Dutch Curridge

by Bryant, Tim

  "Who's the dumb guy?" I said.

  The best way to avoid a fight is to act like you're itching for one. I doubted Merkely's boys were smart enough to think that far ahead, but it was my best hope. I was clearly outnumbered. Even if Crawford was willing, I was't not sure he could punch his way out of a meeting of the Junior League.

  "That's Pasquale."

  I laughed, and Pasquale no doubt thought I was laughing at his name, but what amused me was Merkley answering the question as if he was painfully aware of Pasquale's dumbness. At the same time, I knew he wasn't there to challenge me to an I.Q. test.

  "Hey," I said, "I know you'll be tickled pink to know that I found a copy of the record I was looking for."

  "If it was one of mine, I expect payment," Merkley said. I wasn't sure whether he was talking to me or Crawford.

  "I have all of your money here and accounted for," Crawford said.

  "Not so damn fast," I said.

  "Oh shit," said Crawford.

  "You got that right," said Merkely.

  I explained that I was not trying to foul up a business transaction, but, seeing that it had recently come to light that Merkley might have some information I needed, I wanted to request a mutually beneficial exchange.

  "How much does our boy Crawford here owe you?" I said.

  He counted on his fingers and said the tally was thirty dollars, plus half of whatever I paid for the Nu Grape Twins. And he would need a receipt.

  "What say I give you fifty, you tell me everything you know about a young man named Whitey Calhoun, and we call it squash?" I said.

  "And what makes you think I know a goddamn thing about Whitey Calhoun?" he said.

  I took a deep breath and mulled over my next move.

  "Sheriff Stubblefield sure led me to believe that you do."

  Merkley laughed and the thug with the broken nose followed suit. The way he shook his shoulders reminded me of a punching bag, and I really had to suppress the itch to hit him.

  "What I know about that damn boy wouldn't fill a thimble, compared to what the Sheriff knows," he said. "I will tell you one thing I know for a fact. Ain't no way in hell the Sheriff led you to believe any damn such thing."

  I suspected that I'd made a bad move. I wondered if I should go ahead and punch the big palooka, take him by surprise.

  "I used to work for the guy," I said. "You'd be surprised how handy good contacts can be."

  He laughed even harder, which amused the thug to no end, and I was starting to plan where the first punch was going to land. The other one was pensively looking out the front door, as if he'd been appointed look-out guy. I was thinking I could clock him before he even knew what was shaking, eliminate the entire left flank. Might wipe the grin off the right flank's ugly mug.

  "I read a newspaper story or two about that poor fella," Merkley said. "I see why you're working for yourself like you say. Seem to remember you being a chief suspect. Am I right?"

  "Only because Sheriff Stubblefield set it up that way," I say. "I don't have no beef with you, Merkley. You might be as bad as everybody says you are, but you never claimed to be any different, at least to me. Now Sheriff Stubblefield is a whole 'nother barrel of apples."

  "Your beef is with him," he said, "you need to talk to him."

  "When is the last time you saw the boy?" I said.

  "I never seen him in my life."

  "You could help solve a mystery, bring down the whole sheriff's department. Be a real true hero."

  You could tell that this line of reasoning held some fleeting appeal for him. He stopped laughing for an ever-so-brief moment. Even the look-out guy was looking me dead in the eye.

  "I could do that, couldn't I?" Merkely said.

  "You could do that, boss," said the flat nosed right flank.

  "Let me tell you what," Merkley said. "I'll give it some thought and get back with you."

  "Should I come by your place in a day or two?" I said.

  "No," he said. "Believe me, I know where to find you."

  Merkley took his twins and high-tailed it, not even dealing with Crawford. Crawford wasn't too happy. He knew the guy would be back. Merkley knew where to find him too.

  42

  I brought Slant Face along with me when I paid Mrs. Kimble a visit. Not that he didn't tag along almost everywhere I went, but I was taking extra precaution this time. The more I tried to forget the rumors that were swirling, the more I felt like a high school kid on his way to pick up a prom date.

  The Kimble apartment was on the end of Magnolia close to Mistletoe Heights. Kind of place you wouldn't want to live unless you were either a criminal or a cop or maybe both. The fact that he had been trying to get away from his job and could only run that far spoke volumes. I didn't recognize any of the cars, so I considered that there might be no one at home. Slant spotted an old man working in the yard, though, so I pulled up.

  "Anybody home?” I said, pointing to Apartment 301.

  "Mrs. Kimble lives there,” he said. Just about the time she came walking out onto the porch.

  "Mr. Curridge,” she said. "I was beginning to think you'd stood me up.”

  "I wasn't sure anyone was home,” I said.

  "I had Vester's car taken down to Fast Mike's,” she said. "I'm planning to trade it on something a little more suitable.”

  Fast Mike had a used lot on Belknap, just a couple of blocks down from the jail. He was known to give folks in law enforcement all kinds of sweet deals. Mike wore a spangled jacket that looked like one I'd seen Tex Williams and his band wear a night or two at the Crystal Springs Ballroom. Claimed it was a Mexican jacket that he'd gotten off a descendant of Santa Anna.

  He called himself Fast Mike was because he promised to get you out of your old car, into a new one, and back on the road in record time. Everyone else called him that for other reasons.

  As we walked across the yard, I noticed that all the leaves had been raked up. Our footsteps fell so silently that it made me uneasy for some kind of sound to fill the void.

  Barbara Kimble left us at a kitchen table within eyesight of Kimble's suicide. While she rummaged loudly through a back room, I noticed that a new carpet had been put down, the walls given a fresh coat of white. There was a new painting on the wall, as well; one of Jesus floating across a field with his arms outstretched, a flock of ominous looking sheep giving him back-up. Part of me wanted to look behind it for a bullet hole, just to make sure we were in the same place.

  The kitchen table was made of heavy oak, and the floor seemed to buckle ever so slightly beneath it. I was just about to challenge Slant to a round of arm wrestling when she returned, holding a yellow envelope.

  "Mr. Curridge,” she said. "May I call you Dutch?”

  "Well, " I said. "it's not my real name but you won't be the first.”

  "You were there when my husband shot himself,” she said. "Would you tell me what he said to you?”

  "I tried to stop him,” I said. "Slant here can tell ya. We were both there.”

  "There's no way you could've stopped him, once he set his mind to it,” she said. "I couldn't even make a difference.”

  "He didn't say too much, ma'am,” I said.

  "I need to talk to someone who's familiar enough with the Sheriff's Department to know how things work there,” she said. "At the same time, I need someone who's far enough from it.”

  "No conflict of interest,” I said.

  "You could put it that way,” she said. She sat down across from me, lit up a cigarette, and handed the pack to me. I'm an Old Gold man, but Lucky Strikes will do. Anything except menthol will do. Doctor Phelps had tried to switch me to menthols one time, on account of them being better for my lungs. I decided breathing was overrated.

  "I have something here that may interest you,” she said, placing the envelope on the table. "Vester wrote it. He planned to go above Sheriff Stubblefield's head with it. He got scared and changed his mind at the last minute. But somebody needs to know.”
>
  She picked it up and opened it. For a second, I thought she was going to read it to me. Instead, she pushed it across the table. I was wondering if it would be forward of me to ask for another cigarette. Mine was quickly turning to ash in my hand. I slid four pages of paper from the envelope. A neat, squared off handprint took one side of each page.

  "Let me know if you need another cig,” she said. I didn't want to look eager. Within moments, I had totally forgotten about the cigarette.

  43

  To Whom it may Concern:

  On the early morning of November 25, 1953, I transported Terrance Calhoon, also known as Whitey Calhoon, to Fort Worth County. I had relayed to Sheriff Stubblefield that I'd picked Mr. Calhoon up in the southeast area of Quality Grove and had discovered that he was carrying a newborn infant. I determined it to be his son, also the son of my own granddaughter, Della Sue Kimble. I escorted the young man and infant to Harris Methoidst hospital, where the baby later died. I spoke with Sheriff Stubblefield while there, and he asked that Calhoon be brought in on suspicion of endangering the infant.

  I concluded that this was not a case of foul play, as I had been with Mr. Calhoon since shortly before the infant's death. I had also helped him to secure proper materials to protect and perserve the body for burial.

  Before bringing Calhoon in, I allowed him to drop the body of the infant at a place of relative safety. I felt that the body would not be safe if brought in with Calhoon.

  We processed Calhoon and placed him in an empty cell. Once there, Sheriff Stubblefield began to verbally assail the young man. I admittedly joined in. I was extremely angry at Mr. Calhoon for the pain and hardship he had caused my grandaughter, Della. I was also quite angry at Sheriff Stubblefield, as he had threatened to write me up for in-subordination for not bringing the baby in. I told him I didn't think the Fort Worth Sheriff's Department should be in the business of preparing for funerals. There was nothing left for us to do concerning this dead baby.

  Stubblefield seemed satisfied at this point, and we both left the man in his cell for the remainder of the night. The next morning, Stubblefield was looking at either releasing Calhoon or charging him with something. Because we had little to actually charge him with, Stubblefield made a deal with him. Again, one I seen him make with Negro inmates many times before. If Calhoon would agree to leave town and not return, he would not bring charges.

  Calhoon complained that he couldn't leave his family. Stubblefield finally arranged for him to place a phone call to let his mother know that he was leaving town.

  Calhoon place the call to his mother later that morning and passed word that he was leaving.

  Broadway Baptist Church supply us with Bibles that are to be handed out to each inmate upon release. As I had Calhoon's Bible in my hand, I hit him across the face with it. When he tried to raise his hands to protect himself, I mistook it to be an attempted attack and punched him in the stomach. I'm not sure exactly how many times I hit him. When I stopped, Mr. Calhoon was lying on the floor of the release room. He was bleeding from the nose, and his eyes were swollen shut. I kicked at him and told him to get up. This bought no response.

  Stubblefield said, 'look what you've gone and done now,' and grabbed the book from me. He dropped it onto Calhoun's head, then stepped on it, shifting his full weight onto him. I beleive this move fractured the young man's skull from just behind his left ear across to his right eye. His right eye appeared to be partially torn from its socket.

  We made the decision not to seek medical help for Mr. Calhoon, as we feared it would lead to repercussions. We returned him to a solitary confinement cell and made sure that access to him was limited.

  I couldn't bring myself to visit the cell and never saw Mr. Calhoon again after that morning. I beleive that Sheriff Stubblefield periodically checked in on the inmate and may have attempted to feed him on at least one occassion. Over the course of three days, a couple of other people learned of him being there, although I don't beleive they knew the circumstances. After three days, Mr. Calhoon was taken from the jail. It is my understanding that he died of his injuries and was taken to some location by Stubblefield. I do not know the circumstances of this and am merely speculating.

  In the days since this episode, the relationship between myself and Sheriff Stubblefield has grown strained enough that I am currently seeking employment elsewhere. While I am not trying to evade my own responsibility in the injury and subsequent death of this young man, I am not sure how to proceed. I have little confidence, at this point, that justice will be served in this situation. I do beleive that the family of Whitey Calhoon deserved to know what happened.

  I am writing this account of my own valition and with the understanding that my own actions demand accountability. It is my wish that this be the first but not the final step in that direction.

  Signed,

  Vester P. Kimble

  Former Deputy Sheriff,

  Fort Worth Sheriff's Department

  44

  "I hear you've been gettin' pretty thick with Barbara Kimble,” Ruthie Nell said. I was sitting in Peechie's, working at one of two pickled pig's feet on a paper napkin and wondering if they'd come from the same pig.

  "In the words of Dandy O'Bannon,” I said, "I do what I have to do.”

  "You have to eat that?” she said.

  "Why?” I said. "You want one?”

  Someone knocked a nickel into the jukebox and punched up Kitty Wells. Ruthie sat down and ordered a beer.

  "So you've got news?” she said.

  "Big news,” I said.

  "You asked her to marry you?”

  "Bigger.”

  I handed her Vester Kimble's signed report and finished off the pig's feet while she read. I watched her face as she made her way through it, almost seeing each word reflected in her expression. It was the reason I loved playing cards with her.

  "Will it stand up in court?” I said.

  I was ready to take Kimble's report to Judge Lynch. Ruthie was against acting too hastily. We still didn't have a body. What judge, what grand jury would possibly convict a sheriff of murder without presenting a body?

  "We have to take this to Dandy,” she said. "He may be able to put us on the right track.” It sounded reasonable to me. As much as I hated the thought of walking into Terrell, it would do me good to see the guy again. Furthermore, it might do him some good to see us. And he deserved to know we were making headway in the case.

  45

  I knew something was wrong. It wasn't so much the look on Ruthie's face. It was just a strange feeling that came over the room, as if you had looked up and found that a whole new family had moved into your house while you were preoccupied. In this case, the whole new family was sitting down at my table. And I recognized them immediately.

  "Mr. Merkley," I said. "So nice of you to join us."

  "We were in the neighborhood," he said, glancing at his two accomplices. I recognized one as being the quiet one from the night at the record store.

  "Where is my old friend, Pascale?" I said.

  "I brought someone I thought you might like to meet," Merkley said. "This is Charlie Heck. Lieutenant Charlie Heck of the Fort Worth Sheriff's Department."

  "Lieutenant," I said, "glad to make your acquaintance."

  I didn't recognize the guy, but he looked a bit like the one who had been chatting up Mrs. Kimble at the courthouse. I figured he must be one of Stubblefield's new recruits. Probably handpicked by Merkley himself.

  "Mr. Merkley says you appreciate the power of being a well-connected man," Charlie Heck said.

  "I know a few people, here and there," I said. I told him that I had once had his job, but that I didn't care much for it, so I left it for better things. He didn't seem impressed.

  Patrick brought over a Jack Daniels and Dr Pepper, Merkley ordered a whiskey and dispensed with the small talk.

  "I thought about your proposal," he said. "Even talked it over with my friend Charlie here."

&n
bsp; He explained that Charlie had joined the force from Galveston, that he has been sent in by the Texas Mafia down there to clean house.

  "Why the hell does Galveston care what happens way up here in Cowtown?" I said.

  I was told this long story about the Texas Mafia throwing a hurricane party in Galveston and hiring some out of town girls from a place here in Hell's Half Acre. Things turned ugly when one of the girls got in a catfight with one of the Galveston girls. Tempers flared, shots were fired, one of the girls was hit. Not killed or anything, just uglied up a little. Somebody up here took offense, said that he'd lost a valuable commodity and needed to recoup some losses. He was thinking fifteen, twenty thousand might smooth things over pretty good. He wasn't so happy with the three thousand that finally showed up.

  "I don't see how this has a damn thing to do with me," I said.

  "Let's just say you know the guy in question," Charlie Heck said.

  "Stub," I said.

  "Remind me to never play bingo with this guy," Merkley said to Heck.

  It didn't shock me that Stubblefield would have his hand in that particular cookie jar. He had it in lesser ones. Girls and money too. What wasn't to like?

  "I still don't get it." I said. "Why are you telling me this?"

  "Here's the deal," said Merkley. "Your sheriff friend is making money under the table from every Tom, Dick and Harry that comes along and finds himself in trouble around these parts. And while I might love to help you with your little negro boy problem, I have to weigh the situation. Right now, Sheriff Stubblefield is one of my most consistent income sources."

  "In other words, you've got enough dirt on him to make him one of those, what you call it, valuable commodities," I said. I had long suspected that Merkley wasn't above a little blackmail and extortion. I was a bit surprised that he'd come right out and say it to my face. Or at least hint so broadly.