1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf (2 page)

"Howdy, stranger," he said and sat down. "Don't often see strange faces in this neck of the woods."

"Just passing through," I told him. "Taking a look. I'm on vacation."

"Is that right?" he sipped his drink. "You could do worse. Plenty of interesting things to see. One time this district was a'gator country. Still a few to be seen of Peace river."

"I saw some at Everglades. Interesting."

The girl brought the chicken hash and slapped the plate down before me. She looked at the elderly "You want something or are you seat-warming?"

"I have something," the elderly man said and lifted his glass. "If I were ten years younger I would have something for you."

"Make it thirty years younger and I might be interested," she said with a sexy grin and swished away.

The elderly man shook his head.

"The young today have no respect for their elders."

I could hate said the young today had no reason to respect their elders, but I stopped short. I wasn't going to get into that kind of discussion.

I began on the chicken hash.

"A'gator country," the elderly man said. "You ever heard of Alligator Plan? No, I guess you're too young. He is folklore around here."

I munched, finding the chicken had died of old age. "Folklore?"

"Yeah. Know what? Plan would hide along the hank until an a'gator surfaced, then he would dive in and grapple with the reptile. He would get astride it and hook his thumbs into its eyes. Never failed, but it needed a lot of strength and guts. He said shooting a'gators was a waste of a bullet."

"Those were the days," I said. "There was only one man who could do what Piatt used to do, but, eventually, he got unlucky. Piatt died in his bed, but old Fred Jackson lost both his legs."

Time and again, when I was on a job and got into conversation with one of the natives, I struck gold, but not this fast.

Casually, I said, "Fred Jackson? Would he be the father of Mitch Jackson, the war hero?"

The elderly man looked sharply at me.

"That's right. How did you know Fred lives up here?"

"I didn't. You told me." I looked directly at him. "I didn't get your name. I'm Dirk Wallace."

"Silas Wood. Glad to know you, Mr. Wallace. What's your line?"

"I'm in the Agency business."

"Agency? What's that mean?"

"I collect information: background material for writers."

He looked impressed.

"Is that right? I'm retired. Use to have a tomato farm, but there's too much competition these days. I sold out."

"Tell me, Mr. Wood, did Fred Jackson lose his legs after or before he lost his son?"

The question seemed to puzzle him. He pulled at his long nose and thought about it.

Finally, he said, "Well, since you ask, Fred lost his legs when Mitch was a nipper. Fred must be seventy-eight now if he's a day. Mitch did most everything for Fred until he got drafted. By then, Fred had got used to being legless. He became real handy getting around on his stumps. He is still the best frog-catcher around here and he makes a tidy living."

"You knew Mitch?"

"Knew him?" Wood again pulled at his nose. "Everyone around here knew Mitch. I nor anyone else thought he would turn out to be hero. It just shows you you can't judge kids: like that girl. She could settle down, but she won't ever be a national hero . . . that's for sure."

"Mitch was wild?"

Wood finished his drink and gazed unhappily at the empty glass.

This was a hint, so I took his glass and waved it at the girl, who was resting her breasts on the bar counter and watching us.

She brought a refill and set it before Wood.

"That's your second." she said, "and your last." Looking at me, she went on, "He can't carry more than two, so don't tempt him," and she returned to the bar.

Wood gave me a sly grin.

"Like I said, the young have no respect for their elders."

I was asking . . . “was Mitch wild?”

I had finished the chicken hash, not sorry the meal was over. My jaw felt tired.

"Wild? That's not the right word. He was a real hellion." Wood sipped his drink. "He was always in trouble with the sheriff. No girl was safe within miles of him. He was a thief and a poacher. I'd hate to tell you how many tomatoes he stole from my farm or how many chickens disappeared or how many frogs vanished from other farmers' frog-barrels. The sheriff knew he was doing the stealing, but Mitch was too smart for him. Then there was this fighting. Mitch was real vicious. He would often come into town in the evening and pick a quarrel. Nothing he liked better than to fight. Once, four young guys who thought they were tough ganged up on him, but they all landed in hospital. I had no time for him. Frankly, he scared me. He even scared the sheriff. The town was glad when he got drafted and we saw the last of him."

Wood paused to sip his drink. "But one can forgive and forget when a guy wins the Medal of Honor. Right now the town is proud of him. Let bygones be bygones I say." He winked. "Many a girl cried herself to sleep when the news broke that he was dead. He seemed to be able, by just snapping his fingers, for the girls to spread their legs."

I was absorbing all this with interest.

"And his father? Was he like his son?"

"Fred? No. He was a worker and he was honest. Mind you, he was tough, but straight. When he lost his legs, he changed. Before that happened, he would come into town and be good company, but not after losing his legs. He no longer welcomed visitors. He still hunted frogs with the help of Mitch, but he stopped coming to town and anyone who went up there got short shrift. Even now. at his age, he still hunts frogs. Once a week, a truck goes up there and takes his catch. I guess he must live on rabbits and fish. I haven't seen him for a good ten years."

"How about Mitch's mother? Is she alive?"

"I wouldn't know. No one around here ever saw her. The story is some woman tourist went up there to take photographs of Fred and the a'gators. That was when he was in his prime. I guess he was like Mitch with women. Anyway, one day, Fred got landed with a baby: left outside his shack. That was Mitch. Mind you, I won't swear to any of this, but that was the story going around Searle. Fred brought him up the hard way, hut he made him attend school. When Fred lost his legs, it was Mitch who saved him. From then on, Mitch looked after his father until Fred could stump around on his thighs. That's the only good thing I can say for Mitch: he sure was fond of Fred: no question about that."

"Interesting," I said.

"That's right. It gave the town a lot to talk about. Not every town our size has a national hero. Then there was the grandson."

I showed mild interest.

"You mean Mitch's son?"

"That's right. It was a mystery. Some nine years ago, a kid arrived here. He was around eight years of age. I remember seeing him arrive. He looked like a little bum: as if he had been on the road for days: dirty, long hair, his shoes falling to bits. He had an old battered suitcase, tied up with string. I felt sorry for him. I like kids. I asked him what he was doing here. He spoke well: He said he was looking for Fred Jackson, who was his grandpa. I couldn't have been more surprised. I told him where Fred lived. The kid looked starved so I offered him a meal, but he was very polite and said he wanted to get to his grandpa quickly. Josh, our mailman, was setting off in his truck and I got him to take the kid. At the time, Mitch was in the Anny. There was a lot of talk in the town as you can imagine. The school-teacher went up to see Fred. For a change, Fred saw and talked to him. The upshot was the kid, Johnny Jackson, attested school: riding down here on a cycle."

"Was Johnny like his father?"

"Not a scrap. He was a nice-looking, quiet, polite kid, may be a bit soft, but he was smart at school. The kids hadn't much time for him. He was a loner and never talked about Mitch. When the kids asked him, he told them he had never seen his father. He had been born after his father had gone overseas. When the news broke that Mitch had been killed and had won the medal, the kid didn't turn up at school. By then, he was fourteen. The school teacher went up there and Fred told him to get the hell out and stagy out. After that, and that was six years ago, no one has seen the kid. My guess is he got tired of living rough and took off. Can't say I blame him. Old Fred really lived rough." Wood finished his drink, sighed, then took out an old silver watch and consulted it. "I must get moving, Mr. Wallace. My wife has a hot meal for me, always dead on one o'clock. She gets kind of peevish if I'm late." He shook my hand. "Have a good vacation. I hope to see you around. We could have another drink together."

When he had gone I signalled to the girl for coffee. By now there were a number of truckers eating: none of them looked my way and I wasn't interested in them. I was only interested in the natives.

The girl brought the coffee.

"Don't believe everything old Wood tells you," she said, sating down the cup. "He's senile. What was he yakking about?"

"Mitch Jackson."

Her face lit up and she got that soppy expression kids get when they are turned on.

"There was a real man!" She closed her eyes and sighed. "Mitch! He's been dead now for six years, but his memory lingers on. I only saw him once: that was when I was a kid, but I'll never forget him."

"Wood said he was a hellion. In my book, if a guy wins the Medal of Honor he has to be great." I fed her this line because I could see by her besotted face Mitch meant more to her than Elvis Presley meant to millions of teenagers.

"You can say that again! Who would have thought his son would be such a drip?"

I stirred my coffee. It seemed my day to pan gold.

"Was he?"

"We were at school together. All the girls were after him because Mitch was his father. What a drip! He just ran like a frightened rabbit."

A trucker bawled for his lunch. The girl grimaced and left me.

I sipped the coffee and thought over what I had learned. According to Silas Wood, Fred's grandson hadn't been seen since Mitch had died. Again according to Wood the town's opinion was the boy, Johnny Jackson, had left. This didn't make sense to me. If the boy had left six years ago, why should Fred Jackson write to Parnell now to start an investigation to find him after this long lapse?

I decided to inquire around some more before setting of for Alligator lane. I paid my check and went out onto the busy street. Pausing to look around, I saw a notice with an arrow pointing:

Morgan & Weatherspoon

Bess Frog saddles

Fred Jackson was in the frog business. I could pick up some information so I followed the direction of the arrow down an alley to double gates on which was another sign:

Morgan & Weatherspoon

You Have Arrived: Enter

The stench coming over the high wooden fence turned my stomach. I pushed opened one of the gates and walked into a big courtyard where two open trucks were parked. Each truck was loaded with barrels and from the barrels came croaking noises.

Across the way was a concrete building. Through the big window. I could see a man in a white coat, working at a desk. I walked up the three steps, pushed open the door and entered a small, air-conditioned office. I hastily closed the door before the stench in the yard could invade.

The man at the desk gave me a friendly smile. He was around forty-six, then, with thinning black hair and sharp features.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, getting to his feet. He offered his hand. "Harry Weatherspoon."

"Dirk Wallace," I said, shaking hands. "Mr. Weatherspoon, I'm here to waste a link of your time, but I hope you will be indulgent."

His smile widened, but his small, shrewd eyes regarded me speculatively.

"Right now, Mr. Wallace, I have time. In half an hour, I'll be busy, but at this moment I am digesting lunch, so take a seat and tell me what's on your mind."

We sat down.

"I work for an agency that collects information for writers and journalists," I said, using the never-failing cover story. "I'm the guy who feeds them with facts. They write up the facts and make millions. I don't." I gave him a rueful smile.

"So, I'm investigating the background of Mitch Jackson, oar national hero, his father and frogs as an important magazine is planning to do a feature on Mitch."

He scratched his thinning pate.

"I would have thought that was stale news. There's been a lot written about Mitch Jackson."

"Well, you know how it is, Mr. Weatherspoon. I'm looking for a new angle."

He shrugged.

"Well, I can tell you about frogs, but I have never met Mitch Jackson. From what I've heard, I'm not sorry. Now, frogs. You notice the smell? Well, you get used to it. Frogs are smelly and live in smelly places. Frog-legs or saddles as we call them in the trade, bring high prices. Personally, I don't like them, but, served in a garlic sauce, there are a lot of wealthy people who do like them. It's quite a flourishing industry. Here, we collect from the frog-fanners, process and sell to restaurants." He leaned back in his chair and I could see by his animated expression frogs were close to his heart. “The trick, of course, is to catch the frogs. Happily, that's not my headache. Now, Fred Jackson has been, for thirty years, our best supplier, not only in quantity, but now I don't rely on him so much. He's getting old . . . aren't we all?"

He favoured me with another wide smile. "Frog-farmers work this way: they find the right kind of land with swamp and ponds and either rent it or buy. Fred Jackson was smart. He bought his land years ago for next to nothing. Frogs live on insects. Breeders, like Jackson, throw rotten meat around the pond. The meat attracts blowflies. Frogs like blowflies. While they are catching blowflies, the fanners catch them. Jackson is an expert. Not satisfied with a daylight catch, he's installed electric light around his ponds to attract moths and bugs. So the frogs also eat at night and Jackson is there to catch them. A female frog lays anything from ten to thirty thousand eggs a year. Ninety days later, tadpoles arrive. It takes two years before a frog is fit to eat." He smiled again. "Lecture over."