Michaela Thompson - Florida Panhandle 01 - Hurricane Season (14 page)

Pearl Washington regarded Murphy across the kitchen table. On the table was a silver tray laden with china cups and saucers, silver spoons and linen napkins. “It’s a prayer meeting,” she said. “They’re praying for Miss Diana.” Murphy drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “When will they be through praying?”

“I don’t know.”

Murphy got up and walked around the room. He peered out the window. Pearl sliced thin slices of banana nut bread and arranged them on a plate.

“Is that coffee I smell?” asked Murphy.

Pearl raised her eyebrows and pointedly ignored the china cups. She took a crockery mug from a cabinet, filled it with coffee from the twenty-cup coffee maker on the counter, and handed it to Murphy.

He drank it leaning against the counter. When he was finished, he said, “God dog it, I’ve got to talk to him.”

“You can’t walk in in the middle of a prayer. The preacher’s there. Everybody.”

Murphy looked at her shrewdly. ‘I can’t walk in there. What about you? You got to take that truck”—he indicated the tray—“in there sometime.”

“Not till Mr. Snapper tells me.”

“To hell with that. Go get him.”

Pearl folded her arms and stood still.

Murphy crossed the room and gripped her arm. “You get your butt in there and tell him Murphy’s here. If you don’t, I’m going to hurt you.”

Pearl’s eyes flickered. She picked up the tray and pushed through the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the dining room. In a few minutes she returned empty-handed. “He’s coming,” she said.

Snapper pushed into the room on a waft of hair oil. He was wearing a dark suit and a stiffly starched white shirt. His normally full, ruddy face hung in pale folds. “What the hell is going on?” he said.

“The Calhouns know,” said Murphy. “They was waiting for us on the canal. Only reason we didn’t run into them was Bo Calhoun’s wife stopped us.”

Snapper sat down at the table. “Give me a cigarette,” he said to Pearl.

When he’d lit a Lucky from the pack Pearl gave him out of the kitchen drawer, he said, “Goddamn it, I’ve got a room full of folks out there reading the Bible.” He looked at Murphy. “If anybody finds out about this, there goes the election.”

“Nobody knows I’m here,” Murphy said.

“Damn the Calhouns.”

“Blowing up their still made them mad. I told you they wouldn’t quit.”

“Well, hell, I knew they wouldn’t quit. But we needed a head start, a little slack.” Snapper broke off and rubbed his hands over his slicked-back hair. “How the hell did they find out?”

Murphy helped himself to another cup of coffee. “My guess is they got to Elmore. He hasn’t got any sand in his craw. We shouldn’t have tried to take over the Calhouns’ people.”

“But Elmore doesn’t know where the still is. He doesn’t know about me.”

“Naw.”

Snapper said, “This operation has cost me more grief and more money than anything I ever got into. Money for supplies. Setup expenses. Salaries. And no sooner do we get the damn thing working good than this happens.”

Murphy rubbed his belly and looked vacantly out the window.

“Listen to me,” said Snapper. “I got a daughter lying in the funeral home, graveyard dead. I got an election where some pious son of a bitch is making me hop. I got a prayer meeting in my front room. And now I got this mess.”

He ground out his cigarette and stood up. “You get this shored up,” he told Murphy. “If you don’t, I’m not the only one who’s in trouble. You shore it up, and then you let me know. And don’t come waltzing in here any time you feel like. Give me a little warning next time.”

Murphy nodded. He left by the back door.

When he was gone, Snapper turned to Pearl. “I got to get back for the benediction. Give me five minutes, and then come pour the coffee.”

The moon shone on the canal, casting a track on the murky water, but under the moss-hung trees the bank was dark. There was no sound aside from the shuffle of small animals or the calling of owls.

Bo Calhoun stirred on the rotten log where he had been sitting, shotgun across his knees, for the better part of three hours. Beside him sat Elmore. An hour before, Elmore had slumped forward and put his head in his hands, and he hadn’t moved since. Bo took a breath, whistled through his teeth, and called, “Come on out, boys.”

Three shadowy figures emerged from the trees. Bo joined them, Elmore trailing behind. Sonny and Purvis lit cigarettes, the matches brief points of flame in the dark.

Sonny expelled smoke and massaged the back of his neck. “Nothing but a water haul. Useless trip.” he said.

“Damn right.” Bo’s voice was neutral. He turned to Elmore. “You got anything to say?”

Elmore swallowed. “I don’t know. I done just like you said. It was all set.”

“They always showed up before?”

“Yeah, sure, but I don’t know what happened this time.” Elmore twisted his knobby hands together. “I didn’t warn them, Bo.”

Bo leaned his shotgun against a tree and turned back to Elmore. “Somebody told them. Nobody knew about it except my brothers and you. Are you telling me I can’t trust my own brothers?”

“I didn’t warn them, Bo.”

When the openhanded blow landed on the side of Elmore’s head, the sound was loud enough to rouse a faint echo from across the canal. Elmore staggered, his head bent. The moonlight caught moisture dripping from his nose. Bo jerked Elmore’s head upright. “Somebody had to tell,” he said. “Otherwise, how’d they know not to come?” Elmore tried to shake his head, and Bo hit him again. “Answer me.”

“I swear to God I never told—I don’t know his name—he has a cabin cruiser—big old boy—. ” Elmore’s words were lost in a wheeze.

Bo picked up his shotgun and placed the muzzle under Elmore’s chin. Elmore gagged. “You’re going to find out for me where I can get to that fellow,” Bo said. “Do you understand?” He prodded with the shotgun.

“I’ll find out,” Elmore gasped.

“If you don’t, I’ll know you messed me up tonight.”

“I didn’t. I swear.”

Bo lowered the gun. “Get on,” he said, and Elmore, shoulders sagging, walked off through the trees. The brothers stood there until they heard a motor come to life and then fade as Elmore drove his truck away.

“You shouldn’t have let him go,” said Purvis. “He told them about tonight. He probably knows where to find them right now.”

“No he doesn’t. Not if they’ve got any sense,” said Bo. “Let him think it over. He can’t get away from us. And he knows I’m itching to destroy his skinny ass.”

The Calhouns trudged heavily through the swamp to the fire road, a narrow track along which their cars were parked. After bidding his brothers good night, Bo drove toward the beach. He turned into the parking lot of Sal’s Roadhouse.

Josh sat in Murphy’s pickup, gazing out the window at the moonlit pines. Beside him, Murphy slouched lower in his seat. “Sons of bitches waited a long time,” Murphy said.

Josh grunted. Sue Nell had said she was staying at a fish camp on Tupelo Branch. He could find Tupelo Branch on the nautical chart once they were back on the boat. His need to know where she was made his forehead feel tight. Once he found Tupelo Branch he could find her, if he had to visit every shack.

He and Sue Nell had been dressed and sipping another drink by the time Murphy returned. Murphy glanced at the glasses and said, “Got into the stock, I see.”

“Being sociable,” said Josh.

“Miz Calhoun is welcome to a drink. She done us a big favor. They was waiting down there, just like she said.” He turned to Sue Nell. “We got some more business to do. Maybe you better get on now.”

Sue Nell got up without hesitation and without a glance at Josh. He followed her on deck and helped her into her bateau. He whispered fiercely, “I got to see you.” She didn’t reply.

Tupelo Branch. He would find it on the chart. He would get Murphy to let him leave the still somehow, and he would go there. “Here he comes,” said Murphy. “Get out.”

Josh slid rapidly out of his side of the truck, leaving the door open. Murphy did the same. Josh stumbled on the hard, rutted clay of the road as the two of them ran, heads down, from their hiding place toward the dark house. A truck pulled up in front of the house and its motor cut off as Josh reached the edge of the yard. Murphy passed him, and Josh could hear the large man’s labored breathing. He hadn’t realized Murphy could move so fast.

The door on the driver’s side of the truck started to open. Murphy wrenched it wide. “Get him,” he said to Josh.

Josh reached in and pulled Elmore from behind the wheel. Elmore didn’t resist, but went limp in Josh’s grasp and fell to his knees in the dirt. Kneeling beside him, Josh saw blood smeared on his upper lip. “I couldn’t help it,” Elmore gasped. “They was going to kill me.”

Murphy jerked him to his feet. “I ought to kill you myself.”

“No!” said Elmore. “Help me.”

“Help you,” said Murphy. “I was helping you plenty. You got a hell of a lot bigger cut from us than the Calhouns ever gave you. And you pay me back by selling me out.”

“Bo knew!” Elmore said. “You promised he wouldn’t know!”

Murphy looked at Josh. “Let’s go. We got to find a distributor with some guts.”

Elmore plucked at Murphy’s shirt. “Bo’s going to kill me. You got to help me. Don’t let him kill me.”

“What do I care if he kills you? You’re nothing but scum to me. But I’ll tell you this—” Murphy took Elmore’s upper arms and pulled him forward. “If you ever say anything more about this operation to anybody, you won’t have to be scared of Bo Calhoun anymore. You’ll be too busy being scared of me.”

He loosened his grip, and Elmore sagged backward. “You mean I ain’t going to distribute for you no more?” His voice was thin.

“I don’t deal with lying, two-timing scum.”

“But—” Elmore’s voice trailed off as Murphy motioned with his head to Josh and turned away.

They were silent on the drive back to the mouth of the canal. Murphy spoke only to say, “No point in running again till I get this straight.”

“Yeah,” said Josh. His heart lurched. If the still wasn’t running, he could find Tupelo Branch.

He was in the cabin of the boat, reaching for the nautical chart, when he thought he saw something moving under the trees. He squinted. Murphy started the motor. Josh picked up a flashlight and unrolled the chart. With any luck at all, he could find it before Murphy got curious enough to ask him what he was doing.

A green wake spread behind the open boat as Lily steered it toward St. Elmo Island. The little swells washed against the pilings of the ferry landing where Aubrey stood. Lily raised her hand, but it was too much to hope that he would wave. She bent her elbow and pretended to be holding the crown of her wide-brimmed straw hat instead.

It was strange enough that Aubrey had offered to keep the store when Lily announced her intention of going to the island. “Offered,” perhaps, wasn’t exactly the word. He had said, “If you got to go over there, give Sara Eubanks a rest. I’ll do it.”

Lily bit her tongue to keep from blurting questions about his bees. “Don’t you want to ride over there with me?” was all she could think to say.

“I haven’t lost nothing over there,” Aubrey said, and that ended the conversation.

He had meant it about keeping the store, though, because here she was in the boat, and there he was walking away from the dock. She felt, suddenly, as if she were going on a picnic instead of paying a business visit to Sam Perry about getting some more nets.

At least, she’d told Aubrey that was her reason for seeing Sam. Truly, she could use a few more. Until Sam started making nets for her, St. Elmo fishermen had bought cotton twine and made their own. Many still did—Lily stocked twine, too—but others had found Sam’s nets were far better than they could make themselves. They bought the nets, and all they had to do was melt down the lead and make the weights. That was done by pouring the lead in a tongslike mold, which Lily could also sell them. She had lumps of lead, too. All in all, Sam had made quite a contribution to the marine supply portion of her business.

Today, however, the nets were only an excuse. Lily’s real reason for going to St. Elmo—and it made her feel, secretly, a little excited—was to see if Sam knew anything about a young man named Josh and what he might be doing on the island.

The inhabitants of St. Elmo Island could be divided into summer visitors, who rented the low, unimposing beachfront bungalows strung near the water’s edge, and those who truly lived there—people who for reasons of economy or eccentricity chose to isolate themselves from the mainland. The latter, Lily had noticed, never complained (as the former did, loud and long) that the sulfur-laden water tasted like rotten eggs, or that you couldn’t pick up Arthur Godfrey on the radio, or that two months in the salt air would rust out a car completely.

Sam Perry had lived on St. Elmo all his life. He had seen the island before the developers ever thought of the Elmo House, and he’d tonged oysters out of the offshore beds while the hotel was under construction. He had done the same during the island’s brief heydey, and continued during its long decline. Sam not only knew the island, he was unlikely to be surprised by anything that happened there.

Despite some high clouds and a slight stirring in the air, the ride over was smooth. The sun glared on the weathered facade of the Elmo House, with its broken gingerbread trim. Lily tied up at the pier and walked past the abandoned hotel. After a hundred yards or so, the crumbling pavement degenerated into a two-lane sand track.

The track led along dunes covered with sea oats, from which occasional paths meandered to the water. She passed a beached boat lying on its side, its bottom knocked away. A stand of pines marked the tip of the island, and when she passed it Sam’s cottage came into view. It was a flat-roofed structure of unpainted concrete blocks. Sam sat on a stool by his front door. The end of the net he was weaving was attached to the doorknob. His small wooden shuttle expertly moved the twine in and out.

A baseball cap shaded Sam’s washed-out blue eyes. His face and arms were brown from over seventy summers in the Florida sun. His feet were bare and looked horny and tough. When he saw Lily he touched the brim of his cap.