The Redneck Detective Agency (The Redneck Detective Agency Mystery Series Book 1) (2 page)

Chapter 3

Rusty spotted Ray’s pickup in the gravel parking lot on the other side of the café. He climbed the gentle slope and stepped into Gloria’s Café.

              Harriet worked the register, was chattering on to a couple patrons, adding up their bill. She looked past them when she caught sight of Rusty.

              “Your cousin Raymond is in the back booth. Us crowded like this and he’s taking up a whole booth by hisself.”

              “I’ll go sit with him and cut your losses in half.”

              “You’re a doll.”

              Rusty walked off to the left wing of the cafe. It looked out over the marina.

              Ray sat in the very back booth, had his hook arm on and looked to be half way through his breakfast. His cap was off and lay on the edge of the table.

              Rusty slid in opposite Ray. Rusty hated having his back to the café. He’d always preferred to sit with his back to the wall.

              Gloria’s only full-time waitress set a mug down on the table and filled it with coffee for Rusty. “Rusty and Ray Clay.” During busy seasons Gloria had to hire on two more waitress, but in lulls Betty was so full-time sometimes she was the cook, too.

              “Thanks, Betty. And I already ate breakfast,” Rusty said. Betty moved on with her coffee pitcher.

              “I know your mama taught you better than to put your cap on the eating table,” Rusty said. “At least you’re not wearing it while you eat like half these ill-mannered bastards in here.”

              Ray took a sip from the cup in his good hand. “I have it sitting there just for you.”

              Ray lifted the cap up with his hook pincher. Some hundred dollar bills lay there. He put the cap down on the seat, leaving the hundred dollar bills in plain sight for the whole world, in general, and Rusty Clay, in particularly, to see.

              First, the hundred dollar bills from the man who wanted Rusty to find his stolen catfish. Now, Ray with some hundreds.

              “Twelve hundred dollars,” Ray said. “My final offer.”

              “I told you I’d blow that son of a bitch up before I’d sell it to you. A Clay shouldn’t have a goddamn Yamaha. I can’t believe I let Jenny pawn that thing off on me. I was delirious at the time.”

              “You didn’t?”

              “I told you I was going to blow that son of a bitch up. Only two kinds of outboards for us.”

              “Mercury or a Johnson. Or an Elgin or Evinrude. Same as a Johnson.”

              “Look, Ray.” He leaned in toward Ray. “We the last two Travertine County Clays…”

              “There’s old Aunt Essie. You’re forgetting her.”

              Nobody could forget Aunt Essie. She really wasn’t Rusty and Ray’s aunt. She was there second cousin and she was about ninety years old. She owned an old antique shop—Rusty’s daddy had called it a junk yard—on the highway before you hit the bridge going across the Tennessee, not Elk. She’d been married eight times and never had any kids of her own, just a bunch of step kids she raised for other people.

              “Nobody can forget Aunt Essie,” Rusty said.

              “When have you been by to see her?”

              “Not lately. That monkey gives me the creeps.” Aunt Essie always had a monkey and it usually stayed on her shoulder, wanting to jump over on you and start humping you in the ear or something. Gave him the creeps. “But stop changing the subject, Ray.”

              “I’m not.”

              “Okay. So, to be more correct. We’re the last two male Clays. We are a dying breed. You got two daughters. I got one daughter. The Clear Springs Clays end here. We got a reputation to keep up.”

              Ray laughed. “Well, I’ll be dipped in shit. I never knew you to care what somebody else thought, Rusty.”

              “I care what you and me think. And the thought of us going up and down the Elk with that Yamaha outboard is enough to make me throw up. I mean if there were fifty of us Clays running around, me or you could run up and down the river all we wanted in a damn Yamaha. ‘Aw, there goes that crazy ass Ray Clay in a fucked up communist piece of shit outboard. I bet his mama’s proud of him.’”

              “I heard you, man.”

              “Just two of us left, good buddy, so there’s a lot of luxuries we can’t afford.”

              “We got an image to live up to. That’s for sure,” Ray said.

              Rusty looked over. The folks in the booth across from them were leaving. Betty was busy getting up the plates. Four men--not river men, but looked like businessmen from Dolopia waited at the end of the wing to take the booth.

              One of them gave Rusty a glance, like who were he and Ray to take up a whole booth. Well, Rusty and Ray were year around regulars, that’s who they were. And they’d come to this café back when only Elk River trash frequented the place. Rusty was all too willing to explain that to the man, if the man wanted to make something out of it.

              Rusty turned back around.

              “You hear about all the protestors coming into town for the Catfish Rodeo?” Ray asked.

              “What they protesting now?”

              “Git this. They protesting grabbling catfish.”

              Rusty dropped the spoon he was fiddling with. “What? Catfish on the endangered species list now?”

              “Naw. It’s crazier than that. They say that these catfish are protecting the nest bed when they are grabbled for and this cycle of their life should not be interfered with. That it’s upsetting the balance of the river.”

              “The nest bed? Well, I reckon I’ve heard everything now, Ray Clay.”

              Rusty looked over. One of the men was motioning to his buddies to come on, that the booth was now empty. The man slid into the booth across from Ray and Rusty.

              At first, Rusty thought the man was crazy, that he was just talking to the wall at best, maybe rehearsing something he was going to say at a business meeting later today. “Listen, we’re talking apples and oranges here. If they want to push the envelope on that contract…”

              Then Rusty saw the thing in his ear. One of those cell phones no bigger than an old hearing aid. The other men came over and started getting in the booth, while the first man kept yapping away at thin air.

              Rusty reached in his pocket and came out with a .45 bullet. He plopped it right in front of Ray.

              “Ray, if I ever start wearing one of those cellphone pieces of shit in my ear, I want you to take this bullet and shoot me in the head, right between the eyes and put me out of my misery.”

              Ray picked the shell up. “This exact bullet?”

              “It doesn’t have to be that exact one. But a .45 or a .38. None of that 9mm bullshit.”

Chapter 4

Downriver from the marina, and on the east bank about an eighth of a mile, Big Creek emptied into the Elk.

              Rusty now cut into the mouth of Big Creek. Woods at one bank, low bluffs on the other.

              Here was where Clear Springs got its name. About fifteen feet above the water line on the north bank of Big Creek, Old River Road was carved into the rocky hillside. On the other side of the road, straight sheer bluffs rose some thirty feet.

              In a few places natural, clear, cool spring water poured out of the rock. A trickle of water flowed across the blacktopped road and emptied off into the creek.

              Cousin Ray once came up with this great marketing idea. We could open a new line of bottled drinking water—Cl ear Springs Spring Water. I had said, “Ray, you got it all figured out on how the bottle will look and the logo and the slogans and jingles. You know what you sound like? One of those women who’s always talking about opening a restaurant and got the perfect name and exactly what little curtains are going to hang in the window, but don’t know jack about health codes or how much profit they got to turn on each plate.”

              Now, nobody was at the springs filling up their water jugs.

              Rusty pulled up where water flowed off the road and into the creek. He tied the painter of his skiff to the base of a sapling, got two empty glass gallon jugs, climbed the embankment, and crossed the road. Chest high, a stream of cold spring water spilled off slick rock. He filled two jugs from that. Fresh, clear, cool well water came from his taps at home, but nothing tasted like the water from Clear Springs.

              He got back into my boat and went upriver, past the marina, and the quarter mile to his house on the east bank, the Travertine County side. He cruised up to my pier, jumped out, moored. His boathouse was made of weathered barn wood, had a tin roof, and stood about thirty feet from the bank, was connected by a narrow pier to the land.

              Before he could get halfway up the hillside to his little clapboard house, an unmarked county car pulled into the double rut of a driveway and parked behind Rusty’s pickup. It was his brother-in-law. No ex to it. His marriage to Lola had not ended in divorce.

              Rusty headed over his way, ready for some bullshit. Not from Sammy, but from life itself. Maybe Sammy was here to give him a heads up. That the law was on its way to question him about blowing stuff up on the river.

              Sammy struggled out of the car’s front seat, with the fifty extra pounds he could stand to lose. Sammy was the Travertine County District Attorney. Hell, if he gained another twenty pounds he could run for state office.

              Everybody liked Sammy. Except maybe the hardcore criminals he put in jail. He presented himself just as another good ole boy, but somebody go hard on the wrong side of the law, he would get their ass sent off, no matter who they shipped in as a defense lawyer. Sammy had been a Green Beret in Viet Nam. But now he wore gray tailored suits. His shoes were always spit shined and every hair, and it was thick and he had plenty of it, was in place.

              “Come on in, Sammy.”

              “No, thanks, Rusty. I can’t stay long.”

              “Come on down to the pier. I get you a gallon of Clear Springs drinking water.”

              “That, I’ll take.”

              They walked down to the pier. Rusty got in his boat, took the two gallons out and set them up on the dock, climbed back out. Sammy leaned against the dock railing, stared out at the river.

              “How’s Crystal doing?” Sammy said.

              Out of the blue question. Rusty picked up on things like that. Sammy didn’t just stop in to say hey.

              “She’s doing fine. Down in that fancy art college on the west coast of Florida. On a full scholarship now. Got a year and a half left to graduate and already all those big-time animation and special effects studios lined up to hire her. Doing a lot better than her daddy ever did.”

              “That’s good, Rusty. I’m glad to hear that. I knew she was doing well at the college, but not about the job prospects.”

              There was a strain in Sammy’s voice. “I actually stopped by for a reason, Rusty. It’s not an easy subject to bring up.”

              “What subject is that, Sammy?”

              “Jenny. You know about her, don’t you?”

              “About her and the heart surgeon?”

              “Yeah. They’re having an engagement party Saturday week. I know Dr. Compton quite well. And Joni, of course, she wants to go big time. Society shit, you know. I didn’t want to do anything that might offend you.”

              Now it was official. Jenny entered a social stratum Rusty would never have access to. He gripped the two by four railing. “You go, Sammy. Jenny’s new friends and husbands-to-be aren’t my enemies. Hell, you know me. I’m not into that kind of petty yappy shit.”

              “Thanks, Rusty.”

              Sammy took the gallon jug of water. Rusty followed him to the car. Sammy got in, put the water in the seat beside him, cranked up the car, put the window down.

              When Sammy backed out, Rusty hollered, “Don’t drive too fast, or the police will stop you, think that water is moonshine.”

              “Hell, I am the po-lice,” Sammy said, laughed and sped off back out the dirt road, making a cloud of dust.

              Rusty marched back down to the pier. He opened the padlock to the boathouse door and stepped inside.

              The boathouse had two slips. One was empty. In one was his homemade hydroplane. Right now it hung from cables about two feet out of the water.

              Rusty went over to a workbench and reached back in a little alcove hidden behind a tool box. He pulled out an antique half-pint bottle with clear white liquid in it. Moonshine. White Lightning. Wildcat. Elk River Brandy.

              He was not a drinking man. He didn’t even sip beer. Beer, shit. He didn’t have any idea why people went around sipping beer and wine, giving themselves a gut. But just sometimes life necessitated he nip a little hard stuff for medicinal purposes. Now was one of those such times.

              He pulled the cork out, put the bottle to his lips and took a good two ounces into his mouth. The secret was to roll the liquid around in your mouth, under the tongue and savor the taste. Get the relief emanating from the mouth, not the stomach. He never swallowed. It absorbed through the tissues of his mouth, some slipped down his throat, but never hit his stomach in a gulp.

              Soon the sip permeated his whole body.

              He corked the bottle and stuck it back in its hidey-hole. He left the boathouse, marched up the gentle hillside and onto his front porch. He unlocked his door and went over to the old black rotary phone at the end of the couch in the living room.

              The number took some commitment. There were three nine’s and two O’s in the seven digit number. On the third ring, Gloria answered, sort of singing, “Hello.”

              Rusty blurted out, “Gloria, Jenny is marrying some heart surgeon…”

              “Dr. Compton. I knew they had a condo together at The Point, but I didn’t know they were getting married.”

              “Yeah, she up and gets married on me. We were married to one another on and off since we were both twenty-five. I would never marry someone else without asking Jenny to marry me first.”

              “That’s because you’re a gentleman, Rusty.”

              “Maybe that’s what I get for marrying someone from South Carolina who went to fourth and seventh grade in a Catholic school in New York City.”

              “Sometimes I think people are the same, no matter where they’re from.”

              “Maybe. I was wondering if you wanted to come over here and we screw? You know and if that works out maybe we could go out on a date sometimes.”

              “How romantic, Rusty. But I’m married.”

              “You have a pending divorce. You had a pending divorce when you were twenty-two and I was seventeen and we screwed.”

              “What? Life comes full circle, Rusty?”

              “Something like that. Al wouldn’t mind. And you’re not even living with him right now. It’s not like Al is a real person. He’s a bit different.”

              “And he does have that eighteen year old girl for a companion right now.”

              “So, it’s perfect. I’ll grill us steaks for supper.”

              “I tell you what. If you don’t see me by dark, I’m not coming.”

              “I’ll take it,” he said and hung up without saying goodbye—a bad habit he’d acquired from Jenny.