Lost Man's River: Shadow Country Trilogy

  “Oh my goodness!” The old fart behind the Major dropped a radish as her elderly husband harrumphed in scared protest. The line, milling and wheeling, clutched its plates. “For Christ’s sake, Dyer!” Lucius said, feeling old-fartish. The whole room hated them for spoiling their heartwarming fellowship with this delightful Negro personality, and their good supper, too. “Just carve, boy,” Dyer repeated softly. His smile was exhilarated and his tone pitying in the purity of his cruel and righteous anger.

  The carver nodded. “Playin de fool, dass it.” The carver’s voice was intent now, in Dyer’s key. “Dass what you doin, Black Boy. Playin de fool, oh yes!” Motioning to the Major to come closer, he leaned forward with a great big grin to whisper his stentorian secret into Dyer’s ear. These two had a secret, from long, hard seasons of war. “Hard to put yo’ finger on de fool, now ain’t dat right?” But the real secret was the carving knife, which he slid across the board on the flat of its handle. His pebbly voice grated, “Back off, mothafuck. Get outta my face.” And his grin twitched as the bright tip pinked the Major’s belly through his shirt.

  The astounded white man sprang back, jarring a table.

  The meat carver stood straight again, sharpening his knife, snick-snick, snick-snick. He appeared to be quaking with mirth, as if this nice customer had just told him a great story. “Yassuh, tha’s right!” he cried, flashing his blade, dumping too much bloody meat on Dyer’s plate, then more, then more. “You had enough, my friend? Don’t go spillin dat blood gravy, now!” He laughed oddly in warning. “See what I’m tellin you? Lookit what you done to dat nice shirt!”

  Still poised on the knife were three or four more hacked and heavy slices, which the man still threatened to heap upon the plate. The room was still but for the timid scrape of a shifted chair. But now the carver seemed transfixed by what he saw in the face of Watson Dyer, who had lifted the plate high like a pagan offering. The Major considered the red knife and its heaped meat, then raised his pale gaze to the bloodshot eyes in the carver’s shining face. Patient, he watched as the black man licked his lower lip. His fury weakened and the reality of his doomed rebellion overtook him and his gaze slid sideways. In that instant the meat heaped on the knife was transmuted from bloody threat into damning evidence. The carver waited passively for what was coming.

  When the Major saw that the man was defeated, he took the knife out of his hand and dumped its load and scraped most of the slices off his plate onto the cutting board.

  The black veteran of Asian combat found his voice and whispered at the white one. “Just doin my job, is all it is. Jus’ makin my feller Americans feel good, you know? The way they want it.”

  Dyer handed back the knife and moved on past. Giving his plate to a waitress, he went to the hostess near the door. Soon a manager was summoned, and he hiked his bloodstained shirt to display his stomach. All looked at the carver as they spoke.

  Observing this, the black man turned a furious gaze upon Rob Watson. He slapped some meat onto Rob’s plate—“Had enough now? You sure bout dat?”—then pointed the dripping knife straight at his eyes.

  Then he waved Rob past, confronting Lucius. “Yes, sir! Them gentlemens with you?”

  Lucius nodded. “They are my brothers. My half brothers.”

  He detained Lucius for a moment, pressing the knife blade down hard on his plate, pinning the heavy china to the butcher board. “The three brothers!” He shook his head. “Your turn now. Got anything smart you want to say to a man of color?”

  Lucius flushed. “I want to say I’m extremely sorry.”

  “Sorry!” Wildly the carver slashed at the roast on the bloody board. “You sonsabitches has lost me my damn job!”

  The Major brought his mood back to the table. Lucius was too roiled to speak, and only Dyer ate with any appetite. He stabbed at his roast beef, forked it away, as if oblivious of the small knife slit in his epidermis.

  Their waitress wore a gold link chain on rhinestone glasses, but her ears stuck out through long and lank dark hair like a wild horse mane. With alarm she watched the Major slashing at his meat, the knife blade and fork tines grating angrily on the porcelain. “How you folks doin?” she ventured finally. “Everythin all right?”

  “What does it look like?” Dyer snapped, not looking up. The woman fled. Rob was intent on the carver. Beckoned from his post by emissaries from Management, the big man howled in the agony of his plight and stabbed his knife into the carving board, upright and shivering, as the food line yawed and fell away from him in fright. He stripped off his bloody apron, balled it up, and hurled it across the steam tables of vegetables onto the soups and dressings on the salad bar, then banged out of the room through the pantry doors.

  Rob muttered, “I’m going to tell ’em it was all my fault.”

  “Save your breath,” Dyer advised him. As a decorated veteran, the man had received preferential hiring, the Major had learned from Management, which soon became aware, however, that this war hero was very angry and unstable. In fact, they had expressed gratitude to Major Dyer for reporting the “assault” and providing cause for getting rid of him which could not be challenged by the veterans’ organizations or the unions. Dyer had been offered free restaurant privileges for a five-year period, which would not, however, guarantee this place protection from a hefty lawsuit.

  The Major forked another mouthful, chewed it up, processing his food while glancing through his papers. Officious, in a hurry now, he briefed them in a military manner. He had filed for an injunction against the burning of the house, pending a court decision on the validity of the Watson Claim. Two days hence, the judge would hold a public hearing on that claim in Homestead, without which no injunction could be granted. Once the injunction was in place, he was confident that it could be extended, several times if necessary, permitting them time to apply for permanent historical status for the house.

  After attending the Professor’s talk at Naples tomorrow evening, Dyer would go to Homestead for the hearing. If all went well, he would return to Everglade for a meeting with “the Watson family” and the Park attorneys. Time was short. The Park might attempt to burn the house before that injunction could be granted, which was why he had stationed a caretaker on the place, to make sure that no such “errors” would occur. What he needed at once was full power of attorney, in case his authority should be challenged and he could not reach them.

  The form Dyer pushed at him to sign made Lucius feel rushed and uneasy. “This gives you authority to make all legal decisions—take any of these steps—without consulting the family?”

  “Well, that’s customary in these matters. You trust your attorney or you don’t. And things are moving fast,” he added, “so authority to act swiftly might be critical.” Moving smoothly past Lucius’s query, Dyer complained that he had received no response from Addison Burdett or from the sisters. Over the telephone, Mrs. Parker had told him that Addison was away, and that their sister would never cooperate. He frowned at Lucius, whom he seemed to hold responsible for this truancy, then rapped the power-of-attorney form and proffered his pen.

  “My signature has to be notarized, isn’t that true?”

  Dyer waved him on, impatient. “I’m a notary,” he said.

  Something was wrong or missing here, but Lucius, rather tired and drunk, was still too unraveled by the cruel and senseless episode with the carver to think it through. To hell with it. Abruptly, he scrawled his signature.

  “Oh boy,” Rob said.

  “I’d like this power of attorney endorsed. And the petition documents on the claim should be signed by all the Watson heirs. No exceptions,” Dyer added, and he turned to Rob. “Not even you.” Extending his pen, he contemplated Rob’s shocked expression with real pleasure. “Well, Robert?” he said. “How about it?”

  Rob was sure that Lucius had betrayed him. “I’m not signing a fucking thing,” he told Dyer hoarsely. He rose in a lurch of plates, overturning his water glass, but before he escaped, the Ma
jor grasped him by the shirt and yanked him forward over the table, his fork points inches from Rob’s face. “Sit down,” he ordered. And he took out yet another document and laid it beside Rob’s plate and rapped it, sharply, with his middle knuckle.

  Rob glanced at the new document, dropped it back on the table. He gazed at Lucius, a heavy shadow on his face. Then he got up and headed for the door, where he paused briefly to remonstrate about the carver—in vain, it seemed, for after a noisy arm-waving dispute Rob left the room.

  Dyer turned to his sour cream and baked potato, which he ate in silence. “How much do you know about him?” he asked finally. “Or should I say, How much do you want to know?”

  Lucius struggled to compose himself. “I guess if I’d wanted to know more, I would have asked him.”

  “But you suspected something, right?” Dyer ate again, then put his fork down to make a note while he finished his slow mouthful. “Why did you never tell me he was Robert Watson?”

  “I didn’t know that when we spoke last—not that I would have told you anyway without his permission.”

  “And you don’t know why he changed his name?”

  “Hated his father. Ran away. Took his mother’s name.”

  “He’s still running away.” Dyer handed him the prison record, which Lucius glanced at and tossed back at him. “Not interested in how I found this out?”

  “Now that I know your cop mentality, I can guess. You lifted his fingerprints. Lake City. The Golden Dinner, right? You swiped his spoon.”

  “Cheap Golden Dinner.” Dyer nodded. “Fork.”

  “You check everybody’s prints? On general principle?”

  “When it’s appropriate.” Dyer retrieved the sheet and returned it to his briefcase. “So you are saying you never knew that Robert Watson did a lot of time? Bootlegging during Prohibition? Driver in a warehouse robbery in which a guard was killed? Prison escape? Fugitive from justice almost twenty years?”

  Lucius shook his head, disgusted. “Come on, Dyer! He was only the driver! And he’s an old man! You going to turn him in?”

  Dyer processed another mouthful, talking through it. “As an attorney and friend of the court, and as a reserve officer in the United States Marines, I don’t really have much choice about it.” And he ate some more.

  “You pledged allegiance to your flag and to the republic for which it stands, is that correct?”

  “Don’t get snotty with me just because you’re drunk.” He pointed an accusing finger at Lucius’s whiskey. “It may surprise you that a great many of your fellow citizens are proud to pledge allegiance to our flag. And worship at church and revere our Constitution. And feel no need for intoxicating spirits.” He raised his arm and pointed his finger straight at Lucius’s eyes, and his own eyes sparkled with a cold blue fire. “Anyway, I sure do hate to hear any American talk sarcastically about our flag. I really hate that.”

  Lucius was startled by Dyer’s face, which was actually swollen and clotted with a fervid hatred. He took a deep breath. “What are you saying, Dyer? If Rob signs the land claim petition and endorses your power of attorney, you’ll set aside your bounden duty to report him, that what you’re getting at? Let him go his way?”

  “We’ll see.” The Major nodded as he scraped his plate and masticated his last forkful. “Tell me,” he said casually, “will he be at Naples?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You have no idea.” Dyer leaned back in his chair and suppressed a belch. “If I were you, I would see to it that he accompanies you to Naples.” He nodded, as if falling asleep. “And when you are sure about it, I’ll expect a call.” He wrote a number on his paper napkin. “No need to leave your name, just his location.” The Major squinted at him. “All you have to do is call and then you’re out of it.”

  “All I have to do is call and then I’m out of it.” Lucius stood up. “God, what a prick you are.” And he reached down and seized Dyer’s pen and crisscrossed and blotted out his own signature on the power of attorney.

  Major Dyer blew like a surfacing manatee as he arose. He wiped his mouth, drank down his water. For all his self-control, he was incensed, and his napkin was still clutched in his fist when he left the table. Hearing a frightened “Sir?” behind him, he hurled the balled napkin at the waitress.

  Overtaking Lucius in the lobby, Dyer took hold of the back of his upper arm. “You’re drunk. You better think this over,” he growled, propelling Lucius forward ever so slightly, as if he meant to run him out the door. “For your brother’s sake, I mean.”

  “How about you? Aren’t you a Watson? Shouldn’t you be signing your damned documents, too?”

  Releasing him, Dyer said in a thick voice, “Let me tell you something. You don’t want me for an enemy.” His moon face looked swollen again, and the shivers appeared in the skin around the mouth. “I’ll bring fresh documents to Naples,” Dyer said, and kept on going.

  Rob’s old-style satchel was wide open on the bed, and a revolver cartridge glinted on the floor. Before Lucius could react, an explosion shook the bathroom door. “Oh Christ, Rob!” he yelled, socked in the heart. But he heard no body slump and fall, only a curse, then a second shot, a third, then a wild yell. Scared voices and the screech of tires rose from outside and below as Lucius forced the door. At the window, Rob blew smoke from the revolver muzzle, gunslinger-style, then gave another rebel yell—ya-hee!—and broke up in hoots of drunken laughter.

  Lucius leaned from the window in time to see a big black car moving out into the street with both rear tires punctured, dully thumpeting. It traveled some distance before coming to a stop at a red light, where silhouetted figures approached cautiously from the street shadows, black as ants in the pool of light. The stick figures bent to look in at the windows. Nobody got out. The green light came and then the red and then the green again.

  In the parking lot, people had gathered. One man was shouting, pointing up at Lucius, who kept his head and leaned farther out the window. “What’s going on down there?” he yelled, before retreating.

  Rob was drunkenly crowing in the bedroom, waving the gun around. “Ran that sonofabitch clean off the property! Had him skedaddling like a damn duck!” Lucius grabbed the gun and collared the old man and rushed him across the corridor to the fire stairs. He gave him the name of a local bar where he should wait until Lucius came to get him.

  “How about my stuff?” Rob yelled, back up the stairwell.

  Rob’s stuff consisted of a spare pair of cheap under shorts, spare socks, spare shirt, a few loose cartridges, a rusty razor, worn toothbrush but no paste, and an old sweater. Beneath these was an empty cartridge box, a large envelope of manuscript, and a folded yellowed packet, sadly stained—the list. Lucius glanced at it, took a deep breath, refolded it—there were soft torn slits where the dark creases had worn through—and tucked it into his breast pocket.

  The big envelope held a handwritten manuscript with Lucius’s name scrawled on the outside—had Rob written his “story,” as he’d threatened? He hefted it, stood there a moment, put it back, then took the posse list out of his pocket and returned that, too. He had no right to these things, after all. He had no right to read that manuscript until Rob gave it to him of his own accord, wasn’t that true? He closed the satchel and went back to the window.

  A rain which had threatened since late afternoon had begun softly, shining the pavements under the hard lights. The black car had not stirred and the crowd was larger, but whether Dyer was still inside the car—whether he had gotten out or had been removed from it—Lucius could not tell. On the fire stairs, he heard loud clangorous footsteps and the shouts of people bursting into corridors. In the parking lot, as he started his car, he heard the first siren of an ambulance.

  Lucius set his glass on the dark wood of the booth and cupped it between his hands. “I hope you missed him, Rob.”

  “I never shot at him. I shot his tires out, is all. Nailed both rear wheels on a moving vee-hickle with three damn
rounds of a revolver!” He grinned at Lucius with wry pride. “Know who taught me? Seeing his boy shoot that way would have made ol’ Bloody proud!”

  Lucius nodded but did not smile back. “Why should Dyer believe that you weren’t shooting at him?”

  “Who gives a shit what he believes! It’s the damned truth!”

  Lucius nodded. “That car’s still right there at the stoplight. As far as I know, nobody got out. That’s the damned truth, too.” They listened a moment to the sirens. “Let’s go,” he said, rising from the booth.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “You think the law is going to accept that story? Slugs ricocheting all over the damn parking lot? Suppose one hit him?”

  “Lucius?” The old man retreated deeper into the booth, as if to hide himself in the warm whiskey darkness. “It was kind of a joke,” he pleaded.

  “Tell ’em it was a joke. See if they laugh.” Lucius tossed a few bills on the table. “You have a record, dammit! You’re a fugitive! At the very least they will rack your mean old ass for reckless endangerment or whatever they call it—firing a lethal weapon in a public place.”

  He went outside. Rob darted out behind him. “Where we heading for? I’m not going to Chatham Bend with you, I’ll tell you that!”

  Lucius unlocked the car door. “We’re going home.” He spoke without much heart. “They won’t come to Caxambas before morning.”

  In the car, the old man was subdued. “I’m too damn old to be going back to prison, Lucius. And don’t start telling me I should have thought of that!”

  “All right,” Lucius said. “I won’t.”

  It was raining harder. For the next few miles, south on the Trail, they passed in silence through a wiper-washed phantasmagoria of strip development. Half-seen drowned buildings, lights, and signs streamed past in pools and glimmerings of gold-red light—as if they were newcomers to hell, thought Lucius, and were on their way in from the airport. In the tire slick and glare of the night highway, a dull dread had worn away the whiskey. He knew that Rob was doomed, and their flight useless.