You Can Run but You Can't Hide (8 page)

more loans.

I couldn’t let that stop me. I walked in and asked to see the head

loan officer. I went into his office and shut the door.

“You see that woman out there?” I turned and pointed to my

very pregnant wife.

“I love her. I just got married and I’m trying to change my life.”

The banker looked half-scared and half-shocked as I spoke.

“I’ve been a criminal most of my life, but I’m not anymore.

Where do I start if I need to get a loan?”

The banker said, “Right here.”

“I have no record or convictions. I’m trying to live right. Can

you help me?”

“Yes I can.” After he calculated my monthly payments, he gave

me a chance few others would have dared to offer. We made a deal

on the spot. I was so grateful for his generosity and understanding.

LaFonda and I were homeowners. It was incredible. I made the

monthly payment by renting out the cottage next door. I never

charged a dime more than our total mortgage, which meant that

the tenant paid for both houses. It was a bargain for everyone.

At the time, LaFonda was working at a local bra factory, be-

cause I couldn’t get a job anywhere. I tried to get work, but no one

wanted to hire me. I went to the oil fields, but I was afraid of

heights, so working on the derricks was out of the question.

Next, I went to the local slaughterhouse. When they brought in

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the first cow for me to kill, I couldn’t do it. The steer looked me

straight in the eyes. It was like he knew he was going to die and that

I was the guy who was going to kill him. I didn’t have the heart to

pull the trigger. I walked out the door before I broke down in tears.

A local tree-trimming company had some jobs available. My job

was to feed the cut branches into the wood chipper. One afternoon,

the boss called me over and told me to get into the bucket they

hoisted with a crane to the tops of the trees.

I didn’t want to admit to the boss I was afraid of heights. I had

finally found a job I was good at. I didn’t want to say no, but there

was no way I was going up in that bucket. I just said, “No sir. I can’t

do that.”

“Chapman, you get into that bucket or you can go home.”

My job was on the line. LaFonda was pregnant. We needed the

money. By now, the boss and other workers had figured out I was

scared. I reluctantly agreed to get in. They hoisted me up sixty feet

and began shaking the damn thing. It felt like an earthquake. I got

so mad I threw the tools over the edge and screamed, “Get me

down!”

They were all laughing at me. When I got down, I bitch-slapped

the boss. One of the workers called the cops. Sheriff Rufe Jordan

came down. This was the second time he and I met in the few weeks

I’d been in Pampa. He warned me that the next time we crossed

paths, he was taking me in.

Then, next morning, LaFonda found a Help Wanted ad in the

paper. The Bison Vacuum Company was looking for employees.

The ad read, “Will train. Make $300 a week!”

LaFonda was nine months pregnant. I needed to find a job fast,

because she couldn’t work after she gave birth. With a baby on the

way, we really needed the money.

I went for an interview that same day. They gave a demonstra-

tion and explained that all I had to do was show the vacuum thirty

times a week and I’d get paid three hundred bucks. It sounded easy.

A couple of weeks went by. I showed the product dozens of

times, but I hadn’t made a single sale. During the third week, I got

called in by my manager, Dale Hunt. He said, “Listen Duane, if you

don’t sell any vacuums, you can’t get another paycheck.” That

wasn’t the deal. They had said all I had to do was show the damn

machines.

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Yo u Ca n R u n , b u t Yo u Ca n ’ t H i d e

I was born with a gift. My gift of gab saved me many times from

Flash’s wrath. It was easy to talk my way into a customer’s house.

What I needed to learn was how to sell those damn things. Dale

Hunt suggested he and I go out on the road so he could teach me

the ropes.

If a sale is what they wanted, I could do that. I went on the road

for a week by myself. I made two sales. The best salesman in our re-

gion was a guy by the name of Bobby Walker. Next time I went out,

he wanted to go on the road with me. He and I had a wonderful

rapport. We drove all over Texas in my blue 1963 Chevy.

It wasn’t long before I developed my own brand of selling. I

found out this ol’ boy had talent. I was personable and likable to

everyone I met. A customer once told me I could sell God the gates

of hell. I flirted with the women as much as I shot the bull with the

men. I began telling customers how I’d just sold their neighbor

Mrs. Jones two vacuums, so Mrs. Smith would buy three. I loved

selling to farmers’ wives. They bought anything, especially a prod-

uct one of their neighbors had just bought. They’re a very compet-

itive bunch of women.

Now, the farmers are a different sort. They don’t like to part

with their money. I usually got their attention by demonstrating the

Bison.

I’d say, “Is that an impressive machine?”

They’d always respond with one word, “Yup.”

This is where I hooked the poor bastards. I’d say, “I know you

love your wife.”

That wasn’t what they were expecting. Their wives were always

standing right there in the room. How could they respond, other

than to say, “Yup, I love my wife.”

“Now, the day you married her and said you loved her for better

or for worse, I am certain you would have agreed she needs one

vacuum for upstairs and one for downstairs, am I right?”

With the farmer’s wife sitting right there in the room, there was

only one answer—“Yup.” Blam. Another sale.

Eventually word got out about my technique. Several farmers

got to talking, and whenever I showed up, they’d slam the door in

my face, saying something about my marriage mumbo jumbo not

working there. I had to laugh. It tickled me to think these good ol’

boys talked about me, vacuums, and their wives all in one sentence.

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45

Every now and then, I’d pull the old price switch. After proving

how well the Bison could pick up dirt, the final question always

boiled down to price.

The customer always asked, “Well, how much is that there vacuum

gonna cost me?”

“I’m glad you asked that, sir.” I’d jot a few numbers down on a

piece of paper, like this:

Original Price: $650.00

Discount: $100.00

Final Price: $450.00

Every single time, I could see the customer’s eyes widen, not want-

ing to let me know I’d made a hundred-dollar error.

They always said, “Is this your bottom line?” thinking they were

going to pull a fast one. A man’s handshake is as good as his word.

When we shook hands, we had a deal.

We’d get the paperwork signed, I’d collect the check, and then I

would hear something like this: “I really got you, Dog. You made a

big mistake. You should have collected $550 from me! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“Oh. Well. Guess the joke’s on me, huh?” I was coy for a mo-

ment. Then I’d always say, “No, there was no mistake. The machine

sells for $450.00. Gotcha!!”

I was proud of how I sold the Bisons. I was good at it. I’ve never

been the kind of guy who could take no for an answer. I stayed un-

til I closed the sale. I’d ask the customers if I could try my pitch

again, until they said yes. I realized that when customers immedi-

ately tell you no, what they’re really saying is, “You haven’t showed

me enough yet.” So I kept on trying until I either made the sale or

was told to beat it.

I remember meeting a salesman on the road who was trying to

sell safes. Now, that was a hard product to move door-to-door! He

was fifty-six years old and drove a brand-new Cadillac. He must

have sold a lot of safes to get a car like that. He told me a story

about a young man who took his girlfriend out to the drive-in movie

one night. He asked her if they could do the wild thing. She said, “I

would if this was a convertible.” So the guy gets out of his car and

saws the top right off. A good salesman will do whatever it takes to

make his sale. For all of you guys out there, think of it like this:

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Yo u Ca n R u n , b u t Yo u Ca n ’ t H i d e

How many times does it take to get the girl of your dreams to fi-

nally say she’ll go out with you? If you’re like me, you’ll keep asking

until she finally gives in. That’s what makes a good salesman.

Many of my best life experiences were garnered during the years

I sold vacuums. Selling door-to-door taught me how to deal with

rejection, how to overcome obstacles, and how to talk my way in or

out of every situation.

I learned the value of relationships and camaraderie. I consid-

ered all of my customers my friends. I gave them free vacuum belts

and bags. Whenever they saw me out in a restaurant, they’d tell

their friends, “There’s Duane. Don’t be frightened by how he looks.

He’s really a nice guy.”

My record was selling sixty-two vacuums in a single month. I

began making some pretty good money, too. I was able to pay off

the house and buy LaFonda a new Subaru.

Duane Lee was born in January 1973. Things were going pretty

well. I held that little baby in my arms and couldn’t believe I’d

helped make this precious thing. I was instantly in love with that

boy. My mother-in-law forced me to hold him right away. I was

so scared, thinking I wouldn’t know what to do. I thought I might

break him or hurt him. When I got him home, I called the sheriff to

register Duane Lee.

“This is Duane Dog Chapman and I’m calling to register my

son.” The sheriff must have thought it was a crank call. He said,

“You don’t need to do that, Chapman. Are you crazy, boy?”

“I just wanted you to know that I have my son here at the house.

He’s my child and I promise I will take care of him.”

Again, the Sherriff said, “You don’t have to tell me this.” I put

my hand over the receiver and whispered to LaFonda, “He’s saying

I don’t have to tell people I have a kid!” LaFonda rolled her eyes in

total disbelief that I was making this call at all. I had no idea I

would be trusted with another human life without telling the au-

thorities. I was so young and naïve.

I made a deal with God right there and then; I promised Him I

would never join another motorcycle club again. I swore I wouldn’t

commit another felony as long as I lived. The love I felt for my son

was on a different level than any love I had ever known. I wanted to

promise the Lord I would be good so He would continue to bless

my life with lots and lots of children.

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47

One day, when Duane Lee was three months old, my mother-in-

law came to visit. She picked up the baby and held him in her arms.

Duane Lee held his head up, focused his little eyes, and reached out

for me—his daddy. I have never felt so needed or wanted as I did

that moment. My dad was always so abusive. I never felt love from

him like Duane Lee or the rest of my children would feel from me.

I loved my life. I thought I had found my calling. But I was still

living like a biker, even if I wasn’t affiliated with a gang. When I

wasn’t out on the road selling, I was hanging with other bikers. I

kept my promise to God. I never joined the club. But I still hung

around those guys. I couldn’t give up the lifestyle. I stayed out at

night, screwing around and drinking—but no more crime.

C h a p t e r E i g h t

ONE NIGHT IN PAMPA

By 1976, LaFonda
had given birth to my two oldest sons,

Duane Lee and Leland. I’d given up trying to make a living doing

manual labor. Even though I was married, I was still enjoying the

biker life, whoring around, smoking pot, and drinking whiskey until

I was completely out of control. Since the vacuum job didn’t work

out, I needed to find a way to make money, so I could take care of

my family. A buddy of mine from the Disciples helped me get a

part-time job with a local trucking company.

I thought life was really good. I had everything a man could

want. But I pushed the envelope until, one day, things went a little

too far. After September 16, 1976, my life would never be the same.

LaFonda warned me not to go out with the boys that night. She

had a great ability to foresee things. I wish I had listened to her.

Donny Kurkendall, Ruben Garza, Cheryl Fisher, and I all de-

cided to go out and raise some hell. Ruben was a short, fat biker.

He hung around us all the time, but no one wanted him in the gang.

Cheryl was a typical young and pretty Texas teenager who had a

thing for hanging out with bad boys. Kurkendall was a true Disci-

ple, willing to do whatever he had to do to pull off a score. He was

a creepy-looking guy, the type you might see on the evening news