Lost Man's River(38)

Lucius was concerned because the Royal Alligator was way out here near the interstate and Arbie had no transportation and no driver’s license—nor social security, medical insurance, or ID of any kind, as it turned out, since he did not believe in government meddling, state or federal, far less paying taxes. There was no record of him anywhere, he often boasted.

“How will you spend the day, then?”

“Hitch a ride in to the billiard hall. Good whorehouse, maybe. None of your damn business.” Annoyed that Sally Brown had joined their party, Arbie wished to be courted with more ardor, or selected in place of Sally for this outing, but having already invited her the night before, Lucius merely shrugged. “See you later, then,” he said, accepting a day alone with Sally as compensation for Arbie’s evil temper later on. However, Sally was not up, and he did not wake her.



Lucius drove south from Lake City on I-75, turning off on the old road to Fort White and working around past the 7-Eleven store to the new Honey-dew Subdivision, where dust-filmed woods—“alive with redskins,” according to an 1838 report—drew back aghast from the raw scraped wounds of new development.

At the specified “ranchette,” he was shown inside by Grover G. Kinard, retired deacon of the First Florida Baptist Church, attired in sports jacket and open-collared shirt. Mr. Kinard did not greet his visitor nor did he present him to his wife, a pretty-pink old party propped like a doll on the front room sofa, in a bower of pale plastic flowers, hand-tinted photographs of smiling children, and a small TV. “Oriole,” Kinard said in a flat tone, without a glance at either of them. In timid whimsy, Oriole Kinard fluttered fingers at their visitor as the Deacon marched him past her sofa into her spotless kitchen. He offered no coffee, just sat him at the kitchen table while he hammered out on its linoleum just what was what.

“Yessir,” the Deacon said, drumming his fingers, “I knew all them people, just about the only one still living that really knew ’em all to say hello to. There may be details I won’t call to mind, but I’ll tell you as best as I can remember. I can show you where Edgar Watson lived, and the Tolens and Coxes, and I can tell all about the killing down in those old woods.” He jerked his thumb in the general direction of the pink person on the other side of the pasteboard wall. “She ain’t a Cox but she’s related,” her husband said. Over the loud whoop-de-do of a TV game show, a sweet old voice from the other room cried out, “No, I ain’t never! Leslie’s grandmother’s daddy was my granddaddy’s cousin, but I wouldn’t know him if I met him in church!”

“It looks to me like you only know about one killing.” Mr. Kinard held up one hand, spreading the fingers. “Well, five was killed down around that section “fore them fellers got done.” Lucius got out his notebook, the sight of which made the old man suck his teeth. “My information must be worth a lot to you,” he said. When Lucius enthusiastically agreed, the Deacon coughed, then got it over with. “How much?” he said. “Two hundred dollars?”

“Well, to be honest, I never thought of it that way,” said Lucius, taken aback. “I mean, most folks like to talk about old times. I guess you’re the first I’ve come across who wanted money.”

Thinking that over, the Deacon squinted, not shamefaced in the least but ready to dicker. “One hundred fifty, then,” he said.

Admiring his style, Lucius forked over the money. The Deacon counted the bills minutely before getting up and going somewhere to squirrel them away. Returning, he said, “Guess we can go then, lest you want coffee.”

The Deacon introduced Oriole briefly on the way out. Her TV show had a patriotic theme, and its glad light spangled her snowy head with stars. “Be back later,” her husband informed her. “Next year, maybe.” Lucius grinned but the Deacon did not. He marched outside and climbed into Lucius’s car. “Better take your auto,” he said, once he was settled. “That old rattler of mine don’t run too good.” The Deacon’s harsh cough and painful hacking were as close as he would come all day to honest mirth. He had a certain grim mean humor, Lucius decided, but his days of open laughter were long since behind him.

They drove south on the old Fort White Road to Columbia City, which the Deacon identified as the former site of a huge sawmill. Today this pineland had been timbered out and the poor woods were second growth and Columbia City was a fading hamlet scattered about an old white church in a grove of live oak. “Ain’t but that one nigra church out here today. Had a murder in there three years back, handcuffed and robbed the deacon, put two bullets through his head.” Troubled, he looked over at Lucius. “Nigra, y’know, but a man of God the same as me. Don’t understand that one, do you?”