Thing With Feathers (9781616634704) (28 page)

As if his day was not going badly enough, there was the phone call. Victor had called from a pub in Hebo, obviously intoxicated, claiming that he and his pal, Tiny, had wrecked the Welbys’ car. As usual, Sean drove out to get the boys and sober them up a bit. Then he went about the business of setting the boys’ actions right with the Welby’s, so that preacher Bowman would not need to be notified. It cost Sean a mere two hundred dollars to keep the Welby’s quiet. The money would buy the family a much better truck with which to deliver their swill. Sean made it understood that he did not want his son driving the Welby’s liquor truck, or making liquor deliveries, or gambling while Otis made deliveries. And, that if Victor should get into further troubles of the sort, these would be the last dollars the Marshall’s would be paying the Welby’s on Victor’s behalf. “Good Lord, Otis, the boy’s not even thirteen years old.”

As usual, Victor was less than grateful—even hostile. But Sean paid no attention. At least Victor knew who he could call when he was in a spot. That was something, wasn’t it?

“Mr. Marshall, it’s not a matter of the money. I assure you, there’s quite enough in that envelope to cover my fee.”

Sean had taken the remainder of his tuition money to a lawyer in Newport, Oregon, who was reputed to be very aggressive in custody fights and civil suits of that nature. “Then I don’t understand.” Sean had elected to remain standing when Charles Reynolds proffered a comfortable chair.

The lawyer walked over and sat down behind the large desk and made a steeple of his long fingers. “You say your son is growing wayward. You say he is allowed to carouse around all night with his incorrigible friend,”—he checked his notes—’Lytle Welby.’ You say the boys drink heavily and vandalize, et cetera.”

“Yes.”

“But that’s precisely the problem, Mr. Marshall. You say. Have you any proof?”

“I assure you these incidents did occur. I was there. I settled matters each time myself.”

“Yes, Mr. Marshall. You covered for him. And in doing so, you covered up any evidence you would otherwise have.”

“I had to. The boy is scared to death of the preacher. He’s a terribly abusive man. He abused his own daughter, and I’ve no doubt he beats daylight out of my son.”

“Again, where’s the proof? You have nothing to support the abuse of his daughter and nothing to prove he would beat his, or your son. He never has, has he?”

“Victor told me he beats him where it does not show.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Marshall. I believe you. But I’m afraid the wheels of justice don’t turn on understanding and righteous belief. It takes evidence to grease those wheels. Until you can get me some evidence, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Sean snatched his cap from his back pocket and placed it on his head as he made his way to the door. With one hand on the door handle, Sean turned back to the attorney. “You’re afraid. You’re afraid to risk losing a case, afraid of tarnishing that sterling reputation you enjoy so much, afraid because the man I accuse is a preacher. I’ll tell you something, sir. I didn’t become the man I am by shying away from the difficult. I’m a man who takes on wrongdoing, be it easy or hard. And when I go to bed at night, I have no trouble sleeping with myself. Do you, Reynolds, after telling clients they should allow the abuse of their child just so they can get proper evidence to make your job easier? Do you feel good about yourself when you go home and take off your successful lawyer suit?”

“You’re getting upset, Mr. Marshall.” He stood to show his visitor out. “There’s no call for getting personal about this. If you truly believe you can find an attorney who can make a case for you without any evidence, then I would hire that man. For the record, I like you, Marshall. I wish I could help you. And if you should obtain something on this preacher that I can use against him, I promise you I wouldn’t let his backward collar get in my way. I studied law to rid the world of muck like him, or at least my little corner of the world. Get me something I can use and I’ll give the man a dose of Hades on earth.”

Sean nodded, a little ashamed of his behavior. His disappointment was just so great. He shook the lawyer’s hand and made his way out.

Chapter 62

July, 1941

Grand Ronde Indian Reservation, Oregon

T
iny and Victor brewed their own trouble at the roadhouse on the Indian Reservation. The two teenagers had tapped a pony keg for themselves and a couple of drifters, who had told the boys that they enjoyed playing poker even if they weren’t much good at it. By seven that night, Victor was thoroughly drunk, sick with a pounding headache, and he was two hundred and forty dollars in debt to the man they called Cleff. And Cleff wanted his money.

Tiny, Victor’s fair-weather pal, was a chubby coward with a slight foot impediment, compliments of Mr. Abelbaum’s roof. “Uh, I gotta go, Victor. See ya around.” And he ducked out the door.

Victor had one cheek pressed to the cool wood of the table, his arms stretched out pathetically across the table, half of a beer sitting beside his elbow. “It’s okay, you guys,” he slurred comically. “I gotta rich uncle, sort of.”

“Well now, is he a rich uncle or is he a rich uncle sort of?” Cleff breathed into Victor’s face with breath foul enough to kill a blackberry bush.

Victor heaved all over Cleff’s boots.

The man jumped to his feet and looked down with disgust at his boots. “That’s two hundred and forty-six bucks you owe me now, you little puke!”

Victor just lolled his head on the table and laughed senselessly. The two men grabbed an arm each and relocated the drunken lad between them in the front seat of their truck. The bartender, Young Bear Johnson, went about his business of washing mugs and shot glasses. He wasn’t gonna step into a mess like that for Victor Bowman. That kid was nothing but trouble.

At least Victor was sobering up enough to realize how extremely lucky he was. His grandfather was away again. Victor had long ago stopped wondering or caring where the old man went so often and stayed the entire night. He was just glad that that night was one of the old man’s trips. He sat on the couch, feeling miserable, a hustler on each side of him. The man named Cleff picked the preacher’s new black phone up off the floor again and held it in front of Victor’s nose.

“Try it again, kid.”

Victor dialed the number again. And again, it rang several times. He was just about to hang up when a woman answered, sounding out of breath.

“Oh, hiya,” Victor said lazily. “Lemme talk to my dad,” he mumbled. His head lolled sideways to give Cleff a goofy smile.

Cleff wanted to smash the kid’s face in. But he wanted his money more. He shoved Victor’s face away from him.

“Victor?” came a worried voice over the wire.

“Dad! Guess what? I’m in some trouble.” He giggled.

“Victor, you’ve been drinking again?”

Victor didn’t like the condemnation he heard in Sean’s voice. “Hey, man! You said I should call when I need help. I need some help!”

Sean took a deep breath. “What kind of trouble are you in, son?”

“I owe some money.”

“You mean you’ve been gambling again? I thought we agreed you wouldn’t play cards anymore.”

Victor was getting aggravated. “You said so, not me. Are you gonna help me or not? I got people waitin’.”

“No, Victor, I’m not. Not this time.”

“But you have to!” He was sobering now. “I owe these guys two hundred and forty dollars!”

“Two hundred and forty six,” Cleff growled and pointed to his boots.

“No, not this time, Victor. You got yourself in to this mess, and you can get yourself out of it. Tell your friends you’ll have to get a job and pay them back because I’m not handing you that kind of money. You don’t respect it. And I think you’re taking advantage of our relationship.”

“Buggers, you say! I need the money, man! Hey! These guys aren’t my friends! They’ll—”

But his fury was wasted. Sean had already hung up.

From their end of the conversation, it didn’t sound to Cleff like he was going to get his money. The little punk didn’t have any rich uncle. He didn’t have squat. The two drifters looked around the ramshackle cabin with disgust. Even they were accustomed to better living conditions than that rubbish heap of a shack. Still, he had invested an entire day and ample gasoline harvesting that kid, and he wasn’t about to give up now.

“Ya know, I’m going to do you a favor, kid.”

“Yeah?” Victor looked hopeful, and dopey.

“Yeah. I’m going to give you a couple days to get me my money before I kill you.”

“Oh.” Even through his beer-colored fog, Victor realized the threat.

“You got two days. Then my friend and I are coming back for my money. If you don’t have it, we’re gonna make fish food out of ya.” He grabbed a fistful of Victor’s hair and wrenched his head back to look him in the eye. “Understand?”

“Uh huh.” He had no money and no means of getting any money. He was fish food.

“In the meantime, we’ll need a little down payment. Sorry, kid, but you wanted to play with the big boys.”

“Whaddya mean?” Victor looked left and right quickly.

The drifters stood. The big dumb one grabbed him by the collar. Then the blows came, one after another.

The hike up to Tiny’s was a marathon. He felt awful, and the sun was beating down on his aching head. Every muscle in his body smarted, and he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he had a few bones broken in the bargain.

Victor was on the last switchback. He stopped just before the inclining ingress to the Welbys’ property so he could remove an annoying pebble from his boot. From where he was resting, he could hear the Welbys’ dogs carrying on. Good thing they lived so far out that they had no neighbors. Every time Victor visited the place, the nonstop racket from untold numbers of animals drove him nuts.

Now he was approaching the, what, house? They called it a ‘yurt’. The Welby’s sheltered their children in something bigger than a tree house but a bit more rustic. It was comprised of old tires, scrap timber and board, and a canvas tarp for a roof, tied like a circus tent around a huge spruce for a center pole. The place had no running water, no indoor water closet, no telephone. The surrounding area was inches deep in mud since the dense forest blocked out any sun that would dry up the rain water. Wallowing in all that mud were an ornery goat named Gable, who liked to piss on himself and had the longest, sharpest horns Victor had ever seen, as well as several female pygmy goats who worshipped Gable, chickens, ducks, and angry geese—oh, and five big danged dogs that Mr. Welby kept locked up in a small fenced area until he needed them for security. Victor thought the animals acted like they had hydrophobia, but Tiny said they were mean because his dad wanted them that way. He kept the dogs a little skinny.

Overall, the smell was awful. It was some disgusting mixture of animal dung, unwashed bodies, and the fermenting corn in heavily bunged cast iron bathtubs lying around everywhere.

“Whoa! What happened to you?” Tiny asked when he saw his pal.

“Remember the two guys we played poker with?”

“Oh yeah.” Tiny looked ashamed for about a fraction of a second. “So that’s what I missed by leaving early, huh?”