Interviewer: Dutch, then. About Bayou Billy. I’d like to know-
Voorhies: Yes. Yes. Yes. About Billy. I knew him in the forties. Maybe it was the late thirties. No, it was definitely the forties. During the war. My memory isn’t what it used to be. Yesterday I tried to remember what the name of my first grade school teacher was for the better part of an hour. I remember she was the prettiest woman I’d ever seen, up until that time. But her name? Damned if I recall. But about Billy, before you get up and stroll out thinking you aren’t going to get bubkus out of me. He stayed in Boxell County for about six months. I used to play poker with him. Must have had my blinders on but good. I didn’t know he was a criminal. I certainly didn’t know he was Bayou Billy until later. He was Bill something. I want to say Smith, but I don’t think that was it. Bill Johnson. I think that was what he called himself. He worked in a paper mill down toward Sawdust City, I reckon. No, that was it. Sawdust City. No question about why they named the town that.
Interviewer: You played poker with Bayou Billy?
Voorhies: Yes indeedy I did. There was a group of fellows who were all 4F. You know what that means? I had myself flat feet. Also my spine is curved. I told those people at the draft board it didn’t hold me back a lick, but they weren’t apt to listen. In any case, there was five or six fellows around the age of twenty to thirty in the city of Dusk who didn’t go off to Europe or the Pacific. Folks got to calling us the four-effers. As if we had done it on purpose. Oh, most people didn’t think that, but there were a few who weren’t so charitable. On Friday nights we got to having a little game of poker, on account that there weren’t many other men around our age. Most of my friends had gone off and enlisted or had been drafted. It was a right interesting time. Had a good time consoling all the womenfolk. (Chuckles.) I even met the missus then. And I’ll tell you, if I knew then what I know now about that woman, I would have run like the dickens. I would have run until I fell into an ocean, one or the other, don’t matter.
Interviewer: So Bayou Billy was one of the four-effers?
Voorhies: No, I don’t believe Billy went to any draft board. They wouldn’t have known where to find him in order to send him the letter to begin with. And Mr. Bill Johnson, as was Billy’s pseudonym, didn’t register himself as he was supposed to do. Not that we knew that then. He came into the Whirlaway Bar when we were playing five card stud. Got to talking with us. Said he’d been turned down by the draft, too. Fellow by the name of Stony Manser, he had some kind of odd cyst at the base of his spine that made him 4F, asked Billy to sit in a game. Then there he was with his cash and a beer for the next six or so months.
Interviewer: Good poker player?
Voorhies: Billy won more often than not. By the time I was just figuring him out to be a bald-faced liar, he disappeared. Off to greener pastures and a county that didn’t have its eye on him. Then, federal agents came by and told us just who we had been neighborly to for those months and ruined my damned day all to hell and back. I was a patrolman then and the sheriff wasn’t happy with my lack of perception when it came to a federal fugitive. (Long pause.) To be honest when talking about the poker, I think Billy cheated like a son of a bitch. Dirty, rotten bastard.
The Present
Tuesday, July 18th
Sawdust City, Texas
On Pascal Waterford’s BIG List of Jobs That I Would Have if I Weren’t a Mayor, there was an archeologist, a psychologist, a game-show host, a lion-tamer, and a sociologist. The order changed with how Pascal was feeling at the time. Sociology, in particular, had been one of his favorite electives in college. Why? It was because he liked to watch people interact. All kinds of people. Big people. Little people. Medium people. Female people. People who couldn’t classified as male or female. Sociology wasn’t the study of just people, however. That’s what psychology was. Sociology was the study of how people lived, worked and played with other people. It was Pascal’s concerted opinion that all mayors were closet sociologists, or they weren’t mayors very long. Furthermore, when he was alone at night and wondering what he’d do if he wasn’t a mayor, he thought about writing a book on the sociological aspects of being a mayor in rural Texas. He thought that maybe he could sell a few copies. And he’d have a helluva good time writing it, too.
Watching Ophelia Rector put Pascal in the mind of being a sociologist. She had paced back and forth on the sidewalk in front of Pascal’s house until Burt Elder and Paxton Andrews, respective chiefs of police of Sawdust City and Albie, had emerged. The interaction between the four people, he included himself, was very nearly priceless. Ophelia was tense and moody, and unable to stand still. She twitched like a rabid animal who was about to go postal on the neighborhood. Pascal was standing quietly with his hands folded across his midriff, successfully pretending to be unconcerned. He was well aware that his non-activity and nonchalance was irritating the ever living crap out of Ophelia and it made him all the more content to continue doing just that. Burt was whistling happily and Paxton was frowning grimly. Pascal knew that Burt and Paxton had found diddly shit in the house because there was nothing to be found there. And Burt was pleased that nothing had been found on his watch in the house of a politician that he had backed. But Paxton was displeased, not because he thought that Pascal was as guilty as a murderer caught on camera with the blood dripping off the ax, but because Paxton had to tell Ophelia that Pascal seemed to be free and clear of anything incriminating. The Albie Chief of Police knew exactly what her reaction was going to be.
Pascal had to hide a grin when Paxton took Ophelia aside and broke the news. Ophelia was so upset that she used her foot to break some other bad news to Thaddeus Worth’s garden gnome. The gnome was all broken up over the news. Thaddeus, who had come out to watch Ophelia pace and to blatantly observe what kind of monkey business was happening at the old Waterford place, was also broken up. He demanded that Ophelia be arrested for felony assault on a garden decoration. Thaddeus also demanded that Pascal be arrested for felony unrelenting laughter. Burt was forced to explain that neither was a felony and in Pascal’s case, it wasn’t even a misdemeanor. However, the production of Ophelia’s checkbook instantly soothed Thaddeus’s frayed nerves and an ugly escalation of global-thermonuclear war was averted at the last moment.
It didn’t stop Ophelia from shooting daggers from her eyes as she stomped to her BMW, slammed her door open, threw herself in, slammed her door shut, and started the luxury vehicle with a grinding whine that made every living creature within fifty feet wince. Pascal was wiping tears away from the corners of his eyes and didn’t have a chance to glare back.
Paxton and Burt watched Ophelia burn rubber as she drove away, her foot heavy on the gas pedal. “Temper, temper,” Burt said amicably. “Going to get that gal in trouble. One day she’s going to come up against someone who’s going to pull out a large weapon and give her a shotgun enema.”
Paxton scratched his head and shrugged his shoulders wearily. “Don’t I know it? Thank you, Burt. Sorry this was a waste of time. Mayor Waterford,” he said to Pascal. “I hope you won’t hold this against Albie. But in cases like this, we have to follow every lead and ensure that we haven’t missed anything.” He offered his hand to Pascal and Pascal shook it firmly.
“Let’s let bygones be bygones,” Pascal said generously. On the inside he was thinking that Pascal, himself, was a creep, a certifiable, unadulterated, diehard, complete shitheel. Paxton Andrews was a pretty good guy. So were most of the people who lived in Albie. It wasn’t their fault that Bayou Billy had been running a con on both towns. It wasn’t their fault that they had a ruthless predator like Ophelia Rector trying to force their hands. It wasn’t their fault that Pascal was going to some pretty icky lengths to save Sawdust City’s ass.
And Pascal knew that if he looked into a mirror at that very moment, his wisenheimer reflection would say something very pithy and momentous. For example: “P., you rectal-slurping, gibbon-fondling, egotistical bobblehead.”
Paxton
shook his head. “I’m headed back to Albie. I really hope we can put this behind us.”
Pascal nodded while trying not to choke. The good humor compiled from observing Ophelia dancing on a ceramic gnome’s head had faded away like a suicidal manic-depressive teenager taking a header off Niagara Falls.
Paxton Andrews walked to his official vehicle and drove off while Burt and Pascal watched.
Burt said conversationally, “So, did you take Bayou Billy, Pascal?”
“I’m wounded,” Pascal protested while holding his hands protectively over his heart. “I’m injured that you would even ask me that.”
Burt turned and looked thoughtfully at Pascal. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I thought. I guess we’re still planning the parade for Friday, right? That body’s going to turn up some place. And you’re working some kind of angle to make it legal. Legal as long as you don’t admit that you stole it, in fact, in the first place.”
“Now you’re really hurting my feelings, Burt,” Pascal said, replete with simulated ignominy.
“Of course, he stole the goldurned body!” Thaddeus yelled from his yard, where he was attempting to salvage a poor, misbegotten gnome who was savagely taken from the world in the prime of his existence. “Do you know any other moron who would be dumb enough to steal a corpse that he couldn’t even admit to having in the first place? Has everyone in this town lost their collective minds? I mean, I was telling them from the start, Pascal Waterford was the wrong choice. I told everyone!”
Burt smiled congenially at Thaddeus and waved gleefully. He murmured out of the corner of his mouth to Pascal, “I really do hate that nosy, officious, self-appointed, prying busybody.”
Pascal said with a false smile pasted across his face as he looked over at Thaddeus, “Yes, I know exactly how you feel. And I have to live beside him.”
Burt said his goodbyes and drove off in his city car, all the while Pascal and Thaddeus watched from their relevant yards. After a moment, Pascal went over to the side closest to the Worth yard without actually crossing the property boundary and said to Thaddeus, “Sorry about your troll there.”
“It’s a gnome,” Thaddeus said coldly.
“Say, Thaddeus,” Thomasina, his sister, called from the front door. “Do we have any more cereal?”
“No!” Thaddeus yelled. “Stop feeding the goshdarned cats cereal, Thomasina! And take your medicine!” She twittered and the door swiftly shut with her inside.
“Say, two of your grandchildren work for the city, don’t they?” Pascal asked politely.
Thaddeus straightened to his full height, indignity imprinted on his bearing like a brand on a cow’s ass. “Why?” he asked slowly. “Are you threatening them, Waterford?”
“Oh, hell no,” Pascal said. “Let me think here. There’s Rick, who’s in the water sanitation department. He’s your oldest, am I right. Has two little kids. Twins?”
Thaddeus nodded warily.
“He’s got about ten years in the city,” Pascal went on. “Pretty solid future. Good man, too. Solid as a rock. Runs his department like a professional. I hear nothing bad about him.”
Thaddeus cogitated as he ingested information. Obviously he was trying to determine if Pascal was being sarcastic. Then he nodded grudgingly. “Rick’s a fine man. Proud to be his grandfather.”
“And Jennifer, let’s see, Cameron, I think. She’s with the police department. An operator there. Has about eight years, right?”
“That’s right.”
“If you’d ask Burt Elder, you know the fella who just left, the chief of police, I think he’d tell you that Jennifer’s a fine gal, too. Model employee from what I understand. Hasn’t had a sick day in three years.” Pascal smiled. “Three years. Imagine that. She must be a real hearty person.”
“Jenny’s a stout girl,” Thaddeus acknowledged. “Does the family proud.”
“Sure would hate to see them out of jobs,” Pascal said idly.
Thaddeus stiffened up like a plank of sun dried wood. Pascal was mildly concerned that the older man’s spine might very well snap from the pressure. Thaddeus growled, “Now, don’t you try any of-”
Pascal interrupted, “Along with the rest of the town, would you? Including me, your grandchildren, the librarian, the school teachers, the police officers, and all one hundred, thirty-six city employees. And of course their families would be impacted in the worst way.”
Thaddeus stared silently at Pascal. His upper lip twitched threateningly.
“That’s what’s going to happen if we don’t start making better revenue around here,” Pascal said blandly.
“You mean, if the city doesn’t get Bayou Billy’s body to bury,” Thaddeus stated unequivocally.
“Well, if the shoes fit…”
“You know durn well the shoes fit, Waterford. They’re your nasty little shoes and you’re still wearing them. You got us into this mess, you know.”
Pascal glanced down at his polished loafers and shrugged lamely. “Sawdust City was going down the potty a long time before I put my ass on the throne, Thaddeus, as you are very much aware.” He paused and watched the conflicting emotions passing over the elderly man’s face. Then he added, “Well, I should thank you, Thaddeus.”
“Thank me, thank me, thank me, thank me,” the eighty-seven year old veteran paradiddled in outrage. “Thank me for what?”
“Why, I guess Thomasina didn’t tell you I borrowed your truck last night,” Pascal said calmly. “You’d already gone to bed. Thomasina was real frank. I want to make sure I get this right. It was a mouthful and she didn’t pull a punch. Thomasina said although I’m a miserably unseemly twit and a shameless exhibition of genetic deficiency, as well as a wretched politician and a horrid human being, that didn’t mean that she shouldn’t be neighborly. I gave it a wash before I brought it back and topped off the tank.” He paused and added, “Thomasina certainly can whack a man off at the knees.”
“Good God!” Thaddeus shouted. “She can’t remember if she tied her shoes this morning and all her shoes are slip ons, you moron! You know that.”
Pascal shrugged again. “Didn’t stop her from signing the last recall petition, now did it?”
Thaddeus’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to pound your paltry little head into mincemeat if you come near my sister again, you little sack of weasel poo.” He stomped over to the Ford F150 and carefully walked around it, looking for scratches and dents. Abruptly he yelled, “You got mud on the license plates, you twerp! And how did you get that big bruise on your forehead, you peckerwood? Fool around with some biker’s wife again?”
Pascal went over, spit on the tail of his jacket and wiped the last remnants of mud off. “There you go, Thaddeus. Might need it again later. So keep your grandkids in mind.”
Thaddeus spluttered like a broken fountain. Then he cursed all the way into the house where Pascal could hear him screeching at his older sister.
With a low hum of satisfaction Pascal headed back to City Hall. He was tired and exhausted but he was happy that he was successfully getting away with a felony. Well, he considered. So far, anyway.
•
Pascal walked into City Hall humming an old AC/DC song, ‘You Shook Me All Night Long.’ His good mood stemmed from the thrill of getting away with it and also because Gibby Ross had called three times. He checked his cell phone and discovered it was dead because it hadn’t been charged. When he’d plugged it into the Expedition’s power plug, he found the messages from Gibby. She sounded upbeat in the first one, mildly concerned in the second one, and furious in the third one.
Only a woman who cares can be that pissy, he thought positively. Pascal planned to call her from the land line in his office so no prying ears could overhear what would be said. He didn’t know who could be listening in on his cell phone but he wasn’t putting anything past Ophelia Rector. He frowned. Better not call from my office.
The people in City Hall were still giving Pascal those odd looks. They didn’t know
exactly what to make of the situation. The mayor had left with two police officers and a known bitch, but came back humming and smiling. It wasn’t out of character for Pascal to be happy, but it was out of character to have two chiefs of police to come search City Hall and his house. Everyone knew, of course. But all Pascal was getting was subdued, “Hey, Your Honor,”s and “How you doing, Mayor?”s.
City Hall was deep in an extreme state of ambiguous unconformity. They didn’t know whether they should poop or get off the potty.
“I say, ‘Do BOTH!” Pascal stopped dead center of City Hall’s looming foyer and shouted triumphantly. “The hell with what people think!”
The receptionist, a temp from an agency, who had replaced Deanna of the disproportionate mammary glands, looked at Pascal as if he’d suddenly grown a great, green horn out of the precise center of his forehead. She said tentatively, “O-kay.”
Pascal bowed to the temp and acknowledged his dumbstruck audience by blowing kisses at them. Then he said to the temp, “Did you ever feel like doing something so odd that you know people are going to think you’re insane?”
“I’ve had that notion a time or two,” the temp allowed.
“Good! Next time, go with the flow,” Pascal advised. “It feels fantastic.”
“I will,” she said as he strode from the foyer. People were halted in their tracks staring at the mayor as if they had never really seen him before.
Pascal made it to his office and only had to stop and reassure five people that he was doing everything he could to make Sawdust City solvent and to ensure that he was going to reclaim Bayou Billy’s remains so that they could be properly buried in their city. He passed Deanna and she offered him a stack of messages. The stack was about double its normal size.
“Let’s see,” he said. “Hewitt Donally says please call me, in the name of all that’s holy.” He tossed that message. The next one was from a council member. “For the love of God, call me.” He tossed that one. The next one was from a reporter from Shreveport. “Interested in the Bayou Billy story, call me.” Toss-o-la. The next one was from The Sawdust City Journal. “Wants a comment on the theft of Bayou Billy’s body.” Toss-o-rama. The next one was from his ex-wife. “Why are people calling me about stuff happening in Hicksville?” Toss-diddly-oss. The next one was from NBC Nightly News. “Want interview about Bayou Billy corpse theft.” Pascal put that one aside. He’d never had a major network ask for an interview before. The next one was from another councilmember. He didn’t even read it before he threw it into the circular file. He thumbed through the next five and decided all the messages were pretty much the same.
Life and Death of Bayou Billy Page 23
