From 'This Train' by DHMcCarty

Chapter 2  Vermilion Parish

“That if desperate times call for desperate measures, then I'm free to act as desperately as I wish.”
― Suzanne Collins

Train rigged two wet bags over a framework of sheet metal and 1/4 inch rod that Junior had threaded into a clamp attached to the frame of the Honda.  It gave him enough clearance so that he could transport up to 20 pounds of shrimp cargo.  He had to take back roads to allude the law.  The Honda was legally a motocross bike and had no lights.

The Parish officers knew who Train was and likely would have just waved as he passed.  This wasn't Lafayette or Baton Rouge.

. . . . . . . . . .

Train was  4 years old when his Mother Trulie May's body was found in Lake Cleodis.   She had a Blood alcohol level three times the limit.

The Vermilion Sheriffs  Department arranged a benefit dinner and dance with a Zydeco band.  They placed jars all over the Parish,  in every gas station and convenience store.  The gesture was for the benefit of 'Choo Choo.'  He had his picture plastered to the side of the jars filled with dollar bills and quarters.  There was no mention of his Father Eddie.

Edouard  Robichaud was a swamp boat jockey with a short fuse.  He was like a high school greaseball that hadn't matured, just grown mean.  He bought Falstaff by the case.

After Trulie passed, his disposition spiraled.  Train avoided the house.  A 600 sq. ft house gives you nowhere to hide.

Weekends, Train would sleep in Uncle Juniors shed on the bayou.

Eddie had a trucker's wallet with a 12" chain. Train had been cross whipped a couple of times when he was eight.  He had learned to tune his eyes and ears in a hurry.  Sometimes valuable lessons come from desperation.

.    .    .    .    .

Train had a short haul this weekend, just shy of 10 pounds.  He quit early and loaded up the wet bags, the sun,  a few degrees past noon.  If he was lucky, Mrs. Delacroix would be sunning.  She always turned her head when he passed.  She liked any kind of attention.

Rebbie  Delacroix was running swamp boat tours, at 'Cajun Land', on Lake Peigneur.  He always worked the weekends.

Connie and Rebbie had tried alternative sins in Panama City.  Abita and hawt red T-backs were two of them.

Train took a right on Pumping Plant Rd. and slowed the Honda to a crawl.  Connie Delacroix sat up in her lounger when she saw him.  She was wearing the hawt red T-back, that her husband had bought her on vacation to Panama City.  She took any opportunity she could to wear it.  Neighbors didn't seem to mind.  She slipped out of the lounger, turned her back to Train and slowly bent low over the cooler to get an Abita.

Train figured out what T-back meant.

He hit the kill switch and dropped his feet to the crabgrass.

Connie straightened and ran the ice cold bottle of Abita up the curve of her neck and across her cheek.  She drew her shoulders back, fisted the neck of the tall boy and balanced the bottom against her right hip bone.  She glanced Train's way and smiled.

"Hey Freight Train.  How much shrimp you get this weekend honey?"

"Less than 10 pounds.  Shrimp must have been taking the weekend  off Miss Delacroix."

"It's Connie to you, sweetie.

Your Daddy just drove in.  He had someone with him when he drove up.  Looked like J.C.  She's growin' up fast."

The hair stood on Train's arms.  He straightened out his left leg,  then his right kicked the starter .   .   .   and revved the Elsinore twice.

"See you later Ms. Connie.  Gotta go deal with the Devil."

"Why don't you bring Shady by next Sunday if the fish ain't bitin'.  We can toss a couple of Abita's and catch some sun.  Don't think Shady be needin' any.  That strapper already looks good."

.    .    .    .    .

Train put the Honda in neutral and hit the kill switch.   He rolled up to the side porch without a sound, leaned the bike against the shed and opened the lid to the vat.  He turned on the hose tap and poured the shrimp in.  Just a precaution in case he got held up.

Trains senses were on fire.  He slipped up to the back door to gaze through tattered curtains.  No lights were on in the cinder block, tucked under a live oak dripping with Spanish Moss.  He palmed the broken handle of an old spade and slipped through the door.

The smell of cheap beer was nauseating.  Eddie had J.C. pinned up against the kitchen cupboard, a calloused fist around her neck.  His other hand was pushing her tube top up over her breasts.

Train swung the handle of the shovel in an arc and connected with Eddies Right TMJ.  The impact snapped Eddie's skull back.  He dropped to his knees, as his head pitched forward.  Train stepped up with his left and unleashed the instep of his right boot square to Eddie's face.  Eddies body flipped backward, flat on his back, slamming his head against the concrete floor.  His eyes went dull.  Blood pooled at the back of his skull.

JC  was gasping and choking sobs.  She was frozen in place, wild eyes convulsing as her outstretched arms grasped at fetid air.  She collapsed forward into Train's arms in heaves.  Train grasped her head between both his hands to focus her.

"JC,  I think he's dead."

Train pulled JC through the door And sat her down on the porch.  She wrapped herself around Trains legs and buried her face in his knees.  "Oh god, Train.  He was going to show me some of Trulies dresses.  Said he didn't want them around anymore.  Then he started choking me in the kitchen.  Oh Jesus, Train, I have to tell my Daddy."

"He'll send me straight to jail."

"No, he won't.  You're only 12.  He's sure Eddie killed your Mama.  Her body was covered in bruises.  Daddy just couldn't build a strong enough case.  Soon as he finds out you killed the man tried to rape me, he'll put you in the patrol car, drive you down to Shucks and buy you dinner.

You just took out the man that killed your Mama"

.    .    .    .    .

Sherriff Jacque Bogues took one look at his 14-year-old daughter and dropped his hand to the grip of his 9mm Glock.  He stepped forward to come between JC and Train.

"Daddy, we think that Train, killed Eddie.  He caught him trying to rape me.  He hit him with a baseball bat or something.  He's on the kitchen floor dead."

"Both of you get in the car.  I'll see what I can do Train.  Eddie's a mean snake."

.    .    .    .    .

The next days 'Lafayette Daily Advertiser' ran a headline, Sherrif Bogues Discovers  Murder Suspect  Dead Of Blunt Head Trauma.  

"Train you got any place you can go?  You can't stay here.  People might start asking questions that don't need to be asked.  Son, I'm sorry that had to happen to you,  but this is not a cross for you to bear.  Eddie was the Devil.  I know  Shady's Mama, I'm going to call her."

.    .    .    .    .

"Charles, you're going to need some clothes.  I believe Mr. Riggins left a few things here before he went off to Thibodaux.  You may need to roll up the pants a little but your shoulders are already as wide as his.  Oh, my  sweet Motherless Child."

Train looked from the denim pants to Carol Broussard's face and then back.

Carol set her lips and looked directly into Train's eyes.

"Charles, how much did you pay for that motorcycle from Mr Riggins?  Now.   .   .  would you care to ask me any questions?

Come here and hug me, sweet boy."

Carol wrapped up Train in a hug, pressing his head tightly against her bosom.

"Charles, I believe I may need to give you a bath.  Sweetheart, never go to see a lady smelling like a shrimp boat Captain."

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Picture - JohnAdamsTrawler – delcambredirectseafood.com