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| Saint Sebastian River Bridge [Click image to call up all published instalments] |
Tuesday,
July 4, 1922,
8:00 PM
When Red pulled up outside Senegal’s Sumptuous Palace, there were only two cars there under the oak trees besides him. The building was done up like a Mississippi riverboat, the clapboard walls white, with red railings painted on. At the center of the blue painted paddlewheel was the door, which was almost round. The second floor sported real railings like the observation deck on a steamboat, on a balcony for the girl’s rooms. Senegal had told him looking up at a woman enticing them from a balcony was a traditional whorehouse touch that men enjoyed. The façade above the second floor was all pastel curlicues and gingerbread.
He went to the door and rang the bell. A tiny square window opened in the door, and a coffee-colored, bloodshot eye regarded him suspiciously. A deep sultry voice asked him who he was. Supper was over, and it was far too early for the average carouser to take to whoring.
“Tell Mister Johnson Red Dedge is here, and I need help.”
“Help?” came the voice, seductive now. “What kind’a help?”
Red gritted his teeth, looking away. “Just get him!”
The disembodied eye somehow managed to convey skepticism, but after a time, which was long enough to be disrespectful but not long enough to be insulting, the little window closed.
In two minutes, a huge baritone voice boomed from up the front stairs, getting louder as the massive man got down closer to the door. “What, my friend Red Dedge at de do’ an’ you ain’t let him in? F’ust time ever an’ you got to make him wait? Git yo’ ass in gear, girl!”
The bolt clunked and the door opened, and a gorgeous, slightly aging mulatto woman eyed him up and down. She wore fancy frilled underwear that was kind of like a union suit, except it was purple, short, and had a whole lot of woman stuffed into it.
Red’s eyebrows went for the sky, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down a few times.
“Well, come on in then.”
Just then Senegal got to him and grabbed him in a bear hug. Red was stunned speechless. Johnson held him back, looking him over and grinning. “I know one day you come to visit! You jus’ watch, we take good care of you!”
Red was shaking his head. “My brother, Guy, he’s hurt bad. Lost a leg. I need to keep him here because I’m pretty sure the Ashleys are after us. Their friends in Sebastian are the ones I figure shot him.”
Senegal turned his head, glaring at Red from one eye as if it was his fault. “Dat would be dem Frankenfield boys?”
Red just nodded, frowning.
Senegal looked towards the northeast, thoughtful. “And dey don’t be dat far away. OK!” He clapped enormous hands.
Three more beautiful women, two black and one white, and two skinny, scruffy black men appeared like magic.
Johnson leaned his considerable bulk towards them, looking wide-eyed at each of them. “My good friend here, Mr. Dedge,” he eyed them some more, “he need his brother from de truck. De man hurt bad, you gon’ put him in de attic room real careful-like an’ you ain’t gon’ say nuthin’ to nobody, you got dat?”
He nodded to the two men, who scurried for the door.
“Maggie,” and the woman from the door looked up. “You go an’ fix de room for Mr. Guy.”
Her eyes flashed, angry at dirty work, Red could see, but she turned and swayed her big ass up the stairs. Who was she to complain? She was a whore. Then he thought of the blond girl who had nursed Guy at Wild Wilbur’s, and he felt small for thinking it.
From the back rooms Henry Burr and the Peerless Quartet did their old version of “Let Me Call You Sweetheart”: “Keep the lovelight gleaming in your eyes so true, let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love…with…you.”
Red gritted his teeth, looking away. “Just get him!”
The disembodied eye somehow managed to convey skepticism, but after a time, which was long enough to be disrespectful but not long enough to be insulting, the little window closed.
In two minutes, a huge baritone voice boomed from up the front stairs, getting louder as the massive man got down closer to the door. “What, my friend Red Dedge at de do’ an’ you ain’t let him in? F’ust time ever an’ you got to make him wait? Git yo’ ass in gear, girl!”
The bolt clunked and the door opened, and a gorgeous, slightly aging mulatto woman eyed him up and down. She wore fancy frilled underwear that was kind of like a union suit, except it was purple, short, and had a whole lot of woman stuffed into it.
Red’s eyebrows went for the sky, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down a few times.
“Well, come on in then.”
Just then Senegal got to him and grabbed him in a bear hug. Red was stunned speechless. Johnson held him back, looking him over and grinning. “I know one day you come to visit! You jus’ watch, we take good care of you!”
Red was shaking his head. “My brother, Guy, he’s hurt bad. Lost a leg. I need to keep him here because I’m pretty sure the Ashleys are after us. Their friends in Sebastian are the ones I figure shot him.”
Senegal turned his head, glaring at Red from one eye as if it was his fault. “Dat would be dem Frankenfield boys?”
Red just nodded, frowning.
Senegal looked towards the northeast, thoughtful. “And dey don’t be dat far away. OK!” He clapped enormous hands.
Three more beautiful women, two black and one white, and two skinny, scruffy black men appeared like magic.
Johnson leaned his considerable bulk towards them, looking wide-eyed at each of them. “My good friend here, Mr. Dedge,” he eyed them some more, “he need his brother from de truck. De man hurt bad, you gon’ put him in de attic room real careful-like an’ you ain’t gon’ say nuthin’ to nobody, you got dat?”
He nodded to the two men, who scurried for the door.
“Maggie,” and the woman from the door looked up. “You go an’ fix de room for Mr. Guy.”
Her eyes flashed, angry at dirty work, Red could see, but she turned and swayed her big ass up the stairs. Who was she to complain? She was a whore. Then he thought of the blond girl who had nursed Guy at Wild Wilbur’s, and he felt small for thinking it.
“You three,” Senegal said to the other girls, “you take turns nursin’ Mr. Guy. When Jenny an’ Rosie come back from Fort Pierce, dey take dey turn too.”
That seemed to make them a little less pouty about it.
Just then, the two men wrestled guy through the door and up the stairs.
Red turned to Senegal. “I’m not sure how much I can pay you…”
Johnson’s head was shaking. “You pay me in de greens, de tomatoes, de gumbos! Ha! I own you for de summer!”
Relief washed over Red like a wave. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
Senegal put his hand on Red’s shoulder, and his huge eyes, white all around, stared into his own. “You are my friend. It’s what friends do. You go on about your business now, and don’t worry about Mr. Guy. I always told you, we would take good care of you.” Once again, the cornpone in his voice had disappeared.
Wednesday, February 24, 1915
Hanford Mobley was as sure as he could be. He could see where Kid Lowe’s bullets had hit the car. He remembered Lowe hanging out the door, bouncing with the bumps in the road. Hanford thought he was being brave at the time, but the stupid fucker had probably just been scared shitless. One round had gone through the right rear quarter-panel just above the right rear tire, and if it had hit the tire, they’d be dead. Damn near hit the gas tank, too.
Another had ricocheted off the bottom of the window frame, broken the partially rolled-down window, and flown into the car. And right into Uncle John’s face. He recalled the exact pothole where it had happened; he knew that road as well as all the others. It was then his uncle had started hollering.
It wasn’t the Palm Beach County Sheriffs who’d shot his uncle in the face. It was that fuckin’ Chicago asshole, Kid Lowe.
John had been near death when the Sheriffs slid to a halt beside him, dust and shells flying from the road onto John’s boots. They jumped out and beat him down, but once they figured out how bad he was hurt, they dragged him up Doc Summerlin’s front steps and pounded on the front door. Nothing happened for a minute, then they heard a man and woman yelling—at each other.
Finally, Delia, the doctor’s colored “housemaid,” opened up. She was a well-ripened dark goddess, with incredible black hair in wild, thick curls down her back. A dusting of gray only added to her grace. She wore an old-time black corset laced over a ruffled white blouse, both of which enhanced her considerable curves, and a wine-colored skirt and petticoats.
County Deputy Fred Baker, Sheriff George Baker’s nephew and County Deputy Bobby Baker’s cousin, was always stunned by her voluptuous presence. As the senior officer there, he took the opportunity to step up in front and look her over good, and boy did she look good. Bustin’ out all over, the afternoon sun glinting from the sweat on her perfect, shiny, coffee-colored skin.
The statuesque black beauty, who was old enough to be his mother, looked down on Fred with disdain as he drank her in. His own shirt was soaked with sweat too.
He dropped his half of John Ashley, who flopped wetly on the porch boards. Little spots of his blood splattered Fred’s boots.
Delia stepped back in unconcealed disgust. She took out a cigarette and lit it from a gold lighter, taking a deep drag and blowing smoke out at the deputies. “Well don’t just stand there. You better bring him in.”
After dropping off the Chicago boys and their part of the take from the cash drawers back at the Gomez homestead, Hanford Mobley went back out to Doc Summerlin’s stately but run-down plantation house and kept watch. By late afternoon the Sheriffs had hauled John away, and Hanford could approach the house.
He slunk around to the kitchen entrance, where Delia opened the door for him right as he stepped up to it. Closing it behind him, she turned and looked him over. “You look like shit, Handsome.” She knew the young man was flattered when she called him by his nickname; in fact, she had given it to him.
Delia led him into the study and sat him next to Doc Summerlin, in the stuffed chair which matched the doctor’s own. They looked upon the fireplace, and out two tall, narrow windows on either side of it. There was no fire this time of year; Florida was like a steam kettle in July. Even most winters saw no fires.
Delia poured stout snifters of dark rum, whispered conspiratorially in the Doc’s ear, gave Hanford a haughty look, and departed up the stairs.
“Don’t mind her, son, she don’t mean nothin’ by it. She kind of likes you.” He smiled.
Hanford blushed, his light complexion turning red as radishes.
Doc Summerlin was a lanky drink of water with bushy white hair, a gray goatee, and a salt-and-pepper mustache that was in serious need of some stern trainin’, in Hanford’s opinion. He wore a summer suit that had once been white, complete with faded jacket and threadbare vest, and a black ribbon bow tie.
Aunt Lugenia always said he looked like Mark Twain. Hanford didn’t know who that was, but if his aunt said it, then it was true. Feeling as if he was losing control of the conversation, Mobley turned and lowered his brows at the doctor. “Tell me about my uncle.”
The doctor accepted this bluntness with good humor. Though Delia had brought a new glass for Hanford, the doctor’s glass had been there for some time, so he was accordingly amenable.
“When they brought him in, I thought they had shot him themselves, but I heard no shot. It was soon clear from the amount of blood the wound must be close to an hour old.”
Hanford looked out the tall window at the trees. “Only about forty minutes.” He stared in the doctor’s face but saw no surprise there. “Now tell me the truth, Doc. He was shot from the front, wasn’t he?”
Summerlin seemed surprised he would ask. “Oh yes. Of course. Couldn’t have happened any other way. The bullet,” and the good doctor waved his glass, took a gulp. “A forty-five by the size of it. Entered his lower right jaw, shattered it, ricocheted off his molars and went up beside his right eye and smashed it. It’s still there too; to try to remove it would be far too dangerous. I patched him up so’s he’d make it to Stuart alive.”
Hanford shivered a little in the heat. The doctor in Stuart was a Cuban named Aristides Agramonte, in reality the coroner and the undertaker. His license to practice medicine was from Cuba, and in his eleven years in the United States, the AMA had not yet gotten around to certifying him to practice in America. Despite this, he was a far better surgeon than Summerlin, who was the first to admit it.
“Man’s a damned genius with tropical diseases too. Swears up and down it’s mosquitoes that carry the Yellow Jack, and I believe him. Hats off to him. Doctor Agramonte will take good care of John, don’t you worry. What I can’t figure out is why that bullet didn’t go straight out the back of his head and kill him deader’n hammered dogshit right there. That new Army forty-five is designed to knock a man down and do maximum damage. I’ve seen what they can do to people. Should’a blown his spine out and took those molars with it.”
Hanford Mobley was nodding, grim. “It was already a ricochet. It hit the car first.”
The doctor was nodding too, spilling a bit of his rum. “So, it lost mo…momentum. Didn’t hit s’hard as it should have.”
Hanford nodded thoughtfully. “Uh-huh. Momentum.”
That seemed to make them a little less pouty about it.
Just then, the two men wrestled guy through the door and up the stairs.
Red turned to Senegal. “I’m not sure how much I can pay you…”
Johnson’s head was shaking. “You pay me in de greens, de tomatoes, de gumbos! Ha! I own you for de summer!”
Relief washed over Red like a wave. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
Senegal put his hand on Red’s shoulder, and his huge eyes, white all around, stared into his own. “You are my friend. It’s what friends do. You go on about your business now, and don’t worry about Mr. Guy. I always told you, we would take good care of you.” Once again, the cornpone in his voice had disappeared.
Wednesday, February 24, 1915
Hanford Mobley was as sure as he could be. He could see where Kid Lowe’s bullets had hit the car. He remembered Lowe hanging out the door, bouncing with the bumps in the road. Hanford thought he was being brave at the time, but the stupid fucker had probably just been scared shitless. One round had gone through the right rear quarter-panel just above the right rear tire, and if it had hit the tire, they’d be dead. Damn near hit the gas tank, too.
Another had ricocheted off the bottom of the window frame, broken the partially rolled-down window, and flown into the car. And right into Uncle John’s face. He recalled the exact pothole where it had happened; he knew that road as well as all the others. It was then his uncle had started hollering.
It wasn’t the Palm Beach County Sheriffs who’d shot his uncle in the face. It was that fuckin’ Chicago asshole, Kid Lowe.
John had been near death when the Sheriffs slid to a halt beside him, dust and shells flying from the road onto John’s boots. They jumped out and beat him down, but once they figured out how bad he was hurt, they dragged him up Doc Summerlin’s front steps and pounded on the front door. Nothing happened for a minute, then they heard a man and woman yelling—at each other.
Delia was a well-ripened dark goddess |
County Deputy Fred Baker, Sheriff George Baker’s nephew and County Deputy Bobby Baker’s cousin, was always stunned by her voluptuous presence. As the senior officer there, he took the opportunity to step up in front and look her over good, and boy did she look good. Bustin’ out all over, the afternoon sun glinting from the sweat on her perfect, shiny, coffee-colored skin.
The statuesque black beauty, who was old enough to be his mother, looked down on Fred with disdain as he drank her in. His own shirt was soaked with sweat too.
He dropped his half of John Ashley, who flopped wetly on the porch boards. Little spots of his blood splattered Fred’s boots.
Delia stepped back in unconcealed disgust. She took out a cigarette and lit it from a gold lighter, taking a deep drag and blowing smoke out at the deputies. “Well don’t just stand there. You better bring him in.”
Hanford Mobley kept watch |
He slunk around to the kitchen entrance, where Delia opened the door for him right as he stepped up to it. Closing it behind him, she turned and looked him over. “You look like shit, Handsome.” She knew the young man was flattered when she called him by his nickname; in fact, she had given it to him.
Delia led him into the study and sat him next to Doc Summerlin, in the stuffed chair which matched the doctor’s own. They looked upon the fireplace, and out two tall, narrow windows on either side of it. There was no fire this time of year; Florida was like a steam kettle in July. Even most winters saw no fires.
Delia poured stout snifters of dark rum, whispered conspiratorially in the Doc’s ear, gave Hanford a haughty look, and departed up the stairs.
“Don’t mind her, son, she don’t mean nothin’ by it. She kind of likes you.” He smiled.
Hanford blushed, his light complexion turning red as radishes.
Doc Summerlin was a lanky drink of water with bushy white hair, a gray goatee, and a salt-and-pepper mustache that was in serious need of some stern trainin’, in Hanford’s opinion. He wore a summer suit that had once been white, complete with faded jacket and threadbare vest, and a black ribbon bow tie.
Aunt Lugenia always said he looked like Mark Twain. Hanford didn’t know who that was, but if his aunt said it, then it was true. Feeling as if he was losing control of the conversation, Mobley turned and lowered his brows at the doctor. “Tell me about my uncle.”
The doctor accepted this bluntness with good humor. Though Delia had brought a new glass for Hanford, the doctor’s glass had been there for some time, so he was accordingly amenable.
“When they brought him in, I thought they had shot him themselves, but I heard no shot. It was soon clear from the amount of blood the wound must be close to an hour old.”
Hanford looked out the tall window at the trees. “Only about forty minutes.” He stared in the doctor’s face but saw no surprise there. “Now tell me the truth, Doc. He was shot from the front, wasn’t he?”
“The bullet entered his lower right jaw” |
Hanford shivered a little in the heat. The doctor in Stuart was a Cuban named Aristides Agramonte, in reality the coroner and the undertaker. His license to practice medicine was from Cuba, and in his eleven years in the United States, the AMA had not yet gotten around to certifying him to practice in America. Despite this, he was a far better surgeon than Summerlin, who was the first to admit it.
“Man’s a damned genius with tropical diseases too. Swears up and down it’s mosquitoes that carry the Yellow Jack, and I believe him. Hats off to him. Doctor Agramonte will take good care of John, don’t you worry. What I can’t figure out is why that bullet didn’t go straight out the back of his head and kill him deader’n hammered dogshit right there. That new Army forty-five is designed to knock a man down and do maximum damage. I’ve seen what they can do to people. Should’a blown his spine out and took those molars with it.”
Hanford Mobley was nodding, grim. “It was already a ricochet. It hit the car first.”
The doctor was nodding too, spilling a bit of his rum. “So, it lost mo…momentum. Didn’t hit s’hard as it should have.”
Hanford nodded thoughtfully. “Uh-huh. Momentum.”
| Copyright © 2022 by Roger Owens |
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