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| Saint Sebastian River Bridge [Click image to call up all published instalments] |
Saturday,
June 17, 1922,
10 PM, concluded
The fat fella was back at the microphone, one of them newfangled spring-mounted models, but the sound sure was good. He lit into a jaunty “By the Light of the Silvery Moon,” and he had Billy Murray nailed, better than he did Jolson even.
Red slipped a small tin flask from his pocket and took a sip. He didn’t want to get snockered, but he also didn’t want Lola to have any illusions about him. He drank. Not too much, nor near what some folks did, but he did.
She watched him calmly, then smiled. “Just hope you’re not too fond of that stuff.”
He didn’t think he was and told her so.
She just nodded. She did that a lot. She’d just nod, as if that was that.
He liked it.
Then from left field comes Floyd Kimball, shoving Guy and yelling at the girl.
Red was about to go over when Guy popped Kimball a short jab in the mouth, setting him on his ass.
Guy hustled the girl out the door |
Floyd started yelling how he’d get Guy Dedge back. Guy would be sorry he ever messed with Floyd Kimball.
The band struck up a rousing rendition of “Tiger Rag” and drowned him out. Dancers began cavorting heedlessly around him, so the beaten boy rose and slunk off, glaring at Guy’s retreating back, flask to his busted lip.
Lola took Red by the arm. “Let’s make tracks.” And off she went, out the front door with him in tow. Barely had time to grab his hat. Just like that.
They were out in the front drive, cars parked everywhere under a nearly full moon, then farther into the dark of the dirt road under the trees.
She took his face in her hands |
A little surprised but not too much, he kissed her back.
She pulled back, still holding his face. “Do you like the idea of…relations?”
His eyebrows both headed north at that. “I mean, between men and women?”
Serious. This girl was serious. “Well, ah, yes ma’am, I most certainly do!”
She looked hard into his eyes. “I’m Lola. If you call me ma’am one more time, I’ll slap you so hard your Momma won’t know you. I want to know, because I like the idea a lot, but I don’t have no…experience. I intend to get some, and I aim to be married when I do it, but by God I don’t want no man ain’t right partial to women.”
She was talking country now. And serious. God damned serious. He reckoned he’d better talk serious too.
Does a cat have an ass? |
She looked sideways at him.
“Is a bullfrog’s ass watertight?”
Her eyes bulged and a huge laugh blasted from her wide, sensual mouth. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
He just nodded, grabbed her by the arms, and kissed those luscious lips, and the crickets sang in the woods, and the moon shone down brightly, just for them.
After a time Red thought might have been the best hour of his life so far, Lola said she had to go. “My daddy will be lookin’ for me, and if he finds me out here with you there’s gonna be trouble.” She kissed him again and turned back to the house.
Red figured he was done here; he’d come to pay court to Lola Bostick, and he’d been more successful than he could have dreamed.
He walked past Guy and the blond girl, who were goin’ at it hot and heavy. She looked to be pushing his hands away from her tits, but not all that hard. Guy slowed up enough to say, “Don’t wait for me, I’ll get a ride.”
Red just nodded and went on about his business, got to the high-top, and drove back to the farm.
Bright and early Sunday morning, Guy came staggering into the cabin, lookin’ like he’d been ate by a wolf and shit off a cliff. Like a Mississippi gambler what had lost at cards, got caught cheatin’, and gotten his ass whooped in the bargain. His face was bruised, his hands dirty, and his fine new coat was torn under one arm. The right, Red noticed; Guy had a mean right uppercut.
He poured another cup of strong, black coffee |
Guy took it with shaking hands and burned his mouth trying to drink it too soon. He’d forced it down in no time, and Red reckoned he might be ready to talk.
He poured the last dregs into their cups, went to the water bucket and dipped a little cold into both. It settled the grounds to the bottom, and they finished it, tossing the tail ends out the open door.
Red had seen Guy beat up before. He was interested to know something else.
“So, who was that cute little piece of tail you was a’smoochin’ with against that Buick? Looked like you’d got your hands on her knockers at least.”
Guy grinned blearily, remembering. “And a fine pair of knockers they are, by God. That there was Delia Fleming.”
Red set his cup down on the plank table so hard it bounced off and clattered on the floor. “Delia…are you out your fuckin’ mind? You know what her daddy’d do to you? Not to mention Grandpa!”
“Grandpa” was meaner than a bag of rattlesnakes |
“That girl is trouble with a capital T! She done got one poor fool kilt already!”
“No she didn’t! That’s just a damn lie! Todd Campbell wasn’t even her beau, he just went after that Nisle boy at the Strand outta jealousy!”
It had been the talk of the town last year, how the sons of the engineers who built the first bridge over to Hutchinson Island had gone at it with knives outside the Strand Theatre over the Fleming girl, and Clyde Nisle had ended up with Todd Campbell’s knife in his guts. He’d died after three days of screaming agony, consumed by fever, and Paul Nisle had never forgiven Todd nor his former partner, Todd’s father, Tom Campbell.
Judge Greyson Stikelether had ruled the killing self-defense, even though Todd had started it; it was known no love was lost between the sons, and Clyde had spent ten days in jail when he’d tried to run Todd down with his daddy’s 1915 Firestone-Columbus Roadster over another girl just a few months before.
Red had a bad feeling |
Guy shook his head, reached in his pocket for a flask, and gargled ’shine like it was water. He let out a long sigh, looked like he might heave, then swallowed down hard. “Floyd caught up with us out there, after you left. War T. weren’t with him, but Todd Campbell was.”
Jesus. Shit, Red thought, could it get any worse?
As if in answer, Guy nodded. “It went bad. Todd went to hollerin’ at Delia, and I was gonna jump him when Floyd come after me with a huntin’ knife. He was a’whoopin’ me pretty good until I took it off him, and, well, I beat him pretty bad. I was already pissed off, and what with Delia there and all…”
Turned out that while Todd was busy slapping Delia around, Guy had beat Floyd Kimball within an inch of his miserable life. The boy had a broken jaw, two cracked ribs, and his balls were rumored to be the size of grapefruit. Guy had then gotten Todd Campbell from behind, knocked him out with the butt of the knife he’d plucked from Floyd, and run for the hills, Delia in tow.
Donnie Marshbanks had picked them up on the dirt road in his daddy’s 1917 Stutz Bear Cat S, dropped Guy off at Miss Lottie’s, and promised to drive Delia home up to Sebastian. He probably thought the opportunity to drive that sporty roadster an extra thirty miles or so was too good to pass up and would give him a dark romantic ride back alone with his date, Skinny Sue.
Apparently, Delia didn’t know Miss Lottie’s was a house of ill repute and had been drunk at the time anyway. Guy had slept on the porch, as Sairy had had an overnight customer and had flatly refused to kick him out, preferring a good-paying regular to Guy, favorites or not.
Guy had really stepped in the shit this time |
Guy had really stepped in the shit this time, Red thought with his teeth gritted, and it might be deeper than either of them could stand.
| Copyright © 2022 by Roger Owens |
That ending sure does hint at bad stuff ahead! Read the next instalment of A Killing on a Bridge this coming Saturday, right here on Moristotle & Co., puveyors of fine poetry, fiction, and other literary delights!
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