Cool hands gently brushed her forehead. Good hands. Black hands. “Is that you, Momma?” she asked the hands.
“No, baby, it’s not your momma. It’s Lettie Ruth. Come on now, open those pretty honey-brown eyes and look at me.”
Kat shook her head. She didn’t dare to allow even a sliver of light to enter her dark hiding place. If she opened her eyes, the men would be able to see her. The only safe place was in the dark.
* * *
Mitch brooded about the incident at The Blue all the way to the white side of Maceyville. But the fact he’d been sitting in an all-black bar wasn’t the burr rubbing under his saddle. However, the discomfort his presence had generated among the Blue’s regular customers kept digging under his skin. Until he’d walked in there, his understanding of Maceyville, Alabama—circa 1963—had been naive at best.
Thanks to his grandfather Paddy O’Connor’s guidance and strong influence, Mitch had learned at twelve, to never make a judgment based on a person’s race. To Mitch people were people. Some good and some bad. Color didn’t carry much weight on either side. But his white skin definitely counted for something in this particular here and now. And he would be wise to remember it. This world depressed the living hell out of him.
And his present surroundings, Bubba’s Julep Junction, did little to lighten his mood. He wouldn’t be in this joint except The Blue, was coloreds only and off limits to a ginger haired freckle-faced Irishman.
He thought Bubba’s smelled like the belly of a hog. In a childish display of temper he shoved the enormous pile of peanut shells at his elbow onto the shelf behind the bar. He didn’t figure anyone would care or notice.
This whole mess was Kat’s fault. Neither of them should be in this here and now. At least he didn’t have to search the whole damn town for her. He knew where to go. No matter how much she denied it, the first thing she would have done is contact her aunt Lettie Ruth. All Kat’s rigmarole about not interfering wasn’t worth a plug nickel. He knew his stubborn, hard headed and impossible to control partner.
Disgusted, Mitch tipped his beer bottle and finished off the last lukewarm drop, then grimaced. Although he preferred draft, he’d ordered bottled because he seriously doubted Bubba washed the glasses. And instead of eating a big juicy Blue burger—with cheese and extra onions—he’d dined on bottled beer and peanuts. Of course Bubba’s offered food, but eating anything in this joint that didn’t come in a natural wrapper was completely out of the question.
Pissed off at the world, he swiveled around on the tattered stool and studied his fellow white patrons. The folks down at the Blue were a whole level above this crowd. This bunch looked like charter members of the redneck Welfare club. And all of them getting drunker than a skunk on a Monday night.
He noticed Bubba’s well-defined sections, reminiscent of a high school cafeteria where the jocks and nerds never shared a table. The booths along the wall were staked out by old farts who probably sat in the same damn seat every day, drinking themselves into oblivion. At the middle tables sat the married guys, who spent the whole night trying to peek down the bar maid’s blouse or pinch her butt every time she delivered a round. The shellacked bar, from now and until the end of time, would remain the domain of the born to raise hell crowd.
The trio down at the far end were a nest of vipers just looking for trouble. When they’d busted through the door earlier, carrying on and congratulating themselves on some great escapade, his skin began to tingle. The fat one seemed especially pleased with himself and kept snapping his teeth at the air like a deranged hound dog. Every time he went through his pantomime, the other two guffawed. Mitch failed to see the humor, but then again, he sat too far away to catch all the nuances of their conversation.
After several minutes of watching, curiosity got the better of him and on his return trip from the men’s room, he relocated within earshot, taking the stool next to the dark-haired man.
The boys were slapping each other on the back as they boasted of their sexual prowess.
“Jumping Jehosaphat,” he muttered after a few minutes of eavesdropping. They thought their dicks were the greatest thing next to sliced bread.
As though picking up Mitch’s disparaging thoughts, the dark-haired one reached down and massaged his crotch. “And then she says, y’all ain’t got nothin’ in those britches to cause me harm.”
“But you sure showed that nigger a thing or two, Floyd.” The one with a strawberry mark on his cheek, giggled nastily.
“Hell, Little Carl, once she got a taste I reckon she up and changed her mind.” Floyd cackled, thrusting his pelvis forward several times for emphasis.
“Lots of uppity talk came out of that big hole in her face. Downright disgustin’,” Little Carl said.
“Told me she’s a po-lice-man,” the fat one spat out, along with several good size peanut chunks.
A bad feeling washed over Mitch. He gave them his full attention. What were the odds of another black woman running around Maceyville claiming to be a cop? Even though he and Kat discussed how she would have to be on guard all the time and how to behave, he wouldn’t put it past his cocky partner to get into an argument, then flash her badge.
Sometimes Kat didn’t have anymore sense than God gave a turnip. But she was far from ignorant about how things worked in the sixties. She knew better than to act out. On occasion she displayed a lot of attitude, which Mitch didn’t fault. A tough attitude went hand and hand with law and order. The cop’s weapon of choice. However, to get her back up and flash an attitude in this segregated racist society would be dumb.
“A nigger woman cop,” Louis repeated, shaking his head.
“That’s a bald face piece of shit,” Floyd snorted.
“Ain’t never gonna be no nigger cops in Maceyville,” Little Carl declared.
“Well, boys, if that little gal wants to play cop, she can frisk me any ole day,” Floyd said.
“Appears to me she done frisked your Johnson,” Louis giggled.
“That porch monkey bitch can…” Floyd stopped mid-brag when he noticed Mitch’s interest. “Hey boy, this conversation’s private,” he said.
Mitch didn’t respond, instead continued to stare into the mirror. He would kick his own butt if he could reach it. He’d been thinking how stupid it would be for Kat to get involved with this bunch and by jingo he’d stepped in it. For God’s sake, a stranger in a bar never trespassed on this type of bull session. In all fairness, Floyd et al weren’t broadcasting their conquests to the world. They’d kept their voices pitched low and if Mitch hadn’t gotten nosy and moved from the opposite end of the bar, he’d been none the wiser.
“Did you see how those dimples were working me?” Louis said, unaware of the brief exchange between Floyd and the ginger-haired man.
“Shut it up, Louis,” Floyd growled. He took a deep swallow of beer and redirected his attention to the interloper. “You got something on your mind?”
Mitch shook his head but didn’t make eye contact. “No harm, no foul,” he muttered, activating his best Elvis Presley drawl. He figured it was a whole lot safer to sound like The King of Rock and Roll than a Pennsylvania farm boy.
Floyd’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder. “Best tend your own business.”
“The whole damn world’s got a shit load of business what needs tending,” Mitch replied, allowing alcoholic cadences to coat his words.
He could gather more information faking a drunken stupor than by out and out confrontation. If Floyd believed Mitch had partaken of the devil’s brew one too many times, he might back off, or at least relax his guard.
Floyd studied him for a few seconds then smiled, revealing crooked tobacco stained teeth. “Sure buddy, you go on tending to the world.”
Mitch nodded, and for effect, swayed a bit on the stool. “I got me lots of business.”
“Had some business ourselves earlier today. Right boys?” Floyd asked his friends.
“A whole plate full,” Little Carl s
aid.
Louis snorted and a nose full of beer sprayed the counter. “And it tasted like a creamy chocolate pie.”
“Not dark chocolate, mind you,” explained Little Carl, “creamy milk chocolate.”
“I like chocolate pie,” Mitch’s words came out as though his mouth was filled with mush.
“Git this boy some pie,” Floyd shouted. The other two joined in the chorus.
“Yeah,” Mitch added. “A big fat piece.”
Little Carl leaned across Floyd and whispered to Mitch. “Our piece wasn’t big and fat. But it sure was juicy.”
“Juicy?” Mitch contorted his face into a mask of confusion.
“She was wet and ready,” Little Carl confided.
“Another round for us and our new pal,” Floyd shouted to the barkeep. He stood on the rungs of the stool and reached across the bar so he could steal a fistful of maraschino cherries. As he moved backwards, his shirt pocket snagged on the spigot and a copper and silver jewelry piece clattered onto the counter.
Mitch scooped up the little boot. He rubbed his thumb across the star-shaped spur, blinking back hot tears. Any lingering doubts regarding the ‘chocolate pie’s’ identity went down the toilet. He’d given this pin to Kat on their first anniversary as partners, telling her to use it to kick the law and order door wide open. She’d worn his silly little gift every day since then, even when in uniform she pinned it to the inside the blouse. When asked why, she laughed and said ‘Because a girl never knows when she’ll need to kick a little ass’.
Mitch rested his head on the bar and closed his eyes. He gripped the pin so tightly the metal cut into his palm. His temper boiled just below the surface and he fought the urge to rip these guys into a thousand bloody hunks of flesh. The ugly knowledge that all their dirty talk had been about Kat crawled around in his belly.
When the beers arrived, Little Carl raised his in a toast. “Here’s to that piece I ate this fine spring day.”
“You betcha,” said Louis. He took a long pull from the bottle then belched loudly.
Floyd crowed. “And I’m ready for seconds.”
Mitch’s freckles popped out on his face like a bad case of measles. His eyes flashed blue lightening. In one fluid motion, he knocked Floyd off the stool and sent him sailing over the tables in the middle of the room.
In a split second, Little Carl and Louis were all over him like a rain squall.
Mitch shrugged off their blows like so many drops of water. It would take a whole lot more than these ineffectual little assholes to do any damage.
Bubba’s clientele, at least the ones who weren’t knocked out of their seats by Floyd’s head-first landing, grabbed their beers and side stepped the fracas.
Too stupid to give up, the three kept coming after Mitch. As a single, or in a pack, he didn’t care. Time after time his knuckles connected. Blood speckles decorated his shirt and the nearby walls.
Peripherally he saw the bartender raise the baseball bat and the beginning of its downward arc before the room faded to black.
=TWELVE=
April 02—Tuesday—1:00 AM
Shapes. Mitch concentrated on focusing, but similar to extreme close-up photographs, all he could initially identify were the independent features: A pair of dark eyes. A twitching nose. A pair of whiskers.
He blinked at the enormous rat sitting on his chest. The creature displayed equal interest in the human. Since his visitor appeared more curious than contemplating his next snack, Mitch rolled onto his side allowing the furry creature to slide off his chest.
No wonder I woke up with a King Kong size rat squatting on my chest, Mitch thought as the rodent scurried away. Bubba’s store room resembled a trash dump. The corner where the rat vanished was a heap of rubbish and used food containers. Overflowing waste bins perfumed the air.
Mitch pressed a palm to the floor, the first step in rising from his prone position, and felt the rough texture of wool. He rolled his head to the side, faded stenciled letters: USAF, hugged the ragged edges of the blanket. He wondered who’d been thoughtful enough to throw it over the filthy floor before depositing an unconscious James Mitchell.
That same thoughtful whoever, also cleaned him out. His pockets were turned inside out, what cash he’d carried long since gone. He congratulated himself on having had the foresight to leave his police badge and gun at the Yellowhammer Inn. He didn’t mind losing a few bucks, but having Floyd’s wild bunch in possession of his department issued weapon and identification would be worse.
The door creaked open and a shadowed face appeared in the crack. “You doin’ all right, boss?”
Mitch tensed, expecting a re-enactment of the earlier brawl. To his relief, a tall muscular black man around his own age slipped in the room. Mitch tried to speak, but his throat was so dry words were impossible.
The man knelt beside the blanket, then raised Mitch’s head so he could drink from a glass.
The water tasted cool and sweet, bathing his parched vocal cords. “Thanks,” he croaked.
“You best be getting on out of here,” the man advised. “Them boys ain’t too happy with the licking you give out.”
Mitch chuckled. He cleared his throat and allowed Elvis to enter the building once more. “The licking I gave out?” the King drawled. “You better take another look, buddy, I’m the only one flat on his back in here.”
“That’s only cause Mr. Bubba hit you over the head.”
Mitch smiled at the use of mister and Bubba in combination.
“Before he done that, you was winning,” the man praised.
“No, before that I was stupid.”
The man stood and brushed at the knees of his dark trousers. “I thought you be real brave to call ‘em out on account of that woman.”
Mitch propped himself up on his elbows so he could see the man’s face. “You know who they were bragging about?”
The man dropped his eyes and shuffled backwards a few feet. His expression indicating he clearly wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Odds on Mr. Bubba wouldn’t hesitate to beat the living crap out of this good Samaritan for bringing Mitch a glass of water. He could only guess at the punishment for talking about rape.
This looked like a good time to hit the trail before he did any more damage. Mitch didn’t have any more business being in this place and time than his partner did. And speaking of his partner, he seriously doubted those boys got much of a chance to do any real harm. They may have stolen her boot pin, but nothing more. Kat was capable of defending herself. She possessed the moves and skills needed to send them to the nearest hospital. He must have been suffering from time-travel lag to have considered the possibility she could ever be a victim. She would never get into that kind of situation.
What should he do? Realistically, he figured he’d be of more use keeping Alvin Rayson company until Kat returned, rather than wandering around like a fool in 1963. There was no way in hell of finding Kat before the 5:20 A.M. door slammed shut. So it looked like he’d be traveling home alone.
I don’t have anything to worry about, he told himself, she’s fine. As his brain argued with his emotions, an early morning conversation with his Pennsylvania grandfather, James Patrick O’Connor, interjected itself into the middle of the whole discussion. His grandfather had been as honest as the day was long, and not given to casual talk. When he did speak, Mitch had learned to listen.
On that particular morning they’d been in the barn, ready to start the milking, when old Paddy kicked his three-legged stool over to Mitch and pointed, meaning take a seat …
…“I hear you had a bit of trouble, son.”
“Don’t know what you mean.” Although he knew Paddy was referring to yesterday’s schoolyard brawl, his twelve-year-old brain believed he could outfox his grandfather.
“I meant school.”
“School’s going fine, Grampa Paddy. I got a B on my—”
“You gave Peter Toland a split lip.”
“That’s a damn li
e.”
“James, I want to know why you jumped him.”
“He called Samuel a nigger.”
“And he called you a nigger lover.”
Mitch jumped on the stool so he could stand eye to eye with the old man. “I ain’t no nigger lover, Grandpa Paddy. Daddy says coloreds ain’t no damn good.”
“Your daddy says a lot of things. Are you in agreement with him?”
“Course I am. He’s my daddy and he says coloreds are God’s trash.”
“What about Samuel? Is he God’s trash?”
“Well…”
“Or is Samuel your friend?”
“He’s a nigger,”
“Didn’t you get into a fight because Peter Toland called Samuel a nigger?”
“Yes.”
“But now you’re saying coloreds are no good? That they are God’s trash?”
“Well, Daddy said—”
“If you believe Billy Lee, why did you defend Samuel?”
“Toland needed a beating.”
“The only reason for the fight was because you dislike Toland?”
“He’s a jackass.”
“What he called Samuel had nothing to do with your actions?”
He stuck his chin out. “Nope.”
Grandfather Paddy pulled a second stool over and sat beside Mitch. “So you’re Samuel’s fair weather friend?”
“What’s a fair weather friend?”
“A person that befriends another only if they have nothing to loose.”
“Oh.”
“So, is Samuel your friend?”
The question, asked by this old grandfather wearing shabby work clothes and a straw milking hat, revealed a new truth to the twelve-year-old.
Mitch nodded. “Samuel already cost me one after school detention,” he grumbled. “And I suppose there’ll be another one. Toland doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.”
“Are you saying Samuel is your friend?”
“Yeah. And I suppose that makes me a nigger lover.”
Speaking the ugly words aloud finally freed him from the racist cage Billy Lee erected around him. The walls, built of slurs and epitaphs, crumbled.
Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel Page 10
