Life and Death of Bayou Billy

by Bevill, C. L.

  The three people unloaded, mostly the two younger ones unloaded while the middle aged woman tottered and tripped over her feet. They dragged the freezer around to the back of the trailer. The chest freezer, although small, wouldn’t fit through the tiny door of the doublewide. They finished with what they had and went inside. After a length of time, the young man came out and went back to the freezer. Then slowly he came back around the back and went back inside the trailer. He was holding something that Thaddeus couldn’t see in his hand.

  Kid looks like a snake bit him on the coconuts, Thaddeus thought. Was it possible that they didn’t know what they had in the freezer? That they had simply taken it, contents and all, and abruptly the young man had checked out the contents and discovered something quite grisly?

  After another short period of time both younger people lurched outside and both went around to where the freezer was located.

  That’s a big I-firmative, Thaddeus decided. He frowned. That was going to put a damper on the situation. What were they going to do? Call the police? Most certainly that would be the normal reaction. Durn. Durn it all to heck.

  Thaddeus had his hand on the keys in his ignition when they came back around to where the young man’s truck was located and argued at length. The young man crossed his arms resolutely over his chest and shook his head emphatically. The young woman pleaded and pointed at the back of the trailer. Then he slashed his hand through the air and Thaddeus could tell that he had made his decision and it was final.

  If they ain’t gonna call the police then what in blazes are they gonna do? Thaddeus stared intently. He got out of the truck and walked into the trailer park, trying to get close enough to hear what the pair was discussing.

  He heard, “She’s so drunk she isn’t going to wake up for a month of Sundays!” from the young man.

  “Luke,” the young woman said insistently. “This is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. We can’t do that. It’s illegal and…it’s immoral. Did you have to take a picture of it with a newspaper?”

  “Thank god for cell-phone cameras and I’ll do it alone, then,” Luke said adamantly.

  “Oh, I can’t let you do that alone,” she said immediately.

  “Make up your mind, Danalyn, I reckon the mayor will pay out the nose to get that good old boy back in one piece,” Luke said fiercely.

  “He isn’t in one piece!”

  “Semantics,” he said. Suddenly Luke looked around and stared at Thaddeus suspiciously.

  Thaddeus, was thinking fast, and said, “Listen, folks. Looking for the Grove place. Edward P. Grove, a fellow VFW and head of our Korean War Monument committee. You happen to know which trailer he’d be in?”

  Danalyn said, “I don’t know anyone named Grove in this trailer park. I bet you want the one down the street.”

  Thaddeus stared. “I’m a mite deaf, dear. Can you say that again?”

  “YOU WANT THE TRAILER PARK DOWN THE ROAD!”

  Wincing, Thaddeus nodded and went back to his truck. The pair had decided he was harmless and weren’t paying attention. They argued for a bit and finally Danalyn nodded. Both got into their vehicles and drove off, not even noticing Thaddeus sitting in his Ford truck.

  Lot of not noticing me going on today, he thought with satisfaction. The wheels in Thaddeus’s head went clickity-clickity-clack. The pair was gone. The woman inside the trailer was passed out drunk, which explained her earlier behavior. The chest freezer with the prize was around back.

  No time like the present to get things done. Thaddeus smiled broadly, showing a pearly white double row of dentures. He drove into the trailer park, backed the truck into the drive way of the correct doublewide, and obtained that which would make him happiest. While he was loading the body into the back of the truck because dolly or not the freezer was too heavy for him to move alone, he noticed an old bag of fertilizer. Perhaps the pair won’t be of a mind to look in the freezer again. Who wants to look at a rotting corpse and all that? So he heaved the dusty, moldy bag up and dumped it into the freezer. When they moved it they’d be thinking that the freezer was still occupied with Mr. Bayou Billy and won’t Pascal be getting a big surprise?

  Just before he shut the door, Thaddeus looked hard at the fertilizer and decided that the snapping turtles wouldn’t be getting Billy’s body after all.

  It was that old Korean porter in the military hospital who put Thaddeus in the mind of using Billy for something other than a bargaining point. The aged Korean gentleman had sworn up and down that human bodies made the best fertilizer for his flowers. Thaddeus nodded. It couldn’t hurt to try it out.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  From Transitions, pg. 13, Eclipse Magazine, July 10, 1985:

  Died. William ‘Bayou Billy’ McCall, 85. The notorious and former fugitive from U.S. Federal authorities died last Thursday of natural causes. Bayou Billy was responsible for the robbery of the Northern Belle Queen in 1930 and the destruction of a federal post office building during his escape. He remained a federal fugitive on the top ten list of the FBI’s most wanted list until his wife turned him in exchange for the reward money. By his own account, he was responsible for the deaths of five persons during his lawless career. Ultimately, he was granted a Presidential pardon from a federal penitentiary at the age of 77 by President Gerald R. Ford.

  From Corrections, pg. 115, Eclipse Magazine, July 17, 1985:

  Correction. It was incorrectly reported in last week’s edition that William ‘Bayou Billy’ McCall had died. Mr. McCall remains alive in Sawdust City, Texas, where he lives. He hasn’t died yet.

  The Present

  Thursday, July 20th

  Sawdust City, Texas

  “Why did you tell him that you didn’t have the money?” Gibby Ross asked virulently and for the fifth time.

  “I don’t have the money,” Pascal Waterford replied reasonably. “Sawdust City doesn’t have the money. You don’t have the money. I doubt if the bank down the street has the money.”

  “You could have lied to him,” Gibby said. “I mean, anyone who calls himself John Holmes and calls from a public payphone to ransom a dead criminal’s body and threatens to Cuisinart the remains and throw them to the catfish can’t be all that smart.”

  “Hey, come on, he used the word, ‘Cuisinart,’ correctly.” Pascal grimaced, nearly ashamed to realize that he knew what the word, ‘Cuisinart,’ meant, too. “Gibby,” he added in a graver tone. “I’m desperate. I’ve lied to the authorities. I’m ready to admit I’ve committed more crimes in the past week than I have in my entire life. I’ll state unequivocally that I’m a rotten politician and should have my butt stapled to the underside of an eighteen wheeler headed nonstop from Los Angeles to New York City. But, and here’s the really important part, we don’t even know that John Holmes, AKA the guy who done-did call us with a payoff demand, has the body.”

  “He said he’d send a picture through the email,” Gibby protested.

  “Sawdust City does not have internet,” Pascal reminded her gently. “And how do you know he wouldn’t send you a picture of his half-decayed dog that got hit by his grandmother backing her Lincoln up in the driveway?”

  Gibby stamped her foot on the floor. “I hate it when you make sense. I suppose he could have sent it to my house. But we still don’t have the money.”

  Pascal tossed the newspaper he was holding onto her desk. “Look at the front page. Two cities are fighting tooth and nail for the right to bury a dead guy. This guy on the phone, John flipping Holmes, is, at this very moment in time, calling Rector Mortuary and asking for their best offer. And unlike us, Ophelia’s got cash in the bank and, I believe I can say this without a hitch in my voice, fewer morals than I do.” He considered. “Possibly she has no morals.”

  Gibby sat down in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. Her wonderfully green eyes glittered at him and Pascal had to repress a sudden urge to kiss her on her beautifully full and berry-bright lips. Where did I ever have the idea that she was
homely? he asked himself urgently. When did I suddenly become a poet?

  “You’re adorable,” he said sincerely.

  Gibby stared at him. “You’re a hopeless idiot,” she said. Then she muttered under her breath, “but thank you.”

  “How about a little quickie?” he whispered, jerking his head toward his office. “I’ll be the bad-boy mayor and you can be my innocent secretary who walks in on me my yanking my willy. I’ll even wear my get-your-woody-serviced-here tie.”

  Gibby gasped and sputtered in indignation, “Your Honor.”

  Pascal leaned over her desk and leered appropriately. “Come on, baby. I’ll let you spank me.”

  Her lips quivered and he thought he almost had her. Then Gibby sat up straight. “His relatives,” she barked suddenly.

  “I’m not spanking his relatives,” Pascal said firmly. “I don’t think you should either.”

  “Someone went to his house and cleaned it out,” Gibby said. “They took the freezer, saw what was inside and called you for a ransom.”

  “I guess I’m not getting lucky right now,” Pascal muttered. “Okay, they cleaned him out. Literally as well as figuratively. Then they called me. And I’m pretty sure they’re calling Ophelia Rector right now. So what?”

  Gibby tapped her fingernails on the desk. “Gracie Marcus,” she announced triumphantly.

  “Gracie Marcus,” Pascal repeated. “I didn’t sleep with her. Unless we’re talking about someone who lied about her name for the purposes of illicit, mind-numbing, meaningless sex. Which I don’t remember ever happening to me, except once in the nineties and that was at an REO Speedwagon concert. Enough said.”

  “Silly,” Gibby said. “She’s eighty-five years old and she lives next to Bayou Billy. She’s in my book club.”

  “She’s in your book club,” Pascal said. “You ever hear that joke about God saying to man that when He made man that He had good news and bad news.” He didn’t wait for Gibby to respond. “The good news was that He gave man a brain and a penis. The bad news was that man doesn’t have the blood supply to run both at the same time.” He pointedly indicated his helmeted Darth Vader.

  Gibby appeared confused at the inane simile.

  “I’m thinking with my spunky monkey now,” Pascal explained impatiently. “Not my brain.”

  “Gracie is a busy body,” Gibby said after a moment. “She might have seen who was at Billy’s house.”

  “Oh,” Pascal said understandingly. “And we can go to them instead of waiting for the bomb to drop on us.”

  “Bingo,” Gibby said. She grabbed her phone book and her telephone and got to business. “Gracie,” she said firmly. “This is-”

  Gibby stopped and Pascal heard loud chattering from the other end of the line even though he was feet away. “Gracie, I know you’re having one of those days,” Gibby interrupted. “It’s Gibby Ross, dear. I’m in your book group. BOOK GROUP, Gracie! I’m not a representative from the Texas State Troopers Association or the National Republican Committee. And I’m definitely not a member of the UFO Research Association.”

  More chattering ensued. Gibby’s eyes rolled. Finally, she said, “Gracie, we’re not reading Lady Chatterley’s Lover again. And I’m not reading anything by Sidney Sheldon, either.” She paused. “Screw Stephen King, too.” More chattering, very irritated, annoyed chattering. “Okay, maybe Nora Roberts.”

  Gibby shook her head as if to clear it. “Listen, dear, did you happen to see anyone over at Billy’s house in the last couple of days?”

  Pascal heard animated chattering that seemed to go on and on and on. He thought he might fall over before it ended. Gibby kept saying, “Uh, huh,” and “Oh, I see,” at appropriate intervals. She finally covered the phone with her hand and looked at Pascal, “She saw you. Also she saw us.” She listened to the phone some more.

  “Two trucks, did you say?” Gibby asked. Chatter. Chatter. Chatter. “Oh,” Gibby said. “I see. Well thank you, Gracie. See you at the next meeting. Oh, you’re going to Dallas right now? I don’t know any Alexa, dear.” Gibby didn’t wait for a response as she quickly added, “Well, have a nice visit.” Then, she hung up the phone and sighed.

  “Well,” Pascal asked.

  “Apparently, there was a party at Billy’s house and everyone in town cruised by to visit. There was your Expedition there on Tuesday. Twice. There were two trucks parked there yesterday. A mini-truck and a bigger pick-up truck. There were three people. Two women and one man. They loaded up everything they could in the back of the two trucks, including the chest freezer, waited for another man with a flatbed truck to show up and he loaded up the old car from Billy’s garage and left. Then the first three drove off.” Gibby chewed on her lower lip. “Gracie said there was another pick-up truck that followed them. Then we were there.”

  “Well, doggie biscuits deep-fried with okra,” Pascal said. “People with trucks. That doesn’t narrow it down much, does it?”

  Gibby cast Pascal a certain look. He examined the look, digested it, and took a step back. If ever he’d seen a woman who was about to let something go that would knock him on his metaphorical potcharooney, this was the one.

  She said, “The first pick-up truck had a name of a company on the doors.”

  Pascal waited for it.

  “Jones Construction,” Gibby smiled as she breathed the words. “Some asinine blackmailers and corpse-nappers, huh?”

  “Jones,” he repeated distastefully. Pascal thought that perhaps he had all the information that he needed now. Why he had the information was the distasteful part. A mayor of a town, even a small town, knows a lot of people. Most people he knows are connected to the business of running the town. More people are purely constituents and interested in local city government. A few more are people who are involved in community activism and demand the support of the mayor in their endeavors.

  Pascal didn’t know the name, Jones, by any of those associations. No, he knew the name Jones because when it all came down to the basest nitty gritty, he was a drunk, and drunks know other drunks. It was the drunk rule. Where did a drunk go to get drunk? Some drink at home. Some drink alone in their cars as they drive from the ten or so various liquor stores they visit on a random basis. Others drink at bars. Most drunks drink at dives. The divier the better.

  I’m not a drunk, he thought. I can stop any time I want. I only drink at night. I only do it to relax. How can I not drink around the guys in the bar? It’s rude to refuse a drink. And whoa, Nellie, we all have to die sometimes.

  Gibby was looking at him oddly so he excused himself and went to his private bathroom. There he shut the door carefully and looked at the floor until he had placed himself squarely in front of the small mirror above the vanity. Then his eyes slowly came up and met the eyes of his cheeky reflection.

  His reflection sneered at Pascal. It was really good at that. “Most drunks drink at dives? The divier the better? I can stop any time I want? You dumbshitted, fuck-brained, poor excuse for a clusterfuck.”

  Pascal’s mouth watered for a beer. An icy cold draft in one of those mugs that had chips of frost dripping off it and when held in his hands made him want to shiver. How long has it been since I’ve had a drink?

  “Two beers on Monday before you went to snatch the sniff, cunt-brained, window-licking, porpoise abuser,” the reflection answered sarcastically. “Today being Thursday, that’s about three days. Seventy-two hours, you tea-bagging, chunky-breathed, rhinoceros stew. What’s the problem now, pimple butt?”

  “My hands are shaking,” Pascal said.

  The reflection glanced down at his hands unimpressed. “Wait until you start seeing spiders crawling up your legs, fart-sniffing, psychotic dog barf.”

  “I know who Jones is,” Pascal said. “I shouldn’t know.”

  “Yeah, you got drunk with her at least a half-dozen times, you brain-dead, loaf of rotting cabbage leaves. So what?”

  Pascal’s eyes twitched, as if he were looking over his shoulder,
looking around to make certain that someone in particular wasn’t listening. But it was more than that. “Did you ever-” he started to say to his reflection and then let it trail off uncertainly.

  “Goober,” his reflection said. “You sticky leprosy scab. You industrial strength pile of infected baboon vomit. You uneducated wheelbarrow of corpulent pig poop. Do you think she would have slept with you if she didn’t have some kind of feelings for you?”

  “Maybe it was a pity fuck,” Pascal said morosely.

  “Fuck your pity fuck, you sycophantic gob of greasy, grimy gopher guts.”

  “What if-” Pascal started to say but was interrupted by, “Don’t go there, you flabby blob of moldy cigarette butts. Just go tell her she’s one hot mama and you’ll buy her roses later and go find Bayou Billy before your mystery porn star slices and dices him into julienne strips like a crazy Veg-O-Matic.”

  “Pascal?” came Gibby’s voice. “I really hate to interrupt you but Gracie called me back. She said the truck that followed the three people in the other trucks was there at the house on Tuesday and it was following the Expedition, too.”

  His reflection nodded gravely and jerked its head toward the door. Pascal sighed and turned away. He opened the door and asked peremptorily, “Did she say that there was a company logo on that one too?”

  Gibby looked behind him as if she expected to see someone else in the bathroom. “It was dark blue,” she said concisely.

  Pascal nodded. “Okay, sometimes it pays to know nearly everyone in your community. First, we’re going to see Lucy Jones. I’m assuming you want to come.”

  “Lucy Jones?” Gibby nodded firmly. “Well, there’s something else, too.”