THUGLIT Issue Nineteen

by Mike Miner

  Gil Tanner had driven the road past the hollows that afternoon. Said wasn't nothing in those woods except for turkey buzzards and county police. "Whoever they found in those hollers," he said, "is dead as nails."

  But all of it crashed to a standstill when Sheriff Axel, in yonder booth, stood and motioned for Frances to come over. She held the handle of the coffeepot with both hands as she scuttled across the floor, quilted in silence.

  "More coffee, Sheriff?"

  "Do me a favor," he said. Instead of looking at her, he stared down Roy, who hung his head shame-faced. "Seems can't nobody here at the table give me a good reason why anyone in this whole town might kill Sam McCarthy."

  "He's dead?"

  Sheriff Axel breathed through his nose. Turned his head slow up to look at her. His eyes went soft.

  "Yes ma'am," he said. "He's dead."

  "I didn't even know his name was Samuel," she chuckled through her nose. "Since we were kids, we always called him Old Man. Old Man McCarthy."

  "Yes ma'am." Sheriff Axel's hairline hadn't moved an inch in a good sixty years. He scratched at it. "Can you think of anybody that might have cause to kill him?"

  "Oh, no sir."

  Sheriff Axel threw another look at his deputy, then again at her. He put a hand on her forearm. Cold hand, but warming.

  "If you had to guess..."

  Frances nodded. "If I had to guess," she spoke in a low voice, "then it could be near anybody. You see, his wife used to grade even harder during the draft, knowing two points either way would send a boy off to the jungles of Vietnam. Folks like my brother. The other one…name of Danny. You remember him, don't you Roy? Viet Cong got him in seventy-two, with just a couple months to go."

  "I see." The Sheriff wiped his mouth with his thumb and forefinger.

  "Or maybe folks like the Churchills, or the Hergenraders. They got cause too. I mean, how many times have folks asked him to take down that wall at the edge of his property? At the end of the hairpin on Creechville Road? You know which one I'm talking about because folks have asked you time and time again to have him take it down because kids crash their cars into it all the time. Drunk maybe, joy-riding sure…but that boneyard on Nokomis is full of folks who met their end at the edge of the McCarthy yard."

  It was Sheriff Axel's turn to hang his head.

  Frances set the coffeepot on the edge of the table so she could talk with her hands. "It could have been any number of folks who voted some way he didn't like and had to catch hell for it. It could have been his son, who may be a touch queer and unhappy with how his daddy talks in town about him. It could be a drifter, for all I know. Point is," she said, "it could be damn near anybody."

  It wasn't until she'd returned the coffeepot to the burner that she realized she'd never filled their cups. She saw the look on everyone's faces—the folks at the counter, in the booths, Larry, who let the eggs on the flat-top burn—and decided it best she took a quick break.

  "I'm going outside to smoke," she said, with just as much sass. She grabbed her jacket, because she intended to sit a while.

  She hadn't returned through the back door ten seconds before Larry nodded his head toward the booth recently vacated by Jack Linden, now occupied by Branch Gilmer and his wife. Both keeping their elbows so-high off the table as to avoid the mess they so obviously despised. They looked about, as if lost, until Frances showed up to wipe it clean.

  "Y'all busy tonight, huh?" asked Branch.

  "Something like that," she said, wiping clean the table and scooping crumbs into the palm of her hand. "Y'all know what you want?"

  "A couple minutes with the menu would be nice," said Gilmer's wife, all put out.

  Frances huffed and thought, Fine, take all the time you need, but Gilmer himself held up a finger, pointed it down the row of booths to where the two lawmen sat.

  "They say anything about what happened to the Old Man yet?"

  "Not to me they didn't and even if they did, I got a restaurant to run."

  Frances cut it short. Stopped at the booth next to them. Stacked the plates and silverware and dirty napkins and asked if they had any room for peach cobbler—made fresh today. They waved a hand to hush her, as they were trying like hell to eavesdrop. She shifted the plates to one hand, while fishing out their ticket from her apron pocket with the other. Had just slapped it down when the cowbell on the door rang again.

  In walked Deputy Zeke Harris. Folks in town called him "Harmless" on account of they were always saying, "Don't worry about ol' Zeke, he's harmless." He'd enjoyed a reputation as a bit of a thug in his earlier days. A long scar ran the length of his face from some shit he did a long time ago. Few people knew why. He still got in trouble from time to time down at Club 809 where he was known to tie one on and shoot his gun in the air.

  "Afternoon, Sheriff," he said as he came alongside their booth. He dusted snow from his hat by slapping it against his thigh. "We turned some stuff out there that ain't looking so good."

  The entire room sucked a sigh and Sheriff Axel shushed him. Motioned with his finger for Deputy Rains to scoot over and let Harmless into the booth. From that point forward, they spoke quieter.

  "I don't know why they just don't tell us all what's going on," said Larry, back at the dish pit. Frances pulled each plate off the stack and set it into the sink. "It's not like we're a bunch of idiots."

  "Don't sound like they know everything that's going on," she said.

  "You see Harmless come in?"

  "Me and everybody else."

  "He's got Sliver outside in his truck."

  Frances cocked her head. "Sliver?"

  "Lester Foreman's hunting dog," said Larry. "They probably borrowed him and had him down in those hollers looking for the Old Man."

  "That's so awful," she whispered, but didn't mean it. Didn't mean it one bit. She wiped mashed potato or something like it off her fingers and onto her apron and hustled again into the dining room of the All-Niter.

  "If I was them," said her brother, "I'd blame it on a colored boy."

  "Shut up, Able," she hissed. "Don't start that talk. Not tonight."

  She and the men in the booth didn't take their eyes off the lawmen. Watched as Harmless reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out, something in a plastic baggie, and set it in the middle of the table.

  "That's Hank," whispered Gil Tanner.

  "Who's Hank?" asked Frances.

  "McCarthy's stick."

  "His stick?"

  Able nodded, not looking away from yonder booth. "His walking stick," he said. "John Parton gilded a skull and had it put on top of his mahogany walking stick. Give it to him one Christmas maybe fifteen, twenty years ago."

  "He didn't go nowhere without it," said Captain Munson.

  "They say he named it after the singer, you know, Hank Williams." Able shrugged and scratched his head. "I know different, though. He named it after a brother he had, got snakebit when they was kids."

  "Died?" asked Munson.

  Able nodded slow.

  "Looks like it's just Hank," said Gil Tanner. "Like maybe the skull clean broke off."

  "Hey Frannie, maybe you ought to go over and see if you can find out what's going on," suggested her brother. "Find out maybe what he's got in that other bag."

  "Other bag?"

  It was all anyone was looking at. Harmless held it a little closer to his jacket. Where he'd plain dropped the one holding the head of Hank onto the table, the other one he barely removed from his jacket. Whatever was in it had the Sheriff's full attention.

  "Be right back," said Frances. She grabbed a cup and filled it with Coke from the fountain. Walked it all the way over to yonder booth. Caught a bit of their hushed conversation as she came closer.

  "—wouldn't be the first time we pinned it on a colored boy," Rains was saying. "I say we just do it and get it over with."

  Sheriff Axel kept his voice low. "We ain't pinning it on a colored boy. We got two good black families just joined th
e Methodist church and folks are already screaming end times as it is. We blame this on a colored boy and we'll have a full-blown race riot."

  "How about we blame it on a bear?" asked Harmless.

  "There ain't been a bear in Lawles County in over fifteen years," said the Sheriff. "Best if we—"

  Frances set the Coke in front of Harmless and drew a quick breath. She saw it, the thing in the baggie. Purpled and busted and colored with blood.

  Fingers. Two bloodied fingers. Busted free, just below the second knuckle.

  Sheriff Axel saw the look on her face and motioned with his hand to put the baggie away. Harmless didn't catch on, so he said, "Goddammit, Zeke. Put that away right now."

  "Sh-Sh-Sheriff…" Frances had no idea what to say. "Sheriff, you want some more coffee?"

  "No thank you." He stared hate-fire at his two subordinates. "I'm real sorry you had to see that."

  Frances could say nothing. She put one foot in front of the other and shuffled back to the kitchen. All the blood had run free from her face. She walked with a hand out in front of her, as if maneuvering the innards of a cavern. All heads turned slow along with her as she made her way across the room and through the kitchen and again, out the side door.

  She was on her second cigarette when she heard that little cowbell ring and alongside the building came Able. His mouth wide enough to catch bats and eyes to match. He was already shaking his head when he sat down beside her, careful to keep reasonable distance between the two of them.

  "What was it, Frannie?" he asked. "What did you see?"

  "I don't care to talk about it."

  "I understand," he said. He gave it a minute, then scooched an inch closer. "Maybe you'll feel better if you get it off your chest."

  "They'll be looking for me in there." She lit another cigarette with the end of the one she had going. "I better get back to work."

  "Ain't nobody thinking about food right now," said Able. "They'll be fine a minute more."

  She didn't move from her spot, except to smoke.

  "This town," she said. "It used to be a nice place to live."

  Able nodded.

  "What do you think happened to it?"

  "Still is," he said. "I reckon."

  "No, really." She turned to face him. "What do you think happened to it?"

  He shrugged. "Mill closed. Lots of folks left. Good ones did, anyway. Left some of the others."

  "I'm being serious."

  "So am I." He sighed a heavy sigh. Behind them, during the summer, a heavy curtain of kudzu hung, but now was only a wall of leftover snow with nowhere to go. There still was little traffic on the highway out front of the diner. Things were quiet, as things often were after the passing of a winter storm.

  "Folks looking out for themselves."

  Frances cocked her head. Squinted her eyes. "Huh?"

  "That's the culprit, I'd suspect. Folks looking out for themselves. When that damned mill was up and running, we had all kinds of folks moving from all of the country to get in here, because of all the jobs. Folks from places that didn't hold dear the same ideals we got here. Brought in their ways and when it was time for them to move on to the next place—well, they left those ideals behind."

  Frances wished the cigarette were longer. She told herself if she lit another, she might as well drop a match down her throat.

  Able went on. "I suspect we learned our lesson. Learned all about what happens when you let outsiders in. Learned what happened when you stopped taking care of your own. I know when that mill opens up again, I'll do whatever it takes to make sure them all are kept out, if you know what I'm saying."

  "I got to get back in there." Frances dropped the butt smoking to the ground where it hissed in the melting snow.

  "Frannie..."

  "What, Abe?"

  "You going to tell me?"

  "Tell you what?"

  He wiped his nose with his sleeve. "What was in the baggie. The one Harmless brought in."

  "No, Abe," she sighed. "I didn't get a good enough look at it."

  "That's bullshit and you know it." He stood. Stepped up to her like they were kids again, playing in the yard. "I seen how white you got after you left that table and I know damn well you saw it. Something scared you and you got to tell us what it is."

  "Let the police handle it, Abe. They—"

  "The police?" Able laughed a good one. "Police ain't going to handle shit. Police are those three assholes in there, and if any of them ever had a single thought worth a shit, it'd die a lonely death, let me tell you."

  "Abe, I got to—"

  "If somebody killed Old Sam, we have a right to know."

  "And if I knew anything," Frances put her hand on the doorknob, "I'd tell you. Now if you don't mind, I got to get back to work."

  She certainly did. Things were in such disarray, someone passing through would have thought a bomb had been dropped in the diner off the highway. The telephone rang, would not stop. Larry filled coffee at the counter while hash browns continued to smoke on the flat-top behind him. Branch Gilmer and his wife still hadn't ordered and were pretty sore about it. All the while, two poorly-minded children raced each other from one end of the diner to the other. All that and Bruce Springsteen on the juke, which alone would have been enough to drive her crazy. She pulled her apron off the hook and slipped back into it.

  "Not a minute too soon," said Larry. "You okay?"

  "Let's get this shift over with," she sighed.

  The Gilmers were less forgiving. They went on about waiting for a half-hour to order, how the table wasn't clean, how this and that and she had half a mind to rip into them when Able came back in, demanding to the Sheriff and everybody else in the room that he had a right to know what happened out there in that hollow.

  Roy waved off the Sheriff, half-stood from his seat in the booth. "Abe, I don't think this—"

  "You don't think nothing, half the time," shouted Able, shutting Roy up and seating him back down in his booth. "Sheriff, you better start talking, because this is ridiculous. Now we all know Old Man McCarthy was found dead. Now we want to know why you got Hank all busted up there and we want to know what's in that other little baggie."

  Sheriff Axel slipped out of the booth. He held up both his hands like it was him surrendering to Able. "Mister Rains," he said, "maybe it's best if you took your seat."

  "I ain't taking my seat," said Able. "Not until you tell us the truth. Now did somebody kill Old Sam?"

  "We're investigating every possibility right now."

  "Who is?" Able pointed to the deputies. "These two? Shit."

  Frances came alongside him and tried to coax him back to his booth. He pushed her aside.

  "Lorne, I don't know how y'all do things over in Tucker," Able said, "but around here we take care of our own. We're perfectly capable."

  "Oh, don't I know it." The Sheriff dropped his hands. They hung at his side, right one close enough to snatch that revolver, if need be.

  "Beg pardon?"

  Sheriff said, "Don't I know you folks like to take care of your own. Kind of like when I came into town to see about that cocaine Tucker schoolkids were buying over here, bringing back into town. Couldn't nobody tell me where it was coming from. Not Roy back there, of course. I expect that from him. But I couldn't find a damn one of you could tell me about that cocaine."

  "I don't know nothing about no cocaine," said Able. "I hope you ain't insinuating—"

  "No. No, I ain't insinuating nothing. I believe you may not know anything about it. But you might have an idea about who burned that black church ten years back. I had to come over here too, just behind those Richmond news trucks, and couldn't nobody tell me jack shit about that either."

  Able knew good and well when it was time to shut the hell up.

  "And I imagine I can spend a good amount of time knocking on doors and popping in that bar up yonder or hanging out in the barber shops and still won't be anywhere close to finding out anything about who kille
d Sam McCarthy, will I?"

  Didn't nobody say anything. Some hung their heads, some had jaws dropped to the floor. Frances set down the stack of dishes on top of the cigarette machine and fished a couple quarters from her apron. She picked up the receiver to the pay phone and dropped them in.

  "All y'all are just as guilty in my book," said the Sheriff. "You may not be selling the cocaine or lighting the match, but you all got blood on your hands because you could have done something about it and you didn't. So no, I ain't got nothing to tell you…any of you, because you ain't got nothing to tell me."

  If anybody had anything to add to the matter, Sheriff Axel gave them plenty opportunity to add it. He stood there, put his eyes on every single person in the room, whether they looked back or not. When he was good and done, he returned to his seat in his booth as Frances hung up the payphone.

  "Frannie," whispered Larry, "these eggs are getting cold."

  "They're going to get colder," she said without slowing down. She snatched the coffeepot from the burner and stopped at the Sheriff's table.

  "Just the check, please," said the Sheriff.

  "Police don't pay," she said, filling his coffee. She didn't leave. Stood there until finally the Sheriff looked up at her and that's when she said, "Barney Kerns."

  "Do what?"

  "Barney Kerns," she said.

  "I don't know who that is." He looked across the table. Rains and Harmless shrugged.

  "You boys know Barney," she said, disappointed. "Big boy. Hangs out around the 809, I know you seen him out there, Harmless."

  Harmless hung his head.

  "What about him, Miss Mabley?" The Sheriff took a patient, warm tone with her.

  "He's the one who done it."

  "What?"

  "You heard me," she said. "He's the one who killed Old Man McCarthy."

  Roy's knees jarred the tabletop from underneath. The spoon rattled in his saucer, the salt shaker toppled.

  "You don't know no such thing," he said.

  "Sure I do," she said. "I got a friend at Presbyterian over in Deeton. Works the emergency room."

  Sheriff shook his head. "Yes ma'am?"