Fiction: A Killing on a Bridge (11) A historical fiction

Saint Sebastian River Bridge
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all published instalments]

By Roger Owens

Saturday,
June 17, 1922,
10 PM

Red saw money everywhere. He could have cut them boards, them logs, sliced them shakes, and made a tidy return. His Daddy had told him no one ever went broke making a small profit. That second floor alone, Red reckoned, measured about four times his and Guy’s little farmhouse.
    But this was no time to be jealous. He was young and strong, he had money in his pocket, and he had his eye on a fine piece of woman by the name of Lola Bostick. Life was good.
    Guy was laughin’ the way he did when he was first into the jug. He’d get all happy-happy, then drink more and get to crying the blues. Red called it his “whine and suck” routine, like how little kids would whine out, then suck back in to whine out ag’in. At this rate, he doubted Guy would ever find a wife.
    They got out of the truck and hoofed it up the dark road. They reached the house and had to wait in line. When they got to the door, they were braced by a couple Mexican toughs, but the name Warren T. Zeuchs was their ticket in. A huge counter ran to the left of the front door where visitors could leave their coats and hats.
    The entrance was grand, a tower-shaped room that drew the eye up to a glaring chandelier and several spinning ceiling fans, and shiny polished floors what made a fella want to check his boots for cowshit. Every wall and floor was done in a dark tan wood, while the ceiling was light-colored pecky cypress.

Something only a rich man could afford

    The foyer opened on a huge room that encompassed the kitchen, a dining area, a stage and a dance floor. Even here, the ceiling was a good twelve foot. It helped in the heat, letting the steamy dance-floor air rise above the revelers. Something, Red thought wryly, only a rich man could afford.
    Speaking of luxuries, he noted the many electric lamps in sconces along the walls, high up for better light and less glare to the eye. He was pretty sure he could hear two or three Kohler Model C electric generators running with their characteristic deep rattle somewhere back of the house, but it was hard to be sure over the band.
    A horn quartet of black men in red-striped suits and straw boater hats were on a stage at the back of the room, blowing “Ma Blushin’ Rosie” with gusto, accompanied by a severe, skeletal white woman on piano in a man’s black-and-white striped suit and a bowler hat. A fat pasty fella in a sweat-stained white suit and a tan fedora did a fair impression of Al Jolson, while constantly wiping his dripping face with a kerchief. “Rosie, you are my posie, you are my heart’s bouquet, come out here in the moonlight, there’s something sweet love, I want to say….”

Red scouted the room the way he would a field where he hoped to get a pig or a deer. He spotted War T. and Floyd at the bar tables to the left of the stage. To the left of them was an enormous kitchen, fit to feed the State Militia, where food burst from tables and counters on all sides. There he saw War T. and Floyd’s daddies, “Z” Zooks and Bill Kimball.
    Z’s top engineer Kimball was hogging ham and mashed potatoes at a table, while Herman talked up a fine-lookin’ older gal by the sinks. His signature tumbler full of corn liquor and ice was in his left hand, while his right waved in time to whatever tale he was spinning. The gal smiled stiffly and nodded as if she’d rather be visitin’ the dentist.

And there she was

    He looked back far to the right. A fireplace sat in the middle of the right-hand wall, and on the right of that was a roomy extension of the greater hall. And there she was.
    Lola Bostick was tall for a girl, busty and solid, and wore a white linen dress with little blue flowers on it. Her hair was deep red, almost black but with red highlights. Her smooth face had high bones, and her cheeks had round tops that glowed pink when she smiled in the bright electric light. Her eyes were shining with youth, that smile lit the room around her, and she was looking straight at him, and no one else.
    He was moving, then felt Guy grasp his arm. He turned on his brother. “What?”
    Guy shrugged. “You was a’goin’ at her like you was about to shoot that pig, is all.”
    Red jerked his head back but saw his mistake. He’d have to get a handle on his feelins’ or he’d likely run this plough into the ditch. Didn’t want to make a mess of this, that was for sure and for certain.
    By the time he worked up the courage to talk to her, he was sure she was interested. She hadn’t stopped eyeballing him since they’d locked lookers that first minute.
    Guy kept shoving him until Red shrugged off his arm and walked over. She’d been watching with plain amusement and grinned as he approached.
    He reached for his hat to take it off to her, then remembered he’d left it in the foyer, of course. Only a bumpkin wore his hat in the house. He could have sworn she saw his aborted grab and almost laughed out loud. He stood tall, for tall he was, and said, “Miss Lola, my name’s Red Dedge, and I sure would like the pleasure of a dance with you.”

“Took you long enough”

    She covered what he was positive was a snicker with her left hand, but when she took it away, she was smiling widely. “Took you long enough.”
    He lifted his right eyebrow, a habit he had when he was puzzled.
    “Aww come on, Amion, I know who you are,” but he shook his head.
    “Call me Red,” and she nodded.
    “Fine, Red, I’ve been watchin’ you watchin’ me for a couple months now. I kind of like what I see, so don’t go messin’ it up. Now, you been nosin’ around the laundry, pressin’ your questions on poor Donnie…” she grinned wickedly.
    “Oh yeah, poor Donnie,” Red said. “That’s why he drives his daddy’s four-thousand-dollar motorcar on a date.”
    She took his hand, swinging her shoulders like someone telling a joke, her smile wide as the Indian River.
    His head spun as her eyes sparkled into his. She liked what she saw, he could tell. She was holding his hand, sending jolts of electricity up his arm. Her palm was slim but strong, long fingers firmly gripping his calloused left paw. She led him, with his mouth hanging about halfway open, onto the dance floor.

    The band started up on “Maple Leaf Rag,” the emaciated woman standing and pounding the ivories like she was killin’ snakes, and Lola cut right into a Turkey Trot.
    He was surprised but not unprepared—the Trot had fallen from favor in the bigger towns for being too “suggestive,” but not in country areas like Vero. It had been replaced by the Fox Trot and other dances he considered too sissy, like the Castle Walk and the Two-Step. She danced close and hot, clinging to him like she knew something he didn’t. Like they already knew each other. Whenever they stepped back her eyes were on his, smile shining, her face flushed a beautiful pink in the humid summer heat. The overhead fans helped, but on the dance floor it was downright muggy. Her dress was getting damp, and his eyes were drawn to it as it clung to her substantial breasts.

    The horns blew the first bars of “Darktown Strutter’s Ball” and she drew him into a nimble Quick Step, which wasn’t sissy at all. She was light on her feet for a big gal. He had always been sure-footed and a sharp dancer. When his six feet and four inches got moving, he looked like a highly coordinated scarecrow. He’d learned a lot of fancy footwork from the country barn dances and socials up home.
    Up there the music was more like to be “The Chicken Reel,”
“Turkey in the Straw,” or that brand new “Ragtime Annie” Eck Robertson had just come out with. Here, with the river and the railroad, it was more town music.
    The fat man took the piano while the rail-thin woman went to the microphone. The horns began slowly, and her surprisingly sultry voice began Marion Harris’ hit version of “After You’ve Gone.”
        He turned to Lola. “What d’you think? I can do a passable ‘Hesitation Waltz’ if you’d like.” She just laughed, shaking her head. “That dance is stupid. Let’s go get something to eat.”
    They went to the kitchen and piled up sliced ham, venison, and wild turkey. Pickles and cheese rounded out their plates, and they found chairs along the front windows of the hall.

Another rich man’s pleasure

    Red went back and got them tall glasses of sweet tea, brimming with ice. Another rich man’s pleasure.
    They ate with their fingers in silence for a bit, then she turned towards him. “Are you married?”
    His eyebrows went up at that, and he had to swallow a mouthful of smoked venison before he could answer. “No ma’am.”
    She nodded, and bit into a dill pickle. After a few minutes she turned again. “Got any kids?”
    This time he almost choked on a bite of wild turkey. “No ma’am.”
    She just nodded again.
    His brain was swirling. What was she gettin’ at? He was ready for the next question, only taking little bites.
    She turned to him again. She seemed awful damn serious. “You ever been in jail?”
    A quick swallow, and “No ma’am.” Damn serious, for sure and for certain.

Copyright © 2022 by Roger Owens