by Ann B. Ross
I believed in giving credit where credit is due, and Mr. Pickens deserved to be commended for his efforts on my behalf, as well as for not smearing us all over the highway. Coleman deserved praise, as well, and Little Lloyd’s eyes got even bigger when he heard about our escort.
Mr. Pickens pushed his way through the crowd and pulled Hazel Marie close. “Hey, honey. Glad you’re back.” He ruffled Little Lloyd’s hair, then said, “Anybody hungry? That barbeque’s waiting for us.”
“Let’s go eat,” Sam said. “They’ve got it set up under a tent outside. Come on, Julia, you need feeding.”
“You run on, Sam,” I said, looking around for Mary Alice. I caught sight of her waving over the crowd. “I’ll join you in a few minutes, but right now I have to help Mary Alice go over the figures.”
Pushing and sidling through the crowd, I made my way to Mary Alice, who was waiting for me next to the bar, the busiest and most raucous area in the place.
“Back here, Miss Julia,” Mary Alice said. “Red’s letting us use his office. I’ve got everything ready to tally up.”
We walked through a narrow hall, past the men’s and ladies’ rooms, meeting one bleary-eyed biker coming out of the former. When Mary Alice closed the door of the office behind us, there was a considerable lessening of noise, I’m happy to say. Counting money is a serious business, and we needed no distractions. The tiny space held a desk, stacked with invoices, order sheets, and a hubcap filled with stale cigarette stubs. A large executive chair loomed behind the desk, looking as old as the hills, and boxes of who-knew-what were stacked around the room. Posters, calendars, and notices covered the walls, and I’m not even going to mention the scantily clad models shown on most of them. Some of their poses were absolutely scandalous, and I was surprised they could get away with putting something like that on public view.
“Where are we, Mary Alice?” I asked, as she sat behind the desk and I drew one of the straight chairs closer to her.
She opened the ledger and the folder that she’d brought with her. Then she set a small calculator next to the ledger. “Let’s see, now,” she began. “Red had all the registration money counted by the time I got back. It’s here in this sack.” She pulled out a bank bag from her tote bag, and held it up. “We had sixty-five riders, paying twenty-five dollars each. So that makes sixteen-hundred and twenty-five dollars.”
She entered that into the ledger, as my shoulders slumped. That amount wasn’t going to get us far.
“Okay,” she went on. “Let’s start at the top. We have that first fifty thousand from Mr. Jones.”
“Yes, and here’s the second check,” I said, handing her the one I’d nearly broken my neck to get. “That makes one hundred thousand.”
She put the check in the bank bag and added the amount to her ledger. “I’ve already deposited, let me see, sixty thousand that Mr. Sam collected from various people around town—businessmen and the like.”
“One hundred and sixty thousand,” I said, trying to keep a running account in my head. “Plus the registration money. That’s, um, one hundred sixty-one thousand and what?”
“Six hundred twenty-five,” she said, even before the calculator confirmed it. “Now, let’s count up the sponsorships for the lady riders, at a thousand dollars a pop.” She giggled at the thought. “Mrs. Ledbetter has eleven thousand, if you can believe. A lot of people wanted to see her ride. Mrs. Conover has three thousand, and Mrs. Stroud pulled in three. The garden club went all out for her. Norma Cantrell has two thousand, and you brought in six, not counting Mr. Jones’s big checks, of course. Hazel Marie has four thousand, and I brought in three.” She giggled again. “My boyfriend donated most of that. He’s so sweet. Then, a Mrs. Hoffman—I don’t know her—brought in two thousand, which I heard her husband paid after daring her to ride. Then three others from the church got a thousand apiece, making three thousand. Look at this, Miss Julia,” she said, turning the ledger for me to see. “The Harleys for Heaven brought in a cool six thousand. Those Baptists really support what they believe in.” She pushed the hair out of her eyes, and banged away at the calculator. I’d given up trying to keep count in my head by this time.
“The Young People’s group at church donated fifty-five dollars from their car wash and leaf raking,” she went on. “Then various others gave a total of twenty-four hundred and eighty dollars, and the folks who live on Willow Lane and Reverend Abernathy’s church came up with eleven hundred and thirty-five dollars. And that’s it.” She raised her head and looked at me. “Now, for the grand total.” Clearing her calculator and putting it to work again, she started adding up the sums. Then she sat back and blew out her breath. “Well, I get a grand total of two hundred eight thousand, two hundred ninety-five dollars in all. Wow, this is wonderful. We only have forty-one thousand, seven hundred and five dollars to go. But the home tour is still to come, so maybe we can make it.”
“I doubt the home tour will bring in more than a couple of thousand,” I said, thinking that even if it proved more lucrative than that, I didn’t have the time to wait for it. My house was on the line. “Add another forty thousand to the grand total.”
Mary Alice frowned. “Where does that come from?”
“I am swearing you to secrecy, Mary Alice,” I said. “Thurlow Jones promised an additional ten thousand dollars for every woman over fifty who’d participate in the Poker Run. None of them know about that stipulation, and I wouldn’t announce their names for anything in the world. I’m not even going to tell you who they are, but I figure there’re at least four who qualify, with a few years to spare, and I intend to get another check from Thurlow tonight.”
Mary Alice started laughing so hard she could hardly do her sums. “I bet I could guess who they are,” she said. Then, seeing my face, she added, “But I won’t.”
When she got back to business and added everything up, she said, “Okay, the final tally is two hundred forty-eight thousand, two hundred and ninety-five. Surely the home tour will bring in the last seventeen hundred and five dollars.”
“I can’t wait for that,” I said, pulling out my checkbook and writing a check for the last amount. “Count it up again, Mary Alice, and let’s be sure.”
She did, then said, “Okay, we’ve got it, all except that forty thousand you said Mr. Jones would give.”
“I’ll go get it right now,” I said, standing and preparing myself to approach Thurlow again. “Now, Mary Alice, you guard that money with your life over the weekend. Then get it in the bank the minute it opens Monday morning.” I turned to leave, then thought of something else. “Oh, one more thing. Why don’t you find the Reverend Abernathy and ask him to announce the final tally tonight? A good many Willow Lane folks’re here, so there’s no reason to keep them in the dark any longer.”
She agreed, and I left, intent on tracking down Thurlow and getting the whole money-raising campaign wrapped up. Walking out into the restaurant, I found a number of men and women still at the bar, and all the tables filled with people eating barbeque. Not seeing anybody I knew, I walked out into the parking lot and was drawn, shivering in the damp night air, to the large open space on the side by the sound of a live band. There was a misty fog in the air that formed haloes around the pole lights. Long tables had been set up, and lines of people were going down each side, filling plates. I saw Little Lloyd and Sam in one line, and I started toward them.
Before I’d made more than a few steps, Thurlow Jones stepped out from a row of parked motorcycles. I couldn’t help but jump back a little, not wanting to be too close in case he had a sudden relapse.
“Well, Mrs. Julia Springer,” he said. “Off that motorcycle and not a bit worse for it.”
“You’re just the man I’m looking for, Thurlow.”
Even though we stood half in the shadows, I saw him throw back his shoulders and preen a little. “I figured you’d come around,” he said. “Most women do.”
“I’m not most women, as you ought to know by now,�
�� I told him. “And I’ve come around to get another check from you.”
“Good Lord, woman! Haven’t you gotten enough from me? I’m about bled dry, to say nothing of being weak as water from drinking outta that spring. I tell you, I never had such a run of bad luck as I got from that stuff.” He cackled at the remembrance of his heretofore unknown condition of unparalleled growth, then he went on. “ ’Course, I thought I’d hit the jackpot at first, but it turned sour on me. Now, if I could just figure out the right dosage, it’d be a boon to mankind.”
I had no desire whatsoever to listen to the intimate details of his mysterious malady, and was mortally offended that he wanted to share them with me.
“I heard about your indisposition,” I said, trying to sound sympathetic while moving away from the specific subject. “But that should teach you not to go putting everything you see in your mouth. You ought to see what it did to Lillian’s snowball bush. Still, you’ve done us all a good turn. Clarence Gibbs was intending to fob that water off on an unsuspecting public, and what happened to you—I don’t need any details—has to give him pause. Even if the correct dosage could be figured out, there wouldn’t be many men who’d want to serve as guinea pigs. Who knows? The wrong dose could spur the opposite reaction and put them out of commission on a permanent basis.”
“Hush your mouth, woman!” Thurlow reared back. “Don’t even think such a thing. Because I’m tellin’ you right now that I am one hundred percent back to normal. ’Course, I was always better’n normal to begin with.”
“I am not interested in whether you’re normal or abnormal. And you have a nerve speaking of such things to me, even though I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, Thurlow, the way I see it, you owe us another forty thousand dollars.”
“What? How you figure?”
“You remember,” I reminded him, “and don’t tell me you don’t because you thought it up, yourself. You said you’d donate ten thousand dollars for each quality woman over the age of fifty who’d ride in the Poker Run. You saw them—Mrs. Ledbetter, Mrs. Conover, Mrs. Stroud, and Norma Cantrell. Count them, that’s four, and I’m letting you off easy—there’re a few others who’re right on the verge, and may even be over it.”
“How do I know they’re all over fifty?” He leaned over and leered at me. “You, Julia, look about twenty-five to me.”
“Quit acting the fool, Thurlow,” I snapped. “I don’t have time to put up with your carrying on. You made this deal, so live up to it. Write the check.”
He grinned. “You’ve made me a poor man this night.”
“Uh-huh, I believe that.”
He wrote out the check and I turned it toward the light to be sure he hadn’t shorted us. “Thank you, Thurlow. You have a big heart, and nobody’s going to forget what you’ve done. Now,” I went on, “I’m going to suggest that you take some of that money you have squirreled away and fix up that house of yours. Get the yard cleaned up and reattach the shutters. It’s an eyesore to the whole community.”
I happened to glance over his shoulder and saw something that drew my attention fast. Two hulking figures were tinkering with a motorcycle parked further down the row. One was sitting in the driver’s seat, while the other was checking a tire. Even in the shadowy light, there was no mistaking the two fat boys who’d almost run us off the road. “You’ll have to excuse me, Thurlow,” I said. “I have a little more business to take care of.”
I marched myself over to the men and stood next to the motorcycle, my hands on my hips. “Far be it from me,” I said, “to accuse anyone who just might be innocent, but I want to know if you two gentlemen had anything to do with putting a certain Harley machine out of commission at a certain convenience store a few miles from here.”
The two huge individuals looked at each other, and I took a good look at them. Lord, they were big, sloppy even, with large necks and huge chests. And hairy! They must’ve never come close to a razor or a pair of scissors. I’d’ve never had the nerve to accost them if a couple of hundred other people hadn’t been within a call or two. Still, I didn’t think they ought to get away with what they’d done to Sam’s motorcycle.
“Well, ma’am,” the hairiest one said in the softest, squeakiest voice I’d ever heard. It has always amazed me that the bigger the man, the higher his voice. Something to do with hormones, I expect. “We sure do hate to hear that a fine Harley get messed up, but when money gets tight, well, some people might be in a bind. You know how it is.”
Indeed, I did. Just look at what I’d done to raise some. But a line had to be drawn somewhere.
“That’s a poor excuse, if you ask me,” I said. “I ought to turn you in to the sheriff who, I have no doubt, would put you both under the jail. Why, besides vehicular vandalism, you tried to run us off the road. I almost had a heart attack, and you ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”
“Well,” one of them said, as they both hung their heads at being caught out. I declare, it just went to show how bullies will back down if you stand up to them.
“Tell you what, ma’am,” the other one said. “We just was talkin’ about it, and we feel real bad about fiddlin’ with that Road King. An’ we was just cuttin’ up on the road. We wouldn’t of hurt you none. Say, why don’t we come over and fix your bike? We’re good mechanics, and we’ll make it up to you.”
“Well, that is certainly nice of you, but it’s not my machine,” I said, taken aback by how agreeable they were, as well as by their assumption that I would own such a vehicle. “I’ll pass the word along to the owner. Now, I have no intention of carrying this any further, since crippling that motorcycle didn’t affect the outcome. But I want to know who thought up that stunt.”
They stood there, shifting from one foot to the other, looking like boys who’d been caught doing what they shouldn’t have been doing. Which, indeed, they had been.
“I don’t know as we oughtta . . .” one started to say.
“It don’t matter,” the other one said, shrugging. “It’s no skin off our backs to tell her, ’specially since he shorted us on the payment. Ma’am, he didn’t give his name, just offered a coupla hundred to anybody who’d take that Harley outta the race, which I ain’t sayin’ we did or we didn’t. He was real stoop-shouldered, though.”
I knew it. I just knew it. I gritted my teeth at the thought of Clarence Gibbs and his unfair business practices. “Gentlemen,” I said, “I appreciate your forthrightness, and I hope this will teach you not to engage in any more vandalism on this or any other Poker Run. You won’t get off so easy the next time, not if I have anything to say about it.”
The vengeful feelings I’d had toward them began to shift over to the real culprit, so I left them in peace. After all, they’d been as nice as they could be, just misguided.
As I looked for Sam and Little Lloyd in the rib-eating crowd, the band suddenly went silent. The revelers all turned toward the bandstand where a man I assumed to be Red, himself, whistled into the microphone and told everybody to quiet down.
“Listen up, folks,” he said. “The first order of business is to announce the winner of the Poker Run. We had a lot of good hands, but a royal spade flush takes the pot. And the winner is . . .” He raised his hand, as the drummer beat the fire out of his drum. “Mrs. Emma Sue Ledbetter! Come on up here, Emma Sue, you pretty little thing, you!”
Even from where we were standing, I could see how red her face turned when her name was called out. But she quickly recovered and seemed thrilled to death at her good fortune. She ran up onto the bandstand as the crowd clapped and yelled. I thought to myself that it might be the first time in her life that Emma Sue had received so much attention, and it pleased me to see it. After a great deal of carrying on, which Emma Sue seemed to enjoy, Red presented her with the prize. It was a white T-shirt, plain enough from the back, but downright garish with the Harley eagle across the front.
“Lord, Sam,” I whispered to him. “What have we done? She may see this as some sort of
sign and take up gambling from now on.”
Sam laughed. “Larry Ledbetter’s going to have a fit, but he may have to buy her a Harley to go with it.”
Red took our attention again, as he quieted the crowd for the next item on the agenda. “Hold on, folks, the highlight of the Poker Run is comin’ up. I want to introduce the Reverend Morris Abernathy. He has an announcement to make, so let’s give him a good ole bikers’ welcome.” As the slightly inebriated crowd stomped and yelled, he stepped aside and motioned to the slight figure who stood behind him. “It’s all yours, Rev.”
I stood between Sam and Little Lloyd, crossing my fingers that the Reverend wouldn’t be intimidated by that sea of strange, hairy, and mostly white faces turned up to him. But a preacher is accustomed to addressing all kinds, and he stepped up to that microphone like he was born to it. I’m not going to repeat the message of gratitude and thanksgiving he gave, but he was interrupted several times with applause, whistles, yells, and shouts. When he began to thank the Lord for all of us who’d worked so hard, I thought my heart would swell up and explode. I saw Lillian and her friend Mrs. Causey, lean against each other, crying and laughing together.
Little Lloyd jumped up and down, yelling and clapping with the best of them. “We did it! We did it! Miss Lillian’s going to get her house back.”
“Cross your fingers, Little Lloyd,” I said. “We still have to make it official with Mr. Gibbs.”
Sam put his arm around my shoulders and said, “Aren’t you glad now that you rode with me?”
“Now that it’s over, yes, I am. But, Sam, I’d be in ever so much better shape if I’d ridden the whole way with you. Mr. Pickens took years off my life.”
His arm tightened around me. “You can go the rest of the way with me, Julia. They say that happy people live longer, so we might even pick up a few years along the way.”
I nodded, not knowing what to say to him, especially since I wasn’t exactly sure what he was saying to me.
