Should he tell Jenny or not?
There were a lot of reasons not to tell her. First of all, it was none of his business. Secondly, maybe she already knew. Maybe uncompromising Jenny was willing to make a few concessions to leap right up that social ladder. He doubted that.
There was the practical side of it. If she found out before she got married, she might not marry him. If she found out after she got married, she could score a few million bucks off it.
Never let it be said that Rusty Clay came between a woman, in general and Jenny in particular, and her millions.
On the other hand, he’d been married to her three times. Didn’t he owe it to her? That was the question.
Then he decided to play the Golden Rule. If he were in her position, about to marry a rich woman, would he want Jenny to tell him he was marrying a cheater?
Now, he was getting somewhere. He didn’t have the exact answer yet, but it was enough to make him straighten up and take his second sip of coffee.
And then the black rotary phone, sitting on the end table beside him, rang. Rusty picked it up on the third ring. “Hello.”
“Hey, Cuz.” It was Ray. “I’m at Gloria’s.”
“Her house?”
“No. You dumb ass. Her café. Check this out. Right now, there’s a thirty minute wait to be seated. Wall to wall out-of-town grabblers. Lot of young stuff, too. I’m going to wait it out, enjoy the view. You want to join me?”
“Yeah. I’m about to starve. I’ll be right down.”
“I can’t wait to tell you this one.”
“What’s that?”
“Yesterday at the McAllister affair, all them McAllisters and Pylants git drunk and Gloria gets into it with Pelfry McAllister…”
“Old man McAllister?”
“No. Pelfry Junior. She knocks the son of bitch out. One of them Pylants had to hold a vial of deer piss under this nose to get him to come back to.”
“What did she hit him with?” Gloria was a tough one all right.
“I think it was a left hook.”
Rusty hung up and marched right down to his boathouse, cranked his eighteen horse Johnson and cruised the ten minutes down river to the marina.
He pulled around the point and damn, boats all over the marina, cars all crowded around the café, trucks and boat trailers all in the parking lot off from the loading ramp. It was worse than a Fourth of July. Rusty had never seen it like this before.
He taxied into the marina. Some shitass had taken Rusty’s boat slip. And it was a damned state-of-the art-bass boat of all things. Rusty had the urge to go back home, get his .45 and give that thing another drain hole. This one without a plug.
Then he saw Gloria. She came bouncing down the pier in some tight jeans and white satin blouse. She waved Rusty over and hopped down into her wooden runabout.
Rusty circled his boat around, went down the next slip, pulled along Gloria. He cut his engine, reached over and held on to the gunwale of her boat.
“I’m leaving,” she said. “You can have my slip.”
“You’re leaving with the place like this?”
“Hell, I’ve got to go uptown and take Mama to church.”
“I thought your sister always took her?”
“Yesterday, I shared that pint of peach moon you gave me with her. That and the champagne, she’s so hung over she can’t get out of bed.”
“I heard you mixed it up with the McAllister’s yesterday.”
“Aw, listen to this, Rusty. Yesterday, I go to a McAllister wedding with my new ex and his eighteen year old girlfriend. I get drunk on your moonshine and cold-cock Pelfry Junior McAllister. Is that redneck enough for you?”
“You are guilty of your own accusations of me,” Rusty said, trying to sound profoundly philosophical. Gloria seemed to like it. She threw him a kiss and then negotiated out of the slip.
Rusty negotiated in, moored, and went up to the café. Betty was acting as hostess. She had on one of the new caps. It had some big eyes on the front, the bill had catfish lips and a big whisker was falling down either side of the bill. Two big fins flopped along the side. Clear Springs Catfish Rodeo was stitched on the front.
Rusty thought it was good job. Gloria designed it herself.
Betty wore one of the new T-shirts. On the front was the picture of a huge, cute, happy-looking catfish with the inscription--Grabblers Get Down Dirty in Muddy Water.
Rusty walked on and found Ray back in the same booth they had sat the other day. Someone had left a Sunday morning copy of The Dolopia Democrat on the seat. Ray was straightening it up with that one hand of his.
Rusty slid in opposite him. Ray had a cup of coffee sitting there waiting for Rusty.
“Hey, Rusty, guess what I caught yesterday afternoon?”
“The clap?”
“Naw. A three pound bass.”
“Hot damn. Did you catch him and then release him?”
“Yeah, I released him into a skillet of hot grease.”
Both of them laughed. Rusty said, “Catch and release. What’s the use in catching it in the first place, if you not going to eat it?”
It was a rhetorical question, but Ray responded, “None at all. I hate to eat a damn bass. Not like it’s a crappie or perch or bluegill, but shit.”
Ray picked up a section of the paper and started scanning it. Without looking up, out of the blue, Ray said, “What were you doing to Gloria Thursday night?”
“What are you talking about?” Rusty flinched. The very question jolted him, made him feel invaded.
“I had a mess of bluegills I cleaned. I caught them with a cane pole on the backwaters of the Tennessee. I was bringing you some. I come up toward your house and heard the wildest screaming of a woman in the throes of passion. And hell I was plumb out in the channel of the Elk with my rebuilt Elgin outboard quarter throttle. Damn, Rusty, you need to shut your windows.”
“How do you know it was Gloria?”
“Hell, her daddy’s old shiny wooden boat was tied up on your pier.”
“Oh. You didn’t tell anybody did you, Ray?”
“I didn’t tell anybody. But Alice was with me.”
“Oh, shit. What did she say?”
“Not a damn thing. But it stirred something inside her. I had to perform some husbandly duties when I got home. I owe you one there, good buddy.”
Some new girl came over. They ordered. Ray went back to his newspaper. Without looking up, Ray said, “Seems like the Katfish King had him a cousin Ray.”
The name sent a chill down Rusty’s back. Another invasion. “Catfish king, who?”
“You know. Me and you ate at one over in Lauderdale County.”
“Naw. I don’t know. All catfish places are named Catfish King, Catfish Cabin, Catfish Kettle, Catfish Cook.” Then something started to click in Rusty’s mind.
“It hit it big when you were off on your thirty year tour of living on other rivers. Katfish King ran all these advertisements on the local TV. See, it was this catfish and it jumped out of the water and then onto this plate and this guy with a smiling face starts eating it…”
“A raw catfish?” Rusty asked.
“Naw. Hell, naw. It’s a real catfish, jumps out of the water. Next shot it lands on this plate of a man sitting at a restaurant. But now the fish is all cooked. It’s supposed to be funny and show how fresh the fish is.”
“I see.”
“And this owner has his fat ass in all the commercials. Everybody knows who he is. Especially, after they found out he just stole that jumping catfish part of his commercial from a fish commercial somewhere out in Nebraska or somewhere. Had his fat ass in court.”
“I still don’t know who you talking about.”
“You know. He has a whole chain of catfish restaurants in Alabama, Mississippi and Tennessee. There’s twenty-eight of them according to the article here.”
“And your point is?”
Ray looked up from the paper. “This Katfish King must have h
ad him a Cousin Ray. And that Cousin Ray must have caught him wearing one of those hearing aid looking cell phones.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Remember the other morning.” Ray lay the paper down. “You gave me a .45 round and told me if you ever started wearing one of those little hearing aid cell phone pieces of shit in your ear to shoot your between the eyes.”
“Yeah, I remember that.”
“Well, they found Elmore King yesterday shot between the eyes with a .45, and cold. Been dead for a couple, three days.”
“Who the hell is Elmore King?”
“Elmore “Katfish” King. Owned the Katfish King restaurants. They were going to open one up in Dolopia pretty soon.”
Only then did it hit Rusty. “Let me see that.”
Rusty didn’t have to turn the paper around. He recognized the picture upside down. Elmore King. The man who gave Rusty five thousand dollars to find his stolen two hundred fourteen pound catfish.
Rusty did his best to act bored, like he had no more interest in Elmore King. But in reality Rusty felt like he was about to be caught in some conspiracy, that he might be the last person to see Elmore King alive, that he had found himself in a very dangerous position, that he was a slow-moving target and he didn’t even know who the enemy was.
His body was trembling. He could feel it. He just hoped Ray didn’t notice it. Rusty put his hands down in his lap, in case they were noticeable shaking.
Cousin Ray was about to say something—Rusty was sure it was something about Elmore King, but something changed in the café. People were saying “hey” in a very enthusiastic way to someone. Ray looked over. Rusty turned around in the booth.
Here came Duane Pylant. Rusty was saved by a Pylant. Duane was an old classmate, fellow riverman, and for the last five years national professional bass tournament treasure. He stopped to shake a couple hands, sign a couple caps, then walked on back.
“Hey, Duane,” Rusty and Ray said to him. They all shook hands. Rusty scooted over and Duane slid in beside him. Rusty pulled the paper over toward himself.
The new girl, Leslie—Betty’s neice, Rusty thought—came over to take Duane’s order and started kissing his ass. Rusty hated that. Uptown in Dolopia, that was fine. But down here at the river it seemed unappropriate. Like Rusty, he didn’t mind when somebody kissed his ass uptown because of his own connection to Sammy. But down on the river it got on his nerves.
We’re just crazy about your show. My husband’s not going to believe I waited on you. Duane had his own cable show—Southern Bass Fishing Today. Every year the stations carrying it expanded. Rusty, not having cable, had only seen the show a couple times, from a tape Gloria recorded for him. Ray didn’t have cable either, but somebody who did was always inviting Ray and Alice over. Maybe Jenny was right. After they’d divorced that last time, nobody invited him anywhere. Not that he invited anybody, but still. Maybe he was disconnecting from society.
He wished he could disconnect from Elmore Leonard. But this thing had him.
Finally, Leslie moved on with Duane’s order. Ray said, “Man, Duane. I got some suggestions for your show.”
“Everybody’s a critic,” Rusty said and Duane gave him a high five.
Ray disregarded it and started saying, “You should have something besides bass fishing. Show a little crappie fishing…”
“Ray, it’s a bass fishing show. Bass fishing is the operative word here…”
With those two’s attention on each other, Rusty looked down and commenced to read the article on Elmore “Katfish King” King. The man lived in Florence, Alabama, and was survived by his wife, four kids, and six grandkids.
He was born and raised in Winston County and graduated from Haleyville High School.
Rusty stopped breathing, felt something in the pit of the stomach. Winston County was sixty miles away and was where Rusty’s mother was from. This was getting too cozy and coincidental.
He read the rest of the article through a pulsating haze. No leads on who would have murdered him or why.
Rusty could well be one of, if not the, last person to see him alive.
Maybe he should run tell Sammy. Give him all the information. Someone stole King’s two hundred fourteen pound catfish and King came to Rusty, gave him five thousand dollars to find out who. Then got some message on his cellphone that had cut the meeting short. King rushed out, and to his death.
Maybe all that was valuable information in the investigation of the murder of Elmore King. Rusty remembered: Sammy told him the statistics were the last person known to see someone alive was the person who killed him. Known to was the operative word here.
Rusty didn’t need to be a suspect in a murder case.
He needed to get home and Google up Elmore King. No, that was too slow. He might just drive to his office, where he had faster internet.
Now, Ray was saying, “Duane, can’t you just do some cane pole fishing on that show every once in a while?”
“Have you ever heard of something called sponsors, Ray? Bass boats, bass lures, bass fishing rods…”
“Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer, Johnson outboards. You got some good sponsors, Duane…”
Chapter 11
Early the next morning, Rusty got into his El Camino, stopped on the highway, topped the tank off and headed to Winston County.
If anybody there knew anything about King’s past in Winston County, it would be Silas Skye. Silas was about sixty-seven, a businessman, and probably about Rusty’s fifth cousin.
Winston County was different. It was a strange place. After Alabama seceded from the Union in 1861, Winston County seceded from Alabama, forming the Free State of Winston. Even though it was only sixty miles from Travertine County, the geology was a different land. Winston County was mountainous with sandy soil. Mountains, canyons, and small rivers cut through huge rock formations.
That geology was what made Winston County a strange place, physically and politically. Cotton did not grow well in such terrain. No cotton, no slaves, very little commerce. They had no interest in the Confederacy. They had no interest in fighting for the North. But sometimes life played its dirty, ironical games. The men of Winston County did go off to war. Some one side. Some to the other. It was often a literal case of brother against brother.
A couple of hours later, Rusty cruised in to the outskirts of Haleyville and there was Skye Market. It had been there ever since he was a small chld and would come to Winston County with his mother.
Jonas Skye founded that first supermarket in Haleyville. It went through several remodels over the years and was still a thriving business. Now it was owned and operated by Jonas’ son, Silas.
Rusty parked, walked in through the automated doors, and over to the customer service desk. A man named Anthony, who was an assistant manager—both according to his name tag—walked up to Rusty with a smile on his face and asked what he could do for him.
“I’d like to see Silas Skye please.”
“Mr. Skye is the owner,” the assistant manager said, like it would be impossible to see him.
“I tell you what,” Rusty said. “If you would be so kind to tell Mr. Skye that Rusty Clay from Travertine County would like to see him right now I’d appreciate it. If he’s too busy to see me I’ll politely leave.”
That ought to make it easy for Anthony, even if Silas had become the President of the United States since the last time Rusty saw him, or if Silas had fallen down a flight of stairs and gotten selective amnesia and forgotten everybody from Travertine County who might be his fifth cousin.
“Rusty Clay?” Anthony said. “That’s your real name?”
“It’s one of my many aliases.”
That seemed to satisfy him. He smiled, turned and walked through an employees-only door.
Thirty seconds later Silas Skye walked out, big grin on his face. Still slim, still had a full head of gray hair, still emanated charm.
They shook hands. He took Rusty back to his office.
How you been doing and all that. Rusty knew he was going to have to hear: Did I tell you about the time me, Daddy, and your granddaddy went out into Bankhead Forest deer hunting? We took twenty-four cans of Beanie Weanies and two gallons of moonshine. Three days later we run out of moonshine.
As soon as they sat down, Rusty got right to the point.
“Did you know Elmore “Katfish King” King? He was from Winston County.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Did you know he was murdered?”
“Yes, I’ve heard.”
“This is confidential.”
“Of course.”
“A couple of days before he was killed he walks into my office, thinks I’m a private investigator, wants me to investigate who stole his two hundred fourteen pound catfish, hands me five thousand dollars. Then he gets some pressing message on his cellphone and leaves. Next thing I know he’s sprawled all over The Dolopia Democrat as a murder victim.”
“If you want to try to figure out who murdered him, get out the phone books of all the three states around here.”
“He was not a well-liked man?”
“Not people who had business dealing with him like me.”
“Do tell.”
“Before he hit the big time, he’d get a partner, an investor, and put up one of his restaurants. And then he would spend all his energy pissing the partner off until he had run him off and bought him out at pennies on the dollar. I know. I was one of his first partners. I should have made hundreds of thousands of dollars a year, but I was more than happy to get my original investment back just to get away from the annoying, back-stabbing son of a bitch. He knew just how to play the borders of ethics and the law.”
“I see. You take out any curiosity of wondering who killed the man.”
“Did I help you out any?”
“Yes, you did.”
“My advice is not do anything stupid.”
“Like what?”
“Like trying to give the five thousand dollars back to his widow or something. Or running and telling the authorities you have some important information on the case. I don’t think it means shit. Hey, let’s go get something to eat. Did I tell you about the time me, my daddy and your granddaddy went deer hunting out in the Bankhead Forest?”
The Redneck Detective Agency (The Redneck Detective Agency Mystery Series Book 1) Page 5