I Fixin’ To Play Dead (Part 64—The Last)
About two hours after I had made my call to USA Today, I got off the interstate again to top off my tank and stretch my legs. It was the exit for the Gulf Shores State Parkway, just north of Mobile. I had been rehearsing my next phone call while I drove and now I was ready to complete my last task, which would completely sever my ties with my old life.
It took me about 15 minutes to get a Mississippi state prosecutor on the line. I introduced myself as Todd Prescott and told him the entire story about Leon’s death, beginning in his room at the Beau Rivage in Biloxi, about a bloody towel in the trunk of Red’s taxi, and ending with directions of where to find Red’s body at the bottom of Lake Tallapoosa.
Just before I hung up the voice on the other end said, “We’ll be wanting you to come in and give us some more details.”
“There won’t be any more details,” I told him, “and there won’t ever be any more details about Todd Prescott, sir. Even though he didn’t die in that plane crash, as of now, he is officially dead. Good bye.”
I figured they had taped the call and had also traced it. I wanted to call my ex-wife and tell her not to spend any of my insurance money, but I knew I had caused enough doubt so that she wouldn’t be collecting any money anytime soon. Plus I was tired of it all and ready to get on about my new life.
I got back on I-65 South knowing that I had finally put my life behind me and that from now on everything would be brand new.
The throw-away phone got thrown away into the Mobile River while I was crossing the seven-mile bridge.
“Let ‘em trace that,” I thought.
The long bridge was covered with mist, but when I emerged from the mist on the other side the sun came out and I came out with it as a new person. My name was Ralph T. Cooper, and I had the identification to prove it. Most of my money was gone, but I didn’t care anymore because I had the beginning of what I had been seeking—a new life as a new person.
I rolled into Biloxi late in the day and drove straight to McElroy’s where I relaxed over a couple of adult beverages and enjoyed an oyster po-boy sandwich. This time I sat overlooking the gulf while I ate, without a care in the world.
I lingered long, but later that evening, I drove my pickup deep into the parking lot at the Beau Rivage, stretched out on the seat, wrapped myself in my leather jacket and slept like a tired baby.
The next day, Wednesday, 12 days after my ordeal had begun, I found a place to live. It was a trailer park off Hwy. 90, a few miles east of the hotel, over in Ocean Springs.
The proprietor reminded me a lot of Old Man Jenkins up in Birmingham.
After I paid him three months rent in advance, he gave me permission to sell produce on the grassy corner in front of the trailer park.
Business was good.
I had called the eight-hundred number on my Visa card and changed my address, and had even used it a few times.
I had gone by the county court house with the title to my truck and got a Mississippi license plate.
After a few weeks I had lots of regular customers at my vegetable stand.
Right now, late on a sunny afternoon, I was counting up the money I had taken in. Later today I planned to place some of it into my new hiding place. I did that everyday, because I had a new plan.
There was one more chase left that I was fixing to make.
The End.