by Lawton Paul
She’s too late. The dark shape leaps for the top, but then screams and falls back down. The dog nipped him in the leg and now has the man pinned, his back to the fence.
She slides the bolt up and loads the bullet. “Stop, or I’ll put a hole in your ass!” she says, between gasps, fifteen yards away. “Come here, boy,” she says to the dog and he comes to her, putting himself between Angela and the man at the fence. She can see him, tall and thin, but a hood covers most of his face. Like a criminal, or a murderer, she thinks. “Why are you here?”
“You wouldn’t understand.” His voice is calm and he certainly doesn’t have the familiar Chickasaw country drawl like the locals. And unlike her, he isn’t winded, isn’t ready to puke from sprinting forty yards across Kaufman’s back yard.
She swallows, takes a deep breath and gains her composure. “Try me.”
“I come here in peace, seeking strength, calmness.”
“Bullshit. Tell me why you are here.”
She brings the rifle up but can’t decide where to aim. Head, God no. Chest, but where? I don’t want to hurt him. Leg then. No, what if I hit an artery?
“Move and I’ll shoot you.”
“No you won’t,” he says. He’s right. “Goodbye, Angela,” he says, then jumps over the fence, light and agile as a cat. The dog’s growl turns into a whimper. Angela wants to cry.
She sits down, the dark turning to gray as morning comes, Dog sniffing and pawing at something in the grass. “What is it, boy? Bring it here.” He picks it up with his teeth and drops a small bag made of soft leather at her feet. She’s seen it before but doesn’t remember where.
“It’s Freakboy’s!” says Bo, later that morning in the kitchen. “Prolly some weird voodoo shit in there.” Angela pulls on the tight leather cords and finally gets it open. Bo’s staring at her with wild eyes like a monster is going to pop out of the small bag.
Angela looks inside and says, “Oh my!”
“Human teeth? Bone fragments?” says Bo, taking a step back.
“Seeds,” says Angela, laughing. “Just seeds, Bo.”
Right then Carl shows up at the back door with five pounds of fresh shrimp iced down in a bucket. “They’re all jumbos,” he says to Bo through the screen.
“Thanks, Carl,” says Bo. “Come on in.”
“Whatcha got?” he says.
“Jesus,” says Angela, and hands him the bag. “He was in Mrs. Kaufman’s back yard this morning.”
“Seeds, huh? Why was he in her yard? That dude ain’t right. Runs around town half naked, talking to himself. Sheriff caught him digging in that little patch of grass between the library and the courthouse but Andy didn’t do nuthin’ ‘bout it. Said the kid was harmless.”
“That’s fantastic. We got a nutjob prowling around in a murder victim’s backyard and the sheriff has already decided he’s harmless.”
“And that bastard sheriff thinks Johnny done it!” says Bo, the mood turning sour and quiet.
“We gotta talk to Jesus again,” says Angela. “If we don’t do something I’m gonna go crazy. Let’s go, Bo. We’ll take the dog.”
“Naw, ladies. I know a better way,” says Carl.
Carl guides the big boat into Potts creek, a tiny, narrow stretch of water only accessible at high tide, the big V8 engine rumbling and complaining even though they were idling. “She likes to run full out,” he says. Then the engine cuts off and the boat starts to drift and spin ever so gently. Suddenly Angela realizes how peaceful and quiet this place is. No sound but birds and water and the dog’s claws scratching on the fiberglass deck when he walks. Carl fires up the engine and the moment is gone and they are puttering down the creek again, cypress and laurel oaks standing along the shore. Pretty soon they come to a sandy bank with a break in the trees and Carl creeps up until the hull of the boat hits bottom and everyone lurches forward. He jumps down into the shallow water and ties the bow line to a tree.
They walk through the woods to Jesus’ place, but this time from the opposite side. Pretty soon they come up on a battered, faded orange shipping container, overrun with weeds and bushes, a few small oaks growing right up next to it. Maerx is written on the side, parts of the r and x eaten away by rust. Angela looks at Carl, puts a finger over her lips and he nods. She does the same to the dog, realizes Carl probably thinks she’s nuts, but the dog seems to know. One of the trailer doors is half open and Angela takes a peek inside expecting the usual backwoods hideaway: sweat stained mattress with no sheets, beer cans, maybe some smutty magazines.
“Holy shit,” says Angela standing inside the door. The interior is lit up with fluorescents, the wood floor polished to a shine, a laptop on a handsome wooden desk, orchid and flower images fading in and out on the screen. On the other side is a kitchen area with a marble counter top, and in the back she can just make out the bedroom: white sheets and a reading lamp. There’s also a bookshelf filled mainly with plant books: Laboratory Manual for Stern's Introductory Plant Biology, What a Plant Knows: A Field Guide to the Senses, Protocol for Somatic Embryogenesis in Woody Plants. Magazines and some paperbacks are stacked on top. This ain’t right, she tells herself. What is this guy up to?
She opens a small, wooden box on the computer desk and inside is a black and white picture: a lady holding a plant. It’s Mrs. Kaufman standing in her back yard. The back porch was screened in back then and even in black and white the paint on the eaves looks fresh. She picks up the box and underneath are the initials MHK.
She hears yelling outside. One voice is definitely Carl’s. The dog gets tense and Angela tells him to quiet down and stay with her. She’s still inside the container house and takes a peek outside. Jesus has a shotgun pointed at Carl and is marching him back towards the boat. They stop right near Angela and she can see them through the crack where the door meets the container.
“I kin make it from here, Freakboy,” says Carl. “You kin go on back now.”
“Naw. I’m ‘onna make sure you git out,” says Jesus. He’s waving around an old shotgun. “Keep movin’ or I’ll put a big hole right through yer ass,” he says. Just go, Carl, Angela thinks. The dog is right beside her, tense and ready to go. Carl’s yelling back at Jesus and just as she’s about to send the dog she gets a good look at the gun. It’s rusty and the wooden stock is dry and cracked. And then she notices something else: there’s no trigger. Jesus has his finger in mid-air like there’s a trigger but there isn’t one. She steps out into view, the dog on her heel.
“Angela get back inside!” yells Carl.
“It’s okay, Carl,” she says. “The shotgun doesn’t work. He’s bluffing.” Jesus swings around and points the barrel at her.
“You sure ‘bout that?” he says. Then he aims at the dog. “Maybe I oughtta shoot the mutt, jus’ so ya know.” Right then Carl steps up and grabs the barrel and wrestles it away from Jesus. He takes off running back down the path. Angela grabs the gun, and sure enough, the whole firing mechanism is gone.
“Go, Dog!” she says, and the dog, once again, takes off in pursuit. Jesus is fast, darting down the path like a deer, nothing but a pair of shorts and long, brown hair in the wind. Angela and Carl follow as best they can, past the old bus and the dead vulture, and then Jesus takes a quick turn off the path into the palmettos and the only thing guiding them is the sound of the dog barking.
They’re running through the palmettos, through big banana spider webs hanging between impossibly tall and skinny pines. Angela tucks in behind Carl so he can break through the webs. They finally stop, sweaty and winded, in the middle of nowhere, Carl with a big spider crawling on his curly red hair and another smaller one rappelling off his arm on an invisible strand down to safety.
“Where’s the damn dog?” he says between breaths, bent over with his hands on his knees, his face red and sweaty.
“You okay?” says Angela.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Just ain’t used to chasin’ skinny, little rabbit freaks through the woods. He reaches into his po
cket, pulls out small bottle of pills, drops a few on the dirt, cusses, then gets one under his tongue.
“You sure you’re okay?”
He straightens up, face still a red grimace, takes a deep breath and starts grinning.
“I’ll be fine, Angie Dear, right up until I’m dead.” He laughs at his joke.
A moment later they can see the dog’s gray tail flashing in and out of the palm fronds. He comes up tail wagging and barking. “Hey, Boy,” she says, happy to see him. She hugs him and he licks her face. “Where’s the bad guy?” He takes off to their right, angling back towards Potts creek. He stops and looks back, then when they catch up he moves again.
They come to a dense patch of palmetto and the dog just starts barking and circling. Carl strides into the bushes, both hands moving palm fronds out of the way. He crisscrosses the area and comes back empty except for bloody, scratched arms. The sun, right above them, beats down, the pine trees offering no shade at all. Sweat mixed with sand starts to find its way into the cuts on his arms, each one a little line of fire and he starts to cuss like a good river rat.
Carl looks up at the nearest pine. “Well, he ain’t up there,” he says. “The tops of the pines are so thin they couldn’t hold a house cat much less a full grown Jesus.” Then he starts grinning again. “Hey, if I did kill Jesus, would I go to hell?” He starts laughing at his joke. Meanwhile the dog is pawing the ground close by. He starts whimpering and gets excited. “He couldn’t’ve dug a hole that fast.”
“Maybe the hole was already there,” says Angela, down on her knees digging right next to the dog. Suddenly her fingers hit something flat. It’s plywood. Carl starts moving sand close by and finds a rusty latch handle.
“I got it,” he says. “Hey, Jesus. I know you’re in there. If you don’t speak now I’m going to get in there with you and only one of us is coming out. I’ll leave your dead ass out in the open here for the vultures. Nobody will know your dumb ass is gone. No one will even give a shit.” He whispers to Angela, “Scare tactic.” Sure enough, they can hear shuffling around beneath them. The plywood is bumped from the inside and the sand flies up and the dog jumps and barks.
“Okay. Okay, I’m coming out,” says Jesus. His voice muffled by sand and wood. The trap door opens and sand falls away revealing an old door cut in half, then hinged in the middle. A sandy, sweaty Jesus pokes his head up. Carl grabs him by the hair with one hand and the other has a death grip on Jesus’ skinny arm. He marches him to the nearest pine and sits him down. He is covered in dirt, head to toe, the bottoms of his feet black as tar from running barefoot all over town. The whites of his eyes contrasting with his dark, tanned skin.
“Pointing a shotgun at someone is serious business,” says Angela.
“I could say the same fer you,” he says in perfect Chickasaw drawl.
“So it was you the other night. What were you doing at Mrs. Kaufman’s? And you can cut the I’m-a-dumbass-redneck shtick. You didn’t speak that way the other night.”
“I ‘on’t know whachyu talkinbout,” he says, crossing his arms and leaning back on the pine.
“Really great act you got going here. Now why don’t you cut the BS,” says Angela. He clears his throat and spits. “You know it isn’t too smart to lurk around the victim’s house when there’s a murder investigation going on. I’m gonna talk to the sheriff and see if we can’t move you right up to the top of the list.”
“I whut’n lurkin’. And I didn’t kill Marlina.”
“Yeah, but the facts are starting to line up against you. You were on her property the other night, and you’ve been there before. You just pointed a shotgun at us. You’re on a first name basis with her. Oh, and then there’s the stolen box with her picture inside. Maybe The Regal oughta get the scoop. Plant Freak Moves to Number One Suspect in Kaufman murder. Who you think they’re gonna believe? A kid saving for college who’s got prominent Chickasaw citizens vouching for him, or a vagrant who lives in a shack, runs around town naked, and doesn’t talk to anyone.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re gonna need a good lawyer to convince a jury of old Chickasaw ladies you’re not a killer. Where were you the night of the murder?”
“Busy.”
“Killing some old lady?” Angela’s voice is louder and she’s up in Jesus’ face. He’s starting to squirm around and Carl steps up and puts a hand on him again so he doesn’t run off. He doesn’t respond so Angela changes the question.
“What are you up to out here?”
“Farmin’. Harvestin’.” He smiles. “Shit like that.”
“You growing pot?” Angela whips out her phone. “If you don’t start talking maybe I’ll make a website. How about JesusPot.com? I’ve got a little red dot right here on a map. It’ll be a race between the stoners and DEA to see who gets here first.”
“I ain’t growin’ ganja. And if yer so hell bent on puttin’ me away then call the sheriff right now and he can come out and take me in if he wants to.”
“Fine.”
Angela calls the sheriff and thirty minutes later both Chickasaw Sheriff’s Department trucks are parked next to the school bus.
“Had to winch the big oak outta the way, then cut down a maggot ridden turkey vulture or I’d‘ve been here sooner,” says the sheriff. He gets out of the truck pulling on his belt, the clean-shaven young deputy in tow.
“Angela, this don’t look like an emergency,” he says, staring down at Jesus, now sitting up against the front tire of the school bus.
“Sheriff, he pulled a shotgun on us!” And then she lists all of the other facts: him lurking on Mrs. Kaufman’s property, the picture in the shipping container room, and the MHK box.”
“Alright, alright, Angela, calm down. Why don’t you and Carl sit over there and let us do our work.” So the sheriff and the deputy speak with Jesus for about ten minutes. At the end Jesus is smiling and the sheriff’s asking the deputy where he wants to eat lunch.
The sheriff looks at Angela and just shakes his head no. “He didn’t do it. He’s got people who can place him elsewhere the night Mrs. Kaufman died.”
“What about the box? It’s hers! And the picture!”
“She gave it to him.”
“Oh, so you’re gonna trust this freak that says she gave him a box, but you’re gonna arrest Johnny?”
“Yeah, but Johnny admitted he stole the money. And now we can stop talking about that and you can go home.”
She runs up to him and gets in his face. “That’s a load of crap, Sheriff! Look at this place! You had to cut down a vulture to get here!”
“Angela,” says the sheriff slow and deliberate, “go home.”
“I’m not going anywhere until I get some justice!” She gets in his face so Carl steps up from behind and pulls her back a little.
“I’ll give you some justice,” says the sheriff. “You pulled a loaded weapon on that man the other night. I convinced him not to press charges.”
“Not to press charges. On me! You people are all nuts in this backwater, podunk shithole!”
“Angela, she allowed him on her property. Now Carl, please escort Mrs. Fleetwood home.”
Caribbean Spice
1983: University of Florida, Gainesville
Walt dodged frat boys with Greek letters on their shirts and tanned, long-legged girls through the UF campus at a near run with one thing on his mind: jerk chicken and a cream soda for five bucks at an off-campus hole-in-the-wall called Caribbean Spice. It was the greatest discovery of his short college career. His breakfast, a piece of toast and a thin veneer of margarine, the last dregs of yellow stuff coaxed out with a bare finger, had left him hungry hours before. But a sign in front of Turlington Hall stopped him dead in his tracks: 1:30PM, room 207, German Fuel Supply During World War II, professor Harlan DeSoto, Phd.
He glanced at his watch: 1:24. He thought of crashing the lecture after lunch. But strolling in fifteen minutes late while licking a del
icate mix of garlic, onion powder and allspice off chicken-greased fingers just wouldn’t do. So he walked in with no notebook or pen to take notes, stomach grumbly. He wasn’t even in the history department.
Soon a large man with slick, dark hair ambled up to the lectern, and pulled out a worn leather portfolio with yellowed papers sticking out at odd angles. He fished one out of the pile, squinted at it, took a quick look over his half-rim reading glasses at the students, and said, in mangled German: “Guten tag”.
Walt’s eagerness quickly faded. The professor droned on about how America kicked ass in the war, mainly due to Germany’s lack of oil production, which was true. But some of his facts seemed off, and every German word he uttered was horribly mispronounced. After about ten minutes Walt decided to just bolt for the door and to hell with etiquette.
But then a tall, brown-haired girl sat down right in front of him. She reached into her backpack for a notebook, tan arms and beautiful face. Walt couldn’t resist.
“You don’t need a notebook,” he said. “This dude doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
She glanced back, poker-faced, then started taking notes.
Meanwhile the professor kept going on in monotone: “…what with the Russian incursion amounting to very little usable oil, Maikop being the exception, Romania then became Germany’s chief supplier of fuel oil, or Gasol, in German…”
“See there,” whispered Walt into the girl’s ear again. “His pronunciation is shit. He says gas-all like a redneck. Why not just say gas in English?”
Walt continued his commentary until she started to giggle. Then suddenly the professor had stopped talking and the only sound was the brown-haired girl whose laugh had somehow morphed into a teary-eyed, coughing fit. But the prof wasn’t buying it. He pulled off his reading glasses and glared at her.
