One Last Spin Part 4

13

Stan Winston announced that he would not run again for Congress. He was voluntarily ending his run of twelve years as U. S. Representative.  The aggravation was not worth it, and the scent of that lobbying gravy just too strong.  The offer from the National Timber Council alone would quadruple what he was making.

But he wasn’t about to leave his district in the hands of someone like Dotty Mathers.   If she got the Republican nomination, she would roll to victory.  No matter whom the Democrats ran (IF they ran somebody), they would get about as many votes as if they were a Satanist (and for some voters, there probably wasn’t a difference).  So he promoted to the RNC his friend, Buddy Aldridge, a farmer from nearby Brantley County.  Buddy was not a rabble rouser, but he had the "aw shucks" means to defeat the more strident Dotty Mathers.

Or so he prayed.

14

No one wanted it anymore.  The relatives from Owosso, Michigan came and emptied it out. They kept very little of his possessions.  Kayak Kelly’s niece was willing to take most of the photographs, so at least it would be another generation or two before those were lost to time.

The tin roofed cabin deep in the swamp was unwanted, though.  The family sold it.  They sold it to the Compton Park Development Project.

15

“What do you think?”

“Well, it’s a pretty good location.  The Round is fully tenanted, and there are some other major businesses nearby.  They certainly have a capacity crowd, but how much of that is due to the woman running it?  Would a different person in charge attract the same amount of people?”

“Why try to find out?  Maybe we could talk her in to staying on as manager.  She might actually appreciate it, not having to worry about the owner side of things.”

I don’t know.  People are funny.  She might like that control.  God only knows we get off on it.”

Laughter.

“We can’t keep the name.  We’ll have to switch to the recognizable franchise name, Coffee Town USA.”

“Yeah.  That’s almost a shame.  I sort of like that name.  Honey Dew.”

16

Marcia.  Marcia.  Marcia.  Some days, she just didn’t know if she could take the mess.  And now her special 19^th century leather wingback chair was ruined.  A cigar burn right through the leather.  Marcia Compton had reached her limit.  She would tolerate no more.

“FORREST!!!” she screamed, the commanding sound reverberating across the entire 6,000 square feet of their home.

Forrest came out from the kitchen, irritated.  “What is it?  Why are you screaming?  Even our neighbor a quarter mile away could hear that shriek!”

“They are never to come back here, do you understand?  NEVER!”

“Who are you talking about?” asked Forrest.

“You know very well who I am talking about!  Those Crowley people!  I will not stand for those redneck slobs to ever set foot in this house again!  Look what they have down to my wingback!”  Marcia pointed dramatically to the cigar burn.

“Well, the good news for you is that the Crowley’s are sort of whittling themselves down,” said Forrest, matter-of–factly.   “Digger is in jail, Freddy’s been banished because he had the bad taste to announce he was gay, Archie doesn’t get along well enough with Reggie for them to show up together anywhere, and so that leaves just Reggie.  Unfortunately for you, he is the cigar smoking one.”

“I never want him in here again!  Why do you have to deal with people like that?” Marcia pouted; her bright red collagen inflated lower lip pooching out.

“Listen to the name of their project.  Compton Park Development.  Did you hear that?  Compton.  That’s my family name, from my family’s land.  I will do whatever it takes to keep this project moving forward, and if that means sacrificing a wingback chair, I will be gleefully do that, as many times as needed.  And if you want it replaced, with something even fancier, more antiquey, more high culture, I will gladly do that.”

Marcia cocked her head and her eyes lit up.  “You would?  Oh, my darling husband!”  She rushed over and gave him a luxuriant hug.  “You know, they’ve also terribly scrapped up the mahogany coffee table.”

17

Archie coughed.  He coughed hard.  He coughed long.  He used a Kleenex for the phlegm, and when he pulled away, he saw the streak of red.  “Damn it to all hell,” he muttered (actually more colorful words than those).  “Last thing I need is cancer on top of everything else.”

Even sitting in the car, with his Bulldog, Buster Moves, watching repossession, did not give him the joy it used to.  He told his repo men (no longer Digger and Sandy) that if they accidentally broke some stuff carrying it out, why, he wouldn’t hold it against them.  But even seeing a dresser drop and fall to pieces did not cheer him.

How many times had been interviewed by the police?  God, it felt like hundreds of times.  Reggie and Archie had each other trapped, in almost a cold war MAD (Mutually Assured Destruction) scenario.  Neither one could narc on the other, without winding up destroying both of themselves.

Digger was to blame.  He was supposed to follow and report, maybe sometimes intimidate.  But kill people?  That was all Digger.  Unless Reggie ordered it.  And who knows?  Reggie was a nasty piece of work, nastier than even most people believed.  He just seemed more civil than Archie because he had that paper mill to operate, whereas Archie was stuck making his money off storage units and run down rental properties.

The family cried and begged the repo men not to evict them.  Their misery should have made him smile.  But it did not.  It just irritated him more.  He really was ready for them to beat them down.  But as tempting as it was, he would not do it.  Because he was nowhere near as evil as everyone thought he was.  It’s true.  He was clutching his gun and contemplating getting out of the car and just blowing a hole through that squallering black bitch.  But he didn’t do it.

Shouldn’t he get some credit for that?