Ophelia’s mouth opened wide. “The nerve you have, Pascal Waterford. You’re supposed to be an elected official, a representative of the people, an individual with pride and ethics. Not a common, contemptible excuse of a thief.”
Pascal looked at Burt. “Say, Burt, if I’d known you were coming with a pit-bull I would have gotten some doggy biscuits.”
That nearly sent Ophelia over the edge. “Arrest him!” she yelled, pointing at Pascal. “Arrest that miserable peanut-headed numbnuts! Make him tell us where William Douglas McCall’s last vestiges are! Dammit, I demand justice!”
Ophelia didn’t look so prim and proper at the moment and Pascal took some time to savor it. Her normally well coifed hair was flying in a hundred different directions. Her lipstick was smudged. Her elegant linen suit was badly rumpled and she had a coffee stain on her lapel.
Paxton waited until Ophelia had gained a vestige of control, and then said, “Let us handle this, Ophelia. I said you could observe. That’s all.”
“I’m going to-” Ophelia started to snarl and then cut herself off abruptly.
“So you lost somebody’s body,” Pascal said conversationally. “Who’s William Douglas McCall? I don’t remember that name in particular, but it sure sounds familiar.” Pascal was fairly certain that his dear, departed mother was spinning in her grave over the lies he was telling on that day.
“Bayou Billy,” Burt said succinctly.
Pascal stood up with a look of shock on his face. He hoped it appeared to be realistic. I should have taken some drama courses in college, or maybe watched more soaps. “You’ve lost Bayou Billy, Ophelia. My God, what a terrible thing to happen. Do you realize how important he is to our communities? The sense of history that he represents? The utter importance of his life as an outlaw?” He paused, waiting for effect. Did I do okay? More outrage? More shock? No, mournful sadness. It’s heart wrenching for both towns. It’s awful. It’s dreadful. It’s…you snooze, you lose, Ophelia. Nanny-nanny-doo-doo. You smell like poo-poo. And I hope I don’t smell like formaldehyde. One of his hands fluttered over the area of his heart. “I’m outraged. Simply outraged. You barge in here having lost such a personage of elemental magnitude and want to blame me?” His eyes went heavenward. “God, Lord, Jesus, please forgive her.”
Pascal dropped his eyes reverently. If Mama isn’t spinning like a rotisserie chicken with nitric oxide gas jury-rigged to the skewer before, then she is now. Sorry, Ma. I’m taking one for the team.
Ophelia took a deep, shocked breath. “By God, you’ve got brass balls bigger than Methodist church bells. You waltzed into my office yesterday, wanting William Douglas McCall’s mortal remnants as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth and today, you’re acting as if I’m the villain.”
“That would be one way of looking at it,” Pascal said grimly, losing half the amusement that had been stockpiled at the ludicrous situation. “You knew that we claimed his body in Shreveport. You knew that we paid his bill at Good Parish Hospital.”
Paxton and Burt watched the two tossing words at each other like tennis players at Wimbledon. Their eyes went to one, then methodically followed the words to the other, and then back again.
“Did you have the right to claim his eternal remainders?” Ophelia shot back. “Of course, you did not. You didn’t take the time to track down his relatives and see what they wanted to do with his earthly remains.”
“You mean I didn’t have the time to go bribe his relatives, because they sure as shitfire didn’t want to have anything to do with the old motherfucker’s corpse,” Pascal declared, his temper loosening another notch. “I’d bet you a thousand bucks that the reason Bayou Billy was still at Good Parish was because the hospital couldn’t find anyone related to Billy who was retarded enough to pay his freaking bill.”
“William Douglas McCall promised the city of Albie he would be buried there!” Ophelia growled, losing some of her grip.
“The hell you say,” Pascal snarled back. “The old sonuvabitch promised Sawdust City he would be buried here!”
“Regardless, funerary law is quite specific about whom had the right to decide where a body is buried and what is to be done about it,” Ophelia said, and her tone had suddenly changed into malicious triumph. “I have the power of attorney from Tamara Danley, William Douglas McCall’s one and only surviving grandchild. She has entrusted Albie with the decision about how his final residue is to be interred.”
Pascal glowered. Humor, like Elvis, had left the building. “William Douglas McCall is not a final residue or earthly remnants or mortal vestiges, you obtuse twat. He’s a body. A corpse. A cadaver. A dead person. A stiff. What is it with you twisted morticians?”
“At least I’m not some dried up, half-baked, ignorant, red-necked, not to mention slimy politician with both of his feet stuck permanently in his mouth,” Ophelia barked.
“Oh, yeah?” Pascal mentally dug through his superior repertoire of insults to waste her like a smart bomb would slaughter a lone Iraqi tank on a prominent Baghdad bridge, but Paxton interrupted at inopportune time.
“Please for the love of God, would you both just SHUT UP!” Paxton yelled.
Ophelia’s mouth flattened into a dour line. Pascal shuffled his feet and said, “She started it.”
Paxton sighed. “Mayor Waterford, do I understand correctly that you are denying that you had anything to do with the theft of the body of one William Douglas McCall?”
“What exactly would I do with the body of a 110 year old felon?” Pascal asked ironically. Keep it for the town, make some cash, make some constituents happy, and make yourself feel useful again. La-de-dah-dah.
“They don’t have bupkus,” Burt interjected cheerfully. Paxton looked sharply at the other chief of police. Burt shrugged and went on, “Other than you going over to Rector Mortuary yesterday. They also don’t have any authority to ask you questions or, say, search anything.”
Pascal digested that with some renewed aplomb. There was always a chance that he could have missed a surveillance camera or that some of the mud he’d placed on the license plates of the vehicle he’d borrowed had fallen off, enabling a would-be Good Samaritan to be able to jot down the tag numbers. Certainly, Pascal hadn’t been stupid enough to use the dog catcher’s van again, because he thought someone might check it for evidence. CSI: Albie/Sawdust City hadn’t come on network TV yet, but the police departments weren’t filled with morons, either. Additionally, he couldn’t use the nullified power of attorney against Ophelia quite yet, because it was possible that Gibby might not be successful in her endeavor.
Please, please, please, Gibby. Take off your big glasses and talk faster than a Dallas skid-row lawyer in a night court.
“Seeing as you have nothing to hide,” Paxton went on as if Burt hadn’t said anything, “Then you won’t mind if we search City Hall. Also your house.”
“Burt, I don’t have to let them do anything, right?” Pascal asked.
“Hah. Guilty as sin, right there,” Ophelia snapped immediately.
“Well, Pascal,” Burt said politely. “You don’t have to do anything. Their reasons for wanting to search the premises are very circumstantial. It’s not like you threatened to steal the body. Of course, I’m not a lawyer. You should probably talk to the county district attorney and maybe your own lawyer. I’m only here as a courtesy.”
“I wouldn’t mind talking about Bayou Billy,” Pascal allowed, “if Ophelia Rector hadn’t jumped on me like a rabid skunk. You can look over City Hall, Paxton. Only you, in conjunction with Burt. Not Mrs. Rector, seeing as she’s not really any kind of law enforcement official. You may not open employee’s desks or open lockers. I think that would be unconstitutional at the very best. Then when you’re done not finding anything here, we’ll go to my house, and you can proceed to not find anything there, too.”
Then Paxton, Ophelia, and Burt all looked surprised. And only Ophelia was sincerely dismayed that no evidence of William Douglas McCall was found. Not in City Hall. Not
in Pascal’s house. Not in Pascal’s back yard. Not in Pascal’s Expedition. She was so angry that she kicked in the head of a very ugly garden gnome that belonged to Mr. Thaddeus Worth, and she became more enraged when Pascal couldn’t stop laughing.
•
And back at City Hall, Deanna, the large breasted receptionist and temporary secretary for the mayor, had forgotten to bring Pascal a large pot of coffee because she was busy playing with a large avocado that someone had left on her desk. She couldn’t quite figure out why someone had stuck a little black pin and ring in it, though. When she pulled the ring out it she found it was an old beer can tab colored black with a Sharpie.
Deanna shrugged in bewilderment and thought about what kind of alcoholic drinks had avocado in it. Then she thought about her boyfriend and his medium sized schlong. Then she thought about her vibrator, which was not medium sized. Then she forgot about the coffee she was supposed to make. Then she had to pee and knew that after peeing she was going to need a nicotine fix, so she picked up her purse. Consequently, she forgot to lock her office door so that Don Swancott couldn’t come in and listen at Pascal’s door like the mayor had thought she was doing, but was actually too vapid to even have thought of in the first place.
Chapter Fifteen
Excerpt from The Legend of Bayou Billy by Stillman Floyd, University of Texas Press, San Antonio, Texas, 2000, pg. 19:
The significant sociological aspect of Mr. McCall’s felony spree lasted from the middle 1920s to the day he was captured in Louisiana’s bayou country, having been turned in by his Cajun spouse for monetary recompense. Crime statistics of 1931 and 1932 show a marked increase in felony robbery in the areas that ‘Bayou Billy’ struck33 and rumors popularized by the news hungry media were unchecked. Like many laws that the majority disagreed with, the thought that the government could be threatened by average citizens was empowering. Targets were often government related officials or buildings, such as post offices, city halls, and politicians, whether they were local or federal had little bearing on their susceptibility as a mark. These second tier criminals can be attributed to the inspiration of William Douglas McCall’s felonious activities and especially by the heroic status accorded him by newspapers and radio.34
Precisely, the years of Prohibition, as enacted by the 18th Amendment to the Constitution and the Volstead Act, had the peculiar effect of encouraging crime. Certain crimes were considered to be socially acceptable, such as brewing gin in the bathtub and selling it to neighbors. The law of the land had little impact on social consciousness. Although the law was enforced only piecemeal, it was a nationwide law, and the divergence between legality and actual practice led to a distinct disdain for authority.
Therefore, if heroic ‘Bayou Billy’ struck a blow to the much-reviled government, the common man was persuaded to do so as well. The evidence is clearly demonstrated in the following letter from ten year old Jerrald Fortson, who was much enamored of Mr. McCall. The child praised Mr. McCall for his illegal labors and presented his services should need be called upon. The ten year old boy saw no issue with the criminality of what was being offered:
Der Bi-yu Billee (sic),
My naim (sic) is Jerrald Fortson and I am 10 yers (sic) old. I want to thak yu (sic) becaus yu gaiv (sic) my pa hop agin (sic). Sins (sic) he caim (sic) back from Germanee (sic) he has bin (sic) no good. He has nitemares abowt (sic) them Nazees (sic) and how they amed (sic) to cut him up good. Pa says them Nazees kilt bunchs (sic) of folks what caled jewes (sic). I do not no (sic) what them jewes (sic) that was so bad, but the Nazees kilt em (sic) off like mad. Pa says somtine bout (sic) the smel (sic) but I do not no (sic) what he meens (sic). He wakes up cring (sic) and yeling (sic) and skeers ever (sic) body on the farm. Then he be in toun (sic) last week and yu robed (sic) the bank in Tulipwod (sic), Texas. Pa saw how yu (sic) was real gentel (sic) with them folks as what werk (sic) at the bank, ceptin (sic) that bank manger (sic) who yu lef tyed (sic) up in his nekkidnes (sic). Also yu gaiv (sic) Pa his deposet (sic) back and we wod (sic) not be albe (sic) to pay the folks what hold the not (sic) on the farm. I aint (sic) never seen Pa laff (sic) so much sins (sic) afore he caim (sic) back from Germanee (sic) and kiling (sic) them peskee Nazees (sic).
Thank yu (sic), Bi-yu Billee (sic). If yu (sic) need somone (sic) with a good gun I am the 1 (sic). I am rit handee (sic) with a shotgun and a rifel (sic). Also I kin skin a skwaral rit fastly (sic).
Yur (sic) grateful freend (sic),
Jerrald Tobias Fortson 35
The Tulipwood Press reports on April 2nd, 1946, William McCall robbed the First United Bank of Texas in Tulipwood, Texas.36 Not only did the laudable ‘Bayou Billy’ take the money of the bank and leave the bank manager naked, but he shot the man, Elliot Humprey by name, in the genital area, leaving him partially paralyzed. Then the customers apparently helped themselves to the monies that Bayou Billy did not take with him, some five hundred dollars in coins that Mr. McCall did not want to carry, presumably because of the weight involved. Additionally, Mr. Humprey was not only assaulted by Mr. McCall, but by his own customers, angered over the manager’s power over their lives. John Fortson of Longview, Texas reports that Jerrald Fortson was his uncle, and that Jerrald’s father, Thomas Fortson, was forced to return some sixty dollars in coins to the First United Bank of Texas in Tulipwood later in 1946. (See Appendix B for a transcript of the entire interview.) Thomas Fortson was also charged with battery upon the bank manager, but the charges were evidently dismissed as that Elliot Humprey couldn’t remember everyone who had beat him.37
Even years after the need for anti-heroes had dissipated with the onset of World War II and the industrial boom prompted by the second World War, Mr. McCall was being ‘protected’ by the press and the sociological attitudes of the south. If ‘Bayou Billy’ robbed a bank, then it was considered palatable behavior, even though a man was maimed in the process and civilized broke down for some greedy moments in time.
‘Bayou Billy’ was nothing but a seedy criminal, who lied about whatever suited him to lie about in order to achieve what aims he wished. The reality of what Mr. McCall actually was, versus what the legend had transformed him into was decidedly incongruent.
The Present
Tuesday, July 18th
Sawdust City, Texas
Donald P. Swancott was forty-six years old. His hair was burnt-sifted-ashes brown. His eyes were nondescript blue-gray. There was a mole shaped like Mother Theresa’s head on his hip but he was not Catholic and thus did not appreciate it. He had an occasional back problem that flared up when he lifted something he was not supposed to lift. A friendly woman named Raquel with an online gambling problem called herself his wife, and an outgoing seventeen year old boy named Dave called himself Don’s only child. He had lived in Sawdust City for forty-three of his forty-six years, having spent three of them enlisted in the United States Army. His normal day job was the ownership of the pharmacy and drug store in town. His other day job was being the mayor pro tem and first council member. Truthfully, he preferred being the mayor pro tem and first council member. There was unspoken power in the election of the position. Judging by votes alone, people in his district really liked him.
Of course, people really liked Pascal Waterford, too. When Don looked at Pascal he saw a big, walking, rednecked boob. Oh, Pascal was a nice enough guy, if one liked big, walking, rednecked boobs. Politically, he knew the rules. He made concessions when he had to make them. He played both sides of the line, making sure he got along with all the council members about equally. He didn’t steal money from the kitty. Other than drinking like an alcoholic who just dropped off the wagon after ten years of sobriety, even Don sort of understood the appeal. Put plainly Pascal had a certain charisma. Like Ronald Reagan. Like Gandhi. Like Hitler.
Don got that, too. He knew that he didn’t have quite the same level of charisma. He told himself that he had forward thinking honesty. If he told Joe H. Blow that he was going to get the new freeway extension down to Saw
dust City, then by God, he was going to move heaven and earth to try and get it done. Not that any highway construction projects were even remotely to be located near Sawdust City. And if they were going to be, Don was fairly certain that his political pull was little enough next to nothing and would have the impact of a flea biting an elephant’s ass. But Don would try. Hey, politicians had to throw the little guy a bone once in a while. It was all for the greater good.
Don also had arrogance. Specifically, he believed he could run the city better than Pascal. He thought that Pascal was the reason that Sawdust was going to into the cesspool. The previous mayor might have contributed to the big push when some of the big companies that employed much of the population had moved south to Mexico, but it was Pascal who was shoving the rest over the brink into the crapper.
Of course, Don could do much better. A two year old with a shitty diaper and an empty sippy cup could do better at the job of being mayor even while singing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,’ and gleefully eluding his babysitter.
Don’s truth was self-evident, especially to Don. He could bring Sawdust City back from the edge of oblivion.
But first, there was the little matter of getting Pascal out of office. Out of town would be even better, but Don had to be realistic. So he sat at his desk and plotted. A sordid photograph of Pascal with a mammoth breasted stripper wouldn’t do anything except elicit an odd giggle or two. More of the male population would probably slap him jovially on his back. Besides which the last mayoral candidate had been photographed dressed in lady’s lingerie and in comparison a stripper with Pascal would seem insipid. On the other hand, dancing on his secretary’s desk like an inebriated idiot would have been an interesting commentary on how much the mayor actually drank and at what time of the day he indulged, but Don had been thwarted. It turned out that Pascal’s hostile secretary was a little more protective of her boss than Don would have guessed.
Life and Death of Bayou Billy Page 18
