Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders

by Bill Fitzhugh

  After the funeral, family and friends gathered at the Teasdale’s home just outside of Hinchcliff. Everyone agreed, it smelled good up inside that house. It was the largest gathering of green bean casseroles ever recorded north of Yazoo City. There wasn’t a can of cream of mushroom soup on a grocery store shelf in a four county radius. And God alone knows how many chickens had been fried. And the pies! The flakiest crusts, the sugariest fillings, the best fruit and nuts, butter, lard, and shortening. Pure comfort for the mournful and two tons of saturated fats.

  A group of women gathered around a vessel of Miss Lexie’s pineapple casserole, a dish notable for its unique combination of a sweet tropical fruit, sharp cheese, butter, sugar, and a pile of Ritz cracker crumbs. They ate the entire thing straight from the dish.

  Another group of women, this one cattier and less particular than the casserole group, stood to the side of the room making derisive comments about the diameter of certain thighs over at the buffet. They also talked about how great Eddie looked in his all-black suit. They knew it was tacky, what with the dirt still being fresh on top of his dead wife and all, but they couldn’t help themselves, and they meant it in the nicest possible way. He really did look good in his grief.

  Carl was there, still with his wife and toddler. He had surrendered to what he assumed would be a lifetime of guilt and fear of exposure. He was drinking bourbon by the tumbler and weeping uncontrollably. The sheriff was there too. He had come as a friend to express his condolences but at one point late in the afternoon Mr. Teasdale pulled him aside. “What can you tell me about the investigation?”

  “Now, Henry, I’m not here on business,” the sheriff said. “But if you insist, I’ll tell you what I can.”

  Henry looked him in the eyes. “Let’s step outside.”

  They went to the back porch and lit cigarettes. “Henry,” the sheriff said, “I gotta tell you, this is got me stumped. I got evidence indicating both murder and suicide.” He lowered his voice. “And I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but not too long before she died, Tammy had sexual relations with someone other than Eddie.”

  “What’re you saying?”

  “All I’m saying is this thing ain’t on all fours.”

  “It sure ain’t.” Henry looked away, ashamed that his daughter had sinned by cheating on her husband and had compounded the matter by taking her own life.

  “I can’t make head nor tails out of it, Henry.” He dropped his cigarette on the ground, stamped it out. “Now, the medical examiner hasn’t finished all the toxicology tests, but I tend to think the simplest explanation’s the best and that gunshot wound in the head’s as simple as it gets. I’ll know more in a few days, but for now I’m telling the district attorney it’s an open murder investigation. We got no useful fingerprints and no weapon.” He hesitated a moment, then looked at Henry. “Did Tammy own a gun?”

  Mr. Teasdale nodded as he flicked his cigarette away. “She had a twenty-two. A pistol.”

  “Hmmm, ‘at’s the caliber what killed her, but there weren’t no gun at the house. That’s what got me thinking it was a murder. You know, like someone broke in the house and found the gun and then Tammy walked in on him…” He rolled his shoulders to say ‘you know the rest.’

  Mr. Teasdale looked off at the horizon and squinted. “You said you got evidence of suicide too. What’s that about?” Henry thought he’d cleaned things up pretty good. He didn’t like hearing the word ‘evidence.’

  The sheriff folded his arms and looked to the ground for a moment. “Well, like I said, I was thinking it looked like an open-shut murder case right up until we found some clippings from a magazine in the trash can, then we found the magazine with letters cut out of it, you know, like a ransom note situation? Once we figured out what letters were missing, we pieced ‘em together and came up with some options, but do you know the only one that made any sense was the word ‘depressed’? That’s what got me thinking about suicide.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Henry, I know it’s happened before in your family and I just want you to know that I’m not saying it was suicide because, well, like I said, this one ain’t on all fours. I don’t wanna be calling it something’s it’s not, especially if it’s gonna hurt your family.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “So I’m trying to figure out why an intruder would cut out a bunch of letters from a magazine to spell the word ‘depressed’ but then not do anything with it. Know what I mean? On the other hand, if Tammy cut out the letters for a suicide note and then killed herself, where’s the note and where’s the gun? I suppose an intruder could have stumbled into the house after she killed herself, if that’s what happened, and he’da taken the gun, but why take the note, assuming there was a note, you know?” The sheriff shook his head. “Like I said, it’s got me stumped.”

  “That’s a mess all right. Just don’t make much sense any way you look at it.”

  “No. It don’t.” The sheriff turned to go back inside. “I’ll let you know soon as we find anything out.” He stopped and put his hand on Mr. Teasdale’s shoulder. “Henry, I’m real sorry about all this. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  Henry nodded, said thanks, and went back inside.

  A few hours later, when most of the mourners were either gone or drunk, Eddie and Henry were off to the side of the living room having a heart-to-heart. “Son, I’m hurting pretty bad,” Henry said, “and I suspect you feel the same or worse. I wish there was something I could say, but I can’t improve on anything the preacher said and he didn’t do much to make me feel any better.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Teasdale. I’m real sorry I was gone. Maybe if I’da been here, none of this would’ve happened.”

  Henry put his arm around Eddie. “Don’t do that to yourself, son. If you’da been here, you might be dead too.” In truth he was thinking that if Eddie had been here, then whoever it was Tammy had been sleeping with might be the one who was dead, but Henry wasn’t going to tell Eddie about what the sheriff had said in that regard. Henry reckoned Eddie’d been hurt enough.

  Across the room, Carl’s wife was offering her condolences to Mrs. Teasdale. Carl had finally stopped crying but he was clinging like a vine to the fear that he would be exposed at any minute. He stood at his wife’s side with puffy red eyes and a nervous twitch.

  Eddie looked at the floor, then at his father-in-law. “Mr. Teasdale, I’ve been giving it some thought and I decided I can’t stay here.” Henry looked like he might have expected this. “I appreciate your job offer but you know I’ve been wanting to get my music career going and, well, maybe this is God’s way of telling me it’s time to move to Nashville and get serious about it.”

  Mr. Teasdale nodded. “Maybe you’re right, son. Maybe you’re right.”

  11.

  Blacks were to Nashville what Charley Pride and Stoney Edwards were to country music — rare, but there was no sense denying they existed. The geographic center for Nashville’s relatively modest black population revolved around a series of presidentially named roads — Van Buren, Garfield, Monroe, and Harrison. And, as was the case in many southern cities, one of Nashville’s favorite restaurants was located in this area, on a rough cut of asphalt just off

  Jefferson Street. The sign out front said ‘Estella’s Shrimp Joint’ but to hear the locals say it, you’d have thought it was ‘Estella’s Swimp Jernt.’ Estella’s had been open for thirty years, serving the best fried shrimp plate in the state of Tennessee, mostly after midnight. Estella’s was the place to go in Nashville when everybody else stopped serving. It was a beacon in the darkness for the city’s night crawlers — black and white alike — and for everybody who worked the late shift and who wanted a drink after the statutes said it was illegal to get one. In fact, after hours on any given night of the week you were likely to find at least one state legislator washing down his fried shrimp with a pint of bourbon.

  Estella’s was two deluxe mobile homes push
ed together side by side on a raised foundation. The dimly lit interior was worn and friendly with red Naugahyde booths, four-top tables, and a long service counter with soda-shop seats. The floor was tired tan linoleum flecked with red. Pale blue shag carpet covered the lower half of the walls. Above that was a sort of brown fabric-corded wallpaper which gave the place terrific acoustics. In the corner by the door was a jukebox with an old hand-lettered sign reading, ‘three selections for fity cent.’ Estella’s was the only place in town where you were liable to hear the likes of La Vern Baker, Ivory Joe Hunter, Solomon Burke, or King Curtis. The place was an R&B clearing in a pedal steel jungle.

  Otis and Estella Frazier were the sole proprietors. Estella was somewhere in her sixties; she wouldn’t say exactly where. She had mostly gray hair and was a little short for her hundred and eighty pounds. A few years ago Estella had a heart attack, “but it was jes a small one,” she said. They ran her through a battery of tests. When it was all over her doctor told her she had to stop smoking, stop eating fried food three times a day, and start getting some sort of exercise. Estella swore she would change her ways, but soon decided the doctor was overreacting.

  Estella had long known she’d never be rich, so she decided she’d be comfortable instead. She wore loose fitting blue jeans and a baggy old pullover shirt with long sleeves, always topped with a knee-length white apron. A pair of reading glasses dangled from a string around her neck, but she used them only while at the cash register. Estella took orders, ran the register, and went table-to-table chatting up the clientele no matter if they wore corn-rows or cowboy hats. Everybody loved Estella.

  Otis was a couple of years older than Estella and built just the opposite. He was a scant little guy with brown eyes that understood your problems. He had a silvery mustache streaked with black that curled sweetly at the corners of his mouth. A wispy tuft of gray sprouted just under his lower lip. He wore a black leather beret and open collared shirts, and his expression — a sort of suppressed smile — made it look like he was waiting for you to get the joke. But Otis’s calm and amiable face belied a troubled past.

  12.

  It was two-thirty on a Saturday morning and the place was about three quarters full. Estella snapped a scrap of paper into one of the clothes pins hanging in the window between the service counter and the kitchen. “Three swimp plates and a cheeseburger,” she said, ringing the little bell.

  Otis looked up from the deep fryer to glance at the order. “Three swimps and a cheese.” He tossed a meat patty on the grill, then pulled the shrimp from the fridge where they were soaking in milk and paprika. He drained half a pound and began to dredge them in the flour.

  “Otis,” Estella said with a gesture. “Who’s that sittin’ over at fourteen?” Otis couldn’t see table fourteen through the little service window so he went to the kitchen door and looked out. Estella met him there, wiping her hands on her apron. “He’s steady been actin’ funny since I carried him that gin,” she said.

  Otis shook his head a little, shrugged. “Never seen him.” He went back to the kitchen knowing that if the guy was up to no good, Estella was the better one to deal with it. Otis lowered the basket of shrimp into the deep fat fryer. Greasy steam escaped into the vent.

  Otis came from Clarksdale, Mississippi. He had discovered early that he had a gift. At nine, he was soloist in his gospel choir and, by the time he was in his late teens, he had a popular, late-night radio show where he played ‘race’ records and occasionally sang a song or two, accompanying himself on the guitar. His show ended at two in the morning when the station went off the air. After that Otis and some friends used the production room as a recording studio. Otis sent some of the tapes to a Memphis-based record label and eventually signed a recording contract and got a manager by the name of Bill Herron.

  Otis’s first record, ‘Lookin’ for Ruby’ was on the R&B charts for twenty-two weeks, peaking at #16. It also crossed over to the pop charts hitting #39. His second record, ‘Don’t Let Me Go’ soared to #2 R&B, crossing over to become a #12 pop hit. Otis looked to be on his way to the top. But, as Otis was quick to point out, things ain’t always what they appear to be.

  Over the next couple of years, what Otis considered a great deal of money passed through his hands on its way to buying cars, whiskey, and women. Money problems followed, as they tend to, and Otis was soon in need of another hit if he was going to maintain his lifestyle. But his next two records stiffed and his manager dumped him and stiffed him on a fair amount of royalties. Forced out of the spotlight, Otis started drinking and soon ran afoul of the law. But all of that was a long time ago and Otis chose not to dwell on it.

  Still, Otis was thinking back on that night in Memphis when, suddenly, there was a commotion out in the main room. He heard a table overturn, plates and flatware crashing onto linoleum. Otis craned his head out the service window just as Estella yelled, “somebody better call a amalance!” It sounded more like a threat than a plea for help. Otis watched Estella charge out the door with the small cast iron skillet she kept behind the cash register. She was quick for her size.

  Otis shook his head as several customers gave chase. Otis just went back to his deep fryer. No point in letting the swimps burn. Besides, he knew better than to go outside and tempt fate. It always happened like this. Somebody would try to skip out on their tab, Estella would chase ‘em down, several customers would pull Estella off the customer before she did too much damage with her little skillet. She’d get the money she was owed and they’d all go back inside laughing while Estella carried on about how that fool was lucky they pulled her off before she got a good swing at him.

  Tonight, Estella had a man pinned against his car. She had the skillet raised over her head when a young black man and an older white guy in a cowboy hat caught up with them. The cowboy hat restrained Estella while the young black man kept the gin drinker from going anywhere. Estella was hollering, “Lemme go! He’s stealin’ from me and he’s got it comin’!” The cowboy hat was snickering. He told Estella to calm down. “Calm down nothin’! This nigga’s gonna find out what it means to—”

  “Hey, Estella,” a man called out from behind the crowd. “How you doin’?” The man asked it like he was passing her on the sidewalk on a Sunday afternoon. The crowd parted as a tall man in a tuxedo walked to the center of attention. Franklin Peavy was a white man, but a dark one. With his chestnut complexion and his black-dyed-hair done up in a militant bouffant style, Franklin looked like the demon child of Conway Twitty and Johnny Mathis.

  Estella knew who it was before she saw him. “I’m good Mr. Peavy, how’re you?

  “I’m fine, Estella.” Franklin reached up and removed his clip-on bow tie.

  “You sure looking fine,” she said. “Where you been all dressed up, another one of them awards ceremonies?”

  “Yeah, the Big Pick Awards were tonight. One of my clients was nominated. Didn’t win though.”

  “Thass too bad,” Estella said. “Maybe next time.”

  “That’s right, there’s always next time,” Franklin said. “So. What’s going on here?”

  Estella struggled against the man holding her. “This fool tried to run out on his bill,” she said, nodding at the fool in question.

  The gin drinker shook his head, wide-eyed as a stereotype. “I was fixin’ to get my wallet out of my ride,” he said, gesturing at the old Chrysler. “I was gonna pay.”

  Estella pulled away from the cowboy hat and lunged at the gin drinker. “You lyin’!” She landed her skillet against the man’s ribs. Everybody heard the cracking sound. The cowboy hat, struggled to keep from laughing as he grabbed Estella and pulled her back.

  “Estella, you’re gonna end up like Otis, you’re not careful,” Franklin said.

  “We’s both justified.” Estella couldn’t have looked any angrier.

  “Court might not see it that way.” Franklin reached over and pulled a wallet from the gin drinker’s pocket. Both of them feigned surprise. “
What’s this?” He handed the wallet to Estella.

  “You got no business reachin’ in my pocket! You got a damn search warren or somethin’? I’ll have you rested for civil rights vilations.”

  Franklin Peavy smiled at the man. It wasn’t a friendly smile. Franklin’s bright white teeth stood out like little square Klansman in the context of his nut brown face. “Got any witnesses?”

  “Everbody here’s a witness,” the man insisted.

  Franklin looked around at the crowd. “Anybody see what happened?”

  “I didn’t see nothing,” the young black man testified.

  “I saw this man run off without paying his bill,” the cowboy hat added.

  “He attacked Miss Estella, but she defended herself real good,” a woman in the back of the crowd said.

  “This a frame up!” The gin drinker pointed a greasy finger at Franklin Peavy.

  “That’s gonna be hard to prove in Nashville-Davidson County,” Franklin said, leaning close to the man. “I should know, I’m a lawyer.”

  “He’s a good one too,” Estella said.

  This was true, as far as it went. But Franklin Peavy was actually a partner in a well known artist management firm, so his practice was confined almost exclusively to music industry contracts. He hadn’t been in a criminal court since handling that matter for Estella’s husband a few decades ago. But there was no need to explain any of that to the gin drinker, so Franklin just turned to Estella and asked if she got the money she was owed.

  “Sho’ did, and a good tip too.” Estella handed the wallet back to Franklin who stuck it back in the gin drinker’s pocket. Franklin took the skillet from Estella then put his arm around her shoulder and led her back toward the club. “Estella, I think I need a plate of your shrimp and a little bit of personality.”