Life and Death of Bayou Billy

by Bevill, C. L.

  “You have to protect the cemetery, Delvin,” Ophelia said severely. “The river’s tearing it up. There won’t be anything left by morning.”

  Delvin hesitated with one hand holding a Sharpie. He was writing unit locations on a white board and concentrating on what needed to be done next. “The cemetery, Ophelia?” he said, turning back to his work. “No can do. The living comes first. The river’s broken five levees so far and we’ve got men sandbagging three sections where it’s about to pour into neighborhoods. And there are people still in those neighborhoods, Ophelia. Living, breathing people who need far more help than the dead ones in your precious cemetery.”

  Ophelia smoothed an errant strand of hair from her face. She looked at Delvin P. Overstreet for a minute. ‘Being nice’ to potential customers had become a way of life with Ophelia far before she took over the reins of Rector Mortuary. ‘Being nice’ made contacts and guaranteed vigorous commerce for the family business. ‘Being nice’ had ensured that funds continued to pour into her pet project, Albie Cemetery’s upkeep and beautification. ‘Being nice’ had provided the means to getting what she wanted ninety-five percent of the time.

  Delvin had been her companion several years before, when he had been a lieutenant colonel and a key component in the financial decisions of how that particular National Guard unit’s assets were spent. While she had ‘been nice’ to him, he had illegally directed the infrequent burial services that occurred in the unit to Rector Mortuary. He had also supplied troop support to occasional maintenance of Albie Cemetery. Furthermore, he had illicitly guided some fund-raising from the troops in order to supply Ophelia’s preservation society with much needed monies.

  A short man with a barrel chest and intense brown eyes, Ophelia had enjoyed his energetic companionship until there was little further that he could do for her. Then as she had done on numerous occasions, she had found a way to sever their relationship that continued Delvin’s good will toward her. ‘Staying friends’ was an essential element to Ophelia’s ‘being nice’ expertise.

  Manipulation, Ophelia had found, was a true art form.

  “You need to protect the cemetery,” Ophelia repeated, knowing that the finest points of manipulation could not be employed in this transitory state of affairs.

  Delvin stopped abruptly and glanced at Ophelia. No doubt he saw the wildness in her eyes, the surest sign that her tough veneer was beginning to crack like the frailest egg dropped from a tall building.

  The private hesitated in dialing a number and stared bug-eyed at both of them.

  “I’m not going to do that, Ophelia,” Delvin said softly.

  Ophelia thought about it and measured the best way to stage-manage the situation to her advantage. She saw that Delvin was deadly serious and knew that while he was not above putting a little extra in his own pocket or getting a blow-job from a still-attractive businesswoman in exchange for certain liberties that he was also dedicated to the service of being an officer. Ophelia wasn’t sure how he managed to equate the two in his head. Perhaps he had a way of compartmentalizing his riotously different sets of morals so that all was right in his world.

  Subtlety was going to be wasted on Delvin P. Overstreet. “I have copies of all the paperwork, Delvin,” she said evilly. “All of your signatures. All of your devious double-dealing on paper for the entire world to see. You’ll be court-martialed before you can count to three. Your wondrous military career will go down in a blaze of undignified villainy as you spent time in Fort Leavenworth digging rocks out of the ground next to murderers and rapists.”

  Delvin ground down with his teeth so hard that Ophelia was sure that one tooth cracked audibly. “Obviously, you haven’t thought that one through, Ophelia,” he said finally. “You’re incriminated as well. You won’t be immune to the impact of that revelation.” He spared a glance for the private and ordered loudly, “You don’t hear a thing now, Kreitzer!”

  “No, sir,” the private replied promptly and began to urgently dial again.

  Ophelia shrugged delicately. “I’m having a terrible week with legal…issues. One more won’t matter, and besides which, I can simply say that it was your decision to make. Your…infatuation with me. After I’m just a fragile, southern flower under the influence of a hardened military officer. By the way, how is your wife, Sophia, isn’t it?”

  More teeth ground. “I won’t do it,” he growled. “Don’t you understand? Other people are in danger. They could die because you want that precious cemetery protected instead.”

  Ophelia wanted to grind her teeth just as the colonel was doing. No threat was going to sway him in this precarious situation. She had overplayed her hand. When a man had nothing to lose then he was apt not to play. Delvin saw it as a simply choice: he could be court-martialed for embezzlement of federal monies or he could be court-martialed for causing the deaths of dozens of human beings. Ophelia didn’t present herself as the greater threat. She had no power over the colonel and it was galling.

  It was a situation she would have never been in, except for an overbearing, arrogant, slimy politician who believed his rights were stronger than hers. Than Ophelia Rector’s!

  As if, she thought. As if any man is better than I am. I’m more intelligent and devious and able to do anything I want. And I won’t let Pascal Waterford get away with it. Her left hand touched the Magnum .44 in her belt and while contemplating the location in which she stood, another germ of an idea came to her.

  Delvin continued to stare at her. His eyes dipped to the weapon and he was noticeably less than impressed.

  “If you won’t do that, Delvin,” she said calmly. “Then I believe there is something else you can do for me.”

  •

  Delvin P. Overstreet had been cooperative in Ophelia’s second demand. After she had loaded what he had given her into the Suburban, he said, “If you get caught with it, Ophelia, I didn’t give it to you. You had a gun and you took it. Do you understand?”

  Ophelia only paused to sneer at him expressively. And she drove off into the rain and wind, leaving the colonel barely standing erect in the pounding might of hurricane storms. She reached the two lane bridge that crossed the Sabine River and found that the water was cresting over the stone sides and that the far side could barely be seen through the gusts of rain.

  Of course, it didn’t stop her. It only slowed her down a little.

  •

  Sawdust City, Texas

  Ophelia pulled up to Pascal’s house and surveyed it with no little amount of satisfaction. She did, however, note that the mayor’s Ford Expedition was absent. It didn’t matter. She was going to have a little fun in what had become the most dismal week of her entire life.

  Next door she could see a very frail looking individual wrapped up in a purple rain slicker and a matching rain hat with large plastic flowers on top. Bright yellow rain boots completed the ensemble. The individual was throwing something on the driveway as Ophelia drove past and watched as Ophelia parked.

  Ophelia got out of the Chevy and made her way to the rear where she opened the back door.

  An elderly voice said, “He’s not home, you know.”

  Ophelia looked and saw that the purple raincoat and matching hat belonged to an elderly woman with faded eyes. “I assumed that,” she said to the older woman. Then she took the M-16 out that Delvin had provided to her.

  The elderly woman said, “I was feeding the cats when he left for work. Apparently, there’s a big fuss about the weather.”

  The M203PI grenade launcher came out of the back next. It was a little awkward with the cast on Ophelia’s right hand so the older woman amicably held the M-16 while Ophelia snapped the device onto the larger weapon. It clicked into place.

  “Name’s Thomasina Worth, by the way,” Thomasina said cordially. “This is a fine deer hunting rifle. I often get a hankering for venison stew. It reminds me of the time my father went hunting and shot the sheriff in the foot instead. We didn’t have venison very often
after that.”

  “You’d be Thaddeus Worth’s wife, then?” Ophelia asked politely, taking the weapon back.

  “Oh, no, dear,” Thomasina said. “Sister. I’m not married and never have been. His wife died years ago. What exactly does that thingymajig do there?”

  “It’s a M203PI grenade launcher, Miss Worth,” Ophelia explained, having just listened to the information not a half hour before. “It attaches to many different kinds of weapons and can be used for smoke grenades, flash grenades, gas grenades, and most importantly, high explosive grenades. The PI stands for product improvement, although I don’t have a basis for comparison on what the company did to actually improve the apparatus.”

  “Do tell, dear,” Thomasina said. “I don’t suppose you hunt deer with that, then. Wouldn’t be much left to put into a stew.”

  “Oh, no, Miss Worth, I would never hunt a deer with this,” Ophelia assured her. She held the weapon under her right arm and awkwardly reached inside the Suburban to find the 40mm HE grenade cartridges that Delvin had supplied her with. She found the belt and extracted one. Then with Thomasina’s assistance she inserted it into the M203PI with a click. “I think that’s the right way,” she said.

  “Well, it’s been pleasant chatting with you, dear,” Thomasina said, staggering under the force of a gust that nearly shoved her on her derriere. “However, I’ve got cats to feed and the meat I’m using is very hard to chop up. I’ve ruined my blender with it, you know. Now I’m trying the food processor and since my fool of a brother won’t help, you know he wouldn’t let me continue to feed the cats cereal, I’m having to shave chunks off and microwave them so that they’re soft. But the power went out and well, since Thaddeus is digging a hole in the flower garden in the back, if I want something done, I’ll have to do it myself.”

  Ophelia braced the weapon under her right arm and aimed the end of the weapon at Pascal’s house. “Of course, I understand,” Ophelia said graciously. “Would you might pulling this trigger for me. Yes, right there.”

  The weapon made an immediate poofing noise and the recoil knocked Ophelia onto her butt. The cartridge ejected and splashed into the ongoing stream of water that was the street. It was followed by a loud explosion and the middle of Pascal’s house burst into flames. Thomasina civilly helped her up and they both watched the house burn.

  “Well,” Thomasina said. “That’s one way of dealing with a politician. I’ve never liked Pascal much. He’s a foul Democrat, you know and he drinks. However, I am a good neighbor. When he asked to borrow something a few days ago I certainly let him.”

  Ophelia got another 40mm grenade cartridge and with Thomasina’s aid, repeated the inelegant process of loading the weapon. “If you’d be so kind, Miss Worth, as to pull that trigger again,” she said.

  “Why don’t you aim for the dining room, dear?” Thomasina suggested. “He’s got wretched taste in furniture and when he borrowed Thaddeus’s truck last Monday night he scratched the bed and he got mud on the license plates.” As Ophelia moved the weapon in the direction that Thomasina indicated, Thomasina pulled the trigger again.

  Another poof ensued and Ophelia was able to stay on her feet. She nodded satisfactorily at the nearly immediate loss of Pascal’s dining room and went for a third 40mm grenade cartridge. This time she took out Pascal’s garage. A few minutes later the house fell to the ground in a blaze of rushing flames apparently undiminished by the rushing wind and rain. Nodding, she put the weapon back into the Suburban and shut the door. She noticed that Thaddeus Worth stumbled around the corner of his house, holding a filthy shovel in his hand, and staring at the smoking, glowing ruins of Pascal’s house as if he wasn’t sure if his eyes were working correctly.

  Thomasina stood contemplating the fire. Then she looked at Ophelia, “Oh, hello. Pascal’s not home, you know. As a matter of fact, I think his house is gone. I think that’s his house. My name is Thomasina Worth, dear. You’re getting dreadfully wet.”

  “Miss Worth,” Ophelia said, unperturbed. “Did you say that Pascal borrowed your brother’s truck on Monday and that your brother was digging a hole in the back yard?”

  “Did I say that?” Thomasina asked innocently.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  From Letters to the Editor, The Shreveport Herald-Post, March 11, 1999:

  Dear Editor John T. Sidwell:

  I hear tell you keap teeling folks that I be dead. Far from it, I ain’t be dead yet. I be havin no part of being dead. Come to point, I be living life like I’m the king of the world. I aims to see what hapens in the next milleneeum and I aims to keep on chasing the skirts I done be seeing paraided in front of me like I was some old peece of dirt. I know I’m a wiked and evle man who be not wort an onse of human compasion. Ones I stole bread from a orphanage and onse I spat upon a beggar who only wanted a cown. I put a gun up to the head of a litle babe on acount that his papa had somethin’ I be wanting. I even slept with a twenty-two year old girl last week and had her hollaring with hapiness.

  Don’ be writin’ ‘bout me no more if you have a worry in your sorree litle noggin ‘bout weather you wil wake up in the morning. I still have my old shootin’ iron and I don’ doubt but that I kin use it quite goodly. I kin hit a target from a 150 feet away. I kin kil a fly that is bothering the nose of a fowl-smellin’ coon dog from the other side of the yard. I kin take care of meddlin’ , meelymouted nosey parker like you if in I be having to take you down by the chicken coop with a leather strop and give you a lashin’ you ain’t to be forgettin’ no time soon.

  Too many peeples take this old man for granted. I aims to make it clear ain’t no one messin’ with Bayou Billy. Not whilst I was a outlaw. Not whilst I was on the lam. Not whilst I was in the fed pen. Not whilst I was trying to make it on the outside. And specially not now.

  I hope a gator craws up into your bed one night, Mr. Sidwel and shows you all his teeth up close and reel personal like. I reckon he wil explain all bout being a fool. Best not come down Albie or Sawdust City way, I wood advise, else you might catch me in a trulee fowl mood.

  Regards from a reel outlaw,

  William Douglas McCall also nown as Bayou Billy

  P.S. Johny, go take a long jump in a litle pudle you twiterpated pissant

  The Present

  Friday, July 21st

  Sawdust City, Texas

  “It was a boa constrictor,” Pascal Waterford said earnestly. “It was as thick around as my thigh. It had green eyes and red stripes and I’m pretty sure it was thinking I’d taste just like a piece of fried chicken for its dinner.”

  “It was a tree branch and it was about as thick around as my wrist,” Gibby Ross said steadily. “Listen, we probably saved Decker Street, so forget about the stupid branch.”

  “Eight feet of water in City Hall’s basement, we can make a swimming pool out of Third Street and Baxter Avenue, and I’m pretty sure I saw Doc Montague’s house floating down the river. At least I don’t think that was an alcoholic-deprived delusion.” Pascal rubbed his eyes tiredly. Gibby was driving the Expedition and they were headed back to his house to see how that side of town was faring. Alongside a contingent of hardy souls who had stayed behind in Sawdust City, they had spent the last eight hours putting sand into bags and emplacing the bags into the most urgent locations. His back burned and his arms felt like jelly, but despite the omnipresent irritation of shadowy critters creeping in his peripheral vision and his violently shaking limbs, he felt good.

  “We probably saved the historical district, and does Doc have a white colonial? Because I thought he lived in a wooden ranch,” Gibby said as she negotiated a wide swath of water that was cascading down the street upon which they drove. Then she drove up on a sidewalk to avoid a decimated and vertically challenged tree.

  “It looked like his house,” Pascal insisted and closed his eyes. Hurricane Alexa was now Tropical Storm Alexa and would probably turn into Tropical Depression Alexa within the immediate, subsequent hours. It had moved from Tex
as into Arkansas and was headed northeast at a steady pace where it would flood other municipalities until their mayors tore all their hair by the roots. Not that Alexa’s departure was particularly helpful in that the water distributed by the storm would be flowing through their area for the next week. Furthermore, the damage would be dealt with for months and in some cases, years.

  He opened his eyes as Gibby slowed for a deeper stretch of water. The water was the color of chocolate churned up with bits of debris that ranged from wooden crates to kitty litter boxes. Trees had lost bits and pieces and no solitary shrub had been left untouched. Houses were missing shingles, windows, and in one case, an entire garage. Various yard implements had simply blown away to parts unknown. A house on his left was all boarded up and some creative soul had painted a large frowny face and the angry declarative, ‘Alexa’s a big HO.’

  Gibby said, “What’s a ‘ho?’”

  Pascal smiled and closed his eyes again.

  When she began to slow again, he settled into the leather seat and hoped that his house wasn’t too waterlogged. Then Gibby said, “Uh, Pascal. I hope you’re insured.”

  Pascal really didn’t want to open his eyes. That would entail dealing with the horrendous onslaught of reality. Having been caught up in the frenzied mêlée to obtain the corpse of a well-known criminal in order to promote tourism dollars for the city, he had blinded himself to everything else. To be perfectly precise, he had pretty much been extraordinarily insensible to the fact that a humongous hurricane was bearing down on them like a dieting fat woman searching out the ice cream section of the supermarket. Lord, how that jiggler has bounced back to bite me on my stupid, arrogant ass.