If Catfish Had Nine Lives(77)

            “I am,” Cliff said. “What can I do for you?”

            “I’d like to tell you a story.”

            “All right. My name’s Cliff Sebastian. This is Betts Winston. What’s your name?”

            “That’s part of the story.” The man winked.

            “Go on.”

            The man cleared his throat and straightened the knot of an invisible tie.

            “Sometimes Gary’s not seen, it’s the one way I can hide. Sometimes I can hear but no one thinks I understand. But that Norman fella, I saws how he was. And what happened next wasn’t just because.”

            Cliff and I were silent a moment.

            Though Gary’s poem was somewhat ominous, I couldn’t translate it at all.

            “Tell me if I’m wrong, but I think you’re trying to tell me you think that Norman Bytheway might have gotten what he deserved? Is that correct?” Cliff said.

            “No, sir, that’s not what I’m trying to tell you. I just want you to know that mehbe that Norman fella wouldn’t do what someone ask-ted him to do.”

            “I see. Gary, I appreciate knowing that, but I could sure use some more information. Can you tell me what he was asked to do, or who asked him to do it?”

            “I wishes I could, but even though sometimes I see, sometimes I don’t see what I’m looking at, too.”

            “Oh,” Cliff said. “Would you just let me know if something else comes back to you, if you remember more?”

            Cliff handed Gary a card. Even though I doubted that Gary had a cell phone, he carefully put the card in his back pocket and then turned and walked away. He moved as though he had a catch in his hip, though not a full-on limp.

            “That was interesting. And kind of sad,” I said.

            “Yeah.” Cliff squinted and ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “Yeah. Come on, let’s go find some other people to talk to.”

            “Sounds good to me.”





Chapter 20




            The rising of the clear, bright quarter moon was idyllic. It was difficult to see many stars because of the artificial light poles around the campsite, but as the moon rode along the top of the forest of trees that bordered the site, it seemed to watch protectively over the convention. It looked like it had been hung there on purpose, just for the poets.

            The daytime and early evening convention events, like the catfish fry and the Dutch oven demonstrations, were about fun and frivolity. The evening activities were still all about fun, but a blanket of reverence also fell over the crowd once the sun set. Perhaps some of the atmosphere had to do with the murder, but I suspected that the music played and the poetry read were both so well respected that rowdy and out-of-control behavior wasn’t typically accepted until later, when all the performances had been accomplished.

            Burly cowboys who weren’t imbibing stood stoically guarding the two campfires, resembling the way some of our summer bouncers posed. I admired Orly’s attention to that detail, but I spent a moment wishing that at least one of the campfire guards had been aware enough to protect my brother a couple nights earlier.

            At the far end of the space was a stage. It wasn’t fancy or very high up off the ground. But it was wide and made of strong metal that held the weight of many people at once. Orly had been either on the stage or close by it for most of the evening. A small sound system with one microphone and one amplifier was used so that everyone gathered around could hear the poets and singers. Most of the men and women, but mostly men, who took the microphone and recited or sang something they’d written were blessed with booming voices and didn’t need the sound system’s assistance, but it helped with some of the quieter types.