Standing at the Scratch Line (71 page)

Templeton’s Roadhouse was whites-only and didn’t allow coloreds inside the establishment. Colored people could be served only through a window in the back door. They were allowed to sit at the tables in the back. There was no cover over these tables and when it rained there was no protection from the elements for the colored customers, except for the narrow covered porch adjacent to the purchase window.

There were five colored men huddled on the porch drinking Templeton’s home-distilled rye whiskey as Charles stepped up to the window. Several of the regulars eyed him with distaste. Charles had been on the side of temperance before he was banished from the farm; as a matter of fact, he had preached against the devil gin many times from the altar of his church, and never failed to speak harshly to any besotted colored man that he met. An anonymous voice intoned, “Look like a backslidin’ Bible thumper done come up here to drink in front of us!” A large dark man said, “Mr. Tight-ass done discovered there was wine drunk in the Bible.” The first voice responded, “No, he need a drink! After that schoolmarm done left the parish, the only butt he seein’ is that mule’s!”

“Ain’t a chicken mo’ his size?” The men all laughed.

Charles ignored the men and bought a small jar of rye. Their snide comments and chuckling soon subsided into silent drinking. Things were not good at the farm. It was as if Serena had poisoned everyone against him. Whenever he entered a room in which the children were laughing, they fell silent. If Beulah was in the room she would begin muttering prayers to herself and if Ida was present she would roll her big cow eyes disgustedly. He felt like a pariah in his own home. It had never occurred to him that a time would come when he would not be happy to see the inside of his house after a hard day’s work. Some days he would leave the house before sun up and work in the fields until well after dark. Then he would find work to do in the barn as an excuse not to go into the house. Generally, he waited until his body was wasted with fatigue before he returned to the house to sleep, so wasted that he would not dream. Exhaustion became his only escape from the nightmare of living. And if he was foolish enough to allow himself to fall into the arms of sleep without the escort of fatigue, he found himself pacing the path of nightmares, dreaming of his waking moments. There seemed to be absolutely no satisfaction in life.

Charles hadn’t planned to drink, but thought otherwise when he got to the window. With all the rain and the water trickling under his collar, a little nip would keep him warm. And why shouldn’t he celebrate? He was going to get revenge and money, too! It was a good reason to celebrate. He was meeting Alfred DuMont with information that would help in the capture of King Tremain.

Charles had discovered that when he was in a morose mood, a small jar of rye set him free to drift partially submerged in his subconscious. The alcohol seemed to shield him from the uneasy streams of thought that like flitting schools of fish nibbled away at his self-respect. An occasional jar of rye offered protection from these predatory little fish that darted away into the depths every time he reached to examine them more closely. He had barely taken a sip when Alfred DuMont appeared out of the rain-distorted landscape. Alfred said nothing, but came to stand beside Charles. Charles offered him a drink and Alfred declined with a shake of his head.

“You got the money?” Charles asked with a lowered voice.

Alfred also kept his voice low when he responded. “You got the information?”

“Yeah, I got somethin’! I know who is forwardin’ the letters to Tremain! I’m pretty sure they know where he is!”

“If you want the money, you got to come with me.”

“Come with you where?” Charles asked, immediately suspicious.

“I don’t just walk around with that kind of money,” Alfred explained. “I got it on my horse. I just don’t want to give you nothin’ in front of the loose lips on this here porch!”

“That makes sense,” Charles agreed. “Where do you want to meet?”

“There’s a grove of sycamores off to the right of the road to Lake Ponchatrain about a mile from the Crossing.”

“That’s a good ways from here!” Charles said reluctantly. “Why you want to go so far? There’s plenty of places closer where we won’t be bothered.”

Albert cleared his throat and said, “The truth is I buried the money in that grove of trees. I didn’t know if I could trust you. I didn’t want to get robbed! I got to answer for this money!”

Charles nodded understandingly. “I’ll see you there. I’m gon’ drink some more of this rye, I don’t want to waste it all.” He took a large gulp out of the jar.

“I’ll help you a little bit. I don’t want to be waitin’ out in the rain by myself.” Alfred took the jar after Charles finished and nearly emptied it.

“Whoa! Whoa!” Charles said, looking at the remaining rye with displeasure. “Ain’t nobody asked you to guzzle the whole thing!”

“Finish it off and let’s go!” Alfred urged.

Charles followed Alfred, who was mounted on a horse, at some distance because he could not whip Jethro into a faster pace. He saw Alfred disappear under cover of some distant trees and made straight for the grove. When he pulled under the trees, he saw that DuMont was not alone. Three white men were waiting with him. Immediately, Charles got a very bad feeling. He looked questioningly at Alfred, who shrugged his shoulders in response.

“Where is LeRoi Tremain?” one of the white men asked.

Charles looked back and forth between the men, then pointed to Alfred. “He know I don’t know where Tremain is. I just know of somebody who might know where he is. It ain’t guaranteed they know, but they’s the best guess I got!”

One of the white men kicked his horse alongside the wagon and swung the butt of his Winchester at Charles’s head. Charles ducked, but the wooden stock caught him on the shoulder. He grunted with pain, and before he could recover, the rifle butt slammed into his back. He shouted, “I don’t know nothin’ but what I told you!” He turned to protect himself with his arms from his assailant, but not quickly enough. He was struck upon the shoulders again, but this time the stock of the rifle clipped his head and he fell off the wagon into the mud. He was allowed to lie there while they waited for him to regain his senses.

Charles looked up at Alfred and said in a shrill voice, “You lied! You lied to me and you’s lyin’ on me! Tell these mens I don’t know nothin’!”

“Your name is Charles Baddeaux?” asked one of the white men, looking down from his horse.

Charles pressed himself out of the mud and attempted to wipe the mud off his face as he answered. “Yes, suh, I’s Charles Baddeaux, but I swear I don’t know—”

“Don’t swear!” ordered the man. “I don’t want to hear you blaspheme! I am Captain LeGrande of the New Orleans Parish Sheriff’s Department. Now, Charles, this can be easy or hard. It’s up to you. I need information, eh? I don’t want to beat you to death, but I do need information. My two deputies here, they are prepared to beat you to death. We’ll break all your bones first, so it will be extremely painful, eh? So, why don’t you tell me everything you know about LeRoi Tremain, eh? And maybe, just maybe, you might make it home this evening.”

Charles began babbling the full chronicle of events, as he knew them, since King Tremain had entered his daughter’s life. No one else spoke, except for the occasional question by Captain LeGrande. After he finished telling about Journer dropping off letters from Serena to his daughters and how he had overheard that she was a wife of one of the Duryeas, Charles fell silent. Rain mixed with blood trickled down his neck. He wanted to stand up, but he was afraid that he would be struck with the rifle again, so he remained seated in the mud.

Captain LeGrande studied him for several minutes in silence. Then without warning he said, “I believe you, Charles Baddeaux. Your story is too crooked and human to be anything but the truth! You are in luck today, eh? You will live.” LeGrande said to one of his deputies, “Pay them, Gitan!” He turned his horse and rode out from under the trees into the rain.

Gitan threw some bills into the mud. “Forty dollars and it is more than the information’s worth! Take it and run, niggers!” He and the other deputy reined their horses around and followed the captain.

Alfred was off his horse in an instant and scooped up the money. He remounted as Charles pulled himself painfully to his feet. Charles leaned against his wagon and said accusingly, “You lied to me! You lied to my face and you got the gall to take all the money too! You’s a low-down dog, DuMont!”

“Leastways, you got a house! I ain’t got nothin’! Tremain burned everythin’! Everythin’! I got women and chil’ren living in canvas lean-tos. This money gon’ feed the mouths of my women and chil’rens!”

“I see, I take the beatin’, you take the money?”

“You ought to thank God, man! We’s both lucky to be alive now. They was gon’ kill both of us! You saved us both, but I still needs this money. If better times come, I’ll pay this whole amount, but right now things is tight! I got to think of my family.” Alfred kicked his horse into a trot and rode away into the rain.

It took Charles nearly ten minutes to climb up into the wagon. Each movement caused sharp, lancing stabs of pain to flash across his back and side. Once he was in the seat, he picked up the reins and flicked them across Jethro’s back. The mule started off with a jerk, which caused Charles to wince in pain. The wagon moved out into the sluicing rain. It battered upon his head and shoulders with the percussive sound of an endless drum roll. Charles’s hat was still in the mud, but he did not want to get off the wagon to retrieve it. He was happy to remain in the jerking and rocking seat of the wagon as Jethro found his own way home.

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Patches of clouds floating across the night sky obscured the full moon as it traveled across the dark blue expanse of twinkling stars. Sometimes the moon could only be seen as a pale circular shape through the opaque clouds, but for brief moments it appeared unfettered and then its pale blue light fell to earth exaggerating the shadows. A truck pulled up next to a large unlit building. Four men got out of the truck and lifted out the stretcher upon which Corlis Mack was sitting.

“Easy boys,” Mack advised, flicking the ash off his cigar. “I ain’t chopped liver! I just had this damn leg cut on a week ago! Get in step with each other and minimize the jerking!”

Captain LeGrande opened the door with a smile. “Hello, Boss. How’re you doin’ this fine evening, eh?”

“If you have what you say you have, I’m real happy! You may be the next undersheriff.”

“I would not send such information to you so soon after surgery if it was not so.” LeGrande stopped to inspect Corlis’s leg. “There’s a lot of blood in your bandage and it’s starting to leak through. Who wrapped this for you? They didn’t do well, eh?”

“Fuck the leg! Where’s Tremain?” answered Corlis, puffing on his cigar.

“You wait in the conference room. I will bring him to you,” offered LeGrande. “He’s in the basement and the stairs are too steep to carry you down on the stretcher. Plus, you don’t want to aggravate that leg, eh?”

“For a good officer, you’re getting to be a pain in the ass about this leg business! I want to go down to the basement! I can’t have any fun in the conference room!”

“I don’t want to argue with you, eh, Boss? So I have taken the precaution of having Dr. Boyer waiting in the card room. I knew you would get too excited and I won’t stand by and watch you endanger your health, eh?”

Corlis clamped down on his cigar. “Maybe you won’t be the next undersheriff after all.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Alright! Alright, you win. Bring that bastard into the conference room. Bring up both of them! I want to look in their eyes!”

“Maybe you let the doctor rewrap your leg first?”

“Goddamn it, LeGrande! Don’t push your luck! Just bring up the niggers!”

Corlis was making himself comfortable, plumping up pillows and trying to find a less painful position for his leg when King and Phillip were brought bare-chested into the conference room. Corlis was still on the stretcher that had been set to rest on a table on one side and a bureau on the other. Both the prisoners had manacles about their hands and feet and there were bruises on their faces and torsos from punches and kicks.