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| Saint Sebastian River Bridge [Click image to call up all published instalments] |
June 1922, continued
It was now about seven in the morning and the boys had their whole load sold. Guy went back to the truck and laid out in the bed for some more shut-eye.
Before the black man drove the mule wagon away, Red asked Senegal if he was supplying any of the “comestibles” for the social. “No suh, dem Indian River fellas got they own supply, and I hear it be from de same suppliers as me. Dem Ashley boys pretty much got that bidness sewed up tight ’round here. And dey don’t take kindly to anybody go messin’ in dey bidness, if’n you knows what I mean.”
Red allowed as how he didn’t know, exactly.
“That backward big brother” |
Red nodded, noting how Senegal’s aw-shucks picaninny accent vanished when he was being serious. Of course, he’d known all along about Guy’s ’shinin’, but he could hardly ignore it any longer. Hell, if Senegal knew, that meant his girls knew; had probably been the ones to tell their boss in fact, pillow talk being better than the Press Journal when it came to spreading the news.
Smiling slyly, Senegal brayed his careless laugh again. “Listen h’yere, you don’t find what’cher lookin fer over to Zooks’, you jus’ stop on up to the Palace. We treat you right! We got a real high-class clientele, you know dat. Why, I bet Mr. Carter from Indian River Farms’ll be along directly, dat sociable be over. And for sure, dat Henry Kimball an’ his wuth’less piece of a boy, dey be dere early for sure and for certain.”
The big man spit, showing his dislike for Floyd, which Red had to agree with and a dollar on top to prove it. Worse, if Floyd was a regular at the Palace, and the word was out that Guy Dedge was ’shinin’ on Ashley territory…son of a bitch.
Senegal Johnson shook his head, “Best part’a dat boy dribbled down his daddy’s laig, an’ dat’s a fact. Know what else? Until dey jus’ up an’ dist’appeared last year, Ed and Frank Ashley was some of my better customers.” He brightened. “But you jus’ come on up an’ see us, I see you get de best! You know what dey say,” he said, leaning in confidentially. “You be black one Sat’dy night, you never wanna be white again!”
With that, Senegal put on his normal scowling face, chewing his sawgrass fiercely, daring any lesser man to cross him at their peril, and swung the gigantic mule around and back north along the railroad tracks.
Thinking hard about what his black friend had told him, both what he’d said and what he hadn’t, Red went off to take care of some of the other business he had planned for the day.
First, he walked west along the south side of the square, headed for Gifford’s Store and Post Office, along 20th Street. There he found what he was looking for: a new pair of pants that fit him. He’d cleared a good profit on the sale of the produce, and he indulged himself with a new white shirt too. He knew it would be more grey than anything after a few months of wear, but he wanted to look good for the social later that night.
After changing into his new duds, he returned to the square and sought out War Zeuch.
Indian River Farms and the other big growers |
The auctioneer jabbered a blue streak, just like the tobacco auctions back up in north Florida where Red was from. Now and then a fellow would nod or wave, or maybe point a finger, and just like that hundreds of pounds of oranges, tangerines or grapefruit changed hands. Some of the buyers wore suits with vests and bowler hats, but many were indistinguishable from any other farmer, in jeans or “overhauls,” white shirts and shit-kicker work boots.
When the Indian River Farms fruit was gone, War and Floyd leaned against a pole that held up the canvas sun cover where their booth was, wiping the sweat from their faces with rags made from citrus bags.
Floyd was sneaking sips from a pocket flask, which at this time of morning told Red Dedge all he’d have ever needed to know about what kind of man Floyd Kimball was, if he hadn’t already known damn well that he was a lying, self-important snake, and a drunk to boot.
The niceties had to be observed, however, so Red touched his battered straw hat with a finger and said, “War T., Floyd.” War nodded and said, “A.W.”
Floyd said nothing, but Red didn’t mind; his business was with War.
“Heard tell you was havin’ a social over to th’ house later. Wondering if’n I might stop by.”
“Ever’body’s welcome” |
Red allowed as how they were indeed. “You get a chance to talk to the railroad men yet, War?” They both knew about what; the illicit cypress piled in the woods up the tracks a ways.
War shook his head. “One of us needs to make sure we get a stop ’fore they head up the coast, an’ I got a lot to do today. Got a whole ’nother load of number two Valencias a’comin’ for a buyer what wants ’em for juicin’. Reckon you could handle the train for us, A.W.? Bein’s how we’re partners an’ all?”
Floyd snickered as he turned away to tip up the hip flask again.
Red knew he was being messed with, but he was the one with his hat in his hand on this fine morning, what with the invite to the social and all, so he didn’t mind. What he minded was that Floyd Kimball thought he could laugh at Red Dedge and get away with it. That was a fact that chapped Red’s ass something awful. Every time he saw that fella, the more certain he became that one day he would be required to give Floyd Kimball a lesson in proper manners, and a truly educational and enduring lesson it would be; he would see to that.
But that day was not today. Red had bigger fish to fry, namely his entry into the affections of one Lola Bostick. But when that day came, Red assured himself, it would be a lesson that sniggering son of a bitch would never forget.
When Red got back to the truck, Guy was gone. Probably off to waste the money they’d split for the produce on bootleg rum and some sleepy whore at Miss Lottie’s. Boy was gonna catch the clap, he didn’t learn to KYPIYP: “Keep your pecker in your pants.”
Red had been to Miss Lotties the one time, and what he’d seen had disgusted him. He’d had his share of farm girls, even a few he knew let other fellas have it too, but the idea of laying with a woman who’d been had by any and every man with a dollar to spend had sickened him. And their eyes—so empty, so…bored. He wanted a woman with the same fire in her belly for it that he had.
Those farm girls had wanted it, just like him. One of ’em hadn’t been the farmer’s daughter either, but the farmer’s wife. He wasn’t proud of that, but damn, that woman had had the fire like he never imagined. He’d left Lottie’s that night with his jingle still in his pocket, to the jeers of the working girls and the other marks. He didn’t care. They could have all that they cared to; he wanted no part of it.
Red was on a mission |
Red had just determined to step in on Donnie’s side, come hell or high water, when the welshing son of a bitch had reluctantly handed the quarter over. Donnie would know what there was to tell about Lola, he was sure. A girl like that might not be approached by just any boy, but by God she was noticed, by every man with two balls in his pants, eight to eighty, blind, crippled, or crazy.
He was in luck today. Marshbanks was out by the tracks sorting tobacco bundles, searching out the best leaves to roll cigars in. He had a side business in hand-rolled cigars, and he seemed to have a real talent for it.
Back home Red had picked tobacco, and his daddy and uncles had just waited until the plants were mature, and then had the kids strip each plant, top to bottom, into bundles, which they then laid on a flatbed pulled by one of the older boys with a tractor.
The girls sat on the flatbed trailer with lengths of twine pre-cut about two feet long. They grabbed up each bundle the boys picked and wrapped the stems in the twine, finishing with the end drawn through the stems and yanked tight.
Those bundles were then tied onto drying poles and hung in drying barns to flue-cure as they dried. But according to Donnie, for true quality cigars, the leaves should be picked on just the right day or two for the best flavor. Had tobacco grown for shit south of Tallahassee, which it did not, Donnie would have picked each leaf at just the right time. This leaf for filler, this one for wrappers, that one auctioned off as inferior.
Many folks were touchy about the Good Book |
“Don,” Red said, touching his hat, and Marshbanks rose from his labors and smiled.
“A.W.! How the hell are ya?” They shook hands firmly; Red’s support that day at Bethel Creek hadn’t been lost on Donnie, and their friendship had stayed strong.
“I’m doin’ tol’able well, I admit, how’s about your own self?”
The rail-thin boy grinned, allowing as how he was tol’able well himself. “A sight better’n tol’able, as a matter of fact. Know that gal Sue, daddy has a few acres over to Graves Brothers? She done agreed to accompany me to the social over to Zeuch’s tonight. What about you, Red, you got your eye on anybody, special-like?” His eyes gleamed with humor; he knew good and well what Red had on his mind, and it weren’t quality tobacco neither.
“As a matter of fact, that was just what I come to see you about. Maybe you done noticed a certain gal name of Lola, works at your laundry yonder? Thought I might ask you a bit about her.”
Donnie nodded knowingly, getting all mock-serious at this venture into the subject of women, at the very top of each young man’s mind pretty much all day every day. “Oh, I seen her. You like’s ’em with plenty meat on they bones, don’t you, Red Dedge?”
Sue, Red recalled, was if anything more spare of frame than Donnie his own self, looking more like a soft boy than what he considered a woman art’a look like. Red preferred a woman with some curves where she should curve, just not too much. Skinny girls reminded him of chewing on a dry bone.
Donnie obviously disagreed, but he kept his opinions to himself, something else Red could appreciate in a friend.
“So,” Donnie started off, “Lola’s daddy got some bottom land up by Mosquito Lagoon, but it’s no good fer growin’, too salt, so he took a lesson off’a old man Hutchinson and got his self some hogs. Hear tell he does a decent business, sellin’ ’em on the hoof. Don’t need no butcherin’ or storage thataway, besides. He’s a head taller’n me,” to which Red reacted with surprise, “and her momma don’t hardly stand to his belt, swear to God. Add to that the man wears a stovepipe hat, makes him look ’bout nine feet tall.”
Red’s woman would need to be able to keep up |
Don was being close-mouthed about it, but dammit, he knew what Red wanted, and it irritated him his friend was holding out.
“Come on, Donnie, quit hemmin’ an’ hawin’ and spill the damn beans, will ya? What’s she like?”
Marshbanks smiled at his feet; he’d wanted to get Red’s goat and he’d got it all right. “Keep yer shirt on, I’m just pullin’ your leg. She’s a smart, hardworkin’ gal from good folk, hardly a horse thief amongst ’em. From up south Georgia, heard she was borned in Ray City. Churchy; she’s Baptist, and pretty determined about it. But she works her…she works hard in the laundry, and always smilin’ an’ jokin’. Hear she pulls her weight at her daddy’s house too, with the chores an’ all. I like her; I think she’s a serious woman, young’s she is.”
This was about as good a report as Red could have hoped for; he was interested in her because she was pretty as a stout filly, but he was a serious young man, too, and he needed a woman who “pulled her weight.” He wasn’t studyin’ on marryin’ no society lady by God, and if he had anything to say about it there would be lots of children and plenty of chores to do when he finally chose the woman to live his life with.
He and Donnie parted company, as always with a heartfelt handshake, and Red was thinking, this was another man he might count on, if one of these days, things went in the jakes and a fella needed a hand. Marshbanks didn’t look like much, kinda gawky really, but Red knew there was a backbone of steel in that slender frame. And thinkin’, as he was, of things headed for the outhouse, he decided it was time to get to the business of findin’ out just what the hell Guy had been up to.
| Copyright © 2022 by Roger Owens |
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