Texas Troubles

by N. C. Lewis

  Another knock, this time sharper, and a female voice. “Is anyone at home?”

  The voice called out again, soft with a gentle Hispanic lilt. “Hello, anyone there?”

  Out of the makeshift bed, onto the polished concrete floor. I pulled on a T-shirt and jeans and hurried past the kitchen. Bodie dog opened his eyes, raised his head, sniffed the air, then went straight back to sleep. I flung open the door in time to see the back of a woman with a huge, frizzy, salt and pepper afro. The woman walked with quick staccato steps and was already through the iron gate headed in the direction of the outbuildings.

  “Hello there,” I called.

  The woman turned around. Her flawless sandy complexion paired with her hourglass shape gave her the image of a movie star, but the attire was that of an office worker. Slung across her shoulder, a black leather handbag, and in her arms a large brown box. By the way she strained, the box contained something heavy.

  “Do you always take this long to answer the door?” she asked, putting the box down on the dirt path and wiping her brow.

  “Only when deep asleep,” I answered. I’d just about had it with the friendly nature of the locals. Lack of money, sleep, time, and caffeine did nothing to lighten my mood.

  The woman took quick staccato steps back along the path, covering the distance between the iron gate and front door faster than I could run. Then flashed a friendly smile and said, “Hi, I'm Emma Garcia, our place is on the next lot but one, a little further down the lane. Medlin Creek is a quiet town, not much happens here.”

  I flashed my friendliest smile back and said, “Hi, I’m Ollie. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Ollie, hope you won’t get bored with the place. The last owner left years ago, his children didn’t want to live here. Too quiet for young folk. Anyway, how was your first day in this pretty little town?”

  “First day? Eh, started badly, then rapidly went downhill.”

  Emma let out an uncontrollable giggle. Encouraged, I continued.

  “The day began with humidity stroke. Continued with an irate realtor and ended with moonlight shining through a hole in the bedroom roof as the heavens opened and the creek began to rise.”

  Emma’s eyes and mouth grew wide at the same time, and a gargle of shock and laughter rose from her throat. Then wiping the tears, Emma spluttered, “Guess, you’ve met Marsha Pennington. The lady can be a little pushy, but Marsha’s harmless.” She grinned and rolled her eyes.

  Emma continued, “On the way to work right now, Medlin Creek Community College. George and I are pleased to meet you. Oh, George is my husband. Guess he’ll stop by later. He’s a builder.” She handed me a business card. I made a mental note add “call George” to the urgent list.

  Bodie came to the door, tail wagging. “Hello young man,” Emma said in a childish voice. Bodie wagged his tail in delight at the attention. “Want a treat?” She reached into her handbag and fished out a doggie snack. Bodie devoured the thing in one gulp, then rolled onto his back for a tummy rub. Emma complied.

  Straightening up, she said, “Ollie, I work for Professor Bingham, Administrative Officer. Anyway, better get on the way, don’t want to be late.”

  Emma turned and headed back along the path. At the cardboard box, she paused.

  “Need help carrying that box?” I called.

  “No thanks, I’m fine.” Emma swooped up the box, and disappeared behind the outbuildings, with Bodie bounding close behind.

  Chapter 7

  A little after nine a.m., oppressive humidity surrounded the town of Medlin Creek like a medieval cloak, temperature in the mid-eighties on the way to one hundred degrees by noon. At Moozoos Café, the morning rush was in full swing. Inside, instrumental jazz music played over the speaker system. Tall glass cases filled with pastries, cakes and other sweet treats tempted the patrons. Customers, a mixture of office workers, locals and tourists, darted out of air-conditioned cars for a daily caffeine shot and back again.

  Only the tourists stayed to drink, so there were a lot of empty tables available. It was too early to think about calories, a so I ordered a large latte and a lemon slice. Then I chose a table by the window, overlooking Creek Street, watching the sun rise above the buildings—the perfect location. Seated, taking short sips and chewing on a bite of cake, I thought about Tanner. In college, he was always the first person into the dojo, and Ollie Stratford the last. At least today I was early.

  There was a sudden surge of patrons. Bleary-eyed, in single file as the line snaked from the counter to the front door, Marsha Pennington appeared with another woman. who had milky brown skin, dressed in an outfit which signified bureaucratic authority. They chatted like old friends. There was something familiar about the woman. It would come to me if I worked at it, I didn’t feel like working at it, not without more coffee.

  A tall lanky man with a wild forest of gray hair growing over his head and face, strolled up to the two women. The man was in a partial uniform. He wore a sheriff’s outfit of sorts, but on his feet, a pair of wading boots. The fishing pole held under his arm left the impression he was intent on a relaxing day by the creek, rather than patrolling the streets for villains.

  “Well hello, Mayor Felton,” he said to the milky-brown-skinned woman. “Howdy Marsha. See you ladies are on the caffeine run as well!”

  “Why, Sheriff Hays,” responded Mayor Felton, “enjoyed visiting with your family Sunday. Amazing brisket, got to have the recipe.”

  The sheriff laughed out loud, angular features and deep-set eyes moving in robotic unison.

  “Sorry, Mayor, that’s a family secret, got the recipe from Grandma who received exact instructions from Great-Grandpa, who learned the secret from a cousin from the Rhine, Germany.” Both women laughed out loud.

  “Now, Sheriff Hays, how is the community involvement initiative going?” asked the mayor.

  The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, very well. Deputy Dingsplat is the outreach officer this year. That young man is attending the speaker's circle and loving the whole experience. Your initiative is going well, Mayor Felton. Could not wish for more.”

  Next to Sheriff Hays stood a young female officer. I hadn’t noticed the officer because of her height, or rather lack of it. The woman was less than five feet tall—looked like a pixie on stilts.

  “By the way,” crooned the sheriff, “here is our newest recruit, Deputy Muller. Today, as you know, is her first day on duty in Medlin Creek. As requested, Mayor, Deputy Muller will be on foot patrol today, right here on Creek Street.”

  A sheepish smile crept across Deputy Muller’s face and the officer took two short steps forward, and gave a little curtsy as she said, “Pleasure to serve the mayor and good folk of Medlin Creek.”

  “Ah yes, perfectly done,” smiled the mayor, nodding in appreciation.

  The conversation continued, but the words were drowned out by the hiss of the espresso machine and the rising volume of customer chatter. Deputy Muller, the mayor, and Sheriff Hays left together.

  Marsha, now alone, stood at the bar sipping coffee, her eyes swiveling around the Café looking for clients or contacts or both. I crouched a little, turned to look out the window and put the cup in front of my face. If Marsha happened to glance through the gloom of the Café, she would only see my back. Marsha spotted me anyway.

  With each step, her stiletto heels struck the wooden floor with a pistol clap. I flashed a “let’s be friends" smile. The woman stared back impassively and rested predatory palms on the edge of the table.

  “Dr. Stratford, yesterday evening I drafted a sales agreement and other items for the property. I have the basic document with me now. You’ll need to run the thing by a lawyer, most people use Owen Birch, my cousin. But to get things started, sign here.”

  Marsha reached into her handbag and handed over a single sheet of paper. I didn’t want it but took it. I studied the neatly printed words, a simple sales agreement which stated in exchange for the land, property and mineral rights, the sel
ler would receive seventy-five percent of the appraised value of the property. The freedom to choose any appraiser in Havis County was the only redeeming feature of the agreement.

  Marsha dug into her handbag for a pen, metallic silver, with “M.P” engraved along the side. At the signature line, she pointed a single crooked finger, her nail tap-tap-tapping against the paper.

  “Quick, Dr. Stratford, sign now, I have a client to meet in twenty minutes.”

  As she stood waiting, I daydreamed about John, what was it he always said? “Wife, you are too nice.” The mantra which followed these words rang through my mind. “Not everyone can be a friend, Ollie. If the chemistry is missing, don’t stress, plenty of people in this world.” John was right, but the words always stung.

  I tried to form angry words to repulse Marsha, but my lips would not move. Instead I mumbled, “Thanks, Marsha, I decided to fix up the old place. I want to turn the property into an event center. Such a kind offer, but nope, Ealing Homestead is not for sale.”

  Marsha did not twitch or blink, her eyes stared back cold and hard for a couple seconds. Then her lips twisted, as she sucked in a breath and said. “I would be delighted to take the property off your hands right now, if you will only sign here.” The words mirrored almost exactly the ‘ignore the client objection’ advice taught to every used car salesperson. Marsha was a pro, I admired her for that, if nothing else.

  Pause.

  She leaned in close and whispered, “OK, I will pay the full appraised value. That’s the final offer. Take it or lose!”

  My lips cracked into a wry smile which warned Marsha what was coming. “No, Marsha, the place is not for sale. That is final!”

  Marsha’s eyes flashed. “You'll regret this, I will see to it.” She slammed the sales agreement down on the table, turned and stomped out of the café.

  I sank back into the chair as my inner critic jumped on my plummeting moral, riding it like a donkey at the fun fair. Not only have you failed to make any friends, you have created an enemy, and within twenty-four hours of arrival in Medlin Creek. Well done, Ollie!

  Just then I noticed a short stocky woman, in her early sixties but she could have been older, talking to the barista. Her hair, salmon pink, with yellow streaks, tied in a tight bun and her eyes were dark, set above a narrow, disjointed nose. On her neck, a colorful fire-breathing dragon tattoo. She spoke very quickly, eyes darting around the café.

  The barista pointed, and the woman bounced on the tips of her toes, stopping at my table. She smiled showing two rows of crooked teeth. I smiled back. “Ma Jenkins me name, you must be Ollie, eh? Tanner told me all about ya.”

  Immediately, I warmed to Ma, and stood up to shake her hand. Ma sat and said, “Tanner told me all about the Cedar Long Horn incident! I can’t hardly believe you survived that.” As she chuckled, she continued, “Things you get up to as a youngster, eh?” The blood raced to my cheeks, I willed it away, but failed.

  “Now, Ollie, hear you used to train with Tanner, eh?”

  “Yep, that was a long time ago, back in college. Had a lot of fun back then.”

  “Bring ya karate gear with ya?”

  My idea of exercise these days involved tapping to the beat of a good tune on the cell phone. The pleasure enhanced by pizza washed down with a can of soda.

  “Yep, I have an old karate suit, but don’t get to train as much as I would like these days.” That was true, I would like more time for leisure activity, especially on the sofa, surfing afternoon soap operas.

  Ma’s eyes narrowed, her arm extended and prodded my bulging stomach. “Now, got to get ya back in shape, eh? You’ll join Monday’s beginner's class? Start at six p.m.” She smiled, and I could tell by the enthusiasm in her dark eyes she was serious.

  “Of course, delighted,” I mumbled. Oh crap!

  A shrill scream rang out through the restaurant. A high-pitched wail which resonated off the walls, floors and windows. The type of alarm that warns of danger and forces action, either fight or flight. It came from the street. Within seconds a small crowd gathered in front of the coffee shop window.

  Through the glass window the crowd saw Deputy Muller running toward the side of the café. Not a full-out sprint, nor was it a rapid jog—the best one can say is her stubby legs were moving—tiny steps taking her out of view and toward the side of the café. A growing crowd of office workers and students rushed onto the street outside to watch. The rising morning temperature forcing visible beads of sweat to form and trickle down anxious faces.

  “What on earth...”

  Before I finished, Ma sprung up and sprinted high on the tips of her toes out of the café. The barista followed, alongside a straggle of customers, behind them, me.

  Outside, the muggy atmosphere stifled movement to a slow walk. I gasped for air as the crowd stood in nervous silence at the entrance to a narrow alley which ran along the side of the coffee shop. The alley was filled with trash cans, the hot humid air trapped pungent odors of rot and decay.

  Deputy Muller made her way nervously through the debris toward the end of the alley. Then I spotted her destination. Slumped on the ground lay a person, I could see the outline, but was too dim to see whether it was a man or a woman. The individual was on their side, the face pointing away from the crowd, and the arms outstretched at an awkward angle.

  On several occasions Deputy Muller stopped and turned toward the crowd, all color drained from her face, her eyes wide open. The crowd urged her forward.

  At the far end of the alley there was a movement so slight I almost missed it. I peered into the dimness searching for the source.

  Nothing.

  Then as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, an outline of another person became visible, crouched behind a large trash can, very still, watching the crowd. Deputy Muller didn’t see the individual, I doubt if anyone else did either. The person appeared as if a shadow: static, invisible.

  The deputy came to a halt a few steps away from the slumped figure, her eyes scanning the body and surrounding area. Then fear consumed the deputy and she stopped, frozen like a snow sculpture. Just then Ma Jenkins sprinted into the alley, jumped over several trash cans landing in front of the static officer.

  “Call Sheriff Hays. Get the medical service. Do it now!!,” Ma ordered, shaking the deputy by the shoulders. Like a mechanical robot, Deputy Muller, sprang into action. Ma moved toward the slumped figure, took out her cell phone, then extended an arm to check for a pulse. Ma hesitated, then bent forward to get a clear look at the face, blinked several times in rapid succession and gasped, “Tanner Holgate!”

  A muffled voice from somewhere deep in the crowd echoed. “It’s Tanner Holgate, and he is alive! Let’s help him.” The crowd responded as one, surging forward, knocking the deputy off-balance, to the ground. In the swirl of feet and shouts, the clatter of footsteps and the clang of a metallic object resounded throughout the alley.

  By the time the medical team arrived, it was clear to everyone Tanner was dead.

  Chapter 8

  Nightmare, this had to be some horrific nightmare.

  The morning sunlight shimmered through huge stained-glass windows. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers—primrose, viburnum, and lily of the valley. At the front of the church on tall stilts lay the casket, a black karate belt, folded, placed on the lid.

  I sat in the front row next to Ma Jenkins, who was next to Tanner’s uncle, who in turn had his arm around Tanner’s elderly mother. She wept.

  The wooden pews in the tiny Baptist church, polished by years of faithful service, were on either side of narrow purple carpeting. The pews filled up quickly, with men in dark suits, and women wearing somber-looking dresses.

  Marsha Pennington sat next to Mayor Felton. Emma with her husband George, sat near the rear. Emma wept quietly, almost continuously. George sat stiff, red-eyed. Sheriff Hays stood by the door speaking to the minister and watching the attendees arrive. It was hard to believe so many people would show up
for the send-off.

  I had few real friends, none from the corporate days—a handful picked up along the way from teaching. How many people did Tanner know? When was the last time I spoke with him? Tanner kept in touch on Facebook and text messages. The text messages were frequent. But when was the last time I actually spoke with Tanner? I searched deep, but could not remember.

  Then the children came in through a side door. Each wore a white karate suit, and walked in two solemn lines behind a tall slender man in a black karate suit. The man wore a black belt with five golden stripes on the tip.

  Ma leaned in and whispered, “That’s Tony Dean, the head instructor at the Whirlwind Martial Arts School. The guy never got along with Tanner.”