Sintown Chronicles III: In Dark Corners

by David O. Dyer, Sr.

  "Julie, I'm sorry about your dad."

  "Thanks, Mark. I just got in. I was about to call you."

  "Did you get my package?"

  "I'm looking at it right now. I didn't know Wal-Mart carried such stylish clothing for women."

  "A lot of people don't. They're hoping your unique talents as an illustrator will change that."

  "I'll give it my best shot."

  "Julie, you have to get it back to the agency by the end of the month."

  "Mark, that's just two weeks away."

  "Thirteen days."

  "Can't you get an extension? I was burying my dad, for goodness sakes."

  "I tried, Julie. The agency won't budge. Since they don't know your work, they want plenty of lead-time in case they have to find another artist."

  "Who's the agency?"

  "Are you sitting down?"

  "Yeah."

  "It's the Holder Advertising Agency—located in Dot, North Carolina."

  "Small world. Who would have thought a major ad agency would call Dot it's home. Look, Mark. I'll do my best on this thing."

  "I know you will."

  "Let me get off the phone and get started."

  "Julie, I'm truly sorry about your dad."

  "Me too, Mark. Goodbye."

  She ate another slice of pizza, stuffed the half-full box into her refrigerator, put on a pot of coffee and moved to the worktable opposite her desk. She strategically placed the four copy boards and sorted the accompanying photographs, matching picture to ad layout. Rapidly she sketched a rough draft of the first ad and just as rapidly discarded it. Think, brain. This must be special—fresh—eye-catching.

  Well past midnight fatigue won. Julie settled for a quick shower, but as the soothing water coursed down on her aching body, she remembered the radio program. She grinned wickedly as she pulled the nozzle from its holder. After adjusting the spray, she aimed it at her left breast. If felt good, but nothing special. She tried the right breast with the same result. She felt her face flush as she widened her stance. Again, it felt good, but that was it. She forced the nozzle back into its clamp. Maybe my plumbing just doesn't work, she concluded.

  She dried quickly, slipped into a nightgown, padded into her bedroom and her reflection in the full-length mirror caught her eye. She faced the silver-backed glass and smiled as she remembered Cliff's admonition: “You either need glasses or a new mirror."

  If I did a little something with my hair, shaped my eyebrows a little, maybe ... She pulled the nightgown up over her head, again faced the mirror and frowned. I'll be damned if I'll ever wear falsies. She grinned as she pulled the nightgown back on. I wonder if Wal-Mart sells padded bras? She again studied her reflection. My legs look pretty good, she observed. They need shaving, though. She bent over and ran her hands over her shins. Could my leg stubble be what turned Cliff off? She chuckled as she straightened up. No way. He never got that far in his examination of my anatomy.

  Slowly she lifted the hem of the nightgown and concentrated on the triangle of tangled, curly chestnut-colored hair. I wonder what it looks like. Is it like those shaved things I see on the adult channel? She snickered. Who can tell with all that fur down there? I wonder if Cliff would like it better if I shaved.

  "Cliff,” she said aloud. “Why do I keep thinking about that convict? He had his chance and he blew it. Still..."

  She turned back the covers and crawled into bed. I wonder if there's anything else of importance in the mail. Once the question was raised, Julie knew she could not sleep until she found the answer.

  She went to the living room and picked up scattered circulars and envelopes from the floor, separating them into two groups. “Junk, junk, bill, bill, junk, hello, what's this?” The return address was “Sunrise Tower Apartments.” She tore open the envelope and read the letter with mounting alarm.

  Dear Miss Wilson,

  As you know, your apartment lease expires on the last day of the month. We regret to inform you that we are not renewing leases. As the new owners, we have extensive plans for remodeling and turning Sunrise Towers into condominiums. Please arrange to vacate the premises on or before the expiration date of your lease.

  Sincerely,

  Stoker and Wellington Enterprises

  The letter fluttered to the floor as tears cascaded down her cheeks. “This is too much, damn it. My dad died. I threw myself at a man and he ignored my offering. I have a career chance of a lifetime but there is a severe time constraint and now I have to find another place to live. I can't handle this, damn it.” She sighed. “Yes I can, but there's nothing I can do tonight."

  She turned off the bedroom light, slipped beneath the sheets and longed for someone to embrace her—to kiss away the tears. She imagined Cliff holding her in his arms, one hand stroking her hair, fingers of the other hand twirling one nipple while his tongue played with the other. Her hand found her thigh and traveled upwards, but it was not her hand. It was Cliff's. Her hips began to undulate as his fingers stroked and probed.

  The tears stopped and her eyes opened wide. “By God, I think I found it!"

  Chapter Five

  Cliff clamped the pillow over his head but he could still hear the incessant pounding. He tossed the pillow aside, and shouted, “All right, already. I'm coming.” He pulled on his jeans and stumbled to the front door.

  "You wanted me here first thing this morning and here I am,” Carl Elliott groused.

  "It was your wife that said that,” Cliff muttered. “What time is it?"

  "Almost five.” Carl grinned. “You look terrible. Tie one on last night?"

  Cliff ran fingers through his shaggy hair. “Nah, man. I was trying to get this place livable. I kept finding one more thing to do. It must have been three before I got in bed."

  "Well, do you want me to check the place out or not?"

  "Yeah. Come on in, Carl."

  "Just gimmie the keys. I don't need you. Go back to bed."

  Cliff was tempted, but instead put on a pot of coffee, showered, dressed in clean jeans and a tee shirt and smeared jam on two slices of toast for breakfast. He found Carl coming out of the store.

  "What's it look like?"

  "I'm not done yet,” Carl replied brusquely.

  "Look man. I didn't mean for Sarasue to put the squeeze on you. I offered to pay you for your time."

  Carl opened the first motel unit next to the apartment and snapped on the light. “From the looks of things you can't afford me and for your information, I'm not henpecked. Sarasue could never carry out her threat. If she had to go more than twenty-four hours without making the bedsprings bounce she'd be climbing the walls."

  Cliff watched Carl stomping the floor and pounding his fists against various spots on walls.

  "Place is filthy,” Carl commented as he moved to the next unit. He worked quickly but efficiently as he went from unit to unit on the highway side of the motel and moved hurriedly to the six units on the back.

  "Well?” Cliff asked as Carl locked the door to the last room.

  "You're an impatient young fellow, aren't you?” Carl grumbled. He pulled a large tape measure from the tool pouch he wore around his waist. “Make yourself useful. There's a flashlight in the glove box of my truck."

  Cliff nodded and jogged to the front of the motel. When he returned, Carl was on his knees behind the store. The concrete well cover lay to one side and Carl was peering into the hole in the ground.

  "Something isn't right here,” Carl said. “Gimmie that light."

  As Carl aimed the light down the black hole, Cliff noticed that the tape dangled down the well shaft. Carl handed the flashlight back to Cliff, sat on the ground and began reeling in the tape. “This here's a hundred foot measure. It never hit bottom. Holy cow. Would you look at that."

  "Look at what?"

  "See how the tape is wet at the thirty-two foot level? There's at least thirty-two feet of water in this well. There's no tellin’ how much more since my tape never made it to the bo
ttom."

  "I take it that's a good thing."

  Carl laughed as he removed the rock tied to the end of the tape. “Boy, there's enough water in that well to serve half the homes in Dot without ever running dry. Does the pump work?"

  "I guess it does. At least there's running water.” Cliff bent over and helped Carl replace the well cover. “You going to give me your decision now?"

  Carl yanked the flashlight from Cliff's hand. “Boy, I'll give you my decision when I'm done. Keep your britches on."

  Cliff silently followed Carl to the back of the motel and watched as the black man removed a crawl space door, lie on his belly and slither under the floor like a snake in the grass.

  "Damn,” Carl's muffled voice muttered from under the building. “Spider webs."

  For over an hour Cliff paced along the outside of the structure, following the pounding sounds that periodically came from under the floor. Carl worked his way to the end of the restaurant, back to the end of the motel units and returned to the crawl space entrance.

  As he slithered back into daylight, Cliff started laughing. Carl was covered from head to toe in spider webs.

  "I'm not real bright, you know,” Carl said as he wiped his face with a red bandana. “If I was, I sure as hell wouldn't be doing this for a total stranger."

  "I appreciate it, Mr. Elliott,” Cliff replied, unsuccessfully trying to quit laughing.

  "Now I have to go home and take a bath. You have any coffee?"

  "Yeah,” Cliff replied, still laughing, but you can't come into my apartment looking like that. Come on. I think I can help you out."

  Carl followed Cliff who chuckled all the way.

  "It ain't funny, Sonny."

  "Yes it is. Now, you stand right here in front of the door. I'll be right back."

  Cliff quickly returned with the vacuum cleaner and used the upholstery tool on Carl. After a second swipe on the seat of Carl's pants, Cliff chuckled, “Now you may come in."

  Carl sipped the steaming hot coffee and asked, “Make this with water from the well?"

  "I think so. It's whatever came out of the pipe."

  "Powerful good water."

  Cliff stared silently at the man for a full minute but when Carl continued sipping the coffee, he said, “Are you done yet?"

  Carl grinned. “Reckon so. The building is sound. I didn't see any evidence of dry rot. The roof ought to last a few more years. You need an electrician to check out the wiring, but it seems okay to me. You also need a septic tank expert to check it out. You'll probably need to put in new lines if not a whole new system."

  "But you think all the place needs is a good cleaning and some paint?"

  "If it was me, I'd push the whole thing down and start over."

  Cliff, in the process of refilling their cups, nearly dropped the pot. “But you said..."

  "I know what I said. Cliff, this place was built in the forties or early fifties. It's old fashioned. Who'd want to eat in a restaurant that looks like this one does? Even if you do fix it up, nobody will want to rent one of these tiny motel rooms with window air conditioning units."

  "What if we serve the best food in the whole dadgummed state, sell gas cheaper than anyone else and charge ten dollars a night for the motel?"

  "You're a dreamer, Son.” Carl checked his watch. “I've gotta get my butt moving."

  "Uh, Mr. Elliott, there's one more building to look at."

  "Where?” Carl asked irritably. “I didn't see anything else."

  "I'm not sure where it is. Julie said the old home place is a few miles off the highway."

  Carl stood and took his empty cup to the sink. “When you find it, let me know."

  "Julie said something about a graveled road leading to it."

  Carl turned, leveled his eyes at Cliff and sighed. “I saw what I thought was an overgrown logging road leading off from the parking lot behind the motel. You think that may be it?"

  "It's worth a try."

  "I'm not driving my truck on that trail."

  As he headed for the front door, Cliff said, “We'll use mine."

  Cliff's old truck pushed through briars and brambles. A quarter of a mile up the trail they stopped and drug a fallen tree to one side. Two miles later, just when the undergrowth seemed too dense to proceed, the trail erupted into a field of broom sedge.

  "Holy cow,” Carl said softly and reverently. “You didn't tell me it was a log cabin."

  "I didn't know."

  Carl jumped from the truck before it came to a full stop and rushed to the structure. Cliff caught up as Carl ran his fingers over the logs at one corner of the house.

  "Look at this craftsmanship, Cliff. See how the grooves dovetail? Hey, look at this."

  "I'm looking, but I don't know what I'm looking at."

  "Hand hewn dowels, Cliff. They used them to tie the logs together. I'll bet there isn't a nail in the entire structure."

  It was all Cliff could do to keep up with the energized man as he made his way around the massive home, climbed the porch steps and waited impatiently for Cliff to find the key to the front door.

  Carl rushed inside. “Hot damn, Cliff. They didn't screw up the internal walls."

  Cliff looked at the dust-covered, cloth-draped furniture and cobwebs hanging from the ceiling as Carl dropped to his knees beside one wall. “The walls just look like logs to me."

  "That's my point!” Carl exclaimed. “Usually when someone occupies an old log house like this, they cover the walls with wallboard, plywood or even plaster. These people knew better. Look at this."

  Cliff squinted. “It's a heat duct."

  "Yeah. Look how carefully they added it in the bottom log. You can hardly see it."

  "What makes you think it wasn't part of the original structure?"

  Carl stood, shaking his head. “Sonny, this house was build in the eighteen hundreds. There was no such thing as central heating back then. You see that rock fireplace? I'll bet there's one just like it in every room. That's how the house was originally heated."

  Carl moved to the wall and tried the light switch. The overhead chandelier glowed. Carl clapped his hands and pointed. “It looks just like an oil lamp chandelier, and look at this light switch, Cliff."

  "I'm looking."

  "When they added electricity, they bored tunnels through the logs for the wiring."

  "How do you know that?"

  "You don't see any exposed wires, do you?” Carl explained as he rushed to the next room.

  Cliff tagged along behind. He, too, liked the house and Carl became increasingly ecstatic.

  "Hey, Sonny. Come look at this."

  Cliff followed the sound of Carl's voice, went through what must be the kitchen and walked through an open door onto the back porch.

  "Look down there,” Carl urged.

  Cliff followed Carl's pointing finger and saw, perhaps two hundred yards away, the large pond Julie mentioned.

  "That's a beaut, Cliff, and it'll be even prettier with the banks cleared. I'll bet it's full of fish."

  They explored the remainder of the ground floor and then the bedrooms on the second floor. In the basement, Carl insisted that the obvious water leakage could be easily fixed. “You'll need an expert to check out the condition of that oil-fired furnace,” Carl said, “and it'll be easy to add central air."

  Eventually they emerged onto the front porch. Cliff sat wearily on the top step while Carl, with eyes dancing, propped against the porch rail.

  "While you get the place cleaned up,” Carl said excitedly, “I'll check out the chinking. Some of it will need replacing. I'll get my buddy, Al Fox, to check out the chimneys and fireplaces for safety and he can take a look at the furnace for us too. Then we'll replace the screening on the porches. Unless we run into something unexpected, we can have this beautiful home fully restored in a month or two."

  "Hold on, Carl. I don't own any of this, remember? It belongs to Julie Wilson and right now she's got the whole thing up for sale—p
robably to Tim Dollar."

  "You tell that young lady this house is worth a fortune. She'd be a fool to sell, but if she insists, I'll top any offer Tim Dollar makes. I'll find the money somewhere."

  Cliff stood and stretched. “I hope to convince Julie to reopen the businesses and let me run them, but I haven't mentioned it to her yet. She probably won't go for it and if she does, we can't afford you, Carl."

  Carl narrowed his eyes to tiny slits. “If you don't let me help restore this place, I'll whup your white ass ’til you can't sit down. Did you hear me say anything about money?"

  When they returned to the motel, Cliff frowned and asked, “Who belongs to the white Caddy?"

  "Creasy Green."

  "The realtor?"

  "Yeah."

  Both men stared with disgust at the “For Sale” sign newly nailed to the storefront.

  "I wondered where you were, Carl. I seen your truck,” Creasy Green shouted as he emerged from the wooded area on the other side of the restaurant. He grinned sheepishly as he approached the men. “Had to shake the dew off the Lily."

  Carl motioned to the “For Sale” sign with his head. “How much?"

  "Asking price is $250,000."

  "Bull! You'll never get that kind of money."

  "Do you know there's sixty acres of cleared land with a nice stream running through it?"

  "Really?” Cliff asked.

  "That's what the county records show."

  "Even so, nobody's interested in farm land these days."

  "A body could grow some mighty fine melons and maters in the bottom land. If it was me, I'd plant Christmas trees—you know, Canadian firs, cedars and white pines. A body could make a fortune in a few years and if he keeps plantin', that fortune would continue forever."

  "Hmm,” Carl said, rubbing his chin. “You might have something there."

  "You interested in buying it, Carl?"

  "Might be. I know Tim will make you an offer and I know you set the price so high in order to give you bargaining room. Once you have Tim's best offer, you let me know. I just might surprise you."

  "You have another job lined up, Carl?"

  "No, but I don't want to build Tim Dollar houses the rest of my life. Tree farming might be fun."