Rockabilly Hell

by William W. Johnstone

  “Does he still live around here?” Katti asked.

  “He certainly does. Right down this road about five miles. Little white frame house on the left side. Name is right on the mailbox. Arthritis slowed him down.” She looked hard at Cole. “The Lord will punish sinners, Mr. Younger. Always. You remember that.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I sure will.”

  “And, then, there is our cousin,” Clara Mae said.

  “You hush your mouth!” Idabelle said.

  “No, I won’t. For just as sure as God made little green apples and little boys to eat them, Cousin Ray was one of the rounders who frequented that horrible place.” She looked at Katti. “Ray was a bad one, child. But prison changed him. He found the Lord. He preached right up to when he retired.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “Oh my, yes. He lives on the other side of town. ’Bout two miles out. Right on Route 120. Name’s on the mailbox. Ray Sharp. ”

  “And he was a bad one?” Cole asked. “A patron of the Corral and the County Line?”

  “My word, yes,” the old woman said softly. “Up until he got out of prison, Cousin Ray was probably the sorriest son of a bitch in the county.”

  Idabelle picked up the tray and held it out for Cole and Katti. “Have another cookie,” she said sweetly.

  * * *

  “You got the mark of the law on you,” the old man in the wheelchair said sourly. “I don’t cotton much to lawmen. What the hell do you want?”

  “Some information,” Cole said. “And I’m retired from the law.”

  “You ain’t been retired long, boy. You still stink of the badge.”

  “If you don’t want to talk to us, we’ll leave,” Cole told the man.

  The old man waved a gnarled hand at the porch swing. “Oh, hell, sit down. Talk is cheap. What do you want to talk about?”

  “The Corral and the County Line.”

  Billy’s eyes softened in remembrance. “Hell of a place back in its day. Rough place. But a lot of good times was had out there. And some mighty bad ones, too.”

  “Let’s talk about the bad ones.”

  “What’s in it for me, if I do?”

  “Nothing.”

  Billy chuckled. “You’re right out front with it, I’ll give you that. All right. You got a bad time in particular in mind?”

  “Ten years ago,” Katti said.

  Billy shook his head. “I’d quit my runnin’ around some years ’fore then. I been in this damn chair for more’un ten years. But I bet I know the incident you speak of. Young man, ’bout thirty-five years old disappeared after bein’ out there, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Way I heard it, Steve Deal killed him. A local road whore name of Joyce Rushing come on to that young man. But Steve, he fancied Joyce was all his. He was wrong ’bout that. Joyce wasn’t never gonna be tied down to no one man. Hell, boy, the cops know all this. They should have told you.” He smiled at the expression on Cole’s face. “But they didn’t, did they? Dirty little secrets—every town and county has ’em. Well, what the hell? I’m an old man fixin’ to meet his Maker. Eat up with cancer. On top of everythin’ else, cancer is gonna kill me. I ain’t got long. Six months at the most, the doctors tell me. I figure less than that. It’s a feelin’ I got. And I think I’ll feel better gettin’ this story out of my craw. So you turn that machine on, Missy. I’m fixin’ to tell you some stories about roadhouses from West Memphis to Cairo, Illinois. Now, you ain’t gonna believe me, but it’s the truth. Ever’ goddamn word of it.”

  Katti turned up the volume and leaned back in the swing.

  * * *

  Several hours later, just as the sun was going down, Cole and Katti sat in their motel room, listening to the tapes as Cole was making dubs of them on another recorder. Billy had been careful not to mention his name anywhere in the more than two hour relating of past events in roadhouses all up and down the line. But he had named several dozen other names, including some rather prominent people and more than one law officer.

  “Monstrous,” Katti said. “Rape and murder and beatings and torture, spanning twenty-five years.”

  “And we’ve got men and women involved in this who are now judges, lawyers, millionaires, half a dozen state senators, and several past and current sheriffs,” Cole said. “Jesus!”

  “Five states, Cole. Stretching from Cairo, Illinois, down to Jackson, Mississippi.”

  “And Billy certainly couldn’t have known everybody involved. There are probably a hundred more people mixed up in this that he didn’t name.”

  “That woman, Joyce Rushing, she came on to Tommy, and Steve Deal beat him to death because of a little flirtation.”

  “But Steve wasn’t alone in this. The Sheriffs son was right in there with Steve, punching and kicking your brother . . . along with several others.” The taping was finishing and Cole took the second cassette and leaned back with a sigh. “Not one word of this would ever make it to a court of law. It’s hearsay. Katti, the sheriff then is still the sheriff now. And the chief deputy then is still the chief deputy now.”

  “What are you saying, Cole?”

  He leaned forward and whispered, “This tape, even though it’s not admissible as evidence, is damning. It could ruin careers. We were followed today, by at least two people who were pretty damn good at it. But not good enough. It was a two-vehicle soft tail. We leave everything except these tapes right here in the room. We walk out of here like we’re going to supper, and we keep right on going and don’t stop until we get to Memphis.”

  She put her lips against his ear and softly asked, “Why are you whispering?”

  “The room might be bugged.”

  Her lips formed a silent O.

  “Well, I’m hungry,” Cole said in a normal tone of voice. He stood up and motioned for Katti to do the same. “Let’s go get something to eat. Then we’ll head out to the old roadhouse site, and see what happens.”

  Cole slipped one set of tapes into his jacket pocket, and gave the other set to Katti to put in her purse. They left the room and stepped outside.

  Cole put a hand to his mouth in case a lip-reader watching them and said, “When you get in, buckle up. This might be a wild ride.”

  “I feel awful, deserting Tommy.”

  “We’ll be back. I promise you that.”

  Dusk was settling over the land as they drove away from the motel.

  * * *

  Billy Jordan felt the sudden drop in temperature and saw the sparkling dots light up the room. He looked up from the TV. A smile creased his lined face. “Once you get away from that goddamned old honky-tonk, you’re visible, you know that?”

  The hundreds of sparkling dots that vaguely formed a once-human shape brightened and dulled in reply.

  “You think I fear death?” Billy said, his voice calm and steady. “Hell, Curly or Steve or Ace or whoever the hell you are, I look forward to it. The pain is getting worser ever’ day.”

  The sparkling dots moved closer, and Billy could feel the air grow colder and the smell of rot filled his nostrils.

  Billy smiled. “I always said you didn’t take baths regular enough, Curly. And it is Curly. I recognize the smell. You stink worse now than you did before.”

  The dots flashed in anger.

  “Fuck you,” Billy said. “And them that use you. They’re the worst. You’re just pawns in their game.”

  The television set was picked up and hurled across the small room, shattering against a wall.

  “I never liked that program no way,” Billy said.

  The temperature in the room dropped another ten degrees, as a second sparkling form appeared.

  “Ace,” Billy said. “I got to say this is an improvement. You always were an ugly son of a bitch.”

  Billy felt himself picked up from the wheelchair and flung across the room. He screamed as a hundred points of pain flashed through him, when he impacted against the wall. He flopped on the floor and managed to pul
l himself up to a sitting position, his back to the wall.

  “Get it over with,” Billy gasped. “Hell, it’ll be a relief.”

  His wheelchair was picked up and the metal twisted in grotesque shapes. One wheel was torn loose and the wheel slammed down on Billy’s head, the spokes wrapping around his now bloody face and neck.

  “Perverted sons of bitches,” Billy blubbered the words past bloody lips. “Bullies and cowards, ever’ damn one of you.”

  What was left of the wheelchair was slammed down on Billy’s legs, breaking his knees. He screamed in agony and waves of pain-filled shadows tried to engulf him. He fought the darkness and swam back to the sparkling dots that confronted him with evil.

  “Bastards!” Billy whispered. “I never sold my soul. I wasn’t much good, but I fought the devil and I’ll still fight him. You’re all pieces of shit. Ever’ one of you.”

  Billy’s tongue was ripped from his mouth, and the blood gushed out in spurts. He silently screamed his agony.

  The sparkling dots seemed to laugh.

  * * *

  Cole shook the tail and when he reached the interstate, he cut north, knowing that was the unexpected thing to do. “We’ll cross the river north of here at Caruthersville, then cut south through the western part of Tennessee.”

  “Are you exaggerating the danger, Cole?”

  “No. If anything, I downplayed it. This is big, Katti. Real big. Lots of players in this cover-up. Hell, we might not be safe anywhere.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve got a nasty feeling this thing is going to mushroom on us, Katti. We’re capable of opening up closet doors and uncovering skeletons that have been long hidden. And like Billy told us, it stretches all up and down the line. A lot of people who had back room dealings with those old roadhouses have real money. I’m more than comfortable financially, but some of these people have millions of dollars. And big money can buy lots of trouble.”

  She looked at him. “For us, you mean.”

  “Yeah. I’ve got a buddy I was in ’Nam with, who is a top flight private investigator in the Memphis area. I saved his ass twice in ’Nam and helped set him up in business; he got hurt as a Tennessee highway cop and had to retire on disability. Jim would walk through hell for me.”

  “And we just might have opened that door, Cole.”

  “That thought has occurred to me.”

  “I’m suddenly very scared.”

  “Stay that way. It’ll help keep you alive. Only fools or liars say they’re never afraid.”

  “I can’t imagine you being afraid, Cole.”

  He chuckled. “Cops are sort of like crop dusters, Katti.”

  “Crop dusters?”

  “Yeah. Ag pilots. I had one tell me once that there are old crop dusters and there are bold crop dusters, but there are very few old, bold crop dusters.”

  “We still going to take Tommy’s old Mustang out of storage?”

  “No point in it now. I was going to use it to lure those . . . things out to us.”

  “I believe we’ve been successful in doing that,” Katti said, then shivered in remembrance of recent events, and in what might lie ahead for them. “Are we being followed, Cole?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “We are going back there, aren’t we?”

  “You bet.”

  “But we’re sure to be spotted ten minutes after we go back.”

  “That’s right. But we won’t have the tapes. They’ll be in a very safe place in Memphis. And if, or probably when, we’re stopped and questioned, those in power will be told that if anything happens to us, the tapes are to be released to the press and the police.”

  “Providing, of course, the order hasn’t gone out to shoot us on sight.”

  “That is something to be considered. Do you know anything about guns?”

  “No. They scare me.”

  “Ever fired a gun?”

  “Hell, no!”

  “Well, if the need ever arises that you have to, just point the little end at the target, hold on, and pull the trigger.”

  “I know that much, Cole. I watch John Wayne movies.”

  “I wonder what the Duke would do in this situation,” Cole mused.

  “Charge,” Katti said.

  Cole smiled and cut his eyes to her. “You know, that might not be such a bad idea.”

  “Oh, lord!” Katti said.

  “But one thing really puzzles me.”

  “Just one thing?”

  “Why did it start twenty-five years ago? What triggered it?”

  “I haven’t thought about that.”

  “We’d better start thinking about it.”

  She glanced at him.

  “Our lives might depend on it.”

  Six

  Jim Deaton listened to the tapes, his eyes widening in shock more than once. He made careful notes as the tape wound on.

  Katti had liked the P.I. from the first. Jim did not look at all like the Hollywood version of a private investigator. He was not a big man, standing several inches under Cole’s nearly six feet. His hair was sprinkled with gray. But Katti could sense a certain strength about the man. She decided that Jim could be a very rough customer, when pushed past a certain point.

  Jim sighed and leaned back in his chair when the conversation with Billy Jordan was over. He fixed Cole with a strange look. “Ghosts, Cole? Really?”

  “Really. They exist, and you can tattoo that on your arm.”

  Jim nodded his head. “I’ll have another copy of these made and secure them in a safe place. Ghosts, Cole?”

  “Yeah, Jim. Ghosts. Very dangerous ghosts.”

  “I recognize some of the names on those tapes. Some of them are monied people in high positions. We start shaking their tree, they’ll shake back. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “I want the sheriffs son and everyone else involved in my brother’s death punished for it,” Katti said. “I don’t give a damn how many trees we have to shake.”

  Jim smiled at her. “There is no statute of limitations on murder, Katti. But these tapes are useless in a court of law. We’re going to have to have more than that.”

  “Then we’ll get it.”

  “Are you licensed to work in Arkansas, Jim?” Cole asked.

  “Oh, yeah. And Missouri and Mississippi, too. I’m not going to charge you anything for my services, Cole, but we’re going to need some help on this.”

  Cole held up a hand. “Whatever is necessary, Jim. I’m not exactly a poor man.”

  Jim smiled, punched a button on his intercom, and spoke to his secretary. A moment later, a man and a woman walked into the office, both of them in their early to mid-thirties, and both of them positively shining with health. The man was quite handsome, and the woman very attractive.

  “Gary Markham and Beverly English. Bev for short. They’re both experienced operatives. Both are experts in the martial arts, and both are expert shots with rifle and pistol. Although none of those qualities are worth a damn against ghosts.”

  Bev and Gary blinked. “Ghosts?” Bev asked.

  “Ghosts,” Jim repeated. “Both of you caught up on projects?”

  They nodded.

  Jim held out the cassette tapes. “Both of you listen to these tapes; then come back in here and we’ll talk.”

  Bev and Gary took the tapes and left the room.

  “Beverly looks . . . well, very capable,” Katti said, when the door had closed.

  “She’s more than that. Army brat. Her father is a retired general. Before he got his stars, he was commander of various Airborne, Ranger, Special Forces units—the whole bag. Bev was jumping out of airplanes before she was fifteen. She got really irritated when the army wouldn’t let her become a Green Beret. After high school and during college, she took about a dozen of the civilian survival courses around the country. She’s climbed mountains, waded through swamps, eaten things that would gag a maggot, and killed two men
. One with a knife and the other with her hands. Gary is tough as a boot. Ex-Marine Force Recon. Was on some clandestine ops down in Central America . . . and other places. The CIA wanted him real bad. Gary said there were too many limitations in working for them. He’s worked for the Pinks, Wackenhut, and others. One will go into Arkansas, the other into Missouri, and nose around.”

  “Jim, you make damn sure they realize this is not a game,” Cole cautioned.

  “We don’t play games, Outlaw,” the P.I. said with a smile, using Cole’s nickname. “Now, let’s hash this thing out . . .”

  * * *

  Millions of dollars were represented in the large conference room. Several sheriffs, several chiefs of police, two state troopers, a sprinkling of deputies, three judges, several state senators and representatives, and one US Senator and one US Representative. There were captains of industry, and men and women who owned huge tracts of land. Their ages ranged from the mid-forties to the mid-seventies.

  “I thought we agreed we would never meet again,” one older man said, a frown on his face.

  “Something’s come up,” the sheriff of an Arkansas county said.

  “Then get it said,” a federal judge spoke. “I have a golf game in a few hours.”

  “You just might want to postpone that, Jeff,” the sheriff said. Then he started talking. The gathering fell silent, as hushed as a graveyard at midnight.

  When the sheriff finished, the US Senator said, “I haven’t been in a goddamn honky-tonk in forty years! This has nothing to do with me.”

  “The hell it doesn’t,” a chief of police said. “We know about those old roadhouses. We knew of the danger they posed. And we did nothing about it.”

  “What the hell could we have done about it?” a millionaire industrialist asked. “Go public and tell people we knew where there were ghosts? We’d have been laughed out of the country. None of us would have attained our current positions had we done that.”

  “Let’s cut the bullshit!” a woman said, her voice hard. “We all know that some of us have used those roadhouse to, ah, shall we say, rid ourselves of people who might present a problem to our futures.”

  “I never have!” the federal judge said hotly.