by James Ross
Eventually the federal government got involved. But by that time World War I had come and gone and the Great Depression had entered the scene. The wealthy landowners soon began evicting the sharecroppers for failure to satisfy a debt. When more sophisticated farm equipment became available the Negroes took off for the urban areas. When Tuey was a little boy he heard his granddaddy tell stories about those days. Even as a child Tuey could remember his granddaddy sitting in a wooden rocking chair on the front porch of a worn-out frame bungalow smoking a corncob pipe and telling stories about picking cotton in the fields of Mississippi.
And now, many years later, Tuey tried to make a living as an excavating contractor digging ditches on the streets of the east side of St. Louis. However it seemed as if the powers-to-be at city hall were just as bound and determined to make life even more difficult for Tuey.
“Mr. O’Tweety we have rules that we live by so that our city can function properly,” Mayor Leavitt went on to explain. His deep-set eyes lacked emotion.
“Aw I’s doin’ be parkin’ da pickups truck on da street,” Tuey countered.
The Director of Public Works, R. W. Reeves was buried in the ordinance book where the violations were cited. “And that is a violation of parking construction vehicles on an unapproved surface. That is what it says right here in Section 34A-3.267 (1) d.”
“Ya means I cain’t park my car on da street in front uh my home?” Tuey replied with a smile.
“Not if the vehicle has lettering advertising a place of business with a phone number,” Reeves countered. “Your pickup truck has that information on the side of it.”
“Wells I’s gotsta go home at night,” Tuey complained.
“Then you’ll have to park the vehicle in the garage,” the mayor intervened.
“I’s don’ts gots no garage,” Tuey shot back.
“Then you’ll have to pull the truck into the driveway,” Reeves went on to explain.
“Den where’s my wife uh gonna parks her pickups truck?” Tuey asked the council.
“She can park hers on the street,” Reeves answered. The Director of Public Works had a pat response for any ordinance violation which always put on grin on the face of the mayor.
“But she’s gots da same letterin’ on hers truck dat’s I’s gots on mine,” Tuey said as he threw up his hand in frustration. He looked over at Big Bertha. “Why’s don’ts ya jus’ tell hers ta not comes ’round?”
“Because she is the one that we have on the street to cite the code violations for the city,” Reeves continued even though he felt as if his comments were landing on deaf ears.
“Den ya’ll can send hers ova every night cuz one uh dem trucks is gonna be outs dere,” Tuey complained. “Dat don’ts seem right fo’ da city ta do dat ta uh po’ guy like me.”
“Look, Mr. O’Tweety I think that we’ve wasted enough time on this matter for one night,” Mayor Leavitt interrupted.
“It might seems like uh waste uh time ta you, your honor, but ta me’s it’s uh big ting,” Tuey responded adamantly. “It jus’ ne’er goes away.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple dozen code violation tickets and promptly threw them on the floor. “Look at aw uh dese tickets. I’s gots no money ta pay fo’ aw uh dese.”
The mayor picked up his gavel and pounded it on the desk. “Order in the court! Order in the court! We’ll have no such behavior like this in this meeting room.” Mayor Leavitt actually thought that he was a judge running his own courtroom. Festus hopped up from his seat and lurched over to Tuey. “I think that we’ve been very nice about it up to now,” the mayor continued. “Don’t we have some other violations that we could have written Mr. O’Tweety up for?” He turned to his butt-boy, R. W. Reeves.
“Yes, your honor. We could have cited the aggrieved party with a number of code violations,” Reeves admitted.
“Likes what?” Tuey asked. He was getting aggravated and angry at the treatment that he was getting from the city council.
Reeves leaned over to confer with Big Bertha. She flipped through several pages in her black book. “On or around the twenty-third day of June Mr. O’Tweety was in violation of Section 5A-17.384 (b) and Section 16-11 (e) (ii),” Reeves started. “On that day he was only issued a warning.”
“Is dat what dis yella one be fo’?” Tuey questioned the ticket cop.
Big Bertha walked up to Tuey and took a look at the yellow citation. After glancing at it she nodded her head affirmatively. “Yes.”
“What’s did I’s do wrong on dat day?”
“On that day the grass on the side lot of your house was more than twelve inches high and when I went onto the property to measure it I noticed an old carburetor and engine block sitting on the ground in the back yard. Both are violations of the city code,” Big Bertha explained.
“Ain’ts dat trespassin’?
“Not if it’s meant as a visit to check a code violation,” Reeves interjected.
“Look, Mr. O’Tweety. Enough is enough,” Mayor Leavitt butted in. “We’ve got more important business to discuss tonight over and above parked pickups and knee-high grass.”
“But’s I’s tryin’ ta fix dese tings wit’ da city,” Tuey railed. “An’ I’s gots no money. Dis stuff be impo’tant ta me.”
“And there have been a lot of other things that we could have cited you for Mr. O’Tweety,” Reeves jumped in. The mayor glared at the citizen. He wanted to put the issue to bed and move onto another topic.
“Nows what?” Tuey said as he threw his arms skyward. He started smiling and laughing at the people that had come to sit in on the meeting.
“One day the pickup truck stuck out over the sidewalk. We let that one go,” Reeves started. “Another day you placed garbage out front to be collected that was work related.”
“So?”
“It was not included in the list of items that the sanitation department is allowed to pick up,” Reeves defended his position. “Another time we overlooked the expired license plates.”
“We’ve overlooked the code violation that says that you have been operating a business out of your home,” Big Bertha clarified further. “And you’ve got no license to place scrap tires on the property.”
“I’s needs ’em in case sumptin’ go wrong on one uh da trucks.”
Mayor Leavitt had had enough. “To wrap things up there was also that other time . . .”
“What’s udda time?” Tuey asked. “I’s jus’ be uh tryin’ ta make uh livin’.”
“The time that we did not issue a citation for standing water on your property,” the mayor rattled off. He clearly wanted to move on. “What was that R. W.?”
Reeves flipped through the code book. “That’s Section 33-7.12 (f) (3). The owner of the property is to provide drainage for standing water to prevent mosquito breeding.”
All eyes in the room turned to Tuey as he burst out in laughter. “You’s fokes don’t wants uh black biznessman like me ta op’rate in dis city, do ya?”
“We overlooked the violation on that occasion,” Reeves countered. “It won’t happen the next time.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
August 2007 . . .
Thomas Jefferson Booker was a black IRS agent that worked for the Criminal Investigative Division of the tax unit of the federal government. Years before he had worked hard with the department of justice to return Prairie Winds Golf Course to the heirs of the Morton estate as well as J Dub and Curt Schroeder. After all the hard work that he had done it was like old home week when he walked into the pro shop at Prairie Winds to play a round of golf with his college buddy, Coach Thomas.
The two customers had played college basketball together at a Division Two NCAA university and had stayed in touch over the years. Now that they were in their late-forties about the most physical sport that they played was golf. “You’re back in business,” Booker said as he greeted J Dub with a handshake over the counter.
J Dub had survived a long and costly civil court struggle t
o get back possession of the golf course property. He along with the original owners, the Morton estate, had been victimized in a title company scam that had occurred many years earlier. When his partner had closed on the property the title went to his partner, the money from the bank illegally went to the owner of the title company, and the heirs to the estate were defrauded. Now, J Dub was in his late forties and he and his brother Curt ran the golf business. Both of the brothers were tall, lanky, and athletic. Curt had survived the removal of a colon cancer tumor and was undergoing chemotherapy when the two customers walked in the door.
“ . . . Thanks to you!” J Dub said as he reached across the counter to shake Booker’s hand. “Hey, Coach. Long time no see.” They shook hands as well.
“Maybe I’ll feel a little more welcome around here now,” the coach responded. He had been run off the golf course at one time by J Dub’s old business partner.
“Sorry that you had to experience all of that. You know that I know that what happened just wasn’t right,” J Dub apologized.
The coach shrugged his shoulders. “We kind of get used to it.” He turned and looked at Booker.
“Maybe you do,” Booker shot back, “but I never get used to it.” Booker looked over at Curt. “Hey how have you been?”
“Tough summer for me,” Curt replied. “They took a tumor out of my colon six weeks ago. I’ve started chemotherapy treatments.”
“Are you feeling okay?” Booker asked as he approached the seat that Curt was sitting in at the counter. They shook hands.
“It hasn’t been as bad as I thought it would be,” Curt admitted. “I’m wiped out for a day or two and then re-energize myself for the next go-around.”
“Hang in there.”
“I’ll be okay,” Curt said. “I’m not going to let it get me.”
“Do you have a second J Dub?” Booker asked the head pro.
“Public or private?” J Dub wondered.
“If we could go into the office, then that would be great,” Booker admitted.
“Come on back,” J Dub acknowledged. “Need anything to drink?”
“How about a Powerade?”
“What flavor?” J Dub asked.
“Grab a red one.”
J Dub went to the cooler with the glass doors and searched through the flavors. “Let’s see, that would be Fruit Punch,” he said as he grabbed a cold one. The two of them entered the office. “What’s your need?”
“I’d like to pick a date out for some time in September to have a golf scramble,” Booker began.
“That’s the best time of the year to have one,” J Dub declared. He grabbed the calendar off of the desk top and started looking at available dates. “What did you have in mind?”
“Any day during the week,” Booker commented. “We’re flexible.”
“That’s fine. Just so it’s not a weekend,” J Dub said. “Take your pick.”
Booker looked over J Dub’s shoulder and eyed the calendar. “How about the Wednesday during the third week in September?”
“Wide open,” J Dub said as he penciled in Booker’s name.
“We’ll need the course all day,” Booker guessed.
“How many golfers should we plan on?” J Dub asked.
“We’ll fill it up,” Booker speculated. “Not everyone will play, but those that don’t can hang around the clubhouse, can’t they?”
“Of course,” J Dub agreed. “Do you want us to put a tent up in the parking lot?”
“No, none of that. Most of the people will be on the course.”
“Okay, then we’ll plan on one hundred and twenty golfers,” J Dub said as he jotted down a number by Booker’s name on the calendar. “That will be enjoyable and the pace of play will make for a fun day. If you need more spots then we can go up to one hundred and forty-four golfers.”
“We’ll have men and women playing,” Booker informed him.
“We’ll let you buy the course for the day. Where is the group from?” J Dub pried a little further. He guessed that it might be IRS employees.
“They’ll all be federal employees. They came to me to book it because of our association,” Booker stated. “IRS personnel, people from the U. S. Attorney’s office, and the FBI.”
“Wow. You guys are going to try to get it all done in one day!” J Dub exclaimed. “All the heavy hitters will be out here.”
“Just keep it to yourself. We don’t need to bring any attention to it,” Booker reminded him.
J Dub gave him a wink. “My lips are sealed.” They shook hands. As the two of them exited the office they noticed that Coach and Curt were in the corner of the clubhouse talking with BowTye. He was the diminutive black man that the golf course was helping out. BowTye had lost everything in the Hurricane Katrina disaster and relocated to East St. Louis from New Orleans when the church that J Dub belonged to provided charitable housing.
BowTye always wore a black pair of trousers and a white shirt. The pants were held up by suspenders. Atop his shirt was a red bowtie and on top of his head was a burgundy beret. His given name was Tyrone Munroe but the regulars at Prairie Winds nicknamed him BowTye because he continually wore a red bowtie.
“What an interesting life this fella has lived!” Coach shouted out as Booker and J Dub walked over to join them.
“You mean his singing career?” J Dub volunteered.
Coach had a grin from ear to ear. “I can’t believe he’s Peel It Backe!”
“The king of the rockabilly blues,” J Dub added. “Sitting right here.”
“Unbelievable!” Coach exclaimed. Booker went over to shake BowTye’s hand. Coach looked out the window just as his friends pulled into the lot. “Say you don’t mind if we have two buddies join us?”
“Of course not!” J Dub cried out. “The more the merrier. That’s what this whole place is about. It’s a great day to play!”
“Is there ever a bad day to play?” Booker deadpanned.
Two black men walked into the clubhouse. “Hey J Dub,” Coach yelled. “I’d like for you to meet the two guys that are playing with us. They both played ball for me a long, long time ago when they were in high school.” The two men walked up to the counter where J Dub had positioned himself. “The first one is D. Wayne Smith. He’s our buddy that has gone into the quick mart business for himself, you know, and the one that referees the college football games on Saturday. We call him Zebe’s ’cause of his stripes.” J Dub reached out to shake hands.
“Good for you,” J Dub said. “That’s a neat second job.”
D. Wayne looked like an athlete. He appeared to be in his early-thirties. It was obvious that he had been in the weight room a little during his day. The grip that he gave J Dub on the handshake was a testimony to that. His body was ripped and the tight-fitted golf shirt served as verification.
“The other guy is in the excavating business, you know, a ditch digger.”
A smile from ear to ear broke out on the round, caramel-colored face of the man as he extended his hand. The gaps in his teeth made his mouth look like a white picket fence. “Pleasure ta meet ya,” he said as J Dub shook his hand.
“He’s a friend of ours by the name of Tuey O’Tweety,” Coach said as he introduced the two.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The foursome hadn’t been out the door more than two minutes when Pork Chop, Fred, Dr. DV, and Captain Jer walked into the pro shop. They had teed off earlier in the day and finished the round before the heat got intolerable. “What the heck is going on around here?” Pork Chop yelled out to anyone that wanted to listen. “Did BowTye invite some of his relatives over?” He turned his head to the corner and smiled at BowTye who was busy shining a pair of golf shoes.
Pork Chop was almost as wide as he was tall. He had been in steel sales at one time, invested in a penny stock, and cashed a windfall profit after the security took off. Typically his shirt was not tucked in and the waistline of his pants was way below the overlap of his belly. Food stains were as common
on the front of shirt as buttons. His first name was Andrew and part of the world called him Andy and the others called him Drew. To the guys at the golf course he had acquired a nickname after a U-turn in a highway median on a golf outing.
His good buddy and the guy that had turned him on to Prairie Winds was Fred. He was the redhead with the flattop and the only guy in the gang that had a belly larger than Pork Chop’s. Fred was a night foreman at the local automobile plant and was known to catch a few winks in his easy chair at work after the plant was running smoothly for the night. He was normally the first one in the clubhouse every morning. He would punch out at seven and head straight for the golf course.
Dr. DV, otherwise known as Everett Rhymes, was a six-foot-five veterinarian. He was in his sixties and had the chiseled good looks of a mountain man. His graying hair was a daily reminder that his career was winding down. He had arrived in the St. Louis area years earlier having grown up on the border of Colorado and Wyoming. A college professor was a Cardinal baseball fan and had some fine things to say about the Gateway City so the young doctor packed up and moved to the banks of the Mississippi right out of vet school.
His good friend was Captain Jer. At least that was the nickname that had been assigned to Captain Jerry Stafford the first day he had arrived at Prairie Winds. He was a retired commercial airline pilot who always sported a tanned face to accentuate his silver hair. He had recently taken a flight attendant as his third wife. Twelve years separated the two and she called him her second husband. The two of them had an open marriage and had infidel friends around the nation from the years of travel.
“That was Coach and some of his buddies,” Curt answered.
“Yeah, we hadn’t seen him for a while,” J Dub added. “I’m glad to see him back over here. He’s a great athlete and a good player.”
