The Epic Stoner Novel (A Journal of Life on the Mississippi)

This is all I have of chapter 9. I was considering publishing this and wanted to see what it looked like against a homemade paper background and a font that semi-close to handwriting. When my computer (3 or 4 computers ago) suffered a crash, the word processor files were a scrambled mess. All but chapter 9 were recovered. However, I had converted chapter 9 into images, planning to antique them in some way. They were sitting in a sub folder of an external drive, so here they are for the world to see.

Daisy Sky was a friend of mine from AOL (Life-Marijuana Debate). She wanted to be a character, so I created one that matched her online personality. She loved the result and sent me a photograph of her firing one up. I added the tattoo later. - Jal

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If I hadn't found this chapter, I doubt I'd be uploading the book to Hip Forums. Rebuilding a chapter I wrote nearly 20 years ago would be a serious chore. I was in all kinds of altered states back then. States I can't emulate today (shit's so expensive yo).

 

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I see you didn't edit all the porn out!! Rock on Panic.

 

Chapter 14
On the water
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This will be a short chapter to the log. I was only able to trade for a half used spiral notebook at the last minute. We left Tampa early in the morning. Amritte was cooking breakfast as we started hitting the bigger swells in the gulf. It was fucking intense. Remnants of the storm we avoided.

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The Captain was actually at the helm. I can’t recall ever seeing that before. We went west till the land was gone and had to tack south a bit before finding the right wind. We didn’t cast any nets and only a few lines. The Captain said he wanted to hit a warmer section of water before the next morning so we could make a really big night haul before heading toward the Keys. Amritte brought some corn flour biscuits and thick bacon with sliced mangos and strawberries our way. All of it was in a bowl that had a kind of woven basket around it and a lining of butcher paper. It was perfect for eating in these swells. I drank coffee from a thermos and talked about trade with the Captain. He liked the riverboat idea a lot and said he wanted to go in with me to Memphis some time. I agreed and told him he could stay on the boat in a much bigger room than he has now. He laughed and we smoked a little appetite stimulant before going after the fruit. Amritte was heading forward with a book she had snagged from Ms. Breasts place. She was a slave to trashy romance novels and would steal one in a heartbeat. It’s some unwritten code among women that if the novel is in plain view, it must have already been read by the owner and was now only a dust hazard.

She stopped long enough to ask if we were going to be having rough seas for lunch as well. The Captain said he expected so and she said we’d have stir-fried beef strips in a burrito wrapper with onions and peppers and steamed veggies. I couldn’t wait for sure. She moved forward on the boat like a trapeze artist. She was a real natural for sailing. Kelly probably would be as well. I looked at the charts and considered the route we might take if we ever did invest in a sailboat like this. The Captain says there are plenty to be had up on the Atlantic side all the way to Boston. I couldn’t imagine going that far for a boat. Besides, I had a design in my head that nobody had yet. I wanted to make one with smaller out riggers each with an engine and prop. Coupled with a buoyant nose keel it would make for a very stable boat. I saw how often we had to play games because of the shape of this boat. It was not good at all for shrimping without a small boat to heave the other side of the net. We had the numbers of shrimp in our favor was all. We chugged by so slow that we probably lost a third of our shrimp to escapees. The only time the boat was stable enough for good shrimping was when it was already loaded down with shrimp. That’s what got me to thinking. With an out rigger on each side starting just before aft and going forward for 1/3 of the length of the boat. And mount them on a tilting boom that is controlled by a winch, hell, it would be stable as all hell for all kinds of net casting. It would be able to use the outrigger engines to keep the speed without the risk of the catch getting into the props. I liked solving problems like this. I wish I could solve the problem of finding paper to write on. This one is neat though. I like the thin bamboo cover and the cotton-hemp paper blend and I really like having lines again. I write like shit. Especially when I’m drunk. I repeat things, it must be obvious from this journal. Oh well.

We did the gulf for a few days and finally spotted Key West. Amritte was all over the binoculars checking out the view as we approached under sail power. The Captain had enough fuel for pulling into port, but didn’t want to shift over to his reserve of alcohol fuel since he knew he could get the good shit in Key West. He didn’t trade for as much in Tampa because the trade rate was higher than he liked. So he got a bare minimum and traded for citrus and booze with Key West traders. Everything there has to be brought in, so it’s trade paradise. They get the fuel from Trinidad first and trade it cheap. So he was willing to go to alcohol if we got particularly lucky with shrimp. We didn’t. The shrimping was dismal. Seeing land always makes me feel good. Always makes me think of getting laid. This was a treat, having my wife on the cruise with me. When we hit port Amritte had a wagon waiting from a local hotel she had traded with on the 2 meter. I was to tote 2 sacks of coffee and tea and some white broad cloth. I enlisted the help of one of the crew I had known since the first cruise. He too survived the shoot out in Cuba. The whole crew says Cuba is different now. It’s a sugar kingdom and Castro owns all of the hotels. The driver of the wagon was a hilarious fag they called Monkey, though it sounded more like Minkey. He had killer fucking weed though. We toked a fat one on the way to the hotel and he said he could score me any of the better weed that was going around for cool trade.

He asked how much more tea we had and then we got to the brandy and drugs. He wanted all the trip drugs we had. Naturally I ration my trade deals and suggested we meet after my wife and I had rested out the afternoon. He suggested dinner at a place across from the hotel where he said I could get excellent fried oysters and Jamaican beer. He was right. He was also late getting back with us. He brought a leather bag packed with four different kinds of weed. It all looked great and I couldn’t believe the colors. Amritte was only marginally impressed and even agreed to a sampling session in lieu of dancing right away. The husky, Latin tropical fruit wanted to trade the bag for a 20 pound sack of coffee and 10 pounds of tea. I said it wasn’t enough and he got all pissy. Amritte got irritated and told him that her tea was all over the gulf and that she did not need his business, but that he needed to be glad for it. Did I ever mention what an arrogant bitch Amritte can be? Before the evening was closing we had a deal. He threw in some jewelry that Amritte liked as well as an impressive array of flower and fruit seeds all packaged and labeled. I threw in some of the pills I was trading for Doc which made for one happy pansy. I could easily picture the boning he was going to give some poor asshole after taking some of the speeder trips that Doc has been making. He’s a big fucker. I can grind all night on them, but I have problems busting a nut when I trip.

Amritte threw in one of her tea flags so he could claim to be a dealer for her and she would have a Key West address to use for marketing. Amritte was a slick trader and her little flags dotted the whole Mississippi delta. She was now ready to go dancing. I cut up a few lines on my mirror and offered them to dick breath and Amritte before chopping a big fucker for yours truly. Monkey said he knew a great place to go dancing. We got into the wagon again and he whisked us down a lot of alleys before emerging on the beach in front of a club that looked like fag heaven. I laughed as I saw men in cages, god damned cages wearing little cloth dancing at the gates of the entrance. Saw lots of guys dressed as chicks too. Amritte was thrilled while I was hoping nobody was thinking too hard about my ass. Monkey led us beside a building and down some steps into a storage room that had a door on the far side. It opened between the bathrooms inside of the club. I was amazed at how much lighting this place had. I could just feel the kilowatts evaporating into the throbbing music and flashing lights. The place smelled like the beach, sun lotion, cheap perfume, beer and lots of weed.

Monkey was just feeling the effects of one of the Speed trips. He said he would catch up to us in a while and went off, I assume to scope out some boy butt. Amritte dragged me out to dance. A black guy handed me a huge cigar stuffed with weed. Nelson liked to do this to good weed too, I didn’t want to be rude. It was actually pretty good. But I still think cigars should stay cigars, while weed remains sovereign of its own domain within my mind. Why pander to competing factions? After a night of dancing and partying with all the queers, I was more than ready to get back to the boat. Amritte bid goodbye to all the dykes who were trying to woo her and we got back into the wagon and headed for the marina. The ride seemed to last forever. When we left Key West the next morning, we had more trade on its way to New Orleans. Amritte had all the tea contacts she could want as well as an address she could put on stationary. As the afternoon wore on we managed to get a fair amount of shrimp. As we neared Cuba we hit more shrimp. The Captain says we need more shrimp going into Cuba because it doesn’t trade as well as it does in the states. We would be cruising around Cuba till morning. I’m in the watch rotation, so once again I pulled a mid watch. I was tired as fuck too. Being out on the ocean at least means I get to relax a little. I could see only the faintest hue of light on the horizon to represent the lights in Cuba. I lit a number and jumped out of my skin as I heard the Spanish guy who works the galley and the winches drop something loud. I could see him trying to find his way with a match. He finally found a flashlight and covered it with his hand as he found whatever he was looking for and went back to his bunk.

I was finally alone. I moved like a cat along the decks to the front of the boat so I didn’t wake anyone. I wrote by flashlight for a little while after I finished my joint. I sipped some iced tea from a thermos that Amritte fixed for me. It was supposed to keep me awake. I snapped back to reality when I heard an engine cut off in the distance. I had no idea how long it had been approaching or if it was even heading our way. Then I saw a light coming from the side of our boat. A flashlight waving back and forth. Then I saw the faint outline of a boat against the lights of Cuba. I hit the fucking button. The boat lit up and the siren went off and I could clearly see 3 small boats all off the port side. I cocked my gun and got down behind one of the metal in-shields this boat had. The Captain’s head popped up and I pointed to the boats. As our ranks filed to their posts I noticed we were missing a winch operator. I spread the word fast and it turned out he had already tangled with someone in the engine compartment. I later learned he was disabling the ignition. The boats started their engines and started a circle around us. We had the two big guns, but we couldn’t cover it all with them. We couldn’t tell if their boats were shielded. Amritte was on the radio with another crewman seeking help on each microphone and on a variety of bands. The small boats must have been listening because they started moving in and in no time were firing sprays of metal shot our way. It was a light aluminum shot designed to keep the boat intact while bouncing all around and perforating the crew.

The guys on the big guns had their lights on the boats and blew a couple out of the water really fast. The third boat got close enough to blast the forward gun and scrape my shoulder blade with a 3 inch long hot incision. Damned nasty shot to get hit with. I could feel only a little blood so I kept shooting at the approaching boat. He was headed right at me since he hit the big gun. The aft big gun finally got a bead and blew a huge chunk off the ass end of the small boat causing it to lose control cables and spin into an arc that had it crash into our port side with a nasty scraping sound. I leaned over and filled the driver with buckshot. He only flinched a little, so I figure he was wearing armor. Two other guys were next to him on the floor as the engine propelled them into another arc away from us and into the path of the forward big gun which damaged the boat with another shot. The rest of the crew was busy tending wounded and shooting anything in the water that was moving. I raced down to the radio room to find Amritte with a hole in her thigh. The crewman was putting on a dressing after having pulled out a really nasty looking barbed lead shot. I saw her tears as she casually said she had never been shot before. She freaked when she saw my bloody shoulder. I had forgotten it somewhat. The crewman had me sit while he dressed my wound and packed it with a cocoa cloth they get from Venezuela. It had me ready to get back on deck fast. The Captain said the boat was out of range and waiting as if for others. Amritte said the Cubans were on the way. The Captain ordered the engines and advanced slowly toward the small boat which had regained control and was idling.

Then I saw the Spanish guy again. This time he was tied tightly in nylon rope and being led to the front of the boat in front of the big gun. Three of the crew were in control of him with 2 guns and a knife ready to deal him a short future. They turned the forward light on him so the small boat could see we had his stooge. A single shot rang out from the small boat and the Spanish guy’s left bicep came apart badly. The crewmen got him down and tied it off fast. We wanted this asshole to live. The Captain ordered the big gun to open fire and the small boat turned and headed away from us and toward the west side of Cuba. The Cuban Pirate Patrol was finally within sight as The Captain gave them the coordinates of the small boat that was heading off. They were in a big fucking gunboat with a huge flood light on the front. Within fifteen minutes we could hear big guns echo from the horizon. Another patrol boat pulled along side and we gave them the worst of our wounded and followed them into Cuba. We maintained control over the prisoner for sovereign reasons till we hit port in Mariel, then we handed him over gladly. Amritte was limping visibly which pissed me off. I wanted a piece of this asshole for sure. The Captain assured me I would get a chance. He and the Cuban Captain chuckled oddly as they walked toward a police wagon. The other patrol boat was making port with two other assholes from the group. My own Spanish is not as good as I wish. I made out enough of the talk to realize that these clowns were part of a huge ring of pirates working from Mexico to Puerto Rico. They had a yard in Haiti where they would repair the stolen boats and disguise them. I had read about them in Key West a little.

The Cubans wanted to know where they were based in Cuba and who was pulling the strings. I recognized the phrase “Interrogation Center”. The crewman who patched us up was explaining to Amritte and I that the Captain would be entitled to any holdings these assholes had in Cuba. Technically we had captured the leader of this group and the Cubans were really happy about it. The Captain didn’t realize he had hired on a wanted man. The Interrogation Center was a block building on a hill surrounded by a high barbed wire fence with a wooden fence inside. All of the prisoners were carried in on hand trucks as the instruction was to leave them fully secure. When the sun peaked on the horizon it was easier to see how the place was set up. Amritte decided she did not want to have to witness the interrogation when she learned how they might apply force. Putting it mildly. I had one of the crewmen take her to a hotel a few blocks down the street. The assholes were hooded and gagged and didn’t make any sounds until the local magistrate, unhappy from being awakened, came down to pass sentence on them. This was a long process that involved interrogation, confession and then usually execution. When Amritte was on her way, the gates were closed and the door bolted shut. The leader was taken to the center of the room while the other two were wheeled against a wall facing all of us. The magistrate had all of the hoods removed, and the gag removed from the leader who began to shout immediately. The magistrate struck him across the face with a small stranded whip and screamed at him to shut up till the charges were read. My Spanish was getting better.

The Spanish Guy was smug and spit on the floor a few times. The magistrate then asked the Captain to explain the circumstances and the extent of his losses. The magistrate recited charges from a list of other piracies and then asked if he had a statement to make. He made a bunch of threats about how his people would destroy the town which has been happening in some places. Pirates aren’t always content to rob at sea and lots of island towns have been sacked to the ground. After his bullshit statement, the magistrate was escorted to a smaller building outside the wooden fence for breakfast and loud Cuban music. Now the interrogation began. He was wheeled into a room that they called the dance school. I soon learned why when I saw the 6 guys it took to get him secured to a metal contraption in the corner. It was a like a modern day version of a rack. He was cuffed and chained to a heavy wooden table that was in a frame to allow it to be tilted. They lowered him from vertical to about 30 degrees. He was still thrashing around and cussing when one of the guards removed all slack from the chains with an obviously painful jerk. Now the asshole was in a better position to understand his plight. He was quieter for the moment. The Cuban cop said he wanted names. He also yelled a bunch of other shit I couldn’t figure out. One of the crew said these assholes had really pissed a lot of people off. He also said the only reason this asshole was being so tough was because he knew he was already a dead man. The Cuban Cop ordered the chains made tighter till the guy was close to screaming then he ordered the guy’s pants cut off and the gags taken out of the other two assholes mouths. They started with the same shit as the Spanish Guy. I heard both basically say they would die before betraying their pirate masters. Then the cop called for a whip.

He was delivered another small one with like 20 leather straps about a quarter inch or an eighth inch thick and a foot and a half long. He wailed on the guys exposed thighs. The screams were ear splitting. I had never considered how much naked thighs would fucking hurt under such treatment. At one point the Cuban Cop handed the whip to a junior officer who began wailing in a kind of figure eight pattern striking each exposed flank till it was red as a beet, almost purple. If they didn’t kill this asshole, he was going to walk funny for a while. After he begged for about five minutes the Cuban cop halted the beating which had moved to his exposed waist and the sides of his chest. He even made sure each arm got a couple of shots. He was screaming for it to stop. So the Cuban Cop asked again for names. He gave up five people. The other two guys called him names and swore to kill him. But the Cuban Cop was too smart for this. The names were small time players. He wanted to know who was really pulling the strings. The Spanish Man swore he knew of no others. The Cuban Cop was not convinced and had a kind of all around leather chin strap put on him and chained to another wheel. This was a spine stretcher for sure. The guy’s voice got high and garbled. It sounded like a Spanish cartoon duck. I nearly pissed in my pants laughing with the rest of the guys. The Cuban Cop then ordered two junior officers to whip him again in all the areas they had neglected the first time starting with the outsides of the legs and some serious action on his feet. Another ten minutes of screaming though slightly muffled by the chin strap, still very loud. He gave up a few more names, but it just wasn’t enough for the Cuban Cop.

So he ordered the guys shorts cut off. He laughed and I could tell he was making fun of how fucking hairy the guy was. Like a monkey. You couldn’t even see his balls. Then they cropped another device into a couple of square slots in the table which had a smaller wheel and chain device on it. The crewman chuckled and said the guy was going to get a longer dick now. I couldn’t imagine being in such a bad position and even thinking of holding back information. Well, they slacked his chin strap and put a wooden wedge under his head so he wouldn’t miss a minute of the event. From the metal clamp that was tightened to his dick to the occasional cigar impact with his now exposed nuts, this cat was in some serious shit. They had him stretched pretty far before he started to complain. I was amazed. He came off with a few others but still the Cuban cop ordered the wheel turned while the Spanish Guy screamed and the other two cried and one even pissed his pants. They had his dick stretched beyond reason. I just knew they were going to pull it off. They called for the magistrate and tossed an old blanket over him so all but his head was covered. They closed wooden panels to hide the wheels and gears of the rack. The magistrate came in and certified the confession and pronounced that from this point forward the Spanish Guy was under a death sentence for piracy and was custody of the police. The Spanish Guy pleaded and came off with another name, one the Cuban Cop knew well and caused him to scream that the Spanish Guy must know of other high rollers so he must still be holding out. The magistrate said he would authorize only one more interrogation and then for only one hour and he promptly left. The Cuban Cop explained that if he gave the rest of the names, he would have his dick sewed back together and he would go to a sugar cane plantation for ten years. The guy must have believed him because he came off with a huge list of names.

The Cuban Cop became enraged and said that he wanted more and tightened the neck strap again till the guy could barely speak. Then they looped a string around his left nut and hooked it to the chain that had earlier ripped his organ. The Cuban Cop said he knew that this bastard had more people to give up and he was going to get them all now. Without any debate he had the wheel turned and this screaming Spanish Guy’s left nut was torn cleanly off. I thought I was going to puke. The other two guys were yelling and protesting and one of them gave up another name. A dumb move because it meant he was next for sure. The guy on the table swore he didn’t know any more names. The Cuban Cop had both of his officers turn the wheel to the chin strap till the screaming stopped. This asshole was dead with a broken neck. The other two were crying and begging to be spared. The second one, the one who ran his mouth earlier eventually had a nut snagged off and the last was branded with pirate and bandit before being set free. He was to make his way back and let the other assholes know what was coming their way when they were caught. The body of the Spanish guy was to be hung in the harbor and the Cuban equivalent of the Gates of Hell on that Mississippi sand bar. In all they had over fifty names of people they were going to give pretty much the same show. These assholes were spread across the Caribbean, but some of the names were surprises, so it looked like some local string pullers were going to get a rude wake up call. I didn’t care.

I later found out that the bastard had substantial holdings which we converted into cigars and rum right away. Amritte and I had enough to trade for about 30 horses and a mule or ten. It allowed us to stay in a nice hotel in Mariel. We caught a ride in a taxi that was a 57 Chevy Bel Air. Funny as fuck the way it ran so smoothly through the Cuban streets dodging a few horses and lots of people all the way to a very nice pink hotel on the waterfront. The Cuban cop had called ahead for us and the carpet was indeed red. There was a pitcher of cold Pina Coladas as well as the biggest fruit and cheese tray we had seen since we left Memphis. Cubans really could show the folks in the South a thing or two about hospitality. Amritte and I must have looked funny coming in all shot up and bandaged. She wanted a bath and we both needed to change our dressings. Ah what a nice vacation, a swanky room in Cuba with my wife and our bullet holes! For some reason I wasn’t as mad about it as I usually would be. Maybe watching a guy get his dick stretched to the ripping point was enough to satisfy any revenge I wanted. Maybe that’s why they allowed me to watch. To help with the healing. I sure as fuck felt just great that I hadn’t pissed off any Cubans. Amritte didn’t like to see anyone or thing in pain. But I’m sure Marissa would have been right there and Kelly too. Hell Marissa would have been turning the god damned cranks to a Latin beat.

I tuned in a local AM station on the radio in the room. I just tuned till I heard American rock and roll. Amritte was clean and ready for some of the Pina Colada. I poured her a glass and headed to the shower with my own. I had my little brass pipe packed and burned it with the steam going. I finished to find my wife asleep with a romance novel on her chest. I stripped down the other bed and covered her with the sheet. Since the radio was already playing I spent some time cleaning my personal stash kit and listening to the only likely English station. I had so much shit in my fucking pipes that I was able to get a hell of a good buzz from all the scrapings. I have been smoking some good shit lately though. I finally had everything clean so I laid down next to Amritte and dozed off. We woke up and it was almost dark again. We were both starved and decided to go to a restaurant. We made no effort to hide our bandages, but it didn’t seem like a big deal. I ordered my favorite sandwich of all time, a grilled flat, crunchy, greasy Cuban. I chased it with some sweet potato fries and a Mexican beer. Amritte had rice with veggies and a coke. Then she ate a plate of barbecued lamb ribs! Now that was a sexy show. People were lighting lanterns all over as well as candle lamps. The electric lights didn’t come on till well after dark.

I could hear music down toward the marina. We decided to walk back to the boat and check things out. The Captain was gone but the remaining crew was really turning-to. They said we were going to take the boat around to Havana to trade out the property we won in the short sea battle we suffered through. Amritte was happy to be leaving. We were to cast off shortly and hit the city before 9 at night. He was planning to run a partial sail and all the engine power he could manage. When we slipped into this berth we couldn’t know it was restricted. That’s fine, we had escorts and now we got to see the REAL party in Cuba. Marissa would be green with envy for sure. The marina in Havana was a shit load nicer and very well guarded. The town was already in the throes of some sort of celebration so everybody was ready to party. Amritte and I decided dancing wouldn’t be too cool. We were both staying close to our opium and cocaine. My shoulder was still throbbing and Amritte only hobbled a little as she walked. As we talked it was obvious she was deeply disturbed about all the piracy and war that was coming into our lives. We have had river pirates for years, but shooting is pretty rare. Some boats have been lost to organized raids, but most pirates on the river are small time operators. These Cuban fucks were part of a huge deal. We both agreed we were more than ready to get back to Key West. Getting shot up was not what we bargained for on this trip. Oh well, the assholes who shot us didn’t hold up so well when their nuts were being yanked off. The Captain remarked that he really rarely has these kinds of problems and that the crew hadn’t fired a weapon in months. Just my fucking luck I guess. I insisted Amritte hold my 45 a few times and taught her to load and fire it more than a year ago.

Knowing me and some of my dealings should convince her that she needs to watch her ass. Maybe the trip to Jasper would wake her up a little. She would be fine of course, Natural Bridge and Jasper are totally safe zones. I was certain I was already on the Oklahoma hit list in some fashion, maybe just watching. I think it may be time to add more cameras to the riverboats. Just take random shots and see who we see in the pictures from month to month, or by the trip. That would take someone constantly looking at pictures, but I was thinking it would still be very valuable. Hell, I could make it something we all do. Just randomly audit picture sets and review sets that any of us find particularly interesting. Maybe we should do it as a slide show. Slides were way less trade. The Package is about the only person who doesn’t think I’m being paranoid. He and I have talked at length about security. He and I both went through riots and know pretty fucking well how things can get. It’s a wonder we haven’t had more thefts than we have. But then, part of my paranoia was to have dummy trade all over the place. Decoys get stolen far more than the real deal. Imagine going through the trouble of stealing a crate of nails only to find it’s full of rocks. While there was no written edict about hauling weapons down the river, I knew it could complicate our lives. Still it was excellent trade. It would be perfect if we could get The Rev. to handle it for us, but he said “Hell No” in his saintly manner. This is the guy who got all my old fuck books. So we keep disguising our loads and handling them from the industrial park and in Helena. I rarely discussed this sort of shit with Amritte, but she was warming up to the idea that these are terrifying times. I’m sure the bullet helped.

She says we take no more weapons cargo on the riverboats. Not even explosives or ammunition. Fuck. We make good trade on that shit. Still, she does have a point. Thing is that kind of trade makes better use of every square foot of cargo deck. Brandy sure as fuck doesn’t bring in as well. So I would have to make up the shortfall with gambling and whores. Amritte thinks I can just shit out good trade. So do the rest of my darling wives. They fail to realize the passenger trade doesn’t make a profit as often as we hoped. We have two steam powered freight haulers that make better trade each than a riverboat 4 times the size. We ended up staying in Havana two more days. Amritte and I rode around in a carriage most of the time. Tourists consuming trade for kicks. We played up the wealthy American thing just a little by tipping well and being cool instead of snobbish. I had a little black kid earn his trade by bringing Amritte a new flower for her hair every afternoon and morning. The doctor who looked at her dressings the last time prescribed some really bizarre antibiotics for her. Some natural island shit. I explained my connection with antibiotics and suggested we talk trade. When he came to the boat and saw the array of drugs I had to trade he was entranced. His English was good, but not perfect. He seemed to dummy up on trade figures. I had played this game with Spanish folks before. I insisted we have someone to translate to be sure we were all happy. I also told him it was vital any trade we do be in English given the hostile Mexican situation in Texas. It was imperative I keep the trading company as far away from sounding like war trade as possible. Drugs were always cool. He was very interested in the birth control pills. I handed all of that to Amritte. She was a strong advocate for it. So was I, but I don’t know how to talk about it really good like her. I knew Doc would have preferred it that way. I never carried women’s drugs when I traded. I just don’t know the value well enough to make a good effort at it. I got a picture of Havana just as the rain started. Too bad.

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As Cuba faded into the sea we encountered a small flotilla of boats strapped together and throwing a huge sea party. The sun was fading so the lights and the music made it seem like it would be a fine time. We were not about to risk it though. The Captain said he has stopped at many of these small man made islands for daytime trading. They form a shape according to the number of boats. He said he’s seen stars, ovals, circles, double circles and other shit. It reminded me that I would rather have a sailboat like this than another fucking riverboat. I began to hatch a plan, but decided to keep it to myself for now. All the Captain’s boat lacked was enough balls to get moving into the wind in a hurry. This would eliminate any sail craft from being able to catch it. As for the smaller speed boats, I’d damn sure put shielding around all the vital shit and a fuck of a lot more than I see on this reliable old tub. He’s got repaired bullet holes next to ammo lockers. I would also paint the boat with some kind of pattern to obscure her from sight. As I made myself a drink from the boat’s bar I also made a mental note to include a better bar on my boat.

 

done​

 

Chapter 16

Laying Low
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In looking back I realize I should have had someone else make the announcement about weapons. I should have kept my name and my voice as far away from the riverboats as I could. I received a 2 meter call from Ninja Kitty. She was working with Kelly, but Kelly wasn’t around to talk. It would be a while before I got anything from Kelly. I was sure she knew why I sent someone to cover her ass. I hoped she would come to appreciate it. I met with the First Machinist and The Package to talk about giving the riverboats a fighting chance. The planes were the worst possible problem for us. Even if we fill one with lead, it can still hit the boat and destroy it. But what choice do we have? The problem was that the boats needed to look as unarmed as possible. We now have a big cross and a Fleur de Lis painted on each boat that can be seen from the air.

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Pretty funny when you consider the main business we trade on the New Orleans. No matter how we marked them and spread denial of war support, we would never have the boats free from crosshairs. So this meeting was to discuss the alternatives. We had to have a way to fight back. The First Machinist had a sketch for a way to hide a gun capable of hitting a plane by making it look like a flag pole. The problem was shooting a plane down and leaving no witnesses. So the only way to shoot the big gun was to have a bunch of guys shooting small guns upward at the same time. Maybe the confusion would mask the sound of the high velocity gun. We came up with a plan to hide the boat fast using camouflage tarps and pulling off to the banks under trees. It was a risky plan with only a margin of possible success. As I saw it the real value would be in hiding before the plane can spot us. That would really suck. It could add days to a trip. We’ll have to throw some trade at a suggestion The Package made, spies.

We needed information from both sides in the conflict and from players working the edges. Getting a decent spy on the Arkansas side would be easy. Finding an Oddkin turncoat was another matter. Even looking for one would bring attention. I had quiet feelers among really really close friends only. It could easily be interpreted as me trying to cover for underhanded dealings. But we couldn’t turn into nuns overnight either. That wouldn’t make any sense. Everybody in Memphis knows we’ll talk trade at all kinds of angles. If we suddenly stopped the other business we’d lose our asses in trade and we would probably shake off a chicken’s worth of credibility. Nelson’s second oldest daughter was graduating from high school so we wrapped it up fast and let him go. I knew he really just wanted an excuse to hit the town. He’d be gone all night after making a one hour appearance. His family calls him “The Phantom” for the way he can evaporate into the mist. I’ve seen it happen. It’s amazing. I called the house on the intercom and got Amritte. She was interested in relaxing. I got on the bike and went up the hill to open the safe. Tonight she wanted straight opium no tricks. But I like the tricks. When I walked in the house was quiet. Marissa was working on the Raleigh and the kids were at the kid house as my son called it. They were so proud of having their own house. With a little help from every wife on the property and the added security of The Package’s most loyal. We keep many of the kids from her other properties as well. It’s just safer.

There is always the possibility of being overrun in some of the smaller camps. But we need them. We have one camp that grows only beets and sunflowers. But both are fucking fabulous trade. Fences, dogs and guns but we STILL have assholes stealing our shit and assaulting our people. It’s not common since The Package took over and I still have the reputation Nelson gave me at the Raleigh Springs mall years ago. People know I will kill. People know Kelly will kill with a fucking soda bottle. I wondered how she was doing. Ninjakitty sent me a note from Little Rock then Clarksville. The last came from Fayetteville. That one worried me. Only the basic confirmation, a valentine with an arrow. Without the arrow would be the distress call. It was days ago and Fayetteville makes me suspicious they are heading into a Tulsa mission. I didn’t tell Amritte about any of this. I settled down in the opium bed and got the kit in order. Amritte came in with some Sangria. She said she has the Key West formula down now. It was pretty close, but we don’t have any dark rum. I set her up with a fat one and let her drift off a little. I caught a little of a trade show on the radio. It was a competition to remember patterns and it as hard as fuck. One lady won three horses in as many minutes rapidly repeating musical notes. I loaded up my regular hash pipe and slowly got schnockered. The Sangria did the rest.

Around midnight Amritte was on top of me demanding attention. I managed to give her all she needed without getting up from my slumbering position. She had some more opium and went back to sleep. I turned the now annoying radio off and passed out. I woke to fried eggplant and rice with sautéed mushrooms and scrambled eggs. I really love having three wives. I scarfed down breakfast and said I needed to meet with the Old Machinist. I took the cable to the machine shop and found him on his back porch finishing breakfast. I was dying for some bacon after the smell hit me so he tossed me a few strips. He was looking forward to a trip on the New Orleans. I think he has some strange in Baton Rouge. I was thinking it was time to head to Jackson. Soon anyway. Or maybe it was time to have Lyla stay in Overton Square. She’d love it. I could hear a high-pitched voice yelling. It was my Aunt telling me that Doc was on the two meter. I switched on in the shop and said hello. Doc didn’t waste any time. He had a deal and wanted to talk in person, NOW. I hauled ass, no questions on the radio. It could be anything from a warning to a chance to trade into a secret deal. I took the bike to his place in Overton and parked. We met in a carriage house near the zoo behind a mansion. Doc handed me a glass of brandy and told me that he had a spy for me. I explained we were always interested, but why was he trading in war support like this. He dropped the bombshell next.

It was an Oddkin spy. Doc knew because he delivered the bastard twenty or so years earlier and remembered the mother’s and father’s names because both were “odd”. He was from an Oklahoma family that chased oil wells for three generations. So what the fuck was he doing in Memphis? Looking for a job. And looking for a place to live where he can watch the boats on the river. It was blind fate that had him getting stitched up by Doc after falling off of his bike. Doc doped him up and got all the answers before he called me. He had a falling out with his family who were in command of a guard unit protecting a gas field. He managed to tarnish their reputation so he was kicked out. The plan to spy from Memphis came from his own initiative. Sometimes the homegrown, natural-born warriors are the toughest to figure. He crossed into Arkansas with the help of some family on the Arkansas side. They came up with a cover story that made him seem like a regular Arkansas boy. Using a cousin’s old driver’s license he thumbed across the state till he got to West Memphis. He traded for a bike and came into Tennessee. Doc’s people already searched the guy’s shit head to toe and his bike was in the basement. It turned up one interesting item, a paperback book about codes and ciphers. Not heavy cold war shit. It was like a book for kids. It came from the Fort Smith library right on the border with Oklahoma. But again why the fuck was he here? What the fuck did he hope to report? Boat movements? Or did he have more in mind? Doc had the guy’s knee in a cast to keep him in the VA, drugged and under control for a while. I dialed the café from a landline in the mansion and got My Aunt. I spoke slowly so she would know it was not the time for BS.

I told her I needed the Package right away at the Hash Pub and to find Nelson. We only had a few hours to get our shit together. We needed this guy. Just by watching him we will learn how he communicates. The book is pretty common and one of Doc’s people found a copy in the Frasier library. The Package said we needed to surround him with our people and keep him in a tight cocoon. But we needed a way in for him that feels natural. Nelson arrived just as we were working on that problem and presented the solution. One of his wives runs the Salvation Army mission and finds jobs for people. It was perfect if we could get him to visit her. To spring the trap we will use one of the small apartments above the freight warehouse on Front Street. We have four and only one is used by the security team. It faces the river, so he can do all the spying he wants. Not that it matters since any bum on the bluff can tell you the same shit for less than a chicken. A real spy would know that. This amateur would make lots of similar mistakes. Something would lead back to Oklahoma. In the meantime, I needed this guy to think everything was going according to plan. But, like any mouse, how could he resist the cheese. Daisy Sky was a natural for the role. But we had to tone her down. A smaller bike, fewer weapons and the apartment across the hall from our Oddkin spy. I told everyone that none of this is on the radio and only on limited land lines. I wanted the plan to be face to face. Daisy Sky was working on the New Orleans and due for Memphis the next day. Since the freight company had another name, the association with the Raleigh Riverboat Company was not obvious. We needed a job he could fill. No idea what he can do. So we have to be ready for anything. From the picture Doc had, the guy is pretty goofy looking. But then he’s also unconscious in the Polaroid.

Doc spent over an hour interrogating the guy. He had a kind of odd square looking nose and reminded me a little of Dick Tracy. So the name stuck when we had to talk about him. We figured we now had no more than two days to get this all set up. Nelson knew where there was a set of binoculars on a tripod we could put in a closet in the room to make it impossible to resist. It gave us time to add a microphone, reel recorder and a few observation holes in the apartment next door. Doc returned to his patient and I needed a ride down the river fast. I changed my mind about waiting for Daisy Sky. I needed her to be in Memphis and set up. Nelson made a two meter call and got her a faster ride. I think I’m making it too easy for Dick Tracy. He and I took the truck over to the Salvation Army to talk to his wife. Nelson suggested we keep everyone’s perspective by telling them he was an Oddkin soldier. It might keep fatal mistakes from happening. But from the spy’s perspective, he’s just a guy who got a good job in Memphis with an apartment that faces the river. It’s near Lou’s Other Place too. Totally worth a look. Actually the apartments are pretty rough. That’s one thing we will discuss with his wife. She’s really an ex-wife, but he pays her and porks her so I refer to her as his wife. It pisses him off. The cleanup she works out in about 5 minutes. A landline call to the warehouse and the security knows they are on the way. I called Amritte and asked if she would like to do a rush decoration job on a couple of apartments. She knew the ones and said she’d make it happen. I said it needed to be clean by not smelling like too much fresh paint. And they didn’t need to look like slave quarters or like the Peabody. Just nice and functional. Slightly better than the security apartment. I knew she’d go overboard and justify it by reworking the existing apartment as well.

It was a decent bike trek to the industrial park, but that was where we kept the freight boats. If he’s smart enough to hatch this spy plan and put it into motion, I was happy to make it succeed so much he gets cocky. Surely he is smart enough to do something on a freight dock or boat. The one thing Doc forgot to ask while he was doping the guy up was what the living fuck does the guy DO? We’d know soon enough. Doc bought some time by telling the spy that the x-ray machine was down, a lie, they were never down once in six years on two of MY engines. He’d never know that, I just thought I should slip that in. We make a good fucking engine. So he had to stay in the cast until they could see and that it would be the next day. In the meantime, Doc’s social worker interviewed the spy for paperwork. He still had his Arkansas license. No fucking picture of course. He could have two heads, but who would know with a plain license. It didn’t matter. We knew most of what we wanted. All he spoke about was working on a farm and working in a family owned store. He probably didn’t want to give too much to the VA. We also learned that he’s not married and has no children. So he’s an open slate for the moment. Not only do we need to know what he knows, but we need him to take back a crafted story of events he saw. We had plans for that. We would have the riverboat crew walk off to protest a freight boat hauling weapons. We would let him observe scenes that are easy to figure out and remember. We already have signs all over the industrial park forbidding weapons work. They’re ignored, but very quietly. Another reason Sky is perfect for this is because she knows that park inside out. She’s done welding there and helped pull wires and other shit. And she knows the freight boats equally well. All we had to do was create the look of having an office for the freight company all along.

It also meant our crews had to be careful when they crossed decks for extra trade shifts. We have to keep this guy in a bubble. But it’s impossible. And I have a continuous debate in my head about involving The Colonel. He had a right. But I had a need. I was going to keep this one under control without him. The Package was all over it. He investigated the accident scene and the damage to the bike. It was a regular three speed with the handle shifter and pedals made of diamond grate. It had a couple of saddle baskets that were wider than normal. Inside each was a wooden box with a handle. This bike was set up for lugging shit around. But he didn’t have a lot of luggage. Maybe he already had a plan B. I wonder what he planned to trade. He got the bike for a three goat paper from Clarksville. The Package’s guy says it seems convenient. My impression of that goofy face keeps filtering my view. He could have traded for a cheaper bike. Did he have more livestock papers? Worse yet, did he have help? In Memphis or West Memphis? He still has some trade, but it’s not enough for another bike. Maybe he planned to peddle his ass. Who fucking knows? For the moment he’s in a wheelchair watching a movie with a ward of patients. Knowing Doc, he’s pretty toasted. They also gave them beer at the VA. It helped. Daisy Sky arrived shortly after midnight. Nelson drove while we explained the situation. She was on board before we could finish explaining. When I was sure she knew the score, I fired up a fat hooter and took a swig of beer. Everybody knew that meant I would talk trade in the morning. We went to the Hash Pub and had a few more drinks and a fat hookah packed with Cuban delights. Ms. Breasts is my Caribbean hash lifeline. Oddly even Nelson was in no mood to play cards. This spy shit was in our heads. I said it was time to head upstairs to the apartment to brainstorm, a term I stole from Doc. We still didn’t know what this guy was capable of or might consider as an occupation until he talked to Nelson’s sort of ex-wife at the Salvation Army. She was the only one to call to fill a job. Even the Press Scimitar gave up on help wanted ads. Nobody would trade and she did it for tips basically.

Nelson reminded me that it was very fucking late. We got in the truck and headed to Raleigh. I can forget everything sometimes. Amritte was asleep so I cuddled next to her and went out. I slept in till I heard the shop whistle at 9. Doc called to say he was cutting the spy loose around noon. Doc said he knew where he should ask about a job and gave him one of the Salvation Army flyers that were on every bulletin board in town. That’s as far as I wanted Doc to go with it. Since he didn’t have a place to stay, the Salvation Army would have gotten him eventually. The call came from Nelson’s wife. He had taken the first bit of bait. Nelson and I were back in the truck. Sky was taking one of the dirt bikes with a couple of saddle bags full of food and laundry. Amritte was already finishing the apartments. Even if we were totally wrong and this deal fell through, I now had 4 finished flats on the river ready to go. The New Orleans would arrive around sunset. One of The Packages guys was on board that would be perfect for working the guy into our control. He was from Ohio so he didn’t have a bone to pick with any side. And he worked on whatever riverboat he could and sent his trade home. Staying at the Salvation Army was just a way to keep overhead down. And it was that way for a lot of people. Nelson’s wife controlled three apartment buildings. Everybody works. She will not tolerate a bum. In the main part of the Salvation Army she runs a drunk tank and a brig. She only has room for 20 people there, so it’s only for special cases. But an added bonus she added after the crash was an interrogation room with a two-way mirror and intercom. It had a sofa and a cooler too. We were going to watch his whole interview.

When the boat landed we jumped on board and dragged The Package’s guy to the pilot house. I explained the score and invited him to confirm with his boss after I left. We went out on the suicide planks and I pointed to the apartments above the warehouse. Fully lit and full of Amritte’s people. I told him Sky was across the hall from the spy and he would work with the spy at the freight dock for the other company. Somehow we would get the spy into a role there. I chose the simple route, over-compensating. The Package’s guy was not a huge football player like the others. He was into Kung Fu and some shit from Brazil. I have seen him put a sheer hurt on some of the football jocks. Just a wiry fucker, hence the name. We walked up and got in the truck and went to the freight docks. Our oldest freight boat as there getting a new cylinder. But the whole crew was there, so we discussed what was happening. We knew everybody there. Many for years. They would heft a rifle for me, so I wanted to shoot straight. Anyone who wasn’t up for it MIGHT be able to swap decks with another boat. The only taker was expecting a kid and needed the freedom of working the regular docks. Everyone else was ready to watch this spy like a bug. Now that everyone knew wiry fucker we were in business. They knew Sky already. I promised a bonus when it was over. And we had no business to keep it going for too long. All we really wanted was to give this spy the idea that the riverboats were totally neutral. Feeding him some good information might be necessary. I knew who most of the players were from St Louis to New Orleans. Plenty of disposable assholes running guns. Nelson drove us back to the warehouse. Wiry knew the guard on duty. Amritte was upstairs moving shit around. I ran up and saw what an amazing job she did with the apartments. Too good naturally.

Nelson called his wife. She had the spy tucked in after helping him change a bandage. A spiked beer and he was out for the night. Probably how she got Nelson. She tossed everyone out at 6AM. She told the spy to get cleaned up and fed because he had to work. Wiry had slipped into the Salvation Army during the night as a late check-in. Over breakfast Wiry and Nelson’s wife talked about work on boats. They were sure the spy heard every word. After breakfast the spy approached Wiry Fucker about jobs. Finally we learned his vocations. We knew about the family farm and store, but this guy worked in a printing office. Exactly what we don’t need. So putting him to work on the freight dock would be a good way to keep him contained. Otherwise we would have to be more creative. Nelson’s wife told the spy that Wiry would probably be able to connect him with a job. But if it didn’t work out, he should come back to see her. She let Wiry borrow a bike so they could both pedal down to the docks. Since everybody does different shit, the crew found a place for him. Now he belonged to me. Our head dock guy told him to stay at the Salvation Army for a week or two and we’d see if we had a place come open. He would come in like Sky and everyone else came into it, as an apprentice dock worker. The New Orleans was continuing to St Louis in the next day. They were waiting for one of the freight boats to arrive from Cape Girardo. It was one of our early boat trades after getting the Raleigh Trader into service.

We had two of them, the Memphis Mule 1 & 2. Each had a smaller version of Big Ruth and a single stern wheel. The guys spent part of their time navigating the things with poles. These were pretty basic rides. A crew of seven or so. Four bunk beds and a tiny galley with a stove. And lots of guns. Wiry and the spy had lunch with the crew. They were going to let him check freight while his injuries healed. After that he was a deck ape same as anyone else. Nelson and I watched for a while from the harbor master’s office. We went home and Nelson’s Old Lady had lunch ready for us. Some kind of spiced chicken thing over rice. It was better than anything I could get over on Summer Avenue. She had it all set up too, even a bottle of hot sake. She was yammering about something that I could not make out. Nelson told her to slow down and then I got it about the same time he did. One of our animal traps in the property had been tripped and a bloody shoe was a few feet away. Whoever it was, the dogs would have been worse. And the Package’s crew would have been even worse. He’s the guy who traded for the evil bear traps. He’ll be happy to know it was worth the effort. I wondered what Kelly was doing. News from the Oklahoma and Arkansas border was quiet. Arkansas paid Oklahoma back for the coal train attack with a similar attack on a train that had just crossed into the state from Texas.

With the baffles in and running on compressed gas the Arkansas planes can be amazingly quiet. They can also stay around circling for a long time. One of the pilots told me about how they would drop their spent tanks into a lake about 20 miles from their target zone to be able to stay around longer. Once their payload was delivered, they usually had to haul ass out to avoid the Oddkin planes that were sure to follow. In a fucking swarm. Oklahoma had plenty of planes and plenty of fuel. They’d chase an Arkansas plane well into the state. For a twin engine bomber that’s a whole bottle of gas. Oddkins were like that. They were so vindictive they would risk their own hide to deliver revenge. But with 2 engines and no load in the belly, escaping from a single engine plane was usually assured. It helped to have backup ready to get into the air. That was a problem sometimes. Some Arkansas air units were very sloppy. The joke about one in Hope Arkansas outside of Texarkana was that they caused more damage on the way to Oklahoma than they caused IN Oklahoma. I could see why the mayor of Memphis didn’t want any part of war trade in his town. Too many dumbasses in the war. Too many big mistakes being made.

Which is exactly why I worry so fucking much about Kelly. Her rose colored glasses finally warped her good sense. And she probably partied the least of all of us. This warping was natural for her. Or maybe it was exactly what I called it in the beginning, stupid. It seemed like forever since the last post card. I knew they must be well inside of Oklahoma. This means that the post cards have to go through the Fat Frenchman’s Brother’s office in Baton Rouge. Mail from Oklahoma does not enter Arkansas. So it snakes through small towns in Texas till it gets to Texarkana. Then it’s a straight shot to Baton Rouge and a two meter call. I kept going over the plan in my head. What had I overlooked? I already had a couple of trade packs loaded and ready. I could have them near the Oklahoma border in a day or so. Ninja Kitty knew this. A post card with a chicken leg meant they needed the drop, but not to hurry. The regular shipping was fine. If it was an ice cream cone, it meant to get the stuff to them fast. Before it melted. She was also able to signal Napalm Girl for other supplies like weapons from St. Louis. I wasn’t bundling so much as a pocket knife destined for Oklahoma. No way. I only wish more people in Memphis took the Oddkin hicks more seriously. You’d think watching two of them get shot down over the city at daybreak as they were trying to ambush an Arkansas train would wake some fuckers up. It was seen as a fluke by most. Even with the news of riverboat attacks. Which brings it all back to the spies.

I have to know what the fuck is going on. The Colonel wouldn’t know Jack about Kelly’s unit. But I’d have to wait till I see him face to face to ask about it. I made certain nobody used her name on any kind of squawk box. I had the same order already in place for me and Nelson. Just to keep things from getting too close to home. I had a dozen handles anyway. Nelson and I talked about adding protection to some critical areas of the boats. Particularly topside shielding. Since they were only firing small caliber rounds from the guns on these small planes, the penetrating power is nil. Sure they will tear through a beer can thin plane but they aren’t much good for shooting at cars or trucks. These planes aren’t spectacular diving machines either. A common tactic is to come in at an angle of about 15 degrees and start firing when you line the water with the bottom of the boat. You would get a neat seam, then gaps. One of the Oddkin bullets that hit our plane was a 38 caliber. Still deadly, but a pistol round adapted into a rapid firing air to air gun. Why? Cheap ammo. Smaller ammo means you carry more individual shots too. But if you are wasting half, what’s the point?

I guess if you were an Oddkin pilot shooting over enemy territory having wild rounds doesn’t mean shit. They don’t care who’s baby they kill. This fucking stooge we have under our roof is probably no better. All of The Package’s guys and me and Nelson plan to drop the fucker in a heartbeat if he compromises us or our people. Even though he seems to be a runaway on a fool’s errand, I can’t help thinking he might have put us exactly where he wanted us. It made me think twice about involving The Colonel. I figured I’d wait until we had some time with him. I needed some observations. Nelson and I set up a game of pool and slugged a few beers like we do at Sunset sometimes. Miller’s cave is just not the same. The Package finally called on the two meter. He was an hour from home. His guys had eyes on the spy. We were calling him Clouseau at first but it seemed like a giveaway. The Package broke the stalemate by saying he was to be referred to as Uncle Tommy and that radio references had to be indirect. Taking Uncle Tommy for a bath meant he was on his way to work. Uncle Tommy’s place was The Rendezvous, which was near our Front Street warehouse. Uncle Tommy’s birthday meant he was out on the river. It became an exercise in creativity. Uncle Tommy began to sound like a retarded genius. Most of the time it was made as a historical reference to something he did some time ago. Someone might say “a red Mustang just went by, remember that green Mustang Uncle Tommy had”. We also rotated frequencies and bands. We might give part of the message by CB and the gaps were filled on two meter. We were already doing similar shit in our normal trade communications.

There was no way I was going to blab out on the air that I was alone on a sidecar bike carrying five gallons of liquor and running low on fuel. Everybody had some kind of code. Listen to CB long enough and you forget what English sounds like in sentences. Shit like “Mary’s biscuits turned blue again so we put them on the train” or “Did you remember to wash the statue and burn the corn” or “The new trombone came with a brown case”. Who the fuck knew what any of it meant? Once in a while I could break a code or two. But most of the time it was a three aspirin headache. Thankfully people didn’t talk much code on the trade channels. Makes sense that you can’t trade shit if you can’t be understood. Some of the blacks, Nelson says I can’t say niggers anymore, in Memphis talk like their tongue is numb on the radio. Or they talk real quiet, trying to be cool. I got tired of asking them to repeat shit. If it’s not English, I can’t talk trade. When The Package arrived we went over the plan for dealing with the spy yet again. We were looking for any loophole. Any place where we could fuck up and lose the guy or suffer sabotage or worse at his hands. For all we knew he was the one they sent to off me. I threw lead at one of their planes. I pulled the trigger for Arkansas. It’s probably a death sentence. But confirmation was just about impossible. The Millington photograph only has my face at an odd angle and never mentions my name. I don’t think anyone knows it’s me. But it’s enough to start deadly rumors. I’m keeping my hair way longer these days just in case. With Wiry and Sky watching him up close and the freight boat crew looking out for us we might be OK.

The first priority I had for them was to get a picture of him so we could make others aware around town. There were three post offices working within a decent bike ride of Front Street so I was going to have Nelson talk to them about any messages he sends going west. Nelson reminded me that he could easily pedal across the bridge and mail it from West Memphis for less trade and more secrecy. Probably under the cover of going to the dog races. As I thought about that I got a chill. That could be exactly why he got such an odd bike. He could haul enough trade to gamble and send a post card. It started to make sense. But Uncle Tommy was not too bright. Maybe he’s a decoy. I only had two really good connections in Arkansas. And only The Colonel could get me into remote Arkansas post offices. Memphis caused a postal workers stink just before the crash that turned the Mississippi into a gator filled moat. Any postal trade across the river was either made in the middle of the bridge at noon if you didn’t mind sweating in a long line. Or by hiring a bootlegger who carried your mail across and traded it forward. Arkansas became a stone wall for mail as far as Memphis was concerned. Post offices in St Louis and Baton Rouge made extra trade by forwarding Memphis mail around the blockade. One stupid thing about this stupid fucking grudge is that the people who caused it are mostly gone. We kept a box in West Memphis. Solved most of that shit. But who knows? He might just put notes on west-bound trade vehicles. It was reliable for people who were expecting it. It’s really perfect for spies. What could we do? Photograph every vehicle that had trade notes on it. That would be crazy, like making sense of the CB codes. Tailing this guy and keeping him close would have to do. But eventually he’ll be on his own. What’s keeping me awake is the idea that this amateur spy might be a real spy pretending to be a rookie. The whole Gomer Pyle routine could be faked. If that’s true, he’ll have support. Following him was the only way to deal with all of the possibilities. But a good spy would expect it. We may have shown our hand already.

I began to doubt that bugging the apartment would do us any good. I promised I would not make any moves on the guy without consulting everyone else. Only an extreme situation would have me react. But if I have to drop this guy, it’s going to be slick and quick. Amritte called me on the two meter and nearly blew me out. She didn’t realize I had returned. She wanted to go out for dinner. I was all for it. I snuck out of the hideout and got to the house while nobody was there. I jumped in the shower and was in the rinse stage when Amritte shouted from the kitchen. She was pissed that I probably used all of the hot water. It bought me a little time as she went next door and bummed a shower from Nelson’s old lady. I wanted to do a few lines in peace and lie back to some music. I knew Amritte would want a fat opium hit. I thought it could be cool too. I flipped on the intercom and asked for the lead watch. When he came on I told him that my wife and I would need a hitter to drive for a few hours. I wanted to take her someplace special. There was a Japanese place near Poplar and 240 where they cooked on the tables. I knew she’d love it and it would allow us to think about something other than Kelly. I wanted the muscle so she and I could get as wasted as we wanted. We took the small station wagon. Better stereo and it has air conditioning. Not exactly a limousine but it didn’t paint a target on us either. The edge of Germantown was a weird neighborhood. Once upper middle class, it was overrun years ago after the crash and still has scars and a few assholes. Doc told me about getting robbed leaving the same restaurant, but he was in a carriage. I did another fat ass line and chased it with a long hash toke from a glass pipe I keep at the house. When Amritte darkened the door in a towel and wet hair, I wanted to jump on her. I told her as much. She laughed and said “sorry sailor, gotta feed me first”.

This bitch doesn’t NEED me at all. While she wasted several kilowatts drying her hair I made some trade calls and smoked a little more hash. I heard the Pinto backing into the driveway. After strapping on my holster I put on a light brown hemp shirt 2 sizes big. It didn’t give me away. I slapped on some of the aftershave St Patrick was trying to unload. It wasn’t bad. But it didn’t trade well. I didn’t care, chicks liked it. I had some scented oil from the gulf trip but Amritte is fucking sick of it. I’ll try a dab on Marissa in a day or so. I used some hair shit of Kelly’s to glue it into a different style. I shaved a new look into my beard too. I was going to take it easier in town and try not to be noticed. It was weird being in the back seat at first. But a few tokes and a drink on the way and I got over it. The restaurant was a lot like one I went into years ago. The cooks really put on a show. Amritte and I were stuffed in a half hour. As the dinner dishes were being taken away they had a music and dance show that was pretty cool. Amritte had some similar moves. She would toss one at me every so often. Asian women are amazing. I think Amritte just needed to get the hell out of Raleigh. When we left the restaurant I had the muscle take us down Poplar. It was still kind of early so I told her we’d head to Overton Square for a little while. I called the Hash Pub on the CB and said we were on the way. It gave them time to evict whatever whore they had in my fucking apartment. I could also tell she was tired. I suggested we have a drink and some hash hits before going upstairs to watch a movie or something. Her smile was enough. We were on the same wavelength. I told muscle we’d hang out and he could take the car back to Raleigh or find a place in town for the night.

He had a chick he knew at Rhodes on the CB and dropped us off next to Madison across the street from the Hash Pub. It was a quiet night. Amritte wasn’t even in the mood for a drink anymore. We walked straight through the pub and up the back stairs to the apartment. It didn’t smell like whore. In fact it smelled abandoned. Fine with us. I fixed some wine with soda and ice and plugged in a tape. Amritte lit a couple of candles and made some popcorn. I found a comedy she hasn’t seen. She made me stop it 2 minutes in because she was laughing her ass off and wanted to do a little opium and a couple of lines before the movie got really started. Amritte and I sat back and forgot the world for a while. We both passed out after the flick. Some time very early I woke to find her on top of me. She said we had unfinished business. So I gave her the business and didn’t wake up again until the sun was well up in the sky. I kicked on the CB and scanned the channels to see if anything was happening. A two meter call to The Package and I was convinced that Amritte and I had not been missed and the world was still turning. There was a new diner in Overton square and it smelled wonderful. I called muscle on the CB and told him where we’d be. Amritte and I got out the door as fast as we could. Too hungry for even a morning toke. It wasn’t too crowded, but we didn’t have a table yet either. I knew a lot of people on sight, not always by name. As you see, I am not so good with names. The waitress I knew from another place on Highland. Guess she traded up. Breakfast was higher trade than I like. We walked out light a couple of chicken tickets. Muscle was pulling the corner by Yosemite Sam’s. Since he was Wirey’s wing man I got to hear all about what the spy was up to on the way back to Raleigh. Basically nothing. At least I knew the baby sitters were paying attention.

A valentine with an arrow arrived in Baton Rouge with a Tulsa post mark. It was the first thing I heard when we got home. It was a week late because it was forwarded to Red Banks and no further. The only reason we got it was because the box was overdue. My Aunt sent a guy down with a ham and two gallons of fuel oil to collect it. I really didn’t like it getting so close to home. It was never supposed to leave Baton Rouge. I became suspicious as usual. A signal from Tulsa made it to our back yard. Do we have a traitor in Louisiana? Who catches the mail there? It’s only supposed to be riverboat personnel. Has the Fat Frenchman’s crew been infiltrated? Hell, has ours? Time for me and Nelson and The Package to have a talk. We’re too big to watch. Or it was time to invest a fuck load more into watching everything. The Hams were already telling me about odd shit they hear. But it’s just what happens to go by. They aren’t actually looking for the kind of shit I need to know. Now that I had an enemy spy on the payroll, I needed to know how much the Oddkins might know about us. I never thought I’d ever consider air cover for the riverboats. Such a costly measure would make it seem like I had something to hide. It seemed like every way I wanted to go had a trap door. A built in failure waiting to fuck me or all of us. It was unlikely the New Orleans or the Trader would be hit. All of our advertising points far from arms. But we can’t stop shipping fertilizer just because a few assholes are making bombs from it. I’m not about to entertain a list from Oklahoma telling me what I can and cannot ship. But they have already had an impact. I hated giving away arms trade to The Colonel and Napalm Girl. I only wanted to siphon from that trade, but it was very profitable.

Sure, we all had friends in Arkansas, but most were right across the river, nowhere near Oklahoma. And why the fuck does Nashville get to play games over our head? They have flown blatantly over Arkansas to deliver into Oklahoma right after they made incursions into Arkansas territory. Clearly they were fully into the war game where Memphis would have none of it. But Memphis is in the middle waving a piece of paper. It’s hard to take the Mayor seriously when all he does is bring in horses from both sides as fines. I doubt the city has seen a single live horse paper from Oklahoma. I did want to protect the boats a little better. We had alarms and gun lockers and lights and other surprises. But we didn’t have much of a plan for a boat getting stolen. The Old Machinist came up with a mechanical alarm. It triggers the main boat whistle automatically any time the boiler reaches steam after being idle. It has to be reset manually, by somebody who knows where the release is located. It would be a way to have the boat automatically make noise if the night watch crew is overtaken and the boat is stolen. It would also drain the steam from the boiler with a steady stream of noise. Stealing a boat on the river or while at full steam makes more sense. And we have always been prepared for that. And always to protect our people and our trade. The vessel has always been secondary to that. It would be hard to get very far south with a stolen riverboat anyway. Same with the freight boats, so Uncle Tommy was going to have to know at some level. It has to be realistic. If we kept him from doing normal things, like qualifying on a pistol and a shotgun. It would give us insight if he becomes an overnight marksman. If he can’t hit the side of a barn, he gets a shotgun for weapons duty and nothing else. Bird shot maybe. I had to do it with some of the women. The other boats that are hit have the same thing in common, not enough guns or tough guys with guns. On our kind of boat we need twice as many, but most undercover. Even the cleaning ladies are packing iron.

 

done​

 

Chapter 18 is unfinished. I'll post it when I get around to writing again.

 

I suggest drinking and maybe some aromatic appetite stimulants.

 

Learn to make soap folks
How to Make Soap from Ashes - Modern Homesteading - MOTHER EARTH NEWS

 

I've got every back issue. Soap is easier than I thought. Toilet paper is going to be a whole other matter. By the way George, you're not supposed to be in this forum. People might think we're related!

 

Is anyone actually reading this?

 

I already did.

(it has some boring parts, but the smut makes up for it)

 

Nice work Panic. Chapter 18?

 

good grief