A Fine Kettle of Fish

by Lou Bradshaw

  After his opening question, he really didn’t have much to say, just a little small talk, and when Lloyd talks small it’s really small – actually tiny. Finally, he got down to the reason for his visit. He said, “You went out to the wreck when that nigger got killed didn’t ya?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I was there. He really messed up that car.”

  “I’ll bet,” he muttered, “I gotta call from this friend of mine up in KC said he knew that boy. Said he was a friend, wanted to find out what happened. Told him I’d see what I could find out.”

  So it began.

  Chapter 21

  I was told that someone of a criminal type would contact me, but I didn’t think it would be by a stupid criminal type. Well, if I have to deal with an idiot, then I may as well deal with him and act as dumb as he is. So, I replied to his probe, “Well,” I said, “there’s not much I can tell you. He was already dead when I got there. I just hauled that thing in and dumped it. The cops took it the next day up to Marshfield. That’s all I can tell you because that’s all I know about it.”

  “Marshfield?”

  “Yeah they store it there until the owner or insurance company comes and claims what’s left of it.”

  “Dis guy – my friend – he says dat boy owed him some money, and he tole me … ask me to find out if there was anything in da car worth anything.”

  “Nah,” I said, “ I checked the trunk. There was a new tire and jack that may be worth something and some clothes. Cops probably got it all counted by now. Anything in particular your friend’s looking for?”

  “No, just trying to get his money back.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t help you – there just wasn’t anything there, L-Loyd.” I always called him L-Loyd because there are 2 Ls in Lloyd. He just thought I stuttered. I asked him one time why his name had 2 Ls in it. He didn’t know but said that as soon as he got some money together he was going to change it because Lloyd was a sissy name. Said he wanted a tough name like Elvis, Rock, or Duke …Duke Dickey. Hmm?

  “Well Bud, (I’m not sure he knew my name; it was always Bud or Stud or something like that) dis guy would sure be grateful if someone could turn somethin’ up – real grateful!”

  “If there was anything valuable in that wreck I sure didn’t see it.”

  “Dat’s too bad, Bud, cause you coulda made a nice piece a change on the deal. I’ll let him know. Maybe he can buy it from the insurance company or somethin’.”

  “Yeah, or he can deal with the sheriff; maybe they’ll let him check it out.” I said, feeling as stupid as my suggestion sounded.

  “Probably not,” he said, after giving it some serious thought, “but hey, Slick, I’ll be seein’ you. Don’t let your meat loaf.” Oh that Duke Dickey, he could sure turn a phrase.

  When I was sure that Dickey had gone, I went into Brick’s office and called Junior Bradley. I wanted to tell him what Lloyd had said while it was still fresh in my mind. I told him that Lloyd had come as a total surprise, since I was expecting an out-of-town contact. He said that he was quite familiar with Dickey, and that he should have thought of him as a contact.

  “Let me get a hold of Fletcher and see how he wants to play it. You going to be around for a while?”

  “Till about 10 o’clock,” I told him, “ then I’ll probably go over to Crockett’s for something to eat.”

  At 10 o’clock, I left Jacky to close, and I drove on down to Crockett’s for a greaseburger, and coffee. I gave fat Dolly my order on the way to a booth. She didn’t get too excited about it; she was too busy being impressed with Chuck’s war stories. Those two deserved each other.

  About 20 minutes later, Junior showed up in uniform. He stopped at Chuck’s stool and visited with him a bit. Dolly brought him a complimentary coffee and doughnut. He stopped at each local along the counter, made some comment or sign of recognition, and moved on. When he got to my booth he set his coffee down and slid into the booth across from me, then he lounged against the corner of the booth and lit a cigarette. I had never seen him smoke before.

  “Brickey,” he said, “that old pile of junk you’ve been driving looks to be pretty well used up to me. I doubt that it would be able to pass any kind of field inspection.”

  “Hey,” I said, “that’s a good old car – it just needs a little attention that’s all.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure, you just better give it a little attention, you hear?” Then in a much quieter voice he said, “Can you be in Springfield tomorrow at noon?” I nodded.

  “Be at Fleischmann’s car lot at 12 o’clock, and ask for Mel. Tell him you want to trade in this pile of crap. Use those exact words, pile of crap.”

  He finished his coffee, snubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and then in a normal voice he said,” You better get that right tail light fixed before I have to write you a citation.” He reversed his way down the counter saying his, “see ya arounds,” as he went toward the door.

  “Right tail light my behind,” I said to myself, “it’s the left one that doesn’t work.”

  When I left, I reached in and pulled on the light switch, then went around the car to check the lights. Everything was dark, and by the light of my Zippo I saw pieces of red glass in the gravel. “Why that rotten, no good, son of a….”

  * * *

  Thursday at noon, I was at Fleischmann’s House of Fine Pre-Owned Cars on North Glenstone in Springfield, looking for Mel. It so happened that Mel was the owner, operator, sales force, mechanic, and only employee of the small car lot. I gave him the secret password, “piece of crap,” and he took me to the office. And surprise of all surprises, there sat Special Agent Tom Fletcher of the FBI and Missouri State Trooper Ted (Junior the tail light buster) Bradley.

  “Hey,” I said to Junior, “that was a rotten thing to do to my tail light.”

  “All for the cause of realism, my boy.” He said with a grin. “Don’t worry about it; keep the receipt and you’ll get reimbursed.”

  “Receipt my fanny,” I thought, “I’ll get a new lens and bulb as soon as it gets dark off the first ’49 Ford I see.

  Mel went to lunch and hung a closed sign on the door. The office was a converted house trailer – not a big one but comfortable enough with a window air conditioner working itself to death. Trailers always make me feel like they are going to tip over if all the weight is on one side. I took a chair across from the others who were at the desk.

  The Fed opened with an in depth interrogation of what Lloyd had said. He asked about names and threats and rewards. I answered as accurately as I could. I told him how Lloyd claimed to be helping out a friend who was owed some money, and would be very appreciative if I could help him.

  “Well, it’s a start. It’s a contact, a small one, but nonetheless a contact and that’s encouraging.” I didn’t know if I was all that encouraged. “Trooper Bradley pulled his rap sheet this morning, penny anti stuff, mostly juvenile, but he did spend some time at Bellfountain Farms. That’s probably where he got hooked up with this bunch. I guess it’s just a coincidence that they had a connection with a local boy.”

  Junior added, “I got a report this morning that someone broke into the county impound lot in Marshfield after midnight last night. They went through that car with a fine toothcomb, opened everything, and cut up the upholstery. My guess is that young Dickey may have been freelancing.”

  “We got a lab report back on Willis.” Fletcher went on, “He was a user for sure – probably skimming on the shipments. I can’t imagine them letting a junkie do their hauling for them, if they knew. Maybe they found out and figured to pop him on the road and leave him in the woods somewhere. But that’s just speculation, and it doesn’t add up that they would hit him out on the road and take a chance on losing a shipment and a car. They could easily whack him in Memphis and let his body float down to New Orleans.”

  The G-Man continued, “This leads us to believe that maybe a rival bunch could have been trying to do a little hijacking. Probably tri
ed to stop him back in the boonies, and he made a run for it. He probably panicked and punched it. Who knows.?”

  “Hey,” I said, “ about a month ago, Luther was telling me about another driver who was killed. I don’t remember all the details but he was worried.”

  “Good observation,” Junior noted, “if you remember anything else, let one of us know.”

  “What can you tell us about this Luther Bates?” Fletcher asked.

  I told him all that I knew about Luther, which really wasn’t very much. It seemed strange to think that you saw someone every week or so for 6 months, and had no idea what they were mixed up in. I told them that he hasn’t been in since the wreck. Fletcher figured that they had altered operations for now. He didn’t think we would ever see Luther in this part of the country again, but said he would check with Memphis for any word on him. He really didn’t even know if Luther Bates was his real name.

  “And now my lad,” Special Agent Fletcher said with a smile, “we’re going to give you the look of sudden prosperity, like someone who just came into some very good fortune. Let’s go out back and see what we can find for you.”

  That sounded good, but I was a little confused by the sudden turn of attitude – I still didn’t trust him. I figured that whatever he had in mind was for his advantage not mine. We went out and around to the back of the trailer office, and there sitting all by itself was the prettiest ’57 Chevy, BelAir you ever laid eyes on. It was a 2-door hardtop, dark metallic blue with a white blaze, tuck and roll interior, and 4 on the floor. Under the hood was a very non-stock fuel injected 327 V-8.

  “We want this Dickey fella to get the idea that you’re in the chips, or at least that you have something that is going to get you some money soon.” Fletcher was talking, but I wasn’t listening – I was drooling. He went on, “This car has a history in California, and it’s Government property. Now the accounting people are going to want to see something from it.”

  “Here it comes, “ I said to myself, “the attached strings.”

  “We’ve set it up with Mel to trade in the pile of crap and $300, strung out for as long as you need, and it’s yours. Otherwise we want it back when we close the case or call it off.”

  I was dancing to keep from wetting – I was that excited. “It’s a deal – it’s a deal!” I was practically screaming. I could have gone over to the bank right then and got the money, but I thought it would be better to cool it and make the payments. Actually, I had more than that in the 1st National Bank of Doubling, and I had a good steady income now so payments wouldn’t be a bad deal.

  “We were kinda rough on you in the beginning, but we didn’t want to see you serve the cause and take risks without some reward.” The agent said. “It’s our way of saying thanks.”

  “You’re very welcome,” I said with a big grin, “and you can forget about the busted tail light.” That earned me a chuckle from Agent Fletcher and a slap on the back from Junior Bradley.

  Mel came back, and we worked out the paper work. I had to go back home to get my title and have Brick sign it since it was in his name. They said it would be okay to fill him in on what was happening because he was sure to have some questions – he did.

  He didn’t like the set up very much, but I think he was somewhat proud of me for doing the right thing. I didn’t tell him about the threat of IRS trouble or the fact that Malcolm had been shot. I just told him that I was a connection between the dope people and the FBI, and as soon as they had one of the bad guys in custody, then I was out of the deal, unless I had to testify in court.

  Trooper Bradley came in for gas about the time we were finishing up, and he and Brick went into the office while I waited on customers. They were in there for a good long time, so I had to move the patrol car away from the pumps to let other customers in. Now, you talk about cool. That was really cool - just sitting in the middle of all those radios and switches and other stuff.

  When Bradley had gone Brick seemed to feel better about things and said that he could loan me the $300, but thought it would be a good idea for me to establish some credit in my own name. I told him that I thought it was a good idea too. I went back to work that afternoon, but I’ve got to admit my mind wasn’t on it. I couldn’t wait to go and pick up that car.

  * * *

  Friday morning at 8:30, I was sitting on the steps of that trailer, when Mel pulled up with his paper cup of coffee and a sack of pastry. I gave him the keys and the title to the pile of crap, and he had me sign a promissory note for $300 to be paid out at $75 a month, and then he gave me the keys and documents for license. “What do you get out of all this?” I asked.

  “I’ve had a good relationship with the bureau over the years. I do a favor for them now and then, and they funnel some of these cars my way for a nice profit. This one is a favor not a profit; I could make some money on that one – oh well.”

  We shook hands, and I was gone down Glenstone and out of town. By the time I crossed the river on highway 60, I was flying. The James River runs between 2 hills there, and when you cross the bridge eastbound it’s straight up. When I topped the hill, I was still picking up speed; I’d never done that before, even in Brick’s Dodge. With the windows down, radio up, and foot to the floor I made it home in record time.

  I flat out showed off, I cruised the town, drug Mack out of bed, and even looked up Mickey; everyone was pretty impressed. I had to take Mom and Nan for a ride, and Liz said that I was too hung up on cars, but that it was pretty cool anyway. I drove over to the trailer park to show William, but of course he was off building a house somewhere. I expected that, but I knew that Lloyd Dickey lived just up the street in his grandmother’s trailer. I figured that even if he wasn’t home, that the old lady or the aunt would be keeping tabs on the neighborhood; they were a bit on the nosey side.

  Sarah said that it was a beautiful car and that William would love to see it and that I should come to supper real soon. I promised that I would and left thinking how William and Sarah have become an important part of my life. When I left I cruised through the trailers very slowly.

  * * *

  Later that evening Lloyd came to the station. He got out of his aunt’s car and went over to mine, he walked around it giving it a critical look over; then he came inside.

  “Hey, Stud, how’s it hangin?” The clever little bastard asked.

  “Long and strong, my friend.” I replied; playing his little game.

  “Dat your 57 out there?”

  “Yeah, what do you think? Pretty slick set of wheels, huh?”

  He wanted to know what was in it. So, I told him that if he raised the hood on a Stingray, he would get the same view.

  “No shit?”

  “Yep!” I said, “If I’m lying – I’m dying.”

  He wanted to know where I got it. So, I told him that I got it at Fleischmann’s car lot on Glenstone in Springfield.

  “That Jew. He get in your pocket pretty deep, did he?”

  “Well,” I told him, “he got into my back pocket so deep that he took a chunk of ass with it, but I wanted that car pretty bad.”

  “You must be doin’ pretty good here, or do you got something goin’ on the side that pays pretty well?” He asked.

  “Yeah, well, I work hard and sometimes you get a little lucky…you know like you do a little extra for someone and they give you a little bonus. It all adds up.”

  “Uh huh. Say, you didn’t happen to remember anything else about that wreck didja? You know, like something maybe come loose and you just tossed it up on the truck and forgot it like? You know?”

  “No, we go over everything on the wrecker after we make a run. Just to make sure we didn’t lose any tools. In fact, I had to go back out there to that wreck place the next morning, cause I lost a chain in the dark. And old Brick’d chew a pound of my hide if I lost a chain, and he had to fork over for a new one.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “my pal up in KC, he could be a big tipper. You know like 30 or 40 bucks
if you found anything that he could get his money back on.”

  “Tell you what. Why don’t your friend come down here, and I can take him out there, and he can tramp around in those weeds and cockleburs and poison ivy and chiggers. Maybe he can find something I missed, and I’ll only charge him say $50.00 for the tour.”

  “That might not be a bad idea.” he said, “I’ll tell him what you said.”

  He left shortly after that, and I called Ted Bradley to give him an update. His wife said he was on patrol, but she could contact the dispatcher and relay the message. About 20 minutes later, he pulled up to one of the Ethyl pumps. While Jacky serviced his car, he came in for a Coke, and I filled him in on Lloyd’s visit. I told him that I didn’t know what was or wasn’t important, so I’d just have to bother the hell out of him. He said that it was okay and that this was important. He thought that Lloyd had the scent.

  Jacky came back in, and we changed the subject to the St. Louis Cardinals and their pennant chances, and the new second baseman Julian Javier, or as Harry Caray called him, ”Hoolie.” Old Harry, I’ve listened to him call those games all my life – he must be a hundred years old by now. He’ll probably never leave St. Louis – just keep on sayin, “Holy Cow.” Junior signed the gas ticket and left, but just outside the door he called out, “And one more thing, Brickey, you keep that blue rocket down to the speed of sound in my zone – got it?”

  How about that, being put on public notice to slow down by the state police – it don’t get no cooler than that.

  About closing time, Mack came by with a new Legs and said that they were on their way up to Mona’s. I told them that I’d be up as soon as I could grab a shower and a clean shirt. For a guy who spent the last 4 years shut away from women in a priest mill, he sure seemed to attract them. Maybe I needed to take a look at his methods or get a new body or some plastic surgery or study for the priesthood. Whatever his appeal was it was something that I didn’t have and couldn’t get if I tried. Besides, I was already better looking than him, and I didn’t wear glasses.