Crail was on his way over there now, barreling down the road, eyes twitching as he played air guitar on top of the steering wheel and sang along with some classic rock. “‘I still remember everything ’at used to be.’ ” He’d snorted another line of meth on his way out of Yazoo City, just to take the edge off. “‘Lack the love, it’s always easy loving you or me.’ ” The euphoria from the speed had Crail focused on how good things were going for him all the sudden. First of all, as far as he knew, the cops had no idea that he had killed Tucker Woolfolk or Lamar Suggs. Second, Cuffie’s grandfather was prepared to offer him a job, and third, that lawyer in the trunk had finally shut up. Hell yes, he was feelin’ damn lucky.
All things considered, Jeremy Lynch was pretty lucky too, though he didn’t feel that way. On top of his other injuries, he had a new gash in his scalp from when Crail had dodged his first hallucination and sent Jeremy headfirst into the wall of the trunk. Since he had regained consciousness only a couple of minutes after being knocked out, the odds were good that the brain damage would be limited. He was, however, suffering from retrograde amnesia, which explained his state of confusion when he woke up in the trunk of a moving car. But again Jeremy was lucky in that he’d lost only a few hours of his life, whereas this ilk of amnesia sometimes erases memories going back years. He remembered waking up, showering, and leaving for work. After that, he was drawing blanks. But this much he knew: His head and his leg hurt like two sons of bitches and it didn’t help that the driver of the car was playing .38 Special loud enough to make his ears bleed.
Jeremy wondered if there could possibly be a reasonable explanation. Maybe someone was taking him to the hospital to see about his injuries. But in the trunk? No, that didn’t make any sense, even to a man suffering a transient neurologic deficit. No, unless this was a prank by some of his bar association pals, this was almost certainly some sort of criminal activity. And since Jeremy liked to think he didn’t associate with the kinds of people who listened to second-tier post-Skynyrd southern-fried boogie-blues rock, things were pointing toward the unlawful.
Jeremy considered calling out for help, except the stereo was too loud to yell over with his head hurting the way it was. Besides, he figured that since they were driving down a highway, no one would hear him anyway. But then the car slowed and turned off the pavement onto gravel. He got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as the image of a shallow grave in the woods came to him. The .38 Special got even louder and the tires began to rumble on the washboard road and the car began to sway to and fro. The driver let loose with a Rebel yell and the car pitched violently sideways, knocking Jeremy out cold again.
Spurred by the methamphetamine, Crail imagined himself on the NASCAR circuit. He was fishtailing down the gravel road screaming and singing along with the radio. “ ‘I’m a man on the run, always under the gun, gonna have me some fun …’” Rocks were shooting out behind him like he was driving an automatic weapon. Crail hadn’t had this much fun since he didn’t know when. He thought about pulling over to snort another line of crank, but then he came around a corner and saw the cabin up ahead. He killed the radio, brought the car under control, and checked the mirror to make sure he didn’t have any powder on his nose.
As Crail pulled up to the hand-hewn cabin, he saw Henry on the front porch talking on his cell phone, decked out in full camouflage even though the only legal game at the moment—raccoon and frog—were easily approached without such stealth technology. Crail threw the car into park just as Henry flipped his phone shut and held up a hand. “Don’t get out,” he said, pointing south. “Let’s take a ride.” He got in the car and directed Crail toward Lake George.
They’d met before, several years ago, when Crail was still enjoying the residual fame from his high school football career and that first half against Texas Tech. He was still on crutches when Cuffie brought him to a family function with high hopes, only to have her parents give him the cold shoulder. But Crail and Henry hit it off and spent the entire evening drinking beer and talking football. “I saw that game,” Henry had said, putting his arm over Crail’s shoulder. “You was runnin’ through that line like a four-horned billy goat. It’s a damn shame about that missed block,” he said. “Damn shame.” They talked about getting together to do some duck hunting, but nothing ever came of it. Next time they saw each other was when they happened to end up side by side at the urinal trough in Vaught-Hemingway Stadium at an Ole Miss homecoming game a few years later.
Now, as they drove through the deer camp’s cypress-tupelo brakes and bayous, Henry was thinking that the boy looked about half-past jaundiced with his yellowed eyes and skin. Of course, his sight wasn’t what it used to be, so maybe it was just a trick of the light. Still, he wondered, what was causing those eruptions starting on his neck?
Crail could feel Henry’s eyes on him and he was starting to wonder if the man was waiting for him to ask about the job, so he said, “Cuffie told me you wanted to talk about—”
Henry cut him off, gesturing out the window at a small oxbow lake and a stand of tupelo gum and buttonbush. “This some beautiful country, ain’t it?”
“Yes, sir. Sure is.” When Crail twitched at another hallucination, Henry acted like he didn’t notice.
With his arm hanging out the window, Henry slapped the door and looked at Crail. “Say, you do any bow huntin’?”
“A little,” he said. “Mostly just gun hunt though.”
“Pretty good with a shot?”
“I don’t waste too many.”
This prompted a smile from Henry, who just then noticed the beers sitting in the backseat. He said, “You savin’ those for later?”
“No, sir. Help yourself.” He figured maybe Henry would tell him about the job after having a drink.
Henry opened two, handing one to Crail and tossing the caps out the window, and said, “You ever hunt primitive weapon?”
“I shot a few muzzle loaders,” Crail said. “But those things are screwy. Hard to shoot straight.”
Henry agreed, and they drove down the dirt road a ways, drinking beer and making small talk. After a minute Henry casually said, “Say, how’s your mama doin’?”
Crail didn’t even think to wonder how he knew to ask. He shook his head sadly and said, “Tell you the truth, she’s been in some low cotton for a while.”
“You don’t say. I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Yes, sir. Having some troubles with her health and the insurance comp’ny.”
Henry already knew this, but he acted surprised, hurt, and disappointed all at once. He said, “No. Issat right?” He shook his head sympathetically and seemed to give some thought to the situation. “Well, I tell you what. Where’s she at, up there at the Delta Regional Hospital?”
“She oughta be,” Crail said. “But she’s back at home till they get that insurance thing straightened out.”
“Well, that ain’t right,” Henry said. “Hell, if she needs some treatment …” He made a sound to indicate his disgust at a system that would do a boy’s mama that way. He said, “I tell you what, I’m ’onna make a coupla calls, take care of that this afternoon. I know some folks up there. You can just rest your mind on that.”
With these words, tears began to well in Crail’s yellow eyes. The combination of gratitude along with the elevated amounts of drugs in his system triggered a profound mood swing. His lower lip began to tremble as a wave of emotion swept over him. Then he began to weep openly.
This raw display of human feeling set Henry to squirming. He’d never been comfortable around men who showed their emotions in ways that didn’t involve cussing at and hitting one another. He looked away long enough to let the boy regain his composure.
Crail was naturally embarrassed and confused about his exhibition. He seemed to have lost control of his feelings, and he wasn’t sure how to get back to where he used to be, emotionally speaking. He sniffled, then wiped a tear from his cheek and said, “I’d appreciate whatever you could do, M
r. LeFleur.” His voice began to quiver. “She’s all the family I got.”
Henry gave him a nervous glance. “Get a grip, son. It’ll be okay.”
“Yes, sir,” Crail said, wiping his face with his sleeve. “I don’t know what came over me. I guess I just love her so much.” After a few moments, he managed to pull himself back together. He cleared his throat and said, “Listen, Mr. LeFleur? If there’s ever anything I can do for you, all you got to do is call.”
Henry gave a nod to accept the offer. He said, “Well, now, it’s funny you should say that. ’Cause I got this thing needs takin’ care of.” He pointed at a spot up ahead. “Why don’t you park up there and we’ll talk about it.”
“You just name it,” Crail said as he brought the car to a stop.
In light of Crail’s delicate emotional condition, Henry was starting to have doubts about asking the favor. He thought back on the days when he had a whole stable of folks he could turn to on something like this, people who owed him or wanted to curry favor. And every one of them experienced at the task. But now? Everybody he might’ve called was either dead or on the waiting list. That’s the only reason he’d called Cuffie in the first place. He had nowhere else to turn. And what’s family for if you can’t count on ’em when your tit’s in the wringer?
“All right,” Henry said. “Here’s the deal. Long time ago, there was somebody tried to tangle with me, threatened to ruin my family. Fortunately, I was in a position to put it to rest, you know. But, well, somebody’s come around recently and they’s stirring things up, jeopardizing my family again, and I ain’t gone put up with it. Can’t afford to.” Henry reached into a pocket of his camouflage and pulled out an envelope, thick with cash. “So, this thing … this guy’s gotta be taken care of. You think you can do it?” He held the money out to Crail.
Crail didn’t hesitate. He nodded, saying, “You need me to scare him off?” He took hold of the envelope, but Henry didn’t let go.
Lord, he thought, this boy is thicker’n two dogs’ heads. “Okay,” Henry said. “Now listen up. I’m just gone put this out on the porch for you, so follow along. I need you to make him disappear.”
Crail’s head tilted backward and his eyes went wide. “Scare him off real good, then?”
“Scare him to death,” Henry said, still hanging on to the envelope.
There was a brief silence as Crail struggled with the subtext. Finally he said, “Ohhh, yeah. No problem.” And Henry let go of the money.
It was somewhere around the time Henry had said “this guy’s gotta be taken care of” that Jeremy Lynch had regained consciousness for the second time that day. He listened intently as the two men discussed what he assumed was his fate. When it became apparent that one of them was hiring the other to finish him off, Jeremy wormed his way toward the speakers mounted in the rear dash. He thrust a hand up through one of the speakers and waved as he shouted, “I’ll double his offer!”
Henry just about went through the roof. He jerked around, like a puppet on a string, looking for the source of the voice. All he saw was a disembodied hand coming up from the speaker hole. “What the hell is that?”
Crail gestured with his thumb. “Oh, I got a lawyer in the trunk.”
26
RICK AND LOLLIE stared at the tiny man in the wheelchair as his nurse rolled him into the room. She faced him toward the sofa, where Rick and Lollie were seated. The nurse set the brake, then put her hand on Shelby’s shoulder, saying, “I’ll be right back.”
Shelby LeFleur Jr., all ninety-five years of him, just sat there, curled up like a question mark. He looked smaller now than he had as a child in 1920, standing in that cotton field with his daddy. “Which one of you is the Woolfolk?” he asked his lap.
Lollie bent down and slightly sideways, trying to get some eye contact from underneath Shelby’s stooped body. “I am, Mr. LeFleur. My name’s Lollie Woolfolk.”
His body rocked a little as he tried to nod. “I knew a man named Woolfolk once.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, leaning over farther, sort of waving at him to get his attention. “That was my grandfather, Robert Tucker. He worked at your radio station back in the fifties.”
“No, I believe the man’s name was Woolfolk. Don’t know any Tuckers. Worked for me at my radio station. Of course that was back in the fifties.”
Rick looked at Lollie and tapped his ear, then he bent sideways and waved at the old man, shouting, “Yes, sir. By the way, my name’s Rick Shannon! I work at W-V-B-R in Vicksburg.”
The nurse came back carrying a small plastic case. While she was still behind Shelby, she gestured at Rick and Lollie and said, “Now, I warned you.” She opened the case and helped Shelby put the hearing aids into his expansive ears. Then she gave him a pat on the arm and said, “How’s that?”
“That’s fine, Jessie,” he said, touching her hand. “Thank you.”
She reached into his pocket and removed a pendant button on a lanyard that she put around his neck. “You just push your button if you need me.”
As the nurse left the room, Shelby pointed in her direction. “Jessie said you want to talk about my radio station.”
“Yes, sir,” Rick said. “We’re curious about—”
“Well, I tell you what I can,” he said. “It was a class-B licensed AM station, a thousand watts, I believe. Or maybe that was the nighttime power. It mighta been more during the day. That was a long time ago.” Shelby seemed to spark a bit as he talked about the past. His stooped and withered vessel grew increasingly animated as his words floated out in a southern accent from a different era, educated and discontinued long ago. “See, you have to lower the power because, at night, changes in the atmosphere can extend the coverage of AM radio signals. So that’s that. But, anyway, we were the first radio station in that part of the Delta.”
Lollie started to speak, but Shelby cut her off. “Of course, we’d been listening to radio for a long time before that.” The subject seemed to warm Shelby’s blood and loosen his joints. He cranked his head back and continued, “I remember when I was a young man, there was this one fella we could pick up out of northwest Louisiana. He’d come on the air saying, ‘Hello, world, doggone you! This is K-W-K-H in Shreveport, Lou-ee-siana, and it’s W.K. Henderson talkin’ to you.’ ” Shelby hit the wheelchair’s armrest with his waxy fist and chuckled at his imitation of the man.
Rick said, “You could pick up Shreveport here?”
“Well,” Shelby said with a new snicker, “truth was, Mr. Henderson had a tendency to exceed his authorized power while at the same time expropriating frequencies that, strictly speaking, hadn’t been assigned to him. That’s how he reached a third of the country.” Shelby pushed himself up a bit more in his chair. “You know, I tell you something interesting about him too. Somewhere in the late 1920s, W.K. Henderson started a campaign against national retail chain stores, the ‘damnable thieves from Wall Street,’ he called ’em. He saw how they were putting local merchants out of business, taking money out of the local economy, and he could see where it was going.” Shelby gestured toward another room in the house. “I saw on the news recently that folks are protesting against some of those cheap chain stores doing the same thing.”
“He was a man ahead of his time,” Rick said. “Now—”
“That he was,” Shelby said. “But I believe he went under during the Depression, like a lot of people, had to sell out to a new owner.” He paused for a moment as something occurred to him. “But I don’t suppose you came to hear me talk about that.”
“No, sir,” Lollie said with a smile. “We wanted to ask about your station.”
“Oh, sure, I understand.” He figured they wanted to hear funny stories about running a small station in a rural community. “Well, there was this one time I had to climb the transmitter tower to put in a new lightbulb, and I was up there, must’ve been three hundred feet up in the air, and I ain’t no fan of heights, I should say that, but I was up there screwing the old one
out when ole Bobby Gunnison flew by in his crop duster so close he almostknocked me off. I was hanging on by a safety belt for half an hour. My wife wouldn’t let me up there after that.”
They all shared a laugh over the story before Rick said, “Your son, Henry, was a partner in the station, is that right?”
Shelby thought that was an odd question since it didn’t seem likely to lead to an amusing anecdote. Still, he said, “That’s right, and my wife—Henry’s mother—wouldn’t let him climb the tower either. Had to hire somebody to do that. But to answer your question, yes. Henry had some money and he asked me to go in on it with him. Seemed like a good investment, so I bought in. At first he ran the thing and did a good job for being the son of an old dirt farmer. Even did a classical music show; he liked the German composers, as I recall. But the new wore off after a few years and he sold his interest in the station back to me. I kept it for another ten years or so before I finally sold it and went back to planting full-time. Made out all right on the deal, as I recall.”
“From what I understand,” Lollie said, “my grandfather and a man named Lamar Suggs worked at the station and made records of local musicians.”
Shelby’s body rocked as he tried to nod his head. “That’s right. Had an old Presto disc recorder in the studio, least I think that’s what they used. Didn’t make much money though, distribution was always a problem.”
Somewhere in the house a clock began to chime, prompting Rick to look at his watch. He had to get back to the station for his show, so he cut to the chase. He said, “Mr. LeFleur, this is a little off the subject, but do you remember anything about the murder of a man by the name of Hamp Doogan? This would’ve been back in the midfifties, when your son was sheriff.”
Shelby cranked his head up and looked at Rick. It seemed to strike him all the sudden that these two hadn’t come to ask innocent questions about his life in the radio business. He said, “What’s this all about?”
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