“Harvey,” said Victor. “Show him the list.”
Harvey got the list out of his back pocket, then unfolded it. Mr. Weeble looked at it for quite a while, using his regular glasses and a magnifying glass. He frowned. “What have we got here, boys?”
Victor answered first. “According to Professor Meel, it’s a list of places where Lee Harvey Oswald lived. Or his mother or brother.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah,” said Harvey, and he even thinks it might be in Oswald’s own handwriting.”
“Hmmm.”
“Would you be willing to verify it for us if you can?” asked Victor. “We would pay you, we’re not here for charity.”
“If this is written in Oswald’s own hand, what would you plan to do with it?”
“We want to try and sell it on eBay,” said Harvey.
“Yeah,” added Victor. “We’ve been on the website and told them what we have. They say they’d need to have it authenticated.”
Weeble continued to look at the list. “Well, it’s obviously not a copy of any kind. Whoever wrote it, it’s an original.”
“What would you think of auctioning it on eBay? If it’s really written by Oswald himself.”
“Oh I couldn’t blame you there. If Lee Harvey Oswald wrote this, it’s worth a lot of money.”
“But it’s only a list,” said Harvey.
“That doesn’t matter,” said Weeble quickly. “There are thousands of people. out there who collect any memorabilia connected with the Kennedy assassination. And they pay big money. Anything at all, even just a list like this would be worth a lot of money to such people. If.… and I have to warn you.…If it’s actually a list written by Oswald himself.”
“Well,” said Victor, “would you be willing to analyze it for us? We would pay you, we’re not here for charity.”
You already said that, thought Harvey.
“Let’s don’t worry about money or fees yet. Sure, I’d be willing to have a go at it. It might take a couple of days though.”
“No problem,” said Harvey. Then he asked the hardest question of all: “Would you need a sample of something that Oswald actually wrote?”
The easy answer surprised him. “I’ve already got them. At home, I’ve got 8 or 10 books about the JFK assassination. Many of them have excellent photographic copies of letters Oswald wrote. He wrote lots and lots of letters, everyone from his mother and brother, to the Communist party, to the United States government. No, no worry there. I can verify or not from those letters.” Weeble had his thick glasses back on.
“Can’t thank you enough,” said Victor
“No, bro,” said Harvey. “Mucho, mucho thanks.”
Weeble turned to Victor. “Your friend Harvey always calls me bro; is that good?”
“Oh yeah. It’s real cool.”
“Real cool? Is that good?”
“Yes. It’s way good.”
Weeble nodded his head and shrugged his shoulders at the same time. “Okay boys, I’ll get back to you in a few days.”
19. OBOE MEEL’S OFFICE
On Friday, Harvey found himself more intrigued by the e-mail from Mrs. Mushrush’s mother than the Oswald-eBay connection. Besides, the weekend was coming up and Weeble wouldn’t be getting back to them before Monday. He asked them if they’d like to go to Nacogdoches.
“Why?” asked Carmelita and Victor after he rounded them up.
“If I could find a real old Cherokee out there, maybe he could tell me who soft feet’s mother was.”
“Oh come on, get real. Now you want to try and find out who your grandparents were?”
“Yeah, sort of.”
“Why? You got your head turned around backward when you found out who your parents were.”
“Okay,” said Harvey. “So this would have to be better, right?”
Then Carmelita asked, “What about Mr. Weeble’s handwriting report?”
“This is Friday. He won’t be back till Monday.”
“But you know we’re not allowed to leave the campus on Saturdays or Sundays.”
“We’d have to find a way,” said Harvey.
Victor yawned before he said, “I don’t think that’d be hard. I think Mr. D’Artagnan would write us a permission slip.”
“The headmaster?” Carmelita asked in surprise. “You know him?”
“I’ve had a few talks with him. I used to read The Three Musketeers books.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Harvey asked impatiently.
“Well, D’Artagnan was one of the three musketeers. Or their sidekick, something like that.”
“So you’re sayin’ you’re on his good side.”
“Yeah, I’d say so. Where is it you said want to go?”
“Nacogdoches, I think. That’s where most of the Cherokee were located. Asa Barnacle told me he thought soft feet, my mother, was born out there close to Nacogdoches.”
“That’s a long way,” said Victor.
“But not for a Lexus.”
“You know,” said Carmelita, “I heard most of the Cherokee were kicked out of that area a long time ago.”
“Oh yeah?”
“That’s what I heard anyway. We’d need to ask somebody who knows.”
“And who would that be?”
“I’d say Professor Meel,” she replied. “I think he knows just about everything.”
“Yeah, but you can’t interrupt his basking,” said Harvey. “He gets real ticked off.”
“Well we could go see, couldn’t we?” said Carmelita.
“Yeah, that’s true. I s’pose we could go take a look.”
They headed across to Dealey Plaza. Oboe Meel was not to be found anywhere. The only person on a bench was this old toothless man with a lot of gray stubble on his face. He reminded Harvey so much of his dodger, the real Harvey Porter, it almost brought tears to his eyes.
Slowly, they made their way back to first-floor lobby. Victor decided to try something. “I’m going to try something,” he told the other two. “I’ll be right back.”
“Try what?”
“Just be cool.” Then Victor went over to the main counter, where he began talking to a secretary. It was a short conversation, just like Victor said it would be When he came back, he sat down. “You’re not gonna believe this.”
“Believe what?” asked Carmelita.
“According to that secretary, Oboe is in his office!”
“Say what?”
“That’s what she told me.”
“But,” said Harvey, “he always told me he didn’t want to see his office because if he ever got in there, it might mean he’d have to do some work.”
“I’m only reporting what she told me.”
“That would be up on fourth floor,” Carmelita said. “Wouldn’t it? That’s where all the teachers and administrators have their offices.”
“Sounds logical,” said Victor.
All three of them started up the staircase, very curious and even a little apprehensive. On fourth floor, they journeyed along all the corridors. Some of the offices had the doors open, so you could see who was inside. A lot of the offices were closed, but they all had name plates.
Except one.
It was an office on the south end of the building. The white door was blank; not a mark on it. Since it was the last one on the corridor, Harvey guessed it was pretty large in there.
“This one’s gotta be it,” said Harvey.
“Why?” his companions asked at the same time.
“Well, just think about it. The longer he has a door with no name on it, the longer he won’t have people pestering him or finding work for him to do.”
“That’s pretty logical,” Carmelita told Victor.
“Yeah, I guess. So what should we do?”
“We should knock on the door,” said Harvey. And without hesitation, he did just that. About four or five knocks, pretty loud.
There was no answer, so he knocked again, this
time louder.
“Okay, okay,” said a muffled voice from inside. A few moments later, Oboe opened his door. It was the first time Harvey ever saw him standing up, and he was tall. He must have been six-three or six-four. Given this piece of info, Harvey revised his weight guess from 450 to 500.
“Yes, yes, what do you want?”
“We wanted to ask you a couple of questions,” Victor answered.
“I knew it. As soon as I put myself in this office the pestering would commence.” But then he said, “Don’t stand in the doorway. Come inside.” He practically pulled on them. Then he glanced up and down the hallway before he closed the door tight.
Oboe was wearing the huge bib overalls, with no shirt, and the ultra-wide, black, hightop, Converse sneakers. The shoelaces were not tied.
His office was indeed roomy, and had the clean fresh smell of new paint and new carpeting. His desk was empty, the tables on the east wall were empty, and the computer was turned off. Harvey assumed all his filing cabinet drawers were empty as well.
The north wall was a cork bulletin board stretching from one corner to the other. It started about waist-high and reached clear to the ceiling. Oboe had been carefully thumb-tacking pictures of Playboy Playmates from the ’70s, and even a few from back in the ’60s. Carmelita turned red as a beet with embarrassment. It’s hard for a Hispanic to turn that red, but somehow she managed.
The Playmates, about eight of them, were arranged in a perfect neat line. “Just trying to customize a bit,” said Oboe. “These pictures are like a link to my past; they remind me of my college days.”
There was a cardboard box beneath the bulletin boards. That’s where he must have the Playmate pictures, Harvey thought. The ones he hasn’t put up yet. But he was really grossed out over the no-shirt look; it was way too funky.
Harvey couldn’t help staring at the Playmates, but Carmelita and Victor got seated in chairs across from Oboe’s desk. When Oboe sat down in his oversized swivel chair, you could hear the spring groan.
“Uh, Harvey,” Carmelita said, “We’re over here now.”
Harvey turned away from the pictures and joined them. “I didn’t know they had such babes back in the ’60s and ’70s.”
“So,” said Oboe, his fingers locked across the huge belly. “You think beautiful women were invented in the 21st century, is that it?”
“No, that wouldn’t make any sense. I’ll tell you what, Professor Meel, the bib overalls without a shirt looks awful funky. No offense.”
“It looks what?”
“You know, funky. I could get you a triple extra large tee shirt that would be one of a kind. It would have Los Rebeldes written on it.”
“Is this why the three of you have interrupted me? To sell me a street gang tee shirt?”
“Well I wouldn’t want any money for it. It would be a gift.”
“Harvey,” said Carmelita impatiently. “Can we get to the point?”
“Okay.” Harvey gave Oboe a summary of his talk with Asa Barnacle about his mother’s background. Carmelita interrupted, “But I thought most of the Cherokee were kicked out of Texas.”
“Indeed they were, young woman. The Whistlestick was kicked off their Texas land more than 100 years ago. They were sent to Indian Territory, which we know today as Oklahoma.”
“But what about Nacogdoches?” Harvey asked. “Asa Barnacle said the Cherokee—”
“Not anymore,” Oboe interrupted. “You might find a resident or two over there with some Cherokee heritage, but I don’t know how you’d go about it.”
Victor gave Harvey a helpless look and shrugged his shoulders.
But Oboe continued. “The few Cherokee who stayed behind wandered down to the Alabama-Coushatta reservation in Livingston. They were assimilated by those Indians.”
“What’s assimilated mean?”
“Yeah,” said Victor. “What does it mean?”
Oboe sighed and closed his eyes. “Let’s just say they got all mixed together. Like the Latinos and Gringos in El Paso.”
“What is this Livingston place?” Harvey asked urgently. “Is it like a town or somethin’?”
“It is. A small community southeast of here.”
“How far?”
“Oh, probably two and a half hours driving time.”
“But not in a Lexus,” Victor whispered in Harvey’s ear while giving a wink.
Oboe was still talking: “The reservation itself though, is a few miles east of Livingston, at the edge of Big Thicket National Forest.”
“Professor Meel,” asked Carmelita. “How is it that you know so much stuff?”
Oboe smiled without opening his eyes. “It’s very simple. I read and I bask. Reading is like ingesting food, while basking is like digestion.”
“Well I’ve got an idea,” she said. “It could be your first job in your new office.”
“Work?”
“Maybe a little. You’re the academic dean, right?”
“Either that or the dean of students. I can never remember. What’s this work you want me to do?”
Carmelita continued, “Well, maybe you could give us a permission slip to go down there tomorrow. Harvey’s still looking for his roots.”
Oboe Meel nodded his head approvingly. “Researching for one’s roots is always a worthwhile project.”
“Could you do it then?”
“I don’t see why not.” With great difficulty, he shifted his bulk forward so he could use his desk. He reached in a drawer, bringing out a plain piece of white paper and a ballpoint pen. He began to write.
“But isn’t there like a form or something you have to fill out?”
Oboe actually laughed. Harvey had never heard him laugh before. “There soon will be,” Meel replied. “I never heard of a form yet I can’t invent.”
The three of them remained quiet while Oboe wrote. It amazed Harvey how fast he could write.
When he was done, he showed the document to Carmelita. It read:
I solemnly promise not to pester Oboe Meel
(or Professor Meel or Academic Dean Meel
or Dean of students Meel, or whatever he’s
called) in his office in the future or bring him
any other work to do.
At the bottom were lines he drew with a ruler for four signatures.
Then Victor looked it over. “This is amazing; just like that you whipped this off.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Now all you have to do is sign it. I’ll need all three of your signatures, while mine will go at the bottom.”
“This is really great, Professor Meel,” said Carmelita. “Thanks a lot.”
“You are welcome. And let me thank the three of you too.”
“Why?”
“For giving me such a simple task my first day in the office. Now please sign at the bottom, I need to get back to work on the bulletin board.” Carmelita blushed again.
Then they all signed it. Oboe added his signature at the bottom. “Would you keep it here for us?” asked Harvey.
“Of course.” And he slipped it quickly into the drawer from whence it came.
The three of them stood up, thanked Meel again, and headed for the door. Carmelita turned to say to him, “I hope they get a nice nameplate on your door real soon.”
“I don’t,” Meel replied, while getting to his feet. “I hope they never get around to it.”
20. A TRIP TO LIVINGSTON
They got an early start, about 7 a.m. because Victor had filled out 10:00 p.m. for their return. On Interstate 45/74 they were flying low in the Lexus, passing every car on the road.
But when they got to Huntsville, they had to take small highways and even county roads to get to Livingston. They stopped there at a gas station to ask for directions to the Alabama-Coushatta reservations. Harvey and Carmelita went in, but Victor just slouched against the car and said he’d wait.
They were told which road to take eastbound, and landmarks to look for. The gas station
had a little section of snack items and cold soda. Carmelita bought a Snickers Crunch Bar; Harvey wanted some Dorito chips. They both got Pepsis. Carmelita paid for all the stuff. Then she stood at the window eating her candy bar while Harvey went over the directions to the reservation one more time with the woman behind the counter. He just wanted to make sure he had it straight. He wolfed down a few of the chips as they were talking.
Then he told Carmelita he was pretty sure he got it all straight. She didn’t answer; she was still staring out the window.
“Didja hear me?” asked Harvey.
She seemed hypnotized. When she finally answered, she said, “Say it again.”
“I said I’ve got the directions all straight. Why are you starin’ out the window like that? You in a zone or somethin’?”
“I guess I am,” she replied with a frown. She still wasn’t looking at him.
“What zone? Why you keep starin’ out the window?”
“I can’t help myself. I can’t believe what I just saw.”
“What? What was it?”
“Victor took the bus.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I mean,” she said, taking a deep breath, “He took the bus. I guess it was a town bus. The driver stepped outside for a smoke, then wandered down to the post office. The motor was still going, so Victor just got in and drove the bus away.”
“Oh great,” Harvey groaned.
“Why would he do a thing like that?”
“He can’t help himself; he’s got a disorder, he calls it, and it’s the thing that got him into SAS.”
“What’s a disorder?”
Harvey shrugged. “How the hell would I know?”
The two of them were stunned. They sat down on the wooden bench in front of the store, trying to decide what to do next.
“Do we just wait till he comes back?” asked Carmelita.
Harvey was shaking his head. “Nope. Can’t do it. He may be drivin’ that bus to the next town. It could be three or four hours before the cops catch him.”
“So what do we do?”
“Okay, here’s the way I scope it out: We go out to the reservation ourselves, to try and find what I’m lookin’ for.”
“But what about Victor?”
Harvey Porter Does Dallas Page 13
