Thinking of Dan’s boozy expression when he pontificates on these subjects, I suspect he accords the profession a little too much dignity.
Rocket scientists, I think, trudging down the hall to the reception area to make sure Mr. Longley isn’t harassing Julia, he and I ain’t.
“What did you say to that man?” Julia says indignantly.
“He was furious when he came by here.”
I nod glumly.
“That there’s not a right for every wrong.”
“He was so beautiful!” Julia wails.
“Most of the people who come in here don’t look any better than you and Dan. And you run him off in ten minutes. How can you make a living this way?”
I’m a lot better looking than Dan. I glance down at my stomach. At 5’ll” I am battling a paunch, but Dan is obese. Gray as a fox, Dan, his hair thinning, looks older, too.
“If you want to send him a bill,” I say more snidely than Julia deserves, “be my guest.” Hell, I would have done his divorce, but he didn’t give me a chance.
Five minutes later I tell Julia I’m headed to Bear Creek and will see her Monday. She asks, “You’re not going to get any lunch?”
I tell her I’ll stop at the Mcdonald’s in Brinkley, about an hour from now. She replies, “Get the salad bar, or you’ll never lose that gut
you’re getting.”
I suck in my stomach, thinking of Paul Taylor running the Dallas Marathon.
“How would I do without you?”
“You probably don’t do it very often,” she says, still smarting over our loss of that jerk who was just in here.
“Little do you know, Julia,” I say.
“Little do you know.”
The only thing worthwhile I have accomplished by five o’clock Friday is to obtain a copy of Bledsoe’s file from the prosecutor. The bond hearing was a formality, since it wouldn’t have made any difference if the judge had made it fifty thousand as I requested instead of the $500,000 we ended up with. The arraignment, where the defendant enters his formal plea, has been set for Monday afternoon, and I pull into the Bear Creek Inn thinking of the expression on my client’s face as he was led out of the courtroom. I told him that I would come talk to him Monday. He had looked more resigned than sad. Despite the fact that the judge, sheriff, and prosecutor are all black, he must think that it is business as usual in Bear Creek. The white man is out of jail, the black man is in. No progress there. One other thing I have accomplished. Lattice’s check is good. A trip by Farmer’s Bank has removed that concern.
Now, it is time to get to work.
The Bear Cre k Inn (an “e” appears to have been missing from the sign outside for some time) is a nine-unit motel almost across the road from the cemetery where my parents are buried.
Though a willowy female clerk greets me warmly, I am relieved there is no hint of recognition by either of us. After my appearance at the bond hearing, already I feel as if I am being watched by half the town. She is a woman in her forties; her friendly smile cannot quite make me overlook her narrow, wedge shaped face and brown eyes that are too close together. Still, her expansive manner makes me instantly forget her almost startling homeliness. When I was a boy, this place was called Horton’s Motel. Alongside it was a restaurant by the same name, an early morning rendezvous for duck hunters. In answer to my question, Betty confides that the restaurant was destroyed by a fire set by the former owner in an unsuccessful attempt to collect the insurance.
“It’s the only way people can make any money these days. I got this place for a song.”
I nod. Arson has always been a mainstay of the free enterprise system.
She tells me to wait for a moment and disappears behind a curtain and soon returns with a small yellow canister filled with ice cubes I decide not to inspect too closely.
“The machine outside hasn’t worked for years,” she explains without apology.
“Are you a salesman?”
It is probably pointless even to think about privacy.
“I’m a lawyer involved in the murder case that was filed here a couple of days ago.”
“You’re that old boy who used to live here,” she says excitedly, “who’s come back to defend that nigger charged with killing that old Chinaman!
You think that Paul Taylor would a hired somebody?”
Maybe I should drive on to Forrest City and stay at the Holiday Inn tonight. I don’t know how much of Betty I can take. On the other hand, I better get used to people like her.
“I don’t know,” I say, innocently.
“What do you think?”
Happy to be asked, Betty smooths her hair down with her right hand, raising an ample breast in the process.
“Hell, no. These niggers here are just power crazy-that’s what I think. Yet I’m not so sure your guy is guilty either. It could of been that old man’s wife. She’s the one who found him. You don’t really know what goes on between those old people. You never hardly saw them out together except in the store. The young ones are fine, pretty much like the rest of us.”
“How long have you lived here, Betty?” I ask, wondering if there is any negative feeling about the Chinese in Bear Creek. When I was growing up,
they were respected because the kids were likable and all of them worked so hard.
“Just five years,” Betty says, “but this town is dead as a doornail. If I had any competition, I’d probably have to torch the place, too.” She cackles merrily at the thought of it.
I smile and take the bucket from her, anxious to make some phone calls and then settle down with the file.
“If you need more ice, don’t be shy about knocking on my door. I stay up real late,” she says suggestively, handing my key to me with her left hand. She isn’t wearing a ring.
This is one offer even I can turn down.
“Thanks, I appreciate it.” Afraid she’ll volunteer to feed me, I decide not to ask her to recommend a restaurant.
In room number nine, which, logically enough, is on the end farthest from the office, I consider my surroundings. I have no desk to write on, but in the corner by an iron floor lamp there is a padded chair with big arms. I test the double bed, which proves to be a little hard, but better a firm mattress than one I need a rope to help climb out of in the morning. On top of a scarred brown dresser across from the bed rests a small color TV of indeterminate age and brand. I click it on and remember I am watching television beamed from Memphis, which lies across the Mississippi fifty miles to the east. I enter the bathroom and try out the plumbing, mentally lowering my expectations.
Plumbing standards in this country seem to have undergone a decline in the last twenty years. However, I am pleasantly surprised to find that though it takes a while, the commode flushes, and though not exactly gleaming (I’ve seen too many commercials lately), it is cleaner than the commode the old owner in my new house left me. There is no tub, only a shower, and since except for my feet I won’t be coming in contact with it, I decide not to worry about the walls too much. The color scheme, hospital-scrubs green, is not my favorite, but if the heater works, it’ll do. I try it and initially get as much noise as heat. Maybe, like Betty, it just needs to calm down. For twenty-five dollars I can’t ask for much. I unpack and mix myself a bourbon and Coke in the one plastic cup (I must have the salesman suite) Betty has provided, and add a couple of ice cubes. I turn down the sound on the TV, and from a built-in shelf next to the bed, I take the phone and fulfill my promise to call Amy and let her know for certain I won’t be coming back tonight.
“What happened?” she asks, her voice sounding fatigued. Like myself, Amy is a morning person, which may be the only thing we have in common.
I rehash the afternoon’s events while staring at an animated and charming black female newscaster on Channel 5. It is amazing how much things have changed since I lived in this part of the state.