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| Saint Sebastian River Bridge [Click image to call up all published instalments] |
Saturday,
September 30, 1922
He could not believe that the Ashley gang had left them alone, even for a few weeks. They’d killed eleven hired gun thugs at Harlan’s fish camp, and Red had heard later that Skeeter and Rosalijo had killed three more earlier at Skeeter’s farm in Jackass Junction.
Rosalijo hadn’t seen fit to mention it, and his stock had immediately gone up with Red Dedge. Most men killed a fella, they was either scared or proud. Some bragged; some ran away. Rosalijo, he couldn’t tell.
Red, his own self, was truly and thoroughly pissed off. Why were these sons of bitches making him kill them, when all he wanted to do was make money and marry Lola Bostick? Couldn’t they just give it up? Hadn’t they done enough, hurt enough people? This whole situation was right in the middle of the God damn road to the plans Amion William Dedge had for his life, and he was not the kind of man to let anyone stand in his way.
Dumping the bodies had been no problem, on land the pigs would fatten up on them, and in the water the ’gators would stuff them up under the mud banks, to feed on them at their leisure as they softened up.
The cars and trucks were another matter; in fact they were a real pain in the ass. You couldn’t sell those cars illegally anywhere in the state without John Ashley getting a personal phone call about it in maybe an hour. They thought about putting them in the lake, but had no way to get them to deep water.
Jumper solved the problem |
He was a little cranky about sharing out the proceeds, but after a short, private discussion with Joe involving the ivory-handled knife, it was all sorted out Indian style, with Jumper getting his extra finger of profit on every ten fingers of return, the rest parceled out even.
Between Red, Guy, and Jenny, they now had over twenty-seven thousand dollars to their names. Red trusted half the money from their lawsuits to Guy, because Jenny had hold of Guy’s money as tight as she had his nuts, maybe tighter. That girl could pinch a nickel till the buffalo farted. Jenny had easily convinced the Dedge boys that gold and silver were the way to go for payment. They might be forced to bury their takings at any time, and cash would rot in the wet ground. They also split things evenly; Jenny got a third share, with the promise that, should Red lure Lola out into the swamps, she would carry her weight and get a fourth share. Even Stevens.
They had all gone in on the purchase of a heavy truck for hauling timber and ’shine, one of the “Liberty Trucks” built starting in 1918 on contracts for the war. These had been designed by the Motor Transport section of the Quartermaster Corps of the US Army, aided by the Society of Motor Engineers, a civilian outfit dedicated to standardizing the automobile industry so all could profit.
Between Harlan and Skeeter they had spun the tale of the truck’s history, one of the few vehicles in that era designed directly by the military for the job at hand, heavy hauling in all conditions. And they hadn’t cut one God-damn corner for the sake of profit, Harlan assured him, to which Skeeter raised his cup, which was pretty much his opinion on whatever Harlan said.
In the hustle of war, parts were farmed out to over a hundred and fifty companies, and fifteen contracts were let for private plants to assemble them. The first two working models were assembled in Covington, Kentucky, at the United States Motor Truck Company, and driven almost five hundred miles to Washington, DC in October of 1917 to be presented to the Secretary of War.
Secretary Newton D. Baker was a busy man, and given that the trucks, one capable of hauling 3.5 short tons, and another with a capacity of 5.2 short tons, had driven from Kentucky without any breakdowns or other trouble, he accepted them on the spot. He was a West Virginia man himself, and knew if they could take the roads from Kentucky, they could take just about anything.
Production began in January 1918 |
Upon delivery, Red checked the hidden “cattle tags” most vehicles had, in this case riveted to the bottom of the driver’s running board. It said the vehicle had been made in May of 1918, by the Selden Motor Vehicle Company, of Rochester, New York. He wasn’t surprised, and it didn’t matter. It was a good truck.
Besides their profits from building Skeeter Willis’ new cattle farm, Red regularly delivered Guy’s excellent ’shine to Donnie Marshbanks, out in ‘Z’ Zeuch’s lemon groves west of town. Donnie and his father had gone in together for a laundry truck that rarely carried laundry, but the big red sign sure made a good cover for hauling rum. Donnie in turn delivered the goods to Senegal’s Sumptuous Palace of Delights, where Red didn’t dare show his face these days; the Ashleys had some new friends, it seemed.
A couple boys, known to be kin to the Frankenfields and going by the name of Nelson, had been sitting at the Palace bar, nursing beers from dinnertime to last call for weeks now. They didn’t get drunk, they didn’t gamble, they didn’t dance and they didn’t take any girls upstairs. They were looking for Red and Guy Dedge, and everybody knew it.
Senegal entertained himself by lavishing attention on them, offering free drinks, food, and having the girls make a point of “rubbing up” on them, practically crawling in their laps. He regularly bellowed out over the live jazz bands about what great customers they were. He was having the time of his life with these punks, but he had to admit they were professionals; they never wavered, never took hard liquor, even for free; never responded to abuse from other drunken patrons, some of whom were really Senegal’s paid agents, trying to goad them into making a mistake.
The old man got a kick out of sticking it to the Ashleys |
One day under the lemon trees, over their usual cold Stroh’s beer when they met, Donnie told him that his father considered the Ashleys to be no-account swamp trash, not to mention hell-bound sinners; his own bootlegging operations didn’t seem to count in the old man’s list of sins.
Red wondered what Donnie’s old man would think of his own low beginnings. He didn’t really care; his and Guy’s profits from the sawmill and the still were more than they had ever dreamed, and any ’shine Senegal didn’t buy up, Skeeter Willis was sure to take it off their hands. He got a hefty discount; Skeeter’s initial investment saw to it that Guy could produce the best cane ’shine, and in large quantities.
Red Dedge took some of his own money and bought himself a car, a sensible black 1916 Model T Ford sedan, and often drove it to meet Lola Bostick in the citrus groves west of the village, and sometimes they risked going to a club in the woods or the swamp to drink and dance. Now and again, they would attend Sunday services at Reverend Stone’s Grace Baptist Chapel of Love and Forgiveness, and eventually began coming to Wednesday Bible Meetings there.
Not one black face was turned against them; they all knew who Red was, and he and his girl were received warmly. Senegal, many of his girls, and his two addict boys, all had a pew three rails back on the left aisle, and Red and Lola sat with them. No one seemed to think less of them for it.
A falling limb could kill a man quick |
The death of Luis haunted him; those God damn Ashleys were his problem, and he’d brought them here and it had cost that boy his life. Had he needed any more reasons to kill those evil sons of bitches, he had it in spades right there
| Copyright © 2022 by Roger Owens |
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