The Pecan Man(39)

“He was headed off on Patrice's bike when I got here this mornin'. Said he was goin' to the post office to pick something up and he'd be back for lunch."

You can't imagine the thoughts that went through my head as concern for him settled in. First I worried that he'd been arrested again. He was not supposed to leave my house without telling me where he was going. It was part of the agreement for posting his bail.

Then I worried that he'd been killed. I was certain Ralph Kornegay would be happy to finish what he started. Then it occurred to me that I would lose fifty thousand dollars if Eddie disappeared and couldn't be found. I fretted myself into a frazzle by mid-afternoon.

When the girls came in from school, I told Blanche to take them on home. I needed help, but pickings were slim in the help department. Lord knows I couldn't call the police.

I picked up the phone to call Poopsie's office and thought better of it. But, thinking of the judge made me think of Clara Jean, and thinking of her put me in mind of Chip Smallwood. I called him at home and, mercifully, caught him on his day off. He was at my house fifteen minutes later and we formulated a plan together.

I could think of only two places Eddie might go. The first was to the Greyhound Bus Station down on Miller Street. I thought maybe he picked up money or even a ticket at the post office.

Clara Jean was much more graceful getting into Chip's car than I was. Even with Chip offering a steadying hand, I all but fell into the low bucket seat of the Camaro he drove. We headed to the bus station first, but the clerk there said no one had booked a ride at all that day.

“Do you think we could find out what he picked up at the post office?" I asked Chip.

“I really doubt it,” he replied. “They aren’t allowed to give out personal information like that.”

The second place I thought of was a bar and I shared that with Chip.

“It’s possible,” he agreed. “That yellow bike shouldn’t be too hard to spot if you want to just drive around and look.”

“The Shamrock isn’t too far from the post office,” I said, offering up one of the only bar and liquor stores that came to mind.

Chip chuckled. “I doubt he’d go there, Ma’am. He’d most likely head for one where he wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Oh, right,” I said, feeling silly again.

“I know of a few we might check, though. The County Line Bar is just south of town. He might be behind the line.”

“Behind the line?” I wondered.

“It’s a window at the back of the bar. That’s where blacks are served.”

I think I gasped aloud because Chip went on quickly.

“Yeah, it bothers me, too. There’s no real rule about it, so it’s hard to fix the problem.”

“I had no idea,” I murmured, more to myself than to Chip.

“Fact is, blacks could go inside and the bartender would serve them, but it wouldn’t take long for the patrons to make them feel plenty unwelcome.”

I was too stunned to speak. I sat numbly as Chip headed south of town and cruised through the parking lot of the County Line Bar. We drove past a few old pickup trucks, one rumpled sedan and a work van with a logo and contact information crudely painted on the side. Chuck’s Handyman Servis You name it, we fix it. Resonable rates.

As we rounded the building, I caught sight of a small clearing in the woods just behind the parking lot. A rusted barrel puffed dark smoke into the air. It was surrounded by a circle of cast off chairs and squatty stumps of once large trees. Only one old man sat nearby and he was far too big to be Eddie. I glanced at the back of the building and noticed the window Chip spoke of, but there was no yellow bike parked in the area at all.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Chip offered. “Who would think this was still going on?”

“Do you see a lot of this at work?”

“Every day,” Chip nodded and pulled out of the parking lot back toward town.

We went down Pine Street, the main drag through colored town. I had never, in all my years, been down that street. The houses were colorful and small. Dogs and chickens wandered freely in front yards and under porches. A small general store I didn’t know existed bore a battered screen door with a Sunbeam Bread logo rusting across its middle.

Nearing the end of the street, people were lined up at the open window of a small, faded green block building. The smell of hickory smoke was enticing and I could see that it came from behind the place.

“Cal’s Ribs,” Chip said. “Best you’ll ever eat. He’s only open three days a week and there’s always a line.”

“Smells wonderful,” I offered, though I couldn’t imagine myself eating ribs of any kind. Too messy, I thought.

Chip pointed out another bar, though you’d not have known it from the street. There were no signs to indicate that it was anything other than an abandoned storefront. There was still no yellow bike in sight.

“Anywhere else you can think of?” Chip asked.

I started to shake my head no, but a thought leaped to mind as if it had been sitting there waiting all along.

“The woods,” I said, nodding triumphantly.

Chip smiled. “Yep, the woods.”

We found Eddie easily. Chip knew the spot well, he told me later. There was a low fire burning among a circle of small rocks. The first thing I thought when I saw him was, He’s sitting on a throne.