Too Easy (A Flap Tucker Mystery Book 2) Page 2

  I patted the arm of the chair I was in. “So?”

  “I just thought you’d appreciate these guys. They’re a little off, but they’ve got big old hearts in ’em. They just want to help this girl, who’s the real item: seems to come from an old Southern family, big money, overwhelmingly winsome.”

  “In what way.”

  “She thinks she’s a fish.”

  “Say what?”

  Dally nodded. “She thinks she’s a mermaid, a silky, a creature of the sea.”

  “Get way out of here with that.”

  She leaned forward. “She actually thinks she’ll die if she’s not near the ocean or something. And I’d take her seriously if I were you. The last guy that made fun of her was her husband.”

  “Yeah.” I slumped down in grandma’s chair. “The last thing I need is to have somebody whisper a magic word in my ear.”

  “Right, so ...”

  “Where do I start?”

  “Go talk to the dad in Beautiful ... and Ida if you can. Check out the scene in Tifton; follow the trail to Savannah, if that’s where it goes.”

  “I thought you said Tybee Island, and I don’t know if my car’ll make it. Do you know what that drive is like?”

  “So borrow mine.”

  “Like that’s any better. I’ll get a tune-up.” I polished off my wine. “What do I live on until I’m a timber baron?”

  “Mr. Turner took out a loan against part of the land. You got expenses.”

  “Happy days are here again.”

  She stood up. “You need your rest if you’re driving to south Georgia tomorrow.”

  “I hate that drive.”

  She nodded, took a peep out the window. “What was all the hubbub down there?”

  “The gunshot? That’s our local pharmaceutical distributor. He waits on the corner and customers drive by. They hand him money, he gives them what they want, and all’s right with the world. Only sometimes they want to drive away without paying. Then he has to explain it to them. Once he shot a guy’s tires out.”

  She closed the blinds. “Call the cops.”

  “You don’t believe in the small business man.”

  “I just don’t want you to catch a stray slug. You got too much lead in your system as it is.”

  I hoisted myself up from the comfortable chair. “Is that your ever-so-subtle way of telling me I’m lazy?”

  “You’re the one who said you have time to sit around idly improving your mind. Which I agree could stand the renovation.”

  I started clearing the dishes. “Look: I call the cops on this guy, he gets the idea I’m the type who likes to do something about it — which we would agree is a false impression. Then he’s going to want me to do something with him, and I don’t even like the guy that much. Live and let live, that’s my motto — one of them. Besides, the police’re busy chasing the hookers off the street — much easier to hassle, plus they don’t have guns.”

  “Flap, you’ve got a cynical streak through you that, frankly ... I find enormously attractive.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She held up her hands. “I’m gone. The swordfish was happening. Had a nice smoky flavor.”

  “You get twigs out of the yard and soak them for twenty minutes, then flop them on the charcoals.”

  She headed for the door. “Yard twigs. I’ll alert the chef at Cassis.” She stood in the doorway for a second. “You’re going out of town for a while. I just realized.”

  I nodded, but I didn’t look at her. “Has been a while since we were apart like that.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  I had to look. The light from the hall knocked a halo on her head like a window in church.

  “You should stand in a doorway like that more often, Dally. The light’s doing you a pretty big favor.”

  She looked down. “Yeah. I’ll miss you, too, Flap.”

  She checked out. The door closed. It was a little darker in the apartment.

  4 - Flat

  Too early the next morning I found myself out the door and in the street. The sun wasn’t quite up, and our curbside entrepreneur from last night was still standing under his streetlamp when it blinked off: the city’s equivalent to the rooster.

  I waved. “Hey, Horace. Try to keep it down, will you? All the commotion last night scared off my dinner date — and you know I don’t have that many.”

  He looked up. I could see he was tired: long hard night. “Jeez, sorry, Flap. I had a unruly customer. I had to throw a scare into him. You understand.”

  “Still.”

  He smiled. “I got more customers than you got dates ...”

  “Lots.”

  “... so next time I’ll threaten his life with a little more finesse.”

  I nodded once. “Just quieter would do.”

  “You got it, brother.”

  I started to slip into the car, but an idea began to steal into my skull. “Hey, Horace.”

  He was shuffling his money and was headed for bed. “Uh-huh.”

  “You sell much weed these days?”

  “Some.”

  “Where’s it come from?”

  “Flap, you know that’s doctor-patient confidential.”

  “No, I don’t mean who, I mean where. Used to be a truck crop down south when I was a youth.”

  He was wise. “Oh, yeah. The particular weed of which you speak is still the main cash crop of the wilder boys in our fair state.” He closed his eyes. “Sunny south Georgia. It’s homegrown, brother — plus: It’s organic.”

  “Skip the sales pitch, Horace, I’m not looking to buy. Just curious.”

  “You reminisce.”

  “Occasionally.”

  He shook his head. “The stuff these kids want today, it’s just like takin’ a ballpeen hammer and whackin’ yourself in the forehead. Not like when you an’ me was young.”

  “What’s the big seller these days?”

  “Got a new package called Homicide — horse and coke and seasick medicine. Makes you mad as a snake and twice as poisonous.”

  “Charming. Guess that comes from New York or someplace.”

  He shook his head. “Lot of it comes from right here in Georgia. Down south.”

  I shook my head; jabbed the key into the car door. “Look, I may be gone for a while.”

  He understood. “I see anybody goin’ for your stuff, I call the cops.” He split a pretty big grin. “I know ’em all.”

  I didn’t doubt it. I’d been seeing Horace on these same streets since 1972. I don’t even know what made me try to draw him out that morning, exactly, except sometimes you get an intuition. I nodded, tossed the door open, and shoved myself into the seat. It only took seven cranks and the engine turned over, and by then Horace had vanished. I headed for a grease monkey.

  It was well after sunrise on Sunday morning, but I was sole proprietor of the streets. Heading for 75 South, there was a twenty-four-hour BP station close to the overpass on Tenth Street. Alas, no mechanic. It was self-serve. I gassed up, changed the oil myself, kicked the tires, cleaned the windows, and checked the plugs. I knew one of them was bad, but I didn’t want to take up any more time to change it then. I just bought a new one and tossed it on the front seat beside me.

  I pulled out of the station at eight-oh-five in the A.M. On that same spot had once stood a nightclub called 12th Gate. When I was a callow something-or-other, I played in a little band there. We were the opening act for Elvin Jones and I was too stupid to know what a big deal that was. Now it was a self-serve BP station, and I had no idea where Elvin Jones was. But, I reminisce.

  The endless drive down 1-75 South has always been notorious across the United States as the most boring ride in all fifty. Plus, it’s hard to drive when you’re anxious about the state of your automobile, because there are long stretches of nothing but nothing. I started out with a Coltrane tape in the stereo, but you can only listen to Giant Steps about fifty times in a row before you need a change. I was just
past Macon, a third of the way, so I twisted the dial on the radio, found what seemed to be the All-Hank Williams Station. It was diverting, but the scenery was still monotonous: it’s flat.

  Unfortunately my right rear tire was flatter. Just around Cordele I popped a tread. For a major thoroughfare the highway looked a lot like an empty parking lot. I could hear the locusts in the high grass by the side of the road. It was only ten-thirty in the morning, and already over 90 degrees.

  It took a little longer to change the flat than it should have, seemed like the nuts were welded on. I figured as long as I was pulled over anyway, I’d change the spark plug, so I popped the hood and went to work. What with the grease and the oil and the heat and all, I was a fine mess when the job was done. And in a dandy mood.

  I was just about to close up auto shop when a pickup came into view. I was wiping my hands with a rag when they pulled in behind me.

  Two big old boys jumped out, baseball caps and blue jeans. The driver was talkative, jumpy; had the sniffles.

  “Need help, mister?”

  I shook my head. “Naw. Had a flat. It’s fixed.”

  The other one looked pretty dumb, smiling with his mouth open at the open front of my car. “You ain’t got no flat up under ’at hood, bud.”

  I smiled back. I’m a friendly sort. “Decided to change a plug as long as I was stopped.”

  The driver crossed his arms. “Welp,” sniff, “how about helpin’ us out now? We short on cash.”

  I tossed the rag onto the front seat and put my fist on the door handle. “Can’t help you there, boys.” I snapped open the door and stepped behind it so it was between me and Bubba.

  “That ain’t nice. We stop to give you a hand, and you ain’t got nothin’ for us?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “I didn’t say that. I just don’t have that much cash on me. I’m on my way down to Tifton for a job. Maybe you could catch me on the way back home.”

  He was edgy. “We can’t wait.”

  He lumbered a step or two forward, and reached out for me with his log-sized forearm, but he was slow and I slammed his arm hard in the car door between us. Then while he was doubled over holding on to it, I bent down and picked up his right foot. The rest of him went down backward like a full sack of feed — it’s some kind of law of physics.

  His pal didn’t move; just stared at the lump on the ground for a minute and then back at me, smiling bigger.

  “Tifton, huh? I got kin down yonder. Or in Beautiful, rather.”

  I reached over to help Bubba up.

  He got to his feet, dazed and confused. “I think you broke my arm.”

  I stepped back from him. “It was probably the car door that did it.”

  He was still looking down. “I think your car door broke my arm.”

  His pal actually laughed. “It’s you own fault, you moron. What’n this world you wanna hassle some old dude on Sunday morning for?”

  This seemed to embarrass the driver of the pickup. “Yeah. It’s my own fault.” He looked up at me. He was just a kid. “Sorry, mister. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I jus’ ... I got money problems.”

  I shook my head. “Let me see your arm.”

  He held out his hand like a dog, and I felt it all along the wrist to the elbow. “It’s the ligaments and muscles got hurt. I don’t think the bone’s broken, but it’s going to hurt for a pretty good while. You got a job?”

  “Construction.”

  “Take a week off.”

  He took his hand back. “I can’t, mister. I got a little baby on the way, and we don’t got the money for hospital.”

  His friend offered up more sad evidence. “He ain’t got no insurance.”

  Bubba shook his head. “That dang baby stuff — it’s gonna cost a whole lotta money.”

  I eyeballed him, then leaned into the car, reached over to the glove box; pulled a card. “You boys know where the farmers’ market is just south of Atlanta?”

  Bubba took the card. “Sure. We take mushmelons up ’ere two, three times a year.”

  I pointed to the card. “Get your wife up to Dr. Thompson, close to there in College Park. It’s a free clinic if you take your last tax return to prove you got no money.”

  He stared at the card. “It’s that easy?”

  “Yup.”

  He was suspicious. “Why you doin’ this?”

  “You need help.”

  He looked down. “Lord, I sure do. You a doctor?”

  I shrugged. “Nope. I just lived in Atlanta a good while now, and I know lots of people. I did this guy a favor once.”

  The boy looked at me like I was a minister. “Well, you’re doin’ me a favor now. I don’t understand it, but I ain’t gonna forget it. What’s the name?”

  “Flap Tucker.”

  “Pevus Arnold.” He held out his hand to shake before he realized how much it would hurt and took it back.

  His friend was laughing again, but he was laughing at me. “You ain’t gonna believe this, but my kin down in Beautiful? Is all Tuckers. It’s my wife’s side. You look up old Rusty Tucker down ’atta way — he set you up with some fine barbecue. Tell him Ronnie Tibadeau said ‘hey.’ “

  I shoved out my lower lip. “I could use some fine barbecue, at that.”

  “He’s the man to see.”

  I moved to get in the car, and Pevus backed away. He looked over at his consultant. “You drive.” Then at me again. “I ain’t gonna forget this, Mr. Tucker. I’m takin’ the wife up tomorrow. She six months in and ain’t never seen a doctor.”

  I settled in and slammed the door. Their power pickup roared past me before I could even get cranked. They waved like we’d just been at a picnic together.

  5 - Snow in Summer

  I stopped at the next filling station for more gas, poured down some more oil, and cleaned myself up best I could. I shot a quarter in the phone and rang up Dally collect.

  “Hey.”

  “Flap? Where are you?”

  “Nowhere. I just met some boys on the road — an encounter that I am hoping was not a harbinger of things to come.”

  “What?”

  “I was detained by some hick highwaymen.”

  I could hear her shift the phone to her other ear. I think I’d gotten her out of bed. “You okay?”

  “Thanks. I’m fine, but I had to slam a door on a kid’s arm.”

  She yawned. “Well, it’s all a part of the show.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The bold highwayman — it’s part of the road thing. Didn’t you ever read, like, Barry Lyndon?”

  “Saw the movie. It was boring.”

  “Except for the Chieftains’ soundtrack.”

  “Well, yeah — the Chieftains, they’re great.”

  She spoke up. “Well, as you’re always mouthin’ off to me, there’s no such thing as a chance encounter, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “So those boys, they’ve got something to do with something.”

  I gave her a little laugh. “Nicely put — and you don’t have to tell me about my Tao. I know all about my Tao, sister.”

  “Sister?”

  “You heard me. Those boys are not at my center. They’ve got nothing to say to me except maybe where’s some good barbecue.”

  “That’s valuable.”

  “I agree. But it’s not germane.”

  She yawned. I guess I did wake her up. “Well, you never can tell. Just get back on the road. What’d you call me for?”

  “To share my experience.”

  She wasn’t going for it. “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay, the drive is giving me too much time to think. I want you to check on something. See does Tifton Home Loan — that’s where you said this Lowe Acree guy worked, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So, see do they have any affiliation with any other bank or savings and loan in Savannah. Maybe you could call like you’re going to open an account, but your family’s in Savannah or som
ething and you want ... I don’t know. You say whatever.”

  “I get it — what’s your idea?”

  I leaned up against the phone. “No idea. I’m just ... Quasimodo.”

  “You got a hunch.”

  “Yup.”

  “Terrible joke.”

  “‘Bye, Dally.”

  “Take care, Flap.”

  We hung up. Back in the car and headed south; the land got even flatter and hotter. I was between radio stations. It was a long, lonely stretch of road with miles of white on either side. I was going backward in time. It was cotton, lots of it. The boll weevil is a thing of the past — about the only thing that can mess up a good crop now is too much weather. Cotton, when it’s close to ready, makes a hot summer field look like snow. So there it was: the snow in summer, the first sign that something was strange. If I’d known then just how much stranger things were going to get, I might have made a U and skittled back home where I belonged.

  6 - Gold

  I drove on through to Beautiful, just followed the signs. I wanted to get a talk with Mr. Turner. Sunday morning, I was told, they’d all be in church. I rolled into the only populated place in town, the Kingdom Baptist. Looked to me like services had just finished — they go on for a long time in the old primitive Baptist tradition.

  I wasn’t even out of the car before some good soul had my number. “You here for the dinner on the grounds?”

  I cranked myself up from the driver’s seat. “Uh-huh.” Stuck my hand out to shake hers. “Flap Tucker.”

  She found herself delighted. “You’re a Tucker.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Atlanta?”

  “It’s obvious?”

  “Saw your plates.”

  “Oh.”

  She took my arm. “I’m a Lee by marriage, but some of us have married Tuckers.”

  “Should I start apologizing now?”

  She slapped my arm. “Oh, they’re all good boys in one way or another. I’m Alma.”

  “Alma. That means ‘soul’ in Latin.”

  “Spanish.”

  “Okay.”

  She shrugged, dragging me around the building to the yard out back. There were dozens of picnic tables, all laid out with dinner finery, and a crowd of hungry Christians.