Hoodoo Harry

by Joe R. Lansdale

  “I never believed that story,” Moost said.

  “Oh,” I said, “and why is that?”

  “I think she might have meant to see her sister, but I don’t think the bus took a wrong turn at Amarillo and let her out in a pasture, or some such. I think her husband killed her. Tom’s a mean sonofabitch. Me and him don’t get along. He shops somewhere other than here. I banned him from the store when Harry came up missing those years back.”

  “You say he’s mean,” Leonard said. “But how mean?”

  “He beat on her from time to time.”

  “So you and her were close?” I said.

  “Look, if you two are going to be snooping about, might as well tell you. Me and Harry, we had a thing. Went on for awhile. She told me Tom was brutal. I saw the bruises. She was going to take a bus and see her sister, all right, but the plan was me and her would get together later. She’d get a divorce and we’d marry. But she didn’t get a divorce, and she didn’t come back. At first, at least a little, I thought she had changed her mind, didn’t want what I thought she wanted. But deep down, always figured her husband did her in. Told the cops that, some sheriff’s deputy, but they didn’t find anything to prove it. They dropped it. I told Tom last time he was in here, years ago, not to come back, just because I didn’t like him. Later, I married. Still married. Happily. But me and Harry, we had our moment.”

  “Slightly off the subject,” I said, “but the bookmobile. Did she like that work? Every have any problems?”

  “She mentioned a bit of this and that. Kids stealing a book, acting up. But nothing special. She did seem tense days before she was supposed to catch that bus.”

  “Tense?” Leonard said.

  “Maybe her husband was worrying her. He didn’t know she wasn’t coming back, but I think right before she left, she might have told him. Couldn’t hold it in. Figure they got in a fight, he killed her, and she’s buried somewhere out in the woods behind their house.”

  I didn’t say we thought she might have ended up in a compartment in the bookmobile.

  “Anything special you remember about the bookmobile from that time?” Leonard said.

  “That’s been awhile.”

  “Anything?” Leonard said.

  “Just that Turner, over there at the tire and mechanic shop, was going to fix the bookmobile up. Needed new tires, some general maintenance. Always leaked oil. No matter what they did to it, it leaked oil.”

  “So her route was closed out for her vacation?” I said.

  “They had another driver, and I think Harry was supposed to drive the bookmobile over to him, but then the bookmobile disappeared, and that was it. People out of LaBorde who had been paying for it decided they weren’t going to try and replace it, so that was all she wrote.

  “Who was this new driver?” Leonard asked.

  “Will Turner, works over at the tire shop.”

  seven

  Will Turner was a skinny man that I judged to be in his early forties, dark of skin, almost as dark as Leonard. He had a pleasant face and skinned knuckles, probably from dealing with tools and tires day in and day out, though it was hard for me to imagine a lot of business in Nesbit.

  “Yeah,” Will Turner said. “I took the job, but then the bookmobile got stolen, and that was the end of it. So I just work here for Donnie James. I been working here since I was a kid, started just like James did, doing odd jobs.”

  “What kind of kid was James?” I asked.

  “Quiet. Never said much, so you never knew much about him. Did his work, couple hours a day. Except for that, he was kind of wandering about, sleeping and eating where he could. I don’t really know much about him.”

  We were standing inside the doorway of the tire and mechanic shop. It was one of those doors that was wide and made of the same aluminum as the building. End of the day you pulled it closed and padlocked it. It was a small building, and it was stuffed with tires, and there was an upper deck supported by a series of two by eights, and one in particular looked as if it was about to retire from the job. It looked as if insects had been at it. There was a long aluminum building out back of the garage. We could see it through the open back section of the shop. Having the doors open on both ends was a good choice, because a nice breeze was blowing.

  “That post there,” I said, “it looks as if it’s about to give up the ghost.”

  Will looked toward it. “Yep. I have to go up there and get a tire, mostly for older foreign cars, I’m always a little nervous. Take it slow and easy. Been on Donnie for a year to get it fixed. He can be cheap.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” I said, “you get a lot of business here in Nesbit?”

  Will laughed. “Nope. Still, we got a reputation, and folks bring their cars in from miles around. We mostly make money on mechanic work, but we sell a few tires too. But a lot of business? No.”

  “Moost was telling us you been working here a long time,” Leonard said.

  “I have. That’s a fact.”

  “Let me ask you something about Harriet Hoodalay and the bookmobile. She was supposed to pass that job to you, right?”

  “That’s right. I was only a kid then, twenty-three, working part time here, and I needed extra money. Driving the bookmobile wasn’t much, but hey, it was something to add to the pot.”

  “Did Harriet drop the bookmobile off with you?” I said.

  “Was supposed to, that night. She didn’t show, though. Thought she might have got tied up with something and I’d find out about it the next day. Figured she could have left it for me here at the garage. We discussed that as an option and I was figuring maybe she got confused on what we had finally decided. Next day I found out she and the bookmobile had gone missing. And I was out some easy money.”

  “Did you know Harriet well?” Leonard said.

  “Not really. Nice lady, far as I could tell. Saw her around. Knew she drove the bookmobile. She brought it here to be worked on time or two. We talked a little. You know, small talk. Nothing special. I think she liked the job, liked kids. Never had any of her own.”

  “Okay,” I said, “we’d like to talk to your boss, Mr. James.”

  Will looked at his watch. “Back about two. On lunch break. Takes longer breaks these days.”

  “What’s the building out back?”

  “Oh, boss has a tractor, some equipment for this and that. He goes around and does farm work from time to time. Breaking up gardens, sometimes large fields. Side work.”

  “Where would Donnie be having lunch? Home?”

  “Naw. He’s not married and he’s a terrible cook. He can’t put a peanut butter and jelly sandwich together without it tasting like tar paper. There’s a little place down the road. Ethel’s. Not much to it, open for lunch and dinner. Used to be open for breakfast, but stopped doing that last year. Alright food. Ethel and her husband Bernard run it.”

  “Thanks, Will,” I said, and me and Leonard went out.

  eight

  Ethel’s was indeed small. A little, yellow frame house. What would have normally been the living room had been turned into a dining area. A few tables and chairs were scattered about. A counter had been put in, as well as an opening into the kitchen; a cut out in the wall where the food could be passed to the waitress, who I assumed was Ethel. She was petite, had a look on her face of perpetual worry, as if she feared forgetting a French fry order. Through the gap in the wall we could see a big black man, possibly Bernard, standing in front of an old fashioned grill, flipping burgers. He looked big enough to turn over the grill.

  Waitress said, “Pick a seat.”

  That was easy, the place was packed, except for one small table in the corner, and we took that. The table wobbled when I put my hands on it.

  “Shall we eat?” Leonard said.

  “Yep.
Let’s hope the food is better than the furniture.”

  “It’s packed here,” he said. “That’s a good sign.”

  “Choices are limited.”

  I looked around trying to spot someone I thought might be Donnie. That was easy. A man with Tire and Mechanic Shop written across the back of a khaki work shirt was moving toward the cash register, his ticket in hand.

  I got up, went over, said, “Are you Donnie James?”

  He nodded.

  I gave him the synopsis version of what me and Leonard were doing convinced him to sit down with us, but not before I agreed to pay his check.

  “I got to get back to work, fellas,” he said. “Make this quick. I don’t think I know a thing that could help. Thanks for lunch, by the way. I hope you find out who did what to those children. Saw in the paper about all those kids, and the woman in the bookmobile. Terrible. Coated in oil. Why would anyone do that?”

  “Preserve the bodies a little,” I said. “I think whoever did it liked looking at them. Oil probably killed some of the stink.”

  “I guess so,” Donnie said.

  “How well did you know Harriet?” Leonard asked.

  “Not too well. Except for driving the bookmobile, Tom kept her on a pretty tight leash. I was you, he’s the one I’d talk to. I figure he’s got her in a fifty gallon drum under his front porch. Tom’s a jerk. Always thought men were trying to take Harry from him. One time, right here, they got into it at supper time over something. He called her a bitch. She got up and went outside and stood by their pickup until he paid up and went out. I was sitting over there by the window. I saw him grab her arm and push her into the truck. He’s a bully, even at his age, retired and always on his front porch or he‘s out back in the yard lifting weights. Old as he is, I seen him get into it at the post office with a young man over something. I don‘t know what. I’m sure it was Tom started things. But he whipped that young man like he was a heavy bag. Hit him at will, and finally dropped him. Gardner Moost stood up to him, though, about how he treated Harry. I mean, hell, everyone here knows everyone else’s business. Gardner’s owner of the General store.”

  “We’ve met,” Leonard said.

  “Then you’ve seen Gardner. Tom’s afraid of him, and with good reason. When he was younger, Gardner cleaned out a few bars down Houston way, or so I’ve heard. But Tom is no slouch either. Got a bum knee, but I think Gardner could take him. Someone like you two, he’d run you together so hard he’d make one of you.”

  “We talked to Moost,” Leonard said. “He told us about Tom, how he banned him. Another thing. James Clifton. What kind of kid was he?”

  “Didn’t say much. Did some little clean up jobs for me. Knew he had it rough, so I was trying to help him out. That’s about all I got. Who works for who, here? You the boss, white man?”

  “I want to be, but he won’t let me,” I said.

  “And he won’t let me,” Leonard said. “Brett Sawyer is our boss.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “She,” I said.

  “Ah,” he said. “Well, good luck finding out what happened to Harry. She was good people. Like me, she cared about children. That’s why I fixed that bookmobile on my own time, even donated tires. It was mostly children got something out of that bookmobile. Me, I was never much of a reader. Always figured by not being I missed out on things. Might be doing something other than a tire shop if I’d gotten a real education. Then again, folks need tires and they need cars fixed.”

  “No disagreement there,” Leonard said.

  “I got to go. Good luck.”

  Donnie got up and went out.

  Leonard said, “Tom Hoodalay seems to get a lot of bad marks.”

  “Maybe we ought to check Tom’s report card personally,” I said.

  “Not until I get a burger. I’m so hungry I could eat the ass out of a menstruating mule.”

  nine

  The burgers were good. Much better than I assumed the ass of a menstruating mule would be. We ate, and found out from Ethel, who was indeed the waitress, where Tom Hoodalay lived.

  It was a small house not far off the road near the center of Nesbit. It was a down a narrow, cracked, concrete drive, and at the end of the drive was a small, dilapidated house with an old brown pickup in the yard.

  Weeds grew waist high on both sides of the house, out to the edge of the drive, and the drive seemed to be fighting a losing battle against the weeds growing up between the cracks in the concrete. Another few months, you could film a Tarzan movie out there. There was a small overhang porch, and there was a long wooden bench on the porch, and on the bench sat a man I took for Tom Hoodalay. He was crouched there like a frog on steroids.

  We parked in the drive next to the pickup, got out and walked up to the steps. There were chunks of concrete breaking off in the drive next to the step. Leonard put his foot on a chunk and wobbled it with his boot.

  “Who the hell are you?” the man said.

  Up close I could tell he was in his sixties, but it was a powerful sixties. He had a head like a soccer ball. It was shaved and smooth as an oiled doorknob and glistened in the sunlight. He had a lot of white teeth and his eyes were both red where they should be white. His pupils, swimming in the middle of all that redness, were chocolate colored. He had very little neck and was almost as wide as Gardner Moost. I thought the two of them went at it, it might be a close fight. Nesbit seemed to have a lot of large people.

  “We’re Avon,” Leonard said.

  “The hell you are,” the man said.

  “Naw, just messing with you,” Leonard said. “You Tom Hoodalay?”

  “What if I am?”

  “Might be a prize involved,” Leonard said.

  This had already gone south. Leonard obviously didn’t like the guy on sight. I wasn’t fond of him either, and all he had said so far was “Who the hell are you?”

  “We work for a private detective agency out of LaBorde,” I said. “We are looking into the death of a child, James Clifton.”

  “That worthless little nigger? Shit, he better off dead.”

  “Why would that be?” Leonard said.

  “Ain’t got nobody, ain’t got no future,” Tom Hoodalay said.

  “He wrecked a bookmobile that had been missing for fifteen years, one your former wife used to drive,” I said.

  “Heard about that,” he said.

  “Any idea where the bookmobile was all these years?” I asked.

  “How the fuck would I know? I been asked that already. Years ago.”

  “Your wife used to drive it,” I said. “I thought you might have some clue.”

  “I ain’t got nothing to do with where she went, or where that damn bookmobile went. I ain’t got no concern about neither.”

  “You’re saying the kid was better off dead, huh?” Leonard said.

  “What I said, ain’t it?”

  “Cause you wouldn’t want James to end up… Like you?”

  “What the fuck you talking about, nigger?”

  With that, Tom Hoodalay stood up. He was even bigger than I thought.

  “Way we got it figured,” Leonard said, “is you used to slap your wife around, because you could. What happened Tommy? Wife catch you with your dick up a kid’s ass?”

  Tom actually yelled. More of a bellow really. He turned, and slammed his fist down on the long bench. It shattered, some of the fragments hitting me in the chest.

  “Damn,” I said.

  “You showed that bench,” Leonard said.

  My man Leonard is never one to use common sense in an excitable moment. He’s more akin to the guy that throws gasoline on a fire, then goes to get more.

  Tom Hoodalay was coming off the porch. He limped a little, an old injury was my guess. He brought a leg of the b
ench with him, and he was swinging it about, and he wasn’t all the way down the steps yet.

  Leonard picked up the chunk of concrete under his foot, cocked it back, said, “Bet you flinch,” and threw it.

  The sunlight caught the white concrete and made it shine, and then it hit Hoodalay right between the eyes. He staggered, came tripping along and collapsed to his knees. David had just knocked the shit out of Goliath.

  Hoodalay loosened his grip on the bench leg. Leonard sprang forward, grabbed the leg, said, “Give me that.”

  And then Leonard swung the leg, caught Tom Hoodalay right upside the head, causing him to go face down into the driveway.

  “There’s your prize,” Leonard said.

  “So much for asking questions,” I said.

  Leonard tossed the bench leg away and looked down at Tom’s unconscious body. “He wasn’t gonna tell us anything anyway.”

  “You hit him pretty hard,” I said. “Maybe too hard.”

  “I just stunned the hippopotamus,” Leonard said. “Wakes up, he’ll wish he hadn’t torn up a perfectly good bench.”

  “Or got hit between the eyes with a piece of concrete and then battered with a board.”

  “That too,” Leonard said.

  ten

  As I was driving us away, Leonard said, “I don’t like that bastard, but I don’t think he killed the kids. Call it instinct, and also the fact that though he’s big, he gets around like a pig on stilts. Maybe he killed his wife, but a guy like him strangles his wife, then tells the cops it was self-defense. She came at him with a paring knife, or some such. I don’t think he’s smart enough to plan what to do with the body, and certainly not smart enough to stay quiet about it all these years. He’s the kind of dumb ass brags about a thing like that.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  I drove us around a bit, nothing really in mind. We tossed out an idea or two, but we arrived at nothing. Anybody we had spoken to could have done it, and none of them could have done it.