Dorothy’s Book — A Tom Cutchin Novel – Chapter 2 of 10 by Jefferson Weaver
The walls were half dark stained pine, and half white plaster. Tom’s desk faced the room from the inside corner; he liked having his back to the wall, and he could see out the windows that faced north and west. The south wall was taken up with books and file cabinets. A comfortable old red leather couch lay under the west windows, facing a walnut coffee table that got new magazines every other week. The Dispatch lay on his desk, along with a cut-down artillery shell holding a sheaf of sharp pencils. A pen stand made from a block of brass off his grandfather’s riverboat held an inkwell, nibs and a stick pen. His grandfather’s silver handled rococo dagger acted as a letter opener. A pair of new fountain pens lay on the blotter beside a plain pad. He had a portable typewriter in the stowaway compartment on the desk. His grandfather’s pocket watch hung on a black iron frame, another piece of the Mudhen. On a quiet day you could hear its tick, tick, tick throughout the room.
Tom checked his wristwatch and compared it to the old Waltham. As always, the pocketwatch was spot on. Quarter til nine. He wound both every day when the Methodist church bell rang four o’clock. There was a massive Tiffany ashtray that the cleaning lady fussed about polishing.
Across from the desk sat two chairs. One was a simple, handmade straight back. The other matched his desk chair, except it didn’t swivel. Tom had long since learned he could tell much about a client or clients by which chair they took.
He wondered which one Mrs. Britt would choose.
Tom settled into the chair, and idly watched a pair of pigeons flash up Scott Street, riding the wind from the river.
The Dispatch had the usual for this time of year. The tobacco market. A couple political rallies. A raid on a liquor still out in the county. That man Hitler was stirring up Germany. A killing in the black section of town. Governor Scott — namesake of the highway through town — calling for more money for farm to market roads. There was a drunken brawl that hurt a cop down on Cypress Street. Roosevelt promising again that the “War on crime” would make the country safe, while some Texas couple was robbing stores and killing policemen. The killers were named Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker.
“I’m going to turn on the radio,” Belle called. “It’s almost time for Barney. I’ll bring you this coffee.”
“You’re a peach, Belle,” Tom said, opening the paper.
There was a hum and a crackle, and the static cleared as Barney Cottle’s rich voice came out of the Diamond K.
“Good morning, New Lisbon. Your old buddy Barney Cottle here with all the news, brought to you by Bremer’s Grocery Store. Delivery is always free in the city. Call Scott 569, or drop by either of their new, modern stores. Bremer’s Grocery, always fresh.
“This just in. An unidentified white male was found at the foot of Carson Street on the riverfront this morning. One of the new foot patrolmen charged with keeping the Flats clear at night made the discovery just after dawn. The man was shot at least three times.”
Belle tut-tutted.
“Nothing good goes on down there,” she observed. “It’s a shame. There are some lovely homes on Carson.”
Barney continued with his morning report, sounding like a kindly grandfather offering advice to a beloved child.
“A house near Mulberry and Divine streets was heavily damaged by fire last night. The fire brigade reported finding a coal oil can in a nearby yard. The interior of the home and the contents were completely destroyed.
“The Civilian Conservation Corps Camp on the Raleigh Road is expanding. Supervisor Homer Parker said they expect another twenty-five workers, along with a new Caterpillar tractor, to be working on the highway within a month. The new men will be housed at the Singletary and White Lake camps.
“Tobacco prices were mixed yesterday. Border Belt markets reported an average of 16 and a half cents per pound on the floor. Some observers are concerned that government price supports could permanently affect prices, leading to a crash at some point…”
“Mrs. Marie Crumpler reported a collie dog running loose in the area of Williams and Chestnut streets. She suspects the dog killed several of her prize hens night before last. If it is your dog, contact Sergeant Grady at the Police Department.
“Mr. William Martin announced yesterday that he intends to open a new factory for the rebuilding of electric motors and other devices. He is building a fine new structure at the vacant lot formerly occupied by the Lever Brothers Warehouse…”
Tom sipped the coffee, and made his way down the classifieds and personals. It surprised him sometimes how much one could find out about a town — a growing city, the mayor liked to emphasize — in the short, sometimes incomprehensible messages. At a few pennies a line, the Dispatch made a killing off of news that sometimes didn’t make sense to anyone but the writer and the intended recipient.
At the bottom of the page, hidden under miracle cures, lonely hearts, a few help wanted announcements and dozen or more “Skilled laborer needs work” slugs was another ad a little larger than the others.
In bold type, with a border, it must have cost more than its neighbors. Somebody had invested a quarter or maybe even more to bemuse and intrigue 10,000 Dispatch readers and however many read the paper secondhand, just to pass a message to one individual.
Delgado—I have what you asked for. Will leave at the hotel as requested. JRB. 10/01,10/03
Next time — Dorothy Britt shares her story with Tom and Belle.
