The Two-Bear Mambo cap-3

by Joe R. Lansdale

  We took us a spot by the stove and sat. Leonard eyed the cuspidors and the tobacco wads, said, "Looks of this place, this ole boy talks to everybody, and for some time. He might know something nobody else does."

  "And maybe just the weather report and where to get pig's feet," I said.

  A moment later the man came back with two cups of coffee. He gave us a cup apiece, disappeared into the back of the store again, came back with a cup for himself and some ragged white towels. He tossed the towels at us. We used them to dry off. The station man sat his cup on the stove and took off his heavy coat and draped it over a chair near the stove, sat in another chair, put his feet up close to the heat.

  "Now, you're lookin' for this gal?" he asked.

  "That's right," I said.

  "By the way, my name's Tim Garner."

  "Glad to meet you," I said, and Leonard and I leaned forward and took turns shaking Tim's hand and giving our names. When we finished, Tim kicked back again and sipped his coffee.

  "What do you mean she's missing?"

  "Last time anyone's seen her we know about was here," Leonard said.

  "No shit?"

  "No shit," Leonard said. Outside the lightning gave the sky a workout and the flashes went all through the store. The lights faded, and the pickled pig's feet, for a fleeting instant, looked like strange body parts floating in jars in Dr. Frankenstein's lab.

  "Goddamn," Tim said when the lights came back. "That was rich ... let me see. She was here a few days, but she was having trouble finding a place to stay . . . you hang out here long enough, you're gonna discover this ain't a real opened-minded place."

  "Naw," I said. "Say it ain't true. A homey burg like this."

  Tim smiled at me. "Yeah, well, I guess you been talkin' to the Chief, so you know he's a bastard."

  "How do you know that?" Leonard asked.

  "That he's a bastard, or you been talkin' to him?" Tim said.

  "Either," Leonard said.

  "I come into town lookin' for someone, first place I'd go is the law. Am I right?"

  Leonard nodded.

  "And I'll bet old Cantuck sure was glad to see you two running around together. What he thinks, he sees a black and white guy together, is one of them ought to be riding in the back of a pickup with a rake."

  "You're right," I said. "He wasn't glad to see us. I got the feeling just us being alive made him nervous. We met the fire department too. Now there's a bunch of regular guys. If you're white, potbellied, and stupid. Seems like they'd bore each other to death. What in the hell can guys like that talk about when they get together?"

  "Pussy," Tim said.

  "Well, all right," I said. "I can see that."

  Tim took hold of the hatchet, lifted the log, and with a flick of his wrist, popped it loose of the hatchet and through the open stove door.

  I was going to protest, since the lizard didn't have time to bail out, but Tim's move was so unexpected and so swift there wasn't a chance. The lizard gave a little pop when it went into the blaze, went black and turned to ash on his log; the last animated bit of him was his tail, which curled up and fell off. I decided not to mention it. No use putting an accidental lizard death on someone's head.

  "Cantuck's a funny guy," Tim said. "Don't underestimate him. He ain't as stupid as he looks. And for a man with a left nut that looks like a softball in his pocket, he can move pretty fast too. No. He ain't stupid. And he ain't incompetent. Not really. He kinda uses that hick image to get his edge."

  "I found that out," I said, watching the last of the lizard dissolve in the stove. The critter looked like a melted chunk of gummy bears.

  "He's ignorant, but he's actually fair, and pretty law-abiding," Tim said. "In an Old Testament sort of way."

  "Wonder how much he abided the law when that black guy hung himself in jail?" I asked.

  "That weird sonofabitch had it comin'," Tim said. "He was a murdering bastard. I prefer he hung himself to the Chief doing it—and I don't think Cantuck would do it. Couldn't have. He wasn't even in town. That Soothe sumbitch was choked and stretched and put in the hole before Cantuck got back."

  "Chief wasn't here," Leonard said, "but he could have made arrangements. Being out of town would be a good cover."

  "I reckon," said Tim, "but I got to tell you true, if that sorry Bobby Joe fuck got a little help from the Chief, anybody, doesn't bother me a bit. That ole boy was into all kinds of shit. And I mean all kinds. Pretty smooth talker. Could stick his dick up your ass and tell you it was a turd, and you'd believe him.

  "He's lucky he lived long as he did, considering how black folks are thought of here in Grovetown. I suppose he lasted 'cause he was a scary, dangerous bastard. And he could sing a pretty good tune. And there was some legacy to him, being kin to L.C. and all.

  "Not that that's worth a big goddamn around here, but I reckon there's more than a few whites would hate to admit they enjoyed it when Bobby Joe come to town Saturdays, played over there in front of the courthouse with that ole slide guitar. Fact is, Saturday is normally the day all the blacks come in. Do their shopping, what they got to do. Hang out a little. Very little. Then go home. They got their own ways on the other side of town, and Bobby Joe was smart enough to keep most of his badness over there. Lot of folks here figured if it was just—and you'll pardon the expression—nigger business, then it wasn't no business of theirs. Figured too, niggers killing each other, giving each other a hard time, that wasn't nothing to be concerned with. One less nigger was like one less cockroach."

  " 'Course," Leonard said, "cockroaches can't play basketball."

  "Yeah, the jump shots throw 'em. I'll tell you about Bobby I Joe, kinda guy he was. He raped his own nephew's wife, then when she told on him and the nephew tried to do something about it, he cut the nephew up to where he near died, went after j the woman. Rumor is he made her fuck his German shepherd."

  "Oh, get out of here," I said.

  "I'm tellin' you the story," Tim said. "I can't prove it. Haven't got photos or nothing, but I believe it. There wasn't nothing Bobby Joe wouldn't do short of a law degree."

  "Man has to have some ethics," Leonard said.

  "Our concern here is Florida," I said. "Only reason we're interested in Bobby Joe Soothe at all is Florida came down here to investigate things for some kind of article she wants to write about I his death."

  "I know about that," said Tim. "I got that much out of her. | We talked a little when we saw each other. She was convinced Bobby Joe was innocent just because he was black and in a white jail."

  "Innocent really hasn't got anything to do with it," I said. "Guilty or innocent, you're supposed to let the State of Texas do j the killing, and with a needleful of poison."

  "Yeah, well, we're back to where we started," Tim said. "Like I was sayin', I don't give a shit what happened to Soothe."

  "Frankly," Leonard said, "I don't give a shit, if he had it comin'. I'm not as sweet as Hap. He still has all his Roy Rogers [cap guns and stuff. But what we're concerned with is that Florida was in Grovetown, now she isn't, and she isn't home, and |we're nervous."

  "You're thinking bad business descended?" Tim said.

  "We're thinking it might have, or can yet," Leonard said. "We hope we're just old worried grandmas."

  "I don't know I can help you beyond saying I hope you're wrong," Tim said.

  "Anything different about her last time you saw her?" Leonard asked.

  "Maybe she was a little tired, or nervous, but you're black and hang out here, you're gonna get a little nervous. Don't believe in time travel, just hang around here a week. Better yet, don't. "

  "So, " Leonard said, "you're saying' all the white guys in town, except you, were just perched like buzzards waiting to take her down?"

  "I suppose you could say that. "

  "I don't doubt this town is backwards as hell, " Leonard said, "but I don't buy every white guy here is a murderous prick. Is that what you're trying to tell me? You are, I got to ask, what makes
you so special? You ain't threatening me. You wanted to fuck Florida. You don't seem like you're worried that the White Knights of the Asshole will come down on you with a barrel of tar and a basket of chicken feathers for wanting to bury your toad in some black hole, you got the chance. "

  "You're kinda dropping down on me pretty quick, aren't you, pal?" Tim said.

  "Leonard's motto is 'Make a New Friend Every Day, ' " I said.

  Tim grinned that infectious grin. "Hey, it's all right. And you got some points, fella. But let me sorta tick 'em off. First off, my dick ain't no toad. It's just as pretty as a little old skinned banana, but a hell of a lot harder. 'Specially after I've had some pickled pig's feet. Pussy ain't a black hole. If it's black pussy, white pussy, yellow pussy, or red pussy, any other color, on the inside it's all pink and it all feels like a hot mink glove on your weener. So now we got that straight.

  "Next thing. This town ain't filled with Klan types. It only needs a diligent few to be members. A few more who won't participate in their shit, but are behind them, and some others that might be against them, but are afraid to say anything, and for good reason. You don't believe me, let me tell you, not that long ago they sewed a little ole black gal's thang together and got away with it."

  "So we heard," I said.

  "They've been known to nail black men to trees and work them over with a blowtorch. Burn off their balls. You don't hear about all that goin' on, but it does. Maybe not right here in town, but roundabouts. And maybe not recently, but recent enough, and it could get real recent anytime.

  "And I can hustle a little black tail if I want. You see, it's okay a white man wants to get him a dark piece, long as he has a sense of humor about it and thinks of the piece as just nigger pussy. 'Course, this white and black thing, here in Grovetown, it don't work in reverse. Black man wants to get him a white piece, well, that's considered unnatural and punishable by death.

  "All that aside, main reason I'm left alone is my daddy. The old sonofabitch is Jackson Truman Brown. I've kept my mother's name. Anyway, Daddy's Grovetown s old-time swingin' dick. He's smooth, dresses in nice suits, can talk that shit, but he's at heart a plantation owner that misses the old days when you could work a black man to death and hang him for fartin'. His daddy's daddy, my great-grandfather, was famous for hanging a black man that looked at great-grandpa's wife a little longer than great-grand thought he should have. But hanging wasn't good enough. When the fella was dead, he propped him on a post out in his fields to use as a scarecrow. Left him there for his black field hands to see till the body rotted away. In other words, he wasn't just scarin' crows. He was scarin' his slaves."

  "What is it your daddy does?" I asked.

  "He owns Jackson's Christmas Tree Farm and the lumber mill here. Both thriving concerns. Folks from all over Texas and the United States got to have their Christmas trees, I can tell you that. He's got these goddamn fir trees that all grow to look exactly alike. Not native trees, Yankee trees. They've been rebred, or whatever trees do to make more trees, and they can stand the Texas heat and the clay soil better than a native pine. He ships those dudes from here to Kansas City in air-conditioned trucks. And you want to work here in Grovetown, you want him to be happy with you. Because not only does he own the lumber mill and run the Christmas tree farm, he owns a lot of other things, as well as a lot of people. Black and white. Only things in this town he don't own are the cafe and the Chief, and maybe with the Chief it don't matter much. Like I said, he's honest and fair, but he and my old man share a lot of the same views."

  "I notice you have an aluminum Christmas tree," Leonard said.

  "Sort of speaks volumes, don't it?" Tim said.

  "What about your station here?" I asked. "He own that?"

  "Goddamn him, he owns that too. Loaned me the money for it—key word here is loaned, not gave, and he expects the payments, or I'll be back at the Christmas tree farm. I hate the bustard, and he knows it, and likes it. What I want most in the world is to get the money to pay him off, be a free man. Fact is, what I want most in the world is money. I admit it. Here I was, son of the richest man in town, and I was always wearing worn-out clothes with patches and carried my lunch in a fucking paper bag. Wouldn't even let me buy a lunch box like the rest of the kids. Thought it built character. What it did was it embarrassed me. I said I got older and got a chance to get money, I'd get it. The whole idea of going around poor, even owning this shitty filling station when I ought to have a good life, all the money he's got, I get itchy. Mad even.

  "But I got my edge on him. See, I'm kind of an embarrassment. I actually had a couple years college in something besides business. Anthropology. Though it didn't take. I can tell you a little about North American Indians, you want, but when it comes down to it, what I know is about as useless as tits on a boar hog. Still, I'm his son, and he's insurance for me. I wanted to, I could go over there and set fire to the cafe, and he'd make it

  so it was understood I was merely tryin' to warm up the place. But he wouldn't drop what I owe him on this station, and I don't pay it, he'll own the station. More coffee, fellas?"

  Leonard and I declined. Tim offered us the pig's feet again, at a slightly reduced price, but we declined those as well.

  "Let me ask you something," I said. "There anyplace we could rent a room for a few nights in this town?"

  "I doubt it," Tim said. "I mean, I don't know."

  "You don't know?" Leonard said. "Then let me ask you this. Where did Florida stay?"

  Tim smiled, but the smile looked silly this time, not infectious. "Why, out at my mother's place."

  Chapter 10

  About noon, we bought some sandwich makings, and Tim called his mother, tried to get us a place to stay. Turned out his mother owned a few trailers she rented out, and one was avail­able.

  "I like you fellas and all,” Tim said after the phone call,” but way it works, needing money like I do, you pay Mom, and you pay me a little finder's fee.”

  "What's a little?" Leonard asked.

  "Fifty dollars.”

  "That's a little!" I said.

  "It's how much it's gonna be you stay at Mom's trailer park.”

  Leonard grumbled, paid the fifty in two twenties and a ten.

  "Florida pay you a finder's fee?" Leonard asked.

  "You betcha,” Tim said, folding his money into his wallet. ”I never claimed I was a philanthropist."

  Tim decided to close up and guide us out to his mom's place. He told us he had planned to stay open Christmas Day, partly out of boredom, and out of the fact he could snag a few extra dollars by being the only place available in town to pick up gas and goods, but the weather being the way it was, that turned out to be a pipe dream.

  Still, bad as it was, it had slacked some, and we took the mo­ment to get started. Tim drove an old four-wheel-drive, green, broad wheel-base pickup with gaudy tail flaps. One flap had the silhouette of a naked silver lady on it. The other would have had the same but it was ripped in half, leaving only the lady's head.

  We followed in Leonard's heap, and as we drove, Leonard said,” He could have told us up front Florida had been staying with his mother.”

  "I think he was just being cautious,” I said. ”Watching out for Florida. Remember, he was mum until he asked if we were kin, boyfriends, or bill collectors? I think he didn't want to bring shit down on Florida, if he could keep from it. Or maybe he was watching out for his mother. Either way, I think he was being considerate. And remember, he didn't have to tell us dick.”

  "I don't like the dude.”

  "Really? He seems all right. Maybe a little too self-consciously folksy, but okay.”

  "A fifty-dollar finder's fee? I don't give a shit about his child­hood money problems. I give a shit about my fifty dollars he's got.”

  "You are the most suspicious sonofabitch I have ever known, Leonard. He's a little overly money-conscious, and he strikes me as a would-be cock dog, but neither of those things are exactly criminal.”

/>   "Yeah, well doesn't he make you feel kind of creepy, him talk­ing all that good ole boy bullshit?"

  "Only thing creepy is how easy it is for me to do it too.”

  "There's some truth.”

  "Yeah. Well, what about that cockroaches can't play basket­ball thing?"

  "I like that one,” Leonard said. ”But that aside, if Florida stayed out here, you got to bet this guy was sniffing her ass reg­ular like.”

  "He may have wanted her, but trust me, my friend, if this gal doesn't want to put up with bullshit, she has a way of dealing with you that'll make you feel knee high to a cricket pretty quick. And maybe it takes a heterosexual to understand what I'm getting at, but this lady, young as she is, pretty as she is, she isn't any babe in the woods. Not about men, anyway. Maybe about other things, but trust me, she's got an A+ in Dealing With Men.”

  "All right. There's some more truth. I saw Florida drag you around by your ying-yang some, that's for sure.”

  "I ain't proud of it.”

  "Nor should you be.”

  One minute it was gray and damp, the heater humming, keeping us warm, the wipers thumping almost happily, and sud­denly the sky went black as night and the rain fell down in silver sheets thick as corrugated tin. The air in the car turned cool and the heater moaned as if dying of pneumonia, the wipers swiped at the rain like a drowning victim trying to tread water.

  Got so bad, Tim pulled over to the side of the road and sat in his truck. We pulled up behind him and sat too, waited. It was a full forty-five minutes before the rain subsided enough for us to continue, and as we drove on, slowly, I looked out my side, watched as we crawled past an old gray clapboard building. It was long and low-built and the walls were leaning, and you could tell the floor had long since lost its battle against gravity and was lying flat on the ground, the old support blocks having shifted and sunk. Through one of the windows I could see an unlit Christmas tree tilting to port, and an unlit neon sign over the front door that was impossible to read through the slash and thrash of the rain.

  "A black juke joint,” Leonard said.

  "Yep,” I said.