The Sweet and the Dead

by Milton T. Burton

  Twenty-nine

  Billy Jack Avalon never made it to Florida. Two days after Weller and I had our little talk with him at Lucy’s Place, federal officers who claimed to be acting on an anonymous tip raided his house and found over $100,000 worth of stolen government bonds and two postal money-order machines. What else he’d been doing I don’t know, but I do know the raid caught him at a bad time because he also had a blizzard of state charges headed his way. On Weller’s recommendation he hired Nell’s friend Vernon Kittrel to represent him. Kittrel convinced him that the only slack he could hope to get was to plead out on the federal charges and accept forty years in exchange for the state of Mississippi dropping their business.

  “Jesus, Vernon! That’s the best you can do?” Avalon asked.

  “With your priors, that’s it,” Kittrel said. “Take it or leave it. I’ll do it however you want, but if you turn it down and we try these cases in court and lose, you’re going to be looking at about a hundred and fifty years, stacked.”

  “Damn!”

  The interview took place in the federal wing of the lockup in Jackson where he’d been transferred to await trial. Kittrel later told me that Billy Jack gurgled like a fish out of water when he laid out the prosecutor’s terms. He was still hidden behind his shades, but he was no longer smiling. However, he was sweating like a field hand and smoking those Winston reds one right after another.

  “When does the plea go down, Vernon?” Avalon asked, his voice a bare whisper.

  “Well, we can fart around and put things off for three or four months during which time nothing’s going to change, or we can go ahead and do it now.”

  “What do you mean by ‘now’?” Avalon croaked.

  “Next Monday.”

  “So soon?”

  Kittrel leaned over and braced his big, muscled-up quarterback’s arms on the table to look directly into the dark lenses of Avalon’s shades. “Billy Jack,” he said pleasantly, “I firmly believe when a man’s got some time to do, he may as well get to doing it. Don’t you agree?”

  Before summer came Billy Jack Avalon would be installed in the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary, gazing down into the decades ahead. “Good riddance” was the only comment Hardhead Weller ever made.

  Nell and I put Little Dolly on a bus northward a couple of days after Billy Jack got busted. We gave her five hundred dollars, and she hugged us both good-bye with tears streaming down her battered face.

  While I felt properly noble for my part in the matter, the incident left me disturbed. Dolly had unknowingly let the cat out of the bag just before she climbed on the bus when she remarked that Billy Jack had just brought the bonds and the money-order machines to the house the day before the beating, and that only the two of them had known they were there. But she had been staying with Nell for three days and pouring out her heart. Since federal officers don’t usually kick down doors on “anonymous” tips, I could only conclude that they were well aware of the identity and reliability of the source. And it was obviously a source that could cause them to move quickly. Somebody like a former assistant federal prosecutor whose daddy owned half the Delta. But if that was the case, why hadn’t she told me?

  It was a question I didn’t have time to ponder. The day after Dolly went north, Perp Smoot descended on Biloxi with a full crew of cameramen, sound people, and a pair of Bible thumpers thrown in for good measure.

  Thirty

  I’d known Smoot for years. His real name was Telford, and he’d been a pain in the ass to everybody who’d ever done any business with him. He’d started his career with the Dallas Police Department where he made only one felony case in seven years before moving over to the Public Relations Department. There he pioneered a ninety-second nightly TV spot that some claimed was the inspiration for the later “Crimestoppers” feature that appears on many local stations all over the country. This job lasted about three years. Always glibly fluent in cop-speak, his continual on-camera use of the word “perp” when describing the antics of various criminals earned him his unwanted nickname. From the Crimestoppers gig he leveraged his way into hosting a weekly thirty-minute true-crime show on a big Metroplex independent station. It was aired on Friday nights right before the evening news, and rumor was that it was being considered for nationwide syndication. When Wallace first told me a few days earlier that he was coming to Biloxi, I’d been astounded. “Perp?” I asked. “But why?”

  Old Bob sighed. “He’s doing a show on the Dixie Mafia in a couple of weeks, and he’s headed down to the coast to film part of it.”

  “Bob, there is no Dixie Mafia.”

  “Me and you know that, and I imagine Perp probably does too. But when’s he ever let the truth get in the way of personal advancement?”

  “Damn.”

  “And he’s gone to preaching, too.”

  “What?” I asked, utterly astounded.

  “You heard me right. Some denomination of them tongue talkers went and ordained him as a minister about six months ago, and now he’s got a little warehouse over in Fort Worth that he’s turned into a church. But the way he’s been packing them in on Sundays he’s gonna have to move up to something bigger. ...”

  “My God, Bob. What in the world is that son-of-a-bitch after?”

  “I don’t have any idea, but I do know that he’s aware that you’re down there in Biloxi foolin’ around with Sparks and the rest of those people. In fact he’s picked up on all the stuff we’ve been putting out about you. He’ll probably touch on that socalled pending indictment.”

  “Thanks. That’s just what I need.”

  “Well, it may work to our advantage. I mean, after all, your cover story is just going to look more authentic if it gets on the air. It’ll give you a lot of credibility with that bunch.”

  “Yeah, except that by the time this mess is over every decent person I ever knew, my daughter included, is going to think that I’m a dirty cop and a criminal psychopath who killed his own partner.”

  “Well now, Hog, we’ve all got some character flaws to cope with. ...”

  “Up yours, Bob,” I said.

  I heard his thin laugh across the miles. “Settle down, son,” he said. “We’re going to make it all come out right in the end. And I’ll go over and have a quiet little chat with Kathy and put that matter right if you want me to.”

  “Please do. And tell her to keep quiet about this.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t give her no specifics beyond letting her know that it’s all bull.”

  “Thanks, Bob. I appreciate it.”

  “The pleasure is all mine. That girl’s a peach. And I’ve got one more piece of information for you, for what it’s worth.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “Texas Red called me two days ago. He’d been trying to reach you for about a week, but nobody would tell him where you are. Then he remembered that me and you are friends. Anyhow, he said he’d been worried about you since you and your lady friend visited Mingo’s the night before you and I met.”

  “Really?” I asked, surprised.

  “Yeah, the poor old fellow was trying to help you, and in a way it might amount to something. Apparently he’s got some good contacts or something, because he did some asking around. You know, hustlers and players, the kind of people that hang around Mingo’s. Anyhow, what he heard was that Bobby Culpepper was the one that killed Danny Boy.”

  “Damned if that isn’t a new wrinkle,” I said, completely taken by surprise. “But if he’s the one who did it, he sure as hell didn’t get the stuff from Danny’s last heist. The feds found it in an air express locker up North.”

  “I know all about that,” Bob said. “But from what I’ve been hearing here lately, Danny Boy had burned a lot of people in the year before he got it.”

  “Could be,” I said. “Jasper told me that Danny had burned him in a score they’d done together.”

  “I thought that made sense at first too, but Red’s source claimed it was because Danny had been
playing both sides of the fence.”

  “What in hell?” I asked in surprise.

  “Yeah, snitching for somebody. It sure as hell wasn’t anybody I know. But I’m inclined to put some stock in what the old man said. Bill Decker himself once told me that if Red ever came to me with information it would be good. He wasn’t really an informant himself, Bill claimed. Just sort of a concerned citizen at times, especially if he needed to protect some of his family or friends by getting somebody off the street.”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” I said.

  “Even if it’s true, I don’t see how it affects our project one way or another. But since Culpepper is part of the crew you and Sparks are putting together I thought you ought to know.”

  “Thanks, Bob,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

  “Anytime, Hog. Be careful.”

  I was touched by old Red and his efforts to cover my back, and the notion that Bobby Culpepper had killed Danny Boy Sheffield was really not too outlandish, just surprising. At one time the two of them had been as close as the two Harrys. But like Jasper said, friendship didn’t mean a lot in their world.

  Not knowing what else to do, I put the matter out of my mind for the time being. Then a few days later Perp Smoot rolled in to town in a chauffeured Lincoln Continental that looked like a hollowed-out artillery shell on wheels, equipped as it was with bulletproof glass and shuttered windows. Why a TV newsman needed such protection remained a mystery to me, but I suspected that it was merely a part of his persona, a ploy designed to enhance his image.

  His mere presence on the coast generated a considerable amount of press activity. In those days it was a major event for a place the size of Biloxi to be the subject of a TV documentary, even one that wasn’t a network project. The local paper did a front-page story on Smoot, and his arrival was covered by a crew from the Jackson NBC affiliate that aired the segment on the nightly news. He quickly checked his crew into the Tradewinds Motel, then disappeared from sight. The next evening the mystery of his absence was revealed on the regular 6:00 P.M. nightly news show from the capital: he’d traveled up to Jackson and been granted an exclusive interview with Inspector Curtis Blanchard of the Mississippi State Police.

  Thirty-one

  “Smoot’s forming what?” Nell asked me that evening. She and I and Aunt Lurleen were in the library of Lurleen’s house enjoying our after-dinner sherry.

  “An outfit he calls Christians for a Crime-Free America,” I told her.

  “Oh, my!” Aunt Lurleen said.

  “But why?” Nell asked.

  “Why not?” I responded with a grin. “After all, your friend Blanchard has endorsed the thing.”

  “I mean, what’s the purpose of such an organization?”

  “He wants to stamp out crime,” I said.

  “But that’s impossible,” she objected. “I was a prosecutor at one time, and I ought to know.”

  “I’m sure Smoot does too, but I don’t have any idea what his real motive is. Beyond self-promotion, of course. He’s good at that.” I went on to give them a quick rundown of his career.

  “Just one arrest?” Aunt Lurleen asked. “And you say that now he’s become a minister of some sort?”

  “That’s right,” I replied.

  “Humph!” she sniffed. “Sounds to me like he’s trying to make a lot of money somehow.”

  “I’m sure that’s part of it, Miss Lurleen,” I replied. “He’s never been one to shun the finer things in life, but I don’t think that’s the whole story with Perp.”

  “Then what is?” Nell asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” I told her. “But what I’m curious about is this sudden friendship between him and Blanchard.”

  “It does makes one stop and think,” Nell said. “From what I’ve heard Curtis has never granted an interview before.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “And it’s strange because he’s turned down some really respectable journalists in the past. And now he opens up to this Smoot guy. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  She was right: it made no sense. Which was the reason I decided to call Blanchard early the next morning. I managed to catch him at home before he left for work.

  “Hog, my man,” he said expansively as soon as I identified myself. “How are you?”

  “Fine, fine ...”

  “Bob Wallace tells me everything is really shaping up down there.”

  “Well, it is and it isn’t,” I said.

  “No? But what I’ve been hearing is that—”

  “We’re getting too damn much publicity, Curtis,” I said.

  “I don’t control the press, Hog.”

  “No, but you don’t have to encourage it either.”

  “And you’re referring to what, exactly?” he asked, his voice suddenly cool.

  That annoyed me. He knew as well as I did what I was talking about. “Perp Smoot,” I said. “That’s what.”

  There came a long pause. “Listen, even a man as self-serving and annoying as Smoot can be very helpful in a crusade like ours.”

  “Crusade?” I asked incredulously. “What crusade? I’m not on any damned crusade. I’m on an undercover police operation.”

  “Yes, but the public may very well see it as a crusade,” he replied. “In fact, I hope they do.”

  “Then how do you think I should deal with Smoot? According to Bob, one of the main reasons he’s down here is to broach me about the Danny Sheffield killing.”

  “Just use your best judgment,” he said.

  “Thanks. That means I’ll probably beat the living shit out of the guy. I’ve never liked him, anyway.”

  Suddenly his voice was urgent and placating. “I realize you’re under a great deal of pressure. This is a tough assignment, and I appreciate your involvement more than you can ever know. But please don’t do anything rash. ...”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  “Listen, Hog. Smoot was going to come down to Biloxi no matter what anybody did. That’s a given. I’m just trying to make the best of the situation and use his broadcast to our advantage.”

  “How?” I asked. “The damn thing’s airing in Texas, not in Mississippi. ...”

  “Don’t be too sure about that,” he said. “In fact, I think it’s very likely that it’s going to be on that big independent station here in Jackson the night after it plays in Dallas.”

  “But why?” I asked. “What possible good can that do us?”

  “You’re not looking at the big picture. After all, this business we’re in is largely a matter of perception and funding. People like Smoot help the public perceive things in the right way, and then we get the funding we need to do our jobs. That’s how it works everywhere, and Bill Decker would have told you the same thing.”

  “Decker maintained good relations with the legitimate press,” I said. “But he’d have booted an asshole like Smoot out of his office before you could sneeze.”

  “I’ve got to work with what’s available to me, Hog. And right now, what I’ve got is Telford Smoot.”

  “Curtis, how about Benny?” I asked suddenly. “Anything new there?”

  “Not a thing,” he admitted. “But don’t you worry about that, Hog. We’ll find out who’s behind it. Now, about Smoot, I think ...”

  Realizing that I was getting nowhere fast, I tuned him out and ended the conversation as quickly and amiably as I could. I was beginning to doubt that there had ever been a Gulfport informant with information about Benny’s murder. It was just a ruse he’d dreamed up to make me think I had a personal stake in the Biloxi operation. Or something. He was spinning out a tangled mess, and I couldn’t figure out why. Or where it would end.

  For lack of anything better to do, I tried Lardass’s technique of watching the walls for a while. It got me nowhere even faster than talking to Blanchard. However, an idea had been growing in my mind for several days. I sprang from my chair and grabbed my coat and keys. An hour later, sitting
amid the dust and clutter of the Biloxi newspaper morgue, I was convinced that while my idea might be a good one, I needed more resources than I could find locally if I was to follow up on it. I stopped by my place long enough to call Nell and tell her I would be out of touch for the day. “Stop by the house when you get back,” she said.

  “It may be real late. ...”

  “That’s okay. I’ll have you something good to eat.”

  I agreed, and a few moments later I was on the highway racing northward toward Jackson.

  Thirty-two

  Now a thriving state capital of about 150,000 inhabitants, the end of the Civil War had seen Jackson in ruins, so thoroughly destroyed by fire that it was derisively called Chimneyville for several years afterward because little else was left standing. The war ended the reign of the old aristocracy, but there are always those who can create wealth—either legally or by other means—and during the remaining decades of the nineteenth century the city was rebuilt. Today it’s a pleasant southern town on the verge of being ruined by population growth.

  It was obvious to me that I needed someone with more research experience than myself, so I decided to bypass the newspapers and try the public library, which was only a couple of blocks from the capitol building. A pair of giggly young women at the circulation desk gave me directions to a Miss Harper, a reputedly fearsome creature with the title of reference librarian, who inhabited the lower reaches of the building. In appearance she turned out to be Everyman’s nightmare vision of the chief clerk down in hell—tiny, elderly, bespectacled, and severe. But she responded well enough to my good manners and businesslike attitude. “You’ll find what you need in the vertical files,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t understand.”

  “What we call the vertical files are really just folders of newspaper clippings,” she said. “On timely subjects.”

  “And the state police is timely?” I asked.

  “Here in the capital it is,” she replied with a nod. “Particularly in the last few years with the civil rights marches and those Klan murders up in Neshoba County.”