Birdsongs (3 page)

    “Yes sir,” R.C. responded, wondering where this was going.

    Sly continued saying, “I haven’t been fishing in Montana since I opened this place. Been eleven years. I believe you know my older brother Ted, Jimmy’s daddy?”

    “Yeah, he was a guard up at the prison until about five or so years ago.”

    “Then I imagine you know he’s retired. He has agreed to come help out at the diner if you will agree to my proposal.”

    “Anything Sly,” R.C. said.

    “Now hold on,” Sly cautioned. “You don’t know what you’re signing up for yet. I’m wanting to go for two weeks. Ted can barely make a ham sandwich, so you would have to work open to close every day except Sundays when we’re closed. That’s a lot of fifteen-hour days.”

    “Them hours will get me down the road a whole lot quicker.”

    “Yeah, it certainly will. I calculated twelve, fifteen-hour days, including overtime pay, which I aim to pay you—comes out at right under nineteen hundred dollars. We’ll call it an even two thousand dollars. What do you say?”

    “Go buy yourself a new fishing pole,” R.C. said with a smile.

    “Oh, I almost forgot,” Sly said. “If you can keep Ted from cooking anything, I’ll buy you that set of tires you were talking about with that fella from Earl’s Tires as a thank you and good luck present.”

    “Why you trust me so much?” R.C. asked.

    “I believe in second chances,” Sly said contemplating something.

    “I didn’t do it,” R.C. said in a low voice.

    “We gotta get back in there,” Sly said as he held his hand and index finger up, signaling he had one more thing to say. “I’ve heard a few whispers out there saying that you make my breakfast sandwich better than I do. You want to know why you are a better cook than I am?” R.C. did not say a word or move. “You spent three times as long as I did in prison.” With that said, Sly gave R.C. a wink and walked back into the diner, leaving R.C. standing there with his mouth open, dumbfounded.

   Sly took off for Montana a few days later. The days that followed flew by with R.C. working so much, and after waiting nearly thirty years for something, two more weeks was merely a stitch in time. Toward the end of the first week of Sly’s absence, Jimmy came into the diner one late evening shortly before closing.

    “How you holding up, R.C.?” Jimmy asked.

    “I’m a little tired,” R.C. responded. “But it’s a good tired.”

    Jimmy handed R.C. the same napkin he had given him a week before with the name of the person written on it he wished to locate. “My buddy at the police station gave that back to me this morning. He found a record of your friend.” R.C.’s eyes lit up. “He wrote the city and state on there for you. Your friend got a speeding ticket last month. When you see him, tell him to slow down,” Jimmy said joking.

    R.C. held the napkin grasped in the palm of his hand as if it were a precious treasure map that would lead him to hidden booty. He read the words, and he read them again. R.C. continued to read and study them like a fortuneteller deciphering the meaning of the lines embedded in one’s palm. The napkin read: Miles Davenport, Tilley, Georgia.

    Two weeks later R.C. said his goodbyes and expressed his thanks to Jimmy and Sly. He cranked up the motorcycle he brought back from the dead and with his heart pounding resoundingly like a predator tracking its prey he headed in a beeline to Tilley, Georgia.

Chapter 7

    Benny motored over to the post office to mail Ms. Clemmons the incriminating photos of her husband and the disreputable host Joel. He included the bill with hopes of a prompt payment. Lisa, the postal attendant, asked in her southern drawl, “Why weren’t there anything in the paper about last night’s murder Benny?”

    Taken aback Benny answered, “What are you talking about Lisa?”

    “Come on Benny, ain’t no secrets in this town.”

    “Don’t know what you mean honey. I haven’t heard anything,” Benny lied stone faced.

    “All right sugar,” Lisa said with obvious disbelief. “Should I call you if I hear anything suspicious? You know we get all kinds of folks in here blabbing their mouths when they think no one’s listening.”

    “You do that honey; you got the number.” Benny winked and strutted out.

    His next stop was the Hair Palace. His hair was starting to curl which meant it was time for a cut. In addition to his fantastic black hair that curled if grown past a certain point, Benny had chameleon eyes and a sharp face any man could envy. Even though the name of the place was dumb as hell, Michelle was the master of taming Benny’s locks. Benny walked in just as Michelle was finishing a cigarette.

    “Slow morning Michelle?” Benny asked.

    “Yeah,” she answered. “Looks like you’re getting curly again. Sit on down sweetie. You want the usual?”

    “Give it to me Michelle,” Benny responded. “What’s new with you?”

    “Why don’t you just come out and ask if I heard about the murder?” Michelle said smacking gum. “I know you come here for haircuts, but you also come in here for information too Benny.”

    Taken aback once again Benny said, “What murder?”

    Laughing, Michelle said, “Stop it Benny, I’m no dumb ass. You know and I know that there was a murder last night. You ain’t never been here for just a haircut. You always want a little something else. Remember how I trimmed your side burns and helped you crack that case on the Florida lawyer?”

    “I don’t think you’ll ever let me forget it,” Benny answered.

    “Well,” Michelle said, “Nicole was in here to get her roots dyed earlier and she said that her husband had to leave real early this morning to go over some paperwork with the Coroner. It’s Saturday Benny, and we figured that there must have been some bad shit that happened last night for her husband to have to meet the Coroner on a Saturday morning.”

    “You’re a real Sherlock Holmes, Michelle,” Benny said. “Have you seen any out-of-towners recently?”

    “No,” she replied. “Just the usual suspects. You know I watch that Forensic Files on Court TV. You want me to start saving hair for some of them DNA samples?”

    “I don’t think that will be necessary Michelle. You still working at the diner? I haven’t been there in a while.”

    “Yeah. Tuesdays and Sundays—for some reason nobody gets their hair cut on those days.”

    “Interesting. How’s that new beau treating you?”

    “He’s still being sweet. I still can’t figure out why he has to keep talking with his ex though,” Michelle said revving up the clippers.

    “Didn’t you say last time he has two boys?” Benny asked.

    “Yeah.”

    “I would guess that’s why,” Benny answered.

    “I suppose so,” Michelle confessed. “She don’t like that he’s dating me.”

    “I would imagine a woman wouldn’t like her ex dating anyone.”

    “Why do you have to always be right?” Michelle asked chuckling.

    “I don’t know,” Benny responded with a belly laugh. “You might have to ask my ex-wife that one.”

    “Where is she now?” Michelle probed cautiously.

    “Couldn’t tell ya,” Benny answered. “Don’t have a clue.”

     Benny’s final stop before returning home was to Ned’s, the local technology nerd and mad scientist. As Benny was driving down Ned’s long driveway, he spotted Ned hanging uncomfortably on the limb of a tree in his front yard. Ned was a wiry fellow with patches of hair in odd spots around his head. He invented a hair growing remedy that did not work out quite as he planned that left him with this very unusual look. His thick spectacles accentuated his buggy eyes, which always seemed to be searching for something. Ned was a young man but carried himself as if he was nearing a hundred. Benny parked the car and curiously got out hoping Ned would not fall out of the tree and said, “Ned, what the hell are you doing?”

    Ned answered as though what he was doing was completely normal saying, “Just getting some bark samples to try and figure out why these trees are growing too slow.”

    “Can you come down for a second?” Benny asked.

    “Sure Benny. Can you pull that ladder over here?” Ned put some bark pieces in a zip lock bag and slowly made his way down the ladder. Once down he said, “What’s on your mind Benny?”

    Getting right to the point Benny asked, “What do you know about Johnsonville Binoculars?”

    “Those are hi-tech Benny. A lot of bird-watchers use them. Their advertisements say you can see a mile with them. Probably cost about eight hundred dollars or so. Why?”

    “Just curious,” Benny said. “Thanks Ned, I gotta run.”

    “OK Benny,” Ned answered as he began to focus on the tree again. “Let me know if you find anything out about the murder.”

Chapter 8

    Benny decided to make a quick pit stop at his house to see if his cat Jezebel was still speaking to him. He hadn’t been by in a couple of days and needed to refresh her food and water and pick up some clothes. Jezebel was a bit of a loner. Being a rescued alley cat made her quite different from the cats he had growing up. She was a shorthaired black and white, with stripes resembling a zebra. He recalled only a couple of times she had actually let him pet her. With a cat door leading outside, Jezebel could come and go as she pleased. The mailbox was full as usual and the grass was so long it would be a real pain in the ass battle with the lawn mower to get it back to a respectable height. Benny checked the inventory of the fridge just in case some groceries magically appeared. The mustard, empty bottle of ketchup, and the jar with one pickle was still there just as he feared. The pantry was worse. There was a bag of cat food, paper plates, and a roll of duct tape. Benny wondered to himself why he even bought the house. Paying a thousand dollars a month on a mortgage for a cat living alone was absurd.

   As Red got off the bus in Tilley, the reality of his actions dawned. He traveled halfway across the country because of a picture on an old tattered and torn newspaper clipping. The autopilot that had seemingly driven him to this point abruptly shut off, taking with it the adrenaline that ignited the fire within him. Suddenly, fear surfaced.

    Back home in the Ozarks, Red felt comfortable in town because he was with his father and being such a small town everyone knew of his verbal and social deficiencies. He dropped his head to avoid eye contact with anyone and began walking briskly away from the center of town. His belongings were in a large gunnysack draped over his shoulder. He previously used it on the farm to transport grains. When his heart stopped racing and he had the ability to take a few steady breaths, he raised his eyes from his feet and stopped. In front of him stood a quaint little house accompanied by a peculiar red picket fence. Although it did not look like one, Red supposed that it was this town’s version of a fire station. The fire station in his hometown was an insignificant brick building painted red. He wondered where the trucks were. There was only a single vehicle, a Jeep, in the driveway. At any rate, he needed help and he decided to knock on the door.

    Benny heard the knock as he gathered the remaining articles of his preferred clothing that were not already on the boat. He thought it must be a salesperson, Girl Scout, or nosey neighbor. When he answered the door, he knew it was none of the above and he stood perplexed in silence as he and his new acquaintance gazed at each other, both with confusion. After a long, strange and uncomfortable silence felt by both men, Benny broke the standoff by asking, “Can I help you?”

    “Fire,” Red said with his verbal dearth immediately noticeable.

    Benny’s first thought was a special education student had wandered away from the nearby high school. He studied him for a moment and decided this person was not a student, as he resembled a young man a bit older than a high school student. He had dark, inquisitive, worried eyes. Unkempt, long brown hair fell on his muscular shoulders. He was lanky, but firm. His skin tone revealed he spent most of his life under the sun. He was handsome in an odd country way and Benny decided that he looked like a redneck lifeguard. Now even more confused Benny asked hesitantly, “Where?”

    “Fire here,” Red said, meaning it to be a question. His intonation made his inquiry sound like a statement. Red pointed at the red picket fence and said, “Red fence. Fire.”

    “Oh,” Benny said. “You think this is a fire station?”

    “Yeah,” Red answered as his eyebrows rose displaying the glee of his successful communication. “You fire man.” Once again, Red meant this as a question and yet again, it sounded adversely.

    Benny thought about the picket fence and how it drew in the kid. Drawn to bizarre occurrences and the oftentimes deeper meaning accompanying peculiar events, Benny decided not to turn the kid away just yet and asked, “What’s your name kid?”

    “Red.”

    “I know you saw the red fence, what – is – your – name -?” Benny asked as though he were questioning a non-English speaker.

    “Red. Red Jasper.”

    “This is too much,” Benny said. The red fence that perplexed him and a kid named Red standing on his front porch was just too weird. Something definitely needed to be examined further Benny thought. “Come inside Red,” Benny said as he waved Red into the house. Benny gestured the universal sign for drink as he asked, “Can I get you a drink? All I have is ice water.” Red shook his head yes. “I’ll be right back. Have a seat there on the couch,” Benny said pointing.

    When Benny walked back into the room with the water, Red sat on the couch with his gunnysack at his feet and Jezebel sat in his lap. Red gently scratched her head and she purred and bobbed her head up and down as to say, “Don’t stop.” Benny stopped mid-stride in disbelief, as the cat had never done this to him or any of his other guests. “Did you pick her up?” Benny asked.

    “No,” Red stated. “You little zebra jump up.”

    Benny cautiously handed Red the glass of water in an attempt to keep from spooking Jezebel and said, “By the way, my name is Benny.”