The Sweet and the Dead

by Milton T. Burton

  The Sweet and the Dead

  Also by Milton T. Burton

  The Rogues’ Game

  The Sweet and the Dead

  Milton T. Burton

  Thomas Dunne Books

  St. Martin’s Minotaur

  New York

  THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

  THE SWEET AND THE DEAD. Copyright © 2006 by Milton T. Burton. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.thomasdunnebooks.com

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Burton, Milton T.

  The sweet and the dead / Milton Burton.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-312-34310-1

  ISBN-10: 0-312-34310-8

  1. Sheriffs—Fiction. 2. Organized crime—Fiction. 3. Gangsters—Fiction. 4. Delta (Miss.: Region)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3602.U77S84 2006

  813'.6—dc22

  2006041116

  First Edition: July 2006

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For my children, Seth, Samantha, David, and Thomas;

  and for my daughter-in-law, Laurie

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to my good friend

  Nancy Thomas-Haskins,

  whose diligent proofreading and other help

  over the years have saved my bacon more

  times than I can remember.

  One

  When I first saw Jasper Sparks it was just before Christmas of 1970, and he was settled in between two good-looking young hookers at his favorite corner booth at Sam Lodke’s Gold Dust Lounge down in Biloxi, Mississippi. The Gold Dust was a sleazy place, a clip joint with crooked gambling tables in the back and a fleet of B-girls who would give you a few minutes’ vapid conversation and a peek at the tops of their breasts if you bought them a three-dollar drink that was really nothing but weak iced tea in a none-too-clean highball glass. A twenty-dollar bill would get you a quick roll with one of them on dirty sheets in one of the half dozen decrepit travel trailers parked out behind the building. As a bonus, there was always a fair chance you’d get your head cracked and your pockets emptied by one of the ferret-faced pimps who lurked around the place like buzzards around roadkill. As I said, sleazy. But then an exclusive place like the Four Seasons would have been sleazy with Sam Lodke running it. Historians claim that Napoleon called his foreign minister, the Marquis de Tallyrand, a wad of dung in a silk stocking. With Lodke you didn’t even get the stocking.

  But he and Sparks were kindred spirits, considered master criminals by cops throughout the South. Back in 1970 Sparks had been riding high—high enough, in fact, that some well-connected people thought it was time for him to take a fall, and they’d talked me into going down to Biloxi to help him do it.

  My name is Manfred Eugene Webern, but most people call me Hog. I was born and raised a few miles outside Fredricksburg, a little town in the Hill Country of central Texas that was first settled by German immigrants back in the days of the Texas Republic. I’m five eleven and broad chested with a few extra pounds of hard fat over harder muscles, fair skin, and dark blond hair that’s beginning to gray. And to be honest with you, I’ve also got a blunt nose and a pair of bright, piggy little eyes that give me something of a porcine appearance. I earned my nick-name as an offensive center back in high school, but in my glory days people of Sparks’s ilk called me Tush Hog because they claimed I was as tough and mean as an old boar. Personally, as far as toughness goes, I was always more inclined to think of myself as merely durable and persistent. I survived a hardscrabble childhood on a rocky, worn-out farm, a year of hard combat in the Korean War, and seventeen years on the Dallas County Sheriff ‘s Department, the last nine of which I headed the organized crime division. And when it comes to mean, I couldn’t hold a candle to an aging Texas Ranger I knew named Bob Wallace. Called Old Bob by friend and foe alike, he had a hatred of violent professional criminals that went far beyond anything I’d ever seen in a lawman.

  Let me tell you a little story about Old Bob. Back in the late ‘60s a hood named Hiram White from down around New Orleans got a lot of notoriety. In his prime he roved the length and breadth of the South, often pulling jobs as far afield as Florida and Virginia. His specialty was high-line jewelry burglaries and bullion highjackings, though on numerous occasions he’d done strong-arm work for a pair of fastidious Tampa bookies who didn’t like to dirty their own hands with collections. In one particularly lucrative residential robbery in Baton Rouge he cut a woman’s foot half off with a hacksaw to make her give up the combination to her wall safe. Besides these activities, he’d been involved in several contract killings. In fact, White was a jack-of-all-slime, a sort of freelance asshole with an overblown opinion of himself and a big mouth to go with it. It was his mouth that did him in.

  In the fall of 1970, some fleet-footed courtroom work on the part of a famous Houston criminal lawyer named Claude Turpin let White wriggle out from under what would’ve otherwise been a certain conviction in an armed robbery/murder beef in Dallas. The victim was a thirty-five-year-old jewelry store clerk who left behind two little kids and a wife in the early stages of multiple sclerosis. Bob Wallace had made both the case and the arrest, and White was foolish enough to pass a couple of snide remarks to the old man as he left the courthouse the day of the verdict. And like most of his kind, he did plenty of loose talking in the weeks that followed, talk that percolated back to Wallace through his network of snitches.

  On a Saturday night a month later, one of the old man’s informants called his house and reported that White was holding fourth like a medieval king at Newt Throckmorton’s Fan Tan Club on Greenville Avenue, a joint long known as a character hangout. Not long after that phone call, Wallace walked into the Fan Tan carrying a three-foot length of heavy rubber garden hose. When he walked out a few minutes later, Hiram White lay whimpering and bleeding in a puddle of his own urine, surrounded by a gaping throng of younger hoods who’d been his worshipful admirers only a few moments before. A snitch of mine who was there later told me that Old Bob whipped White like he owned him, and I suppose that from then on he did, in a manner of speaking.

  “Everybody needs to answer to somebody,” Bob told me a few days afterward in the den of his Garland home. “And White had gotten a little too independent-minded to suit me.”

  It was a Friday evening and CBS had just started broadcasting nighttime pro football through a few selected cable markets as a sort of experiment. At his invitation I’d stopped by to take in the game and have a few beers.

  “Who do you answer to, Bob?” I asked with a grin.

  “Almighty God and the governor of Texas.”

  “Don’t forget Miss Jayne,” I heard his tiny, fire-breathing wife say as she swept into the room with a tray loaded with Pearl longnecks and corned beef sandwiches.

  “Well, that goes without saying, darlin’,” he replied. Jayne was four eleven and weighed about ninety pounds while Bob stood two inches over six feet—a disparity that always sent ribald images dancing around unbidden in the back of my mind whenever I saw the two of them together.

  “He doesn’t just answer to me,” she said as she set the tray on the coffee table, “he’s scared to death of me, too.”

  “I won’t deny it,” he replied placidly, giving me a wink and pulling her down to sit on his lap. In her early fifties, Jayne had a sweet oval face a
nd a pair of direct blue eyes and a mass of honey-colored hair that floated around her head like a thundercloud. I know the hair was touched up to its original color, and there was a little sag under her chin but I didn’t care. She was one of the sexiest women I’d ever known, and I envied Bob for being married to her.

  “What have you been doing, Hog?” she asked. “I mean now that you’ve got rich?”

  I hadn’t gotten rich, but I had gotten prosperous enough to retire from law enforcement. Back in the early ‘40s, my dad, ever a sucker for a sharp salesman, bought two hundred acres of worthless land up in the Panhandle with dreams of moving the family there and going into maize farming. The war was on in Europe and maize was selling high. But his dreams collapsed when he found out that its cultivation in that part of the country depended on irrigation, and that our land had no ready access to water. From that point on the taxes on the tract were just one more burden on an already overburdened family budget. Somehow we managed to hang on to the place, useless to us though it was, but both he and Mama were in their graves when Bartlett Production Company out of Seminole, Oklahoma, found oil in the neighborhood. I had three good producing wells, and with my future ensured I could see no reason to spend the rest of my life working. But as it turned out, my retirement wasn’t as permanent as I’d hoped.

  “I haven’t been doing much, Jayne,” I replied. “Just a lot of fishing and enjoying being lazy for a change.”

  “Still seeing that pretty teacher up at Denton?”

  I grinned and shook my head. “Nah. She gave up on civilizing me.”

  She slid down from Bob’s lap like a little kid. “Well, you two have fun. I’m going to go read.”

  “You’re not watching the game with us?” Bob asked.

  She shook her head. “A friend gave me Hemingway’s bullfight book. You big strong men can have your ball games. For me it’s blood and gore.”

  “I get enough of that at work,” Bob groused.

  She stuck out her tongue at him and whisked from the room.

  “Ain’t that woman a sight?” he asked me with a grin.

  I laughed. “Bob, you’d wash her feet and drink the water, and you know it.”

  “Damn right I would, and I’m not ashamed to admit it, either.”

  The pregame warm-up was on and the announcer was rattling off statistics. We ate our sandwiches and drank our beer in silence for a few minutes. Finally, right before the kickoff, Bob asked, “Ain’t you getting bored now that you’re not working?”

  I thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. Maybe a little. But there are worse things in life than boredom. Why do you ask?”

  He sighed and shook his head. “Hog, some people were put on this earth for certain specific purposes, and you weren’t put here to sit on your ass up there on Lake Murval with a fishing rod in your hand.”

  “What are you getting at, Bob?” I asked apprehensively. I could feel the goose bumps walking up my spine like cold little feet.

  “Do you remember hearing about an ol’ boy named Jasper Sparks?”

  “Sure. His name’s been all over the Southern Organized Crime Task Force’s bulletins the last couple of years. What about him?”

  “I want you to help me nail his ass.”

  Two

  A week later I went to Biloxi.

  “Curtis Blanchard phoned me a few days ago from Jackson,” Bob told me. “He wanted to know if there was any way that you’d go in undercover down there on the coast. You see, the job calls for some tough son-of-a-bitch with plenty of experience, but anybody with experience would have to be a man that Sparks and that bunch are bound to know. But in light of the way you left the Sheriff’s Department, we thought that maybe—”

  I nodded and held up my hand, cutting him off. A few months earlier, a Dallas police character named Daniel “Danny Boy” Sheffield, a consummate jewel thief, had robbed the vault of a big jewelry store on Commerce Street not three blocks from the Adolphus Hotel. Informants put us onto Danny Boy, but before he could even be located for questioning he took a pair of thirty-caliber rifle bullets in the chest in front of the old Peppermint Lounge a few blocks off R. L. Thornton Freeway. By coincidence, my oil wells had just started paying royalties about that time, and I’d given the department notice. So when I turned up flush with money and driving a new Coupe deVille not long after Danny Boy went down, the street talk was that I had caught him with the take from the robbery, relieved him of it, then got him out of the way. It didn’t help when Benny Weiss, my best friend and longtime partner, was killed in a yet-unexplained shootout with parties unknown. The assumption, of course, was that Benny and I had both gone bad, and that I’d killed him for his cut of the haul.

  “Okay, Bob, I’ll do it,” I said.

  “Damn, but that was easy,” Wallace said, surprised that I hadn’t mounted any real objections. Why I agreed so quickly I’m still not sure, and I’ve thought about it a lot since that night. I owed Bob Wallace, but I’m not convinced I owed him that much. Besides, he wasn’t calling in any markers on me, anyway. Maybe I was more bored than I’d expected with retirement. Maybe I wanted to top off my career with that one big splash that had never come. Or maybe, just maybe, I missed the excitement. Or even the fear, that coppery taste in the back of the mouth that comes before a big bust when you know you might be living your last moments on this earth. And perhaps I had the idea lurking around in the back of my mind that if I kept my hand in the game I’d eventually find out who killed Benny. Or it could be that my reasons aren’t even that complicated; maybe I’m just a born fool.

  “You’ve worked with Curtis a couple of times before, haven’t you?” Bob asked.

  “Yeah,” I said with a nod.

  Curtis Blanchard was one of the chief felony investigators for the Mississippi Department of Public Safety. Both Benny and I been with Wallace at a meeting Blanchard called at the Holiday Inn in Texarkana back in 1967. About twenty-five top-level cops from a half dozen southern states were present that day, and the subject on the agenda had been a loose alliance of traveling criminals—numbering perhaps as many as a hundred—that had pulled off numerous high-profile jobs in recent years. In fact, Blanchard was the man who dreamed up the term Dixie Mafia to describe these thugs, though it was never anything more than a publicity ploy to focus media attention on them and make it harder for them to operate. In reality, the Dixie Mafia wasn’t actually a gang in any meaningful sense of the word, and the main common denominators shared by the various hoods journalists had identified with it over the years was Sam Lodke and the Gold Dust Lounge.

  I was also aware that Wallace and Blanchard had cooperated on various interstate task forces in the past. One that particularly stuck in my mind had been a team of Mississippi, Louisiana, and Texas officers in which I’d participated that took down a notorious bank burglar and killer named Robert “Big Jap” McKorkle and his gang down in New Orleans a couple of years earlier. Where McKorkle’s nickname had come from was anybody’s guess. He was big, but he was no more Japanese than I was.

  “Did Blanchard mention me specifically?” I asked.

  “Yes, he did. The Sheffield story had gotten to him but he knew it was bull. You’d have been my choice, anyway, though.”

  “Shit!” I exclaimed. “Do you mean he’d already heard about Danny Boy?”

  Wallace nodded. “And by the way, have you ever actually met Sam Lodke?”

  I shook my head. I’d never laid eyes on the man, but I was familiar with his record. To the best of police knowledge, Lodke himself hadn’t actually pulled a job in years, but he’d steered the highjackings and burglaries and banked the money and acted as go-between on numerous contract murders, always taking his cut off the top. And, to give the devil his due, he was one of the few people in the criminal underworld who’d never been known to screw his confederates. I’m inclined to think this was more a matter of prudence than virtue. Lodke was in business for the long haul, and he knew that while the young hotshots come an
d go, the real rewards were to be reaped by the man who stayed steady and silent and earned a reputation for doing what he said.

  “I’d sure like to nail him too, sometime in the future,” Old Bob said the night I left for Jackson. “Ain’t no place for a man like him in this world, that I can see.”

  “Hell, Bob,” I said with a laugh. “Why bother to even arrest ‘em? Why don’t we just catch a bunch of them down there at one of Lodke’s dives some night? Then we can nail the damn place shut and burn it down on their heads.”

  He smiled a cold smile and stuck out his hand to shake with me. “I just love the creativity you young fellows bring to police work.”

  It was nine hours from Dallas to Jackson by way of Interstate 20. I pushed hard and rolled into Vicksburg a little before sunup. After a platter of sausage and eggs in an all-night café only a few blocks from the battlefield park, I drove on into Jackson and checked into a motel. I showered and shaved and enjoyed three cups of room service coffee along with the morning paper, then got in my car and headed downtown. I pulled in at the state police building just a couple of minutes early for my nine o’clock meeting with Blanchard.

  He was a tall, muscular man of about fifty with wavy saltand-pepper hair, a small paunch, and a face that meant business. Born into a prosperous north Mississippi family, he’d earned a political science degree from Ole Miss, then enlisted in the army for a four-year hitch. At loose ends after his discharge, he resisted his parents’ pleas to return home and go into the family business. For a few months he fooled around with an oil field job, then signed up for highway patrol academy. In those days college graduates were rare in police work, and it didn’t take his superiors long to recognize his talents and move him up from traffic patrol to major criminal investigations. Since that time he’d become a legend in southern law enforcement circles.