by BJ Mayo
He was quite a sight, with his bowlegged, bony legs. Not a hair in sight. By the looks of all of the scars on his legs, he had seen some misery.
He noticed me looking at his legs. “Barbed wire. Horse rubbed me up against a fence. Couldn’t get away from it for a while.”
He laughed. He swung around wildly and fired his gun at a black bird flying toward the chicken pen. My right hand was already on my revolver handle, but I kept it in the holster. He missed the bird. Breaking the barrel over, he ejected the shell of the .410 shotgun. “I ain’t got no more shells with me. What you want out here? By the way, they call me Pap,” as he stuck out his hand.
“Alfie, Pap. I am a detective for the police department.”
“Well, I kind of figured you was something, with that pistol and all. You got a badge?”
I pulled out my billfold and opened it, revealing my service badge.
“Well, I guess you are the real McCoy. What do you want?”
“Well, I was hoping to visit with someone about Jenna Couch, your granddaughter, I believe.”
“Yeah, she was my granddaughter. My only one.”
He began making his way to the trailer, mumbling to himself and puffing on what remained of his White Owl. He opened the old screen door, leaving it wide open as I followed him in.
“Sit down, sir. Alfred, you said?”
“No, sir, it’s Alfie. Alfie Carter.”
“How in the hell did you get a name like that? Was your mama mad at you?”
“I guess so,” I said.
“I can make you a cup of coffee,” said Pap.
By the looks of the cups in the sink, I thought it better to decline.
“Thanks, Pap, I have had my fill for the day.”
I took a seat in the area around his eating table. He pulled up a canvas folding chair.
“You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”
Of course I minded, but shook my head no. He pulled a White Owl out of the package and was eyeballing me while he lit the thing. Even though he appeared to be in his eighties, his eyes were still bright but appeared weather-beaten and saddened around the corners.
“I need to go take a leak,” he said. “Seems like I need to pee every thirty minutes. Damn prostate stays swolled up. Takes me a while to get it out.”
He shuffled out of the chair to the toilet I had seen on my first trip. He did not bother to shut the door when he went in.
Seizing the moment, I pulled the picture of Jenna out of my pocket and lay it back where I found it. He trickled pee for two minutes before sighing deeply. He flushed the toilet. It seemed like it did not flush quickly.
“I am tied into my boy’s sewer system. It takes that damn thing about a minute to get to the sewer tank.”
He sat in his canvas chair with his underwear pulled up to his navel. I tried not to look.
His dark skin was shriveled. His hair was mostly white with areas of yellow. I saw many years of labor in the sun. He was marooned in a small travel trailer, to live out his days; maybe it was by choice that he did not live with his son in his house, but it was not my concern.
Pap looked out the screen door south towards town. His eyes watered. “You know, I knew something was up when those girls came by the house.”
“What girls are you referring to, Pap?”
“Well, the girls in the Bronco. The day they found Jenna hanged, they came by here the evening before.”
“Did they come to see Jenna?” I asked.
“Well, they went into the house and then left a little while later. Jenna did not leave with them. I saw her leave the house right after dark out her window. I could not see very well, but she left walking down the driveway and took a left on the road. Then next thing we knowed, she hanged herself. Or at least that is what they told us. I do not know if that is true. She never talked about ending her life. She spent a lot of time visiting with me, sitting right where you are sitting. She liked to ask me about my cowboying days and how I trained my horse to rear up while I swung my hat off and things like that.”
“Mr. Pap, can you tell me more about the girls you saw, maybe how many, hair color, height, or maybe clothing they had on? That may help me find the answers on what happened to Jenna.”
Pap sighed deeply and pulled a long drag off of his cigar, slowly exhaling the smoke through his nose and his mouth at the same time, coughing all the while with phlegm rattling his throat. When he finally cleared his throat, he was in need of air.
“Take your time, Mr. Pap, I have all day.”
“Stop calling me Mr. Pap. Just Pap will do. I ain’t never been a Mr.
“There was four of them. They was all dressed alike. Real short bottoms on. Nearly like shorts. Them and the tops was yellow and black.”
“Yellow and black?”
“Yes, yellow and black, nearly like a uniform. They all had on yellow and black tennis shoes with little socks on. The socks like them golfing folks wear that just come to their ankle bones. You know what I’m talking about?”
I nodded. “How long do you think these four girls were here that evening, Pap?”
“Well I didn’t keep no track of no time, but maybe about twenty minutes. Could a been thirty. It was before sundown, though.”
“Can you tell me what color the Bronco was, and maybe the model?” I asked.
“Well, it was dark blue with some chrome around the middle, like they do them things. One of them big Broncos, not one of them little ones, you know. It was a pretty vehicle. I don’t know how old it was. It wasn’t new and it wasn’t old. Maybe three years old?”
“Was it solid blue, Pap?”
“No, it seems like it was two-tone blue. Dark blue on top, light blue on bottom maybe?”
“Did you notice anything particular about the tires?”
“Not really,” Pap said. “Seems like they had them big letters on the sidewall, like they do, you know. I only saw that when they backed out, but wasn’t paying no attention to any details. My damn eyesight ain’t near to as good as it used to be. If it was, there would be a damn sight less grackles around here, pestering my sparrows.”
“Well, you certainly have helped in your recollection so far on details, Pap. Most folks would not remember half of what you told me so far.”
“I always had a detail area in my brain when it came to horses and the like. I still remember a lot of the horses that I rode and the other cowboys rode. Remember their riggings, too. Some liked a bear-trap hackamore, some liked the leather-wrapped bosal. But me, I always was a bit man. Better head control, you know. And a steel curb chain. Never liked the leather ones. Seen a horse run away with a feller with a leather one. That big roan gelding chomped down on that bit and took off. He could not pull him up. Ran all the way to the ranch barn. Lucky he did not get hurt. Never would have happened with steel curb chain. Pull that sucker down and put the whoa on his ass quick.”
“I bet so, Pap. I have a few more questions for you, if that is okay.”
“Sure it’s okay, Alfie Carter. All I got is time.”
Did you notice the color of the girls’ hair, any of them at all?”
“Well, just when I was bragging on what type of riggings the boys had, I cannot remember exactly about the girls’ hair. I think two of them was blonde-headed. The other two was probably darker-headed. I don’t recall it being black or brown. They was wearing something black on their lips. All of them had it on them. I looked at them with my little pair of binoculars over there,” he said, pointing his bony finger toward the cabinet. “They parked that Bronco right over there by that piss elm tree. That is a good thirty yards from here. Don’t ever park by one of them things, they piss tree juice on your car. You ever seen that?” he asked.
“I have heard that,” I replied.
“Well, it’s true. It will squirt all over your vehicle, then the flies will swarm all over it the next day, trying to get at the juice.”
“I will remember that,” as I looked out to see exactly
how close my vehicle was to the tree.
“You’re safe where you are parked, but you got close. I don’t know what they had pasted on their lips, looked like painted-on clown lips but not as big. That is about all I could see. And I’ll tell you another thing, if you find that Bronco it will have piss elm juice on the roof, I will bet you.”
“So Jenna did not leave with them, but you saw her sneak out of her window after dark and head down the road.”
“I did indeed see that. That vapor light comes on at dark on the edge of the house there. He pays $3.50 a month for it. Good for seeing snakes at night, but it also calls up every moth and flying bug in the county. We got a bat around here that takes care of the bugs by golly when the night comes. I reckon she snuck out her window about one hour after the light came on. She pulled some leaves off of that tree and wadded them up. I saw her wedge them between the screen and the frame. I don’t know right particular why she did that. I thought she did not want the screen flapping and would come back in the same way when she got back. Only thing is, she never came back. How do you figure she got all the way to the lake? That is quite a few miles out there. Long way to walk in the dark.”
“Well, Pap, I do not know the answer to that question. None of it makes any sense. But I can’t say for sure at this point what happened. We may never know exactly, but I am looking.”
“You can’t say for sure, or you won’t say for sure?” he asked.
“Pap, you can rest assured, if I knew, I would tell you. I simply do not know. Can you tell me where your son and his wife were that night?”
“They was in the house. She brought me supper before the girls stopped by in the Bronco. I sat right here and ate it. They were for sure in the house.”
“Where are they now, Pap?”
“I do not know for sure. They used to play a lot of tennis at the city park, because it was free. They don’t do much of anything now that Jenna’s gone. I don’t know for sure where they are at right now.”
“That’s fine, Pap. I will come by again. Here is my phone number, if anything comes up down at the station.”
“I don’t have no phone. Just leave it there on the table. The boy has a phone at their house. I never had much use for one. Never had one back in the day, and got by pretty damn fine.”
“Yes, sir, pretty damn fine. Well, thanks for your time. I need to head out.”
“Where you heading next, Alfie?”
“Oh, just around. Got a lot of ground to cover.” I shook his bony hand. He was still fairly stout in his grip. I did not squeeze hard, as his knuckles looked arthritic.
He smiled broadly as he squeezed my hand. “Pretty good for an old man, huh? There was a time I could take a man to his knees.”
“I am sure that is right, Pap. See you later.”
He stood to bid me out the door, with underwear sagging. I backed out of the driveway and pulled over about a mile down the road to compile all of the notes I had taken mentally in our conversation. His recollections were better than most, and who knew where they would lead. I needed to get a cup of coffee before I headed to Rose’s Feed Store.
I stopped at Merle’s Café on 34th Street in Spring. The coffee there was always hot and fresh. Merle as always had on his white café hat and his white, grease-stained apron.
“What you having, Alfie? Breakfast, early lunch?”
“Just coffee,” I said. “No creamer.”
“Coming up.”
I sipped on the cup, taking in all that Pap had relayed to me. For a man who appeared to be in his eighties, his faculties were better than most, setting aside the underwear of course and maybe shooting grackles with his house shoes on and no shirt.
Maybe we should all be so lucky in our elder years. At least he could still carry on a fluid conversation of sorts, even if it was in his underwear.
My first thought on the girls was their uniforms. Maybe they were part of a club, maybe cheerleaders, maybe pep squad members at the high school. Only time would tell.
CHAPTER NINE
Rose McDonald owned the local feed store in Spring on Lockhart Street. She bought out Old Man Weatherford when he was well into his eighties. He was the crankiest of sorts, who loved a lively conversation on politics, mainly. He hated “Jake-Legged Democrats.” Every last one of them. It was always hard to buy horse feed without him going into the political scandal of the day. It never mattered if a Republican was involved in some type of provocation. Those damn Jake-Legged Democrats were behind it. Socialists everyone of ’em. “They would rather take your money and blow it on their stupid social programs than take care of the country,” he would bark. “I bet half of them are red-communist, they just won’t own up to it in public.”
He always ended with, “I need to run for mayor of this place and start cleaning out the local red-communist Democrats in the town. They have run up my property taxes nearly 15 percent since I bought this place. And for what? That stupid statue down at the courthouse? Or that new turning circle downtown? I nearly got killed trying to navigate that thing. Why can’t they use our city money better than that? They are just like those Jake-Legs in DC.”
The feed store pretty much looks the same as when Old Man Weatherford owned it. The same six leather chairs and woodburning stove remained when Rose bought it. Of course Merle always had a means to which Rose came up with the down payment for her loan at the Better Citizens Bank. “I bet she was passing out favors to the rodeo cowboys for money back when she was barrel racing,” he would say. “How do you figure I asked after hearing that story for the fiftieth time? Well, I have just heard she liked the boys back in the day and still does today some say. Some say, huh? Damn skippy, aye. I’ve even heard she will take you for a ride today for a twenty.”
“Who tells you these things, Merle?” I asked. “That is pretty rich storytelling.”
“Well, I just know her husband ain’t done too well in his hardware business, and she is probably supplementing the kitty with herself. You know he likes to get to Vegas now and again, to play the blackjack. I hear he never makes no money at it, and it has caused some hard financial times on them. And another thing, I hear tell her old man is good with it.”
“Good with what?” I asked.
“Can you imagine that? His old lady is turning tricks in the back room of a feed store and that fool thinks that is okay.”
“Merle, I think I would be very careful taking that kind of hearsay public. Rose seems like a very nice lady. Even if any piece of that is true, that is her business, not yours.”
“Well, turning tricks is against the law, Alfie,” he would say.
“Indeed it is, if it can be proven.”
I always watched Merle tilt his head toward any conversation going on with the barstool patrons up front. With the never-ending supply of naysayers, hearsayers, and make-it-uppers, he never ran out of sordid stories to rehash. His little white cap looked like an upside-down boat, listing slightly with red pinstripes down each side, when he was in one of his most active listening modes, taking in every word while drying coffee cups and placing them on the dry mat. When he used to smoke, he always had a cigarette tucked above his ear. He would turn over the front to his oldest waitress Gracie McCowan for a few minutes, and go out back by the dumpster and smoke.
Merle opened at 5:00 every morning, and I have seen his ’69 Chevrolet truck there at 4:30 a.m. many times. His coffee was fresh, eggs cooked over easy to perfection, and his thick-cut bacon was cut from pigs he purchased at the local 4-H livestock auctions. His biscuit recipe was “my mama’s from scratch,” he would say, “and she taught me how to make them.” He always had several pies made up in a pie rotator. He could make lemon and chocolate meringue pies better that Bea. His apple pie with ice cream on top was as good as they come.
It seemed that the gossip just came with the café, with an endless supply of roughnecks on shift change, retirees, and cowboys coming in from early morning gatherings at the Moorehouse 66 Ranch, or the ten
nis club brunch gathering twice a month from the country club. Then, of course, there were the boys from the refinery. There were never-ending stories, unedited gossip, salacious hearsay, lies, and probably some bit of truth in the nonstop chatter. It was and is an epicenter of people talking about people, people looking at people, and quite frankly a place to eat and listen for clues on past and present cases. Most of it can be thrown out with the trash. But every now and then some tidbit will come out of someone’s mouth that is worth looking into.
I had Rose on my mind, as she was my next stop after coffee at Merle’s. All of his past commentary was flashing back in my mind as I drove slowly down Lockhart to the feed store turnoff. Not being but two miles from Merle’s, I tried to drive slowly while my mind was moving faster than my vehicle. My investigation into Jenna Couch’s death was in full swing, with no stopping until I got it completed. As Bea always says, the bulldog has bitten and won’t let go until he is finished. She was probably right.
I parked my service vehicle beside the feed store. The sign always made me smile, with its single rose and “Rose’s Feed Store” beneath it in bright red letters. The city sign ordinance limited her to a 36 x 36 for some reason. Of course some of the larger approved signs in the city were business interests of some past and sitting city council members.
There were several old cars parked in front of Rose’s—probably the same group of old retired men that gathered there six days a week after they left Merle’s Café.
I opened the ancient wooden door and walked in. I wore my usual uniform. Creased jeans, cowboy boots, brown issue shirt, straw cowboy hat, and service revolver. My eyes required constant sunglasses outside. There were five old men sitting around the unlit woodburning stove in the old leather chairs. “Howdy, boys,” I said as I walked in.
“Howdy,” one said, polite waves from the other. I could feel them looking me over, head to toe. They really did not know if I was here on a case or personal business, but probably assumed business, as I did not have on my civilian skivvies. I spotted Rose behind the counter in the back room. She had a little bell that would tinkle every time someone opened the front or side door to the feed store. She hollered out that she would be there in just a minute.
