And it wasn’t fair for these strangers to come in and start muddying up the waters, either.
No, sir. It wasn’t.
It just by god wasn’t.
* * *
Judge Roscoe Evans had decided to take his annual vacation. All of it, right now. This matter of the strangers coming in and poking around had unnerved him terribly. He could be ruined and possibly even sent to prison, if they poked around and scratched up enough dirt. Something had to be done. He made up his mind. He’d go see Victoria Staples. She would know what to do.
* * *
Victoria Staples was a tall, very handsome, very mannish-looking woman. A very forceful person. A person accustomed to getting her own way. Always. Her graying hair was cut short and brushed back. She did everything she could to appear masculine. In any woman’s prison, Victoria would be referred to as a bull dyke. Victoria hated men. All men. She enjoyed humiliating them. Especially that fool judge, Roscoe Evans. She knew he was one of several weak links in this long human chain that she was a part of. Sheriff Paxton was another, and so was Elmo Douglas and Albert Pickens.
And now Judge Evans was coming to see her, running scared. Good. She thought for a moment. Yes. That was it. She’d dress him up in a bunny suit with big floppy ears, and they could spend the rest of the afternoon playing. After she fucked him.
* * *
While Victoria Staples was selecting her various sexual instruments to be used that afternoon, and laying out Roscoe’s bunny suit, Warren Hayden and Jefferson Parks, the two federal judges who had long known of the existence of the ghost clubs, were meeting in the countryside with Arlene Simmons, wife of a very rich industrialist, and Curtis Wood, captain of highway patrol. They were meeting in a barn on the back acreage of a tract of land she owned. The land was lying idle this planting season. Which suited her just fine, since the government was paying her not to plant. Which, unless one is a farmer, makes no sense at all.
“There is no point in looking back at this matter,” Arlene said. “The past is done and we can’t change it. What we’ve got to do is find some way to cover our ass.”
Judge Jeff Parks was thinking that he would very much like to cover Arlene’s ass. But for some reason, she had never let him fuck her.
“An accident could be arranged,” Judge Hayden said.
“It might have to come to that,” Captain Wood said.
Arlene looked around her at the old barn. The place brought back a lot of memories. It was here she used to fuck her foreman. Right up there in that loft, in the hay. Until he got too demanding and kept wanting more and more money from her. No dick was worth what he finally demanded from her. Arlene hit him on the head with an axe one afternoon, and dumped his body into the St. Francis River some miles away. The body never was found. That had been a real mess. Caved in one side of the man’s head. Brains all hanging out. Real icky. But that ol’ boy could sure get in the saddle and ride, for a fact.
“Not until we have that tape and the dubs they’re sure to have made in our hands,” Arlene said. Great god, did she had to do all the thinking around here?
“My man tossed Deaton’s office,” Captain Wood said. “The tape was not there.”
“I understand he made quite a mess of it,” Jeff said.
“Oh, he didn’t do that. That was done afterwards. And we all know who it was. Or what it was, I should say.”
Arlene fixed her eyes on Captain Wood. “You take care of it, Curtis. Money is no object. Just take care of the situation and get it cleaned up. All right?”
“Consider it done.”
* * *
Sheriff Paxton was meeting with state representative Maxwell Noble, US senator Charles Bergman, businessman Gerald Wilson, state judge Silas Parnell, and state senator Conrad Wright, just south of the Missouri line.
“If we had reported those damned . . . creatures when we first learned of them, none of this would be happening,” Gerald said sourly.
“Yes, and if your aunt had balls, she’d be your uncle,” Senator Bergman snapped at the man. “There is no point in dredging up the past. It’s over. We can’t change it. We’ve got to decide what to do about these people snooping around.”
“Get rid of them,” Silas suggested.
“Oh, my god!” Gerald moaned. “Now you’re talking murder.”
Silas pointed a finger at the man. “Now you get hold of yourself, Gerald. You, along with the rest of us, have known for years those hants in the honky-tonks have and are killing people. That’s murder, Gerald. Any way you slice it up, it’s still murder. And you’re as much a part of it as the rest of us. You damn hypocrite,” he sneered at the man. “Big worker in the church, that’s you. You whiny son of bitch! You’re drenched in innocent blood, just like all the rest of us. So get with the program, buddy. You’re an accomplice to hundreds of murders. Your name is on those tapes with the rest of us. Now stop your bitching and start adding something constructive to this meeting.”
“How about all the rest of the names on those tapes?” Conrad asked. “They should be here, too.”
“Oh, they’re meeting,” Silas said. “In various locations around the area. My god, we couldn’t all get together in one place! Not even at Victoria’s ranch. We can’t ever do that again. Each group will have a spokesman. I’m it for this group. Victoria has already met with her group. The spokesmen will get together this evening and hash it out. But I suspect Arlene has already put the ball into play. Now listen to me, all of you. When this is over—and it will be over very soon—we don’t meet again. Ever. The club is broken up. Do you all understand that? That’s the way it has to be.”
“No,” Gerald said, standing up. “My part is over right now. I’m finished. Through. I’ll say nothing. But I’m out of this. I will have no part in cold-blooded murder. We can’t control the actions of those things in the old clubs. But we could prevent this. I don’t ever want to see any of you again. Ever. Never. I’m going to go pray for forgiveness. Goodbye.”
After the sounds of Gerald’s car had faded into the afternoon’s warm air, Senator Bergman said, “You think he’ll talk?”
“No,” Sheriff Paxton said. “He’s too scared for that. But even if he had that in mind, he won’t live long enough to do anything about it.”
“What do you mean?” Conrad asked.
The sheriff pointed to a darkened corner of the old lodge. Heads turned.
The corner was filled with sparkling dots.
Nine
Cole, Katti, Jim, Bev, and Gary suddenly hit a stone wall of silence. Very few people would talk to them. Most doors were slammed in their faces. Nearly everyone they tried to interview turned away from them.
Acting on a hunch, Cole took Katti and went back to see the sisters, Idabelle and Clara Mae.
“You young people certainly stirred up a lot of folks around here,” Idabelle said, passing around a plate of fresh home-baked sugar cookies.
“Yes,” Clara Mae said. “Sheriff Pickens is all worked up about your asking questions about the old honky-tonks in this area.”
“Do you know why that should be?” Katti asked the old lady.
“Oh, sure. Once a body starts covering things up, the cover-up process can’t ever stop. And while Sheriff Pickens has been an adequate sheriff over the years, he has his flaws. Just like Sheriff Reno north of here, and Sheriff Paxton over to the west. Idabelle and me, why, we’ve known all those men since they were boys. Haven’t we, dear?”
“We certainly have,” Idabelle said. “And they were all rounders in their youthful days. Not bad people, mind you, just a bit on the wild side. But they all outgrew it, and became good men and responsible citizens. Our husbands, God rest their souls, knew quite a bit about their antics and would tell us about them. Some of it very racy, indeed.”
“How about the people who were in office before them?” Cole asked.
The sisters exchanged glances. Clara Mae said, “That’s another story, young man. You’re talking abo
ut the bad old days, back in the forties and fifties and early sixties. Sheriff Speakman is long dead, and so is the man who was his chief deputy before Al Pickens got that job. And I doubt you’ll get any of the people who served with them to talk. If you could even find them.”
“We’re not trying to deliberately smear anyone’s reputation,” Katti said.
“Oh, we know that. You’re interested in finding out the truth about what happened to your brother, that’s all. Billy Jordan told you some of it, didn’t he? And just look what happened to poor Billy.”
“We heard from a cousin of ours that Ray Sharp is preparing for his death,” her sister picked it up. “He’s had his good black suit all cleaned and pressed, and made arrangements with the undertaker in town. Mind you, he’s not afraid to meet his Maker. Just getting ready.”
“Do you find that odd?” Cole asked.
“Not really. Ray used to go over to Billy’s house and sit and pray with him. Until Billy took a broom handle and run him off. Billy said he was washed in the blood of the lamb as a child, and that was enough. He didn’t need some damned old reprobate coming around and thumping on the Bible. He’d take his chances with the Lord when it came time.”
“The time came a bit sooner than he suspected, I think,” Idabelle said. She stood up with a visible effort. “Let me make a phone call. I’d see if I can arrange something for you young people.”
When the screen door had closed behind her, Katti asked, “Who is she calling?”
“Cousin Ray. She gets along well with him.” Clara Mae made a face. “Personally, I can’t stand the damned old fart!” She picked up the tray and held it out. “Have another cookie.”
* * *
Cole concluded that Ray Sharp must have been hell on wheels when he was younger. The man was about six and a half feet tall, and anyone with eyes could see that at one time he had been an enormously powerful man. He waved Cole and Katti inside and to a sofa.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Ray told them. “I knew you’d be back.” He pointed to the cassette recorder in Katti’s hands. “Turn that machine on and get all this.” He waited until the tape was rolling. “I’ll be dead come sundown today. They’ll kill me just like they killed Billy Jordan. I prayed for Billy.”
“Who will kill you, Mr. Sharp?”
“Ray. Call me Ray. Oh, Steve Deal, Bobby Perkins, Eddie Morgan, Ace Black, Sly Bailey. They’re all dead, you see. But they made a deal with the Devil. I wouldn’t never do that. Even when I was a bad one, I wouldn’t never deal with Satan. When I got out of prison, I hunted up every person I ever done a hurt to, and I begged their forgiveness. Most of ’em forgave me, too. And I prayed for them that didn’t. I don’t blame them for not forgiving me, but I still prayed for them.”
“You weren’t there the night my brother was killed, were you, Ray?” Katti asked.
“No, child. I had just been released from prison, and was working in a halfway house in Little Rock. But I heard about it. Dreadful thing. I found the Lord in prison, and started taking Bible courses through the mail. I was ordained in prison by the chaplain. Preached in there for five years. And the Lord gave me seven good years on the outside preaching, before a heart attack felled me, and then I had a stroke and that put me into retirement.” He smiled. “I heard about all that mess that happened in Memphis. The sparkling lights. Tell me about it.”
Cole did.
The old man laughed. “A stun gun. A darned stun gun. Well, it don’t make no sense to me, but if it works, that’s all that matters. But a word of caution here, boy, that was some of the newer dead you hit with that contraption. It might not work on the older crowd. Reason I know that is, ’cause I been going to a lot of those old places since I got back here. I’ve seen those old joints appear in the night, heard the terrible profanity, and seen the wickedness that takes place. And yes, I’ve seen people lured to their deaths. But what could I do about it? Nothing, that’s what. I couldn’t go to the authorities; around here, that’s Sheriff Al Pickens. And he’s into this up to his neck. Could I go to the state people? Not likely. Who would believe an ex-con? I served fifteen years for second-degree murder, people. Even though it was self-defense, and I wouldn’t lie about that. Not being so close to death as I am this day.”
“You want to tell us about it?” Cole asked.
“Why not? Charles Bergman’s brother . . .” He smiled. “Yeah, the brother of the US senator from the state just north of us. He’d just been elected. Well, his brother’s wife had been giving me the eye for some time. She was trash. Still is. So was I, in those days. Anyway, he confronted me with a gun one night outside a joint up in Missouri. In the bootheel. We struggled for the gun, and it went off. The man shot himself right in the heart. And like a fool, I ran. The police caught me the next day. It was a very quick trial. I got fifteen years to life. End of story. So you see, I couldn’t go to anyone with what I know about those ghost clubs.”
“Tell us all about everyone who is involved,” Katti said. “Living and . . . dead.”
The once most famous barroom brawler in North Arkansas leaned back in his easy chair. “I hope you’ve got lots of tapes. It’s a very long story. With no happy endings.”
* * *
“It’s dynamite stuff,” Jim said, after listening to the hours’ long tapes. “But_____”
“Not admissible in court,” Cole finished it. “But at least we now have a fairly complete list of names. Living and dead.”
“And in this case,” Bev said, “we have to fear both the living and the dead.”
“You want me to take that tape back to Memphis and get some dubs?” Gary asked.
“Both of you go. I want someone riding shotgun.”
Bev and Gary pulled out, heading south. Jim stood by the big window of the motel for a time, staring out, Cole and Katti sat on the small couch. Jim turned and looked at them. “I want to see this club come alive.”
“I got a better idea,” Cole said.
“Oh?”
“Let’s go face-to-face with Sheriff Pickens.”
* * *
The sheriff was not happy to see them. He sat in his chair and scowled at the trio. Finally, he said, “I don’t have much use for P.I.’s. I could run you out of this county, Deaton.”
“You could try,” Jim said. “In the meantime, I’ll just call the governor, and we’ll have a little chat about how my office stopped that attempted kidnapping of his youngest child last year. Or maybe we’ll chat about——”
Pickens held up a hand. “All right, Jim. All right. I get the message. Forget I said that.” He looked at Cole. “What’s your interest in this county, Mr. Younger?”
“I’m helping Ms. Baylor do research on her book.”
“Yeah. Sure you are.” He cut his eyes to Katti. “I remember you now. You were nearly a permanent fixture around here for a few weeks after your brother disappeared.”
“You mean after my brother was murdered, don’t you, Sheriff? Beaten, and then run over by a two-bit punk driving a pickup truck.”
The sheriff didn’t lose his composure. He’d had ten years to practice for this moment. “No one really knows what happened to your brother, Ms. Baylor.”
“Sure they do, Sheriff,” Cole said. “And you’re one of them.”
“That is a serious allegation, Mr. Younger. You have any proof of that?”
“I didn’t go public with it, Sheriff. Not yet. But I will tell you this: Ray Sharp is convinced he’s going to be killed tonight. Could you spare a couple of deputies to keep an old man alive?”
“No, I’m short-handed; besides, I spoke with Ray this morning. He told me about his fears and also that he was going to talk to you people when you came around. There is no basis for his fear of being killed, and I told him I didn’t give a damn who he talked with.”
“I’ve been in one of the ghost clubs, Sheriff,” Cole spoke softly. “The date was October 1957. But I was there only a few months back. Along Highway 61, just sou
th of here. It was the K & G Club. I witnessed a man being killed. He was hit in the back of the head with a cue stick, and his body was tossed outside in the parking lot.”
The sheriff almost lost it. His face paled, and he silently struggled for a moment before recovering. “Prove it,” he finally managed to say.
“Oh, I intend to, Sheriff. Believe that.”
“That was almost forty years ago, Mr. Younger,” Sheriff Pickens said. “If anyone is still alive who might have any interest, they’re old men and women whose main concern is staying alive a few more years, not dredging up old murder cases. You really think anybody cares?”
“Let’s put our cards on the table, Sheriff. Face up. Those ghost clubs exist, and you know it. So did Sheriff Speakman before you. You were his chief deputy during his last term in office. Sheriff Reno knows about them, as did the sheriff before him. And so does Sheriff Paxton, and the sheriff before him. So let’s cut the crap. There have been several hundred people—at least that many—killed and tortured and raped over the past two decades, but most of them simply disappeared. Only God and the devil know for sure. It’s past time for it to stop. Are you going to work with us, or against us?”
The sheriff stared at Cole for a moment, then spun his chair around, putting his back to the trio. He sat that way for a full minute, then slowly turned to face them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Younger. I don’t believe in ghosts.”
Cole sighed. “Well, at least my mind is satisfied with the knowledge that we tried.”
“Leave it alone, people,” Sheriff Pickens whispered, surprising them all. “For your safety, leave it alone. You don’t know what you’re getting into. These things can’t be stopped.”
“The public has to be warned,” Katti said.
The sheriff laughed, but it was a laugh totally void of humor. “Don’t you think I haven’t thought of that? Good god, people! I made one damn mistake in nearly twenty-five years of law enforcement. It’s my son we’re talking about. Do you know what would happen to him, if he were put in prison? The son of a cop? Cole and Jim know. He’d be gang-raped and possibly killed. I’ve kept his feet to the fire and tried to keep him walking the straight and narrow since that night. I’m sorry about your brother, Ms. Baylor. I really am. But I can’t bring him back.”
Rockabilly Hell Page 8