Black Delta Night

by Jessica Speart

  I drove past the tourist area of Reelfoot Lake, with its fishing camps and RV hookups. A cluster of bait-and-tackle shops dotted the shoreline, as deserted as out-of-season beach houses.

  Nearby stood a small wooden building, home to city hall and the police department. No cars were parked out front, and the shades were down. Either the town officials had called it an early day, or the local good ol’ boys no longer deemed any kind of authority necessary. I’d heard enough stories to know that even state wildlife agents refused to work this area alone, but my approach is somewhat different. I believe in going where I want, and never letting anyone know I’m afraid.

  I turned toward Black Bayou and drove until I spotted Woody’s truck. A beige Dodge Ram, it sat parked at the edge of the woods. I pulled up next to it and got out. Walking over, I peeked inside and spied a box of Little Debbie Snack Cakes. I reached in and took one out, then broke the cake into pieces to mark my path along the way.

  I headed deep into the woods, following the bare bones of a trail while searching for any sign of Woody. Not a bird was to be heard, or even the rustle of a snake. I had nearly decided to turn back when I caught sight of an old fishing cabin. Nearby stood a gnarled tree that eerily resembled an evil crone. Its withered trunk was bent, and crooked limbs beckoned to me like long, arthritic fingers.

  Come here, little girl. Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you. Oh, that’s right. You’re the one who’s not afraid.

  I hurried past, knowing it was nothing more than my active imagination—but not wanting to take any chances, either.

  I continued along what I hoped was the path. The track had steadily narrowed, then finally disappeared, making it impossible to distinguish the trail from the rest of the wooded grounds. To make matters worse, my Little Debbie Snack Cake had run out when I heard the snapping of twigs. I stopped and nervously glanced about, checking for ghosts. Nothing was there. I breathed a sigh of relief. I took another step, only to hear the noise start up again in the distance. I knew it had to be Woody.

  I followed the sound until I came upon his bib-overalled form bent over a snap-spring trap, a Krispy Kreme donut in hand. He looked like a big old bear waking up from his winter hibernation, rummaging around in search of a midday goody. I watched as he ever so carefully reached inside the trap, where he placed the tempting morsel as bait. A coon also watched from afar, sitting up on its haunches.

  The critter remained perfectly still, except for compulsively rubbing its paws one over the other, as if trying to figure out Hardy’s ploy. I silently snuck up behind Woody’s rotund butt and stole a glazed goody from his sack. I waited until Hardy’s hand was free and clear of the trap’s vicious bite, then threw the treat toward the coon. An explosion of leaves erupted as the critter grabbed the donut, stuffed it into its mouth, and took off.

  Hardy jumped back in surprise, letting loose a loud yelp. That immediately set off a chain reaction, spurring the trap into lethal motion. The spring promptly snapped closed with a deadly WHAP! For a moment I thought Hardy was going to keel over in shock, and I began to worry I’d gone too far this time. I was trying to figure out how I’d ever haul Woody’s hefty carcass back to his pick-up, when he turned and faced me with an infuriated glower.

  “Goddammit, Porter! What the hell’d you go and do that for? Not only did I lose that damn four-legged pelt, but you nearly scared the living daylights outta me!”

  “Sorry about that.” But I hoped it had taught him a lesson. Perhaps the next time Woody baited a trap, he’d stop and think about how an animal felt right before its windpipe was crushed.

  Woody consoled himself by reaching into the donut sack and munching on some of his bait.

  “I thought you’d stopped trapping. You told me the fur trade was dead these days,” I reminded him.

  “It is, dammit,” he groused. “But what the hell else am I supposed to do with myself?” Then he narrowed his eyes and looked at me. “Whatchoo doin’ out here, anyway?”

  He finished the donut and started another.

  “Maybe you should slow down on those things,” I suggested. “Otherwise, people are going to think it’s you, instead of Tammy, that’s carrying the baby.”

  “That’s real funny, Porter,” Woody said, still munching away. “But you know what they say: When you got a big tool, you need a big shed. Or maybe you don’t know about those things, seeing as how you can’t seem to get yourself a man these days. So, did you buy something good with all that money yet?” Hardy asked, with the hint of a sneer.

  “Funny you should bring it up. That’s exactly why I’m here.”

  “Whatsa matter, Porter? Have trouble sleeping last night? Don’t worry, you’ll get over it,” Woody advised. “Besides, it’s kinda late to try and return the money now. You’ve already shown your true colors.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong, Woody,” I promptly replied. “I came for exactly the opposite reason. I’ve decided I want more money.”

  “What the…Goddammit to hell!” Woody roared. “I shoulda known better than to have been so generous. You know damn well that wasn’t our agreement!”

  “And exactly what agreement was that?”

  “It was a onetime deal! Ten grand for you to keep off my ass. For chrissakes, what the hell do I look like? Some big ol’ sugar daddy?” Hardy sputtered.

  I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. What he looked like to me was a flailing, angry walrus.

  “Take it easy, Woody. It’s not as if I don’t have something to offer in return,” I quickly placated. “Besides, that ten grand was just a down payment for my silence. What I’m presenting you with now is a way to make a whole lot more money. More than you’ve ever dreamed of. Unless you’re already happy with the way things are, that is.”

  Woody bent down and pulled the mutilated remains of his bait from the trap. Brushing off some loose fur, he ate it. I took that to mean he was willing to listen further.

  “The information I’ve got will allow you to catch all the paddlefish you want. Think about it, Woody: I’m offering you the best of both worlds. Not only will I never rat you out, but I can give you a rock-solid guarantee that you’ll never get caught.”

  Hardy wiped his hands across his overalled belly, leaving behind a sticky residue. “Oh yeah? And how you gonna do that?”

  “I can tell you where state wildlife agents will be making their runs on the river each night. That way, you’ll know in advance exactly where to set your nets without any worry. What I want in exchange is a cut of the action.”

  “Whadda ya, crazy? You should be doing it for free as part of the ten grand!”

  “I guess you should have thought about that earlier. Don’t be so cheap, Woody!” I threw up my hands in disgust. “You know what? Maybe we should just forget I ever mentioned it. I’ll offer this to someone else who’ll better appreciate what I can do for them.”

  I turned to head back to my vehicle.

  “Hold on there a second, Porter! I didn’t say I wasn’t gonna do it,” Woody whined.

  “Do we have a deal, then?” I pressed.

  “I don’t know yet,” Woody said, stalling for time.

  I took a lesson from Mavis’s book. “Fine. I’ll give you twenty-four hours, then I offer it to somebody else.” I flashed Hardy the sweetest of smiles. “But I really wouldn’t wait all that long, if I were you. There are plenty of other people who’d be only too happy to jump at this deal.”

  Hardy actually started to look worried. “Listen, Porter, I’d do it right now if I could. It’s just that I gotta pass it by Virgil first. Why doncha come to the Sho Nuf Bar tomorrow around noon, and we’ll finalize it then.”

  I lowered my head, as if thinking it over.

  “Come on, Porter! I’ll even buy you lunch,” Woody said jovially.

  Uh-huh. Where had I heard that offer before?

  “So you and Virgil are both working this thing together? Why didn’t you tell me that from the start?” I demanded.

&
nbsp; Woody reached into his shed and adjusted his tool. “Because I didn’t think you needed to know. I don’t have to tell you everything that’s going on.”

  Boy, did Hardy have a surprise waiting for him at the other end of the rainbow.

  “Okay, Woody. I’m going to give you a freebie in the spirit of goodwill,” I offered. “Throw your nets off the waters of Mud Island tonight—there won’t be any state agents trawling their boats there. That should give you a taste of what you can get for your money. But I expect your answer by noon tomorrow,” I warned. “Any later than that and the deal is off.”

  I headed back the way I’d come, trying not to look as lost as I felt. I searched the ground for any sign of my Little Debbie Snack Cake crumbs, knowing they were the only proof that I was on the right path. I just hoped some critter hadn’t gotten to them first.

  I passed by the fishing cabin once more, where the old crone of a tree stood in wait. But this time, I distinctly felt another set of eyes bearing down upon me. I hurried to my Ford as fast as I could and left.

  I was all the more anxious to get back to Memphis as it started to turn prematurely dark. The sky grew black and I inexplicably found myself in a melancholy mood. At times like this, there’s only one thing to do. I pointed my vehicle straight for Beale Street, and the heart of the blues.

  I parked in a lot and ambled down Beale’s three revamped blocks, where each blues and jazz club beckoned for me to enter. Though it was still winter, there were already far too many tourists cruising the strip for my liking. I basked in the glow of neon signs as I passed shop after shop hawking souvenirs, tee-shirts and fortune-telling items.

  I stopped and inspected the window of A. Schwab Dry Goods, the oldest authentic store on the beat. What I liked best was that it carried everything anyone could possibly ever want, from ladies’ dresses in size sixty to straight razors and suspenders. Next door was Tater Red’s with its array of voodoo products, including my personal favorites: Other Lawyer Be Stupid candles and Bitch Be Gone incense. I continued on until I hit my usual dive on Beale—the ever-funky Blues City Café.

  Slipping into one of the lumpy, ripped vinyl booths, I placed my elbows on the sticky white Formica table. The place had just the right amount of shabbiness to make me feel completely at home. A group of overhead fans creaked out their own rickety rhythm as I took comfort in the sight of the kitchen’s laden metal counter. “Put some South in your mouth,” commanded the menu. I did just that, ordering the fried catfish with a side of red beans and rice. The first beer went down easy. By the second, I was feeling even mellower. But there was still someplace else that I needed to go tonight.

  I ditched my Ford at home and began to walk. Though Beale Street is fun, it’s mainly a beacon for tourists. For real blues and juke joints, you have to venture off the beaten path. I needed to feel the sting of a hot blues guitar, and the cry of a wailing voice flying smooth as lava up my spine. The best place for that was near the crossroads of Calhoun and South Main, at the Blue Mojo.

  A former whorehouse, it had evolved into a late-hours nightclub specializing in blues the way they were meant to be heard. In the past, such tunes had been considered nothing more than “chittlin’ music for poor people.” But it’s the only music I know that can so fully express every human emotion. It speaks of loves that are lost, jagged holes in the heart, and other dark and gnawing feelings. Tonight I wanted to be wrapped tight in the warmth of its cloak. I entered the Blue Mojo’s shabby storefront, bellied up to the bar, and took my place on one of the stools.

  The owner wasn’t around tonight. No matter; Boobie wasn’t the person I’d come to see. I ordered a longneck and waited until Gena took the stage. When she stepped forward, it was into a shower of pale red light, causing a ripple of excitement to shimmer through the audience. She had poured herself into a dress that most women would have killed to look half as good in—and every man in the room would have died to get her out of.

  Gena had been trained by the best, singing spirituals in Reverend Al Green’s Full Gospel Tabernacle choir. Her voice knew just where my heart needed to go. She belted out a tune overflowing with love and hate, passion, yearning, and desire. When God handed out gifts, Gena had been twice blessed. Besides being beautiful, she could interpret a song like no other vocalist. She shut her eyes and slid into a low, guttural groan, and the sound conjured up a deep, primal underworld of haunting delta ghosts.

  I’d once looked up the phrase “having the blues” and found its derivation went all the way back to eighteenth-century England. Then, those painwracking emotions that burrow deep down into your soul had been called “blue devils,” a slang term for melancholia. A bunch of those little suckers were having one hell of a party dancing around me tonight.

  I let the music bury itself inside me, with its whisper of what I was missing. Then I polished off my beer and headed out the door. I walked home alone, where I lay down, concealed in semidarkness. But nothing could take away the feeling of loneliness that wrapped around me like a shroud. Or the feeling that I was still being watched.

  Ten

  The next morning, I picked up the phone and gave Mavis a ring as I downed my newly purchased forbidden Froot Loops. I wanted to let her know that our deal was on. Okay, what I really wanted was to get my hands on her mystery files as quickly as possible.

  Receiving no answer at her home, I tried reaching her at the Best Little Junk Shop in Memphis. Wouldn’t you know? Busy. She was yapping up a storm, probably planning when to shoot her next TV commercial. After a while I got tired of redialing, and decided to head on out. I took a look at my chipped cereal bowl as I placed it in the sink. Hmm. Maybe it was time to break down and buy more dishware.

  I sped along Elvis Presley Boulevard, where I mentally saluted Hound Dog II and the Lisa Marie, only to be cut off by a Graceland shuttle bus. I slammed my hand on the horn and passed it, catching sight of the angry tourists inside. Some shook their fists, while others wagged their heads in disapproval. The rest voiced their opinion of my behavior by way of digital salute.

  I was in such a rush to get hold of Mavis’s files that I didn’t even bother to stop at Krispy Kreme. I flew past and didn’t ease up on the gas until I swerved into the junkyard.

  Once there I hurried inside, but the junk queen was nowhere in sight.

  “Mavis! It’s Rachel Porter. Are you here?”

  Either she was playing coy or, for some reason, she couldn’t hear me. Then I realized that her Mercedes convertible hadn’t been parked out front. I made my way over to her desk and discovered her phone was off the hook. My pulse instantly quickened.

  Okay, slow down. Don’t jump to any conclusions.

  Perhaps she’d simply walked away and left an annoying customer hanging. God knows, I’d been tempted to do it to Charlie many times. I lifted the receiver and listened to the recorded message that continuously requested that I please hang up. I was happy to oblige, and then began to poke around the table.

  Mavis’s paperwork still sat in the same hefty stack, giving the impression she’d made little headway on it since my visit yesterday. I called out once more and then made a beeline for her basement. As far as I was concerned, our deal was in place, and I was determined not to leave without her records.

  The cellar door stood wide open, and a glimmer of light bled steadily up the stairs. Bingo! It looked like I’d just discovered the whereabouts of Miss Mavis. The next second, my euphoria crumbled into panic. I didn’t put it past Newcomb to “edit” a few incriminating items from her files at the very last minute.

  I flew down the steps, determined to wrestle her to the ground, if necessary. But Mavis wasn’t there. To top it off, her filing cabinets stood open, completely empty.

  I didn’t know whether to feel stupid or angry at having been played for a fool. Mavis had clearly pulled a fast one. One possibility was that she’d lied from the beginning about having any documentation. That would have bought her some time to get me temporarily off h
er tail. The other scenario was that she had sold every scrap of evidence to the highest bidder. Either way, I wasn’t a happy camper. On top of which, I now had to deal with Hickok.

  “I’ll be back!” I called out, à la the Terminator, still certain she must be around. I slowly walked out, listening for the slightest sound that would betray her. But the shop remained oddly silent.

  Now I had plenty of time to kill before meeting Woody at the Sho Nuf Bar, but that wouldn’t be hard to do. Hickok had demanded that I first come by and show my face at work. I decided to sweeten the visit by stopping off at Krispy Kreme, where I purchased a mixed dozen of glazed, powdered, and jelly donuts. Maybe I could keep Charlie so busy eating, he’d forget to ask any pertinent questions.

  Barney Fife was the first thing to greet me as I walked in the door. Hickok’s smug face was the second.

  “Unless you’ve got those files disguised as a bunch of donuts, I’d say something’s reeeaaally screwed up.”

  Oy vey. I placed the bag of Krispy Kremes in front of him.

  “Mavis doesn’t seem to be around this morning. She’s probably just running some errands,” I offered.

  “Yeah. Like changing her mind and selling her information to that damn Russki,” Charlie replied in a pissed-off growl.

  It wasn’t all that comforting to know that our minds worked in exactly the same manner.

  “She’ll turn up,” I declared. Even if I have to tear through every cotton field in order to find her.

  I was about to help myself to a donut when my telephone rang. I lunged, praying the caller was Mavis.

  “Hey, Porter! It’s me. You’ve had plenty of time to check out that information I gave you. So, when am I getting my money?”

  I was almost able to catch a whiff of fried bologna through the phone line. It was none other than Woody’s daughter.

  “Like I told you before, Wynona, I need more than just a snapshot of raccoon’s eyes. I talked to your father, but there was no proof of anything around. I even looked inside his Coon Dog Express trailer.”