The True Blue Scouts of Sugar Man Swamp (13 page)

While they sipped their juleps, they began to make a list of Sonny Boy's influential friends—friends in high places, that is. When Sonny Boy wrote down the mayor and the mayor's husband, Jaeger even had an odd urge to . . . Well, okay . . . She briefly thought about kissing Sonny Boy, an urge that both disgusted her and thrilled her all at the same time. It was the same with kissing alligators. Thrill, disgust, thrill, disgust. You get the picture.

So, instead of throwing Sonny over her back, she threw her glass. It burst against the porch rail in a very satisfying chimelike crash. Shards of crystal and mint gleamed in the torchlight. She looked at her compadre with a new appreciation. The day she had met Sonny Boy Beaucoups had been a lucky one for Jaeger Stitch.

A lucky day indeed.

H
OW HAD THEY MET, ANYWAYS
?
Let's just say it had to do with a gambling casino in New Orleans, and a bad roll of the dice.

A
FTER
J
AEGER BID HIM GOOD
night and retired to her room, Sonny Boy grimaced. The crystal glass had been in his family for generations. One of his great-grandmothers had bought it in Venice at the turn of the century. That was the story, at any rate. Sonny Boy knew that it was more likely that one of his buccaneering grandfathers had lifted it from a Venetian cruise vessel as it sailed into Galveston Bay.

Indeed, the old homestead was filled with artifacts, both gainfully acquired and not. A stroll through its many rooms was like a trip to the museum. There were shelves filled with crystal and silver and objets d'art. There were silk tapestries hung on the dining room walls. And there were bronze and marble sculptures in the sculpture garden.

Above the fireplace in the library there was a commanding portrait of the family founder, Alouicious Beaucoup, leering down at his descendants from his perch above the mantel. Upon close inspection, it was obvious that the frame was made of an old ship's railing. How apt.

And just beneath the portrait, resting on the mantel, was the framed deal he had supposedly struck with the Sugar Man, written in the ancient mariner's blood, the same deal that had, according to legend, saved Alouicious's life.

Sonny Boy used to revel in his ancestor's impressive gaze, but lately he found it unsettling. He couldn't escape the feeling that the eyes in the portrait were watching him. So he covered the painting up with a fine linen tablecloth. As for the bloody deal, he simply turned it over, facedown on the mantel. The deal remained on its face, but the cloth over the portrait wouldn't stay put. It kept slipping off.

Sonny Boy tried stapling it, but the wood of the frame was too hard for the staples. Then he used superglue, but that didn't hold either. Even after he fastened it with duct tape, the cloth came free and slid down onto the hearth in a heap. After that, Sonny Boy stopped going into the library and locked the door.

That didn't work either. Every time he passed by, the door hung open, and the portrait stared at him. Sonny Boy got to where whenever he had to walk past the library, he picked up his pace and ran, so as to avoid the room and the painting altogether. Instead he sought refuge in the study. Unlike the formal setting of the library, with all of those leather-bound tomes and the austere gaze of this great-great-greater-greatest-grandfather, not to mention the
promise struck in blood, the study felt cozy. He also liked the glass cases that lined the walls. He particularly liked the aged brandy in the crystal decanter. “Perfect,” he said.

The Beaucoups were known far and wide as collectors, and some of the things they collected were specimens. Animal and bird specimens. As a child, Sonny Boy had ignored the specimens. In fact, he had refused to look at them. The old, dead animals with their glass eyes gave him the creeps. But tonight, a glass of aged brandy in his hand, he studied them with admiration. He could tell they were as fine as those in the Smithsonian. And just as rare.

And that's when his eye fell on the bird.

“Lord God,” he said, splashing his brandy on his seersucker sleeve and dripping it onto the mahogany floorboards. How had he missed it in all these years? Even he knew, by its red crown, that it was a fully grown male. Its impressive black wings, with their trailing white feathers, were spread out to their full three-foot-wide span. It seemed to soar in place. Ghost bird.

Sonny Boy threw back the rest of his brandy in one huge gulp. It burned on the way down. He leaned in to get a better look. That's when he noticed the faded handwritten note. “Collected in September 1949, by Quenton Beaucoup, in the Sugar Man Swamp.”

For the second time that night, Sonny Boy grimaced. His
father, Quenton Beaucoup, had died in a freak accident in the swamp. One day, he went out hunting with his bird dogs, Sam and Pete. Several days later, the dogs returned without him. And several days after that, Quenton's body was found in the top of a tree. The autopsy said “heart attack,” but no one could explain why he was so far up in the tree. “Scouting for birds,” was the official line. Afterwards, his mother had packed Sonny Boy up and moved to Houston, which was fine by Sonny Boy. He preferred the big city to the remote swamp.

He didn't have much memory of his father. Sonny Boy was barely a toddler when his father had died. And besides, what he remembered of his father wasn't all that pleasant. Quenton Beaucoup seemed to like his dogs more than he liked his son. As Sonny Boy recalled, he himself liked the dogs more than he liked his father.

Sonny Boy reached for the decanter of brandy and refilled his glass. So, he thought, Audie Brayburn's tale of taking a photo of the bird in 1949 wasn't so far-fetched after all. He looked at the specimen in front of him. The infamous lost photo might even have been of this very bird.

He shook his head. It didn't matter. Just because the bird had been alive in 1949 didn't mean there were any left now, more than sixty years later.

He took another sip of brandy and let it rest on his
tongue. It tasted sour. If, by some miracle, another ivory-billed woodpecker were to show up, the plans he and Jaeger Stitch were making would be doomed. Only a few years ago, rumors of a ghost bird had been reported in Arkansas, and suddenly the area had been besieged by birders and environmentalists and scientists and reporters and tourists.

While the Sugar Man Swamp belonged to him, Sonny Boy Beaucoup, the protests of the twitchers would be so loud and strong, he'd never be allowed to build even so much as a boat shed on his land, much less a theme park.

Sonny Boy looked at the mounted bird in the back of the glass case. Its golden brown eyes glistened. As he swallowed his sour brandy, a small bundle of old-fashioned jitters rose up inside Sonny Boy Beaucoup, starting at the bottom of his thin socks until it hissed through the top of his yellow-gray head. And for the second time in one night, another crystal glass went flying through the air.

I
N THEIR DEEP, DARK LAIR
, Gertrude stirred, but not enough to open her eyes. She knew all about the “official” line about Quenton, the one about “heart attack.” But she also knew about the unofficial line: “
wrath of the Sugar Man
.”

A deal was a deal, after all.

A
S SOON AS THE
S
COUTS
scampered back through the entryway of the DeSoto, the rain took on a kind of fury.

“Just in time,” Bingo said. Making his wish had definitely made him feel better. He raised his front paws, yawned, and stretched. He was so ready for a nice, long nap.

What Bingo didn't know was that J'miah had also made a wish. He wished that climbing didn't make him feel so much like throwing up. He didn't know how effective his wish could be, since he didn't have a personal star like his brother did. His wish hadn't made him feel better.

He crossed his paws and sulked.

What did make J'miah feel better was . . . art. J'miah loved the art he had found of the surprised armadillo. It still sat perched on the dashboard, and every time he looked at it, it made him feel happy. Happier, at any rate. As happy as he could feel in the face of the temporary suspension of Operation Rumble-Rumble-Rumble.

Thinking about Operation Rumble-Rumble-Rumble
made him think about the canebrake rattlers. He knew that when the sun rose again, he and Bingo would have to figure out a way to acquire some sugar without getting
snip-snap-zip-zapped
. His invisible thinking cap was squeezing his head. Moreover, a queasy feeling gurgled in his belly. Then the gurgling turned into a growl. That made him realize that he was hungry. He and Bingo had gone all day, and now part of the night, without eating. Those crawdads were only a distant memory.

He thought about slipping out to find something, but just as he did, he heard the rain pelting the roof of the car. In times of rain, Information Officers needed to stand by in case of lightning strikes.

He rubbed his tummy. Oh well, he thought. He could wait. He knew if he kept busy, he might forget about his grumbling stomach.

He glanced again at the picture of the armadillo and remembered the strange box underneath the front seat. Maybe, he thought . . . So, he squeezed under there, nose first. Raccoons have extrasensory paws, and soon his felt the hard, metallic box with the spring latch. He pried it open again, but only enough to slip a single paw inside the box.

He reached in, and sure enough, he touched something . . . something hard. It was cool to his touch, and thick, not at all like the art he had found earlier. He tugged on the mystery
object, but it got stuck in the opening of the box. It was too thick. He tried to pry open the lid a little more, but the way the box was jammed underneath the seat prevented the lid from opening wide enough to get the hard thick thing out.

He tugged some more.

And some more.

And some
mmmooooorrrrre
!

He finally braced his back feet against the seat and gave a giant
ttttuuuuuugggg
!

Oooomph!

He fell backwards in a furry ball, never letting the odd object out of his possession. He had his prize, right there between his two front paws. The thing was long and flat. It had shiny chrome on the top and bottom and wood in the middle. It had holes on both of the long sides.

Considering the holes, maybe it was a special kind of spyglass? He held it up to look through the holes, but he couldn't see anything. If it was a spyglass, it wasn't very useful. Still, it's the job of a Scout to figure these things out.

All five senses went into action:

1. Sight—He turned it over and over, admiring its shiny chrome plates. He noticed that it had a bunch of curlicues inscribed on those plates, and
little screws on the ends that held the plates to the wood.

2. Smell—Seriously, it was a little musty and dusty. No telling how long it had been in that box.

3. Touch—The metal parts were smooth and cool. The wooden part was also smooth, but not as cool.

4. Taste—He tried biting it. But it was definitely too hard for chewing. He touched it with his tongue. It didn't really have a taste per se, but because of the aforementioned must and dust, it began to tickle his nose, and before he knew it . . .
Aaaachoooo!
And that is when he discovered . . .

5. Sound!

A
VAILABLE IN TWELVE MAJOR KEYS
, the Hohner Marine Band Harmonica was a favorite for blues harp players of all stripes. Bob Dylan. Bruce Springsteen. Neil Young. But before all of them, came Snooky Pryor.

According to Audie Brayburn, “Snooky Pryor could blow the socks off those lightweights.” Back in 1949, Bob and Bruce and Neil were just babies. But when they grew up, they surely knew about Snooky Pryor, and so did Audie Brayburn. After listening to Snooky Pryor play his harp, Audie was determined to learn how to play the blues, so he bought a Hohner Marine Band Harmonica, key of C major. Found it in Kresge's in downtown Houston. Lost it in the Sugar Man Swamp.

I
T
'
S SAFE TO SAY THAT
when J'miah sneezed and heard the resulting noise, he was startled, but not in a bad way. In fact, he was rather charmed by it. In his paws was a . . . a . . . music thingie. J'miah had a genuine music thingie. He gave it another sniff, which resulted in another
Aaachooo!
And sure enough, another note flew out, this one a little higher than the last. He closed his eyes and savored the sound. The purity of the note floated into his ears, and for a moment it lifted him right into the air of the car. His thoughts floated along with him.
First art. And now music
. To J'miah the box underneath the passenger's seat was becoming a source of cultural wonder. Who knew what else he might find in there. Sculpture? Poetry? Film noir?

But while he was basking in his reverie, someone snatched—yes, you heard me, snatched—the music thingie right out of his paws!

Bingo! (Hah, did it again.)

“Mine,” said J'miah.

“I just want to try it,” said Bingo.

“But I found it first,” said J'miah.

Tug.

Whine.

Tug tug.

Whine whine.

Tug tug tug.

At this point, if Little Mama and Daddy-O had been present, it's highly likely that our Scouts would have been relieved of the music thingie until they could shake and make up.

But seeing as how Little Mama and Daddy-O weren't there, the argument went on and on and on, and it might still be going on had it not been for a very loud
ZIP!
A huge bolt of lightning slipped out of the clouds, and
POW!
It hit the ground right next to the old DeSoto.
Ssssshhhhh-sssshhhh
 . . .
weee
 . . .
oooooohhhhoooo
 . . .
blip bloop blip
 . . . In the same moment that a gush of rain pelted the windshield, the lights on the dash began to glow, and once again the Voice of Intelligence slipped into the humid air of the DeSoto. To the raccoons' surprise, here is what it said: “. . . so come on down to Paradise Pies Café on the Beaten Track Road. You can't buy a finer fried sugar pie, made out of pure canebrake sugar. Yessirree, Bob, those pies will Kick. Your. Booty!”