The Bible Salesman (8 page)
Henry, Caroline, and Dorie were on the ground. Jack stepped down from the open door of the trolley, then sat down on the step. People stood behind him and then stepped around him. “That son of a bitch said white trash. I guess nobody ever called the Dampiers white trash,” he said to Dorie.
“Jack, let’s don’t do this. Come on away from the trolley.”
Henry and his cousin Carson, who’d come up from Florida on the train for a two-week visit, mashed the blackberries in water and painted streaks on their faces and circles on their stomachs and pulled loincloths tight up between their legs, fastened rope around their waists, and let the ends of the cloths fall. Then they ran for the woods down past Mrs. Albright’s back porch. Henry had told Carson about the cats. Mrs. Albright was out beyond her backyard picking blackberries, and a few cats were along. She waved to the boys and they walked up to her.
“You’re Henry’s little cousin, ain’t you?” Mrs. Albright said to Carson.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Linda’s boy?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Can you make the cats talk?” asked Henry.
“We might have to wait a minute or two,” said Mrs. Albright. “That’s Isaac, and that’s John. The big John. Not John the Baptist. He’s inside. Isaac, do you have something to say?”
“I thought you were
killing
Indians yesterday, boys,” said Isaac.
Henry looked at Isaac. “We were, but today we’re Navajo braves.”
“Things switch around, I reckon, yes sir,” said Isaac. “Do you boys know what the Germans are doing in Europe?”
“No,” said Henry. He looked up at Mrs. Albright. “No sir.”
“It’s a shame,” said Isaac.
“Well, well, well,” said John. “Not everybody thinks so.” John’s ear twitched twice. He looked to the weeds at a butterfly and knelt, stalking.
Carson and Henry hid in ambush in the woods, then rode sidelong on pretend, gaudy-painted ponies, rising up at the last minute in terror-provoking splendor to shoot arrows — nails embedded in the ends of dried water reeds — into pine tree stumps, then whooped and hollered and charged into the bloody melee and scalped half-dead and stupefied soldiers with homemade tomahawks. Then rode off as reinforcements rode after them. They outran the reinforcements, hid, and slaughtered all of them too. And then scalped them.
The next afternoon Carson was Tom Mix and Henry was Johnny Mack Brown. They joined the U.S. Cavalry and sat in a tree and shot their air rifles and murdered over a hundred Indians, picking them off one by one, Indian braves who had foolishly camped in a narrow ravine.
Henry told Carson about the Electra, about all the lights, the big group of men who could every one play a musical instrument.
EXODUS
I
n a wooded area just off a wagon path, Clearwater knelt on one knee, digging a hole with a broken jar. He’d just driven the Chrysler, while the boy, Henry, drove a stolen Oldsmobile a good distance ahead of him. They’d come from Cloverdale Springs Resort in Georgia to this spot near Treadlow, Georgia, clearly marked on a hand-drawn map. Henry was working out fine.
Henry felt good about his new job. It was easy, for one thing. Mr. Clearwater picked up the car from the criminal while Henry waited somewhere in the woods, or maybe behind a warehouse. Mr. Clearwater would drive up and get out of the stolen car, into his own car, and then Henry drove the stolen car, following a map to a place in the woods. They would bury stuff, switch license plates on the new car, transfer equipment, just like the regular thieves would have done. Mr. Clearwater knew a lot of hiding places and how to camouflage things. He’d been trained in the army and in the FBI and he kept records, maps, and all. And then they sold the car and Mr. Clearwater mailed the money to the FBI. Henry was paid in cash because they were undercover.
Henry was feeling kind of rich, and kind of comfortable, but still concerned about his Bible discoveries. And there was something not quite right about making money, a lot of money anyway, without working hard. It wasn’t Christian somehow.
Mr. Clearwater finished digging the hole, then buried a billfold, papers, pencils, and two pairs of gloves from the glove compartment of the Oldsmobile.
The real robbers doing the actual stealing were sometimes in too big a hurry to do the little things that had to be done. Mr. Clearwater’s job, and Henry’s, Henry was learning, was to do exactly what criminals would do, else he and Clearwater might get caught, not by the law, but by somebody in the car-theft ring. The police would be no problem, of course, since Mr. Clearwater was in the FBI — they’d just let them go — but the criminals could get nasty.
Clearwater packed dirt with his hand, smoothed over the small mound with his fingertips, scattered leaves and pine straw over his work, stood and dusted the knees of his pants.
Henry leaned against the Olds, his hand on the fender, waiting, sport coat sleeves too short, hair still standing up on top in back. “There’s no tool like the fingers,” he said.
“Yeah, that’s right,” said Clearwater.
Henry had had a chance to see some of the criminals down in Grover, Florida. They seemed like regular people. That showed how smart they were. One of the car painters had a gold tooth in front. Mr. Clearwater had said it was important for Henry not to talk to them.
Clearwater wiped each hand low on his pants in the rear, just above the cuff. “Go bring the Chrysler,” he said. “Here’s the keys.” He tossed them.
Henry pulled the Chrysler up beside the Oldsmobile, turned off the ignition, got out. “I like them white-sidewall tires,” he said. Mr. Clearwater was wiping his hands again.
Henry looked out across the field of broom straw that stood just beyond a few trees. The first stars of evening were beginning to show, and far across the field stood a long line of black pines. In the sky just above the pines lay a strip of yellow sky. It made him almost remember something he and Uncle Jack had done.
Clearwater opened the trunks of both cars so they could transfer the boy’s belongings and some of his. He retrieved eight license plates from eight states; two crowbars; a fifth and half-fifth of Henry McKenna in a paper sack; a portable Royal typewriter in its case; a zip-up canvas bag containing two wigs, a hunting jacket, binoculars, two .38 pistols, a pearl-handled .32, masking tape, rope, three sticks of dynamite, blankets, and rubber dishwashing gloves.
He got out a clean white shirt and put it on, looked over at the place he’d buried the billfold and glove compartment contents. It looked good. He made an out-of-the-way incision in the Oldsmobile trunk lining and pushed the license plates through, then motioned for Henry, now standing there waiting like he ought to, to put his things in the trunk. Henry stepped over and placed his suitcase, valise, and a new cardboard box of Bibles in next to the spare tire.
Clearwater noticed a speck on his glasses. As he wiped it off, he saw that it was a dark red. If you found the sweet spot above and behind the ear there wasn’t much trouble if you could swing hard with both hands — real quick. Knocked them out cold. But if you missed it and had to hit him again . . . not good. They’d be ducking and moving all around, and you sometimes couldn’t be accurate, might get a little spatter. He didn’t like to use the crowbar that way. He could kill somebody. Misuse of tools. That’s what his pistols were for. He’d killed with pistol, rifle, bayonet, and piano wire in France six years before and had experienced the luck of having bullets hit all around him but never touch him, and he’d experienced the weakness in his knees and the tingle in his chin just as he witnessed life leave somebody. You had to do your job. It was a job. And this was a job, just at a different place and time, all in the same world, a world that was no more than a place for things to happen. If your job brought wealth, then good.
“Okay, I’ll follow you this time,” said Clearwater. “I’ll drive the Chrysler. And remember, if we get split up, pull over and let
me
find
you
.”
They drove along in the night on a two-lane blacktop for about an hour, meeting few cars. Henry thought about home. It wouldn’t be too long before he could save up enough money to buy a car. He might could buy Caroline one too, or Aunt Dorie. Or maybe one for both of them. He might get a chance after six months or so to join the FBI as a regular G-man. Mr. Clearwater hadn’t mentioned it, but for sure that’s what would come next. He’d have to tell Carson. Maybe he could even arrange for Carson to come to work for the FBI too.
They stopped at a service station and filled up with gas. Clearwater took the lead for the final short stretch. As he drove, he pulled a letter from his pocket, turned on the inside light, and read directions. He looked at the map and then up to the road. In a few minutes he turned onto a gravel road and then into the driveway of a house with a large, two-story garage out back. People there would have information on any new options he might have. He went in, then came back out and explained to Henry that the Oldsmobile would be painted within twelve hours and they’d be on their way. They would spend the night in a room attached to the garage.
Henry sat in the chair beside his bed. “How did you find out about this place?” he asked.
“It’s all arranged beforehand.” Clearwater took off his shirt, folded it and placed it in his suitcase, turned back the covers on his bed. “They are very well organized, and it’s all made up of several branches.”
“Will they know you’re the one that turned them in? That you’re the spy?”
Clearwater brought his finger to his mouth, shook his head.
Henry nodded. “I need to know where I can have some Bibles mailed to. I need to order some. Is there a place we’ll be staying for a while?”
“We’ll be back and forth through Atlanta right much. That’s where we’ll be heading tomorrow.” Clearwater was in bed on his back. He turned onto his side. “I want to go to sleep.”
“Did you know there were two different stories about the beginning of the world in Genesis?”
“No.”
“I don’t see how they can both be wrote by the same God.”
Clearwater turned onto his back, came up onto his elbows, pulled back the covers, and swung his feet to the floor. “I guess I’ll have me a little drink. You want one?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Clearwater produced the bottle. “See if there ain’t some glasses in that cabinet.”
Henry found two glasses, the bright-colored aluminum kind with the turned-out lip. He had to tell somebody about all this Genesis stuff, and having a little drink would be a way to get Mr. Clearwater talking.
“Get you some water if you want to mix it,” said Clearwater as he poured the drinks.
“Uncle Jack always drunk it outen the bottle.”
Mr. Clearwater handed him a glass.
Henry smelled the whiskey, sloshed it around in his glass, took a sip. It almost burned. “What kind of church were you raised in?” he asked.
“It was called something, but I don’t remember. I was pretty little.”
Henry started taking off his pants.
“Won’t that belt end fit through a loop?” asked Clear-water.
“Oh, yeah. I guess so.”
“Could you see if it will.”
Henry fastened back his pants, checked the belt. “It does.”
“Good. One more thing. You think you could get a hat or some hair oil to keep your hair down in back like I asked you?”
“My daddy’s hair was like this is what my Aunt Dorie always told me,” said Henry as he touched his hair. “I just like to use water on my hair.”
“Yeah, I know. Now I need to go to sleep.”
The next morning as they stood inside the paint shop near an adding machine on a low table, Henry saw Clearwater pick up a nickel and a dime from the floor and pocket them. He wondered how he might bring up his concerns about the Bible again. Then while taking a leak in the bathroom, he noticed a penny
in the urinal
. As he came out, Clearwater went in. When Clearwater came out, Henry returned — just to see. The penny was gone. Did he put chewing gum on the end of a pencil and then drop the penny in the sink and wash it?
Outside, they looked at the fresh green paint on the Oldsmobile.
“Looks pretty good, don’t it?” said Clearwater.
“Sure does. It looks like it’s been painted for a while or something.”
“That’s right. They age it with damp cloths and this fine sand that comes from somewhere in Arizona.”
On the road, Henry fit his fingers into the scallops of the Oldsmobile steering wheel. He followed the Chrysler. They stopped at a used-car dealer’s lot in downtown Thomasville, Georgia, far south of Atlanta. And when he came out Clearwater gave Henry his two tens and a five-dollar bill.
That afternoon as they rode together, Clearwater told Henry to stop just beyond, but out of sight of, the Night’s Rest Motel in Jeffries, Georgia, about five miles southwest of Atlanta. Henry would walk in and Clearwater would drive in, as usual. But before Henry got out of the car, Clearwater told him they’d take a two-day rest, and that he’d be driving into Atlanta to observe some criminal activity.
“Can I come?” asked Henry.
“I need to do it myself.”
Henry sat on the bed in his room. It felt hard and the springs creaked. Tomorrow he’d go out for a serious day of Bible selling. He might iron one of his suits. The woman at the desk probably had an iron. A floor lamp stood in the corner, and a lightbulb on a cord hung from the middle of the room. Maybe he would go take a shower. One had been advertised on a sign in the office. He took off his suit and hung it and his sport coat on hangers in the wardrobe.
He walked to his window and looked down the road. A roadside fruit stand. He washed his face and hands, decided to postpone the shower, dressed in his underwear and second suit, picked up his valise, and walked out to the road. The air was hot and humid, and the sun was behind a heavy cloud in the west. The fruit stand was maybe fifty yards down the road, under a couple of funeral home tents, it looked like, white plywood bins all around. The paint was thin enough to see through to the plywood, even from far away. A big hand-painted sign, black paint on the white paint, said squash, fruit, turnips, canned goods, jelly and ect. Somebody sat in there behind a table, beside a hanging scale. He would sell a Bible or two. They’d have cash on hand.
