by James Ross
“Will they be able to survive out there in this heat?” Fred asked as he wiped himself off with a towel from his golf bag.
“They didn’t act like it bothered them,” J Dub responded.
“What do you do?” Captain Jer began. “ . . . Keep the good tee times for us white folk and put the black guys out there in the heat of the day?” After driving a golf cart into the irrigation lake, J Dub and Curt cut him back to a six-pack per side and even that started to creep into his tongue by the eighteenth green.
“We aren’t even going to go there,” J Dub warned. He stared over at the retired pilot and Captain Jer flashed a grin that indicated to the group that he was caught with his pants down. “No and no. And that’s the last time I want to hear about anything like that.”
The guys headed to the back table to settle up their bets. Curt leaned over the counter and whispered to his brother. “We have to put a lid on that stuff.”
J Dub wiped the counter with a bar rag. “Tell me about it. That’s a great bunch of guys to know. For Pete’s sake I don’t care if they’re purple or orange or green,” he continued, “they can come out here and play golf whenever they’d like.”
“Look how many years Booker worked on cracking that case. The last thing I’d want to do is not make him feel welcome over here,” Curt added.
“That was the first time that I had met the other two guys,” J Dub admitted.
“And they looked like two nice guys,” Curt said innocently enough.
“I know that Coach has talked about the ref before,” J Dub remarked. “He was proud that one of his student athletes had gone on to choose a refereeing profession.”
“And I know that the other guy . . . Tuey . . . was all-everything in college,” Curt continued. “I think he ended up being an All-American in football or track or something. And he almost won that Mr. Swineskin trophy.”
“What better group of guys would you want to have out here?” J Dub reiterated. “The good Lord doesn’t make them any nicer than those guys.”
“I’ll say something to Captain Jer one of these days. The last thing that I want to do is get into some sort of a race war out here. I mean, gee whiz, it’s all about coming out here on a day off and having some fun,” Curt said to his brother.
“More than anything else that was the booze talking,” J Dub theorized.
“Maybe we need to cut him down to a six-pack per eighteen holes,” Curt suggested.
“If we did that we might kill him,” J Dub laughed. “He needs beer in his system about like you need the chemo in your IV.”
An annoying squeal howled out from the airwaves of the television set that was hooked up to a satellite feed. SPECIAL REPORT flashed on the screen. “The GRS killer has struck for the fourth time. The latest victim was located in East Lansing, Michigan. Now we’ll turn live to Michelle Larrigan for a live report . . .”
“They need to catch that guy!” Pork Chop yelled. “He’s out of control.”
“But you don’t know where he’s going to be,” Dr. DV replied.
“They’ve been scattered all over the place, haven’t they?” J Dub said.
“I know there was one in Tulsa, Oklahoma,” Fred mentioned. “My sister’s friend lives down there and they were petrified for a while.”
“Then there was that one around Nashville,” Dr. DV added.
“Yeah, it was in Brentwood on the south side,” Curt said.
“Before this one the guy was in Allentown, Pennsylvania,” J Dub said.
“They need to catch the guy pretty soon,” Fred called out from the back booth. He powered down a handful of peanuts and washed them down with a drink of green tea. “Anyway Curt, how are you feeling today?”
“I didn’t feel too good this morning. That’s why I didn’t go out with you guys. It’s a lot better this afternoon,” Curt replied.
“How many more do you have left?” Pork Chop asked.
“Six more to go,” Curt answered. “I’ll be fine. It’s not as bad as I thought it would be.”
“When are all of those clumps of hair going to start falling out?” Captain Jer said in a booze-induced euphoria.
“Come on, Jer. Knock it off,” Dr. DV said to his friend.
“Are you going to drive him home?” J Dub intervened.
“Yeah. He’s my responsibility,” Dr. DV announced. “We won’t get two hundred yards out of the parking lot and he’ll be snoring and drooling all over himself.”
“No, I won’t,” Captain Jer insisted.
“ . . . Happens every time. I don’t expect it to change this time,” Dr. DV corrected.
“I only had a twelve pack,” Captain Jer said as he slurred his words. “That’s not enough to put me to sleep.”
“You can barely keep your eyes open right now,” Fred laughed.
Captain Jer squinted. “That’s because it’s bright in here. I’m not sloshed yet. Shoot, I’ve got to go out to dinner tonight.”
“I hope you’re not driving,” Pork Chop suggested.
“Nah. That’s the wife’s job,” Captain Jer mumbled.
“She’s worse than you!” Fred shouted.
Captain Jer rolled his head around on his shoulders until his chin fell against his chest. He started laughing to himself. His body was shaking from the chuckling. “We make a great pair.”
Pork Chop laughed out loud. “Where is she going to take you?”
Captain Jer raised his head and gave Pork Chop a bewildered look. “ . . . Where else?” He gazed some more until Pork Chop came into focus. “Your favorite place . . . the Aqua Mermaid.”
The Aqua Mermaid was one of several casinos that had sprouted up along the Illinois side of the Mississippi River in the mid-1990s. It had become a popular entertainment spot for a lot of St. Louis residents. What had started as a two-story paddleboat had grown into a land-based casino complete with a twenty-some-odd story hotel. BowTye had accepted a night job there and played with a band under his stage name—Peel It Backe.
“Maybe I’ll see you over there,” Pork Chop said. The Aqua Mermaid was his favorite hangout outside Prairie Winds.
“You’ll have to find him because I guarantee he won’t see you,” Fred laughed out loud.
Captain Jer chuckled at nothing in particular. He was rolling inside with laughter. “Say BowTye, are you going to be playing over there tonight with that booger band?”
The stunned room went quiet. “Captain Jer, get out of here!” J Dub yelled. “It’s time for you to go home!”
No apology could remove the hurtful look from BowTye’s face. Dr. DV got up and yanked Captain Jer to his feet. He went over to BowTye and awkwardly tried to offer an explanation. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” the vet said apologetically.
BowTye stuck out his lower lip and shook his head from side to side. Then he looked back down at the floor. The comment had hit its mark. Through the years BowTye had played many of the honky-tonk bars in all of the river towns until he had risen to international status. He had heard the back room whispers and the in-your-face accusations. Years before he had vowed to be above it all. He wasn’t about to let a drunken comment make him a scarred casualty. “He’s jus’ part of da misinformed.”
CHAPTER NINE
Tuey lived on the edge of town where the main socio-economic group consisted of lower income minorities. It seemed like every faction sought out their own comfort zone. The blacks migrated to an area that had come to be known as Wiebbey Bottom. The area was located on river bottom ground near the banks of the Mississippi River. In the early 1900s Nathaniel J. Wiebbey III owned massive land holdings on the flood-plain ground that bordered the river. He worked extensively with the Army Corps of Engineers to design and build an elaborate levee system to prevent the ground from flooding after the winter thaw or during periods of heavy rain. After the work had been completed the region had affectionately been nicknamed Wiebbey Bottom.
The Asians settled in an area that was called Lit
tle Chang Hai. The Hispanics set up shop on land that was named Rio Ridge. The newest minority was the Serbian population. A section of town called the Battle Zone seemed to attract them. Even the Arab population found comfort in a region of town nicknamed the Sand Dunes. It looked as if every culture tried to retain a little bit of their homeland as their ethnicity was relocated to American soil.
Life at Wiebbey Bottom was not ideal. The zoning in that part of town was not uniform in the least. It was not uncommon to see Butler buildings mixed with low-end retail outlets. Chain link fences, railroad tracks, and trailer parks dotted the landscape. A service station with a quick mart was located in the middle of the main state road as opposed to an intersection. Lottery ticket outlets seemed to be as available to the public as pawn shops. Payday loans were as popular as the strip joints. An area known as the Promenade was where the ladies looking for a quick buck roamed the sidewalks that bordered the vacant lots.
An unoccupied warehouse sat across the street from a defunct slaughterhouse. An old farmer’s market had been invaded by knee-high weeds and pigeons as the new breed of Midwestern farmer started taking the hogs and cattle to a different stockyard locale. Junk yards, rubber tire reclamation fields, and empty eighteen-wheel trailer lots were interspersed with the agricultural crops. Pile upon pile of peat moss, pea gravel, and slag covered the bottom ground. An unsightly storage yard for worn out railroad ties added disorder to the setting as well as graffiti-covered rail cars that sat idly unattended.
Five smokestacks rose from the western side of an abandoned foundry. Barbed wire fencing surrounded a vacant office/warehouse property. High voltage power lines spanned from tower to tower only to fall into an electrical substation. Real estate signs advertising land for sale scattered the river bottom ground. A faded billboard hyped a concert that occurred in 1997, over a decade earlier. Black plastic trash bags and nailed down boards covered broken windows in some of the residences.
Used car lots that operated out of a trailer were as common as the humid days of August. Hoof and Bridle Park was the local race track for any nag that had four legs and would run for a bag of carrots. The salvage yards, the towing operators, and the heavy-equipment contractors all seemed to set up shop in no particular order in the part of town that surrounded Wiebbey Bottom. Even a metal facility that had a sign outside identifying it as Nehemiah’s Neighbors Have Arisen welcomed church going folk on Sunday mornings.
Surprisingly enough, Pedro’s Porno Parlor was less than one hundred feet from the entrance of the place of worship. That epitomized the hodge-podge zoning that was granted in Wiebbey Bottom. For a migrant worker that snuck into the country, Pedro had found the benefits of capitalism. He had gone from an hourly worker in the lettuce and cabbage fields to a business owner that needed more parking spots. He prospered even as the Internet smut overtook the personal computers. When the locksmith next to him went out of business and vacated a bay in the strip mall, Pedro wasted no time drawing up plans for a twelve-seat theater, private booths, and three-minute peep shows for a dollar.
Pedro quickly found that the business permits and zoning requirements could be attained if he greased the palms of Mayor Leavitt and several of the council members as well as the city attorney. The American way prospered very efficiently in southern Illinois. In that part of the world anything could happen as long as the handouts were plentiful. With a few bucks for the local cops Pedro got private access into the back door so that some of his high-profile clientele could come and go inconspicuously. Once inside the patrons could enjoy the benefit of an anonymous set of lips in a gloryhole cubicle for a mere ten bucks. Pedro had it figured out and all it cost him was a few bucks for the politicians and law enforcement.
A downturn in the economy never seemed to bother D. Wayne Smith. He was the fellow that sold the guns and ammo. He always made his rent payments on time. His entrepreneurial spirit had the market cornered in Wiebbey Bottom. D. Wayne even expanded his business to include bait and tackle and took advantage of a loophole in Illinois law to receive a liquor and lottery license as well. With a sign out front advertising “Suds, Slugs, & Sinkers” there was always someone who bought a six-pack of beer and a lure to fish the bottom of the river for catfish.
Inside the store a dozen tanks of water carried a wide assortment of minnows, goldfish, and other live bait for the patrons who wanted to fish. A glass-enclosed case housed rich topsoil and provided a temporary home for hundreds of worms. Plastic worms, spinner buzz bait, and crappie jigs as well as liver and chicken blood catfish bait could be purchased on demand. For the serious catfish fishermen special, super-sticky, channel cat bait was readily available.
Tackle boxes, rain ponchos, and fishing nets scattered the shelves. Rods and reels along with insulated buckets occupied the end of one of the rows of shelves. Wide assortments of fishhooks ranging from an eagle claw to an octopus circle to an offset shank worm were in plain view. Other accessories like hook removers, skinning tools, long-nose pliers, fillet knives, and nylon stringers sat on the metal shelves for the public to purchase.
Boxes and boxes of bullets occupied the glass-enclosed cabinetry that sat behind the counter and cash register. Winchester and Remington brands were plentiful. Shotgun slugs and 22-cartridges were on hand. D. Wayne offered a limited but effective variety of guns for sale to qualified buyers who met the requirements of the state. In Wiebbey Bottom the .357 Magnum was the most popular.
All of this sat literally a long step away from refrigeration coolers that stretched from floor to ceiling and were packed full of ice cold beer. If that didn’t get the job done, then on the wall behind the register were pints and half-pints of hard liquor. Anything from peach, strawberry, or grape cognac to the different flavors of imported vodka could be purchased at Suds, Slugs, & Sinkers. Alongside the Southern Comfort and Jack Daniels sat bottles of rum with the exotic flavors of pineapple, black cherry, mango, and banana. If the alcohol consumption triggered the munchies, then D. Wayne made sure that adequate supplies of beef jerky and slim-jims as well as chips, peanuts, and cheese curls satisfied his patrons.
To complement the taste of the booze D. Wayne offered a wide array of tobacco products. Pouches of Red Man and Skoal chewing tobacco were abundant. Canisters of Kodiak, Copenhagen, and Red Seal sat near the register. Miniature cigars like Swisher Sweets stacked the shelves. A variety of cigars from Dutch Masters seemed popular. Next to the register was a glass-enclosed cigar stand that housed an assortment of imported products that was exhibited under lock and key. Inside the case were brands like Cuban Round, La Gloria, Arturo Fuente, Macanudo Port, and Don Diego.
Tuey lived in a part of town where a street consisted of a layer of oil over crushed gravel. That sort of surface was not prone to as many pot holes as the other surfaces in Wiebbey Bottom. Not only did Tuey have a paved road, but he had some privacy. His frame home, complete with carport, was located on the end of a cul-de-sac and next to a vacant lot. A drainage ditch that carried water to the Mississippi River ran behind his home and circumvented the levee system that served as a barrier to the roaring water of the nation’s largest tributary.
The street on which Tuey lived had no storm water runoff system other than a ditch on each side. As Tuey made a right turn the sun sat as an orange sphere barely above the horizon and temporarily blinded him. He did as he did every time he arrived home. He simply parked his pickup truck on the street in front of his home. It wasn’t going to bother anybody but the Public Works Department of the city. And Tuey really didn’t know what else to do. His wife’s pickup already occupied the driveway. The carport was full of auto parts and used equipment. After all, it wasn’t like the Chamber of Commerce was including his street as a showcase boulevard to attract new residents to the community.
Tuey removed the bright lime green skull cap from his head and placed it on the front seat. The head piece was a constant for him when he was working on the job or riding in his pickup. His wife didn’t want any part of that artic
le of clothing to be worn in his house . . . so Tuey always made it a point to leave it in the cab of his pickup. When he removed the cap he exposed a closely cropped head of black hair that magnified his cheek structure and revealed the look of a handsome man.
The frame house that Tuey owned was a modest three bedroom, one and a half bath unit that had an eat-in kitchen and front living room. It was built during the 1950s when that style home was in vogue. What was once a home built for a growing family was barely large enough for Tuey and his wife. As he entered the front door an all-encompassing smile was plastered across his face. He announced to his wife, “I’s home!”
“Tuey O’Tweety, where’s you bin?” LeVournique O’Tweety yelled from her position in front of the kitchen sink. She was busy peeling apples and had her back to the front door. LeVournique stood about five foot eight and weighed close to two hundred pounds. With her apron wrapped around her torso it looked like her comfort zone in the home was the kitchen.
LeVournique had just gotten home from her job in the cashier’s cage at the Aqua Mermaid. Her hair was combed back and rolled into a top-knot. From that point it cascaded down the back of her head and rested at shoulder length. A generous coat of hair product gave her black mane a glossy sheen. Costume jewelry in the form of gold-plated loops hung from her ears. A large stone adorned her left ring finger but any jewelry appraiser would deem it cubic zirconium. Fire engine red press-on nails beautified her fingers. Matching lipstick covered LeVournique’s lips. Half-inch fake eyelashes covered her upper lashes. Blue-green eye shadow had been dabbed onto her brow bones.
“Uh few uh da guys wanted ta go golfin’,” Tuey responded as he walked toward the television set. He lifted his fingers to the blinds and snuck a peek outside.
“Golfin’!” LeVournique shouted. “Since win ya start golfin’? We’s ain’t got no money fo’ ya ta be doin’ dat.”
“Sum uh da fellas wanted ta git tagedda fo’ ole time’s sake,” Tuey replied as he adjusted the oscillating fan to blow more directly on him. “I’s only duz it once or twice uh year.”