by Lesley Kagen
“Oh, man,” Billy says.
“What?” Clever nudges closer, like she owns him or something.
“See that? These rows are a different color ink. They’re red and all the other rows”—Billy runs his hand over the map— “they’re black.”
What the heck is wrong with me? I’m about to write the story that’ll go down in the anus of Cray Ridge history and all I can seem to think about is touching Billy’s tummy to see if it’s as hard as it looks. “What do you think those red rows are?” I ask, struggling to get involved the way a trained reporter should. “Prime burley tobacco? Do you think that’s what the treasure could be?”
Maybe this all has something to do with Mr. Frank Reynolds from New York City since that’s where Willard is from. Even though he finally ended up telling me, it woulda been just a matter of time before I perceived where he hailed from on account of his accent, which resembles that Streisand gal’s in the movie Funny Girl, which was not at all funny, by the way.
Holy smokes. I bet Bishop Malloy, Mr. Buster’s son, who Willard is being clandestine with, is going to steal that tobacco off the farm and take it to Mr. Frank Reynolds in New York City for a reward, on account of Mr. Reynolds’s concern about cigarettes causing cancer. Just like one of those rattler roundups that Grampa told me they have down in Texas. Bring in a sack of sidewinders—ya get ten bucks reward. That has to be Willard’s plan. Rustle up the tobacco and haul it north for cash money. Yes, I’m absolutely certain that’s what he’s up to.
Wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute.
Am I jumping to conclusions AGAIN?
What if Willard doesn’t work for Mr. Frank Reynolds at all? What if . . . what if . . . he works as an operative for Mr. Howard Redmond, also from New York City, who has sent him to Cray Ridge to check up on my investigative techniques?
I grab my camera out of my briefcase, ready to snap a picture of the treasure map. Just to make sure. In case Willard is reporting back to Mr. Howard Redmond, I want to be extra thorough.
But when the flash cube pops, I see more than I bargained for. Peering through the trees at us is Sneaky Tim Ray Holloway. An up-to-no-good grin on his greasy lips.
The No Good, the Bad and the Ugly
"Well, my oh my. Who do we have here?” Sneaky Tim Ray says, coming out in the open and dropping to his feet a burlap sack he’s got slung over his shoulder. He’s been doing some hunting and has come up with a coon. Maybe a possum. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since Teddy Smith gave him that hayloft whuppin’. An oily rag is barely concealing the black socket that should be filled up by his glass eye. His nose looks farther east than it used to. And some confused soul’s been kissin’ on his neck, leaving strawberry-colored lip prints behind. Dang. If Grampa was here, he’d exclaim right about now, “Boy looks like somethin’ the dog’s been keeping’ under the porch.”
“What ya got in the sack, Holloway? Your brain?” Clever taunts. (She is not at all afraid of him, or anything else for that matter, because, really, what does she have to lose?) “What the hell ya want?”
“Ain’t ’bout what I want.” Sneaky Tim Ray tugs on the rope that’s holding the bag closed. After rootin’ around some, he yanks my Keeper out by his front legs. “ ’Bout what y’all want.”
“Jesus,” I yell. Billy’s gotta hold me back when Sneaky Tim Ray circles his hands around Keep’s throat.
Clever shouts, “Hand over the dog, ya one-eyed fool.”
Keeper doesn’t seem right. He’s logy looking. Isn’t he s’posed to be at St. Mary’s guarding over Grampa? “How’d you get ahold a him?” I ask, completely confused.
“Well, the Lord do work in mysterious ways, don’t He, darlin’? There I was over to the hospital payin’ a visit to a lady friend of mine,” he says, puffin’ up. “And who should I find sittin’ outside one of them rooms but this here mutt.”
When Billy pounces off the ground toward him, Sneaky Tim Ray pliers his hand around Keeper’s neck tight enough to make his legs go rigid. “One step closer, soldier boy, and this dog’ll be headin’ off to the happy huntin’ ground.”
“Wwwhat do you wwwant?” Billy says, gripping and ungripping his fists. He wants to get at this louse so bad, but he can’t, and it’s causing his stutter to flare up.
“Wwwhat I wwwant is that mmmap,” Holloway mocks.
“Give it to him,” I command to Clever.
“But . . . but . . . what about the treasure and the baby and—”
“He’s got Keeper!” I holler.
“A course,” she says, popping open my briefcase and removing the map. “Don’ know what I was thinkin’.”
“Leave it there on the ground,” Sneaky Tim Ray instructs, smug.
Keep hasn’t moved for the longest time.
“Whatcha do to the dog?” Billy is not tripping over his words anymore. I knew it’d be just a matter of time before his torrential temper poured into his head and swept away his fear.
“Back off, Brown,” Sneaky Tim Ray warns, sensing the shift in Billy.
“You ready-set?” I call, hoping Keeper can hear me.
His right ear cocks. Then his left. His tail gives a feeble tock.
All right then.
“What’s gonna happen next is,” Sneaky Tim Ray announces, “y’all are gonna turn around and head down that path. Once I have procured that map, I’ll set the dog free.”
(He’s lying. I know him. He’ll break my dog’s neck just for the fun of it.)
Getting an idea, I tell Holloway in the sweetest voice I got, “Wait a minute.”
As usual, he’s on a slant. Sweatin’ hooch.
“I might have something ya want more than that map.” I step closer and point to his oily patch.
Holloway checks me out from stem to stern, loitering on my double D deck. “Hand it over.”
He’s referring to the “eye-catching souvenir” Teddy Smith tossed me out the truck window the day he beat the hell out of Holloway. I’ve been carrying it around in my brassiere, anticipating a moment like this. I may be NQR, but I’m no fool. I got him now. The Importance of Perception in Meticulous Investigation thoroughly covers: The Art of Distraction. Slipping my shirt up over my head, I say, “Come and get it.”
When it comes to my yum-yum ripe melons, Holloway’s as helpless as a crayfish to a mealy worm. Add on the promise of getting his precious eyeball back, well, just like I hoped, he loses what little concentration he’s been able to muster. He’s shuffling toward me like he’s in a trance. So when I yell, “Now!” and Keeper chomps down hard with his needle teeth onto Sneaky Tim Ray’s thumb, it takes him time to react and he loses his grip. Seeing his chance, Billy rushes forward with outstretched arms. The two of them are rolling around on the ground, tugging on my dog like he’s a piece of taffy, when from out of the dark comes, “Back off, Brown,” alongside that unmistakable rifle-cocking sound.
When he steps into the candlelight, we can see that Cooter Smith’s the one aiming a shotgun at Billy’s chest. “Ya dumb-ass cracker,” he says, booting Sneaky Tim Ray in the butt. “Quit hollerin’ like a stuck pig and get that map.”
I am stunned! I have never heard a colored talk that way. Not even to a cracker. Cooter better watch his step. The sheriff hears him mouth off like that, he’ll cook his goose well-done.
“Hey, Cooter,” Clever sings out, eyelashes flapping like sheets on a line. Here we are in the depths of despair and . . . I swear. The girl’s got a fire in her drawers and she doesn’t care one bit whose hose puts it out.
Cooter says, “Carol?”
Sneaky Tim Ray’s one-armed crawling toward the map, sucking on his bleeding thumb. “Ya could show a bit more grateful that I found the goddamn map,” he whines.
“I’ll give ya a gold star later,” Cooter says, pulling his eyes off of Clever to glance down at me.
They’re all watching Sneaky Tim Ray grab for the folded-up treasure paper. Not me. I’m watching Keeper, who’s lying on the ground between us, not moving one bit.
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“See what I mean about her titties? Look at ’em,” Sneaky Tim Ray gurgles as he hands the map over to Cooter, who isn’t looking at my titties. He’s giving a jaw-dropping look at Clever’s globe belly.
“Le’s take the girl and the dog with us. We can sack drown the mutt and get some money for her if this other thing don’ work out,” Sneaky Tim Ray tells Cooter as he reaches over and picks Keep up by the scruff. “She got cash from the crash that made her a dummy. Jessie tol’ me.”
Billy’s doing not much of anything but being stone petrified. He gets like that when somebody’s got a gun pointing at him on account of the war.
“Just fer a bit?” Sneaky Tim Ray begs.
Cooter says, “That’s kidnappin’. Ya want the law after us, ya fool?”
Like on cue, from outta the woods comes a shout. “Gibby McGraw? This is the sheriff orderin’ you to show yourself.”
And then Willard chimes in with, “Carol, baby? Please come back to your daddy.”
Dumber than a stick of chew gum, is what he is. Everybody knows that nobody knows who Clever’s daddy is. No matter. She’s not even paying attention to him. Too busy licking her lips for Cooter.
“We got what we came for,” Cooter says, yanking Sneaky Tim Ray up by the shirt collar and dragging him back off into the woods.
“Carol, hoooney?” Willard sings out. “I bought you a diamond riiing.”
I’m trying to pick up Keep but get a good hold of Clever, too. She’s looking like she’d like to chase after Cooter, but then again, she might relent if Willard keeps up this repent.
Billy whisks my dog up into his arms and whispers frantic, “They’re comin’, Gib. They’re comin’.”
“Who’s comin’?” For the life of me, I can’t recall what the hell we’re doing in these woods in the pitch of the night.
“Ain’t you ever tracked before? Shut the hell up,” the sheriff squawks. “You’re lettin’ ’em know our position.”
Billy pulls us back behind the trunk of the sugar maple. “That’s who’s comin’. ’Member?”
No, I don’t. And I don’t care neither. I nuzzle my lips down on Keeper’s chocolate milk stain. Besides being the best dog there ever was, he’ll be all the family I’ve got left if I lose Grampa. “Is he gonna die?” I ask.
Billy peers around the tree bark, trying to get a fix on the exact whereabouts of the sheriff and Willard. “He’s gonna be okay. Smell his breath.”
I lower my nose to his snout.
“Holloway got him drunk, is all,” Billy says. “I need my hands free if we run into the enemy.” He passes me Keep. “Get out your flashlight and keep it aimed to the ground.”
My Eveready is not. “I can’t. It rolled under a bush.”
“Then follow close as ya can,” he says, proceeding with purpose down the skinny lake path.
“Stay close,” I say over my shoulder to Clever, who is looking off to where Cooter disappeared.
Billy is stepping lightly, carefully. (In the Oriental jungle they got wires that can trip you and blow you up so you have to be mighty careful where you place your feet if you wanna hang on to them.) “Remember back in the woods when Clever told me you two were on the lam?” he asks, holding a branch back for me.
“I do,” I say, proud.
“Where were ya headed?”
“Hundred Wonders.”
Keeper’s nose is quivering. He’s not so sloshed that he can’t get enthused about paying a visit to our most favorite place of all. He can smell the miracles.
Billy says, “It’s probably not safe over there right now.”
“Why?” Like Keeper, I’m yearning something bad to see Miss Lydia. I am craving a VISITATION with my mama.
Clever yanks on my shirttail to get my attention. “Billy’s right, ya know. Didn’t occur to me back at the cottage, but anybody with half a brain could figure out that Wonders is the first place we’d head.”
“Thanks, Kid. That was a real thoughtful thing to say.”
“Shoot. Ya know I didn’t mean it like that.”
We’re all quiet for a bit while trying to negotiate the place in the path that’ll let ya slip into the lake before ya know it.
“Would Browntown be an appropriate place to hide?” I ask Billy.
“Probably not with the way they’re so worked up.”
“But where then?” I ask, feeling like a desperado without a horse.
Keeper sneezes in threes. We smell it then, too. Winding its way through the woods. Smoke.
When we get farther down the trail, we can see flaming fingers tickling at the belly of the sky.
“Oh, my sweet Jesus,” Clever says. When I turn, she’s bent over at the waist, steadying herself against a coffee tree.
“What is it?” Billy asks, coming up next to her.
“Don’t know. I’m feelin’ puny.” Clever reaches for my hand. Hers feels like a chicken gizzard.
For my ears only, Billy says, “She needs to rest. If we don’t lay her down for a bit, her baby might come ’fore it’s ready.”
We can’t go forward on account of the fire and we can’t go back to the cottage because of the sheriff and Willard. “We’re surrounded,” I whisper.
By the trapped look on his face, I can tell Billy has pieced that together, too.
“Caroool,” Willard starts up again.
“The only reason they’re huntin’ us down is they think we still got the map, right?” I ask Billy. “Let’s just tell them what happened.That we got ambushed by Sneaky Tim Ray and Cooter, and that they’re the ones they oughta be chasin’, not us.”
“Ya sure you wanna take that chance? Ya know how the sheriff can get,” Billy cautions.
He’s right. LeRoy Johnson gets a heap of pleasure from hurting others. ’Specially brown-skinned ones, but not limited to.
I cup my hand over Clever’s mouth, too late. A groan escapes her lips.
“Ya hear that?” LeRoy says off to our right.
“What?” Willard says.
They’re statue-still. We’re statue-still.
Until the sheriff cracks the silence wide open. “Sumbitch! You smell that? Somethin’s burning in Browntown. I gotta get over there right quick.”
“But what about the map?” Willard keens. “If we don’t get it back, they’re gonna figure out what we’re up to.”
By how far off they sound, I can tell they’ve already turned back toward town, the sheriff’s voice trailing off with, “... ya damn carpetbagger.”
Sweeping Clever up in his arms, Billy says, “The best place for us would be up at the cave.”
“All right,” I say, giving Keep a kiss on his noggin. “Ya know a lot more about hidin’ out than me.”
I’m sorry I said that the minute it comes outta my mouth, because that made Billy remember Vietnam even more than he was, so he shrinks a bit. But then, I don’t know, he seems to get a little straighter, bolder, after he makes the turn down the path that’ll take us to Blackstone Cave. The smoke is billowing and smelling of . . . burnin’ rubber? Clever has gone quiet, which is not at all like her.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t take her to the hospital?” I ask him, getting so ascared as we draw closer to the flames. Billy doesn’t answer me, just keeps missioning his way, not giving me much choice but to follow, and think while I’m doing so, the coloreds don’t like white people anymore and here we are.
We could almost reach out and touch Browntown.
The Hideout
Billy’s just the opposite of me. A person who DOES NOT need stimulation of any kind. When he’s far off from the hustle and bustle of life, hugged up secure by Mother Nature, he feels less perturbed. He’s done a nice job of housekeeping Blackstone Cave. Even though he won’t move outta his tent down at the creek and back up here ’til first frost, his larder is ordered and well stocked. The floor swept clean like you’d expect from an army man. This was a good choice as a hideout, sitting like it does at the top of a hill where you can see
down to both Browntown and Land of a Hundred Wonders. Which is probably one of the reasons he chose it as his winter home in the first place. Nothing can sneak up on him here.
Clever’s snores are bouncing off the cave walls. She curled up on a sleeping bag right after we filled our bellies with cowboy beans. I rubbed her back and sang that “Hush Little Baby” lullaby while Billy went and scouted what’s goin’ on in Browntown. That was so brave of him. When he came back up the hill, lookin’ sooty, he told me, “You can quit your worryin’. It’s not Miss Florida’s house or Mamie’s or any of your other favorite places that’s burnin’. It’s the dump. That’s why it smells so bad and the smoke’s so thick. It’s all them tires.”
“The dump’s on fire?” I asked, picturing that swell of trash that welcomes ya to Browntown.
“And a couple of those shacks sit next to it.”
“Are they workin’ on puttin’ it out?”
Billy sets his head to shakin’. “It’s the damnedest thing, Gib. The coloreds . . . they’re all dancin’ and drinkin’ round that fire. Like they’re celebratin’.”
“WHAT?”
“I think they set the fire themselves.”
“Oh, Billy, that’s silly!” He must be havin’ another one of his confused spells. “Why would they do somethin’ like that?”
He didn’t have an answer.
Now I’m locked on what’s looming behind him. Our names slashed across the big black boulder that sits outside the mouth of the cave. GIBBY and BILLY are lassoed by a heart of red paint. We’re lying side by side, but not touching, on a blanket in front of the campfire.
Noticing my gaze, Billy says softly, “The rock’s the reason I kept askin’ ya to come up here with me. I heard that if a person who’s lost their memory is shown something familiar, something real important to them, that sometimes it jars their brain.”
Tossing a kindling stick into the campfire, I ask him, “We used to be more than just friends?”
If he had a hat, it’d be in his hands. “Ya could say that.”
I look back up at the boulder. CLEVER is painted off to one side, opposite GEORGIE. Down at the bottom is COOTER. It’s funny how our names still shine so bright, the moonlight glancing off them. You’d think life woulda worn them down some. Like it did us. None of us are what we were back then. Most of all—Georgie.