Orson shoved some squash off onto Damon’s plate and I added a potato. Together, we shoved the butter dish, salt and pepper shakers, and a bottle of barbecue sauce at him. It was like family and funny, a good moment that would have been made perfect, some small voice in my head whispered, if I had a drink of the beer myself.
It was a cold water thought as shocking as the kind of laugh that says nothing is funny at all coming from out of the darkness. Why, at times like this, do I think of my desire to drink easier than I think of my husband?
Stupid question. I knew it and I knew the insidious nature of simply asking why. Addiction is the whisper itself as well as the whisperer. I took a drink of my orange soda and concentrated on the face of Nelson Solomon.
His face let me smile.
“So what so you need?” Uncle Orson asked.
I couldn’t tell if the question was for Damon or me but he was chewing ravenously so I said. “How about if you let him work on the dock for a bit? He likes being on the water.”
Even shoveling the food in Damon managed to nod at that.
“In exchange for your spare room,” I said.
Uncle Orson lived on the second level of the dock above the bait shop. It was a cozy two-bedroom apartment. There was also a docked houseboat on the slip side but I claimed that whenever I stayed over. Which had not been since I was last drunk I realized.
“And a little food, I imagine,” Uncle Orson added.
“I’m not sure you can afford to feed him,” I said and we laughed.
Damon put down the chicken and wiped a napkin at his face revealing a sheepish grin. “I would be grateful, sir,” he said. “And I would work hard.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Orson stood and went to the cooler behind the bar and pulled out a couple of more beers and another soda. “I do not doubt it for a minute,” he said again, then added, “we’ll give it a try.”
The two men, combat veterans from different wars had an instant connection. I didn’t have any worries that things would work out and both would benefit. As a matter of fact, by the time dinner was over and we were clearing the dishes I was beginning to feel like I was the one holding things back.
I put my empty soda bottles in the recycle bin. Uncle Orson had gone green while his old friend Clarence Bolin had been helping him out. Clare was a closet Democrat and an old bootlegger. Who else would I put in charge of the distillery at Moonshines when I needed someone to run the business?
It was a work night, late for a sober girl, and I had every intention of heading home. I needed sleep. Needing isn’t the same as wanting. I was wide awake. Besides, my sleep was never the rest I hoped for. Thinking of Clare and Moonshines reminded me that I owed the place a visit.
That time I drove slowly, in no hurry of any kind and cherishing the quiet darkness. The stars still paid no attention to me.
It was as lively within Moonshines as it had been quiet outside under the indifferent stars. Walking in the door had become a joy since I turned over the reins to Clare. Aside from his talents with distilling, he looked like what the tourists expected, a hillbilly in overalls with a big gut and chicken legs. I’d gotten him to dress a little better on the floor, but the whiskers and belly remained.
“Hurricane,” he called out to me as I stepped into the bar.
“Clare,” I called back. “Don’t call me that.”
He grinned and without saying so, ignored the request as he always did. “I want you to meet someone.” He took me by the arm and literally pulled me along. His other arm he put out in front as he walked like he was both clearing a path and presenting whatever was at the end of it. “My brother, Roscoe.”
At the bar was a man that was like a fun-house reflection of Clare only in a mirror that made things better than real life. Roscoe stood and offered his hand. All the parts were there, it was just that the brothers had done something different with them. Rather than a big belly he had a barrel chest. Clare’s slightly bowed, poultry-legged look was turned almost unnaturally straight, lean more than skinny. Up top was the real difference, they had the same basic face, but the eyes were . . . frightening and beautiful. Clare had brown eyes. His brother had eyes of browns. Roscoe’s right iris was chestnut, streaked with a center band the color of a worn but still shining penny. It was a stunning cat’s eye pattern made all the more dramatic by its absence in the left. It didn’t mean the other side was less intriguing. There, was a mosaic of broken shards ranging from shattered brown quartz to beer-bottle green. Looking into those eyes was like touching a hot stove. You only did it quickly and rarely. And, I suspect, you remained wary the rest of your life.
“Hello,” I managed to say and I was proud of myself for getting that out. I shook his hand.
When I released it, Roscoe lifted his hand up and pushed back a tumbling cascade of pewter hair. His brother grinned at him then at me from under a tarnished crew cut. The two of them were different sides of an old silver dollar—men from another age who wore the time differently. Clare I imagined as the heads side, burnished and worn, maybe from the thumb of someone hoping for luck. Comfort. Roscoe was tails, a more intricate engraving, still shining with the pressure of being struck and all sharp edges. If I’d flipped that coin I would have wished for heads every time. Clare was a man who put me at ease. In just a few seconds I saw Roscoe as the spinning fall of the coin itself, unpredictable chance.
“This is Katrina Williams, detective with the Sheriff’s Department, Orson Williams’s niece, and the owner of Moonshines.”
“Howdy,” Roscoe said, cowboy without the drawl. “Very pleased to meet you.”
“I didn’t even know Clare had a brother.”
His smile was a trickle, slight and crooked compared with the raging grin of Clare.
“He’s my big brother,” Clare said bubbling with pride. “And famous too.”
“Now that’s not really true.” Roscoe’s smile, at first a cautious upward angle, turned down into a humble line. There was still a tiny flick at the corners that said he enjoyed the attention.
“You’ve probably heard of him, Reverend Roscoe Bolin and the Starry Night Traveling Salvation Show.”
I had. Before Clare had even gotten the title out, my gaze had returned to those eyes and looked away again. Roscoe had the look of a firebrand and the reputation of a modern day John Brown.
“Revolution wears a black frock coat,” I said.
The smile ticked upward. “You read the news magazines.”
“Mostly in waiting rooms,” I answered “But that one was hard to miss. Mixing politics and religion. I bet you don’t get invited to a lot of dinner parties.”
He laughed with good humor then said, “I didn’t mix it. In fact, I don’t think it has even been unmixed. They are like the front and back of one shirt that we all wear.”
“Yeah, but you keep talking about an independent Palestine. Redrawing all kinds of borders. You even said religion could not be the only consideration for any government. I thought it was against the rules for you guys to rattle cages in Israel.”
“The Middle East is a place of turmoil and historic rage. The first step to fixing it is denying the fairy tale that any one group is absolutely right.”
“Wait, isn’t that—”
“I’m talking about borders and land use, not faith.” He guessed my path and cut me off.
“Fair enough. What about all the talk about a Kurdish state with freedom of religion? That had to make you some enemies. They say you’re rewriting the rules of evangelical Protestantism.”
“That’s a mouthful isn’t it?” He grinned with dull teeth and bright eyes. “But if I am, it’s for the better, I hope.” He downshifted from grin to smile and opened his jacket wide. “And it’s not a frock coat. It’s a wool blend summer-weight from Sears.”
“But you can see the comparison?” I pointed to his shirt and then down to his boots and back up. “And all those to Johnny Cash. The whole man-in-black thing?”
“I do.” He smiled and released his jacket to let it fall into place. “People like to make comparisons. Don’t they, Hurricane?”
Yeah, I deserved that. “Please, sit.” I gestured to the stool he had occupied until my arrival and I sat beside him. “You’re doing a show here?”
“Despite the name, we don’t do shows. We hold testimony. We call the lost to home. And we shout the praise that heals us all from within.”
“Sounds like a heck of a show.”
He nodded and the smile went to a, you-caught-me smirk. “It is. The band is something else. Gospel, bluegrass, and down-home country with a little more gospel. I hope you come join us.”
“I’m not much of a joiner,” I said expecting the Reverend to either give up politely or to give me the evangelical sales pitch.
He did neither. “I couldn’t get a permit for within Branson city limits,” he told me.
The shift of focus caught me a little off guard and I wondered if that was intentional. “I can see how that might be tough.”
Clare had slipped away and was now behind the bar. He put a bottle of orange soda in front of me then opened it, brushing off the clinging flakes of ice. He didn’t bother to set out a glass. For his brother he opened up a mason jar of Moonshines’ best and topped off his highball glass then dropped in two fresh cubes. Even the ice for the drinks was Clare’s special recipe. He used filtered and distilled water in ice trays. He claimed it tasted better than the machine ice. I don’t know about that, but they look good. The cubes were clear as crystals in the colorless liquid.
Roscoe didn’t seem to notice. As soon as Clare’s hands went back to his side of the bar the elder Bolin was bringing the glass to his lips. After the taste he made kind of a gasp-sigh sound of pleasure. “This is good.” He nodded with approval and sucked at his upper lip as though there was some left over. “A lot better than what you cooked out in the woods,” he said to his brother.
“Don’t I know it?” Clare started screwing the lid back down on the jar, but Roscoe rattled his glass gently. The lid came off and the glass was given a liberal splash.
“Is that a preacher’s drink or a revolutionary’s?” I asked.
“Just a man’s” he answered. “Our Lord, who provided wine for the feast, would, I believe, have enjoyed whiskey.” He took a sip savoring it then added, “In moderation.”
I held up my orange soda and tilted it in his direction. “Here’s to moderation.” After we each took a drink I said, “So no city permit? But that’s not stopping you is it?”
“Things are much more agreeable in the county,” Roscoe said. “A friend and follower has provided a bit of pasture land, twenty acres of alfalfa he’s willing to see trampled for us to put on a week’s worth of the Lord’s work.”
“Well I wish you good luck with that.”
“And speaking of the Lord’s work . . .”
You didn’t need to be a prophet to see what was coming there. I held up my soda like a personal talisman and said, “Nope.”
Roscoe smiled and turned his entire aspect on me. It was all contrasts, silver hair and black clothing, eyes, both bright and dark, and something deeper that I immediately thought of as will and acceptance.
“No,” I said again. “No, no, no, no.” Just in case I wasn’t clear.
His face and the contrasts hidden within merged into one single dissonance between felicity and something else. Anger? Pity? I couldn’t guess. I didn’t try.
My phone rang, startling me. The second time in one day and neither one the sheriff’s office. Even though the call wasn’t the SO, it was once again work. This time the caller was Mike Resnick.
“Hurricane, can we get together and talk?” I glanced at Roscoe. He was nursing his drink, watching me like he knew more about me than I did. “Yeah,” I said. “I’m at Moonshines if you want to meet.”
After disconnecting I held up my empty bottle to Clare and shook it. Before I had set it back on the bar he was there holding out a new orange soda.
“Sticking around?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m meeting a conservation agent.
“Are you sure you want to do that in public?” Roscoe asked.
The brothers laughed and the similarity between them, the feeling, and the sound was uncanny.
Clare leaned on the bar with his big gut under the rail and his elbows on the top. “Game wardens are never very popular around here.”
“Anywhere,” the elder Bolin added.
The pair of them chuckled again. Clare reminded his brother about a fishing story from their youth. I didn’t listen. I watched them. So much was the same. So much was different. Just like his brother Clare was an ordained minister—Assemblies of God. I wondered if Roscoe had ever distilled whiskey in the woods. But I had the feeling that the similarities were surface features only. Clare was a man I trusted completely. His brother was a lit fuse that kept me feeling on edge. One of the problems with my life was that I was always wanting to see the fireworks.
They laughed again and pulled me out of my thoughts.
“The last time I was caught over my limit the fine cost me almost a hundred dollars.” Clare said.
“Tax collectors and game wardens, the cost of modern life.” Roscoe finished up.
“What about cops?” I asked.
“Usually, cops too.” He chortled his amusement with me. “But you’re not a cop. You’re the hurricane.”
I’d almost come to terms with that nickname like you come to terms with Jehovah’s Witnesses. You don’t fight and they go away a lot quicker.
“You’re the sheriff’s stealth bomber.”
“That’s right, Hurricane.” Clare said grinning. “Everyone tut-tuts about the things you do, but the county is glad to have their big-ass, lady cop.”
“I thought I’d asked you to stop staring at my ass.”
“Not staring; just using a figure of speech.”
“Either way, keep my figure out of it.” I pushed the soda bottle aside and told Clare. “I think I’m all soda-popped out. Would you pour me up an iced tea?”
“Iced tea, coming up. Lemon. No sugar.” He stepped away from the bar and started around to the gate side. “What kind of southern girl are you?”
“I’m no girl, you keep reminding me. I’m a hurricane.”
“So why does a sheriff’s deputy need to meet a conservation agent this late at the local watering hole?” the Reverend asked me. “I hope it’s something about which I should disapprove. Clare tells me you could use a little life in your life.” Behind the wink and good humor was a kind of current. Roscoe Bolin was the sort of man who couldn’t ever turn off the intensity, I decided. I chalked it up to the eyes and the hair, to the fact he was a firebrand preacher. Like his brother, there was something there that was hard to dislike.
I smiled at the joke. “He does, does he?”
Behind the bar Clare shoved a glass into the ice bin. I was getting the machine ice, not the good, clear stuff he uses for company and big spenders. He squeezed in a lemon wedge and poured the tea. It was fresh and still warm. The ice cracked like tiny glaciers in the glass when the liquid hit it. As he passed it over he told me, “Good for what ails you.”
“That’s a tough promise for a glass of tea.” It was wonderful, cooling and watering down from dark brown to amber in the time it took me to raise the glass for a first taste.
“So?” Clare pressed his brother’s question.
When I sat the glass down I toyed with it between my palms. It was already sweating and I liked the feel of cold water on my dry skin. Drunks learn tricks to distract themselves if they are going to hang out in bars.
“So you’re as much a fisherman as your little brother?” I asked the Reverend Bolin.
“We grew up fishing. And I can say without being accused of undue pride, I’m a much better fisherman.”
“Don’t let him tell stories,” Clare spoke to me but grinned at his brother. “He’s only better at the fish
er-of-men thing. I never had the calling he did, but I have definitely caught more fish.”
Before they could get too deep into familial reminiscing I asked, “You know anything about poaching paddlefish?”
Roscoe looked a little caught by the change in direction. He took a sip from his glass, seeming to think the new topic over. Clare mulled it over with genuine interest. “I know it’s a big, illegal business that’s a danger to the population.”
“Danger?” I stopped with my glass poised at my lips. “What do you mean, like the meth trade?”
“Sure. I guess,” he answered thinking it through. “I’ve heard of people fighting over it. The eggs go for a fortune. But I was thinking of the fish population. I was always more of a catfish man. I never saw why anyone would waste their time on a paddlefish.”
I had the feeling that I’d spoiled a family moment with my question.
Clare must have felt the same way because he turned to Roscoe and tried to bring back his enthusiasm by asking, “Do you remember that big catfish we caught up above Powersite that time? It took both of us to bring it in.”
It didn’t work. Roscoe nodded quietly, but didn’t get pulled back in.
I took my drink and kept my gaze on him over the top of my glass. I savored the flavor and when I sat the tumbler back on the bar it was almost half-empty. “Fish population?”
“Yeah.” Clare gave his brother some space and gave his attention back to me. “Paddlefish are an ancient species. No bones. Cartilage. Like sharks.”
“Okay. I’ve heard that.”
“There’re not that many places left for them, and if you don’t manage the population in the lakes they’ll be gone.”
I took another long drink of tea and braced myself. Clare was surprisingly green and forward thinking for an old-time country guy. Sometimes my ignorance of his causes brought him up on a soapbox. This time I was pretty sure what my next question would put me in for, but I wanted to know.
“What’s it matter?” I asked. “Aren’t there plenty more fish in the lakes, trout, bass, crappie, catfish . . .”
A Particular Darkness Page 5
