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| Saint Sebastian River Bridge [Click image to call up all published instalments] |
Monday,
July 17, 1922,
concluded
“So, what do we do now?” Donnie asked. “Go on up to Senegal’s?”
Red shook his head. “First, I need to stop by Doc Wilbur’s place. He’s got something he’s been workin’ on for Guy, that’ll help him walk. Then I need to go and talk to Miss Lottie.”
Donnie leaned back and stared at him skeptically. “You want to go get laid when you just killed somebody downtown?”
Red scowled at him, and it brought Donnie up short. He hadn’t seen the new Red Dedge until now. “Don’t be an asshole,” he snarled, “I need information.”
Donnie took it; he’d stepped wrong and he knew it. “Well, you gotta know she’s on the Ashleys’ payroll! You really think that’s a good idea?”
“I think she’s a little sweet on me…” |
Donnie gaped at him in astonished silence for a good dozen heartbeats, then reared back and guffawed into the warm, perfumed air.
Red glared at him, but he didn’t stop. He put his fists on his hips.
Donnie laughed louder. Donnie slapped his knees, held his stomach, and wiped real tears from his eyes.
Red was fit to be tied, but then a grin split his face, and he started laughing too. Soon they were holding each other up, staggering about the lemon grove, slapping each other on the back.
“She—she really?” and Marshbanks went off again.
Red was nodding, holding his own gut in mirth. “Yep. Think she’s got it bad…”
Finally they wiped their eyes one last time, and Donnie announced, “I think that calls for one last beer!”
Red said, “Hey, I thought you said you had a couple for lunch? Just how many beers you got?”
His friend looked slyly at him for a second. “I didn’t say I lunched alone.”
Red was grinning again. “Uh huh, I see how it is. You and Skinny Sue?”
The sly look remained. “Sometimes.”
Red didn’t doubt it for a second. Donnie was young, handsome and had prospects, unlike himself. Then a thought stirred in his mind. “Say, you haven’t,” and Donnie cut him off.
“Hell no, I don’t even like Lola, I mean I like her, but she’s not my type at all.”
Red was satisfied; he’d always wondered what Donnie saw in Sue, other than her daddy’s money. Looked like Donnie preferred the meat closer to the bone, which they claimed was sweeter. Red disagreed completely. He thought a woman ought to look like a woman, not, as his daddy would say, a soft boy. Skinny Sue had no more tits than Red did, and her ass was even flatter. Donnie was head over heels with her, and Red wouldn’t have given her the time of day.
When they got to Doctor Samson’s place, they found they were in luck. It was early afternoon, which was just after breakfast for the good Doctor.
The plump little brunette welcomed them in the door. Paul Whiteman and his Ambassador Hotel Orchestra were oozing “Japanese Sandman” from the horn of the Victrola in the hall. They found Wild Wilbur in a jolly mood, his normal condition; after a hearty breakfast he recommended his patients take strong red wine, and followed his own strictures in the matter. He sat at table where the operating platform had been the night Guy’s leg had come off, the morning’s dishes and coffee cups not yet cleared, and a wine goblet, full, in his hand.
He had indeed finished the project he and Red had worked out together, he assured them cheerfully, turned his head and bellowed, “Beatrice! Bring us that invention of mine, for Mr. Guy!”
The blond girl yelled something back from upstairs, and in a minute, she appeared with a wooden leg, foot and all. It had a cup for the stump, and an assortment of straps designed to hold it on the patient.
The victim. The cripple. Red’s mind wouldn’t stop. His leg. It had lain on this floor right here, looking too small to have ever been of use.
Donnie bumped him. “Wake up. Say sump’n. Y’look like you’re havin’ a bad dream.”
Red thought that he wasn’t far wrong. “I, uh, I really appreciate it, Doc…”
Doctor Wilbur Samson took his hand and shook it. “Not at all. I incorporated some of your ideas in the design, hell we might get rich off it. I’ll share, I promise!”
Red grasped his hand harder, but let go right after; it didn’t do to get into a hand-crushing contest with Wild Wilbur.
He lifted the device, saw how the knee hinge worked, something he and Samson had disagreed on. Red had said it would need a spring, to bring the leg forward. The user could only lift the leg, or lean on it to move forward once the foot was down. They couldn’t extend the knee; the knee was made of wood and steel.
Wilbur had finally agreed and made it to Red’s specifications, and he worked the action on the knee to see how it responded.
“Might be a little stiff, but it’ll prob’ly loosen up with use,” he remarked.
Samson agreed. “You’ll need to adjust the cup to fit the stump; if you don’t, the worst kind of irritation and blistering will set in, like a soldier with ill-fitted boots. Be sure he starts off slow, or he will have sores that hold him back even more. Oh, and make sure you keep the joints well-lubricated.” There was that hint of an English accent again.
Red looked at the husky Doctor, bursting from his perfect white shirt, all muscles and black curly hair. He made two of Red on a bad day, and Red didn’t think it was yet time to question if he was British or not.
Doc Wilbur followed them outside and when he saw Donnie’s car he broke into a huge grin. “Bloody nice wheels, lad! Oh look, you’ve got a boot. The racing models don’t have them.”
He meant the trunk, small as it was, and Donnie opened it to place the leg inside.
“What will she do on the open road?”
Donnie looked bashful, but the doctor wouldn’t hear of it. “Come on, it’s not like I’m going to tell your father.”
Donnie’s reluctance disappeared. “Every stock non-racing model of the Bearcat is tested to one hundred miles per hour.” It sounded like he’d picked up on the doctor’s formal speech. “But this baby,” he confided proudly, “will do one-oh-seven.”
The good Doctor, and Red Dedge as well, were suitably impressed. They got in and Donnie turned the starter, and the Stutz started right up.
“Don’t you have to add gas to the thimbles on the intake?”
Donnie was shaking his head. “Only if you leave it sit too long. As long as she’s warmed up, she’ll usually crank, no problem.” That had saved their asses when Donnie had stalled the car during the shootout with Matthews and Carter.
Wild Wilbur thumped Donnie on the shoulder, rocking him in the seat, and said “Off with you now lads, there’s trouble brewing, and we wouldn’t want it to catch up with you. At least not here!”
As they drove away north toward Miss Lottie’s, Donnie turned to Red. “You think he’s really British? Or is that all a put-on?”
Red grinned. “I’ve wondered that, but if you intend to ask him I want to see your balls first.”
Marshbanks literally did a double-take, whipped his head around. “What the hell…?”
“Well,” Red allowed charitably, “they would have to be worth a peek if they were really that big, and besides, once he kicks them up around your neck, they might not look the same at all…” They both laughed like crazy men the quarter mile to Miss Lottie’s.
At Lottie’s, the place was still quiet. A few customers might come in for a quick squeeze on their lunch break, but most of the action went on at night.
Miss Lottie came out on the porch herself, as skinny, ugly, and polite as she always was. “Why if it isn’t handsome young Red Dedge. And who’s this nice boy with you? Don’t tell me you’ve taken to corrupting the morals of young men now, lands sakes!”
Once again, Red was a bit tongue-tied. He didn’t have his hat on, it wouldn’t stay on in the car, but he tried to take it off anyway, scratched his head to cover his error, coughed. “Ah, well, Miss Lottie, this here’s Donnie Marshbanks, runs the laundry in the Village. His daddy’s in real estate.”
She smiled coyly. “I know Donnie perfectly well. Who do you think has more laundry than a whorehouse?”
Red’s face went bright pink.
Donnie put a finger to his forehead. “Howdy do, Miss Lottie?” Cool as a catfish, Red thought again.
“Anyway, what brings y’all here this fine day?” Lottie had turned to Red.
“Miss Lottie, now, I know you know them Ashleys, and I know you’re in business with them. I just was hopin’ you could tell me how much they know about me? As a favor. For a friend.”
Lottie put her hand fondly on his cheek for a moment and smiled, a far away look in her eyes. “I had a friend like you once.”
Red could hardly speak. Donnie was uncharacteristically silent.
“Oh yes. I was young and pretty once, and the boys followed me around. I never did have no titties, but lots of boys don’t mind that so much. But Gerald was special. We was a’gonna get married one day.”
Both boys were spellbound; the idea Miss Lottie had ever been anything but an old hag amazed their callow minds. “What happened?” Red asked.
“Oh, he was kilt, he was a logger and a tree did a barber-chair on him. Mashed him flatter than a slug.”
Red understood that well. Logging was like farming. You could get hurt or killed in any number of new and exciting ways, you didn’t look out. You couldn’t look out for a barber-chair though; that was when a tree split when sawn halfway through and the sawed part split off and fell, the bottom flying out towards the sawyer in an instant. Red had seen one where the tree slammed the saw itself into the sawyer. The saw was backwards, but it had cut the poor bastard in half anyway.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Lottie.” And he was. He no longer felt ashamed that she liked him, in her way. It was kind of sweet, actually.
She turned away, wiped something from her eye. “It was a long time ago…”
“So, can you tell me anything about what they know? Do they know where Guy is?”
She shook her head. “No, they don’t know the both of you are staying a Senegal’s Sumptuous Palace.”
Red’s eyebrows headed skyward. He hadn’t told anyone, not even Donnie, until earlier that day in the lemon grove.
“’Course I know, honey child, but I ain’t a’gonna tell nobody. I ain’t no rat. Y’arta knowed that, business I’m in. Pillow talk is the best source’a gossip ever was. Why, if whores didn’t keep their secrets half the men in the world would be divorced and out on their ears.”
Donnie laughed. “Only half?”
Red breathed out a sigh. “Well that’s a load off, and I sure do thank you, Miss Lottie. You know they sent that Roy Matthews to kill me. I surely wouldn’t want to get you in any trouble.”
Lottie narrowed her eyes at him. “Just so’s ya knows, John Ashley owns a quarter interest in this establishment, and provides the bootleg rum, and we split the profits from the booze. You would not believe the markup on liquor by the glass.
“But he don’t own me, and he don’t tell me what to do. No man does. The only one that ever could is dead these many years.”
They both touched their foreheads in lieu of tipping the hats they weren’t wearing, and silently left her standing there on the porch, alone.
He had indeed finished the project he and Red had worked out together, he assured them cheerfully, turned his head and bellowed, “Beatrice! Bring us that invention of mine, for Mr. Guy!”
The blond girl yelled something back from upstairs, and in a minute, she appeared with a wooden leg, foot and all. It had a cup for the stump, and an assortment of straps designed to hold it on the patient.
The victim. The cripple. Red’s mind wouldn’t stop. His leg. It had lain on this floor right here, looking too small to have ever been of use.
Donnie bumped him. “Wake up. Say sump’n. Y’look like you’re havin’ a bad dream.”
Red thought that he wasn’t far wrong. “I, uh, I really appreciate it, Doc…”
Doctor Wilbur Samson took his hand and shook it. “Not at all. I incorporated some of your ideas in the design, hell we might get rich off it. I’ll share, I promise!”
Red grasped his hand harder, but let go right after; it didn’t do to get into a hand-crushing contest with Wild Wilbur.
He lifted the device, saw how the knee hinge worked, something he and Samson had disagreed on. Red had said it would need a spring, to bring the leg forward. The user could only lift the leg, or lean on it to move forward once the foot was down. They couldn’t extend the knee; the knee was made of wood and steel.
Wilbur had finally agreed and made it to Red’s specifications, and he worked the action on the knee to see how it responded.
“Might be a little stiff” |
Samson agreed. “You’ll need to adjust the cup to fit the stump; if you don’t, the worst kind of irritation and blistering will set in, like a soldier with ill-fitted boots. Be sure he starts off slow, or he will have sores that hold him back even more. Oh, and make sure you keep the joints well-lubricated.” There was that hint of an English accent again.
Red looked at the husky Doctor, bursting from his perfect white shirt, all muscles and black curly hair. He made two of Red on a bad day, and Red didn’t think it was yet time to question if he was British or not.
Doc Wilbur followed them outside and when he saw Donnie’s car he broke into a huge grin. “Bloody nice wheels, lad! Oh look, you’ve got a boot. The racing models don’t have them.”
He meant the trunk, small as it was, and Donnie opened it to place the leg inside.
“What will she do on the open road?”
Donnie looked bashful, but the doctor wouldn’t hear of it. “Come on, it’s not like I’m going to tell your father.”
Donnie’s reluctance disappeared. “Every stock non-racing model of the Bearcat is tested to one hundred miles per hour.” It sounded like he’d picked up on the doctor’s formal speech. “But this baby,” he confided proudly, “will do one-oh-seven.”
The good Doctor, and Red Dedge as well, were suitably impressed. They got in and Donnie turned the starter, and the Stutz started right up.
“Don’t you have to add gas to the thimbles on the intake?”
Donnie was shaking his head. “Only if you leave it sit too long. As long as she’s warmed up, she’ll usually crank, no problem.” That had saved their asses when Donnie had stalled the car during the shootout with Matthews and Carter.
Wild Wilbur thumped Donnie on the shoulder, rocking him in the seat, and said “Off with you now lads, there’s trouble brewing, and we wouldn’t want it to catch up with you. At least not here!”
As they drove away north toward Miss Lottie’s, Donnie turned to Red. “You think he’s really British? Or is that all a put-on?”
Red grinned. “I’ve wondered that, but if you intend to ask him I want to see your balls first.”
Marshbanks literally did a double-take |
“Well,” Red allowed charitably, “they would have to be worth a peek if they were really that big, and besides, once he kicks them up around your neck, they might not look the same at all…” They both laughed like crazy men the quarter mile to Miss Lottie’s.
At Lottie’s, the place was still quiet. A few customers might come in for a quick squeeze on their lunch break, but most of the action went on at night.
Miss Lottie came out on the porch herself, as skinny, ugly, and polite as she always was. “Why if it isn’t handsome young Red Dedge. And who’s this nice boy with you? Don’t tell me you’ve taken to corrupting the morals of young men now, lands sakes!”
Once again, Red was a bit tongue-tied. He didn’t have his hat on, it wouldn’t stay on in the car, but he tried to take it off anyway, scratched his head to cover his error, coughed. “Ah, well, Miss Lottie, this here’s Donnie Marshbanks, runs the laundry in the Village. His daddy’s in real estate.”
She smiled coyly. “I know Donnie perfectly well. Who do you think has more laundry than a whorehouse?”
Red’s face went bright pink.
Donnie put a finger to his forehead. “Howdy do, Miss Lottie?” Cool as a catfish, Red thought again.
“Anyway, what brings y’all here this fine day?” Lottie had turned to Red.
“Miss Lottie, now, I know you know them Ashleys, and I know you’re in business with them. I just was hopin’ you could tell me how much they know about me? As a favor. For a friend.”
“I had a friend like you once” |
Red could hardly speak. Donnie was uncharacteristically silent.
“Oh yes. I was young and pretty once, and the boys followed me around. I never did have no titties, but lots of boys don’t mind that so much. But Gerald was special. We was a’gonna get married one day.”
Both boys were spellbound; the idea Miss Lottie had ever been anything but an old hag amazed their callow minds. “What happened?” Red asked.
“Oh, he was kilt, he was a logger and a tree did a barber-chair on him. Mashed him flatter than a slug.”
Red understood that well. Logging was like farming. You could get hurt or killed in any number of new and exciting ways, you didn’t look out. You couldn’t look out for a barber-chair though; that was when a tree split when sawn halfway through and the sawed part split off and fell, the bottom flying out towards the sawyer in an instant. Red had seen one where the tree slammed the saw itself into the sawyer. The saw was backwards, but it had cut the poor bastard in half anyway.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Lottie.” And he was. He no longer felt ashamed that she liked him, in her way. It was kind of sweet, actually.
She turned away, wiped something from her eye. “It was a long time ago…”
“So, can you tell me anything about what they know? Do they know where Guy is?”
She shook her head. “No, they don’t know the both of you are staying a Senegal’s Sumptuous Palace.”
Red’s eyebrows headed skyward. He hadn’t told anyone, not even Donnie, until earlier that day in the lemon grove.
“’Course I know, honey child, but I ain’t a’gonna tell nobody. I ain’t no rat. Y’arta knowed that, business I’m in. Pillow talk is the best source’a gossip ever was. Why, if whores didn’t keep their secrets half the men in the world would be divorced and out on their ears.”
“Only half?” |
Red breathed out a sigh. “Well that’s a load off, and I sure do thank you, Miss Lottie. You know they sent that Roy Matthews to kill me. I surely wouldn’t want to get you in any trouble.”
Lottie narrowed her eyes at him. “Just so’s ya knows, John Ashley owns a quarter interest in this establishment, and provides the bootleg rum, and we split the profits from the booze. You would not believe the markup on liquor by the glass.
“But he don’t own me, and he don’t tell me what to do. No man does. The only one that ever could is dead these many years.”
They both touched their foreheads in lieu of tipping the hats they weren’t wearing, and silently left her standing there on the porch, alone.
| Copyright © 2022 by Roger Owens |
“I think…I think she’s a little sweet on me…” How endearing! A reminder that the manly doer of Red’s many deeds is still but a boy.
ReplyDeleteI clicked on the top image to “call up all published installments” and then scrolled down through them until I arrived at your Prologue, where I was reminded, apropos my comment:
ReplyDeleteAll Red Dedge wants is to run his farm, poach a little timber from the swamps, and marry Lola Bostick. But when his brother Guy tangles with the notorious Ashley Gang by running moonshine in their territory and is severely injured, his plans hit a roadblock. The Ashley Gang stands between him and his goals, but he has blood in his eye and he is not the kind of man to back down. He vows to see every one of them dead, or die trying. Their final confrontation comes on November 1, 1924, on the Saint Sebastian River Bridge.
Roger, what a genius piece of historical-fiction writing!
Thank you sir!
ReplyDelete