Huckleberry Fiend (28 page)

A few days after Jenny’s arrest, when I felt I could handle it, I called Veerelle Lemon and told her I was sorry about her son.

She said, “I’ve known for a long time he was dead.” Her voice said she’d never really accepted it.

“Mrs. Lemon, do you know a man named Clarence Jones?”

“Clarence? Known him since he was born. His mama kept that family together through some of the worst times you ever saw. His daddy worked over at the college a while, but I don’t b’leeve he drew a sober breath the last thirty years of his life.”

“What kind of man is Clarence?”

“Decent boy. Real decent. Never got too much education, so he kind of has trouble staying in work, but it’s not because he doesn’t try hard. Nice wife and two kids. Churchgoing family too.”

“Do you know if his great-grandfather ever worked for Mark Twain?”

“I never heard that one.”

“If Clarence said it, would you be inclined to believe it?”

“I’ve never known him to lie.”

“Did he know your son Edwin?”

“Oh, my Lord, I think I see what you’re gettin’ at— Edwin took the manuscript from him! That’s how he got it in the first place.”

“Well, he might have, but I don’t know if we’ll ever be sure. Did he know Edwin?”

“Why yes, his family knew my family.”

“Do you know anyone who might have known Clarence’s great-grandfather?”

“You could ask the pastor over at Clarence’s church. He’d probably know. And I’m sure he’ll vouch for Clarence as well. But can I ask you something? Why are you askin’? I thought that manuscript burned up.”

“Well, I was hired to find the rightful owner and I’m still working on it. That’s all.”

I rounded up a few old-timers who remembered Clarence’s great-grandfather’s tales about Mr. Mark Twain and then I tried to check his employment through Linda McCormick, but she couldn’t find any record of it. Everyone I talked to in Tupelo vouched for Clarence’s good character, so I decided to go with oral tradition.

I phoned Russell Kittrell. “This is Paul Mcdonald.”

“A.k.a. Joe Harper. I saw you getting interviewed on the news.”

“Good. Then you know I’m a reporter.”

“Only too well.”

“I need to talk to you.”

He sighed. “I guess you better come over.”

An invitation to the inner sanctum— his estimation of me must have risen. It was pleasant sitting in that room with the Renoir, sipping Kittrell’s excellent wine and committing blackmail. “You know I could be very dangerous to you.”

“Are you going to be?”

“I’ve already done a little homework. I know which bank you ‘own,’ as I think you put it. The story’d make a very nice follow-up to this whole Huck Finn thing. You’re a prominent man— I could see it on page one.”

“Somehow I get the idea you aren’t quite committed to it.”

“I think there might be mitigating circumstances. On the face of it, one would think only a criminal or a sociopath would do what you did. But we’ve all done things we regret; maybe you’re basically a decent person who doesn’t deserve to be ruined for one mistake. I was hoping you’d let me in on another side of your character.”

“Actually, I have a very generous side. I often like to give grants to struggling artists, musicians”— he waved a hand expansively— “even authors.”

“Large grants?”

“Oh, fairly large.”

“I was thinking somewhere in the neighborhood of $750,000.”

His aristocratic eyebrows shot up. “Were you now?”

“It’s less than you would have paid for the manuscript— that is, if you’d been an honest man— and seems quite a bargain when you consider it allows you to keep your reputation, the remainder of your fortune, and your bank free of a nasty investigation.”

“It’s only your word against mine, you know.”

“Nonsense. ‘Sarah Williams’ at that point was Jenny Swensen. She might be in jail but she can still talk. She’d be only too happy to tell the world how you stiffed her. It would make you look small, Kittrell. Petty and mean. The very things I’m asking you to prove you’re not.”

“Five hundred thousand.”

“Done.” I handed him a piece of paper. “Send a cashier’s check for that amount to Clarence Jones at this address. Have it there in a week or the story runs.”

“Wait a minute. Who the hell is Clarence Jones?”

“A very deserving person, actually. He’s a Mark Twain scholar who’s conducted a number of interviews with people who knew Clemens intimately. On your tax return you could just say he’s the sole grantee of the Russell Kittrell Foundation for Oral History.”

“Surely you’re not serious.”

“I’d send that check Express Mail if I were you. If it’s not there a week from today, you’re front-page news.”

Next I made a call to Tupelo. “Hello, Clarence? Paul Mcdonald. I guess you heard about the manuscript burning up and everything.”

“Hey, Paul! I saw you on TV— tol’ all my friends, ‘I know that guy’.”

“Well, listen, I’m sorry I couldn’t save the book for you, but there’s some insurance money coming to you.”

“Insurance? You mean that thing was
insured?”

“In a manner of speaking. You ought to be getting a check within the week.”

“Hoo boy, insurance money! You know, I still haven’t found a job. Say, how much is it, anyway?”

“Well, I think it’ll tide you over awhile.”

“Oh, come on, how much?”

“Remember I said the manuscript might be worth more than a hundred thousand dollars? Well, I think the insurance will come to at least that.”

“No!”

“I’m pretty sure of it.”

“A hundred thousand dollars! Sara Sue— hey, Sara Sue, you hear that?”

He forgot I was on the line, but I heard from him again three days later. “Paul? Is that you? This is Clarence here.”

“Oh, hi, Clarence. Did your check come?”

“It shore did. I couldn’t b’leeve it. Why didn’t you tell me it was gon’ be so much money?”

“I wanted you to be surprised.”

“Well, I shore was. Two hundred and fifty big ones! Who’da ever thought Clarence and Sara Sue Jones were gon’ be so rich?”

“How much did you say?”

“You know how much. You knew all the time. Two hundred and fifty smackeroonies! Woooooeeeeee!”

“Congratulations, Clarence. Don’t spend it all in one place.”

“Well, I got to tithe, of course. And after that, I’m gon’ see me a lawyer, set up foundations for the kids’ education and everything. Maybe invest a little, buy Sara Sue a new weddin’ ring. She had to pawn her old one, you know.”

“That’s great, Clarence. Good luck to you.”

It should have been a very uplifting phone call, a real boost to the sagging spirit, a happy ending to a tawdry tale of human greed and degradation. Why did it have to remind me that some people are no damn good? I’ll tell you why: because some people are no damn good.

The End, Yours Truly Paul Mcdonald

For Jon Carroll, Paul’s mentor

The author’s sincerest thanks to Bob Hirst and Michael Frank of the Bancroft Library, to Todd Axelrod of the American Museum of Historical Documents, and to my long-suffering Virginia City companions, Brian and Aliza Rood.

HUCKLEBERRY FIEND was written in 1986 and first published a year later, a time of primitive phone communications. In those dark days, you had to ask people for their numbers, you had to use pay phones if you weren’t at home, you put up with all sorts of inconveniences you may have noticed in the book.

Also at that time, for all anyone knew, the original Huck Finn holograph— the part that wasn’t in the Buffalo library, was lost forever. I willed it into existence for my own purposes and also invented one other thing. Having no idea such a thing existed, I postulated for the book that Michelangelo might have made and worked from a small model for his statue of David that eventually fell into the hands of a collector of rare objects. Sure enough, that very object was found in 1986, giving me goose bumps.

But that was nothing compared to the frisson I experienced when the Huck Finn holograph was found!

When I wrote
Huckleberry Fiend
, the missing manuscript, unbeknownst to Twain scholars, was languishing in a trunk in someone’s attic— in other words lost in circumstances very much like the ones I imagined for the book.

My thought was that it would likely be in a piece of old Clemens furniture, but it turned out Clemens had actually sent the entire manuscript to the Buffalo library, whereupon a library benefactor, James Gluck, evidently took part of it home to read and possibly died before he returned it. Talk about slipping through the cracks! Once again life imitated art (or at least this book) when one of Gluck’s granddaughters found it in 1991 and gave it back to the library.

We’ll give you your money back if you find as many as five errors. (That’s five verified errors— punctuation or spelling that leaves no room for judgment calls or alternatives.) If you find more than five, we’ll give you a dollar for every one you catch up to twenty. More than that and we reproof and remake the book. Email
[email protected]
and it shall be done!

TRUE-LIFE ADVENTURE

HUCKLEBERRY FIEND

The Skip Langdon Series
(in order of publication)

NEW ORLEANS MOURNING

THE AXEMAN’S JAZZ

JAZZ FUNERAL

DEATH BEFORE FACEBOOK
(formerly NEW ORLEANS BEAT)

HOUSE OF BLUES

THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

CRESCENT CITY CONNECTION
(formerly CRESCENT CITY KILL)

82 DESIRE

MEAN WOMAN BLUES

The Rebecca Schwartz Series

DEATH TURNS A TRICK

THE SOURDOUGH WARS

TOURIST TRAP

DEAD IN THE WATER

OTHER PEOPLE’S SKELETONS

The Talba Wallis Series

LOUISIANA HOTSHOT

LOUISIANA BIGSHOT

LOUISIANA LAMENT

P.I. ON A HOT TIN ROOF

As well as:

WRITING YOUR WAY: THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL TRACK

NEW ORLEANS NOIR (ed.)

And don’t miss ALWAYS OTHELLO, a Skip Langdon story, as well as the brand new short story, PRIVATE CHICK, which asks the question, “Is this country ready for a drag queen detective?” More info at
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