Read Online Black Water Rising by Attica Locke - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Attica Locke
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tossing him a book of matches. In the man’s side pocket, Jay spots the top of a liquor bottle.
The man catches Jay staring at his stained coveralls and fifth of Seagram’s. “This ain’t my regular gig, you know,” he says, as if he feels he needs to explain himself. “I’m just picking up a little extra cash right now, that’s all. I come by a couple of times a week to clear out the trash, beer bottles and such. I’m keeping an eye on the place nights now... you know, since the shooting.”
“It was you, huh?” Jay asks carefully. “The one who found him?”
The man shakes his head to himself, whistling low.
“Man, I ain’t ever seen no shit like that in my life, and I seen some shit, let me tell you.” He snatches his book of matches from Jay’s hand, striking one to light his own cigarette. “You can quote me on that if you want to.”
He actually pauses, waiting for Jay to produce a pad and a pencil, to make sure he’s getting all this down. So this is his big moment, Jay thinks, his little piece of fame. The man’s name in the paper and everything. More than his mama ever dreamed for him, probably. Jay, playing the part, pats his pockets. “I must have left my notes in the car,” he says, trying to sound casual, jaded even, a beat reporter who’s seen everything. “What hap pened out here?”
“Hell if I know,” the groundskeeper says. He takes a single, lusty pull on his cigarette, sucking it nearly to the filter. He stares out across the field at the police markings, the ghostly shapes in the dirt. “It was early when I got out here Sunday morning, around eight, like I always do. I come up the walk here,” he says, pointing to the dirt road. “And I set my buggy over by the fence.” He points to the wheelbarrow resting against the fence now. “I stopped to get a little sip, you know, just to warm me up.” He reaches for the bottle now, reenacting the scene, pulling the Seagram’s from his pocket. He takes a hearty swallow, nodding his head toward the field. “And that’s when I seen the car. I mean, it was just sitting right there.” He nods toward the white markings in the grass.
“What kind of car was it?” Jay asks, remembering the woman from the boat, her nice clothes and diamond ring.
“It was a Chrysler, kinda gold-like,” the man says. “It was a rental, that much I remember, ’cause the sticker on the back said lone star rides. I got a good look at it too. I come up on it real close,” he says, tiptoeing on his bowlegs, walking through the open field like it’s a graveyard, careful where he lays his feet. “The driver-side door was wide open. The light was still on inside.” He gets within a few feet of the white police paint, the lumpy circle in the dirt, and then stops short, his voice almost solemn. “He was laying right here.”
“Who was he?” Jay asks.
The man shrugs. “Cops pulled an ID off the man, but who knows?”
“It was a white guy, though, right?”
The man nods. “Laying right there, hanging out of the car, on his back.”
Jay looks out across the empty field. There are black mosqui toes dancing in the white light of his high beams, crickets hum ming to themselves in the brush behind them. Jay turns from the view of the field to look at the empty warehouse and the dark, nearly deserted street. At this hour, the place looks like an indus trial wasteland. What in the world was she doing out here ? “If he was on the driver’s side,” Jay mumbles to himself, repeating the groundskeeper’s description, arcing around the four X ’s t hat mark the car, to what would have been the Chrysler’s passenger side, “then she must have been riding here,” he says softly, think ing out loud, still trying to piece together some kind of a story. He wonders if the dead man picked her up somewhere, if the two knew each other.
When he finally looks up again, the groundskeeper is staring at him.
“How do you know it was a woman?” the man
The man catches Jay staring at his stained coveralls and fifth of Seagram’s. “This ain’t my regular gig, you know,” he says, as if he feels he needs to explain himself. “I’m just picking up a little extra cash right now, that’s all. I come by a couple of times a week to clear out the trash, beer bottles and such. I’m keeping an eye on the place nights now... you know, since the shooting.”
“It was you, huh?” Jay asks carefully. “The one who found him?”
The man shakes his head to himself, whistling low.
“Man, I ain’t ever seen no shit like that in my life, and I seen some shit, let me tell you.” He snatches his book of matches from Jay’s hand, striking one to light his own cigarette. “You can quote me on that if you want to.”
He actually pauses, waiting for Jay to produce a pad and a pencil, to make sure he’s getting all this down. So this is his big moment, Jay thinks, his little piece of fame. The man’s name in the paper and everything. More than his mama ever dreamed for him, probably. Jay, playing the part, pats his pockets. “I must have left my notes in the car,” he says, trying to sound casual, jaded even, a beat reporter who’s seen everything. “What hap pened out here?”
“Hell if I know,” the groundskeeper says. He takes a single, lusty pull on his cigarette, sucking it nearly to the filter. He stares out across the field at the police markings, the ghostly shapes in the dirt. “It was early when I got out here Sunday morning, around eight, like I always do. I come up the walk here,” he says, pointing to the dirt road. “And I set my buggy over by the fence.” He points to the wheelbarrow resting against the fence now. “I stopped to get a little sip, you know, just to warm me up.” He reaches for the bottle now, reenacting the scene, pulling the Seagram’s from his pocket. He takes a hearty swallow, nodding his head toward the field. “And that’s when I seen the car. I mean, it was just sitting right there.” He nods toward the white markings in the grass.
“What kind of car was it?” Jay asks, remembering the woman from the boat, her nice clothes and diamond ring.
“It was a Chrysler, kinda gold-like,” the man says. “It was a rental, that much I remember, ’cause the sticker on the back said lone star rides. I got a good look at it too. I come up on it real close,” he says, tiptoeing on his bowlegs, walking through the open field like it’s a graveyard, careful where he lays his feet. “The driver-side door was wide open. The light was still on inside.” He gets within a few feet of the white police paint, the lumpy circle in the dirt, and then stops short, his voice almost solemn. “He was laying right here.”
“Who was he?” Jay asks.
The man shrugs. “Cops pulled an ID off the man, but who knows?”
“It was a white guy, though, right?”
The man nods. “Laying right there, hanging out of the car, on his back.”
Jay looks out across the empty field. There are black mosqui toes dancing in the white light of his high beams, crickets hum ming to themselves in the brush behind them. Jay turns from the view of the field to look at the empty warehouse and the dark, nearly deserted street. At this hour, the place looks like an indus trial wasteland. What in the world was she doing out here ? “If he was on the driver’s side,” Jay mumbles to himself, repeating the groundskeeper’s description, arcing around the four X ’s t hat mark the car, to what would have been the Chrysler’s passenger side, “then she must have been riding here,” he says softly, think ing out loud, still trying to piece together some kind of a story. He wonders if the dead man picked her up somewhere, if the two knew each other.
When he finally looks up again, the groundskeeper is staring at him.
“How do you know it was a woman?” the man
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