0603
Robert Bedard
Chateau Laforge, Robert's House
South Palmyra, Louisiana
4 June 1980
Pain. It was the second sensation that Robert would feel, next to the patterned beeping of his alarm clock. With an outstretched arm, Robert slammed his hand upon the snooze button. He writhed on the leather couch, attempting to stretch out his body in an attempt to wrestle away the full pain of his war wounds. His eyes focused on the ceiling fan, spinning ever rhythmically. The pain would never go away, not in the mornings. There was still lead in his body, and it served to remind him that he was no longer the man of his youth.
Robert yawned, and sat upright on the couch. It was another night on the couch for him. Robert was a thrasher; his body moved constantly in his sleep, and his arms and legs served to unwittingly torment Francine in the night. When the second hour of the day had rolled around, the dutiful wife forced her husband into exile in the living room. Through the glass windoors that led to the patio deck, the orange tint of the morning sun poured through, bathing the entire room in the morning gold. Robert squinted his eyes, and reached down to the coffee table to grab the remote.
The screen of the RCA 25 flashed to life, with the image of an American flag waving in the wind as the Star-Spangled Banner accompanied. A slight desire to snap to attention entered Robert's mind while he rose to his feet, but the impact of his knee to the edge of the glass coffee table served to bring him back into reality. Pain shot through his knee, he gritted his teeth, and let out a loud "FUCK," to be heard by everyone within the three-bedroom house. He quickly realized his mistake, and walked away from the living room as if nothing ever happened. A newscaster, unconcerned and unaware of the incident before him, stared on before launching into his program.
"Vietnamese officials report the repulsion of a Chinese special forces incursion in Cao Bang Province," the reporter stated, while Robert stood in the kitchen, preparing a pot of coffee with his new coffee-maker. Vietnam. Robert had spent the better part of four years living in Vietnam. He seldom discussed his time with most folks, with the exception of his siblings and wife. Francine and Lily Anne had fundamental disagreements with the conflict; Roland had not fought the same war as Robert, and both men knew that. Robert was a Marine, beholden to orders and his unit. Roland was a Spook.
As the coffee machine began to fill the pot, Robert decided to get himself cleaned up for the day. Standing near a set of overhead cabinets, Robert opened one up to reveal a plethora of medication. Time for the vitamins. Without much thinking necessary, Robert took hold of a small white pill bottle from the collection and quickly opened it. He popped four diminutive white tablets into the palm of his hand. Uppers. Not much thought or contemplation was necessary; he quickly downed the pills, and as a low rush began to jolt his body awake, he moved on with his morning routine.
Through the hallway of his house, Robert walked in search of his bedroom. His steps were quiet, ears listening for any sign that the children had been awoken by his outburst. As he passed their door on the right, Robert stepped against the wall, right before the doorway. A feeling hit his mind; deja vu that made him half-expect to see a VC holding an SKS in the room, waiting to blast him. Slowly, he nudged the door open and peered into the light blue room that held the twins. Nestled in their cribs, the toddlers dozed on and on, oblivious to their father watching. A smile grew on his face, watching Michael and Marcela. They brought out the good in him. Even Ma, for all of her prejudices against "race-mixing," found herself doting upon the children often.
Robert pulled away from the door, and moved to the last doorway on his left. He pushed open the door, and stepped into the bedroom. Francine had obscured herself with the silk sheets as morning light poured into the room from the windows.
"The kids?" she asked from beneath her silken grave atop the bed.
"Asleep," Robert replied as he stepped into the walk-in closet to fetch his uniform. After a short moment of shifting around various suits and shirts and pants, Robert exited the closet, holding a light-blue, short-sleeved uniform shirt and a pair of navy-blue slacks. "Did you sleep good?"
Francine poked her head from the blankets, her normally-stylized back hair now a mess of strands and crazy hairs that danced atop her shoulders and down her back. The Haitian gave a playful frown to her husband. "Until you yelled."
Robert chuckled, and sat the uniform on the bed. Francine sat upright against the large oaken wall of the bedframe, wrapping the sheets around her chest as her husband approached, sitting down on the edge of the bed. The couple smiled at each other, sharing in the mutual silence. Francine made his world all the better; she was there for Robert on the best and worst of days. Beautiful in mind, body, and spirit. Do I deserve her? She crossed her arms, casting an inquisitive look at her husband. "Are you going to speak with Roland about my proposal?"
Robert gave an affirmative nod. From the turn of the century onward, rumors had floated about of wealth underneath the marshes and swamps of the Parish. Deposits of untapped crude oil and natural gas, buried beneath the silt and mud and skeletons. Timber was dying; at one time, more than a dozen different logging outfits sought to exploit the pines. The Bedards and Fauberts, for their eternal struggle over the balance of power in the Parish, had utilized the timber industry to the fullest extent. Jules Faubert and Maurice Bedard, back in the twenties and thirties, succeeded in either dismantling or incorporating all of the other timber outfits, leaving the two competitors an open field to fight upon. Over time, the "open field" was spreading to the once-dominant forests and wilderness of the region. Lily Anne expected the accomplishment of their present quotas to dwindle to nothing by the beginning of the next decade. The declining resource led to additional feuding over land rights, with both families utilizing banks in order to secure rights over existing timber lands in the Parish. Some members were beginning to steal timber from their rival family, which in turn brought more violence.
Francine reached her left hand over to the nightstand, taking hold of a notebook and passing it off to her husband. "First twenty pages should encompass everything. Like I said, I have friends in the geological department at Tulane. Assembling an expedition is nothing, Robert."
Robert nodded, and sat the notebook on top of his uniform. His eyes narrowed in on the clock. "I believe, if the kids are still asleep, it would be a good time for a shower." Francine gave a devious chuckle in response to her husband's suggestion.
0710
Approaching the Southside Gameroom
The clouds had swept in to partially wipe away the morning glow, leaving much of the two towns dimmed in their light. Streetlamps still glowed and the illumination of light through glass could be seen in the buildings. It was calm, peaceful. Few cars were rumbling through the roads; indeed, not every resident of either town had a car, or the ability to drive. Robert cruised along in his black and white Bronco, decked out in the lights and decals of the South Palmyra Police Department. His windows was rolled down, left arm hanging out of the vehicle while he passed briskly over the asphalt at forty miles an hour. The few created a hanging mist throughout the town, seeping out from the Bayou. The radio was off; all Robert could hear was the roar of the engine, and the never-ending croaking symphony of frogs. It was peaceful enough.
The Bronco pulled up to a stoplight at the first intersection into South Palmyra, surrounded by the figures of connected brick buildings that housed the various stores and businesses of the town. Some windows, notably those of venues not adorned with "For Sale" signs, in these places were decorated with banners and flags denoting their loyalty to the South Palmyra Loggers, the home high school football team of the town. It was Friday Game Night; the big one where the Loggers took on the North Palmyra Chevaliers in their big pre school year football match, at home nonetheless. For the Chief of Police of South Palmyra, the game represented a potential for violence. The people of the two Palmyras shared a common dislike for one another, and thus trash-talking and fight-picking were to be expected. Moving parts and gears complicated the affair; Robert favored the old-school post-game bridge fight between the townies. Halftime fights happened frequently, and Robert recalled many a game in which neither team left with a victory because a fight had taken the place of the game.
Robert considered the option of reaching out to North Palmyra, particularly to Sergeant Switzer, for their officers to keep their people in line until after the Fourth Quarter. The actual Chief of Police in North Palmyra was not at all fond of Robert Bedard, and Robert reciprocated the same sentiment. Out of the entire department, Switzer was the only one "irrational" enough to speak in a civil manner with the South Palmyra cops. Perhaps the former MP would be willing to hear Robert out, and perhaps the night could end with a definitive winner of the year's biggest game.
Passing under the stoplight, Robert took sight of a black and white Gran Fury sitting up ahead on the curb. The horizontal light bar, and the word "POLICE" on the trunk gave it off as a South Palmyra cruiser. The numbers on the lower right side of the rear bumper read "SP-3;" the radio code for Officer Cole Baden. Just like the rest of the South Palmyra PD, Officer Baden had less than three years with the department, and had been personally recruited by Robert.
The two vehicles were now side-by-side; Robert flipped on his hazard lights and reached over to roll down his side window. The shape of Baden, and his bald head, could be seen doing the same. Let's see how Night Shift went.
"Mornin' Chief," the officer said with a hint of tiredness in his voice. Robert also heard the melodies of Jolene lightly emanating from Braden's cruiser. An interesting proclivity was present; neither man made eye contact, and instead kept their eyes trained forward, at the mirrors and windshields before them.
"Hey, how was your shift?" Robert asked in response.
"I shot a gator last night over by the Tyndall's trailer. Fuckin' six-footer ate one of those mutts they got. Then Clayborn and I got called to the Russy house and had to stop Bernard from beating Joan blue again. Pretty much just ten hours of nothing.
Service calls. The bread and butter of South Palmyra's legitimate police work. If their "dutiful" service to his family was to be discounted, the South Palmyra Police Department spent less time enforcing ordnances and more time solving problems concerning the local folk in order to keep the peace. Animal control calls and domestic violence were the most prevalent calls, followed up by the need to break up disorderly conduct. Robert nodded in response.
"Good to hear. Go ahead and clock out. Get yourself some rest for tonight. I want you at the office by five."
"Will do, Chief."
With a brief farewell, Robert rolled up the window and made his way down the road. Though the most, he could see the ugly rectangular shape of the Southside Gameroom, a two-story building made of brick and stone. The parking lot sat empty, save for a single beige '62 Valiant. Morris is here already. Robert prepared himself for the inevitable barrage of bleach up his nose, as he climbed out of the Bronco. Roland had yet to show up; their morning briefing was Robert's first stop before heading off to the office, or alternatively just starting his own patrol. Before fully exiting the vehicle, Robert made sure to grab Francine's proposal on the natural gas venture.
The Gameroom sat dormant, its billiard tables and slot machines and other games sat idle in the glow of the overhead lights. Robert took notice of the shiny floor, and grew mindful not to smudge the work as he walked over to the staircase. It was a long, dark, narrow passage that led to a single door. On the other side was the "exclusive" portion of the Southside Gameroom. As opposed to the concrete grey interior and "local" decoration on the first floor, the second floor was not a place for the average drunk townie.
The walls were all made of waiscotted plane panels that encapsulated the entirety of the room. Boiserie work ornated the four windows of the room, which were kept shuttered by mahogany curtains. A bar, fully stocked with bottles and overhead-hanging glasses and taps, sat on the other side of the room from the entrance. Circular tables, chairs stacked neatly on top, were set up around the room, which was notable for having a stage with a single pole set up at the center of the farthest end of the room, flanked by doors leading to a back area that housed an office as well as a changing area for the women. Oil paintings of Bayou landscapes adorned the walls, joined by a few old firearms and hollow resurrections of hunted game.
An old man with a balding head of white hair and a pronounced limp drug a mop across the wooden floor, looking up momentarily as a bell signaled that someone was coming through the door. The old man, clad in a simple ensemble of a short-sleeve green button-down and black slacks along with his spectacles, took a glimpse of Robert and returned to his labor. The police chief ambled his way in the direction of the bar, and grabbed a stool from atop the counter. He looked back over towards the old man.
"Hey Morris, has Roland called?" he asked. "Half-expected him to be here before me."
Morris simply shook his head, and continued mopping the floor. "Not yet."
"What about Tim?"
"Nope."
Robert nodded, eyes moving to the clock sitting over the bar. Will family meetings not eat up so much time? He sat the notebook on the counter, and unbuttoned the left breast pocket of his shirt, just below the badge, to pull out a soft pack of Marlboro Reds. Robert took one into his mouth and set the pack on top of his notebook. Drawing a stainless steel Zippo from his pocket, Robert fired up the cigarette, and waited.
