The next morning, Chic and Suzy were in the parking lot of Waffle House, located next to Quintard Mall in Anniston, Alabama. They had a five-minute wait until Suzy’s mother, Margie, showed up with Suzy’s uncle Dean. Margie came right up to Chic, gave him a bear hug, and kissed him on the cheek.
Chic was a big guy, six foot three, 215 pounds, with blond, wavy hair, and had the general appearance of a Nordic god. He projected strength beneath this veneer. He graduated from Florida State with an AB in criminal justice. He was known from college as a world-class tenor and had gotten better with age. He completed ranger training at Fort Benning, Georgia, and saw service at several hot spots in the world. In civilian life, he completed his doctor’s degree at Florida State in clinical psychology.
“Wait a minute. I’m not bashful. Margie, I can see where Suzy gets her red hair and zest for life. It’s a real pleasure to meet you.” Chic returned the hug along with a kiss.
Margie, at five foot five, was a little smaller than Suzy, who was five seven and 110 pounds. Although Margie was a good-looking woman, Suzy, at thirty-five and in her prime, did not take a backseat to anyone in that department. Her red hair was a little darker than Suzy’s. Margie’s accent was more pronounced and bore the mountain twang, which Suzy had lost. Otherwise, these two couldn’t deny their mother-daughter relationship. God was in a good mood the day he breathed life into these two, thought Chic.
“Momma, I hope you don’t mind our dropping in like this. We were in Nashville, and I decided it was time you met the love of my life, Chic. I knew you would like to meet him since he’s a looker and a music man. Momma, he’s not a country singer. Chic here’s a real opera star.”
“Lord, Suzy, I’ve never met a real opera singer! You’ll have to excuse my daughter, Chic. I’m not really that kind of gal. Well, I will confess that you are a looker, but mainly I’m impressed that she has found a real man. You know what they say: a good man is hard to find.”
Chic actually did flash a little blush at that. He had no doubt that Margie had the same fire in her soul as did Suzy. “Okay, ladies, quit giving me the big head. Suzy knows how easy it is to pull my chain. What have you got planned for us today, Margie?”
“I thought we’d have breakfast here at the Waffle House and then maybe go to the Sacred Harp singing. You know I like to go with your uncle Gus to the yearly music camp. Since Chic is a music man, I thought he might enjoy the experience. Now, Chic, are you sure you like this old-timey music?”
“You know, Margie, I had no idea that people still sing shape note music or follow the Sacred Harp routine. I would be delighted to see and hear this living history firsthand. The last time I heard Sacred Harp was on an early Sunday morning TV show. I think that group came out of Defuniak Springs, Florida, but I’m not certain of that. Rather than the technique itself, I’m fascinated with the musical meter and unique sound, which I have used in choir work. When the choir sings some of the old traditional hymns, it’s good to imitate, in a loose way, the sound of a Sacred Harp choir. Where is the camp?”
“We have Sacred Harp singing up here in Sand Mountain every year. This year we’re going to Camp McDougle between Double Springs and Jasper.”
Chic quickly adapted to the Sacred Harp method of arranging the choir in a square, with the director in the middle surrounded by the tenors, bass, altos, and sopranos. The group couldn’t believe their good fortune when Chic sang several of his favorite songs, including, “Flee as a Bird to Your Mountain” by Dana Shindler, 1842.
The four of them stayed until late afternoon when the attendees enjoyed a good meal under the trees. In a strange way, this place and these people reminded Chic of his favorite place on earth: Vortex Springs, near Ponce De Leon, Florida. To Chic, Vortex Springs was the essence of redneck-ism. It harkened back to rural America’s honest, hardworking Christian farmers … a time that no longer existed. That spirit still resounded in Chic’s soul as well as with the camp-singing devotees. Only at Vortex Springs could you see people parked in pickup trucks surrounding the spring, cooking barbeque, scuba diving in the cold deep spring, and kids swinging into the spring from steel cables suspended from trees. On every side, there were softball games, volley ball, and horseshoes. Moving in the parade, the mothers in their bright-colored bikinis directed their children to jump in the sixty-five-degree water. The men would sit back in their lawn recliners, throwing their empty beer cans into the beds of their pickup trucks while tending to their cooking duties. Ordained as if part of the ritual, a fight would periodically break out over some sexy lady. What a place!
They finally said their good-byes and got into Chic’s car for the trip back to Anniston.
“Okay, Chic,” said Margie, “what do you think about the Sacred Harp camp?”
“Quite frankly, Margie, I’m actually surprised that something I thought was basically dead is so alive. I’m not sure that anything in music actually dies. It certainly changes. It adapts to the concerns of the day. So music remains relevant to the emotional needs of the people, as do art and literature. It has always been my belief that the form taken by music, art, and literature is time sensitive. So I really appreciate this learning experience to live and breathe a piece of history.”
“You are very welcome,” said Margie. “I don’t want to give you a big head, but you can come sing to me anytime you want. I think you know these people will never forget that you came, you participated, and you blessed them with your God-given gift. It is the spirit you shared with your wonderful voice that they will never forget.”
“Thanks, Margie. I do in fact believe that when you sing, it has to be a joyful gift to God. I have to tell you that the pleasure of this day was all mine.”
Gus hadn’t managed to get in much talk time with the group. He finally saw an opportunity to speak. “Suzy, you remember your cousin Buck, don’t you?”
“Sure I do, but I haven’t seen him in several years. I hope he has learned to keep himself out of jail. Every time I hear about him, he’s in jail. Either in jail or getting out of jail.”
“I saw him the other day, and he asked about you,” said Gus. “I think he heard you were in trouble or that somebody was out to hurt you. I know he’s always in trouble, but he’s in touch with all the crooks up here in the Sand Mountain area. The crooks up here are close to the crooks in the Panhandle of Florida. I think they all like to get drunk and fight chickens together. I believe he wants to see if he can help you in any way.”
Suzy crinkled her nose. “I don’t know, Gus. Sounds like trouble to me. He’s the black sheep of the family.”
“Gus,” said Chic, “is he expecting Suzy to call him or meet with him tonight?”
“Buck lives on the way back to Anniston. He asked me to call him on the way back if we would.”
“Suzy,” said Chic, “I think we need to meet with Buck. Crooks do in fact tend to know each other, particularly the ones that fight dogs or chickens. They tend to get the attitude that the world is picking on them, which creates a sort of bond between them.”
As they drove to the café, Chic thought back on how close Suzy had come to getting killed during a home invasion. She’d wasted that guy. She’d also managed to escape when her two partners in the threesome were killed by the assassins. It turned out they were now out for revenge. At least that was how it looked.
“Suzy, we need to talk to him. We have nothing to lose by giving him a chance. I only need one lead to find this gang.”
“Okay, Chic. Let’s do it. Gus, call Buck. See where he wants to meet.”
Gus got Buck on the phone and arranged to meet at a little barbeque place in Lincoln, Alabama. They were close to Pell city, within fifteen to twenty minutes of the roadside café in Lincoln. When they got there, Buck was leaning against his old Ford 150, waiting on them. Buck looked the part: pear-shaped body, five feet ten, 255 pounds, looking like a friendly grizzly bear. Dressed in his blue jeans and a black Harley-Davidson shirt, he was not the kind of guy Chic would try to piss off. Chic pegged Buck Chapman as a dangerous man. Even as your friend, you’d have to watch your back. The kind of guy who tells you what a great friend you are while stabbing you in the back. Sort of like a bad dog who doesn’t bark before biting.
Buck gave Suzy a big hug and exhibited true affection. To the others, it was a simple grunt.
“Buck, I want you to meet Chic. It’s because of him that I’m alive.”
“A real pleasure to make your acquaintance, Chic. Put it here.” Buck extended his right hand to Chic and grabbed his shoulder with his left hand at the same time.
“Likewise,” said Chic. Chic concluded that Buck may look fat, but when he moved, nothing bounced. His grip was solid. Chic concluded that if he had to go somewhere dangerous, Buck would be a good guy to cover his back.
The group went into the rundown café and got drinks and some lemon icebox pie, which was reported to be damn good. Chic was impressed with the pie and concluded that you can’t judge a cafe by its cover.
“Tell me what’s going on, Suzy. From the papers, all I can tell is some guys tried to kill you because you know something about a robbery, but that’s about the extent of it. I know a lot of people in the Panhandle, and I might know somebody that has some useful information. I have a chicken-fighting friend who claims to know somebody that worked on a boat for a really rich guy in Pensacola that just up and disappeared. I thought you might be interested in talking to my friend and see if he knows something that’s connected to your situation.”
Chic couldn’t believe his good luck. “Buck, I can tell you that we’ve had no good leads in this case, and any chance to talk to your friend would be wonderful. There’s only one case of a rich guy disappearing in Pensacola I know of, and that’s Ken Renfro, whose family we just visited in Nashville. Can you arrange a meeting?”
“The problem is, Chic, you look too much like a police officer, and I’ve heard you work with the police. You know even crooks have a code of ethics. They don’t help police officers. Chicken fighters, even though most of them think of themselves as perfectly normal, don’t like the authorities. Hell, all the authorities ever do is arrest them and confiscate and kill their valuable chickens. Hell, they’re dead either way. Besides, a chicken ain’t no animal.”
“Now that’s a fine howdy-do,” Buck continued with a snarl. “They go to a chicken fight, which they love to do, and the police come in, confiscate the chickens, and promptly kill them. Then they charge them with cruelty to animals because they let them fight to the death. Now they call that inhumane treatment or cruelty to animals.”
Chic smiled. “Well, I must say, Buck, I never really thought about it that way. But it does sound a little shitty, doesn’t it?” Chic, of course, was using his best redneck impersonation in his repartee with Buck.
“Buck, I always heard that President Lincoln was a devotee of chicken fighting. I understand that Lincoln felt like chickens should have the same right to kill each other as people. Is that true?”
Buck’s face brightened at being given the chance to show he was a pretty smart guy. “You bet your ass that’s true, Chic. Excuse my cussing, Suzy. You know sometimes I get a little excited.”
“That’s just fine, cuz. You’re not around any angels here. I’ve got as much Sand Mountain in me as you do. Before the night is over, you may hear me come out with a cuss word or two.”
“Chic, I don’t know if my friend is going to talk to you or not. He might talk to Suzy. Then you’ve got to convince him to introduce you to his friend who actually worked for this rich guy. You see my problem?”
“How do you suggest we handle this, Buck? You’ll have to lead the way on this one.”
Chic knew that people there normally would not open up to a guy like him. He had managed to get along with Buck fairly well, which was not easy. Chick knew that Buck always seemed to be in a pissing contest with other men. “Mine is bigger than yours.” Chic could tell the people there actually feared Buck. Chic knew he had passed the test when he was invited to the chicken fight.
“Have you ever been to a chicken fight, Chic?”
“Never have, but I think you’re going to take me to one, right?”
“You bet your ass I am,” said Buck. “We’ve got one in Shreveport next weekend. You and I will be there, and we’ll see if you can handle my friends.”
“Buck, I’ve heard a lot of bad things about you chicken fighting guys, but I’ve managed to survive a lot of close calls. I’ve been shot at by several guys with evil intent in their red eyes, so I believe I can handle the chicken fight crowd. Besides, Buck, I’ll be there with you, and I’m sure you’ll help me out if things get too hairy.”
“Don’t bet your ass on that, Chic. Hell, I might just want to see what kind of shit you’ve really got. After all, you’re just a pussy singer, aren’t you?”
“Now listen, Buck, I know you can be a badass, but I don’t want to prove my manhood at a chicken fight just so you can have some fun. All I’m trying to do is run down the people who’re trying to kill Suzy. To do that, I need your help with your friends. If you can play this straight, then after that you can test my manhood anytime. Just name it.”
“Fair enough, Chic. For Suzy, we’ll act like big boys at the chicken fight. That’s all I can promise.”