More Than a Hashtag, page 24
Elmo chuckled, but there was no humor in his laugh. He took a big draw on his long cigar, so deep the end was a fireball of heat. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and blew out a long, slow breath of smoke into the sky.
Pinkie knew Elmo was stallin’ to let the fear juices simmer a little longer in Pinkie’s belly. Even though Pinkie was anxious to get this over with, he waited for Elmo to go on, clenchin’ his jaw over what might come next.
Right then, they were interrupted by the ear-splittin’ screech of the old metal office door openin’. One of Elmo’s flunkies stepped through and called out to him.
“Mr. Astle, sir, y’all are needed in the office right away.”
Before turnin’ his head to acknowledge this message, Elmo locked his watery, blue-eyed stare dead center on Pinkie’s face.
“Don’t leave, Pinker. I’ll be quick.”
Elmo stood up from his green plastic chair like a rickety scarecrow might stand after spending a cold winter night hunched over in a field. His joints all let out a creak, and Pinkie hoped Elmo felt pain in each one of them.
Pinkie’s bladder was screamin’ at him outta nervousness, and he was itchin’ all over. He appreciated the break from confrontation so he could pull himself together and straighten up like a man. Pinkie wasn’t gonna let Elmo think he was an easily intimidated target.
He said a quick prayer, promisin’ to go to church regular for the rest of his life—if he would just be granted any time left to live.
The air snapped with nervous electricity. The hairs on Pinkie’s arms were standin’ at attention, so he tried calmin’ down by doin’ those Navy SEAL breathers: four breaths in, four breaths out. Real slow like. He’d just finished breathin’ round eight, when the door screeched again. Elmo came outside with a deadly, black storm cloud rollin’ over his head. This wasn’t gonna be good.
Elmo sat down in his chair and rubbed his wrinkled hand down his face like he was tryin’ to pull his scrawny beard into somethin’ longer. He didn’t even look at Pinkie. He kept his head lowered down on his chest, and his eyes closed like he was fixin’ to take a nap.
“Pinker, we got us a little problem. Seems your little brother and his cohort got themselves some evidence of my little operation on film and are fixin’ to take it to the sheriff.”
He paused to let his words sink in. Pinkie pretended this was all news to him, like he didn’t know nothin’ ‘bout no evidence. He waited for Elmo to go on.
“Don’t ask where I get my information. I have eyes and ears everywhere in the parish. I know everythin’. So, we got us a coupla options here. First, you can pull the rug out from under ‘em and get that evidence. Then warn baby brother and his compadre offa my operation by puttin’ the fear of the devil in their very souls. Second option, I take care of this nasty business myself. And let me paint y’all a little picture of how I’ll handle this:
“Little brother’s been gator huntin’ as of late and has some boatin’ skills. He just might have to take his friend on a little midnight run way up ‘long Bayou Pierre. Pretty dark and secluded that time of night. Accidents happen all the time in the swamp. I hear gators like little appetizers ‘fore supper. Two boys would make a real nice appetizer. Poof. Two problems solved.
“It’s y’all’s choice. But since I’m a smart man, I can guess which option you’ll choose. I’ll give y’all a little while to get the job done, ‘cuz I want it done right. No need to arouse any more suspicion. Bring me the pictures and the merchandise they stole. Figure out an explanation they’ll swallow and make them forget all ‘bout what they saw. You do that, and I’ll call off my dogs; otherwise, I’m gonna ring the dinner bell for those hangry gators.”
Pinkie cleared his throat and started to answer, but Elmo didn’t give him a chance to say nothin’. He stood up, tossed his old, dead cigar in the dirt, and walked off ‘round the corner of the warehouse like nothin’ ever happened. Like Pinkie wasn’t ever even there.
Pinkie’s knees were shakin’ bad, and they felt like wet noodles. But if he didn’t get up and outta there, he was gonna puke like a ten-year-old girl, making a complete fool of himself. He concentrated on standin’ up and straightenin’ his spine. He made it to his truck without stumblin’.
Pinkie got into his truck and spun gravel takin’ off. After ‘bout fifty yards, when he had no choice, he opened the truck door, fell on the ground, and tossed his cookies. It felt like everythin’ he’d eaten for a week came pourin’ outta his belly and into the bullrushes by the side of the road.
Hot dang. That was close. Pinkie covered his face with his hands and started to cry from stress and relief and, to be honest, a bit of shame. He hadn’t even tried to stand up to Elmo. Nope, he hadn’t said nothing. To Elmo, Pinkie was a nothin’ and a nobody. He felt like a little kid called down to the principal’s office for cuttin’ school.
Once Pinkie’s cry was over, he leaned on the hood of the truck and took a minute to pull himself together. He was gonna have to do somethin’ to help Chilly and Tee. Maybe he hadn’t stood up to Elmo, but he’d lived to fight ‘nother day.
Suddenly he pulled his shoulders back, raised his arms, and slammed his fists onto the hood of his shiny, black truck. The dent he made was goin’ to be noticed; a sign that Pinker Sutton Boudreaux, wasn’t just ready for a fight, he was going to war.
40
Rainy Days and Mondays
Man, oh man, there ain’t nothin’ worse’n rain on a Monday and havin’ to be at school,” commented Joe Don Ratchet while we were sittin’ in the classroom eatin’ lunch. Ain’t nobody dumb ‘nough to sit outside in a Louisiana deluge. Ain’t nobody wanna eat a soggy fried baloney sandwich.
“I’ll tell y’all somethin’ worse’n that,” huffed Shondra. “It’s sittin’ with a bunch of mopey boys with PMS that have nothin’ better to do than gripe ‘bout the weather!”
She had gathered up her lunch things and moved ‘cross the room to sit with the girls. She musta been a bit moody herself, ‘cuz the LaShondra June Bell I knew would rather eat a dead snake’n sit ‘round gossipin’ with girls. I hadn’t said more than a dozen words to her all mornin’, even when she tried makin’ conversation with me on the way to school. She was probably wonderin’ what was grindin’ my gears today ‘sides the weather.
Me and Chilly was sittin’ like bumps on a log, starin’ outside at the rain. We had business to conduct with Sheriff Lloyd that afternoon. Last night we had a long talk on the phone just ‘fore the storm hit. We decided I better get the bamboo pole with the drugs out from under my front porch ‘fore the rain got to it.
I had hid the pictures of the warehouse operation behind Mamere’s chiffarobe where all the dust balls collected. I was nervous. Today was the day. Do or die.
As of last night, all the evidence was hidin’ in St. Anthony’s church just ‘round the corner from school in a cupboard where Father George kept the supply of extra prayer candles. I’d waited ‘til he’d filled the votive holders after Sunday night mass to sneak on over and hide them, so unless he was plannin’ on cleanin’ the cupboards, our valuable evidence was safe for the day.
Father George never closed St. Anthony’s; he said you never knew when some poor soul might need the Lord. I just hoped he didn’t figure on the Lord needin’ a little break on a rainy Monday afternoon and closed up for the day, ‘cuz we needed to grab that evidence ‘fore we went to the sheriff.
I would worry and feel the rock in the pit of my stomach ‘til we walked into Sheriff Lloyd’s private office. I had called the sheriff’s department that mornin’ ‘fore school and made an appointment. I wanted to make darn sure he would be in his office and not out lookin’ for crime.
In my experience, rain was the biggest crime stopper in the South. So was Monday. If somebody was gonna do a crime, they was still sleepin’ off the crime they did over the weekend.
Now we only had one last worry. Well, technically, since it was rainin’, there were two worries: keepin’ the pictures dry and walkin’ ‘round town carryin’ a bamboo stick that wasn’t long ‘nough to be a fishin’ pole. I was probably gonna stick it down my pant leg to hide it and walk like I had broke my knee.
Good thing the sheriff’s office wasn’t too far away. I’m not that graceful, and it’d be bad bad to fall and break my face and have the ambulance come to discover a stick full of drugs in the leg of my britches.
The bell finally rang. We all scattered to throw away our lunch trash and get in our seats ‘fore the Slayer walked through the door and started givin’ us the stink eye, or worse.
We hadn’t gone ten steps ‘fore I heard Chilly take a big breath in, and it didn’t come out.
I felt an elbow clip my arm as Woody Richard passed me with his arm possessively ‘round Sue Ellen’s shoulder. Man, that dude was a fast mover.
“Hey, Tee, what’s the matter? You worried ‘bout somethin’—like doin’ a better job keepin’ your woman happy? Then maybe she won’t leave ya to sit with her girlfriends.”
His laugh was joined by Slugger Dupuis who was holdin’ hands with Kara Jo Gibbons. She evidently thought it was funny too, but I noticed Sue Ellen was lookin’ at the ground with her hair coverin’ up most of her face. She wasn’t laughin’.
“Why don’t y’all mind your own business, Woody? Ya better worry ‘bout your own woman, ‘cuz I’m pretty sure Sue Ellen wouldn’t have to look too faIr to find someone who’d treat her better’n you.”
It was outta my mouth ‘fore my brain kicked in. Nobody talked to Woody like that. ‘Specially me. He could knock me cold with a single punch.
I pulled myself together and looked to see how he was reactin’ to my speech.
“Whoa, the Tee-Man got himself some courage. Way to go. Y’all need to stand up for yourself that way all the time,” he said.
Yup, here I was mouthin’ off again. It hadn’t been very long ago that I’d already told Slugger what’s what ‘bout how to treat girls.
He held out a fist for me to bump. I bumped fists, but I didn’t take my eyes offa Woody’s face, and I didn’t crack a smile. I wanted him to know I meant business. Chilly finally breathed.
Dang, the second bell rang. We were late. All six of us booked it down the hall to English class. We hit the doorway at the same time and squeezed into the room all together like toothpaste bein’ pushed out of a tube. Nobody wanted to be that last one in. After the ruckus at the door, everyone paused for a second, held their collective breath, and tiptoed to their seats, hopin’ they wouldn’t be the one the Slayer noticed.
She was standin’ center front as still as a cemetary statue. Only the two desks in front of mine stood between me and the scariest woman alive. I dared look up as I reached my desk. She looked up just as I did, her eyes burning a hole all the way through the back of my skull.
“Mr. Hopper,” the Slayer said in a voice that sounded like a rusty car door openin’, “you and your friends will not be late to my class again. Ever.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, unable to look away from the eyes that held me captive.
Why did she call out my name? Why did I deserved to be singled out from my five other tardy friends?
She continued to address me with the most puzzlin’ statement, “Remember, Mr. Hopper, your actions will have consequences.”
Those words almost stole my soul. Was she talkin’ ‘bout bein’ tardy to her class again? Or in some weird way could the Slayer see my future? I ventured a glance at Chilly. He was white as a ghost. He felt it too: a portent of things to come.
The bell rang at three-fifteen. By then, the impact of the Slayer’s words had faded, replaced by the rock of dread in my stomach as I steeled myself for our visit with the sheriff. I hurried to the front door in a sea of smelly teenage bodies to wait for Chilly. I don’t know why I hurried. Right when Chilly’d come back to school, his Mama, in an effort to add more culture to his life, moved his schedule ‘round so he could take band. Yup. My buddy was learnin’ to play the trumpet.
Melvin Draper, the former trumpet player, had moved with his family to Terrebonne Parish so his daddy could work the offshore oil rigs. Miz Marguerite snatched up that trumpet and band openin’ like it was a ten dollar bill layin’ in the parkin’ lot.
JJ Granger played the trumpet too, but he owned his own instrument. The school could only afford one trumpet to loan out, so Chilly inherited Melvin’s old loaner.
Ewww . . . the thought of blowin’ on somethin’ Melvin had left his cooties all over made me wanna puke. Chilly said they sterilized it and washed it for him. I didn’t really trust that. If it was me, I’d get a bucket of Clorox and a can of Lysol spray and clean it myself. ‘Bout ten times over. I ain’t suckin’ on nobody else’s germs. ‘Cept maybe LaShondra’s. . . .
We had lucked out on Shondra today. She usually walked home with us and woulda been suspicious if we tried to explain why we was goin’ into town ‘stead of home. I think she woulda Velcroed herself and stuck to my side ‘til she got the truth outta me. I thought it best to keep her outta this part of our plan. I didn’t want her in any more danger. Fortunately, Shondra was babysittin’ and was goin’ straight there.
Chilly came whistlin’ ‘round the corner with his backpack and without his trumpet case.
“Dude, where’s your trumpet?” I asked.
I knew Chilly had to practice ever’ day, ‘cept weekends, for forty-five minutes. He faithfully (and unhappily) lugged it home and back, Monday through Friday. Wednesday was ‘specially bad, ‘cuz he had to take lessons after school.
“I’m just gonna tell Mama I forgot it, ‘cuz it’s still all new to me to carry ‘round. Maybe I’ll say I practiced at school or somethin’. Man, my trumpet is the least of our worries at the moment!”
“So when can I come watch y’all perform?” I asked, tryin’ to keep the laugh outta my voice.
“Never. Dude, it’s a scary sight. I can see myself in the reflection of the band room windows. That’s just somethin’ you can never unsee. ‘Sides that, I sound like a cow givin’ birth to a giant calf. I keep hopin’ Mama’ll decide it’s hopeless and let me give up when she hears me practice at home. But she just turns up the TV in the kitchen and don’t say nothin’.
“The only good thing ‘bout it is Jovie can’t stand the noise, so she leaves. It’s almost an hour of Jovie-free heaven. Then I empty the spit valve in the hall outside her room. It’s awesome when she steps in my slimy spit and gets her socks wet.”
I was rollin’, and Chilly joined in with his belly laugh and soon we were both outta control laughin’.
Laughin’ felt good ‘til we walked out the front door and straight into Pinkie. He was waitin’ for us by his black truck. His arms were folded, and he looked none too happy. He turned his head to look down the street both ways and motioned for us to get in his truck. We climbed in, and he drove ‘round the school to the teachers’ parking area, which happened to share parking with the church. My whole body was just itchin’ to run in and grab the bamboo pole and photos from their hidin’ places, but I restrained myself. We needed to hear what Pinkie had on his mind.
“What’s up?” asked Chilly innocently. “Y’all never come pick us up from school. We gonna go get ice cream or somethin’?”
Oh, geez, Chilly, that was totally the wrong thing to say. At this moment, Pinkie had a face like a bucket of worms and was in no mood for humor. I wanted to put my face in my hands. Or disappear. That woulda been even better.
“Y’all both just shut up.” We did.
“Now listen to me. We’re in a world of hurt right now. I went to see Elmo Astle, the devil himself, and figured out what he knew ‘bout y’all’s snoopin’ ‘round into his business. Evidently, he has some dang good sources, ‘cuz he knows everythin’! Y’all hear that? Everythin’! He told me to stop you from interferrin’ or somethin’ bad’ll be comin’ your way.”
“Somethin’ bad?” I asked. “What kinda bad?”
“Look, this guy is majorly into drugs. Not takin’ ‘em but makin’ and sellin’ ‘em. He runs the whole drug trade from Baton Rouge to the gulf and all the way ‘cross southern Louisiana to Mobile. He’s got more influence and power’n y’all can even imagine.
“But one thing he ain’t got. He ain’t got no soul. No conscience. He’d just as soon have one of his men shoot you ‘tween the eyes or slice you up in pieces and dump your remains in the bayou. There’s no way in hell he’s gonna let two little peeshwanks walk into his domain and ruin his operation.”
“So why can’t we tell the sheriff and turn it over to him?” asked Chilly.
Pinkie started to laugh, but it was a sick, humorless laugh. He put his hand over his eyes and just sat there.
“Chilly, that’s exactly what we’re gonna do. But Elmo Astle’s gonna eat Sheriff Lloyd for lunch. The dude’s haulin’ drugs ‘cross state lines, and even the feds ain’t caught up to him. Y’all think Sheriff Lloyd and Chubby Shank can take him down? Not in your wildest dreams.”
“Well, maybe the feds could use the information we give Sheriff Lloyd, and all of ‘em go after him? That guy is sellin’ drugs to kids. He’s ruinin’ people’s lives! And if you’re not careful, he’s gonna ruin you, Pinkie!”
Chilly was shoutin’ now and cryin’ at the same time. Pinkie just sat there like a statue, and I might as well not even been in the truck. I was invisible while two brothers tried to figure out what to do to save their souls.
41
Tell It To the Sheriff
I think I got a good feel for what eternity must be like while I sat in the back seat of Pinkie’s truck, waitin’ for somebody—anybody—to say somethin’ after the argument was over. I’da been happy if Chubby Shank pulled up behind us with his cruiser lights on to ask Pinkie why he was loiterin’ in a school zone. Maybe gettin’ a ticket would shock the Boudreaux brothers outta their daze.
