by Lewis Nordan
At first Solon thought Lord Montberclair was asking him to murder Hoyty-Toyty McCarty for him, the organist. That was the distinct impression Solon was receiving about the gist of this whole conversation, though he was willing to admit he might have missed a few of the subtler points.
But no, he wont, that wont it at all. Lord Montberclair was asking Solon to murder the little nigger, the sassy-mouth boy in Red’s Goodlookin Bar and Gro. this morning, Bobo. Now wasn’t that something? Make a mistake like that. Solon figured he better listen up a little bit, try to get caught up on this here conversation before he commenced to offering any strong opinions of his own.
Lord Montberclair was drunk. Even Solon could smell him, halfway across the room. Brandy, and a lot of it. He must have been drunk, too, when he was pointing that Luger at his wife.
Solon himself had started to sober up a little bit, and his stomach was feeling a little queasy. And a familiar feeling was coming back to him.
He was feeling like if he didn’t do something soon, kill somebody, something, almost anything, to make meaning out of all this pain of his, and his baby boy laying up in a bed looking like an Egyptian mummy, well, he just didn’t know what would happen to him, he didn’t know how he was going to endure one more minute on this awful planet Earth.
Poindexter said, “You said he bragged about fucking a white woman, didn’t you, isn’t that what you said.”
Solon said, “That’s right.”
Poindexter said, “You said he had a white woman’s picture in his wallet, didn’t you, isn’t that right?”
Solon said, “That’s right.”
Poindexter said, “He made lewd remarks to Sally Anne, and they drove off together in my car.”
Solon said, “That’s right.”
Poindexter said, “Wolf-whistled at her.”
Solon said, “That’s right.”
Poindexter said, “I need a man like you, Solon.”
Solon said, “You do?”
Poindexter said, “Decent whitefolks have always needed the likes of you.”
Solon said, “They have?”
Poindexter said, “We need people like you to help keep our niggers in line.”
Solon said, “Well—”
Poindexter said, “That’s how I see it, Solon, don’t you agree? Isn’t that how you see it?”
Solon said, “Well—”
Poindexter said, “It gives you lower classes, you white-trash boys, some raison d’être, wouldn’t you say so?”
Solon said, “Pretty much, yeah, I guess so.”
Poindexter said, “You know what pisses me off the most, though? You know what makes me want that little son-of-a-bitch hurt, really bad hurt?”
Solon said, “What’s that?”
Poindexter said, “It’s him carrying that white girl’s picture around in his pocket. I got to thinking about that.”
Solon said, “Uh-huh.”
Poindexter said, “I got to thinking about that picture in his wallet. What’s a nigger doing with a wallet anyway, you know?”
Solon said, “Well—”
Poindexter said, “You don’t have a wallet do you, Solon? You yourself probably don’t have a wallet, am I right?”
Solon said, “I been meaning to get one.” Poindexter said, “So you see? Do you see the arrogance involved here? He’s got a wallet, in the first place, and now we find out about the picture?”
Solon said, “Uh-huh.”
Poindexter said, “The point is, though, the picture, see? That’s worse than fucking her, carrying her picture around in his pocket—wouldn’t you agree?”
Solon said, “I guess it is, yeah.”
Poindexter said, “I wouldn’t want Hoyty-Toyty McCarty carrying a picture of Sally Anne around in his pocket.”
Solon said, “Well—”
Poindexter said, “I’m getting off the point, though, Solon. I’m rambling a little. I had a cocktail before I came over here, to calm my nerves, do you understand that?”
Solon said, “A cocktail, you bet.”
Poindexter said, “Carrying that picture around with him was as much as saying he owned that girl. Not just fucked her, Solon, owned her, like a wife.”
Solon said, “Uh-huh.”
Poindexter said, “That’s what irks me so bad. That’s what lets me know that this can’t be allowed to stand unpunished.”
Solon said, “And you’re saying you think I’m the man for the job.”
Poindexter said, “Well, yes, of course. It’s the order of things, more or less.”
Solon said, “It’s my role in life to keep the niggers in line for you rich people.”
Poindexter said, “It’s not money, Solon. It’s quality.”
Solon said, “I see.”
Poindexter said, “You’ll do it then? Wonderful! That’s fine. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”
Solon said, “Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll take care of him for you. Pistol-whip his ass in an inch of his life.”
Lord Montberclair said, “Splendid!”
Solon was making plans of his own. First thing was, he planned to ask Lord Montberclair for five hundred dollars, not a cent less.
Solon said, “You ain’t heard whose pitcher that boy was carrying around in his pocket, have you?”
Poindexter said, “What do you mean?”
Solon said, “I just wondered did you know whose pitcher the nigger was toting in his wallet, is all, just a matter of curiosity, didn’t mean nothing.”
Poindexter said, “It was his white girlfriend, wasn’t it? Isn’t that what you told me? I just assumed it was his girlfriend from Chicago.”
Solon said, “Well, could be, could be, I didn’t get a good look at the pitcher my ownself.”
Poindexter said, “Well, but who else could it be? What are you saying here, Solon?”
Solon said, “Ain’t none of me saying something. Me, I’m just wondering. I’m just wondering if that pitcher in the nigger’s wallet wont some local girl. Some white lady from right around town, here.”
Lord Montberclair said, “I want him dead. I want to see that nigger dead.”
Solon said, “Uh-huh.”
Lord Montberclair said, “I’ll pay you a thousand dollars.”
Solon fingered the pistol beneath the sheet.
He said, “I don’t know about that.”
Lord Montberclair said, “What else do you want? It’s all the money I can offer.”
Solon said, “I ain’t got no car. Cain’t make no successful getaway without a getaway car.”
Lord Montberclair said, “Take the bus. I’ll give you a thousand dollars and a bus ticket to anywhere in the world.”
Solon shook his head, real slow, side to side.
He said, “I don’t thank so, my friend. Tell you the truth, I’d feel like a durn fool making my desperate escape on a Greyhound bus. Do you see what I mean? What you want me to do, Dexter, stand out in front of the Arrow Cafe with a bunch of sharecroppers and wait till ten o’clock tomorrow morning for the southbound to pull in? You want me to stand in line and let some old boy in a baggy gray wool suit and run-down shoes and a bill cap punch my ticket and check my luggage? Honest to God, Dexter, you might ought to think about getting a grip on that drinking problem of yours, if that’s your solution to how to escape the scene of a murder. You ain’t getting out enough. You ought to take in a movie now and then, take a trip somewhere besides Mexico.”
Solon was still naked beneath the covers of the bed. He had sat up now, against his pillows, but he kept the covers pulled up high on his chest. He could see the Luger in Lord Montberclair’s pants, and so he kept his hand on his own pistol, up under the covers, pointed at Lord Montberclair’s stomach.
Lord Montberclair said, “If you take my car and they catch up with you, I’ll be implicated.”
Solon said, “Well, ain’t that just tough shit, Dexter. I mean, boo-fuckin-hoo, man. Scuse me if I ain’t too goddamn over-sympathetic. I ain’t
planning to get caught. It just ain’t a part of God’s universal plan for the white-trash element to keep the niggers in line for you quality people and then go to jail for you, too. And if I do get caught, well hell, man, use your imagination, tell them I stole the car, for God’s sake, that’s simple enough, ain’t it? Who’s gone believe the word of a piece of white trash like me over that of a fine gent like your ownself?”
Lord Montberclair said, “Well, that’s true, that’s true enough, I hadn’t thought about it that way. I’m not thinking too clearly these days, you understand, family matters, you’re a family man, you understand what I mean. Nobody’s going to believe a piece of shit like you.”
Solon said, “If you turn me in, Dexter, I’ll kill you and everybody you ever met, bank on it.”
Lord Montberclair said, “Okay, all right, is that it, then? A thousand dollars and a car. That’s fair, that sounds fair enough, I see your point. You can take the El Camino. I’d give you the Cadillac, but I don’t know where it is. Anyway, you’ll be needing transportation out to the nigger’s house. I know where he lives. Sally Anne took him home, well you know that, you’re the one who told me about her and the big buck in the first place. Anyhow, I know where he’s staying.”
Solon said, “There’s one more thing.”
Lord Montberclair said, “What’s that?”
Solon said, “I want that Luger.”
Instinctively, Lord Montberclair’s hand went to the pistol in his belt.
Beneath the sheets, Solon Gregg lifted the little .25 caliber revolver and cocked the hammer with his thumb. The barrel was poking into the covers.
Lord Montberclair didn’t seem to notice, and he didn’t take the Luger out of his pants, he only rested his hand on it in a protective way.
Solon said, “The Luger and an extra clip. What would that be, eighteen shots altogether?”
Solon thought this was a golden opportunity. Well, just think about it. This was the first real career break he’d ever had in his life, and coming at such an opportune moment as this. It just looked like one of those cases of being in the right place at the right time. He couldn’t ask for a better deal if he’d thought it up himself.
He could do this one job, snuff the nigger, then come cruising back into town in that sweet little El Camino, tool on over to his own house, and how would you say it, close down his family life forever, end on a positive note.
If Wanda didn’t want to go out with the rest, and it was a distinct possibility with the upcoming wedding in the docket, why then, that was her choice and hers alone, he wouldn’t try to influence her one way or the other. And here was the real kicker—he could give her the thousand dollars as a wedding present.
Goddamn, what an idea! It was positively brilliant. Whoever said “the Lord will provide” sure as shit knew what they were talking about. Why, shit, he wouldn’t even have to snuff the nigger. He could pistol-whip that little motherfucker, scare the shit out of him, and then forget about him forever, just take care of family business and let Poindexter Montberclair go to hell. That nigger would just find Dr. Hightower and get hisself a couple of stitches and, it wouldn’t be long, he would be eating crawfish and turnip greens while Poindexter’s thousand dollars would be riding in Wanda’s pocket on the first air-conditioned, double-decker Greyhound bus to Missouri, and Solon Gregg and his lovely wife and children would be managing a full-scale, high-yield indoor worm farm before that durn fool Poindexter Montberclair knew what had happened.
Some days you just have to hang in there for a while, and endure the worst that life has to offer, self-doubt and hard luck and low self-esteem, the whole shooting match, before events just seem to turn themselves around 180 percent, as Solon’s wife would say, and good things start to happening, you couldn’t stop them if you tried. It’s just one of life’s little unexplainable ironies.
That’s what Solon Gregg was thinking, as Lord Poindexter Montberclair handed over the Luger and one thousand dollars cash money and the keys to the El Camino. Lord Montberclair said there was an extra clip in the glove compartment of the car, fully loaded.
In Jesus all things were possible, if you only believed—that’s what the church song said, and looked like to Solon it mought be right, sho did.
And Solon and his wife might want to take their time a little, maybe go on a little vacation trip, after all the tykes were dead, so much stress and all, she deserved it, if any woman in the world did, a second honeymoon, maybe, a trip down to the Big Easy, where Solon could show her the sights, French architecture and good food, and fall in love all over again, before he used the Luger to put the lights out for both of them.
Solon said, “One more thing, Dexter.”
Dexter said, “What.”
Solon said, “I don’t know where the place is at, where the nigger is staying. You’re going with me.”
6
SIMS AND Hill was the name of a country store a few miles outside of Arrow Catcher where you could buy beer any time of the day or night, whiskey, too, if you wanted it.
Solon was behind the wheel of the El Camino. Dexter was sitting beside him. The radio was turned to WOKJ, the colored station in Jackson. Muddy Waters was wailing away on his harmonica and going plink-plank-plunk on his guitar. Muddy Waters might be a nigger, but he spoke the truth.
Solon said this to Poindexter, “Ain’t that right, Dexter?”
Dexter was feeling a little sick. He didn’t answer.
Solon had his foot in the El Camino’s gas tank, headed out dark, dark Highway 49 to Leflore, with empty fields, black as hell, stretching out on either side of the highway all the way to the rivers.
Dexter said, “Slow down some.”
Solon didn’t slow down.
Dexter said, “No need to drive all the way out on the highway to get to Runnymede, anyway. We could have crossed the bridge in Arrow Catcher.”
Solon said, “Then I wouldn’t get no chance to see what this little car would do.”
Solon was wearing Lord Montberclair’s dry clothes, too. Now that was a good one, wont it?—khaki twill pants, blue button down shirt, seersucker sport coat, a baseball cap on his head that said Leflore Country Club. Shit. Solon looked like a spote hisself.
He checked himself in the rearview mirror. Looking good. Feeling fine.
Solon said, “Drinking wine, spotey-otey, drinking wine.” The song popped into his head.
Poindexter said, “Just watch where you’re going. Keep your hands on the wheel.”
Solon might not kill nobody after all. No need to, really. He had the car beneath him. He had the German Luger, heavy as an anvil, and the extra clip full of bulldogs, laying on the seat beside him. Plus, he had the popshooter, the .25 caliber sidearm, in his pocket, just for fun. He felt safe for the first time in his life. Oh, it was a fine night, all right, fine as wine. But not necessarily a night when anybody had to die.
It was seven or eight miles to Sims and Hill. Rain was still falling, and the clouds were low. Dark, dark Mississippi 49, a ribbon of streaming wet asphalt across the swampland. No Highway Patrol out tonight. Dock of the moon, dockside of the moon.
Solon had the El Camino rocking. Hundred and ten miles an hour. Telephone poles, flash on by!
The Runnymede flat woods, out to the right of them, were filling up with water. Foxes and deer were camped out together on any little bit of high ground they could find.
The road beneath him was a river. Solon was moving, he was grooving, he was shucking, he was jiving, he was balling the jack.
Muddy Waters was crying on WOKJ: I’m going down to Louisiana, baby, behind the sun.
Poindexter said, “Have you ever heard about hydroplaning?”
Solon knew that the El Camino had risen up off the highway, that he was driving on water alone now.
Behind the sun. That’s where Solon was going, that’s where he already was, it was where he lived.
Hundred and fifteen miles an hour, hundred and sixteen, seventeen. Nothing
but water. No contact at all with the surface of the road. Hydroplane, oh yes!
Solon said, “You gone worry yourself to an early grave, Dexter.”
In this car, with these two pistols and this dry suit of college-boy clothes, Solon was filled with the power of God, not just God, the power of all the gods.
In this car at 120 miles an hour, the low clouds and dark woods around him like a cage, Solon was God. He was not Simon Peter, that chickenshit apostolic wimp of little faith who fucked around when he had a chance to stand on the flood and water ski into Glory. Solon was the Living Christ, walking on the waves.
Solon was going Christ one better, he was not walking like some goddamn peasant, he was driving on water, and driving an El Camino, to boot.
Behind the sun.
With a Luger on the seat, bulldogs in the clip, a country club baseball cap on his head.
Muddy Waters’s guitar was going pewww-boink-boink-boink, pewww-boink-boink-boink.
Muddy Waters said, I’m going down to New Orleans, get me a mojo hand.
Solon Gregg was going down to New Orleans, all right, just like the voice on WOKJ, but he didn’t need no mojo. He didn’t need no black-cat bone, he didn’t need no John the Conqueroo, nothing. Solon Gregg could walk on water. Drive on it. What did he need a mojo for, didn’t make no sense, now did it?
He saw the yellow light bulb on the porch of Sims and Hill, the overhang, and the dimmer light from the gas pump, so he let up on the gas and allowed the El Camino to come back down to earth.
Poindexter said, “What are you doing?”
Solon said, “Stopping for a little taste.”
Poindexter said, “Have you lost your mind?”
Solon said, “You gone say the wrong thing to me, one of these days, Dexter.”
The car slowed. Solon tested the brakes, a little skid, a little slide-and-sleeve, and then tested them again, and put on his blinker and got to going slow enough so he could ease the car into the gravel drive of the country store.
Poindexter said, “You must want to get us caught. Is that what’s going on here?”
Solon said, “Just think about Sally Anne sitting down on that little nigger’s face, her pitcher up in his wallet like it is.”