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CZ Studio and Radio Verte presents The Wild Wind by Corey Zimmerman.

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Part 2

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Chapter 11

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The Wild Wind

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She walked into the fine hotel so outwardly depressed, she had to dry the tears from the

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corner of her eye with a handkerchief as she requested a room.

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The receptionist, a kind man in appearance, asked if she was all right. She answered,

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My Cecil is dead, before breaking down into an unrelenting sob.

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As the other patrons looked on in concern, the receptionist called on the bellhop to take her

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to her room at once. And once settled in, she lay down upon the bed and rang the bell for assistance.

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As the bellhop returned, the lady pointed to an empty bottle on the bedstand, labeled

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Two Ounces of Laudanum, a suicide note by her side that simply read, Life is Void Meaning.

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The bellhop ran out of the room in a panic, and soon a doctor rushed to her bedside, where he found

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her unconscious. The medics were quickly administered and a pastor was summoned, as the woman told her

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how her husband had died and left her with nothing and that she could no longer bear the pain nor the hunger.

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The pastor spoke with her about the virtues of life and of the spiritual consequence of suicide,

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and as word spread through the hotel, concerned guests and kind strangers raised a rather robust purse.

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Upon request of the hotel manager, the bellhop delivered her a large platter of food,

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a sirloin cooked medium rare, a french salad made of potatoes, carrots, peas, pickles, hard boiled eggs,

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sour cream, mayonnaise, apple cider vinegar, and salt and pepper, and a piece of white cake for dessert,

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and a bottle of Dr. Pepper.

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The lady slept well through the night with her belly full and departed early the next morning,

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leaving behind a hefty tip of the young bellhop, passing right by the receptionist without a word.

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She continued along her way across Iowa, raising $25 in Waterloo, 40 in Iowa City,

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and departing Davenport with a free ticket on the railroad to commit suicide at some other location,

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anywhere but there. It would be useless to give her real name, and for that matter,

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next to impossible. She was known to the police of 20 cities under a dozen aliases,

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but out of all the maze of names, only that of Fanny survived. Yet let us respectfully refer to

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her as the cleverest swindler and confidence woman to ever grace the midwestern plains.

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Yes, it was right to say the lady within the tight form-fitting dress, slit far up the right thigh,

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the stunning petite figure, was a thief. A thief's thief, an adventurous of misdeeds, a pickpocket,

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shoplifter, a con artist, and there was no doubt that Fanny was sexful, a flapper before her time,

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a flimsy, revealing, heavy smoking, heavy drinking, mad dame, trampling down long,

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dusty roads from town to town with the affliction of dancing like a bird,

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flapping her arms gracefully along the way. Fanny pulled up her dress and pissed on a bunch of

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yellow wildflowers on the side of the road, and then under a single oak tree, offering shade in

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the vast prairie, stretching from where she had come to where she might go, toward the next glistening

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object to catch her eye, she perched like a raven. Her jet-black eyes glistened as she opened her

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suitcase and sorted through an array of disguises, under which she laid buried a particular assortment

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of treasure, pocket watches. Fanny pulled out a silver hand mirror embellished with a fine

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tactility of status, well beyond her birthright. In grabbing it with her petite hand, without a

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speck of shame, claimed it as her own. In its reflection, she reapplied her dark lipstick,

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and then pulled out a dummy bucket of a hat, placed it upon her head of short, silky black hair,

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and leaned back against the rough bark of the oak tree. She shut her heavy, long eyelashes,

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and rested for a spell, but not before clicking the toes of her fine shoes together, removing any

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loose dirt. Exhausted, Fanny dreamed of rest. The tiny footprints that led to that old oak tree

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led all the way back to a family in Kansas, to a paul who once called her Peewee, a railroad

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worker and a musician, who died in a freak accident that split him in two, a consequence of

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drinking rye on the tracks. Peewee's ma was soon to take on her own taste for rye, and by the time

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Peewee grew into her full height of five foot, not an inch more, her ma was in the throes of an

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alcohol-induced nervous breakdown, wholly incapable of caring for little Peewee. So at the age of 12,

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after her ma was taken away to the poor house, Fanny was shipped off to live with her grandmother

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Thelma, in southern Missouri. Between the rolling forest ravines and majestic hilltops, beside a

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bubbling stream, stood a ramshackle shack, consisting of nothing more than a smoky kitchen and a room

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with a rope bed, just wide enough for two. Fanny dreamed of being a dancer or a stage actress,

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and she spent the afternoons with a broom, spinning her petite frame around like a butterfly,

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as she swept the plank floor. Thelma worried no matter how many iron skillets she might tie

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to Fanny's feet, or burnt biscuits she might shove down her throat, that Peewee would someday

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spin away amidst a dust devil. In a matter of only two years, Fanny caught a local merchant's eye.

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His name was Cecil, two decades her senior. A large but gentle man, Cecil owned a furry,

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and he lavished Fanny with an otter fur coat. He treated her to the finest dining southern Missouri

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had to offer, as Thelma's fried coon skins never quite suited Fanny's taste. She devoured the fair

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with an appetite Cecil admired, as he shot back a glass of rye and jubilation. Eager to get Peewee

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out of her grandmother's rope bed and into his own, Cecil asked Fanny for her tiny hand in marriage.

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She was fourteen, and in no time at all, she fell into the housewife's roll and cooked up a storm,

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with all the large pantry had to offer. Though she always burnt the biscuits, filling the two-story

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Victorian with smoke in the morning, as the sun poured in through the large floor-to-ceiling

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windows. Nonetheless, Cecil thought to hire a housemaid in a show of appreciation for his new

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bride, so Fanny could sit back and enjoy the good life. However, Fanny loved to cook and sweep,

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and she would grab the broom from old Miss Terry's hands and swoop and spin away, throwing dust in

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every rich way, leaving Cecil wheezing and sneezing, and old Miss Terry shrieking in the corner without

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a clue of what to do. Cecil loved watching Fanny dance, and with two bottles in, he often joined

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her, causing old Miss Terry to flop down on the front porch in a state of bewilderment. Cecil

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adored Fanny so, and she him, when things were mighty fine. Though in time, a dark cloud rolled

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in, as it tends to happen. They fell on hard times and had to let old Miss Terry go, and soon the

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smoke stopped rising to the ceilings, as the pantry ran dry, but the rye whiskey remained.

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You see, Cecil loved his rye as much as he did his bride, but as he drank the bottles dry,

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and provided Fanny with a life he struggled to sustain, his wallet grew thin, and where there

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is smoke, there are flames. But when the furry mysteriously burnt to the ground one night, Cecil

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was left with nothing but debt and ash. Fanny was in the bath, savoring her last drop of lavender oil,

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as Cecil finished off his rye on the porch, clicking open and shut the pocket watch his

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paw left him after he had died. He then made his way down to the cellar, where he pulled a bottle

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labeled two ounces of lard from the pocket of his fur coat. He held it to his lips and flung back

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his head, removed his coat, laid it upon the floor, and he curled up upon it, wrapped his arms around

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his knees, and fell gently into the unforgiving grip of death. All I need is you, not these shiny

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things, as she looked down at his pocket watch now in her palm. It was late October, and the leaves

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were a most beautiful shade of orange when Fanny walked away from the mound of cold damp earth.

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Fanny's growling belly awoke her, and she pulled an apple she had plucked from someone's tree,

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as quickly as a bullfrog grasps a dragonfly with its tongue. Given her hunger for fine food,

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dislike for sleeping outdoors, her mighty taste for rye, Fanny rose to her feet and continued along

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her way, twirling with divine madness, yet an ever watchful eye over her shoulder, for it was

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always on her tail, the Black Maria, in pursuit of the Dust Devil she had become.

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Fanny was good at her trade craft, but things always seemed to have a way of catching up with

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her, especially when on the run. You see, having been arrested hundreds of times,

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Fanny had come up with devising ways of slipping out of the claws of the law of justice, if there

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lived and breathed such a thing which she doubted. Therefore, an ordinary jail cell could not hold

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her. Being such an expert at picking locks and lifting jailers' keys, they were almost superstitiously

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afraid of Fanny, and when every other resource failed, she simply fainted, sure to cause her

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removal to a hospital, offering a chance to plan her escape and ultimately accomplish it once again.

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Though each step Fanny took was written in destiny. The script scribed with each flap of the arms,

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each twirl, each tick and tock of each glistening pocket watch.

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Toward her own horizon, an unstoppable locomotive moved forth toward an inevitable fate, but for

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this day, Fanny was free. Free enough. So let us get to know Fanny as we might,

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free from captivity, if not free from her haunts.

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To fly under the broad blue horizon like a blue jay, just above the whispering prairie,

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is one thing. To be chased by the Jayhawk of Justice is quite another. The breeze on her

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cheek, a kiss from whatever truth might exist, whatever elusive justice she sought, or rather,

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sought her, misdeeds as countless as her personas. She fled simply to flee.

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So Fanny carried on, flapping her arms, dancing along in her shiny black shoes,

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down that long, long, dusty road. You didn't have to lead me to this life of womanly wild,

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weaseling my way through the gates by quickly catching an eye. Yet you did, Cecil. You did.

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Now here I am again, alone in the night. It ain't no matter anyhow, you see, Cecil.

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I done came a wild one, said Fanny as she shattered a rye bottle on the tracks and gave

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out a howl to the moon in that sweet time of late July. Amongst the chirp of crickets,

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a deep voice came rolling out. What you doing, man? I'm out here all alone like that.

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How, how howling at the moon, answered Fanny. This is nowhere for a gal like you, said a dark

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silhouette slowly approaching. Certainly not in the dead of night, the man now coming into view.

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They all say that until they don't, said Fanny, until they expecting something.

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You expecting something, mister? Names John, he said. I work these here tracks. No, man,

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I ain't expecting nothing. I see the glance of a curious sort of bird through the bars of a cage,

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said Fanny, a vivid, restless, resolute captive. Were it but free, it would soar cloud high.

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Miss Jane Eyre. It's a pleasure, Miss Jane Eyre, said the dark-skinned man. But I suppose you can

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call me the bright, the famous Miss Birdie, she said with one fingertip on her lip, exposing her

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bottom teeth. Watch, mister. I can balance on the track twelve steps, and the strange man lunged

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to catch her in his arms. And in the moonlight, he got a close-up look at her rare beauty to match

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the mystery of the night, the magic of sexful madness. His eyes widened as she pulled away,

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and he let go gently enough. Now you the jam you've bit a jam, he said. And you're quite the

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cake-eater yourself, said Birdie. Birdie howled again, her echo swallowed by the surrounding

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forest. And then a silence overcame her. She lowered her gaze to the dim wick-burning headlamp of the

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approaching locomotive, and said, and the light is where I belong. You might not know it, but I could

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have been the bathing beauty of my time, not just a mixed nut. I hate to say it, man, but what's

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behind there? That light gonna crack you like a nut, flatten you like a flapjack. Birdie stumbled

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over to him, and grabbed him by the strap of his overalls, gazed deep into his white eyes, and asked,

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you got a flapjack, mister? Birdie let go, hop back onto the track, now with perfect balance.

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And she took twelve perfectly balanced steps, looked down at her toes, at the shards of glass

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from the drunkard's past, tiptoeing one fine shoe before the next. Say, Mr. John, you know where a

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woman can get her shoe shined around here? Why, yes, ma'am, I sure might, he said, following along

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with whatever Fanny had to offer. You might? You think you got what I need? She asked. Just might,

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depends on what you need, he said. Now you better move out the way, ma'am. Thought you weren't

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expecting, sir, asked Fanny. Anyhow, I need to see a man about a dog, she said, just as he placed the

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back of her palm upon her forehead, and let out a gentle sigh as the rumbling grew closer.

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The man ran over and picked up Fanny by her tiny waist, and carried her off the tracks in the dim

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with light, his eyes transfixed upon the soft flesh of her pale face, blue as the moon,

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as the locomotive rumbled by and by, a mysterious yet sexful madness in some sweet time in late July.

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Now it may have been the growing rooster or the deep, gravely snore which awoke Fanny,

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but regardless of the cause of the uprooting of her disheveled hair from the dingy yellowed

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goose down pillow, she possessed one thing on her groggy mind. Fanny stood in a nude and stretched

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her arms above her head, eye keen on the shine from the nightstand across the bed. She carefully

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leaned over the snoring man, who suddenly gasped for air, causing Fanny to freeze, her breasts in

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his face, until he let out another restful breath of gravel and stale rye. Fanny seized the pocket

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watch with what skill she might, grabbed her dress and suitcase from the floor, and tipped

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out her tiny feet, fine shoes in hand, for the door. Its hinges squeaked like a trapped mouse,

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so Fanny opened it swiftly and stepped out like a cat, mouse, in her jaws. She sprinted to the road,

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dripping over herself as she slid on one shoe before the other, mid-stride. A man passing by

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on horseback twisted his neck to an unnatural angle at the scattered dame, dress over her head, nude,

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to the chill of the morning air.

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Let's see what we got here. A three-ounce silver case, the old pawnbroker said,

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inspecting the watch through a monocle before holding it up to his ear. Sure is ticking all

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right. This chief, I'd say, 1877. Fanny cleared her throat, her chin resting on her palm, elbow

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on the counter, as she asked in a full yawn. So how much? Well, spanking new chief goes for

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around $13. I'll give you three. Birdie held out her tiny palm. Where'd you come across this old

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fell anyhow? The old pawnbroker asked, peering at Birdie through his monocle, only then noticing

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the black lipstick smeared about her face. Fanny stared up at him with a silent lack of enthusiasm.

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Well, okay, let's see here, he said as he pulled a wooden box from under the counter before placing

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the bills in her hand. One, two, and three. Fanny turned and walked away as the old pawnbroker

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watched her hips swing from side to side in her tight dress. Good gracious, he said, monocle

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falling from his eye. The sign outside the saloon read, hard-boiled egg with every drink.

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A connoisseur of saloons, Fanny entered. Fanny took a taste for saloons, offering savory meatballs,

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French cheese, hickory cured ham, and other dainties on narrow 20-foot long tables covered

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with spotless white linen and topped with plates of delicacies to please the most discerning tastes,

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where drinks cost two bits. Fanny lamented the time she'd ate wild boar steak, boned wild turkey,

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patties of quail, aged bear's paws in burgundy sauce, ragout d'acune, and squirrel pie at a

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saloon in Chicago. The meat had been in an advanced state of decomposition, but it went down just right

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with the right amount of hot sauce, pepper, and beer. If the barkeep was German, Fanny never missed

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a feast of bratwurst and frankfurters in the Italian saloons, calzone, and pepperoni, but her

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absolute favorite dish was a simple roast beef with au jus sauce. However, despite her taste for

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fine food, Fanny usually sustained herself with free lunches of cold cuts, yellow cheese, beans,

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and stalks of celery. These were provided by the planer saloons, where the drinks cost only

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15 cents. Salted food, pretzels, rye brie, smoked herring, salted peanuts, potato chips, and dill

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pickles. Places where the word lunch should not be taken literally, where lunch imperceptibly blends

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from free breakfast into free dinner, where the salted goods waited patiently on their fly-speckled

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plates morning, noon, and night. While many saloons offered only free creamy pies to the older

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customers, more often not, a saloon provided free food to all. Franks on Monday, roast beef on

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Saturday, baked fish on Friday, and so on. In theory, a couple of shot glasses or steins produce

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an appetite, and the salty goodies, in turn, might produce a mighty thirst. The chain reaction

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process of drinking and nibbling, nibbling, and drinking could go on for hours, during which

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customers spent stacks of greenbacks. However, the free lunch often posed many bartenders a problem,

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as the institution rested on the honor system. Supposedly, no creature walking on two legs could

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be so low as to approach the free lunch table without first consuming and paying for at least

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two drinks. Yet there are many human skunks, as they were known, and Fanny grabbed a plate and

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filled it with sausages until the barkeep cleared his throat rather loudly. Fanny shut her long black

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eyelashes and took a deep breath, spilling the links back onto the platter. Fine, bring me the

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menu, she said, sitting down at an open table, kicking her fine shoes upon the opposing chair.

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Catching her floppy hat on her toe, she ordered duck's breast with apricot chutney. That'll be

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15 cents, the bartender with the waxed handlebar spoke from his deep cigar-smoke-encrusted chimney

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of a throat. Bring your finest bottle of rye, said Fanny. $2.50, said the barkeep, doubtful she

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possessed such wealth. But without hesitation, Fanny slapped three bills down on the table,

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and the barkeep stared down at her with disdain, as he knew her kind. Fanny stared back up at him,

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sarcastically batting her eyelashes with a false grin, lipstick immaculate.

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The barkeep grabbed the bills and walked away with perfect posture.

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Cob in your ass, she muttered. Got a match? The man at the table looked over his shoulder with

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the kind of bewilderment that followed her like a shadow. In two dozen fingers of rye later,

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the sun set on the saloon full of patrons who found themselves stunned by Fanny's knees twisting in

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and out. Every eye glued to the sexful exposure of her fine legs and flapping arms. One man sat so

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far back in his chair, he fell over. Just as a pair of pinstriped overalls found the liquid courage

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to grab Fanny by the waist, and pull her in tight to the upright piano, adventurous tune. The jingle

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of which made its way out the saloon doors, its liveliness echoing down the otherwise dead streets,

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proud mostly by stray cats and stumbling drunks at this hour. In the otherwise Puritan village

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of Kiwani, Johnny Hoglick as he pressed into her pubic bone.

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Behind the saloon, the man grabbed her by the back of the neck and pushed her face into the brick,

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the wounds on her back still fresh. But she did not resist. She wanted it and took it like a mare,

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though she could still hear the snap of that horse whip, and her wrists were still raw from

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coarse rope. As the man groped her hips and tits, his awful breath reminded her of the old sadistic

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farmer, that first thrust. The man's body was covered in blood, and the man's body was covered

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with the blood of the sadistic farmer. That first thrust, the shooting pain, it was all the same.

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Though she tried her damnedest to ignore the familiar grunt, to shake off the memories and

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enjoy herself, but all she saw was flames. The pathetic endless need nauseated her after all,

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and with the final grunt, the man finished and stumbled backward, trying to walk and pull up his

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pinstripe overalls at the same time. He coughed up something grotesque and disappeared for more drink.

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Fanny slid down the wall, her hands over her eyes, as a black cat appeared out of the night,

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rubbing against her leg. Why hello there gorgeous, what's your name? Petting his shiny coat as his

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back arched in pleasure. Well ain't you a beauty. Making her way out of the alley, Fanny stopped just

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short of the street, pulled out the pocket watch she had slipped out of the pinstripe overalls,

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and held it up to glisten in the moonlight. But it was dull and rusty. Cheap bastard, she said.

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Her hair and dress were disheveled. As it began to rain, she spotted a man walking by in a nice suit.

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Sideburns long, but he appeared a proper man, sober, most likely wealthy, assumed by his posture,

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so she ran for him like a cat for a tree. Please sir, she said pitifully. The man stopped and turned

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back, surprised and concerned to see a woman in such a wretched condition, a woman who fainted at his feet.

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Fanny was right in her judgment that the man had money, but he was also a church-going Christian,

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as was his wife, who sneaked through Bertie's suitcase for any sign of her identity,

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at which point she found the stash of pocket watches. Out of suspicion, she thought it best

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to call on the sheriff, who just so happened to recognize Fanny, where she laid, snoring.

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Fanny tried her darndest to sweet-talk the three officers guarding her in the back of the black

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Maria, but they paid her no attention as instructed, and soon she found herself behind bars. Fanny called

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for the deputy and told him she did not feel well, and then fainted to the cell floor. Not going to

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work this time, Fanny. Fanny was on the lam from warrants in 12 Illinois counties, after all,

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not to mention the states of Missouri, Iowa, Kentucky, Wisconsin, Tennessee, and there were

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even rumors all the way down in Texas, which would explain Kansas and Oklahoma. The warrants were

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mostly for theft, but unfortunately for Fanny, one was for arson. You see, the sadistic old farmer who

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told Fanny she was nothing more than a worthless man trap, who tied her to the post in his barn

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while his wife slept just yards away in the house, did not have a pocket watch to lift. However,

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he did have a shark-tongued whip, which left Fanny none too pleased to leave empty-handed.

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So Fanny returned late in the night and let loose his hogs, burnt down his barn,

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and stood back under the stars watching the flames lit the July sky.

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A week later, the godless soul now sat on the stand, pointing directly at her and said,

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that's the devil right there. We done lost everything. Now my wife's gone hungry as the

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farmer's wife burst into tears. One row behind Fanny. Fanny rolled her eyes.

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Guilty, the jury announced unanimously.