Fiction: A Killing on a Bridge (82) A historical fiction

Saint Sebastian River Bridge
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By Roger Owens

Friday,
September 5, 1924,
3:43 PM

The payday rush hadn’t really started yet, and Teddy Pendergast had just come on duty as a teller at the Bank of Stuart to service the needs of their customers on the busiest day of the week.
    He wore a spiffy suit he’d ordered from Sears and Roebuck, a tiny blue pinstripe on a background that was not quite black, a matching vest over a blindingly white Oxford shirt, and a muted red checked necktie. His orange hair—there was no other way to characterize it—stood up in the front in curls he carefully cultivated to look uncultivated.
    He’d seen the girl in the fluffy petticoats way back in his line, on the far left, and he had felt an immediate attraction. This confused Teddy, since Teddy Pendergast was what everybody called a queer. A homo. A faggot. He had no use for girls and didn’t give a damn what anybody thought about it.

Teddy was a dangerous young soldier

    He was also a dangerous young soldier, being just old enough to have served in the Great War and been mustered out like the thousands of others when they were no longer needed. Anybody who wanted to fuck with him, he generally thought, had better bring a God damn lunch, because they were going to be a while. Might not even need the lunch.
    Two young bucks, dissatisfied with how he lived his life, hadn’t needed to go home either. He’d lured them into his swamp, then cut their throats from behind, one after the other. Just like he’d done to the Huns in the Argonne.
    They had fattened up his pet alligator, a big bull that lived in the swamp just back of Teddy’s house. The swamp continued into the distance, to become the Everglades, looking from Teddy’s dock like it went on forever. He’d named the alligator Boomer, after the nightly roaring the males did during mating season. Teddy loved it. It sounded like a five-hundred-pound bullfrog was out there in the water, right under the dock sometimes. It just seemed a shame not to give him a nice treat now and then, and the would-be homo-bashers had served quite well, he thought.
    Maybe “had been served” would be more apt.
    The girl finally stepped up to his window, and Teddy got the shock of his life. Not only was she no “she”—the Adam’s Apple was a dead giveaway—but “she” pulled a .45 Army Colt Pistol and stuck it in his face.
    “Quiet,” the young man in a dress told him, quietly. “Give me the money.” He held a canvas bag through the window.
    Teddy thought his cock had never been so hard in his life. The man before him, who he assumed was a queer like himself, not only had the balls to appear in public dressed as a woman, but to rob banks while doing it!
    Teddy had never had the urge to “dress up” as some of the queer boys talked about; it seemed like a good way to get yourself killed for having a dick. But still. It took balls. Teddy Pendergast was in love.
    He shoveled his drawer money into the bag and when he ran out, he pushed the next teller aside and began shoveling hers in too.
    He could see, down the line to his right, two men dressed like farmers, also pointing guns and quietly demanding money. A third slipped down the hall past the far end of the line.

Teddy couldn’t believe it

    Teddy couldn’t believe it. One of those men was John Ashley! He recognized him from the newspaper photos, from the first time he’d robbed the bank, and all the other banks as well. He might be the most famous man in America after his pirate raid on the Bahamas. That meant the man in front of him had to be—he spoke it aloud—“You’re Handsome Hanford Mobley!”
    Teddy’s knees were shaking.
    Mrs. Taney, the middle-aged teller he’d shoved out of his way, glared at him in disgust. Tight-ass Taney, he called her in private.
    Mobley stared at him, then snarled, waving him forward with the gun. “Hand it over.” His voice stayed low.
    Maybe half the people in the bank, Teddy thought, still didn’t know it was being robbed. He held the canvas bag out, and as Mobley took it, he patted his hand.
    The man in the dress snatched his hands back, pointing the gun.

Teddy touched Handsome Hanford Mobley!

    Teddy didn’t care. He’d touched Handsome Hanford Mobley! A killer, like him; a bank robber, and a homo to boot! His heart beating fast, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He could die right now, his life complete.
    At the far end of the teller line, John Ashley and Tom Maddox filled their bags, while Middleton hit the manager’s office down the hall.
    He charged back out in a few minutes, his bag filled with cash and securities. “Can ya believe it? He was hidin’ in the bathroom!”
    They all laughed as they ran out the doors, all except for Mobley, who backed away from Teddy Pendergast, but never took his eyes off him.

Wednesday, October 29, 1924, 5:40 AM

Donnie Marshbanks bumped the truck through the sea oaks towards Miss Lottie’s place, the latest load of Guy’s ’shine in the back. With the Ashley gang so diminished, many proprietors of speakeasies and whorehouses like Lottie’s had been able to get their product cheaper elsewhere, without repercussions. Donnie wondered just how long that would last.
    He shrugged to himself in the predawn gloom. Guy was making a name for himself with the quality of his liquor. Donnie’s daddy always said make hay while the sun shines, but then he’d been born in Minnesota.
    Nobody made hay in Florida, he thought, although he was wrong. The concept was the same. Sell it while the sellin’s good.
    Miss Lottie waited on the porch, plain as a mule, and a couple of her men headed around the truck to unload the ’shine. “Donnie Marshbanks,” Lottie spoke from the dimness. “Walk with me.”
    Donnie frowned but followed her away from the truck. Lottie was usually all business, except with Red. He fervently hoped she hadn’t set her lights on him. .
    She turned. “Them blockheads don’t need hearin’ what I got to say.”

“I’m sick and tired a’ kissin’ his ass”

    Donnie clasped his hands behind his back and tried to look thoughtful. He couldn’t see her face well, but she sounded frightened. “John Ashley’s a’comin’ this way, an’ it won’t be long. I’m sick and tired a’ kissin’ his ass, and a lot of other owners are too. If’n we c’n get word to you when the time comes, c’n you get it to Red Dedge? I know he’ll kill that son of a bitch.”
    She looked to the sun, slanting through the oaks now, like she was seeing another place or time. “I just know he will.”
    Donnie’s mouth hung open and he dropped his casual manner. “You can do that?” It was now light enough for him to see her nodding.
    “Hell yeah, sonny, ain’t nuthin’ a madam don’t fuckin’ know. Just make sure you see to it he knows. Should be less’n a week.”
    Donnie doffed his soft driving cap and spoke with respect. “Ma’am, you may fuckin’ count upon it.”
    She looked at him squarely, sizing him up, and nodded. She handed him the usual envelope for the liquor and went back to the house. The men were done unloading the truck, so Donnie cranked her up and made a detour. His next stop would now be Red’s house at Blue Cypress Swamp.

Thursday, October 30, 1924, 12:04 PM

The little silver bell on the door of Jimmy’s Flamingo Cafe tinkled when Greyson Stikelether walked in for lunch, as he had every day for some twenty-three years. Even when the Spanish Flu hit in 1919, the Judge was there, like clockwork.
    He glanced at the broken clock on the wall; it was always five to nine at the Flamingo Café. At his table by the window, as he had expected, sat none other than Red Dedge. “There you are, my boy, I’ve been expecting you!” Over fried catfish, hushpuppies and black-eyed peas, they parleyed over what they knew.

“John and his boys are giving it up”

    “Word from down south,” said the Judge, showing a mouthful of fish as he spoke, “is that John and the few boys he has left are looking to get away. Out of the state entirely. They’re giving it up. All the raids on their operations have shut them down, their credit’s no good with the Brits, and somehow their line on easy targets has been lost.”
    It was true; Stikelether and Dedge would never know she even existed, but after Joe Ashley was killed, Geneva Pitt would no longer do business with the gang. She had always considered them no better than swamp rats, despite her fling with Joe and his ability to spiff up and be the Dapper Bandit in the old days.
    Of the whole gang only John knew about her, and he was never a man to coerce an unwilling woman in any way. When she called it off, he simply nodded and walked away.
    “Miss Lottie will have the day and time purty close,” Red said, “and I’ll be a’waitin’ up at the Palace, just north of the bridge. I aim to get me a piece of them sons a’ bitches, for sure and for certain.”
    The Judge nodded sagely, grinning that grin. “She already does,” he said smugly, swallowing his mouthful of black-eyed peas, only a little spilling onto his white neckbeard and the napkin stuck in his collar. “It’s going to be sometime Saturday night, maybe Sunday morning.”
    Red was struck dumb, but only for a second. He was talking to the Judge, after all. The Judge knew everything.
    Lily swept by, her dark skirts and dark hair swinging, and stopped to fill their glasses with more iced tea. “How jou doin’, chico? I hear jou doin’ real good these days.”
    Red’s face flamed. He’d always had a hard-on for Miss Lily. Well, him and every other man in the Village of Vero with a pulse.
    He managed to speak without tripping over his tongue. “Well, yes ma’am, we are doing pretty good, thank you for asking.”
    She tipped her head. “‘We’? Not just little old jou no more, chico? Jou ser inteligente? Jou get smart, get jour head out of jour ass and marry that chica Lola? She’s head over heels in love with jou, jou know.”

Red was literally speechless

    Red was literally speechless. Finally, he managed to clench his teeth, and when he spoke, it was with determination. “No ma’am, not yet, but once I finish one more chore, by God, I will, and you can take that to the bank. Ma’am.”
    She smiled, and it was like the dawning sun. “Good for jou, chico.” She bent down and gave him a peck on the cheek.
    A rustle went through the lunch crowd, the men jealous, the women mostly maternal. A few women, however, were jealous too; of Lola Bostick. They imagined how much more they’d like to do with this towering young man than just kiss him on the cheek.

Copyright © 2022 by Roger Owens