Fiction: A Killing on a Bridge (40) A historical fiction

Saint Sebastian River Bridge
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By Roger Owens

Friday,
July 9, 1915,
4:45 PM

The Bank of Okeechobee sat on the west side of Hooker Highway, that ran through the town north to south, down to the Big Lake. Bank President D.E. Austin had prepared his staff for the Friday rush of cattlemen and citrus workers, fishermen and boat builders, waitresses and office workers who would flood the lobby to cash or deposit their pay.
    Many would be from Johnny Walker’s cattle operation up Fort Basinger way, which was a bit of a drive, so on paydays Austin often kept one teller overtime and helped run the windows until well past the normal closing time of five in the evening.
    He didn’t mind accommodating them at all. John Hardy Walker Sr. was a good friend, a heavy depositor and shareholder in the bank, and Austin and he were part of a larger group that was planning on carving a new Okeechobee County, with the town as the county seat, out of parts of Saint Lucie, Seminole and Desoto Counties.
    The biggest obstacle in the road was William C. Langford, the State House member representing Desoto County. He had told William Lee Coats, commonly known as “Okeechobee Bill” for his efforts to push the legislation through, that Langford would be “damned and go to Hell” before he would allow his county to be “carved up like a Christmas turkey by some backwoods cowpunchers horning in where they have no God damned business.”

Prospects for an agreement seemed dim

    Prospects for an agreement seemed dim. Meanwhile, citizens had to travel forty miles on a bad road through lowlands that were hot, often flooded, and bred mosquitos like a carcass bred maggots, to get to the county seat at Fort Pierce to do official business.
    Folks in Fort Basinger in Desoto County had it even worse; their county seat was Arcadia, over sixty miles away. At least it was a nicer area to drive through than over to the coast, although it got hotter in summer in the central part of the state. The sea breezes didn’t penetrate so far, and the middle of Florida, from Lake City in the north to the Everglades in the south, roasted in airless misery from April to November.

The night before, Joe Ashley, dressed as the Dapper Bandit, had checked into the Hillsboro Hotel with his “chauffeur,” Ed, under the name J. Dapper. He’d gotten the tip from Geneva that a fat payroll was to be had at the Bank of Okeechobee of a Friday.
    The hotel sat back among the pines on the same side of Hooker Highway as the bank, about a half-mile to the south. The proprietress of the Hillsboro Hotel, one Mrs. Sophia Moser, was a knockout, with a massive flow of mahogany hair and a body that wouldn’t quit.
    She made it plain to Joe that a gentleman of distinction-or means-might find more than a soft bed at the Hillsboro, if he was so inclined.
    Joe thanked her sincerely, but said he was only staying the night and needed his sleep.
    Ed’s eyes bugged out a little. Mrs. Moser expressed her deep disappointment and extended to Joe the courtesy of a rain check, should he travel to Okeechobee again.

“I prefer to conclude my business and move on”

    “I, ah, rarely have subsequent transactions in a given town; I prefer to conclude my business and move on.”
    Ed, carrying their two small cases and a suit bag, seemed to be having trouble breathing.
    And what business was Mr. Dapper in? And please, call her Sophia.
    “Well, Sophia, I am a bank officer. We specialize in transferring money. Large sums of money.”
    Ed started coughing and couldn’t seem to stop.
    Joe pounded him on the back, and asked in a concerned voice, “Edward, are you quite well?”
    Ed coughed harder.
    Over the racket Joe told Mrs. Moser that Ed would be fine, it was just his allergies, and she nodded sympathetically. Joe added that, obviously, what he did for a living must remain confidential. “Wouldn’t want to tip off any bad guys,” he winked.
    She slyly agreed. Your secret, she said, putting a finger to her admittedly, Joe thought, very kissable lips, is safe with me.
    Frank, Tom Middleton, and Hanford Mobley had checked in earlier in the day at the Northern, which sat on the east side of the same highway some two and a half miles north of the bank and was run by Mrs. Minnie McNeff, who made her rules painfully clear right up front: no drinking, no gambling, and no women.
    The Northern Hotel wasn’t nearly as nice as the Hillsboro, but then again, they were letting it around that they were prospective turpentiners. They wore their usual shirts and boots and overalls, which was exactly what turpentiners would wear, and would be out of place in a fancy joint.

John Ashley and
Laura Upthegrove

    Laura Upthegrove and Roy Mathews, posing as a young couple on their honeymoon, rode into town that Friday noon in a plain black Model T Roy had borrowed from his cousin, with Laura at the wheel.
    She wore a white dress with a light blue flower pattern, with plenty of extra cloth down below that she thought helped to hide her wide hips, but it didn’t work. Laura Upthegrove wasn’t ugly; her face was pleasant, framed with abundant dark curls, with a ready smile and a saucy manner. But her ass, as Al Miller had once said to Roy in private, was as thick as a knob-headed mule’s.
    Roy Mathews hadn’t needed to tell Al not to say that when John was around.
    They first drove to the Southern Hotel, an establishment down by the Big Lake with a veranda facing the water on the first floor, backed by the restaurant and the lobby, which faced the road. Balconies lined three more floors, and every room had a view; the Southern was a popular honeymoon destination. From their penthouse suite, Laura could see far to the east, to a place she’d known as the “mud flats” when she grew up there, a place now called Up the Grove Beach.
    Those sons of bitches, she thought, with her teeth gritted. Not one of ’em would’a pissed on her back then if she’d been set on fire, and now them bastards was all set to elect her cousin, Bob Upthegrove, a county commissioner, the second they forced through the creation of the new county. The same God damned, lowlife piece of human shit who’d raped her for years when she was a little girl. She hoped he was a heavy investor in the Bank of Okeechobee, because she meant to rob it, and she meant to rob it good.
    John Hopkin Ashley had taught her well. People saw what they expected to see, they often ignored what didn’t fit into their everyday lives, and if you stuck a gun in their face, they’d mostly do what you told them.
    She’d gushed to the hotel’s desk manager that they had saved every penny for their honeymoon, to come enjoy the wonderful view and sample the fishing and the local food.
    Roy Mathews stood there blushing, wondering if he should say anything. He wore a plaid jacket, and a string tie with a brass-plated clasp that held a milky stone Young thought he could’a found on any railroad track back in Jefferson City Missouri. His white trousers and the straw boater hat he wore made him feel like a God damned clown in a circus.
    He thought for sure no one would buy their story. He had no idea that the proprietor, Mr. Arthur Nasser, had welcomed countless newlyweds, and thought this lovely young couple were as sweet a pair as he’d ever laid eyes on.
    The tall, spare innkeeper, with his faded suit from 1900 and his sun-burned face, was totally taken in, but then marriage was his business, and he reveled in it. He’d been married three times already, each woman a gem and a delight, and he smiled as he fondly recalled the first two. They had been big women, and a failing heart often carried off such—and his breath came sharply—massive lovelies, far too soon.
    The current Mrs. Nasser was well on her way to pleasingly plump, just the way he liked her. Such women were indulgent souls, being indulgent with themselves first; so, they tended to be forgiving of other little sins and omissions. Such as, the occasional dalliance with some other woman of the requisite proportions. It was as if they instinctively understood that big girls needed love, and it took a special man to provide it.

Arthur was special indeed

    Arthur was special indeed. The man had a cock like a Brahma bull, and he liked his women with as much padding as possible. This little sparrow before him had a promising ass, but as yet it was hardly worth the attention of a true connoisseur.
    “And how long will you be staying, Mr, uh,” and Nasser looked to Roy.
    Laura stepped on his foot and Roy stuttered, “Well we’re only, ah,” and Laura’s foot came down, hard this time.
    She smiled sweetly, “Oh, we’ll be staying a week or more. Mr. Elmore and I,” and she batted her lashes at Roy, “have a lot of catching up to do.”
    Arthur Nasser was quite sure of it, and thought it was wonderful, to have young couples bouncing around on his mattresses at all times of the day and night.
    He said, “That’s just wonderful!” He didn’t mention the mattresses.

Copyright © 2022 by Roger Owens