The Sweet and the Dead

by Milton T. Burton

  I stared at them dumbfounded for a few moments. Then it got the best of me, this spectacle of three men who robbed and killed and trafficked in human flesh tsk-tsking and tut-tutting like Amy Vanderbilt over some infraction of their standards of etiquette, and I started laughing. I couldn’t quit; I laughed on and on and on until at last I couldn’t get my breath. Finally I had to get up and go to the men’s room, leaving them with puzzled expressions on their faces. It’s a wonder they didn’t kill me that night.

  Yet another regular at Lodke’s joints was a Lufkin, Texas, used car dealer named Eddie Ray Atwell who occasionally robbed card games like the two Harrys. He was also the number-one suspect in a couple of killings, and he dabbled in the Mexican heroin trade. A good poker player himself, he was able to roam around a lot pursuing opportunities away from home because he had a tough, loyal wife who knew the car game even better than he did. Atwell was on the verge of throwing in with Sparks and the rest of us on the carnival caper, but before we were ready to move he died in a shootout in a San Gabriel, Texas, motel—an affair so bizarre that nobody really understood what had happened. Some people claimed that it was a robbery gone bad, while others maintained that he was hit by some New Orleans talent acting under the orders of Angelo Scorpino, the mob boss down there. My own view was that Eddie Ray had so many schemes and scams and double-crosses orbiting around that no one would ever know for sure who was behind his death. He may not have even known himself unless his killers gave him time to sort it all out before they let the hammer down on him. Not that anybody really cared, either, despite the fact that a sizable entourage of Biloxi regulars made a big show of going over to Lufkin for his funeral. For Jasper and Bobby Culpepper and the rest of the crowd it was just an excuse to coagulate together, strut and preen, and maybe get a shot at screwing the widow.

  I didn’t go and neither did Weller. The day of the funeral a line of thunderstorms hit the coast, and he and I spent the evening at the Gold Dust playing gin and sipping whiskey.

  Along about ten we were both feeling at ease. The rain had slacked off to a steady drizzle that could be heard falling gently on the building’s metal roof. The strippers had finished their last show, and somebody had unplugged the jukebox and turned on the FM radio to the jazz station down in New Orleans. I didn’t recognize the group, but whoever they were, their music was slow and moody and heavy on the tenor sax—perfect for a rainy night. I looked across the table at Weller as he studied his cards. His weathered, expressionless face was lined and careworn, and his hands were rough and gnarled. I couldn’t help but ask, “Hard-head, have you ever wished your life had taken a different turn?”

  He looked up and studied me for a few seconds with his lifeless eyes, then said, “Well, I ain’t got a whole lot of remorse, if that’s what you’re getting at. But there was a time back when I was younger that I craved respectability awful bad. I wanted to be somebody.”

  For one absurd moment I almost felt sorry for the old hood, and he must have sensed that I was about to say something, for he shook his head sadly, silencing me. “I’m just a hell-bound sinner, Hog,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Exactly like my poor old mama said I’d turn out to be, and there ain’t nothing me nor you nor nobody else can do about it.” He looked quickly down at his hand, then said, “Gin,” and spread his cards out on the table.

  Twenty-two

  Ever since we’d come back to Biloxi I’d fretted about Nell’s dad knowing as much as he did about the operation. The implications of this breach of secrecy—if indeed it was a breach— floated around like worrisome specters in the back of my mind. Finally one evening I called Bob Wallace at his home. “I need to check somebody out,” I told him.

  “Sure,” he replied. “Who is it?”

  “The man’s not a hood or anything like that. It’s just that...” I tapered off. I wasn’t sure what my reason was.

  “Go on,” he said. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “It’s a guy named Leland Bigelow.”

  “I know the man,” Wallace said matter-of-factly.

  “Jesus, Bob! This operation is beginning to make me feel like I’ve been dropped into the middle of somebody else’s family reunion. Everybody’s got more information than I do. How in the hell do you know Leland Bigelow?”

  He sighed. “Back when Price Daniel was governor of Texas, old Colonel Garrison had me running his security for a couple of years. He was the only governor I ever really got to know, and we’re still friends. That’s how I met Bigelow. They’d been close for years, and in fact, Bigelow was one of his biggest supporters.”

  “But Bigelow lives in Mississippi,” I objected.

  “I realize that, Hog,” he said patiently. “But he’s got some business interests in Texas too. Besides, from what I gather he’s one of those rare birds who really cares about honest government. And to my mind, the fact that Price Daniel thought so well of him was a big mark in his favor.”

  I could hardly disagree. Daniel had been one of Texas’s better governors, one who never played the demagogue and who’d managed to be remarkably consistent in a state where cynicism and fence straddling were fine arts.

  “I see ...” I replied.

  “How is it that you need information about Bigelow, Hog?”

  “I’m seeing his daughter.”

  “Nell? Congratulations. She’s a fine girl.”

  “Damn! You know Nell too?”

  “Hell yes. She used to be an assistant federal prosecutor in Dallas. A very good one, as a matter of fact. But why are you so curious about her dad?”

  “He seems to know a lot about the Biloxi operation.”

  “I’m not surprised,” he said. “He and Blanchard are friends. Now, I can call Price for you, but I know what he’s going to say. He’s going to tell me that you can take anything Leland Bigelow says to the bank.”

  “No, don’t bother him. I just—”

  “In fact,” he said, interrupting me, “I imagine Bigelow ran some interference for Curtis in Jackson getting approval for this operation. Curtis likes to blow and go about how close he is to the House speaker and all that, but Bigelow’s the one with the real clout.”

  “I see—”

  “And I’ll tell you the truth, Hog. For what my judgment is worth, I really like Bigelow. I’ve been around him a good bit, hunting at his place up in the Yazoo bottom and what-not.”

  “Okay,” I replied, a little bewildered. “I guess that’s good enough for me.”

  “Anytime. Call me when you need me.”

  Twenty-three

  Little Harry Capelton wanted nothing to do with the carnival job, but his partner, Big Harry Rozel, signed on, a move that made Wallace rapturously happy. Slops Moline finally arrived, but Little Larry Snow didn’t come with him. The departure of Little Harry and the absence of Little Larry meant that the two rhyming little men never met. However, Jasper did get the honor of introducing the Hog to the Slops and everyone was suitably impressed.

  Moline was a serious character. About five ten with a medium build, he looked younger than the forty-two years his sheet said he was carrying. He also had a pair of dark, penetrating eyes, a cold, humorless smile, and a full head of wavy black hair. He threw in with us.

  Jasper called a second meeting at his apartment. “Just a little update on plans,” he said once we were all arranged around his dining table. “I’ve already oriented Slops and Big Harry, and me and Hog are working on picking the last four men. It should all fall into place in a couple of days. ...”

  “How about a second safe man?” Arps asked.

  “How does Tom-Tom Reed sound to you?” Jasper asked with a smile.

  “We couldn’t do better,” Arps replied. “He’s the finest I’ve ever seen.”

  “Even better than you, Freddie?” Big Harry asked, his deep, belchlike voice bubbling up from somewhere far down in his huge gut.

  “Listen,” Arps said, “I know how to do it because I’ve studied and practiced. But Tom
-Tom? Hell, he’s just got an instinct for the damn things. You’d have to see him work to appreciate it.”

  Sparks nodded in agreement. “I have reliable word that he’s in bad need of a job at the moment, and I got a call in to him. Should know by this afternoon, but I feel pretty sure he’ll go for it.”

  “I’m concerned about the cars,” I said. “Or more to the point, I’m concerned about the exit route. How does that work, Jasper?”

  He spread the plat on the table. “We go in two cars that we park just inside the lane, right in front of the electronic gate. Then when we leave, we go down this little trail through the woods, across the creek on this footbridge that don’t much of anybody know about, and on up to this gravel lane here. That’s where the other two cars will be parked. It’s a dead end and nobody uses it for anything except that sometimes kids go down to the end here to park and make out.”

  “Why don’t we just leave in the cars we come in?” Big Harry asked.

  “Every reason in the world not to,” Sparks replied. “In the first place, let’s say some of the other carnival people come up to the gate and find out that it won’t work. Maybe they smell a rat. Then they go home and get their shotguns and wait to see who comes out.”

  “What if they call the law?” Arps asked.

  “Believe me, Freddie, these ain’t a law-calling kind of people. They’re about as allergic to cops as we are, and with good reason.

  Most carnies are drug users of one kind or another. Lots of speed and downers, lots of weed. So if they see anything that needs handling, they’ll try to handle it themselves. But even if they come up and don’t get suspicious, they might wind up parking so they’re blocking our cars. I like the idea of us driving up, parking, and going down that lane and then never coming back out it again.”

  “How much are the cars costing?” Big Harry asked.

  Jasper shook his head. “Very little, and I’m picking that up myself. Me and Lardass worked out a private deal for the cars.”

  “What are you doing, Jasper?” Moline asked. “Letting him pork one of those broads of yours?”

  Sparks shook his head and smiled. “Lardass don’t pork, man.”

  “Not at all?” I asked.

  “Not a bit.”

  “Is he geared?” Arps asked. “I mean does he get off on whips or girls’ panties or anything like that?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. In fact, he doesn’t seem to have any drives at all beyond stealing and eating. I’ve been to his place a couple of times, and as far as I saw he doesn’t own a single damn book, a magazine, nothing. Hell, I don’t even think he watches the TV much. Last time I was there it wasn’t even plugged in.”

  “Damn,” I said. “What does he do with his time?”

  “Just sorta sits there and looks at the walls.”

  “Well,” Rozel said with a big gassy laugh, “at least nobody can come in and change the channel on you when you’re watching the walls.”

  “Yeah,” Arps chimed in, “and you don’t have no arguments about which program to see. You just watch your wall and I’ll watch mine.”

  “He’s a strange fucker, all right,” Sparks said. “One time I sold him a nice shotgun. Know what he did?”

  We shook our heads.

  “Never even touched it. I mean, most guys who buy a new gun like to fool around with it a little. You know, sorta feel it up. And this was a real fine engraved Browning automatic. But not Lardass. He just looks up where I’m holding it out for him to see, and says, ‘Okay. Put it in that closet over there.’ Then he shucks over the money and goes back to watching his walls.”

  “Could we get down to business here?” Weller asked.

  “Sure,” Sparks replied. “In fact, we’re just about through unless anybody has some questions.”

  “Who does what?” I asked.

  “That’s not set in concrete yet, Hog. But I’m thinking about you and Hardhead for the backup men. And me and Big Harry are going to take the lead trailer, the one with old man Giles in it.”

  “What night of the week are we doing it?” Weller asked.

  “A Saturday,” Sparks replied with a grin. “A bunch of these assholes that live back over here where the equipment and shit is stored come into town to the clubs from time to time, and Mr. Lodke is having some special shows that night. Special stripper acts, dollar drinks all evening long, that kind of thing. In fact, he’s putting out flyers all over town, including out at the carnival camp. We want as many of those people out of that place as possible.”

  “You said that you’re providing the hardware?” Arps asked. “Is that right?”

  “Yeah. And the cost is coming right off the top, before the split. But like I mentioned, the cars are on me. Don’t worry about it, Freddie. The take from this is going to make a little expense worthwhile.”

  “What do we do with the people?” I asked.

  “I’ve got two lightweight magnesium chains and a bunch of padlocks. All except for the old man and his daughter we chain together in one of the other trailers and keep watch over them. Giles and the girl stay together. Afterward we just leave them all trussed up.”

  “Now once again, what’s the estimate?” Big Harry asked.

  “Two million minimum,” Sparks said. “Shit, Harry! Can’t you keep a figure like that in your head?”

  “Hell yes,” the big man said with one of his rumbling laughs. “I just like to hear you say it.”

  “Actually, my contact has just got hold of the old man’s books for the year. She says it going to run a little over three million. They just had the best year they’ve ever had. That’s going to be around three hundred grand apiece for us after expenses are paid.”

  “Holy shit!” Freddie Arps whispered.

  It was an enormous score. Back then a starting schoolteacher got maybe $10,000, and a good claims lawyer with his own practice could expect from $50,000 to $100,000.

  Jasper grinned. “That’s right, Freddie,” he said. “This one’s going in the record books for sure.”

  Twenty-four

  A week later I got a refresher course in the senselessly violence-prone nature of the southern police character. Jasper, Slops Moline, Weller, and I had just walked out the front door of the Motherlode headed for a pool hall a few blocks down the Strip when Moline decided he had some unfinished business with a Biloxi real-estate developer named Joe Don Durrell, a muscular but running-to-fat former college football player in his early thirties. We spotted Durrell getting out of his big Mercedes about twenty yards from the door, and I sensed trouble was afoot when I saw Slops reach into his jacket pocket and pull out the pair of lead-loaded sap gloves he habitually carried.

  Durrell was a semiregular at the clubs on the Strip. He’d been born into a wealthy local family, and in high school he earned a football scholarship he really didn’t need to the University of Alabama, where he’d majored in business administration and raising hell. After graduation he married Alabama’s head cheerleader, a pert, large-breasted girl who was currently the Supreme Whim-Wham of the local chapter of the Junior League and one of Biloxi’s leading young socialites.

  Smart and reputedly aggressive to the point of abrasiveness, Durrell returned home after college and made some strong money in his own right in real estate. He was casually acquainted with a few of the local characters, and a couple of times he’d come over to the corner booth and shot the bull with us. I’d quickly pegged him as a spoiled-brat-turned-alpha-male who was used to getting his way, and who could be overbearing if given the chance. In short, his personality was a potentially lethal mixture when thrown up against the prickly temperament of a pair like Sparks and Moline.

  “Hey, man, I need to talk to you,” I heard Moline say as he hurried toward the Mercedes.

  Durrell looked up and then stood waiting. “Yeah? What do you want?” he asked impatiently.

  “You were a little rough on Siam the other night,” Moline said.

  I knew the girl he was tal
king about. Short, blond, and pleasant, she was one of the few Biloxi hookers who wasn’t a pillhead. I also knew that she and Moline had known each other when they both lived in Atlanta, and that they’d had quite a reunion after he showed up in town.

  “Who? Who’s Siam?” Durrell asked.

  “Who, who? What are you, a fucking owl? I’m talking about the girl you picked up here and took to the Tradewinds Motel two nights ago.”

  “Oh, that little whore—”

  “I’d rather you called her a working girl,” Moline said just as Weller, Sparks, and I came up behind him.

  “What are you, her pimp or something?” Durrell asked.

  Slops shook his head. “No. If I was her pimp, you’d already be in the hospital.”

  “I doubt that,” the other man replied contemptuously. “But if you’re not the slut’s pimp, what’s your interest in the matter?”

  Moline said nothing. Instead of answering, he just stood there, smiling calmly at Durrell. Finally Durrell lost patience.

  “I haven’t got time for this stupid shit,” he said brusquely and tried to brush past Moline. That’s when the Charleston hood exploded into action. I’d heard that he’d been a light heavyweight contender at one time. I didn’t know if the story was true or not, but he could certainly handle himself, and he was as fast with his hands as any man his size I’ve ever seen. He hit Joe Don Durrell with a right-left-right combination of belly-cheekbone-nose that put him on the ground. All three punches were solid, but the last one had a wet, discordant sound like a fastball slamming into a water-soaked catcher’s mitt. Then he and Jasper were kicking and stomping the guy to mush. The beating seemed to go on forever. Finally, Weller said sharply, “That’s enough, damn it! Knock it off!”

  The pair quit pummeling the man and stepped back to admire their handiwork. Durrell was lying on his back, semiconscious, blood flowing freely from his shattered nose.

  “You boys get your business finished with this guy, and let’s get out of here,” Weller told them firmly.