by Shelly Frome
Roy looked up at Darryl who was still running off at the mouth, then went back to cleaning his Colt Reb revolver. Over the years Roy had become expert at avoiding any close contact, any chance at all he’d have to listen to small talk or sputtering long-winded tales. No matter how many times somebody would say you had to share stories to keep them alive, or some fella would say, “Listen up now, that reminds me of the time when . . . , ” Roy knew better. It was a godsend his daddy was tight-lipped and his daddy before that, all up and down the line to his namesake. In short, Roy never would’ve put up with Darryl except for one thing: Darryl kept mentioning his first cousin Bubba. Which meant Roy would have to think of some way to set Darryl off on some errand to keep him from getting suspicious or making inquiries. To complicate it all, as Roy continued to work away with the two-section rod and cotton swab, it was easy to see Darryl was getting his feelings hurt.
Leaning over the far end of the oak table, banging his fist, Darryl said, “It ain’t like I’m green or somethin’, Roy. Ain’t like I wasn’t part of it all. Hunkered down at the cotton patch, heard the field hands plottin’ to use some old bus. Plottin’ to go to a meetin’ and learn how to register to vote—sign their names, pass the literacy test and screw us all. And all the stuff ever since. Far as I know, far as I can see, agitators never let up, never stop askin’ for more and more and more. So I got my eye out, and I am still goddamn on it.”
Pointing at the steel barrel and brass frame of Roy’s old revolver, Darryl said, “Will you put that thing down and listen up? Get your head out of that dumb-ass cap and ball and black powder load. I didn’t close up shop for diddly squat. This is here and now, up to the minute.”
Roy contemplated the drop-in conversion cylinder and center-fire bullets which made the gun very much here and now, shook his head and gradually took in Darryl’s lopsided sneer.
“So don’t give me that look,” said Darryl. “I know as good as any of y’all. No deputies are gonna get away nowadays with arresting people for impersonatin’ a county school bus. I have kept up with every snag they’ve thrown at us in case you haven’t noticed. I mean, you’d best put your mind to it, Roy, and figure what this peckerwood is tryin’ to pull.”
The coonhound at Roy’s feet began to stir as Darryl’s voice got even more strident.
“Hell with it then. You ain’t interested? Like I said, I’ll run it by Bubba. Still up to his ears in debt. Bushhogging, trimming and lot clean up . . . rigging pole barns and then nothin’. While you got your cushy huntin’ camp maintenance, old gun hobby and, like as not, don’t pay me no mind. I will run it by my own kin. Let him snitch my good rye whiskey hollerin’ about the unfairness of it all. At least he’ll by-God listen. I’ll catch up with him and, soon as he’s through lettin’ off more steam, we’ll both run it by ol’ Johnny Reb himself.”
The coonhound snarled. Darryl jumped back and lingered by the screen door, apparently giving Roy once last chance to rise to the bait.
Roy sat back in his chair, slid the weapon aside and said, “Let’s have it without the bull.”
Simmering down to placate the coonhound, Darryl said, “Look, you say to report if ever I come across somethin’ good and that is exactly what I done.”
“Facts. Can you do that?”
Darryl shifted the Ole Miss cap atop his scraggly mop a few times and concentrated hard. As a rule, if Darryl wasn’t allowed to make a story as juicy as possible, he had trouble remembering. However, doing as best he could, the gist of it was a new delivery guy had come by—beard, big, looked like a good ole boy . . . but flat Yankee accent and wise-ass talker. Started nosing by the campaign poster, listened real close to Russell on the radio but tossed it off like it was nothing. Nosed around the unmarked boxes too and then the prize Christmas decanters of Old Taylor 86. Had a Holly Springs Hospital brochure but said there was nothing wrong with him, and wanted directions to Cody’s Gas and Grill.
“Where’s he quartered?”
The lopsided grin returned as Darryl said, “Must be Memphis. Got to be hooked up with Billy. I can check it out.”
Before Darryl could barge out the door, Roy said, “Hold it. What you aim to do?”
“Check him out, is all, Roy. Check it all out. Report back.”
While Roy thought it over, Darryl began squinting at him. “Say, since when you got that wicked scar ‘cross your jaw? Old straight razor?” Slipping his hand by his back pocket, Darryl drew the long handle of his switchblade out of its sheath and flipped out the blade. “Knife fight? Razor sharp, this one is and twice as fast as that old cap and ball revolver of yours. And a helluva sight better than that ol’ bone-handle knife Bubba hauls around like a backwoods red neck. We got to have us a meetin’ about weapons. Keep up with the times for the holidays don’t you think?”
“You’re runnin’ off at the mouth again.”
Quickly back into focus, Darryl withdrew the switchblade, slipped it back into its sheath and said, “Gotcha. First things first.”
“And speaking of Christmas, leave the Old Taylor box on the porch.”
“But I was countin’ on delivering it in person.”
“No you weren’t.”
Reluctantly acknowledging the chain of command, Darryl nodded and made his way back to his bright red Chevy pickup.
In the moments that followed, Roy eyed the converter’s 6-shot firing pin and judged he’d made the right decision. By the time Darryl checked back, he’d figure that Bubba had hightailed it somewheres where there were better pickings. However, at the same time, Roy wondered if it really was a wild goose chase he was sending Darryl on. Though there were no text messages when he went up by the water tower for a clear signal, and not a hint of a code red on the web site. What about this new driver nosing around the hospital? And wanting directions to Cody’s? And one more thing. Was Bubba’s old flatbed truck far enough hidden behind the stands of trees on Old Highway 4? How many loose ends were there? And how many more could Darryl stir up?
Roy had half a mind to call Darryl back, but the thunk of the Old Taylor liquor carton on the porch and the sputtering exhaust of Darryl’s pickup trailing off told him it was too late. Besides, whoever this new driver was and what he was up to was of no concern. Leastways, not now…not yet.
12.
Josh decided to bypass Cody’s Gas and Grill and finish the day’s run before doubling back to Ashland. That way he’d have a few minutes to spare, provided there were no more run-ins with characters like Darryl. During this free time he could learn from some folks in Ashland if anyone had been asking about Alice. The best case scenario, of course, would be that no one had been asking about her. Josh could then return to Memphis, put Alice’s mind to rest till her memory came back, find out what this was all about and take it from there.
As luck would have it, all the liquor store drops went without a hitch: east clear to Tishomingo by the Alabama border and back to Booneville down to Tupelo and back up to Hickory Flat and Ripley. No quizzical looks, no intimations about hippie-agitators or Yankees. No provocative comments at all.
But he knew all along it was wishful thinking, the old ingrained habit of opting for the easy way out. In truth, the little encounter with Darryl still unnerved him, much like the uneasy feeling he once had going over the Little Tallahatchie Bridge into the unknown reaches of the Delta. The total opposite of the Vegas strip or the carefree flow up and down the Pacific Coast Highway with everyone on display—look at my trendy outfit, my new do, my flashy car, or just check out my healthy glow and fit-and-trim bod. Echoing Dewey’s warnings there was something festering along these outskirts. A haunted past, guilt over violent, unconscionable deeds, perhaps. Words like predatory, mischievous and blundering impetuousness came to mind. Maybe even a virulent strain that runs through you when you can’t get over a humiliating defeat and loss over a former way of life. Like everything else, Josh couldn’t put his finger on what it was exactly, but he sensed it all the same.
Sensed
it the first time he met Dewey and saw how he limped. And the way he winced when Josh so much as mentioned the old days and his credentials as a bona fide bluesman. Credentials Josh had heard included half-crazed inmates at Parchman Farm stalking each other in the dark with homemade weapons. And, despite the present lull, Josh sensed it here in the hill country, bottomland and hidden woods and creeks. Unlike his brief stint in Kentucky, it was as if the Deep South had no bone chilling frost and snow to wipe the slate clean, or blazing sun to bleach it and Santa Ana winds to sweep away the debris.
To clear his mind, every so often he switched on the old truck radio but could only get AM stations that kept losing or crossing signals. A country singer would be wailing about the love in her heart one minute and give way to a gravely voice wailing about love of his country or the gal who’d left him for good reason and he wished her well. Outside of Tupelo, Krogers cut in with a gaggle of holiday ads exulting over “can’t be beat” prices of Morrell spiral sliced premium ham, party trays made to order, one-stop shopping and savings in every aisle for the best Christmas ever.
Then, as luck would have it, on the way back toward Hickory Flat, the strongest station took over. Josh would’ve switched it off were it not for the right-wing pundit—the same bellowing voice emanating from Darryl’s Rebel Spirits whose name, it seems, was Russ Clayton. At this very moment he was berating the homeless:
“Why, I ask you friends, are liberals always out to reward the deadbeats? Reward the no-skills and stupid lazy people, not to mention those who are unreliable, unwise and too susceptible to temptation. The ones who show poor judgment but not too dumb as to not get at the head of the line to cash their monthly welfare check. Oh, yeah. While the rest of us have to pay for it, pay for the welfare program, pay for a pile of programs that are gonna sink the state budget, let alone the federal budget. Threatening to drag us down to the ground so we and our children will be footing the bill till kingdom come. Thank goodness we were smart enough to embrace the proven fiscal judgment of Governor Elect Lamar Dean who, as you loyal listeners know, will be on the horn from his Old Colonel’s Quarters in Oxford tomorrow at this very same time with yours truly.”
Josh turned it off, half-wondering why he’d listen to it in the first place were it not for Darryl goading him. There was no indication that any of it fit into anything he was fishing for to put Alice’s mind at rest. Perhaps he was only trying to get the lay of the land like he was taught, like any reporter worth his salt.
It was a little after three, with the cloud cover hanging motionless, that Josh rolled in past the cinderblock police station, the vacant lots and the defunct gas pumps topped with a Mobilgas globe that was barely legible. He hung a left at the side-street lane around the corner from Cody’s rustic eatery and parked the truck by a stand of oaks. Circling back, attempting to appear as nonchalant as possible, he entered the low-slung frame building.
Though they’d stopped serving at two, a waitress with a shock of blond hair dangling over her left eye stood provocatively behind the counter and winked at him. She intimated that it would be her pleasure to whip him up a grilled cheese and crisp bacon sandwich and home fries plus get him a slice of today’s fresh pumpkin pie and a steaming cup of coffee from a pot she’d make fresh. “No trouble, no trouble at all.”
This offer Josh took to be a respite from her frustration over learning how to operate a touch-screen system that took orders and doubled as a cash register. Hazarding a guess, Josh assumed the quiet, willowy figure who was instructing her, belonged to LuAnn. The one Alice mentioned and Darryl characterized as being standoffish but just the kind who might put up with Josh’s brand of “hot air.” She also seemed the type who might put up with an outspoken brat up to who-knows-what. At any rate, she shrugged when the waitress asked to beg off the lesson and serve the new guy in town, and went back to a nearby empty table and an open hardcover book.
Apart from the fact that they’d never met and Josh wasn’t certain how to approach her, the noise from a back table emanating from a handful of card-playing retirees who continued to eye him, made the encounter with LuAnn even more problematic. Apparently in the throes of a nickel-dime-quarter game of Texas Hold ‘Em, the main noisemaker was a squat little man with snow white hair, bright orange suspenders and an oversized checkered shirt tucked inside his baggy pants. “Damn!” he kept yelling while watching his pile of coins diminish. The latest “Damn!” sent him to the door fumbling with a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Just as he was about to exit, he turned to Josh and said, “What you starin’ at? Unless you got some advice to give. Is that the case?”
“Maybe.”
The little man snapped his suspenders a few times, looked back at his cronies who seemed to be joshing him over his need to take a break and said, “In return for what?”
Josh glanced over at LuAnn.
In return, Josh received an, “Uh-huh, fat chance. We’ll just have to see about that.”
With nothing to lose, Josh followed him back outside into the cool dampness.
“So?” said the squat little man, scraping a wooden match against the door jamb and taking a drag from a bent cigarette. “You first. Let’s hear it.”
“I only glanced over for a few seconds. I wasn’t studying you or anything.”
“I said, let’s hear it.”
Off the top of his head, Josh said, “Okay. In general, I’ve been told the best strategy is to be patient. Wait for a strong starting hand. As near as I can tell, you’ve been playing too many hands.”
“Know when to fold, is that what you’re tellin’ me? And what the hell you know about it?”
“Did a lot of watching in Vegas.”
“Watchin’? Is that the long and short of it? Are you a player or what?”
After a little hemming and hawing, Josh told him he was in Vegas researching a possible story. One that combines playing it safe with a cowboy-like bent for risk and adventure. In a nutshell, Texas Hold ‘Em was the perfect subject. In addition, the game required you to pay attention not only to the cards, the odds and the stakes, but to the tricks, tics and bluffs of other people. Nailing it down, Josh called it a battle between the cool head and mindful restraint versus the irrepressible urge of the highwayman, easy rider or call it what you will. What he didn’t tell him, was the fact that Texas Hold ‘Em was a metaphor for his own abiding dilemma.
At any rate, the little man obviously had no idea what researching meant or hawking a possible story. Stubbing out his cigarette on the sidewalk, he said, “Okay, enough of this bullshit. Let’s have it. Name’s Strother by the way. You give me tips, I give you tips. As for what you’re doin’ or what you’ve been doin’, it don’t interest me none.”
“That’s fine.”
This exchange, however, was interrupted by one of the other players, a barrel-chested man with close-set eyes and a heavy jaw. Poking his bald head out the door, he said, “Hey now, Strother, what’s it gonna be? In or out? No use cryin’ on some stranger’s shoulders.”
“I’m in, I’m in. Just helpin’ him out is all.”
“Uh-huh. Or putting the bite on the fella for a loan.”
Trying to make light of it, Strother turned to Josh and said, “You see what I’m up against? After dealing big tractors and such, Big Ed here’s pushing for big stakes, uppin’ the ante all the time.”
“While you keep hedging and stalling like you done all your life. What do I have to do, chain you to the chair?”
“I’m coming, I’m coming, I swear.”
With a low rumbling sigh, Big Ed said, “And I swear you are trying our patience. You’d best move it, brother.”
The second Big Ed retreated, Strother rattled off a quick sketch of LuAnn’s likes and dislikes and a quick intro as his part of the bargain. As good an offer as any Josh was likely to get in terms of making a connection and possibly getting a bead on Alice’s troubles.
For his part, he advised Strother that the initial two hole cards he’d been dealt a
nd been dealing with were obviously worthless. Hole cards anywhere between a two to a six, seven or eight, or even between a three to an eight would never make a straight. Forget about the flop that followed or the community cards dealt face up, or the turn or the river. Fold and keep waiting for a strong starting hand that would at least give you a fighting chance. What he didn’t tell him was that his study of Texas Hold ‘Em strategies had a lot to do with his own hang-ups as to what it took to reach “the river” and beyond.
With his round, reddish face beaming over this new ploy, Strother revealed that LuAnn was in her late twenties, shy and bookish and didn’t like any guy coming on strong. She was dividing her time between Cody’s and The Bottletree in Oxford till she raised enough cash to finish up some kind of certification at Ole Miss.
“In what?” said Josh, peeking through the window as the waitress came by with his order on a tray, obviously wondering where he’d disappeared to.
“Who knows?” Strother said. “Who cares? How do I introduce you?”
“Josh. A nice guy who dropped by to check up on a young mutual friend.”
“Like who? From these parts? Oh, never mind, never mind. LuAnn’ll either tell you where to get off or she won’t, and I’ll maybe get back some of my hard earned pension.”
That said, Strother reentered with Josh in tow. Strother made the perfunctory introduction and scooted back to the gaming table.
Up close, Josh noticed that LuAnn had soft green eyes, light-brown hair shoulder length and wore no makeup. She continued to take in everything at a quiet remove, apparently uninterested in the mating game and much more wistful and self-contained.
At the same time, Strother proceeded to make self-satisfied murmurs in the background instead of his previous cursing yelps, while the waitress brushed the hank of hair out of her eye and motioned toward the adjoining table where she’d plunked down Josh’s order. When that didn’t get a rise out of him as he remained standing by LuAnn’s side looking for an opening, the waitress gave up on her flirting maneuvers. Obviously miffed, she scrunched-up her face.