Yah the kid, Marshall Lloyd to give him a name, a name that you might recognize if you were from Los Gatos out on the coast during World War II, the big one, the one where lots of guys did lots of things, screwy and heroic, some before they were able to shave. Marshall drew the screwy card, no, the crazy-ass pyscho card, the card drawn by a long line of guys in the great American night, especially the western no more land to move on from night where everything got bottled up and a spring got sprung sometimes. And I, Guy Lowe, should know since I covered more than my fair share of these wacko deeds as a stringer reporter for the Los Gatos Gazette in my time including Marshall’s first episode, his first bid to be the king hell king of the bizarre western edged night. I was there when they finally did him in, the cops bringing in the whole damn force to take him down, and keep him down.
So Marshall knew the joint, knew that he needed to go there to wait for Doc and see what was going on, keeping off the prying eye cops streets until he could talk to his man. Of course staking out a corner seat, alone, in a sparely populated on an off night presented its own problems. Especially when Jimmy Jacks, the hustling shuffling bartender trying to hustle a few drinks, and a few tips, to keep the landlady off his back tried to pitch a few whiskey sours Marshall’s way. Worse the joint as a draw particularly for the Friday night fight crowd had a big screen television set on for the patrons. Old Jimmy Jacks made the mistake of turning the channels to the local news periodically while Marshall was doing his waiting. In one segment the damn thing blasted Marshall’s escape and murder of the bus driver all over the screen so Marshall did what any self-respecting psycho would do-take some hostages against the inevitable police onslaught.