Then Hang All the Liars

by Sarah Shankman

  The redhead didn’t wiggle a whisker.

  “I walk out of your office almost every day.”

  “But not slamming the door,” he said and smiled sweetly, anxious to change the subject. “Who’s your pretty friend?”

  “Jane Wildwood.”

  “I’m Hoke Toliver.”

  They shook hands.

  “I know who you are.”

  “You do!”

  Hoke’s chest puffed up like a pigeon’s. He was a pigeon.

  “Like I said, Hoke, I’m not doing the Savannah story. It’s not news. It’s local color.”

  “Why, that’s fine, Sam. Whatever you think. I trust your judgment. Now. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Miss Wildwood?”

  “I’m taking her over to Simmons and Lee. She’s looking for a job.”

  “A job! You’re a…ah…?”

  Hoke couldn’t take his eyes off Jane, her short black leather skirt, and the tight white turtleneck that loved her considerable bosom.

  Secretary. Sam could feel him willing Jane to say the word.

  “Poet.” Jane smiled. “And I dance.”

  “Dance!” Hoke clapped his hands together. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “She doesn’t do both at the same time.”

  “Oh, I bet she could if she wanted to. She looks awfully talented.”

  “You’re making an ass of yourself, Hoke.”

  “Would you like a job here, Miss Wildwood?”

  Jane shifted her gum like the managing editor of a major metropolitan newspaper offered her a job every day.

  “Doing what?”

  “As my assistant. I mean, to begin with.”

  It was amazing how Hoke could put a fresh spin on the line each time. As if he didn’t say it to all the girls.

  “I’m sure you’d move up quickly. Exciting game, the newspaper business.”

  “She can’t type.”

  “Good.”

  “She doesn’t get coffee.”

  “Perfect.”

  “She doesn’t speak English.”

  “Swell.”

  “You got it.” Sam smiled at the girl. “Now would you excuse us for a minute, Hoke?”

  “I’ll be in my office when you’re finished. Then you’ll come on in, Jane. Jane.” He lifted his eyes to the heavens. “What an extraordinary name.”

  “He’s always like that?” the redhead asked when the door closed.

  “Nope. Sometimes he’s worse. Just let him lick your ankle once in a while and you could end up publisher.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “Didn’t doubt that for a second. Now,” she said and put her hands flat on the desk, “when do I get mine?”

  Jane really did have a great smile when she chose to use it. “I do appreciate this,” she was saying while reaching into the world’s largest bag. It probably held her entire wardrobe, though from what Sam had seen her wear so far, she’d need only a Baggie. Now Jane was holding out a piece of paper.

  “I told you I could type.”

  “Only a little joke. So what’s this?”

  “The names and phone numbers of the girls you’re looking for. And the best I can do on the owners. I think they’re just fronts, though. Somebody else behind it.”

  “You are something, Wildwood.”

  “I try.” She leaned back in her chair, trying unsuccessfully not to look smug.

  Sam ran down the list of names. It was worse than she thought. Warren. Woodward. Delany. Graham. Teetor. MacNeil. Mitchell. Poor. Stewart. And Burkett. Blood ran no bluer.

  Jane was watching her. “So now what?”

  Sam rubbed her brow with the back of her hand and sat down. “All of a sudden I feel like I got hit with a bag of shit.”

  “But that’s what you wanted.”

  “I know it’s what I wanted. It’s exactly what I wanted. What I was willing to cut short my trip to the beach and bring you here for. Get you this job. And now—”

  And now, though Charlie had told her from the very beginning what she was going to find, she really hadn’t thought about what it was going to mean when she held a list of names she’d known all her life. Add a few more and she’d have an invitation list for a party. These were the children, younger sisters of people she’d gone to school with. They’d grown up next door.

  “Hmmmmm.” Jane’s mouth stretched tight, tucked in at the corners.

  “What?”

  “They didn’t teach us this in school. You have an obligation to write everything you dig up?”

  “Of course not. Lots of things aren’t worth printing.”

  “And this one?”

  “I don’t know.” Sam stood and took a little stroll around the desk while the professional in her scratched at an itch. “If I really wanted it bad, you could get me inside, right? Inside the action?”

  “Right.”

  “I could get pictures with a camera hidden in my bag.”

  “Sure.”

  “I could catch the bastards with their pants down. Literally.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And ruin these young girls’ lives.”

  A feature writer who’d not spoken to Sam since she’d come on staff slowed as he caught sight of Jane and then came to a complete halt.

  “Hi, Sam. How’s it going?”

  “You’re wasting your time,” she said and pointed at Jane. “He’s a transvestite.”

  “Let me ask you something.” Jane leaned across the desk without a blink as the man stomped on.

  “What?” She was already getting a little cranky at being asked hard questions by this girl whom she’d brought on staff only four minutes ago.

  “What if the names on that list were all girls like me? From Nowhere, Florida? Grits? White trash? Would you be as hesitant about blowing the whistle? Wouldn’t you just jump on the story like fresh meat?”

  Sam’s lips pursed to one side of her mouth and she stared off into the distance. Jane definitely had a point. Was she hesitating because of elitism? Was she toying with professional ethics because she was a snob?

  “It’s an interesting question.”

  “And the answer?”

  “I don’t know. I honestly don’t.” She ran a hand through her short dark curls. She stabbed the list with her finger. “This is gonna break their parents’ hearts. But if I sit on it, not only have I compromised myself, but the crap keeps going on.”

  “So?”

  Sam stopped pacing and leaned close in to Jane. “What any belle would do. Sleep on it. Think about it tomorrow.”

  “I have a suggestion. I’d call Miranda Burkett’s mother.”

  Sam straightened. “I beg your fucking pardon.”

  “You know her?”

  “No.”

  “Call her.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What are you telling me?”

  “This isn’t part of our bargain.”

  “Jesus Christ, Wildwood.”

  “You need a quarter?”

  *

  The woman who answered the phone spoke with a French accent.

  “No, Madame Burkett is not at home.”

  “When do you expect her?”

  “Not for some time.”

  “Is she in Atlanta?”

  “No, madame.”

  “Then she’s away?”

  “Yes, madame.” But there was a little bobble there. Sort of away.

  “Then do you mind telling me where I might reach her?”

  “No, madame. You cannot reach her today.”

  “Is she in the country?”

  “Yes, madame. She is in the country.”

  “In the United States of America?”

  “Yes, madame.”

  “Excuse me for being so blunt, but where the hell is she?”

  There was a long pause.

  “I am sorry you are upset, madame. She is in Conyers, Georgia. Visiting an old friend who is there i
n the monastery. She cannot be disturbed.”

  “Conyers is only twenty miles away!”

  “Yes, madame.”

  Another pause.

  Then the woman added, “I never said otherwise.”

  The humorist Fran Leibowitz once wrote that the French are Germans with good food. Sam meditated on that for a minute. Then she said, “When she gets back from her journey, would you be so kind as to tell her that Samantha Adams called from the Constitution and would like to talk with her about an urgent matter?” She said her number very slowly.

  “Yes, madame. To do so would be my pleasure.”

  *

  Sam banged out of the empty office where she’d used the phone. Jane was settling into the desk right outside Hoke’s.

  “You’re starting right now?”

  “Don’t have anything else to do. I resigned my other professional position. Where are you going?”

  “Out. What’s it to you?”

  “Jeez! Are you touchy. You reach Mrs. Burkett?”

  “That’s why I’m going—to take a walk and chill out. The only other option is to go over and personally wring the neck of Mrs. Burkett’s maid until she is dead. Do you have any other questions, Ms. Wildwood? Or would you care to tell me what you’ve gotten me into here?”

  Jane shrugged. “Nope.”

  “Good.”

  “Except…”

  Sam was already almost to the elevator.

  “Who’s this Shirley Cahill?”

  Sam’s grin was slow. “The office manager. Why?”

  “She’s all over me. Is she for real?”

  “Uh-huh. But I’m sure you’ll work it out.”

  Wildwood would eat the Squirrel for lunch. Watching the floor indicator on the elevator, Sam imagined the upcoming bout between those two. When the elevator hit the ground floor, she was already in a better mood.

  *

  From the Constitution offices to police headquarters was a quick five-minute walk, time enough for her to switch gears back to Randolph Percy.

  “Hi, Charlie.” She’d snagged him stepping out of his office.

  “Haven’t I told you never to bother me at work?” he growled.

  A couple of uniforms gave Charlie the eye as she took his arm and he escorted her out through the headquarters lobby, which, as always, was filled with a typical sample of the city’s flotsam and jetsam.

  “But, darling, I couldn’t get through the day without you,” she said loud enough for the uniforms’ ears.

  “All right, all right. Enough funny business.” They were on the sidewalk now. “What d’ya want?”

  “Come have some coffee.”

  “Uh-huh. Coffee and what else?”

  “You know Randolph Percy?”

  “Maybe.” He folded his hands over his belly. “Cost you a jelly doughnut. For starters.”

  *

  The booths at Miller’s Coffee Shop across the street from headquarters were exactly the same dark blue as police uniforms, both the plastic seats and the tabletops. A cop could disappear in there, which, Mrs. Miller having raised no stupid children, was the point. However, Charlie, who took the term “plainclothes” seriously, didn’t meld. Miller’s was actually one of the few places in town where the man in tan stood out.

  Sam watched him measuring three spoonfuls of sugar and slowly stirring. He added a swirl of cream and then the coffee matched his pants and his shirt and sports jacket.

  “Randolph Percy,” she said.

  Charlie liked to ease into things. “So you followed up on the girls at Tight Squeeze?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And?”

  “Just what you advertised. Big fishes’ darling daughters.”

  Charlie pointed a finger. “You be careful. This kind of thing you can get yourself hurt.”

  Well, she wanted to talk about it anyway, didn’t she? Here was her opener. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I got a list, Charlie. It wouldn’t take much to nail their sweet little asses to the wall.”

  “And you got cold feet.”

  She stared down at her own coffee. “Yeah.”

  “Well, Jesus, hon. You know I gave it to you in the first place ’cause the blues don’t want to touch it. No reason you should bring the whole north side down on your head unless you want to.”

  “It’s not because I’m afraid of their daddies, Charlie.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No, really. I’m not scared of them. It’s more like now that I’m into it, I’m not sure what the point is. Stripping isn’t illegal. Well, maybe for minors. And going home with somebody? Hell. The more I think about it, it’s just scandal. Stuff for the checkout stand rags. Not that I don’t think it should stop.”

  “You think that because of who they are? If they were trash, would you call ’em whores?”

  “Jesus! That’s the same thing Jane asked me.”

  “Who’s Jane?”

  “A girl who—it’s too long to explain. I’ll bring her by one day. You’ll love her.”

  “So this Jane got your dander up?”

  “Yeah. She asked me if the girls weren’t society, would I hesitate.”

  “So? Would you?”

  She took a long pull on her coffee. “I think so.”

  She thought back to seeing Jane on that stage, her hair flopped over to hide her face. Even if she hadn’t known her, would she have printed her name in the paper for having earned a few bucks horizontal? Probably not. She hoped what she’d do was try to figure out another way to bust the owners. Shut the place down.

  “Why do you think they do it?” Charlie asked.

  “Who?”

  “The society kiddies.”

  “Hell, I don’t know.”

  “Well, ask yourself, is smearing their names all over the front page going to make the situation any better?”

  “It’ll make them stop.”

  “That the only way?”

  “What are you, Charlie? The good fairy or a cop?”

  “That’s what they call me, hon. The good fucking fairy. Listen.” He put his big paw over her hand. “Just let it sit for a bit. Forget about legality. You’re no virgin when it comes to that crap anyway. Let it stew. You’ll do what’s right.” He blew on his coffee and signaled the waitress for another doughnut. “Now what does Percy have to do with this?”

  “Nothing. The Percy business is something else—for a friend.”

  “With you, it’s always something else.” He wiped red jelly from his chin. “Sweet old Randy Percy, huh?”

  “What’ve you got?”

  “I call the type a Dapper Dan. Ladykiller.”

  “Literally?”

  Like Jane Wildwood, he had an audible shrug. “Don’t know. Could be. Looks like. He’s a grifter, Sammy, fancy-dressed scum.”

  “Been down?”

  “Nah. Too slippery. He’s a lawyer, you know. Those guys you can’t pin anything on even with a smoking gun. It’s all a game to them.”

  “He hasn’t practiced for years.”

  Another shrug.

  “So?”

  “So, he makes money off little old ladies. Plays the horses, been mixed up with some pretty high rollers, and got pulled with some heavy bookies, but nothing that stuck. You know about the magic?” He went on when she nodded. “That crap’s just for flash. Though over in Macon, he did a healing number once and raked in some bucks.”

  “With a magic elixir?”

  “Don’t confuse me with big words. Hocus-pocus. Nobody in his crowd much cares as long as he doesn’t scare the horses.”

  “Or kill anyone.”

  Charlie slurped and swallowed. “Don’t know that they’d care about that either. He’s a slick old bird, Sammy. I wish you luck. Go home. You’re looking a little tired.”

  He was right. It had been a long drive and a longer day.

  “And don’t worry about that girlie business.”


  *

  First thing the next morning she dug out the name and number in Decatur that Dan Clayton had given her—the woman who had complained about Randolph Percy romancing her mother. The line was busy for half an hour. Finally, she got lucky.

  “Miss Finch?”

  “Yes? What do you want?” The voice was whiny, already about to hang up.

  Sam said who she was and why she was calling. “So I thought maybe I could come over and talk with you. I promise I won’t take much of your time.”

  “Well, I’ve got to get my hair done. It’s Thursday, isn’t it?”

  “All day.”

  “What?”

  “Thursday, yes, it’s Thursday.”

  “Well. My appointment’s not till this afternoon. I guess I can talk with you about Mother. It doesn’t matter now anyway.”

  “Pardon?”

  “She’s dead, you know.”

  Son of a gun.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. May I ask when she passed away?”

  “Three months ago.”

  Just about the time he’d started with Felicity. He didn’t waste time. She’d give him that.

  “Miss Finch, as I said, I’m calling because a friend of mine is involved with Percy now.”

  “Then I don’t blame you for wanting to do something. I tried. But I couldn’t do a thing.”

  Sam didn’t doubt that. Patsy Finch sounded flat, like she was out of air, almost too tired to hold up the phone. She decided to forget the face to face. She’d take what she could get on the phone.

  “Sheriff Clayton said that his office had received your inquiry forwarded from Atlanta. What was it about Percy that made you call the police?”

  “Wouldn’t you be worried if out of the blue a man started buzzing around your mother like she was sixteen years old? And if she started turning over everything she owned to him?”

  “I would indeed. What did the police say?”

  “They said they’d look into it. But they didn’t do a thing.”

  “Did they ever get back to you?”

  “Yes. But it didn’t do any good.”

  “What did they say? Who was the officer you talked with? Do you remember?”

  “No, but I have it here somewhere.”

  Sam could see Patsy Finch waving her hand around an airless room piled with things she just couldn’t get to. And never would.

  “And the officer said?”

  “He said that they really couldn’t do anything. That Mr. Percy hadn’t committed any crime.”