Boogie House: A Rolson McKane Mystery

by T. Blake Braddy

  Jarvis pulled into his immense junkyard and got out. "Car's yours, 'til you return it. Take good care of it, and yourself, too."

  I switched seats and worked the transmission into reverse. Jarvis squinted at me as if he had something to say. "What is it?" I asked.

  He smiled, looked down, began to say something, then didn't. Finally, he glanced at me again and said, "I knew your daddy some."

  All I could do was nod.

  "He wasn't worth much, but he loved you and your mama. That don't excuse what he did, but people get tied to things they don't necessarily find right, and they forget about what's important. He certainly did. But he wasn't no monster.”

  He paused, trying to find different words. They must have been lost, because he became flustered. “Hell, I don't know. He was a jealous drunk, and that fire in him didn’t mix well with the liquor, I guess.”

  He stood here for another minute, then finished by saying, “Well, shit."

  With that, he turned and disappeared into the rows of cars, walking like a man who had given up long ago.

  * * *

  The Olds was dusty and loud but permitted me a fleeting sense of invisibility, for as long as Jarvis Garvey could keep his mouth shut.

  I parked down the road a ways from the Brickmeyer Estate, and when I wasn’t biting my fingernails, I kept an eye on the place. It was a big, nice, palatial estate, and though it was new, it was begrimed by a kind of dirt couldn’t be washed off.

  Even though the cotton fields had given way to green pastures, the old flags had been taken down, and the slaves quarters had been knocked over and replaced with garages, they’d never be able to shake history.

  The Brickmeyers had been quite lax in distancing themselves from the plantation, because no one around Lumber Junction seemed to be put off by the information. However, it was downplayed somewhat when Leland’s father, at an elderly age, thrust himself into politics. I’m sure the whitewashing will continue, and I’m no better than them, really, but since my family was always too poor to call human beings their property, I have the luxury of casting stones directly at them.

  The way they carried themselves spoke to a private pride in a certain kind of white man, elbowing one another and winking about the way things used to be, before it got all mucked up. Most people round here say it ain’t a thing for modern folks, but I have been privy to conversations about race relations that Strom Thurmond himself would approve of.

  Privately, of course.

  I looked from the house to the driveway, where the diesel was parked. If he was the guy from the Boogie House that night, he could help me figure out not only what happened to the Laveau kid but what in the hell was going on with the music.

  If he had seen that at all.

  The driver came out two hours later in a t-shirt, faded jeans, and work boots. He was about six-five, pot-bellied, with a shaved head and salt-and-pepper goatee. Even with the fat, he cut a mean profile. The dude wasn't unaccustomed to using his fists to solve (and probably cause) problems.

  I gave the truck some distance as I followed it into town. It was mid-afternoon, and elderly people were shopping in the few businesses left on the square. Most had gone under just after Wal-Mart dropped anchor two towns over. A few managed to hang on, but only because the townspeople made a concerted effort to shop there. Otherwise, the square had become a collection of empty buildings, FOR SALE or FOR LEASE signs in the windows. A chain cell phone store had done all right in place of an old consignment shop, but that was the exception, not the rule.

  The diesel and its driver, whose name I didn't know (he wasn't from the Junction), didn't stop on the square. He pulled into a spot at the Brickmeyer Headquarters on the same corner as the Junction's Annex. It was where Brickmeyer Ag & Timber's major business operations were conducted, and word was they were now amping up calls for contributions in the political campaign.

  Brickmeyer's only son greeted the big man at the door. Jeffrey was holding a manila folder and seemed to be heading somewhere, but the big guy stopped him cold and convinced him to go back inside.

  Jeffrey didn't look so good. He was in his thirties, and growing up, he'd been quite popular. Good-looking dude. Gregarious. Social. All of that seemed to have disappeared. He looked peaked, tired. Black circles made shadows of his eyes, a fact his glasses couldn't hide.

  The two of them went back inside, and I waited, hunched down in the driver's seat. And then I waited some more, for what I couldn't be certain. Twenty minutes later, the big guy came stomping out, the manila folder Jeff had been carrying hanging from two enormous fingers. He slammed the door to the truck and sped off.

  I slid down in the seat and listened for the truck to recede into the distance. I pulled out behind him, giving myself sufficient distance, and followed him until it became apparent that I had already seen the highlight of the day. I called the Brickmeyer office and asked what time they would be heading home for the day. "Five o'clock," said the secretary. "May I ask who's calling?"

  I hung up and went to the library. It was cool and quiet, and its drowsy patrons were too lethargic to notice me slinking around the shelves.

  I logged into the internet and tried googling the Boogie House. There were zero hits, but I did find an entry for a Canned Heat album called "The Boogie House: Vol. 3."

  Next I checked the online Junction Examiner database. I couldn't find any mention of the Boogie House. I also combed the microfiche, eyeing each page for an article about the old juke joint. Nothing of interest came up.

  After getting a crick in my neck, I went over to the main circulation desk and waited for Beatrice Something-or-Another to help me. She was a rat-faced woman, and her expression bordered on contempt. "Sorry," I said, "but do you know anything about that old bar where the Laveau man was found?"

  Her stare could burn toast.

  "The Boogie House," I continued. "Little juke out by where I live. First African-American owned business in the county."

  "I don't think there's anything official around here," she said, her mouth gnawing on the words, "but I'm sure some people around town remember it a little. Maybe they can tell you what you want."

  I tried a different tack. "Do you know anything about it, personally?"

  "I don't approve of that lifestyle," she said. "Drinking. Gets people in trouble."

  “I don’t care if you approve,” I said. Her eyes narrowed, but I was already halfway through getting my words out by then. “I asked you if you knew anything - any facts - about the place. Ownership history. Legal documents. That sort of thing.”

  A distinct look of pleasure at insulting me passed across her face. She gave me a curt no. I thanked her and went out into the afternoon heat. It was already muggy and only halfway through April. Walking around in this weather was like wearing a wet blanket.

  I flipped open my phone and dialed my lawyer.

  Jarrell's secretary answered on the second ring and sent me through. "I am utterly swamped, Rol. You may hold a low opinion of me, but I do have other clients. I promise."

  "This'll just take a sec," I replied. "What do you know about the Boogie House?”

  There was a slight pause. "Take your nose out from where it don't belong. Might get snipped off."

  "It's only a passing interest. Do you remember the owners?"

  "My memory of those days is blurry. I was a much more prolific alcoholic then than I am now. The two men who started the juke up and disappeared one day. Closed up shop and headed back to Savannah, so I heard. They had debts around town."

  "What else?"

  "They weren't too popular with the white folks. One or two wives got caught out there, and I can tell you that Southern Georgia in the nineteen-fifties was not a time of racial reconciliation."

  I crossed the street and got behind the wheel of the Olds, holding the phone to the opposite ear. "Would anybody have wanted them hurt?"

  "Get the cotton out of your ears. Debts and angry white men. Plus, from what I rememb
er, they practiced some sort of religious mumbo-jumbo."

  "Voodoo. Hoodoo. Something like that?"

  "Something like that. Listen, Rolson-"

  I turned the key, and the Olds sprang to life. "I know, I know. You're busy."

  "I wish you the best of luck, though. Keep your head down, and stay away from Leland Brickmeyer. If he happens to get a hard-on for you, he might not be satisfied with just fucking you."

  "Wonderful parting image," I said, and hung up.

  * * *

  Jeffrey Brickmeyer appeared in the doorway just shy of five o'clock. Hurrying toward his slightly-used Beemer, he looked like a sickly version of his father. He was as tall and had a thinning shock of dirty blonde hair, which contrasted his stubble and perpetually-worried blue eyes.

  I caught up with him on the sidewalk, and his eyes widened when he saw me. "Rolson, hey," he said, breathless. "You need something?"

  I shrugged. Being coy had not worked for me before, so fuck it. "Any thoughts on Emmitt Laveau, Jeff?"

  Something vile passed over his face, and he seemed to fight the urge to spit at me. "I thought you might still be in jail for what you did to his mama. How about that?"

  Fair enough, I thought. "Maybe I should build up to the big question, huh? Start out small, like, why do you look like you know something about what happened? That a fair question? I saw you in tears when your dad's yes man came to see you, and that made me think you and your dad might be giving anybody who'll listen an earful of bullshit."

  He shook his head. "I can't be held responsible for what my father told you, so take that and do with it what you will. He's got his reasons for acting the way he does, and with your line of questioning I can't blame him."

  "You people are notorious for wearing masks in public,” I replied. “You mind peeking out from behind it to give me something genuine?”

  "Well, since you are no longer an officer of the law, what you're doing right now is illegal, so you should back off before something is done about it."

  I had to physically fight the urge to roll my eyes. "Sounds like talking points straight from your father."

  "No, no. It's not a threat." He raised one hand in warning. "If he’s said the same thing, then I'm sure a legal document with your name on it is probably floating around the courthouse right now."

  "Uh-huh," I said. "Restraining order, something like that?"

  Jeffrey reached his car and slid behind the wheel. The car hummed to life, and he tossed a stack of documents into the passenger seat. He turned back to me, but I didn't like what I saw in his face. He said, "I'm surprised you're not the primary suspect, seeing as you hit that poor guy's mother with a car. Hasn't he suffered enough at your hands? Do you need to dance on his grave by making wild accusations?"

  I had leaned against the side of his vehicle. Staring out across the rows of tattered and decaying old buildings on the square, I said, "That's old news. That mustard ain't sticking to the wall in the eyes of the investigators."

  He sighed. All of a sudden, he looked tired. "People have to keep their private lives hidden in order to be public figures. If he's being obstinate, it's because he wants to preserve his public identity. My father didn't get to this position by being stupid, and he's no murderer. It wouldn't help his career, and that is the whole of his concern. Nothing else is half as important."

  Jeffrey pressed a button and the window closed on me before I could think of another question. The car peeled out of the parking lot.

  * * *

  That night, I called Janita Laveau. "You that lonely?" she asked me, right off the bat.

  “Guess so. I’m sitting here by myself, drinking a beer. I figured I needed to talk to somebody, since I don’t like drinking alone.” Which wasn’t the truth, but it sounded fine for chit-chat.

  "Can I tell you something I been thinking about lately?”

  “Shoot,” I said.

  “People used to tell my mama she favored Hattie McDaniel. The woman from Gone with the Wind.”

  “Sure. I know who that is.”

  “She used to take that as a compliment, God bless her. The hell she had to go through to get respect, you'd think she'd have spit on people said that about her. White people, thinking they were complimenting her. She should have been angry. But she wasn't. She went along to get along, was just in her nature to do so."

  "To white people back then, it was a compliment."

  "Oh, it was. A backhanded compliment. If they had called her tarbaby, or Aunt Jemima, if she looked like them, should she have taken those as compliments?"

  "I wasn't saying-"

  A ragged, bitter laugh interrupted me. "Oh, I know that. Shit. I'm just being difficult. Now, what have you figured out?"

  "The Brickmeyers are playing defense, but that just may be because a prospective Senate seat lay just over the horizon. I'm going to pursue it, but their distinctly pissy attitudes are the only evidence I've got.”

  “The Brickmeyers have never been on this side of sunny, have they?"

  “Nope.”

  "And the man you saw the night you found my Emmitt."

  I tried to speak but balked completely. I couldn't remember telling her about the guy who had shot at me, but talking about dreams wasn't a possibility, so I just let the matter slide. She seemed to bask in the satisfaction of stumping me.

  I sighed. "I don't have any idea who that man was. Could work for Brickmeyer. Could be his bodyguard. The guy is about the same height and weight as the man I remember. But, then again, could be anybody."

  Janita sucked her teeth. "Who are you talking about?"

  "There's a guy, works for Brickmeyer, looks like an inbred, Appalachian Bond villain, but I don't have an ID on him. Don't know who he is, where he's from, or what his connection to Brickmeyer is, beyond the obvious. That'll be the next step."

  "I can feel something dark closing in on us."

  "You're gonna have to give me some time, Janita. Leland Brickmeyer says he wants to slap me with a TRO so I can’t go near him."

  "Guess you'll have to get creative, then."

  "I can only bend the rules, not break them outright. I’m already a man sliding around in the mud."

  "Why not? Somebody's been breaking rules. That don't mean it's Brickmeyer, but my son isn't dead for no reason at all."

  "It's slippery. If I go vigilante, I'm no better than the people I'm trying to catch."

  "You ain't killed nobody," she said.

  Not yet, anyway, I thought. "I guess you're right."

  "Course I'm right. You know what else I'm right about?"

  I waited.

  “You think everything around you can be explained.”

  "Just because I'm not basing the whole investigation on weird shit doesn't mean I'm ignoring it. I can no more find Emmitt's murderer by trying to dream than I can solve an algebra equation by meditating on God’s existence."

  "Hmmph," she said. "When I was a girl, my grandmother - that is to say, my uncle's mother - used to sit at the foot of my bed and tell me stories before I went to bed about what happens when we dream."

  This wasn’t the kind of conversation I wanted to have with her. Still, I thought about the fact I had nearly killed her, so I indulged her. "What kinds of stories?"

  "Oh, all kinds. Fantastical stories. Some of them revolved around the men who drove out evil spirits from this village or that one. Others were ghost stories her mother had confided to her when she was a child. She told me about the thin sheet that separates life and death. In her eyes, life on earth is a cocoon and we are just caterpillars. When we die, when the last breath is released, so are we."

  "Does that give you any comfort about Emmitt's death, believing that something comes after this life?"

  "Nothing gives me comfort, Rolson McKane. But my grandmother believed in the idea that stories, that knowledge of life and death, give us power over death. She told me so herself, but my mother warned me not to pay any attention. She tried to keep grandmama out
of the house for that reason."

  "Why?"

  "Because grandmama had died giving birth to my mother thirty-plus years before."

  I thought about the prayers to my mother, wishing for her to come back to me, in any form. “That sounds like too much for a child to handle.”

  "The stories were what kept me up at night. Some of them were so scary. I had to learn about headless men patrolling the streets, and of people being buried alive and spending the rest of eternity ringing bells at midnight to warn the townspeople."

  I could sympathize with that aspect of her story. "My Aunt Birdie used to talk about a ghost that wandered down the railroad, carrying a lamp and spending nights looking for his missing head. She took me out there once, and I got plenty scared, but we didn't see anything. Years later, I found out it was swamp gas that created the light."

  "How do you know it wasn't also a spirit?"

  "Forgive me, Mrs. Laveau, but how do you know that Emmitt has been in contact with you and - by extension - me?"

  A long pause passed between us before she talked again. "That's probably a question better suited for my uncle," she said. "Why don't you come on by tomorrow and ask him all about it? You probably won't be able to get him to shut up. That's a trend in our family, talking when we shouldn’t. Goodbye, Rolson McKane."

  With that, she hung up. I went into the kitchen and popped open a beer in the golden light of the fridge, and then I sat at the broken-down table by the windows and watched the trees wave at me for a couple of hours.

  * * *

  The next day, light pushed through trees to the east of me as I drove to the Brickmeyer compound. There, I waited. This time, I managed to catch Leland's right-hand man coming out of the house. I had parked off the road a few hundred feet and stalked up the main drive.

  The man, wearing a button-down work shirt and faded Brickmeyer Ag & Timber camo hat, paused briefly before opening the truck door and getting in.