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| Saint Sebastian River Bridge [Click image to call up all published instalments] |
Wednesday,
July 19, 1922,
2:00 PM
When Red, Guy and Jenny drove away from Senegal’s that morning early, they were in a 1916 Model T Ford that he had swapped the old truck for. The Judge had set it all in motion, and when Donnie had dropped him off Monday afternoon, Red sat down with Senegal to talk. They sat at the scarred, round table in the kitchen, and Senegal pulled out a bottle of rum and two glasses.
A pot big enough to feed an Army battalion sat bubbling on the huge, white-enameled stove. At intervals, Senegal would get up and stir it with a fat, long-handled wooden spoon.
After a couple decent snorts of the hootch, they got down to business. “Got you a good solid car, that Model T sittin’ out under the trees. 1916, still got good steel in her.”
The Great War had caused shortages, and the steel in car bodies had been made thinner after 1917. The Model T was a workhorse, dependable and simple to operate and repair. There was almost nothing in the way of cars, trucks or farm vehicles Red couldn’t drive, maintain and fix when it needed fixing.
“Had the engine rebuilt not long ago, and souped up a little. She’ll prob’ly do seventy or so. Now, where you gon’ go when you leave here? You got to have somewhere to go.”
“Reckon we’ll head over Blue Cypress way” |
Senegal leaned his head down and looked hard at Red with that wide-eyed, skeptical face he was famous for. “You still gon’ piss off them Ashleys. You gotta sell that ’shine somewheres, and when they get wind of it they gon’ come after yo’ young ass with blood in they eyes. You think killin’ Young Matthews mean you they frien’? You out yo’ fuckin’ young mind.”
Red was grinning. Senegal glared even harder, his nose flaring. “You got dat look in yo’ eye, A.W. Dedge! Why I don’t like dat look?”
“’Cause I got the perfect place to sell that ’shine, my friend. We’re sittin’ in it, right ch’ere. Senegal’s Sumptuous Palace of Delights. Which I just happ’n t’know provides liquor for its customers, legal or not.”
The huge black man’s head came up. His jaw dropped. He closed it. He grinned. Then he started to laugh. Low and slow at first, a cavernous heh-heh-heh that slowly developed into a gigantic, guffawing belly-laugh only a man of Senegal’s proportions could produce. When he was done, wiping his eyes, he looked Red in the face, as if he had just met him.
“You are one smart white boy, you know that? That’s a great idea. You sell your shine on the low down, I get a deal because you’ll undercut Ashley without him even knowing-you will cut Ashley’s price, right?” The cornpone accent was gone again.
“We got a deal, man!” |
“Who’s got a deal?” came Guy’s strong, even voice, from the stairway in the foyer. He stepped around the end of the bannister with a cane in his left hand and Jenny in his right. He wore jeans, a serviceable if worn white long-sleeved shirt, boots, and his patched and mended cloth jacket that had taken such a drubbing, along with Guy himself, at Z Zeuch’s social. You could barely see the repairs; Jenny wasn’t just the best seamstress at Senegal’s Sumptuous Palace, she was the best in the Village, whore or no. This scandalized the local church ladies no end. She didn’t have to be a prostitute; apparently, she chose to do so.
Guy walked slowly, with a funny step-clunk, but by God he walked. “Holy…brother, you’re walkin’!”
Red jumped up and ran to him, grabbing him in a bear hug, and almost tipped Guy over.
The normally shy Jenny pushed him back with a surprisingly strong arm. “Take it easy, Red! He’s been in bed for weeks, his muscles ain’t right. They won’t be for a month or so.”
Red was instantly sorry, but Guy reached out and hugged his shoulders. “Thank you, brother. You made it so’s I can at least git up’n git around. Nice to take a crap on my own for once in a blue moon.”
They all laughed. Senegal turned from the stove. “I got some pork and swamp-cabbage stew here that’s about ready. Let’s all get us some vittles, then we got some mo’ plannin’ t’do.”
When they had finished, the dishes were cleared away, and two extra shot glasses set before Jenny and Guy, they got down to it.
The planning included such things as Senegal pointing out that Red’s money was mostly in larger bills, like twenties and fifties. Only rich men carried bills like that. A farm boy in overhauls with a fifty-dollar bill would stand out like a rattlesnake at a wedding. Senegal changed all Red’s lawsuit money into smaller, well-used bills from the Palace. Red thought they were well-used indeed, like most things there.
Guy’s eyeballs popped at the pile of cash. Red made a few noises about paying Senegal some of the money, but a tight-lipped stare from Senegal put that to rest.
Johnson had also packed them enough cold chicken, bread, cheese and beer to last them a week. It would have to be stacked on the floorboards and on the seats between the riders.
There was also the matter of extra fuel, because they would be travelling in the sticks and might need it. Senegal had arranged for four of the square metal gasoline cans to be filled and strapped into the back. This model of Ford had a small built-in trunk; before about 1912, cars had actually had what amounted to steamer trunks designed to be secured on a back platform of many cars. Red’s d’ruthers was the old trunk; you could unfasten it and haul it into a house with everything in it if you wanted. The four cans were square, flat, and designed by the Germans before the Great War to fit snugly together like puzzle pieces. They barely fit in the trunk and left no room for anything else.
“That’s going to be a problem” |
Red and Senegal both turned to him, questions on their faces, and Red noticed how Jenny was clinging to Guy like a tick on a hound dog. “How dat gon’ be a problem?” Senegal asked, tipping his head down at Guy and getting that stare in his eyes again.
Guy bucked up, lifted his head and said “Jenny’s comin’ with us.”
Red’s eyebrows went in search of his hairline. Senegal’s left eye squinted almost closed, leaving one glaring, bloodshot eyeball that whipped back and to between Guy and Jenny.
Red was first to find his voice. “Ahh, Guy, I don’t think that’s such a good idea…”
Then Senegal’s meaty hand came crashing down on the huge oak slab table, making the rum dance in the open jug. “You WHUT? You gon’ take my best ho, I done put you up all dis time?”
Jenny and Guy both sputtered replies, “But you…”
“I thought you said…”
Red was stunned. Without Senegal they were dead men.
Then the huge black man looked up with a grin. “Heh-heh-heh…”
Red could have chewed nails and spit pennies. “Senegal, you…I oughtta…” Then he started to chuckle too.
Guy and Jenny stared at them for a second more, and they joined in.
Red had no idea what in hell they were going to do with Guy’s new girl.
“We already talked ’bout dat,” Senegal said, when he asked. “Tell him, Jenny.”
She looked at Red as if they’d just met. He realized that was almost true; they’d hardly spoken, except discussing Guy’s recovery. He’d seen her doing the mending, up in the attic room, but had no idea who she was, other than a whore.
“I not only do the mending for Senegal, I make all the costumes. When the girls are out there dancing, do you think they bought all those sexy outfits at the local dress shop?”
Red remembered Maggie, from the first time he’d brought Guy to the Palace, and the frilly purple union suit she’d worn, barely covering her ample frame.
“I choose my own… paramours” |
Red wasn’t sure exactly what “paramour” meant, but he got the idea. Guy was puffed up like a Christmas goose, being called a fancy Frenchie name for a lover by the divine and delicate Miss Jenny.
“Anyway, I have plenty of my own money, and I got bank connections so I don’t have to carry it all with me. Any whore who don’t provide for her own future ain’t got one. Any smart whore’s got a bank account or three, and maybe a banker or two on the payroll.”
Guy looked a little uncomfortable at this, but Miss Jenny was hearing none of it.
“Guy, sweetie pie,” and Red swore she fluttered her eyelids, “don’t you worry about it. I told you, I’m a good girl as long as you’re good to me. And lover honey, you are good to me.” She rubbed up against Guy and grabbed his crotch, nearly pushing him over herself.
Red had to look away. They were bringing this scheming little slut on the run with them? Guy saw his look and pled a little, and Red let him do it. He knew he was being snookered, but he wasn’t gonna make it easy.
“Now, Red, I love her, and besides, I’ll need somebody to look after me. I can walk a little but it’ll be a long stretch before I’m really back on my…feet, I guess y’could say…”
Red turned to Jenny with a hard face. “We’re goin’ out in the boonies, gonna live hard, in tents until we can knock a shack together. And we’ll be ’shinin’, and cuttin’ out them Ashleys, and if they get wind of it like as not they’ll come gunnin’ for us again. Think you can do without all your fine clothes and soft beds?”
Senegal was grinning now, showing a gleaming barricade of teeth that still seemed small in his huge head.
“What now?” Red asked.
“I got my own guns” |
Red looked sideways. “How’s come? Seems like he had it comin’, to me.”
She was nodding, looking off. “Yeah, he did, but he was one of Merritt’s ‘nephews.’ I don’ know why he’s so pissed off, he must have a hunnerd of ’em. That’s just the ones born on the right side of the sheets. Ain’t no tellin’ how many little bastards the Sheriff has runnin’ around, and more’n one ’spectable wife has had to explain why little Joe or Jane don’t ’zactly look much like Daddy, y’know?”
Red was hooked, snooked, and cooked, and he knew it. He figured a dignified retreat was the best path. “So, what kind of guns?”
| Copyright © 2022 by Roger Owens |
Roger, how much of that old-vehicle and guns stuff did you just know, and how much did you have to research?
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