patrol car." The man in the Shell hat reappeared on the porch, still holding the musket.He yelled, "He shot Bill Maxon! The guy he was with shot Mrs. Storm! It was horrible! I shot the guy he was with! He's a piece of shit!" I want to kill this one too, you guys get out of the way!" "Calm down, Pop," said a state trooper, "it's over." "I'll kill him where he stands!" cried the old man, "I'll bring him down!" Lloyd said: "Can you please get me off this guy? I think he's crazy." One of the cops said, "Sonny Jim, you got this guy coming out of the store." The barrel of his gun went round and round and struck Lloyd on the head suddenly, and he never woke up until that night when he entered the Apache Township Jail Outpatient Department.