“It’s yours, Mama,” Danalyn said wearily.
“Oh,” Lucy said. “Oh, yeah. I don’t think I’ve seen that since the last century. Go figure.” More erstwhile fumbling ensued. Abruptly, she whooped and Danalyn jumped. “Here it is.”
Danalyn took a long drink of her coffee and wondered how soon she could go into basic training. Her eyes turned to her mother triumphantly holding up a lone silver key as if she had hit the mother lode.
“Call your brother,” Lucy said again. “We’ve got stuff to collect in the name of severe mental suffering and psychological trauma induced by that rotten, dead son of a bitch and every single one of them dumb jackasses who lent him a freaking dime.”
Danalyn twitched. “Oh, dear God, Mama, you can’t mean to…”
“Oh, yes I can,” Lucy said firmly. “You spilling syrup in your car reminds me that while you’re calling your brother I’m going to make a couple of Hot Maple Moo’s to go. Light on the milk and heavy on the bourbon. Or whatever I’ve got that will go with milk. Both for me, as you’re driving. Then I might need to make a thermos full to help me make it through to Schlitz Malt Liquor martinis time. We do have milk, don’t we? Where’s a sauce pan?”
Danalyn got up slowly and looked for the portable phone. As she went into the living room she said to her mother, “Don’t burn the trailer down, Mama. It’s the only one we’ve got.”
•
Luke Jones managed to make it to the trailer park in thirty-three minutes while Danalyn had to listen to their mother bitch about the audacity of creditors and the collective reasons why it was that the universe was out to screw Lucille Meredith Rickard Jones.
God, Danalyn prayed silently. Are you there? I know you’re a busy and benevolent god, but can you please make sure my Mama doesn’t get into too much trouble? When she’s drinking, as I know that you’re aware, she doesn’t think about oh, consequences. Thanks for listening to the prayer, God. Also if you’re at all inclined to have someone win a lottery, could it be one of us Jones? We need the money and we’re apt to share. You, know, if you’ve of a mind to do something. It doesn’t have to be a big lottery. A small one would be just fine.
Luke rambled into the trailer home and looked expectantly at his sister. At twenty-three years of age, Luke was far more mature than Danalyn or far more than his mother for that matter. He worked construction six days out of seven and owned his house. He had a two year old daughter, Aliza, and a lovely wife, Mina, who worked just as hard as he did. He had cut off his mother from any monetary loans, but would come when called like the dutiful son he was.
“What’s so damned important, Danalyn?” he demanded. “I’ve got two worksites to get to, today. If I don’t get done by tonight, there’ll be hell to pay tomorrow. And God forbid, I need to mention what’s coming this week. I’ve got more work than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. We cleaned out the wood supplier of plywood for all the windows we’re going to be covering in the next couple of days.”
“It won’t take more than an hour,” Lucy said, clutching a thermos to her breast. “I hope you drove the truck. We’re going to need both trucks.”
Luke sighed. “Oh, ferchrist’ssake,” he said all at once. “Have you been drinking already, Mama? It’s only,” he glanced at his watch, “ten am. What do you need with two trucks?”
Lucy’s eyes glittered with devious, inebriated intent. “We’re going to get back what’s owed us,” she said heatedly.
Luke glanced at Danalyn and his lips flattened into a grim line. “Nobody owes you anything, Mama,” he said after a moment, his gaze returning to his mother. “You know, I can get you into the hospital at Tyler. You can dry out this time. Danalyn and I will clean out the trailer of all the booze. Cut you off but good. It’ll be a fresh start for you, Mama. Get your head on straight. Live to see your grandbabies grow up.”
Lucy glared at her children. “Is that what it’s going to take?” she said. She threw her hands up in the air, forgetting that she held a thermos and then scrambled to catch it before it fell. As God was watching over little children and drunks, she managed to grasp it by the handle just as it was about to hit the floor. Straightening her body up with a drunken sway, she roared fiercely, “All right, you two little turncoats! I’ll stop drinking!”
Danalyn’s mouth dropped open. Thank you, God. You the god!
“If,” Lucy added ominously, “you help me out today. I’ll personally have a bonfire of booze and bottles tomorrow morning and check into the hospital right afterward. I swear on my mother’s grave.” Her right hand went up and rested over her heart solemnly. “But today, you’re mine. And so is his stuff.” She dug in her pocket for something, and then held up the silver key as if it were a cross.
Luke stared at the key. “His stuff,” he repeated. Then he glanced at the newspaper on the table. Then he looked his mother directly in the eyes. “You want us…to go clean out his house? Take all his stuff?” The tone of his voice bordered on the edge of disbelief combined with moral outrage.
Lucy shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his heated scrutiny. “For crying out loud,” she whined. “He owed us thousands of dollars in little loans to him and Granny over the years. He didn’t even pay for her funeral, the cheapskate prick. And,” Lucy added the ‘and’ on a note of exultant triumph as she thought of the clencher that would send Luke tumbling onto her side of the argument. “He felt up Mina when she was seven months pregnant!”
“Mother!” Danalyn protested violently.
Luke slammed both hands down on the table and made the cups and bottles parked there rattle with distress. “HE DID WHAT?”
Lucy backed into the counter holding her thermos of Hot Maple Moo protectively, the key clutched in between her fingers and the container. “At the Christmas party,” she said rapidly. “Mina was upset but since she slapped his face she figured he’d learned his lesson. Hah, like a little thing like a face slap would teach that lecherous old dog anything. She didn’t want you to go to jail for killing an old man like that. So we calmed her down before she went into premature labor.”
Luke’s face turned an ugly color of red.
Danalyn thought, Uh, God. That prayer I said before, can it also go for keeping my brother out of trouble, too? He’s a mite overprotective of his wife. And well, you know he means well. Thank you, God.
A terrible breath hitched in Luke’s chest once and the veins in his forehead threatened to explode before their very eyes. He took another deep breath and then a third one. The red in his face began to fade away. His gaze fastened onto the key held so ably in his mother’s house. “That his key?” he asked, gritting his teeth.
“Uh-huh,” his mother said carefully.
“Get in the truck, Mama,” Luke said slowly and methodically. “We’ll get everything we can haul away in my and Danalyn’s trucks. We’re going to do it in an hour and then I’ll unload it here. And then I never want to hear about it again. Never…ever…again. Tomorrow I’ll be by at eight am. We’re pouring every last ounce of alcohol out in the front drive right into the gravel right in front of God and everyone, if they so choose to watch. Then we’re going to the hospital and you’re going to stay for the whole four weeks. Every…last…day. Do you understand me, Mama?”
Lucy started to protest and then Danalyn cut in, “Do it, Mama.” Her voice abruptly became cold. “Because if you don’t, I’m leaving and you’ll never see me again. I’m tired of you being drunk. I’m tired of your complaining. I’ve had enough of morning orange juice and cream sherry, which is totally gross by the way. I’m sick of beer martinis, wine coolers, cheap wine, cheaper gin, and fucking Hot Maple Moo’s, for the love of God. The liquor store owner looks at me like I was a hound dog that just got run over in the street. So from now on, hang up on the creditors. You know damn well, you don’t owe a dime of his debts. Get sober, Mama, or this is the last straw.”
Luke looked at his sister with surprise in his face. Lucy stared at her daughte
r as if she had never seen her before.
Finally, Lucy swallowed convulsively and then said in a very mild voice, “All right.”
Luke said, “Let’s go.”
Then, Danalyn said, “I’ve got to stop and get a lottery ticket on the way back. Something’s telling me it’s a lucky day.”
“Shut up, Danalyn,” Lucy said irritably.
•
“That’s everything,” Luke said. “Mostly he had crap, but we took what was half-way decent. A few old guns, some medals, jewelry, and other junk. Can’t believe Greg Treadway gave us two hundred bucks for that rusting hulk in his garage. Least he came to get it instead of us hauling it off. He said it was an old Ford Model-T. Hey, money in the wallet.”
“That chest freezer’s pretty new,” Danalyn commented. “Got a few scratches on it but other than that, it’s fine.”
“And you’ve got the meat inside,” Luke said. “Plug it in before it defrosts. I bet an extension cord will reach out the back window to where we put the freezer. Think maybe the old fucker bagged himself a deer lately?”
Lucy had collapsed on the couch semi-conscious.
Danalyn shrugged. “Billy was in the home for a long time and then he went to a hospital about a month ago. If it’s a deer then it’s been in there for a while.”
Luke shrugged. “Meat might still be good,” he said. “Believe I’ll get some for Mina. She loves venison.” He glanced at his mother’s supine form and grimly added, “Make sure she’s ready tomorrow.”
“Even If I have to tie her to a chair and drag the chair down the stairs,” Danalyn said seriously.
“Did I ever tell you he tried to shoot me with a nail gun?” Lucy’s voice carried clearly across the living room and kitchen.
“Yes, Mama,” both children said obediently.
Luke took a deep cleansing breath and went out the door. Not sixty seconds later, he came back inside the trailer. Danalyn was cleaning off the kitchen table when she stopped to look at her brother. He looked dreadfully pale all of a sudden.
Luke stopped just inside the trailer and said, “That’s not deer meat.”
Danalyn’s face twisted. “Beef maybe? Or has it gone bad?”
“Not beef either,” he said slowly.
“What did he do, pick up some road kill?” Danalyn said with exasperation. “We’ll just put in the garbage on Tuesday.”
Luke held up something and it took a moment for Danalyn to comprehend what he was holding up. He had a broken-off, human hand and was holding in between his thumb and index finger as if it would suddenly come to life and bite him. It was icy blue with frost and the nails were uncut and yellow. Additionally the gnarled, frozen fingers were holding a tiny bit of grayish flesh in a grip that would have taken a mallet to break.
Uh, God, Danalyn thought, closing her eyes. Can I remind you about that prayer? It was wrong of us to take Billy’s stuff. It was very wrong and I’m real sorry about it. I promise I’ll take each and every bit of it back, if when I open my eyes that…thing…is gone from my brother’s hand.
Danalyn opened her eyes and Luke was still holding the frozen hand. She said very slowly, “God’s testing us.”
“Damn straight!” Lucy yelled from her half cognizant state on the couch.
Chapter Twenty-Two
From the unofficial notes of Detective-Sergeant Quinton Odom, Homicide Division, New Orleans, Louisiana, dated September, 1971:
Per request from DA pertaining William McCall confession/article in Deadman Detective magazine. See attached article.
1. Location of first victim named ‘Bob’ no-last name mentioned next to impossible. 1930 records spotty and no site is mentioned in the commission of the crime. Unable to find any record of stabbed man during the pertinent time period by the name of Bob, Robert, Rob, or other name that would fit the described event. Furthermore, suspect, William McCall, refused all requests for interviews with investigators.
2. Records of one Tyrone Payton do exist in New Orleans police archives. Two arrests and one conviction for assault, robbery, and pimping were recorded in the early 1930s. That Tyrone Payton served minimal time incarcerated and was released without exception. No mention of said individual exists being found in the Mississippi River or any part down river. Several John Doe’s who might fit in with the individual do not fit the described event. However, it is noted that no arrest records can be located for Tyrone Payton, or any Tyrone Payton who would be in a certain age range, past late 1931 to the present, indicating that he passed from the area or that he died in some manner undeterminable by this detective. Additionally, no missing persons reports were listed for the individual during that era. This includes searches for the states of Louisiana, Texas, Mississippi, and Alabama.
3. Records of a Mary Alice Williams and a Bartold Sudley conclude that they perished in a fire in 1934 near Vicksburg, Mississippi. A small dwelling was apparently completely destroyed in the fire and two sets of remains subsequently discovered. A spotty police report indicates that the man was identified by a single engraved ring that did not melt in the incident. Additionally, the dwelling was known to be the home of the same individual. Consequently, it was concluded by then authorities that the woman was Bartold Sudley’s common-law wife, Mary Alice Williams. The fire was decided to be accidental and the report determines that no foul play was indicative of the incident. An attempt to locate their burial sites failed in that both were buried in unidentified graves in a pauper’s cemetery.
4. Mr. McCall’s last victim was alleged to be Emmalee Torrance in 1939. Most of 1939’s police records were destroyed due to flooding caused by Hurricane Camille in 1969. There was a death record located for one Emmalee Mildred Torrance, aged thirty-five, for November 2nd, 1939, but it clearly states that the deceased died to natural causes. Having located this record, this detective searched out Emmalee Mildred Torrance’s burial location in order to exhume the remains. However, her burial location was listed as a pauper’s cemetery and the cemetery was also destroyed due to Hurricane Camille’s flooding.
In conclusion, despite William McCall’s journalistic ‘confession’ it is difficult, if not impossible, to ascertain if he is guilty of any crimes in New Orleans or any other venue for which he could be prosecuted. It is possible that in the future Miss Torrance’s remains can be located and exhumed to verify or discredit Mr. McCall’s story. Until that point in time, it is more appropriate to label Mr. McCall as a crank confessor, or one who brags of crimes that he has not committed to have more stature in the prison hierarchy. As Mr. McCall is incarcerated in a federal penitentiary at this time and, at the advanced age of seventy-one years, extremely unlikely to outlive his sentence, no further action is warranted at this time.
The Present
Wednesday, July 19th -
Sawdust City, Texas
“I swear on my basset hound’s grave,” Pascal Waterford said solemnly, “that Bayou Billy was there when I left and I was not intoxicated, unless you count the consumption of six Diet Dr. Pepper’s, a Slim Jim, and three Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups all having a detrimental impact on the high level of foreign chemicals in my bloodstream.”
Gibby Ross cast upon Pascal her most judicious face. “I didn’t know you had a basset hound,” she said idiotically.
“She died when I was twelve. Her name was Precious,” Pascal said, his eyes as round as an adolescent boy caught with his hand on his dad’s Playboy magazine collection. They were big, and gray, and just about to brim over with the threat of a nostalgic tear. “I buried her myself.”
“Hah. That was probably because she was too big to flush her down the toilet like your pet gerbil, Gladys.” Then she added slowly and precisely, “You hijacked Billy’s body from Rector’s Mortuary on Monday. Then Don Swancott swiped the body from you on Tuesday.” She dragged in a breath as if too tired to think about the ludicrousness of the acts being committed in the last days. “Some of Ophelia’s sons pinched it from Don the same day.” She sighed. “Th
en you filched it from them? And finally someone, an unknown, unidentified, mysterious someone, pilfered it from you? Just like that? Without anyone noticing or calling the cops or even saying, ‘What the hell are you doing? Who in the wide world of doodlitybop are you and why do you have your hands on a rotting corpse?’” She paused for an another breath and then went on relentlessly, “Bayou Billy was moving around more yesterday than a man with a dozen ice cubes in his britches. He got handled more than a condom machine in the public bathroom in a truck stop. I only wish my social life could be as active as a disintegrating, old bastard’s dead life.” Her hands threw themselves up into the air. She wasn’t sure if she was angry with Pascal or with the situation that was attaining an overwhelming hopelessness equivalent to an eighteen wheeler sliding down a ten percent, ice-covered grade. “Is everyone in this town deaf, dumb, and blind?”
“They had it in the trunk of a Mustang,” Pascal said protestingly, as if the make of the vehicle was responsible for its gruesome cargo. “It was…melting. Decomposing, even as we speak. Stuff was starting to fall off and it was stuff that isn’t supposed to fall off. It was my moral obligation to rescue that body from the foul acts of desecration being perpetrated upon it. It was my honorable requirement to preserve Billy’s body for future generations. No, it was my ethical contract to the people of Sawdust City to ensure that his remains were treated decently.”
Life and Death of Bayou Billy Page 28
