 |
| Saint Sebastian River Bridge [Click image to call up all published instalments] |
Wednesday,
July 19, 1922,
12:00 PM
Sheriff J.R. Merritt didn’t like it; no, he didn’t like it one little bit. He was being lied to, and he knew it, and it pissed him off, because he couldn’t do one thing about it. He couldn’t beat the truth out of a covey of schoolgirls, or the son of a local real estate developer, who also happened to own the only laundry in Vero, run by said son.
When the Sheriff had asked the father, “Marsh” Marshbanks, if he could inspect the alleged automobile in question, he’d been told, in a very polite and roundabout way, to go fuck himself, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about that either, and that pissed him off, too. Marshbanks had contributed heavily to Merritt’s campaign against Ruffner just a few months back, and Merritt figured that, between messing with Marsh’s son and shooting himself in the foot, he’d be better off with the latter option. But it still pissed him off.
“So you’re saying,” he repeated for about the tenth time, “that none of you saw anything? A car speeds past, crashing into the sidewalk out front, at least three men are exchanging gunfire, and not a stinkin’ one of ya saw it?”
Donnie Marshbanks stepped forward from the gathered workers, a scowl on his face. “I’d appreciate it if you’d watch your mouth around the girls, that kind of language isn’t fit for polite company.”
Merritt spat tobacco juice on the floor |
Marshbanks didn’t even flinch. The Sheriff looked around at the farm girls standing in a nervous group, most of whom he’d known since they were nothing but a gleam in their daddies’ eyes, spat again. “Bullshit. Somebody knows something! You! Bostich!” He pointed at Lola, and she only tilted her head.
“Where were you when the car went past?”
She jutted her chin. “I was at that machine right there, in the front of the line.”
Merritt huffed impatiently. “Which way were you looking?” Lola considered for a moment. “I reckon that would be north. Whatever car it was, it came from behind me, and I only saw it for a second or two.”
Christ, Merritt thought, it’s like pulling teeth. “Okay, what did you see?”
The girl took her chin in her hand like she was really cogitating hard, and Merritt gritted his teeth some more. He was being had by the yard and he damned well knew it.
“It was somethin’ like a sedan or town car, with a covered cab, but I couldn’t say what kind. Never knowed much about cars. Mary,” and she turned to the girl who ran the register. Mary was a delicate-looking yet solid farm girl with straight wispy hair down her back the color of hay, who liked to barrel-race ponies at the local rodeos, and wrestle with a young cowboy later on, under the moon. She also chewed tobacco, and was working a chaw as they spoke. “What kind of car would you say it was?”
Mary gave it a minute, looking off like she was thinking, too. “It was a big black son of a bitch,” the delicate cowgirl finally said, with a smile full of teeth like a mule.
Mary leaned and spit tobacco juice right next to the Sheriff’s boot |
“So where the hell did the guy shooting at the car from out front come from?”
Donnie and the girls all looked at each other blankly. “We don’t know, he was just on the sidewalk an’ started shooting,” Mary continued cheerfully.
“What was he wearing?” Merritt snapped.
Mary shrugged, indifferent. “I dunno. Just, clothes I guess.”
Merritt fumed, went to spit, seemed to think better of it, and fumed some more.
A short, dark little girl, clearly a Mexican, tentatively raised her hand, like she was in school.
“I know este hombre, senor, mi madre trabaja to, house, hold-house?” She looked around for help.
“Household,” Lola said gently. “Isa, your mother. She works at his house?”
No one there except Donnie had any idea who the two men were, either the man shooting out front or the one gunned down up the street; they hadn’t had to lie about that.
Merritt put up a hand. “I’m the one asking the questions here,” he said, trying to sound tough.
Lola thought he just sounded like a grumpy old man. He didn’t scare her much, either.
“What’s your name, young lady?” Merritt demanded.
The tiny girl shrunk under his stare, and Lola scowled at him. “It’s Isabella, and you’re scaring her! She barely speaks English. Here, let me try.”
She took both the girl’s trembling hands in hers. Isabell stood a foot shorter than Lola’s five-eleven, and might have weighed ninety pounds with rocks in her pockets. Very gently, she spoke to the girl, whose dark eyes had deep bruises of exhaustion around them. Isa trusted her, and those sweet, starving eyes showed it.
“Isa, su mama trabaja en la casa de este hombre, el hombre que estaba afuera disparando?” Lola’s Espanol was schoolhouse-perfect, while Isabella dropped her endings and mashed her words together, as the migrant families did. They were hardly more literate in Spanish than they were in English.
The girl nodded quickly. “Si, ella lav’la ropa los sab’dos y mierc’les.”
Lola told the Sheriff “She says yes, her mother does the laundry there Saturdays and Wednesdays.”
Merritt looked like he might have an apoplexy |
Lola did her best not to snicker. Some of the other girls weren’t as successful as she was, and he glared around for a second until they shut up.
“And who is the man where her mother does who-gives-a-damn what-all she does on whatever damn day?”
Lola thought the poor girl’s hair would be blown back from the Sheriff’s outburst. If she hadn’t had hold of both her hands, the girl would have run like a scair’t rabbit.
“No no, tranquila, no tengas miedo, el es solo…” she flicked her eyes at Merritt, “un maricon…”
She told the Mexican girl not to be afraid, and that the Sheriff was just kind of an asshole. Isabella pulled her hand away and stuck it to her mouth, snorting laughter. Merritt had no idea how he’d just been insulted, but he was pretty sure he had.
“Qual es su nombre, el hombre disparando?”
Isabella turned to the Sheriff and said clearly, “Se llama es senor Robert Carter. Me sorprend’o porq’e nunc’ lo vi en overol.”
Merritt’s mouth hung open. Lola was just as shocked, but slowly turned to the Sheriff.
“Ah, she says it was Mr. Carter, and she was surprised because she’s never seen him in overhauls before…”
Merritt was in a panic. If it got around that Carter was gunning for the Dedge boy, things could get very nasty. Carter was Z Zeuchs engineer, had designed the drainage for the Indian River Company while an employee of C.M. Rogers, an engineering firm up in Daytona. He had since become a direct employee of the Indian River Company, and everybody knew he answered directly to Z and his partner, Bill Kimball. J.R. Merritt erupted in indignation.
“You can’t have some Mexican maid’s brat making accusations against a man like R.D. Carter! And he never wears overhauls!”
Suddenly the room was filled with yelling voices, echoing off the bare block walls. “You got some kind’a nerve…”
“How dare you, you mean ol’…”
“I saw him too! It was Carter!” |
Isabella stamped her foot. She was mad as a stepped-on rattler. “I…know heem. All day, los sab’dos y mierc’les, I am…en hees ‘house-hold.’ Tod’s las dias! Eet ees…heem!” She stamped her diminutive foot again.
Merritt knew a bad job when he saw it, figured it was time to retreat, until he and Z and the boys could start some rumors around town, maybe about how a bunch of silly farm girls thought they saw something…he put up a hand.
“All right, all right, settle down. If anybody remembers anything else, make sure you come let me know, it’s real important.” He dragged a bandana out of his jacket pocket and wiped his sweating face with it, and headed for the door.
Donnie called out. “You gonna remember who we told you was shooting at somebody right in front of my store?”
Merritt didn’t even turn around. “I’ll take your report under advisement,” and hit the door.
“Yeah, my skinny white ass you will,” Donnie said to his back.
The girls giggled, and Mary leaned back to look. “Yep, it sure is skinny. But I like it, why don’t you show us?” and she spat chaw on the floor.
“Stop that!” Donnie snapped. “Clean that mess up, that’s nasty! My God, you’re worse than the damn Sheriff.”
All the girls laughed, even Isabella.
| Copyright © 2022 by Roger Owens |
Your narrative is so spicey, it’s no problem at all to choose snippets for the cutlines I insert every few hundred words to break up the lines visually.
ReplyDelete