Harvey Porter Does Dallas (18 page)

“You are welcome. And let me thank the three of you too.”

“Why?”

“For giving me such a simple task my first day in the office. Now please sign at the bottom, I need to get back to work on the bulletin board.” Carmelita blushed again.

Then they all signed it. Oboe added his signature at the bottom. “Would you keep it here for us?” asked Harvey.

“Of course.” And he slipped it quickly into the drawer from whence it came.

The three of them stood up, thanked Meel again, and headed for the door. Carmelita turned to say to him, “I hope they get a nice nameplate on your door real soon.”

“I don't,” Meel replied, while getting to his feet. “I hope they never get around to it.”

20. A TRIP TO LIVINGSTON

They got an early start, about 7 a.m. because Victor had filled out 10:00 p.m. for their return. On Interstate 45/74 they were flying low in the Lexus, passing every car on the road.

But when they got to Huntsville, they had to take small highways and even county roads to get to Livingston. They stopped there at a gas station to ask for directions to the Alabama-Coushatta reservations. Harvey and Carmelita went in, but Victor just slouched against the car and said he'd wait.

They were told which road to take eastbound, and landmarks to look for. The gas station had a little section of snack items and cold soda. Carmelita bought a
Snickers Crunch Bar
; Harvey wanted some
Dorito
chips. They both got
Pepsis
. Carmelita paid for all the stuff. Then she stood at the window eating her candy bar while Harvey went over the directions to the reservation one more time with the woman behind the counter. He just wanted to make sure he had it straight. He wolfed down a few of the chips as they were talking.

Then he told Carmelita he was pretty sure he got it all straight. She didn't answer; she was still staring out the window.

“Didja hear me?” asked Harvey.

She seemed hypnotized. When she finally answered, she said, “Say it again.”

“I said I've got the directions all straight. Why are you starin' out the window like that? You in a zone or somethin'?”

“I guess I am,” she replied with a frown. She still wasn't looking at him.

“What zone? Why you keep starin' out the window?”

“I can't help myself. I can't believe what I just saw.”

“What
? What was it?”

“Victor took the bus.”

“What's that mean?”

“I mean,” she said, taking a deep breath, “He took the bus. I guess it was a town bus. The driver stepped outside for a smoke, then wandered down to the post office. The motor was still going, so Victor just got in and drove the bus away.”

“Oh great,” Harvey groaned.

“Why would he do a thing like that?”

“He can't help himself; he's got a
disorder
, he calls it, and it's the thing that got him into SAS.”

“What's a disorder?”

Harvey shrugged. “How the hell would I know?”

The two of them were stunned. They sat down on the wooden bench in front of the store, trying to decide what to do next.

“Do we just wait till he comes back?” asked Carmelita.

Harvey was shaking his head. “Nope. Can't do it. He may be drivin' that bus to the next town. It could be three or four hours before the cops catch him.”

“So what do we do?”

“Okay, here's the way I scope it out: We go out to the reservation ourselves, to try and find what I'm lookin' for.”

“But what about Victor?”

“He'll get arrested before noon. They'll probably put him in the town jail. He'll call his old man, who's really rich, and he'll send the money for Victor's bail.”

“Is that what you really think?”

Harvey nodded. “Let's just hope he left the keys in the car.”

“Are you a good driver?”

“Oh yeah.” Harvey nodded his head confidently.

“D'you have a driver's license?” she wanted to know.

“No. I never took driver's ed. I was never in one school long enough.”

“Then how can you say you're a good driver?”

Harvey looked at her. He was reminded again how beautiful she was. “We stole a lot of cars when I was still in
Los Rebeldes
. I got my drivin' experience that way.”

Carmelita was nodding her head and scowling. “It figures.”

“I'll tell you one thing about your brother Carlos,” he said.

“You know I don't like to talk about him. It's because of him that I'm in the SAS.”

Harvey ignored her complaint completely. “Carlos had one of these bars the cops use to open locked car doors for people. He even had a couple of those plastic wedges that goes with it. And God, was he could at hot wirin' a car! As long as it was one from back in the early '90s or '80s.”

“I'm so proud,” she replied, dripping with sarcasm. “Anyway, we might as well try your plan. I can't think of anything better. Do you think we'll get into trouble with Victor for using his car?”

“Not as much trouble as he'll be in for coppin' a bus.”

The keys were in the ignition. Harvey drove slower than Victor, but Carmelita saw he was telling the truth. He
was
a good driver.

The reservation wasn't much to look at, but the national forest with all its hills and pine trees made for some pretty cool surroundings. They could even see the glimmer of a large lake from time to time, off in the distance.

But the reservations itself was pretty grim; the roads that weren't gravel were dirt and the sun was hot. There were three or four dozen little, neglected ranch-style houses made of adobe brick, with tin roofs. There was a rustic general store, a big store that looked like a warehouse where you could buy tax-free cigarettes, cigars, and booze. A small brick post office was next to it.

They decided to ask around in the general store. The proprietor was a middle-aged Indian with his gray/black hair in long pigtails. Harvey told them they were looking for a Cherokee old enough to remember the old days.

“This is the Alabama-Coushatta reservation,” he replied. “There were some Cherokee who came down from around Nacogdoches and kind of blended with the other tribes. But no Indians here know exactly how many tribes have blood runnin' in their veins.”

“That's what's known as assimilation,” said Carmelita.

“Yeah, I think that's what the Anglos call it. We never use the term here.”

“Okay, okay,” said Harvey, growing impatient, “Isn't there anybody at all who could remember the old, old days? I'm tryin' to find my roots.”

The proprietor scratched his chin, frowned, and then nodded his head. “Maybe. Your best bet would be a very old man who lives in a house down at the end of the third road there.”

“How old is he?” asked Carmelita.

“At least 90. Maybe more. Talkin' to him, nothin' goes fast. His mind wanders.”

“What's his name?” asked Harvey.

“He goes by Charlie Whistlestick. He came down here from up around Nacogdoches years and years ago, when I was just a little kid. If there's anybody around here who might could help you, it would be him. Otherwise, I'd say you're out of luck.”

“Thanks a lot.” Harvey and Carmelita drove to the end house of the third road, which was made of dirt. It was a dull, neglected house like all the rest. But there were a lot of pine trees there. Out in the side yard, a rope hammock was strung between two of them. They saw a very old man lying in the hammock using a pocket knife for something. The hammock was slung so low, it almost touched the ground.

They approached the hammock man and introduced themselves. Charlie Whistlestick was using the pocket knife on sticks of wood to make whistles and small flutes with about three finger holes on top.

Next to the hammock was a cardboard box with the ones that were finished. He had brown skin wrinkled like an old prune. He was very skinny; his long gray hair looked like it hadn't been washed in the 21st century, and his large hands had lumpy knuckles like arthritis.

Since the hammock was almost touching the ground, Harvey and Carmelita were right at his level when they sat on the grass. Harvey asked him about the Cherokee around Nacogdoches. Luckily for them, the old man wasn't deaf or hard of hearing. Charlie said, “Well, that goes way, way back. We had a little Cherokee settlement up there, mostly drifters who came up from ancestors that found a little spot for themselves after the whole nation was kicked out of Texas and sent to Indian territory.”

“How far back?”

Charlie had no teeth. He replied, “Way, way back, maybe seventy years or so. It was about World War Two when we packed it up and came down to live with the Alabama and Coushatta. They were good to us; just took us right in.”

“That's called assimilation,” said Carmelita.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Harvey. “Let it go, huh?”

“Well excuse me; I'm just
sooooooo
sorry.”

Harvey asked Charlie if he remembered anything about “Soft Feet,” from those days at the Cherokee settlement up by Nacogdoches.

“Soft feet,” said Charlie softly. He closed his eyes. “Soft Feet.… Soft Feet.… that seems to ring a bell but I can't put my finger on it. I'll tell you what, my big regret in life is I never got to scalp a U.S. Government soldier. God, I would've give anything for that.”

Harvey reminded him about Soft Feet.

“I still think about it even today,” said Charlie. “Find some Anglo soldier, or maybe even just a cop. Waste him and take the top of his head off. 'Course I'm way too old for it now; ain't got the strength.”

Again, Harvey reminded him about Soft Feet. Well, they had been warned it would be tough to keep him on track.

Charlie closed his eyes again but still kept whittling. “Soft feet.… soft feet.… maybe it'll come to me. Purty sure it's in here somewhere” he said, while pointing to his head.

“This is what I know,” said Harvey, not bothering to add it was what he thought he knew. “She was born up there on that Cherokee settlement and moved to live with white people in Wichita Falls or Dallas or Fort Worth. A social worker came and took her away.”

“Okay, okay, now I'm thinkin' I do remember somp'n. It was real strange how she came to be born. Her mother didn't want her, so she was more of less just raised up by all of us.”

Carmelita asked, “How was it so strange? The way she was born, I mean.”

“Well, it's kinda like this. I've made a few of these whistles and flutes out of hickory. It's real hard work, so it slows me down. But it turns out a real good instrument. Best to work on pieces of pine, it's softer.”

Carmelita repeated her question.

Charlie said, “It all goes back to the early thirties. I was sort of grown up or maybe still in my teens. I think that's why it got my interest up. Have you got any liquor? Maybe a pint of Jim Beam or somethin?”

“Sorry,” said Carmelita. “We don't. We're both underage so they won't sell it to us. If we had it, though, we'd be happy to give it to you.”

“That's a nice thought. Sometimes at the tradin' post though, they ain't very partic'lar about peoples' ages.”

Harvey made a mental note of that, but tried to steer Charlie Whistlestick back on track. “Do you remember anything about Soft Feet's mother?”

“You bet I do,” he cackled. He tried to laugh, but it made him wheeze and sent him into a coughing spasm. He spit out some phlegm and a tobacco snot of spit before he went on. “Her name was Alice Walks-in-Twos.”

“Why was she called that?”

“'Cause we hardly never saw her walkin' alone. She didn't have no husband, but she always had a man with her. Almost always, anyway.”

“You're sayin' she liked men.”

“That's 'xacly what I'm sayin'. A lot of them spent lots of time in her hut. She worked as a housekeeper at some motel, as I recollect. But that's not the good part.”

“What's the good part?” asked Harvey eagerly.

Charlie reached into the box of finished flutes and whistles and brought out a home-made, lumpy cigarette. It looked like grass to Harvey, and when Charlie lit up, there was no mistaking that smell. “Here's another good thing about reservations,” said Charlie. “You can get real good marijuana purt'near any time you want. And it don't cost much, neither.” He inhaled the joint before he went back to whittling.

“So what's the good part?” Harvey asked again.

“Here's the good part: Clyde Barrow.”

Harvey thought for a moment before he said, “You mean Clyde like in the Barrow gang, like in Bonnie and Clyde?”

“Don't mean none other.”

“Why is he the good part?” Carmelita asked.

“Yeah, why?”

Charlie took another tug on the joint before he went on, “Clyde was hidin' out with us for a few months. It was a purty big deal at the time, him bein, the famous outlaw and all.”

“And you let him?” asked Carmelita.

“Sure. Clyde and Miss Bonnie Parker wasn't such bad people. They robbed banks, but they didn't never kill nobody less'n they had to.”

“You mean,” said Harvey, “they never fired at nobody unless they were fired on first.”

“'Xactly right. They never shot nobody less'n they didn't have no choice.”

“Was Bonnie with him?” Carmelita asked.

“Nope, Clyde was hidin' out by himself. Miss Bonnie Parker was in jail for a few months.”

“What for?”

“Dunno. Can't remember.”

Harvey was impatient. Charlie asked him if he wanted a joint, but Harvey turned it down. If they were close to some important facts, he wanted to know what they were. “Are you sayin' Barrow had somethin' to do with Soft Feet?”

“That's what I'm sayin'. Him hidin' out there, it didn't take no time at all for Alice Walks-in-twos took a shine to him. That wasn't no surprise, him bein' such a famous guy and all.”