Highway 61 Resurfaced (v5)

by Bill Fitzhugh

  “It’s a long story,” Rick said.

  “Well, talk fast, son, I’m ninety-five.”

  Rick shrugged and said, “All right. A woman claiming to be Lollie Woolfolk hired me to find her grandfather. The day after I found him, he was murdered. The same woman then hired me to find Lamar Suggs. I tracked him down in Yazoo City, and a day later, he got killed too.”

  “Well, I hope nobody hired you to find me,” he said. “What’s that got to do with my old radio station?”

  “Both of those men worked there.”

  “We employed a lot of people over the years,” Shelby said. “I can’t help it if two of them got tangled up in something fifty years later and got killed over it.”

  Lollie said, “Well, we think they were involved with something fifty years ago, Mr. LeFleur. We believe the woman who pretended to be me has a partner and they’re after some tapes that were made at your station. They’re known as the Blind, Crippled, and Crazy tapes. Does that ring a bell?”

  It was hard to gauge Shelby’s reaction, since they couldn’t see his face, but based on body language it looked like they’d struck a functioning nerve. Shelby’s friendly demeanor hardened into defiance and he said, “No. Never heard of ’em. And you oughta be ashamed coming into my house, asking questions under false pretenses.”

  Rick cleared his throat and, in mollifying tones, said, “Well, sir, I apologize if that’s what you think, but we said we wanted to talk about your station and that’s what we’re doing.” He explained the connection between Cotton, Jefferson, Tate, and Pigfoot Morgan, and how Pigfoot had been arrested for the murder of Hamp Doogan. “So,” Rick said, “to the extent that your son, Henry, was involved in the case and was also running the radio station—”

  “I remember all that,” Shelby snarled. “I remember they tried that man and convicted him based on eyewitness testimony. All that was put to rest a long time ago.”

  “Well,” Rick said. “Some things have come to light that make us wonder about that testimony. Do you want to hear about it, or should we leave?” He didn’t care if Shelby threw them out, since they’d already gotten more information than they’d come for. In fact, he was sorry he’d asked the question, since he wasn’t keen on telling the old man about the nefarious activities he suspected his family had engaged in.

  Shelby sat there for a few moments, wrestling with his principles. On the one hand, he had to think about his family, even if they had been letting him down one generation after the next. But on the other hand, the truth was exerting a mighty pull on his conscience. Finally, begrudgingly, he said, “What new things have come to light?”

  Lollie looked at Rick like she couldn’t believe he would tell this old man such scandalous things about his family, especially since it was, for the most part, pure speculation. She pointed at her chest and shook her head no.

  Rick shrugged and said, “Mr. LeFleur, how’s your heart?”

  “Strong enough for the truth.”

  Lollie felt sorry for the old guy and suggested that Rick reconsider. But Shelby insisted on hearing whatever it was. Rick decided to take it one disgrace at a time. After he told the story about Ruby Finch and the boxful of photographs, Shelby said, “That’s why you came here? To find out if Lettie had a beauty mark on her face?” He grunted his dismissal of this bit of evidence, then said, “I don’t even know what you think that proves.”

  “You’re right,” Rick said. “I don’t think it proves anything by itself. And we wouldn’t be here if this was just about a little adult photography.”

  “Well, spit it out, man. Just what are you here about?”

  Rick explained his theory that the photos might suggest an affair between Doogan and Lettie, and that if Henry had learned of the affair, he might have killed Doogan, and if that was the case, it meant Pigfoot Morgan had been framed, presumably by Henry. “So,” Rick said, “we’re trying to connect all these dots. And one of them led us here.”

  “Huh.” Shelby seemed unimpressed. “Even if you’re right about all your what-ifs, and you got plenty, seems to me you’re looking at the wrong people. Seems like you ought to be looking for this woman who came to hire you in the first place.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ve been trying to find her,” Lollie said, getting to her feet. “But we didn’t know where to start looking until a few minutes ago.” She headed for the family photograph.

  “What do you mean by that?” Shelby said.

  Rick tried to catch her eye before she could say or do anything else, but Lollie was caught up in the moment. She grabbed the picture off the wall and held it in front of Shelby so he could see. She pointed and said, “It was her.”

  The news landed in Shelby’s lap like life’s final disappointment. “Cufïie?” He stared at the picture and Lollie’s accusing finger hovering over it. “No,” he said. “You’re mistaken.”

  Rick was trying to figure out how to undo the damage, but it was too late. He had to go with it and see what happened. “I don’t think so,” Rick replied. “But I understand your reluctance to believe us.”

  “It must have been someone else,” Shelby said, grasping at straws. “Someone who looks like her.” He pushed the picture away.

  “No, sir. I’m sorry,” Rick said, sympathetically. “Do you know where we can find her?”

  “I wouldn’t tell you if I did.” Shelby reached for the pendant button around his neck and pushed it. “It’s time for you to leave.”

  “Mr. LeFleur, we’re going to find her,” Rick said.

  “And what if you do? You can’t prove a thing. I can say she was with me when these men were killed, just as easy as you can say she’s the woman who hired you.”

  “Except you’d be lying under oath,” Rick said.

  “You’re talking about my family!” Shelby raised a crooked finger and pointed to the door. “Now get out. I am not going to listen to another word of your nonsense.”

  They stood to leave just as Jessie came into the room. Rick said, “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.”

  “Get out!” Shelby, hands trembling with rage, reached up and removed his hearing aids. “I don’t want to hear another word of this!”

  CLARENCE MORGAN FIRST picked up a guitar when he was nine. By his tenth birthday, he could imitate any style he heard, from jazz to gospel to blues. They said he was a natural. When he was sixteen he went down to Orleans Parish in Louisiana to visit relatives. While he was there, he happened to see Lightnin’ Slim playing guitar. He’d never heard anything like it. The sound of his instrument stuck in Clarence’s heart like a knife. The look on the women’s faces who were listening stuck with him too. That’s when he knew he wanted to play guitar for a living.

  For the next two weeks, he followed Slim from show to show, studying his technique, trying to learn how he got the sounds he did. When Pigfoot returned to the Delta, he kept trying to imitate Slim’s sound, but the resulting style was distinctly his own. By the time he was arrested, six years later, he had found his voice and he had things to say, but he never got to share either.

  That gnawed at him the whole time he was at Parchman because he figured he could’ve been as big as Howlin’ Wolf or Magic Sam or Muddy Waters or any of ’em. He dreamed of playing on radio programs and television too. He dreamed of traveling the world, his name in lights. He could see himself up on the stage, wearing a glossy, tailor-made suit. And he could see those women too. There would be so many of ’em, he’d have some to share. Pigfoot Morgan, they’d say, was the sharpest-dressed axman you ever laid your eyes on. The only thing prettier than the man himself were the sounds he coaxed out of his guitar.

  All those days in Parchman’s fields pickin’ cotton, all those nights locked up behind bars, and all he could do was dream of the life he never had, a glamorous life with a chauffeur and a personal assistant and his own tailor.

  Pigfoot had been working on the details of his dream for fifty years. Sometimes he stayed up nights polishing it, getting ever
ything just right. And now, as he approached seventy-three, Pigfoot was making his dream come true, or at least part of it. He knew he wasn’t long for this world, so he was going to do his damnedest to live the life he imagined had been taken from him. The life of a star, a sharp-dressed man with an entourage. He straightened his tie and said, “Driver, slow yo’ ass down. Road man pull us over, you gone be the first one he sees kilt.”

  Buddy aimed his dark glasses at the rearview mirror. “Yah, suh,” he said, a bit thicker than he’d intended.

  “Listen here, you can just cut cho eyes thata way,” Pigfoot said, pointing forward from the backseat of Buddy’s Cadillac. “And you best watch how you talk.” He held up the rifle and said, “If I have to let you go, it’s gone be the hard way.”

  Buddy tugged down on the front brim of his hat and looked over at Crippled Willie, who was in the front passenger seat looking a little nervous himself. They were both wearing their bestsuits, at Pigfoot’s command, said his driver and personal assistant had to look respectable.

  They were on Highway 12, heading for Tchula. A little past Belzoni, Pigfoot nudged Crippled Willie’s shoulder with his rifle and said, “Go on, Reverend, call him again.”

  Willie nodded and pushed the redial button, then pressed the phone to his ear. After a few moments, he began to shake his head. He turned to the backseat and said, “They’s still no answer.”

  “No answer, what?”

  “No answer, Mr. Morgan.”

  Pigfoot leaned back in his seat, satisfied by Willie’s performance but concerned about his lawyer. “All right,” he said. “We’ll try again in a little while.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Buddy turned the Cadillac onto Two Mile Road. He slowed down to navigate through the gaping potholes. When they reached the dead end, Buddy pulled into the rocky parking lot of the Starlighter’s Lounge and, owing to a lack of depth perception, hit one of the rusty oil drums out front, knocking it over. “Damn.” He looked in the mirror. “Sorry, Mr. Morgan.” Try as he might, Buddy couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

  “You think you halfway slick, but you ain’t,” Pigfoot said. “I know you tryin’ to work evva last nerve I got.” He shook his head. “But it’s all right. You just do like you supposed to, things’ll work out.”

  Buddy threw the car into park and slowly got out. Half of him wanted to take a chance and break on Pigfoot when the moment was right, get the gun away from him and just go a round with him to settle up, but the other half knew it wouldn’t be enough. He owed Pigfoot more than he could pay, so he’d just endure these little humiliations and hope to come out close to even. He adjusted the knot in his tie and checked his reflection in the window. Then he opened the door and Pigfoot stepped out like he was the king of Holmes County. Buddy and Crippled Willie followed him to the front of the building, where Pigfoot came to a regal stop. He waited a beat, then turned to look at Buddy, who mumbled something as he stepped up to open this door too.

  27

  THE WOMAN SITTING at the bar didn’t seem as amused as she had earlier in the day. Crazy Earl had been steady working on her, but he wasn’t any closer now than when he’d started two hours ago. An empty gin bottle stood by the ashtray. Earl waved at the bartender and said, “Give us another drink, all right?”

  “Can’t do it,” the bartender said from behind the newspaper he was reading.

  “How come?”

  “You ain’t got no goddamn money.”

  Earl’s head went back. “I know I ain’t got no goddamn money,” he said. “I don’t need you to remind me. That ain’t your job. Your job is pouring drinks.”

  The woman pushed back from the bar. “All right then. I think I’m gone.”

  Earl looked insulted and said, “Oh, it’s like that, huh? You go on then.” He waved a hand at the door. “You ain’t no big thing. I can replace you right away.”

  The bartender turned the page and said, “You gonna sing the whole song or just that line?”

  “John Lee Hooker stole that from me!”

  The woman said she was going to see if she could find old Tommy Lester.

  Earl said, “What’s he got I didn’t used to have?”

  She said something about his wallet.

  Earl laughed and said, “You’ll be back. And I’ll be at both doors waitin’ on you.”

  She walked right out the front door when Buddy opened it for Pigfoot.

  Pigfoot went in and paused next to Billy Dee Williams on the Colt 45 poster and gestured for the others to go ahead of him, like bodyguards clearing the way.

  The place was empty except for the bartender and Crazy Earl, perched on his stool near the empty gin bottle. Hearing the footsteps he steadied himself on the rail and turned to see who was coming in. When he saw Buddy and Willie standing there in their suits, he said, “Damn. We got us two intanational niggers comin’ up in here. And just the ones I need to talk to. C’mon over here and buy me a drink.” He waved for them to join him at the bar. “Listen,” he said, thinking they were approaching. “I been thinkin’. We gotta do somethin’ ’bout Pigfoot.” He slapped the bar and said, “That salty, shad-mouthed nigger shot up my house, tryin’ to kill me. He’s gone come for you too, ‘less we get his black ass first.” He turned and noticed that they hadn’t budged, so he waved for them again. “C’mon, we’ll figure it out.” They just stood their ground, so Earl said, “Wha’ choo waitin’ on?”

  Buddy and Willie stepped aside, and Pigfoot moved forward into a dim pool of light. The bartender, who didn’t have a dog in this particular fight, disappeared slowly behind the bar with his paper. Pigfoot stood there with the Remington down at his side where Earl couldn’t see it. Pigfoot said, “Who you calling a shad-mouthed nigga?”

  The voice was both familiar and strange. Earl hung on to the bar rail as he leaned out to get a closer look at who had said that. He hadn’t seen the face in fifty years, but he knew it was Pigfoot the second he saw him. “Shit!” The way he jumped, it looked like someone had hit him with a cattle prod. He snatched the gin bottle by the neck and broke it on the bar as he jumped to his feet swinging the jagged glass in front of him, cutting the air and sending a thin mist of gin across the room. He gestured for Pigfoot to bring it on, saying, “Ain’t afraid of yo’ black ass.”

  “Y’ain’t, huh?” Pigfoot raised the rifle from his hip, bringing it into the light for the first time. “You ‘fraid of this?”

  Even somebody crazy as Earl knew a broken gin bottle wasn’t much good in a gunfight. He muttered something obscene before he dropped it to the floor.

  “Listen here,” Pigfoot said with the authority of an armed man. “I shot up your raggedy-ass house to put some fear into that hard-shell hoodoo head of yours. If I’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead. And it don’t matter how many damn rusty nails you wrap up in that conjure sack of yours. Man ain’t made no hand strong enough to keep you safe from me now.”

  Sensing that the danger had passed, the bartender stood up, pointed at the menu board, and said, “Any y’all hongry? Got some hot links, some tamales.”

  “Naw, unh-unh,” Buddy said, speaking for everybody. “We ain’t hungry.”

  Crazy Earl had bad intentions as he stared at Pigfoot and fingered the flannel sack in his pocket. Pigfoot kept the rifle on Earl while he turned to Willie. “Call him again.”

  Willie did as he was told and, a few moments later, said, “Still no answer.” He hung up.

  “Damn.” Pigfoot thought on it for a second. “Somethin’ wrong,” he said. “We gotta go see about it.” He gestured at Earl again with the rifle. “You own a suit?”

  Earl squinted at him. “Say what?”

  “You ain’t gone be in my entourage lookin’ like that.”

  “Wha’ choo talkin’ about, entourage?”

  “Nigger, are you deaf and crazy? I axed if you owned a suit.”

  Earl looked at the way Pigfoot was holding the rifle before he said, “Got’s old one.”

  �
�All right then, we gone get it.”

  “The hell you talkin’ ’bout? What I need a suit for?”

  “We goin’ to see my lawyer.”

  IT NEVER CROSSED Crail’s mind that a man could get so dirty digging such a shallow grave. But Cuffie was right, there was no point in carrying the lawyer around with him any longer, so he had to do something with him. When they got back to the cabin, Henry gave him an old U.S. Army M21, one of many weapons he’d confiscated during his tenure in law enforcement. He’d seized this sniper rifle from a bootlegger near Wayside who had refused to pay proper tribute. Henry directed Crail to a secluded spot on his camp where he might leave his attorney. “After you’re done with him,” Henry said, “you find those two down in Vicksburg and make it look like a lover’s quarrel, you know? Somethin’ like that.”

  Crail took the lawyer, the gun, and the money and told Henry not to worry. He’d take care of everything. Henry had his doubts, but he didn’t have any better options, so he said good luck and hoped for the best. Thirty minutes and two shots later, Crail was tossing dirt on the body when Lynch’s cell phone started to ring. He threw on one last shovel of dirt and said, “Leave a message at the tone.” Then he got in his car and headed for Greenville.

  Two hours later Crail found himself in an awkward position. He was in the bathroom of the Bayou Caddy Jubilee Casino bent over and trying to get his head underneath the warm-air hand dryer. He’d used all the paper towels in the dispenser to wash himself and now he was trying to get the back of his neck dry. But since he could no longer flex his knee, it was tough sledding. Even with one hand against the wall and his bad leg stretched out straight, he couldn’t get low enough. He finally gave up and shuffled over to a stall. Toilet paper would have to do. Once he was dried off, he went to the bar and had a double shot of Wild Turkey, then he lit a cigarette and headed outside.

  Big Jim Magee was leaning against the trunk of his car in the parking lot when he saw Crail coming his way. He wasn’t limping so much as he was dragging his bad leg behind him like a mad scientist’s assistant. “Where you been?”