Night at VZD's - a short story

 

When I began my French Quarter Mystery Series, I realized I needed help. Growing up in Louisiana and spending much time in New Orleans, I was confident I knew as much about the people, their customs, and their culture as anybody. I needed intimate knowledge of police procedures, crime investigations, etc. I began seeking experts who could provide the inside information about the knowledge necessary to write a competent mystery. One of the people who has helped me immensely is my close friend Terry. During the Oklahoma City bombing, Terry assisted in many autopsies and in identifying the victims of the tragedy.  During the period I was writing Big Easy, Terry owned a crematorium. This story follows the night I 'burned a body' with Terry.

A Night at VZD’s

VZD’s is a little café I used to frequent when I had an office in Oklahoma City.  I often stopped in after work for conversation and a drink. To say the bar is eclectic is stating a fact rather than a supposition. Once the location of Veasey’s Drugs, VZD, bottles, and assorted paraphernalia remain on the north wall - old bottles, no drugs anymore, thanks to an order by the DEA.

The rectangular establishment, about the size of a small swimming pool, hosts around fifty customers comfortably, but many more than that often jam the premises.  The walls match the atmosphere, always dark and smoky.  A group of patrons seems to live there because they are always present whenever I visit.

Dr. Tom, a Ph.D. political pundit; James, a carpenter from Louisiana; and Terry. Many other denizens, primarily lawyers and politicians, populate the bar since VZD’s is close to the Capitol. When the business of Oklahoma law is in session, politicos pack the place every night.

Terry is a former cop turned landman, death examiner, embalmer and cremator, and autopsy technician. We had all partaken of several drinks as the light outside the big picture window finally gave way to darkness. Terry got a phone call from a new client. He needed to pick up a body.

“Come with me,” he said. “I’ll give you something to write about.”

It was getting late, and Miss Lilly had just shown us the newest addition to the colorful tattoo on her backside.  Who was looking at the tattoo?  In a state of black and tan-induced euphoria, I agreed to go with Terry.

We picked up Ruby, the recently deceased person, at the hospital. “Let me do all the talking,” Terry said. “They’ll know you’re drunk; these people are already upset enough.”

I did not point out that he had as much to drink or more than I did.

The relatives dutifully left, and we lifted the old woman's body onto a gurney. Her eyes were open, along with her mouth, her body stiff but surprisingly still slightly warm. We drove her downtown to the crematorium.

I helped Terry put Ruby into cold storage and then watched in surreal amazement as he rolled out the body of an old man, fired up the furnace, and proceeded to cremate the body. Later, he removed a pile of metal from the ashes.

“Most everyone these days has metal screws and clamps from some surgery,” he explained.

 I was still trying to catch my breath as we returned to VZD’s. Along the way, in downtown Oklahoma City, Terry stopped at a construction site on the road. There was a hole in the street covered with a yellow tarp.

“Are you down there?” Terry called out the window.

Someone answered, obviously distraught, obviously crying. “The police are trying to get rid of me.”

“Do you need something to eat?” Terry asked.

“I haven’t eaten in two days,” someone said.

Terry and I drove around the block to a McDonald’s near the exit to the interstate and bought a Big Mac, fries, and a soda. The person under the tarp took our offering with the show of only a slender arm and appreciative remarks.

The night was not over. After returning to VZD, Terry received a call. Bob worked for a livery company that supplies hearses, primarily Cadillacs, to various funeral homes around town.  He needed someone to drive him home after delivering a hearse. When Bob arrived at VZD’s, he had a hamburger, and then we followed him and the hearse. He went to a funeral home in Midwest City, a suburb of OKC.

When Terry, Bob, and I finally returned to VZD, I was sober enough to vacate the premises and make it home to Edmond; the night’s memory girded around my brain for months.

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Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like checking out his Facebook page.