Lake Charles (33 page)
Lake Charles’ days were numbered. The all-wise TVA declared the earth dam unsafe (
it was
), dynamited a hole in it, and drained the lake dry. But even when emptied, Lake Charles hadn’t finished with me. A geezer using a metal detector to find the coins left by the young couples at the dances uncovered the skeletal remains to an adult male. Mr. X’s .223 rifle (his bullet had grazed my side during their night raid on Cobb and me) made the metal detector chirp. The bones rested a few paces away from the T-dock. The carp had let me down.
The discovery of Mr. X’s bones raised a stink. The DEA put up a smokescreen but for how long? I went into a funk, and Mama Jo noticed it. I’d driven over for lunch followed by another bat extraction from her attic.
“You fished at Lake Charles. Any ideas on the dead man?” She sent me a frank gaze.
“It beats me. Maybe he’s our own D.B. Cooper.”
“Not funny.” Hands went on her hips. Her hard eye contact didn’t fall away from me. “You want to try again?” The pause grew awkward.
“All right, I won’t lie. Some dark stuff hit us at Lake Charles.”
“Leave it at that then.” She acted as if she already knew the worst. “Please go pen up my goats. Axel from across the street let them out. Then we’ll evict the bats. Hopefully this time will be permanent.”
* * *
That same afternoon I dropped by our public library behind Mr. Rojos’ shop. Huddled over a back table, I riffled through the newspaper archives and culled out some intriguing tidbits. The articles I read described fellow citizens who’d felt their lives were in danger and had killed their aggressor. In each instance, the DAs didn’t file criminal charges. Justified self-defense, they ruled it. Clean shoot, case closed, as Veera had told me.
The self-defense label appealed to me. I reconciled the Lake Charles casualties—Mr. X ambushing us at Lang’s Teahouse and Cobb’s killer notching an arrow in the crossbow for me—in the same manner. The rationale did much to ease my guilt. A more recent article reported the three young thieves from New York we caught at the Yellow Snake store had shipped off to prison downstate. Reminded how damn close I’d come to wearing penal orange, my freedom tasted all the sweeter.
Evenings alone in my flat I vegged out, listened to FM radio beamed out of Chicago, and hoped Cobb, like Ashleigh, would pop up in a dream. The bastard didn’t. Once or twice, I broke down and cried in the shower. But for the most part, I kept my chin up, and my shit wired tight.
I put up the window and removed the dreamcatcher Salem gave me and trashed it. My bizarre dreams tapered off and then quit altogether. I assumed all the pot’s THC had sweated out of my fat cells. I’d promised to give Salem a phone call when I kicked my nasty substance habit so I tracked her down to her dorm at Vanderbilt University in Nashville. I felt brash and smug.
“So, you’re a big college girl now.”
“Uh, yeah, I guess I am. Why did you call, Brendan?”
“You asked me. Remember?”
“But only if you had quit smoking your pot.”
“Done.”
“Uh-huh. Simple as that, eh?”
“It wasn’t simple but I’m clean.”
“I’m happy for you. Really.”
“Thanks. Really.”
“I was sorry to hear about Cobb.”
I lost the brash and smug. “Thanks.”
“Are you seeing anybody?”
“Damn, you’re still blunt as ever.”
“Is that a yes or no?”
“Actually I’m getting ready to leave for Valdez.”
She laughed in surprise. “Better you than me. Why?”
I was cool. “Personal reasons.”
“I was glad to get away from Umpire especially after Herzog …”
“Yeah, that was strange.”
“I’ve no idea why he drove to Lake Charles. Do you?”
“A hunting trip is what he told me.”
“What he did was terrible. Do you know why?”
“No. We didn’t get personal.”
“I liked him even if he was an oddball.”
“Herzog was an A-1 asshole. Trust me.”
“You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”
“Uh-huh, I’m shaking in my boots.”
“Did you get your legal squabbles straightened out?”
“The kid is all right, Salem.”
I heard the silly college girls laughing in the background. “Look, I gotta go,” she said. “Best of luck in Valerie.”
“Valdez. Right back at you.”
“Be good to yourself, Brendan. Bye.”
Only after I racked the phone headset did I realize I hadn’t asked if she was dating a steady. Did it matter? That week I just grew antsier. What was I to make of my life? Then my old plan resurfaced. My palms itched to do rugged, honest labor. Toiling on a logger crew with my dad held its glamorous sway. My letter to him was terse and matter-of-fact. I posted it to general delivery, Valdez, Alaska. It was a long shot, and I didn’t expect a reply, but one came back.
The letter I picked up from Mama Jo’s house was my first contact with Angus Fishback since I’d wailed in diapers. He was no longer a ghost. My tingling fingers tore apart the envelope, and I skimmed what he’d scrawled in a loopy but legible style on chintzy motel stationary.
Hey, Brendan,
What can I say? Your mom & I were babes ourselves when we had you. We’d already married, so you can’t be a love child or as that. But like I said, we were wild & green when it came to parenthood. Still, we tried to do our best, at least in those early days. Then I let itchy feet get the better of me—I split for good.
Believe it or not, it was my plan to return to Umpire, but time sneaked off. I called once but hung up on the third ring. The pipeline was my gravy train for a long ride, then our work fell off. Now a skeleton crew keeps it humming. I toil in timber. It’s gut-busting work, too, even for a veteran as me. We use skidders & winches, but our rookies start out playing gopher while they pick up the ins and outs. You could swing it, I’m sure.
Oh yeah, your mom & I went to the dances at Lake Charles. Lang’s Teahouse was our happening spot. In fact, you happened there, if you get my drift. I don’t know about now, but in those days the lovers couldn’t wait to hear the tunes. Hot bands jammed till dawn, & your mom was always the last gal to leave the party. She lived to go shake it. Ah God, Lake Charles …
Anyhow, I didn’t mean to go on like this. My hand is getting cramped, so I better sign off. To field your question, sure, why the hell not drive on up? Valdez isn’t the live wire it was, but we can catch up over a brew. Let me pay.
Cheers,
Angus Fishback
P.S. Say hello to your sister Eleanor & give my best to your mother, even if she curses my name on her every breath!
For Christ’s sake, he’d botched getting Edna’s name right, but I stowed my duffel in a ratty, old sea bag Cobb had left in my cab truck and set aside his .44 to pawn later. After some debate, I also inserted the “Song Lyrics by B. Fishback” journal, but I left my detox literature on top of the fridge.
My trip downtown put me in the gas line behind a yellow Malibu. The daughter and her infirmed mother had parked on Main Street after my last dentist visit. This time they waved first, and I returned it. Similar gas lines lay in store for me, but I couldn’t let such an inconvenience run my life. I unclasped the St. John of God (the patron saint of printers) medallion, from my rearview mirror and stuffed it in the glove compartment.
While topping off my gas tank, I said a Hail Mary for my cab truck to survive all the rigors of my trek north to Valdez. I pulled the dipstick, glugged in a quart of SAE 10w30 motor oil, and knelt to inflate my tires. Quilly, the elderly station attendant, ambled up, his nod a guarded one.
“You’re not behind bars.”
“No sir, the cops dropped all the charges.”
“Uh-huh.” He crouched and screwed on the plastic cap to a pressure valve stem. “Your shyster Herzog didn’t make it so well.”
My pulse locked in mid-beat, but after a quick breath, my tone remained offhand. “Yeah, I heard he fell into a funk. Bummer.”
“The whispers going around say he’d some help with eating that bullet.”
“People say what they will.” My hands waved off his concern. “But I wouldn’t read too much into it.”
“Uh-huh. Taking a long trip right now isn’t a bad idea.” He accepted the air hose from my trembling hands to coil up and rack on its hook.
“Thanks for the tip,” I said. “And the air.”
“Any time.”
Back at the steering wheel, I winced as my lower back muscles kinked in knots. I flooded the carburetor before the engine coughed over. My pace was slow as I sweated under my shirt. Back at my flat, I settled down enough to write out my resignation letter to Longerbeam Printery. By breaking the lease, I’d forfeit my security deposit. Collateral damage, I figured. Mama Jo was up watching, she said,
The Dukes of Hazzard
when I phoned and let her in on my decision.
“Well, I blame it on that damn letter from Angus.”
“No, I’d been mulling over the Valdez trip.”
“Don’t get suckered. He’s smooth as an insurance salesman.”
“He wrote me
all
about Lang’s Teahouse,” I said, fishing for her comment on my possible conception there.
“Yeah, we flocked to the dances.” Mama Jo sighing over nostalgia let down her guard a little. “Jerry Kuzawa took me
more
than Angus ever did.”
The cagey nuance to her voice left my mouth dry. That’s what the bombshell she dropped did to me. All the recent times he’d called me “son” came flooding back into my mind. Did either Edna or I even resemble him by that much? “Mom, is Jerry Kuzawa our father?”
“None of your damn business.” She clucked her tongue and lightened her tenor. “All I want is let the Lake Charles shit stay up there. Are you agreeable to that?”
“Done. Lake Charles is a buried memory.” Nodding, I swallowed. Twice. Saying goodbye wasn’t as simple as I’d thought it’d be to do. “Give my best to Edna.”
“Will do. Before you go, two things. One, don’t forget me.”
“Done.” I hesitated a little. “And …?”
“Those goddamn roads run both ways, and you can always return.” Her voice thickened with rising tight emotion. “Send me your new address, and I’ll mail your Christmas gift.”
“Will do. I love you, Mama Jo.”
“Right back at you, baby boy.”
Hanging up, I debated if the roads actually did flow both ways, and if I’d ever return to my native Tennessee. It didn’t matter. I felt primed to make Valdez or bust. A scratching near the bottom of my door was the tabby cat Oscar, a refugee from Mrs. Wang’s flat down the hall. So I fed him and plucked Veera’s business card from under a fridge magnet. I tapped her card on my thumbnail, deliberating over whether or not to call her.
Better not. I was keen to get an early start on my journey. Richard Pryor was on TV. He laughed at life’s bad shit. After laying her card on the futon, I stretched out on the sofa, my head settling into the pillow, and by the next commercial, I’d dozed off.
We holed up in Room 7 at the Chewink Motel. Ashleigh’s chunky calf fell across my leg on the bed. The reefer smoke pungent as burned incense made my nose run. She passed the joint to me for the next toke. A first, I declined her offer.
A smile crooked the corners of her mouth. “I need to get some money together.”
“What, big daddy’s allowance isn’t enough for you to squeak by on?”
“Cut the sarcasm. I plan to kill Ralph, but I need your help to do it.”
“What’s that?” My heart thumped in my throat.
“You heard me fine. My idea is foolproof.” Her eyes, a pair of hot jet opals, twirled in their sockets. I gawked as her upswept red hair combusted into a fiery tiara. “I thought of using his Luger to stage it as a robbery gone bad, but I’ve concocted a tidier way. We’ll lace his mountain-grown pot with toxic PCP and poison him to death.”