To Tyree’s amazement, he took a deep breath. Then, with a stiff dignity obviously meant to disguise personal embarrassment, confessed that he’d promised the Chamber of Commerce last spring he’d make a new sign, but jes’ hadn’t got to it. But he will. He will! He promised Tyree as fervently as if Tyree were an important Chamber member to be placated, a color-blind attitude that amazed Tyree. He’d anticipated some anxiety or even obstruction because of the color of his skin. After all, West Virginia was not known for high standards of education, an aspect that usually coincided with prejudice. Suddenly Tyree thought of the extreme heat and the deserted street. Possibly the color blindness meant only that in a roasting August barren of tourists, his color was green: income on the hoof.
A companionable silence set in between the two men as the gas slowly filled the Cherokee’s immense tank. Tyree nearly grinned as he watched Emil struggle not to peer too obviously into the darkened side and back windows, curious about what might be in there.
He would see nothing, Tyree knew, of his altered shotgun, his semiautomatic 9mm and .357 Magnum with extra clips, a red-dot laser scope on the .357, and the Archangel holster Tyree favored for its fast-draw design. His laptop, connected wireless phone, and portable printer were packed neatly in shockproof canvas carriers. His monocular night-vision headgear, an air taser (stun gun), and a Dazer he used for protection against guard dogs; mace in various sizes and canister shapes; and a digital camera with special lenses were all nested, like the laptop, in specially designed carriers. As was his Game Finder scope for detecting body heat behind walls. Tyree’s Cherokee was also designed with special features, one of which kept his equipment from prying eyes. And just as well. No need to panic the populace. Yet.
Emil sighed and gave up his covert peeking without resorting to the rudeness of trying to pry info from Tyree. Tyree liked him for that sigh; it revealed an easygoing nature. Tyree liked laid-back attitudes. They worked so much better for him when he was on a job.
Soot-blackened buildings dotted both sides of the street, reminders of the town’s coal-mining history. Edna’s Gift Shop leaned, bricks crumbling, against the timbered stones of Willem’s Pizza, which looked sturdy. The tall-pillared, red brick U.S. Post Office, which despite its height was about as wide as a cubicle, shared a wall with Mick’s rakish wood-paneled Railroader’s Pub. Across the road, Janna’s Coal Miner’s Daughter Clothing Boutique had been a similar wooden shack before being amateurishly slathered with a coating of infelicitous yellow stucco now flaking into a blotchy mess. A cracked cement sidewalk fronted these places of business, tilting along with the fortunes of those who’d hung on through both good and bad years.
“Where ya from?” asked Emil.
“Chicago,” murmured Tyree absently, studying the town. “Tourist trade the big industry here?” he asked his new friend Emil.
“Only industry, now the coal’s played out.” Emil tossed a hand to direct Tyree’s gaze down the length of the street. “They do what they can to brighten up the storefronts.” Emil shook his head sadly. “Order stuff from Sears catalogues or haul fancy goods in from Richmond or from Charleston, our capital, and then tell people it’s local handicraft. That’s big here, handicrafts. Not to criticize.”
Tyree nodded.
Elaborate Victorian wood lace and railings festooned porches that hadn’t worn such finery since their birth at the turn of the century. Log cabin-style benches had been sprinkled about, nestled near cedar tubs that Tyree guessed normally overflowed with pansies or geraniums or whatever grew here in cooler weather. He was no gardener, either. Flowers, in his experience, were just bright things hung in great lush balls from light poles lining Lake Shore Drive or the Miracle Mile. The tubs here were barren, filled only with tangles of sun-roasted brown moss. The stables near some derelict railroad tracks had been transformed into a hardware store, but the owner had scattered old horse tack and hay bales around to contribute to the desirable “charm.”
Suddenly Emil volunteered, “Talk’s going around about making a public park on the east end, just afore you get to the hotel grounds. Everybody hopes Miz Doree Zendall will donate her family’s Civil War iron cannons and cannonballs, now she’s widowed and no kids. Three generations of her husband’s family owned ’em. What good’re they to Doree? They’d make a center of interest for the park. Half rust, but still, it’s history. Lotta history here. And that’s genuine!”
Tyree nodded, tiring of his new friend. He checked the revolving numbers on the pump. He breathed deeply for patience and prepared to ask if there was a place to stay here other than the hotel, but Emil jumped in again.
“That woman! City council tried to bribe her with a white-painted gazebo, her name on it on a brass plaque. Only Doree’s cannons and the street lamps on Main Street here are for real; ever’thing else is like I said, from a Sears catalogue or hauled in. But Doree thinks her cannons ought to fetch her more ’n’ a plaque.”
Tyree jumped in as Emil took a breath. “You know a place I could stay? That hotel of yours is too rich for my wallet.”
Emil shrugged a bony shoulder. “We gots a couple В and Bs, if you don’t mind sharing bathrooms.”
Tyree frowned. He did mind. “No.”
“Oh, wait now. Doree’s place is huge. One of the rooms she rents gots its own bath. I’m sure it’s empty. Hell, whole damn town’s empty lately. Except she talks a lot, if you can stand it. Whal’d you say you here for?”
Tyree understood and didn’t hold it against the little man. Curiosity was a tough urge to control. “Vacation. No hunting yet, right?”
“Out of season right now.”
“Good. I don’t care for shooting.” It was true. He didn’t. “I’ll need directions.”
Tyree got the directions, climbed back into his Cherokee, and devoutly wished for a soft bed. If Rushing River aimed for historical accuracy, then the bed should sport a feather mattress. Of course, the blacks all slept out back in those historical days, too. He hoped Ms. Doree Zendall would be greedy enough to see his color as green, as Emil had.
He rolled slowly down the street, still taking in the sights, noticing a few side roads, unpaved paths, really, not visible from Emil’s station. He also noted a small, slightly built old man sweeping the sidewalk in front of a store. Suddenly the man looked straight at Tyree, shouted, “Ho! What’s up?” Tyree looked again, taken aback. The man hastily ducked inside the Little Bear Market’s screen door, banging his broom on the stone steps as he dragged it in behind him.
Later. First get a place to park his car and his aching body.
Ms. Doree Zendall’s tiny raisin eyes narrowed, taking a long, silent moment to catalog the price of his black tee belted neatly within his black silk-and-linen-blend slacks, and the subtly expensive sleek black sneakers. Tyree congratulated himself for leaving behind his gold chain, bracelet, ear stud, and rings; he didn’t like to fit into a cliché of a typical big city black. The word hood usually attached itself to the end of that description. Now he was gold-free, and his watch stainless steel, although it included a few features he doubted Ms. Zendall would understand. Finally, she nodded. She tucked a stray strand of coarse hair into the ratty gray ball that rested on the roll of fat behind her neck and led the way to his new home for the next few days. As she hauled herself up the stairs, she began a rambling stream-of-consciousness monologue that Tyree listened to carefully in case he could use any of the info.