Born to Lose (10 page)

. . .

Ten minutes after their breakout, Hoss and Lubresky lay, exuberant but exhausted, among brush and small trees along an embankment on the Allegheny River, the desperate, feverish work of escape having momentarily done them in. Hoss slid down to the river's edge, then used his hands to cup water onto his face, arms, and chest. The cold water stung his skin, cut and scraped by his passage through the iron bars and broken glass. Lubresky was similarly bruised and bleeding, but these injuries were secondary to his left ankle, badly sprained when he hit the ground after letting go of the bed-sheet rope, whose end was short of the ground by fifteen feet. Lubresky grimaced and rubbed his ankle. In the dim moonlight, Hoss could see the swelling. “Hey, Tom, looks like you got a peach in your sock. Stick your foot in the river, that'll keep the swelling down, but hurry up. We gotta move out quick.”

They'd made good their escape twenty minutes earlier but needed the respite by the riverbank to recover and get their bearings for, like most escapees, they had put virtually all of their planning into the escape itself, giving insufficient thought to what exactly to do now they were free. Foremost was to get out of the area, but as they pondered this concern, the pair heard the infernal wail of the prison siren. They had hoped for a longer lead time before their escape was discovered; instead, with the alarm raised when they were but half a mile from the workhouse walls, they'd have to move without further rest.

Hoss crept up the embankment to scan the closest houses and streets. He'd figured that few people would be outside, but from his hiding spot he saw far too many milling about, some with flashlights. Sliding back down the embankment, he said to Lubresky, “It's that damn siren, bringin' everyone outdoors. C'mon, we gotta go. We'll stay along the river till we get to the outskirts.”

Lubresky struggled to keep up, limping as he was. Thick brush and trees grew right down to the river's edge in many places, forcing the fugitives to scramble through, over, or around all that lay in their path. On several occasions, when the going was impossible, they had to jump in the river to bypass impenetrable vegetation.

Hoss knew the search party was likely to head for the river, too, recognizing its value as a natural channel out of the area. The river's wild shore offered endless opportunities to hunker down, unseen unless someone literally tripped over them. But the longer they stayed put, the greater the chance that the searchers would surround them, while daybreak was likely to be their undoing. Now was the time to move, while they still had hours of darkness
left to cover them, so, cold and tiring as it was, the two escapees kept moving upriver, away from Blawnox. After half an hour of rigorous work, however, they had made little progress. They discussed swimming to the other side of the river, but both knew that, however peaceful the water looked, treacherous currents lay just beneath the surface. They struck out again northward, managing another hundred yards before pausing. Then, looking back along their trail, they saw in the distance flashlights, jerking and bobbing crazily, as their pursuers slowly moved toward them. If more searchers were upriver, working their way down, Hoss and Lubresky would be trapped. Looking north, they strained their senses but saw or heard nothing. Still, that could change any moment. They had to get off the river.

“Tom, we'll go straight up outta' here and see where we are,” Hoss panted, “an' grab the first car we can. If we're gonna get caught and hafta' run for it, it's every man for himself.”

Clambering up and away from the river, the escapees found themselves in luck, but they had to act fast. On flatter ground with greater visibility, they saw more search parties but none, judging by the sweep of the flashlights, closer to them than a couple of hundred yards. Telling Lubresky to follow, Hoss, in a crouched run, made his way into the backyard of the nearest house, then ran to the side of a detached garage. The door was closed and Hoss didn't want to risk the noise of opening it. Both men could see some people out on their porches, taking stock of the search and trading news and rumor. Likely as not, these river folks were toting handguns and deer rifles. As to what they'd do if an escaped felon threatened kith and kin, there was no question.

The escapees moved away from the garage back toward the river. Before reaching the tangled vines and brambles of the riverbank, however, the pair took the riskier but quicker route of running north along the furthest fringes of yards and fields—even through an apple orchard. As the two left the trees behind, they spotted another staggered set of flashlights, this time coming along the river from the north.

“Shit, they're gonna get us, Stanley,” Lubresky moaned.

“Tom, shut up and listen. They're still a couple minutes away, and that's if they don't stop to investigate anything, but we gotta find a car. It's our only chance.”

Lubresky worked hard to keep up with Hoss. Entering a copse of pines, they knelt to study a nearby house. Lights were on upstairs, but none showed on the first floor … and there was a car parked out front.

Jack Willams was upstairs in his Blawnox home watching TV. His wife
and young son were in the next room. Williams had been out on his porch earlier, upon hearing the workhouse siren. He'd even walked the sixty yards to his neighbor's house to get any news. Williams's house was on the outskirts of town, and all seemed quiet, so after a while he went back inside.

Even so, before going upstairs, Williams checked the locks on the doors. Resting in his easy chair, he had stubbed out his last cigarette ten minutes earlier and was close to nodding off when he heard the familiar sound of his beloved six-year-old powder-blue Chevy firing to life. He sprang to the window in time to see the headlights pop on, illuminating the sequence of mountain laurels and saplings flanking the curve of his gravel driveway. Williams fiddled with the latch to raise the sash and yell out, but before he could, the escapees had floored the Chevy's accelerator, the back tires grabbing and spitting stones everywhere. Flying from the driveway, the car made a violent right turn and then was gone.

Free. Hoss could barely contain his excitement. He and Lubresky, who alternated between grinning and rubbing his ankle, were some forty-five minutes east of Blawnox in Jack Williams's powder-blue Chevy.

In a grinning moment Lubresky looked over at Hoss. “Stan, do ya think they'll put a price on our heads?”

Hoss laughed. “Don't know, Tom. I don't think they do that stuff anymore, but maybe they do. That
would
be cool. We'd be like Billy the Kid or John Dillinger or Capone …”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lubresky piped in, “or like Wyatt Earp.”

Hoss playfully punched Lubresky's arm. “Nah, not like him,” Hoss educated his buddy. “He's a good guy.”

For all the fun of the moment, Hoss considered Lubresky a distinct liability now that they were out of prison, and was angling to cut him loose at the first opportunity. Hoss had made it clear that his plans didn't include California, so they'd be splitting up anyway, but he wanted the parting to come sooner rather than later. Besides, Hoss thought the big oaf wouldn't make it ten miles after he dumped him; he was likely be caught digging up a shoebox in his landlord's backyard. Lubresky, however, was less eager to split.

“C'mon, Stan, just think,” urged Lubresky. “Sand, and those trees, uh … palm trees! And babes, and no law on our back. We ain't got nothin' else to do.”

Turning left on another country road, Hoss replied, “Well, that's just it, Tom. I got plans for around here. Right off I got some business in Cleveland, so whaddya say I drop you somewhere tonight? Then that'll be it.”

“Okay, Stan, but I can't go home. They'll have our places covered, huh?”

After traveling further east, Hoss pulled to a guardrail by the Kistaminatas River. Nearby was a trailer where a girlfriend of Lubresky's lived. He'd stay with her for a while.

Both men were soaked and cold. The air inside the car was musty from their coarse woollen prison uniforms. The heater stayed on while the car idled, but each rolled down his window and gulped the fresh air outside.

“Hey, Tom, we did it! Didn't I say we could fool all those dumb bastards? Man, I would have loved to see their faces when they saw the hole in that skylight. And do ya know? I was scared silly lowering myself off that roof with those ratty bed sheets tied together. But we're free as birds. We made it.”

Lubresky chose his least damp cigarette and lit up, using the car's lighter. After two long drags, Lubresky said, “Yep, here we are, and they're still on that damn river lookin' for us, shiverin' their asses off. We fooled 'em good!”

Both fell silent while Lubresky continued smoking, each turning to his own thoughts, but in a minute Hoss spoke up. “Here it is, Tom; you got it made in the shade. Once you get to this girl's trailer … hell, I bet inside a half-hour you'll have a hot shower and are knockin' one off.”

“Yeah, damn straight I will.”

“Now, one last thing,” said Hoss. “You gotta—and me too—we gotta get outta these prison duds. At least they ain't striped but they look funny all the same.”

Lubresky nodded, lit another smoke, but said nothing. After ten heartbeats, the silence was oppressive. Their getaway car, just filled with laughter and stinging remarks about lawmen, now took on the feel of a funeral parlor. Heading this off, Hoss made a flip statement about a few staffers at the workhouse. “‘Do this, do that!' Ain't they got nothin' better to do than boss us around? ‘Go to bed, get up.' Well, they ain't tellin' me one more damn thing. You too, Tom. We're done with their fuckin' rules.”

Lubresky tossed his smoke out the window and reluctantly stuck out his hand. “Well, see ya, Stan.”

“Yeah, Tom, see ya around an' good luck. I couldn'ta busted out without your help. Remember, the thing is to stay out of sight for a while. They'll eventually quit lookin' for us.”

Lubresky got out, then slammed the door shut. He was going to bend down to look at Hoss and give a final wave, but the car moved away.

. . .

In the early morning the day after the escape, Kathy Defino received a phone call at the bakery where she worked. “Kathy, this is Patrolman Red Orris. I just got off the phone with your folks. Kathy, I have to tell ya some
bad news.” The young girl felt a tightening in her chest, her first thought that one of her brothers had been in a car crash.

“I don't want you worrying none,” said Orris, “but, well, you know Stanley Hoss?” Orris grimaced—of course she knew Stanley Hoss. “Last night him and another fella escaped from the workhouse.” Hearing a gasp from Kathy, Orris attempted to calm her, quickly adding, “We're lookin' for them right now. Everyone's notified and out, and I don't suspect they got much of a chance of lasting more than today.”

“Oh God! Oh God! Where is he now? Do you think he's coming here?”

“Nah, not a chance. Remember, Hoss has been locked up since Easter and he don't know where you work nohow.”

“Yeah, but he sure knows where I live! He said—you know this—if I ever told on him he'd kill me!”

“I know, I know, but that's why right now we got a police car goin' to your house, and he'll be sittin' there till it's all over. Your parents are on their way to get you, so just stay put and try to relax.”

Kathy put the receiver down. She turned to find the other two bakery workers standing close to her, concerned. She muttered the name Hoss, then reached for a pack of cigarettes in her sweater pocket, for she'd found that smoking helped sooth her jangled nerves. Kathy walked to the picture window at the shop's entrance and pulled the cord of a large bamboo blind, allowing it to roll all the way down. Pulling up a stool at the window's edge, she puffed nervously, periodically using her finger to draw the blind back an inch so she could peek out to see if anything evil was close by.

To help out a shorthanded East Deer Station, Blawnox Chief Mike Belotti sent out a car to pay a visit to Hoss's wife, Diane, who was not surprised her husband had escaped. She knew him as capable of anything. She informed the officer that Stanley had been living away from her and the kids for the past couple of years but that she'd received a letter from her husband a week ago, when he was still locked away.

“Stan wrote he was going to bust out of the workhouse, come right here, and take the kids. How did he break out anyway?”

“Don't know,” said Officer George Bucha, “guess Stanley's a pretty slick customer.”

Diane pursed her lips and looked off toward the horizon, musing quietly, “Yeah, that he is … a slick customer. Anyway, I told the school officials about the letter and they said they would notify you, the police.”

“They did,” said Bucha, “but it sounded ludicrous at the time because
he was in prison and fixin' to do a long stretch so we figured he was just blowin' hot air.”

They were standing in the shade offered by a small porch roof. Inside the house, a couple of her kids drifted closer to the screen door to see who Mommy was talking to. Bucha removed his sunglasses and appraised the young woman: Early twenties, good figure, corn-silk hair. Once or twice during the conversation Diane had flashed an engaging smile—or was it coy? Anyway, the officer decided, she had a way about her. For all her charm, though, there was a gloom in her eyes and she had the worn air of someone with too much responsibility and no help in sight. It's no wonder, the cop thought. She'd essentially been abandoned by her husband to raise their four young ones alone.

In fact, as Diane would admit in candid moments, her gloom had deeper roots than just Stanley's abandonment. As a little girl, she had suffered the nicks and scars of undeserved ridicule and scorn. These injuries, some physical, most psychological, had multiplied to create a young woman who, in her own eyes, “wasn't as good as everyone else.” By adolescence, her feminine ways and good looks had brought her a modicum of attention, but the confidence this afforded her would last only so long before being undermined by her insecurities; her fears and uncertainties gnawed at her, weakened her, and placed that forlorn look in her eyes, despite her alluring smile. So, yes, Diane's fairness could prime her confidence, and she tried hard to make this work for her, but, truly, it was like holding a dumbbell at arm's length.