Life and Death of Bayou Billy

by Bevill, C. L.

  “Well, it’s not a huge building to search,” Orem said. “Not even a basement. Look, she waved. Should we?”

  “No,” Oscar said and slapped Orem’s hand down. “Pretend you’re sightseeing or something until they drive off. Ma will call us.”

  As soon as they watched Ophelia climb into her BMW, the cell phone rang and Oscar answered it. “Yes, Mama,” he said.

  “Watch the building,” Ophelia instructed irately. “If you see someone in a hurry, follow them. That devious son of a bitch probably has all kind of accomplices. Someone named Gibson Ross helped Waterford claim the body from Shreveport so look for that person especially.”

  “Gibson Ross, right,” Oscar repeated obediently. “You’re going to the mayor’s house now?”

  “Yes, he’s agreed to the search so Mr. McCall’s final vestiges can’t be there,” Ophelia ascertained. “Oscar,” she added forcefully.

  “Yes, Mama?” he said with dread.

  “Don’t…fuck…this…up,” she said deliberately and disconnected the phone. Oscar swallowed convulsively.

  Oscar gave the compact flip phone a wary look before snapping it shut. Then he put down the mostly unfrozen tots, retrieved a baggy from his jeans pocket, and extracted a previously rolled joint. “I need this. God, I need this,” he swore and used the car lighter to ignite the joint. After inhaling deeply, he exhaled the smoke, and offered the joint to Orem. Orem took a hit and handed it back.

  After they had smoked most of the joint, Orem said, “Well, okay, then. How do we know if someone is coming out to go check out where the last remnants of Bayou Billy are at?”

  “They’ll have a fucking neon sign,” Oscar growled. “With a blinking arrow, biscuit brains.”

  “Did you hear that the guy who stole the body peed in Ma’s coffee pot?” Orem asked excitedly.

  Oscar groaned as he took a last drag of the joint. “Please shut up,” he begged, holding the smoke in his lungs to maximize the absorption into his bloodstream.

  “Look at the babe,” Orem said reverently. He watched a young woman exit the building with groveling approbation. “‘D’s.” His hands flexed as if he were holding them. “Wow.”

  Even hung over, with a massive headache that would have broken apart the Great Wall of China, Oscar couldn’t ignore the presence of a hot woman. His eyes went to the babe. Her most outstanding feature was just that, outstanding. She parked herself on a bench underneath a mulberry tree and lit up a cigarette. “Double ‘D’s,” Oscar said. “I don’t think they’re just ‘D’s.”

  “Get your eyes checked, Oscar,” Orem said sincerely. “I know when a woman has a pair of ‘D’ sized whoa-mammas. That’s a classic dimension there. Them yabbas are just right to fill up a man’s palm and have some left to play with. That’s a right fine set of moon balloons.”

  “Who does all the set ups on the cadavers in this family?” Oscar demanded. “I’ve handled more tits with my pinky in one month than you have with both your hands in your entire life.”

  “Dead tits,” Orem chuckled.

  “More than you, fartbreath,” Oscar defended.

  “You want to go and ask her if they’re ‘D’s or double ‘D’s?” Orem asked, half seriously.

  “Not unless I want to be clobbered,” Oscar said. “My head already feels like an entire troupe did an Irish river dance on it.” He glanced at the last bit of the joint as he put it out in the ashtray and added, “But I’m feeling better.”

  “Hey, look at that guy,” Orem said. A tall man in overalls had scrambled out the front door of City Hall and was making for the girl with the enormous oomlaaters. He slobbered over himself and then over the girl in an effort to be charming.

  “He isn’t getting anywhere with her,” Oscar said.

  “Oh, hell no,” Orem agreed.

  They watched the young woman squirm uncomfortably as the man in the overalls attempted to squeeze her onto the last few inches of the park bench. She swatted at his arm and then blew smoke into his face.

  “Frigid,” Orem commented. “Nice ta-ta’s, though. Bet you five bucks she smacks him within two minutes.”

  “You’re on,” Oscar said. “And you do the next three body preps.”

  “Fuck that shit,” Orem said. “No way.”

  While they negotiated over their bet, a gray-haired, middle-aged man rushed out of City Hall and tripped over the man in the overalls. Both Oscar and Orem fell silent as they watched the second man yell viciously at the man who had been hitting on the woman with the big hooters. “Asshole,” Orem said.

  They watched him scurry toward the parking lot and hurriedly climb into a Dodge Durango. Tires screeched as he backed out of his parking spot. Oscar said mildly, “You know, does that guy seem like he’s in a hurry?”

  Orem was picking his nose again and looking intently at the Naughty Nellie with the yo-yo knickers. “Uh, yeah, I guess,” he replied distractedly.

  “Hurried enough to trip over a guy who wasn’t really in his way?” Oscar said benignly. The pot was really working its way into his system and he was feeling very mellow and relaxed. Talk about hangover cures. “To trot to his SUV like he had to take an impious dump? Also to peel rubber?”

  “Look, she slapped him!” Orem yelled cheerfully. “Was that two minutes? Oh, fuck, I didn’t look at my watch.”

  Oscar blinked lazily. Then he sat straight up in the passenger seat. “Oh, shit, Orem!” he suddenly howled. “Follow that Dodge! That’s got to be that Gibson guy! Oh, fuck. Oh, motherchristonacandlestick fuck. Oh, hurry, noodledick!”

  “What?” Orem said. “Fuck me, are you kidding?” He started the Mustang and gunned the motor. Both the cutie with the cajooblies and the man in the overalls turned to watch them peel out, spinning the tires and leaving about an inch of tread on the pavement. Fortunately for them, there weren’t a lot of streets on which their quarry could have turned. With the Mustang in fifth gear, it caught up to the black Dodge within sixty seconds.

  “Not so close, goober,” Oscar hissed.

  Orem fell back and let the Dodge inch away from them. “How do you know this is the guy?” he asked.

  “Do you want to tell Ma we saw someone hauling ass away from Sawdust City’s City Hall and we didn’t follow him?”

  “God, no, I don’t want to tell her that,” Orem said solemnly. He looked over his shoulder fearfully. “How do you know she isn’t watching us now? I mean, how do you know she doesn’t have some kind of device in the car and is listening to us?”

  Oscar swatted Orem across the back of his head. “It’s the pot, fuckface. You’re just paranoid.”

  “Well, fuck,” Orem wailed. “She could be watching us right now.”

  “Calm down,” Oscar said forcefully. “Think about brownies.”

  “Brownies,” Orem said slowly. “I could go for brownies. You know, the kind with the melted caramel inside.”

  “Have a booger,” Oscar said. “Plenty on your steering wheel.”

  Both cackled with laughter at that.

  Five minutes later, the Dodge turned off the main road onto a dirt road. It wasn’t marked and it didn’t have a post office box beside it. “Go past,” Oscar said. “We’ll come back.”

  They cruised past and Oscar turned to watch the Durango disappear into Texas pine trees. Orem pulled onto the side of the road and waited a moment before reversing back to the turnout. “Do you see him?” he asked.

  “No,” Oscar said. “Should we follow on foot or with the car?”

  Orem dithered. “Shit, I don’t know.”

  “Okay, follow him in the car. If he comes back we’ll pretend we’re lost or something. It’s not like he knows that we know who he is.”

  “He knows that we know who he is,” Orem repeated stupidly. “How does he know that? How do we know who he is?”

  “Follow him, Orem,” Oscar snarled. “This is a dirt road made by people off jacking deer out of season, not to his house. It’s not going to be his private property. Well,
probably not. I mean, we’re right by the old GM factory and didn’t they own all the land around for about ten acres?”

  Orem carefully guided the Mustang down the dirt road, and after no more than a half-mile they came upon the empty Durango, parked at a dead end, with its engine off and still ticking. “Now what?”

  Oscar said, “Turn the car around and park it down one of the little paths we saw. We’ll wait for him to get back to his Dodge.”

  “Ain’t that the old plant?” Orem asked, pointing through the trees.

  “Yeah,” Oscar said. “Out of business for almost a decade. Good place to hide a body.”

  “Yeah,” Orem agreed. “Glad it’s not dark.” He looked over his shoulder again. “This place is kind of creepy.”

  Oscar took another precisely rolled joint out of the baggie in his pocket. “Here,” he said. “You need this more than I do. Go park the car so it can’t be seen from this road.” He got out and quietly shut the door behind him. Orem carefully reversed and inched the Mustang around and rumbled back in the direction they’d come.

  Hell, I don’t know exactly what to do. What if this guy isn’t the one? What if the FBI is watching now with a satellite above me? What if Ma calls? Oscar glanced down and then took out his cell phone. He turned the phone off. He didn’t want it to ring while the other guy was off sneaking around.

  Heading around the Dodge, Oscar entered a light smattering of ten year old pines and scrub brush. He could see the old plant through the shrubbery and the sun light glinting off the endless array of windows. He was about to enter an area thigh deep in grass, when movement ahead of him made Oscar freeze. About a hundred yards ahead was the guy who had rushed out of City Hall. He was peering into ground level windows and rattling doors.

  What the shitfirefuck is he doing? Oscar wondered. Then the middle aged, gray headed man found an open door. The distant shout of glee wafted back to Oscar and made him raise his eyebrows. The man went inside and Oscar deliberated. Follow or not follow?

  Then Orem whispered, “What’s he doing?” and Oscar nearly made a big smelly pile in his Calvin Klein’s.

  “Don’t do that,” Oscar whispered furiously. “And I don’t know. He went inside.”

  “I don’t want to go inside,” Orem said. “That place looks like just the kind of place a serial killer lives in. I saw this one movie where the killer collected their testicles in little glass jars. You know, balls floating in liquid. I don’t know what he took off of the women he killed.”

  “He’s not a fucking serial killer, shitforbrains,” Oscar said. “He’s a body snatcher. He’s not going to kill anyone.”

  “You don’t know that, man,” Orem whined. “He could be CIA or even worse one of those agencies whose initials are top secret.”

  “Why would their initials be top secret?” Oscar asked. He suddenly paused, tilting his head to listen. “Did you hear that noise?”

  “Sounded like someone screaming,” Orem said. “So he’s not a serial killer, but see told you. There’s one in there with him.”

  “Should we go in?” Oscar asked tentatively, not really asking Orem, but more himself.

  “I’m not going in there,” Orem stated.

  “Crud,” Oscar said. “There he is. Hide.”

  Orem looked around and saw the man coming out of the building. He was limping and holding his back. The brothers faded into the pine scrub, watching from a thicket as the man struggled to the Durango. They saw him open the passenger door, reach inside and grab a bottle of pills, and extract three. Then he dry swallowed them, threw the bottle back inside the SUV, and resolutely limped back to the old plant.

  Oscar nudged Orem. “Wasn’t a fucking serial killer, dipstick.” They inched out of the thicket where they could watch the gray haired man totter unsteadily across the deep grass. Five minutes later, Oscar was on the verge of following the man across the field when the distant door slammed open. Both brothers jumped as if shot.

  The gray haired man wedged the door open with a 2X4 brought from within, and then he awkwardly dragged something into sight.

  “What is that?” Orem whispered.

  “Looks like a dishwasher,” Oscar said.

  “No, fuck that. It’s a big screen TV,” Orem said back.

  “Oh, man,” Oscar moaned. “It’s a freezer.”

  “A freezer,” Orem said. “Dude’s stealing a freezer from an old car factory? What did a car factory need a freezer for?”

  “Doink head,” Oscar muttered. “The GM place didn’t use the freezer.”

  “It’s right there,” Orem insisted. “It didn’t fly out of the sky.”

  The gray haired man tilted the freezer and dragged it out of the building. They could hear his loud grunt of pain as it drifted back to them. He began to swear loudly and creatively. Finally, he dragged the freezer another foot. Then he rested. Then he dragged it a foot. Then he rested. Then he dragged it a foot. Then he rested.

  Oscar sighed. “Get that other joint out. My buzz is fading and this is going to take a while.”

  Orem obediently got the joint out. He lit it with a disposable lighter and puffed on it, while watching the man with the freezer. Presently, he exhaled and handed the joint to Oscar. “The freezer is where he’s got the body, uh, I mean, last vestiges.”

  “Bingo,” Oscar said dryly.

  “Must have had to fold it in half,” Orem commented.

  “Or put it in in pieces,” Oscar added.

  “Naw,” Orem said. “They wouldn’t have done that. Then they couldn’t have an open casket.”

  They continued to watch the gray haired man make slow progress and when the man ultimately drew near to where they were, they faded back into the thicket, having long since finished the second joint.

  It took the man about an hour to drag the freezer to the Dodge Durango. It took him another half an hour to get the freezer into the back of the SUV. When he had shut the rear door, he groaned loudly with relief and dragged himself toward the driver’s door. Hauling himself inside, he collapsed over the steering wheel, obviously gasping for breath.

  Oscar pushed Orem out of the thicket and said, “Quick, while his head is down. Run for the Mustang. We gotta follow him.”

  They got to the Mustang just in time to hear the Durango carefully negotiating the dirt treks. Then they followed the gray haired man to what they assumed was his house. It was a two story Greek revival set on a spacious corner lot in a rundown residential area of Sawdust City.

  They parked up the street and furtively observed the man backed the Durango into the driveway, and achingly climbed out. He opened his garage door, excruciatingly opened the Durango’s back door, and then let the freezer tumble out onto the asphalt. One leg shoved the freezer half way into the garage while he braced his arms on the back of the Dodge. It caught on the cement lip of the foundation and the man couldn’t force it into the garage.

  The gray haired man shut the Durango’s back door and climbed back inside. He drove off with all the alacrity of a sloth that has just been poked with a live cattle prod, leaving the freezer half in and out of his wide-open garage.

  “He’s going to the doctor,” Orem said.

  “Yep,” Oscar agreed. “Shall we go get the body?”

  “You want to steal the body, uh, I mean, mortal remains?” Orem questioned weakly. “Why don’t we call the police?”

  “Because it’s Sawdust City, tweezle.” Oscar sighed. “If they find the body here, they’ll keep it. You want to tell Ma that we allowed Sawdust City to keep Bayou Billy when we could have gotten him back?”

  Orem answered by backing the Mustang up and carefully reversing it up the man’s driveway. “You know,” he said, looking out the back window as he drove, “we can’t fit that freezer into the Ford’s trunk.”

  “Oh,” Oscar said. “No, I guess we can’t. Well, we’ll take the body out of the freezer.”

  Then they were looking down at the final residue of William Douglas McCall, who had be
en indeed folded in half to fit inside the freezer and wrapped in garbage bags before he had been inserted into the appliance. “Dude,” Orem said. “It looks like they took him for a swim before they froze him.”

  Oscar stared in dismay. “Ma had me put him in the chemical bath so he’d be better preserved for the viewing. That’s where he got stolen from. That’s why he was all wet when they stuck him in the freezer.”

  Orem said, “Well, let’s tip it upside-down and see if he comes out.”

  That didn’t work.

  “Maybe if we pry something in between his flesh and the sides?” Orem suggested. He found a large grilling spatula on a nearby wall and motioned with it helpfully. Then he tried it. “Oops,” he said. “That wasn’t supposed to come off.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  From an interview with Harold J. Voorhies, retired sheriff of Boxell County, Texas, dated November 6th, 1968. The material is stored in the University of Texas at Arlington’s special collections section. The interviewer is unknown:

  Interviewer: It is my understanding that you had a personal relationship with William McCall, also called Bayou Billy.

  Voorhies: It is your understanding and it is a correct understanding. I did know Billy, also called Bayou Billy. I don’t believe I ever heard anyone call him William. He liked Bill or Billy and that suited him just fine. He was a happy camper as long as you didn’t call him a dirty rotten bastard.

  Interviewer: Mr. Voorhies, you…

  Voorhies: I don’t much like Mr. Voorhies. It makes me think my father is standing behind me. Most folks called me Dutch. And as you are one of most folks, you may call me Dutch as well. Oh, I see that look. Voorhies is a fine, outstanding Dutch name. My grandparents came from the Netherlands in the early 1900s. They thought Texas was a superior place to settle down and the hell with the heat and the humidity. I don’t believe they ever learned how to speak English. And I still speak Dutch. My grandchildren, though, aren’t really interested. My sons and daughters speak it, but they didn’t raise their children to speak it. That’s how heritage is lost, mind you. People losing interest. People not taking the time to learn about their ancestry. Fah.