22
Not every home in Monroeville had a phone. Truman’s and Nelle’s did, and whenever Truman was too lazy to climb over the wall, he’d just call her up on the telephone. He rarely used his everyday voice; instead, he used his strange high-pitched lisp and told outrageous stories, or sometimes he greeted Nelle with a deep bass voice. “Hello, this is Professor Moriarty!” he’d boom—or some such nonsense.
Every house was connected by a party line, which meant you could listen in on all the conversations on the block. Sometimes, just for fun, Truman and Nelle would listen in to hear whatever local gossip was flying around. And it so happened that on this particular day, they were each on the line and heard it click over to none other than that mean bully Boss Henderson. Where he was calling from, they didn’t know, but he had to be close by.
On the other end of the line was a man with a voice like gravel. Nelle claimed it was Boss’s daddy, Catfish Henderson, a scraggly bootlegger who was in jail more often than not.
“Meet me this afternoon at the snake pit,” Catfish said. “Indian Joe done got a king and a moccasin goin’. We gonna make enough greenbacks to cover my hooch costs. And bring my hood, boy. We got fireworks tonight.”
Truman and Nelle could not believe their luck. As soon as Boss and his daddy hung up, they both shouted: “Meet me at the secret headquarters!”
Nelle ran outside and made her way up to their treehouse. When she poked her head inside, Truman was already there with his fixed-up deerstalker cap on.
“See, we were right!” he said, out of breath. “It sounds like there’s some kinda secret snake society! Maybe the sign on the chalkboard and the stolen snake-cameo brooch were some kinda warning to others: the Snake Gang was here!”
Nelle considered it. “Maybe they sacrifice snakes to their pagan god and then Boss’s daddy makes moonshine liquor from ’em.”
“I know that Indian Joe fella makes whiskey—Sook buys it from him for her fruitcakes,” said Truman, rubbing his chin. “Any way you figure, we got to go to that snake pit and find out more. You think you’re up for that?”
Nelle sighed. “Do you even know where this snake pit is?” she asked.
“No.” He brooded over it. “Maybe we can just follow Boss there.”
“This is the same Boss who kicked you around like an old tire, remember?”
Truman nodded. “Maybe you’re right.” He thought some more, then snapped his fingers. “I’ll bet Little Bit knows.”
“Your cook? Why would she know?” asked Nelle.
He looked around and whispered, “Because she uses snakes for her voodoo.”
Nelle did not like the sound of that. Little Bit worked in the kitchen alongside Sook. She was not little at all. She was huge. She was part black, part Cajun, and part Indian—“Little bit of everything,” she’d say, and that’s why they called her that. Nelle knew she had a dark past—she bore a thick scar down her face from ear to chin but never said how she’d gotten it.
One time, Nelle watched her tie empty bottles to the ends of the branches around their treehouse. “What’re you doin’ that for, Little Bit?”
Little Bit looked around, worried. “Spirits in the air, Miss Nelle. I puts a special potion in each bottle and it sucks the evil right up. Then I cork ’em and throw ’em in the river!”
Nelle did not like dealing with evil spirits. She sent Truman in alone to talk with Little Bit.
Truman wandered casually into the kitchen, where he found Little Bit frying up some catfish on the giant black and copper stove she called Ol’ Buckeye. She was singing to herself while tending to the pan.
“What do you want, child? Little Bit is busy, cain’t you see? And why you wearing that funny hat?”
He hemmed and hawed. “Well, you . . . use snakes, don’t you, Little Bit? Do you know anything about the snake pit?”
She stopped poking at her fish and glared at him. “You been sneakin’ Miss Sook’s hooch, boy? Whatchu wanna know ’bout a snake pit for? An’ what makes you think I know anything about that?”
“Sook says you’re a voodoo priestess or something—”
She put her hand over his mouth. “Hush yourself, boy. If Miss Jenny heard you—”
“I won’t tell anyone, Little Bit, I swear. I just wanna know is all.”
She looked around to see if anyone was listening. “It’s true, I’m a direct descendant of Dr. Yah-Yah, a famous voodoo doctor down in the delta lands. He were possessed by Damballa, the serpent god, who’s the protector of the helpless. An’ Little Bit knows what it is to be helpless,” she said, feeling her scar. “Now, what do you wanna know, child?”
Truman gulped. “I’m trying to solve a case,” he whispered. “I just want to know about the pit.”
She shook her head. “I can see you one of the helpless. Is that for one of your crazy little stories? ’Cause a snake pit ain’t for no kids.”
Now Truman was getting scared but he was still determined. He knew she had one weakness. “Please? I’ll take you to the picture show next week if you tell me.”
She mulled it over in her head. “I don’t like it, child, but I know if I don’t take you to the pit myself, there’ll be trouble for sure. I’d be fired if Miss Jenny found out I sent you to the snake pit alone . . . so I’ll take you, but I won’t be happy about it.”
They shook on it.
She told him she’d meet him after supper down by the drugstore when she was done cleaning up. “And don’t say a word to no one!” she hissed. “You always getting Little Bit in trouble. I just wish I didn’t love them picture shows so much . . .”