The Bottom

by Howard Owen

  He goes on to compliment the anonymous citizen who gave the police the tip they needed. He praises the dogged detective work, not mentioning that they had the guy in custody and then let him go, or that Sax turned himself in.

  Someone who must be from out of town or another planet asks him the guy’s name. I see the other TV types roll their eyes. When these guys notice your ass is clueless, you’re in trouble. Everything I’ve written so far about this case has turned up on the next TV news cycle, more or less verbatim, including, of course, the alleged perp’s name. But the chief, in his giddiness, has forgotten to give us that important detail.

  “His name is Ronald Wayne Kusack,” Jones says. “He’s forty-eight years old. He has been going by the name Ronnie Sax. He worked as a freelance photographer.”

  L.D. can’t resist adding that Sax worked for my newspaper, something that everybody in town already knows.

  The chief gives us a few more useless details, and the dog-and-pony show ends. I stop by the paper and file for the ether, using the phrase “as previously reported” as often as I can.

  But at least they have the guy. Some wag has found a photo of Sax in his journalism days and has posted it on the newsroom bulletin board. Underneath, someone’s written, “Single hot guy ISO female companionship. Must be openminded. Age no barrier.”

  Normally I have a fairly sick sense of humor. Thinking of Andi, though, I rip the photo and caption off the wall, crumple them up and dump them in the trash can. Nobody tries to stop me.

  I RUN BACK to the Prestwould long enough to pick up the mail. Then it’s a two-smoke drive out to the Slades’ home. When I get there, I can see Richard’s influence. Philomena is a fastidious person, but she’s also one old woman who was trying to keep up a house and yard by herself. Richard’s been out of prison for more than two years now, released after spending his adult life to that point behind bars.

  He seems to have thrown himself into home improvement with the fervor of someone trying to make up for lost time. The yard is as green as an Augusta fairway, even after the Richmond summer that incinerates less-cared-for lawns. Rose bushes bloom. Other plants I can’t name, but look pretty, abound. The smell of mulch hangs in the air. The house itself looks as if it has been painted so recently I should be careful not to touch anything. The roof is new. The state did give Richard Slade a pittance for the oopsie of sending him to prison for twenty-eight years for a crime he didn’t commit, and he seems to have spent a goodly sum of it fixing up the home of the one person who never thought he was guilty. He told me, six months after his release, that he had offered to move his mother into a new and larger house, but she refused.

  “She said this was the only house she ever needed,” he told me at the time.

  Since my reporting helped keep Richard from being thrown back into prison, which would have set some kind of record for injustice inflicted on one innocent man, I am treated with more kindness than I deserve. Hell, I was just trying to make A1. It doesn’t hurt that the Slades are my cousins.

  He shakes my hand and gives me a man-hug. Philomena graces me with a kiss on the cheek.

  “Willie Black!” she says. “Our salvation.”

  I feel myself blushing. I have done much to blush for, but I seldom do.

  I compliment Richard and Philomena, suggesting that perhaps they will be on the city’s annual home and garden tour.

  Philomena tells me to stop lying. I can see she’s pleased.

  We have lunch and catch up. I give them the short version of Peggy’s depression. Philomena promises to come visit her soon and chastises me for not bringing her today. Peggy begged off at the last minute, but I should have dragged her over anyhow.

  Over banana pudding, Richard cuts to the chase.

  “We wanted to see if you could help us,” he says. “It’s about what they’re doing in the Bottom.”

  I knew this was where we were headed. I’ve just been waiting for us to work through the pleasantries.

  “What they want to do is wrong,” Philomena says. She is a woman of strong convictions and few words. But I know she will go at this like a pit bull with heat rash. Richard and I both know what Philomena Slade will do when she thinks justice is being disrespected.

  She has become part of the group that is trying to stave off Wat Chenault’s Top of the Bottom plans. The group calls itself Stop the Top. Maybe Philomena volunteered that she knew somebody who could get them some ink.

  “My grandmother used to tell me what her grandmother told her, and it was passed down before that, I’m sure, about how terrible it was back then. One of them, I think it was that older grannie’s mother, saw two of her children sold there, sold down south somewhere. Never saw them again.”

  I know oral histories can have more staying power than might seem possible. Philomena, though, has taken it a bit further. What her grandmother told her going back another three generations, Momma Phil wrote down.

  “Some others had things, too, that they wrote down that was told to them,” she says. “We want to get some of that into your paper.”

  I tell them I will do what I can. They take this as less than an ironclad promise. I feel bad about that, but the next thing I write speaking ill of Wat Chenault’s plans could be the last thing I write for the only place I know that will let me stay in Richmond, do honest work and pay the rent. This is going to take either some fancy dancing or the kind of courage I had more of at twenty-three than I do at fifty-three. The newborn lamb blah-blah-blah.

  The school bus pulls up outside and Jamal and Jeroy come bounding to the house. Philomena’s keeping them after school while Chanelle, her niece, works. If it takes a village, Momma Phil is certainly this burg’s mayor.

  “First grade,” she says, “and they already can read so good.”

  They whine for some quality time with Uncle Richard, who obliges them.

  “I wish he could find a good woman,” Philomena says, as he leads them over to the sawed-off basketball goal. “He’s so good with children.”

  I depart, promising her I will do what I possibly can.

  “I know you will,” she says. It is good when people have faith in you, but it’s bad when you puncture that faith. I know. I have been there. Just ask my former wives.

  I TAKE THE mail inside with me when I get back to the paper. Along with a couple of bills, two pieces of correspondence bear the imprint of my alma mater, neither of them asking me to speak at commencement. One is offering me an unbeatable deal on life insurance. The other is promising me the vacation of a lifetime in southern Italy and Sicily, spent with fellow alums, for about a month’s pay. Does my old school do anything anymore, education-wise, or is it just in the business of selling my name to as many people as possible? Well, yes, one other thing: It’s also good at cashing those checks for Andi’s education.

  The one piece of mail that looks like it could be from an actual human being wishing to communicate with me has no return address.

  Most of the mail I get from readers, I get at the office. It is more likely to start off with “Dear Shithead” than “Dear Willie.” It’s rare, these days, to receive personal correspondence at home.

  I open it. The lined notebook paper inside does not give me hope, nor does the shaky cursive script.

  However, the content definitely gets my attention.

  “You people,” it starts by way of salutation, “you think your so fucking smart. Think you got the right guy, huh? Well, then, how come I’m writing you, and it’s not coming from the Richmond jail?”

  This is a very good question.

  Of course, anyone could write a note like this. What follows, though, does make me wonder.

  “Did the cops look in their pockets?” the letter continues. “Have the cops spent those silver dollars yet? Maybe you ought to check, dumbass.”

  Not surprisingly, the letter isn’t signed. I find out later that it was mailed at the main post office branch on the North Side.

  I wait until aft
er six to give Peachy Love a call at home.

  “Tell me about the silver dollars,” is my greeting.

  Peachy is silent for a few seconds.

  “OK,” she says at last, “but you can’t let anyone know you know about this. I think they’re a little suspicious around here. The chief called me in yesterday and asked me if I ever talk to ‘that asshole at the paper.’ Of course, I knew who he meant, but I played dumb. He said your name, and I told him the only time we talk is when you’re over here sniffing around or it’s a press conference or something like that.

  “I’m not sure he believes me.”

  I assure her that the most I will do is show the cops the letter. Peachy then tells me what I need to know.

  In each of the murdered girls’ clothing, someone had left a silver dollar. The police had kept that bit of information secret, a way to separate the real killer from idiots who feel compelled to confess to crimes they didn’t commit. No one, real or otherwise, came forward until they nabbed Ronnie Sax, and the secret of the silver dollars did what secrets almost never do: It stayed secret. I’ve always known, in my heart of hearts, that Peachy doesn’t tell me everything she knows. I don’t guess I’d respect her if she did.

  “He really mentioned silver dollars?” Peachy asked.

  “Yeah. Do you think it’s possible you’ve got the wrong guy?”

  “I’ve never seen a more perfect perp. He’s got a history with girls and young women. He lives in the neighborhood. He had pictures of those two girls on his computer.”

  I point out that Ronnie Sax has no history of violence, and that no one can place him at or near the train station around the time of the murder.

  Sax looks like a natural. I was pretty much ready to pull the switch myself. Now, with the letter, I’m not so sure.

  ABOUT NINE, WAT Chenault calls.

  “I understand you’ve got that big nose of yours stuck in my business again,” is his idea of a cordial greeting.

  I tell him that, with the lawsuit and all, I am proscribed from talking to him.

  “Proscribed? Where did an Oregon Hill mulatto like you learn such big words, Willie?”

  I resist the urge to either tell him to go fuck himself or pay him a visit and give him an up-close and personal greeting. I grind my teeth and wait.

  “I know you’ve met with that Slade woman,” Chenault says. “I know what her and those other colored—excuse me, African American––women are up to. Well, it ain’t going to work, and if I see even a hint that you might be siding with her, my lawyer will be paying your new publisher a call. You get me?”

  I’ve gotten Wat Chenault for a long time. What he doesn’t get about me, though, is this: If he pisses me off enough, all the lawyers and lawsuits and threats of termination in the world won’t keep me quiet.

  “I know you and the Slades are family, sort of,” he says, chuckling. God, I want to ram his teeth down his fat-ass throat, “but sometimes, you just have to look out for yourself.”

  I hang up without exchanging further pleasantries, and he doesn’t call back.

  There is now just about zero chance that Philomena Slade’s side of the story won’t see the light of day. The only question is how.

  I walk over and ask Sarah Goodnight if she’s had any luck tracking down the missing Leigh Adkins.

  “I haven’t had much time, Willie,” she says. “Wheelie’s got me working on a three-part series on the economic advantages of developing the Bottom. I think it’s bullshit, but they do have some impressive numbers.”

  Numbers. You can lead your average journalist off a cliff with numbers. We’re all liberal arts majors, and most of us don’t know how many millions in a billion. I’m sure Chenault has some experts working on Sarah. Before you know it, they have you believing that every nineteen-dollar blouse you buy at Walmart brings $200 into the community.

  I tell Sarah to be careful, that numbers do lie.

  “I know,” she says, giving me a look that tells me I’ve slipped into preachy parent mode, something nobody wants. “I’m not an idiot.”

  I can’t resist.

  “How many millions in a billion?”

  She asks me what that’s got to do with anything. I thank her for any help she can provide and walk away.

  An hour later, she comes by. She’s checked every online source she can find. There’s no sign of Leigh Adkins anywhere.

  “Of course,” she says, “she could’ve gotten married, changed her name, whatever. I’ll keep checking. Maybe she doesn’t want her mother to find her.”

  I concede that this is possible. I don’t think it’s probable, but the improbable happens all the time.

  I ask Sarah if she thinks Wheelie would be amenable to a sidebar to the first part of her series, one from the point of view of African Americans who don’t think paving over their slave ancestors’ graves would be such a good idea.

  She’s quiet for a minute.

  “I don’t know, Willie. Wheelie says we’ve written too much already about that side of the story. He wants this one to be about ‘positive’ stuff.”

  I tell her that positive is in the eye of the beholder. I, for instance, am positive that Wat Chenault is a grade-A asshole whose full story needs to be told.

  I am worried about Sarah. I know our new publisher had a chat with her a couple of days ago. Sarah said Ms. Dominick told her she had a great future in this business, and that she ought to go to school at night and get her MBA.

  I did not outright discourage this, and only mentioned the newspaper people we knew who had done this, and what became of them, soul-wise.

  “I know, Willie,” she said. “I know. But what am I supposed to do? I love newspapers. I want to be here when they come roaring back. I want to be part of the solution.”

  That sounds like publisher talk to me, but who am I to argue? Am I going to be able to step in when Sarah Goodnight gets laid off just because the fourth-floor bonuses aren’t high enough this quarter? Hell, I can barely look out for myself.

  “Oh, yeah,” she says as she starts to walk away. “It’s a thousand.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Millions in a billion. There are a thousand of them.”

  Maybe there’s hope after all. Nah, she probably just Googled it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  X

  Friday

  Andi is sitting on the porch outside when I get to Peggy’s place. She looks like she’s been crying.

  She phoned me this morning. My daughter doesn’t call very often. When she does, she has my attention.

  “It’s about Quip,” she said. I told her I’d be there in a flash, as soon as I woke up and grabbed some clothes.

  I walk up onto the porch and sit in the chair beside Andi’s. I find we do better heart-to-hearts if we’re not looking at each other, for some reason.

  I wait.

  “He wants me to marry him,” she says at last.

  Silly me. I think that’s good news. No, it turns out. That’s bad. Congratulations do not appear to be in order.

  “I don’t want to marry him,” Andi says. “He says he wants to give our baby a name.”

  “He’ll have a name. They won’t let you leave the hospital if he doesn’t have a name.”

  I don’t know if that’s true or not. I do know that, as opposed to 1960, when I was born sans dad, there isn’t much downside to not having a proud papa around. Must be hell on the cigar business.

  I’m no fan of Thomas Jefferson Blandford V, but I note to Andi that there must have been something appealing about the young man, since she chose to live with him for a couple of years.

  “He’s OK,” my daughter says. “But he’s not responsible. He won’t be good at parenting. I just know it.

  “Plus, I don’t love him.”

  It kind of warms my heart to hear my flinty, hard-as-nails daughter talk of love, even in the negative. It takes willpower, though, to keep from asking her if she couldn’t at least give it a try. S
urely Peggy has given her a primer on the hard road facing a single mother, even in this enlightened century. Surely even a feckless Quip Blandford would be better than nothing at all.

  I ask about this.

  “Peggy said I’d be better off on my own than with somebody I didn’t really care about. Some ‘scumbag,’ I think is how she put it.”

  Great, I’m thinking. Thanks, Mom. Guess you figure on having your granddaughter and great-grandson as permanent houseguests.

  I ask Andi what Quip said when she turned down his chance at three o’clock feedings and dirty diapers.

  “He got mad. He said he was going to make sure he was part of his baby’s life, even if he had to hire a lawyer to do it.”

  I am sure young Quip, or rather his well-heeled daddy, can afford all the lawyers it would take. I make a mental note to talk to the little shithead, something Andi makes me promise not to do.

  “If you beat him up,” she says, “I’ll kill you.”

  “So why am I here?”

  “I dunno,” she says, actually extending one of her hands in my direction. Normally, daughterly shows of affection by Andi are about as common as my ordering a club soda at Penny Lane. “I guess I just wanted to talk about it with you.”

  I am proud of her, actually, for being the strong woman she’s growing up to be. She knows what she wants. She isn’t afraid of taking the rocky road of single parenthood to get there. And she’s smart enough to know a bad husband could be worse than no husband at all. Still I’m not sure she knows what she’s signing on for.

  Maybe, I suggest, the three of us could talk.

  “It won’t work,” Andi says. “He thinks I’ll be raising the baby in some slum. He said he didn’t want his son to be raised like white trash.”