Lucius said, “I aim to do right by her from now on, sir, if she’ll have me . . .”
“Ever try askin her?” With a sour look, Fred O. Dyer moved away under the streetlights.
ATTORNEY WATSON WATSON
Outside, Crockett Junior loomed at his elbow. “Where’s my brother?” Lucius demanded. The big man seized his arm and yanked him toward the street where a black car waited with its motor running. The front passenger door swung open. Crockett pushed him in and, careless of his ankles, slammed the door behind him.
“Your crazy brother tried to kill me,” Watson Dyer said, easing his car forward.
“That’s nonsense. All he did was shoot out your rear tires.”
“We’ll see,” Dyer said. He drove his black car to the oceanfront, stopping just short of the beach edge and leaving the motor running. Beyond the sparkle of small breakers, a moon-spun silver swath of sea extended westward to the lowest stars above the Gulf horizon. Gazing straight into the earth galaxy for minute after minute, Watt Dyer saw nothing but his windshield, Lucius guessed: he looked sealed off, impervious to wonder, his window rolled tight against the fresh sea air. “Brother Lucius knows all about my shot-out tires. Brother Lucius was a witness.” Dyer turned to look at him. In the bad light of an old-fashioned street lamp, his moon face was moon-colored. “Brother Lucius could go to federal prison as an aider and abettor because he knew Robert B. Watson was armed and dangerous and he did not stop him.”
“I hadn’t realized he was armed and I don’t believe he’s dangerous. Reckless, maybe. Otherwise quite harmless.”
“Escaped convict? Attemped murder? No court will ever call that ‘harmless.’ ” Dyer’s bloodless hands clenched the wheel tighter and his eyes closed in that slow tortoise blink. He said, “We have him. If he is delivered to the authorities, he’ll be returned to prison and resentenced with due consideration of his prior conviction and escape. He will die in federal custody. Whereas if his brother cooperates, the law might settle for that black lunatic with the carving knife. Teach that kind of smart-mouth nigger a good lesson. Nice tight case. Plenty of witnesses saw him storming out and can testify to his aggressive state of mind.” He watched Lucius’s face.
Lucius said, “But another eyewitness in the parking lot spotted a white man shooting at the victim’s car from a hotel window; saw him plenty well enough to testify that it wasn’t some big black man in a white cook’s outfit who got loose some way on the sixth floor.” He turned to meet Dyer’s eye. “Anyway, you don’t know Rob. He’ll never let that black man go to jail for him. He feels bad enough that we got him fired.”
“That your testimony?” Dyer glared in disbelief. “You’d let your long-lost brother get locked up for the rest of his life just to save some black maniac who assaulted a white man with a carving knife? Slit his stomach?” He drew his power-of-attorney form out of his briefcase. “We both know you’re not going to sacrifice Robert so why don’t you just sign this and shut up.”
“What’s missing here? Why is it suddenly so important to you to be E. J. Watson’s bastard? I’m talking about that affidavit you extracted from your former father.”
The attorney was disagreeably surprised and could not hide it. Lucius recalled Speck Daniels’s warning but he was on the scent now and it was too late to stop. “Do I smell big money, Wattie? Big land development? Maybe Papa’s old scheme to control all the high ground on the southwest coast? West coast Miami?”
Dyer rapped his document. “Sign it,” he said.
“You’re a real Watson now? Attorney Watson Watson?” But having no choice, he scribbled his signature. “Where’s Rob?” he said.
Watson Dyer did not bother to answer. Tucking away his paper, he yanked his car around and headed back toward the church hall. He said slyly as Lucius got out, “You ever find that nigger you’ve been looking for?”
Christ Almighty. Of course. “You’re the sonofabitch with the sniper rifle.”
Dyer actually laughed. “Why, Brother Lucius! I always thought that was you!” Abruptly he stopped laughing. He regarded Lucius for the length of a held breath. “ ‘Watson honor’?” he jeered softly as they neared the church hall. “Somebody had to take care of it, right? When none of you ‘real Watsons’ had the guts?” He drove away before Lucius remembered.
“How about Rob?” he yelled. “Where’s Rob?”
BELT BUCKLES AND BUTTONS
The hall was locked and the street was empty. Caves of gloom isolated the few streetlights which waned strangely in the rush and clacketing of the Gulf wind.
Across the street, headlights flicked on. Owen Harden rolled down the car window. Owen had joked a little with Speck’s crew on the way into the hall, he said, and loose-mouthed Mud Braman had let slip that they were on the lookout for a man they knew as Chicken Collins.
At their insistence, Lucius locked his car and went home with the Hardens, confiding Rob’s situation on the way. “I’m scared,” he said. Owen nodded. “Who knows where they took him?” he said. “Big swamp out there.” Squashed between them in the truck’s front seat, Sarah hushed her husband. “He’s probably fine,” she said, hugging Lucius’s arm. Even in Rob’s emergency, her scent and warmth stirred a twinge of his old longing: “Probably they just took him back to Gator Hook,” she said, to comfort him. However, she removed her arm when he mentioned having gone to visit Henry in the hospital with Bill House.
At their new cottage in north Naples, she sat him at the kitchen table and asked if he’d like coffee. “I bet he’d like whiskey a lot better,” her husband said, and Sarah said, “You gave that up along with Speck, remember? We don’t keep liquor in this house,” she notified their guest. She rose with a bored cold exhausted look. “I bet you two have lots to talk about,” she said, and left the room.
Owen Harden’s wheaten hair had iron wisps in it and the sun-squinted green eyes had crow’s-feet in the corners. He drummed his fingers, glanced at Lucius, looked away again. “Darn it now if my own wife ain’t put me in mind of some bush lightnin. Care to join me if I stumbled over some?”
“You know something? I bet I would.”
His host came back with blue tin cups and a brown jug. “I reckon Bill House would remember stuff about your daddy, cause he’s still goin on about Ed Watson. Never got over it, y’know.”
“Know why? Cause he feels guilty.” From the doorway, Sarah glared at their tin cups. “How come you would listen to a House about Henry Short? Owen’s family knew Henry a whole lot better than those flea-bitten Bay people who still sling it around about Bloody Watson. Always bragging on how they told Watson this and he said that. The little they know that’s not hand-me-down from their daddies comes straight out of the magazines and books, mostly made up.”
She accosted her husband, “Didn’t your daddy call Old Man House ‘the leader of the outlaws’?”
Owen said quietly, “The House boys thought what they done that day was right. They did not back away from it or talk around it, not like some.”
Disgusted, his wife went to bed. The two men drank awhile. Owen contemplated his guest with affection. “Ever think back on them good old times we had down Lost Man’s Beach?” Owen smiled.
Lucius nodded, half distracted by fear and worry. Too much was happening too fast. In his exhaustion, all his defenses had unraveled. On impulse, before going to bed, he asked Owen what the Hardens might have heard about “Watson Payday.”
Owen gazed straight ahead. When Lucius cleared his throat, to prod him, he gave a start, as if just awakened. “For a long time, we never paid no attention to them Payday stories.”
“But?”
Owen was silent, selecting the right words. “Maybe a year ago,” he resumed slowly, “the warden there at Duck Rock rookery had a young helper who treasure-hunted up and down the coast in his spare time. He was tryin out a early-type metal detector not on the market yet, might been the very first model. I seen it once. Hell of a lookin thing—heavy ol’ black box with t
in earphones, wouldn’t hunt down but about two feet.”
“Owen—”
“So Henry Short got the loan of that black box to try her out on the Watson place where he reckoned the old-time Calusa or maybe the Frenchman or your daddy might have buried gold. Next day he shows up at Daddy Richard’s cabin on Wood Key—first visit in some years so Daddy knew it had to be something important. Henry was all fevered up and agitated, walking all around. Then suddenly he set down and shoved a big ol’ wide-top jar acrost the table. That jar was full of rusty belt buckles and metal buttons, a few spent bullets. Near the house and along the river, he said, all that black box could pick up was metal scrap and a few busted tools: this stuff in the jar come from shaller pits in that unfarmed northwest corner off the cane field.
“So Daddy Richard said, ‘Find anythin else?’ ‘Bones,’ Henry said. ‘Well hell,’ said Daddy. ‘Ed had cows on there and pigs, even a big old horse, so bones ain’t nothin.’ ‘Skulls,’ whispers Henry. ‘And three of them four skulls had holes in back that looked like they was made by bullets and all had a lead slug layin in amongst the bones and one had three.’
“Course my folks was still resistin Henry’s story. Daddy got stubborn, argued back and forth, kept mentioning them livestock and them old-time Indins until Henry couldn’t handle it no more, he was just too fevered. Finally he said, ‘Mr. Richard, there ain’t no mistakin a human skull for horse or hog. Anyways, your domestic animals don’t generally wear belt buckles and buttons and only very few will tote a pocket knife.’
“Richard Harden lit his pipe, took a few puffs to settle down. That was the first time and the only time that Henry Short ever talked back smart to him that way. Henry looked kind of startled, too, but did not back down. One by one, he was droppin them pathetical ol’ scraps back in that jar. Then he said, ‘Excuse me, Mr. Richard, I spoke out of my turn, but you know where these four fellers come from as good as I do.’
“So Daddy Richard went upriver with him, seen for himself them molderin green bones in the dirt and leaves. Daddy Richard warned Henry that Lucius Watson might not know about them bones and even if he did, he would not want ’em dug up. Said, ‘Henry, let’s just you’n me fill in these holes, scatter some brush, never speak no more about it.’ ”
Owen looked up. “Henry went along with that, stuck by it, too. I believe I am the only one my daddy ever told and I never spoke of it except right now and never will.” He watched Lucius, concerned. “I sure hope that’s the kind of truth you wanted. I’m sure sorry.”
“You never saw those graves yourself.”
“Hunt through all that thorn that’s growed up now? With all them bad snakes that’s back in there?”
Lucius emptied his glass. “It’s quite a story,” he decided, “but without evidence, it’s just another story like the rest.”
Owen bridled. “Who you lookin to call a liar, Colonel? Me or Henry?” He jumped up and headed toward the back.
“Oh no, sorry, I don’t mean that, Owen!” Lucius called after him. “Somebody killed somebody, all right,” he concluded stupidly, as despair choked off his voice. Then Owen was back. On the table he placed a shoe box bound in tarred hemp line. He said, “We been keepin this for Henry.” Slowly Lucius opened it and removed the jar and forced himself to look at its rusted contents: four tin belt buckles, old buttons, three small one-blader pocket knives rusted solid, a few spent bullets, and three copper pennies.
“See them pennies?” Owen said quietly. “Abe Lincoln pennies, minted in 1909. Kept a new Lincoln penny in their pockets for good luck.”
Lucius closed the box and clumsily retied it. Who knows about this? Hardens. Nobody else? Owen looked impatient: Lucius could take his word or not, it was up to him. Either way, Owen wanted him to take the box away.
“Think it might of been Cox?” Owen said finally when his friend was silent.
“I’d sure like to believe that. Thank you.”
They went to bed without finding a way to ease things.
Lucius awoke at the sound of Owen’s truck. Through the thin wall, he could hear his friend’s wife in her bath. Unrested, restless, he was bedeviled by the rub of her firm buttock on the tub. He got up and dragged his clothes on. In his dark mood, weighed down by dread, he felt disgraced by lust for Sarah and growing exasperation with his brother: what could be done for a fugitive so self-destructive? Lone pursuit of the Daniels gang would be insane as well as useless and he could not notify the law. Even if Rob escaped them, where could he go? What was to become of him? How long would it be before he was in trouble again?
Steamy and fresh as a big pink shrimp in her white towel bathrobe, barefoot Sarah fixed his breakfast. Watching her hips shift at the stove, he cursed himself—here he was with his brother in mortal danger, still a damned hound dog.
Sarah could feel him. Over her shoulder, she murmured, “Please don’t look at me that way.” She said her life with Owen was going better: she was mainly cross because her husband had come to bed so drunk and was cranky with Lucius all the way to Naples. Still nagging him for seeking out Bill House instead of Hardens, she dropped him at his car, in no mood to understand his reasons. “You’re listening to people who raised Henry up to be their slave!” She was very upset. Later it occurred to him that Owen must have told her Henry was dying.
GATOR HOOK
In his wild restlessness and worry, the need to act overcame the last of his good sense. From Naples, he followed the new highway east to Monroe Station and turned off on the spur track south to the Chevelier Road.
At Gator Hook, on the stair landing, warm sun had gathered in the coils of a big yellow rat snake; it whispered away down a rain-rotted split in the old greening boards. He pounded and called. Descending the stairs, he made his way around behind the building, where in mid-piss he sensed movement too late and was punched hard between the shoulder blades by what turned out to be the steel snout of an automatic. “Let’s see them hands,” said Crockett Senior Daniels.
“Wait, goddammit—” Startled, hurting, he had wet himself a little. He got things straightened out and finished buttoning, goaded by the weapon prodding his bruised back and also by a careless hacking cough that sprayed his neck. “Feeling jumpy, Speck?” He spoke with all the contempt he was able to muster with a hitch in his voice that betrayed his fear.
“Jumpy, yessir, which is why I am still goin pretty good after sixteen years in my same line of business.” For the second time in a fortnight, Daniels frisked him. “I have growed a nose for a certain breed of cockeyed sonofabitch that you give ’em any room at all it’s goin to cost you.”
Grasping Lucius’s shoulder, Daniels spun him roughly and slapped his front pockets with the back of his free hand.
“You fuckin Watsons just won’t quit! Dyer sent word yesti’day to grab this Robert Watson, said he might be hanging around the church hall. Warned ’em he was crazier ’n hell and dangerous. Turned out this Robert was ol’ Chicken so Junior and his morons never searched him. ‘Nosir, Speck’, they holler when they show up, ‘This fuckin Robert ain’t nobody in the world but your ol’ drinkin buddy!’
“Had a loaded weapon in his satchel, for Christ’s sake! You know about that? Had your damn list with my name on it—you know that, too? You put him up to this? And then you got the guts to tell me I am jumpy! Jesus! I mean, who you Watsons gunnin for if it ain’t Speck Daniels? All the way east, them fools of mine had that spoilbank canal, deep black canal a-crawlin with big gators—my ‘ol’ drinkin buddy’ never should of got as far as Gator Hook.”
Daniels led him up the stairs and on inside. “Told me Chicken give ’em one hell of a scrap when them big boys grabbed him.” Snickering, he leaned back against the bar. “Know somethin? I always liked that feller. After he got done cussin us out, me’n him got along real good, considerin he had your fuckin list and a loaded gun, aimin to shoot me.
“This mornin I went up to town, got your attorney on the telephone. Said, ‘My boys picked up R
obert Watson: what you want with him?’ And he says, ‘Mr. Daniels, that man tried to shoot me.’ Told me he’s a law-and-order man, respects the hell out of the law and don’t believe in coddlin no criminals; he’s out for justice without fear nor favor. Said this Robert has to be removed from our law-abidin society, so what do I think would be best for all concerned? And me, I’m thinkin, This man wants him dead.
Lucius nodded. “Lord. And you’re still working for him?”
“Not for long. The man won’t want no more to do with us once his park business is settled. If he’s goin into politics the way it looks, his dealins with the Daniels Gang might cost him. Very practical feller. Don’t go off halfcocked like some damn Watson.”
“And all his talk of preserving the Watson house as a pioneer monument—”
“Oh hell, Colonel, he never cared about that house. He ain’t set foot on Chatham Bend since he left there thirty years ago. Man like that, his old home don’t mean no more to him than the damn crap he took yesterday, it’s that forty acres of high ground that he is after. But while he’s dealin with the gov’ment, he don’t want to throw away no high card. Parks will be hot to burn that house cause it don’t fit in with their idea of wilderness. Dyer knows he could hold ’em up for years with legal diddlin and they know that, too. But it looks like he will step out of their way in some kind of a trade-off for prime real estate in Miami, leave you Watsons high and dry.” Speck emitted a low hard sound of derisive mirth. “Anyways, Junior and them bein on their way to Chatham, I told ’em to take Chicken along, let him lay low enjoyin his old home while I figure how to smuggle him out of south Florida.”
“And what’s in that for you?”
“Well, me’n Chicken, we go back a ways.” He spat. “Course my boys was grumbling. Said they’re real busy movin cargos out before park rangers come snoopin around so if Chicken give ’em any trouble, they aimed to take care of him in a big hurry.”