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| Saint Sebastian River Bridge [Click image to call up all published instalments] |
June 1922, continued
Red figured he’d start with Miss Lottie. Early as it was, the riverside whorehouse wouldn’t be open for business, except for a few regulars staying over, or maybe a fella with some shiny new jingle in his drawers, say a fella like Guy Dedge, in his new coat and fancy-assed boots.
Red went around the square asking if anybody wanted to take his stall for a small fee, and with the sun just up he wasn’t long in finding a customer. Couple fellas sellin’ cured cowhides paid him three dollars, four bits more’n he’d paid for it in the first place, and Red drove the cab-top off in a good state of mind. Good, that is, considerin’ he was pretty damn sure his brother was doin’ his best to get them both killed.
It was the better part of a mile along 20th Street to get to Miss Lottie’s by the river, and the closer he got the worse the road was. Normally near the river would be a place with good roads for commerce, and down towards 16th Street it was. Trouble here was how swampy it got east of the railroad station; just half a mile south it was a sight dryer ground.
Red had been in worse swamp |
As he pulled the truck into the circle drive, Red could see the moldy walls, the rotten porch stairs, and the exposed brick where patches of the stucco had fallen away. No one was about, which was no surprise, the girls having worked hard—he snickered, they’d worked hard—until early morning, and were sleeping it off. If, he thought nastily, you could ever get it off.
He climbed the four slimy, unsteady steps to the porch and hammered lightly on the door. He backed off, thinking the ancient portal might come right off the hinges, it rattled so. After several minutes and a few more tentative bangs, Miss Lottie herself opened the dingy, once-white door.
Lottie was a mystery. She was skinny as a starving dog, her graying hair was a tangled mess, and she was without a doubt the ugliest woman Red had ever seen. Her nose shot out in front of her like the cowcatcher on the Flagler railway engines; her ears would make a monkey proud. She had protruding, yellow-stained “summer” teeth: “Sum’er missing, sum’er crooked, sum’er rotten….” Her chin threatened to meet that prodigious nose, if only the last of those nasty teeth ever decided to give up the ghost and get out of the way. She was dressed like a schoolmarm, in shabby petticoats, a faded doublet skirt, a used-to-be white underblouse, a dirty, mis-matched overshirt, a torn scarf and a tatty shawl. Pointy, scuffed black shoes, which the boy in Red could only peg as “witch boots,” stuck out unnaturally far from under her filthy undergarments.
This horrific apparition ran the scabbiest whorehouse on the east coast of Florida, maybe the whole country, and was, despite her appearance and vocation, the nicest, most polite person Red Dedge had ever met.
“Land’s sakes, if it ain’t Red Dedge, and of a mornin’ too! My my, you’re lookin’ mighty fine, with your new duds an’ all. ’Minds me of that brother of your’n, he was a’sportin new cloth last time I seen him, too. What is it brings you around this fine day, if’n I may be so bold as to ask? After that last time, didn’t think I’d be seein nothin’ but the back of you. Right smart of a young feller, I considered at the time.”
Miss Lottie had the manners of a lady |
“A good mornin’ to ya, Miss Lottie. I come lookin’ fer that brother you mentioned, thought he might’a come this way a bit earlier.”
Lottie shook her head, looking sad, as if it broke her heart to disappoint him. “No sir, ain’t seen him in a couple days. He has been around though, throwin’ money here an’ there like one of them swells from up North. Hear tell that boy’s been messin where he shouldn’t, like to get hisself in a parcel of trouble if’n you ask me.”
Red examined his boots, thinking how he might could squeeze a new pair out of his profits from the day. “Don’t know about that for sure Miss Lottie, but I heard somethin’ similar. Kind of hopin’ to find out, maybe keep us both outta hot water.”
“Well, I c’n tell you what his favorite girl was sayin, that there Sairy.”
Red raised his right eyebrow at this. Sairy was a high-yeller mulatto gal, with admittedly impressive assets, but Guy hated niggers so bad Red was surprised he’d lay with a mixed-blood woman, even a whore. Senegal Johnson was about the only black man Guy would even acknowledge, and that only because he was, well, Senegal Johnson, almost in a class by himself.
“I shore would be obliged if’n you would, Miss Lottie, ’cause I’m a’feared what might happen, them Ashley fellas catch wind of his messin’, if you take my meanin’.”
“I do, I surely do, Mr. Dedge, and I couldn’t agree more. Sairy says he’s got him a still somewhere’s up by the St. Sebastian River, so he said, anyways. You know pillow talk’s better’n the telegraph fer getting’ information.”
Young as he was, Red figured truer words were rarely spoken. “She say anything more specific, Miss Lottie? Sure enough a big place to go a’lookin fer a still.”
“They’re callin’ it Sebastian Inlet” |
She looked hopeful that this information had helped, and he thanked her kindly, allowing as how it was helpful indeed. He was a might shocked that she’d used a cussword; he’d never thought she’d say shit, even if she’d had a mouthful.
So that was where Guy’d got off to so often. Probl’y reckoned the Ashleys didn’t get up St. Sebastian way much. Red wished that were true, but from all he’d heard they had snitches all up and down the coast. Anybody sellin’ ’shine was liable to get a visit the dark of some night, and like as not wake up dead. That one-eyed devil John Ashley’d done lost his three brothers over the years, what with bootleggin’ an’ robbin’ banks, and if that didn’t make a man change his evil ways, he reckoned nuthin’ much would.
“Who’d know all about them Ashleys?” |
The ugliest Madam in nine states smiled her horrific smile. “That’s easy. Man you wanna talk to is Greyson Stikelether.”
Red was nodding; he’d been thinking the same thing himself. Stikelether was a local lawyer, rancher, and retired circuit judge. He not only knew all about the Ashleys, he knew just about everything else too.
“Round dinnertime, you’ll likely find him at Jimmie’s place havin’ fried catfish an’ hushpuppies.”
Red placed his straw hat back on his head and took her hand. “Thank y’ kindly, Miss Lottie, I’m much obliged.”
She placed her other hand over his and smiled that hag smile again. “You have yourself a blessed day now, Red Dedge.”
Damnedest thing, he thought, a woman like that a’callin’ the Lord’s blessing on his day. “You too, Miss Lottie.” He recovered his hand, his face hot, and got in the truck and headed back towards town.
At Jimmie Owens’ Flamingo Café |
The once-white walls and ceiling were yellowed with fry grease and tobacco smoke. It was a good thing they had the noon bell, because the big clock on the wall of Jimmie’s always said it was five minutes to nine o’clock.
Well, nickel is a nickel, I said, dime is a dimeThe station was WDAE from Tampa. They broadcast popular songs, recordings of high-tone music like the Waldorf-Astoria Orchestra, and news at six AM, noon, and six PM.
I need a new gal, she won’t mind
Tell me how long do I have to wait?
Can I get you now, or must I hesitate?
Red had heard Jimmie’d paid sixty-five dollars for it. Private radios had only come out in 1920, when KDKA had first broadcast from Pittsburgh. The Aeriola Senior had been on the market for less than a year when Jimmie had coughed up the bucks for it, but it had paid off. Most people couldn’t afford a Victor-Victrola for their home or the records to play on one if they did. Music was a draw in itself, and if you had the choice to eat where there was music and news or not, why, it just made sense to eat at Jimmie’s.
Soon the farmers were jostling for seats to eat breakfast, drink from bottomless coffee cups and hear the Farm Report that came on at 5:45 AM every day but Sunday. Lawyers, doctors and salesmen crowded in for lunch, to hear the news and get the latest baseball scores. WDAE out of Tampa reported sports from the original KDKA in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
Red had eaten dinner there in November of the year before, 1921. KDKA had broadcast the first game ever on radio, reporting that the Pittsburgh Pirates had defeated the Philadelphia Phillies, eight to five. The announcer would listen to the KDKA reporter shout into his ear on the telephone and then would shout the plays in turn to all those listening in the hinterlands of Florida. More than once the restaurant had erupted with cheers or groans, although Red doubted there were many Pittsburgh or Philadelphia fans in Vero. It didn’t seem to matter. It was the sheer novelty of the thing. Something interesting was happening, far away, and they could listen to it as it happened. They could almost hear the crack of the bat and the roar of the crowd. It was astounding. Unheard of. Red’s Momma would have said, “Now don’t that beat all.”
or “Casey Jones” performed by Billy Murray and the American Quartet
.
Red figured he could probably get him a plate of catfish too, and still get that new pair of boots. The ones he had were near ’bout wore out, he rationalized, and ’sides, new ones sure would look good for that “sociable,” as Senegal Johnson called it, later tonight at Zooks’.
On top of that, all his produce hadn’t been paid for yet. Some of Senegal’s purchases always went on his good credit, and he always paid on time. Some of the Dedge boys’ neighbors, down on their luck, got credit as well, and he figured he generally collected about ninety percent of what he was owed. He chalked the rest up to Christian charity. He would have some more money coming to him in the next week or so.
He went over to the Judge and stuck out his hand. “Judge Stikelether, my name’s Amion William Dedge. Wonderin’ if I might ask you a thing or two about them there Ashley boys. Mind if I sit down?”
The grizzled, heavyset man wore a white long-sleeve shirt that looked brand new, bib overhauls that had seen better days, and pointy-toed cowboy boots, with cow shit still stuck on them. A cloth napkin was tucked into his collar, which he seemed to need, as it had saved his sparkling shirt from several drips of fry-grease. It hadn’t kept the bits of batter and fish from sticking to his short, scraggly white beard, which covered his neck right down into the napkin.
He looked up and smiled, took Red’s hand and shook it vigorously. “It’s STIK-kelether, son, like ‘dike.’ Sure, sure, pull up a chair and set a spell.”
Red had pronounced the first part of the name like “stick.” He did as he was told, and Jimmy’s Mexican-Cherokee wife, Lilly, came over and took his order. “I’ll take what the judge here is havin’, Miss Lilly. And that sweet tea looks mighty fine too, please, and thank you.”
Lilly just smiled and ambled back to the kitchen. She was the type of woman men called “handsome,” with an unremarkable face, a fabulous black mane of hair, a sweet smile and a body that wouldn’t quit. She seldom spoke, and when she did it was in a soft, accented sing-song of mixed Spanish and English.
She never wrote down an order. Ten customers could walk in and ask for ten different meals, and she would just smile and walk away. In due course the requested meals would appear, in front of the correct diner, with the proper fixin’s and drinks, without fail. She was a bit of a legend, and the greying, paunchy, middle-aged Jimmie was considered a lucky man indeed.
“So, Mr. Amion William Dedge, what can I tell you about the nefarious John Ashley and his gang of heathen miscreants?” Judge Stikelether was known for his flowery manner of speaking.
On top of that, all his produce hadn’t been paid for yet. Some of Senegal’s purchases always went on his good credit, and he always paid on time. Some of the Dedge boys’ neighbors, down on their luck, got credit as well, and he figured he generally collected about ninety percent of what he was owed. He chalked the rest up to Christian charity. He would have some more money coming to him in the next week or so.
“Judge Stikelether, mind if I sit down?” |
The grizzled, heavyset man wore a white long-sleeve shirt that looked brand new, bib overhauls that had seen better days, and pointy-toed cowboy boots, with cow shit still stuck on them. A cloth napkin was tucked into his collar, which he seemed to need, as it had saved his sparkling shirt from several drips of fry-grease. It hadn’t kept the bits of batter and fish from sticking to his short, scraggly white beard, which covered his neck right down into the napkin.
He looked up and smiled, took Red’s hand and shook it vigorously. “It’s STIK-kelether, son, like ‘dike.’ Sure, sure, pull up a chair and set a spell.”
Red had pronounced the first part of the name like “stick.” He did as he was told, and Jimmy’s Mexican-Cherokee wife, Lilly, came over and took his order. “I’ll take what the judge here is havin’, Miss Lilly. And that sweet tea looks mighty fine too, please, and thank you.”
Lilly just smiled and ambled back to the kitchen. She was the type of woman men called “handsome,” with an unremarkable face, a fabulous black mane of hair, a sweet smile and a body that wouldn’t quit. She seldom spoke, and when she did it was in a soft, accented sing-song of mixed Spanish and English.
She never wrote down an order. Ten customers could walk in and ask for ten different meals, and she would just smile and walk away. In due course the requested meals would appear, in front of the correct diner, with the proper fixin’s and drinks, without fail. She was a bit of a legend, and the greying, paunchy, middle-aged Jimmie was considered a lucky man indeed.
“So, Mr. Amion William Dedge, what can I tell you about the nefarious John Ashley and his gang of heathen miscreants?” Judge Stikelether was known for his flowery manner of speaking.
| Copyright © 2022 by Roger Owens |
The plot thickens! Roger Owens’ new novel Is vivid example of a muse wringing an absorbing tale (if he’s to be believed when he says this book wrote itself).
ReplyDeleteBut another ”Roger,” Ed Rogers (or edRogers), says about the same: he dreams his stories!
This book did indeed write itself, or so it seemed. I had been thinking on it for a couple of years, and once the story began it kind of took over. Most of my writing is like that; I get the itch, and the words start to flow.
ReplyDelete