17
Truman wasn’t stupid; he took Queenie with him. The dog had not yet proved his worth when it came to being a guard dog but he was better than nothing. Besides, Big Boy had told Tru that Boss smelled like a sweaty beast; maybe Queenie could sniff him out.
Mudtown was only ten blocks away from Truman’s house but it might as well have been on a different planet. It was the poor section of Monroeville, where the black servants and out-of-luck white folks lived. Since the blight of the Great Depression hit, jobs had been disappearing left and right all over Monroe County. Even Callie feared for hers. Mudtown wasn’t just a place on the map anymore—it was a feeling of despair and hopelessness that had been slowly spreading into town like a virus. Every day Jenny complained that more and more people had less and less to spend in her store. She worried that when people went hungry, they did desperate things.
Truman didn’t care about any of that now. Wearing his little white suit and deerstalker cap and walking his precious little Queenie, Truman would have stood out in any part of town. In Mudtown, everyone he passed stopped to stare at him. But Truman wasn’t scared. He’d seen all types on the riverboats: gamblers, smugglers, whiskey runners, cowboys. This neighborhood, however, wasn’t anything like that.
The houses were made of used wood planks held together by ropes and torn tarpaulins. People were cooking squirrels in pots on open fires in front of the houses. Their eyes looked deep and sallow; hunger lingered at every corner.
It was called Mudtown because when it rained, the streets turned into rivers of mud. Keeping his white shoes clean was proving to be a challenge, especially since Queenie liked to roll in the muck. But Truman was determined. Danger never stopped Sherlock, and it would not stop Truman.
Queenie froze in his tracks and began sniffing. The dog took off suddenly, dragging Truman along. “Do you smell him, Queenie? Do ya?” he said excitedly.
They rounded the corner, where Queenie froze and started to growl. Truman knew he’d found his man when he spotted an enormous scruffy boy three times his size holding another grubby boy by the neck. His meaty fist was raised like he was about to do some damage. Truman pondered his options and decided that being direct was the best of them.
“Mr. Boss, I presume?”
Boss’s gigantic head slowly turned toward him. The first things Truman noted about this monster of a kid was the mass of knotted black hair on his head, the snarl of his crooked teeth, and his beady green eyes, which were glaring directly at him.
Truman was at a loss for words. “Um . . . I’m investigating a crime and, um, narrowing down the list of . . .” Truman lost his train of thought, but unfortunately for him, he’d distracted Boss long enough for his victim to squirm free and vanish around the corner.
When Boss noticed his prey was gone, he clenched his jaw as if someone had stolen his favorite toy. “You shouldn’ta done that,” he grunted.
Truman took a step back. “Oh, I probably caught you at a bad time. Sook always says never interrupt a man while he’s eating—”
“Now I’m gonna have to straighten you out real good.” He pounded his fists together to make the point.
Truman hated to fight. He also hated running away, because that’s what bullies expected sissies to do. Instead of running, Truman decided to outwit the brute. He calmly adjusted his little suit jacket and said, “I can see by your stare that you wish to cause me harm. But I am here to clear your name, not ruin it. As Mr. A. C. Lee always says, ‘Every man is innocent until proven guilty.’”
Boss took a step toward Truman, Truman backed up into Queenie, who cowered behind him. So much for an attack dog. Truman tried to remain calm; he reached into his pocket and produced some nuts. “Pecan?” he squeaked.
Boss gave him a confused look.
“No? How about snakes? You like snakes?”
Boss glared and pointed his big finger in Truman’s face. “What do you know about snakes?” he growled.
“Nothing, just wondering,” said Truman, trying to nudge Queenie in front of him. Queenie was having none of it and scampered off.
Truman kept backing up. “Does your mother like jewelry? Maybe with snakes on it?”
“You ask too many questions,” Boss grumbled, backing Truman up against a shack, where he almost fell through some loose planks.
Truman tried not to panic—instead, he stood as tall as he could and declared, “All right, you . . . you! Should you choose to fight, I must warn you”—he raised his tiny fists into a boxer’s pose—“that Jack Dempsey . . . himself . . . gave me boxing lessons!”
When that got no reaction, he added, “He’s the world champ, in case you didn’t know.”
“I know. I just don’t care,” Boss growled.
Truman took a step sideways. “Oh.”
Boss grinned and held up his fists like he was ready to have a go. Truman swallowed his pride, and then some. “Maybe we could just shake on it and move on to other things?”
“I don’t think so, shrimp,” snarled Boss.
“Hmm . . .” Truman said, slowly lowering his fists and racking his brain for a better idea. Looking into Boss’s beady eyes reminded him of the encounters he’d had with water moccasin snakes back when he worked on the river. He knew that if you couldn’t scare them off, you could dazzle them into submission.
“Let me show you a trick!” he said suddenly. Truman spotted a part of the road that wasn’t muddy, cleared his throat, and spread out his arms like a circus performer. Despite his delicate nature, he had the body of an acrobat with strong and sturdy legs.
Boss waited for him to run, but instead, Truman executed ten perfect cartwheels right down the road until he was a good block away from Boss. He might have been a shrimp, but he’d also been the best gymnast at his former school.