“It enlivens my work—humor,” admitted Fisher.
“Tell me all about it,” demanded Merrill. “I ought to know: I paid high. That roll of plans, now—”
“Did you examine them?” asked Fisher. “Artistic work, if I do say it myself. Sat up in my cabin the last five nights working on them: the Champagne district as I think it ought to he.”
“And the gent with the credentials who called on me in Rome? Come, Henry, tell me all about it. Remember how you used to tell me all your pranks? Who was he? What did you pay him?”
“An ex-guide,” said Fisher. “These are dull days for guides. He did it for a hundred. He would have stuck a knife in you for less.”
“A hundred lire,” mused Merrill. “Good profits, Henry. Better than the cattle game. I wonder now, Henry, if you’ve got ten thousand lire about your lying, sneaking person—”
He stood over Fisher threateningly, but his late friend looked up at him without a trace of worry in his face.
“Look me over,” he said. “I told you many times—it isn’t my method to carry loot about on me. I’ve only got a little change. Those ten thousand are banked, old boy: banked where you’ll never get them.” He held up his arms. “Search me,” he suggested.
“No use.” Merrill shook his head. “Besides, I’m no pickpocket. Henry, it begins to look as though I’ll just have to take my medicine and shut up. After all, I’ve got something out of the deal. I’ll look out for the next man that batters me. What a convincing liar you are, my boy!”
“I’m sorry,” replied Fisher. “Really, I am. An artist looks at a sunset, and he just has to paint it. I looked at you, and you called out to the artist in me. I had to do you.”
“And you was just plain lying,” mused Merrill. “All that about my being a great judge of men, and nobody could swindle me—”
“Well, it looks that way, doesn’t it?”
“A lesson for me, Henry. I’ll never get puffed up again. And—” he glanced toward the gold elephant above him—“there is a little something you can do for me, after all. You can make me a present all over again. You can give me that ebony stick to carry—so that I’ll always be reminded I’m the easiest fool in shoe leather. You’ll do that, Henry?”
Fisher’s jaws set.
“I will not,” he said. “That stick is mine. I need it.” The ranchman came closer. “It’s mine—let it alone,”
“My boy,” said Merrill softly, “don’t act up. I want that stick: I want it for a souvenir—a reminder—to keep me humble like I should be—”
“Let it alone!” Fisher screamed. He started to rise from his seat, when suddenly the huge fingers of the ranchman’s left hand engulfed his throat. He did not speak again, but the shifty eyes that looked up at Merrill filled suddenly with a deep respect.
“Boy,” said Merrill, “I could break you in two. Don’t rile me. It ain’t much I ask, just the ebony stick—”
“All right,” gurgled Fisher, and Merrill let go. “I’m full of that humor you spoke of. Poetic justice. I suppose it is.” His face was bitter as he reached up and secured the stick. “Take it—from your old friend Fisher.” He sneered, with a low bow.
“To the easiest mark you ever met,” smiled Merrill. “No!” snarled Fisher. “No! The old presentation speech still stands.”
Merrill paused a second, thoughtfully.
“I’ll be going hack to my second-class corner,” he said. “The high grade company in this red plush compartment ain’t to my liking.”
He went out into the corridor, grasping his prize. Fisher followed him to the door. “Damn you!” he cried. “Why didn’t you stick to that Cook’s schedule? I banked on it. I said nothing on God’s green earth could switch you.”
“From now on,” Merrill answered, “nothing will. You’ve got my route, l guess, Don’t get in my way again. Good-by.”
In the corridor outside his own compartment he sought to spring the catch that should open the head of the stick but, ignorant of the secret, his efforts were in vain. In another moment he was surrounded by a restless crowd bearing luggage, and an officer of whom he had made inquiries earlier in the journey tapped him on the shoulder.
“Firenze,” said the Italian.
“By golly, he means Florence.” Merrill cried, and his thoughts were no longer of walking sticks as he dove in to get his baggage.
Florence proved to be the most lovely of all cities, for Celia Ware was waiting on the platform. A trifle more mature, a trifle wiser in the world’s ways than when she left Texas to win fame and fortune, she seemed standing there; but still the Celia of the joyous eyes, the heart-warming smile. Bob Merrill overturned citizens to reach her side.
“Celia,” he cried. “Let me hear you say it. You want me more than music—”
She clutched his arm.
“Oh, Bob,” she answered. “You mean more than Beethoven to me.”
The glory of this renunciation caught Merrill in the throat, and without more preamble he took her in his arms and kissed her. The Italians are an emotional people, and the scene was not unappreciated.
They were married next day in the English Church of the Holy Trinity, and in the crowded, gorgeous time that followed Merrill thought little of the ebony stick, save once when he humbly related his adventure to his wife. Italy decked itself in the glad habiliments of summer for their honeymoon; the sea was glittering glass when they sailed over it for home. The last week in July brought them, happy, once more to the Silver Star.
On a certain very hot morning early in August Clay Garrett opened the door of that Texas bank as the clock on the City Hall struck nine. Two minutes later, according to his custom, Major Tellfair entered, nodded to Clay and the boys, and passed on into his office. Another five minutes elapsed, and Bob Merrill, with the family smile on his face, strode into that marble interior, an ebony stick in his hand.
Major Tellfair rose quickly in welcome as Merrill entered the president’s office. Certain formalities about the day and the Silver Star being disposed of, Merrill held up his walking stick. “Major,” he said? “I told you the story of how I came by this cane. I reckon you remember—”
“Of course I do,” said the major.”
And I’m eternally sorry that I left you waiting over there in Rome—”
“Best thing you ever did,” Merrill interrupted. “I reckon I forgot to mention that when that low-down rascal gave me this stick the second time, as per my warm request, he said: ‘The old presentation speech still stands.’ I didn’t gather what he meant at the time, but do now. Major, sir—there’s been a sequel—and a dog-goned nice sequel, too.”
“Indeed, sir, I am very glad to hear it.”
“You know, l was so all-fired taken with the joys of matrimony I didn’t pay any attention to this stick coming home. But last night out at the ranch got to fooling with it, and the handle came off.” Merrill reached into his pocket, and threw down a small bundle of thin paper before his friend. “Major, as my banker, what am I going to do with that truck?”
“Ah—um—” Major Tellfair studied the roll. “These seem to be banknotes issued in Italy, each for a thousand lire—”
“Correct,” laughed Merrill. “And there’s ten of them—ten nice new notes for a thousand lire each—the identical ten I handed over to a greasy little man in the Bank Ditallyuh, or whatever you call it. That slick Fisher told me they was banked where I’d never get them, but he was wrong—dead wrong.”
He leaned buck in his chair and laughed again.
“Major, I’m a happy man. I’m married to the finest girl in Texas—and that means the world. And I went up against the slickest con man on the Seven Seas, and l did him. Yes, sir; l did him out of the hundred lire he paid that guy to get me.”
“I’m delighted,” beamed the major. “That was a lucky meeting of yours: that second one with Fisher. It begins to look like my boy Clay burst into song at just the right date and locality.”
“That’s true,�
� agreed Merrill. “I’d almost forgotten that. Yes, sir—Clay surely launched into ‘Silver Threads Among the Gold’ at what they call the psychological moment. By the way, how about this stuff?”
“I’ll send it to New York to-day,” the major promised, “and have it translated into real money for you. I won’t forget, Bob.”
Merrill rose. “Thanks,” he said. “Just put it to my account, major. I’m a happy man. But I mustn’t get stuck on myself: that was the way I got done before.”
He returned to the banking room; Clay Garrett was loafing amiably near the door. Merrill removed a roll of bills from his pocket, took a twenty-dollar note from the top, and pressed it into the negro’s hand.
“That’s yours, Clay,” he said.
Clay staggered weakly. “Fo’ de Lawd’s sake, Mistuh Bob, what’s this?”
“Just a few lire for you, Clay—that’s all,” Merrill answered.
“Liar?” What yo-all mean—liar? Mistuh Bob, I swear I ain’t—”
“No offense,” laughed Merrill. “I just want you to have it, Clay. I like your singing.”
He went out into the street, leaving a dazed but happy negro leaning unsteadily against a marble post.
CHICKENS FOR CHARLIE, by Arlette Lees
Originally published in Yellow Mama, April 2012.
I stand beside Sheriff Buford’s chicken coop trying to wipe blood from my hands and making a real mess of it. Horace Rochon, the sheriff’s worthy opponent in the upcoming election, lies bleeding out at my feet which pretty much assures the sitting sheriff a second uncontested term.
At the moment, however, I’m not thinking about political futures. I’m thinking about mine and if I have one. The fact that I’m only twelve years old will not get me off the hook. I live in St. Martinville, the only place in America where a child went to the electric chair twice.
On May 3, 1946, just five years back, an innocent 16 year old boy, Willie Frances, was strapped into Gruesome Gertie. When they pulled the switch, poor little Willie received a painful jolt. The chair skittered across the floor but the juice fizzled out and Willie lived. Despite nationwide appeals for leniency, the sentence was carried out the following year. Willie didn’t kill nobody. He just paid for it.
This is the way I see it. An innocent nigra boy like Willie and a questionable little cracker like me are equal under the laws of Louisiana. We’re both going to fry. Folks will come from miles around on execution day and spread their picnics on the lawn outside the jailhouse. If it weren’t for fire-and-brimstone preachers, snake oil salesmen and Gruesome Gertie, there wouldn’t be any kind of entertainment in these parts.
If me and my four brothers hadn’t gone to bed hungry for three nights in a row, none of this would have happened. I slipped out of our shack on Alligator Bayou when everyone was still asleep and headed for the Buford place. Cecil Buford and his pretty little wife Goldie would be on their way to New Iberia to hear the tent preacher everyone was talking about.
The Bufords were well off by local standards, so I figured they wouldn’t starve if I bagged a fryer or two from their backyard chicken coop. The problem is, things don’t always work out the way you plan.
I’m jimmying the catch on the chicken yard fence with my fishing knife when Goldie Buford throws open the upstairs bedroom window. Seems she didn’t join her husband at the revival after all.
Goldie is the kind of gal who likes to flaunt what God give her, so for a second or two I’m distracted by her lovely state of undress. That is until she points a finger at me and starts yelling like a crazy woman.
“Get him Horace!” she screams. “That no good Charlie Nicolet is after my chickens again.”
Holy shit! Horace Rochon? What the hell is he doing here? Goldie has something on her mind other than getting saved by a tent preacher on this fine Sunday morning.
Horace comes bustin’ out of the screen door. My brain tells me to run, but my feet are frozen to the ground. His fly is open wider than a barn door, the ends of his belt flapping around his hips as he runs at me.
What the hell does a beautiful lady like Goldie see in a tub of lard like Horace? He’s just as ugly as old Cecil.
“You son-of-a-bitch white trash!” he yells, his face red as a boil.
“Wait! Wait!” I say, as he comes at me across the grass, pulling his belt out of the loops. I see a pair of lacy pink panties peekin’ out of his jeans pocket, but I’m thinking more about the belt and how he’s goin’ to peel my hide right off of my bones. He cuts a right comical figure, except I’m too scared to laugh. I wasn’t countin’ on all this excitement so early in the day.
As he winds up to flay me proper with the brass buckle end of the belt, he gets all twisted up in the legs of his jeans, which are now down around his knees. He stumbles forward impaling his prodigious gut on the blade of my fishing knife. He drops with a groan, the knife still inside him, and flops around at my feet like a big white-bellied fish until he’s all flopped out.
After the initial shock wears off, I try to pull up his pants for the sake of his dignity, but he’s as heavy as a beached whale and I pull my hands back all sticky with blood.
Hell, I never meant for this to happen. It was an accident, pure and simple, but given my record for chicken stealin’, and other harmless mischief, nobody’s goin’ to take my word for it.
As if things ain’t bad enough, Cecil Buford pulls into the driveway in his pickup truck. Seems like he’s back mighty early from New Iberia, like maybe his head is full of suspicions regarding the fidelity of his wife.
“What the hell!” he says, slammin’ the truck door.
Now I have Cecil runnin’ at me from one direction and Goldie flyin’ out the back door. She’s slipped into a flimsy nightie as transparent as cigarette smoke, so I can pretty much see as much as I did before she put it on.
“That man dead?” says Cecil, lookin’ down at the motionless figure. “Holy shit, that’s Horace Rochon. What the blazes is goin’ on here?”
Goldie rushes over and clings to Cecil’s side.
“I’m so glad you’re back Cecil darling’. This dear boy saved me from a violent attack at the hands of this monster.” She looks up at Cecil, with her big blue eyes and her soft blonde hair, the picture of wounded innocence. I was almost fallin’ for it myself. I’m still mute with shock, but she’s a fast thinker that one.
“Is that true, Charlie?” he asks, wiping sweat from his face, his tobacco-stained teeth clamped tight around a cheap cigar.
My mouth is dry as cotton, but I swallow hard and find my voice.
“It’s just like she says, sir.” I bend over and pull the lacy panties from the dead man’s pocket. “I stepped in just as things were getting’ outta hand.”
“Give me those!” snaps Cecil, snatching them away from me and handing them to his wife “Get yourself back in the house woman.”
I try to keep my eyes from following her as she walks away.
Already I can see the wheels turning between Cecil’s ears. Now that his competition has been dispatched, he has to consider his wife’s reputation and his standing in the community. Our fishy story might just work to his advantage.
He ponders the situation. I make note of his flabby gut and pungent b.o. Then I think about Goldie all fluffy and perfumed. He ain’t likely to find another fancy dime-a-dance lady from Kansas City willing to move south to a bayou filled with gators and snakes.
“What you want for a reward, boy?” says Cecil, all magnanimous-like. “A nice crisp dollar bill?” He pulls a fat wallet from his pocket.
“How about one of them fancy new slingshots from the Five and Dime?”
Fatso must think I just fell off the turnip truck.
“I’d like five of them nice roasting hens for my mama,” I say, eyeing the fattest ones in the flock.” I smile at him all wide eyed and innocent, just like Goldie. He’s not certain I’m mockin’ him, but I can tell by his tight smile, that he thinks I’m damn uppity for a little swamp rat
. He wants to whoop me up the side of the head, but instead he puts his wallet away real slow and thoughtful.
“You’ll get your five chickens boy,” he says, “but, you ain’t been here today, Charles. This is a small town and there’s only room for one hero in a case like this, and that’s me, protecting the virtue of my little wife. You read me, kid?”
“I do, sir.”
“Then wash up at the pump there, go on home and keep your mouth shut. I’d hate to see some-thing happen to an upstandin’ boy like yourself.”
I wash up and pick up my gunnysack of cacklin’ hens. Before I get to the back of the property, I hear a moan. I peek around Buford’s garden shed and see Horace Rochon pull himself up on one elsbow. I guess he ain’t quite as dead as I thought.
Cecil removes the knife from Horace’s belly and Horace yelps like a dog what’s been hit by a car. Cecil looks toward the street to make sure no one is watching, then punches the knife blade into Horace’s heart and gives it a vicious twist for good measure. That’s what happens when you go to a man’s house with more than stealin’ chickens on your mind.
I run all the way home.
I don’t know nuthin’.
I ain’t seen nuthin.”
Mama turns from the sink when I come into the kitchen with my bag of cacklers.
“You been stealing Cecil Buford’s chickens again?”
“No Mama, he give me them birds.”
“Don’t lie to me, Charles. If it wasn’t Sunday, I’d take the switch to your behind.” She smiles and pats my head. “Be a good boy and bring me the ax. We’re goin’ to have a nice chicken dinner when we get back from the tent revival.”
DOUBLE DOUBLE-CROSS, by Jack London Berkebile
Originally published in Delaware County Daily Times, Aug. 10, 1940.
When Duke Hanson and Stooge Weller walked into the restaurant under the stands at the Cumberland Fair, Duke hadn’t any intention of falling in Jove with Judy. Duke hadn’t any intention of falling in love with anyone, because for 27 years he had been in love with one person exclusively…a guy named Duke Hanson.
The Third Mystery Page 6