Hump's First Case

by Ralph Dennis

  Emily Parker James

  Beloved Wife of Wallace

  1929–1970

  I filled a styrofoam cup at the pot in the church kitchen and joined them at a table in the dining room. It was filled with long trestle tables and I guess this was where they had those church suppers. I’d expected to find a sugar bowl on the table. There wasn’t one. I sipped the coffee straight.

  “You were hard to find, Buddy.”

  “That was what Billie Joe said. Almost exactly.”

  The coffee was harsh and mean. “When was that, Mr. James?”

  “The night she left Rosemary at the hotel.”

  “Carl Culp was with her?”

  “Sure,” he said. “He set up the meeting.”

  “Then you saw the ad in the newspaper?”

  “Not exactly,” he said. “A friend who still lives in Atlanta saw the item in the personals and sent it to me.”

  He was talking to me but looking at Rosemary. There was a jerky, foolish grin on his face. “And you contacted Carl Culp?”

  “No, I had Fred … Fred Thompson … he’s a lawyer … answer the ad. Fred passed the word back to me that my daughter, Billie Joe, wanted to see me. Of course, I wanted to see her too and we arranged the meeting that night.” He shook his head slowly. “I think I believed you’d be with her, Rosemary.”

  “I would have if she’d asked me,” Rosemary said.

  “After I talked to her, I realized why she hadn’t asked you. You see, she wanted to meet me so that she could decide whether she wanted to come and live with me.”

  “I don’t believe that, Buddy.”

  “Believe it or not, it’s true. She said she felt like she was in prison and she wanted out of it. She had nothing but angry things to say about your husband, Charles.”

  “And about me?”

  “She wasn’t that harsh about you. She said she thought you’d sold yourself for security and it hadn’t made you happy.”

  It was edging toward soap opera. Another few minutes and they’d be crying together and comforting each other. I changed the direction of it. “The night you met her she was with Carl Culp?”

  He nodded. “Fred Thompson was with me. Fred said there were some legal aspects to this and I’d better protect myself. I didn’t agree with him but I was glad for his company. I was, I guess, afraid to meet her for the first time.”

  “And at that meeting …?”

  “We talked. She said she wanted to go home with me. Fred didn’t think that was wise. He and Billie Joe had a heck of an argument about it. I remember Billie Joe said she was eighteen and she was grown and she could live anywhere she wanted to.”

  Another sip of the coffee. “And that convinced Fred?”

  “Not really, but he agreed it might be okay if I called Rosemary and told her that Billie Joe was with me.”

  “But you didn’t call,” Rosemary said.

  “She wouldn’t let me. She talked me out of it. As soon as we got to the farm I wanted to call you. She said if I made that call, she’d leave and I’d never hear from her again. So I put it off. I thought she’d change her mind. She didn’t. In fact, she only stayed three or four days because of me wanting to call Rosemary. She caught me one morning while I was trying to place a call to Atlanta. She got angry and screamed at me. That was Tuesday or Wednesday. I thought she’d calmed down. When I left for my office, I took her with me. She needed some clothing. I gave her some money and she was supposed to stop by my office after she finished shopping. When she didn’t, I went looking for her. On a hunch I stopped by Bud’s Service Station. That’s where the bus stops. Bud said a girl answering Billie Joe’s description had bought a ticket for Atlanta and she’d got on the 4:55 bus.”

  “That was the last you heard from her?”

  “From her, yes. But not about her. Later that night Fred called me from Atlanta. He said Billie Joe hadn’t been able to reach Carl Culp and, since she didn’t know anybody else in town, she’d called him. Fred said he would help her if he could and he would try to talk her into getting in touch with Rosemary.”

  “And …?”

  “He thought he’d talked her into it. He said he bought her a bus ticket to Kingstree and he gave her some spending money and dropped her off at the bus station downtown.” He’d finished his coffee. Now he was breaking the cup into bits and shreds. “That’s why I’m surprised to see you, Rosemary. I thought she was with you.”

  “She isn’t.”

  It was done. There wasn’t that much more to say. “I’ll need Fred Thompson’s address and phone number. I might need to talk to him.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be glad to tell you all he knows.”

  He wrote the address and phone number in my notebook. I put that away and collected the three cups. I found a trash basket and dropped them in it. When I started back for the table, they were leaning together, talking. I stopped a few feet away. “I’ll wait for you in front of the church, Rosemary.”

  I walked to the Ford and got it turned about and drove to the church entrance. She came out five or six minutes later and got in before I could open the car door for her.

  There wasn’t much to talk about. Both of us knew the words and neither of us had to say them. It wasn’t as simple as she’d thought it was. It was complex and strange.

  Yes, I said in my mind, that girl came close to hating your guts. She wanted to hurt you all she could.

  And she was saying that that wasn’t true. Billie Joe loved her and she’d liked Charles most of the time.

  Back and forth. Back and forth.

  A few miles out of Atlanta a cold icy rain began to fall.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was a few minutes before two in the afternoon when I pulled into the driveway that led past the main entrance to the Riviera. There were two private cars and a Yellow Cab in the line in front of us. The light icy rain was still falling and it was messy out on the roads.

  The silent talking between us, that she’d put back her head and closed her eyes, made the drive back from Plainsville seem longer than it really was.

  One of the cars moved away. The line moved up one car length. “I suppose you have other things to do this afternoon,” she said finally.

  “Not really.”

  “Nothing?” Her face was pale and chilled. She looked drained.

  “A call to Fred Thompson. If there’s a football game on the tube, I’ll watch some of that and have a drink or three. And I’ll have supper.”

  “Alone?”

  “What?”

  “Supper alone?”

  I said, “Yes.”

  “Hump told me about your girl.”

  “Marcy,” I said. “She’s out of town until some time Wednesday night.”

  The other car pulled away from the entrance. The Yellow Cab moved up. We were close enough so that Rosemary could turn and look into the lobby. “I don’t think I can stand another day in that room.”

  “Don’t then.”

  “Is that an invitation?”

  I pulled away from the curb and passed the Yellow Cab. I grinned at her and watched some color return to her face. “It’s either an invitation or this is a kidnapping.”

  I pushed the grocery cart to the bread section of the Superior Food Store on North Highland. She walked beside me and watched while I tossed in a couple of loaves of sourdough french bread. “That’s the first clue.”

  “Is it something special?”

  “Ethnic,” I said. “I am an ethnic chef.”

  At the dairy shelf I threw in a pound of butter. “That’s number two.”

  “It could be anything at all.”

  I returned with a large can of peeled tomatoes.

  “Spaghetti?”

  “Everybody makes that. It’s too easy.”

  A package of garlic. A small jar of feta cheese. A tin of olive oil. A pound and a half of frozen peeled and deveined shrimp. “That’s it.”

  “All of it?”

  “Exc
ept for a bottle of white wine I’ve already got.”

  On the way across the parking lot I said, “Give up?”

  “Yes, Jim.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  The drive toward home. I guess I’d been expecting it sooner or later. “You didn’t ask what Buddy and I talked about.”

  “While I went for the car? I didn’t think it was any of my business.”

  “All the old ghosts,” she said.

  It made sense but it didn’t make sense. I waited.

  “I lied to you. I was nervous about seeing him again.”

  I nodded.

  “You don’t spend as many years as I have, hating him and loving him, and not worry about the way you’ll react when you meet him again.” She used a hand to wipe the condensation away from the window next to her shoulder. “You know, his wife died in 1970.”

  “I saw the headstone.”

  “He still wants me,” Rosemary said. “He asked if I’d divorce Charles and marry him.”

  “On a Sunday morning, in the church dining room?”

  “It sounds silly, doesn’t it?”

  “No.” My first inclination was to make fun of it. At the same time I knew I didn’t have any right to influence it one way or the other. “No. It’s just one of those human problems. He had to use what time he had. That particular time, that place.”

  She was silent until I pulled into my driveway and parked behind Hump’s Buick. I cut the engine and waited.

  “I said that it was too late for us. I said it might have been possible for us ten or twelve years ago. Not now. That there was too much dust and ashes and no fire.” She hit the door handle and swung the door open. The misty rain blew in on us. “Does that please you, Jim?”

  “It’s nothing to me either way,” I said.

  “That’s right.” She stepped out. Before she closed the car door she turned back to me, laughing. “And you’re no fun either.”

  Hump was planted in front of the TV set. It wasn’t a football game. It was some old Alan Ladd movie. Hump waved a hand with a beer bottle in it. “Didn’t expect you back so soon.”

  “We didn’t stay for church.”

  I carried the grocery bag into the kitchen. Behind me, Hump switched off the TV set. He followed me into the kitchen and tossed his empty into the trash can. He leaned against the counter and watched me unload the bag. Rosemary draped her serape over a chair in the living room. She stopped in the kitchen doorway and nodded at the items on the table.

  “Hump, do you know what this wild man is going to cook?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Had lunch yet?” I said.

  “I’ve been nibbling.”

  Hump put it together as soon as he saw the shrimp and the feta cheese. “Greek shrimp?”

  I got the bottle of Graves from the pantry and placed it in the refrigerator.

  Rosemary pulled back a chair and sat at the kitchen table. “What’s Greek shrimp?”

  “Mouthwatering,” Hump said.

  I left the bag of shrimp in the sink to thaw. I tried my pockets until I found the scrap of paper with Fred Thompson’s address and phone number on it. “Did Art call?”

  “Not yet.” Hump opened two beers and passed one to me. “I guess he meant it about taking a Sunday rest from us.”

  On the way past I touched Rosemary on the shoulder. “I think I’d better call that lawyer friend of Buddy’s.”

  “You need me?”

  “Might be better if you make the call and put me on after the introductions.”

  She understood that. In the bedroom I pushed the covers aside and smoothed her a place on the bed near the night table. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked around. “Don’t you ever make the bed, Jim?”

  “And have to mess it up again every night?”

  I dialed the number and passed the phone to Rosemary when I heard the first ring. I stood over her and waited.

  “Mr. Thompson? This is Rosemary Atkinson. I’m Billie Joe’s mother.”

  A pause. I could hear him talking.

  “Of course, I can prove I’m Billie Joe’s mother. What kind of question is that?”

  I got Rosemary’s attention and tapped myself on the chest. She nodded. “Mr. James Hardman, a friend who lives here in town, would like to talk to you.”

  I took the phone. Rosemary slid over and made room for me on the bed next to her. “I’m Jim Hardman. We just got back from Plainsville. Buddy gave us your name and address. We’d like to talk to you.”

  “If you’re who you say you are … you and the lady … I’m still not certain what we have to talk about.”

  “About Billie Joe,” I said.

  “Is she back in Atlanta?”

  “I don’t think she ever left,” I said.

  There was a hissing, like breath passing his teeth. “Is that true?”

  “It’s true.”

  “I warned Buddy that seeing the girl was a mistake.”

  “That’s old news, Mr. Thompson.”

  “You say you talked to Buddy today?”

  I nudged my cuff back and checked my watch. “About two hours ago.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  “Huh?”

  “I want to talk to Buddy.”

  “To check on us?”

  “Yes,” he said. “And what’s your name again.”

  I gave him my name and phone number. He repeated the number and I said that was it.

  “I think I’ve heard of you, Mr. Hardman.”

  “I was police a few years ago.”

  “You’re the one,” he said. “I’ll call you.” He broke the connection.

  I replaced the receiver and stood up. “Even if I didn’t know he was a lawyer, I could have guessed it. He’s careful. Slow careful.”

  I filled my biggest pot with hot water from the tap. I dropped the bag of shrimp in. That would melt the ice frost away and continue the thawing. That was as much as I could do right away. I left them in the kitchen, Hump mixing her a scotch and water, and carried my beer into the bathroom. I washed up and drank part of the beer. On the way back through the bedroom, I thought about calling Art. I decided against it. He’d been firm about Sunday being his day of rest. Instead of that I made the bed and smoothed the wrinkles from the top blanket.

  Crossing the living room I heard Hump say, “… the trip didn’t do that much?”

  “It didn’t seem to,” she said.

  “Happens like that now and then,” Hump said.

  I had another swallow of beer before I found the large skillet and placed it on the burner. I lit the burner and let the skillet warm while I found the garlic press. When the skillet was warm, I turned off the burner and dropped in about a quarter stick of butter. The butter was melted by the time I had the tin of olive oil open. I mixed in three or four tablespoons of the oil.

  “It that much of a blank in Plainsville, Jim?”

  “Maybe.” I broke off three large sections of garlic and peeled them. “The one thing I found out is that Billie Joe thinks she’s a rebel with a cause.”

  “I can’t believe that,” Rosemary said.

  “Whether you believe it or not doesn’t count. It’s what she believes.” I pressed the three pieces of garlic over the skillet and scraped the pulp away. I put the burner on LOW and stirred the butter, the olive oil and the garlic while it simmered. “And it might fit. Who goes around robbing and shooting people? Leave out the cretins and the real criminals and what you’ve got left are the ones who think the world owes them something. That they’ve been shortchanged somehow.”

  I opened the can of tomatoes and poured the juice in. I chopped the tomatoes and stirred them into the sauce. A sprinkling of salt and pepper and a teaspoon of oregano that I rubbed together between my hands before I added it.

  “Are you sure that’s going to be eatable?” Rosemary asked Hump.

  “You wait.”

  I left the sauce to simmer. I sat at the table, acr
oss from Rosemary. “Something’s twisted, gone wrong, in these kids. I suspect they think they’re the new outlaws. Apart from other people. Special. What applies to other people doesn’t apply to them. Vague things have been done to them and they’re going to collect. Dollars for wrongs.”

  “Billie Joe was brought up better than that.”

  “Was is the right word. Too much is boiling away inside her. What she thought of you, of Charles and Buddy. Anger and hurt, all stirred together and ladled up in iron against people who’ve never done anything to them. Like that woman at the 7–11.”

  “That’s too much sociology for me,” Hump said. “What they want is the easy money.”

  “Right to the heart of the matter,” I said. I didn’t believe that, but I felt silly doing all that talk, just trying to make Rosemary understand. It wasn’t possible.

  I got the bottle of wine from the refrigerator. It was barely chilled. I pulled the cork. According to the label it was a 1972 Clos de l’Eglise, whatever that meant. I poured about half a cup of the wine into the sauce and sniffed at it. It was getting right. “It’s time Thompson called back.”

  I returned the wine to the refrigerator and went into the bedroom. Thompson’s number was on the night table. I dialed it and waited through about eight rings. No answer.

  Back in the kitchen, I shook my head before the question could be asked. “Out or not answering,” I said.

  “While we’re waiting …” Hump waved an arm at the skillet.

  “Late lunch now or an early dinner in a couple of hours?”

  “Now,” Rosemary said.

  “I’m with the lady.”

  I preheated the oven. The shrimp were still frozen to some degree. I drained them and dumped them into the sauce. I stirred them about until the clumps of two and three broke apart. By the time the sauce had overcome the chill of the shrimp and begun to bubble again, the oven was ready. I dampened the crusts of the sourdough bread and placed the loaves on the rack.

  Rosemary set the table. The shallow soup bowls and wine glasses.

  The shrimp curled and turned pink. I chopped the feta cheese into small cubes. The final touch: I dropped the feta into the sauce and waited until it started to melt.