Fiction: A Killing on a Bridge (45) A historical fiction

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

By Roger Owens

Monday,
July 17, 1922,
continued

It was less than a quarter-mile to 20^th Avenue, and a good part of the way was enclosed by low brushy woods on either side. 20^th was a well-kept shell and marl road that ran perhaps a mile, from a few hundred yards north of 20^th Street and some rich men’s homes, south to where it petered out into one of the Indian River Company’s endless citrus groves.
    That was why the road was maintained so well, Red thought bitterly. It ran to the property, and the benefit, of a rich man who contributed to political candidates. He and the Reverend Stone had been required to keep up their own road, just like every other po’-assed white cracker and industrious Negro, all just trying to scratch a living out of some awful hard ground.

   At the grove he turned left on a sand grade that loomed over the irrigation canal serving the endless rows of trees. The trees, all of a uniform size and shape, marched away in perfect, straight rows, until they disappeared into the distance. These were grapefruit trees, with fat waxy leaves waving in the southeast wind, reflecting shifting, silvery green sunlight so brightly it hurt the eyes. They bloomed in April and May and so now were nearly frosted over with the abundance of their small, complicated blossoms, which coated the trees and also fell to carpet the very ground.

    He walked swiftly, his long legs eating distance, distance he wanted between himself and men who wanted him dead. The constant southeast wind drove the heady perfume of the grapefruit blossoms before it. Like so many transplants to south Florida, he had quickly fallen in love with the bright, acidic aroma that permeated the air.
    It was a mile or so back along the grade to the railroad, where Red turned back north and slunk through the bushes and Johnsongrass along the tracks, to the back door of Donny Marshbank’s Village Laundry.
    It stood open, and as he stepped through the steamy air hit him like a bucket of warm water. It was dim in the back and Red, fresh out of the slashing summer sun, had to squint around at first to see anything. The laundry was a clattering, hissing, swishing, steaming space, like a train wreck inside a building.

Steam mangle with drive wheel

    Donny was to his left running the natural gas-powered steam sheet iron and folding machine, which he swore to Red was called a “mangle,” shoving sheets into it like a madman. He’d gotten the contract for the new Riomar Country Club over on the island, and he was frantic to handle all the linens and sheets and tablecloths.
    “The God damned napkins are the worst, you have to fold them by hand!” He’d seen Red come in, and when he fed the last piece in he shut the infernal thing off. The noise level dropped dramatically, but Donnie still yelled in his ear. “Come for a ride? Or did you want to see that tall redhead, what was her name again?”
    Red stepped back from his loud voice and Donnie opened his mouth to apologize just as Red back-handed his shoulder for the wise crack. They both snickered; Donnie wasn’t much older than Red.
    “All right already, I know you got it bad. She’s up front running a washer.”
    Red shook his hand, “Don’know how to thank ya,” but Donnie wasn’t hearing it. Shaking his head, he said, turning away, “When you’re done moonin’, go on out the back. I’ll pick you up on the south corner in the Stutz.”
    Red stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Watch out for R. D. Carter, he’s right up 14^th Avenue at 20^th Street. Wearing borrowed overhauls and shiny wingtips,” but when Donnie grinned at this he looked him hard in the eye. “They’s no doubt he’s packin’ iron, too, and lookin’ to see me dead. You don’t have to do this, Don.”
    Marshbanks snatched his long, skinny arm away, with a snarl on his face. “Are you sayin’ I’d run out on a friend? I hope you’re not saying that, I surely do,” and he seemed to glare down on Red, having somehow grown even taller in his anger.
    Red’s eyebrows went looking for his nearly non-existent hairline, and he stammered a humble apology.
    Donnie held his gaze for a long second, then nodded. “Good. Just don’t never say nothin’ like that, ever again. Now get out there and tell Lola I said to take a break. I figure you got maybe ten or fifteen minutes before Carter or his goons come looking for you. I take it they saw you go in the Judge’s office?”
    Red nodded.

“They didn’t see you come out, did they?”

    “But they didn’t see you come out, did they? Yeah, I know about his little hidey-hole too, him and Dad are drinkin’ buddies. Since Mom died, they’re probably whorin’ buddies too, but the Judge has handled all Dad’s law work for years and years. So, that means they’re gonna get suspicious pretty soon and start snoopin’ around. You got to admit, there ain’t much to the Village, so’s just a little snoopin’ is likely to flush out a turkey what don’t want to be flushed, now ain’t it?”
    Red’s eyebrows went wandering again and Donnie grinned. “Yeah, I know a lot about that old scoundrel, and my daddy knows even more. But nobody knows everything the Judge knows.”
    There was no answer to this, so Red just said, “There’s some other bad guys out there besides just Carter and his thugs, though Lord knows they’re bad enough. You know any of the Ashley gang to look at?”
    Donnie thought a minute. “Not really. Which one?”
    “Fella name of Roy Matthews, goes by ‘Young’.”
    Donnie shook his head. “Cain’t say’s I do. But get on out there now, get your moonin’ and goodbye kissin’ in before we have to vamoose. That Bostich gal is the best worker I got and I don’t want her cryin’ and pinin’ all over for you ’cause you didn’t say goodbye enough times.”
    He shoved Red towards the door into the front room, where the searing light from the front windows shone over the counter, blinding him again.
    The counter was just a few feet in from the door and ran the width of the room. There were knee-doors on either end, just like in a bar, with hinged counter extensions that could be laid over the half-doors, if needed for more room to stack laundry.
    Customers came in the one door, that had a little doorbell like Jimmie’s and most shops, only this one was brass, and had a lower tone. They placed their clothes by the register, next to the scale. The first girl, to his right at the register, listed the items left by each customer, weighed them on the counter scale, stuffed the laundry into a canvas bag, and gave the customer a torn ticket half with a number matching the one she pinned to their belongings, just like at the movies. She then shoved the bags to the next girl.
    The clothes and linens and diapers stacked up the width of the counter as they were pushed slowly down the counter by a succession of three girls, towards the line of washing machines on Red’s left. Behind the end of the counter to Red’s left was a line of hand-run washing machines.

Hand-powered washing machine

    And standing at the number one machine was Lola Bostich, cranking at the big handle with a will. She was wearing a thin cotton shift with a single slip underneath, and as he watched her pumping away, he could see all her lovely parts in motion. When she reached the top of the handle’s swing, her full breasts rose up with her arms, and when she leaned forward with the revolution they swayed up and down fit to make a fella swallow his chaw.
[1918 Lamneck gas clothes dryer]    The minute customers weren’t at the counter or the clothes were stacking up, the girls hustled to the machines down the line and began loading and washing clothes, then running them through wringers on the machines. Or they would hustle baskets of washed and wrung clothes to Donnies state-of-the-art Lamneck natural-gas clothes dryer.
    They would break off if more customers came in and serve them, but it was Lola, pumping away so seductively, and with a sharp eye on the other girls, who kept the place going.
    Donnie ran a tight operation; he also recognized Lola’s organizational and financial skills, and paid her an extra fifty cents an hour to run the other girls and handle marking charges and payments into the books. Donnie did the actual ciphering and balancing himself, but Lordy, that was an extra six dollars a day. Red was impressed. This girl was a worker.
    The train-wreck noise of the mangle resumed in the back, just as Lola looked up and saw him, so he had to walk over to talk to her. She called one of the other girls to take over the machine, looking at him expectantly.
    His heart swelled at the sight of her. She was like a prize racehorse, all solid and long-legged, savvy and capable. In short, exactly the kind of woman Red Dedge wanted by his side, in whatever he did in this life.
    He took her arm and motioned towards the back room. They went through, past Donnie at the clattering, hissing mangle, maniacally feeding sheets into the machine with total disregard for the safety of his hands.
    Red wanted to warn him, but he didn’t have time. He’d grown up with farming equipment and knew it could make a cripple or a corpse out of you quicker’n you could say shit, especially if you were as dumb as the average farm boy. One of his cousins had lost a couple fingers and part of his left hand in a hay-baler. Less than a year later he’d been showing a girl how he’d done it, and got his other hand caught and lost three more fingers.
    He reckoned Donnie was a sight smarter than that average farm boy, and the firm, warm upper arm of Lola Bostich had ahold of his left hand, so he left Donnie to it and let that arm lead him out the back double doors.
    The second they were out the door she turned in his arms and took him by the ears and kissed him, hard. He kissed her right back. He was used to her impulsive nature now, and he had to admit he liked it. A lot.

The kiss went on and on

    The kiss went on and on, then finally she stepped back, breathing hard. Her eyes turned cold, and she slapped him across the face. He reeled back, eyes wide, holding a hand to his cheek. She could pack a wallop, he thought proudly.
    “Donnie told me the trouble you’re in. What were you thinking? Did you think you could humble and humiliate those men, in public, and ever live in this town again? How in hell can we get married if we can’t live here?”
    Red Dedge, in near-delirium, heard only “We get married,” and he danced with joy. He didn’t even mind her slapping him. He understood her worry, but damn, the girl hit as hard as Guy. He’d never admit it, but Guy hit like you was being kicked by a mule.
    “Lola, I didn’t just humble them, I got over three thousand dollars out of those bastards. I know, they’re gonna be gunnin’ for me, but it won’t be forever. Me and the Judge, we got a plan. I gotta run for now, but I’ll come back for you. Will you wait?”
    She stared at him, frowning, and he feared she would say no. Why would she wait for a man with more enemies than friends, and more chances of dying than making a living?
    But Lola took a deep breath and said, “Are you my man? From right now, me and no one else?”
    He stood up, tall as he could. His heart was full to bursting. All his dreams would come true. “I swear it to God on the Bible.”
    She looked in his eyes for a long second and said, “Then I’ll wait for my man.” She grabbed his neck and pulled him in for another kiss. This one lasted even longer.
    They were broken apart when the mangle wheezed to a stop and Donnie Marshbanks swung the door open about half way. He spoke in a harsh, low growl. “Carter’s at the front. Matthews, if that’s him, is snooping down this way on the other side of the street.”
    The Strand Theater was across 14^th a block up, and when Red stepped back far enough towards the tracks, he could see Roy Matthews from between the buildings as he looked in the unlit plate glass windows. Dumb ass, Red thought; even the matinee didn’t start until three.

Copyright © 202 by Roger Owens