Thibodaux's Trial

Thibodaux's Trial

Copyright 2011 William S. Butler

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Chapter 1

Shut the fuck up beaner, and drive.

Baba Thibodaux sped east on I-40 in a stolen Cadillac with three hundred pounds of gold in the trunk. Thibodaux knew if they caught him they’d hang him for rape, murder or messing with little kids. They’ll chase me down like they did my cousin and hang me for sure. He knew he’d killed a bunch of people and had never messed with little kids, but wasn’t sure about the raping part.

Tell me if’n you poked a woman and she didn’t want you to be doing it, they’d call it rape; if’n she changed her mind it ain’t rape. She’s gotta say no and keep to it. Poked my sisters a time or two, and they didn’t say no so figured it hadn’t been no rape. Had to slap around my oldest sister; she always gave in so wasn’t no way they could call that rape neither. Had to get rough with a whore a time or two, but the way I recalled it they hadn’t said no or even okay about the whole thing so it weren’t no rape. On the raping account, way I see it; they have no call to hang me.

Sure enough killed a bunch of folks so they’d hang me anyway. Reckon they have the right to hang me for killin’, damn if’n it wouldn’t piss me off if’n they was to hang me for rape.

He’d been on the road all day. Seems like been runnin’ all my fuckin’ life.

Thibodaux left Flagstaff Arizona with a Mexican driving.

Never learned to drive, tried a time or two but always screwed it up. Oh, not the driving learning part, would always get into trouble and have to run before I learned to drive. Too damn bad too. Tried to learn myself to drive once, but that didn’t work out. Got myself accused of leaving the scene of an accident, and even called an animal in the newspaper. Well, I'd never learned to read no newspaper, but overheard some fellers reading it in one of them soup kitchens. That shit just weren’t right. There wasn’t no little kids playing in the backyard, but the newspaper said what if’n there was? Bunch of bullshit. What if’n a little kid been playin’ in the street, reckoned I'd killed that one too. Them fucking newspaper what ifs piss me off.

Funny thing about running from the law this time, three guys had been shot to hell in Flagstaff, but I didn’t have anything to do with it. Found ’em dead. Knew one of them guys real good, guy named Nav. used to work for him. Them other two tried to kill me once, allowed they was the law but never did figure it out one way or the other.

Know’d about the three hundred pounds of gold hidden in an old Nash car. I’d help Nav steal the gold from them drug boys. Onlyest thing I'd know’d the gold belonged to a feller by the name of Big Al, some kind of big shit in the drug business. Took the gold eight years ago. Come back to get my share, but Nav wouldn’t come up with it. Even went and killed Nav's momma and daddy to make the point wasn’t fooling around about it neither. Wanted my share of the gold and would’ve moved on after I'd got it. Damn if’n Nav didn’t try to cheat me. Was Nav what caused all the fuss. Thought I’d gotten my point across and Nav would come around, but when I got to the hangar Nav was all shot to hell and those what had done it were all shot to hell too. Found this old Mexican at the airport what knew the old Nash had been buried under a woodpile. We went out back, dug around, and sure enough found the gold. Knew I had to get the hell out of there ’cause that Big Al’s men would be looking for the gold sure enough. But, where in the hell could I go hide from them bastards?

We put the gold in the Cadillac and this old Mexican drove, but he bitches too damn much to suit me. I'd cut his throat but need him for the drivin’.

Thibodaux had been running for eight years. He’d killed Billy Thompson in the Louisiana swamps. Had a right to, the dumbass cut across my fishin’ lines, ruined the fishing for the entire day. Anybody knew y’all don’t cut across nobody else’s fishin’ lines. Damn if’n Sheriff Boudreaux didn’t somehow get on to me. Told my brother Marvin if’n I didn’t go see him he’d come with dogs and hunt my ass down. Most likely hang my ass like they did my cousin. So, had to shoot Marvin ’cause I'd told his dumbass I'd kilt Billy Thompson. Knew damn well Marvin would blab to protect his own ass.

That started the whole damn running and hiding. Got out of there with a feller name of Pierre. A damn cook in a restaurant, black man crippled to hell and gone, gave me some shit and I had to knife him. Me and Pierre kilt a man driving a Jaguar car. Damned if’n Pierre didn’t know how to drive that Jaguar car or any other car. Can you believe that shit, kilt a man for his Jaguar car then Pierre couldn’t drive it.

Got pissed off at Pierre and had to jam my knife down his throat. My best knife too, and couldn’t get the damn thing out. Had to leave it there. Best knife I'd ever owned, even had my name etched in the blade. Pissed me off for the whole damn day to go and leave a knife like that. Sure was a good ’un.

Soon the law, a pimp, the drug boys, and even the feds were looking for him. He didn’t have the slightest idea who the feds were, but he’s been told they’d hang you just as quick as the law. At gunpoint he forced a truck driver to drive him to New Mexico. I'd heard in Mexico the law couldn’t get at y’all. Was like when y’all was little playing tag, was always a place what was safe. You’d get there and they couldn’t tag ya while y’all was there.

Thibodaux had confused New Mexico with Mexico. When he learned the difference he moved west to Flagstaff Arizona.

He hid out in Flag. Got real lucky. Got myself a job working for Nav. That’s when the gold deal came along.

Now, Thibodaux was on the run again and had no idea the number of people after him.

Maybe I do not know, señor, but maybe too many are looking for you, the old Mexican said, shaking Thibodaux back to reality.

The old Mexican, Pedro Salvador, most called him Sal, but Thibodaux called him old Mexican, or old man. It had become a better-than-you-attitude with Thibodaux. Thibodaux had never met a Mexican before fleeing the swamps. He was introduced to the words beaner, greaser, and wetback from the Midwest truckers. This anti–Mexican jargon filled Thibodaux's mind with bigotry and hate for all Mexicans, or anyone resembling a Mexican.

Sal hinted Little Rock, Arkansas would be a good place to go. Sal had worked in Little Rock. Thibodaux had passed through on I-40 and didn’t know much about the place. To Thibodaux's thinking, big cities are bypasses with lots of truck stops, truck drivers, whores, and pimps. Robbed and killed my share of truck drivers, whores, and pimps. Made a good living at it too.

Since leaving Flagstaff Sal had been planting seeds in Thibodaux's mind. I think it be a good idea for you to stay long in Little Rock, Sal said. There the men who want to kill you have mucho hard time finding you.

Who the fuck said anyone wanted to kill me? Thibodaux grunted, fooling with a .45 handgun he had found in the glove box. The weapon had a full clip and a round in the chamber.

Oh señor, you have taken mucho gold. This gold belongs to men of no good. They will not be happy you have taken it from them. These men kill like the snap of the finger. They enjoy killing and can cause mucho pain. They will come looking for you like the coyote after the jackrabbit. Be hard to find you in a place like Little Rock. In Little Rock I know mucho places to hide. No one ever find you in Little Rock.

What the fuck is mucho? Thibodaux said.

Oh, pardon, señor, mucho means very much.

Why in the fuck didn’t you say so? Thibodaux snarled. Trouble with you beaners is not talking good English.

Sí, señor, I must talk the good English when talking to you.

Sal, careful not to look at Thibodaux, began thinking and saying what he hoped would get Thibodaux nervous. A bad situation, señor, very bad. If I can get Thibodaux depending on me I could catch him off guard and get my hands on the gold. Should be easy enough to outfox this ignorant gringo.

The old man spoke broken English. It didn’t mean he wasn’t educated. Not only well educated, he had street smarts. He wet his lips thinking what he could do with so much gold. There were those in Mexico that would give him a fair price for the gold. You have to know who to trust in Mexico. Sal didn’t know, but he knew those in Little Rock that knew. So much gold would make me a very rich and respectable man in my small village. Yes, go home and forget the arrogant Americans. Trick this gringo and get the gold.

Sal had many friends in Little Rock. Little Rock was becoming an illegal alien haven. Some were hard workers taking care of families south of the border; others were single men accumulating a bankroll to return to small villages in Mexico to prosper and raise families. Many were thugs preying on all.

Sal’s friends would not only know how to relieve Thibodaux of the gold; they would know how to sell the gold. Sal’s plan was simple. Get Thibodaux into the hands of these fellow Mexicans and let them deal with it. Of course he would need to share the gold with them, but only a little for them, he hoped.

Then, Thibodaux noticed an exit sign, Shreveport, Highway 71. Took him a few seconds for the word to soak in, but he got it. Highway 71 didn’t mean anything to him, but Shreveport was a word he had seen before. Shreveport was in Louisiana. Louisiana was home. Go thatta way, Thibodaux ordered.

Exit? Why? Señor, this exit does not go to Little Rock.

Exit, you fucking beaner, head south.

Sí, head south. South is a very big place, head south to where?

I'll tell your fucking ass when we get there, now go south.

Thibodaux's decision seemed rash, but it wasn’t. As the miles passed by Thibodaux became increasingly at ease. As Sal drove Thibodaux took note of the hilly landscape. Thibodaux felt comfortable in trees. He became uneasy in the wide-open spaces of the West. Now, heading south leaving Arkansas, the trees were surrounding him. This was not something Thibodaux could put into words; this was peace of mind.

When heading west, he had been uptight in Oklahoma City. He tried to venture out only at night. That worked well for him unless he wanted to rob truckers. Had to rob them truckers during the day ’cause after dark most them truck stops wouldn’t take cash so the drivers paid with credit cards or checks. Had to rob ’em in daylight. Hated that shit but what the fuck could I do?

Señor, heading south there are no big cities. If we go to Little Rock, many places to hide. Other cities would be okay too. South may not be such a good place to go.

Sal also had friends in Dallas and Memphis. He couldn’t care less if Thibodaux was caught, but he wanted a shot at the gold before it happened. Also, Sal reasoned, could be accused of taking part in the shootings in Flagstaff, mucho bad idea for a wetback.

Thibodaux offered Sal no response. He was in deep thought. How to elude the law in the swamps of his birthplace? Getting to Southern Louisiana penetrated his mind like an ice pick. In the swamps not one man ever tracked me. There, they’re afraid of us Thibodauxs. There, they keep to their place. Folks would be too scared to tell the law anything. Gotta get to the swamps.

Sal realized it was hopeless to argue with Thibodaux. The man was crazy. He had talked about killing whores and truck drivers as if it was normal. Sal drove south aware of each roadside sign, read the mile markers as warnings to impending doom.

In Sal’s mind the black Cadillac approached Shreveport with lighting speed. Sal maintained speed limits and obeyed traffic laws. Being a wetback with no driver’s license demanded no less. Today he had a sharpening awareness of the speedometer. He kept his speed a couple miles below the posted 65mph. With each passing mile he felt uneasiness filling his stomach. He was leaving behind the only people that could help him.

If the fuckin’ law stops us I'll have to shoot you, Thibodaux said dryly, spotting a police car parked on an on-ramp.

Suddenly, tightness gripped Sal. He too saw the Arkansas Highway Patrol car. A speed trap or maybe a clever roadblock? His stomach turned sour and bile rose in his dry throat. The patrol car slowly faded from his rearview mirror. Sal relaxed. Just a speed trap.

Checking the speedometer again he noticed the gas gauge. My God, one quarter. I must run this car low on gas and then stop. Then I can run from this crazy man.

Over the next several miles, as Thibodaux snored, Sal watched the gas gauge needle slowly fall toward empty. Then, Sal felt as if he had been punched in the stomach, a red light, near the gas gauge E, began blinking. Sal knew he was nearly out of gas. If is only a liter I must stop very soon.

Pulling up to the gas pump the car missed twice and shutoff.

Thibodaux stirred, stretched, and peered at Sal. Why’d we stop?

Gas, we need the gas, señor.

Gotta take a piss anyways, Thibodaux said. You go with me.

Me go with you, señor?

You heard me you fucking beaner, you’re going with me. I ain’t stupid enough to leave you alone now am I?

Thibodaux walked to the gas pump, dropped his coverall’s straps, and let it fly. Sal watched in disbelief. Señor, it is the daylight, pissing in the daylight will get you tossed in the jail.

Shut up, you stupid beaner, you better piss your ownself, ain’t stoppin’ no more.

Reluctantly Sal relieved himself. Better here than pissing my pants.

Fill the tank, Thibodaux ordered.

Sal complied as Thibodaux returned to the car.

After filling the tank, Señor, I need the money to pay, Sal said, with outstretched hand.

Fuck that shit, Thibodaux said, get in and drive.

Oh no, not paying for the gas will get us caught.

Get your ass in and drive.

Over the next three hours Sal drove, Thibodaux snoozed. They stopped for gas. This time they bought drinks and sandwiches, and urinated against the side of the store. Thibodaux never allowed Sal to get six feet from him.

Señor, I must stop and get the sleep.

Thibodaux agreed, and they pulled into the next rest area. Two hours later he shook Sal awake and demanded they go. As Sal drove from the rest area, Thibodaux went to sleep.

They crossed the Louisiana State line, passed through Shreveport, and took I-49 to Alexandria Louisiana. Sal was exhausted. With only two hours rest he had driven steadily for seventeen hours. He was hungry, thirsty, and exhausted. Señor, I must stop and sleep, I can go no farther.

Can’t be far now, old man, few hours the most. Then, you can sleep a couple days for all I care. We’ll be there for spell I reckon. Gonna hide in my swamp. Ain’t no law gonna find us there. You’ll like it. Got some damn good food in that there swamp.

Señor, we must stop and get the map. You show me where you want to go and I go.

Stopping at a truck stop, Sal stole a map. Thibodaux had no idea how to read a map. The two sat on a park bench, unfolded the map, and stared at it as if it was a monster ready to destroy them. By mere chance, Thibodaux recognized an area at the extreme bottom of the map. There, that’s the place. That’s home. Y’all drive me there, beaner.

A very tired Sal took I-49 to I-10 west. After turning off I-10 the rest of the trip was on back roads. On the back roads Thibodaux came alive. He directed Sal on each turn. The loaded Caddy did not take well to the muddy roads. Sal learned quickly to accelerate through mud puddles. Twice he came close to getting stuck. Suddenly, the muddy road narrowed to a seldom-used path. Creeping around a sharp bend Sal slid to a stop narrowly missing a fallen cypress. Before them lay a huge muddy pond.

Whoa, far as we go, Thibodaux barked.

Sal exited the car and stood in the heat on wobbly legs. The humid air fell heavy on his lungs. Out of the air-conditioning sweat immediately soiled his shirt. Where are we, señor, is there no town?

A town? You dumb fuck, of course there ain’t no town. This here is the Little Big Pond. Onlyest town was that Old French Town ways back. Don’t need no town, we can make do with what we have all around us.

Sal slumped to the ground. What have I done?

Get off your ass, old man, see that grassy bank, drive the car right off it. Hear me, beaner, hear me good, make damn sure you get it all the way in there, gotta sink it all the way. That pond’s deep enough if’n you get it out there far enough. You hear, old man, get it out there far enough.

Sal forced himself to his feet, forced his tired body into the seat, and started the engine. If the car had been headed down the road he would have fled. No use trying to run, this mad man would catch me. Gotta do as he said. I know where the gold is. Trick this gringo as the roadrunner tricks the coyote. Then, get some gold and go to Mexico.

Sal backed down the road several feet, stopped, rolled down his window, and floored the accelerator. He needed speed to get the car off the bank. The grassy bank lay thirty feet to the left of the muddy road. Therein lay the problem. When the car left the road the wheels sank into the soft ground and bogged down. Sal kept the accelerator to the floor.

With Thibodaux cursing, the car slowed to a crawl, and eased into the water. The front tipped down leaving the car on the edge of the bank at a forty-five degree angle.

Thibodaux became enraged, You fucking fool, you didn’t sink it.

Sal slid from the window and eased himself into the water. He caught a glimpse of large cottonmouths swimming toward him, not twenty feet away. A chill ran up his spine. It was not from fear of the snakes; it was Thibodaux knife entering his back.

Thibodaux stabbed Sal ten times, and then floated the body into the caddy.

His own damn fault, told him to get the fucking car out far enough, dumb ass Mexicans, can’t depend on them to do a damn thing right.

Disgusted, Thibodaux walked around the car surveying the situation. Shit. Gotta get this fucking car outta sight. Them swampys see this they’ll be on it like a gator after rotten meat.

Thibodaux extended a foot and pushed on the rear bumper. To his surprise it moved. The car eased off the bank and floated out a good two hundred feet. Then, with a gush of air, sank from sight.

I'll be damned; the old man got it out far enough after all. Guess I would have killed him for something else anyways. Fuck, forgot to take that .45.

Chapter 2

Potty Lotty was a mess. She smelled of the swamp she was born in. Spring had arrived. The hot summer, with the storms and flooding, was a month away. Hurricanes could emerge sending folks fleeing for their lives. Potty Lotty didn’t care much for the swamps, If’n there’s a hell I'm living in it.

She’d once told Jake Potter, a local in the illicit liquor trade, her life story. Jake said later, I didn’t care to hear it none, but she needed to jaw like most women folk and I just happen to be there to be jawed at.

Potty told Jake, "Was born here in twenty-five. Lived here all my life in this old shack. Farthest I've been was over to the French Town. Momma took me there when I was little. One day I just didn’t have it in me to walk that far no more. I ain’t never been one to pole no dugout.

"My daddy was kilt on a coon hunt over to the Big Pond twenty some odd years now. A bunch of ’em got drunk and kilt a coon up in a tall old broke down tree. They couldn’t get at it so they chopped the tree down. Hit Daddy on the head and kilt him dead. They buried him there and told Momma they was sorry and where the grave be. Momma never did get over to put no flowers on it. Said best he was kilt as he didn’t do no providin’ no ways.

"Momma got all stoved-up with lung infection disease. Go to coughin’ and spittin’ up blood most days. She put up with it for a few years and then, ’bout ten years after Daddy was kilt, she didn’t wake up one mornin’. Buried her under the tree yonder; marked it but the cross rotted away few years back. Didn’t see no use in makin’ another.

I just stayed here and made do. Place needs some fixin’ up but I guess it always has. I used to go to worryin’ about it fallin’ down. Now I just get drunk, smoke crazyweed, and don’t much think on it. Found out about whorin’ when I was twelve or so. Was at a Sunday picnic over to the big channel’s swimin’ hole. Boy, older than me, said he’d give me a nickel if’n I'd give him a peek up my dress.

Right there I begged my pardon, Jake Potter said. Got out of there quickest I could. Figured she’d go on for a spell and I had better things needing tended to. Don’t care one way the other the girl’s a whore, and sure the hell don’t want to listen to how it come to be.

In her twenties Potty became a fat-assed ignorant woman. She’d always been ignorant, guess a case could be made it caused the fat ass. Now, forty-seven, her belly hung over her hips like batter being squeezed from a waffle iron. Her watermelon-sized boobs hung a foot below the expected location, well one of them did. The other was slightly higher but still not where you’d think it should be.

Lotty was nearly illiterate, ill mannered, and most of her material possessions were ill gotten. Lotty ate, drank, slept, smoked; and whored too much. Did all those unhealthy things daily, except whoring. Whoring took some work and she was not always up to it. When she’d run out of something she had to go to whoring. She’d think it out too. Just the way it is. Either go to whoring or grow a tomato patch. Ain’t much at hoeing, reckon it’ll be whoring. Am what I am and ain’t gonna change neither.

Had whoring money she’d smoke store bought cigarettes; mostly she smoked crazyweed. She knew an old black man, she could barely tolerate. He fetches crazyweed from the swamps. Dry it in the loft just like Daddy taught me, crumble it, and roll it using Zigzag cigarette paper. Figured could save the cost of cigarette paper and roll the crazyweed in newspaper or toilet paper. Didn’t have a whole lot of newspaper or toilet paper. One day runned out of paper and had to use corn shucks, for wiping, and rolling the crazyweed. The corn shucks was okay for smokin’, but didn’t work for shit on the ass wiping. Then on, corn shucks for crazyweed, toilet paper for the butt. Could change when I’d get drunk. Sobered up, can’t remember what I’d used for what. My ass goes to itchin’ figure I'd used the wrong one.

Potty Lotty craved the crazyweed so much would smoke it green. Ain't as good, makes a lot of smoke, but gets the job done. Two or three puffs on one of the corn shuck green crazyweed cigarettes would put Potty on an eight-hour high. Stuff was strong enough to kill mosquitoes.

Folks said, When them wild swamp critters ate the crazyweed you’d never lay eyes on ’em again.

A story went around about a twenty-foot alligator getting into a patch of crazyweed, and eating his fill. The story goes, within ten minutes or an hour depending on who’s telling the story, the gator starting at his tail, ate himself whole and disappeared.

Melvin Ennis said, That there story is a bunch of bull shit, ain’t nobody done seen no twenty-foot gater in this here swamp.

Only a handful of swamp people knew where the good crazyweed grew. Several swampys smoked the weed. Most were crazy long before they started smoking the weed so you couldn’t tell much difference anyways. The old swamp hag, a local self-proclaimed soothsayer, claimed the weed had special powers, both good and evil. She’d burn the weed in her shack before a customer arrived. The customers sat in the crazyweed smoke for a few minutes and would believe the hag’s every word. Sit in the smoke too long, would wake up the next day vaguely remembering even being at the old hag’s place. The old hag came to realize such was bad for business, so she considerably reduced the amount she used.

Potty Lotty drank corn whiskey from quart jars. A pint of this stuff, even watered down, could adequately pickle twelve dozen eggs in twenty-four hours. The whiskey had many uses, painkiller, bug killer, and made great rat and snake bait. It gave her bad breath, bad bowels, and bad hangovers. She often said, I'd be better off once I start drinking if’n I never stopped. The onlyest bad part to the whole thing is the fuzzy-tongue.

She called the sobering up part the fuzzy-tongue; go getting the fuzzy-tongue she knew the bad headache would soon follow. She reasoned most likely the fuzzy-tongue came from barfing, but didn’t know for sure. When she began barfing she was dead drunk and couldn’t remember much about it. Smoking crazyweed seemed to help sobering up. Unfortunately, when she began sobering up usually all her crazyweed had been smoked.

Had to sober up to get to whoring with them men over to the Swampy Bar. The Swampy Bar was a grounded abandoned used-up steamboat. A black man saw an opportunity for a business and opened the Swampy Bar. He said, "The floor slants a bit,