Friend of the Devil: Bluesman on the Run from the Law Shares His Sandwiches with God

He eats the other sandwich quickly and rather than look sated, he seems even hungrier than before. He looks at me again with his big mournful eyes. “I feel terrible asking you this,” he says, “but, seeing how you’re not going to eat with me, would you terribly mind if I had the last sandwich?”

“It’s yours,” I say.

He reaches into the back seat and takes the paper bag and then sets it down on his lap and begins unwrapping the last sandwich. He puts the first half up to his mouth, leaving the other sitting in its bed of white paper on his lap. I feel my stomach start to rumble. I could ask for the other half, but I think I’d rather starve.

“Funny you should say, ‘It’s yours,’” he says. “Isn’t that what you told that woman when she robbed you?”

“Why is it funny?”

“Well, you didn’t have to say it. By telling her those sandwiches were hers, you were giving them to her. Technically speaking, after that she wasn’t stealing them.”

“I’m not really interested in technicalities,” I say.

The young man looks surprised. “You aren’t? Didn’t you get sent to prison on a technicality?”

“Well, what if I did?”

“Well, it’s a lot easier to get a conviction overturned if it’s on just a technicality. It’s just a question of having the right connections; a good lawyer, for example.”

“Good lawyer?” I snort. “I’m not sure such a thing exists, least not in Texas.”

We pass an old church. He stares at it like it’s reminding him of something he’d completely forgotten about.

(Excerpt from Friend of the Devil, available on Kindle).

Bluesman Drives the Devil to the Crossroads

Mr. Stevens Explains the Devil's Proposition to Bluesman Herbert T. Barrow. And Why He Dresses Like a Preacher.

“I’m not a preacher,” says Stevens.

“Well then, why you go around dressing like a preacher?”

“Hey, it’s a free country, innit? Listen,” he says, “you can look high and low in this world of ours and you’d be hard pressed to find any evidence of God’s existence. Ain’t that right?”

“Boy howdy,” I say. “I’ve certainly never seen any.”

“On the other hand, evidence of the Devil’s existence is everywhere you look. But the only reason you don’t acknowledge this is that you insist the two deities are linked together.”

Hearing him put it that way, I let out a laugh. “The two deities, that’s funny. I almost like that!”

“No, no,” he says, excited. ”Just one. You only need to believe in the Devil.”

“The Devil? Shit!”

“No! The Devil is your friend,” says Stevens. “The Devil’s proposition is the only one that makes any sense.”

“And what is the Devil’s proposition?”

“Don’t be weak, don’t be meek. You see something you want, take it. Somebody gets in your way, knock them down. Do anything you want. Satisfy your cravings. Don’t regret anything. Life won’t last forever, so enjoy it while you have it. You’re going to Hell anyway. All the Devil asks is that you give him your soul.” Stevens smiles sweetly, like he’s proud of his explanation.

“And that’s why you’re heading to the Crossroads? To trade in your soul for something?”

“Not exactly,” he says with a grin. Then I see the sign for the Highway 61 Crossroads.

(Excerpt from Friend of the Devil, available on Kindle) .

"Friend of the Devil," where "O Brother Where Art Thou" meets "Last Temptation of Christ."

Finally, I’ve had enough. I toss the broken rifles aside and just stand there trying to catch my breath. That’s when I hear the music playing. It’s coming from a radio inside the store; one of those hillbilly family quartets they have singing on the border blaster:

Just a few more weary days and then,

I’ll fly away, fly away

To the land where joys will never end,

I’ll fly away, fly away.

I’ll fly away, O Glory,

I’ll fly away.

When I die, halleluiah by and by,

I’ll fly away, fly away.

It makes me happy that while time might be standing still here, somewhere down in sunny Mexico reality goes on just like it always does. It also makes me suspect that this is all very local and temporary and might end any moment so I’d better get a move on, so I go to the gas pump and fill up. Then I run into the store and fill a bag with apples, soda crackers, a loaf of sliced bread and a big piece of ham, then carry them back to my car and load them into the back seat.

I’m about to start up the engine and go, when I look at Hamer and decide I still need to finish the job. So I go back, reach into his jacket and remove his billfold, which is bulging with ones and fives. I can use those. Then I notice he’s got a shoulder holster and a big pistol riding inside it. I reach in and take it out. It’s a beauty, all right; a .45 caliber, single action Colt, silver plated. On the side of it I see inscribed, “Capt. Frank Hamer, State Ranger. Presented by the citizens of Corpus Christi, 7-22-22.”

I decide Imo keep it for myself. But because it wouldn’t do without I let him in on who done this particular deed, I extract the pencil and notepad he’s got in his pocket and I write him a little note.

“Dear Capt. Hamer, I could have killed you now, but, unlike you, that’s not how I operate. I haven’t done anything wrong, I’m not part of Clyde Barrow’s outfit and don’t intend to join. But if you keep bothering with me, by God, I shall kill you with your own pistol.”

And I sign it, “Very truly yrs, Herbert T. Barrow.”

I stick this back inside his holster, then head back to my car and drive away.
(Excerpt from Friend of the Devil, available on Kindle here).