by J.P. Voss
*********
Royce spent Labor Day of ‘61 pulling catfish, one right after the other, out of the Tallahala River. He soaked in the sun, savored a can of Schlitz, and watched Velma pick up river rocks with her toes. It was warm, just as warm as a day can be without being hot. And in the afternoon, when it almost got hot, a nice breeze came up and kept things cool around the campfire while the catfish sizzled. Things were perfect until Velma reminded him, “We need to be at my parents by seven o’clock. I promised my mother we’d watch the Labor Day fireworks with her and my father.”
Royce looked like he’d swallowed a bug. He reeled in his line and said, “Can’t wait.” He wrapped up the catfish, took a swig on a beer, and didn’t say another word until they pulled up in front of his house. “Damn…can you believe it? My father can barely pay the electric bill, and he goes and buys a new truck. Wait here. I’ll just run these fish in and be right back…can’t keep Milford W. McKenna waiting.”
Across town at the Plantation, that’s what Royce called it, things were unusually quite. When they stepped through the carved Mahogany doors, into the grand entry, he looked down the great hall to the back door and whispered to Velma, “I don’t think anyone is home; we’d better leave.”
Velma grabbed him by the shirtsleeve and led him down the great hall, past a half-dozen rooms, to the double doors leading into her father’s library. Velma kissed her father on the cheek, turned to Royce and winked, “I’m sure you two gentlemen can keep each other amused while I find mother.”
Milford W. McKenna faced the gilded marble fireplace and read the Hinds County Gazette. Dressed, as always, in a fine cotton dress shirt and conservative tie, he was a determined looking man in his late fifties. With Royce behind him on his left flank, he did not turn, nor did he address Royce directly.
“It looks like one of your associates from Leavenworth has escaped. Did you have the pleasure of breaking bread with a…?” Milford thumbed through the Gazette and focused on small article toward the back. “William Jaco, A.K.A. Big Bill. It says here that he killed a guard. Two days ago, while in route to his trial in Kansas City, he escaped.”
“Jaco is a stone killer,” Royce said in a cold-blooded tone. Leavenworth was no joke, neither were the men in it, and Royce wasn’t amused by Milford’s backhanded comments. “He’s a sadist who kills for the fun it. And thanks to you—I’m on Jaco’s list of things to do.”
Mr. McKenna never looked up and Royce drifted out the door unnoticed. He crossed the hall, looking for Velma, into a southern ladies sitting room. Filled with antebellum furnishing, flowered fabrics, frills, and lace, it didn’t seem real as memories of Leavenworth flooded his mind. On the opposite side of the room, the south side of the house, there were three glorious stained glass windows. Cut glass leaded windows of brilliant red and blue flowers set against a green background, made it impossible to name the silhouette that traveled past on it’s way toward the back of the property. Royce, not knowing, curious, was headed out the back door when Velma danced down the stairs.
“Is your mother outside?”
“No—she’s upstairs freshening up.”
“Then who’s walking around outside.”
“It’s probably just one of the neighbor boys,” Velma said. “They’re not hurting anything. It’s a short cut. Or it might be Roosevelt. He’s likely to turn up any time, day or night.” She looked into Royce, kissed him lightly, “You seem upset. Are you Ok?”
“It’s just something your father said.” Royce laid his palm against Velma’s cheek and smiled. “I’m going to take a look out back.”
Royce eased out the back door and scanned the acreage. There was a storage building about fifty feet back, and Royce kept an eye on it while he moved along the back of the house. He cautiously rounded the corner, headed up the south side of the house, past the stain glass windows, until he could see all the way down the driveway and out to the street. His hotrod was parked behind the infamous black Cadillac, and behind the hotrod was a new pickup, just like his dads. Behind the truck was a car he didn’t recognize blocking the driveway? When he came around to the front of the house, Royce noticed the front door ajar. He slipped through the front door then quickly down the hall toward the back of the house.
“Velma,” he called, looking up the stairs. He checked the library and heard laughter coming from the ladies sitting room. Royce interrupted, “I think there might be trouble, and I’d like you ladies to go sit in the library with Mr. McKenna.”
“Father told me you had a problem with a man in jail,” Velma said. “Is that why you’re so upset?” Velma poured another cup of tea. “Why don’t you sit down with mother and me and have a cup of this wonderful Dancing Blossom tea.” Velma held out the cup. “That man escaped all the way up in Kansas. How could he possibly find you here?”
“It could be nothing,” Royce said. “But in the driveway, there’s a new truck, just like my father’s. Why would my dad come over here? Whose truck is it? Where’s the driver?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
Royce said, “Jaco could of easily gotten my last known address from my prison records. After he escaped, he could have stolen a car in Kansas. My dad’s address is in the phonebook. Even a clown like Jaco could find it. He might have been watching the house. I was in and out so fast; he just didn’t have time to make a move. He could of easily switched cars at my dad’s house. Jaco has a serious score to settle with me.”
“Why don’t you go in the library and call your father,” Velma said. “I’m sure I don’t know whose truck that is in the driveway.”
The last light of day passed through the cut glass casement windows that bordered the front entrance. Royce flipped the hall light switch. Mr. McKenna was standing in the library doorway. Royce pushed passed him and picked up the phone. His father didn’t answer. After ten rings, he hung up. When he set the phone down, a muffled crash came from under the house.
“That sounded like it came from the basement,” Royce said. “Let me borrow a gun and some shells.”
Mr. McKenna’s brow furrowed. “Young man—you’ve just been given a conditional release from Leavenworth. Those charges have not been dropped. I will not allow you to handle one of my firearms.” Mr. McKenna unlocked the gun safe, pulled out a Remington over-under twelve gauge, broke it down and tossed in a couple of magnum shells. Milford W. McKenna was taking control of the situation.
With Royce behind him, Mr. McKenna marched down the hall. He flipped the shotgun safety lever to off before he opened the door to the basement stairwell. He had a shoot first—ask questions later—look in his eye. Light in the stairwell seeped in from the hall, and down in the basement, it was damp, musty, and dark as hell. There was no light switch, so Mr. McKenna cradled the shotgun against his shoulder and groped for the pull chain. Bright white light blared from the clear bulb and launched a thousand dusty shadows across a room filled with things long forgotten. Supported by massive wood beams, the basement spanned the entire breadth and width of the palatial home. Something moved behind a stack of boxes, and with the shotgun poised to kill, Mr. McKenna stepped down. Third step down his foot slipped, he lunged for the railing, and the shotgun went off. Royce reached for Mr. McKenna’s arm, seized the shotgun, and Mr. McKenna took hold of the rail. There was noise in the hall. Someone burst through the door. Royce turned quickly. He didn’t even pull the trigger. Gun just went off. Lead buckshot, blasted from a high velocity magnum shell at over a thousand feet a second, tore through his chest. Roosevelt was killed instantly.
*********
Labor Day Fireworks exploded in the distance, and Royce, in cuffs, stared from the backseat of the patrol car. He strained to hear as his father, and Mr. McKenna, gave their statements to the Jackson City Patrolman.
His dad told the officer how he had urgent news for Royce about a job. It started the next day, and he couldn’t find the McKenna’s phone number. It was just a coincidence that Roosevelt, who needed to
borrow some gas lamps for a family barbecue, had pulled up right after him. Roosevelt was obviously in hurry, so Royce’s dad offered to help. The two men had gone back to the storage building when they heard the shotgun blast.
“It turned out to be a possum in the basement,” Mr. McKenna said. “The shooting was just an accident.”
“Doesn’t look like an accident to me,” the Patrolman said. “This boy just got out of Leavenworth, and he admits he shot the man. I’m taking Royce Culhane back to jail.”
