As I walked back up to the house, I noticed my car was parked out in front on the street along the old picket fence. It surprised me after the revelry and chaotic events of the previous night that someone had been able to get up so early to retrieve it. I looked inside and saw the floorboards were covered with cans of paint and brushes and other painting necessities. There was a note on the front seat. I reached in for it. In a rough hand, it read…
Mr. Coulter,
Thought you might like to get started on the paint project for the Headleys. You can pay me when you get the chance.
Eli Bidwell
By late morning I was well into the work. I had found an old ladder in the storage shed behind the house and I started in the front, working with a scraper and rough sandpaper to remove old layers of peeling paint. The sun was up overhead now and the heat had returned. Sweat was pouring out of me and paint chips and sawdust clung all over, but the work felt good and helped to flush the liquor out of my system from the previous night. A voice from behind interrupted my labor.
“Need some help there?”
I turned and saw Willie Palumbo standing in the street next to my car. He was dressed more casually than last night in a loose tan colored shirt open at the neck, revealing tufts of curly black hair. His abundant middle made the buttons strain to keep it all in. His white cotton pants were rolled up at the bottom revealing bare ankles and feet. On top, he wore a large brimmed straw hat for relief from the sun. I wondered if his gun was still on his belt under his shirt. His face seemed friendly and passive, much different than the ferocity I had seen the night before down at the beach pavilion. I backed down off the ladder and tried to brush myself off, but the effort was pointless. There was a jug of water on the ground and I reached down and took a long drink. Then I walked out to the fence and gun or not, my anger continued to build. I knew I had to speak my mind.
He just stared back at me with a blank expression and then he looked away out to the beach. Finally, he spoke in a quiet voice, “Louise is so mad, she won’t even talk to me.”
“She has every right,” I said, my confidence growing in his seemingly remorseful manner.
“I’ll be going over to the Howard’s later to apologize. I wanted to ask if you would come with me,” he said.
“And why would you want me to come?” I asked, thinking this man had truly lost any last bit of good sense.
He hesitated and I could tell all of this pained him greatly. I assumed it was mostly because his wife was so upset with him, not because of the damage he had inflicted on Seth Howard. Then I noticed an extremely large man standing away down the street toward the hotel. It was odd he was wearing a full suit of clothes in the heat of the day, particularly out of place in this out-of-the-way beach town. Palumbo saw the direction of my gaze and turned to look back.
“That’s Anthony,” he said. “He’s my assistant.”
“Assistant?” I asked.
“He takes care of odds and ends and makes sure I stay out of trouble.”
I laughed and then caught myself, remembering that Willie Palumbo was certainly not a man who you could take too many liberties with, though finally I had to say, “He doesn’t seem to be doing much of a job.”
The look on his face changed and I saw traces of that dark rage begin to show itself again in the narrowing of his eyes and the red flush in his cheeks, but then he settled himself and forced a smile. “Oh, you mean last night? Well Anthony was away for a few days. I sent him over to Gulf Shores to do a little business for me,” he said.
I looked again and Anthony was still standing there staring at us, holding his hands behind his back, occasionally looking around to gauge the prospect of any approaching threats to his employer. “Why don’t you just take Anthony with you?” I asked.
“Anthony will be driving. I’d like you to come along, too. You seem to know the Howard’s some and I thought it might help to make the discussion go a little easier.”
I thought about his odd request for a few moments, the lurking presence of Anthony off behind him. The last thing I really needed was to get more involved in any of this local drama, but there was something about the whole situation that intrigued me, like a moth attracted to a hot flame.
“I’m not sure I’m Seth Howard’s favorite person, either.”
“This would be a great personal favor to me,” he almost pleaded.
I think my decision to accompany Palumbo on his peace mission to the Howard’s ranch and my odd fascination with this man had something to do with the strange contrast of danger and vulnerability I sensed in him. Unlike my father who never let his inner feelings or weaknesses show, Palumbo was almost an open book of emotions, the direction of his sentiments seeming to change like sea grasses blowing in blustery winds.
“Let me clean up some,” I finally said.
“What happened to your leg?” he asked, looking down at the scars beneath my short pants.
“A bad night in France, back during the War,” I answered.
“Looks like it was a very bad night,” he said. “We’ll be back in fifteen minutes,” he continued, a sound of relief in his voice. Then he turned somewhat awkwardly, as if all of this was terribly embarrassing and walked back toward the hotel.
Chapter Eleven
The road, or rather the trail out to the Howard’s place was not much better than what I had experienced in my crossing from Point Washington. A wide sandy break in the dense brush and trees, our way was pocked with large ruts and loose sand. Palumbo and I sat in the back of his long black sedan, holding on as best we could as we bounced along. The convertible top was down and Anthony sat in front trying to navigate the difficult terrain. He had added a large black fedora to his wardrobe. Beneath it his face was an impassive mass of hard muscle and heavy black stubble. His right ear was misshapen, as if a portion of it had been bitten off in a fight. When Palumbo had introduced me to him earlier he never uttered a word, just nodding his head slightly and then opening the door for me to get in. He hadn’t said a word since.
Along the way, we skirted several lakes rimmed with swamp grasses and lily pads. The dunes along the beach blocked some of the wind, but there was still a ripple across the surface of the water that reflected rough images of the white clouds drifting above.
Up ahead a gate came into view fashioned from stripped pine logs, two sections of fence coming off at each side; more as an attempt at decoration and pretense than any useful function. Across the top of the gate hung a sign that had been crudely painted in black on a weathered plank with the name of the landowner, Howard. Our car startled a herd of large black pigs with a dozen smaller babies that had been feeding along the road. They all scurried off into the underbrush. The road continued on curving among tall pines. More pigs were wandering about, no doubt the source of a layering stench that was overpowering.
Coming around another bend in the way a compound of buildings came into view. Most notable was a wide house painted dark brown with a rusted metal roof that came down over a long porch that ran across the front. Off to the side there were many outbuildings including a large single story barn, also painted brown. There was a maze of rough fencing going in all directions surrounding muddy paddocks filled with pigs and one with a few head of cattle.
Our arrival was not unnoticed. The sound of the car had brought several people out onto the front porch of the house. The tall man I had seen the night before during the skirmish with Seth Howard stood in front of a much smaller woman dressed in a plain gray dress. The man was wearing work clothes splotched with mud and other colors of stains and grease. A large straw hat covered much of his face. Behind them, Seth Howard walked out of the house and stood with his hands on his hips, a look of defiance evident on his face. When they realized who had come to visit, the big man, who I assumed to be Mr. Howard, reached to his side and grabbed a long double-barreled shotgun that had been leaning against a chair by the front door. He held it up in front
of him, pointed off to the side.
Anthony stopped the car suddenly when he saw the gun. I watched his big shoulders tense up as he reached for something under his jacket. Palumbo leaned forward, put a hand on his shoulder and whispered for him to calm down. He opened his door and with some difficulty moved his abundant frame out of the vehicle. I watched as the elder Howard came down the steps from the porch. His son followed close behind. They both stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Palumbo walked out in front of the car. I remembered I had been invited along to assist in the apology so I got out and walked around to join him. Seth Howard gave me a look of something just short of loathing and I again questioned the wisdom of my presence. The boy’s face was swollen and bruised, one eye nearly shut.
The father spoke first, “I don’t know what in hell you all think you're doin’ out here, but I suggest you get your asses back in that big car there and get on outta here,” he said with a deep rumble in his voice.
Palumbo put up a hand in what seemed to be an offer of peace and conciliation. “Mr. Howard,” he started, “my name is William Palumbo and I’ve come to offer my deepest apologies for the events of last night.” I was surprised by the formal elegance of his little speech with only the slightest hint of his rough accent.
Seth Howard pushed forward and shouted, “You can stop right there, you sonofabitch!”
His father took one hand off the gun to hold his son back. “You just stay put,” he said. “Don’t know why you think an apology would do any damn good after you near killed my son last night. You better leave now or I’ll feel compelled to place a few loads of this buckshot here in your fat ass!”
I looked over at Palumbo who was staying surprisingly calm and then I heard a car door open and Anthony was getting out to join in the exchange. Palumbo put a hand out to stop him and the big man stood a few paces behind his employer.
“You’re right, there is nothing I can say to make it right over what happened,” Palumbo said, “but you need to know I’m sorry and just feel awful bad about ruining your engagement party.”
He turned to Anthony and nodded and the big assistant walked back behind the car and opened the trunk lid. He came back with a large wooden crate with the stamping of a Canadian whiskey on the side. He walked up in front of the Howards and placed it on the sand in front of them and then returned to stand beside us.
“We don’t want nothin’ from any of you all, now git on outta here!” Howard said.
Seth had also had enough of all of the formalities and broke away from his father and rushed toward Palumbo, I suppose hoping to salvage some sense of honor from his earlier humiliation. Anthony moved with surprising quickness to cut off the boy and the two collided in a flurry of flailing arms and kicked-up dust. I sensed another scuffle was about to ensue and with little thought of what I was getting into, rushed forward to intervene.
A thunderous explosion caused us all to jump back as Howard fired the shotgun into the air. Everyone stopped and Seth backed tentatively away. Howard brought the gun down and aimed it directly at Anthony’s head. The smell of gunpowder took me back to memories of France. I stood frozen, standing there beside Palumbo.
“I got one more load in this other barrel. I suggest you get back in that car before I decide to let this one go, too,” he said.
Palumbo calmly said, “Mr. Howard, I’m sorry we have not been able to convince you of our sincerity. We will leave, but again, I say I am sorry and wish your son and his future bride only the best.”
With that he turned and got back in the car. I did the same as Anthony started the engine and turned the big car around for us to leave. I noticed Mrs. Howard still up on the porch. Her expressionless face did little to betray any emotion from the earlier confrontation. It was as if this sort of thing happened all the time around the Howard ranch.
On the way back toward Grayton Beach, Palumbo didn’t say a word for the longest time, but when I looked over I could see he was struggling to keep his anger from rising up and taking over again. His fist was clenched at his side, and his jaw line was tight beneath the loose jowls along his face. He took a deep breath and looked over at me.
“Thanks for coming along,” he finally said.
“For all the good it did…”
“No, thank you. I appreciate you standing up for me there.”
“The Howards don’t seem to be in much of a mood for apologies,” I said.
He erupted with a big hearty laugh. “That bastard aims a gun at me one more time, it will be the last damn time,” he said with sudden seriousness. I could tell his comment was no idle threat.
“Anthony and me need to run up to Panama City for a little errand. Would you like to come along?” he asked.
Considering my most recent visit with these two had ended with a shotgun blast over my head, I was at first reluctant, but then acquiesced when I thought about the alternative up on the hot ladder back at the beach cottage.
The trip down the coast to Panama City was an interesting journey through farms and a few cottages and small shacks spread along the way. The road improved as we approached the town, set along the Gulf coast about twenty miles east of Grayton. We drove along a beach road that allowed us to see the water on occasion through the smattering of small hotels and businesses. Again, the white sands of the beach stood off against the brilliant aquamarine colors of the Gulf of Mexico. There was a little traffic moving about and a few people walking along the road. Anthony pulled the car into a sandy lot next to a wood-sided structure built up on pilings and painted white with a green shingled roof. A wide set of steps led up to a front entrance with a sign that announced, “Georgie’s”.
I followed Palumbo up the steps. Anthony was instructed to stay by the car. As we reached the door, Palumbo turned to me and said, “Do me a favor here and just pretend like you work for me.”
I was puzzled by his request and thought momentarily about my last business meeting with my father, but saw no particular harm in the ruse, so I nodded in agreement. Double doors opened into a dark room with round tables and chairs set about. A bar ran along the wall to the left, but the shelves behind it were noticeably empty. The liquor was hidden from view. A green neon light behind the bar spelled the name of the establishment. It was mid-afternoon and the place was empty except for two men sitting at a table in the back. Several fans set along the ceiling moved the stale air about only a little.
Palumbo stood and assessed the place for a moment and then walked back toward the men. I followed close behind, not exactly sure what my role as an employee would entail. Neither man rose to greet us, but instead the one on the left pulled a chair out for Palumbo to sit down beside him. He was an older man with a shock of white hair that was even more pronounced over a darkly tanned and wrinkled face. The other man was a much younger version of the first, his face with remarkably similar features, only with fewer wrinkles and dark brown hair. Both were dressed in white dinner jackets with white shirts and black silk bow ties, looking ready to welcome the evening trade. Palumbo sat down and motioned for me to join him in the other chair.
Palumbo spoke first and broke the uneasy silence. “Georgie, I’d like you to meet my associate, Mathew,” he said, tilting his head toward me. The old man looked at me with a snarling expression and then back at Palumbo.
“I thought we told you we weren’t interested in doing business,” Georgie said.
Palumbo seemed unruffled by the rude and abrupt greeting and smiled back at the man. “I thought you might have reconsidered my offer.”
The younger version of Georgie, who I assumed was his son or a much younger brother, leaned forward across the table and said, “We don’t care who the hell you are, Palumbo, there’s no room for your kind down here.”
Georgie reached over and put a hand on the other man’s arm without looking away from Palumbo. “There’s nothing to reconsider. I told you the last time we have our supplies set up just fine down here and don’t n
eed no complications from your connections up North.”
It finally occurred to me they were talking about liquor and I was taken aback by Palumbo’s presumptuous attempt to insert himself into their business so far from his home and base of power in New Jersey.
“I told you, Georgie,” Palumbo said in a calm, slow delivery, “I can bring you better product at much better prices. Your boys down here are taking you for a fool with what they’re charging for import product.”
Georgie took obvious offense at the comment. “Nobody takes us for fools, Palumbo. I suggest you get the hell out of here and you and your associate best not show your faces around here again.”
I listened with interest and a faint sense of alarm as my second meeting of the day with my new friend from New Jersey was ending in threats and requests that we remove ourselves from the premises at our earliest convenience. I started to push my chair back, but Palumbo reached over to stop me.
“Georgie, you misunderstand my intentions…” he said, before he was interrupted by the older man.
“I don’t misunderstand nothing, you big asshole!” Georgie said as he pushed his chair back and stood up. “Now get the hell out of here and take your goon with you.”
So now I was a goon, I thought.
I could see Palumbo’s patience had finally been exhausted and he stood as well. I got up to join him in some sense of foolish solidarity.
“Georgie, I don’t want any trouble from you or your son here. I mean only to help you improve your business, but I can see you have no vision for the future.”
“The only vision I want is your ass headed out that door,” Georgie said.
Palumbo put his hands up in mock defense and resignation. “You gentleman have a good day,” he said with remarkable composure. He turned to leave and I looked again at the club owner and his son. I traded a steely glare I felt was appropriate for a goon and then followed Palumbo out the door.
Grayton Winds Page 10
