Madness In Maggody (5 page)

Estelle grabbed the list. "Two of the players are Elsie McMay's grandchildren, visiting for the summer. Elsie's been having real serious problems with swelled-up ankles, so she can't coach."

With a sniff, Ruby Bee retrieved the list. "And that Nookim boy is on the team, and you know perfectly well that his papa's been disabled for a long time and can barely walk. His mama works double shifts at the poultry plant, so there's no way she can do it."

Estelle's snort was on the testy side as she lunged for the list. "We thought we had a good candidate in Buzz Milvin, what with both his kids on the team. But he's aiming to start work at the SuperSaver Buy 4 Less as the night manager, and he said Jim Bob'd fire him in a Noow Yark minute if he found out Buzz was coaching the enemy. He was right worried about even letting the kids play. Ruby Bee had to chew on his ear for a good half hour."

"I'm sure she was convincing," I cut in before Ruby Bee could make a try for the list. "Could we hurry up the pace, please? Hammet's about finished with his pie, and the two of us are not entranced by your long-winded excuses."

"It's okay," Hammet said charitably.

Ruby Bee tried to snatch the list, anyway, but Estelle hung on for dear life and said, "That leaves the Mandozes boy, but I wasn't about to wheedle with his pa. Mr. Mandozes has that fiery Latin temper and a kinda wild look in his eyes when he talks. The only other one is Jackie Sattering, and Ivy was real firm about needing Alex to help on the farm. They're going into apple season, and she said they both work fourteen hours a day this time of year. Besides—"

"Besides," Ruby Bee said, tired of being offstage, "Alex is not what you call athletic. I watched him walk across the yard to get my tomatoes, and I was real surprised when he didn't stumble over his own two feet or drop my tomatoes on the ground. I think Ivy was, too."

I shrugged. "Well, you'll have to keep looking elsewhere. Come on, Hammet, let's go to the edge of town and bust speeders. You can operate the radar gun."

"I gets to shoot 'em?"

"Sort of," I said. I slid off the stool, waited while he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and joined me, and we started for the door—which burst open, almost in our faces. The sunlight blinded me for a second, but as my eyes adjusted, I realized I was nose-to-nose with Mrs. Jim Bob, aka Mizzoner. Mizzoner and I have a mutual loathing society. I'm president this year, but if she behaves, I may pass the honor next year. "You are just the person I wanted to talk to," she said, advancing on me like a tight-lipped piranha.

"Damn shame, Mrs. Jim Bob. Hammet and I were on our way out to preserve law and order in our cherished community."

Hammet grinned, but he'd encountered Mrs. Jim Bob in the past and had enough sense to maintain a cautious distance. "Yeah, Arly's gonna let me shoot folks what drive too fast."

Mrs. Jim Bob's beady little eyes narrowed. "How amusing, I'm sure. No, Arly, your little game will have to wait. I have things to say to you and your mother, and I intend to say them right now." She marched past us to the bar, where Ruby Bee and Estelle hovered uncertainly. "I have heard a most distressing thing, Rubella Belinda Hanks. It smacks of the devil's handiwork, and I'd like to think I was misinformed."

"It's happened before," I said as Hammet and I retraced our steps, curiosity having gotten to me.

"What'd you hear?" Ruby Bee said.

"I heard that you aim to sponsor a baseball team."

"You ain't misinformed yet."

"I also heard that you're intending to allow girls to play right next to boys, and that Arly here is the coach."

Ruby Bee ignored my growl. "You got problems with that?"

"Well," Mrs. Jim Bob continued, her mouth tightening until I wasn't sure how she could spit out the words, "I was afraid of that. You know as well as me that girls aren't supposed to play physical games with boys. It's dangerous for the girls, because they're so much weaker. Everybody knows girls do better at activities like sewing and making little animals out of yarn pompoms. What's worse is that seeing the girls jiggling around gives the boys ideas—wicked ideas about unnatural, sinful things. I know for a fact that Lottie Estes's younger sister 's boy, Kyle, went to a coed swimming party, and that very night his ma caught him in the bedroom"—she shot a quick look at Hammet—"doing an unnatural, sinful thing to hisself."

I could see Hammet's mind going every which way. Before he could say anything, I said, "That is absolutely absurd."

"It is not! You can just call up Lottie and ask her. She'll tell you how her sister liked to have cried for an hour on the telephone, and long distance, too—all the way from Enid, Oklahoma. She was sick with worry that Kyle's hands would break out in some kind of rash and everybody would know why. To this day, she frets over his report cards, wondering if his mind is quite right."

"Absurd," I said, still keeping an eye on Hammet, who was mystified but working on it. "Queen Victoria's dead, and we are in the twentieth century, with faint hopes of seeing the twenty-first. Girls have every right to participate in sports. They are not at a major physical disadvantage unless we're talking about weight lifting or wrestling. At this age, girls are better coordinated than boys, which more than compensates for a slight edge in brute strength."

"And nobody said one word about wrestling," Ruby Bee snapped. "I myself would be of two minds about girls rolling around on those mats with boys, especially in that skimpy underwear they wear, but there's nothing wrong with a girl throwing a baseball to a boy."

"Or hitting a ball," Estelle added.

"But they jiggle!" Mrs. Jim Bob said in triumph.

Ruby Bee leaned forward, her face beginning to take on the hue of the contents of the pickled-beet vat. "Not all of them, and the ones that do, why, they jiggle at school, too. They jiggle at the hardware store and at church. They jiggle all the time."

Estelle swept in for the kill. "And if God hadn't meant for them to jiggle, they wouldn't have anything that jiggled, would they?"

Mrs. Jim Bob took a breath and let it out in a martyred swoosh. "I suppose there is nothing wrong with girls having a nice team of their own so they can play other girls. Softball would be better, of course." She glowered in my direction. "And I am aware that Queen Victoria is dead, Miss Chief of Police. You were attempting to make a little joke, weren't you?"

"I was attempting to make you go away, but it didn't work. Come on, Hammet, it's high noon at the O.K. Corral."

Her smile had such a self-righteous air about it that I felt goose bumps rising on my arms. "Let me add one other thing," she said in an appropriately smirky tone. "If you coach this sinful team of jiggling girls and lusty-eyed boys, I shall insist that Jim Bob remove you from your position. He'll have your badge and your gun before you can make one more single smart-mouthed remark."

"You can't do that," Ruby Bee said, horrified.

"We'll just see about that, won't we?" Mrs. Jim Bob nodded curtly at the group, then stalked across the dance floor and out the door, no doubt expecting to be carried heavenward for a round of applause from the saints and angels.

Estelle patted my arm. "Don't worry about her, Arly. She can't insist that Jim Bob fire you just because you're coaching a baseball team."

Ruby Bee came around the bar and started patting my other arm. "Why, that's blackmail. She can't do that."

"She can't walk on water, either, but she'll be the last to admit it," I said. "Just how did she hear about this team and the name of the coach?"

"How would I know?" Ruby Bee said, retreating.

"Because," I said, advancing, "having her tell me I can't coach is about the only incentive that might make me change my mind."

"Is that so?"

"And you damn well know it," I continued. "This is a really cheap trick, and—"

"Yanking his pud?" Hammet said, giving me a puzzled frown. "Is that what she was so all-fired mad about?"

From the expressions on Ruby Bee's and Estelle's faces, I sensed it was time to leave for greener pastures. "Hey, I've got a box with three real bullets in it, Hammet. Let's stop at the PD to play with them before we go after the speeders."

"If'n all he was doin' was yanking his—"

"Ciao," I said brightly.

*****

"You realize
you can't repeat a word of this," Elsie McMay began, giving Millicent McIlhaney a serious look. "It was told to me in the strictest confidence, and it can't go any further. You've got to promise me, Millicent."

"I promise," Millicent said obediently. "In fact, let me make sure Darla Jean's still on the telephone. Those girls do nothing but gossip from dawn till dark; you'd think they could find something better to do with their time. Help yourself to more coffee, Elsie. I'll be back in a minute."

She tiptoed to the top of the stairs. She could hear Darla Jean's voice through the closed door, just bubbling away like a creek, and it wasn't difficult to hear what she was saying, especially if you put your ear against the door.

Millicent was frowning as she came back into the kitchen and sat down across from Elsie. "I swear," she said, shaking her head, "I just don't know what gets into those girls. Sometimes I want to turn Darla Jean over my knee and spank her like she was back in pigtails. She's up there repeating the nastiest stories about folks, and she knows perfectly well that half of what she's saying is nothing more than lies."

"School starts up pretty soon, and she'll be more interested in clothes and football games and the new television shows," Elsie said. Even though there was no need for it, she leaned forward and lowered her voice. "Lottie told me the most horrifying story the other day. I was so upset, I couldn't stop thinking about it half the night. I tossed and turned like I was in a clothes dryer, and my sheets were damp the next morning."

"You'd better tell me, then. It'll do you a world of good to share your burden."

"Remember, this is just between you and me. Not one word to anybody."

"I already promised, Elsie," Millicent said impatiently. "Not one word will ever leave this room."

The officially tentative
lineup of the Ruby Bee's Flamingos—because, as we've all been told since birth, you can't tell the players without a scorecard:

Pitcher: Raimundo "Ray" Mandozes, the only team member who can throw the ball in the general direction he intends. Ray does not speak any English whatsoever (we're talking nada) but did recognize the word spic and promptly convinced Georgie McMay of his folly in saying it aloud.

Catcher: Saralee Chewink, the only team member to have caught the ball thus far. Saralee is on the chunky side, with tight yellow braids, glasses, and glittering braces. She spent a good deal of time casting thoughtful looks at Hammet. She persuaded Georgie to avoid sexist slurs in the future.

First Base: Hammet Buchanon, who can neither throw nor catch but has enthusiasm. He actively discouraged Georgie from discussing the delicate issue of illegitimacy in Stump County. Hammet spent most of the first practice blushing whenever he caught Saralee looking at him. There may be romance brewing in the infield, folks.

Second Base: Earl Boy Nookim, who is mute and surly, and simply went to the base (a burlap bag) and stood on it. Why not?

Third Base: Enoch McMay, a runty whiner with a runny nose and a fierce preference for watching television at his granny's house. This preference was aired every thirty seconds or so for two solid hours.

Shortstop: Martin Milvin, who at least put his glove on the correct hand and assumed a professional posture. He is soft-spoken and very sober, and we can't have anyone playing the vital position on a bellyful of root beer.

Left Field: Georgie McMay, for his own protection. Were it not for the black eye, swollen lip, and twenty excess pounds of adipose tissue, he would not be an unattractive child. Maybe.

Center Field: Lissie Milvin, in hopes nothing will be hit that far. Lissie made a lovely chain of dandelions, and it looked quite striking in contrast with her auburn hair and dark, timid eyes. She caught a tiny purple butterfly, whispered to it, and gently released it. Later she discovered a mysterious hole, but even after twenty minutes of poking with a stick, she could not persuade its occupant to show itself. There is much to occupy Lissie in center field.

Right Field: Jackie Sattering, as above. He has all of his father's clumsiness and none of his mother's common sense. On the other hand, he was as gentle as Lissie with the butterflies and went to extremes not to step on the honeybees in the clover.

Head Coach: Take a wild guess.

Assistant Coach #1: Take another one.

Assistant Coach #2: Ditto.

*****

"Say what
?" Jim Bob said, gaping at Lamont as if he were a zoo animal screwing right there in the cage. "That ain't what you said earlier, Lamont. Jesus H. Christ!"

Lamont filled Jim Bob's glass half full of the cheaper whiskey he'd had the foresight to bring, then went over to the mirror and inspected his hair. The motel room seemed a sight more cramped now that the air was thick with Jim Bob's sweat. "I feel real bad, but the boys at the bank dumped it on me this morning, and they call the shots," he murmured as he licked his finger and smoothed down a stray hair. "I'm going to have to do some scrambling of my own, but we're both obligated to come up with whatever cash is required to close the loan next week."

"If I can't?"

"It's explained in great detail in the various documents that comprise the partnership agreement. You did read it all before you signed it, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but I couldn't make heads or tails of a lot of it. All that shit about parties of the first part and second part and the devil knows what other parts. I thought the money was arranged down to the last penny. Now you're saying we have to pay four points on Thursday. We're talking nigh on to a million dollars. Four points is...forty thousand dollars." Jim Bob sank down on the bed and drained the glass.

"But you'll only have to come up with half. Surely that's not a problem?"

"No fuckin' problem at all, Lamont. I got my checkbook in my pocket. I'll just write a check for my share. I always keep twenty or thirty thousand bucks in the account in case I want to make a down payment on fuckin' Buckingham Palace."

"And don't forget we have to cover twenty percent of the initial inventory. The wholesalers usually want cash on delivery, but they're giving us a break because of my existing accounts. Your share of that'll be around twenty thousand, too."

"Oh, swell. You do realize I haven't had any income since we started construction six months ago, don't you? I had to get a second on the house just to get along all this time, and Mrs. Jim Bob decided out of the blue to redecorate the entire downstairs. How am I supposed to come up with that kind of money?"

"I'm sure you can think of some outside resources, Jim Bob. After all, we're partners in this venture. You've put as much time and energy in it as I have, and I would be terribly distressed if you were unable to meet your commitments as spelled out in the binding legal documents you signed."

Jim Bob stared at him from under a much-lowered brow. "Just what happens if I can't meet my spelled-out commitments?"

"I'm afraid your interest reverts to me."

"Wait just a goddamn minute! You're telling me I'm fixing to lose my half of the SuperSaver? What about the Kwik-Stoppe-Shoppe that was demolished? What about my rights there?"

Lamont took a sip of the cheap whiskey, which tasted more like dog piss than bourbon. "I wish you'd gone over all this with your lawyer, Jim Bob. I really do. You owned that property and I owned the adjoining vacant acreage. The titles were merged in order to satisfy the loan people. Your original holding is now an indivisible part of our joint holding."

Jim Bob took a gulp of the whiskey, which he thought was an improvement over that dog piss Lamont usually had in the motel room. "So unless I come up with forty grand, I've lost the Kwik-Stoppe-Shoppe and stand to lose the SuperSaver?"

"This upsets me as much as it does you. We've been in this together since I picked up that piece of property, and I'd like to think we're friends as well as partners." Lamont sighed as he refilled Jim Bob's glass. "If I had enough cash to cover your share, I would, but I'm not in a whole lot better shape than you are. There is one other option that we might consider. I've heard tell of an outfit in Texas with several supermarket chains, and I could try to get hold of them. They might be interested in taking this one off our hands, although I doubt we can get any more out of it than our investment. But breaking even's better than nothing, isn't it?"

"Sell Jim Bob's SuperSaver before it opens?" Jim Bob said, appalled. "But we're going to cut our prices until we run all the competition out of business, and then hike 'em up and have ourselves a little gold mine here in Maggody. I don't want to sell it to a bunch of Texas cowboys. My name's up there on the sign."

"It's up to you," Lamont said diplomatically. "If you can come up with your share of the money by Thursday, then we'll be in fine shape. However, only a minute ago you were saying how strapped you are for cash."

Jim Bob tugged on his chin while he racked his brain. "I think I can get the money. I know a couple of guys down in Little Rock that'll come through for me. Them, and a little I've got tucked away in a safe-deposit box, and maybe I can borrow some from Mrs. Jim Bob's cousin what moved to Peoria. It'll be tight, Lamont, and it would have been a damn sight easier if you'd told me before now. But I can come through and we can keep the SuperSaver."

Lamont drank the last of the whiskey and held out his hand. "Then we're partners, Jim Bob, and that's the best damn news I've heard all day. The grand opening's in a couple of hours. I want you to cut the ribbon, and I want you to be grinning when you do it. You go get yourself all slicked up. I got a few calls to make just now."

*****

Adele Wockermann smiled
as best she could, considering that Millicent McIlhaney had dragged her rocking chair so close that she was almost spittin' in Adele's face. "What's that you're sayin'?" she said as she wiped her chin with a tissue.

"Turn up your hearing aid," Millicent commanded. She was beginning to question why she came all the way out to the county nursing home every Saturday morning to sit on the porch with a senile old widow woman who didn't even attempt to show any appreciation. Millicent was keenly aware of her Christian duty, but some weeks it was like pulling ticks off a hound to get through. "Now this is in the strictest confidence, Adele, so don't go repeating it to every Tom, Dick, and Harry."

"Harry who? I don't know nobody named Harry. Are you talking about Horace Wockermann, my grandnephew? He don't visit since he married that cheap tramp from Starley City. She's too good to visit the likes of me. She probably thinks old age is contagious."

"Just don't repeat this. It seems that Jim Bob Buchanon liked to have molested the Riley girl in his office last week. She was in there for the longest time, then came running out, howling and sobbing, with the buttons ripped right off her shirt. It's amazing she didn't get hit by a truck, she was so upset. Elsie McMay said Lottie Estes got madder'n a coon in a poke when she was telling the story over tea and pound cake the other morning. Isn't it the most awful thing you've ever heard in all your born days?"

"I've ever heard or I've never heard?" Adele began to rock more vigorously as she picked up a titillating broadcast from her wee friends on the back side of the moon.

Millicent ground her dentures and reminded herself of her Christian duty, although she thought the amount of tribulation might entitle her to cut back to every other week. "You recall when Hiram Buchanon's barn burned a ways back and that little cheerleader came running out with smoking panties in her hand?"

"I reckon I do," Adele said serenely. She did, too.

"Well, this is a sight worse, if you ask me. Now nobody knows much of anything about this Lamont Petrel fellow what's come to town, and that means nobody knows if he's been bothering the girls hisself. With a name like Lamont Petrel, anything's possible, and I wouldn't be a bit surprised to hear that he was the one that did it. But Jim Bob Buchanon's the mayor, so he ought to act respectable. I shiver to think what Mrs. Jim Bob'll say if she ever catches wind of this."

"She passes more wind than she catches. She used to come out here and read Bible verses at me like I didn't attend the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall twice on Sundays and every Wednesday night for prayer meeting right up to the day Mr. Wockermann passed away, may he rest in peace. I finally told her that her face reminded me of tadpoles on a mud fence, and after that she stopped a-comin'."

Millicent figured she'd evinced enough Christian duty for the week. "I'm going to run along now, Adele , she said real nicely. "I got to fix my hair and decide what to wear to the grand opening of the supermarket. Maybe I can get a good look at that Lamont Petrel from Farberville. I'll tell you all about him next week, and I'll bring you a box of my chocolate-chip cookies."

"No pecans. You know I can't pass pecans anymore."

Millicent patted Adele's shoulder, then nodded at the nurse's aide who was hovering near the doorway and sailed away, content in the knowledge that she'd kept poor Adele Wockermann apprised of local goings-on. It was real important for the old soul to have outside interests.

*****

Ruby Bee had
called a secret meeting of the Flamingos, which gave me a breather. Hammet wanted to do nothing else except discuss the first practice, held the previous afternoon in the redolent cow pasture out behind the motel. I wanted to forget it. I wanted to go back to the hotel patio and search for the bedimpled count, but I hadn't had fifteen seconds of peace since my houseguest had been thrust upon me.

I sent him down the road with an admonishment to avoid debating Georgie McMay's prejudices, then went across the street to the PD and shuffled through the mail for an errant one-way ticket to the South of France.

Before I could toss the envelopes in the wastebasket, the telephone rang. I conducted a mental debate, lost, and picked up the receiver.

It was Harvey Dorfer, the county sheriff, who's a pretty nice guy in his rednecked fashion and a true gentleman in election years. Luckily, he is smarter than he looks.

"How ya doing, Arly?" he began affably.

"Fine, Harve."

"I called to see if you wanted a deputy to help you this afternoon. We're real short, but I can scrounge up somebody for an hour. Or two."

"To do what—answer the telephone?"

Harve exhaled what I knew was a foul stream of cigar smoke. "Traffic control."

"Our regular Saturday-night drunks won't start crashing their trucks until dark, Harve. Till then I think I can handle the traffic by myself."

"Probably so, but I had a request from a county judge to send a deputy over to help you out. It seems he plays golf with that Petrel fellow, and it's what ya might call a small political favor. It's too damn hot to have a county judge breathing down my collar or peerin' too hard at the budget."

It made about as much sense as Ruby Bee's ravings. I rubbed my face, twisted my mouth around for a minute, and finally said, "What's this about, Harve? What do a county judge and someone named Petrel have to do with me busting speeders on a hot Saturday afternoon? Traffic's usually up on the weekends, but mostly it's tourists gawking at cows, and people like Raz Buchanon doing twenty miles an hour toward Starley City to buy chicken feed and the latest tabloid."

"Go take a look out the window."

"It's your nickel." I put down the receiver and did as ordered. When I came back, I was almost afraid to pick it up again. "Good Lord, Harve, there's a damn parade of cars and pickups out there, and people walking along the side of the road. Is there an execution scheduled?"

"Where the hell you been all week, Arly?"

I wanted to say France, but settled for a meaningless mumble involving Ruby Bee, houseguests, and baseball practice. "So when did you boys put up the guillotine? Who's the lucky guy?"

"It's the grand opening of that supermarket Jim Bob built hisself with Petrel. According to them, there's going to be all kinds of activities and ceremonies and everybody within thirty miles is coming. Marching bands, ribbon cutting, all that shit. I'll send Les over before the highway gets so constipated that the traffic backs up to my office. I plan to go fishing later, and I don't want to be delayed."

"Send him along," I said with a sigh. "I'll head on down there and see what all Jim Bob's doing to disrupt my afternoon. I was planning to go to the Riviera, myself."

"That the new tavern over in Hasty?"

"Yeah, Harve." I wished him luck with the bass and the wrasse, hung up, buffed my badge, and tucked in my shirt. I didn't figure I'd need my bullets to handle the mob, but I strapped on my .38 anyway, just in case the bargains addled some brains and we had violence in the dairy section of the illustrious Jim Bob's SuperSaver Buy 4 Less.