Fiction: A Killing on a Bridge (28) A historical fiction

Saint Sebastian River Bridge
[Click image to call up
all published instalments]

By Roger Owens

Saturday,
August 12, 1922

Red Dedge sat in his truck, the back full of produce, at the market well before dawn. He hadn’t yet set up the scrap of canvas he used for a sunshade. He was hoping Senegal Johnson would come early, and he could pay off some of his debt for Guy and get the hell out of town.
    But the sun rose over the waters to the east, he set up his bit of canvas, and the other farmers and tradesmen gathered in their groups. It was the citrus boys on the east side; other produce on the west where he was; leather goods, tools and equipment vendors took the south side, and the purveyors of animals and feeds on the north.
    War Zooks stood looking at Red across the square for a few moments, shook his head and turned away.
    The station bell rang for seven o’clock, then eight. Where the hell was Senegal? He was never this late. He was, in fact, never late at all.
    That’s when one of Senegal’s men showed up. One of the skinny fellas always seemed to be scratching their arms. Pastor Stone had told him these men were morphine addicts, and the drug made them itch. This boy stood, twitching, until Red asked him his business.
    “Mistuh Senegal, he say, you go on’n sell yo’ vegebles, he say you gon’ need de money. He say, he take his from Pastuh Stone.”
    So that was it. Senegal was letting him get some pocket money to hide out on. He turned so the man would not see the weak tears in his young eyes, then wiped his face with his kerchief and turned back to the man.
    “You tell him Red Dedge said thank you very much, and I won’t forget this. You tell him that.”

“Done save my life”

    The man nodded, absently digging at his left arm with dirty fingernails. “Yassuh, I tell ’im true. He say you his good frien’, he be say dat all de time. Not fer him, I’s be daid. Mistuh Senegal a good man, suh. Done save my life.”
    Red blew his nose. “You tell him,” he said, and put a hand on the man’s bony shoulder, “that he’s my good friend too, and if I can ever do anything for him, he only has to ask.”
    The addict nodded again, picking his nose, then ambled off, scratching the other arm.
    Red had only to let it be known his crop-all of it for the week-was to be available, not bought up by the giant negro, and his business was brisk indeed. Everyone knew Red Dedge’s produce was the fattest, the sweetest, the freshest; however, they also knew Senegal Johnson, and wanted no part of pissin’ him off.
    By nine, Red had an empty truck and a full pocket. He was literally pulling up stakes, rolling the canvas to stow in the truck, when Saint Lucie County Sheriff James R. Merritt strode up to him from the south side of the square, the 20^th Street side. On his left was William Henry Kimball, father of Floyd, and on his right marched Frances P. Fleming Junior, father of Delia Fleming and son of the former governor, Frances Senior.
    Bringing up the rear guard were two grim Saint Lucie County deputies, and behind them was none other than the Right Honorable Judge Greyson Bell Stikelether.
    The Judge had that smile splitting the scraggly white beard on his face; he was clearly enjoying whatever version of hell had come to visit itself upon this poor sinner boy, Amion William Dedge.
    Sweet Jesus, Red thought, next it’ll be the Campbell boy’s daddy after our young asses too.

“Amion William Dedge?”

    From ten paces away Sheriff Merritt practically shouted. “Amion William Dedge?”
    I am so fucked, Red thought, but turned with a smile and spoke politely. “Yes sir, I am. How can I help you?” and stuck out his hand.
    Merritt ignored it and stepped up right in his face. “You can tell me the whereabouts of Guy Thomas Dedge, and right smartly, young man, or I’ll run you in.”
    Right off Red bucked up. “On what charge? Not knowin’ where my no ’count brother is? Hell, you’d best come ’round’n run me in every God damned day if that’s the case. Lotta other folks ’round here too.”
    Expecting this tall fresh-faced kid to be intimidated, the Sheriff was lost for words for a second.
    That gave Fleming and Kimball the opening they needed. “He done beat my boy half to death! I’m gonna serve him the same! Where’n the hell is he?”
    “He’s been messin’ with my daughter Delia, and I mean to kill him!” Merritt cleared his throat.
    “Now take it easy boys, none of that killin’ talk now. As I recall, Delia do have a tend’cy to wander a bit…”
    Fleming glared at him.
    “And God damn it, Bill, Floyd is a mean-assed drunk and you know it, come after this Dedge fella with a knife the way I heard it.”
    Kimball scowled like storm clouds, but kept his eyes on Red.
    “We just want to know where he is, ask him a few questions,” the Sheriff said.
    Not on your life, Red thought, with two men want him dead by your side, you son of a bitch.
    “You’d better cooperate, or things could go badly for you.”
    Merritt was being so reasonable, all fatherly-like, that Red was almost tempted to take the bait. But a penetrating baritone voice, rich with humor, spoke from behind the group.

“Unhand that young man”

    “Unhand that young man, Sheriff.”
    Merritt and the two aggrieved fathers turned, to see Grayson B. Stikelether stepping into their midst. Kimball and Fleming both stepped back. Even the Sheriff seemed a little awed by the presence of the Judge. The two deputies were trying to disappear into the background.
    “Well, ah,” Merritt started, “what connection do you have with this case, Your Honor?”
    And the biggest smile Red Dedge had yet seen on the old man’s face blossomed into a chuckle. “Why, I’m this man’s legal counsel! We sealed the deal just the other day, on the Fourth, over at Jimmie’s, didn’t we, Mr. Dedge?”
    Red’s mouth might have fulfilled Lily’s prediction and caught some of the many flies the market attracted.
    The Sheriff and the two plaintiffs were equally astonished. “I, I thought you were,” Kimball stuttered, and the Judge laughed outright.
    “Retired? Oh no, still have my license, I can practice anywhere from here to the Georgia line. Now Sheriff, what was it you were saying to my client?”
    Merritt was flustered as a schoolboy caught cheating on a test. “First, I want you to know, sir, that I never laid a hand on young Dedge. I, well, I need to know where the brother is, these men have legitimate grievances…”
    The Judge just kept smiling. “Grievances you made light of just now, with absolute truth. You do know that the truth is a perfect defense at law, do you not? The truth is, the subject of your investigation is a known ne’er-do-well, a gambler, a heavy imbiber of Demon Rum, and prone to go missing for days at a time, returning only to replenish his purse to provide for further debauchery. There is no basis in law to harass his relatives as to his criminal improprieties or his penchant for hiding out when the heat, so to speak, is on. So, unless you have anything more to say to my client, I suggest you clear the way for our departure.”
    Heads spinning from the barrage of words, they did just that. The Judge climbed in the passenger side of Red’s truck, wincing a little at the sight of blood staining the right-hand floorboards.

“Time for our consultation”

    Loudly enough that Red knew he meant for the Sheriff and his friends to hear, he said “Let’s go, Mr. Dedge, time for our consultation.”
    In a daze, Red turned his back on the Sheriff and cranked the truck three times counter-clockwise to prime the engine. He stood outside the driver’s door to lift the spark retarder lever, turned the key on, went back to the front of the truck.
    The five men, three lawmen and two pissed-off fathers, watched mutely as he switched hands, cranked once clockwise, and the truck started up.
    He snatched the crank out, hopped in the driver’s seat and advanced the spark until the truck ran smoothly, then put it in gear and drove slowly away.
    The only person not in a state of shock was Greyson Bell Stikelether.
    Red turned west on 20^th Street, because he had no idea where to go.
    “Go right here at 14^th, then left on 21^st Street. It’s not too early to get some catfish at Jimmies’.”
    Red cranked his head sideways at him. “The ‘deal’, you said. Jimmie’s. What deal?”
    That soft laugh again. “You paid for my dinner. Cash, a check, or any other pecuniary reward, willingly accepted, constitutes a retainer. I am your lawyer, son, because you are most certainly going to need one.”
    They entered Jimmie’s, which was mostly empty. The farmers had been in early for the Farm Report and some eggs before the market; it being Saturday, the businessmen, doctors, lawyers and office workers wouldn’t fill the tables for lunch and the latest baseball scores as they would on a working day. That was OK by Jimmie; the market brought him all the business he could handle of a Saturday.
    The American Quartet was crooning “Moonlight Bay” on the Aeriola.

We were sailing along, on Moonlight Bay, we could hear the voices ringing, they seemed to say…You have stolen my heart, now don’t go ’way…

    When they were seated and Lily took their orders—she didn’t even seem to be listening, but they were both regulars and predictable—the Judge looked up at Red with that grin, now with a glint of real malice in it too.
    “So, Mr. Dedge, we have ourselves some big fish on the line, what are we going to do with them?”
    Red’s eyes bugged out. “We…with them? What the hell can I do to them? They’re some of the biggest swingin’ dicks in these parts, in cahoots with some mean-assed sons’a bitches just so happens want me dead! The God damn Ashleys, the Frankenfields, what can you do even? No offense, Judge…”
    Stikelether shook his head, “None taken. But you might be surprised. See, those big dicks, as you call them, have vulnerabilities. Take their children for instance, heh! But more importantly, with whom they associate and do business. Big business. You think John and his kith and kin have done this all by themselves? Gotten away with it so long? Not only no but hell no, they have not. W. H. Kimball, Tom Campbell, Herman Zeuchs, Roy Couch, even that Sheriff out there, Merritt, and a parcel of other folks have been doing business with and for John Ashley for a long time, and I aim to put a stop to it. I had surely hoped Miami would hang that son of a bitch, but they didn’t, and I intend to finish the job.”
    Red was shocked to hear the Judge curse so much. He’d been watching his own language, mostly, out of deference to the older man.

Copyright © 2022 by Roger Owens