Southern Gothic

by Stuart Jaffe

  Max smacked his forehead and plopped onto the couch. “Stupid, stupid.” he said. “What the heck were you thinking?”

  He knew the answer to that. One glance at his surroundings gave him the answer. They were in trouble, soon they would be forced to live off credit cards, and once that debt began, they’d never dig out of it. Like a snake coiling before it struck, the money problems readied for a devastating blow. It didn’t matter that he had a college degree, that he had been employed by a public school, or that he had managed to keep them afloat for several years. Nobody would hire him for a decent job — not if they looked closely into his history. Too many job changes. Too many gaps of unemployment. Bosses won’t care that he had made a stab at self-employment. If anything, they’ll take that as a sign of his desire to always be looking for better pastures. The best he could hope for was to flip burgers.

  Sandra would eventually get a full-time job — unless she was right and the Hulls were stopping that from happening. In which case, things were even worse than he wanted to admit. But wasn’t the real problem her inability to admit the situation? He had no love for the idea of working with any Hull, but reality appeared to be pushing them towards that cliff.

  And it was a cliff. A sheer drop into a dark abyss that he had climbed out of before and knew each time became more difficult. And each time he resurfaced, life became a little harder, a little worse.

  But if he didn’t help Cecily Hull, what would be left for them? Being poor. Except they had been poor before, and back then, when one of the Hulls tried to buy them off, they easily refused. They had also been forced into working for the Hulls later — which proved to be no big deal until the day they came calling about a witch coven. That was when the long climb out of the darkness began.

  “We made it, though,” he whispered. Looking around him, Max wondered if it had been worthwhile. Being poor was one thing. Being poor with no real possibility to get out — that was poverty. That was unacceptable.

  A few hours later, Max startled awake to the cold of a ghost drifting into the room. He had no memory of falling asleep. No sound came from the bedroom. He had no memory of Sandra shutting off the music.

  His disorientation might have continued, but Drummond floated a few feet away, and upon seeing Max awake, Drummond said, “Finally. I was getting bored waiting for you.”

  Max felt a crick in his neck and rubbed it while sitting up. “What do you want? I’ve had a crappy night.”

  “No kidding. What stupid thing did you say to get thrown out of the bedroom?”

  “Cecily Hull came by. Offered to hire us to help her destroy Tucker. Sandra threw her out.”

  Drummond shook his head. “And you thought it might not be such a bad idea.”

  “It would solve a lot of our current problems. But I don’t really want to do it any more than Sandra. Only difference is that, from a practical standpoint, I don’t see a better alternative.”

  “Well, on this one, I’m taking both sides.”

  “You can’t really do that.”

  “Sure I can. For one, I agree with your lovely wife that you’d all be incredibly stupid to work for any Hull ever again. But I also think that the timing of Cecily’s appearance is rather strange.”

  Max sat forward. “You’re right. The whole day had moved so fast, I never really thought about it. But why would she suddenly pop up on our doorstep the same day our only client is murdered?”

  “Exactly. So, if you work the case — which is probably what she wants you to do anyway — you can find a good angle to negotiate with her. Not that you have to negotiate, but you’ve been around the Hull block enough to know now that getting information on something they want is always your best security.”

  “Wait, wait. You said you were on both our sides. How is having me investigate a case I’m not hired to investigate being on my side?”

  “I never said I was on both your sides. I said I was taking both sides — Sandra’s and mine. Your idea of working for Hull for the money alone is moronic.” Drummond settled in the air above their tiny mini-table. “Look, you can sit around here fighting with your wife and suffering insomnia on this couch ...”

  “I was sleeping fine until you woke me up.”

  “... or you can dig out those papers you hid and we can see what we found.”

  Max rubbed his face before snatching the papers from under the carpet. “The only reason I’m doing this is because I’m wide awake right now.”

  Drummond floated over Max’s shoulder and peered at the papers. “Whatever you need to believe, kid. I’m making no judgments.”

  There were three papers. The first — a mortgage bill from First Community Bank. The second — a flier for a local boxing series called Midnight Fights. The last — a list of five names, each name with a group of numbers, and two names marked with asterisks.

  Drummond clapped his hands together in one sharp sound. “Max, my boy, your luck is changing. This is good news.”

  “What? You understand what this list is all about?”

  “I do indeed. That flier — when does it say the next fight is?”

  Max flipped back one page. “Tomorrow night.”

  “That list of names — they’re fighters. The numbers are weight, reach, and odds.”

  “This is like a betting form?”

  “Better than that.” Drummond dropped down so his eyes met Max’s straight on. “That list is private information about a fix.”

  “A fix?”

  “The fight is fixed. Those guys with their names marked are going to win the fight they’re in. You can bet on those fights and win a lot of money. Enough to solve your current problems.”

  Chapter 4

  The next morning, Max said little to Sandra as she thumped a bowl on the counter, slammed cereal in the bowl, splashed on some milk, and clanged out a spoonful. She held the spoon at her mouth, a thought crossing her brow, and seemed about to speak. Instead, she clamped her mouth around the cereal and shoveled the rest in as fast as she could manage. With more clatter, she tossed the dirty bowl and spoon in the sink before going back into the bedroom. Shortly after, she emerged wearing her bakery clothes, grabbed a treat from the cookie jar, and left for work.

  “Wow,” Drummond said. “I’ve seen her give you the cold shoulder before but that was an arctic blast.”

  “It’s worse than that.” Max walked to the sink and cleaned out the dirty cereal bowl. “She doesn’t have to work until this evening.”

  “Days like this one make me glad I never got married. At least, if she’s got to work tonight, it’ll make it easier for you to go the fights.”

  “I didn’t say I was going.”

  “But the fix is for tonight. You can’t turn down that kind of a sure thing. Come on. You need the money.”

  Heading toward the door, Max said, “I’ll think about it.”

  “Great. So where are we going?”

  “I’m going to the library.”

  Drummond’s posture drooped. “The library? Why?”

  “You said I should work on the case. Well, that’s what I’m going to do. Sebastian Freeman hired me to find his family roots. I might as well start with that.”

  “I suppose that’s a good idea.” Drummond crossed his arms as he floated alone in the living area. “Meet you back here tonight, okay?”

  Max held back a laugh. “You aren’t coming with me?”

  “Come on. I don’t do the bookworm stuff.”

  “See you tonight, then.”

  As Max drove toward Wake Forest University, he felt pleased with Drummond’s predictability. If ever he needed to be alone, the library was to one place he knew he could count on. Drummond hated that kind of research. Too quiet, Max guessed.

  The Z. Smith Reynolds Library continued to be his favorite in the area. For him, university libraries had always touched on an extra level of importance to the research he had to do. He knew it was a silly idea, but he couldn’t deny it, either. Seeing s
tudents hunched over books made up part of it. Also, the types of academic materials found at the University’s library mattered, too. It was purely an aesthetic, though. Max knew that. Still, he loved that library. Stepping inside, inhaling that unique aroma of old paper and listening to that muted hush which enveloped all libraries, Max’s body settled into it all like coming home after a long day of travel.

  “Mr. Porter, you’re back,” Leon Moore said as Max walked by the main desk.

  Leon was a tall, hefty black man who had worked in the library for the past year. He had a thick beard that created some definition to his round, balding head. A few days back, when Max had asked for some help, Leon took great interest in the work and went far above the call of a librarian’s duty to aid him. Then again, part of the reason Max preferred researching in the library over the Internet was that every librarian he had ever encountered went far above the call of duty.

  Max waved hello, and as he set up at a nearby table — one under the open skylights — Leon shuffled over. The man walked with a limp, and he had a slight bend to his back, both of which made him appear far older than the truth — forty-three.

  “I was wondering if I’d see you again,” Leon said.

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “I saw on the news this morning all about Sebastian Freeman. Somebody killed him. I figured you wouldn’t be researching for him anymore since he isn’t around anymore. Unless that was some other Sebastian Freeman.”

  “Unfortunately, it was him. But I’m still working on the research. I don’t like to let stuff like that go unfinished. Besides, he’s got family. They might appreciate knowing where they came from as much as he wanted to know.”

  Clapping his hands together — a near-perfect imitation of Drummond — Leon opened one of Max’s notebooks. “Where are we today?”

  “Well, we know that after the Emancipation Proclamation and moreso after the Civil War, a lot of former slaves took on the name Freeman. But following the standard records searches, we got two strong possibilities for Sebastian’s great-great-great grandfather, both of which were plantation slaves in Virginia. The real problem, the one I think he was most interested in, was his mother’s side.”

  In general, plantation records kept in the nineteenth century were only as thorough as the record keeper wanted them to be. Some families were meticulous. Some were spotty. Some could not have cared less. There were no computers, no deep data mines, and no need for such things. Add to that the fact that most general records — such as marriages and real estate — only concerned males, and the problem of tracing a mother’s line back through slavery became a massive fishing expedition armed with a hook and no bait.

  In the case of Sebastian Freeman, Max only had the first name of his great-great grandmother — Lilla. The name didn’t show up anywhere useful which both disappointed Max and gave him hope. The disappointment came from failure. The hope came from knowing that when he did find the name, it was unusual enough that the odds were much higher that it belonged to Freeman’s relative.

  Several hours in, Max had found little that he could work with. Leon came up with a book of photos taken during the Reconstruction, but without Sebastian to look through them, Max merely saw a sea of faces. As dinner approached, he decided to call it a day.

  Normally, he would go home and enjoy dinner with Sandra, but that wouldn’t be happening until they got through their fight. Instead, Max drove to the downtown section of the city and walked along the numerous restaurants. He knew many of them to be excellent places to eat, but he couldn’t afford them anymore. With five dollars in his pocket, he decided he could manage half-a-sub at Subway, and as he bit into his meager meal, Drummond appeared across from him.

  “You ready for tonight?” he asked.

  To hide that Max spoke to an empty chair, he wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “I’m still not convinced this is a good idea.”

  “Nonsense. You know I’m right. I usually am, and this time, I definitely am. The facts are simple. You need money. Stop acting like a fool and be a man.”

  “Really? You’re going to try to shame me into submission with a ‘be a man’ taunt?”

  “Listen, if I could make the bet for you, I would. But I have this unfortunate condition of being dead. So, let’s get going.”

  Max glanced at his watch. “The fight isn’t for hours.”

  “You can’t just show up. Are you crazy? We need to check out the place first. Make sure the only thing underhanded going on is the fixed fight. Plus, they often have up-and-comer fights earlier on, so you can go in and appear more natural by watching a few fights before making your bet.”

  “I don’t even have any cash.”

  “All the more reason to get started now. We go to the bank and get a hundred for the bet.”

  Max tried not to choke, but some teen girls threw him an odd look and some giggles. Without another word, he forced down the rest of his meal, tossed the trash, and hurried to his car. At least he could talk freely in there — most people would assume he was on Bluetooth or singing with the radio.

  “No way can I bet a hundred dollars. I only ever got two hundred from Freeman, and that’s got to help pay bills. Not to mention that Sandra’s already pissed off. She finds out about this, she’ll kill me.”

  “Not with 10-to-1 odds. You’ll bring back a thousand dollars. What’s wrong with that?”

  Max wanted to argue more, but he noticed that the car headed toward the bank. Part of him had already decided and there seemed little point in fighting it further.

  Chapter 5

  By the time Max turned off Old US 52 into the parking lot of a vacant building, his mind had become a mush of conflicting thoughts. Looking at the people getting out of their cars or dismounting their motorcycles, Max knew he didn’t belong. In Winston-Salem, the Southeastern section of the city was predominately Hispanic — most of the signs were in Spanish and much of the conversation Max heard had the flow of Spanish. His aptitude for languages had never gone beyond failing Spanish 2 in high school, so he couldn’t be sure.

  Not only was Max out of place, but his intentions were the kind that could get him in a lot of trouble. This was a dangerous place and betting on a fixed fight seemed like a dumb move — like robbing the people running this operation. But Drummond’s words hit the bull’s-eye over and over — they needed the money.

  Stepping out of his beat up Honda, the cold air chilled his nose and ears. Not as cold as the silence from Sandra, though — she hadn’t even bothered to call wondering where he was. And beyond her, he had the name Hull floating in his brain.

  No. He had to put all those thoughts aside. He had come here for a simple purpose. He should focus on that, get the job done, and leave as fast as possible.

  He headed toward the entrance. The building had been a small warehouse or machine shop before. A loading dock large enough for two trucks ran along the front. Off-white paint peeled on all the walls and the rest of the building had a utilitarian, boxy look.

  Three elderly Hispanic men walked in, one using a cane, and that sight eased Max’s nerves. How dangerous could the place actually be, if those men entered without fear? It also pleased him that he would not be the oldest man in the building.

  As he entered, a table blocked the door leading to the main room — a fight was already in progress and the crowd’s cheers rumbled out to the line of men waiting to get in. Two guys large enough to be nightclub bouncers stood at the table. One collected a twenty dollar entrance fee while the second offered a betting form similar to what one saw at a horse race.

  Max paid, took his form, and noticed that the layout of names followed the list he had swiped from Baxter House. He walked into the main room. The noise assaulted his ears as did the thick odor of sweat. This place had been designed to store boxes for shipping, not run a sporting event. Max wondered if this little business operated under the property owner’s nose or if the owner got a cut of the proceeds.

  Dru
mmond clapped his hands as he slid alongside Max. “I’m so glad you decided to come here. I haven’t been to a local fight in years. Decades, really. I’m looking forward to this.”

  Max found an empty spot along the temporary metal bleachers set up around the ring. The ring itself looked professional enough. Two racks of lights had been mounted on thick poles, and long cables ran off to a generator. A few space heaters warmed those working the judges table and elsewhere, but mostly it was the body heat of the crowd that kept the temperature up. Still, everyone kept their winter coats on, and hot coffee appeared to sell far better than cold beer.

  Two sweating middleweights slugged it out while the ref circled the fight. They kept clutching each other and some in the crowd booed. Neither fighter moved with much gusto. Max figured he had come near the end of this particular bout.

  “What are you sitting down for?” Drummond asked. “Go make your bet.”

  “Relax. That fight isn’t for a while and I want to look around first.” Now that he was there, Max started to wonder about Sebastian, the murder, Baxter House, and the paper that had led him to the Midnight Fights. How did those things connect? And who actually owned that house?

  That question smacked Max in the head as hard as the punches being thrown in the ring. He had been so wrapped up in losing his client, his fight with Sandra, and his visit from Cecily Hull, that he never asked some of the most basic questions. It wasn’t Sebastian’s house — the man had made it quite clear how little money he had. It didn’t look lived in, though it was immaculate and clean. Yet books overflowed the shelves of that study and those papers were on the desk. Somebody used that space. Why had the police bothered calling in Max when they had more obvious people to inquire about — like the owner of that house?