For whatever reason, I realized Carson Revels would say, He’s purging His flo. ‘He’d pronounce it, flo’.
“Let’s go, Gina. I’ll explain.”
On the short ride back to the abandoned brick shop, I reminded Gina about the back room with its wooden floor. She had been right about the graveyard being the end. It well could have been the end of the road in our search, “But the DeCamp Myth and the ‘Spitieri Spear’ led us to that graveyard. The map coordinates pointed to the area of the cemetery sign, itself.”
“Meaning what,” she asked
“It means that an amazing number of things have fallen into place. Last week, I thought we were going to enjoy a nice quiet train ride through the South. You know, fun to get away from the city for a while.”
“Well, what’s happening now?”
“I might be trying to pee up a rope, but we needed a clue from that graveyard, and looks like we got one.”
“You’re gonna pee up a what?”
“C’mon, we need a flashlight.” It was hottin up so I threw my coat in the back seat before opening the trunk. I got the light, and in searching for anything else useful, I grabbed the tire iron.
I did another quick survey of the main shop floor - solid concrete, no openings or hatches. Gina was in cautious lockstep, clinging to me like a shadow.
“This is the small room with the wooden floor I was telling you about.” A shaft of sunlight from a roof hole illuminated the end of the room off to the right. I shined the light toward the darker end; the room was empty and bare. I dragged the edge of my shoe on the deck, “You see, there’s so much dirt and sand, it’s hard to tell that those are wood planks.”
When I headed to the left to search the darkness, Gina gravitated to the sunlight on the other end of the room. I had just started to thump the floorboards with the tire iron when she asked, “Did you know the boards aren’t nailed down over here?”
I walked over and she showed me where she’d dragged her toe through the dirt by the wall in the middle of the room. Three nail heads showed near the end of each board. “Now look at the last couple of boards over here. There aren’t any nails.” A little more foot scraping showed the last six planks had no nails on either end.
I squatted and thumped the tire iron against the second plank. The dirt and grit to either side of it disappeared downward - sifted right out of sight leaving a one eighth inch crack. I rapped a few more planks with the same results.
“Gina, maybe these boards are just elevated, but there might be a crawl space.” Gina knelt beside me, her blue eyes wide with wonderment.
She tried to insert her fingertips in the crack between the planks but it was too narrow, “Woody, you got a treebrand?”
“A what?”
“A pocketknife.”
“Why do you call it a treebrand?”
“Dunno, that’s just what Grandma always calls em.”
“Well, here, you stand up. I’ve got something better.” One end of the tire iron was a wrench to fit on the wheel lugs, but the other end was flattened to pop off hubcaps. I slid that pry bar in beside the second plank and with wiggling, I coaxed the end up. We lifted the two by eight inch, by eight-foot board out of its resting position. I looked up to see Gina’s mouth wide open, but it looked like she was standing in a dust storm.
“Let’s go, hon, we need some fresh air.”
“Well, shine the flashlight down there first.” The circle of light showed a limited view of steep, filthy wooden steps extending down five or six feet into the darkness. We were both dumbstruck, but that didn’t change the fact that we couldn’t breathe. We had to get out of there.
Back out by the Chevy, I wiped Gina’s face with my handkerchief. She asked, “What does that mean?”
The same question screamed in my brain, but I said, “No telling, kid. I just need to go find out.”
It took a minute, but I convinced her to wait in the shade while I attempted to remove the other loose planks.
“Okay, you big meanie, but you yell if you find something.”
I tied the handkerchief around my nose and mouth like a highwayman in a Hopalong Cassidy movie and went back to inspect the dig. The dust had settled a bit, and I discovered I could control it by not acting like a bull in heat. I removed the plank closest to the end wall and uncovered a fat shiny Black Widow the size of my thumbnail.
Her imperial highness had no reason to take it on the lam; she was the Capo di tutti capi of her moldy corner. The last thing her royal ass ever saw was a tire iron getting very big, very fast. Still, I kept my eyes peeled for her street soldiers as I continued. I took up five of the planks and uncovered the three foot wide set of steps. Filtered sunlight pushed a foot into the hole, and the flashlight revealed the bottom end of the steps sat on a flat rock.
“Woooo-dy.”
“YES, Gina.”
“You okay?”
“It’s all jake. I’ll be out in a minute.”
I looked down at my roscoe by reflex and, with the flashlight in one hand and the tire iron in the other, placed my left foot on the first step. A few seconds can be a long time when you’re lower body is exposed to unknown, unseen danger. I had been in those situations in Korea and many more in my recurring dreams. My adrenaline kicked in at the thought of Korea, switching the action to slow motion.
I glided down the steep steps in three quarter time and stood in a dank cellar about half the size of the ground level room. Five feet away, a foot high concrete slab poked up from the dirt floor. The sides of the pad hadn’t been finished, as though it had been poured without using concrete forms. A simple, six foot long wooden box, about four feet high and not quite as wide, rested on the crude block. Extra boards reinforced the corners.
The ground was spongy damp but not muddy. I moved forward and kicked a five foot long, discarded snake skin to the far side of the mystery object; Gina would insist on seeing the site. The stale air smelled musty, but musty won’t kill you. I kept the flashlight working in an arc to detect the shiny black royals with the red hourglass tattoo who could.
‘So, Woody, this was gonna be a boondoggle’? I figured the voice in my head was going to reassure. ‘You had it mapped to run off alone with Gina and do what? Asshole, you haven’t even paid any attention to her.’
I needed to get a more sympathetic inner-voice.
‘Why don’t you tell the dame how you feel about her? You too chickenshit?’
“Enough,” I said out loud, “it’s complicated.” I got closer to the box and spotted two corroded quarter inch steel cables running under the box with the ends draped over the top. There were eyehooks on the ends of both. The cables had lost all flexibility to a thick coat of rust. The rust popped and shot away in chips when I twisted the cables sideways and pushed them down.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The moment of truth, I was a sudden true believer in the DeCamp Family Legend and willed the gold bullion to be in the crate. But, as always, I didn’t believe in shit I couldn’t lay my hands on, or in something I hadn’t done myself. Odds were, Tonto’s bones filled that wooden overcoat.
With the flashlight under my arm, I jammed my makeshift pry bar under the end of the crate lid and pushed down. The nails screeched their disapproval and finally gave up, but not without a fight. Despite the clammy air, I started to sweat like a whore in church. I rolled up my sleeves, and the water ran down my arms. I worked my way around one side and used the leverage of the lid against its own fasteners. I leaned the lid against the wall and shined my flashlight into the coffin and stared. I was witness to a Chinese angle nobody saw coming.
I used my handkerchief to scoop and wipe the Vaseline-like substance off what turned out to be a painted surface. Old fashioned green and gold lettering formed the words, ‘Indian Motocycle’. I glanced over at the lid and piped the package nailed on the inside.
A thick cellophane envelope was smoky with age and looked to be sealed with melted wax. I took out my treebrand a
nd sliced below the attaching roofing nails. Inside, another cellophane pouch containing a folded sheet of paper. I read the communication from the grave by flashlight and hightailed it back to fresh air.
Gina stood in the front of the blown-out building on a less cluttered area of concrete, “Woody, you okay? You have streaks down your face.”
“Just mud.” I took a deep breath and told her what I’d found. I held up the cellophane envelope when I got to the part about the crate lid, “Sweetie, you gotta read this.”
Gina opened the package and handed the cellophane parts back to me. She read the message signed by her great grandfather:
Sept 15, 1906
Here enshrined, is the most superior mechanical device ever created by man. Notwithstanding the fact that it’s a completely reliable means of transportation, it’s a work of art. I’m sealing the motorcycle in this tomb with the full expectation that it will be worth a million dollars someday. Pray that my heirs locate and resurrect it.
Wesley A. DeCamp, M.D.
She was stunned. Holding the paper at her side, “What the hell is in that hole, Woody?’
“I told you, a motorcycle in a crate. A vintage motorcycle, all covered, smeared, with a preservative we used to call Cosmoline in the Marine Corps. New weapons came from the manufacturer packed in the stuff. They must’ve built the plank flooring after they lowered the crate into the hole.”
She drifted out to the sunlight deep in thought. I followed, beating the dust off my pants. She stopped on the concrete entry ramp, turned and looked sad, “Oh, Woody, I’m so sorry to have wasted so much of your time.”
“Sweetie, any time spent with you could never be a waste.” Her big blue peepers swept up to mine and a smile lifted the corners of her mouth.
I blinked first, “Gina, what ever happened to your grandmother’s little sister?”
“Huh? Oh... I think she moved to Maryland to attend a finishing school, but got married instead.”
“Yeah? Who’d she marry?”
On the third count, Gina's mouth dropped open, “My God!". Putting both hands flat on top of her head, she stared across the fields at the distant bog. She shook her head and returned to the moment before she started jumping up and down in her, by then, black canvas shoes. "Woody! Woody, come on. Take me back to that Esso station. I saw a phone booth there.”
The sedan’s tires spun and grabbed the asphalt. Gravel flew again when we wheeled into the one-pump gas station.
“Gimme some dimes, Woody.” She half fell out of the car and scurried past the old shade-sitter with the bronze patrician face. Still sitting in the same faded red metal chair, he gave her a bemused nod and spit tobacco juice into an RC Cola bottle.
I was spitting dust and headed for the Co-Cola machine. Maybe he lamped the gat under my arm or perhaps the ancient swamps had informed him of Gina’s newfound wealth. He touched his cap and showed me all his store-bought teeth.
The phone booth was a shiny blue fiberglass half-egg fastened to the lee wall of the building. Gina fumbled with her handful of dimes, “Hello, Operator? Get me Klondyke 5-1212, Baltimore, Maryland, please. Just a minute, I’ve got the change.”
“Hello, Allen residence.”
“Uncle Ray? It’s Gina. Are you all right?”
“Shore, hon. Finer’n frog fuzz. You know what’s funny? Your Aunt Rose and I were just sitting on the pizer talking about you…”
EPILOGUE
(Today. Grainger County, Tennessee.)
We drove the Studebaker into town this morning just to run a little oil through it. A kid out by the pumps at the Quik-Sack asked me if that’s a fake bullet hole in the tail fin. I told him, ‘It sure is. Pretty cool, huh’? I needed a haircut; so your grandmother walked down to the IGA while I sat in the barbershop waiting for my turn.
I stepped outside under the awning when my phone started ringing. As I put it to my ear, at least one neuron fired directing me to answer, ‘Stone Executive and Corporate Security’. But I sold that lash-up ten years ago, and for an obscene amount of money - easy money.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Woody. It’s Mike Sekach.”
“Hey, you ol’ Leatherneck. How ya doin?”
“Doon good, Wood. Doon good. You?”
“Any better, there’d be two a’ me. How’s Anna?” I’m secretly in love with Anna Braun Sekach, Mike’s perky little wife. She got him lifting weights years ago. Now, they both look like they’re forty years old - well, forty-year-olds with crow’s feet. I love them both.
“She’s just great. Running circles around me as always.”
“Y’all still in Italy?” In retirement, Mike and Anna split their time between Tuscany and Long Island, New York.
“No, we’re back in Nassau County. Coy took a job as Chief of the Hempstead Police Department. He found nothing but boredom in being retired. We figured we’d come home and root him on for a spell.”
Their son, Coy Braun Sekach, retired as a colonel from the New York Division of State Police in 2007. Coy assumed anybody could make the decision to sail and go deep-sea fishing full time. After thirty years as a Trooper, he soon found retired life uninspiring.
“Say, that’s great, Mike. Tell him Gina and I send our congratulations.”
“Will do, bo. Just wanted to tell you we’re home. I’ll call soon and Anna and I will fly into Knoxville one evening.”
“That’d be aces. We look forward to seeing you both.”
That call this morning lifted my spirits. And it got me thinking about Dupree Davis, the mystery lodger in my original Williamsburg office building.
This evening, I’m rocking on the back porch looking out over Cherokee Lake with my grandchildren. They’re both visiting from college. Fall has brought cooler weather and shorter days to East Tennessee. Most of the familiar birds have packed their bags; now the squirrels and chipmunks only have to arm-wrestle the Blue Jays at the bird feeders. The giant hickory trees have turned to golden green. I imagine they’re the color of gold bullion, not that I’ve ever seen any gold bullion in bulk.
When our conversation turned to ‘words to live by’, Dupree Davis again marched front and center in my mind. He’s been reporting that same post for over fifty years.
Dupree is physically gone from my life. But I’ll never forget the night we drank in my office and he gave me life-changing advice. It was by way of a quote from Samuel Smiles, ‘Men who are resolved to find a way for themselves will always find opportunities enough; and if they do not find them, they will make them’.
Did Dupree know I’d research that passage later?
Here’s Smiles’ complete quote: ‘It's not enough to have a dream, unless you're willing to pursue it. It's not enough to know what's right, unless you're strong enough to do it. It's not enough to learn the truth, unless you also learn to live it. It's not enough to reach for love, unless you care enough to give it. Men who are resolved to find a way for themselves will always find opportunities enough; and if they do not find them, they will make them’.
So, I shared that advice with my grandkids. I realize the story might strike you as the long way around to my point. But the best advice I ever received came from an underweight, one-armed, alcoholic black man. I thought they should know the background.
Advice is just advice. The story is the proof.
Now that I’m getting long in the tooth, and not so burdened with base desires and lofty ambition, I’ll bet Dupree knew exactly what he was doing. Hell, I’ll bet you a dollar to a donut, Dupree Davis was my guardian angel. Now you’ve heard the story, what do you think?
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The Case Of The Lumbee Millions (Woody Stone, Private Investigator, Series) Page 15