We dashed through the rain to the front door. A gray-haired woman in a blue smock responded to our knock. If she recognized us, she didn’t say anything. When we asked for the preacher, she asked us to wait. She shut the door most of the way and left. The door reopened a minute later to reveal a pudgy man with black hair and a big smile, which died as soon as he saw us. He wore a flower print shirt, fluorescent Bermuda shorts, and black socks with no shoes. If nothing else, a call to the fashion police was in order.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” he asked. “Could I hope you’ve come to confess your sin?” The smile began to return to his face.
“We need to talk to you about the sheriff’s death,” I said.
The man’s face turned purple.
Scott wrenched open the screen and caught the wooden front door before Preacher Hollis could finish slamming it. Scott followed his fist into the house. I trailed after.
“Hey, you can’t come in here like this! Millie, call the police!” The woman reached for the phone.
“Please call,” I said. “The whole world will want to hear what we have to say.”
Millie stopped with her finger above the buttons on the phone.
“Preacher, we’re going to talk about your activities with little girls.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Specifically, when you have sex with children.”
Millie let out a piercing scream and fled the room.
I thought, She knows it’s true.
He looked after his wife, then back at us. “This is utter nonsense.”
“People aren’t going to like it when their professional Christian and resident holy man is a pedophile. They might be even more angry with you than they are at us.”
Preacher Hollis strode toward us. His little piggy eyes glared out of his gleaming pink face. He stuck the smirk on his face that so many of the righteous present to the world. “I’ll destroy the both of you. We preachers will make sure Mr. Carpenter’s baseball career is ruined. He will be too frightened to ever pitch in a major-league ballpark. The righteous will not permit it.”
“Oh, blow it out your ass,” I said. I plunked myself down on the couch. The furniture was in shades of pale green, accented with brass pole lamps.
“Our source says he has pictures of you.”
Hollis turned stark white. He breathed deeply for several moments, then rallied. “Impossible. I never touched anyone. Get out of my house!”
“How did the sheriff find out?” I asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, you do. And so does your wife. Why don’t we go through the list of little trips you’ve taken with members of your congregation and talk to all the little girls who were there? Someone will tell the truth. Did the sheriff demand money, or simply permanent support for his reelections?”
This was all bluff based on the testimony of someone I thought was certifiably insane and hopefully dead.
“You’d better leave,” he said. “No one in my congregation would talk to you.”
“Only takes one.”
We didn’t hear any more about calling the police. That, as much as his wife’s actions, made me believe he was guilty. An innocent man calls the cops and doesn’t try to trade bluff for bluff.
I said, “I don’t want to tell anyone about your little escapades. I just want to know where you were two nights ago and what compromise you reached with the sheriff.”
“I was here.”
“Now, now, we could use the phone to call the reporters. You’ve heard there’s a pack of them in town to cover Tom and Scott, the evil faggots.”
“Leave!”
Scott stooped to the phone, picked up the receiver, and handed it to me.
I punched 411. I listened to the rings on the line. “Who do I ask for first? We did see that WRIS television truck. Let’s call them first. They local or out of Atlanta?” The preacher seemed disinclined to be helpful. I asked for the number of the station. The operator told me the signal came out of Macon. I said the number out loud and let the recording repeat itself. I didn’t think the preacher’d lend me a pencil and paper. I had nothing in my pockets but my sodden wallet. I still had the outfit on that I’d gotten in the hospital. I began punching in the number.
Preacher Hollis rushed across the room and wrenched the phone out of my hand.
“You can’t,” he said. “I’m sixty years old. Even if it’s not true, and it isn’t, that kind of allegation ruins someone’s reputation. You must stop.”
“Give us information.”
“I admit nothing,” he said. “But to stop you from making these false accusations, I will say that I did see the sheriff two nights ago.”
“What time?”
“Just after midnight. I’d been to see a member of the congregation late. We’d prayed for her son, who is a drug addict. Earlier in the day the sheriff told me to meet him at midnight at Magnolia’s in Filmore County.”
Scott said, “That’s the next county south. I know Magnolia’s. It’s got a worse reputation than Rebel Hell.”
Hollis said, “He told me he knew what you said you know. Again, I wanted to avoid a scandal.”
“What did he make you promise?”
“That I would support him in every election and oppose Clara. That I had to get behind all his projects.”
We left with the nugget of knowledge of where the sheriff had started out his evening.
“Are we really not going to tell?” Scott asked as we got in the car.
“Let’s stop at the hospital, dodge some reporters, and check on your dad. Then we’ll call Todd, get him working on getting me out of town, and let him decide how to handle the preacher scandal. I have no qualms about breaking my word and ratting on him. Using a power position to destroy the lives of little kids is the most disgusting thing I can think of. Todd’ll know if they have to get the state police in here or the FBI. They’ll have to investigate and find someone to talk.”
Half an hour later we were on the road south to Filmore County and Magnolia’s.
“How do you know about all these places?” I asked. “I thought you were the saintly athlete, too busy practicing or working out or being a star to have heard about these dens of iniquity.”
“I used to hang out in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly on Saturday nights with the other kids. On hot summer evenings we’d sneak off and go places. Popular athletes get taken everywhere. We have a secret society that lets us in on all the hidden knowledge—a sort of fraternity of with-it kids who know about sex and booze and the secrets of adult life before everyone else.”
“Bullshit.”
“Sounded good to me.”
“I played sports in high school and college. We just pretty much hung out and drank.”
“Sort of the same here. I went to Magnolia’s once. Me and Peter and a few guys—I think Hiram was with us. We figured we could get in. Didn’t think they’d say no to teenage stud athletes. During the trip down we bragged about how often we’d been laid, and how we were going to get laid that night.”
“All true?”
“Mostly lies.”
“What happened?”
“They threw us out.”
We passed through numerous small towns. There wasn’t much traffic on the road. It was late on a Thursday night, and it had been raining. We drove around large puddles of standing water on the road.
“Where is this place?” I asked.
“A mile or two into Thomas Jefferson Forest, going in from the south entrance. No direct way from here—we’ll have to go around.”
We turned off the main road ten feet past a sign that read, “Grandma’s Launderette—Free Dry on Thursdays.” It looked like the sign had been there since the Civil War, but I didn’t see any building to correspond.
“Where’s Grandma’s?” I asked.
“Sign’s been there since I was a kid. Used to be able to see a foundation for a building about th
irty feet into the woods.”
We drove down a road that must not have been used since Sherman marched through these parts. We plopped into water-filled potholes and banged over and into lumps and bumps. The expensive car did its best to ease our path, but a new set of shocks would probably be in order when we turned it back in. Time and again water sluiced up the side of the car, caking it with mud that was quickly washed off by the rain.
We topped a small rise. Down the other side, I saw a ten-foot-wide expanse of rushing water racing directly across our path.
“You’re not going through that?” I asked.
“I don’t remember any deep ravines on this road. It’s just a bitty crick most of the time. Can’t be that deep.”
“Yes it can.”
“Conventional wisdom at times like this is, If the car starts to float downstream, abandon it.”
“Nobody’s going to be at the bar tonight. I vote we turn around.”
“Will you calm down? Everything is going to be fine. Plus the next step in the trail leads down this road. You want to wait until morning?”
Our headlights illuminated the pouring rain and the swollen creek. I put my hand on the door handle.
“Do I shut or open my eyes?”
“We’ll be fine.”
I kept the door open a crack as we crossed. I figured this way we could jump out of the car if it started to float away. The water barely got up to our hubcaps.
I hate it when he’s right.
A few minutes later we pulled up in front of a shack that made the Rebel Hell look like a palace. A feeble light shone over the door. A yellow neon sign in one window said “Magnolia’s.” Those and our car lights were it as far as evidence of rural electrification were concerned. The roof of the place sagged, gutters hung half off the two sides of the building I could see, and the wooden walls seemed to bulge outward. In one flash of lightning I thought I caught sight of an outhouse. Three pickup trucks nuzzled up to the walls, and at the far end of the lot was a van that seemed to be sinking into the mud.
We pulled as close to the building as we could and dashed through the rain to the door. Inside, directly across from us, was a bar that ran the length of that side of the room. It seemed to have been made of the same warped wood as the walls. Black-and-white photos of cowboys at rodeos were crammed around all the edges of a smoke-begrimed mirror, which reflected the interior. A thin strand of Christmas lights lined the ceiling on three sides. Two revolving beer ads provided the only other brightness in this part of the bar. To the right were three Formica-topped tables, each of which had enough grime encrusted on top to qualify as an individual toxic dump. A warped linoleum dance floor was just beyond them. To the left was a beautiful pool table: dark green felt encased by dark mahogany. A hanging Tiffany lamp above the table gave off the most light in the whole bar.
Three guys holding pool cues and smoking cigars looked up at us. Their glare was unfriendly. Picture three guys too ugly for even an MTV video: tight tank-top T-shirts emphasizing scrawny bodies; scruffy, unshaven, pockmarked faces; unwashed hair hanging in strands to below their shoulders; and random streaks of unwashed grime on their shoulders, necks, and faces.
Behind the bar was a tall, attractive African-American woman. She wore a starched white blouse and tight blue jeans that emphasized her sensuous figure.
We approached the bar and sat down on black-vinyl-topped stools.
The woman strolled over to us and asked, “What can I get for you boys?” Her voice was beautifully melodious and sensuous. She could sing for any opera company or drive a client wild in a scented boudoir.
We ordered two beers. She served them, then said, “Hell of a night to be outdoors.”
“We need information,” I said.
I looked in the mirror behind her. Through the murk I could see the three men who’d been playing pool, arrayed in a semicircle behind us.
9
Scott jerked around on his stool and grabbed the nearest man’s pool cue. Scott leapt right and I jumped left so we would be able to come at them from both sides. Scott bashed the pool cue against the bar. Half broke off, twirled through the air, crashed through the window, and broke the neon “Magnolia” sign. The other portion Scott brandished under the nose of the nearest menacing figure.
One of them grabbed a beer bottle by the top and smashed off the bottom against a table. The one with the world’s ugliest goatee held on to his pool cue as if it were a baseball bat. Unfortunately for my sense of prejudice, none of them wore bib overalls. Nor did any of them grin and reveal a snaggletooth.
A voice behind us said, “That’s going to cost you, son.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the African-American woman holding a sawed-off shotgun aimed at Scott’s back. She swung it slowly toward the three attackers. The woman said, “Go.”
Seconds later, they were gone.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You owe me two hundred bucks for the window, the neon, and the pool cue,” she said. “This is my place. You bust it up, you got to pay up.”
“You’re Magnolia?”
“Yep. I’ll take plastic for payment.”
I gave her my Visa card. As she wrote up the bill, I asked, “Why were they so hostile?”
“Sheriff Woodall’s death is big news all over this part of the state,” she said. “Mr. Carpenter’s been famous since forever.” She pointed at me. “Since the sheriff died, your face has been all over everywhere. Wouldn’t be a baby in a hundred miles didn’t know if you walked into a room. Sheriff was a big customer out here. People liked him. News about y’all as a couple is all over these parts. Folks are not happy about gay people in general, and you two are remarkably specific. Focuses their anger.”
“How come you helped us?”
“This here is my place. It is not easy for an African-American woman to keep it running. I sympathize with you some, and not everyone in the South is a redneck bigot.”
“We’re trying to find out who really killed the sheriff. It’s the only way I’m going to get out of here. We haven’t had a lot of luck asking questions or getting help.”
“I’ll do what I can for y’all.”
Lightning flashed through the broken window.
“Our last lead told us the sheriff came out here the night he was killed.”
“Yep. He was here.” She gave me my credit card back, leaned over the bar, and rested her elbows on the top. “Stayed for close on to an hour.”
“Why haven’t you told anyone this?”
“You’re the first ones to come and ask. He was found in Brinard early in the morning. Far as I know his being here had no connection.”
“Who’d he talk to? Did he do anything suspicious? Do you know where he went after? Did he leave with anybody?”
Her laughter rang out low and comfortable. “No wonder everybody gets hostile at you. Too many questions coming too fast.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“That’s all right—there’s lotsa pressure on you. Let me see now. He talked to about everybody, and he did nothing suspicious. He didn’t tell me where he was going. He left with …” She thought a minute. “I’m not sure I saw him when he left.”
While we asked the next few questions, she plucked a hammer from under the bar, took some tacks and aluminum foil out of a drawer. When she was done tacking over the broken window, the rain ceased coming in. It also cut off any illumination from the lightning.
“We were told the sheriff often decided not to arrest women and took it out in trade instead. Maybe an angry husband or boyfriend, or a furious woman, decided to get even or put a stop to it.”
She tapped her fingertips on the bar. “Rumors about that keep goin’ round.”
“Are they true?”
“A few of the women around here get together once in a while. We aren’t radicals or anything. We’re black and white women who meet to talk. It’s very quiet and very secret. We haven’t been able to do anythi
ng about the sheriff. We hear the same vague rumors. The only way to stop him is for somebody to be willing to stand up and accuse the bastard.”
“No one will?”
“No one would. It isn’t possible. The sheriff was very powerful. A woman would be admitting to being unfaithful to her husband. Still too many people around here who believe the woman is asking for it when she cries rape. Plus, word is he only does it to women who have committed a crime. He has that to hold over their heads as well. We’ve talked to several lawyers. Their hands were tied unless someone was willing to step forward.”
“I’d like to be able to talk to some of those women,” I said.
“I’m sorry. Even if I knew any names directly, I couldn’t give them to you. We keep everybody’s story confidential. We are sworn to secrecy. That helps make our group strong. Everybody knows that no one will tell. Opening up to you might help you, but it wouldn’t help the women involved. I’m sorry.”
I digested this refusal.
“How about husbands or boyfriends?” Scott asked. “Any of the men find out and try to get back at the sheriff?”
“I don’t know of any.”
“Preacher Hollis is the one who told us the sheriff was out here that night. We have information that Hollis was molesting little girls. We’ve got our lawyer in Chicago working on an investigation.”
“Hollis? Far as I know he’s simply a small-town fire-and-brimstone preacher. You sure about this? I can’t picture him working up the nerve to touch his own prick. He’s nothin’ if not useless. None of the women have mentioned him, ever. Are you sure your information is right?”
“I don’t know. Hollis was scared enough of us telling to admit he and the sheriff were here.”
“He could have legitimately been afraid of that kind of scandal. Guilty or not, his career would be ruined.”
“Was he here the other night?”
Rust on the Razor Page 15