Fiction Friday

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER TEN

            As ordered, Nelson stood in front of the Cooper Fountain in the center of campus by noon. Students hurried by, along with an occasional academic type carrying a bulging briefcase instead of the ubiquitous backpack. Most students wore sloppy clothes and a few, despite the chill, wore shorts. For his visit, Nelson had chosen a dark blue sweater and light jacket along with khaki pants and loafers. He appeared strangely out of place, resembling neither student nor professor. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket but removed them when he saw Tina approach.

            “Well?” she said.

            “I’m in.”

            “Was there any doubt?”

            “I have found that in life there is always doubt,” he said.

            “You have to understand academia,” she said. “We professors appreciate a mature student who won’t give us problem after problem, completes the assignments, and aces the tests. Why would we not want you?”

            Nelson shrugged. “I have a mountain of paperwork to complete, but by as early as this summer, I’ll have to call you Dr. Barrow.” He turned to her and smiled. “No relation to Clyde.”

            She punched his arm and laughed. “Just remember your place.” She pointed to the east. “Feel like a walk?”

            “Sure.”

            “There is a pizza place just off campus,” she said, “and they serve great food.”

            “Lead on,” he said, and as they walked they talked.

            “So what did you and the good Dr. Bartholomew talk about? Faulkner or Proust?” She thought. “No, I’ll bet he told you that you would have to read Zora Neale Hurston.” She changed her voice. “Learn you some of that African-American dialect.”

            He laughed. “Actually, we talked a good deal about Connorville.”

            She clutched his elbow and they stopped. “You are obsessed,” she said. “What did he say about Connorville?”

            “He told me to stay away from there.”

            “Good advice,” she said as they resumed walking. “And you said?”

            “I told him it was too late.”

            “Too late for what?”

            “Too late for I had already been there.”

            “You went to Connorville? Why?”

            He shrugged. “I have this morbid curiosity, I suppose.”

            “I hope it doesn’t extend to women,” she said.

            “No,” he said. “I prefer them red-blooded and wholesome.”

            “Drats,” she said and they walked in silence until they reached the street from which Nelson had reached the campus. “Careful,” she said taking his hand. “A student can get elected to their Hall of Fame if they hit an adult, with a star alongside their name if it is a professor.”

            “Lead on,” he said, and they crossed the street that separated the college from the city together.

****

            Nelson left the campus and drove to the south side of MacArthur Park, parked, and walked to the same bench where he last saw Charlie. He sat and waited. Before long, a black car appeared and parked behind his truck. A tall man in a dark suit emerged, shut the door, looked both ways, and walked to Nelson. He rose and shook the newcomer’s hand. “Agent Benson,” said, “good to see you again.”

            “Gideon Nelson,” the other said, “as I live and breathe. Call me Tom.”

            “Tom,” Nelson said, “I was looking forward to seeing your office. All the awards and trophies.” They sat.

            “Only one award,” Benson said. “The one you helped me get.” He looked around. “But it’s still better that we keep our continued connection a secret between the two of us.”

            “Understood,” Nelson said. “But thanks for meeting with me.”

            “My pleasure. What’s going on in your life?’

            “Waiting for the VA to decide to cut on me.”

            “And?”

            “Looks like I may enroll in college. Get an education. Is the Agency hiring?”

            “You’re way too smart to work for the Agency,” Benson said. “What else? You didn’t call me here to update me on your life’s journey.” He paused and looked at Nelson. “Or did you?”

            “Tell me about a place called Connerville,” Nelson said.

            Benson leaned toward him. “What?”

            “Connorville.”

            “Why the fuck do you want to know about that place?”

            “Natural curiosity.”

            “Stay away from there,” Benson said. “That’s all you need to know.”

            “You’re not the first person to tell me that,” Nelson said. “Matter of fact, I have been there and it lived up to its reputation.”

            “Jesus,” Benson said, “do you just live for trouble?”

            “It seems to follow me,” Nelson said. “Have you by chance heard about a girl named Abbey Stubblefield?”

            Benson nodded. “Isn’t she the one they found murdered there?”

            “That’s the one,” Nelson said. “It turns out that she was best friends with Dubois Barker’s nephew Martin.”

            “Martin?”

            “Elvis Barker’s son. The genius who also helped you get your award.”

            Benson looked out over the park and was silent for a moment. “I’m recalling it now. She attended that school for the young and gifted over in Hot Springs.”

            Nelson said, “And so does Martin.”

            “So he knew her.”

            “Best friends apparently. He is quite upset about the lack of interest in finding her killer.”

            “Oh no,” Benson said, slumping visibly, “I feel a shit storm on the horizon.”

            Nelson smiled and said nothing.

            Benson tried to out wait him, gave up, and said, “Okay. What?”

            “I was just wondering if the Agency has gotten involved? Or if it plans to?” He crossed a leg and leaned forward. “It doesn’t appear that anyone else is pursuing it.” Then he stopped talking and waited for Benson.

            “You have to understand how these things work,” he said after a pause. “The Agency doesn’t get involved unless there is a federal issue, an interstate crime, or a request from the locals.” He looked around again. “And as of this date, we haven’t been asked. Want to know something else?”

            Nelson said, “Of course.”

            “We don’t expect to be.”

            “And that is because?”

            “The way you talk, you already know something about this town of Connorville.”

            “They don’t appear to like strangers.”

            “They beat up strangers there.”

            “I could have guessed that,” Nelson said.

            “They burn out liberals.”

            “That doesn’t surprise me.”

            “Know what else, though?”

            “What?”

            Benson leaned back. “They really, and I mean really, don’t like black people.”

            “So you can’t help me?”

            Benson exhaled. “Christ, what can I do?”

            “Just add some insight. I told Martin that I might check into it.” He stopped, then added, “And something strange happened the other night.”

            This aroused Benson’s attention. “What happened?”

            “I caught someone following Martin when he stopped at my house.”

            “Oh fuck me,” Benson said. “You are a ‘trouble magnet.’”

            Nelson shrugged.

            “Tell you what,” Benson said, “the police chief there owes me a favor. I looked into some interstate drug dealings for him. Got him some good ‘pub.’ Also, I showed up when someone spray-painted ‘KKK” on a black family’s house. Sort of a token appearance by the Agency to show the chief was on the job.”

            “There is a black family in Connorville?”

            “Was,” Benson said. “For two months before they decided to leave for higher ground.”

            “Did you catch the perpetrators?”

            “Nah,” Benson said, “there’s a group of thugs there that hang out at a local church. Call themselves ‘The Soul Warriors.’ They are probably the ones responsible but nobody wanted to pursue it.”

            “A church group terrorizing a family?”

            “This is the South,” Benson said, “in case you haven’t noticed. Not the deep South mind you. But still the South.”

            “Mind telling me what church it was?”

            “Something called a Baptist Tabernacle.”

            “The Connorville Baptist Tabernacle?”

            “Yeah,” Benson said, “that’s the one. Why? Are you familiar with it?”

            “That’s the one Abbey Stubblefield attended and was being warned away from just before she was murdered.”

            “So that’s why you want my help?”

            Nelson nodded and said, “So what might you do?”

            “I might—just might—call the chief and tell him you are a friend of the victim’s family and are just asking for an update. Tell him family is too upset to do it themselves.”

            “Get me an audience?”

            “Precisely.”

            “That would be great.”

            “So,” Benson said, “that settles us up?” He started to rise.

            “One more thing,” Nelson said.

            “Oh shit,” Benson said. “Are you trying to get me transferred to Fargo?”

            “Fargo?”

            “That’s where they send fuckups in the Agency. They can’t fire you so they just transfer you to Fargo, North Dakota.”

            “And you wouldn’t like that?”

            “I like Little Rock,” Benson said. “If you can’t get laid in Little Rock, you can’t get laid at all. Just remember that.”

            “I’ll try.”

            “Oh,” Benson said, “and by the way, I hear your little banker friend is asking about you.”

            “My banker friend?”

            “Yeah, the one in Armistead that you played ‘direct deposit’ with.”

            “Does the Agency keep files on everyone?”

            “No,” Benson said, “but Elvis Barker does over at ‘Gossip Central,’ and his brother forwards all the juicy shit.”

            “I’m so glad to see the taxpayers’ money being spent for useful purposes.”

            “So tell me,” Benson said, “what else to you want me to do that could get me in deep shit?”

            Nelson fished a slip of paper from his pocket. “Could you find me the owner of this vehicle?”

            “What vehicle is this?”

            “The one that was shadowing Martin Barker. I distinctly saw a gun barrel through the open window.”

            “Jesus,” Benson said. “Wait here,” He took the note and walked back to his vehicle.

            Nelson spread his feet out and leaned against the back of the bench. A group of four geese approached from the pond and examined him closely. When he offered them nothing, three walked away. The fourth turned and laid a two-inch turd a few feet from Nelson and then waddled away. “Same to you, buddy,” Nelson said. Then his cell phone vibrated.

            He looked toward Benson’s car. The agent was still on his cell phone. Nelson answered his. He listened then nodded. “I recognized your voice.” He waited again. “I enjoyed it as well and, by the way, thanks for introducing me to Dr. Bartholomew.” He took on a questioning look. “Do I think what is inevitable?” His face reddened. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know a lot about the inevitability of things. I’ve had to live in the present tense for some time now.” He waited and nodded again. “You do that,” he said. Then he smiled. “Sure, maybe Thursday for sure. Sounds like fun. Call me.” He nodded, smiled again, and hung up the phone.

            At this moment, Benson appeared. Before Nelson could speak, the agent said, “I’m going to give you some good advice and then ask you a big favor.”

            Nelson looked at him, puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

            “First,” Benson said, ignoring him, “you need to stay the hell away from Connorville.”

            “You’ve already told me that.”

            “Second thing,” Benson said, ignoring him again. “Please leave me out of it if you ignore the first one.”

            “What are you trying to tell me?”

            “Just this,” Benson said, handing him a business card with notes scrawled on the back. This is the name and address of the truck’s owner.”

            “And?”

            “His name is Donald Bridges. They call him ‘Bully Bridges’ in Connorville.” He paused. “And for good reason. He is a particularly nasty character. I can’t tell you that the Agency has been keeping an eye on him, but I wouldn’t deny it under oath, if you know what I mean.”

            “I see …,” Nelson said, but Benson interrupted him.

            “And ..”

            Nelson said, “And what?”

            “He is the leader of the Connorville Baptist Tabernacle’s group of assholes known as The Soul Warriors.”