Hob Broun - Odditorium

Before her emotions could get in the way, Tildy went to the telephone and dialed his office.

Dolly Varden answered. “Good afternoon, Seminole Star.”

“I want to talk to Pete.”

“I’m sorry, he’s on another line. May I …”

“He gonna be in tomorrow? I’m coming to see him.”

“… ask who’s calling?”

“Tildy Soileau. He knows me.”

“Yes. The one who walked out on us.” Dolly dropped her Southern accent for the hard nasality of her hometown. “You better not be looking for work, sister. We make it a policy not to involve ourselves with people like you. People who betray us and spit on our trust.”

“Well, I didn’t get a Christmas card from you either. Tell him I’ll be there in the afternoon.”

“Mr. Sparn will be quite busy all day tomorrow.”

“Fine. Just tell him.”

Tildy set out for Jacksonville at six the next morning, alone. Karl had instructions to phone Holstein and tell him she had some “personal business” to attend to. There were good reasons for excluding Karl from this trip. She was embarking on an expedition that was perilous enough; she’d need all her warning systems and couldn’t afford to keep one eye on him. But the road was white and peaceful in the morning sun and when she stopped outside of Hoppachula for a new radiator hose, the old man gave it to her for nothing because she reminded him of his daughter who’d moved to Oregon. She made excellent time, had succulent fried catfish for lunch and actually arrived in Jacksonville with a tinge of confidence.

The Seminole Star office was frigid, air conditioners running at maximum output. The sweat on Tildy’s face and neck dried instantly, drawing her skin tight. Roosting behind an enormous desk, Dolly Varden suggested she come back later, Pete was tied up in a meeting. Tildy sat down with an old copy of Boxoffice magazine and tried to listen through the door. A woman’s husky voice: “… and in 1975 I was named Miss Inland Waterways.” Staring with tight, fierce eyes, Dolly turned her radio up loud and that was that.

Four songs and a news broadcast later, the woman emerged clutching a stack of 8x10 glossies. She was an unbewildering Sparn selection in red boots and smoky glasses, her nosecone breasts jutting against a rayon shirt. Pete, gliding close behind her, whirled when he saw Tildy, and then smirked, folding his arms.

“You look like hell, kid. Been up all night?” Then, “Leave your pictures, honey. Dolly, coffee please.” He took Tildy by the hand and led her into his office; the furniture had been reupholstered in beige velour. “So tell me what you think of Crystal. Scrumptious, huh?”

“If you say so.”

“Crystal’s a dancer and a cake popper. You know, bachelor parties, birthdays, conventions. A real piece of talent. Tells me she gets so turned on to an audience when she works that she actually comes.”

“An act you can book with pride.”

Pete sank into his swivel chair, picked up one of the plastic puzzles he liked to fool with when talking on the phone. “You got a world of nerve, I’ll give you that. Went AWOL on me in the middle of a tour, attacked my son when he came to straighten things out and nearly jeopardized his ability to have children, and yet you can blow in here without an appointment and crack wise about a girl who’s got twice your sex appeal. You do have a strong supply of nerve, I surely will stipulate to that.”

“Thanks, Pete, even though you didn’t intend a compliment.” She kept her eyes off his, tore dead skin from her lower lip. “I was hoping we could stay off the past and concentrate on business. I don’t want to waste your valuable time.”

She placed the round package she’d brought atop his IN basket.

“So what’s this, a bomb?”

“You could say that.”

Dolly came in with mugs on a tray and from her expression, she’d put rat poison in one of them. She threw down some packets of nondairy whitener and said, “You’ve got a three o’clock with that new candy salesman.”

“The one who wanted me to put granola health bars into all my drive-ins? Fuck him. He can wait.”

Outside, Dolly slammed drawers and spun the dial on her radio.

Sparn held the package to his ear. “Anyway, it’s not ticking.” Tinny thumps when he shook it.

“Take a look inside, Pete. Something pretty.”

He cut the twine with scissors, separated petals of brown paper, lifted out a rusted coffee can. “You sure this won’t go off in my face?”

“Promise.”

Slowly, he prized off the lid; inside was a nest of glinting shellfish, antique watches all of gold. He showed her his poker face, bent over the desk blotter to study a diamond chip monogram, a carved hunting scene, ruby numerals and enameled hands.

“Lovely. People had more time for time in the old days.” Sparn pulled a whiskey bottle out of a bottom drawer. “I like my coffee with a stick in it. Join me?”

Tildy shook her head and pushed the words out. “I want to fence them, Pete. Do you know anybody?”

He smiled lewdly at her and stroked his necktie. “Where’d you get them?”

“Let’s say they were a gift from a friend, an old man who thinks he has a crush on me.”

“Hell of a gift, he must dream about you every night. Just how old is this old fool?”

“I don’t know. In his seventies I suppose.”

Sparn sipped from the bottle before pouring a shot into his mug. “You got some strange birds down there in Gibtown, no doubt about it. Whole town’s kinky when you come right down to it, but I guess you’ve gotten used to that by now. Some strange birds, though…. Just recently I was reading about this ole boy, Les Clines, did for himself right there in the hoosegow. Heard about it?”

“I seem to remember something.”

“Yeah, that Lester was quite an item. He ran with the carnies for years, but thieving was always his first profession. Had his own mob for a time, the fox, and did real well according to some of the old timers. There was a big beast of a roustabout named Thunder who supplied the muscle, and the Diropolous brothers had the finesse. They were safecracking Siamese twins and real artists. Never once blew a box open, so it’s told. But Clines, he was the brains of the operation and picked all the marks. No better place to read people than at the fairgrounds, but I don’t have to tell you that, do I? See, he used to work one of those guess-your-age-and-occupation gimmicks and he’d find out all sorts of interesting things about the town doctor and the local lawyer and so on. Les was scrupulous. He kept all his info in a card file and then they’d hit these people on getaway night, just as quiet as a summer breeze. This was years ago but … Am I boring you?”

Tildy felt a rubber ball bouncing in her stomach. “Not at all, Pete. The taller the tale, the better I like it.”

Sparn poured himself another shot. “To departed friends and colleagues,” knocking it back in one go. “Funny thing about all this … Well, must have been three, four years ago I heard that Thunder passed. Working on his car when it slipped off the jack and crushed him. Now the Diropolous brothers, they were down in Sarasota. Worked in a supermarket. One was a cashier and the other one bagged the groceries. I’m on the phone with a client of mine down there and he happens to mention in passing how both of them drowned in the bathtub. Probably fighting over the soap or something. Real sad. Now here’s old Lester with his name in the paper, he’s checked himself out, and that’s all four. Kind of ties it up with ribbon, if you see what I mean.”

“I’m fascinated, Pete, but I’m also on a schedule. So …”

“I know, I know. I’m really an old cornball, yammering away about those old guys. But, man, they used to tell some stories. Late-night stories when you’d have that glow on, just a round or two short of toppling off the barstool. They’d talk about all the yummies Lester was supposed to have put in the ground and how one day we’d have to put our heads together and go looking for them. Saw in the paper where they found a block of ice at his place turned out to be Mrs. Clines. Wonder what else they might have dug up around there.”