At least two dozen men and boys turned Etha’s way. Dungarees and overalls hung from their boney hips. Some were shirtless. Most wore cracked-soled shoes.
With all those eyes on her, Etha’s pumps wobbled on the path. One of the older men, a fellow named Murph, rose from a stump and swaggered over. “Put them boxes down,” he told the boys, then turned to Etha. “Excuse me, ma’am, but what are you doing out here? This ain’t no place for a lady.” The fellow was short but beefy, his cheeks gravelled with gray and black stubble.
Etha flushed. “I just figured you all could use a good meal. I had extra so . . .”
“More than extra, I’d say.” The man peered into the boxes. “Seems as if you did this on purpose. I ain’t saying we don’t appreciate it, but I’ve been on the bum for four years and know that there’s a string attached to every little thing. Everybody’s working an angle. Even if it’s a nice-looking lady. You with the church?”
Etha wasn’t prepared to explain herself. “No. I mean, I go to church of course, but this has nothing to do with that. Well, it does in a way. As far as following the Golden Rule, but this is all my own doing.”
The tramp considered her words, tipping his head from side to side. “Maybe not, maybe so. Anyways, you’re here now and we’re hungry now.” He turned to the men, most of whom were standing, ears alert, a pack of dogs. “Divvy it up,” he said, waving a hand at the boxes. He turned back to Etha. “Okay. You done your good deed. We’ll sleep with full bellies tonight thanks to you. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but no one from town ever comes out here except to shoo us away.”
“Guess I’m an exception.”
“Could be.”
Etha watched as the jungle’s older residents sauntered over to claim drumsticks before returning to the deepening shade of the cottonwoods. They leaned against the trunks, chewing hungrily. The younger ones squatted on their haunches, ripping into the meat. Cicadas filled the hot air with their cyclical thrum. The cords of the immense night sky loosened, expanding the shadowy spaces beyond the cottonwoods.
“As I said, thank you kindly for the food,” Murph said.
Etha, lost in her thoughts, jerked her head up. “Mind if I stay awhile?”
Murph raised his brows. “Night’s coming.”
She scanned the sky. A log collapsed with a brittle shush in the fire ring. They’re out here in the middle of nowhere and far from home, she thought. Like me. “I won’t stay long.”
Murph shrugged. “Do as you want. That’s the motto here.”
He ambled back to the log and applied himself to a tin plate with chicken and a heap of boiled potatoes and cabbage from the stewpot.
Etha hesitated. The cicadas pulsated. Gil approached. “You want to sit a spell, that’s fine by us,” he said, pointing to the cluster of young men on the far side of the fire. Most appeared to be in their late teens—faces still open despite the old-timer stoops draped across their narrow shoulders. They made room for her on the beaten ground. She sat gingerly beside Carmine, pulling her dress over her tucked-in legs, aware of Murph’s wary glance from the other side of the fire. In the light of the logs she noticed that Carmine’s shirt bore a CCC patch on the pocket.
“You from the camp?” she asked.
He nodded. “Passing through here on my way back to the bunkhouse.”
For a while there was only the sound of night insects and chewing. Then a boy on her right said, “You make chicken just as good as my ma’s.” He wore a soft-collared shirt and trousers with suspenders. His nose had grown faster than the rest of his face.
“Where you from?” Etha asked.
“Kentucky.”
Etha frowned. “That’s mighty far.”
“Trains will take you anywheres. And I needed to get out. There were too many of us. That’s what Pappy said. Too many mouths, so I had to leave. Told me so right in the middle of breakfast. I didn’t take another bite. Put the fork down, stood up, and walked out with nothing but what I’m wearing. Been traveling ever since.”
Etha had read about young men cast out, set loose because there were no jobs, no food.
Kentucky added, “It ain’t so bad. I’m not any hungrier than I was at home and have gotten to see a lot of sites.”
Another kid, who introduced himself as Abe, boasted he’d been in eight states in the past three months.
“And where are you from?” Etha asked.
“Illinois.”
“Me too!” Etha said, and the kid’s face lit up.
“Where abouts, if you don’t mind.”
“Peoria. You?”
“Macomb.”
Etha stretched out her hand. “Howdy, neighbor.”
“Howdy-do to you too.”
After that, the fellows sitting around Etha loosened up. They commenced swapping stories about encounters with railroad bulls, about sleeping rough, about homesickness and how they came to ride the rails. Some had taken to the road for adventure. Most, though, had been forced from home by parents who couldn’t water down the stew anymore or who hoped the young men could earn enough to send something home. As they talked, she studied Carmine. He had the wiry body of early manhood while her Jack was forever the fleshy schoolboy. She most always thought of her son in this way. Or as a baby with those little legs pumping when Temple clucked over the crib. But now she considered how puberty might have molded Jack’s features.
Abe pulled a bottle out of his bundle. “Mind, ma’am?” he asked and, after she shook her head, swallowed vigorously before passing it to his neighbor. Across the crack and leap of flames, someone was singing an old-timey hymn. Dusk flowed from the shadows, saturating the sky’s blues with rose, orange, lilac.
When Etha turned back to her boys, for that was how she was beginning to think of them, they had shifted from stories to jokes. The bottle went around a few more times and the jokes edged toward the off-color. Etha blushed but the boys seemed to have forgotten she was there. Some stretched out full-length on the ground, elbows bent and heads resting in their palms.
“I know you’ve heard this one, but it’s worth hearing again!” Abe shouted as the laughter grew. “See here, it’s about this muff who agrees to take a salesman behind the barn.”
“You mean behind her barn?” someone said, jumping up and thrusting his hips forward and back. There was more loud laughter.
Etha’s blush deepened. As far back as her teenage years, she had been dimly aware of stag films and roadhouses. Of dirty jokes and crude language. Rough places where men, even good men, gathered occasionally. But first her father and brothers, and later Temple, had shielded her from that sort of thing. Still, it was out there; a trickle of dirty water in a drainage ditch. When she had business at Phillip’s Sunoco, Etha diverted her eyes from the wall behind the counter where a girlie calendar hung.
Now Carmine had gotten into the act. “I’ve got a good one, fellows.” He licked his lips. Etha scooted away from the fire, into the shadows, and plugged her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut. But in the darkness behind her lids, Jack’s form blossomed. It was a teenage Jack, wearing a sly expression. Her eyelids flew open. She never saw him that way; not with his schoolboy innocence shed like a snake’s skin, part of the hidden world of men.
Another boy jumped up to speak; his silhouette magnified in front of the leaping flames. He swayed a bit from the drink. I’ve got to get out of here, Etha thought. All was darkness beyond the blaze. Where was the car? As her eyes darted around the clearing, Murph, the hobo leader, emerged from the gloom.
“Willing to share a pull?” he asked, gesturing to the bottle that was still making the rounds. Abe handed it over and Murph took a long swig, then delicately licked his lips. “Mighty fine. Not the usual.” He held the bottle up to the firelight, tipping it this way and that. “Where’s this from?”
“Town. Some lady gave me a sack of potatoes yesterday when I knocked,” Abe said. “Found the bottle at the bottom.”
“Really? Did you mark the ho
use?”
“Sure ’nuff. Put a big old circle with an X right on the back gatepost.”
Etha had seen tramp signs chalked on fences and barns. She’d never known what they meant.
Murph said, “If you fellows plan on draining this bottle, don’t you forget we have a lady present. She asked to sit awhile, but I don’t think she signed up for this. She expected us to be gentlemen. With tea and cookies and maybe singing duets. Ain’t that right?”
Etha bristled. A moment ago, she’d wanted nothing more than to leave. Now, hearing a challenge thrown, she felt differently. With six brothers, she had learned to stand her ground. “I thought no such thing.” The bottle had made its way to Murph. She grabbed it from his hand and took a long pull. The whiskey pricked the inside of her throat, like seedpods clinging to a sock.
“Careful, ma’am. It’s strong,” Abe said.
Etha cleared her throat. “I’d say you’re right.” She surveyed her audience. Most were grinning. She took another gulp and decided she’d stay longer.
Murph squatted and poked the fire. Carmine pulled a harmonica from his pocket. After a couple of tentative puffs, he blew out a song or two. The tramps gradually stopped talking when he hit the notes of “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?” Some bent their heads. Others stared into the flames.
The tune ended. No one spoke.
Abe jumped up. “What is this? A funeral? Dump the dirges. We need something with some pep. How about ‘Keep on the Sunnyside’? Know that?”
“Lemme see.” Carmine studied the sky then put the mouth harp to his lips. After a tentative start, he built up the pace and volume until the tune emerged full blown. Swaying from side to side, he shook one foot out, then the other, until he rolled into a solo version of the Lindy Hop. Alternating sides, he lifted a leg, knee bent, and gave it a shake. All so fast he was moving in a blur. Bouncing from one leg to the other. Soon there were five or six dancers jumping and jiving.
The bottle came around again and Etha, who had been clapping along, paused for another swallow. When Carmine switched to a rag and Abe held out his hand, she took it, bounced to her feet, and twirled beneath his rotating wrist. Although Etha never taught her piano students anything but classical music, when she was alone on the third floor she sometimes let loose with a boogie or two. Now she felt the juice in her limbs as Abe spun her, cinched her close, and cast her out in a breakaway. As she whirled dizzily, she glimpsed Murph’s face once or twice. Was that a grimace or a smile?
Carmine ended with a long high blast.
Etha stumbled back, a bit off-balance. Breathing hard, she said, “My.” And then, “I haven’t danced for ages.”
Abe bowed low. “Thank you, ma’am. Hope your husband wouldn’t take offense.”
“Oh no! He won’t dance. But he doesn’t mind when I do.”
“Won’t dance?”
Etha waved Abe off. “Temple thinks it’ll compromise his dignity.” Her head felt light.
“I a-told you she was a church lady. A church lady married to a preacher.” Murph wagged a finger. “Nobody more worried about his dignity than a preacher.”
Etha laughed. “No. Temple hasn’t been to church in months. He’s not a preacher. Fact is, he’s the sheriff.”
As soon as the words jumped out of her mouth, Etha regretted them.
Murph snorted. “Guess that explains everything. Sent you here to spy? I’d say that’s pretty low.”
“No!” Etha said. “He doesn’t even know I’m here. I did this on my own.” She glanced around at her boys. Most studied the dirt. A few met her gaze with sour expressions. “Truly, this was all my . . .” Her voice fizzled out.
Someone tossed a stick into the fire. The dry wood snapped loudly, releasing a shower of sparks.
Carmine stepped to her side. “Let me walk you to your car. I need to hoof it back to camp anyways.”
Etha let the boy take her gently by the elbow. He opened the car door for her. Down the line a train whistle blew. Carmine turned to listen. She caught his profile and was struck again by the echo of Jack. His face shimmered. She blew her nose.
“Don’t cry,” Carmine said. “Some of the men have had some rough brush-ups with the law, that’s all. I’m sure you didn’t mean any harm.”
At that, Etha broke down completely. She finally stopped when she noticed Carmine’s panicked expression.
“Please, ma’am,” he said.
“I’m all right.” She sniffled. “Did you get kicked out of home too? Like some of those other boys? I can’t believe your ma would do that.”
“Probably not. But she died way back.”
Etha covered her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
Carmine shrugged carelessly, but sorrow thickened his eyes. “Anyway, I had my reasons for leaving Kansas City. Pa’s still there with my younger brothers. The CCC sends him most of my earnings. That’s why I joined.”
Etha dabbed a corner of the hankie under her eyes. “Good for you.” Then she frowned. “Why aren’t you at the camp?”
“Had a beef in town last night. That’s all. I’m going back to the bunk now. Pa needs the scratch. And if I went home, I’d only be a burden.”
Etha reached outside the car and grabbed his arm. “Don’t ever think that. No parent ever sees a child as a burden.”
A slight grin crossed Carmine’s face. “Maybe. But I’m not a child anymore. I got to make my own way. You okay to drive back to town?”
Etha nodded. After blowing her nose again she turned over the engine. “Do you want a ride?”
“Naw. My legs need to shake off that hooch. But I’ll watch until I see you’ve made it to the turnoff.”
Etha maneuvered the sedan up the dirt road. Right before bumping up onto the asphalt highway, she glanced back. Carmine still seemed to be standing there, nothing but a smudge against the parched vista. Maybe it wasn’t even him at all but another boy or a fence post. You really couldn’t tell. But even that uncertain glimpse pierced her heart.
Chapter six
Chester crossed his legs one way, then the other, then back. He ran a finger over the braille numbers on his watch. Forty-five minutes before the seven o’clock show and here he sat in the theater’s back row, twiddling his thumbs.
When the side door finally clicked, Chester bolted to his feet.
“Mighty hot out there,” Temple said.
Chester’s words spilled out in a rush: “What about the seven o’clock?”
Temple paused. “I’m sorry, but it’s a suspicious death.”
Chester collapsed in his seat. “You’re sure? How about the nine o’clock?”
“Nope. Ed and I need to give the alley a good going over and it’ll take awhile to get it all dug out. I know this is tough.”
Chester snorted. “You’ve no idea. Who was it anyway? Someone from town?”
“That rainmaker.”
“The con artist who killed off my Friday-night receipts?”
Chester’s famously snappish tone brought out Temple’s grin. “I need to take a statement. Your office?”
“I’ve got nothing better to do. You’ve seen to that,” Chester said, flinging up a hand.
Upstairs, the theater owner settled into his desk chair and smoothly pulled a pack of cigarettes from a drawer. He lit one with a match and took a long drag. Temple drew a notebook-and-pencil setup, jerry-rigged together with a string, out of his coat pocket. The string had been Etha’s idea.
“Let’s start with how you discovered the body.”
Chester forcefully discharged twin columns of smoke from his nostrils. “Per directives from the fire marshal, I was shoveling out the fire exit. If only I’d ignored that regulation—as so many of the other merchants do, I might add—that fellow would still be sleeping peacefully under the dust, my screenings would be running, and no one would be the wiser.”
“But that wasn’t what happened.”
“No,” Chester sighed. “What happened was my shovel connected with something
under the drift. I thought maybe it was a hank of awning ripped off in the storm. I dug around and pretty quick I knew it wasn’t an awning.”
“Then what?”
“Then I started clawing the dirt away, feeling for the mouth, thinking the fellow was alive but passed out. I hollered for Ernie across the alley but he didn’t answer. When I got to the face . . . well, you know what I found.”
Temple resettled himself, propping his right ankle on his left knee. “And when were you last in the alley before that?”
“I’d say around eleven. I always check the fire exits before the first show.” Chester efficiently discharged the ash from his cigarette into a large pink cake plate on his desk. While the blind girls had been in crochet class, Chester and the other boys taught each other to smoke behind the manual arts building. “And there was no body there then.”
“You sure?”
Chester shrugged. “As far as I could tell. I checked the entire space around the exit. Paced it off. You should ask Ernie. I think he’d have noticed if a dead man was stretched out not far from his back door. By the way, you going to close the Maid-Rite too? I mean, just because I found Mr. Coombs doesn’t mean this had anything to do with the Jewel.”
“I’m aware. Might have to do that, but—”
A door slammed downstairs and Ed McCance called out, “Sheriff?”
“Upstairs.”
The deputy hurried up. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but just before the funeral director pulled up, I decided to go through Coombs’s pockets one more time. I found this stuck in the seam.” He handed a pasteboard ticket to Temple.
“What is it?” Chester asked.
“A stub from the Jewel. Seems our man was a patron of the arts,” Temple said.
Chester ground his cigarette butt into the plate. Temple tucked the stub into an evidence envelope and folded it into his shirt pocket. “Okay, Ed. Keep shoveling out the alley and I’ll be down as soon as I’m finished here. Then you and I are off to Mayo’s to check out Mr. Coombs’s accommodations.”
After Ed clattered downstairs, Temple said, “Mind if I ask why you’re using that cake plate as an ashtray? Etha would have my hide if I did that.”
Death of a Rainmaker Page 5