 
DAVID SHATH SQUARE Chapter Thirty-Two
A group of men had gathered around Ravin' Craven who sat on a
stool with his back to the wall in the jitney garage.
"Well now, Craven," my grandfather said, "some of us has reason
to believe you know more about the disappearance of Zack and Thoreena
than you're lettin' on. Maybe you'd like to enlighten us."
My grandfather raised his big hairy fist as if to strike Craven
who cringed, then became belligerent when he realized the blow wasn't
going to be delivered.
"Up yours, ya ol' polecat. Yuh think I'm afraid of a half-dead
mule carcass like youse?"
My grandfather grabbed Craven by the shirt collar and nearly
lifted him off his stool.
"I ain't as strong as I used to be. But I can still whup the
likes of you."
"Piss off, ol' man," said Craven, who seemed to be gaining
courage. He gave my grandfather a shove that almost knocked him off his
feet. My father caught him under the arms and held him upright.
"Let go o' me, Judas. I'm gonna kick his balls so hard they're
gonna bust out through his blood shot eye balls."
But my father wouldn't let go of my grandfather.
"Hold on, Jeb. I've got a better idea. Violence never
accomplished anything."
My grandfather looked at my father with disdain.
"That does sound like you, Judas. How 'bout courage, loyalty and
love? They mean anything to you?"
"How about intelligence? Did it ever cross your mind that
intelligence is an underrated human faculty?"
My grandfather spat on the floor and walked away from my father.
"Never doubted your intelligence, Judas."
Lee Chang cornered my grandfather and tried to calm him.
"Mr. Jeb, you try relax. I have brought friend, Mr. Swede, to
talk."
The once robust Swede was hardly recognizable. He was emaciated
and stooped like the survivor of a concentration camp. He mumbled to
himself about Thoreena and how he could never be forgiven for forsaking
her.
My grandfather stared at the Swede.
"Swede. That you? What in hell's bells the matter? You look
like shit?"
"Mr. Jeb," said Lee Chang, "Mr. Swede cannot forgive himself for
way he treated his daughter."
My grandfather walked up to the Swede and placed his arm around
the Swede's bony shoulders.
"Can't blame yourself. You just didn't think. Let that damn
religion get in the way of your reasonin'."
The Swede continued to mumble to himself. It wasn't clear if he
had heard my grandfather.
"Snap out of it, Swede. We got work to do. We're gonna' find
them kids," said my grandfather, hollering into the Swede's ear.
This time the Swede did react. He stopped mumbling and looked
right at my grandfather.
"Dead. All dead. Ya, my fault."
"Christ, Swede, you startin' to sound like Judas. With that
kinda attitude you ain't never gonna accomplish nothin'."
Just then, Ravin' Craven, sensing an opportunity to escape,
jumped off his stool and made a run for the door. He didn't get far. My
grandfather stuck out his foot and tripped Craven who slid head first
into a cinder block wall.
"Get up, Craven," said my grandfather. "We've got talkin' to
do."
Several men grabbed Craven by the collar and hauled him back to
his stool.
"Fuck youse," said Craven. I ain't got nothin' ta say. Beat the
shit outta' me but I ain't got nothin' ta say."
My grandfather and the rest of the men around Craven looked
perplexed. If physical punishment wouldn't unlock Craven's tongue, what
would?
That's when my father intervened.
"Like I said before, I've got an idea," he said.
The men turned to look at my father. Most of them respected his
intelligence, but many were skeptical of his ability to handle a tough
like Craven.
"It seems to me that Mr. Craven has already drunk a lot of
alcohol and it's only 10:00 a.m. Maybe that explains his Dutch courage,"
said my father. "Why don't we prevent Mr. Craven from imbibing further
by removing his sources of alcohol?"
Suddenly the garage was a hive of activity. Men were looking
everywhere for Craven's booze.
"I know for sure he's always got at least a heel of whiskey in
the lower case of his tool chest," said one man, who bent down and opened
the drawer which yielded a half-empty bottle of rye.
"And I know he stashes a couple of full bottles in his locker,"
said another.
"And he aways carries a flask," said someone else.
By the time the hunt for Craven's store of alcohol was complete,
the garage floor was littered with bottles of rye, some empty, some half
empty.
"Cheap brand you drink, Craven," said my fahter, who kicked one
of the half empty bottles across the room. "You'd do better to purchase
the Swede's home-brew."
Craven didn't say anything. He sat on his stool and looked
morose.
"I've been wondering, Craven," continued my father. "You ever had
the DTs?"
"What da fuck ya talkin' 'bout?" said Craven, perched unsteadily
on his stool.
"The DTs. Delirium tremens. A dramatic complication of
alcoholism. Starts with the shakes and progresses through confusion to
convulsions. Looks to me as if you're a prime candidate for the DTs,
Craven."
For the first time, Craven looked worried. He focussed his
bleary eyes on my father and scoffed.
"Screw ya, nancy-boy. I ain't never had the DTs and I ain't
never goin' to."
"Perhaps because you've never been denied alcohol. The DTs is a
true medical emergency, Craven. In chronic alcoholics, such as yourself,
it only takes a few hours to develop a severe case of the shakes."
"Fuck you, ass-wipe," said Craven, who was beginning to perspire.
My father picked up one of the half-empty bottles and removed the
cork.
"While Mr. Craven is considering his options, I suggest we all
have a drink on him. What do you think, boys?"
The men collected bottles from the floor and gathered around my
father. Lee Chang sniffed at the contents.
"Not sure I want drink this concoction, Mr. Jude," he said.
"Smells like rat urine," said my grandfather, who emptied his
bottle into a floor drain.
"Well, if none of us is going to drink to Mr. Craven's health, I
guess we'll have to pour all this whiskey down the drain," said my
father.
"Wait!" said Craven, whose eyes bulged and hands gripped fat
thighs. "Maybe I got somethin' ta say afer all."
My father and the rest of the men moved closer to Craven.
"And what would that be?" asked my father.
"I ain't sayin' nothin' 'til ya promise me ya won't dump the rest
o' my whiskey."
Craven's hands were shaking. It seemed he might burst out crying
if another ounce of his alcohol was poured down a drain.
"Okay, Craven. It's a deal. What do you have to tell us?" said
my father.
"Gimme a drink. Then I'll tell ya?"
My father and the rest of the men considered this. If Craven got
too drunk he might pass out without revealing any useful information. My
father resolved the problem by placing a heel of whiskey in front of
Craven.
"You tell us something and we'll give you a shot," he said.
"Gimme a shot first."
"No. You tell us about Hardy and Thoreena, first."
Craven's hands were shaking; his eyes glued to the whiskey bottle
as if it were his guardian angel. He contemplated the glass angel for a
long time. His hands continued to shake.
"Okay," he finally said. "I'll tell ya what I knows."
To Chapter Thirty-three
Copyright © 2000 David Square/Log Cabin Chronicles/05.2000 |
