Highway 61 Resurfaced (v5)

by Bill Fitzhugh

  Rick stopped outside the larger state room to get in line for the guest registry. Glancing into the room where Durden was on display, Rick saw several familiar faces. There was Mindy Spencer, a face Rick had seen coming and going from more than one motel room in the company of someone else’s husband. Rick had taken a couple of blurry photos that showed Mindy from behind but they weren’t as good as the pictures he had from this particular husband’s other trysts, so Mindy’s name had never come up in the course of those divorce proceedings.

  Off to the side of the room, Rick saw his first client, Lurlene Atwell. She had hired Rick to follow her husband, Tommy, whom she suspected of being inconstant in his marriage vows. Rick promptly provided some eight by tens of Tommy in several compromising positions, which led to a quick and comfortable divorce for Lurlene. Several months later, she referred Wanda Lee Henshaw Tate to Rick for the same purpose.

  Despite the occasion, Lurlene was wearing an ivory Cheryl Tiegs shirtwaist dress from K-Mart and a pair of split-pea-green stiletto-heel pumps from Joan & David with a matching handbag sporting a chrome clasp the size of a rodeo belt buckle. As Rick shuffled forward in the line, he saw Lurlene sneak an airline bottle out of her purse and pour it into her coffee.

  After signing the registry, Rick eased into the room where Durden lay in state. Rick found himself wondering if caskets came in husky sizes or if they’d had to use some sort of industrial-size shoehorn to get ole Durden in there. It looked like a tight fit.

  Glancing up from the casket, he saw Wanda Lee across the room accepting condolences. From all appearances, the grieving widow was taking things in stride. She was smartly dressed in a black Ungaro suit, Jimmy Choo pointed-toe slingbacks, and a stunning black hat from the Nigel Rayment collection, to which she had added a tasteful black veil. When Rick got a moment alone with her he said, “Wanda Lee, I am so sorry for your loss.”

  “Oh, bless your heart,” she said. “It was sweet of you to come.” She dabbed a lacy handkerchief at the corner of a dry eye.

  Rick lowered his voice and, with a look of astonishment and sorrow, said, “This is not what I expected when I suggested that meeting with Durden and your attorney.”

  Wanda Lee gave Rick a sweet pat on his arm. She ducked her head and lowered her voice. “Honey,” she said, “if you could’ve guaranteed this result, I’d’ve paid you double.” Behind the veil Rick saw her eyes cut left and right before she continued, “Don’t you know how much better this is?”

  “Wanda Lee, I’m sure you’re just in a state of shock right now and—”

  “If I’m in shock,” she interrupted, “it’s only because I’m not used to having this much luck.”

  Rick smiled politely and was about to make his exit when he noticed Wanda Lee’s eyes look past him, growing wide. She shouted, “Lurlene! No!”

  This was followed immediately by Lurlene screaming, “You bastard!”

  Rick turned just in time to see that split-pea-green purse coming at his face, too late to stop. The big chrome clasp caught his lip and busted it open. Rick stumbled backward into Durden’s casket, his hands reaching behind for support. One landed on Durden’s cold face, changing his expression.

  Wanda Lee shrieked, “Lurlene! What’re you doing?” She was trying to pull Lurlene away from Rick as Lurlene continued swinging the purse furiously.

  Lurlene was hollering, “That vile S.O.B. took them pictures of my Tommy and showed ’em to me and made me look like a fool!”

  As Durden’s sales force stood off to the side snickering and making bets, Wanda Lee said, “Lurlene, what has gotten into you?” A possibility occurred to her. “Is it your hormones?” That’s when she got a whiff of Lurlene’s breath. Wanda Lee gasped and said, “Lurlene, you been drinkin’!”

  “So what if I have?” Lurlene pointed at Rick and shouted, “That picture-takin’ scumbag ruined my life. Tommy’s done moved in with that Yetta Ann Bigsby and he’s telling the whole wide world that he’s never been happier. How do you think that makes me feel?”

  “Lurlene, you brought this on yourself with your drinkin’ and everything.”

  “No, unh-unh.” She wagged her finger violently. “It ain’t my fault Tommy divorced me. It’s that private detective.” She pointed at Rick. “He made this happen.”

  “Lurlene, you hired him to catch Tommy.”

  “Yeah, but I was drinkin’ when I did that! I ain’t responsible.”

  By now Wanda Lee had pulled Lurlene a few feet away from Rick. He took the opportunity to circle the casket and stand behind the open lid, as a shield. He wiped some blood from his lip and said, “Lurlene, calm down.”

  She struggled against Wanda Lee’s grip. “Let go of me! I’m gonna grab him where the hair’s short and make him pay for what he done to me!”

  “Lurlene,” Rick said. “It’s not my fault your husband was sleeping with Mindy.” He pointed across the room at her. There was a collective gasp as all eyes turned to Mindy Spencer, including the eyes of Mr. Herbert Spencer, her husband.

  Rick wasn’t proud of having done this, but he hoped it would divert Lurlene’s anger and send the fight across the room. Instead, it just seemed to infuriate Lurlene further. “I don’t care who that bottle-blond slut is sleeping with,” she said as she broke free from Wanda Lee. She charged at Rick, swinging her purse overhead like a medieval mace. Rick ducked behind the raised lid of the casket. But Lurlene wasn’t going to be denied her pound of flesh. She began to climb across the open casket, planting a knee on Durden’s throat, causing him to emit a grim guttural sound.

  Wanda Lee was aghast. “Lurlene! Stop it! You’re ruining my funeral!”

  “This shit-eatin’ son of a bitch has ruined my life!” Lurlene was crying hysterically as she climbed farther up into the casket, her other knee pressing down on Durden’s sternum. As she continued to swing her purse, you could hear the bottles rattling inside along with her collection of ninety-day AA chips.

  Wanda Lee was tugging on the back of her dress, screaming, “Get off my Durden! Lurlene, think about what you’re doing. Look at your bracelet, honey! WWJD!”

  As Rick ducked behind the casket, he was thinking, Yeah, what would Jesus do?

  RICK WENT BACK to his apartment to change shirts. He figured his reputation would be better served by not being seen in public with blood on his clothes. His lip was slightly swollen and split, but there was nothing he could do about that except hold some ice to it on the drive to the restaurant.

  He was ten minutes late. Lollie was sitting at the bar, on her cell phone, when he walked in. She was wearing loose oyster-colored cotton trousers and a sleeveless conch pink linen top. The result was a sort of belle-on-the-half-shell look. “No, this would be a perfect time,” she said as Rick ordered a drink and a side of ice. “Okay, fine,” Lollie said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” She flipped her phone shut and looked at Rick’s mouth. “What happened to you?”

  He took a gulp of his drink and said, “Another satisfied customer.” He wrapped some ice in a napkin and held it to his lip. “But let’s not dwell on it. We’re here to celebrate.”

  A moment later, they followed the maître d’ to their table, where they ordered appetizers. Rick opted for the sweet corn and poblano tamales. Lollie had the crab cakes. When the waiter left, she raised her glass in a toast. “To the quickest investigator either side of the Mississippi.” He raised his glass to hers and accepted her praise with a humble nod. “So,” she said, “tell me all about my granddaddy.” She leaned forward on her elbows and smiled like it was Christmas. “Was he really a faith healer?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” Rick said. “He was certainly involved in other areas of show business.”

  “Really?” She seemed giddy at the prospect of hearing the tales. “Like what?”

  “Well, there was the time he was run out of Tchula, Mississippi.” Rick recounted Itta Bena Slim’s story.

  Lollie covered her face in mock shame. “The source of all my bad genes,�
�� she said. “What else did you find out?”

  “Well, once I got his phone and address, I didn’t do too much more research.” Rick put Tucker Woolfolk’s file on the table. “But I did find a few interesting items.” He opened the file and tapped his finger on the top sheet. “The first thing was something he wrote for the Times-Picayune about twenty years ago.”

  “He was a writer?” She turned the file around so she could read it, but she kept her eyes on Rick. “What’s this about?”

  “It’s a record review, one of a dozen or so I found with his by-line. This one’s for a Robert Junior Lockwood record.”

  The name seemed to confuse her. “You mean Robert Lockwood Junior?”

  “No, it’s Robert Junior Lockwood,” Rick said. “Apparently his mom was involved with Robert Johnson, who … are you familiar with the blues?”

  She fluttered a hand in the air and said, “More as a state of mind than an art form.”

  “Well, Robert Johnson is one of the key figures in the blues.”

  “Oh, wait.” Lollie pointed at Rick and said, “He’s the guy who sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads, right?”

  “That’s the one. So, anyway, Robert Johnson took young Robert Lockwood under his wing and taught him guitar and, apparently, was enough of a father figure that Lockwood started calling himself Robert Junior. Some sources say he was Robert Johnson’s legal stepson, but that’s unclear.” Rick speared the last bite of his appetizer and gestured with it as he spoke. “And, ironically, it turns out that Robert Lockwood was born in Marvell, Arkansas.”

  Lollie thought about that for a moment before saying, “Ironic because that’s where my grandfather was from?”

  Rick shook his head. “No, sorry, I guess it’s more ironic to me than you.” He explained how his search for Tucker Woolfolk had led him from the F.S. Wolcott Rabbit Foot Minstrels to the W.S. Walcott Medicine Show, and finally to Levon Helm, who was also from Marvell. “Just some of the odd stuff I stumbled across while looking for your grandfather.” Rick tipped his glass toward Lollie. “How’re the crab cakes?”

  Chewing, she nodded, then covered her mouth and said, “So was his writing any good, in the record review?”

  “Not bad,” Rick said. “He obviously knew a lot about the music.”

  “You think he was a musician?”

  “Not that I could tell, but he worked with some.” He flipped to another page in the file. “Seems that somewhere between selling hooch with the medicine show and reviewing blues records, he apparently produced some.”

  “Hooch or records?”

  “Records. By some blues players I’d never heard of. Anyway, based on some of the things he says in the liner notes and some of the record reviews, it sounds like he was connected to a radio station somewhere up in the Delta a long time ago and he may have also promoted some blues acts on the old chitlin’ circuit.”

  Lollie chuckled. “So he was either a jack-of-all-trades or he couldn’t hold a job.”

  “Just depends on your point of view,” Rick said with a smile. “I suspect there’s a lot more stuff out there but, like I said, once I got the information you were after, I didn’t do much more research. But I can, if you’d like.”

  She dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “No, that’s plenty. I can ask him about all that when I see him.” She looked at her lap and fussed with her napkin. “But there is one thing …” She reached down to her purse and came up with an envelope just as the waiter arrived with their entrees. Lollie had the Creole-glazed yellowfin tuna. Rick had a filet wrapped with garlic-pepper bacon and a port-wine demi-glaze. After the waiter left, Lollie assumed an attorney’s tone and said, “Let me ask you a question. How would you react if a twenty-year-old showed up at your front door saying he was your kid?” She eyed him like a cynic. “Would you believe him based on his word and a driver’s license or a birth certificate?”

  Rick was looking into her eyes, but his peripheral vision was consumed with the envelope in her hand. This was the sort of client he had dreamed about, a veritable fountain of cash payments. After a moment, he shook his head and said, “No. It’s too easy to get fake IDs.” He cut a piece of his steak. “I’d say my reaction would depend on what he wanted. You know? It’s one thing if he shows up saying he just wanted to meet me, but it’s a different ball game if he starts demanding money.” He leaned forward and tipped his head toward Belzoni. “Are you going up there to demand money?”

  She smiled softly at his mock accusation. “No, I have all the money I need.” She wagged the envelope, then slipped it under Rick’s plate. She said, “I just want to get to know him.”

  Rick gestured at the envelope with his fork, inadvertently marking it with a drop of beef blood. “What’s this?”

  “I was wondering if you could go to Belzoni with me. Tomorrow.” She looked vaguely chagrined. “That’s for your time.” She dabbed a bite of tuna into her hollandaise. “It’s just that I don’t want to, well, in case he has a funny reaction, you know? I just thought it would be better with someone else there.”

  The envelope had control of Rick at this point. The way he looked at it, making a few extra hundred bucks for taking a drive in the country with a pretty woman was good work. He was inclined to go. But he was curious. “You have a reason to think he’ll react funny?”

  “No, but I was thinking about how he might react when a stranger shows up at his door claiming to be kin, you know? Sure, he might throw his arms around me and say he can see my mama’s eyes in mine, but he also might just slam the door in my face thinking I’m some kind of nut.” She gestured at her purse and said, “Like you said, I can show him my license and birth certificate, but he still might not believe me. So I thought if you came along, told him who you are and that I hired you, well, I mean if he was suspicious, that might be just the thing.” She held up her hands in all reasonableness and said, “If you don’t want to or if you’re busy, I understand.” She held her hand out for the envelope.

  Rick slipped the money into his coat and said, “You mind if I bring my cat?”

  THERE WAS A time when no roads led to Belzoni, Mississippi. It was such an isolated village that there was no practical way for the county sheriff in Greenville to get there, so he didn’t bother trying. Belzoni was a lawless backwater on the banks of the Yazoo River, famous for a string of saloons they called Greasy Row. The entire area was so lacking in civil order that it was known as the Dark Corner of Washington County.

  Hoping to improve their fortunes, local landowners agitated the state legislature until they annexed parts of the surrounding counties to form a new one that they named Humphreys after some mid-nineteenth-century governor. And in time they built roads.

  Crail Pitts was on one of them now, driving north on Highway 7 out of Belzoni. He’d come down Highway 49 from Sunflower, where he’d been staying, and just drove around until Cuffie LeFleur called and told him now would be a good time to go see about that thing. He hoped it wouldn’t take long, didn’t see any reason that it should. The plan was simple enough: Get in, find it, take it, and go. Of course there was the question of what to do with the man afterward. They hadn’t really talked that out. In fact, it seemed to Crail that Cuffie had left that up to him. He figured he knew what that meant, and he wasn’t afraid to do it either. He’d do anything for Cuffie.

  Crail couldn’t wait to see her again. They were a fire so hot you couldn’t put it out with all the water in the Sunflower River. Lord knows, her family had tried, but it kept burning. All that pride—snobbery is what it really was—thinking they’re so damn superior, all that cotton money made ’em think they had a right to hinder the destiny of two lovers. But now that her family’s name was being threatened, something had to be done. So Crail was on his way to do it, see if that wouldn’t sweeten his situation.

  Crail turned onto Sweethome Road and slowed down. His radio was tuned to a rock station out of Greenwood. The Rolling Stones doing “Little Red Rooster.” He pull
ed to the side of the road, crunching all that gravel, and lit a cigarette. There was nothing but cotton fields in every direction, the bolls starting to blossom looked like acres of popcorn under the moonlight. He took a long drag on the cigarette and hoped this old guy wasn’t going to make things tough. Not that Crail couldn’t handle tough, he could, he just hoped it wouldn’t play out that way. But his knee was hurting again, and who needs any more trouble than they already got?

  He was about to flip that cigarette out the window when he caught himself. He liked to be going fast when he did it, so he could look in his rearview and see the orange sparks on the road behind him like a tiny fireworks display. He pulled back onto the highway and gave it some gas. When he was going good, Crail flicked his butt out the window. His eyes locked on the mirror until he saw the sparkles, then he smiled just a little.

  Cemetery Road was just up a piece, past those rusty grain bins on the old Hemphill plantation. After making the turn, he saw the headstones and crosses leaning every which a way, like the dead weren’t done yet and were trying to push their way up out of the ground. After passing the graveyard, he could see a yellow light on somebody’s porch. That was it. Had to be. Nobody else out here. A minute later he came to a gravel drive with one of those bigmouth-bass mailboxes sitting next to it. Crail figured this was the place, so he turned in. The driveway led to a small frame house with a few trees around, persimmons and oaks. He parked by an oak and got out. There were no other houses in sight, which made him feel better about what he had to do.

  The mosquitoes got on him quick. He slapped at his neck and arms as he stepped onto the porch, wincing when he used his bad knee. The television in the living room cast blue shadows on the thin curtains covering the front window. The volume was way up, some kind of police drama. Crail figured the old man was hard of hearing and he was going to have to yell at him. He knocked loud, just in case, then stood there with a harmless look on his face, waiting for a response. But none came. The police drama continued, someone complaining about criminals having more rights than victims. Crail was about to knock again when he saw the front curtains pulled back just enough for somebody to peek out. He gave a friendly wave, then used the same hand to brush mosquitoes from around his ear. The fabric moved again, falling back into place. Crail heard the safety chain slide into its slot a moment before a man yelled, “Who the hell’re you?”