Superman’s Wife, Lois Lane Kent
Smallville
by Starsky Hutch 76, adapted from Fargo, screenplay by Ethan Coen and Joel Cohen
SMALLVILLE: Part 1a
The town of Smallville was enjoying an early and unusually heavy snowfall as the car drove down the stretch of road. It was equipped with a hitch and was towing another car — a brand-new, light brown Cutlass Ciera with the pink sales sticker showing in its rear window. A green highway sign pointed the way to Smallville.
The car pulled into the parking lot. The one-story brick building in front of the snow-swept parking lot had broken neon at the top of the building identifying it as the Jolly Troll Tavern. A troll, also in neon, held a champagne glass aloft.
The bar was downscale, even for a town like Smallville. Country music played on the jukebox. Two men were seated in a booth at the back. One was short, slight, and youngish. The other man was somewhat older, and dour. The table in front of them was littered with empty long-neck beer bottles. The ashtray was full. Anderson approached.
SMALLVILLE: Part 1b
“I’m, uh, Jerry Lundegaard,” Jerry said, introducing himself. “Shep Proudfoot said…”
“Shep said you’d be here at 7:30,” the younger man said. “What gives, man?”
“Shep said 8:30,” Jerry said in surprise. “I’m sure sorry. I… Shep told me 8:30. It was a mix-up, I guess,” Jerry said
“You got the car?” the younger man asked.
“Yeah, you bet. It’s in the lot there,” Jerry said, gesturing to the parking lot. “Brand-new burnt umber Ciera.”
“Yeah, OK. Well, siddown then. I’m Carl Showalter and this is my associate, Gaear Grimsrud.”
“Yeah, how ya doin’. So, uh, we all set on this thing, then?” Jerry asked nervously.
“Sure, Jerry, we’re all set,” the younger man, Carl, said. “Why wouldn’t we be?”
Jerry held up his hands appeasingly. “Yeah, no, I’m sure you are. Shep vouched for you and all.”
The two men stared at him. An awkward moment passed.
“…So I guess that’s it, then,” Jerry said nervously, sliding the keys across the table. “Here’s the keys.”
“No, that’s not it, Jerry,” Carl said.
“Huh?”
“The new vehicle, plus forty thousand dollars,” Carl said.
“Yeah, but the deal was, the car first, see, then the forty thousand, like as if it was the ransom,” Jerry insisted. “I thought Shep told you.”
“Shep didn’t tell us much, Jerry,” Carl said. “Except that you were gonna be here at 7:30.”
“Yeah, well, that was a mix-up, then,” Jerry said.
“Yeah, you already said that.”
“Yeah. But it’s not a whole pay-in-advance deal. I give you a brand-new vehicle in advance and–”
“I’m not gonna sit here and debate. I will say this, though,” Carl continued. “What Shep told us didn’t make a whole lot of sense.”
“Oh, no, it’s real sound,” Jerry said eagerly. “It’s all worked out.”
“You want your own wife kidnapped?” Carl asked, puzzled.
“Yeah.”
Carl stared. Jerry looked blankly back.
“…You — my point is, you pay the ransom — what eighty thousand bucks?” Carl said. “I mean, you give us half the ransom, forty thousand, you keep half. It’s like robbing Peter to pay Paul, it doesn’t make any sense.”
“OK, it’s… see, it’s not me payin’ the ransom,” Jerry explained. “The thing is, my wife, she’s wealthy — her dad, he’s real well off. Now, I’m in a bit of trouble…”
“What kind of trouble are you in, Jerry?” Carl asked.
“Well, that’s, that’s, I’m not go into, see, I just need money. Now, her dad’s real wealthy,” Jerry said.
“So why don’t you just ask him for the money?” Carl asked.
Grimsrud, the dour man who has not yet spoken, now softly puts in with a Swedish-accented voice, “Or your @#$&ing wife, you know.”
“Well, it’s all just part of this — they don’t know I need it, see?” Jerry squirmed. “OK, so there’s that. And even if they did, I wouldn’t get it. So there’s that on top, then. See, these’re personal matters.”
“Personal matters,” Carl echoed.
“Yeah. Personal matters that needn’t, uh…”
Carl pointed at Jerry with his cigarette. “OK, Jerry. You’re asking us to perform this mission, but you… you won’t, uh, you won’t — aw, the hell with it, let’s take a look at that Ciera.”
SMALLVILLE: Part 2
Jerry entered through the kitchen door, in a parka and a red plaid Elmer Fudd hat. He stamped snow off his feet before entering. He carried a bag of groceries which he deposited on the kitchen counter.
“Hon? Got the growshries,” he called out to his wife, Jean.
“Thank you, hon. How was your day?”
“Real good,” Jerry said cheerfully.
“Dad’s here,” she said. Jerry’s expression quickly changed.
Jerry entered the den, pulling off his plaid cap. “How ya doin’, Wade?”
Wade Gustafson was mid-sixtyish, vigorous, with a full head of gray hair. His eyes remained fixed on the TV. “…Pretty good.”
“Whatcha watchin’ there, Wade?”
“Gothan Knights.”
“…Who they playin’?”
“Keystone.”
“Who’s… OOOoooh!” His reaction synchronized with a reaction from the crowd.
Jerry walked back in the kitchen, taking off his coat. His wife was putting on an apron. Jerry nodded toward the living room. “Is he stayin’ for supper, then?”
“Yeah, I think so… Dad, are you stayin’ for supper?
“Yeah.”
Thirty minutes later Jerry, Jean, Wade and 12 year old Scotty sat in the dining room eating.
“Wade, have ya had a chance to think about, uh, that deal I was talkin’ about? Those forty acres?” Jerry asked.
“You told me about it,” Wade said.
“Yeah, you said you’d have a think about it. I understand it’s a lot of money–”
“A heck of a lot. What’d you say you were gonna put there?” Wade asked.
“A lot. It’s a limited…” Jerry started.
“I know it’s a lot,” Wade laughed.
“I mean a parking lot,” Jerry said.
“Yah, well, seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars is a lot — ha ha ha!” Wade laughed.
“Yah, well, it’s a chunk, but–”
“I thought you were gonna show it to Stan Grossman,” Wade said. “He passes on this stuff before it gets kicked up to me.”
“Well, you know Stan’ll say no dice,” Jerry said. “That’s why you pay him. I’m asking you here, Wade. This could work out real good for me and Jean and Scotty.”
“Jean and Scotty never have to worry,” Wade said. Jerry grew silent.
SMALLVILLE: Part 3
Carl Showalter drove as Gaear Grimsrud stared blankly out at the white, snow covered landscape. “Where is Pancakes Hause?” Grimsrud said, breaking the silence.
“What?” Carl said incredulously.
“We stop at Pancakes Hause,” Grimsrud said.
“What’re you, nuts?” Carl said incredulously. “We had pancakes for breakfast. I gotta go somewhere I can get a shot and a beer — and a steak maybe. Not more pancakes. Come on.”
Grimsrud gave him a sour look.
“…Come on, man. OK, here’s an idea. We’ll stop outside of Mont Pilate. I know a place there we can find some girls. Wuddya think?”
“I’m #$^%ing hungry now, you know,” the big Swede said.
“Yeah, yeah, Jesus — I’m sayin’, we’ll stop for pancakes, then we’ll find some girls. Wuddya think?”
Jean Lundegaard was making coffee in the kitchen as Scott ate cereal at the table. In the background, a morning show blared on television. As she went about her morning routine, she lectured her son. “I’m talkin’ about your potential.”
“Uh-huh,” Scott said absently.
“You’re not a C student,” Jean said.
“Uhn.”
“And yet you’re gettin’ C grades. It’s this disparity there that concerns your dad and me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You know what a disparity is?”
“Yeah!” Scott said testily.
“OK. Well, that’s why we don’t want you goin’ out for hockey.”
“Oh, man!… What’s the big deal? It’s an hour!”
“Hold on,” Jean said as the phone rang. She picked it up and cradled it between her ear and shoulder. “…Hello?”
“Yah, hiya, hon,” the voice on the other end said.
“Oh, hiya, Dad.”
“Jerry around?” Wade asked.
“Yeah, he’s still here — I’ll catch him for ya,” Jean said.
Jean held the phone away and called out, “…Hon?”
“Yah?” Jerry answers.
“It’s Dad.”
Jerry entered in shirtsleeves and tie. “Yah, OK.”
“Look, Dad, there is no $^%ing way…”
“Scott!” Jean yelled, horrified.
“Say, let’s watch the language…” Jerry reprimanded as he picked up the phone. “How ya doin’, Wade?”
“What’s goin’ on there?” Wade asked.
“Oh, nothing, Wade. How ya doin’ there?”
“Stan Grossman looked at your proposal,” Wade said. “Says it’s pretty sweet.”
“No kiddin’?” Jerry said excitedly.
“We might be innarested,” Wade said.
“No kiddin’!” Jerry said excitedly. “I’d need the cash pretty quick there. In order to close the deal.”
“Come by at 2:30 and we’ll talk about it. If your numbers are right, Stan says it’s pretty sweet. Stan Grossman.”
“Yah.
“2:30.” The phone clicked and then Jerry heard the dial tone.
“Yeah, OK, ” Jerry said, hanging up the phone.
SMALLVILLE: Part 4
Jerry wandered through the service area of Gustafson’s Olds Garage where cars were being worked on. He stopped by an Indian in blue jeans who was looking at the underside of a car that sat on a hydraulic lift with a cage light hanging off its innards. “Say, Shep, how ya doin’ there?”
“Mm,” Shep grunted.
“Say, you know those two fellas ya put me in touch with?”
“Put you in touch with Grimsrud,” Shep said
“Well, yah, but he had a buddy there. He, uh…”
“Well, I don’t vouch for him,” Shep said.
“Well, that’s OK, I just…”
“I vouch for Grimsrud. Who’s his buddy?
“Carl somethin’?”
“Never heard of him,” Shep said. “Don’t vouch for him.”
“Well, that’s OK, he’s a buddy of the guy you vouched for, so I’m not worryin’. I just, I was wonderin’, see, I gotta get in touch with ‘em. I might not need it anymore. Something’s happening, see…”
“Call ‘em up.”
“Yeah, well, see, I did that, and I haven’t been able to get ‘em,” Jerry said anxiously, “so I thought you maybe’d know an alternate number, or what have ya.”
“Nope.”
Jerry slapped his fist into his open palm and snapped his fingers. “OK, then.” He backed up, turned and walked out of the garage.
Carl and Grimsrud drove in silence. Grimsrud stared out front. Carl broke the silence by trying to make conversation. “Look at that. IDS Building, the big glass one. Tallest skyscraper around. After the Sears, uh, Chicago… You never been to Metropolis?”
“No.”
“Would it kill you to say something?” Carl said.
“I did.”
” ‘No.’ First thing you’ve said in the last four hours. That’s a — that’s a fountain of conversation, man. That’s a geyser. I mean, whoa daddy, stand back, man. $%#&, I’m sittin’ here driving, man, doin’ all the drivin’, tryin’ to, you know, tryin’ to chat, keep our spirits up, fight the boredom of the road, and you can’t say one thing just in the way of conversation.”
Grimsurd smoked, gazing out the window. His expression was impassive.
“Well, forget it, I don’t to talk either, man. See how you like it…”
Carl gave a sigh of disgust. They drove again in total silence.
SMALLVILLE: Part 5
Jerry sat at his desk in his cubicle with the phone pressed to his ear. “Yeah, real good. How you doin’?” he said.
“Pretty good, Mr. Lundegaard,” the voice on the other end said. “You’re damned hard to get on the phone.”
“Yah, it’s pretty darned busy here,” Jerry said, “but that’s the way we like it.”
“That’s for sure,” the voice on the other end said. “Now, I just need, on these last, these financing documents you sent us, I can’t read the serial numbers of the vehicles on here, so I…”
“But I already got the… it’s OK, the loans are in place, I got the, the what, the…” Jerry stammered.
“Yeah, the three hundred and twenty thousand dollars, you got the money last month.”
“Yah, so we’re all set,” Jerry said.
“Yeah, but the vehicles you were borrowing on, I just can’t read the serial numbers on your application. Maybe if you could just read them to me.”
“But the deal’s already done, I already got the money,” Jerry said.
“Yeah, but we have an audit here, I just have to know that these vehicles you’re financing with this money, that they really exist,” the voice on the other end said.
“Yeah, well, they exist all right,” Jerry said emphatically.
“I’m sure they do — ha ha! I can’t read their serial numbers here. So if you could read me…”
“Well, but see, I don’t have ‘em in front a’ me — why don’t I just fax you over a copy?” Jerry said.
“No, fax is no good, that’s what I have and I can’t read the darn thing…”
“Yeah, OK, I’ll have my guy send you over a copy, then,” Jerry said.
“OK, because if I can’t correlate this note with the specific vehicles, then I gotta call back that money…”
“Yeah, how much money was that?” Jerry asked.
“Three hundred and twenty thousand dollars. See, I gotta correlate that money with the cars it’s lent on.”
“Yah, no problem, I’ll just fax that over to ya, then.”
“No, no, fax is–” the man on the other end started.
“I mean send it over. I’ll shoot it right over to ya,” Jerry said.
“OK.”
“All righty then.”
SMALLVILLE: Part 6
Jean Lundegaard was curled up on the couch with a cup of coffee, watching television as a morning-show host in an apron stood behind a counter on a kitchen set.
Jean smiled as laughter and applause came from the studio audience. She heared something else, a faint scraping sound, and looked up. The scraping sound persisted. Jean set down her coffee cup and rose. From the studio audience came an “Awoooo!”
A curtain was stretched tight across the window of the back door of the kitchen. Jean pulled the curtain back. Bright sunlight amplified by snow flooded in. A man in an orange ski mask looked up from the lock. Jean gasped, dropped the curtain, turned and ran into a taller man, also in a ski mask, already in the house.
She heard the crack of the back-door window being smashed. The tall man — Gaear Grimsrud — grabbed Jean’s wrist. She screamed, staring at her own imprisoned wrist, then wrapped her gaping mouth around Grimsrud’s gloved thumb and bit down hard. He dropped her wrist. As Carl entered, she raced up the stairs.
“Unguent,” Grimsrud grunted.
“Huh?” Carl said.
Grimsurd looked at his thumb.” I need… unguent.”
As the two men entered the upstairs bedroom, a door at the far side slammed shut. A cord snaked in under the door. Jean, sobbing, frantically pushed at buttons on the princess phone.
The phone popped out of her hands, jangled across the tile floor, smashed against the door and then bounced away, its cord ripped free.
With a groaning sound, the door shifted in its frame. Grimsrud had a crowbar jammed in between the bathroom door and frame, and was working it.
Jean crossed to a high window in the bathroom above the toilet and threw it open. Snow that had drifted against the window sifted lightly in. Jean stepped up onto the toilet.
The door creaked, moving as one piece in its frame. Jean glanced back as she stepped up from the toilet seat to the tank.The groaning of the door ended with the wood around its knob splintering and the knob itself falling out onto the floor.
The door swung open and Grimsrud and Carl entered. The room was empty and the window open. Carl strode to the window and hoisted himself out. Grimsrud opened the medicine cabinet and delicately tapped aside various bottles and tubes, seeking the proper unguent. He found a salve, but after a moment set it down, noticing something in the mirror. The shower curtain was drawn around the tub.
He stepped towards it. As he reached for the curtain, it exploded outward, animated by thrashing limbs.
Jean, screaming, tangled in the curtain, ripped it off its rings and stumbled out into the bedroom. Grimsrud followed.
Jean rushed towards the door of the bedroom, cloaked by the shower curtain, but awkwardly trying to push it off.
Still thrashing at the upstairs landing, Jean crashed against the upstairs railing, tripped on the curtain and fell, thumping crazily down the stairs. Grimsrud trotted down after her.
SMALLVILLE: Part 7a
The door swung open and Jerry edged in, looking about, holding a sack of groceries. “Hon?” he called out. He shut the door. ” …Got the growshries…”
He saw the shower curtain on the floor. He frowned and poked at it with his foot. “…Hon?”
Jerry walked into the upstairs bathroom. He sets the groceries down on the toilet tank. He looked at the open window, through which snow still sifted in. He shut it.
Jerry picked up the small tube of unguent that sat on the sink, frowned at it, and put it back in the medicine chest. He looked at the shower curtain rod holding empty rings.
After a few minutes that seemed like an eternity, Jerry picked up the phone and punched in a number. “…Yeah, Wade Gustafson, please.”
SMALLVILLE: Part 7b
The two-lane highway was otherwise empty as Carl drove. Grimsrud smoked and gazed out the window. From the back seat there was whimpering. Grimsrud turned to look. Jean lay bound and curled on the back seat underneath a tarpaulin. “Shut up or I’ll throw you back in the trunk, you know.”
“Geez. That’s more’n I’ve heard you say all week,” Carl said. Grimsrud stared at him, then turned back to the window.
At a loud WHOOP Carl stared and looked back out the rear window. Fifty yards behind a state trooper had turned on his gumballs. Carl eased the car onto the shoulder.
“Ah, $%^&, the tags…” Carl groaned. Grimsrud looked at him.”…It’s just the tags,” Carl explained. “I never put my tags on the car.”
Grimsrud stared at Carl. “Hey! I’ll take care of this!” Carl exclaimed. He looked up at the rear-view mirror. The trooper was stopped on the shoulder just behind them, writing in his citation book.
Carl watched as the trooper walked up the shoulder. He opened his window as the trooper drew up. “How can I help you, officer?”
The trooper scanned the inside of the car, taking his time. Grimsrud smoked and gazed calmly out his window.
Finally, the Trooper said, “This is a new car, then, sir? You’re required to display temporary tags, either in the plate area or taped inside the back window.”
“Certainly,” Carl nodded.
“Can I see your license and registration please?” the trooper said in a tone that was more command than request.
“Certainly.” Carl reached for his wallet. “…I was gonna tape up the temporary tag, ya know, to be in full compliance, but it, uh, it, uh… must’a slipped my mind…” He extended his wallet toward the trooper, a folded fifty-dollar bill protruding from it. “So maybe the best thing would be to take care of that, right here in Smallville.”
“What’s this, sir?”
“That’s my license and registration,” Carl said. “I wanna be in compliance.” He forced a laugh. “I was just thinking I could take care of it right here… in Smallville.”
The policeman thoughtfully put the fifty into the billfold and handed the billfold back into the car. “Put that back in your pocket, please,” the trooper said.
Carl’s nervous smile faded.
“And step out of the car, please, sir.”
Grimsrud, smiling thinly, shook his head. There was a whimpering sound coming from the back seat..
The policeman hesitated.
Another sound.
The policeman leaned forward into the car, listening.
Grimsrud reached across Carl, grabbed the trooper by the hair and slammed his head down onto the car door. The policeman grunted, dug awkwardly for footing outside and threw an arm for balance against the outside of the car. With his free hand, Grimsrud popped the glove compartment. He brought a gun out and reached across Carl and fired.
Jean screamed from the back seat.
“Shut up,” Grimsrud said without any emotion. He released the policeman. The policeman’s head slid out the window and his body flopped back onto the street.
Carl looked out at the cop in the road. “Whoa… whoa, daddy,” he said softly.
Grimsrud took the trooper’s hat off of Carl’s lap and sailed it out the open window.
“You’ll take care of it. Boy, you are smooth smooth, you know,” Grimsrud said.
“Whoa, daddy.”
“Clear him off the road,” Grimsrud ordered.
“Yeah,” Carl said, still in shock. He got out of the car and leaned down to hoist up the body when headlights of an oncoming car suddenly appeared. Inside the Ciera, Grimsrud suddenly became alert as the car approached, slowing.
SMALLVILLE: Part 7c
Carl stood with the trooper’s body hoisted halfway up, frozen in the headlights. The car accelerated and roared past and away. Inside, the silhouettes of two occupants could be seen in the front seat.
Grimsrud slid into the driver’s seat of the Ciera. He squealed into a U-turn. The driver’s door slammed shut with his spin.
Small red tail lights fishtailed up ahead. The pursued car churned up fine snow.
Grimsrud took the cigarette from his mouth and stubbed it in his ashtray. The churning of the car wheels and the pinging of snow clods and salt on the car’s underside sounded noisily as he raced after the other car. In the back seat, Jean started screaming.
Grimsrud could not catch up on the tail lights. He fought with the wheel as his car swam on the road face. The red tail lights ahead started to turn. With a distant crunching sound, they disappeared. The headlights now showed only empty road, starting to turn. Grimsrud frowned and slowed down. His headlights showed the car up ahead off the road, crumpled around a telephone pole, having failed to hold a turn.
Grimsrud broke. Jean slid off the back seat and thumped into the legwell. Grimsrud swept his gun off the front seat, throwing open his door, and got out.
The wrecked car’s headlights shined off into a snowfield abutting the highway. A young man in a down parka was limping across the snowfield, away from the wrecked car. Grimsrud strode calmly out after the injured boy. He raised his gun and fired. With a poof of feathers, a hole opened up in the boy’s back and he pitched into the snow.
The radio of the wrecked car, somehow still functioning, blared a story about the return of Captain Triumph. Grimsrud walked up to the wreck and peered in its half-open door. A young woman was trapped inside the twisted wreckage, injured. Snow swirled in the headlights of the wreck. Grimsrud raised his gun and fired.
SMALLVILLE: Part 8
The painting above the bed was a blue-winged teal in flight over a swampy marshland. The room in which it hung was dark and filled with the sounds of snoring. Nearby was an easel upon which sat a recently completed oil of a grey mallard with the initials “CK” in the lower right corner. And near the easel lay a couple in bed, sleeping. The man, fiftyish in appearance and pajama-clad, was big and muscular. His hair was black with white forming at the temples. His arms were flung over a woman who appeared to the unknowing eye to be in her late thirties, wearing a nightie.
The phone rang. And the woman stirred. “Oh…” She reached for the phone. “…Hi, this is Lois… Oh, my. Where?… Yeah. Oh, geez…” Lois said.
The man sat up, gazing sleepily about.
“OK. There in a jif.” She hung up. “…You can sleep, hon. It’s still early.”
“Gotta go?” he asked.
“Yeah. A new story just broke.”
The man swung his legs out. “I’ll fix you some eggs.”
“That’s OK, Clark. I’ve gotta run.”
“Gotta eat a breakfast, Lois,” Clark said, nodding to her large belly. “I’ll fix you some eggs.”
“Aw, you can sleep, hon,” Lois said.
“You’ve got to eat a breakfast. I’ll fix you some eggs.”
“Aw, Clark.”
Later, the sink was filled with plates covered in the leavings of eggs, ham, and toast. Lois was wearing a smart looking beige suit. She carried a heavy bag holding a tape recorder, portable phone, camera, and various other jangling impedimenta. Clark had changed into the uniform of Superman.
“Thanks, Clark. Time to shove off.”
“Love ya, Lois,” he said, helping her as she struggled to get her ample, pregnant form into a parka.
“Love ya, hon,” she said, hugging her arms around his neck. “Find our boy.”
“I will,” he said with determination.
She watched him as he exited the back door and took off into the early morning sky. Every time she watched him do that, she wished she could as well. It would make her job so much easier. She exited out the front door.
Lois made her way down the icy front stoop to her Prowler. Her gaze drifted over to the guest house where Alex was staying. Lights flickered on and off. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what was going on in there. Some new and probably risky experiment, no doubt.
She hoped Clark would understand why she didn’t fill him in on all the details of the story. Anyone could handle this case, and Smallville had its own police department. Not everyone could find their son, Clark Jr. If it seemed selfish, it was a selfishness she was entitled to. She was a mother. Not a super-hero like Clark.
SMALLVILLE: Part 9
As Lois pulled up, she saw two police cars and an ambulance idling at the side of the road, a pair of men inside each car.
The first car’s driver door opened.A figure in a parka emerged, holding two styrofoam cups. His partner leaned across the seat to close the door after him.
Lois approached from her own car. “Hiya, Lou.”
“Lois… thought you might need a little warm-up,” Lou said. He handed her one of the cups of coffee.
“So you knew I’d be here. Am I getting that predictable?” Lois smiled.
Lou grinned back at her. “Actually, we were kind of counting on it.”
“So what’s the story here?” Lois said, sipping the coffee. “Triple homicide?”
“Yeah, looks pretty bad. Two of them are over here,” Lou said.
Laid out in the early morning light was the wrecked car, a pair of footprints leading out to a man in a bright orange parka face down in the bloodstained snow, and one pair of footsteps leading back to the road.
Lois peered into the car. ” Here’s the second one. It’s in the head and the hand there. I guess that’s a defensive wound. OK.” Lois looked up from the car. “Where’s the state trooper?”
Lou, up on the shoulder, jerked his thumb. “Back there a good piece. In the ditch next to his car.”
Lois looked around at the road. “OK, so we’ve got a state trooper who pulls someone over, we’ve got a shooting, and these folks drive by, and we’ve got a high-speed pursuit, ends here, and this execution-type deal.”
“Yeah,” Lou nodded.
“I’d be very surprised if our suspect was from Smallville,” Lois said. Lou nodded in agreement.
Lois studied the ground. “Yeah. And I’ll tell you what, from his footprints he looks like a big fella.” She suddenly doubled over, putting her head between her knees down near the snow.
“Ya see something down there, Lois?
“Uh… I just, I think I’m going to be sick,” Lois groaned.
“Geez, you OK, Lois?”
“I’m fine. It’s just morning sickness.” Lois got up, sweeping snow from her knees. “Well, that passed.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Now I’m hungry again.”
“You had breakfast yet, Lois?”
“Oh, yeah,” Lois said. “Clark made some eggs.”
“Yeah? Well, what now, d’ya think?” Lou asked. It fascinated him to watch her mind work, which was why he allowed her far more leeway than he would ever have given another reporter.
“Let’s go take a look at that trooper,” Lois said.
Lois got on her hands and knees by a body down in the ditch, again looking at the footprints in the snow. She called up to the road, “There’s two of ‘em, Lou!”
“Yeah?”
“This guy’s smaller than his buddy.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Lois, still on her hands and knees, peered at the head of the state trooper. “How’s it look, Lois?” Lou asked.
“Well, he’s still got his gun on his hip there… No one’s monkeyed with his car there, have they?” Lois asked.
Lou gave her a wry look. “No way.”
Lois looked at the police car, which still idled on the shoulder. “Somebody shut his lights. I guess the little guy sat in there, waiting for his buddy to come back.”
“Yeah, woulda’ been cold out here,” Lou nodded in agreement.
“You look in his citation book?” Lois asked.
Lou looked at his notebook. “Last vehicle he wrote in was a tan Ciera at 2:18 a.m. Under the plate number he put in DLR — I figure they stopped him or shot him before he could finish fillin’ out the tag number,” Lou said.
“Uh-huh,” Lois said thoughtfully.
“So I got the state lookin’ for a Ciera with a tag startin’ DLR. They don’t got a match yet.”
“I’m not sure I agree with you a hundred percent there, Lou.”
“What do you mean?” Lou said.
“I think that vehicle there probably had dealer plates. DLR?” Lois said.
“Oh…” Lou gazes out the window, thinking. “Geez.”
SMALLVILLE: Part 10
Jerry, Wade, and Stan Grossman sat in a booth at Embers Family Restaurant, sipping coffee. Outside the window, snow fell from a gunmetal sky.
“All’s I know is, ya got a problem, ya call a professional!” Wade growled.
“No! They said no cops and no costumes! They were darned clear on that, Wade!” Jerry exclaimed. “They said you call the cops or a cape on this and we–”
“Well, a’ course they’re gonna say that! But where’s my protection? They got Jean here! I give these sons a’ bitches a million dollars, where’s my guarantee they’re gonna let her go?” Wade said.
“Well, they–” Jerry started.
“A million dollars is a lot a damn money! Do I look like Bruce Wayne to you? And then they still got my daughter!” Wade yelled.
“Yeah, but think this thing through here, Wade. Ya give ‘em what they want, why won’t they let her go? You gotta listen to me on this one, Wade,” Jerry said.
“Heck, you don’t know! You’re just whistlin’ Dixie here! I’m sayin’, they can help us on this! I’m sayin’ call a professional! Maybe not the JSA, but one of the other–” Wade said.
“No! No costumes! That’s final! This is my deal here, Wade! Jean is my wife here!” Jerry said.
“I gotta tell ya, Wade, I’m leanin’ to Jerry’s viewpoint here,” Stan said.
“Well…” Wade grumbled.
“We gotta protect Jean,” Stan continued. “And it’s not like Smallville has any of its own heroes you could call, anyway. Never has. We’re not holdin’ any cards here, Wade, they got all of ‘em. So they call the shots.”
“You’re darned tootin’!” Jerry said emphatically.
“Ah, dammit!” Wade growled.
“I’m tellin’ ya,” Stan said.
“Well… why don’t we…” he sawed a finger under his nose, “…Stan, I’m thinkin’ we should offer ‘em half a million,” Wade said.
“Now come on here, no way, Wade!” Jerry cried. “No way!”
“We’re not horse-trading here, Wade,” Stan said, flabbergasted. “We just gotta bite the bullet on this thing.”
“Yeah!” Jerry said.
“What’s the next step here, Jerry?” Stan asked.
“They’re gonna call, give me instructions for a drop,” Jerry said. “I’m supposed to have the money ready tomorrow.”
“Dammit!” Wade groaned.
The cashier rang up two dollars forty cents. “How was everything today?”
“Real good now,” Jerry said.
Out in the parking lot, snow continued to fall. Jerry and Stan stood bundled in their parkas and galoshes near a row of beached vehicles. Wade sat behind the wheel of his idling Lincoln, waiting for Stan.
“OK. We’ll get the money together. Don’t worry about it, Jerry,” Stan said reassuringly. “Now, do you want anyone at home, with you, until they call?
“No, I… they don’t want — they’re just supposed to be dealin’ with me. They were real clear,” Jerry said.
“Yeah,” Stan nodded sympathetically.
Jerry pounded his mittened hands together against the cold. “You know, they said no one listening in, they’ll be watching, you know. Maybe it’s all bull, but like you said, Stan, they’re callin’ the shots.”
“OK. And Scotty, is he gonna be all right?” Stan asked.
“Yeah, geez, Scotty. I’ll go talk to him,” Jerry said.
There was a tap at the horn from Wade, and Stan got into the Lincoln. “We’ll call.” The Lincoln spat snow as it ground out of the lot and fishtailed out onto the boulevard.
SMALLVILLE: Part 11
At the Smallville Police Department, Lois made her way across the floor, greeting various officers who in turn greeted her almost as if she were a regular member of the force. She came to a cubicle and sat down in the extra chair, shifting to make her ample form comfortable. “How we doin’ on that vehicle, Lou?”
“We?” Lou grinned wryly. She smiled back at him and he let the matter drop. It was a conversation they had had plenty of times before. “No motels registered any tan Ciera last night,” he answered. “But the night before, two men checked into the Blue Ox registering a Ciera and leavin’ the tag space blank.”
“That’s a good lead. The Blue Ox, that’s that joint out there on I-35?”
“Yeah. Owner was on the desk then, said these two guys had company,” Lou said.
“Oh, yeah?” Lois said, raising an eyebrow.
Outside the strip joint, Lois’s Prowler was parked in an otherwise empty lot. Snow drifted down. Inside, Lois sat talking with two young women at one end of an elevated dance platform.
Lois looked out of place, but her years as a reporter had made her used to such establishments. The club, not yet open for business, was deserted. Lois talked to two stripper who were known to moonlight as truck stop hookers.
“Where you girls from?” Lois asked.
“Mont Pilate,” the first stripper said.
“LeSeure,” the second stripper said. “But I went to high school in Midvale.”
“OK, I want you to tell me what these fellas looked like,” Lois said.
“Well, the little guy, he was kinda funny looking,” the first stripper said.
“In what way?” Lois asked.
“I dunno. Just funny-looking.”
“Can you be any more specific?” Lois asked.
“I couldn’t really say.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”
“No. Like I say, he was funny looking. More than most people even.”
“And what about the other fella?” Lois asked.
“He was a little older. Looked the Marlboro man,” the second stripper said.
“Yeah?” Lois said, writing the description down in her notepad.
“Yah. Maybe I’m sayin’ that cause he smoked a lot of Marlboros.”
“Uh-huh…”
“Y’know, a subconscious-type thing.”
“Yeah, that can happen,” Lois said.
“Yah…” the second stripper said thoughtfully.
“They said they were goin’ to Smallville to take care of some business,” the first stripper said.
“Oh, yeah?” Lois said
“Yeah,” the second stripper nodded.
“Is that useful to you?” the first stripper asked.
“Oh, definitely,” Lois said.
SMALLVILLE: Part 12
Jerry was on the sales floor at Gustafson’s Olds Garage showing a customer a vehicle when he heard his phone ring. He excused himself and went to his cubicle and picked up the phone. “Jerry Lundegaard.”
“All right, Jerry, you got this phone to yourself?” the voice on the other end asked.
“Well… yeah,” Jerry said.
“Know who this is?”
“Well, yeah, I got an idea. How’s that Ciera workin’ out for ya?”
“Circumstances have changed, Jerry,” Carl said.
“Well, what do you mean?” Jerry asked.
“Things have changed. Circumstances, Jerry. Beyond the, uh… acts of God, force majeure.”
“What the… how’s Jean?” Jerry snapped.
There was a pause. “Who’s Jean?”
“My wife! What the… how’s…” Jerry started.
“Oh, Jean’s OK. But there’s three people who aren’t so OK, I’ll tell ya that,” Carl said.
“What the heck are you talkin’ about?” Jerry asked. “Let’s just finish up this deal here.”
“Blood has been shed, Jerry,” Carl said.
Jerry sat dumbly. Carl solemnly repeated, “Blood has been shed.”
“What the heck do you mean?
“Three people. Outside of town,” Carl said.
“Oh, geez.”
“That’s right. And we need more money,” Carl said.
“The heck d’ya mean? What a’ you guys got yourself mixed up in?” Jerry exclaimed.
“We need more,” Carl started.
“This was s’posed to be a no-rough-stuff-type deal,” Jerry said.
“Don’t ever interrupt me, Jerry just shut up!” Carl screamed.
“Well, I’m sorry, but I just — I–”
“Look. I’m not gonna debate you, Jerry,” Carl said. “The price is now the whole amount. We want the entire eighty thousand.”
“Oh, for Chrissakes here,” Jerry said.
“Blood has been shed,” Carl said. “We’ve incurred risks, Jerry. I’m coming into town tomorrow. Have the money ready.”
“Now we had a deal here! A deal’s a deal!” Jerry said.
“Is it, Jerry? You ask those three pour souls if a deal’s a deal! Go ahead, ask ‘em!” Carl yelled.
“The heck d’ya mean?” Jerry exclaimed.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Carl said, hanging up.
Jerry slammed down the phone, which immediately rang. He angrily snatched it up. “Yeah!”
“Jerome Lundegaard?”
“Yeah!”
“This is Reilly Deifenbach at GMAC. Sir, I have not yet received those vehicle IDs you promised me.”
“Yeah! I… those are in the mail,” Jerry said nervously.
“Mr. Lundegaard, that may very well be. I must inform you, however, that absent the receipt of those numbers by tomorrow afternoon, I will have to refer this matter to our legal department.”
“Yeah…”
“My patience is at an end.”
“Yeah.”
“Good day, sir.”
“…Yeah.”
Jerry slammed down the reciever, rose to his feet, flung the phone to the floor, raised his desk blotter high over his head with pens and pencils rolling off it, and slammed it onto his desktop. He stood for a moment, hands on his hips, glaring, then stooped and picked up the phone, placed it back on the desktop, and started picking up the pens and pencils.
SMALLVILLE: Part 13
Lois sat at a long cafeteria-style formica table, silently eating. She turned at the sound of a hissing walkie-talkie. It was Lou.
“How you doin’, Lois? How’s the fricasse?”
“Pretty good. You want some?” Lois said.
“No, I gotta…”
“Whatcha got there?” Lois asked.
Lou handed her a file. She took it with one hand and looked. Her other hand was frozen with a forkful of food.
“The numbers you asked for, calls made from the lobby pay phone at the Blue Ox off of I-35. Two into Smallville that night.”
“Mm.”
“First one’s a trucking company, second one’s a private residence. A Shep Proudfoot.”
“Uh-huh… a what?” Lois asked.
“Shep Proudfoot. That’s a name,” Lou said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah.”
“OK, I think drive down there, then,” Lois said, closing the file.
That night, Jerry, Wade, and Stan Grossman sat around the kitchen table at the Lundegaard house. It was night. The harsh light from the overhanging fixture served to illustrate the stress they were all feeling. On the table were the remains of coffee, a cinammon filbert ring, and a copy of Newsweek with the Flash on the cover.
“Dammit! I wanna be a part a’ this thing!” Wade said.
“No, Wade! They were real clear! They said they’d call tomorrow, with instructions, and it’s gonna be delivered by me alone!” Jerry said.
“It’s my money, I’ll deliver. What do they care?” Wade said.
“Wade’s got a point there,” Stan said. “I”ll handle the call if you want, Jerry.”
“No, no. See… they, no, see, they only deal with me,” Jerry insisted. “Ya feel this nervousness on the phone there, they’re very… these guys are dangerous.”
“All the more reason!” Wade said. “I don’t want you, with all due respect, Jerry… I don’t want you mucking this up.”
“The heck d’ya mean?” Jerry said, offended.
“They want my money, they can deal with me. Otherwise I’m goin’ to a professional,” Wade said, pointing to the briefcase. “There’s a million dollars here!”
“No, see…”
“Look, Jerry, you’re not selling me a damn car. It’s my show here. That’s that,” Wade said.
“It’s the way we prefer to handle it, Jerry,” Stan said.
Lois picked up the receiver of the public phone. “Lou? This is Lois. I thought I’d check in with you about that USIF search on Shep Proudfoot… Oh, yeah?… Well, maybe I’ll visit with him if I have the… No, I can find that… Well, thanks a bunch.”
SMALLVILLE: Part 14
The next day, at Gustafson’s Olds Garage, Jerry stared up, mouth agape, at the underside of a car on a hydraulic lift. Bewildered, he looked about, then asked a mechanic passing by, his voice raised over the din of the shop. “Where’s Shep?”
The mechanic pointed. “Talkin’ to a reporter.”
Jerry looked. “A reporter?”
Lois and Shep faced each other at the other end of the floor in a grimy and cluttered glassed-in cubicle. They silently talked inside. Jerry stared and swallowed nervously.
“Wednesday night?” Lois asked.
Shep shook his head. “Nope.”
“Well, you do reside there at 1425 Fremont Terrace?” Lois asked.
“Yep.”
“Anyone else residing there?” Lois asked.
“Nope,” Shep grunted.
“Well, Mr. Proudfoot, this call came in past three in the morning.,” Lois said. “It’s just hard for me to believe you can’t remember anyone calling.”
Shep said nothing.
“Now, I know you’ve had some problems, struggling with the narcotics, some other entanglements, and you’re currently on parole,” Lois said.
“So?”
“Well, associating with criminals, if you’re the one they talked to, that right there would be a violation of your parole and would end with you back in Blackgate,” Lois said.
“Uh-huh,” Shep said warily.
“Now, I saw some rough stuff on your priors, but nothing in the nature of a homicide,” Lois said.
Shep stared at her.
“I know you don’t want to be an accessory to something like that,” Lois said.
“Nope.”
“So you think you might remember who those folks were who called you?”
Jerry paced worriedly behind his desk. At a noise he looked up and was startled to see the attractive but very pregnant lady reporter approaching.
Lois stuck her head in the door. “Mr. Lundegaard?”
“Huh? Yeah?”
“I wonder if I could take just a minute of your time here,” Lois said.
“What… what is it all about?” Jerry stammered.
“Huh? Do you mind if I sit down? I’m carrying quite a load here.” Lois plopped into the chair opposite him. “You’re the owner here, Mr. Lundegaard?” she asked.
“Naw, I… Executive Sales Manager,” Jerry replied.
“Well, you can help me. My name’s Lois Kent–”
“My father-in-law, he’s the owner,” Jerry said.
“Uh-huh. Well, I’m a reporter investigating some malfeasance and I was just wondering if you’ve had any new vehicles stolen off the lot in the past couple of weeks — specifically a tan Cutlass Ciera?”
Jerry stared at her, his mouth open.
“Mr. Lundegaard?… So you haven’t had any vehicles go missing, then?”
“No. No, ma’am.”
“OK, thanks a bunch. I’ll let you get back to your paperwork, then,” Lois said.
Jerry looked blankly down at the papers on the desk in front of him. “Yeah, OK.”
As he looked up at Lois’s retreating back, he picked up the phone and dialed four digits. “…Yah, gimmee Shep… The heck d’ya mean?… Well, where’d he go? It’s only… No, I don’t need a mechanic — oh, geez — I gotta talk to a friend of his, so, uh… have him, uh… oh, geez…”
SMALLVILLE: Part 15
Carl was awoken in the middle of the night by the sound of a door splintering and then bursting open. The girl he was with was grabbed and flung out of bed. “Shep! What the hell are you doing?” Carl cried in fear and outrage. “Shep! Jesus!”
Shep slapped him hard, forehand, backhand. He hauled Carl up.
“Shep! Don’t you dare hit me, man! Don’t you–” Carl yelped.
Shep punched him and flung him away. Carl hit a sofa and his bare legs disappeared as he flipped back over it. Shep circled the sofa and kicked at Carl behind it.
“Put me back in Blackgate. Little $%$^.”
There was a knock at the door. “Hey! Come on in there!” a voice called out.
Shep strode to the door and flung it open. A man in boxer shorts stands in the doorway. “C’mon, brother, it’s late — unghh!”
Shep hit him twice, then grabbed both of his ears and started banging his head against the wall.
The girl ran by, and Shep kicked her in the rear as she passed. He spun and went back into the hotel room.
Carl was hopping desperately into his pants. “Stay away from me, man! Hey! Smoke a freakin’ peace pipe, man! Don’t you dare unghh!”
After hitting him several times, Shep yanked Carl’s belt out of his dangling pants and strangled him with it. Carl gurgled. Shep kneed Carl repeatedly, then dumped him onto the floor and started whipping him with the buckle end of the belt.
Outside of a Denny’s, Carl listened to the phone ring at the other end. His face was deeply bruised and cut. Finally, someone picked up. “…Yeah?”
“All right, Jerry, I’m through playing around. You got the money?”
Jerry was at the kitchen phone. In the dining room, Wade picked up an extension.
“Yeah, I got the money, but, uh…” Jerry stammered.
“Don’t you but me, Jerry. I want you with this money on the Dayton-Radisson parking ramp, top level, thirty minutes, and we’ll wrap this up,” Carl yelled.
“Yah, OK, but, uh…”
“You’re there in thirty minutes or I find you, Jerry, and I shoot you, and I shoot your wife, and I shoot all your little $%#$ children, and I shoot ‘em all in back of their little $%$%^& heads. Got it?” Carl shouted.
“…Yeah, well, you stay away from Scotty now…” Jerry stammered.
“Got it?” Carl shouted.
“Yeah…” Jerry said.
The line went dead. In the background, a door slammed.
Wade, briefcase in hand, got into his Cadillac, slammed the door and peeled out. His jaw worked as he glared out at traffic. He mumbled to himself as he drove. “OK… here’s your damn money, now where’s my daughter?… Damn punk… where’s my damn daughter…” He pulled out a gun, cracked the barrel, and peered in. “…You little punk.”
Jerry sat in the foyer, trying to pull on pair of galoshes. Scotty’s voice came from upstairs. ” …Dad?”
“It’s OK, Scotty,” Jerry said.
“Where’re you going?”
“Be back in a minute,” Jerry said anxiously. “If Stan calls you, just tell him I went to Embers. Oh, geez…”
SMALLVILLE: Part 16
Snow blew across the top, open, level of the Dayton-Radisson ramp. A car sat idling. Another car pulled onto the roof. It crept over to the parked car and stopped. It continued to idle as its door opened and Wade stepped out, carrying the briefcase.
The door of the other car banged open and Carl bounced out. “Who the $%$^ are you? Who the $%$^ are you?”
“I got your goddamn money, you little punk. Now where’s my daughter?” Wade snarled.
“I am through %^%&ing around! Drop that briefcase!”
“Where’s my daughter?”
“Where’s Jerry? I gave simple ^%&%*& instructions!” Carl shouted.
“Where’s my damn daughter? No Jean, no money!” Wade yelled.
“Drop that money!” Carl shouted.
“No Jean, no money!”
“Is this a joke here?” Carl said, pulling out a gun and firing into Wade’s gut. “Is this a ^%&* joke?”
“Unghh… oh, geez…” Wade groaned, laying on the pavement, clutching at his gut as the snow swirled around them.
“You imbeciles!” Carl cursed. He bent down next to Wade to pick up the briefcase.
“Oh, for Christ… oh, geez…” Wade groaned. He brought out his gun and fired at Carl’s head, close by.
“Oh,” Carl cried. He stumbled and fell back, and then stood up again. His jaw gushed blood. “Owwmm…”
One hand pressed to his jaw, he fired down at Wade several times. “Mmmmmphnck! He freekem shop me…” He pocketed the gun, picked up the briefcase one-handed, flung it into his car, got in, and peeled out.
Carl screamed down the ramp. He took a corner at high speed and swerved, just missing Jerry in his Olds on his way to the top.
Jerry recovered from the near miss and continued up. “Oh, geez!”
Carl squealed to a halt at the gate, still pressing his hand to his bleeding jaw. “Ophhem ma freechem gaphe!”
“May I have your ticket, please?” the attendant said.
Jerry pulled to a halt next to Wade’s idling Cadillac. He got out and walked slowly to Wade’s body, prostrate in the swirling snow. “Oh! Oh, geez!”
He bent down, picked Wade up by the armpits and dragged him over to the back of the Cadillac. He dropped Wade’s body, walked to the driver’s side of the car, pulled the keys and walked back to pop the trunk. He wrestled Wade’s body into the trunk, slammed it shut and walked back to the scene of the shooting. He kicked at the snow with his galoshed feet, trying to hide the fresh bloodstains.
Jerry approached the exit booth in the Cadillac. The wooden gate barring the exit had been broken away. The booth was empty. Jerry eased toward the street, looking over at the booth as he passed. If he had looked inside the booth, he might have seen the awkwardly angled leg of a prostrate body.
SMALLVILLE: Part 17
In the driveway, a man in a hooded parka shoveled snow. He noticed the approaching car and gave its driver a wave. The driver was Lou Olsen, the Smallville police officer.
“…So, I was tendin’ bar there at Ecklund & Swedlin’s last Tuesday and this little guy was drinkin’ and he said, ‘So where can a guy find some action — I’m goin’ crazy down there at the lake.’ And I said, ‘What kinda action?’ and he said, ‘Woman action, what do I look like,’ And I said ‘Well, what do I look like, I don’t arrange that kinda thing,’ and he said, ‘I’m goin’ crazy out there at the lake’ and I said, ‘Well, this ain’t that kinda place.’ ”
“Uh-huh,” Lou said, nodding as the man talked.
“So he said, ‘So I get it, so you think I’m some kinda jerk for askin’,’ only he didn’t use the word jerk,” the man continued.
“I understand.”
“And then he called me a jerk and said the last guy who thought he was a jerk was dead now. So I didn’t say nothin’ and he said, ‘What do ya think about that?’ So I said, ‘Well, that don’t sound like too good a deal for him then.’ ”
“You got that right,” Lou nodded.
“And he said, ‘Yeah, that guy’s dead and I don’t mean of old age.’ And then he said, ‘Man, I’m going crazy out there at the lake.’ ”
“White Bear Lake?”
“Well, Ecklund & Swedlin’s, that’s closer to Moose Lake, so I made that assumption,” the man said.
“Oh sure,” Lou agreed.
“So, ya know, he was drinkin’, so I didn’t think a whole great deal of it, but Mrs. Mohra heard about the homicides out here and she said I should call it in, so I called it in. End of story.”
“What’d this guy look like anyway?” Lou asked.
“Oh, he was a little guy, kinda funny lookin’.
“Uh-huh… in what way?”
“Just a general way,” the man shrugged.
“OK, well, thanks, Mr. Mohra. You’re right, it’s probably nothin’, but thanks for callin’ her in.”
Carl Showalter sat in his car, now parked, with one hand holding the rag pressed to his mangled jaw. He stared down at something in the front seat next to him. His other hand held open the briefcase. It had money inside — a lot of money. Carl unfroze, took out one of the bank-wrapped wads and looked at it. “…Mmmnphh.”
He pawed through the money in the briefcase to get a feeling for the amount. “…Jeshush Shrist… Jeshush Shrist!”
He counted out a bundle of bills and tossed it onto the back seat. He opened the car door and emerged with the briefcase. He slogged through the snow, down a gulley and up the embankment to a barbed-wire fence. He kneeled at one of the fence posts and frantically dug into the snow with his bare hands, throwing in the briefcase and covered it back up.
He stood and tried to beat the circulation back into his red, frozen hands. He looked to the right. A regular line of identical fence posts stretches away against unblemished white. He looked to the left. A regular line of identical fence posts stretches away against unblemished white. He looked at the fence post in front of him. “Mmmphh…”
Carl looked about the snowy vastness for a marker. Finding none, he kicked the fence post a couple of times, failing to scar or tilt it, then hurriedly planted a couple of sticks up against the post. He bent down, scooped up a handful of snow, pressed it against his wounded jaw, and loped back to the idling car.
SMALLVILLE: Part 18
Jerry sat at his desk using a blunt pencil to enter numbers onto a form. Beneath the form was a piece of carbon paper, and beneath that another form copy, which Jerry periodically checked. The carbon-copy form showed thick, smudgy, illegible entries. Jerry hummed nervously.
Glass rattled as someone tapped at his door. Jerry looked up and froze, his mouth hanging open, his brow knit with worry.
Lois stuck her head in the door. “Mr. Lundegaard? Sorry to bother you again. Can I come in?” She started to enter.
“I’m kinda… I’m kinda busy,” Jerry said.
“I understand. I’ll keep it short, then,” Lois said. “Do you mind if I sit down? I’m carrying a bit of a load here.”
“No, I…” Jerry started. But she was already sitting into the chair opposite with a sigh of relieved weight.
“Yeah, it’s this vehicle I asked you about yesterday. I was just wondering…”
“Yeah, like I told you, we haven’t had any vehicles go missing…” Jerry said.
“OK, are you sure? I mean, how do you know? Because, the story I’m investigating, the perpetrators were driving a car with dealer plates. And they called someone who works here, so it’d be quite a coincidence if they weren’t connected.”
“Yeah, I see,” Jerry said.
“So have you done any kind of inventory recently?” Lois asked.
“The car’s not from our lot, Mrs. Kent,” Jerry said.
“But do you know that without…” Lois started.
“Well, I would know. I’m the Executive Sales Manager,” Jerry said.
“Yeah, but…”
“We run a pretty tight ship here,” Jerry said.
“I know, but, well, how do you establish that, sir? Are the cars counted daily? or what kind of…”
“Ma’am, I answered your question,” Jerry said.
There was a silent beat. “…I’m sorry, sir?”
“Ma’am, I answered your question. I answered the darn… I’m cooperating here, and I…” Jerry stammered irately.
“Sir, you have no call to get snippy with me. I’m just doing my job here,” Lois said.
“I’m not, uh, I’m not arguin’ here. There’s no, uh… we’re doin’ all we can…” Jerry stammered. He trailed off into silence.
“Sir, could I talk to Mr. Gustafson?” Lois asked. Jerry stared at her. “Mr. Lundegaard?”
Jerry exploded. “Well, heck, if you wanna, if you wanna play games here! I’m workin’ with ya on this thing, but I…” He got angrily off his feet. “OK, I’ll do a damned lot count!”
“Sir? Right now?” Lois said, surprised.
“Sure right now! You’re darned tootin’!” Jerry said.
He yanked his parka from a hook behind the opened door and grabbed a pair of galoshes. “…If it’s so damned important to ya!”
“I’m sorry, sir, I…”
Jerry had the parka slung over one arm and the galoshes pinched in his hand. “Aw, what the Christ!” He stamped out the door.
Lois stared. After a long moment her stare broke. She glanced idly around the office. There was a framed picture facing away from her on the desktop. She turned it to face her. It was Scotty, holding an accordion. There was another picture of Jean.
She pulled a clipboard toward her. It held a form from the General Motors Finance Corporation. Her look abruptly locked as something clicked. “Oh, for Pete’s sake.”
Jerry eased his car around the near corner of the building.
Lois’s voice was flat with dismay, “…Oh, for Pete’s sake…” She grabbed the phone and punched in a number. “For Pete’s s — he’s fleeing the interview!”
Jerry made a left to turn into traffic.
“Dale? This is Lois. Could I speak to Lou, please?”
SMALLVILLE: Part 19
Lou Olsen moved slowly to the right, pushing his tray along a cafeteria line. Behind him, in the depth of the room, was an eating area of long Formica tables at which sit a mix of uniformed and civilian-clothed police and staff. Next to him moved Lois Kent, also pushing a tray.
“Well, so far we’re just saying he’s wanted for questioning in connection with a triple homicide. Nobody at the dealship there’s been much help guessing where he might go…” Lou said.
“Uh-huh,” Lois nodded.
“We called his house; his little boy said he hadn’t been there,” Lou said.
“And his wife?” Lois asked.
“She’s visiting relatives in Florida. Now his boss, this guy Gustafson, he’s also disappeared. Nobody at his office knows where he is.”
“Looks like this thing higher than we thought,” Lois said. “You call his home?
“His wife’s in the hospital, has been for a couple months. The big C,” Lou said.
“Oh, my.”
“And this Shep Proudfoot character, he’s real sweetheart. He’s now wanted for assault and violation. He clobbered a guy at a hotel last night and another person who could be one of the perps, and he’s at large.”
“Boy, this thing is really… wow,” Lois said.
“Well, they’re all out on the wire. Well, you know…”
“Yeah. Well, I just can’t thank you enough, Lou, this cooperation has been outstanding.”
“Ah, well, we haven’t had too many around like you. When’re you due?”
“Any day now, they tell me,” Lois said.
SMALLVILLE: Part 20
Grimsrud sat eating a Swanson’s TV dinner from a TV tray he set up in front of an easy chair. He watched the old black-and-white television set whose image was still heavily ghosting and diffused by snow. The audio crackled with interference. Despite the impenetrability of its image, it held Grimsrud’s complete attention. At the sound of the front door opening, Grimsrud looked up.
Carl entered, his face suppurated and raw. He reacted to Grimsrud’s wordless look with a grotesque laugh. “You should she zhe uzher guy!”
He glanced around. “Wha’ happen a’ her?” Jean sat slumped in a straight-backed chair facing the wall. Her hooded head rested on her chin. There was blood on the facing wall.
“She started shrieking, you know,” Grimsrud said, emotionlessly.
“Jezhush,” Carl said, shaking his head.
He plunked down eight bank-wrapped bundles on the table. “… All of it. All eighty gran. Forty for you…” He made one pile and pocketed the rest. “Forty for me. Sho thishuzh it. Adiosh.” He slapped keys down on the table. “…You c’n'ave my truck,” Carl said. “I’m takin’ a’ Shiera.”
“We split that,” Grimsrud said.
Carl looked at him. “How do we shplitta freakin’ car? Ya dummy! Widda chainshaw?”
Grimsrud looked up sourly. “One of us pays the other for half.”
“Hold on! No way! You notish ish?” Carl shouted, gesturing to his ruined jaw. “I got shot inna faish! I went’n gotta money! I get shot pickin’ it up! I been up for thirty-shiksh hourzh! I’m takin’ that car! That carzh mine!” Carl waited for an argument, but only got the steady sour look. Carl pulled out a gun and returned Grimsrud’s stare. “…Are we shquare?”
Grimsrud said nothing.
“…Are we shquare?” Disgusted, Carl pocketed the gun and headed for the door. “%^#%&. And you shee your friend Shep Proudpfut, tell him I’m gonna nail hizh ash.”
Carl bounded outside and walked toward the car. Behind him, he heard the cabin door opening. Carl turned, reacting to the sound.
Grimsrud was bounding out wearing mittens and a red hunter’s cap, but no overcoat. He was holding an ax. Carl fumbled in his pocket for his gun. Grimsrud swung the axe overhand. It was the last thing Carl ever saw.
SMALLVILLE: Part 21
Lois drove down the tree-lined road in her Prowler. Through her two way radio, Lou’s voice, heavily filtered, was heard. “His wife. This guy says she was kidnapped last Wednesday…”
“The day of our homicides,” Lois said.
“Yeah.”
Lois peered to one side as she drove, looking through the bare trees that border the road on a declivity that ran down to a large frozen lake. “And this guy is…?”
“Lundegaard’s father-in-law’s accountant,” Lou answered.
“Gustafson’s accountant?” Lois asked.
“Yeah.”
“But you still haven’t found Gustafson.”
“(crackle)… looking.”
“Sorry, didn’t copy,” Lois said.
“Still missing. We’re looking,” Lou said
“Copy. And Lundegaard too?” Lois asked.
“Yeah. Where are you, Lo?” Lou asked.
“Oh, I’m almost back. I’m driving around Moose Lake. So the state has it, Lundegaard and Gustafson?
“Yeah, it’s over the wire, it’s everywhere. They’ll find ‘em.”
“Copy.” Lois said.
“We’ve got a…” Lou started
“There’s the car! There’s the car!” Lois suddenly exclaimed. She slowed down as she approached a short driveway leading down to a cabin. Parked in front was the brown Cutlass Ciera.
“Whose car?”
“The car! The tan Ciera!”
“Don’t go in, Lois! Wait for the police!” Lou said. Lois strained to look.
“…Mrs. Kent?”
“Copy. Yeah, send me back-up!” Lois said.
“Back up–?!? Lois! You’re not a cop!”
“I don’t have time to argue semantics with you now, Lou.” She switched off the radio.
Lois pulled her Prowler over some distance past the cabin. She got out, zipped up her khaki parka and pulled up its fur-lined hood.
With one curved arm half pressing against, half supporting her belly, she took slow, gingerly steps down the slope, through the deep snow, through the trees angling toward the cabin.
She slogged from tree to tree, letting each one support her downhill-leaning weight for a moment before slogging to the next. Lois stood panting by one tree, her breath vaporizing out of her hood. She squinted down toward the cabin’s back lot.
A tall man with his back to her, wearing a red plaid quilted jacket and a hunting cap with earflaps, was laboring over a shovel which his body blocked from view.
SMALLVILLE: Part 22
Lois advanced. The man was Grimsrud, his nose red and eyes watering from the cold, hatflaps pulled down over his ears. His breath steamed as he sourly went about his work, both hands pressing down a shovel through the snow into the soil beneath. His breathing was loud as he worked.
Lois slogged down to the next tree, panting and looking. Lois’s eyes shifted. A large dark form lay in the snow next to Grimsrud. He worked on, eyes watering. With a grunt he bent down out of her view and then re-entered jabbing the shovel down.
.
Lois advanced. Grimsrud, still turned away, rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. Lois closed in, grimacing. Grimsrud’s back strained as he put his weight into the shovel that pushed down into the soil. The dark shape in the snow next to his side was Carl Showalter’s body.
Her hand went into her bag hoping to latch onto mace or something else she might use as a weapon. It found a gun. Lou, you sweet kid, Lois thought. You could lose your badge over something like this. She hated guns, but was glad to have it, nonetheless. As thoughtful as she thought it was for Lou to try and save her from herself, he would be receiving a lecture later.
Lois drew the gun and moved to within twenty yards. When she bellowed, it sounded shaky and rehearsed as she tried to sound sure of herself when confronted with a murderer. “This is a citizen’s arrest! Turn around and hands up!”
Startled, Grimsrud scowled. He turned to face her. He gave her a cold, deadly stare.
Lois bellowed again. “Hands up!” She gestured with her gun. “Don’t even move!”
Grimsrud stared. With a quick twist, he reached back for the log, hurled it at Lois, and then started to run away. She twisted her body sideways, shielding herself. No need. The heavy log traveled perhaps ten yards and landed in the snow several feet short of her.
The man panted up the hill — slow going through the deep snow. Behind him, Lois yelled, “Halt!” She fired in the air.
Grimsrud, startled, ducked behind a tree and fired at her, narrowly missing.
What have I gotten myself into? Lois thought. I’m carrying a child! She carefully sighted and returned fire.
Grimsrud slogged further up the up the hill, turning back as he ran to fire once more.
Lois sighted again. “…Halt!” She fired again.
Grimsrud pitched forward. He muttered in Swedish as he reached down to clutch at his wounded leg. The gun flew from his hand as he slipped and fell in the snow.
Lois walked toward him with her gun trained on him. With her right foot, she kicked the gun out of his reach. Her other hand reached around in her bag to come out with a pair of handcuffs. Experience had told her there were times she would need them. She opened them with a snap of the wrist. “All right, buddy. On your belly and your hands clasped behind you,” she said forcefully.
A squad car, gumballs spinning, punched through the white. Lou jumped out and ran forward. “Lois! Are you all right?” Another squad car pulled up behind him.
“I’m fine…” Lois smiled, trying to hide the fact that she was still shaking. “Thanks to you’re being so sneaky. I… oohh!” She stumbled.
“What is it, Lo?” Lou asked, visibly concerned as he caught her.
“Get me an ambulance! I’m going into labor!” Lois gasped.
SMALLVILLE: Epilogue 1
The shabby hotel stood next to a highway on a snowy, wind-swept plain. One or two cars dotted the parking lot along with an idling police cruiser.
Two uniformed policemen stood on either side of the motel room door, their hands resting lightly on their holstered side arms. One of them rapped at the door. “Mister… Anderson?” the first cop said.
After a pause, a muffled voice came through the door, “Who?…”
“Mr.Anderson? Is this your burgundy ’88 out here?” the first cop said.
“Just a sec.”
“Could you open the door, please?” the cop said.
“Yeah. Yeah, just a sec.” A clatter came from inside. “Just a sec…”
One of the policemen unholstered his gun and nodded to a superintendent holding a ring of keys. This man turned a key in the door and then stood away. The two policemen, guns at the ready, banged into the motel room. The two men gave the room a two-handed sweep with their guns. The room was empty.
The first cop indicated the open bathroom door. “Dale!”
The two men charged the bathroom, belts jingling, guns at the ready. A man in boxer shorts was halfway out the bathroom window.
The policemen holstered their guns and charged the window, and dragged Jerry Lundegaard back into the room. His flesh quivered as he thrashed and keened in short, piercing screams. The cops wrestled him to the floor, but his palsied thrashing continued. The policemen struggled to restrain him.
“Call an ambulance!” the first cop yelled.
“You got him OK?” the second cop asked.
The first cop pinioned Jerry’s arms to the floor and Jerry burst into uncontrolled sobbing. “Yeah, yeah, call an ambulance.” Jerry sobbed and screamed.
SMALLVILLE: Epilogue 2
Clark sat on the side of his wife’s hospital bed, watching her as she slept. Her eyes opened and she smiled. “How long have you been there?”
“Since Lou called me and gave me the news,” Clark said.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t be here in time,” she said. She tried to raise up.
“Don’t,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You need your rest. You’ve had a busy day in more ways than one. Lou said you probably saved that woman’s life. She had a concussion and needed a few stitches, but who knows what would’ve happened to her if you hadn’t shown up.”
“That’s good to hear,” Lois said. “Lou’s a good friend.”
“Yes he is,” Clark said, brushing her hair off her forehead. “If it weren’t for his connection to Jimmy making him practically family, I might be jealous of the two of you.”
“Don’t be silly, Clark,” Lois smirked. From Clark’s smile, she knew he didn’t believe it, either.
“The baby…” she suddenly gasped, her eyes growing large. She attempted to raise up again.
“Little Mary is fine,” he said, easing her back down into the bed. “A healthy, eight pound little girl.” A nurse stepped forward, holding the bundled infant. “We thought you’d want to see her once you woke up.”
Lois’ voice cracked as she held her daughter for the first time. “Oh, thank God,” she sighed.
“I love you, Lois,” Clark said, kissing her on the forehead.
“I love you, Clark.” Lois said, resting her own hand on top of his.
