Authors: Ernest Hill
That settled, he leaned back against the seat, loosened his grip on the wheel, and stared headlong into the sunlit highway, anxiously counting mile markers and eagerly anticipating his arrival in Brownsville. In his mind, he saw her clearly—short, petite, and armed with a name, or an address, or some tidbit from the murdered girl’s past that would unravel the mystery and right the wrong perpetrated against his son. No, against his family. Oh, why was this happening to him? Why?
When he reached the club, he stumbled out of the truck and hurried toward the tiny, weather-worn building where Beggar Man worked. Through a haze of cigarette smoke, he saw a group of men loitering just east of the porch, underneath an old oak tree. Some of them had splintered off and were drinking and talking amongst themselves, but most of them were standing near two old gray-haired men playing dominoes on a
table that had been positioned just beneath the tree. As he passed them, he spoke hastily and readied himself to mount the steps; but before he could, the screen door unexpectedly flew open, and someone leaped forward and grabbed him roughly about the shoulders.
“You old sinner you,” the man said. “I heard you was out.”
The muscles in Tyrone’s tense body tightened. He flinched, then pulled away and looked. Bear Claw, one of his old friends, was standing in front of him, a wide grin lighting up his face.
“What’s up, Claw?” Tyrone mumbled. He looked beyond Bear Claw toward the old screen door. His anxious eyes strained, searching the perimeter for Beggar Man.
Bear Claw looked at the door, then back at Tyrone.
“You looking for somebody?” He screwed up his eyes and glanced at Tyrone, then at the door again.
“Where Beggar Man?” Tyrone asked. “Need to talk to ‘im. It’s important.”
“He in there,” Claw said. “Least he was a minute ago.”
Tyrone looked toward the building again, then back at Claw.
“He busy?”
“Busy,” Claw said, then crooned with laughter. “Beggar Man, naw, man. That nigger ain’t doing nothing … ain’t doing nothing but pitling.”
Tyrone took a quick, anxious step toward the door, then paused.
“Well, let me holler at you later, Claw,” he said apprehensively, then took another hurried step toward the door. “Need to talk to Beggar Man right now. But I’m gone holler at you later, okay.”
Tyrone had turned to leave when Claw bellowed, “Everything awright, hunh?”
“It will be,” Tyrone said. “Soon as I see Beggar Man.”
Inside the club, he spotted Beggar Man standing behind the counter tending the bar. Two men sat before him on high stools drinking.
“Tyrone!” Beggar Man crooned across the small, empty room.
The two men sitting at the bar turned slowly in their seats and looked to see who Beggar Man was talking to. Their gazes fell on Tyrone, but not recognizing him, they quickly turned back to their drinks.
“Need to talk to you,” Tyrone said. “Need to talk to you right now.”
Without speaking, Beggar Man refilled the two men’s glasses, then slid the bottle beneath the counter. He looked at Tyrone and motioned to an empty table. After he wiped it down with an old cloth, both he and Tyrone sat down. Tyrone looked at him, then looked away. At that moment, Tyrone felt his insides churn. He opened his mouth to speak, but the muscles in his throat tightened and choked back his words. He looked away again, then sighed deeply.
“Need your help,” he said. Then paused.
“You got it,” Beggar Man said. “You know that.”
“Seen Marcus,” Tyrone said, his somber voice cracking slightly. “Seen ‘im a little while ago at the prison.”
“Yeah,” Beggar Man said, then waited, patiently staring headlong into Tyrone’s weary eyes.
“Yeah,” Tyrone repeated. He paused. A minute passed. He fidgeted with his fingers; then he spoke again. “He ain’t doing too good, man. He ain’t doing too good at all.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Beggar Man said, then averted his eyes. He picked up the cloth and began to wipe the table again.
“They moving ‘im tomorrow,” Tyrone said. His
anguished voice was low, muted. “They moving him to the death house.” He dropped his head, then closed his eyes and took a deep, exasperated breath. There was a short, awkward silence, followed by the sound of Beggar Man pushing his chair from the table. He went to the bar and returned with a bottle of whiskey and two empty glasses. He poured the glass half full, then slid it toward Tyrone.
“Here,” he said. “Drink this.”
Tyrone lifted the glass with an unsteady hand, then tilted his head and gulped down the liquor. The hot, tingling sensation from the soothing liquid loosened his tight palate and calmed his excited nerves. He set the glass on the table and sighed heavily. Beggar Man filled Tyrone’s glass a second time and then poured the other for himself. When both men had drained their respective glasses, they set the empties on the table before them.
“More?” Beggar Man asked.
Tyrone shook his head. His nerves now steady, he felt that he could say that which he had come to say.
“You know a girl named La Beaux?” he said. “Terri Lynn La Beaux?”
Beggar Man paused, thinking.
“Believe her daddy name John.” Tyrone tried to jar his memory. “Last I heard they lived ‘round by the Mason. She ought to be ‘round my son’s age … got to find her. She was friends with that white gal … might know something. Got to find her, man. Got to find her or my son gone die.”
Beggar Man poured himself another drink, gulped it down, then leaned back in his chair.
“Say her daddy name John?”
“That’s right,” Tyrone said anxiously. “John La Beaux.”
Beggar Man rubbed his fingers underneath his chin and stared blankly ahead, concentrating.
“Was she a cheerleader?” he asked, after several moments of intense thought.
“Yeah,” Tyrone said, excited. “She was.”
“I know her,” Beggar Man said. “She live out in the country. On Route 2.”
Tyrone leaned forward, wide-eyed.
“Where ‘bout on Route 2?”
“Down by Mason. In a little old trailer. Back behind the railroad tracks.”
“Thanks,” he said hastily. Then he pushed from the table and snapped to his feet. “Gotta go. Need to check her out. Need to check her out right now.”
He turned to leave, but Beggar Man stopped him.
“Tyrone,” he shouted.
“Yeah.” Tyrone slid to a stop.
“Let me know something, hear?”
“I will,” he said, then pushed through the door.
Terri was hanging clothes on the line when Tyrone arrived in front of her old, weather-worn trailer. She was not what he expected. She wasn’t fat, but she was plump. She wore a pair of tight blue jean cut-offs, a halter top, and no shoes. She had an old apron around her waist and a tiny wooden clothes pin in her mouth.
When he pulled up, she did not stop what she was doing, nor did she turn around and acknowledge him. Instead, she removed the pin from her mouth and attached a garment to the line, then retrieved another garment from the laundry basket, another pin from the pocket of her apron, and began the process anew.
Tyrone eased from the truck and ambled toward her.
He felt anxious. His body told him to hurry, but his mind cautioned restraint. His body, in spite of his best effort to relax, flexed taut. With a concentrated gaze, he strolled toward her with long, easy strides, and when he was close, he paused and spoke.
“I’m looking for Miss La Beaux,” he said. “Miss Terri La Beaux.”
She turned and faced him. No, she wasn’t what he expected. Her hair was short, kinky. Her face was plain. Her bulging brown eyes seemed too large for her round, pudgy face, and her medium brown skin was anything but smooth. Old pimples had been picked, and in their wake had been left small, round blemishes. Perhaps she had been cute once upon a time. If so, time had not been kind to her. She looked at him strangely, then paused. The muscles in her face relaxed.
“Hadn’t been called that in a while,” she said.
Tyrone didn’t understand. “Excuse me?” he said.
“La Beaux,” she said. “Hadn’t been called that in years.”
“Ain’t that your name?” he asked. He had assumed that she was the person for whom he was looking.
“Use to be,” she said. “Before I married. Name’s Zeno now. Terri Zeno.”
“Well, Mrs. Zeno, like to ask you a few questions if I can.”
“Questions!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What kind of questions?”
“‘Bout one of your old friends.”
She looked at him strangely. “Mister. I don’t know you from Adam.”
“My name’s Stokes,” he said. “Tyrone Stokes.”
“Stokes,” she said. She stopped what she was doing and looked directly at him. Her expression changed. Her smile faded.
“That’s right,” he said, intuitively reading her mind. “I’m Marcus Stokes’s father.”
“Ain’t got nothing to say to you.” She turned her back and resumed her work. “I need your help.”
“Ain’t got no help to give,” she said. “And wouldn’t give it if I had it. She didn’t deserve that. Didn’t deserve that at all.”
“You knew her?” he asked. “I knew her.”
“You two were friends?”
“That’s right.”
“So you knew her pretty well?”
“Well enough.”
“What kind of girl was she?”
“Why you asking?”
“Need to know.”
“Why?”
“Just need to know, that’s all.”
“Ask somebody else.”
“Ain’t nobody else to ask.”
“That ain’t my problem.”
“I’m asking you to make it your problem.”
“Can’t help you.”
“Was she a slut?”
“What?” She whirled, incensed.
“They tell me she dressed like a slut.”
“They told you wrong,” she said.
“Say she was real forward.”
“She was a class act,” she said defensively. “She was pretty. She was smart. She was nice. She was on the
squad. She was in the Beta Club. And on top of all that, she worked. She was a class act. She didn’t deserve what he did to her. She didn’t deserve it at all.”
“Where did she work?”
She paused. He could see her chest heaving.
“She worked for Mr. Peterson.”
“Who?”
“The guidance counselor.”
“What, she was his student helper or something?” Tyrone asked, seeking clarification. “No, she baby-sit his kids.” He paused. “Was she seeing anybody?”
“Talked about some guy named P. K. But I never saw him. I think he was from out-of-state.”
“What state?”
“Don’t know,” she said. “Never saw him.”
“Did he drive a blue truck?”
“Couldn’t tell you.”
“What does P. K. stand for?”
“Don’t know.”
“How long was she with this guy?”
“A long time.”
“And you never saw him.”
“Never saw him,” she said. “Not even a picture?”
“Not even a picture.”
“But y’all were friends.”
“Best friends,” she said. “How do you explain that?”
“She was a very private person. That’s all.”
“You been to her house?” he asked. She nodded. “Been to her house and she been to mine.”
“And she told you things.”
“We told each other things.”
“Personal things.”
“That’s right.”
He paused and studied her. “Girl things.”
“Girl things,” she said. “She talked about P. K.?”
“Sometimes.”
“She told you how she felt about him … and what not?”
“Something like that.”
“But she never showed you a picture.”
“I already told you she didn’t.”
“Wonder why?”
“Told you I don’t know.”
“Was P. K. black?”
She looked at him but did not answer. He could tell that she was thinking, pondering. She didn’t know, and she had never considered the possibility. “No,” she said. “She would have told me.”
“You sho’ ‘bout that?”
“She was my friend.”
“But that would explain it.”
“Explain what?” she asked. “The secrecy.”
“No,” she said. “She would have told me.”
“I think he was black.”
“You don’t know that,” she said.
“I think he picked her up that night. Not my son.”
“You can’t prove that.”
“I need to find P. K.”
“I can’t help you.”
“You know anybody who can?”
“No,” she said. “Don’t know nobody.”
“Lady, my son’s life depends on this.”
“Mister, I told you all I know.”
“She must’ve told somebody.”
“If she did, I don’t know nothing about it.”
“She—”
“Mister, I got work to do.”
She turned her back, and for a moment he thought about saying something else, but quickly reconsidered. She was finished talking, and to say more would just be wasting time he didn’t have to waste. He stared at her for a few seconds. She pinned another garment on the line, then slid the basket of clothes farther along with her foot. Yes, the conversation was over. And yes, he had to find P. K.
H
e headed back toward town. A distant bell chimed melodiously through the air, and he immediately recognized the familiar sound of the courthouse pipes tolling in the hour. The clock struck thrice. Instinctively, he looked at his watch. Yes, it was three o’clock. He clenched the wheel tighter. He could feel himself willing the truck forward. Though inside his tormented soul the dark, gloomy cloud of dread still lingered, there was now in him a faint but real ray of optimism. He had a name: P. K. Buoyed by this discovery, he sped back toward the club. P. K…. P. K. He felt his subconscious mind tossing the name around inside his head. P. K…. P. K. What could it stand for? Who could it be?
Suddenly, he hit a pot hole. The violent motion jarred him back to consciousness, and his feeble mind momentarily surrendered the thought, only to discover that he was wringing wet with perspiration. He righted the truck and focused on the road. Then a separate but even more discomforting thought surged through him. Suppose he couldn’t find him. Suppose somewhere,
somehow, too many things had slipped through the cracks. Too many questions had gone unanswered; too many clues had gone unexamined. Oh, would it not have been better for him had he died behind bars ignorant of his son’s horrid plight than to gain his freedom only to live in a world void of the only thing that gave his life meaning.