Southern Select (The Dutch Curridge Series Book 2)

by Tim Bryant

  Deputy Mitchell, who was also there, somewhere in the crowd, had attempted to impose a no-alcohol rule, but I imposed a go-to-hell rule in response and told him if he brought it up again, I would be ordering doubles.

  Slant was sitting at the bar, Alto was dancing with a woman who swore she knew the drummer in the band, and I was trying to get up above it all so I could see the bigger picture.

  “This is a number we like to call ‘Fire On The Strings,’” Joe Maphis said. He was playing the first double neck guitar I’d ever seen in the flesh. The crowd inched closer to the bandstand and a smattering of applause went up as Merle Travis strapped on a guitar and joined him on the bandstand.

  “Fire On The Strings” was a hopped up rendition of the old fiddle tune “Fire On The Mountain” that I’d seen Bob Wills play in the same place. Maphis attacked the guitar like I’d never seen anyone do it, and I’d seen T-Bone Walker and Junior Barnard in their primes.

  I walked across the crowded ballroom floor, almost sure that I had seen Ruthie Nell Parker moving along the far wall. I hoped it was her, and I wished it wasn’t. Would I walk up to her and say hello or hide in the crowd.

  I wondered if she was the informant. Might she have gone undercover? I wouldn't put it past her. Hell, she might have even gone to the other side. Maybe I wasn’t special to her, but maybe Jerry Paul Crum wasn’t special to her either. She was using him to get information. She was in love with Anthony Cavanaugh, in love with danger, and they were going to Mexico together. I didn't trust my own judgment anymore. Even Melvin Chambers might have done it. Why not? He'd have been in position to get inside information. He certainly had reasons to stop the deal from going down. If he was even partially responsible for the downfall of the fugitive Anthony Cavanaugh, he could write a damn book and go on TV and probably end up writing for the Dallas Morning Times or even Chicago or somewhere.

  I surveyed the scene from bandstand to barstools. There were more people than usual, but that was to be expected. The Maddox Family and Rose drew a crowd. A good portion had even made the trip from Dallas.

  I took a long drink from my Jack and Dr Pepper and walked in the direction of the main entrance. I heard somebody call my name.

  “Dutch,” said Slant Face.

  “Steady as she goes,” I said.

  “I’m not feeling it,” he said.

  “It’s early.”

  I scanned the crowd for faces. I recognized several. Crystal Springs regulars, people from city hall shoulder to shoulder with those from stores and bars in Hell’s Half Acre. On the bandstand, Merle Travis was singing “Sixteen Tons,” the first time I’d ever heard it. People were clapping along, totally into it.

  “Dutch,” said James Alto.

  “Good song,” I said.

  “If we could get up on the bandstand, we could see better,” he said.

  “You play guitar better than I do,” I said.

  Merle Travis brought Joe Maphis back out on stage and they brought their part of the show to a barnstorming end, adding a local trumpet player named Tommy Loy, who was gigging with a Dixieland band called The Jailhouse 7. They played “Re-enlistment Blues,” and the crowd liked it so much, they played it over again, then said goodbye with a stomping version of “John Henry.”

  A third of the crowd cleared out while the bandstand was being prepared for The Maddox Brothers and Rose. We all went outside to smoke and take stock of things. It was turning out to be a pretty good night, and I was looking forward to seeing Rose Maddox do her thing.

  We were just about to head back in for new drinks when Walter Bismuke showed up, cutting through the crowd with his saxophone under his arm.

  “Nice hat, Curridge,” he said.

  He was wearing one that was almost identical.

  “You in the band, Walter?” I said.

  “Fort Worth Musician’s Union, card carrying member,” he said.

  “Think you get us on stage with you?” Slant Face said.

  “We just want to get close to Rose,” I said.

  Bismuke laughed and pushed his way through the crowd. Somebody on stage started to tune up their instrument. The barkeep hollered out prices and made sure to mention all the popular lady drinks. Then everything seemed to fall silent, like everything in the room shifted to my bad ear.

  “What is it, Dutch?” Slant said.

  He recognized the look on my face before I did. Or maybe he just saw the same thing I saw. Cat Man Simms and his trap door guitar. As clear as if he was standing right in front of me.

  “It's Bismuke,” I said. "His music case."

  “Goddamn it,” he said.

  James Alto took off into the same part of the crowd where Walter Bismuke had disappeared. I tried to scan the ballroom floor, but there was no way to get above it.

  “Time for me to hit the stage,” I said.

  The announcer was checking the mic, then he was advertising the drink special during the main set. Two dollar beer until midnight, and that meant all the beer you could put away for the next two and a half hours. I jumped up on the stage just in time to see a minor rush for the bar, everybody pulling their wallets out in synch.

  I could see everybody so clearly, it seemed I should have been able to reach out and touch them. Hats. Mode Edge hats. Hats probably purchased at Peters Brothers. I could hear Patrick Cavanaugh laugh. But no, it was Anthony Cavanaugh.

  “Who gives a damn about Bismuke,” Slant Face said. “He walked in with the saxophone case. We want to know who's walking out with it.”

  I felt a hand on my collar and turned around to stand toe to toe with the announcer, who was holding the microphone like a weapon. I resisted the urge to throw a punch, knowing it would slow down everything that didn’t need to slow down.

  “Somebody took my saxophone,” I said.

  He pulled the mic up over his head, and, just for an instant, I thought he was taking aim.

  38

  “Ladies and gentlemen, one of the musicians has had his instrument taken. I repeat, a saxophone has been stolen from the stage area. Please look around, and, if you see it or see someone with it, anything that looks suspicious, we ask that you alert one of our security guys. Thank you.”

  A circle of people formed around us, throwing questions this way and that. Was I all right. Did I get a good look at his face. Was there anything they could do.

  “Is there anything I can do?” said Rose Maddox. She was all dolled up in a yellow suit with red roses, fringe on the sleeves, a satin shirt and matching yellow hat. She looked like a million bucks, and she was smiling right at me. I didn’t say anything. Rose Maddox came to my aid, and I didn’t say shit.

  “We need to find this man’s saxophone,” Slant Face said.

  There were more people coming into the building than going out, everyone having heard the announcement that the show would soon begin, and the rush at the doors made it difficult to see anything. A bunch of guys caught one fella outside, but the case he was carrying turned out to be a tool chest. A Crystal Springs employee.

  There were scores of couples leaving, couples with kids at home, with jobs to go to. Any of the men might have been Walter Bismuke. Everyone had a damn hat on. I looked around behind me. He’d been inching his way through the crowd, in the direction of the stage. Only problem was, he wasn’t on the bandstand. He wasn’t standing at the side. He was nowhere to be seen.

  “Slant,” I said. “Bismuke was walking toward the bandstand. If he's not anywhere up here, he was on his way out."

  "The back door,” Slant Face said.

  The back door was a big double door which opened up to a loading dock of sort, so that musicians could load and unload equipment directly onto the bandstand.

  The Maddox Brothers and Rose were opening up with “Let’s Walk That A-Way, Not This A-Way” when I walked out into the empty loading area. There was a man smoking a cigar down at the side of the load-out ramp and that’s about it.

  “You see anybody leave this way?” I
said.

  “You joking?” he said.

  One of the boys they paid to provide security— which, for the most part, meant they dank free beer and got into fights and got paid for it— came out behind me and almost knocked me off my perch.

  “You the cat got his horn stolen?” he said.

  I nodded that I was.

  “I might've seen something,” he said. “Least ways, I think I might've.”

  I liked his confidence.

  “What ya got?”

  “Well,” he said. “The last band loaded their stuff out to make room for the next act. They loaded everything on a bus. Some of ‘em stayed. I can let you talk to ‘em if you want to. But most of ‘em— Mr. Maphis and his wife and Mr. Travis and most of ‘em— they went on to the motel.”

  “I don’t think the band took it,” I said.

  “No sir,” the boy said, “but there was a couple loaded out with 'em. Came out and handed an instrument case to a man standing by the bus. Then they got in a car and left separate. Only reason I noticed, they raised an awful lot of dust on their way out, like they had somewhere to get.”

  "You say they left separate. Separate from each other?"

  "Separate from the band," he said.

  “You get a good look?” I said.

  “At them or the car or what?”

  "Any of it," I said.

  "Car was some sort of sedan, I think."

  “A Plymouth Savoy?”

  “Could’ve been.”

  “What about the people?”

  “Lady had a blue dress, I think. She came out holding the case. I thought it was an instrument case. I thought they was with the band.”

  "And you say she handed it off to a man on the bus?"

  He fidgeted.

  "I don't know if he got on the bus. I didn't notice. All I know is he was gone."

  Slant Face found Dewey Mitchell who reported in to headquarters, and, ten minutes later, there were deputies at every road even hinting at going to Mexico. James Alto and I took the International on a break-neck ride straight for the Hotel Texas, arriving just as the diesel bus with Live Country & Western Music painted down the side of it pulled up to the back curb. I parked the truck across the street in an employee lot and rolled down my window.

  The air was cool and quiet, and you could hear the bus release its brakes and cut the engine. A moment later, the door folded open and the driver walked off. He spoke with a concierge from the hotel, and we could almost make out what they were saying. Something about this being the first group of musicians and the second coming later. Soon enough, a line of musicians came stumbling down the stairs, some of them holding their instruments, some empty handed. My whole body flinched when the man I had known as Patrick Cavanaugh for twelve months came down the steps. The last one off the bus, he had a hat pulled down over his eyes, but I knew him. Whoever the hell he was, I knew him.

  39

  "That's him," I said.

  "He's got the case," James Alto said.

  "He doesn't play saxophone," I said.

  He lowered his head and, when the others turned left, he went straight.

  "He's coming right for us," Alto said. "What you gonna do?"

  I wondered if we could take him in alive. We could surely surprise him. He was walking at a fast clip, trying to get away from the bus as fast as he could. Where was he going? I pulled my .38 into line and clicked the safety off.

  "He's a murderer," I said.

  "And he almost got away," Alto said.

  As he grew closer, I could hear his boot heels on the pavement. His rhythm was all out of time and so was he.

  "Patrick Cavanaugh."

  I didn't say it loud. Didn't shout it. Didn't even say it in anger. I just called out like I might have done on any night at Peechie's. I didn't have to repeat it. He looked up and saw me right as I pulled the trigger. His last thought must have been something else. Three quick shots, and each of them hit their mark and ripped right through it. He fell back hard onto the concrete, his hat skittering across the lot and lost to cunning hands, the saxophone case landing fifteen or twenty feet away. He must have looked up into the heavens, and maybe he thought he saw the lights of Mexico there, but they shut down in a hurry. He was good and dead before I got to him.

  None of the road blocks came up with anything. There was a gas station attendant just east of Haslett, due north of Fort Worth, who said a couple matching the Sheriff's Department's description pulled in and checked a low tire just about the right time. It took him five seconds to identify Bismuke from an FBI file photograph.

  Back at headquarters, Wiley King accepted the saxophone case graciously, making sure Melvin Chambers and a photographer were on hand as it was ceremoniously opened. When the deputies finally quit counting, they had two hundred and fifteen grand. I kept my finder's fee.

  40

  On Sunday afternoon, I drove up to Haslett by myself and showed the attendant, a guy named Leotis Gonder, the picture of Ruthie Nell in my wallet. He looked at it a couple of times.

  “I couldn’t point the finger and say yes, if it was a police lineup, you understand,” he said. “Maybe this is her.”

  “You think this is the lady?”

  “I don't know. Maybe. She smiled at me. The smile looks right.”

  It was not the kind of smile one would easily forget, especially over the course of a couple days. I thanked the man for his time and went on my way, taking a wide route around the city and coming out on the Weatherford Highway. It had been a while since I’d been out that way and today seemed as good a time as any.

  I parked the truck about a quarter of a mile from the old home place, grabbed the fifth of whiskey from behind the seat and headed for the old barn at the back of the property.

  Walking up the old trail was just about like walking back into the past. I tried to remember when I didn’t know Ruthie Nell Parker. It was funny, I had only known her for four or five years, but I had trouble imagining my life without her.

  I drained the bottle dry and before I knew it the night drained the last of the light away, and I decided to sleep it off in the barn, as I had plenty of times as a boy. I passed out, too numb to feel the prickly bed of needles beneath my head. Somewhere over in the night, I was awakened by the rush of an owl into the rafters, and I sat up. I could sense something in the barn.

  “Mama?”

  “Dutch, we need you to come with us.”

  It was Sheriff Wiley King and Dewey Mitchell.

  “What did I do?” I said.

  “J.P. Crum was killed this morning. Car bomb. Biggest mess you’ve ever seen.”

  “How can I help?”

  I walked down a long path with King, telling him as we walked that it was surely the work of Tincy Eggleston.

  “Dutch, there was a girl in the car with him,” said Mitchell. “We think it may be Ruthie Nell Parker.”

  Both of the bodies were in pieces. The bomb had threw shrapnel five hundred yards in every direction. There wasn’t enough of Crum left to identify, but they needed me to at least take a look. Jerry Paul was already bagged on a table next to the wall. They had the other body laid out on two different tables in the middle of a large room. They’d cleaned it up best they could, so there wasn’t a lot of blood, but you couldn’t tell that some of it was human. I guess somebody had been given the task of sorting out the parts and putting them into some kind of arrangement simulating a body.

  One of the legs was almost fully intact, and it could have been Ruthie’s. Fingers found and brought back together might have been hers. The torso, split open and badly mangled. There were pieces of skull which could have been anyone, but one piece of the back of her head held enough hair to distinguish that it was a young woman.

  I sat down at the end of one of the tables and took a long drink. I searched for something, anything, that would tell me one way or the other. I stood up and walked to the other end of the furthest table. I gently turned the lower portion of t
he woman’s face, which included the jaw and what teeth still remained. I pulled her lips, blackened by the blast, back and tried for two or three minutes to find her smile.

  “Is it her?” King said.

  It seemed like a trick. If I looked one way, it was Ruthie. Another, it was mama. Yet another, Dulcie Boon or even Pearl Salinas.

  “You able to make an I.D.? We need you to make an I.D.”

  I tried to put the pieces together, but nothing matched. Somehow, that was fitting.

  “It’s her, Wiley.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder.

  “You positive, Dutch?”

  I nodded.

  "The smile looks right."

  I remember a time, many years ago, when I caught my mama crying in her room, in the wee hours of the night. It had awakened me, and I ran to her room, frightened of what I might find and yet desperate to be there.

  "You have a sad dream?" I asked her.

  “No, Alvie," she said. "I was having a good dream.”

  Maybe it was true. She might have been crying because she woke up to a sad world. I know it was after Lizabeth had died with the polio, after daddy had run off. After the world had changed on our hill in Weatherford.

  Sometimes it's hard to tell the good from the bad, but from that night on, I began to understand that even my own flesh and blood had the ability and sometimes the need to lie to me. Sometimes it’s the only way to make things right.

  Spirit Trap

  (The Dutch Curridge Series Book 3)

  Kindle Edition

  by Tim Bryant

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