Chapter 6

2:15 PM Thursday: I could have made it to the general store earlier, but I thought it necessary to use caution, and went to the house for a big lunch first.

The general store was in what must have been a house at one time. The former front yard was just gravel and dirt now. The steps, made of sandstone, wobbled underfoot, and the wood-floored porch creaked. The outer wall’s white-wash was nearly completely gone, and the rail around the porch was deeply worn opposite the tattered, empty chairs.

As I pushed open the door with the dirty windows, the spring loaded screen door caught me from behind on the heel. A fat old woman sitting near the door, one I did not see at church the night before, didn’t even look up from whatever she was doing with her hands behind the plywood box where she was seated as I stepped inside, limping. There were a couple of dirty men hanging around the pop cooler, but they didn’t say a word either.

That was alright, I knew where I was going. I started to work my way down the narrow aisles between the overloaded shelves toward the back wall. A little preliminary investigation had revealed that Testament was a dry county, which means only one thing. Talking to a few friends who were city outside, country inside, with all a country boy’s tastes, had told me all I needed to know. At the back of the store was a door. I knocked.

"Who is it?" asked a voice. Friendly people in Testament.

"A friend sent me," I replied.

The door opened out, and I had to jump to miss being hit. The room on the other side looked dark and cool. I stepped in about one step before a voice came from nowhere, belonging to someone I still hadn’t seen, and told me to stop. In the light from the door I could see rack after rack, filled with gallon jugs. The rows were evenly spaced, and faded into the shadows in either direction. It was too dark to see any wall except the back one, about forty feet away.

An old man, a grizzled number, maybe seventy, separated from the shadows beside me. I caught the blue gleam of gunmetal as he leaned something against the wall. "What’d you want?" he demanded, crossing his skinny arms in front of him.

I swallowed the pain-in-my-pride that he caused by his apparent confidence in his ability to handle me, and favored him with a smile. "What was a good month for corn squeezin’s?" I asked.

He grunted without answering, and headed off into the dark. Soon I couldn’t see him, but I could hear his shuffle until it stopped. "How much?" he called.

"Just one," I answered. About a minute later, he came back with a jug. He started to reach it to me, holding out a paw. "Wait a minute," I said. "How about a sample first?" He looked hesitant. "You too. You can tell me if it’s good." From the looks of things, this bird probably couldn’t tell scotch from gasoline anymore, but I was betting he thought he could, and he agreed quickly enough. He shut the door and led me along the wall to one end of the room. There was a kerosene lamp sitting on the dirt floor and my eyes were adjusting, so I saw him point to the couch against the wall before he disappeared back into the dark. The couch was damp to the touch, but what the hell. In a minute he came back with a couple of glasses, sat, picked up the jug from where he had set it, and poured a glass full for each of us. My glass was sticky, and, dark as it was, I still had to shut my eyes before I could make myself drink. My buddy, Boozer, hadn’t hesitated at all, just took a gulp, sighed and settled back, still breathing, so I took the plunge, and was pleasantly surprised. It wasn’t too bad. Sure, it’d have blistered a baby’s bottom, but it wasn’t wood alcohol at least. I could see Boozer’s eyes shining at me, so I sighed and nodded. "All right," I said.

Boozer showed no desire to lose me: he was probably hoping for another glassful after this one, which suited me fine. "You’re a lot of fun, "I said to him. "What’s your name, buddy? So I’ll know who to ask for next time."

He giggled. "Ain’t nobody else to ask. If it ain’t me you’re askin’ you ain’t askin’ nobody!"

I thought that one over. "You’re the only one who works here?" I asked. He nodded, with what would have been a smile if you skipped the teeth requirements. "You live down here?" I said in surprise, and he nodded and smiled, again, even slapping his thigh.

I looked around. Not a window in the place. No source of heat that I could see, beyond what was in the bottles. Dirt floor. The wall behind me was cinderblock, the dirty ceiling looked concrete. I looked back at Boozer. "Home sweet home," he said, laughing with a wheeze.

I saw he had drained his glass, so I finished mine, and held out for a refill, knowing he would pour himself one too, this being a democracy. I also noticed that the heel the screen door had caught didn’t hurt so much anymore.

"You don’t get out very often, do you?" I asked. He reached me my glass and shook his head. "That’s too bad. You must feel left out of the outside doin’s."

He pointed to his head with his free hand swallowed. "I know! Not much I don’t know." His eyes squinted down to slits. "I knows more than they thinks I do!"

"I’ll bet you do," I agreed. "I’ll bet you know more than anyone around here." He nodded, but slowly, and I thought I was losing his attention. "Look here!" I yelled, and he jumped and stared at me. I lowered my voice. "Do you know about that girl, that Mary Cole?"

He wrinkled his forehead, then nodded excitedly. "Mary! Yes, I remember Mary!" He gave me a wink as he took a sip, and accidentally got too much, and choked.

"Then you know she was killed," I said when the coughing was over.

He looked startled, then sad. "Yes. No more Mary. Too bad." He shook his head with real loss. I could suddenly understand why prostitution is such a reviled occupation.

"You're unhappy she’s dead?"

"Yep. Yep, it's a pity."

I swung one leg up onto the couch and sat facing him. I tapped his knee. "I’ll bet you know who could have done it."

He looked at me, turned away, and looked at me again. "Anyone could have," he said, and turned away. He had something to hide, that was for sure. For the first time, it looked promising.

"Anyone, yeah, but only one person did. You know these people here. Better than anyone. Who do you think did it?"

He looked me over, slow and careful, but I got the feeling it wasn’t me he was thinking about. "I was wrong," he said at last. "Yes. I was wrong. I don’t really know so much. No. I can’t tell you anymore. No. No." He went all squinty-eyed again. "But maybe Mr. Lawson can." He nodded to himself. "Yes, Mr. Lawson can take care of you." He poured down the rest of his drink, and stood up. "Ask Mr. Lawson," he said, "he will know what to tell you." His tone left no room for argument, so I followed him back to the door, handed him a twenty and a ten. He didn’t offer any change, so I didn’t tell him to keep it.

When I stepped back into the store, there were maybe twice as many farmers lounging around. A few looked like they were dying, but looked like he was dying to tell me anything. I told myself to forget it, and took the rest of my jug back home.