TREASURE KILLS (Legends of Tsalagee Book 1)

by Phil Truman

  “Don’t let these two scare you, Jo Lynn.” Arlene came in from the kitchen and grabbed the coffee pot off its burner. She clattered out cups and saucers from under the counter, sliding them in front of the two men and filled them. “This here is Hayward Yost and this is Gale Roundstep,” she said using the coffee pot as a pointer. “I know they ain’t much to look at, but they’re here most mornings. So you’ll just have to get used to them.” Jo Lynn smiled a little and nodded.

  “They’re pretty harmless,” Arlene added.

  “Nice to see you’re making some improvements in the place, Arlene,” Hayward said with a grin. Punch kept quiet, still studying the menu with intermittent and frequent peeks up at Jo Lynn.

  “Hell, Hayward, if I wanted improvements, I’d just keep you two from coming in.”

  The hanging doorbell jangled as two customers entered. They took a seat in the booth nearest the door.

  “Well, I ain’t got time to jaw-jack with you two,” Arlene said. She grabbed two more cups and saucers and headed for the newcomers. “You be nice to Jo Lynn, now,” she said in leaving.

  “Real nice to meet you, Jo Lynn,” Hayward said grabbing the bill of his orange ball cap in a tipping gesture. “I’ll probably have to speak for my young friend here ’til he gets his tongue. Looks like he’s plum smitten by you. By the way, most people know him as ‘Punch’ not ‘Gale.’”

  “I don’t need you talkin’ for me, Hayward,” Punch said with irritation. “I can dang sure talk for myself.”

  Hayward threw his hands in the air and leaned back a little. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

  Punch wiped the sweat off his upper lip and addressed Jo Lynn. “Uh... You... uh,” he started. She looked back at him impassively, her pencil and pad still at the ready. Punch swallowed and continued, “Well, I mean... I’m sure glad you’re here and that you got to meet me. Welcome to here. I mean, thanks for coming here, and you’re welcome.”

  Jo Lynn wrinkled her nose and giggled, so Punch said, “I gotta go.” And hurriedly left the cafe.

  Hayward snorted and took a drink of his coffee. “Well, give the boy some time,” he said. “He’s not used to talking to girls as pretty as you. He just needs some practice, that’s all. He’ll get better at it.”

  Jo Lynn looked at the door Punch had just exited, then back at Hayward. “So... you mean he’s not... um, retarded?”

  “Well, the jury’s still out on that one, darlin’. I think he did graduate high school. He mostly just ain’t right on his social graces, sort of like you just seen. But like I say, give him some time and he’ll grow on ya.”

  Jo Lynn nodded with a frown. But she didn’t think so. At that particular time, she wasn’t ready for any man to grow on her.

  “What can I get you?” she asked Hayward, the frown still on her face.

  * * *

  Punch abandoned the finesse route with Jo Lynn a few days after that first attempt, and took up the repeated and frequent frontal advancement approach. He thought that tactic would eventually bring down her walls of resistance. In his occupation as a trim carpenter, and part-time mechanic, Punch had no learned marketing skills, as such; but thought a large quantity of impressions would work better for him than a single well-phrased line. That is, if he had one. More importantly, this continuous visit method killed two birds: by going to Arlene’s at least once a day, he could eat, and at the same time see Jo Lynn.

  Surprisingly, the routine eventually worked for Punch. After two months, it got to where he could actually carry on an intelligent conversation with Jo Lynn. None of these lasted much more than thirty seconds, as Arlene’s bustled at meal times. But they grew stronger, and at some point even turned flirtatious. So his persistence began to pay dividends.

  Towards the end of that summer of ’73, following the spring the waif-ish girl had first appeared on Arlene’s doorstep, Jo Lynn’s loneliness began to melt through the icy wall of her fear and mistrust. Still not sure she wanted much more involvement with any man beyond casual friendship and harmless flirtation, she nonetheless found Punch engaging and somehow attractive. She wasn’t sure why she felt that way, or even if she really wanted to; but as Hayward had predicted, the guy grew on her. Despite his rough edges, he had a certain something that appealed to her.

  The relationship continued to evolve over the next two and a half years, with fits and starts (and one or two stops), until Punch suggested that maybe they should make it legal. Jo Lynn considered this long and hard before she gave an answer. Punch had his good parts. He appeared honest and hard working, even gainfully employed. He had always treated her with gentleness and respect, never once acting like he’d... do otherwise. In fact, it was almost as if he was a little bit afraid of her. That always made her smile, especially when the other men in town who came into Arlene’s, teased Punch about it.

  Punch did have a little bit of a temper. That’s what had gotten him the nickname Punch. More than once it had ignited into major rants when Jo Lynn and he got into it about something, which they seemed to do more than she liked. He would sometimes smash a few things near him or kick a car door, but he never, ever threatened her with physical harm.

  More times than not, she had to admit, she’d been the start of their set-to’s. She ragged on him a lot about his dress and manners and attitude and cussing and spending. Most of those attributes revolved around his favorite hobbies: fishing, hunting, and gambling. Jo Lynn knew she fought a losing battle on getting Punch to change on any of those counts, and that maybe it was wrong for her to even try. But he was so pigheaded.

  While still weighing the pros and cons of marrying Punch, Jo Lynn found herself pregnant, and so consented to marry him in the winter of 1976. Not quite seven months later, Jo Lynn gave birth to a baby girl they named Galynn Arlene. Jo Lynn and Punch got their first divorce fourteen month later when Jo Lynn found evidence that one of Punch’s deer hunting trips amounted to more than him bagging the four-legged kind. They re-married, after a three-year cooling off period, but decided that still might not be a good arrangement, and divorced again. Damning evidence kept appearing that Punch couldn’t keep his firearm holstered.

  The two still couldn’t seem to be totally rid of one another and they continued to “date.” This so-called dating included extended periods of co-habitation when Punch promised to quell his philandering. But Jo Lynn never completely trusted him on that part, and told him she would never marry him again, because it just wasn’t worth the trouble and expense.

  She loved Punch, and even liked him to a certain extent. She felt keeping him around was better than not. For one thing, she thought it was better that little Galynn had a daddy present most of the time. For another, she had to admit, she didn’t want to be alone. Her experience with men hadn’t been the greatest, and she didn’t want to go through the trouble, nor take the chance, of finding another; not only for her own sake, but Galynn’s. So, for that, she hung on to Punch in this tenuous fashion even well into their daughter’s adult years.

  Arlene kept her café open seven days a week, but she only required Jo Lynn to work five, especially when she came back after giving birth to Galynn. Although Sunday was a pretty heavy day, especially after the churches let out, Jo Lynn had hat day off, too. Arlene had a high school girl who could come in to help.

  Jo Lynn started attending the Free Will Baptist Church with her Aunt Rose. At first, she started going just to give her elderly aunt a ride to the services, but the more she went the more she found she liked it, especially the women she met.

  Arlene’s had never been a gathering place for women. They came on Saturdays and Sundays and a few weeknights, but usually only to accompany their men folk. All of the regulars at Arlene’s were men, mostly a breakfast and lunch crowd.

  Jo Lynn found it good to get away from all those demanding men who crowded her at work, and to mingle, converse, and laugh with those of her own gender; even to cry when those times became necessary.

  One such sister-com
rade was Lorene Buchanan. It was Lorene who’d brought her into the women’s church group that met on Mondays, Jo Lynn’s other day off. Although some twenty-plus years older than the young mother-wife-waitress, Lorene and Jo Lynn clicked as people do on occasion. They both had confounding men. They both had daughters.

  Jo Lynn knew Sunny, but not well. Most of what she knew came from Lorene and her battle with raising her foster child during the adolescent years. Jo Lynn considered Sunny a wild girl, contrary and irresponsible. Once Sunny reached adulthood and moved away, Jo Lynn never asked Lorene about her, nor did her friend offer to tell her.

  Jo Lynn found she could confide to Lorene her angriest, saddest, and darkest secrets, and trust her never to tell a soul, which wasn’t always the case in the church circle of women. Although they’d never come right out and say anything, most in the women’s circle didn’t approve of Jo Lynn’s and Punch’s off and on marriages and subsequent live-in arrangements. Jo Lynn could feel the disapproval, but Lorene, who knew the whole story, said to her repeatedly, “Never you mind, honey.” So Jo Lynn didn’t.

  Chapter 7

  The Chair Recognizes Punch

  March 2007

  “Nosir, now we ain’t flyin’ no Mexikin flag,” Punch Roundstep said. “Not now; not never!”

  Nan Dorn, the Tsalagee Founders Day Committee’s eighty-one year old and nearly deaf secretary, noted Punch’s statement for the record. Punch Roundstep objected to buying hexagon bags, she wrote in shorthand. Later she would transcribe the curls and chicken scratchings into the official minutes.

  Nan had always considered herself somewhat of a writer, having for years been a regular contributor to the Tsalagee Mirror’s Hometown Happenin’s column. So she’d volunteered for the committee’s secretary duty. During the two hour meetings she would nod off occasionally, which also created some holes in her minutes. At the first meeting, the other committee members generally agreed that it wouldn’t be a good idea to let Nan keep the minutes, and gently tried to coax her away from the task. That was especially true with Euliss Purinton, the committee’s chairperson, who had served on other committees with Nan. She knew that Nan tended to editorialize her minutes to fill in the gaps. Her minutes tended to read more like the gossipy Hometown Happenin’s column than committee minutes.

  “No, no,” Nan had said. “I insist. I’m really the only one here qualified for the job.”

  “I think she’s right,” Hayward Yost said with a sly smile. Hayward had an ornery streak and a sense for the sardonic. “I nominate Nan to be secretary,” he added.

  Since none present wanted to hurt Nan’s feelings, and out of respect for Hayward’s seniority, the committee let her keep the job. Besides, no one else particularly wanted it.

  Punch had arisen from his seat, put his balled fists onto the top of the oval conference table, and leaned forward, his face red with anger and indignation. Most of the others around the table drew back reflexively in their seats. They knew about Punch’s temper, but few expected an outburst at this monthly gathering of the committee. It surprised them because the only words Punch had uttered in the previous six meetings were when he’d had a sneezing fit and said, “Got dangit!” between the forth and fifth sneeze. However, Nan Dorn hadn’t included them in the minutes.

  Throughout the proceedings up to this point, Punch sat in his seat next to the window looking either bored or asleep. So most felt a little surprised at this sudden contribution. Only the two emeritus members did not—eighty-four year old Hayward Yost and eighty-six year old Socrates Ninekiller. They’d known Punch all his life and pretty much knew his hot buttons, as well as his political leanings.

  Hayward looked over at Soc and chuckled once Punch had said what he said. Soc looked back at Hayward and grinned silently. Chairwoman Purinton, a stout and stern woman, grabbed her gavel and whacked it twice on its wooden base.

  “You’re out of order, Mr. Roundstep,” Euliss said firmly. Euliss knew her parliamentary procedure. “The Chair recognizes Miss Sunflower Griggs as having the floor. Miss Griggs, do you wish to yield to Mr. Roundstep?”

  “Well, I... uh, okay,” Sunny Griggs said.

  Sunny Griggs sealed the door for Punch, so he could present his argument against the hexagon bags, although I’m not sure why, Nan wrote.

  Normally, Sunny would not yield an inch when it came to social issues. She considered herself a champion for the poor and downtrodden. Her hippie parents had ingrained that in her from the day she was born in 1968, until the State of Oklahoma put her into foster care at the age of eleven. As a childhood veteran of many protest rallies, Sunny would fight to the bloody death, for causes in which she believed.

  But Punch was different. Despite the gap in their age, she found him somehow attractive. Sunny hated everything Punch did and said and stood for. No two people could be more opposite in their beliefs and outlooks on life and social conduct. And, yet, she found herself drawn to him by some animal instinct. The whole thing confused her greatly, and sometimes caused her to hesitate.

  “The Chair recognizes Mr. Roundstep,” Euliss said. All eyes once again looked up to Punch. Punch looked at the group sitting around the table as if suddenly becoming aware that he’d jumped to his feet and addressed them.

  “Well, I say we ain’t flyin’ no Mexikin flag in this town. That’s all,” he said and sat back down. He rubbed the three-day red stubble on his cheeks, then scratched an armpit. With fire still in his eyes, he looked over at Sunny, then to Hayward. The elder looked back at Punch giving him an approving nod and wink.

  Sunny closed her eyes and raised her hand. “Madam Chairwoman,” she said in a calm and quiet voice.

  “The Chair recognizes Miss Griggs.”

  “I just want to say... to the committee... that Tsalagee now has a sizable Hispanic community in proportion to the rest of the population— ”

  Sunny pointed out that the town has an excitable panicked community, which isn’t at all the case, Nan wrote.

  “They ain’t Americans! Most of ’em ain’t even legal!” Punch interjected, starting to rise again.

  Punch Roundstep countered that most aren’t even American eagles, whatever that means.

  “Order!” Euliss whacked her gavel once, and Punch settled back.

  Sunny cleared her throat and continued. “And in the interest of diversity we need to acknowledge their community. They have a right to display the pride they have in their culture, heritage, and country.”

  Sunny said in the interest of perversity we should abolish their immunity. They’ve had a fight to disgrace their capture, hairpiece, and gentry. But why she’d say something like that, I’ll never know.

  “That is bull crap, Sunny!” Punch came to his feet again.

  “Could you repeat that, please?” Nan asked.

  “Punch, sit down and shut up!” Euliss commanded leaning forward and whacking her gavel three times as hard as she could. “You can’t use language like that at this proceeding,” she added.

  Euliss got mad at Punch and told him he couldn’t manage white cats at a crow feeding. Now I’d have to agree with her on that one.

  Punch turned to face Euliss. “YOU shuddup, Euliss, before I take that hammer you keep whackin’ and... and... well, I ain’t sayin’ what, but you jist shuddup!”

  “What?” Nan asked.

  Euliss fell back in her chair and said “Auph!” placing the gavel in her right hand over her heart, her mouth open, her face flush. Hayward swiveled his chair sideways, guffawed, and slapped his knee.

  Facing back to Sunny Griggs, Punch pointed his finger at her and continued. “You try to put up a Mexikin flag anywhere in this town, and I’ll, by God, yank ’er down and burn it! End of discussin’.”

  His speech finished, Punch turned and walked to the double doors of the conference room. He exited with a considerable slam of one of the oak doors. The remaining group let that sound diminish before anyone spoke.

  “Madam, Euliss,” Hayward Yost said holdi
ng back his merriment as best he could.

  “The Madam... I mean the Chair, recognizes, um... Hayward,” the stunned Chairwoman said weakly.

  “Well, Euliss, I move we adjourn this meetin’.”

  “So moved. Is there a sec... oh, the hell with it. Meeting adjourned,” Euliss said and gave her gavel one last whack.

  Nan Dorn, her chin on her chest, jumped awake at the sound, and wrote her final entry into that meeting’s minutes.

  Punch Roundstep had a hissy fit and walked out of the meeting. Hayward Yost suggested, among other things, we approve a churned seating, which makes no sense at all.

  Meeting adjourned 3:14 p.m., May 16, 2007.

  Chapter 8

  Artie Makes a Stop

  May 2007

  The grinding impact of the culvert with the right front undercarriage of his newly acquired Ford Escort threw Artie Lancaster, noggin first, up and into the top of the doorframe on the driver’s side. The collision spun the car clockwise, sending it rolling onto its left side where it slid some twenty feet before coming to rest perpendicular to the roadway.

  The vehicle stayed that way, crumpled and on its side and steaming from the nose, for twenty minutes before White Oxley, on his way into town, came upon the scene. He stopped his truck in the middle of the road and studied the sight.

  White didn’t recognize the car, because Artie had just picked it up from a used car lot in Muskogee not three hours earlier, and was driving it home. Artie made this purchase to replace his other car, which he had deposited into Cowbird Creek two weeks prior. That night driving home, after a couple of stops for a couple of brews in a couple of honky-tonks, he needed to relieve himself, and thought he would do so along the creek’s bank. Anxious to exit the vehicle, as well as mentally unfocused, he failed to place the car in park. After about a five second hesitation, the little sedan slowly proceeded down the embankment and into the water. All Artie could do was pee and watch as the car sloshed and gurgled into the creek water, sinking slowly up to its trunk lid.