A Time of Violence

Six months ago, the owner of Big Willy’s Bar, Big Willy Duplantis, swallowed his tongue after drinking his latest batch of homemade hooch. His friends stood around and watched. I broke a broomstick in half and fished his tongue from his throat.

Since then, he’s been telling me what I need to know. So I sit on a stool in the stifling heat of his bar, drink rot gut whiskey, and wait.

“What doesn’t kill ya . . .,” he says and knocks back a shot glass full of his pigswill. His body shudders and he slams his palm down on the bar three times. My barstool quakes. I hold my breath because Big Willy’s hooch stinks like hot piss. At nearly three hundred pounds, with a strained relationship with soap and water, Big Willy doesn’t smell any better. I lift my glass, check to see if any of his body hairs are floating inside, and drink. The taste is worse than the smell.

“Smooth, right?” he says and shows me the black hole in his smile that teeth used to occupy.

“It’s after noon,” I say. “Where are these friends of yours?”

“Keep yer shirt on. They’ll be here.”

Big Willy presses a grimy finger against his nose and blows a snot ball on the floor behind the counter. Like I said, it’s his bar. The faded sign out front reads Big Willy’s Bar. It’s next to a pole flying the red, white, and blue Confederate Battle Flag high above the rooftop. There’s another one inside the bar over the door. People like Big Willy adore their symbols of lost causes. It reminds them of honor and glory that never existed. They wallow in the perceived injustice of their defeat. Unfinished business. The South will rise again and all that bullshit. I keep my opinion to myself. I’m a guest in Big Willy’s world. He can wax the floor with snot for all I care.

A silvery string, like a mucus spider’s web, hangs from his nose for a second before he slices through it with his index finger. He wipes his hand on his apron and moves on down the bar to take care of two of his Klan friends. I know the men by sight. Jasper and Rufus. I’d seen them at a few of the cross burnings I’d attended over the past eight months. They’re regulars at the burnings. Bring their wives and grandkids. Both men belong to the volunteer fire brigade, attend church on Sunday, read the Bible, put a whole dollar in the collection plate every week. Good people. God fearing. Klan through and through.

Big Willy refills both their glasses. Rufus, dressed in brown overalls, is a farmer and the Mayor of Mossburg. Jasper, dressed in a black suit, is the county’s undertaker. The rickety ceiling fan whirs too loudly for me to hear their conversation. I don’t need to. The discussion rarely deviates from the weather, Woodrow Wilson, the end of the war in Europe, how our doughboys really stuck it to the Hun, uppity nigger soldiers coming back from the war, money grubbing Jews, Suffragette jezebels, Bolsheviks, immigrants, papists, and the coming Prohibition. A long list of grievances. Not always in that order. Those old farts are still fighting the Civil War, with a few added and updated bogeymen to keep the hate red hot. It’s their version of the New South.

Jesus, I miss my old life.

Big Willy’s bar sits along the two-hundred-mile stretch between Memphis, Tennessee, and Jackson, Mississippi. The roadhouse isn’t much more than unvarnished wooden floors, wooden walls, two windows, high ceiling, and front and back doors. The back door leads to a smaller storage room where Big Willy sometimes sleeps. Farther beyond the storage room, another door leads to the outhouse ten yards past the chicken coop. Big Willy and his bar are exactly what Northerners picture when they think of the South. He’d be a cliché if he weren’t flesh and blood.

The front screen door creaks open behind me. The image of three men, all wearing fedoras and dressed in lightweight suits, fills the mirror on the wall behind the bar. Big Willy’s other Confederate battle flag is above their heads. The guys wearing the brown and gray suits are about the same size, a little over six feet and carrying around two hundred pounds. Taller than me by three inches and maybe ten pounds heavier. I’d taken on bigger men. Never at the same time. Never by choice. That would be a problem. The one in the beige suit is about my height and weight. His quick, blue eyes search the room. My first thought is he’s a cop. Which means the other two are also. I know they aren’t Bible salesmen.

They let the door slam shut behind them and take their time to survey the place. They act as though it’s the size of a flicker show auditorium rather than one room that can’t hold more than fifty people at a time during a Klan meeting. Jasper and Rufus turn to see the ruckus. Big Willy makes eye contact with the men and tilts his head in my direction. The three suits walk over and stand behind me. I watch them in the mirror.

“You Mosby,” Beige suit asks.

There’s a calendar attached to the mirror with a red circle around November 11, 1918. Armistice Day. Seven months have gone by and Big Willy hasn’t flipped the page. It’s also my wedding anniversary. It’s a painful memory, but it reminds me why I do what I do. Next to the calendar is the front page of the Calgary Daily Herald. I never got around to asking how Big Willy got a copy. I speak to their reflections in the mirror.

“I better be. I’m wearing his trousers.”

“Cute,” Beige says through lips like thin strips of dried liver.

“You’re late.”

“Had to take care of that thing you wanted,” Brown says. “It took longer than we thought.”

“Mosby?” Gray says. “Like the Confederate Colonel. The one they called the Gray Ghost. Any relation?”

“He took a piss in my granddaddy’s tobacco field after the war. Does that count?”

Which is true. After the war, John Singleton Mosby became a Republican and campaigned for U.S. Grant in Virginia. He and my granddad registered freed slaves for the vote. Not the kind of thing you say aloud in Mississippi. Certainly not in a place like Big Willy’s bar.

“Let’s go,” Beige says. “We got a long drive.”

I leave four bits on the bar for Big Willy and follow. As much as Big Willy’s bar is a shithole and Big Willy is one of the most disgusting humans I know, I hope I live to see his place and him again.

We pile into the biggest Dodge I’ve ever seen. It’s Kelly green with big, white-wall tires and a running board large enough to stretch out and sleep on. If I get killed, at least I’m going in style. Brown sits in the front passenger seat while Gray drives. Beige takes the seat next to me in the back.

“Where’s the job?” I ask.

“Bogalusa. We should get there by sundown,” Beige says. “You comfortable with nitro?”

“I’ve used it before. Must be a big job.”

“Union problem. Laborers want to organize. You’re gonna show them why that’s a mistake.”

“You packin’?” Brown asks.

My 1911 Colt .45 automatic stuck in my waistband is jabbing me in the kidneys. It saved my life more than once during the war. I consider it a lucky charm. If they search me, they’ll find it easy enough. No use lying.

“In my line of work, I better.”

“Good,” Beige says. “I don’t wanna be lookin’ out for you if things get hinky.”

“Hinky. You ain’t from around here are you?”

“Chicago.”

“You’re a long way from home. You fellas got names? Or should I call you Beige, Gray, and Brown?”

“What’s that mean?”

“The color of your suits.”

Brown chuckles and says, “Yeah, I like that. You call us that, and we’ll call you Mosby. Got it?”

I take the hint to mind my own business and stare at the passing scenery, which is boring as hell because the only thing to see along the dirt road is pine trees. I do the next best thing and rest my head back on the leather seat, lower my soft cap over my eyes, and sleep.

Except I don’t. Beige jabs me in the ribs with his elbow after a few hours.

“We’re here.”

Brown chimes in. “Where’d you learn to use nitro?”

“In France during the war.”

Golden sun rays break through the pine trees and cast yellow streaks of light along the roadside by the time we arrive. I’m faring better than my companions are even with my nervous gut. If anything happens, I have the advantage.

Gray pulls up to a tool shed located in the JenCo Lumberyard. I had heard of it before. JenCo is the largest lumberyard in Louisiana. Possibly in three states. I’d heard old man Jenkins runs the place like a slave plantation. It doesn’t matter if you are Negro or white. He owns you.

Beige produces a key for the pad lock, and we go in. Shelves with dozens of containers marked DANGER! EXPLOSIVE! line one wall. Enough to blast a tunnel through the Rocky Mountains. More than any lumberyard needs. I put the thought aside and focus on the task at hand. We waste no time and carefully load eight four-ounce bottles of nitro into two padded boxes, four in each box. One bottle, two at the most, will do the job, but these boys don’t know anything about nitro, so I seize the opportunity to keep extra in case I need it. I carry the detonation cord in my pocket.

Beige is nervous. He wants to put the nitro in the trunk, but I convince him it’s safer for me to carry it in my arms as we drive to the location. I tell him one bad pothole while the nitro is in the trunk punches all our cards. I tell him the one thing Louisiana’s got more of than mosquitoes is potholes. He buys it.

Gray parks the Dodge behind a mercantile ten minutes later. It looks to me like we haven’t even left the lumberyard property. Brown calls it a company store. It’s closed for Sunday services so the place is empty. I had forgotten the day. Brown goes on to say the church is one street over. Beige sends Gray to check and make sure no one is hanging around so I can place the nitro and set the fuses. I wait a few seconds and ask what I have been waiting to ask the whole trip.

“So you boys haven’t mentioned my payment.”

“After the job,” Beige says.

I shake my head. “I asked for a very special payment, and I get paid before the job. That’s the deal.”

Beige whips out a revolver from his coat before I finish my sentence. He’s fast. Faster than I imagined. He presses the muzzle against my temple. “Fuck what you want,” he says. “Do the job or I’ll blow your brains out.”

“Not a good idea while I’m holding this nitro. I drop it and all four of us get wings.”

Beige isn’t breathing. I can’t see his eyes, but I imagine they’re red hot. A kill switch flipped on in his head, and he doesn’t give a damn about the consequences.

Brown turns around. He’s sweating like he’s holding a tricky shit and is afraid to move too quickly.

“I have a compromise,” I say. “Let me get a look. Make sure it’s in order, and I’ll collect it when we’re done. It won’t take me long to set this up. We can go now and get back in plenty of time. I assume you got it close.”

“We can do that,” Brown says eagerly. “I mean, we got time, right?”

I can tell Beige is mentally debating between the best course of action and what is most satisfying for him. It’s a long debate. He finally relaxes his trigger finger and lowers his cannon.

“You wanna look see. We’ll go take a look see.”

Gray returns, starts the engine, and everyone breathes again. He drives to a secluded building at the farthest part of the lumberyard. It’s long, slender, made of wood with a tin roof like nearly all the buildings on the yard, and rests on two-foot stone pillars. It reminds me of the barracks that had been my home for six weeks before shipping out to France. I put the nitro on the car floor at my feet when he slows and parks out front.”

“Room seven,” Beige grunts.

“Seven. My lucky number. Ain’t you coming in?”

“We already been,” he says and chuckles. I don’t like the sound of it. “Don’t linger too long. Remember why you’re here.”

“How can I forget?”

I open the door and step out. Unpainted wooden steps rise to a wooden porch and a wooden door that isn’t locked. Inside is a long, tight hallway running the length of the building, with numbered doors on both sides of the entrance. Room one on my left. Room two on my right. My first impression of the building being barracks of some kind seems correct. Maybe a place for migrant workers to live while they work the yard. I’d seen places like this before at mining camps and rail yards. Built quickly and cheaply with each room consisting of a couple of bunk beds and not much else. That’s what this place looks like. Smells like, too. Buildings that house working men create their own musk. Blue-collar funk. Elbow-grease labor. Armpits and dirty long johns. Over time, it seeps into the wood and never comes out no matter how well you clean. I smell it as soon as I walk in. Lots of men had been through the building.

The hallway is dimly lit. Light spills in from louvered vents above the door I’d entered through. It’s hot. Sticky with humidity. Sweat trickles down my back. Loose floorboards creak with each step I take as I make my way to room seven. It’s quiet for a Sunday. A working man’s one day off. The men could be catching some needed sleep or out eating or drinking in nearby Bogalusa only ten miles down the road. I don’t have time to think about it. I don’t much care where they are as long as no one inside gets too nosey about my business. Just in case, I make sure my .45 isn’t stuck too deep in my waistband.

I find room seven quickly enough. The door isn’t locked, and I go in. The room is dark. A wool blanket hangs over the lone window. It smells like a chest full of dirty socks. Weak light from the hallway behind me helps me see inside. I’m wrong about the bunk beds. I see two cots on either side of the room. The bed on the left has a straw mattress and nothing else. A girl is on the right cot. She looks about fourteen. She’s tied, gagged, and lying on her side facing me with her knees balled up tight to her chest. Her big eyes, full of fright, reflect the hallway light. It makes her eyes look like a cat’s eyes. I find a light switch by the door and flick it on.

The girl jumps and tries to push herself through the wall by scooting along the bed until her head bangs hard against the wood. Her dirty white cotton dress rises. Her dark skin glistens with sweat. Ropes around her ankles and wrists anchor her to the bed. That explains why they hadn’t bothered to lock the door. She wasn’t going anywhere. I take a step towards her, and she screams against the gag in her mouth. It isn’t loud but seems louder in the small room. I put a finger to my lips. Tears well up in her eyes. I inch closer until I’m next to the bed. I’ve been carrying a photo for this moment and take it out. It’s a simple picture, frayed by time and weather, of a black farmer, his wife, and a little girl with a mutt at her feet outside their farmhouse. They’re smiling. The happiest day for all of them. It’s a few years old, but the girl still looks the same. I recognized her as soon as I stepped in the room. The girl calms a little and looks at me with puzzlement in her eyes.

“Your father’s name is Jefferson. Your mother is Martha. You named the dog Windmill because of the crazy way he wags his tail. You’re Cora, but your daddy calls you Goldie because you shined like gold when you were born. They live on a farm outside Oklahoma City. Is all that correct?” Goldie nods tentatively. “Let’s get you back home.”

Goldie smiles through her tears. I take out the folding knife I keep in my back pocket and cut the ropes and the gag around her mouth. The deep bruising along her arms and legs are hard to ignore. Goldie throws her arms around my neck and cries into my shoulder. I hold her gently for a moment then push her away. Tears stream down her dirty face. Up close, I can see she isn’t fourteen. Hadn’t been for six years, but, I knew that going in.

“They hurt you?” Goldie nods again. Words come hard for her. “You have to put that aside for a while. Right now we have to get you out of here.”

“I’m not the only girl here,” she says.

“How many?”

“I hear them through the walls. If you knew what they do to us…”

I place my hand gently on her shoulders and lift her until we’re both standing. “Do you think you can help me round them up?” Goldie smiles. It’s the little girl from the photo again. “C’mon. We have to be quick.”

Gathering up all the girls takes longer than I hope. Goldie starts at the rear of the building. I start at the front. We meet in the center of the hallway when we are done. I assumed no more than twenty girls in all counting Goldie. One girl in each room. I’m way off. There are two girls in each of the other nineteen rooms, which brings the total number to thirty-nine girls.

All of them in similar condition to her, but not the same age. A few look to be in their early teens and at least one in her fifties. Some look drugged, doll-eyed, and lost. Goldie guides one girl over to me. She’s young, white, and mumbling in a language that’s guttural and full of vowels. Goldie raises the sleeve of the girl’s left arm. A line of irritated needle marks tracks a bluish vein. The burning rage I’ve been trying to suppress gets another lump of coal tossed on it. I have no idea how I’m going to get them all out. I had arranged transportation for two: Goldie and me. All I know is I’m not leaving anyone behind.

Goldie has a renewed strength in her eyes. She even smiles at the other girls, calms them, and makes sure they keep quiet.

“There’s a back door,” Goldie whispers.

I shake my head. “I like the front door. We’ll go out first. The rest of you girls stay inside until I say it’s safe to come out.”

I already have my .45 out and ready. I’m not sure they all understand what I’ve said. Goldie slips her thin, delicate hand into my empty one. It feels like a sparrow’s wing. We walk down the hallway like a battered woman’s parade and reach the front door. I walk out with Goldie by my side and my .45 behind her as though I have my hand on the small of her back. It’s darker out now.

The red tips of cigarettes light up the faces of three men in the dark sedan. I feel Goldie hesitate when she spots them. My gun hand behind her stops her from bolting. They haven’t seen us yet, so Goldie and I continue slowly until we reach the top of the steps. I want them out of the car and not protected by the thick metal doors.

“Hey there, fellas,” I say. “Got room for one more?”

All three men turn towards me. Gray’s mouth falls open like it’s come loose from his jaw. Beige, in the rear seat, chokes on cigarette smoke. He composes himself and steps out of the car. Brown and Gray follow their leader.

“What the fuck you doin’?” Beige shouts.

“I thought I’d bring her along. You know. So we don’t have to come all the way back here.”

“The fuck you say!” Beige yells. Even in the dark, I can see his face reddening. Whatever is going to happen will happen in the next three seconds. I’m watching, waiting for Beige, the hot head, to make his move. Then I hear what I don’t want to hear. The door behind me squeaks as it swings open. I don’t have to turn around to know the girls have ignored my last command. I can feel their presence as they flow from the building and line along the porch from end to end. The parade had turned into a chorus line of bruised Ziegfeld Girls behind me. We’re in deep shit if the shooting starts because I’m the only one with a gun. I want to say something witty, but nothing comes. I keep my eyes on Beige’s right hand waiting for it to move to his shoulder holster. He’s the leader. He’ll get the show started. Beige doesn’t disappoint.

The index finger of his right hand twitches a split-second before he reaches for his gun. A split-second is all I need. I whip my .45 from behind Goldie’s back and blow a hole in his chest as his hand slides inside his jacket. We’re six feet apart. The blast knocks him through the rear door window and deposits him in the back seat. His legs dangle out the window. Gray and Brown are slower. I fire twice by the time either man realizes what has happened to their leader. Gray takes one center mass. His body slams the driver’s side door and crumples to the ground. Brown catches a slug higher up in the throat because he’s crouching when I fire. He slumps face first onto the hard-packed dirt.

The whole thing takes less than two seconds.

I search the darkness of the street to see if anyone is coming out. Which is a waste of time because I have night blindness from the muzzle flash, and the nearest building is a good hundred yards away and dark as a graveyard.

With my gun extended in front of me, I leap down from the porch to make sure dead is dead. There isn’t any doubt about Brown and Gray. I’ve seen enough dead men to know what a body looks like when all the life has left without a forwarding address. I inch toward the rear of the car and Beige’s dangling legs. I get close enough to peek when two shots zip past my ears from the back seat. The little fuck is still breathing and mad as hell. I stick my .45 through the open window and fire blind until I’m empty. Beige’s left foot twitches like his finger had earlier. I look inside and see ground meat wearing a suit.

“Lights coming down the road!” Goldie screams from the porch.

I see them. A string of lights like fireflies playing “follow the leader” weaves toward us a couple of miles out. I guess at least ten vehicles. Maybe they’re friendly. Maybe they saw the muzzle flashes, heard the gunshots, and were curious as to who is doing the shooting. Maybe they’re coming for the meeting. Maybe they didn’t see or hear anything. Maybe. But maybe don’t pay the bills.

“Any of you girls drive?” I ask.

A hand belonging to a young Mexican-looking girl rises slowly. “Si. I can drive.”

“I saw a one-ton truck parked out front of a building up the road when we arrived. I need you to run up and bring it back here.”

The girl jumps off the porch barefoot and sprints up the road like a cat with its tail on fire.

“Some of you others help me pile the bodies into the car.”

It takes a few minutes to get Gray and Brown in the car. Dead bodies are heavy and some of the girls look squeamish, but we get it done as the truck driven by the girl shows up.

I bark orders out of habit. “Everyone, climb on.”

“What about you?” Goldie asks.

“Take the truck a hundred yards down the road. I’ll be along.”

Goldie gets in the passenger side and they drive down the road and stop. When I think they’re far enough away, I reach inside the Dodge, take one box of the nitro out and place it by the door of the barracks. I remove two bottles, jog gingerly back down the steps a little ways past the car, and stop. Shadows obscure the box. I can’t see it, but I don’t have to. I gauge my distance and take a deep breath.

“This might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done,” I say under my breath and throw the four-ounce bottle overhand like a baseball. It sails on a string and disappears in the shadow of the porch roof. The explosion’s concussive force knocks me off my feet. I nearly drop the other bottle. I roll over, look to make sure Goldie and the girls are safe, stand, and admire my handiwork. The blast flattened the front, and a roaring fire engulfs the building. Flaming two-by-fours rain from the night sky. I glance over at the Dodge. Beige’s pant leg is on fire. I move back a few more yards, take a deep breath, and pitch the last bottle of nitro at the car. The Dodge goes up like it’s packed with dynamite. I had forgotten about the gasoline in the tank. This time, the blast knocks me to the ground so hard the wind rushes from my lungs. The fire lights up the sky. There’s no doubt whoever is coming down the road can see the hell I wrought. Then, the strangest thing happens. Some might claim it to be a miracle or God showing his sense of humor. Three smoking billfolds fall from the sky and land in front of me. I grab them, dust myself off, run to the truck, and hop on the driver’s side running board.

“Drive! Don’t stop until we get to the Oklahoma state line.”

My hands shake for a mile.

The farmhouse looks exactly like it did in the photo; Goldie’s parents are much older, worn from worry, but they smile as we stand outside their home. Windmill’s still alive. He’s aged faster, but acts like a pup at the sight of Goldie who’s cuddling him in her arms. He lavishes a sloppy tongue on her face. She laughs. Goldie barely spoke a word since the night we made our escape. She stared at the road, drank when she was thirsty, ate when she was hungry, but little else. But now, after all that has happened, she’s the little girl in the photo again. All the other girls are gone now, dropped off at various bus stations and train stations between Bogalusa and Oklahoma City. I’m flat busted broke now, what with purchasing all the tickets to get them home, or is some cases, just as far away as possible. What else could I do?

I hand the family memento back to her father.

“I can’t tell you how much me and the wife appreciate you bringin’ our little girl home,” he says.

“She’s had a rough go. She’ll need time.”

“We don’t care nothin’ about that,” Goldie’s mother says, and walks over to where Goldie and Windmill are now chasing each other around a well of stone.

Goldie’s father reaches deep into his farmer’s overalls and brings out a wad of cash. He proffers it toward me.

“You’re going to need that more I will,” I say, and stuff my hands in my pockets.

“But, it’s what we agreed.”

He’s right. I always ask for cash. Sometimes I take it, sometimes I don’t.

“I need to talk to Goldie before I go.”

Goldie’s father pockets the money, nods, and walks to stand beside his wife. He yells out to Goldie, and points in my direction. She smiles, and runs to me with Windmills nipping at her heels.

“You gon stay for supper, Mr. Mosby?” she says winded.

“I have to go, but I need to know something before I leave.” I pull out a photo I’ve been carrying for two years. It’s of a woman in her early twenties, dark hair, deep brown eyes, skin the brown of the setting sun low on the horizon. She’s wearing a wedding dress, and carrying a bouquet of daffodils. Her smile is like the flash of lightning. “In all the time you were being held, do you remember seeing this woman?”

She takes the photo from my hand and studies it. A minute seems like an hour, then, she nods.

“They kept us separated most of the time, but when I was taken, the first stop was Chicago. There were a lot of girls there. It was some kind of underground jail or pen. Lot’s of cages separated by an aisle for walkin’. A dozen girls to a cage. She said her name is Emma. She was in the cell across from mine. But, she looked different. Her hair was down, and she wore a blue dress. She’d been beaten.”

My heart races with the news. After months of searching, this is the closest I’ve been. Goldie hands the photo back to me.

“Do you know what happened to her?”

“After a couple of days, we were herded into a truck. We sat next to each other. That’s how I learned her name. The truck was dark, and we was in it for a long time. When they let us out again, she got put in another truck, and the one I was in took me to where you found me.”

“Where was this?”

Goldie slowly shake her head. “Memphis, maybe. I heard someone say that. Who were those men?”

I take out one of the billfolds that had fallen from the sky in the explosion and hand it to her. She opens it, sees the badge.

“Pinkertons?”

“They will come here looking for you. You need to make sure your father is ready.”

She hands the billfold back to me with a determined look in her eye.

“We’ll be ready.”

Goldie embraces me with more strength than I imagine her tiny, frail body can muster. Her tears soak through my shirt to my skin. She reaches up and pulls my face down to her lips, and places a soft kiss on my cheek.

The plume of dust created by the truck’s tires on the farm road grows until it becomes a cloud behind me and erases Goldie, her parents, the farm, and the sky. My heart is lighter than it’s been in some time. Emma’s alive. I know it now for sure. She was in Chicago, and maybe Memphis. I have a place to start searching again. I’ll never give up on her. It’s a promise I made to her on our wedding day. We’d never give up on each other. I will find her.

I’ll never stop searching.

End

Follow Nate Mosby’s search for his missing wife in my debut novel SLAUGHTER ROAD to be published in the fall of 2017. For an advanced copy, email me at Lparish@gmail.com.