Deep in the Heart of Trouble (27 page)

Tony passed by M.C. Baker’s booth and waved but didn’t interrupt the brothers as they gave a demonstration of their rotary drill to curious onlookers. The rotary had been so successful in drilling through Corsicana’s gummy clay soil that the boys had christened it the “Gumbo Buster.”

A few of those very same boys just outside the Anheuser-Busch tent were trying to subdue one of their own who’d had more than he could hold. Deputy Howard shoved them aside, grabbed the rowdy and dragged him a few yards away, where he locked him up in what had become known as Howard’s Hoodlum Wagon. Tony noted there were already a few others inside the mobile jailhouse sleeping it off.

The
aroogha
of an automobile’s horn signaled the arrival of the final parade participants, followed by a wave of spectators. Tony headed back toward the track, making a point to stop at each oil company’s exhibit on his way, even Morgan Oil.

“Well,” Darius said as Tony approached, “if it isn’t the cast-off who’s doing everything he can to land on his feet.”

Tony ignored him and offered a hand to Morgan Oil’s racer. “Duckworth, good to see you again.”

“Morgan.” The man was small, like a horse jockey, but with thighs as big around as a woman’s waist.

“I saw you practicing yesterday,” Tony said. “Should be a good race.”

Before Duckworth could reply, Darius interrupted.

“I hear felicitations are in order,” he said, drawing deeply on a hand-rolled cigarette, the fire at its tip consuming the tobacco.

“That’s right.”

Darius flicked ashes onto the ground. “I know what you’re doing,” he said, his words and tone slicing through any previous pretense.

“And just what is it that I’m doing, Darius?” Tony asked with a sigh.

“You’re placing yourself into a position of attack, with your sights on me and your gun cocked and loaded.” Smoke trickled out of his nose. “I’m here to tell you you’re wasting your time. I must say, though, you managed to insinuate yourself into Sullivan Oil rather quickly. Dad would have been proud—if he’d cared enough to be.”

Tony turned to walk away and bumped chests with Finch. The man had sidled up behind him, blocking his path. And though his cousin gave the appearance of being soft, he had the Morgan brawn hidden beneath his dandified clothes.

Tony didn’t excuse himself. Nor did he ask Finch to move. Just stared at him eye to eye.

Finch finally stepped back. “Care for a smoke?”

Tony ignored him and headed to the hospitality tent, hoping to find Essie. He wanted to check over his bike one more time before the big event.

chapter TWENTY-FIVE

STUMBLING ALONGSIDE the sheriff, Harley prayed his pa wouldn’t hear about this. It was bad enough to be hauled across the fairgrounds by his collar, but if Pa were to find out, it’d be a whupping for sure.

“Crook?” the sheriff hollered, frog-walking Harley up to the Slap Out’s booth. “I’m in need of a bar of soap, if you please.”

But it wasn’t Mr. Crook who approached the table. It was that spiteful ol’ Mrs. Crook. She’d not been around much lately. Not since she’d whelped them two babies. And Harley hadn’t missed her at all.

She didn’t look like the witches he’d read about in some of them storybooks. No big nose with a wart or nothing. No stringy hair. No evil laugh. Matter of fact, she didn’t look so bad for an old lady … until you got to know her.

“Any particular kind of soap, Sheriff?” she asked, eyeing the two of them.

“Whatever you got at hand will do—nothin’ that tastes too good, though.”

Her mouth formed a little
o.
“I see. Just one moment and I’ll fetch you some.”

“Mama?”

Harley could just make out the top of Mae Crook’s head as she skipped over to her ma. “How come the sh’ff wants to eat soap?”

“It’s not for him, Mae. It’s for Harley,” she said, heading toward the back of the tent.

The four-year-old girl grabbed the edge of the table and rose up on tippy-toes, her big brown eyes peeping over the top. “Won’t ya rather have a licorice, Harley?”

“Not today, Mae,” he said, making his voice sound real naturallike. “Today I think I’ll have me a nice big bar o’ your daddy’s most expensive soap. Sheriff’s treat.”

The sheriff gave Harley’s collar a twist, choking him some. Mae let loose of the table and climbed up into her mama’s chair.

“I got me two baby brothers,” she said. “Chester and Charlie.”

“Sound like a couple o’ crooks to me.”

Keeping the grip he had on Harley’s collar, the sheriff used his other hand to pinch the tender spot between Harley’s shoulder and neck. Hurt like the devil, but Harley made sure he didn’t flinch.

“Here we are, Sheriff,” Mrs. Crook said, making a show of setting out not only a yellow ball of waxy soap but a tin cup of water to wash it down with.

The sheriff slapped a nickel on the table.

Mrs. Crook slid it back and gave Harley a look colder than a dead snake. “No charge.”

Picking up the ball of soap, Harley tossed it in the air and caught it one-handed. “Why, thank ya, Mrs. Crook. That’s right neighborly of ya. Ain’t it, Sheriff?”

The sheriff pocketed his nickel, then grabbed the tin of water. “Let’s go.”

Harley had hoped to do this someplace private, but Sheriff Dunn just took him out behind the Slap Out’s tent and handed him the cup of water. No doubt he wanted to make sure that soap lathered up but good.

“Swish.”

Mae Crook lifted the back hem of their canvas tent and stuck her head out like some puppy dog. She might only be four, but Harley’d be jiggered before he’d carry on in front of her. He swished, lifted his chin and spewed the water out in a big ol’ arc that spread out just enough to catch the sheriff in its wake.

Sheriff Dunn grabbed Harley’s cheeks and squeezed. “Stick out your tongue.”

He was tempted to “stick out his tongue,” all right, but didn’t dare. He opened wide. The sheriff didn’t give him any quarter as he rubbed soap all over Harley’s tongue and mouth.

The longer the sheriff scrubbed, the more Harley fought back the desire to gag. The slimy stuff smelled bad and tasted worse. Finally he couldn’t stand it anymore and began choking.

The sheriff let go but didn’t offer up any water. Harley leaned over, spitting out what he could.

“You gonna curse anymore?” the sheriff barked.

“No, by jingo, I’m not!”

The sheriff growled. Harley slapped his hand over his mouth, realizing what he’d said, but it was too late.

Dunn grabbed him and scoured his mouth all over again. When the sheriff finally let go, Harley fell onto all fours, choking, spitting, gagging.

“Any man worth his salt can make his point without using foul language,” Dunn said. “If’n you wanna grow up to be half the man your pa is, you’d best be acquiring some better manners. You got that?”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

Dunn tossed out the water and stalked away. Harley sat back on his feet, raking his fingernails over his tongue, trying to get the soap off. Residue trickled down his throat, mixing with the berries, ice cream, and taffy he’d eaten earlier. His stomach began to rebel.

A pair of very small, brightly polished boots entered his range of vision. He tamped down his bile.

“I brung ya some water, Harley,” Mae said.

Accepting her offering, he rinsed and spit until he’d drained the cup. “Thanks.”

“How come the sh’ff done that to ya?”

Harley stood and made his way to a shade tree. The little girl followed. “Your ma know you’re out here?”

“She’s gone home with the babies.”

“Your pa, then? He know you’re not in the tent?”

She nodded, making her black curls bob up and down like springs on a buggy seat. “I askt him fer these.” She opened her fist. Two buttons of licorice nestled inside. “I knows ya like ’em.”

He scrutinized her, surprised she’d asked her pa on his account. “You sure ya don’t mind sharing?”

“I ain’t sharing ’em with ya, Harley. I’m a-giving ’em to ya.” She extended her chubby little hand.

He knew if it had been him who had the licorice, he wouldn’t be sharing them with anybody, much less giving them away lock, stock, and barrel.

He took one of the candies. “You eat the other, Mae. Wouldn’t be right fer me to take both.”

They popped the candies into their mouths and sucked on them.

The licorice went a long way in covering up the taste of the soap, though it still lingered.

They continued to suck, trying to make the treat last as long as they could, when four men slipped behind the hatmaker’s tent a few yards away. Harley’d snuck around enough to recognize it when somebody else was doing the sneaking. He put his finger to his lips, warning Mae to keep quiet, inched the two of them behind the tree trunk, then peeked around the edge.

One of them was Mr. Tony’s brother. Everybody was talking about how the two of them looked alike, but Harley disagreed. This fella had eyes that reminded Harley of the Wanted posters in the sheriff’s office, and his hands were cold and clammy when you shook them. Mr. Tony was nothing like that. The other three men wore racing outfits and had been in the parade. One wore a black sash, one a blue, and one a yellow.

“We ain’t so sure we still wanna do this, Mr. Morgan,” the one in the black sash said. He wasn’t puny or nothin’. He just looked it standing next to Mr. Morgan. “I askt around and yer brother’s well liked in these parts.”

“Not only him,” another piped up, “but the judge, too. Did ya know the sheriff is his brother-in-law? If’n we pocket Sullivan’s man, it’ll be more than the bloomer-gal and yer brother who’ll be upset.”

The third one nodded his head. “We want more money.”

Mr. Morgan eyeballed the fellers one at a time, real slow-like. “I’m sure it would interest the League of American Wheelmen to find out you boys failed to ride the full and exact course in Kickapoo Creek’s Six-Day Race.”

The men exchanged glances. The one with the yellow sash took off his hat and scratched a bald spot that had previously been hidden. “You can’t tell ’em that without implicatin’ yerself.”

“You think not?” Mr. Morgan pulled out his watch and popped it open. “The purse will remain the same. You pocket Sullivan Oil’s wheeler, my man will take first, and we’ll split the winnings between us, just as planned.”

Baldy straightened his shoulders, puffing out his chest some. “We ain’t doin’ it, then.”

Quicker than scat, Morgan grabbed the feller, yanked him close and read him the Scriptures.

Mae tugged on Harley’s overalls. “I’m hot. Can—”

He clamped his hand over her mouth, shaking his head and hammering his finger against his lips. Her eyes widened, but she hushed up.

Harley held real still but didn’t hear any signs they’d been nicked. Still, he didn’t risk taking a look. Just kept him and Mae hidden behind that tree until he heard the fellers break up and leave. After a minute of quiet, he pressed his hands against the bark and leaned just a wee bit over—just enough for one eyeball to have a look-see. Nobody there. He poked his head out. Still nobody.

Taking Mae by the hand, he hustled her back toward her daddy’s tent. “You done real fine fer a girl, Mae. Shoot, fer a boy, even. Maybe when ya get a little older, if ya promise not to act like a girl, I’ll take ya out fishin’. ”

She jumped up and down. “Yes, by jingo! Take me fishin’. ”

He pulled up short. “Don’t ya be swearin’ none, Mae. A feller worth his salt can say what needs to be said without swearin’, fer gosh sake.” Lifting the bottom of the Slap Out’s tent, he shooed her under. “Go on. I gotta find Miss Essie.”

She fell to her knees and scurried under.

“Mae?” he said.

She poked her head out.

“Thanks fer the licorice.”

“Now, remember,” Essie said, tucking in the ends of Tony’s red sash, “keep your body as close to the bicycle frame as you can. Legs in, chest down, head up.”

“I will.”

“Don’t let the others run you wide on the curves or foul you with their elbows.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“Pace yourself. Don’t start out too fast, but don’t let anybody get too big a jump on you, either.”

Tony clasped her hand and squeezed. “Quit worrying, Essie. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“I’m not worrying. I’m just reminding you of a few things, is all.”

He smiled. “Well, how about this, then: How about I go win this race for you?”

Butterflies churned in her stomach. “Do you think we have a chance?”

“More than a chance. A good chance.” He looked over at the other cyclists talking with their trainers. “When I was watching them yesterday, Ethey Oil’s man started out slow, then took off like a shot, but it was too little, too late.”

“That may be, but Ethey Oil’s not the one I’m worried about, nor El Filon de Madre Oil or even Tyler Petroleum. It’s Alamo and Morgan Oil that will be your real competition.”

“Mudge is known for launching a series of attacks, but he doesn’t have the leg strength to endure it. He’ll start falling behind toward the end.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Some men accomplish feats in a race that they can’t ever achieve during their training.”

“Not this one.”

“What about Morgan Oil?”

“Duckworth’s good, but I think I can beat him. No, I know I can beat him. You wanna watch me?”

“I sure do.”

“Then go on to the stands, woman. I’m fixing to win Sullivan Oil a race and me a hefty little purse.” He leaned close and whispered, “If you kiss me real sweet, I might treat you to a soda with my winnings.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “If I kiss you real sweet, you’re likely to lose your head and not concentrate on what you’re doing. Now, quit your lollygagging and go win me a race.”

Everywhere Essie looked, she encountered the anxious faces of spectators who had placed their final bets and filled the stands to root for their champion. Excusing herself, she wove through a press of men, women, and children wearing scarves and hats with their oil company’s colors.

A group of rowdies wearing Alamo Oil’s orange sang the “Texas War Cry” to the tune of “Anacreon in Heaven.” Another group, who smelled as if they’d made one too many trips to the Anheuser-Busch tent, booed the Alamo singers and a shouting match ensued. Essie hurried past, hoping to be well out of the way if their shouts turned into something more physical.

She finally reached the section of stands designated for the Corsicana Velocipede Club. Mrs. Zimpelman stepped back, allowing Essie room to move toward the front.

“Why, Miss Morgan,” Essie said, surprised to see Tony’s sister beside Ewing and Mrs. Lockhart. “You’re wearing Sullivan Oil colors.”

The girl had secured a charming straw hat to her head with a red scarf tied fashionably off-center underneath her chin. “Please, call me Anna. And I hope you don’t mind, but I was afraid Darius might lose his temper if I started cheering for Tony while sitting in the midst of Morgan Oil supporters.”

Essie grasped Anna’s hand. “It is our pleasure to have you, and I know Tony will be touched. Will it upset your mother, do you think?”

“None whatsoever. It wouldn’t do for her to stand here with me, though, so she chose not to come at all.”

The Merchants’ Opera House band began to play the “Flag of Texas” as two flag bearers marched onto the track, one carrying the Stars and Stripes, the other carrying the Lone Star. The six bicyclers followed, their wheels beside them.

A deafening cheer rose, then the grandstands swelled with song as the crowd robustly sang along with the band.

“Among the flags of nations,
There is a place for thee,
Flaunt up, thou bright young banner,
Flaunt proudly o’er the free.”

The racers’ bright silk sashes glistened in the late-afternoon sunlight. The man from Alamo lifted his hand and waved to the fans. But it was Tony who captured Essie’s attention. He looked like a giant among the other men. Tall, self-assured, and singing the well-known song with gusto.