Blue Bloods of Bois D’Arc

Blue Bloods of Bois D’Arc

DICK BROWN

SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

New York

BLUE BLOODS OF BOIS D’ARC

Copyright©2016

DICK BROWN

Cover Design by Leah Kaye-Suttle

This book is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Published in the United States of America by

Soul Mate Publishing

P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN: 978-1-68291-224-9

www.SoulMatePublishing.com

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

The Blue Bloods of Bois D’Arc is dedicated to the many brave warriors in the U.S. Air Force who served in silence and anonymity during the Cold War with the Soviet Union. They often gave their lives without recognition to protect our freedom. We owe them a debt of gratitude that can never be fully paid. Also to my loyal friends and readers who inspire me to keep writing.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to my wife, Penny, who encourages me and patiently indulges the many hours spent in my man cave writing. Her constant support is essential to the success of my efforts as an author. Also a word of gratitude to my publisher Debby Gilbert who continues to have confidence in my work.

A special thanks to Marilyn Hackett Djelloul, a dear friend I have known since first grade. Her careful editorial eye keeps my writing tight, moving and accurate for which I am truly grateful.

Introduction

Rod Miller’s life changed forever when fall classes started his senior year of high school in Bois D’Arc, Texas, a small town in the northern shadows of Dallas. Integrated after years of court delays following the Supreme Court ruling that struck down segregation in public education, the all-black Booker T. Washington High School was closed and consolidated with Rod’s all-white Bois D’Arc High School during the summer break.

Reality set in and turned the town into a powder keg that could ignite from the smallest spark. Friday night high school football was the only hope the school board had to avoid serious confrontation. The influx of new students raised Bois D’Arc High to class 5A, and the Bois D’Arc Lions and Booker T. Washington Panthers became the Bois D’Arc Armadillos with the best shot ever at a district championship for either team.

Some parents dug their heels in and threatened to keep their kids at home to avoid the integration decree from the Fifth District Court. Others, from the poorer families, like Rod’s, didn’t understand what all the commotion was about. They had lived out of sight on the north side of town in a mixed black, brown, and white neighborhood all their lives.

The wealthy blue bloods of Bois D’Arc threatened to build their own school, to no avail. These families were self-anointed blue bloods, the alumni of prestigious Southern Methodist University in nearby Dallas. Most of them were also registered in The Dallas Cotillion Society. Randolph C. Worthington III, the town patriarch, owned the only bank in town and controlled the secretive group of lawyers and businessmen who were the blue-blood heads of households. They owned or controlled most of the businesses in Bois D’Arc. Their employees made up the city’s population, filled the classrooms with their children, and produced the football players. The same group of men recruited the best football talent from the local high school for their alma mater. Their recruits provided the talent for the SMU Mustangs to battle it out with the Texas Longhorns and the Aggies from Texas A&M for the Southwest Conference championship every year. With the two teams consolidated, the recruitment of black players would be possible for the first time. They could now openly recruit players they had secretly sent to the Southwest Conference football league, which had voluntarily integrated years earlier. Concerned white parents feared their sons would not receive the same consideration as before.

Rod welcomed the news that he’d be playing with his best friend, Thomas Earl Jefferson, Jr.—better known as Junior—for the first time in high school. They grew up together in the Flats, an isolated community on the other side of the Cotton Belt Railroad tracks north of downtown. Black and Mexican families made up the neighborhood, except for Rod and his family. The plain clapboard houses were originally company owned and provided cheap living space for workers at the now-closed Texas Star Cotton Compress. When the compress closed, the homes were sold to the workers or anyone who wanted to buy them.

Randolph C. Worthington III’s world was shaken when he discovered his beloved granddaughter, Cass, was secretly dating Rod Miller against his wishes.

Chapter 1

Traces of early-morning coolness disappeared, overcome by the sultry August dog days of summer. The clanging Crisco can Rod Miller kicked down the narrow gravel road interrupted the rising chorus of cicadas. He stopped briefly to pick up a couple of empty soda bottles in the ditch.

Rod’s wiry hundred and seventy-five pounds of toned muscle without an ounce of fat saddled a six-feet-two-inch frame, topped with a shock of dark hair. Thanks to the year-round program of weight training Coach Haskins had put him on, he’d set records that most high school quarterbacks only dreamed of.

The smell of fried ham and bacon spurred Rod to sprint the last fifty yards to the rear of the Lakewood Country Club. He burst into the kitchen, nearly ripping the screen door off its hinges. “Mornin’, Mr. Jefferson. Junior around?”

“Yeah, he busin’ breakfast tables and you best be gittin’ on out to the golf course. Mr. Jack’s already waitin’ on you.”

“I need to see Mr. Gardner to cash in these bottles,” Rod said, catching his breath as he snatched a thick strip of bacon off the grill.

“Ain’t seen him since early this mornin’, ain’t looking for him neither. He’s in a real bad temper. Somethin’ ’bout some meat missin’. Reckon he thinks I stole it.”

Mr. Jefferson had been the country club cook for more years than most members could remember. His son Junior was busboy and scullery boy, and he kept the barbecue pit supplied with mesquite wood. You name it, Junior did it. That is, except eat in the main dining room with the white members of the staff on break. He and Rod usually ate together back in the kitchen. But lately Rod had been spending too much time with Jack Workman for Junior’s liking. Although Rod was Jack’s regular caddy, Junior felt Rod was treated more like a son. And that’s what bothered Junior.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Jefferson, he’s always like that. He don’t like anybody. I’ll leave the bottles here and catch him later. Not worth four cents to listen to him gripe about what this world is coming to,” Rod said on his way to the back door, almost slamming into Cisco Morales in the doorway. “Whoa! I almost ran you over, Cisco. Where you going in such a hurry?”

“Hey,
amigo
!” Cisco said in his heavy accent. “You better come quick. Mr. Workman say he ready you should caddy for him
muy pronto
!
”

Not everyone understood Cisco’s Tex-Mex dialect, but he was a favorite with the club staff. And he was the best greens-and-grounds-keeper in Northeast Texas. Cisco wasn’t his real name. He looked like the lead character on the
Cisco Kid
TV series. Ever since Rod jokingly called out “Cisco!” to him at the annual Chamber of Commerce golf tournament, the name stuck.

Jack Workman had finished his warm-up on the practice putting green next to the first tee as Rod jogged up, slightly out of breath. He’d honed his skills as a triple-threat quarterback dodging trees and hurdling Cisco’s beautifully trimmed shrubs as imagined tacklers.

In spite of the unrealistic expectations rumored in Bois D’Arc of Rod leading the Armadillos to their first district championship, the blue bloods didn’t think very highly of him as a person. His close friendship with Junior and Jack Workman damaged his image among the folks who lived on Park Avenue, the street townspeople called Silk Stocking Lane, where many of the blue bloods of Bois D’Arc lived in large, beautifully landscaped homes.

Jack kept his distance from the crusty elite, refusing to socialize with them. He even ignored invitations to civic affairs, extended only because he was a prosperous, if mysterious, businessman in the community. Jack’s success in the airfreight business, his real estate holdings in Bois D’Arc and Dallas, and his ventures in Saudi Arabia—he kept them all private. He was a loner. The one thing that earned him guarded trust from the town elite was the nearly one million dollars he kept in the Mercantile Bank.

That bit of information was shared—unethically—by bank owner Randolph C. Worthington III with his close group of business friends. The Mercantile, the oldest bank among the surrounding counties, had been founded by Worthington’s grandfather, and had been passed down to the current patriarch of Bois D’Arc’s Worthington family. The family vehemently denied a legend that claimed the bank was chartered with money earned from selling contraband cotton to the Union during the Civil War.

As he teed up his ball for the first hole, Jack asked, “Think you can make eighteen holes this morning?”

“Yes, sir,” Rod shot back, “not a problem.”

Noticing Rod’s heavy breathing, Jack said, “Better be in top shape if you intend to make All-District this year. Don’t depend on that pissant coach to help much. You’ll get some help from a couple of fast niggers from Booker T. and a couple of big linemen, too,” Jack said and took a smooth swing that sent the tiny white ball flying.

Rod winced at Jack’s choice of words and snapped back, “You’ve been really nice to me, Mr. Workman, and I’d rather caddy for you than anybody in the club, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call my friend that.”

“Say again? And call me Jack, son, Mr. Workman was my father”

“I said don’t call Junior a nigger, he’s my best friend. Most of my friends are black and I don’t like hearing them called that.”

Taken aback, Jack said, “Sorry, didn’t mean anything by it, it won’t happen again. Some of the people I like the best and trust the most are colored, too. What’s your friend’s name again?” As he visually located his ball on the fairway, he handed Rod his number two wood.

“His name is Thomas Earl Jefferson, Jr., but everybody calls him Junior. His daddy’s the cook at the country club.”

“I see. How did you get to be such good friends with Junior?” Jack asked as they headed down the fairway toward the first green. A pretty good golfer, Jack usually shot in the lower eighties, but he seemed more intent on the conversation than his golf game that morning.

A little uneasy with the question, Rod responded very deliberately. “I live in the Flats.”
I wonder if that makes a difference to Jack
. He watched Jack
from a step behind
as they walked toward the white dot lying dead center in the fairway two hundred and seventy yards from the tee.

“Junior and I grew up there together,” Rod continued, “My daddy worked for the Texas Star Cotton Compress and like most folks that worked for them, we lived in a company house.” Rod paused for a second. “He was killed in an accident. The company gave us five hundred dollars and let us live in the house free. Not much for a man’s life.” Rod’s voice trailed off. “Things have been pretty tough since then. Momma takes in laundry and sewing. With my daddy’s little pension from the Compress and what I make here, we get by.” Rod surprised himself at the way he was opening up to Jack as he handed him his nine iron.

“I see. Go on, son.” He grunted with a swing that sent a divot halfway to the green. The ball rolled to a stop less than three feet from the number one pin.

“If losing Daddy wasn’t enough, the Compress shut down a year later and everybody in the Flats was out of work.”

“Yeah, I remember that,” Jack said. “Give me that short-handle putter, this is almost a gimme, but I’ll putt it out.” Rod pulled the pin as Jack took great pains to tap the ball with a light stroke. It rimmed the cup and rolled dead about eight inches away. “Damn, how could I have missed that?” Hovering over the ball like a giant bird and taking his usual two practice swings, he asked, “So where does Junior come into all this?” Jack smiled as the ball dropped into the cup.

“When the Compress shut down, everybody moved out except us. They auctioned off the rest of the houses to anybody who wanted one. Not many people in Bois D’Arc were anxious to live in the Flats, so black families and Mexicans moved in. They were better houses than where they came from and were cheap. The company just wanted to get rid of them. They didn’t care who bought them.”

Jack was
careful not to let Rod know that he was the one who’d bought the Texas Star Cotton Compress property and paid for the house Rod’s family lived in when he sold the rest. He’d learned of Mr. Miller’s recent death and the financial straits it left the family in while in negotiations for the compress properties. Jack’s thoughts of a possible housing development on the property were put on hold. He’d taken an instant liking to Rod as his caddy and decided he wanted to become Rod’s mentor to make him a star for his alma mater, Texas A&M. Coming out of his depression after the war, he’d become a successful businessman. Realizing time had passed him by to have his own family, he felt a desire to fill that missing part of his life by helping the Millers. Rod would be the son he never had.

“Which driver do you think I need on this next tee?” Jack asked.

“You always use the number two wood on this one,” Rod said and handed him the club.

Jack swore under his breath when his ball sliced off the fairway and sailed into the tall grass fifty yards short of the number two green.