Joe Lansdale - A Fine Dark Line

“You play with her. She have to tie a pork chop around her neck to get you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“Hey, she got those things from her brother and put soap water in them. She thought it was funny.”

“She did, did she?”

“I don’t think it’s funny,” Chester said. “She’s sayin’ what’s in it came from me. It didn’t. I don’t dispense soap.”

“It could have been something other than soap. Couldn’t it, Chester?”

“I’m not perfect. Yeah, it could have. It might have, a year ago. But me and her, we don’t see each other now. She’s just jealous I was seein’ you.”

“Since you’re not seeing me now, she won’t have to be jealous anymore, will she, Chester? For that matter, you can go back to doing what you were doing with her. And if you can’t do that, there’s always Mrs. Palm and her five daughters. Good day, Chester.”

“Aw, baby, don’t be that way.”

“Don’t call me baby, Chester. Why don’t you go check the oil in your hair. If you can find a deep-enough dip stick.”

“That’s a low blow, darlin’.”

We started moving again. A moment later the jalopy screamed by us, made a curve almost on two wheels, and was out of sight.

“He still likes me,” she said. “Fact is, I think he likes me more now.”

“You love it, don’t you?”

“I love seein’ how silly men can be. Yes.”

As we neared the theater a sharp red and white Thunderbird pulled up to the curb. The door opened. A tall man who looked like a movie star got out of the car. He had light brown hair and it was longish with a curl like Timothy’s, only more natural-looking. His clothes were sporty and expensive. White coat, tan pants, tan and white shoes.

As he got out of the car, I saw his socks were light blue with dark blue clocks on them.

He went around, opened the passenger door on the Thunderbird, and a woman got out. She had shoulder-length, poofed-out, peroxide-blond hair. She was wearing tight gold pants that quit at the calf, a white shirt with a frilly collar, thick-heeled sandals that strapped high on the ankle. As she came around front of the car, stepped up on the curb, I realized she was quite young.

The man took hold of her arm and marched toward the theater, passing us. He looked at Callie as he did, gave her a smile that was big enough and bright enough and wild enough to belong in a lion’s mouth.

As he passed the ticket booth, he nodded at the lady inside, went into the theater with the blonde on his arm, glanced back over his shoulder at Callie.

“I bet that’s him,” Callie said.

“You mean Stilwind?”

“Uh huh. That’s his girlfriend. The one Tim told us about. Think I’m that cute, Stanley?”

“I think you’re so ugly you’d have to sneak up on a glass of lemonade.”

“Funny, Stanley.”

“I thought Tim said he drove a Vette.”

“Maybe he thought the Thunderbird was a Vette. Maybe he has both.”

“Maybe that’s not him.”

Never having been around that kind of money, I found it hard to imagine having so much you could own two fancy sports cars, a nice plaid jacket, and a pretty blonde.

“I don’t see how he could have done such a thing as you think,” Callie said.

“I don’t think anything,” I said, trying to echo what Buster had taught me. “You’re jumping to conclusions.”

“I’m sure it crossed your mind.”

“I think it’s crossed your mind, and now that you see him, you can’t imagine it.”

“What do you think?”

“He doesn’t look very monstrous, does he?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

Callie walked over to the ticket booth. I stayed where I was, but I could hear her. She said, “Was that Mr. Stilwind?”

The lady at the ticket booth said, “Yes. Do you need to speak to him?”

“No. Thanks.”

She came back. I said, “I heard.”

“I just don’t see how he could have done anything like that. He looks very nice.”

“You mean you’d like to date him.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Maybe the jerk is right. Girls like nice cars and money. And you’re not even eighteen. What do you think Daddy would say about that? You wanting to date a grown man.”

“He’d say no,” Callie said. “Or he’d beat him up. Let’s forget it and go home, Stanley. I’m all tuckered out. I think this is one mystery that’s just going to remain unsolved. But there is one good side. You heard what Chester said about the soap water and those awful things. This is just more support for me.”

“Maybe you ought not push it.”

“Oh, no. I want Daddy to believe me completely. And you, like it or not, are my witness.”

I didn’t like it, and that afternoon when we got home, Callie told Mom and Dad what happened with Chester, and I stood there to confirm it.

When she was finished, I saw Daddy let loose with a silent sigh. He patted Callie on the back and went outside.

“He believes me completely, then?” Callie asked Mom.

“He believes you,” Mom said. “I think he’s gone somewhere to cry.”

———

HIS LOOKS don’t mean a thing,” Buster said. “You think all the peoples out there do bad things is ugly? Or look like monsters? Drag they knuckles on the grass? Huh, boy? You think that?”

It was night and we were in the drive-in booth and Buster was showing a picture, an Audie Murphy Western.

“I don’t know. That Bubba Joe, they say he looks mean, and he is.”

“You right about that. But that don’t mean everyone looks mean is bad. Anymore it means anyone looks sweet and kind as Howdy Doody is Howdy Doody. You hear me, boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Consider that an important lesson. Looks is nice to look at, but underneath them . . . Well, you don’t never know. Why you think so many men get in trouble with women? Them looks. Man goes for them looks, and underneath them looks you might find you a harpie. You know what that is?”

“No, sir.”

“Evil winged women that torment people. Only difference in my experience with women in general, is they don’t have the wings.”

“You know a lot of stuff, Buster.”

“I’ve forgot more than most people know. Listen here, you really interested in this murder business, ain’t you?”

“I am.”

“Now, kind of playin’, what say I give you a little help on this. Just a little. I can’t get big involved. White folks ain’t keen on a nigger gettin’ into their wood pile.”

———

ALTHOUGH BUSTER OFFERED to help me, he wouldn’t do it until I was off crutches. That took another couple of weeks, and even then I was afraid to put too much pressure on my leg. But after a day or two, I forgot all about it and even took to riding my bicycle that Dad had repaired.

The rules were I was not to go up the hill into the rich section, and if I was going to ride along the highway, it had to be on the grass, or the sidewalk when no one was coming.

One early morning I got up telling my parents I was going to ride my bike, and leaving Nub behind for a change, I rode into town, to the back of the newspaper office where I was to meet Buster.

The office was near the theater Stilwind owned. As I pedaled past it, I looked to see if James Stilwind or his Thunderbird were about. They weren’t.

At the back of the newspaper office, in the brick alley, Buster was sitting on a wobbly bench up against the wall. He was sitting with a lean black man wearing a porkpie hat. The lean man was shaking a cigarette out of a pack of Lucky Strikes.

Between them was a cardboard box. As I rode up, the lean man lit the cigarette with a kitchen match he struck on the brick wall. He said, “They catch me on this, Buster, I’m gonna lose my job.”