by Ron Fisher
A bearded fellow wearing a wide-brimmed hat made of rattlesnake skins manned the first stall I visited. Behind him, a row of old musket loaders and cap and ball pistols were stacked in a display rack against a backdrop of Confederate flags and old army uniforms. He looked like the perfect man to know Ronald Habersham.
“You wouldn’t know if old Ronald Habersham is around today, would you?” I asked, in the best down-home phonation I could muster.
The man looked me over carefully and answered with a thick New York accent—Bronx or Brooklyn. “He’s in the stall with the what’s-it on top. The weathervane.”
I looked in the direction he pointed. Attached to one of the stalls was a weathervane in the shape of a rooster.
“Thanks a lot,” I said.
“Don’t mention it,” he said, smiling out from under the rattlesnake hat. “Youse come back now, ya heah?” he added.
Who was conning whom around this place?
At the stall under the weathervane, I found a man bent over a cardboard box. He was taping the lid shut. A gleaming new Chevy pickup sat in back, the bed filled with more boxes. He appeared to be emptying out the place.
“Excuse me,” I said.
He turned, and I saw the red hair, impish face, and buckteeth of Ronald Habersham, twenty-something years later. He still looked like a kid who would bring a rifle to school.
“You’re Ronald Habersham,” I said.
“I know that,” he said.
“I’m John David Bragg.”
He gazed at me with a blank expression.
“We went to grade school together,” I offered.
His expression still didn’t change. “I’m out of business here,” he said, louder than he needed to. “Closed up for good.” He spoke with that mournful native accent of the Blue Ridge, tuned to a chord of high mountain places and long forgotten dialects.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
“What the hell you sorry for?”
I didn’t know how to reply.
“You see that there truck?” Habersham nodded at the Chevy over his shoulder.
I looked. It still bore the dealer’s paper plates.
“Bought and paid for in cash. I don’t have to work this damn jockey lot no more.”
“I guess I’m happy for you,” I said. “Business has been good, then?”
“Hell no, business ain’t been good,” he said, reeking of whiskey that I could smell even from where I was standing. “My Daddy finally sold that goddamned mountain.” He turned and spat on the ground. “He done give us our shares, and now this damn place can kiss my ass.”
“Who did he sell it to?”
Habersham stopped taping a box and looked at me. “Who’d you say you wuz?”
“John David Bragg.”
“Any kin to Garnet Bragg?”
“He was my grandfather.”
“He got hisself killed, didn’t he?”
“Yes he did.”
His expression softened a bit. “You got my sympathy.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
“Why would you be wanting to know who bought my daddy’s land?” he asked.
I told him the lie I told to Watson. “I’m considering putting our place up for sale, and thought that whoever bought yours, might be interested in ours.”
He studied me for a moment, squinting his eyes at some inner thought. “You know, land’s a funny thing,” he said. “Most of it ain’t worth shit until somebody wants to buy it. We been land rich and dirt poor all our lives, then some damn fool comes along and offers us more money for it than a show dog can jump over. And that’s for a goddamned steep-as-shit mountain.”
“What was this fool’s name?” I asked.
“Company called Red Hills Developments. Guess they think they can build houses up there.”
“Who handled the purchase for them?”
“Some lawyer named Pitt and a young woman named Melissa something.”
Arthur Pitt’s presence officially connected Barry Beal to the development, and this Melissa could be my missing woman. “You don’t remember this Melissa’s last name?”
He thought a minute. “Nope. I don’t recollect. But she was a cute little thing, long brown hair. Nice build. I shore wouldn’t kick her out of bed. Daddy handled all the dealings with them. I wuz just there at the closing.”
“Do you think your daddy would talk to me about this?” I asked him.
“He probably would, but him and mama are down in Florida looking for a place to buy. I don’t even know exactly where he is. Can’t get him to buy a cell phone. He’s still living in the past somewhere.”
I gave him my cell phone number and asked him to give it to his daddy when he heard from him. I noticed he was suddenly eyeing me with new interest.
“Say, you like carnival glass?” he asked, pulling a piece of colorful glassware out of a box. “I’ll sell it to you by the pound. Got some real nice pieces the womenfolk love to set out just to look at.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, and turned to go. “I like your truck though,” I added. Habersham didn’t reply. He was busy admiring it.
Leaving the flea market—or jockey lot as Ronald Habersham called it for reasons unknown to me—I called Eloise and told her I was going to grab a bite in town, so she shouldn’t expect me for dinner. What I really wanted was a stiff drink and a little time to figure out my next steps. At this time on Tuesday Grandfather already had a line on my missing woman. All I had was a first name, and I couldn’t even be positive about that. What was I missing?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Darkness was falling quickly, and to the west, a line of black clouds gathered, pushing gusts of wind that ruffled the tops of the trees along the roadside. Rain was coming. I went in search along the streets of Pickens for a place of shelter that might serve a cocktail and something to eat.
The white Dodge Ram pickup wasn’t behind me anymore, or at least I couldn’t see it. Maybe whoever it was gave up once he thought I was on to him. But since I didn’t know why he was following me in the first place, how could I know why he would quit?
On the outer edge of town, I spotted Kelly Mayfield entering a small roadside diner. I whipped in and parked, and watched her take a booth by the window. I felt like a voyeur, and was about to leave when she saw me. She lifted her head and our eyes met. Even from where I sat, I could see her cheeks redden. Something told me I’d been the subject of some of her thoughts, none of them pleasant. I got out of the Jeep and went inside. Maybe this place would serve a fellow a drink. She watched my approach, her expression solemn.
“Expecting someone?” I asked, gesturing to the empty side of the booth.
“No,” she answered. “Least of all, you.”
I looked down at her and raised an eyebrow.
She shrugged and tilted her head at the vacant seat, as if she were too tired to resist.
A waitress came over, a short middle-aged woman with a curly hair-do. She handed us a couple of menus.
“Just coffee,” Kelly said to her. “Black.”
“And for you?” the woman said, looking at me.
“Unless you have a scotch on the rocks, I’ll have a coffee too,” I said.
“If we sold booze, I’d have one myself,” she said. “But we do have some fresh-made apple pie that would go great with that coffee.”
We both declined.
“You lovebirds don’t know what you’re missing,” she said, and went to get the coffee.
I smiled, Kelly didn’t.
“Hope this won’t start any ugly rumors,” I said.
The woman behind the counter was still smiling at us.
“What do you want, Mr. Bragg?” Kelly asked.
“For you to call me John David,” I said.
“What do you want, John David?”
“I want you to stay on at the Clarion.”
She took a sip of coffee and studied the cup. I waited.
“I’ll stay
,” she said quietly. “It’s the only way I can help the others. And Eloise. If it helps you too, so be it.” Her black eyes bore into my face. “But I have one condition. You stay out of the way. I run the paper, you don’t. I don’t want to show up one morning and find you with your feet up on Garnet’s desk. If that happens, I’m out the door.”
“No problem,” I said. “I assure you I have no intention of spending any more time at that paper than I have to. The only time you’ll see me is with the lawyers or the accountants if need be—and maybe with any potential buyer who wants a tour. I will probably need your help with that. As far as the operation of the paper goes, you’re the boss.”
“Then it’s settled,” she said.
She turned to stare out the window as if there were nothing more to say. I let my eyes follow hers, and we sat quietly for a moment. It was raining now; the only sounds were the low rumble of faraway thunder and the occasional whine of tires on the wet pavement. I finally broke the silence, and said, “I guess the sidewalks are officially rolled up and put away.”
“Not what you’re used to is it?” she said, looking at me. “Down in Atlanta they’re probably just getting started about this time.”
“Not me. I’m usually in bed by 9 o’clock.”
“And always home before daybreak,” she added.
I shook my head. “Give me a break, will you?”
She shrugged.
“What can I do to change your opinion of me?” I asked.
“Why should you care what I think of you?”
“I have this need to be liked.”
“You must get disappointed a lot.”
“Yeah, but the fun is in the trying.”
“Well, stop trying with me. I find it insulting.”
“Are you suggesting that I’m hitting on you?”
“I think that would be your style, yes. What’s it been, one whole day since Garnet’s death?” She looked sorry the second she said it. “I’m sorry, that was cruel. Even you don’t deserve that.”
“I forgive you,” I said.
She stared out the window again, the moisture in her eyes reflecting points of light from the street. Then she stood up and tossed a couple of bills on the table and walked out.
I sensed the waitress standing over my shoulder.
“Lover’s quarrel?” she asked.
“No such luck,” I replied, and added a couple more dollars to the table. “Say, where can a man get a drink around here?”
“I’d say my place, honey, but my husband would probably frown on that,” she said, and chuckled. “Try the Silver Dollar east of town. It’s down the hill from the old high school. There’s a billboard at the edge of town that’ll point the way. But watch yourself, that place can get a little rough sometimes.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The rain slackened, but the world was still streaming water when I found the Silver Dollar. A large neon sign lit up the cars in the parking lot—which was full—something I didn’t expect on a weeknight. Not all the sidewalks were rolled up, it seemed.
Inside, the sound of country music played loudly behind a door fronted by what looked like a movie box-office window. A young lady with bleached-blonde hair and exposed cleavage sat behind a window. She seemed pleased to catch me looking at her exposure.
“Business seems to be booming,” I said. “What’s the attraction?”
“Loud music, cheap drinks, and good barbeque. Hell of a combination,” she said. “But you’ve got to be a member to get in. It’s a private club.”
“How does one become a member?” I asked.
“Pay me five bucks and sign this,” she said, pushing a cheaply printed wallet-sized card at me.
“No price is too high for exclusivity, I always say.”
“It’s what we have to do to get around these dumb-ass South Carolina liquor laws. There’s also a five-dollar cover charge for the band,” she added, as I was signing the card. I handed my money over and went inside.
At the bar I ordered a Macallan on the rocks, which made the bartender smirk. If there was a place in Pickens that sold Macallan, obviously this wasn’t it. Macallan was my one extravagance, and while I couldn’t afford it, once tried, forever hooked. I settled for a popular blended Scotch, put my back against the bar, and looked the place over.
The band was playing a rowdy Hank Williams Jr. tune and doing a fair job of it. The dance floor was packed with gyrating bodies, stomping feet, and flying arms. A blackboard behind the bar listed tonight’s special of baby-back ribs and all the fixings. While I was tempted, I decided that one or two drinks was all I wanted. The fridge at Still Hollow was still full of food, and it was free.
A gorgeous redhead who looked barely over the legal drinking age shouldered up next to me at the bar and waved a twenty at the bartender. She turned and looked at me with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. She smiled and I smiled back. She was dressed like a cowgirl. She wore a western shirt with mother of pearl buttons, hat, boots, and tight-fitting jeans. The lyrics to an old song came to mind, something about “Sweet Doreen from Abilene,” and one’s ability to read the dates on the nickels in her jeans.
“You by yourself, slick?” she asked, cracking her gum loudly.
“Alone, but not lonely,” I said.
She wrinkled her freckled little nose and studied me.
“You’re not a regular here are you?” she asked.
Out on the dance floor, an overweight woman lost her footing and sat down hard on her derriere. A shoving match broke out between her dance partner and another man. “Is anything regular here?” I asked.
She took off her cowboy hat and carefully placed it on the bar, crown down.
“Not exactly your cup of tea, huh?”
“Not tonight. My pistol’s in the shop getting the trigger filed.”
Her blue eyes seemed to turn a slightly darker shade.
“Why are you being such a smart-ass, when I’m just trying to be friendly?”
It was a good question. “I apologize,” I said. “I’m sorry if I was rude.”
“Apology accepted. I’m Darla.”
“I’m J.D.”
“Why don’t you come over to the table and meet my friends. We don’t allow strangers to drink by themselves in here.”
Why not? There was no reason to be unfriendly, and it was too loud to do any serious thinking about what, if anything, I’d learned today. Moments later, I was sitting at a table with a Nick, a Tommy, a Jill, and a Lisa, all of them closer to twenty than thirty. The table was covered with lime wedges, empty shot glasses, and the sweet-sour smell of Tequila. Darla scooted her chair over and said, “You dance, J.D.?”
Before I could say, “Not if I can help it,” a guy built like a tree trunk came over, pulled a chair from a nearby table and squeezed in on the other side of her. He bumped fists across the table with Nick and Tommy, threw an arm around Darla’s neck, and looked at me.
“Who’s this?” he asked.
“J.D., meet Bobby Paige,” Darla said, and made a show of removing his beefy arm from her shoulders.
Bobby, several years older than the others, had no neck, a permanent crease between his eyebrows, and a white-blonde buzz cut. He didn’t offer to fist bump me.
“What are you doing with my gal?” he asked, and smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
I picked up my glass and looked at it.
“I’m having a drink, what else?”
“I don’t know what else. That’s why I fucking asked.”
“You’ve got to Overlook Bobby,” Darla said, turning her back on Paige. “He can’t help being born an asshole.”
“What’s the matter Darla?” Paige said, keeping eye contact with me. “Hometown dick ain’t good enough for you any more?”
She spun around and slapped his face. He was quick; he slapped her back and was about to do it again when I grabbed his wrist. To my dismay, he broke free with no apparent effort and stood up, knocking his chair ove
r and tumbling down a pyramid of shot glasses stacked on the table. I ducked a wild swing and moved inside and behind him, getting my arms under his armpits and locking my hands behind his thick neck. I rode him down like a falling horse, upending the table with a clatter of breaking glass and flying objects.
He slipped my grip with a confidence destroying ease, flipped me over like a hotcake and got on top and pressed a meaty elbow into my throat and bore down. Pinpoints of white light flashed like cartoon stars behind my eyes as he made a serious attempt to crush my larynx.
Suddenly, his elbow was off my throat. I sat up, trying to catch my breath between fits of coughing, and saw two big guys with Hulk Hogan arms struggling to keep a red-faced Bobby Paige at bay. Finally, Paige calmed down.
“This over?” one of the big guys asked him.
Paige stared at me for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders.
“Then get on out of here, Bobby. I want you completely off the property for the rest of the night.”
Paige brushed himself off, scowled at me, and left.
“You okay?” one of the big guys asked me.
“You the bouncers?”
“We try to be.”
“You eighty-sixing me, too?” I asked, my voice raspy in my ears.
“You didn’t start it.”
“How do you know that?”
“With Bobby Paige? You don’t strike me as that suicidal.”
I thanked them for saving me from speaking through a battery-powered voice box for the rest of my life, and took Darla to the bar.
“Thanks for sticking up for me,” she said, when the drinks we ordered came.
“What was that all about?”
“Bobby’s crazy. That’s why I broke up with him. But that was long ago. This was weird, even for him. He’s seen me with other guys since then and has never acted like that. I don’t know how Nick and Tommy can stand working with him.”
“What do they do?”
“Bobby’s a civil engineer, I think. He’s in charge of construction or something like that, for a big company here. He’s Nick and Tommy’s boss. But he’s got bigger ideas,” she said with a mocking voice. “Something about starting his own construction company with backing from somebody with a lot of money. He would never tell me who, so I figured it was just more of his bullshit.”