Bloodfire

23

“Guess you worked out my name’s Whiffy,” Whiffy said. “Real name’s Willard Renfrow.”

Carver introduced himself and Beth, and shook Whiffy’s strong black hand. He noticed several fingers were crooked and had oversized knuckles, as if they were arthritic.

“They’s about four hundred folks in Dark Glades,” Whiffy said, after taking a hearty pull of Budweiser and flicking foam from his narrow mustache. “That includes the ones live outside the town proper. “ ’Bout a hundred of the citizens here are black, and they live mostly down Cypress Avenue on the east side of town. Like in a lotta towns, you’ll recognize the poor, mostly black area by the ramshackle houses an’ the old cars. Per capita income ain’t for shit. The black families in Dark Glades are descendants of north Florida slaves moved down here after the Civil War, an’ they still got a slave mentality. Civil-rights movement never really caught on in these parts, an’ these last ten years it’s backslid ’bout as far as it could go.”

A motorcycle downshifted and roared by fast outside. The kid on the Harley? Carver said, “One thing I don’t get. You’re black and you own the town’s main restaurant in the white section. And B.J. and his brother listened when you talked to them.”

“They was listenin’ to a white man.”

Carver sat wondering if there might be something in the water in Dark Glades that impaired reason.

Whiffy glanced at Beth and grinned. He said, “Man don’t understand. I’m good as white here for two reasons, Carver. I got money, an’ I used to play pro ball. Came up from the minors to catch for the Atlanta Braves seven years ago. Went to bat a hunnerd an’ fifty times, till my elbow got broke by a hard-throwin’ Cardinals right-hander. Ended my career. Didn’t matter; I was only hittin’.223, with thirty-five strikeouts, so the Braves were plannin’ on sendin’ me back down. Pitchers soon found out I had a blind spot. Couldn’t hit a high, tight fastball, which is why I got tagged with the name Whiffy. That’s what that right-hander threw me, an’ I was too slow to get outa the way, much less hit the ball.”

“You saying money and major-league status bought you respect here?”

“I’m sayin’ they made me white. These yahoos figure a black man’s inferior, so if one of us does better’n most white men in a way can’t be denied, it don’t tally with their thinkin’. So what they do is make him white in their minds, sort of. That way there’s no breakdown of their fucked-up logic. Don’t just happen here. Look around, you’ll see it all the time. There’s a story in baseball ’bout a manager didn’t want a black player on his team. Then the man hits a triple first time at bat. Manager jumps up an’ down an’ yells, ‘Looka that Cuban run!’ ”

Carver exchanged glances with Beth. She nodded, smiling sadly.

“It helps, too,” Whiffy said, “that I can still swing the bat well enough to break a few skulls if I got to. And they know I’ll swing it. What I’m tryin’ to get across to you is that this here’s a backwater town where interracial couples just ain’t gonna be accepted. An’ you two don’t have to be sleepin’ together; you just walk around together an’ some of the Neanderthals around here’ll be ready to lynch you both.”

“Like B.J. and Junior Brainard?”

“ ’Specially like them. They live in a rundown cabin out in the swamp an’ support themselves dealin’ dope an’ poachin’ ’gators. Get to know them two, an’ you might think the theory of evolution can work in reverse.”

Carver said, “What about the law here?”

“That’d be Chief Ellis Morgan an’ two part-time officers. He does what he can, but he’s an elected official, if you catch my meanin’.”

“He plays along with the bad guys.”

“No more’n he has to, but he plays.”

“How dangerous are the Brainard brothers?”

“They killed before, I’m sure of it. You run dope an’ you poach the way they do, murder can become part of the game. Swamp hides bodies an’ they never turn up.” He nodded toward Beth. “I don’t mean to shock the lady, but it’s a fact.”

Carver said, “She understands.”

Whiffy tilted his head to the side and stared at Beth. “Where’d you learn to be such a bad-ass in a fight, Miss?”

“My husband taught me. He thought it’d be good for me to know.”

“Husband?”

“Not me,” Carver said.

“You two made big enough fools outa the Brainards they ain’t gonna sleep well till they make things even. ’Specially Junior, bein’ fucked over like that by a woman. So if I was you, I’d finish whatever business I had in Dark Glades an’ move along without a forwardin’ address.”

Carver said, “Sound idea.”

“Some people I run from,” Beth said, “some I don’t.”

Whiffy shook his head. “That martial-arts shit don’t work against a shotgun.”

“Good point,” Carver said.

Whiffy said, “You got sense, man. Try to talk a little into her.”

Beth arched an eyebrow at Whiffy. “You’re still here, and you gotta use a baseball bat from time to time.”

“I got family roots here go back to Southern Reconstruction, honey, or I sure as hell’d be livin’ in Miami or someplace else where mosta the houses got indoor plumbin’.” He peered hard at Beth, then looked at Carver. “I ain’t convincin’ her, am I?”

“My guess is no.”

“Listen here,” Whiffy said, leaning so far back in his chair that Carver thought the rear legs would slide under on the smooth linoleum, “I don’t know what the relationship is between you two an’ don’t much care. But this ain’t an enlightened part of the world here. People are gonna assume the worst an’ act on it, an’ not necessarily accordin’ to law.”

Beth shot him an icy look. “We’re only business associates.”

“Just travelin’ through, I hope.”

“We plan on staying awhile,” she said firmly.

“Hmm. You two at the Casa Grande?”

“How’d you know?” Beth asked.

“Only real motel close in to town.”

Beth said, “Gonna be our home for a while.”

Whiffy drained his beer mug, let his chair drop forward on all four legs, then stood up. “The desk clerk at the Casa, little guy name of Watts, is a good man. You get in any kinda trouble over there, it’s somethin’ to keep in mind.”

Carver said, “Thanks, we will.”

“You folks go ahead an’ finish your supper now. We can warm it in the microwave if you want.”

“No thanks,” Beth said. “I worked up an appetite. I’d rather eat cold food than wait for hot.”

Carver looked at the congealing cream gravy on his chicken-fried steak. He waved Marlene over and handed her his plate. Beth took a huge bite of her hamburger and chewed lustily. He caught a hint of onion from across the table.

Whiffy said, “Marlene, you come get me if there’s any more trouble, you hear?”

“I hear, Whiffy.” She disappeared into the kitchen with Carver’s dinner.

Whiffy tucked his thumbs in the elastic waistband of his shorts. They sagged low. For a moment Carver thought the man might absently scratch his crotch, a major leaguer in the batter’s box. Habits died hard. But he released the waistband and it snapped loudly against his stomach. He said, “You folks best not stroll around an’ explore the town when you leave here.”

Carver said, “We’re going back to the motel.”

“Good,” Whiffy said. He looked at Beth and shook his head slowly. Then he walked toward the kitchen and the back exit, his hairless calf muscles bulging. His sweaty bare soles made soft ticking sounds on the linoleum with each step.

At the swinging doors behind the counter, he turned and said, “You two get back to the motel, you lock your doors.”

Carver said not to worry, that was in the plan.

Beth took another bite of hamburger.

Dolly Parton began singing again as Marlene brought Carver’s warmed-up supper.

After leaving Whiffy’s, Carver and Beth made one stop, at the ambitiously named but tiny Everglades Drug Emporium near the end of Cypress. The place had a plank floor, a glass-and-wood display case full of dusty bottles and discolored boxes. An old man in a yellowed white shirt and a string tie leaned near the cash register, waiting for them to decide what they wanted to buy. Next to him was a soda fountain with three stools. On a shelf behind it was one of those old green Hamilton Beach blenders used for making milkshakes in stainless-steel containers that kept them cold. Carver thought a milkshake here might taste good before they left town.

Beth bought a package of disposable razors and a tube of Colgate toothpaste. Carver picked up a bottle of Tylenol, in case the swamp humidity made his knee ache. He felt as if he might be forgetting something, but he couldn’t draw it to the top of his mind.

Then they bought some magazines to read. Carver picked out Time and Newsweek. Maybe he could figure out what the hell was going on in the world. Beth chose Vogue and Money, noticed Carver smiling, and told him if he laughed she’d kick him where it hurt the most.

He didn’t laugh.

That night she left the connecting door between their rooms standing open.

He realized what he should have bought at the drugstore.