Blood River Page 2

  I typed, “Captain Charlie, I am looking for a cruiser named Chad Monroe on a boat called Sarai. He was last seen in Cairo on May 3rd. As you are or have been, nearby during that dates. We are hoping you might have seen him. Any assistance is appreciated. His family is very worried about his safety.”

  I included my email and phone number.

  “That may be the best we can do to start,” I said.

  “Is that all?”

  “No, we need to talk to anyone in the area of those first three stops. Someone probably saw him or the Sarai one.”

  “How do we know who to call?”

  “We don’t. We are going to have to go look in person. Most people don’t know they saw something until you start prodding.”

  “How do you know that?” Jess asked.

  “I worked as a journalist for a bit. Investigating was always fun. No one remembers the details at first. It takes some questions to open them up, and then when the story comes out like an Arabian Tale, the details they didn’t think were important enough to remember become crucial to the story.”

  She looked at me quizzically.

  “Think about someone who is telling you a story, but then has to stop the story in order to back up and tell you the one thing that ‘he forgot.’” I added, “It usually sounds like, ‘Wait, I forgot to tell you this…’”

  “Why don’t you do that now?”

  I shrugged. “Creative differences. Journalism isn’t what it used to be. I wanted to be a noble fighter for truth and justice. Turns out the only thing that matters is readership and advertising.”

  “Thank you for your help,” she said. “I can pay you for your time.”

  “What did Leo tell you about me?” I asked.

  “Nothing really. I sent him a text trying to see if he had any pull to get someone looking for Chad. When he responded, his message was short. It said. ‘I’m out of the country. Sorry, I can’t help. Find Max Sawyer, he can find anything.’ Then he gave me the address.”

  “I don’t really have a regular nine-to-five job either. That drummer thing kind of applies to me too. And I would do anything Leo needed. That, of course, translates to his family too.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “It’s an hour or so to Osceola. If you want to go now, we need to hit the road. We can be there by eleven.”

  “Let me grab my bag then,” she said.

  3

  Osceola is a small town on the Mississippi River that most people see as a pit stop on the road from Memphis to St. Louis or Chicago. The town had a significant history relating to the river trade that grew up around the south. However, my personal knowledge about Osceola was that Albert King, one of the Three Kings of the Blues, began his career in Osceola. One of the things my father loved about living in Arkansas was the heritage of blues that spread along the eastern border. From Helena to the south of Memphis to Osceola, blues joints and clubs cropped up during the ’20s and '30s hosting guitarists belting out classics. King was one of the best and most imitated bluesmen in the industry. He influenced musicians for decades like Eric Clapton and Stevie Ray Vaughn. My father was playing King’s album, Born Under a Bad Sign, for me before I could walk.

  When we drove into town, I wondered how anyone could start a career in music here. The town square surrounded the Mississippi County Courthouse, a grand bricked building with a classical style that featured a copper-domed roof decorated with designs of terra-cotta. The retail shops of the square were on the decline showing signs of a long-term depressed economy. A computer shop, barber shop, and a clinic appeared to be the most thriving. The former tenants of the empty shops were no doubt driven out of business by the large superstore built on the edge of town decrying low prices on all the low-priced, mass produced Chinese goods.

  “Not much here,” Jess said.

  “Welcome to the south.”

  “Wonder why it’s like that.”

  “Economies change,” I explained. “This town was booming when cotton was big and farmers needed to ship it down river. Now, our cotton is replaced with synthetics and these same farmers struggle to grow enough soybeans to make a living in an already saturated market.

  “Add to the fact, that the younger generations don’t want to be farmers. They want to go to college and do, pretty much, anything else. They leave the area in droves every May as high schools graduate the next class.”

  A large mural on one wall depicted the era of prosperity for Osceola featuring the courthouse with a classic riverboat in the background and cotton fields being harvested by the hands of black workers. Prosperity is, of course, subjective to the artist. The ancestors of the black field workers who struggled to survive and created artists like Albert King were now struggling in a rural farm town that was producing less and less each year. Farmland was being bought by foreign investors that use two to three guys running giant tractors to plant and sow everything.

  “Why don’t they change?” she asked. “Look to revitalize the community.”

  “I’m not sure I can answer that. Maybe they have the same problem. Trying to remember the past gets in the way of seeing the future.”

  She sighed. “Like an athlete that has an injury. He can’t see past the end of his career.”

  “Good point. I don’t have an answer.”

  “Even if you did, no one would listen. They would just drone on about how great things were. What a waste it is to forget the past. Let’s make it great again.”

  I turned onto the road leading to the river. “Most times, we all need to forget the past. No one ever stops to think that we could aim for a future that great for everyone and not return to a past that’s was great for a few. ”

  “Dead end,” Jess said pointing at the sign ahead.

  A large employee only sign hung on a gate across the road. We weren’t going to just be able to drop by the port.

  “That’s a long walk too,” I commented as I turned around.

  “You mean, back to town?”

  “Yeah, if he did stop here. The closest store is a few miles back.”

  “Yeah, but he has a bike. It might not be that bad.”

  I drove back to the town square and parked in front of the courthouse.

  “What are we doing,” Jess asked.

  “Asking the authorities.”

  The sheriff’s office was on the first floor. Sheriff’s offices always seem to be on the first floor of the courthouse. Small town courthouses also always look like they were decorated in 1983. The sheriff’s office was no different. Through the glass door, I could see wood paneling and green carpet. I opened the door and found a woman in her sixties whose hair and dress seemed to match the decor and reminded me of one of the Golden Girls. She stared at us across a counter as we entered.

  “Meh I hep ya?” she asked without using all of the syllables that the sentence required.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “We are looking for her brother. He has been traveling down the Mississippi in a boat, and he hasn’t been heard from in three weeks. We were just hoping maybe someone down at the port saw him or his boat.”

  “Oh, that sands egciting. I dun’t kneh if I could de that.”

  My brain took a second to process the translation, “That sounds exciting. I don’t know if I could do that.”

  “Yes, ma’am. He is quite an adventurer.”

  “Wut’s his name?” she asked.

  “Monroe. Chad Monroe.”

  “Lit me ass Bob if he knehs anything.” She got up from the counter and walked away to talk to Bob. My ears were starting to burn a bit after that conversation.

  “You sure know how to charm,” Jess told me.

  “I grew up in Arkansas. It’s easy to slip back into it,” I said. “Plus, I’m super charming.”

  She gave me a nod. A sarcastic nod. But she also smiled, which I liked.

  When Bea Arthur returned, she explained, “Bob’ll be out in a meenut, but he don’t recall no one by that name.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Are you from the area?”

  “Well, I was born ova in Gosnell, but I married in ‘92. We moved dun here so he could work o’er at the John Deere.”

  “Does he work on tractors?”

  “Nah, he’s on disability now. Ain’t my husband no more. But we had two purty boys.”

  A large man with a white beard and a beer keg belly sidled through the door from the back office.

  “Hello folks,” he said. “I’m Sheriff Hope.”

  Thank god he used his syllables. I grew up in the south, and I do on occasion slip into some Southern, but when someone butchers the English language as Bea did, it hurts.

  “Bob?” I asked.

  “Yessir,” he said without a pause, but at least he got it all in there.

  “Like Bob Hope?”

  Bob laughed. “Oh, yes, I’ve gotten that all my life. Could be worse. Could be named Groucho. Not sure why anyone would go with Groucho.”

  I chuckled. “At least you didn’t get Zeppo.”

  Bob shook his head. “What’s a Zeppo?”

  “He’s the fourth Marx brother. There was Groucho, Chico, and Harpo. They were the funny ones. The other brother was Zeppo. He was never funny, and he always played the straight guy.”

  “Oh,” he said, probably thinking the straight guy was something totally different.

  Jess leaned over and said, “You just out-weirded everyone.”

  I shrugged and looked at Bob. “Listen, we are looking for her brother, Chad Monroe. He was coming down the river, and he was supposed to be in Memphis. He hasn’t shown. We aren’t sure where to look for him, but since Osceola is along the way, we thought he might have had trouble and anchored around here. Didn’t know if anyone has seen him or his boat.”

  “Well,” Bob said, “we haven’t had any reports of him. Tell you what, let me call Tommy down at the port and see if they’ve seen him. What was the name of his boat?”

  “Thank you. The boat’s name is Sarai,” I said as Bob turned and waddled back to his office.

  “Do you think he’s been here?” Jess asked.

  “Honestly, I don’t know.”

  Five minutes later Bob returned. “I talked with Tommy down at the port. They had a boat squeeze in last week during a storm, but it wasn’t named Sarai. He didn’t recall its name though. Just that it was there one evening as they finished up, and they left the next morning.”

  “He may have had some engine trouble along the way, or he may have just found a nice spot to fish for a few weeks. Can you pass my number along to Tommy in case he does show up?”

  “Sure can,” Bob said. “Wish you two luck in finding your brother.”

  “Thanks, we better get on the road to Caruthersville,” I said with a smile.

  4

  Caruthersville, Missouri is not much bigger than Osceola. Another example of a small river town who’s growth ended when river trade and farming slowed during the industrial revolution. The interstate allowed a great deal of traffic to skirt past the area allowing businesses, like truck stops and fast food, along the exit thriving, while the mom and pops in the town proper withered on the vine.

  The Pemiscot County Sheriff was understanding, but he had no sightings of Chad or Sarai. Sheriff Watson gave us directions to the boat ramp after taking our information down.

  “Might find some boys on the river that saw your brother,” he said.

  We thanked him, but for what I wasn’t sure.

  We drove through the little town toward the river.

  “There’s a casino here,” Jess said with a questioning tone.

  “Probably on a barge.”

  “Weird,” she responded.

  “Yeah, it has something to do with not being able to put a casino on land. I really don’t know. I figure it goes back to old riverboat gambling laws or something.”

  “Really?”

  I shrugged. “I really don’t know.”

  We drove past the casino, and it certainly didn’t look big. I have never been a big gambler, but I have visited the casinos in Tunica, Mississippi. They lack the glitter and glam that Vegas or Atlantic City offers. This one had an RV park, and apparently, not even a hotel attached. The handful of jobs that the gaming facility offered was likely allowing the locals to feed their wages back to the system. The only things casinos really sold were dreams and desperations.

  The sheriff said that the boat ramp was past a large grain silo. While there were no barges lined up, probably because we were too early in the season, it appeared the grain, beans, or whatever was stored in the silos could be loaded onto the barges there.

  “What is that smell?” Jess asked. “Smells like French fries.”

  “Soybeans. Probably the oil.”

  “Smells rancid,” she said.

  “Yeah, it’s lovely.”

  We drove past the silos to the boat ramp. There were about five trucks with empty boat trailers parked on a gravel area near the riverside.

  We parked and watched the river flow by. The surface of the water swirled and churned as the current pushed past the ramp. Numerous logs and assorted flotilla surfed along with the current at what seemed like incredible speeds. At least for a log. Watching the water surge past is mesmerizing.

  The Barnes River flowed alongside my hometown, and I spent many hours on the banks fishing, swimming, or doing all the things that teenagers do at night next to riverbanks. A smile crept up on me at the passing memory of an afternoon picnic with Tanya Gleim on a bluff jutting out over the blue-green river. I was a freshman, and she was a brown-haired, green-eyed sophomore who taught me more that afternoon about women than I ever thought I needed to know.

  “This feels pointless,” Jess said bringing me back to reality.

  I agreed. “Might be.”

  “Do we need to be doing something more?” She fiddled with her hands nervously.

  “I’m open to suggestions. Short of floating the river looking for him, I don’t know much else to do.”

  Jess sighed. “I know. Thank you for taking this much time to help me.”

  “If you are Leo’s family, then you are mine.” I looked at her. The worry was evident around her eyes. “I go to great extents for my family.”

  “Listen,” I said, “A few years back, someone that meant the world to me went missing. Everything that I did, just seemed worthless. Like my wheels were turning and not getting anywhere.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I kept spinning my wheels. The progress was slow, but every time I checked off something, I knew, at least, where she wasn’t.”

  Jess stared at me. “Did you get her back?”

  Nodding, I held my tongue. I didn’t want to lie. I found her, but she hadn’t really come back yet. Cringing, I decided that remembering Tanya was a hell of a lot less painful than thinking of Lisa.

  Behind us the sun burned red-orange as it began to lower in the sky.

  “We need to see if any of these guys have seen Chad. Then, we will find some food and a room tonight.”

  “I don’t have much money,” Jess said. “I can sleep in the truck.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I scoffed. “I’ll get us a room. I get that you like to rough it, but I prefer a bed”

  Jess looked at me through narrowed eyes. “A room?”

  “Each. I’ll get each of us a room,” I corrected.

  “Sorry, I just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

  “Jess, it’s fine. I am not looking for anything.”

  “Thank goodness. I’ve been offered rides, food, money, you name it in exchange for sex.”

  I nodded in silence.

  We watched the river. This brown, churning water did not evoke the same refreshing feel that Barnes River did from my youth. The Mississippi River actually appeared angry. Cursing and spitting, ready to attack and swallow whatever it could.

  We waited for the boats to return. Jess spent most of the time staring out the window quietly. I oscillated between memories of Lisa. No matter how great an afternoon I had with Tanya over that river, any recollection of Lisa out-shined that day. Any chance of repeating those memories seemed to fade with each passing day.

  Two hours passed slowly before all three fishermen returned. We spoke to each. None of them had seen any sign of the Sarai or Chad.

  The evening was surrounding us as the western sky began to glow pink.

  “Hungry?” I asked.

  “Yeah, and annoyed.” She crossed her arms.

  “Let’s get some rest. Maybe a fresh start tomorrow will help.”

  Driving back into town, I thought about Jess and her brother. The lack of any information was aggravating her. The desperation was overwhelming her. I wasn’t going to make those frustrations go away. The best I could offer was a hot meal and, perhaps, a cold beverage.

  After passing a variety of barbecue and Mexican restaurants, I found a pizza joint that was called Little Pizza Heaven. Cute play on words. The place was a hole in the wall. The awning over the door was striped, and the window painted with the words “Mike and Jean’s Little Pizza Heaven.” There hadn’t been a redecoration since the building was built. A band was setting up in a corner under a glowing Chicago Cubs sign as we entered. I had really high hopes for the place.

  “What can I get you?” a short-haired waitress asked as she set two forks and a stack of napkins on our table.

  “Do you have beer?” I asked.

  “Yes, Bud, Bud Light, Mich Ultra, Schlafly IPA…”

  “I’ll have the Schlafly,” I said.

  “Me too,” Jess added.

  The waitress moved off to get our beers. “What do you like?” I asked Jess.

  “Meat,” she said. “And pineapple.”

  I curled my lip. “Pineapple?”

  “I know,” she joked. “I just like it.”

  “There is the perfect pizza for you,” I said pointing to the menu. “The Undertaker. All the meats with pineapple and jalapeno.”