Good Enough

Morley Wahl was standing over the bed in the back bedroom of his trailer, looking down at his nephew lying in it, beat to a pulp. Blood in his hair, eyes blacked, jaw slack and mouth open.

“When’d this happen?” he asked. He was in his late fifties, heavy around the middle, hair cropped short, needing a shave. Beside him was his older sister, the boy’s mother. She was thin and gray-haired and shaking. She’d come north from Kentucky, crossing the Ohio River at Cairo before sunrise, calling ahead, letting him know she was coming.

“Yesterday,” she said. She looked at her brother. “Sometime yesterday. Morley, they left him in the cold. He coulda died.” She was hiccuping back tears. “I don’t know how he was able to drive home.”

The boy groaned, tried to turn over and couldn’t. His eyes flickered, and his mother moved to him and put a hand on his shoulder and leaned down and said “We got you, Darnell. You’re safe.”

“He tell you why?” Morley asked.

His sister stepped back and went quiet. For her, life was one long run of problems, one after another. None ever got solved. “Gambling.” she whispered. It came out like it was an apology.

“Gambling?”

Cokie Lambert was her name. She’d married Carl Lambert years ago. He’d wandered off not long after and left her with the boy.

“Him and them boys,” she said, like that was an explanation.

It was cold in the trailer and colder outside, dirty snow all around.

“Got names?” Morley asked. He watched his sister, wishing he wasn’t involved. He knew the name he’d hear and wondered how long it would take for her to get it out. She’d tell lies as long as she could get away with them. She surprised him and said the name right away: “Raymond Hoke.” She shook her head, closed her lips tight and looked away. At times Morley wished he felt more for her and the boy, but every time they came around they were asking for something he didn’t have, or asking for something he couldn’t do. “I told him stay away from them boys,” she said. “Trouble’s all they know.”

Hoke was Terry Ames’ family. Morley Wahl and Terry Ames had done time together, a long time ago. They weren’t friends, but they had this business … Wahl in southern Illinois, Ames in Kentucky … and the non-taxable income it provided was important to both of them. Morley farmed, with an acre or two every year of a crop Terry Ames bought with cash. Everything between them was cash. They had their own version of trust and so far it had worked. Morley had no idea how much Terry was making on his end and didn’t care. Whatever Terry did with his money, that was his business.

“Terry know about this?” Morley asked.

“I don’t know,” Cokie said. “Maybe.” She did business with Terry Ames, too, and her brother didn’t want to know a thing about it.

“How much money we talking about?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Got no idea. Enough to get yourself beat half to death,” she said.

He looked down at Darnell and shook his head. His sister put a hand on the boy’s arm, like she wanted to say something nice to him.

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll call Terry and set this straight.”

#

The next morning Morley’s sister fixed him breakfast and chattered nonstop; he was already tired of the sound of her voice. She lived in Kentucky, too, near Wickliffe. She worked in a diner there, when she worked. “You maybe ought to take a gun,” she told him before he left, like he’d asked her advice.

“If I needed a gun,” Morley said, “I wouldn’t be going.”

An hour later he crossed the Ohio at Cairo, into Ballard County, Kentucky, heading toward Terry Ames, who lived south of Barlow.

#

Ballard County, Kentucky, was much the same as Alexander County, Illinois: empty. Morley Wahl drove slow, chewing on his lip. It was February, grey and overcast, and it didn’t take long – half an hour or so – before Morley recognized Terry’s farmhouse just off Kentucky 60, south of Barlow. A mud lane led up to an old farmhouse. He wasn’t out of his truck before a woman stepped out on the porch and started yelling. He stepped out, took a step toward her and heard, “He ain’t here!” Terry’s wife? Girlfriend? Wahl didn’t know. Him and Terry kept each other at a distance … they learned inside to keep everyone at a distance. When they did business, there wasn’t much talk. He hadn’t been to Terry’s place in years. He took a step toward her, she repeated herself and he kept going, head down. As he got to the porch, Terry stepped out of the house, said something to the woman, and looked at Morley. “I didn’t know nothing about it until this morning,” he said, and grimaced. Wahl shoved hands into his coat pockets. Terry Ames looked at those pockets, looked at Wahl and grimaced again. “Come on now, Morley. It ain’t like that.”

Morley Wahl pulled his hands out, showing them empty. “Just talk,” he said.

Ames turned – the woman in the doorway was shivering – said something to her, then turned to Morley. “Cold out,” he said. “Come on in,” and in he went.

Inside, an electric heater was going full blast. Old furniture – a couch and straight-back chairs and a big TV, silent. The woman was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. A dog was on the floor, in front of the heater. Ames pointed to a chair, took one himself, looked at the woman and said, “Go on back.”

“That boy had it coming,” she said.

Ames looked at Morley, shaking his head, then turned back to the woman. “Go on,” he said. He sighed and looked at Morley Wahl. “I didn’t hear nothing about this until this morning, I swear.” He stopped, sighed again and folded his arms across his chest. In prison, Terry Ames got along. He was good at getting along because getting along was the safest way to do time. He was about the same age as Morley Wahl, bald and grey-faced and long-limbed. He looked at Morley and said, “It wasn’t my beef, Morley, and no offense, I don’t know it’s yours.”

He waited, figuring Wahl was going to have to say something and he might as well be patient. Wahl stayed quiet.

“Them boys gamble,” Ames said, “like they have the money to throw around.”

Morley Wahl couldn’t understand gambling. As far as he was concerned, getting out of bed in the morning was gambling enough. He’d been around gambling – inside and out – and was never, not one time, curious. The word – gambling – doesn’t that explain it real clear?

Terry leaned back, faced the kitchen door and hollered. “Raymond!” He looked at Morley. “These boys drink and think that makes them grown.” Again, toward the kitchen: “Raymond, come out here.” Turning back to Morley Wahl he said, “Your sister didn’t call no police, did she?” He pronounced it poh-lease. “We don’t want poh-lease, do we?”

Morley Wahl said nothing, stood up, unzipped his coat, took it off and hung it on the back of the chair he was sitting in, sat back down and rolled his shoulders.

“Raymond’s my sister’s boy,” Ames said. He shook his head, leaned back and hollered again. “Raymond!” He had that tired-of-waiting look and looked at Morley. “That woman can barely take care of herself.”

Morley Wahl squinted. “That your sister?”

Ames nodded. Wahl coughed – it was nearly a laugh – and looked away, looked back to Ames and said “Terry, what we doing wrong?” Ames laughed. He knew what Wahl meant and took the meaning as a good sign.

Raymond Hoke stepped into the kitchen doorway. He was a big boy. A whole lot bigger than his mother. Fat. Stupid looking. Good-sized bruise on one check. Morley wondered if Darnell did that, and hoped he did. Morley stood up … Ames made to get up and Morley waved him off … and Morley looked at the boy and said, “How much he owe you?”

The boy was licking his lips, eyes down, hands dangling. Morley Wahl had no desire to hit that boy, slap him or shove him around. What good would that do? Morley Wahl was that way, thinking if punching or slapping or fighting did any good, the world would be be a much better place.

“Raymond,” Ames said, “Mr. Wahl asked you a question.” He wanted this over. He wanted the quiet back. He wanted the winter to go on and work itself out and then springtime would come and life would be just that much easier … his sister and her boy back where they belonged.

The boy looked up and rubbed at his mouth before speaking. “Over six hundred dollars,” he said.

Ames looked at Wahl, raised his eyes, shook his head and frowned. “Raymond,” he said, “how much, exactly? You’re wasting time here.”

“Six hundred thirty,” the boy said.

Morley Wahl took a breath, held it, looked at Terry Ames and exhaled, shaking his head. All this over six hundred thirty dollars? He leaned forward, pulled his coat around and fished in one of the pockets, came out with cash, stood up and walked to the boy and gave it to him. “Count out what you’re owed,” he said. “Don’t take no more. I know how much I give you” He returned to his chair, leaned over and looked at Ames and nodded toward the door. “Terry, let’s go outside a minute.” Reluctantly, Ames stood up.

#

When they came back inside, Terry Ames had to holler again. “Raymond!”

Raymond came back slow. He had cash in his hand, walked to Wahl and handed it to him. “I got what it is he owed us,” he said. He looked at Morley, looking afraid, head and shoulders held back. “It wasn’t just me, you know,” he said. “It was a couple of us he owed. A couple of us did it.”

Wahl looked at what was in his hand, shoved it into a pocket, looked at Raymond Hoke and said, “He don’t gamble with you no more.” Raymond nodded. “He don’t run with you no more and you don’t run with him no more.” Raymond kept nodding. “You see him, you go the other way, understand?” More nodding. “Them others? Tell them the same. I do not intend to come back here and say this no more. This is it. Understand?” Raymond, nodding. “This all paid off?” Raymond nodded, looking away, saying nothing.

Terry Ames stood up, looked at Wahl, looked at his nephew and said “Go get your coat.”

Raymond blinked, stepped back and shook his head.

“Go on,” Ames said. “You done it, you got to fix it.”

#

Outside, Morley got Raymond into his truck, Raymond’s mother watching from the porch. Ames came out, walked to the truck and motioned for Morley to roll his window down. Morley opened the door instead, stepped out and looked at Terry Ames.

“Don’t mess up,” Terry said.

Wahl took a breath. It was cold and he was standing in mud next to his truck and on the other side of his truck was a battered-up sedan and behind Terry’s run-down house was two ramshackle outbuildings and he wondered if his anger was fixing to kick in. He didn’t want that to happen. He’d been reasonable so far, hadn’t he?

“Don’t threaten me, Terry,” he said.

Terry Ames had his eyes down. He kept them down and started shaking his head. “No, Morley, I’m not, you know that. Just saying.”

Wahl nodded. “What we talked on … we good?”

Terry Ames nodded, looked at Morley, turned around and went back to his house.

#

On the drive, Morley Wahl didn’t say a word. More than once, Raymond Hoke said he was sorry. “We was stupid, I know,” he said. “We got … it got out of hand. I know it now.” His hands were nervous there, in his lap. He kept stretching. He never looked at Morley, keeping his gaze to the passenger side.

At the trailer, Morley Wahl made Raymond Hoke go in first, and when Hoke saw Cokie Lambert standing there, right inside the door, he stopped dead. She jumped at him and Morley had to work his way around the fat boy and push her back into the trailer. “Nothin’ doin’,” he said. She jumped again, her brother put arms on her shoulders and pushed her back onto a couch. “This is it. This is on your boy, too, don’t think otherwise, and it’s gettin’ fixed right now.”

She was heaving in the chest and her brother gave her a look that meant business. He didn’t need to raise his hand.

Wahl turned to Raymond Hoke and pointed to the back of the trailer. “Back there,” he said.

Raymond Hoke went to the back room, stood next to the bed and looked at Darnell Lambert. Darnell looked bad. Breathing loud, eyes closed. He had dried blood all over his ear and in his hair. “Sorry, Darnell,” Raymond said. He stayed there, glad Darnell wasn’t awake, wondering what he was supposed to do now, and finally went back, stood in front of Cokie Lambert and hung his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Cokie,” he said. Raymond Hoke was twenty-six years old and had been thinking about maybe getting out of Kentucky … thinking about that a lot lately. He felt Morley grab his arm and pull, and right away they were back outside, moving toward the truck.

#

“This ain’t the way,” Raymond said. He grabbed at the door handle. They were driving west, along the river, not south, across.

Wahl glanced at him and said, “Call your uncle.” Raymond made a face and looked away. “Ain’t nothing gonna happen he don’t know. Go on, call.”

The boy worked his phone out of his coat pocket, punched in a number and waited until he heard a hello. “Uncle Terry, this is …” and his uncle barked and he stopped right away and listened. He said “But …” and then went quiet again. When the call was over, Raymond shoved his phone in his pocket and stared out his window.

#

There were all kinds of robbers, bandits, horse thieves and river pirates that used Cave-in-Rock. That’s true history. There’s all kinds of those stories in history. The state of Illinois owned it now, made it a state park, but Morley Wahl figured they would be no visitors on a cold, ugly day. It took almost two hours to get there, Raymond hugging his side of the bench seat all the way. Morley kept to himself. At the parking lot – empty – Morley pulled down by the river and looked at Raymond. “Terry tell you?”

Raymond was unhappy. Afraid. He was looking out the window and didn’t respond. His uncle told him to do whatever. That’s what his Uncle Terry said right before hanging up. “Do what he says. You done it. Fix it.”

“Get out,” Morley said. He got out and started walking and didn’t look back. He got down to the banks of the Ohio and followed the shore to the cave – it was set back – turned and watched Raymond Hoke trudge toward him. Cold and grey and windy, there wasn’t a soul around.

Morley and Terry had talked about what was fair.

“Get your phone,” Morley said.

Raymond took his phone out, Morley reached over and took it out of his hand and slipped it into his pocket and said: “Take your coat off.”

Raymond Hoke stepped back, dropped his chin, shoved his hands into his coat pockets and drew the coat close.

Morley pulled Raymond’s phone out, punched in Terry Ames’ number, handed the phone to Raymond and when Terry answered – he knew who was calling – he said slowly and carefully: “Raymond, I told you, do what he says and do not call me again. Hear? I’m not taking no more calls.” Uncle Terry was run out of patience.

Morley stepped over, took the phone out of Raymond’s hand, slipped it into a pocket while he watched Raymond slip out of his coat. Morley took the coat, walked to the edge of the river and pitched it in and watched it slap against the shore a couple times and then slowly drift off. He walked back to Raymond and said “Shirt, too.”

Raymond Hoke looked back at the trail they’d walked, biting down on his lips, as mad as a fat boy with no sense had ever been. He wanted to say something dangerous. Maybe he could throw a punch. Everybody knew he could throw a punch. He lowered his eyelids and looked at Morley Wahl, breathing through his nose, and Morley said, “Pants, too.”

Raymond made fists, drew an arm back, clamped his teeth tight. Seeing that, Wahl stepped forward and shook his head. “Boy,” he said, “that shirt and them pants are going in that river whether they’re on you or not.” Raymond tightened up those fists, hunched his shoulders and Morley Wahl smiled, kept his hands in his coat pockets and stepped closer so the fat boy and him were chin-to-chin. “I’m gonna turn around, Raymond, and your shirt and pants are gonna drop down right beside me, right away, or things here go up a notch.”

Wahl turned and stared out into the river. It was grey, too, just like the sky. He’d lived near it his entire life. There was all kinds of stories came down that river. Some went further west, to the Mississippi, and some died right where he was standing.

When shirt and pants landed beside him, he picked them up and walked down to the river and pitched them in. They slapped at the shore a bit before drifting off. He turned and looked at Raymond Hoke, shaking his head. “Don’t associate with Darnell no more,” he said.

“I ain’t the only one did it,” Raymond said. It was cold and windy. He was humiliated and didn’t like that a bit and was biting down on his teeth and keeping his eyes down, thinking what was he to do, and coming up with nothing.

Morley, hands in his pockets, was nodding. “Them others … do they know about the business I do with your uncle?”

Raymond shook his head. He was starting to shake, rubbing his arms, getting good and cold. “I ain’t said nothing,” he said. “They don’t know nothing. Hell, I don’t know nothing.”

“But if something happens to them … they go to police? Call the police? Would that happen?” Morley stared hard and Raymond Hoke kept his eyes down. “If police come calling on your uncle, you think he’d be as understanding as I am? Police looking around? Asking questions?”

Raymond kept shaking his head. He was cold as hell and didn’t know what was going to happen next and now – maybe this was the first time – now he knew why his uncle was mad. But he was mad, too. Darnell running his mouth, losing money and not paying? Is that right? Then he remembered he got the money. Maybe that’s the end of it.

“Go on up in that cave,” Morley said. “Your uncle will be here eventually. Get out of the wind. And remember, Darnell and that gambling … that’s over.” He pitched Raymond his cell phone and Raymond caught it. “Don’t call your uncle. Don’t make him mad no more than he is. Like I said, he’s on his way.”

Morley Wahl trudged off, looked back one time to see Raymond Hoke scrambling up toward the cave.

In his truck Morley called Terry Ames. “On your way?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay then, it’s squared up.”

Terry paused. “I hope so.”

Morley paused, then: “How much does this boy know? Them other boys … they know my name?”

It took a moment for Ames to respond. Wahl could picture him thinking. “I doubt it,” he finally said, “but who knows? We just got to be careful, that’s all.”

It was Morley Wahl’s turn not to talk. When was he not careful?

“Is this all fixed?” Ames asked.

It took a moment for Morley to answer. “I guess we’ll see,” he said. He went silent and Ames didn’t respond. “Tell that boy if there’s a next time, it’ll be worse.” There was a threat in that. “I’ll straighten my boy out on my end.”

“Think there’ll be a next time?”

Morley laughed a dry laugh. “Terry, there’s always a next time. Ain’t that how it is?”

“Yeah,” Terry said. “I know.” He went quiet, then: “We good?”

“Yeah, as good as it’s gonna get.”

“And we’ll talk in summer? Keep it going?”

“I’ll call.”

“Good enough,” Terry said.

“Good enough,” Morley said, and hung up.

Good enough was good enough for Morley Wahl. Had been and always would be. He didn’t understand why some couldn’t see that. Why some couldn’t live with good enough, like they’d ever get more. When they were inside, Morley and Terry worked in the kitchen. That’s where they met. Six years inside, working in that kitchen, he’d watch Terry work the line, scooping out food for inmates, always asking them, “That good enough?” Just asking that question earned Terry Ames points with damn near everybody. Outside Terry’s house, Morley Wahl told Terry what he wanted to do, teach that boy a lesson and keep everything on the down low and manageable and avoid a real problem. “That be good enough?” he asked Terry.

“Yeah,” Terry said. What Morley wanted, it didn’t make much sense to him, but if it kept the law away? “Yeah,” Terry said, “if it settles everything, it’ll be good enough.”

My name is Victor Kreuiter. I’m 76 years old, married 56 years, with two daughters, five grandchildren, and one great granddaughter. Time flies.

I worked my way through college, spent two years working as a high school English teacher before entering the printing industry. I started as a typographer and ending as a print buyer, and loved every minute of it.

Retired and returning to writing, something I’d done as a young man, my short stories have appeared in (alphabetically) Bewildering Stories, Close To The Bone, Del Sol SFF Review, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Halfway Down The Stairs, Killer Nashville, Mystery Tribune, Rock and a Hard Place, Tough, Literally Stories, and other online and print publications. My story, “Miller and Bell,” originally appearing in Mystery, was included in The Mysterious Bookshop Presents the Best Mystery Stories of 2023.

Photo credit: Anna Cheng on Unsplash