Veenie clicked on her iPad. “Didn’t want to wake you up, RJ.”
“Didn’t stop you night before last.” I gulped hot black coffee until my eyes sprang open.
“Think I found Junior’s missing Harley.” She slid her iPad toward me. It was opened to a page on Craigslist. There was a photo of a Harley for sale. It was an older, mysterious red Street 750 like Junior’s. Not an expensive bike, nor a very powerful bike, but then Junior wasn’t all that much of a street stud. The bike was priced to move. Only three thousand. Cash. The “cash” part had a lot of exclamation points after it. There was an email address but no more information. The ad had been posted only an hour ago.
“What makes you think that’s Junior’s bike? Probably tons of bikes like that in Southern Indiana.” I sucked down more coffee.
“Lookie,” said Veenie. She squashed her fat fingers on the screen and blew it up a little.
I could see what she was talking about. In the extreme right of the photo you could see the tip of a covered bridge. No doubt about it, it was the Knobby Waters covered bridge. The seller was local.
Veenie shot an email to the Craigslist Harley seller and got an almost immediate ping back. The seller said we could see the bike that afternoon. He gave the covered bridge as the rendezvous point. Reiterated that it was a cash deal. No guarantees. No questions. No bickering.
Veenie, who was using the screen name Hog Mama, typed back, “No problem, man.”
“Who you reckon stole Junior’s bike?” Veenie asked me.
I shrugged. “Whoever took it is must be after fast cash. Probably in debt for child support.”
“Well that leaves most of the male population of Knobby Waters in the running.”
I heard a clomping up the cellar stairs, and Fergie Junior popped through the door. He was wearing an oversized Grateful Dead T-shirt and a pair of tighty-whities. He had on his John Lennon glasses and a pair of floppy, red flannel house slippers.
Veenie eyed him as he headed toward the refrigerator. “What are you doing above ground? It’s daylight.”
Junior murmured as he rummaged in the refrigerator. He pulled out a PBR and popped the tab. His reddish moustache was foamy when he pulled the can away. “Darnell woke me up. Wha’did’y’all do to him last night? He was freaked. Came home all muddy about an hour ago, ranting about ghosts.”
“An hour ago?” I asked. “You sure?” Darnell had ridden back home from Dode’s with us, but that had been several hours ago.
“Sure, I’m sure.” Junior scraped up a kitchen chair and plopped into the seat. He slurped more beer. He poured a handful of Cheerios out of the box and slurped those down with a beer chaser. “I was just finishing a recording for the dudes in Indianapolis. He’s passed out on the futon downstairs. I think he might be stoned.”
Veenie said we hadn’t done anything to Darnell. “He was at the séance, but he went to take a leak. Missed the ghost.”
“Ghosts, yeah, right,” Junior chortled. “And what have you two been smoking?”
Veenie stuck her teeth out at Junior.
“Gross, Ma.” Junior snatched the box of Cheerios and lumbered back down the stairs.
I asked Veenie if maybe we should have told Junior about his Harley and how we were going to fetch it for him.
“Nah,” she said.
“Why not?”
“’Cause he’ll want to ride along, and I’m not in the mood for his chatter. I love that boy, you know I do, but gosh darn, some days he so reminds me of his daddy. And when that happens, I just want to smack him right up the side of the head.”
I could definitely see her point.
Chapter Seventeen
When we arrived under the covered bridge an hour later, Junior’s Harley was sitting in a sunny spot with a handwritten “4 Sale” sign hung over the handlebars. It looked fine, red and shiny like an apple. Behind the Harley, a footpath led down through the weeds to the muddy river’s edge. We could see the better part of a car parked down by the river. Someone looked to be camping, which wasn’t odd. The odd part was the car. It was a purple Gremlin with white stripes. I hadn’t seen one of those since the seventies when the high school Spanish teacher from Indiana State had tooled around town in one the same color.
The thing looked like a sawed-off station wagon. Or a clown car. Whoever rode in the back seat had to ride with their knees poked into their chest. All through the seventies, people like me suffered to high heaven in the name of better gas mileage. Always felt to me like I was rattling around strapped to a roller skate. I had a second cousin who had a wreck playing chicken in a Gremlin out on Highway 50 near Crane Hill. They power-washed what was left of him off the asphalt.
The hatchback on this one was open. A white canvas tent had been puckered around the back. A clothesline was strung between two trees with a pair of T-shirts and some man’s boxer underpants fluttering on it. A cold campfire lay at the side of the Gremlin.
Veenie squinted as we got out of the Impala. “That a Gremlin?”
“Appears to be.”
“Always thought them cars were so dang cute.”
“You’re short. And trendy. You would.”
A boy popped out of the weeds by the Gremlin. He was riding a rusty girl’s banana seat bicycle a size too big for him. The seat was sparkly and spotted pink. I recognized the little fellow as Pooter Johnson. He was maybe eleven years old and infamous as the up-and-coming entrepreneur of Knobby Waters. Every Monday he hung out in the parking lot outside the Hoosier Feedbag selling bags of produce that fell from the harvest trucks. He was wearing dark aviator sunglasses with fat chrome rims, cutoff jean shorts, and no shirt. His hair, the color of a field mouse, was home buzzed and full of scalp nicks. He spun to a stop in the sand in front of us, almost popping the Velcro closures on his yellow high-tops.
Veenie whispered to me, “I think he thinks he’s Tom Cruise in Top Gun.”
I was thinking more like Pooter was stuck with his sister’s hand-me-down bicycle and maybe sunglasses too. He had four older sisters, two which were famous for sitting on the steps out in front of Pokey’s, sucking on pop bottles. Their mom, who was a kind and decent woman and head waitress at the Roadkill Café, was constantly running around town trying to round up him and his sisters, keep them all headed in some direction other than prison, where their daddy had an executive timeshare.
“You got to admire that little fart’s hustle,” said Veenie as Pooter hopped off the bike and tossed it in the weeds. “Having to ride around town with a big, sparkly pink banana between his legs, a lot of little boys would just lay down and cry.”
Pooter spat at the sand as he sauntered toward us. “One of you Hog Mama?”
“She is,” I pointed to Veenie.
“Yeah, that’s me,” said Veenie. “That there the hog you’re selling?”
“Depends. You got cash money?”
“Depends. You got a pink slip?”
He spat again. “That some kind of remark about my bicycle or my manhood?”
“No,” I said. “A pink slip is an ownership slip. When you sell a vehicle, you sign the slip over to the buyer, so we can register it for a new license plate.”
“The hog ain’t mine. I’m just the sales agent.” He strolled around the motorbike. “It appears it ain’t got no plates.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“They plum fell off, I reckon.” He crossed his arms.
I was having a hard time seeing Pooter climb onto and navigate a Harley, and I’d never known him to steal anything outright. He was more of an honest opportunist, trying to make a buck as best he could. His claim that he was the sales agent struck me as about right. “That your camp down yonder?” I asked.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Why you asking?”
“Haven’t seen a Gremlin like that in a long time. Maybe we want to buy that too.”
Pooter squinted at me. “It ain’t for sale. Look, Granny, I’m trying to make a living. You want to buy this
hog or not? Cause, like, I got another guy coming. Maybe two or three. This ain’t the Big Lots. We don’t do layaway.”
Of course, we didn’t have three thousand dollars. We had maybe three dollars in chump change between us in the Impala’s ashtray. I thought for a moment. “Okay, look, we’re going to get the cash. But we got to drive back to town. The bank. Hit the ATM. It’ll take us about twenty minutes. OK?”
Veenie looked at me like I was crazy.
“Come on, Hog Mama.” I pulled on her sleeve. “Let’s get the dough.”
Veenie followed me back to the Impala.
I started the car. It smoked like a chimney.
Pooter yelled after us. “Hey, Granny, your car’s on fire! You might want to have a mechanic take a look at that!”
I waved at him out the window as I cut a donut and headed toward town. A hundred feet down the road, I cut down the pull-off to the Moon Glo Motor Lodge. I idled in the pull-off for a while.
“What in the high heavens are you doing?” asked Veenie. “We don’t have three thousand dollars, and you know that’s Junior’s bike.”
“I have a notion whoever stole that bike is camping in that Gremlin.”
“So?”
“So we got to sneak back. Take a look at that campsite.”
I didn’t have to say that again. Veenie popped out of the Impala and started through the weeds the back way along the riverbank to the Gremlin camp.
The campfire at the Gremlin site was cold, filled with charred driftwood. There was a stinking pile of fish heads close to the fire pit. Green flies buzzed over the pile in a cloud. The only other thing moving was the dancing men’s underpants in the breeze from the river. The camper had rigged up a rope and pulley in the sycamore trees. A large, black plastic garbage bag hung in a ball from a high tree limb. The camper had hoisted up his dry food store to keep the varmints from stealing it. A bobcat had been sighted slinking around the river bottoms. Anybody with any sense and camping experience would have protected the dry food.
The Gremlin was unlocked. Veenie slid into the front seat, passenger’s side, and popped open the glove compartment.
“What’s in there?” I asked. “A registration?”
“Nah,” she said. She pulled her hands out of the glove compartment. They were filled with crumpled tissues, a wad of disposable blue plastic gloves, and a book of paper matches from Pokey’s. “Just junk. And a harmonica.” The harmonica was nice, an old one made of silver and copper.
I leaned into the car. It smelled like an ashtray, and it was filthy. Crushed beer cans. Cigarette and doobie butts. A bait and tackle box. Couple of cheap Zebco fishing poles and reels. A fishing net. Candy bar wrappers. Dirty clothes. And lots of nudie magazines. Jugs, Really Big Jugs, and Farm Girls with Jugs.
“I think he has a type,” I said to Veenie.
The ripped back seat had been flipped down. An air mattress took up the back. Mountains of blankets and ratty old quilts were heaped on top of the mattress. The tent was puckered out over that.
Veenie eyed the mess. “Who you reckon lives here?”
“Not Martha Stewart,” I said as I held up an unbelievably dirty athletic sock.
“Hey,” called Veenie from outside the car. “Lookie here at this.”
I crawled out of the Gremlin and walked over to the shady side of the car next to the river. Several empty plastic ice bags lay in the mud with the words “Moon Glo Motor Lodge” printed in blue on the side. These were scattered alongside a wheeled, blue plastic cooler. I was a little afraid to open the cooler.
Veenie, on the other hand, flipped it right open.
“What’s in there?”
Veenie thrust her hands into an icy slush and held up a dripping white plastic bag. The label on the side read, “Mystery Meat.”
“Think we found Pokey’s thief,” Veenie said.
Just then Pooter Johnson popped up in the weeds at the edge of the campsite. “Hey! Get out of there!” he cried. “You don’t want to be messing with this stuff. You old ladies crazy, or what?”
Veenie sauntered up to Pooter. “We came back with the dough, but you were gone.”
“No way. I been here waiting for you. I was up there waiting for you. Been right here the whole time.”
“Well, we got the dough. But first we want a test drive. How we know that hog runs?”
Pooter looked suspicious.
Veenie ignored him and traipsed up the path toward the Harley.
Pooter raced after her.
I did the same.
She started inspecting the bike. “I’d be buying this here bike for my boyfriend. It run good?”
“Course it does. I don’t sell no junk.”
“Start it up,” said Veenie.
“Show me the money,” said Pooter.
“Look, snot nose, I’m old, and it makes me cranky. You don’t want to get your ass whooped, you start up that hog so I can see it run, or else I’m calling your mama and telling her where you are and what you’re doing.”
Pooter sulked. “Okay, keep your giant granny panties on.”
He mounted the bike and keyed it. It roared to life. He wrestled the kick down and left it running. It did run smoothly, but then Junior was fussy about his ride.
Veenie straddled the bike. She practically had to run and jump to make the mount. For a minute, I thought the whole thing was going to crash down on her, but next we both knew she was spinning out of the sand. She roared out and onto the gravel road, the bike lurching and screaming. She looked like a fat kewpie doll turned Evil Knievel.
“What the heck!” called Pooter as he ran after her. “Gosh darn it! Gosh darn it to hell!” He stomped in the sand. “You come back here! Hey!” he said, turning red-faced to me. “Your lady friend stole my hog!”
“Oh hey, you want me to call the police and report it?”
Pooter turned redder and sputtered more.
I left him like that and went smoking toward town after Veenie, but not before I memorized the license plate on the Gremlin and texted Boots to look up the car owner’s registration for me.
Chapter Eighteen
When I swung the Impala into my driveway, the Harley was leaning up against the house by the back cellar door, but there was no sign of Veenie. I was relieved to see that she’d made it home. Crazy old coot. One of these days she was going to get herself into some serious trouble. I already had the bail money set aside.
Sassy was sitting in the porch swing. A white-haired gentleman with a little goatee sat next to her. Gratefully, they were both dressed. With Sassy, attire could be an uncertain item. After being born and raised in Knobby Waters, she’d run away and lived most of her adult life with swingers out in California.
Sassy and her man friend were swinging back and forth, surrounded by pots of red geraniums and purple petunias. She waved as I loped up the sidewalk. “What’s Veenie doing riding Junior’s bike? Thought she lost her license?”
“She did.” I limped up onto the porch, my bad knee a little achy. The limestone steps were steep and wide. And my right knee was bothering me from scrambling around in the Gremlin. I grabbed the rusted iron railing and heaved myself up onto the concrete porch. “She did lose her license, but she was in a hurry today, and I wasn’t driving fast enough, I reckon.”
The man on the porch swing stood up and introduced himself. “Melvin Beal,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.” He extended a well-manicured hand.
“Likewise,” I said. “Ruby Jane Waskom, but most folks just call me RJ, so feel free.”
“I’m from around Louisville. Met this precious, little flower of a lady down on the Belle.” He rolled a shoulder toward Sassy, who beamed like a hunter who’d just dragged home a prized catch. And I had to admit Melvin did look pretty darn good compared to most of the prey Sassy hog-tied and brought home.
He was rail thin, wearing fussy, gray dress slacks and a white turtleneck that went well with his tidy goatee. His thin, white hair was plastered in pla
ce and he was wearing thick-rimmed glasses. His feet were clad in Florsheim tasseled loafers that were spit polished. He was wearing an expensive gold-link watch and smelled like English Leather. He had perfect teeth that didn’t chatter on their own or lisp. Dental implants, I reckoned. He smelled like a Southern gentleman.
He said he’d been reading about the ghost case and was fascinated. “Just fascinated.”
“Being a PI does keep me and Veenie busy,” I said.
“And ghost busting,” he said. “My, oh my. We got a lot of ghosts down South. Never seen one myself, though. Once, when I was a freshman at Ole Miss, after a little too much moonshine, I did see some strange things. But I think that was the liquor.” He chuckled a little.
I sat down in the rocking chair closest to Melvin.
Melvin returned to his seat next to Sassy on the porch swing.
Sassy swung an arm around him. “Melvin here is officially retired, but he still drives around and does a bit of business. Sells liquor to the high-class joints.”
“I sure do,” said Melvin. “Play the ponies a bit too. You ladies ever go to the track? Churchill Downs?”
Sassy took hold of that suggestion. “I’d love to go the track with you.”
“Well, ok, sweet pea,” he said. “Course I’ll be taking you.” He patted her hand.
Sassy smooched his cheek.
Oh boy. I hoped the neighbors weren’t watching. Mrs. Thelma Nierman, across the way, was ninety-one years old, head of the Baptist Ladies’ Auxiliary, and pretty strict about keeping my porch G-rated. She was always on me about making Junior wear pants when he came out on the porch to retrieve the mail. She knew better than to get after Veenie, who always spat back. I reckoned she thought if she cawed at me enough I’d whip Veenie into shape.
Melvin wanted to know about the ghosts.
I told him about the séance.
He seemed intrigued but a hair dubious. “You really of the mind that place is haunted?”
“The show I saw was pretty convincing.” I was still having nightmares about that floating ghost on the wall. And Dode was sure enough sold on the idea, so much so he’d already given permission for us to book Kandy for a second séance.
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