by J. A. Kerley
“Don’t screw around. I want to get gone before visitors arrive, but I want you fully rational before we talk.”
Sandhill gave his face a second ice treatment, then dried it with the blanket. “OK, I’m rational. What’s the hurry?”
Philips set a brown leather briefcase on the credenza and popped it open, removing a thick, rust-colored tome with splitting binding. On the binding, printed in gold leaf, were the words, Alabama Legal Statutes and Enactments.
“You were a law student for three years, Mr Sandhill. A good one, I suspect. Perhaps you’ll be able to interpret this. Check section 32-A.”
She handed him the opened book, her finger tapping the relevant paragraphs. Sandhill studied the heading. “Revised rights and privileges of the Mayor of Mobile, Alabama, enacted … February 4, 1923 … 1923?”
“Read it.”
It took less than a minute to read, his eyes widening with every sentence.
“Holy shit, Mayor. This was because of Prohibition, right?”
“I’d think so, given the date and newspaper accounts of the time. It seems there were some corrupt cops around, either bootlegging themselves or looking the other way. Good cops were booted from the force, probably because some of the brass were violating the Volstead Act. The mayor needed to reinstate cops he trusted, without permission of the police hierarchy.”
Sandhill narrowed an eye at Philips. “This ordinance was never rescinded? It’s still in effect?”
“A lot of old articles and ordinances are still on the books. You can’t build a privy within eighty paces of a well. You can’t tether a horse in front of a funeral parlor. They may be archaic, but they carry the full force of law.”
“So you can reinstate me to the department?”
“All you need is an affidavit signed by the mayor,” she said, pulling a single sheet of paper from her briefcase. “Just like this.”
He studied the document: the date, two brief paragraphs and the mayor’s signature. Philips said, “It’ll keep you from getting busted for interfering with police business since, of course, you’ll be a cop again, same rank.”
Sandhill pictured himself holding up the sheet and yelling, “Stop thief.”
“I’ll need my shield.”
“That I can’t help you with.” She paused, raised a questioning eyebrow. “Perhaps you might ask Acting Chief Squill.”
“He’s the last person I want to know about this.”
“I suspect that’s the right answer, Mr Sandhill.”
Sandhill treated Philips to his best scowl. “Why are you doing this?”
“That’s my business at present.”
“Who else besides you knows about this?”
“No one.”
“Can we keep it that way?”
Philips nodded. “I hoped we would.”
Sandhill crossed his arms and looked Philips in the eye. “What exactly do you want me to do?”
“Investigate, Detective. Stick your nose into things. Find those girls.”
She turned to leave. Sandhill cleared his throat. “I, ah, already have a couple of irons in the fire, your honor.”
“Somehow, I expected that, Mr Sandhill,” Philips said over her shoulder, the door closing in her wake.
“You did great with James, Ryder,” Sandhill said, standing unsteadily in front of the mirror and buttoning his blue denim shirt for the second time. “Something strange is cooking, crazy gumbo, a porridge of the weird. I’m wondering if Gentleman Jimmy might be right about an MPD connection. But why would cops want to spark a riot? Politics? How’s Philips rank with the boys in blue?”
Ryder thought for a moment, watching Sandhill wince as he bent to tie his shoes.
“Most cops didn’t like her appointment, gut reaction to her community empowerment days. They figured she was another cop-hating lefty.”
“Now?”
“She kicked that impression in the ass by immediately pushing for better equipment and training. Plus any cop can attend classes at University of South Alabama for a third of the cost, a federal grant she tracked down. She’s also pushing to put more cops on the street. Most won’t admit it, but the majority of the rank-and-file will vote for Philips come November.”
“Aside from Terrence and his boys, what does the general brass think?”
“Pretty much the same, I imagine. Even if someone had it in for her, I can’t see them taking a chance with a scammer like James. Too risky.”
Sandhill snorted. “And they’re not that creative.”
“You think Squill could do it? He’d benefit most from a change of administration.”
Sandhill stood and began filling a duffle with the hospital water pitcher, drinking cup, a packet of plastic dinnerware. He lifted the bedpan, studied it from all sides, then jammed it in the duffle.
“Terrence is so hot to be big chief I’m surprised he hasn’t spontaneously combusted. But I always figured him as too lily-livered to risk his career by doing something starkly illegal. He’ll slit your throat from behind, but he’ll have all the right paperwork.”
“You think?”
“I’ve been wrong before, Ryder. It’s scarcer than snowmen in Morocco, but it’s happened.”
“So where from here?”
“Earlier I managed to walk down the hall and back without winding up on my belly. It’s progress. I’m going to rest at home a couple hours then head back out.”
Ryder knew arguing was futile. “I’ll tag along. I got nothing else to do.”
Sandhill lowered himself to the bed on rubbery knees. “Grab my crown over there, would you? Then let’s blow this antiseptic hellhole and see about getting my shield back.”
“It’ll never happen.”
“I can’t do anything without my badge, Ryder. I might get my ass shot off if I can’t wave it.”
Ryder said, “Might be friendly fire, too.”
Sandhill scowled at a dusty memory. “Squill adored the moment I handed over my shield.”
“What’d he do with it?”
“Threw it in the top drawer of his desk and slammed it shut. He’s changed desks a half-dozen times since then but I’d bet my badge is still in there, his biggest trophy. Terrence probably pulls it out every so often just to spit on it.”
Ryder frowned at a thought in his head, like it was an unwelcome visitor. He dropped Sandhill at his apartment and drove away, the frown still clouding his face.
Chapter 39
An hour passed. Sandhill answered the knock at his door in a purple bathrobe with a golden crown embroidered on the back. He liked it even though Marie said it made him look like a royal eggplant.
Ryder, his face wan, stood at Sandhill’s threshold.
Sandhill said, “You look a little stressed, Ryder. Where’d you go?”
Ryder entered, jamming the badge wallet into Sandhill’s hands as he passed. Sandhill’s mouth dropped open and he studied the gold shield like it was the last piece of the true cross.
“Good old 1818. Ryder, you’re amazing. Was it really in Squill’s desk?”
Ryder walked to Sandhill’s kitchen area, removed a bottle of Glenfiddich from a cabinet, and poured two fingers in a tumbler. His hands shook. So did his voice.
“Top drawer. In the back.”
Sandhill said, “Was it tough to get?”
Ryder emptied the glass, poured another, banged down the liquor and brought the bottle to the couch. He sat heavily and put his palms over his eyes.
“Ryder?” Sandhill asked. “You OK?”
“I was rooting through Squill’s drawer, pocketing the badge, when I heard his footsteps outside the door. I think I jumped over his desk.”
Sandhill’s eyes went wide. “He came in with you in his office?”
“I pretended I’d come to beg my way off suspension. He threw my ass out and said if he saw me anytime in the next month I’d spend my remaining career directing traffic.”
“You’re a warrior prince, Ryder. They’ll bu
ild you a longhouse in Valhalla.”
Ryder rubbed his gut. “Can you get ulcers in an afternoon, Sandhill?”
“There’s antacid in the bathroom cabinet. You really jumped the desk?”
“Without touching it, I think.” He paused. “I did get something interesting from Zemain; spoke with him outside HQ. Remember when the cruisers came around the corner by Nike’s place and everything unraveled? Guess who told them to come running.”
“Who?”
“No one knows. Someone got on the frequency screaming, ‘Go, go, go … officers in trouble.’ No one recognized the voice.”
“Two-inch radio speakers aren’t real accurate for vocal quality. You get higher fidelity at a drive-through.”
“No one’s owned up to making the call. It’s assumed someone saw the crowd tighten and thought we were in the soup.”
“So either it was a panic call, or …”
“Or someone pouring gasoline on the flames.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Sandhill said, polishing his badge on his robe.
“There’s something else, too. The phone company ID’d the cellphone used to call you. It belongs to Barney Sackwell.”
Sandhill squinted at a recollection. “Name’s familiar.”
“He works in the City building, a traffic engineer. Not sure when he lost the phone. He was doing a traffic count on Airport Road when he noticed it was missing.”
Sandhill nodded as the recollection pushed into the light.
“Sackwell the traffic geek. He was pushing to kill half the on-street parking on my block. I got the merchants together and we raised a stink. I don’t think he likes me.”
“It’s no reason to shoot you, Conner. He’d used the phone on his way into work the day before yesterday, but later noticed it was gone.”
“Not a smash and grab?”
“Sackwell said he found his passenger-side door unlocked. Also says he might have forgotten to lock it, but it’d be the first time; says he’s real careful, even parking in the municipal garage.”
“So if Sackwell did lock his door …”
“Someone used a key. Or maybe a slim-jim,” Ryder said, referring to a metal strip used to disengage locking mechanisms.
“I’d vote for the slim-jim, easier to get. Who, outside of crooks, locksmiths and bartenders knows how to use one?”
“Repo men. Wrecker drivers. Parking attendants.” Ryder paused. “And, of course …”
Sandhill nodded. “I know cops who can pop a door as fast as unzipping their pants.”
Ryder held his hands out and studied them; the shaking had mostly subsided. “Where do we go next?”
Sandhill pulled his cellphone from his robe, index finger poised over the keypad.
“I think Gentleman Jimmy-Jim should pay me a visit. Got his number?”
Chapter 40
At seven a.m. the door to the restaurant opened and James T. James walked to the table where Sandhill was scratching on a tablet. Sandhill’s gaze started at green alligator loafers, ran up the sky-blue sharkskin slacks and over the pink silken shirt with a ruffled button line. It ended at wary eyes above a hard cosmetic smile.
Sandhill said, “You’re one of the Temptations, right?”
James’s grin disappeared and he angled his head to look down his nose. “You know who I is. Who you, man?”
“I’m the Gumbo King.”
James raised an eyebrow at the spiky crown. “I hate to tell you this, King, but somebody been cutting on your fez.”
Sandhill’s boot pushed out the chair across from him. “Set a spell, Mr James.”
James slowly lowered himself. “What you want from me so muthafuckin’ impo’tant I got to drive down here and look at you?”
“It’s nice to see you, too.” Sandhill nodded to the carafe and second cup on the table. “Coffee?”
James ignored the overture. “An’ why you got that other crazy-ass guy using threats about tellin’ stuff to my sister to get me here? She don’t need to know nothing about what I did in Mo-bile. Bad on her heart. What you got against a nice old lady’s heart?”
“I’ll cut to the chase, Mr James. I need your observational skills.”
James found his grin again. He reached for the coffee, poured a cup, sipped, then crossed his arms and leaned the chair back on its legs.
“You need me, huh? So what’m I getting paid for this gig, leasing you my skills?”
Sandhill pulled his badge wallet from his vest and flipped it open. He set it in front of James like a talisman.
“Your ass stays out of jail today, Gentleman Jim. How’s that for a down payment?”
Jacy heard the door to the World open and the Minute Hour came down again. He had a little TV set and a short-leg table. She scooted back on the cot and watched silently as he set the TV on the table and plugged it in. Then he tied wires behind it and left. The television showed dancing sparkles. Jacy watched, thinking a show would come on.
When nothing happened, she began reading. The book was about the once-upon-a-time days when kings and knights were everywhere and saved m’ladies and people in trouble. It made her think of the Gumbo King. She wondered if he was looking for her, like Aunt Nike would be doing.
Or did he forget her?
No. The Gumbo King would be looking everywhere. It was his way. But could he see her deep under the ground, in a metal cave built by the Minute Hour?
She shivered and felt her eyes fill with water until caught by movement on the TV. The Minute Hour was sitting on a couch. He’d combed his hair and had on clothes like for church, a white shirt and those pants with edges.
The Minute Hour waved. Jacy didn’t know what else to do, so she waved back.
Something seemed different.
Sandhill and James surveilled the morning shift change at MPD headquarters from a half-block distant, binoculars lifted as cops and support staff streamed through the doors. James scanned the crowd. “It’s hard looking, man. They all crossing back and forth in front of one another. I be having cop nightmares for a month.”
“Eyes see better when mouths are shut. Concentrate on the suits, not the uniforms.”
After fifteen minutes, Sandhill hadn’t seen Squill or Bidwell or several of the top honchos, and suspected they’d been summoned to an early-morning planning session. Still, bodies continued to trickle inside, and the pair focused on each face in turn, Jones grunting, No … huh-uh … not the one … man, he a ugly mutha, ain’t he … not him …
The trickle dried up. “What you want me observatin’ at now?” James said. “Them newspaper boxes over there?”
“Let’s bag it,” Sandhill said. “I knew this was too long a shot.”
He saw an opening in the traffic, and squealed into the lane. Passing the building, James twisted 180 degrees in his seat. “Yo, that’s sorta like the guy,” James said. “Just coming ’round the corner, gray suit. Ugly gray suit.”
Sandhill jabbed the brakes and heard a blast of air horn, a truck grille filling his rear-view. He was surrounded by traffic with nowhere to pull over.
James said, “He’s almost inside. Whip it around, man.”
Heart hammering, Sandhill turned at the next side street and doubled back, crawling past the station at five miles an hour, oblivious to the horns behind him.
“See him anywhere?” Sandhill said.
“Gone like dust in the rain, King. Must be inside.”
Sandhill turned the corner by the parking lot and stopped. “What’d he look like?”
James studied a gray-suited figure a half-block away, pulling a paper from a Mobile Press-Register box. “Hey, there he is.”
“It’s the guy who paid you?” Sandhill asked.
“It was night. The guy looked kinda like that. I’m not full sure.”
Sandhill aimed his binoculars at the distant figure. Grunted.
“You know the guy?” James said.
Sandhill lowered the glasses. “We’ve met a time or two.”
Jacy grew tired with reading and set the books on the floor. The picture on the TV was showing the empty couch. Then, like knowing she was watching, the Minute Hour walked into the TV picture and sat. He was drinking from a straw in a big cup.
“Can you hear me, Jacy?”
Jacy looked at the camera eye, knowing it was how she looked at the Minute Hour. She nodded.
“I’m sorry I frightened you before, Jacy. I didn’t mean to. Do you like the books I brought?”
“Some are for little kids. But I like …” Jacy held up her favorites and the Minute Hour nodded. His eyes looked away, then back.
“Jacy? You get scared when I come to visit, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I have to bring your food. And empty the toilet.”
Jacy said, “It’s when you look at me I get the most scared.”
The Minute Hour made a sad face; Jacy was learning it had a bunch of them, like different colors of sad. He said, “Am I ugly? Do I look like a monster?”
“Aunt Nike says nobody’s ugly. Everybody got somewhere pretty inside them. You got to look for it.”
“Everybody has pretty in them? Your aunt says that?”
“She said she learned it from my mama.”
“Where’s your mama at, Jacy?”
“She got sick and the sick took her away to heaven.”
“Do you miss your mama, Jacy?”
“Mostly not. Sometimes it’s all I can think about. My Aunt Nike says Mama’s always with me. Even if I can’t see her, she’s there to help me.”
“Do you really believe that, Jacy? About your mama?”
“Through and through.”
“How about your daddy?”
“I don’t remember him at all, not even shadows.”
“Do you get scared your mama isn’t around to help you? Not now, but every day?”
“I have Aunt Nike and Miss Marie and the Gumbo King.”
Jacy watched the Minute Hour set the cup on the floor. He put his face in his hands and was quiet a long time before looking back at her.
“I’m scared all the time, Jacy. I’m scared to death.”
“What are you scared about?”
The Minute Hour did another sad face; sad with its eyes closed. “I’m scared about me, Jacy. I’m scared I don’t have any pretty place inside. Just ugly.”