“He’ll get arrested before noon. They’ll probably put him in the town jail. He’ll call his old man, who’s really rich, and he’ll send the money for Victor’s bail.”
“Is that what you really think?”
Harvey nodded. “Let’s just hope he left the keys in the car.”
“Are you a good driver?”
“Oh yeah.” Harvey nodded his head confidently.
“D’you have a driver’s license?” she wanted to know.
“No. I never took driver’s ed. I was never in one school long enough.”
“Then how can you say you’re a good driver?”
Harvey looked at her. He was reminded again how beautiful she was. “We stole a lot of cars when I was still in Los Rebeldes. I got my drivin’ experience that way.”
Carmelita was nodding her head and scowling. “It figures.”
“I’ll tell you one thing about your brother Carlos,” he said.
“You know I don’t like to talk about him. It’s because of him that I’m in the SAS.”
Harvey ignored her complaint completely. “Carlos had one of these bars the cops use to open locked car doors for people. He even had a couple of those plastic wedges that goes with it. And God, was he could at hot wirin’ a car! As long as it was one from back in the early ’90s or ’80s.”
“I’m so proud,” she replied, dripping with sarcasm. “Anyway, we might as well try your plan. I can’t think of anything better. Do you think we’ll get into trouble with Victor for using his car?”
“Not as much trouble as he’ll be in for coppin’ a bus.”
The keys were in the ignition. Harvey drove slower than Victor, but Carmelita saw he was telling the truth. He was a good driver.
The reservation wasn’t much to look at, but the national forest with all its hills and pine trees made for some pretty cool surroundings. They could even see the glimmer of a large lake from time to time, off in the distance.
But the reservations itself was pretty grim; the roads that weren’t gravel were dirt and the sun was hot. There were three or four dozen little, neglected ranch-style houses made of adobe brick, with tin roofs. There was a rustic general store, a big store that looked like a warehouse where you could buy tax-free cigarettes, cigars, and booze. A small brick post office was next to it.
They decided to ask around in the general store. The proprietor was a middle-aged Indian with his gray/black hair in long pigtails. Harvey told them they were looking for a Cherokee old enough to remember the old days.
“This is the Alabama-Coushatta reservation,” he replied. “There were some Cherokee who came down from around Nacogdoches and kind of blended with the other tribes. But no Indians here know exactly how many tribes have blood runnin’ in their veins.”
“That’s what’s known as assimilation,” said Carmelita.
“Yeah, I think that’s what the Anglos call it. We never use the term here.”
“Okay, okay,” said Harvey, growing impatient, “Isn’t there anybody at all who could remember the old, old days? I’m tryin’ to find my roots.”
The proprietor scratched his chin, frowned, and then nodded his head. “Maybe. Your best bet would be a very old man who lives in a house down at the end of the third road there.”
“How old is he?” asked Carmelita.
“At least 90. Maybe more. Talkin’ to him, nothin’ goes fast. His mind wanders.”
“What’s his name?” asked Harvey.
“He goes by Charlie Whistlestick. He came down here from up around Nacogdoches years and years ago, when I was just a little kid. If there’s anybody around here who might could help you, it would be him. Otherwise, I’d say you’re out of luck.”
“Thanks a lot.” Harvey and Carmelita drove to the end house of the third road, which was made of dirt. It was a dull, neglected house like all the rest. But there were a lot of pine trees there. Out in the side yard, a rope hammock was strung between two of them. They saw a very old man lying in the hammock using a pocket knife for something. The hammock was slung so low, it almost touched the ground.
They approached the hammock man and introduced themselves. Charlie Whistlestick was using the pocket knife on sticks of wood to make whistles and small flutes with about three finger holes on top.
Next to the hammock was a cardboard box with the ones that were finished. He had brown skin wrinkled like an old prune. He was very skinny; his long gray hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in the 21st century, and his large hands had lumpy knuckles like arthritis.
Since the hammock was almost touching the ground, Harvey and Carmelita were right at his level when they sat on the grass. Harvey asked him about the Cherokee around Nacogdoches. Luckily for them, the old man wasn’t deaf or hard of hearing. Charlie said, “Well, that goes way, way back. We had a little Cherokee settlement up there, mostly drifters who came up from ancestors that found a little spot for themselves after the whole nation was kicked out of Texas and sent to Indian territory.”
“How far back?”
Charlie had no teeth. He replied, “Way, way back, maybe seventy years or so. It was about World War Two when we packed it up and came down to live with the Alabama and Coushatta. They were good to us; just took us right in.”
“That’s called assimilation,” said Carmelita.
“Yeah, yeah,” said Harvey. “Let it go, huh?”
“Well excuse me; I’m just sooooooo sorry.”
Harvey asked Charlie if he remembered anything about “Soft Feet,” from those days at the Cherokee settlement up by Nacogdoches.
“Soft feet,” said Charlie softly. He closed his eyes. “Soft Feet.… Soft Feet.… that seems to ring a bell but I can’t put my finger on it. I’ll tell you what, my big regret in life is I never got to scalp a U.S. Government soldier. God, I would’ve give anything for that.”
Harvey reminded him about Soft Feet.
“I still think about it even today,” said Charlie. “Find some Anglo soldier, or maybe even just a cop. Waste him and take the top of his head off. ’Course I’m way too old for it now; ain’t got the strength.”
Again, Harvey reminded him about Soft Feet. Well, they had been warned it would be tough to keep him on track.
Charlie closed his eyes again but still kept whittling. “Soft feet.… soft feet.… maybe it’ll come to me. Purty sure it’s in here somewhere” he said, while pointing to his head.
“This is what I know,” said Harvey, not bothering to add it was what he thought he knew. “She was born up there on that Cherokee settlement and moved to live with white people in Wichita Falls or Dallas or Fort Worth. A social worker came and took her away.”
“Okay, okay, now I’m thinkin’ I do remember somp’n. It was real strange how she came to be born. Her mother didn’t want her, so she was more of less just raised up by all of us.”
Carmelita asked, “How was it so strange? The way she was born, I mean.”
“Well, it’s kinda like this. I’ve made a few of these whistles and flutes out of hickory. It’s real hard work, so it slows me down. But it turns out a real good instrument. Best to work on pieces of pine, it’s softer.”
Carmelita repeated her question.
Charlie said, “It all goes back to the early thirties. I was sort of grown up or maybe still in my teens. I think that’s why it got my interest up. Have you got any liquor? Maybe a pint of Jim Beam or somethin?”
“Sorry,” said Carmelita. “We don’t. We’re both underage so they won’t sell it to us. If we had it, though, we’d be happy to give it to you.”
“That’s a nice thought. Sometimes at the tradin’ post though, they ain’t very partic’lar about peoples’ ages.”
Harvey made a mental note of that, but tried to steer Charlie Whistlestick back on track. “Do you remember anything about Soft Feet’s mother?”
“You bet I do,” he cackled. He tried to laugh, but it made him wheeze and sent him into a coughing spasm. He spit out some phlegm a
nd a tobacco snot of spit before he went on. “Her name was Alice Walks-in-Twos.”
“Why was she called that?”
“’Cause we hardly never saw her walkin’ alone. She didn’t have no husband, but she always had a man with her. Almost always, anyway.”
“You’re sayin’ she liked men.”
“That’s ’xacly what I’m sayin’. A lot of them spent lots of time in her hut. She worked as a housekeeper at some motel, as I recollect. But that’s not the good part.”
“What’s the good part?” asked Harvey eagerly.
Charlie reached into the box of finished flutes and whistles and brought out a home-made, lumpy cigarette. It looked like grass to Harvey, and when Charlie lit up, there was no mistaking that smell. “Here’s another good thing about reservations,” said Charlie. “You can get real good marijuana purt’near any time you want. And it don’t cost much, neither.” He inhaled the joint before he went back to whittling.
“So what’s the good part?” Harvey asked again.
“Here’s the good part: Clyde Barrow.”
Harvey thought for a moment before he said, “You mean Clyde like in the Barrow gang, like in Bonnie and Clyde?”
“Don’t mean none other.”
“Why is he the good part?” Carmelita asked.
“Yeah, why?”
Charlie took another tug on the joint before he went on, “Clyde was hidin’ out with us for a few months. It was a purty big deal at the time, him bein, the famous outlaw and all.”
“And you let him?” asked Carmelita.
“Sure. Clyde and Miss Bonnie Parker wasn’t such bad people. They robbed banks, but they didn’t never kill nobody less’n they had to.”
“You mean,” said Harvey, “they never fired at nobody unless they were fired on first.”
“’Xactly right. They never shot nobody less’n they didn’t have no choice.”
“Was Bonnie with him?” Carmelita asked.
“Nope, Clyde was hidin’ out by himself. Miss Bonnie Parker was in jail for a few months.”
“What for?”
“Dunno. Can’t remember.”
Harvey was impatient. Charlie asked him if he wanted a joint, but Harvey turned it down. If they were close to some important facts, he wanted to know what they were. “Are you sayin’ Barrow had somethin’ to do with Soft Feet?”
“That’s what I’m sayin’. Him hidin’ out there, it didn’t take no time at all for Alice Walks-in-twos took a shine to him. That wasn’t no surprise, him bein’ such a famous guy and all.”
“So what happened?” asked Carmelita?
“Purty soon, the two of them was together all the time. Clyde spent a lot of days and nights in Alice’s hut. He left when Miss Bonnie got out of jail, but it wasn’t long before Alice had the baby. Like I said before, she didn’t really want no baby.”
“So what happened to Soft Feet?” Carmelita wanted to know.
“Well her mother didn’t pay her no attention, so the rest of us just kind of raised her up together. Leastwise, till she was five or six. That was when the social worker come to get her.”
Harvey had rapid breathing and rapid pulse again. “Are you sure about this?”
Charlie laughed again, the toothless, wheezing guffaw. “Son, I ain’t sure about much in this world. Will I have a tomorrow at my age? Who knows? But I was young then and havin’ Clyde Barrow hangin’ out with us was a big deal. I ain’t never gonna forget that.”
Harvey was quiet. He was trying to absorb all of this. Jesus Christ, first I find out that Oswald is my father, now it looks like Clyde Barrow was my grandfather. Harvey was so overwhelmed, turning this over in his mind, that he couldn’t speak at all. But I’m not related to Bonnie Parker …
Carmelita could speak, however. She wanted to buy one of Charlie’s flutes.
“Is that so?” asked Charlie.
“Yes. I’d like to have one. How much would it cost?”
“Y’know, Clyde Barrow was a purty handsome fellow.”
“But how much would one of the small flutes cost? One of the hickory ones?”
“The hickory ones are best.”
Carmelita wondered if the old Cherokee was trying to gouge her for money. “So how much?” she asked again.
“Honey, I ain’t got no idea. You put whatever cash you want in the box, then pick out the one you want.”
Carmelita got out a five dollar bill from her purse and showed it to Charlie Whistlestick. “Would this be enough?”
But Charlie’s eyesight was so poor he couldn’t make out what she was holding. He waved his hand. “I’m sure it must be just about perfect.”
She put the five in the box and picked out a six-inch hickory flute with varnish on it, so it was shiny. She blew it a couple of times, moving her fingers on and off the stopping holes. She was thrilled. She knew it had to be worth a lot more than five bucks.
21. JAILBIRDS
The drive back to Livingston was slow and quiet. Harvey was still pondering the crazy results of his search. Lee Harvey Oswald for a father and Clyde Barrow of the Barrow gang for a grandfather. Over and over the thoughts turned in his mind.
Carmelita was playing notes on her new flute. Finally, Harvey interrupted to ask, “You think it’s just like my destiny to be bad, then?”
“Because of your father and grandfather?”
“Yeah.”
“No, Harvey, it doesn’t mean that at all. You don’t know anything at all about what kind of people your mother and grandmother were. You don’t just inherit from your father’s side. You inherit from your mother’s side as well.”
“Well, it sounds like Grandma was fast and loose; you might even call her a whore.”
“But we don’t know that. We can’t know that. Just think about Carlos and me. We’ve got the same parents, but he’s a piece of street scum and look at me.”
“I like looking at you,” Harvey smiled. “I like it a lot.”
“That’s nice. But looking is as far as it goes.”
“We’ve been through this before,” Harvey said wearily. Then he began singing while she played notes on the flute.
bad to the bone,
b-b-b-b-b-b-bad,
Yes I’m ba-ad
bad to the bone
b-b-b-b-b-b- bad,
bad to the bone,
“What’s that song?” she asked him.
“It’s an oldie from the ’70s.”
“Okay, so who recorded it?”
“George Thoroughgood and the Destroyers. Marquis from Los Rebeldes had a CD of it in his car.”
“I never heard of it. And besides, it’s not what I’m playing.”
“How do you know what you’re playin’?” Harvey asked her. “You just got that thing.”
“Okay, okay, just drop it.”
When they got to the town jail in Livingston, they found out just how true Harvey’s prediction turned out to be. The jail was a small adobe building with bars on the windows. It looked like something from an old-time cowboy movie.
It was worse inside. Hot and stuffy, and it smelled rank and stale. There were two small cells. Victor was in one, and an old Indian was sleeping one off in the other. Harvey knew that lots of old guys got drunk in public so they’d get arrested and had a place to sleep.
The deputy, or sheriff, or whoever he was, was asleep, leaning back on a swivel chair with his feet up on a big wooden desk. He was fat and sloppy. His mouth was open so he went in and out of fits of snoring and snuffing. He hadn’t shaved in several days. Brown tobacco juice ran from the corner of his mouth and traveled like a little river through his gray stubble.
Harvey and Carmelita went to Victor’s cell. He grasped the bars as they talked. “What happened?” asked Carmelita.
“Guess.”
“I already told her,” said Harvey. “I knew right away how this would go down. What’s your bail?”
“Five thousand bucks.”
“Jeez! For takin’ a fr
iggin’ bus?”
Harvey searched his pockets and Carmelita her purse. She had 12 dollars, he had six. “Eighteen bucks ain’t gonna do us much good,” Harvey said, stating the obvious. “What about your old man?”
“He’s gonna wire my bail money, but not till tomorrow.”
“Why not today?”
Victor screwed up his face. “He thinks a night in a small town jail would be good for me.”
“Oh great,” said Carmelita. “We could be in big trouble. We told Professor Meel we’d be back by ten tonight.”
“I know,” said Victor. “I’m real sorry.”
“Never mind, never mind,” said Harvey. “The question is where are Carmelita and I going to stay overnight? You can’t even get a room in a fleabag motel for 18 bucks.”
“I know. I really am sorry.”
“Quit tellin’ us how sorry you are and help us figure this thing out.”
“Did you find your man out there at the reservation?”
“We found him okay. He told us some stuff that was real far out. I’ll tell you about it later. Go back to the question.”
“Well, I know the other cell won’t be empty. Maybe Virgil would let you guys sleep in this one with me.”
“Who’s Virgil? That fatass chewin’ tobacco slob over there?”
“Yeah, that’s Virgil. He’s a deputy sheriff.”
They decided their chances would be best if Carmelita was the one to wake him up and ask him the favor. She tugged on his shirtsleeve until he came gagging and coughing out of the deep sleep. When he sat up in his chair, he slobbered tobacco juice on the front of his shirt. He grabbed a dirty towel while he was still sputtering and tried to clean it off; it didn’t work.
“What the hell do you people want?”
“We’re traveling with Victor, but we don’t have a place to stay or any money.”
“So, what” ya expect me to do about it?” Virgil spit the used-up wad of tobacco into the waste basket, which only left more brown slobber on his face.
Carmelita put her hands on the edge of the desk and leaned forward. She was wearing an aqua-blue halter top and a matching pair of shorts. There was lots of bare midriff for Virgil to stare at, not to mention plenty of cleavage. She smiled. “Well, what we were hoping was you might find it in your heart to let us spend the night with Victor in his cell.”
Harvey Porter Does Dallas Page 14
