“In Tunica? And he’s from De-troit?”
“I imagine he packs there, too.”
“You know what kind it is?”
“A PPK, the one James Bond had.”
“I thought it looked familiar.”
There was a silence, not long, a few moments, and Dennis said, “Last night Arlen was gonna kill me. Tonight he’s sitting here at the table.”
“It’s gonna pass,” Charlie said.
“I think I should tell John Rau. Get it over with. It’s on my mind all the time, knowing it’s what I should do. Shit, I probably could go to jail for not saying anything.”
“You heard him,” Charlie said. “We made a deal.”
“Keep quiet or get shot. That’s some deal.”
“Nobody,” Charlie said, “gives a shit about Floyd. I’m telling you, it’s gonna pass over.”
They both looked up as Robert came in the kitchen. Dennis said, “What’d you forget to tell him?”
“That I won’t say nothing about his shooting Floyd,” Robert said. “You all aren’t gonna say nothing, are you? I advise you, be better if you didn’t.”
Dennis said, “It’s all I think about.”
Robert shook his head. “Let nature take its course.”
11
ONE OF THE WHORES AT Junebug’s—two in the afternoon, the place empty—walked up to John Rau at the bar having a Coca-Cola and said, “Hi, I’m Traci. You want to see my trailer?”
“I bet it’s nice,” John Rau said, “but I’m waiting to see the proprietor. The bartender’s gone to check.”
“Junebug left,” Traci said. “You want, we could party till he gets back. I don’t have an appointment till three.”
John Rau said, “Traci, I’m with the state highway patrol.”
And she said, “Oh, was I going too fast?”
John Rau smiled at her, a cute girl in her little halter top and shorts, and that was a cute thing to say, was she going too fast. Flirting with a police officer. This place, it didn’t surprise him. He’d been told they had live sex acts on the stage there in front of everybody—probably this cute girl and another one, or some farm boy with a big wang. Lock the door and hang a sign out, Closed, with all the cars and pickups in the lot and along the road. Junebug’s had that skunky smell of beer and stale smoke, but did more business at night than any of the casino bars. The bartender, an old guy in an undershirt hanging from frail shoulders, was coming back along the bar getting ready to tell him no, Junebug wasn’t here, didn’t know where he went or when he was coming back or where he lived or whatever else had anything to do with him.
John Rau brought his ID case from the inside pocket of his navy-blue suitcoat and showed Traci he was with the Criminal Investigation Bureau. He said, “I don’t hand out tickets and I’m not one to party, so . . .” He flipped the case closed as the bartender approached shaking his head.
John Rau nodded, accepting it, as Traci was telling him she collected ashtrays, had ashtrays from all the casinos, from places in Memphis, Jackson, Slidell, New Orleans—“let’s see”—Biloxi, Pascagoula, Mobile . . . She said, “Okay then,” and he watched her wander off, not going anywhere. Not more than eighteen years old. She’d go in the ladies’ room and smoke a rock and one day she wouldn’t be here.
He watched her turn to the door as it opened to bright sunlight behind someone coming in, a guy wearing a hat John Rau would recognize from two hundred yards, facing a line of Confederate skirmishers across a field. The figure in the doorway hesitated and seemed to change his mind about coming in—until John Rau, sure of who it was now, called to him, “Hey, Arlen, is that you?”
The trip wasn’t a waste of time after all, John Rau pretty sure this was the man who’d shot Floyd Showers, or had it done.
Shit. It was too late now to duck out, the cop looking right at him. Arlen came on in raising his hand to the state cop and getting a cordial tone ready. “Hey, chief, what’re you doing here, fixing to get laid? Hey, I got to piss before I wet my pants. You wait there, chief, I’ll be right back.” He hurried along the bar and into the back hall to the men’s. He did have to piss, unzipped and stood at the rusty urinal as he got his phone out of his back pocket and punched a number.
“What’re you doing? You got some little girl with you?” He listened and said, “Well I’m about to have a conversation with a state dick dropped by for a Co’Cola. When I’m through, and it ain’t gonna take long, I’m coming to see you.” He listened and said, “What do you think for, you dumb shit.”
He punched another number.
“Fish? Drop what you’re doing, we’re going on a job.” He listened and said, “I’ll tell you on the way. Pick me up at Junebug’s.” He listened again and said, “No, nothing that big. Your forty-five, something you can slip in your waist.”
He walked up to the state cop standing at the bar in his neat suit and tie and his Co’Cola, Arlen cordial again as he said, “I bet you’re ready for the Cross Roads. You know what uniform you’re gonna wear?”
This state cop didn’t offer his hand. “The Second New Jersey Mounted Infantry, though I think dismounted this time. I lost a beautiful mare at Yellow Tavern. Stepped in a hole and broke her leg. How about yourself, Forrest’s Escort?”
“I may as well serve under Walter,” Arlen said, “since I work for him.” He wished he could think of this state cop’s name, so he could throw it in while they took time to bullshit each other before getting to the point. “I haven’t been to the site yet to look it over.”
“It’ll remind you some of Brice’s.”
“Too bad we can’t use the actual battlefield.”
“Even if we could,” this know-it-all cop said, “Brice’s is too far away to do Tunica any good. You have to look at this muster as a way to promote Tunica.”
“I guess you’re right,” Arlen said, nodding to the bartender, who came over in his sour undershirt popping open a can of Bud. Arlen took a long swallow, giving himself time to wonder if he should mention Floyd before the cop brought it up. Ask how the investigation was going. Show he’d talk about it like anybody else. He wished he could think of this state cop’s name. He believed it was John something. Arlen had reenacted with him, remembering him going either way, gray or blue, hardcore to his buttons; and he remembered this John something testifying to evidence in court when he went down on the extortion charges. Two years of his life in the toilet.
The cop said, “I heard Dennis Lenahan, the diver . . .?”
Beating him to it.
“Was on the ladder, way at the top, when you and Junebug shot Floyd. That’s the story going around. You hear it?”
Jesus, getting right into it. Arlen said in the cop’s face, “No, I don’t believe I have.”
“It was right here, I’m told, where it started. Either you or Junebug bragging about it.”
“It was me, I’d know, wouldn’t I?”
“Well, I’d lean more to Junebug saying it than you. Maybe you weren’t around?”
“If what you’re telling me is true,” Arlen said, “then what you’re saying is the diver seen who did it.”
“I expect so, if he was there.”
“Then whyn’t you ask him?” Arlen stared right at the cop as he said it. Looked him right in the fuckin eye.
The cop said, “I intend to. You bet.”
“So he hasn’t stepped up hisself.”
“No, he hasn’t.”
“Why’s that, you suppose?”
“I imagine he’s been threatened.”
Now the cop in his Sunday suit and tie, an American flag on it, was looking him in the eye, but not giving it much. This was not like any cop Arlen had ever been exposed to. He seemed more like a lawyer.
“Tell you the truth,” Arlen said, “I wouldn’t have any reason to whack Floyd. He never done nothing to me. I believe that man was so miserable he mighta done hisself in, tired of living in the gutter.”
“Five in the back of the head?
”
“Oh, is that right?” Arlen said. “My goodness.” He paused and said, “Come on, chief, why don’t we quit fuckin the dog here. You gonna bring me up on a story somebody heard in a bar? When was it, the night before last? Hell, I was right here where I’m standing most of the night.” He turned his head to the bartender. “Wesley, where was I the night Floyd died and went to heaven?”
“Right there,” Wesley said, “where you’re standing.”
Arlen found out at Parchman Jim Rein was the best do-anything man you could have at your side—Jim Rein already behind that razorwire for assaulting county prisoners too aggressively. He had entered as a fish, what they called all new arrivals, but swore he’d never get hooked, become some inmate’s wife. Anybody approached Jim Rein with romantic ideas Jim cracked his head open. In no time at all he was Big Fish, too mean to land. Arlen came into the population, a homeboy from Tunica, and Fish became Arlen’s bodyguard, working for him just as he had when they were both sheriff’s deputies.
They had the same relationship going now—driving north on 61 toward Tunica in Fish’s black Chevy pickup. Fish reminded Arlen of Li’l Abner.
Arlen told him about this boy Robert last night showing him the picture. “A nigger hanging from a bridge and tells me it was my grampa Bobba lynched him.”
“Your grampa, huh?”
“See, I’d have known. But I never heard of Bobba doing that. It would’ve been a good story to tell people. Then I’m leaving, this boy Robert come out to the car, says don’t worry, he won’t say nothing about my shooting Floyd. I told him, ‘Stand there, I want to talk to you.’ He says, ‘Later,’ and walks in the house.”
Jim Rein said, “Where’d this boy Robert come from?”
“I have to find that out.”
“Or how he knew about Floyd.”
“It musta been the diver told him. I kept thinking, I’m sitting there at the table with him, he could be a federal agent of some kind. I kept my mouth shut till he shows the picture of the nigger was lynched. I have to look into this boy Robert.” He told Jim Rein about his conversation with the state cop just now, as much of it as he could remember word for word and saying he couldn’t think of the cop’s name.
“The one come out with you? That’s John Rau, the CIB man. I was talking to a deputy’s on the case with him’s my cousin? He says far as they’s concerned John Rau don’t know shit. They not doing nothing for him they don’t have to.”
“I should’ve had you do Floyd ‘stead of the Bug.”
“I told you I would, but I had to go to Corinth for my uncle’s coming-home party. Eighteen years he was in.”
“How’s Earl doing?”
“Looks fine but don’t know how to act now he’s out. Earl’s in the grocery store with Aunt Noreen? He asks can he go by himself over to where he saw the cans of Deviled Ham. Aunt Noreen says she told him, ‘Earl, you don’t have to ask permission no more to go someplace.’ Eighteen years, man.” Jim Rein turned his head. “Where we going?”
“The bughouse,” Arlen said.
He watched Jim Rein think about it before starting to grin. “That’s what Earl says Parchman was like, everybody in there’s crazy. He was looking forward to conjugal visits, only he never had none in the eighteen years. Aunt Noreen was too embarrassed to get in the trailer there on the grounds, people watching her.”
“It’s where I got the idea,” Arlen said, “of sticking whores in trailers at Junebug’s. Ever since Rosella left him and took the kids Junebug’s in there once a night with that little Traci. He sits home all day hungover smoking weed and watching TV. Or you catch him holding auditions, checking out some little girl with big titties on her wants to be in show business. Nights, when he’s at the club, he’ll have Eugene baby-sit the dog with a shotgun.”
“It was Eugene’s dog,” Jim Rein said. “Junebug took care of it while Eugene was at Delta Correctional.”
“I know that,” Arlen said. “I asked Junebug what he was protecting the dog from. The dog’ll tear the throat out of anybody looks at her cross. Junebug says it ain’t anybody’s throat he’s worried about. The dog tears up the house you leave her alone.”
“What kind of dog it is?”
“Farm dog. Kinda white and brown, has some setter in her.”
Jim Rein said, “I didn’t know Eugene was out till I run into him. He says yeah, a couple months. Did you know the dorms at Delta Correctional are air-conditioned? I couldn’t believe it.”
“That’s account of it’s private-run.”
“Eugene says you tell the warden you don’t like something, that state soap for instance? The warden says, ‘We ain’t in the business of liking.’”
They were coming on to Tunica.
“Eugene says he got rich there at Delta only never saw the money.”
“Working that con on the queers,” Arlen said.
“Yeah, that’s what he told me but not how it worked where he was. I only got into that business far as selling my pitcher to some cons that used it. Remember that? What was that hack’s name, took my pitcher in the shower?”
“Otis,” Arlen said. “Dumbest spook I ever met. No, Eugene worked it the usual way. Ran personal ads in homasexual magazines. Eugene used the one, he’d been falsely accused of receiving stolen goods from his boyfriend and would like the advice of an older and wiser homasexual. Pretty soon he’s hearing from a bunch of old homo sweeties feeling sorry for him. After while he gets around to saying he’s up for appeal and needs five thousand sent to his lawyer in Jackson, as he can’t receive the check hisself. See, the lawyer was in on it. The old homos have a stack of Eugene’s letters and pitchers of this boy standing there naked and they start sending the checks.”
“Pitchers of Eugene?”
“Jesus, no. Junebug took pitchers of one of the boys does the sex show, Eyetalian kid, hung like a goddamn horse, and I sent ’em to the old homos, telling ’em as a favor to Eugene, pitchers taken before he went down. He got letters from near every one of ’em saying the check’s in the mail and hope to see you soon. See, the checks are made out to Eugene and suppose to go into an account the lawyer opened for him.”
They were in Tunica now on Main, coming to Fox Island Road, and Jim Rein turned right. Arlen said, “I heard that’s the house the fella runs Tishomingo leased, Billy Darwin?” Arlen pointing to a big Tudor set among white oaks. “Best-looking house in town.” Junebug’s was up ahead on the left a half mile: one of Kirkbride’s manufactured homes with a screened porch, a patio and a three-car garage, additions Junebug’d had built on.
Jim Rein said, “Eugene told me he knew it worked, but he’ll never see the money, something like over two hundred thousand dollars.”
“I know that was his estimate,” Arlen said. “He had homos all over America sending checks. Eugene got his release—you know there wasn’t any appeal, he did the whole bit, three years straight up. Went to Jackson to collect his money and the lawyer says, ‘What money?’ He only received ten thousand and it went for his fees.”
“Lying.”
“Course he was.”
“What’d Eugene do?”
“He shot him.”
They were coming to the house now with its new lawn and young yellow poplars, Junebug’s Cadillac and a pickup truck in the drive.
Jim Rein said, “Then where’s the money?”
Arlen, looking at the house, said, “That’s a good question.”
Walter Kirkbride would arrive in a car he borrowed from Arlen, usually the Dodge: drive around back of Junebug’s to the trailer with Traci lettered on the door in a vivid red, the way it could’ve appeared on the bedroom door of an 1860s whorehouse. New Orleans coming to mind. There might not have been girls named Traci then, no Airstream trailers for another seventy years or more, it didn’t matter. Kirkbride loved the feeling of the past coming here gave him. The name on the door and, once inside, little Traci in the black stockings she wore snapped onto a garter belt and no underpants. Farb
y, but close enough, a French whore from a time past.
She was looking at the ashtray he’d brought, a special gift today.
“Walter, I love it.”
“It’s from Morocco.”
“Oh, wow.”
“The Mamounia Hotel in Marrakech.”
“It’s my favorite one I’ve ever had.”
“I’ll have to tell my wife I broke it.”
“She collect ashtrays too?”
“She’ll see it’s gone.”
“Walter, you’re so cute.”
“But if I broke it the pieces would be in the trash.”
“Hon, look up here before your eyeballs fall out.”
He did, tore his eyes away from her crotch and said, “I want you to do something for me.”
“I’m not gonna beat you up again, hon. I’m not strong enough.”
“I want you to take part in the reenactment. I’ll have a tent for you and ice chest full of Coca-Cola.”
“Sure, if I can get away.”
“I’ll fix it.”
“You want me to dress up? Like in a hoopskirt with all those petticoats they wore?”
“Just the hoopskirt. Nothing under it.”
They walked into Junebug’s manufactured home and Jim Rein said, “Man, we’s just talking about you,” to Eugene Dean watching TV with Junebug. They sat at either end of a green-plaid sofa, a dozen empty beer cans on the low table in front of them, the ashtray full of butts, the smell of marijuana in the air.
Eugene said, “Hey, Fish, how they hangin’?”
Jim Rein said, “Just like you left ’em.”
Arlen turned off the giant TV and then adjusted his Confederate slouch hat to feel just right, Junebug yelling at him, “Hey, I’m watching my fuckin show. They’s just about to start hitting each other.”
“Arguing over the Confederate flag,” Eugene said, no shirt on, showing his sunken chest and ribs. “The white guys’re skinhead militia, they say it’s part of our heritage. The colored guys say well, it ain’t part of ours, motherfuckers. They bleep it, but you can tell what they’re saying.”
“Look like some gang niggers,” Junebug said, “they got off the street.”
Tishomingo Blues Page 10
