Nobody Said Amen

by Tracy Sugarman

  “All the shots hit my truck on this side, away from the Commie house. None came from over there.”

  Butler grunted as his eyes swept from the school to the road to the cotton fields. “So they came from the cotton. All we got to do is look through this haystack for a goddam needle with a name on it.”

  “Or names. Preacher’s sure there was more than one.” Impatiently, Lonergan pushed the nearest cotton plants aside and began to search between the rows. “You move east a hundred yards. I’ll move west. ’Less the shooters were marksmen, they must have been in the first few rows.”

  “You think they left us a note? Shit, man, it’s a hundred degrees out here.” He stopped short, bending down to pick up an empty five-shot stripper clip. “Well, lookee here. A souvenir, Lonergan!” He walked toward the deputy and stooped again. “And some 30-06 shell casings! You ever see this kind of stripper clip?”

  Lonergan squinted and then nodded. “It looks like the stripper clip from an old Enfield rifle. My grandpa brought one of those back with him in ’18. Now who the hell still has an Enfield? Most of them got replaced by Springfields during the first war. Grampa said they were glad to unload the old Enfields, so he brought his home for hunting.” He continued his search and finally found more empty casings at a spot opposite the near end of the house. “Damn if the preacher wasn’t right. Two shooters, and they had us in a barrel.”

  Sweating and hot, they returned to the cruiser. Lonergan cranked down the windows and headed for the station. He grinned. “The mayor’s gonna be really pleased about this.”

  Frowning, Butler lit a cigarette. “Another merit badge for Mr. Wonderful. You know, Lonergan, the guy who found the clip and then found the casings was your partner. You might tell the mayor.”

  “What do you take me for, partner? Course I’ll tell him. We talk a lot, me and the mayor.” He grinned at Butler’s sour face. “One thing I don’t get, though. Those shooters had us in their sights, close range. They shot out the tires, the windshields.” He turned to look at Butler. “How come they didn’t take us out?”

  Butler watched the cotton rows cart-wheeling by. “Don’t know, but they’ll be damned sorry they didn’t.”

  Old Oscar Kilbrew was dozing in his hammock when the cruiser pulled up at the curb. Lonergan led the way to the broad veranda, and when he spotted the old man he tapped gently at the screen door. “Mr. Kilbrew, sir, could we have a minute of your time?”

  Kilbrew blinked and then raised his head, struggling to sit erect on the sagging hammock. “That you, Deputy Lonergan? Come on up. Who’s that behind you?”

  “Deputy Butler, sir.”

  “Always glad to see Shiloh’s finest. Can I get you gentlemen a cold drink?”

  Lonergan looked at Butler then said, “No, sir. We’re only stayin’ a few minutes. We’re investigating a shooting incident that took place out at that Communist school the other night. Thought maybe you could help us.”

  Butler said, “I remembered you were one of the old veterans of World War I still alive in Shiloh, you and Senator Tildon. But that don’t help us much. We’re tryin’ to figure out who else came back to this town from the war who might have brought back an old Enfield rifle with him. You any idea, Kilbrew?”

  “It’s Mister Kilbrew, Deputy. Why d’you want to know that?” The reedy voice was coldly sarcastic. “How you so sure that two old veterans still alive in Shiloh didn’t do the shootin’? Think we’re too old to do that? You think Senator Tildon and I couldn’t have shot up the Communist school if we wanted to?”

  Butler flushed, his eyes darting to his clearly embarrassed partner. “Like we said, just doin’ an investigation.”

  Lonergan stepped forward. “I’m sure the deputy didn’t mean no disrespect, Mr. Kilbrew.”

  The old man turned to face Lonergan. “Nobody seems to know their place anymore, Officer Lonergan. I know you’ve got a job to do. How can I help you?”

  “Down at the end of the Green there’s a stone marker to ‘Our Heroes from the Great War.’ Your name is on it. Senator Tildon’s name is on it. Col. Jeffrey Tollin is on it, and I know he died in 1938 when his place burned. But there are two other names at the bottom of the marker: Thomas McCormack and Percy Williams. You knew these men?”

  Kilbrew smiled. “Course I knew them. We were demobilized at the same time. We were all in the cavalry. Used to march with those boys every Armistice Day. What do you want to know about those two old colored gentlemen?”

  Butler burst out. “Niggers? Them two, McCormack and Williams, are niggers?”

  The old man turned to Lonergan. “Tell your partner that Tom Mc-Cormack was wounded rescuing our horses when we were in the Argonne, and was decorated for it. He was made corporal and his buddy, Percy Williams, made staff sergeant in the colored platoon attached to our battalion.” He turned to the flustered Butler. “They are not niggers. They are veterans, colored veterans.”

  Lonergan suppressed a thin smile. “Whatever you say, sir. Butler and I are just tryin’ to find who might have shot up the trucks at the school the other night. You think those two have old Enfields?”

  “Probably. Most of us dragged ’em home when we were demobbed. Think I still have my gun out in the shed somewhere. Just can’t imagine either of those two old timers shootin’ up anything bigger than a possum!

  Mc Cormack and Williams hardly even go out to chop anymore.” He paused. “Why in the world would they go out to shoot up trucks? Only thing I’ve heard about Deacon Williams is that he’s keepin’ that Newsweek reporter. Heard it from my boy over at the gas station.”

  Lonergan said, “It’s time for us to go, Butler. We’ll go talk to them, Mr. Kilbrew. Thank you for your help.”

  Ted was talking with Percy Williams in the tiny living room when he saw the cruiser pull up on the road. He watched Officer Butler step warily from the car, eyeing the sanitation ditch he had to step across in order to approach the Williams front door. Wrinkling his nose at the odor from the open sewer, Butler stepped carefully across the ditch and walked past the tin cans full of plants that brightened the nearly grassless yard. When the impatient knocking started, Ted said, “You’ve got company, Mr. Williams,” and stepped back as the deacon opened the door.

  “You sure took your time.” Butler shoved past Percy, halting as he saw Mendelsohn, pivoting back to the old man. “You Williams? Percy Williams?”

  “Yes, sir.” His voice was gentle. “I am Percy Williams.”

  “Get in the car, grandpa. Takin’ you to the station.” When Williams didn’t move, Butler said. “You hard of hearin’, nigger? I said get in the car. Now.”

  Mendelsohn stepped closer. “Why are you taking Mr. Williams to the station, officer?”

  Butler said “I don’t have to tell you why.” Looking around the barely furnished room, he said, “You’re the Jew reporter staying in this house? Jesus Christ!”

  Ted said, “Mr. Williams, unless you are put under arrest, you don’t have to go with this man. You have a warrant for Mr. Williams?”

  Butler hesitated and saw Lonergan approaching the house. Hurriedly, he blurted, “He’s not under arrest. We just want him to come to the sheriff’s office to answer some questions.”

  Mendelsohn asked “Are you willing to go with this officer to the sheriff, Mr. Williams?”

  Mr. Williams looked at him. “I don’t want no trouble, Mr. Mendelsohn. I’ll go with the officer.”

  When Lonergan pounded on the door, Butler swung it open, his hand clutching Williams’s arm. “Got the suspect right here, Lonergan.”

  Mendelsohn stepped forward with his note pad. “What is your partner’s name, Deputy Lonergan? He never mentioned it.”

  Lonergan gave Butler a withering look. “Butler. And you must be Mendelsohn from the magazine.” He noted the pad and said, “We’re just taking Williams in for some questions. He’ll be back soon.”

  When Lonergan opened the rear door of the cruiser, Percy’s eyes widened. “What you doin’
here, Thomas?”

  Tom McCormack said, “Just goin’ with you to talk with the sheriff.” As Lonergan closed the door, Mendelsohn came to the side of the car and nodded to the two men in the back seat. Butler gunned the motor and curled out onto the dirt road. Mendelsohn checked his watch and made a note on his pad.

  Lonergan eased the cruiser off the highway at the edge of the cotton field. The Freedom House seemed deserted, and the burnt skeleton of the cross stood alone in the yard. He watched the two men in the back seat, who sat motionless, quietly meeting his gaze in the rear view mirror. “Thought maybe we’d have a little talk before we get to the sheriff,” he said, turning off the ignition.

  Butler hiked himself around so he could face them. “This place look familiar?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Percy. “That’s the Freedom House over yonder. Took my Sharon there for finger-painting two Saturdays ago.”

  Butler growled, “You playin’ with me, boy? Finger-paintin’? Don’t mess with me, nigger. You own an Enfield rifle?”

  “Yes, sir. Had it since ’18.”

  Butler grinned at Lonergan. “Now we’re getting’ somewhere. You ever bring your Enfield out here when Sharon was doin’ her finger-paintin’?”

  “No, sir. Never did that.”

  Tom Mc Cormack spoke up, “Percy and I both have Enfields. Earned ’em, too. That the question you wanted to ask us? No big secret. Used to march with them on Armistice Day.” His voice was challenging. “Against the law now for coloreds to own Enfields?”

  Lonergan intervened. “No. But it’s against the law for niggers to shoot up two trucks with Enfield rifles. So the real question is did you niggers shoot up the two trucks with Enfield rifles?”

  McCormack said, “We want to talk with the sheriff about that.” Percy looked at Doubtin’ Thomas who simply patted his knee.

  Butler exploded. “You want to talk with the sheriff? Some reason you can’t talk with Lonergan and me? You shoot up those trucks, nigger?”

  McCormack said, “We might know a lot about who did the shooting, and the sheriff would probably like to know that.”

  Lonergan’s eyes narrowed. “And you think you could maybe not take the rap for the shooting by talking to him?”

  Thomas said, “Depends I guess on the value of what we might give the sheriff.”

  Butler said, “Lonergan, don’t bargain with these bastards! You want to know what they know? Let me take ’em out in the cotton for ten minutes and you’ll find out. They got nothing to give Haley.”

  Percy Williams suppressed a smile as he realized where Doubtin’ Thomas was going. “Well, Officer Butler, we could help the sheriff find who the Klan are that burned that cross over yonder.”

  Thomas said, “Bet we could do that, Percy. I sure don’t want to go to jail myself. You agree with that?”

  “Yes. Rennie and Sharon would have a hard time doin’ without me. So maybe we got to talk with Sheriff Haley, Thomas.”

  Lonergan said, “You think you know who burned that cross?” His words lingered in the cruiser as Thomas calmly looked from Lonergan to Butler.

  “Do you think Percy and I know that, Officer Lonergan? Because if we knew that, might be hell to pay for the people who burned the cross.” It was silent in the cruiser. The afternoon was fading and the first lights far across the field were coming on in the shotgun houses of the tenants.

  In a gentle voice, Percy suggested “What with those three students lynched, seems there’s a lot of pressure on the sheriff and the mayor with the FBI all over Shiloh. Don’t you think so, Officer Lonergan?”

  Lonergan looked at Butler’s enraged face then shook his head. “Yeah. I do. And I think it would be hell for those people.”

  “’Less that information got lost along the way.” McCormack’s voice was steady. “Old colored gentlemen tend to forget a lot of things. Course a lot of things worth forgetting.”

  Butler was furious. “You gonna let these niggers . . . ?”

  Lonergan finished the sentence. “Go home.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Mayor Roland Burroughs’s morning had been a disaster. First Aggie calling from Tildon’s office in Washington. Was it true? A killing of a black cop? And then the FBI thundering up the stairs like a posse. You dumb hick bastards don’t know how to protect your own cops? And the Jew reporter, asking questions. He should have known shit would happen on Dennis Haley’s watch. Indecisive bastard! Burroughs’s jacket was drenched and he felt the sun beating hard on the back of his skull as he hurried from the City Hall to the blessed coolness of the bank. Christ! Would it ever rain? He squeezed his eyes tight, visualizing the rows upon rows upon rows . . . the miles of steaming earth and blackened roots . . . his beautiful verdant Delta a-simmer with heat . . . cracking, splintering, dying of thirst. . . .

  And when he pulled open the door to his office, there, slumped in his desk chair, was the massive presence of a glowering Luke Claybourne. At the opening of the door, Luke raised his chin and muttered “Hi, Roland.”

  Panting, Burroughs pulled off his sweat-stained jacket and hung it on the clothes rack, half out of breath from his exertions. “Luke Claybourne.” The words sounded like a dirge in his ears. Jesus! Not today! “You don’t look a hell of a lot like a banker. Get out of my chair and let an aging banker-mayor do his work. Planters and other misfits sit over on this side.” He frowned, searching his desk calendar. “Did we have a date?”

  Claybourne moved ponderously around the desk. “No. I’ve needed to see you for three days and you’ve been harder to find than a rainstorm.”

  “I’ve got a town to run, Luke. You so into that Wild Turkey you don’t remember that? I’m not allowed to forget it for one damn moment.”

  Claybourne was clearly irritated. “You been talkin’ to Willy? No, I’m not into the Wild Turkey. Only drinkin’ time I have is when she’s doin’ her Jesus thing on Sundays.”

  Burroughs pulled down his tie, settled back in the worn leather, poured two glasses of water from the carafe, and slid one over to Luke. “You don’t have to wait till Sunday for this.” For the first time, he smiled. “I saw your little lady on the square two days ago. She doesn’t look like the mother of two kids, Luke! Still looks to me like the Cotton Queen of Magnolia County!”

  Luke grunted. “Part of my job description is to keep her lookin’ like that. And she takes to it like a hen to corn. You can check it out at Neiman Marcus.” Abruptly, he rose from his chair and walked to the tall window facing the square, studying the sky. “Not a goddam cloud.” When he returned, he placed his elbows on the desk and stared at Burroughs. “Roland, I got to talk to you about our 4,000 acres. Something you know something about.”

  Burroughs laced his fingers and studied the desolate man before him. “Yeah. I know a good deal about Claybourne’s. Known about it since your daddy and I returned from the Pacific in—’46? Yeah, Spring of ’46. Your grandpa met us at the gate.” He chuckled. “What kept you so long, Lucas? Killin’ Japs in Tarawa shouldn’t take that long!”

  “Roland, I got no time for reminiscin’. The plantation’s in trouble. Big trouble. You gotta help me.”

  Burroughs rose and went to close the office door, pausing to observe Luke carefully. Luke returned his searching gaze.

  “No, I’m sober, Roland. I haven’t had a real drink since the drought started. Me and my niggers been too busy tryin’ to save my crop. And the truth is . . . ” — he spat the words out — “. . . we ain’t gonna make a crop.” His eyes were stricken. “My soil’s as hard as a coon’s head, and what cotton we got is as brown as his ass.”

  Burroughs’ mouth tightened. “I’m right sorry to hear that, Luke. Right sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t help! Two years of drought? Sorry doesn’t start to spell it. I need a loan, Roland. Two fucking years! I’m tapped out, and I can’t afford to lose my field hands.”

  Burroughs remained silent. When he spoke his voice was grave. “A whole passel of places in the Delta a
re finding it tough, Luke. We’re carrying more paper on more plantations than any time in our history, and we’ve been at it since 1878. Between the drought and the Nigras talking union and continuing to leave the Delta, there’s a lot of hurt out there. You’re not alone.”

  Luke was on his feet now, his face livid. “You mean misery loves company? Well, I don’t. I got almost forty tenant families counting on me to keep Claybourne’s open. Other people have to figure out their own way to do that.”

  Burroughs angrily met his gaze. “Some of the them have, Lucas. Some of them read the signs and got out, taking a bundle of government money with them. Your friend Dick Perkins was first in line. Told me yesterday he’s selling his acreage to HUD and now the Feds are bringin’ in affordable housing across the highway where it used to be cotton.”

  “Folks like Dick Perkins didn’t grow up here, Roland. Never felt the obligations that go with having a plantation. Cotton was just a business opportunity.” His eyes were furious. “That wasn’t my daddy and that’s not me! Leave folks high and dry who have worked your land for decades? Generations? How do Christian folk do that?”

  Burroughs rose and faced him across the desk. His voice was quiet. “They do it by being smart, Luke. The Delta’s changed, is changing, gonna go on changing. And the only ones who are gonna survive are the ones who recognize what’s happening. They’re the ones who invested in irrigation systems so they could survive the drought. How many years have I been telling you to mechanize, Luke? Every time, you told me, ‘Get off my back. I’m running Claybourne’s like my daddy did. And I’m gonna take care of my niggers like my daddy did.’ Well, I can’t bail you out this time. This well has run dry.”