Fiction: A Killing on a Bridge (17) A historical fiction

Saint Sebastian River Bridge
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By Roger Owens

Tuesday,
July 4, 1922

People were lined up along 20th Street by noon, waiting for the parade, which was to start at two o’clock. Red Dedge sat at the same table in Jimmie Owens’ Flamingo Café on 21st Street. Once again, he was sitting in front of the fried catfish dinner and talking with the same man, Judge Greyson Stikelether.

    The Judge had his napkin tucked in his collar. The clock on the wall said it was five minutes to nine. Louise Homer belted out “America the Beautiful” on the Aeriola Senior radio settin’ on the counter.
    Red was trying to tell the Judge the whole story with Guy and was finding it hard not to break down. While Stikelether frowned and made all the appropriate noises of sympathy, it didn’t slow down his eatin’ none. He still wolfed catfish and hushpuppies and gargled ice tea with gusto, even as Red told of the shooting, the wild ride, the amputation. Stikelether had ordered a side dish of black-eyed peas.
    “What I need to know, ah, Grey, is if’n you think the Ashleys will let it go at this. They done busted up Guy’s still and blowed his leg off with a God damn shotgun. They’s some murderous sons a’ bitches, and their bully boys, them Frankenfields, ain’t a stitch better. I just got to know if I can call this quits and go on about my business, see to my farm, and not get my ass shot off.”
    The Judge was chewing and swallowing like a combine goin’ through a cornfield, and little bits of food flew off here and there, which he ignored, slurping more sweet tea to wash it all down. He motioned towards Red’s plate, which had hardly been touched, and finally, after another swallow and gulp, said, “You best go on and eat your catfish before it gets cold, son. Nothing less appetizing than cold fried fish. Now fried chicken, of course, can sit on the counter all day and still eat just fine. Go on, eat up, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

    Red knew he was right, and began filling his gullet, although with less enthusiasm than the Judge on his worst day. From the Aerolia Senior, the horns of the Victor Military Band tootled and swooped through the ragtime strains of “Too Much Mustard.” Between eating the small, crisp fish off the bones with his fingers, the Judge spelled out the bad news.
    “I hate to say this, young man, but no. I do not think for one minute you are safe from the Ashleys’ retaliation, not now and not ever. They don’t just want to stop you stepping in their dinnerplate. They want to make an example of you. You and anyone else who might dare to cross them have to be utterly destroyed or, as they well know, more will try. It’s in order to discourage those others that they mean to see the end of you. You cannot let your guard down for a second. You cannot stay at your farm. And short of killing every last one of them, I don’t see how you’ll ever be free of their threat.
    “Where is Guy right now?” Stikelether stirred the remnants of his black-eyed peas, and Red, wishing he’d ordered the peas too, swallowed fish and gulped ice tea.
    “I got him set up at Miss Lottie’s. Them two doxies what nurse for Doc Wilbur are seein’ to him. Got him on laudanum and sulfa, and some other stuff. They change his bandages, see he don’t lay in his own shit too long. Didn’t know what else to do.”
    The Judge was shaking his head. “You can’t really believe Lottie isn’t beholden to John Ashley, can you? The Ashleys take protection money from damn near every whore house from Palm Beach to Daytona. You must move him forthwith.”
    Red shook his own head at that. “I know that, but I don’t think she’d rat us out. See, I, uh, I think Miss Lottie’s kind of sweet on me….”
    That stopped Stikelether in mid-swallow. He choked, coughed, swigged his tea, rocked back on two legs in his chair.
    Red came around and pounded him on the back until he got his breath.
    Finally, the Judge held up a hand, nodding that he was all right. Red thought he started coughing again but he realized the old man was laughing, deep heh-heh-heh’s that shook his shoulders, and then he was coughing again, but waved Red off.
    Red sat down and applied himself to his plate, as the Judge, head bent low, looked up at him with a huge grin.

“I do declare”

    “I do declare, Mister Amion William Dedge, you are one extraordinary young man! You have established a viable farm, engaged in a lucrative if slightly shady side business, as has your brother I might add, over and above….”
    Red could only nod acknowledgment.
    “You have pissed off not only most of the wealthy, important men in your town, but the notorious and ubiquitous Ashley Gang as well. You have courted one of the prettiest girls in town,” Red’s right eyebrow shot up at this, “so far successfully, at least from what I’ve heard,” and the brows both went up.
    “And, I understand you only turned eighteen years of age just last month, on the twelfth.”
    By this time Red’s mouth hung open wide, and he was on the verge of embarrassing himself, asking “How did you—?” when Lilly appeared at his side and refilled his tea glass, with extra ice.
    “Shut jour mouth, chico,” she said softly. “Jou’re catching flies.” Her accent was pure sex. She poured more for the Judge and then swayed back behind the counter.
    Stikelether was upright now, his grin bigger than ever. “Any or all of these things, son, I might have expected from any number of young fellows about town of an adventurous mind. But to claim that Miss Lottie Wainwright was sweet on them? I don’t know a man among them who would admit to that. I commend you, sir! It shows admirable maturity on your part.”
    Red nodded, his face flushed, with what-all he didn’t even know.
    “Miss Lottie’s…really nice, you know what I mean?” Red had stopped eating and Stikelether motioned him to continue. The older man nodded solemnly, his napkin bobbing. “I most certainly do. Lottie’s unkindness on the eyes is matched only by her kindness to others. She takes care of her girls and keeps them on, or finds them other work, when another madam would turn them out as too old or sick to perform. She truly believes she provides comfort to both the girls in her care and her customers as well. She sees to it Doctor Sampson gives the girls the best care possible. It might surprise you to know she attends Pastor Gifford’s Emmanuel United Methodist Church every Sunday, and that he welcomes her. Real man of vision, the good Pastor. He allows all to worship, even the negros.

“But I’m afraid you still have a problem”

    “But I’m afraid you still have a problem.”
    After this rather lengthy speech the Judge turned back to his catfish, leaving Red to stew about his words. What problem? Why didn’t the old man just spell it out? As jumpy as he was, with just any farmer or trapper Red might have stood and jerked them across the table and slapped what he wanted to know out of them. But you didn’t do that kind of thing with a man like the Judge. He’d been raised to understand that a man like Stikelether deserved respect. “Could I ask what that problem might be, sir?”
    Red was surprised to see the Judge hesitate. It wasn’t like him.
    “Well, you know his favorite gal over Miss Lottie’s…”
    Red nodded quickly. “Yeah, Sairy, that high-yaller gal with the…” and the old man grinned again.
    “Oh yes, I have seen and enjoyed Miss Sairy’s considerable charms on many an occasion.”
    Red’s eyebrows were working overtime. “You, ah, and Sairy…?” and the Judge nodded, grinning through his stubble of beard.
    “Your ability to perceive the obvious is nothing short of phenomenal, young man. I was once like you, and I am not dead yet!” He wiped his plate with the last hushpuppy, pulling out his napkin to swab his stubbled face. Grease shone from his lips as he pointed that bony finger at Red again, down low with his wrist on the table.
    “Sairy, as sweet as she is, is in the direct employ of John Ashley and has been since she came here. John likes to have a girl or two in each house to spy for him. You need to get him out of there, and the sooner the better.”
    Red’s shoulders slumped. “But where can I take him? He can’t be left alone, and you say the farm’s not safe anyway.”

The Judge spoke in a low voice

    The Judge leaned over conspiratorially and spoke in a low voice. “There is only one bawdy house on the whole east coast where John Ashley doesn’t have his hand in the till.”
    Red leaned across the table questioningly.
    “Why son, you ought to know. It’s the establishment run by our good friend Senegal Johnson. Senegal’s Sumptuous Palace of Delights.”
    Red had only one concern about that, now he reflected on the suggestion. Senegal had said the Ashleys were good customers, but then again Ed and Frank had disappeared, like Stikelether had said. So that just left Floyd Kimball to worry about. Floyd had it in for both of them, but Guy most of all. Well, fuck that evil little bastard, he thought; if he messed with Red’s brother, he’d make him wish he’d never been born.
    As he got up to leave, Stikelether dropped his napkin on the table and said in a low voice, “Get the tab, son. It’ll be more than worth your while later on, believe me.”
    With that, he hit the screen door and ambled down 21st Street towards the Women’s Club, leaving a confused Red Dedge in his wake.

Copyright © 2022 by Roger Owens