by Shelly Frome
Holding the scissors even higher, Dewey shook his head.
“Like hell. Damned if you ain’t him. About the right age, did a stretch down on Parchman Farm. I got me a record in my head of all them glory days I can recite you chapter and verse.”
Dewey shook his head again and mumbled something which only made Beanpole more angry, his grin even wider.
“Don’t lie to me, old man. I drove up here through all the dammed traffic for some information, some easy answers. But you don’t want it easy. You hold up a scissors, shake your head and make it hard.”
The second Dewey shook his head once again, Beanpole threw him against the wall and knocked the scissors out of his hand. Ella still hadn’t moved though her hand was now hovering over the dial buttons.
“So let’s try again,” said Beanpole. “Where’s Billy and, while were at it, where’s that fake driver with the beard and them fancy words? Another agitator you taken a shine to?” Not waiting for an answer, Beanpole hollered, “Talk to me or you want me to bust the other knee?”
Alice could have waited it out till it all blew over. That would’ve been the smart thing to do. Instead, the second Beanpole jerked Dewey’s bad leg throwing him on the floor, Alice popped out of the café, rushed over, grabbed the silver bowl and hurled it. “Leave him alone! He’s got nothing to do with it!”
She didn’t wait to see what part of Beanpole she hit when he yelled, “What the Hell?”or hung around to answer when he yelled, “Hey, you, what you mean by that?”
By this point, Alice had scooted past the bar into the Blues Hall, cut to her right and jerked open the door back of the tiny bandstand. She was already racing out into the alley when she heard Beanpole call out, “You come back here, you hear?”
A sharp turn to the left, and in no time she was clambering up the fire escape and through the kitchen door into Billy’s flat. There was no doubt that Beanpole was right on her heels, only maybe twenty seconds behind. Her first thought was to rush down the hall, grab the parka and try to fake him out.
Hearing him shouting at her from the bottom of the fire escape, she raised the window, spun around and slammed the bedroom door as hard as she could, hunkered down and made it to the back of the lumpy leather couch seconds before he burst past the kitchen into her room.
“Well now, little girl,” said Beanpole, tiptoeing down the hallway. “We gonna play hide and seek? No need. Truth is, I am a real friendly fella. Got a good sense of humor too. But I ain’t dumb. I heard you slam this door and know damn well you’re hiding in the closet or somethin’. That open window trick is pretty lame, just like that ol’ black man you care so much about. ‘Cause there is no way you gonna jump outta that window onto the alley without breaking your own leg.”
After saying, “Ready? Set?” and counting slowly to ten as if they were playing some kiddie game, he said, “Well there now, all you gotta do is tell what you meant, no harm done, and I’ll be on my way. Name’s Darryl, darlin’. What’s yours?”
The second Darryl turned the door handle and peeked into the bedroom, Alice rushed through the kitchen, bounded down the fire escape, turned left instead of right this time, down another alley and out onto the street, heading west in the opposite direction toward the Mississippi.
As Beale opened up she noticed lots of traffic and cars on both sides of the street. She crossed the intersection, ran by a long rusty-brick building on her right, a huge concrete parking garage, more traffic lights, a roadway overhead and then a wide-open thoroughfare which left her isolated and totally exposed. She stopped when there was nothing left but the sky and the river, both a chalky white, a chill breeze whipping across the water. She spotted a far-off bridge in the distance with a trestle that looked like the wingspan of a giant bird. Hazy as it was, she decided it must be a railroad crossing and thought of boxcars heading to Louisiana. Or was it Arkansas? She quickly dismissed the whole silly notion and decided she’d be a lot better off lost in the crowd back where everything was closed-in and there were lots of pedestrians.
Turning completely around, she hustled back and covered the distance between the riverfront up to where it was really congested in less than fifteen minutes. It then took her no time at all to skirt by the handful of bare trees and a statue of a guy named W.C. Handy holding a trumpet below his chin as if about to drop it on Alice’s head. Moving right along, she got swallowed up by a humongous complex shielding her from the gray-white chill and the sense of Darryl lurking not far behind.
Coming across a vaguely familiar food court serving up everything imaginable, it would’ve taken nothing to glom a chili burger and coke or a hot pizza slice with all the toppings. But she couldn’t take the chance of holding still at some counter or getting spotted the second she took a bite.
She mounted more flights of stairs, intent only on asking where the bus station was. She recalled that she and Josh had passed through the lobby of this same posh hotel coming from the other way and plopped down at the food court for some hot coffee and pastry before heading on to Billy’s place. It was only last night but seemed like ages ago.
She kept going, scuffed over the oriental rugs, passed by the giant ferns and glass cases filled with pricey lady’s bags and knickknacks on both sides including an ivory duck. She couldn’t imagine how much money it would take to stay here—like some palace with yellow marble walls, fancy balcony railings from some kind of Spanish villa or something, stuffed couches and chairs you could sink down into while a waiter appeared from behind the glass-top bar and served you all kinds of fancy drinks. The kicker was the black marble fountain in the center of the lobby with its carved little angels holding up the lip of a vase in the center so the flowers spreading up to the gold chandelier and stained glass ceiling wouldn’t topple over.
But none of this meant anything. Her only aim was to catch her breath and ask some guy behind the reservation desk where the Greyhound station was. As she remembered, it was real close by. If she could fake this Darryl guy out, make like she was taking off for Carbondale and out of everyone’s hair, maybe he would back off. Maybe everyone would back off.
When the counter guy told her how close the station was, it was easy to hurry across Hernando Street, check out the blue Greyhound cube sticking up on a pole and a bus about to take off from its loading dock. The long flat terminal was even grayer than the sky and the chunks of surrounding buildings. In practically no time, she began her ploy by making a scene, telling the lady at the ticket counter she just had to get back to Carbondale as soon as possible because her mom was sick with worry about her.
Then, scooting back to the plush hotel, which she learned was called the Peabody, something weird happened. A bellman dressed in a red jacket and tie stepped out of the elevator leading a handful of ducks with white collars and green heads. As if perfectly used to this routine, the two lead ducks hopped onto the black marble base and slipped into the fountain testing the water. Alice couldn’t help thinking of herself and Josh—both of them sitting ducks. She slipped her hand into her jacket, reached for the cell phone, then thought better of it when she caught a glimpse of that ratty old crimson and blue cap and, quick as she could, hightailed it out of there.
14.
For a while, Roy’s only concern were the water-oak leaves stuck in the crevices of the sagging porch, little black acorns and twigs, and the star-shaped sweetgum leaves all over the place. If the wind hadn’t kicked up like crazy the past couple of hours, he wouldn’t have been saddled with this extra chore. He would’ve been out with the coonhound retracing his steps and maybe come across some clue where Bubba and the girl stashed the cigar box and old muzzleloader shotgun. Maybe gotten lucky, maybe gotten his worries pared way down. But the leaves and such were another sign how, if he didn’t see to it, things get out of hand.
Over and over, he kept recalling the old colonel’s words about how the battle is won before the first shot is fired. But that, of course, was when sides were all lined up—blue and gray, enem
y and kin, invaders and home ground. And again, not so long ago, the same thing: agitators threatening a time-honored way of life, also clear as can be. Along with when the white oak and red sweetgum leaves and acorns would fall according to reliable patterns.
But now, with this mess--blustery wind from out of nowhere sweeping down and the dampness holding on and on—everything was clear out of kilter. Causing Roy to be in a testy mood when he was damn near never out of sorts; always able to step back or just plain handle it as it comes.
And now to top it all, Darryl’s new 300-horse pickup could be heard coming up the muddy drive at full tilt. Coupled with the coonhound’s barking, chasing and skirting around the truck, it was all Roy could do to keep raking and tossing the debris in the wheelbarrow like he hardly noticed.
It was only when Darryl hopped out and wouldn’t quit pestering him about his trip and what he’d come across at this Billy fella’s place that Roy started to really tighten up inside. That, and when Roy moved to the edge of the compost heap, dug in deep with the shovel and was about to mix-in and turn the fallen leaves and all, that he couldn’t help thinking of Bubba and the long-ago burials. No matter how he set his mind on the task at hand, the memories flitted by and the muscles in his forearms began to twitch. He stepped back a-ways and let on that the flapping of the tarp on the heap needed to be attended to. But Darryl didn’t buy that was all on Roy’s mind.
“What’s the matter?” said Darryl. “I’m gettin’ to you, ain’t I? I come across something good, right? Right?”
“Darryl, I don’t know this Billy. Or what you’re going on about.”
“Hey, like I said, like I already done told you. It’s not Billy, it’s the bearded guy with the fancy words. Turns out he’s Billy’s nephew. That’s right. I did some askin’ around while I was up there and come back and checked with Strother and Sonny Drew too. Turns out, he had no business at Cody’s ‘cept to nose around LuAnn about some young girl.”
Roy continued not to show the least interest. When the coonhound started sniffing around the freshly dug hole, Roy dropped the shovel, grabbed him firmly by the chain collar like it was some obedience lesson and the dog should’ve known better than to interfere with his work. He led him up the porch steps and shooed him inside the cabin.
He walked back down the steps and returned to his task as lackadaisical as can be but Darryl just wouldn’t let go.
“Now you tell me, Roy, what is more important? What I found up in Memphis or this here yard work? Least you can do is hold still a minute and give me some credit for what I done.”
“What you done?” Roy said, shaking his head. “I don’t hear nothing.”
“Well if you would kindly give me half a chance you would.”
Giving Darryl a weary look, Roy propped-up the rake against the porch railing and waited him out.
“Okay, that’s more like it. Well, sir, to make the ol’ long story short . . .”
The second Roy gazed up at the sky for some break in the weather, Darryl said, “Oh, I get it, I get it. You think it’s gonna be one of my long stories. Well it ain’t. I been practicing the whole drive back and I got it down short and sweet. You ready for this? Guess what I see in the bar up there? Not Billy and not the nephew. I find myself lookin’ straight at Dewey. That’s right. At first I can’t place him. But then it comes to me. The same ol’ black boy with the milky eye from the agitator times. The one drove the bus with no registration. Here he is, plain as day, shakin’ like it was yesterday.”
“Like it was yesterday?”
“Well, not exactly. I have tracked him some. Started up a country blues band somewheres and up at Chewalla Rib Shack, Ethel’s Juke Joint and all. None of which I paid no mind till he set up in that shotgun shack in Ripley, same one they held them agitator meetings. Same one deadbeats started comin’ round wanting to start up I don’t know what and it all caught fire. Now I wonder how that happened?”
The wide grin on Darryl’s face brought him nothing from Roy. “You gonna say somethin’, Darryl, or not?”
“I’m gonna say he may be long gone outta these parts but he ain’t faded away. He’s right across the line up at Billy’s place. Now tell me, don’t that strike you as odd? And soon as I mention the driver nephew with the beard and fancy words, this bony girl comes outta nowhere, hits me with a silver bowl yellin’ ‘Dewey’s got nothin’ to do with it!’
“I’m waitin’, Darryl.”
“I am coming to it, dammit. She runs off, I go after her.”
“You go after her?”
“Hell yes. She’s up a fire escape, hightails it inside to a bedroom. I only want to know what she meant by ‘Dewey’s got nothin’ to do with it.’ I ask real nice but she lights out again and leads me a merry chase all over hell and gone.”
“You did that? Ran after her?”
“Damn right I did.”
Roy squinted at him and resumed raking the rest of the wet leaves and tossing twigs and acorns into the wheelbarrow.
“Hold on. You don’t think there’s something to this? I go back to Billy’s place a little worse for wear and more than a little pissed. I ask the bartender, this worn-out gal with dyed hair.”
“Ask?”
“Okay, I give her a hard time. But she admits—now get this—the little bony gal and the bearded guy come down from Paducah on the bus just the other day. She’s a runaway and Ada Mae is her aunt. You get that, you get it? So naturally I figure this runaway’s either goin’ back to Paducah or returnin’ here. Then, headin’ back out, I spot her again, hightail it to the bus station, find she made a big deal about going back north. But she never showed. So what does that tell you? Huh? Huh? Answer me!”
“Tells me you wasted a helluva lot of time,” said Roy, back at the compost heap, dumping, turning and mixing everything into the soil smoothly and expertly this time, showing no hesitation at all.
“But wait, wait, I forgot one thing. Bartender says she’s got amnesia.”
Roy flinched for a second and gripped the shovel handle, but not so hard that Darryl could notice. “Well, Darryl, if you’re not gonna make sense, if you’re gonna keep wasting my time—”
Grabbing Roy by the arm and yanking him around, Darryl said, “Well maybe it don’t exactly make sense, but you know damn well what I mean.”
Roy stared him down until Darryl let go, stomped over to his pickup and banged his fist on the hood. Cursing, he slid behind the wheel, gunned the motor and shouted he was going to run it all by Sonny Drew and Bubba, if he could ever get a hold of him, and maybe even bypass Roy and the chain of command. Take it to the top if it came to that.
Roy didn’t bother to respond and let Darryl take off, engine grinding and tires churning mud till he was out of sight.
Over the next hour or so, while mulling it all over, Roy completed his chore. He then let the hound loose, made his way down to the edge of Wolf Creek and back again drawing no firm conclusions. Now and then, he would remind himself of one of original Roy’s sayings: A lookout keeps a sharp eye, a tight lip and trusts some and none of what he hears.
It wasn’t until he was back at the cabin and dropped some scraps in the doggy bowl on the porch that Sonny Drew pulled in and Roy realized Darryl’s little Memphis adventure wasn’t at all just going to go away.
Slipping into his usual ways for Sonny Drew’s benefit, Roy patted the hound as it flopped down by the top step, took his good ol’ sweet time and ambled over to the cruiser. Peering down through the half-open window as Sonny shut off the engine, Roy made a few offhand remarks about the wind that had finally died down. He also commented about the cloud cover that showed no sign of a break.
All the while, Roy could tell it was a strain for Sonny to follow suit. It was always a strain, but even more so lately what with budget tightening in the works and talk around here of eliminating at least one officer. And given the Sheriff’s log for the year which showed only a few burglaries, malicious mischief, trespassing, driving without a
license and insurance and the like. And since Sonny had hardly earned his keep, he’d be the first to be let go. Which was why he was up for anything. All you had to do was look at him tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to know he’d just heard and was champing at the bit to run with Darryl’s latest news.
“I seen him, you know,” said Sonny, his thin lips twitching despite his efforts to control it. “At Cody’s not more than a little while ago.”
“Who’s that?”
“You know. That fella Darryl’s talking about. Big guy in a delivery truck with a beard, but sounds like a Yankee and acts more like an agent or something. Asking after a runaway seems LuAnn knows about and Ada Mae is kin to. So what’s he up to? And what’s the girl doing in Memphis at this fella Billy’s place?”
Stepping away from the cruiser, Roy said, “I don’t believe this.”
Sonny stopped his tapping. Yelling out, Sonny said, “Well, you got to admit it sounds a little fishy, don’t it? A liquor driver who ain’t really a driver. Hooking up with a runaway who lit out from here but is really from up north. And the way Darryl tells it, she was trying to keep some old bluesman who did time down in Parchman out of it. Out of what? I agree with Darryl. I say there is a lot more to this than meets the eye.”
Sonny abruptly got out of the cruiser, pulled out a pocket notepad and began flipping through the pages.
Walking away from him, Roy said, “Is this what you drove up here for? Darryl’s jabberin’ is bad enough. You’re supposed to know better.”
“Wait a second,” Sonny said, following him over to the compost heap.
Getting sick and tired of all this loose talk, Roy busied himself getting some heavy logs from the wood pile, weighing down the tarp flap that had blown loose.
“There’s more,” Sonny said, waving his notepad. “I didn’t want to rile Darryl, but Strother told me, right after I checked out this fella’s plates. Reckoned he possibly caught sight of this same runaway hanging out with a loudmouth drunk. It was foggy, getting late, hard to tell exactly, but damned if he didn’t fit the description of Darryl’s kin. You know who I’m talkin’ about? Name’s Bubba.”
