The Odds of Getting Even (2 page)

Mr. Macon took a cigarette from behind his ear and tapped the filter on the table. “Life's about getting, and then about keeping. I take care of what's mine. I hoped you'd be man enough to do the same by the time you got on that witness stand, but you always have been a mama's boy.” He shrugged. “Do what you got to tomorrow,
boy
. But remember this: I won't be in here forever.”

Harm stood up. “That sounds like a threat.”

“Does it?” Mr. Macon asked, rising. Harm pushed in front of Dale and me, his hands balled into fists, and the guard bustled over.

“Time to go, folks,” the guard said. “Sorry, Macon.”

Mr. Macon glared at Dale. “It's okay, Earl. I'm done with him.”

Mr. Macon knows how to make words into knives and he knows where to slice. My hate for him blossomed all over again. “Is that why you called Dale over here?” I asked. “To bully him?”

“I didn't call for him,” he said, walking to the door. “I want Lavender. Tell him to see me. If he won't come, tell him he'd better watch his back.”

“What does
that
mean?” I demanded.

“Shut your motor mouth and do what I say.”

My temper went off like the Fourth of July. “You'll get yours tomorrow!” I shouted. “Me and my motor mouth will make sure of it.”

His steps echoed down the hall.

My temper's a work-in-progress. So far it's all work and no progress.

Dale slipped his list in his pocket. “I'm sorry, Dale,” I said, my anger cooling like a kettle taken off a stove. “He just makes me so mad, and . . .”

“I know,” Dale said. “Daddy brings out the worst in people. Also in dogs. It's a reverse talent he's got.”

“Forget about him,” Harm said, but of course Dale couldn't.

Back in the truck, Dale sat silent as sawdust while Harm and me filled Lavender in.

“Mo's right. He's a bully,” Lavender told Dale. “We Johnson men aren't afraid of bullies.”

“I am,” Dale said. “A little bit.”

“I'll be there tomorrow. So will the Colonel.” Lavender studied Dale's face. “And as for being a mama's boy . . .” Lavender gave him a gentle shove. “We're nothing like Macon. I'd rather be Rose's son than Macon's boy any day of the week.”

That night I plucked the
Piggly Wiggly Chronicles
Volume 7 from my bookshelf, hopped into bed, and picked up my pen. The
Chronicles
go back to my kindergarten days, when I first started writing to the Upstream Mother who lost me in a hurricane flood on the day I was born. I used to think I'd find her. Now I mostly write to keep track of my life, but you never know—she could show up.

Dear Upstream Mother,

Dale and me testify against Mr. Macon tomorrow, and I'll be glad to see him go. Mr. Macon's the kind of mean you can taste in the back of your mouth.

Why Miss Rose ever married him remains a mystery. Miss Lana says time and drink change people, and he used to be a better man.

Today he threatened Lavender.

I tossed my pen onto my book. I like writing to my Upstream Mother, but sometimes I need immediate answers. I hopped up and padded into the living room.

The Colonel and Miss Lana dozed on Miss Lana's curlicue Victorian settee, her head resting against his shoulder. “Greetings,” I said, and they jumped like startled cats.

“Mo,” Miss Lana said, blinking. “Can't you sleep?”

I hesitated. “Miss Lana, I know you like me to be sensitive, so you'll be glad to know Harm and me kept Dale company over at Mr. Macon's place today.”

“You went to the
jailhouse?
” Miss Lana said, frowning.

“The guard let us in. He likes Mr. Macon.” I looked at the Colonel, who had somehow gone to full attention without moving a muscle. “Mr. Macon threatened Lavender. But when we told Lavender, he shrugged it off.”

The Colonel sat up. “Threatened him how?”

“He said, ‘If Lavender won't come see me, tell him to watch his back.'”

The Colonel frowned. “Stay away from Macon, Soldier. I'll talk to Lavender tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir. About tomorrow. Dale's scared . . .”

“I'm taking care of things,” he said, and my fear melted like an early snow. He stretched his wiry arms over his head. “Lights out, Soldier. We're fine.”

I didn't know it then, but things were already going sideways.

Trial Day

The next morning—Trial Day—I cranked up the café radiators at six a.m. Our string of Thanksgiving lights glowed a soft swag of halos against the café windows.

Dale's dog, Queen Elizabeth II, sauntered across the room and collapsed near the jukebox. She's been given to sinking spells lately—for reasons Dale and me were keeping Top Secret until school the next day.

“Do I
have
to testify? Are you sure?” Dale asked, trailing the Colonel from the kitchen. “Because I might throw up. Fifteen years in prison seems so long. Daddy's not used to hard time, just lots of little time strung together like a nice necklace. Do you think he can get off?”

Only Dale can accessorize with jail time.

The Colonel answered patient as rain. “Even if Macon gets time, he'll be all right. You and Rose will be too. You have me and Lana, you have Lavender and Mo. As for Macon going free, if the defense can create a
reasonable doubt
of his guilt, he'll walk.”

“Can that happen?” Dale asked as I plugged in the jukebox.

“No,” I muttered under my breath.

“Anything can happen, Dale,” the Colonel replied. “But don't get your hopes up.”

Don't get your hopes up? That's the same advice he gave me, only pointed in the opposite direction.

The parking lot stood bumper-to-bumper, cars and trucks bellowing clouds of steam as townsfolk waited for us to open. “Surrounded by wolves,” the Colonel muttered, tying his white chef's apron over his court clothes—gray pants, white shirt, and his light-up Charleston tie from a couple Christmases back.

Miss Lana tucked a strand of her glossy Ava Gardner wig behind her ear and wrote the day's specials on the chalkboard. Ava Gardner, an old Hollywood star, grew up just down the road. Miss Lana believes in going local. “Court will be standing room only—which means standing room only here too,” she said.

“We should put gossip on the menu,” the Colonel muttered. “We'd make a fortune.” He had a point.

If Tupelo Landing was a country, gossip would be our national sport.

“Ready, sir?” I asked, heading for the door.

The Colonel studied Dale, his brown eyes serious. “Are you sure, Dale? We don't have to open today.”

Not open? My plaid sneakers squeaked to a halt on the clean tile floor.

Dale nodded, stubborn as a brick. “I want everything ordinary even if it ain't.”

Miss Lana smoothed her broad-shouldered, tuck-waisted 1940s-style suit. “Places,” she called. The Colonel grabbed the coffeepot. Dale snagged an order pad. I positioned myself by the door. “Action!”

I flipped the
CLOSED
sign.

Truck and car doors swung open, spewing people across the parking lot. A white van yawned and a gaggle of women in bright-colored coats spilled into the crowd. Friends and neighbors surged over the gravel like a hungry, ragged wave and poured into our tiny café, clattering across the tiles, peeling off overcoats and scarves, thumping down around red Formica tables and along the counter.

Out on the highway, a motorcycle slowed to let two cars ease into the lot, and then gunned its engine down the road.

“Welcome,” I shouted over the hubbub. “No pushing. Old people and children first. Get back, Jake and Jimmy Exum. You ain't old or young, that's why they call it middle school. Let Hannah Greene's little sister through.”

Little Agnes Greene, a kindergarten kid, squirted through the crowd. “Mo, I got a major symptom of
dehydration,” she said, her small face pinched with worry.

“Water coming up,” I said, taking her hand and leading her to a table. “Hey, Hannah,” I shouted to her big sister. “I'm hydrating Little Agnes on table number two.”

Little Agnes, named for her aunt Big Agnes, went hypochondriac just after Halloween when Hannah read her bedtime stories out of a medical book. Now Agnes believes she catches every disease blowing in the wind. Last Wednesday she thought she had smallpox.

Hannah rushed to her sister as Detective Joe Starr pulled up in his Impala and eased into a skinny parking spot. He and my teacher, Priscilla Retzyl, slipped in to stake out a window table.

I trotted over with waters. “I hope you're coming to court today,” I told Miss Retzyl. “Dale and me are testifying. Feel free to give us Extra Credit.” She smiled her Not in This Lifetime smile as my archenemy, Anna Celeste Simpson, flounced through the door—a swirl of blond hair, braces, and weasel-esque brown eyes.

“Morning Mo-ron,” she said.

“Attila
.
”

She curled her lip and grabbed a window table.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of pale blue hair at the door. “Make way for elders!” I called as Grandmother Miss Lacy Thornton strolled through the door in a trim navy blue outfit.

“Thank you, dear,” she said, stifling a yawn and taking her regular stool at the counter. She smiled at me over her bifocals. “I barely slept a wink, thanks to the clunking and bumping of my old radiators. But you're looking lovely, Mo.”

I smoothed my jeans and red V-neck sweater. “Court clothes,” I explained.

“Primary colors,” she replied. “Very trustworthy.” I poured her water and tried to look like I knew what she meant. “Just toast and coffee, please.” The Colonel poured her coffee, grabbed her order, and headed for the kitchen.

“Everybody settle down,” I shouted, loading my tray with waters.

Naturally Tupelo Landing's Trial of the Century was the topic du jour.

The Azalea Women, aka the Uptown Garden Club, wedged through the crowd elbow to elbow like a dumpy rugby team and grabbed a table near the jukebox. “I hear Hanging Judge Wilkins has come to Willow Green for the trial,” one of them said.

Unlike Tupelo Landing, nearby Willow Green has its own courthouse. Also a traffic light and a hill. Tupelo Landing has a school, a Piggly Wiggly, the historic inn owned by Miss Lana and Grandmother Miss Lacy Thornton, and the café.

A silver bike flashed by the window and Harm Crenshaw hopped off. “Morning everybody,” he called, swaggering in and unwinding his scarf.

“Hey,” Dale called. Harm's lopsided grin lifted Dale's tension like sunshine lifts fog. Outside, curly-headed Sally Amanda Jones, Dale's girlfriend-in-waiting, walked briskly toward the door, her red Piggly Wiggly sunglasses over her eyes and her breath steaming in the cold.

“Hello, Dale,” she said, shrugging out of her plush lavender jacket.

“Hey Salamander,” Dale said. “I knew you'd be here for me.”

She blushed and took a table. Sal loves Dale like smoke loves fire.

I turned back to the Azalea Women. “Welcome and thank you in advance for your generous tips.” Generous tips equals a flat-out lie, but like Miss Lana says, you don't stop pitching just because nobody's swinging. I draped a paper napkin over my arm. “Today, our Get Out of Jail Free Delight features Free-Range Eggs, Potatoes at Large, and Bacon a la Parole. We also got the Colonel's famous Tofu Incognito—a vegan delight featuring tofu scrambled up to look like somebody else. A Special runs six dollars and includes a basket of All Rise Biscuits. May I take your order?”

“Get Out of Jail and coffee,” they chorused. “How's Dale holding up?”

Dale and me been practicing that question all week.

“Hang on while I check,
s'il vous plais,
” I said. Thanks to Miss Lana, I speak excellent Tupelo French. This can lead to bigger tips or total confusion, depending. “Hey Dale,” I shouted. “How
vous
holding up?”

The café swiveled toward Dale.

“Hey,” he said, his expression blank as a block of cheese.

I cued him up. “Dale's holding up
trés bon,
right Dale?”

“Right,” he said, looking relieved. “I'm holding up real
bon
. So's Mama. In my family we believe everyone's innocent until captured.”

Harm winced.

An Azalea Woman sniffed. “Such strong convictions.”

“Yes,” Dale said, sending a saucer of toast spinning down the counter. “But mostly our convictions are misdemeanors. Daddy's our first Class C felony.”

The Azalea Women snickered. I crumpled their order and stuffed it in my pocket.

Mayor Little darted through the door. “Good morning, fellow citizens,” he called, shrugging out of his overcoat and smoothing his orange tie over his round belly. “Dale, my heartfelt condolences
or
enthusiastic backslaps, depending on how things go today. No matter which way the legal wind blows, you can count on me.”

“Thank you,” Dale said, very dignified.

Anna Celeste Simpson sauntered to the jukebox and dropped in a handful of change. Elvis Presley's “Jailhouse Rock” blasted across the café.

I hate Anna Celeste Simpson.

Jimmy and Jake Exum—jeans, plaid shirts, scant eyebrows—jumped to their feet as the Colonel shot through the kitchen door. “No dancing,” the Colonel shouted. Jake and Jimmy sat back down. The Colonel stalked across the café and yanked the jukebox's plug out of the wall. Elvis oozed to silence.

Grandmother Miss Lacy's gaze traveled from Attila, to Harm, to Sal. Then to Hannah. “What on earth?” she said, as if she'd just noticed us. “Why aren't you children getting ready for school? You're not all witnesses.”

“Mayoral Decree,” Dale said, carrying a sandwich to Queen Elizabeth.

Mayor Little patted his lips with a napkin. “You didn't hear, Miss Thornton? I issued my first decree. Mother's tickled pink. Allow me.” He headed for his notice on the bulletin board, his buffed burgundy loafers tip-tip-tipping across the tile. “Attention, citizens,” he said. “My decree again, by popular demand.”

Mayoral Decree

WHEREAS half the town's on the witness list in Macon Johnson's trial, and the other half is dying to see what happens, I—Mayor Clayburn Little—
decree Tupelo Landing closed on Trial Day. The Colonel can do as he pleases with the café, as there is no way to stop him.

Vote Mayor Clayburn Little! The mayor who cares!

“I didn't know the mayor could issue a decree,” Grandmother Miss Lacy murmured as the Colonel backed in from the kitchen with a load of clean coffee cups.

“He can't,” the Colonel said.

The big-haired twins—Crissy and Missy—pushed into the crowded café and zeroed in on the Exum boys' table. At nineteen, the twins have reached and maybe surpassed their full potential. “Excuse us while you move, and thank you,” Crissy said. Jimmy and Jake jumped up. Harm gulped, his eyes glued to the twins.

Harm's been thinking of talking to the twins for a couple weeks. For Harm, talking to them is like climbing Mount Everest. He craves the fame and excitement, but mostly he wants to do it because they're there.

“Dare you,” Dale said.

Excellent. If anything could take Dale's mind off the trial, this would.

“Double dare you,” I added. “But I hope you're wearing Kevlar beneath that sweater, because you're getting shot down.”

Harm chugged over to the twins' table. “Morning, ladies,” he said, giving them a crooked smile and
pushing the hair from his eyes. “Crenshaw. Harm Crenshaw, brother of the noted racecar driver Flick Crenshaw.”

“I can't believe he invoked the name of Flick,” Dale whispered.

Flick Crenshaw's the dirtiest racer on the circuit. He about killed Lavender last summer by spinning him into a speedway wall. The twins, who keep Lavender company until I'm old enough for dating, saw Flick do it. Now they stared at Harm like he was a cat-gift on their doormat.

“Close your eyes, Dale,” I said. “This could be ugly.”

“Yeah,” Dale said, sounding happy for the first time in days.

Harm took a deep breath. “You're looking doubly fine today,” he told the twins, hooking his thumbs in his pants pockets. The twins frowned. “
Doubly
fine. Because you're twins,” he explained.

They eyed him up and down. “He's cute even if he is Flick's brother, isn't he, Missy? You're cute,” Crissy told him.

“I am?” Harm said, his voice cracking. “I mean, thanks.”

Crissy tilted her head. “But you're not mature enough to talk to us,” she continued, shifting her gaze to her fingernails. “We're tossing you back like the minnow you are.” Dale snickered. “Maybe we'll reel you in when you grow up,” she added.

Harm hesitated. Then he gave them a wink. “Catch me later, then,” he said, and strolled away.

“Smooth,” Dale said as Harm walked by, grinning.

Smooth? In what universe?

“Pathetic,” I told him.

“Yeah, but I did it,” he said, grabbing an apron. “How can I help?”

My answer was shattered by the squall of tires on the highway, a flash in the parking lot, and a spray of fine gravel on the café windows. Little Agnes shrieked. I reached a window just in time to see a red motorcycle skid through the parked cars, hit a hole, and fly into the air.

The café gasped as the bike landed nose-down, flipping the driver over the handlebars. The driver skidded by, sank a boot heel into the gravel, and popped up to run crazy-legged through the parking lot, arms flailing.

“No! Stop!” Little Agnes shrieked, covering her eyes.

The biker smacked square into the back of the Colonel's Underbird and collapsed facedown across the trunk, legs splayed, still as a bug on a windshield. Papers drifted out of his saddlebag, settling across the parking lot.

“My stars,” Grandmother Miss Lacy whispered. “Is he dead?”

“I have a headache,” Little Agnes whispered in the silence.

The Colonel and Detective Joe Starr charged the door. “Stay put,” Starr said.

We rushed to the window to watch the Colonel and Detective Starr cross the parking lot—trotting at first, then slowing like men who didn't want to see what they were about to see. The driver didn't move. Behind me, Dale whispered a prayer.