Enoch's Folly

  “Lady, you’ve got a good chance of waddling out of here if you tell us who is left.” Hudson smiled sweetly. She lifted one titanic arm and pointed towards a second room beyond an impressive looking door.

  “What is that, a bank vault?”

  Wolinski carefully took the needle from the record and placed it in its rest. The disc stopped spinning and he looked at the vault.

  “Take the hat out of her mouth, for goodness’ sake; we’re not barbarians.”

  Hudson obliged and the woman spluttered.

  “You boys want money? You better not have hurt any of my girls!”

  “They are not your girls, pimp. They are God’s and no one else’s.” Roderick said quietly.

  Davies was dragging the two goons out the back and round the side, dumping them on top of Hoss.

  Hudson knocked on the vault door.

  “Telegram.”

  Silence.

  “Hello? We’ve got a lady out here who would rather not be cut to pieces. How about you come out here or you’ll need a mop to clean this room up later.”

  The woman looked ready to squawk and Hudson winked at her.

  “There’s a whole bunch of ‘em Stan, don’t do anything crazy.”

  The door opened two or three inches and Stan’s pale face appeared in the crack. Hudson smiled at him.

  “Hi. Come on out.”

  He emerged, barely more than nineteen, and Davies promptly clubbed him over the head, sending him sprawling unconscious on the floor. Hudson turned to the woman.

  “You just saved Stan’s life, make sure he’s grateful when he comes to.”

  Wolinski went inside the vault.

  “They’re refining hammer here. They’re likely getting the raw materials from Mexico. Interesting; they usually bring it in ready. These guys want to reduce costs; value adding after importing rather than before.”

  “Makes sense. Like making your own steel instead of selling your iron ore. Or, hell, making your own machines instead of selling your steel.” - Hudson.

  “That’s quite an astute analysis. Let’s smash it to pieces.” Davies had already bolted the front door behind him and knew they’d get very little meaningful interference. Roderick had went back to the stairwell and asked any young women creeping down to stay upstairs “until it was safe”. They obliged.

  Hudson and Wolinski collected the material in a sack and Davies raided the cashbox while Roderick kept an eye on the woman. When they were done Davies picked up a bar stool and made short work of the laboratory equipment.

  “Hey! What are you going to do with our junk?” She squawked.

  The big Welshman, still panting from the exertion of destroying the lab, grinned.

  “We’re going to dump it all in the river and hope it doesn’t poison the ducks.”

  “What?” She blurted.

  “Also, the police will be here in ten minutes to clean out the place. You’re finished. You can leave if you want.”

  Davies pulled wads of cash out of his pockets and walked out, handing them to Roderick.

  “Tell the young ladies they can go out the front door. Divide this up between them. Roughly; don’t count it for God’s sake.”

  Hudson was irritated but Roderick followed the plan and the girls filed out stunned into the night, clasping coats around them.

  “Use some of it for a taxi home,” he mumbled to some of them.

  Hudson pointed at Stan on the floor.

  “Tell him to stay in school… And if you ever come back here again; I’m going to harpoon you and sell you for lamp oil.” He picked up a pool cue, gestured as if holding a spear, and grinned.

  She thought better of protesting, huffing instead and beginning to extricate herself from behind the counter.

  Davies slid back both bolts on the rear door and vanished. A truck rattled to a halt outside the alleyway and soon he had help in loading the late trio of entrepreneurs into the back, where they were promptly covered by a tarp and some timber. As it drove off, he signalled to the other three to join him and they walked quietly but briskly up Arturo’s street, back the way they had come. Hudson grinned at Davies. “Where’s your pillow? All that work’s made sleepy.” Davies hushed him. When some distance had been put between them and the now defunct den and could faintly hear the wailing of sirens, Wolinski turned to Roderick.

  “That thing you said – about the girls; ‘they are God’s’. I like that – where’d you pull it from?”

  “Something I heard the boss say once.” He said.

  *

  One of Comely’s men had met Arturo and his family at the movie house and walked them home. In the dark they had not noticed the boards already on the front door across the way or the police notice pinned to it, but the morning brought light and revelation. Arturo read the notice fearlessly, on sight from his front door he knew instinctively the building was abandoned; the danger passed. The note was cursory; the kind a council clerk could have scripted, but Arturo knew something had come down like a hammer on the place. There was no explicit evidence of a crime or an investigation; simply word that entry was forbidden by the police department until further notice and trespassers would be prosecuted. The something, of course, the hammer – was Comely. Of this Arturo could have no doubt, but he had known what would happen when he turned to the man, or at least had some idea.

  He was not troubled by the empty building, stripped of power and menace. He was not troubled by the blood stains near the rear stairwell, for he did not see them. Arturo told himself meekly that a threat had likely been sufficient, knowing he barely half believed it and deciding barely half was enough. He’d taken action to protect his family and that which menaced him had been swept aside. Good, he thought. He was pleased. And it was this that troubled him.

  * * *

  It was late. Watson, Rosti, Kristian and Mrs Hatfield had not spoken a word for hours as they reached the outskirts of Shreveport. Watson sat silently and with perfect posture, his face turned slightly away from Kristian as if watching the shadowed landscape scroll by, his eyes closed to the still warm wind. Rosti was upright now, his leg in a cast but his trousers – loose to begin with – had been pushed up then pulled over (as best as could be done) the plaster. He sat awkwardly but in enough comfort for his liking, though liking is a strong word at times. Kristian wore his goggles but not his helmet, it sat still on the bench seat between Rosti and Mrs Hatfield. He had not asked for it back and she had not proffered it.

  As they rattled past WELCOME TO SHREVEPORT she spoke, her voice dry and almost failing after the prolonged silence.

  “You had best clean the bonnet, Mr Kristian,” she said.

  “Kristian’s my first name.” He muttered this quietly, thinking the lost familiarity deliberate. “I don’t have any water to waste, ma’am. But I’m sure we’ll find something to use before we get closer to what some might call civilisation.”

  Mail boxes and barns caught in the headlights were punctuating the view with increasing frequency and Kristian hauled his vehicle to the left hard, without warning, crossing the fortuitously empty other lane and bringing them to a dusty halt besides a water tank. Rosti had groaned during the swerve and Kristian shot a guilty look over his shoulder. “Sorry about that,” he offered.

  Kristian pulled a cloth from his glove compartment, got out, filled his flask and started to wash the bonnet. The dust he ignored, concentrating only on the already dried blood. ‘So what’, he told himself. ‘I did all I could under the circumstances.’

  ‘They were lucky I didn’t have more time’.

  He knew it was stupid talk and the truth was he hoped no one was killed, though he wouldn’t lose sleep over the prospect of being held to account.

  He got back in and turned to Mrs Hatfield, looking at her before pulling on his goggles.

  “Well, now all that’s left apart from the mess back there is our collective memory. I think you all know what you would have
done in my position.”

  “I don’t.” Rosti answered in all honestly. Mrs Hatfield glared at Kristian.

  “Well, maybe you don’t know, but you do know I didn’t have long to think about it, and you do know I didn’t have much of a choice. And you know those people don’t deserve your pity. They’re not even people.”

  This final comment surprised even Kristian. ‘I’ve gone too far… but I don’t care. What do I owe these fucking strangers with their accusing faces?’ He turned back to face the road, pulled his goggles down and started driving again.

  Mrs Hatfield reached forward and put her hand on his shoulder. She felt his enormous tension and saw him bow his head as if about to sob.

  “Are you alright Kristian?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m sorry – hey, let’s just forgot it. Try to forget it. Ma’am, I can’t talk about this, I can’t do it in a moving vehicle with my back turned to you. I feel sick, ma’am, sick to my stomach. I can’t talk about this. Mr Watson, I’m terribly sorry – I should have just turned around. And Mr Rosti – I’m sorry about your leg, my driving… my driving is terrible today. Terrible.”

  Mrs Hatfield saw his bravado was cracking under the weight of guilt and horror and there was no good in pushing it.

  “Do you know anything about Shreveport, Kristian?”

  “Nothing worth knowing,” he said, grateful for the diversion. “We’re good for gas so let’s just go straight through… unless you’re hungry.”

  “Well, it is getting late. We need to stop, I think – Mr Watson are you tired?”

  “More than at any time in my entire life,” he said with surprisingly good humour.

  “Mr Rosti?”

  “I broke my leg early yesterday morning and have been turning circles between a stupor and agony ever since.”

  “Well that’s unequivocal”.

  Kristian allowed himself a nervous, tired smile. It helped him, after a strange fashion, that they could only stay in a “negro” motel. On the brink of weeping, he would allow himself to cry only when he collapsed, exhausted, on his starched narrow bed.

  *

  Kristian awoke, his eyes sore and swollen and his head aching. His mouth was dry and tasted of the ghastly rusted sheets under him. He looked to his left and saw Watson fast asleep on his back, facing the ceiling as though set in place with a spirit level, his hands set in prayer on his chest. Mrs Hatfield and Rosti would be in a room together; he remembered with a pang of irrational feeling that subsided with the return of sense. He propped himself up on the creaking single bed and felt that queasy uncomfortableness that comes with sleeping fully dressed. Through the single small window he saw the light was still blue grey and took off his boots carefully before easing out of the room and down the hall, barely making a sound as he found the communal bathroom. He wondered if there was a ladies and a gents and, upon realising they were one in the same, hovered hesitant at the closed door. It creaked open and a small girl emerged – staring up at him with unfeasibly large black eyes.

  “Good morning,” he said quietly.

  “Hello,” she squeaked.

  “Is there anyone else in there?”

  “My mama.”

  “You go in there and wait with your mama, I’ll just wait down there until she’s done. Alright little lady?” He pointed to the end of the hall.

  The girl nodded and vanished back inside. Kristian made his way down to the window and eased it open, sitting on the window sill and looking out over Shreveport. He’d never heard of the place before seeing the sign on the road but was certain they were heading in the right direction. He wondered if the papers would include anything about the lynching… And decided it was unlikely. Something for the local press only; Man Injured By Hit and Run Driver… something like that. Maybe with a tail about a suspected criminal dying in unclear circumstances. Maybe they’ll even say the lynched man was hit by the car. Perfect. Rapist under citizen’s arrest killed by mad driver before facing trial. He felt sick again and looked more closely at the street below to distract himself.

  Behind him the bathroom door creaked open and the little girl emerged leading her mother by the hand. The woman looked at him surprised and Kristian noticed the black eye at once, she looked away and walked quickly as the little girl waved at him before being tugged off balance, spinning and following her mother. ‘Locals,’ he thought, ‘here to escape whomever gave her that shiner.’ He took the bathroom and washed fast before heading back to the room. Watson was up and sitting on the bed, the small window was open now and Kristian saw in the moment before the man reacted to the opening door he had been listening intently to the sounds of the street below.

  “You up for some breakfast?” Kristian asked.

  “I don’t trust other people’s kitchens, but we don’t have much say in the matter do we?”

  “Ever been to Shreveport before?”

  “I do believe this is the first time.”

  “The ablutions are down the hall, about fifty paces on the right. There’s just a W and a C on the door. And it’s mixed.”

  “Mixed?”

  “Men and women, though not at the same time, I think.”

  Watson burst out laughing.

  “I thought you meant mixed race. Whites and Coloureds.”

  “Well it’s that too now. You want to know something funny, Mr Watson? That room was just fine for my European ass – I found it perfectly compatible to me. It’s almost as though coloured people and white people do the same thing in the washroom.”

  They both laughed now and Watson stretched his arms up then behind his back. He reached out and Kristian offered his arm and led him into the hall, his cane did the rest.

  In her room, Mrs Hatfield (Mrs Rosti for the purposes of the hotel records) had been awake for more than one hour – staring at the ceiling and listening to Rosti talk in his sleep. He spoke in English but fast, broken and murmured – only certain words stood out here and there, with no coherent narrative emerging – though perhaps only because she was not trying to follow it. She left the room to find Kristian and Watson, but found only the young driver, standing in the doorway.

  “Mr Watson’s conducting his ablutions,” he told her, somewhat unnecessarily.

  “I was hoping you would assist Mr Rosti in doing the same.”

  He walked past her without another word, leaving Mrs Hatfield surprised though she showed it only fleetingly. In the cramped hotel lobby the three able bodied members of the party converged around Rosti who sat, smiling, in an armchair. Kristian asked the caretaker about breakfast.

  “There’s a whole bunch of places ‘round here. Most of them good and all of them cheap. You’ll have no trouble in any place ‘round here.”

  “Do you know where I can procure a walking cane?”

  The caretaker raised one eyebrow at him. “A walking cane? Well, we have two right here in lost and found. One’s been here for more than a year, the other one much longer.” He peered at Rosti. “You should have asked me last evenin’. Here.”

  He reached down and passed both to Kristian who weighed them in his hands, then tapped both. “This one’s a beauty,” he said, holding up the darker of the two. He passed it to Mrs Hatfield who handed it to Rosti.

  “This is temporary,” he insisted. “I’m too young for a walking stick.” With Watson’s help he hauled himself up and tested his plastered leg with the cane’s support, flinching. “Not ideal, but will do if you keep by my side Mr Watson.”

  Watson carried his bag with one hand and assisted Rosti with the other. Kristian had Rosti’s bag and Mrs Hatfield’s, finding it intolerable for a lady to carry luggage while he had a free hand. Mrs Hatfield, accustomed to a lifetime of labour of one kind or another, held Watson’s own, much lighter cane, quite awkwardly – not entirely sure what to do with it. The quartet slowly made their way on to the sidewalk and hoped they’d not need to go far for a meal, as Kristian’s motorcar was
parked nearby and they did not plan a long stay in the town.

  The caretaker called out.

  “You forgot this,” and threw him his helmet, which he caught somehow between his forearm and chest.

  Kristian laughed. “Wouldn’t want to take breakfast in Shreveport without it.”

  Within minutes they were in a diner, drawing, at first, some stares from the all-black staff and clientele, unused to whites out of uniform visiting the establishment. Soon enough, though, they were treated the same as any other customers; very well.

  “The coffee is terrible,” Watson whispered.

  “Certainly not what I am used to,” Rosti grinned. “The food is adequate though.”

  “Approaching adequate, Mr Rosti.”

  “Certainly nothing like the food in Paradise.”

  Rosti expounded upon the variety of dishes Watson prepared, then they both discussed the difficulties of getting fresh perishable goods, which had seen Rosti hunt rabbits in the abandoned streets of Paradise, sometimes leaving shot gun wounds in the remaining buildings. Mrs Hatfield imagined Rosti stalking around the empty, dusty remains of streets – with only his footsteps and the scurry of his prey breaking the silence, and Watson, perhaps on the rear porch of the rail depot café, listening to the hunt, then Rosti returning triumphant with a bloodied hare in each hand and his gun over his shoulder, the provider to his homemaker. She decided they made a sweet couple, set against their strange world which was at the same time pre and post-historic; before and beyond civilisation.

  Kristian, distracted, looked out the windows of the diner and at the street, counting motorcars, buses, bicycles and pedestrians, then comparing numbers. It was just before eight and the flow of traffic on foot was healthy, punctuated by bicycles and buses, then the occasional motorcar. He prodded at the grits on his plate, having already eaten his sausages without really noticing. He finished his second coffee in two huge gulps, turning his gaze to Mrs Hatfield. She ate carefully, holding her cutlery in a precise, refined way. It seemed natural on her now, but Kristian noticed the grip, that she only poured with the left and set down both knife and fork to take a drink. He pushed the grits around and listened to Watson and Rosti now relishing their usual breakfast banter, and saw that Rosti spoke with his mouth full – as no one had been around the complain about it for years. As he drank his third coffee, Kristian sat silently; which had both advantages and disadvantages. People conscious of an observer will be conscious of their silence. If one can be seen, it is often better to interact rather than draw attention through inaction. A participant can observe just as keenly, though is by his or her very being an interference in the usual behaviour of the observed. When out of sight, for such purposes at least, it is better to stay that way.