by Maxwell Cynn
“You look after everybody, Jack, you always did. Let someone care about you.”
He looked away. He knew she was right, in a way. It sounded just like the arguments he had with Steve, but he couldn't do it. He couldn't put people he cared about in danger. He would have taken the bullet for Daniel, if he had been there. He should have been there, damn it. He couldn't stand over Steve's grave, look into his wife's face. He sat back and lit a cigarette.
“How did you meet Daniel?” she asked, breaking him back out of himself.
“I was a senior at Duke and he was a freshman in the journalism program. He was only seventeen, a smart kid. I was his mentor. We kept in touch and when he graduated I talked him into coming to the Charlotte News. He had offers from papers all over the country. He was a damn good writer.”
“Sounds like a great guy.”
“You would have liked him. Everyone liked Daniel. He was just like that, you know?”
Helen gently stroked the back of his hand as he talked and a warm gentle wave moved through him. He wanted, more than he should, to take her in his arms, more than was proper. He looked into her eyes and was lost in their depth. He forgot where they were, what they were talking about, the noise of the crowded restaurant, and he moved impulsively toward her soft sensuous lips. He touched her cheek, felt the warmth when the skin blushed beneath his fingers. His fingers combed through her hair, the silk of it startling, and their faces were so close he could feel her breath against his lips, quick and shaking.
“Would you like any desert, Missa Spaulding?” the waitress asked with a slight giggle in her voice.
“No,” Jack said, still staring into Helen's wide, inviting eyes. “We should get back to work, Helen.” He forced the words out through shuddering breath.
“Yes,” she whispered, unblinking. “That would probably be best.”
“We can get together tonight and compare notes.”
“Yes. Tonight,” she breathed into his mouth.
He pulled back, reluctantly, and tried to compose himself. The young colored waitress was still standing patiently at the table. She put the check down on the table and smiled. Helen fussed with her hair and straightened her blouse with nervous hands.
“Thank you,” Jack said to the waitress, and picked up the check. He smiled wanly at the mischievous gleam in her eyes.
“Shall we?” He stood and offered a hand to Helen. They walked up to the counter and he paid the bill, then they left the restaurant, still hand-in-hand.
“I'm going to see if I can talk to Mechum,” Jack said when they were out on the sidewalk.
“You think he will tell you anything?”
“It's worth a try. Are you going to see Locklear again today?”
“Yes, I'm on my way there now.”
“See if you can get him to open up. If he's scared, tell him we can't protect him if we don't know what we were protecting him from. He has to come clean and stop holding back.”
“You be careful, Jack. Deputy Mechum sounds like a dangerous man.”
“I'll be alright.”
“See you tonight.” She said it almost like a question.
“Yes. If I'm not there in time for supper, I'll see you after.”
Helen walked toward the street car, but seemed reluctant to release his hand. He almost followed along after her. Their fingers parted and she moved off down the street. Jack took a deep, shuddering breath and lit a cigarette. He hadn't felt so shaky and weak kneed since a twenty-year-old ringer almost knocked him out in the junior boxing championship. He'd shaken it off then and dropped the SOB. He didn't think the old one-two-three would save him again.
Jack jumped the trolley west to Biddleville. He asked around and found out Mechum's favorite haunts. From what he'd heard, the deputy was spending a lot of time in the community and had his hand in several area businesses, not in a legal sense. He was dirty, but Jack already knew that. He walked up toward the college and waited at a small store where Mechum came almost daily for a free afternoon drink and to harass some of the local girls who gathered there just before classes let out.
It wasn't long before a couple of young colored girls strolled up. Jack walked over holding two Nehi Grape sodas. “You girls thirsty?”
“You a little out of your neighborhood ain't you, white boy?” one of the girls chided.
“I'm just trying to be friendly,” Jack said and held out the bottles.
“What, you a cop or somethin'?”
“No, actually, I'm a writer for the Charlotte News. Spaulding, Jack Spaulding.”
“Well, I don't read much. What the hell you want?”
“Be nice, Tira,” the younger, and cuter of the two Jack thought, spoke up. She reached for one of the bottles. “Thanks.”
“You're quite welcome.”
“Quite welcome,” Tira mocked. “What's some rich ass white boy want up in here?”
“Just a little pleasant conversation.”
“Well, I ain't got no time for no damn pleasant conversation. I'm going across the street, Matty. Ain't none of them college boys comin' over her with this white boy hangin' around.”
“I'll be there in a minute,” Matty said. She didn't take her eyes off Jack.
“Suit your damn self,” Tira fumed and strutted across the street.
“Guess I'll drink this one myself,” Jack said with a smile. Matty grinned sweetly and took a drink.
“Are you really a writer?”
“Yes, really. I'm working on a story for the paper. You know anything about a Sheriff's Deputy that comes around here a lot? Deputy Mechum.”
“Yeah, everybody knows Mechum.”
“Not a very likable cat, I take it?”
“Not around here.”
“I've heard he likes young colored girls and likes to rough them up.”
“That sounds like Mechum.”
“You know anything about the young white girl that was killed recently?”
“Yeah, she was around a lot. She like to spend time at the college. Hard to compete with somebody that's giving it away. She didn't deserve no bullet though.”
“They say her Lumbee boyfriend pulled the trigger.”
“No. Mark wouldn't never hurt her. He was in love. She had him tied with blinders on.”
“You know who might have wanted to put a bullet in her?”
She stiffened and seemed nervous. Jack noticed she was looking past him down the street.
“Sorry, Missa Spaulding, I gotta go,” she said in a rush. “Thanks for the soda.”
Matty bolted across the street toward her friend like a squirrel in a hawk's shadow. Jack turned and saw the imposing figure of Deputy Sheriff Mechum walking up the street toward him. The man grew like a mountain looming on the horizon as he approached. He stood a good six-foot-seven, and his close to three hundred pound physique was all muscle. The forty-five slung western style at his hip looked no larger than a thirty-eight service revolver on a normal man. The police baton hanging at his other side seemed small like a kid's toy.
Jack stood calmly drinking his soda, though his muscles had tensed into ready steel. His eyes locked onto Mechum's with a dark, sanguine humor. The man's face was hard and weathered, furrowed by years of harsh life, the sort of face that would generally lend to easy trust, a good cop's face. His eyes were the color of rusted iron with the cold empty look of a battle hardened soldier. Short cropped hair showed a dusting of gray beneath the wide brim of the Sheriff's hat.
“You lost, boy?” Mechum growled when he got closer.
“No,” Jack said casually. “I found what I was looking for.”
“What you're looking for could get you arrested for soliciting prostitution.”
“What makes you think I'm soliciting?”
“Those colored girls you were talking to are whores. Just talking to them, buying them a drink, could be construed as solicitation.”
“So, if I write a piece for the News and say that certain cops I've seen talki
ng to whores were soliciting prostitutes, that would be accurate reporting?”
“I thought I recognized you.”
“Jack Spaulding, Charlotte News.”
Mechum put out a large meaty hand. “Deputy Mechum,” he said with an unfriendly smile.
Jack took his hand. Mechum's grip was overly firm and Jack forced back a grimace when pain climbed from his battered knuckles up his arm past the elbow. He gripped the deputy's hand as hard as the bruised bones would allow, but the arrogant, self-satisfied look in Mechum's eyes told him the burly man thought he was weak.
“Such a delicate grip,” Mechum said ruefully. “I guess writers don't need strong hands.”
“No, just strong minds,” Jack replied with a hateful smile.
“I don't know,” Mechum said. “Some reporters don't have enough sense to keep their necks out from under the hatchet. I think an active imagination and a little childish fancy are the strengths of most writers.”
“Fiction writers, perhaps, but what I write is true, investigated and documented.”
“Nice little grandstand stunt you pulled at the train yard.”
“Just reporting the news.”
“Making the news is more like it.”
“I didn't load that train car full of gin, I just discovered it. Good solid investigative reporting.”
“Like I said, some people ask for the axe to fall on their neck.”
“Are you trying to intimidate me, Deputy?”
Mechum laughed. It wasn't a jovial sound.
“You'll know when I start intimidating, boy. I'm just giving you some friendly advice. Keep your nose out of places it don't belong before you get it blown off like your friend Daniel.”
“Daniel was shot from behind,” Jack pointed out darkly. “Guess I should watch my back. I guess whoever did him wasn't man enough to aim at his nose.”
Anger, no rage, filled the deputy's eyes and his face flushed dark crimson. His hand was on the forty-five caliber colt he carried at his hip. Jack took a step forward and they were only inches apart. He had to look up into the deputy's flaring nostrils.
“Is that the look that intimidates the little colored girls?” Jack prodded.
A motorcycle roared up beside them. Jack didn't flinch. Mechum's massive chest was heaving in front of his upturned face.
“How's it going, Jack?” Steve's voice rose above the rumble of the engine.
“Fine, Steve. How are you doing?”
Jack looked toward his friend out of the corner of his eye, but kept a harsh gaze on Mechum. Steve's voice was calm and steady, but his hand was on his thirty-eight.
“Deputy Mechum,” Steve said, conversationally, “is there a problem here?”
“No problem,” Mechum growled without moving a muscle.
“Need a ride back into town, Jack?” Steve asked.
“Yeah, that would be swell.”
Jack turned, his shoulder brushing against Mechum's chest, and walked toward Steve. He threw his leg over the seat and looked back at the deputy who was standing like a statue where he'd left him. His eyes were still fixed on where Jack had stood. Steve twisted the throttle, leaving Mechum in a dust cloud, and sped down Trade Street back toward town. He stopped at the Square and Jack stepped off.
“You trying to get yourself arrested? Or worse?” Steve's voice was angry.
“Just doing my job,” Jack said calmly. “What were you doing in Biddleville? That's not your beat.”
Steve turned off the motorcycle and leaned it onto the kickstand. He pulled off his helmet and hung it on the handlebars.
“I ran into Helen and she told me you went looking for Mechum.”
“You're not even on duty, are you?”
“No. I'm still on graveyard shift. But the chief likes for us to use our bikes and wear our uniforms when we're kicking around off duty. It makes it look like there are more cops in the city."
“What time you go on duty?”
“Seven tonight.”
“Come by Mrs. Duke's and eat dinner. She'd love to see you. It's been awhile.”
“I might. Darla's still down to Atlanta visiting her folks. I'm just hanging around.”
“Why were you looking for me?”
“Oh, yeah. I did a little digging. Your friend Mechum doesn't just make extra money harassing coloreds. Deputies have to register part time work with the County Clerk. He's been doing some security work for a local shipping company.”
“No,” Jack said. “He can't be that stupid.”
“Want to bet? KLH hired him as a part time guard.”
“So how will that play after the G-men busted the gin shipment?”
“He removed them as an employer yesterday. Now ask me who else he works for.”
“You're killing me,” Jack laughed.
“Bouncer at the Crown Club three Saturdays a month.”
“Deputy Mechum just keeps popping up in the most unlikely places.”
“I also talked to a friend at the Crown Club. The three witnesses they hired, and claim have worked there since before the murder, were hired at the request of the Dunhill family. Seems they have partial ownership. The rumor is, they don't want the memory of their little girl sullied by her association with coloreds. They're pressuring the DA to settle the case so nothing comes out in trial.”
A kid walked down the street with a large bag over his shoulders. He was selling copies of the evening paper fresh off the press. Jack called him over and bought a paper.
“Don't you get them free,” Steve quipped.
“These kids work their butts off selling my work,” Jack said. He handed the kid a quarter dollar for the nickel paper.
“Gee, thanks, Mr. Spaulding!” The boy beamed and went back to shouting his sales pitch to the men and women coming from the buildings at the end of their day.
Jack looked at the headlines, then opened the paper and angrily scanned page-by-page. His article wasn't there, but he found a public interest piece buried on page five about the Dunhill girl's upcoming funeral service. There was no mention of murder, rape, colored jazz clubs, or trials. He saw a few of his own phrases here and there, adding spice to the otherwise bland feature of a rich girl's untimely death. The byline given was a green staff writer who usually provided filler pieces about Garden Club meetings and Bake Sales.
“Damn it,” Jack fumed. “They killed my story. I've got to go.” He shoved the crumpled paper at Steve.
“Where ya going?”
“To the paper,” he shouted over his shoulder. He broke into a run toward a passing trolley car and jumped on board.
Chapter Eleven
“What the hell happened to my story?” Jack growled as he stormed into Bill's office.
“Now calm down, Jack.” Bill's voice was apologetic. He rose from his chair, and held his hands up as if he were about to be overrun by a charging bull.
“Calm down, my ass! What's this shit on page five? Half of it's stolen from my article and Chris has the byline.”
“It came down from upstairs, Jack. It wasn't my call.”
Jack growled like a wounded bear and kicked a chair, sending it flying into the wall. The newsroom had fallen silent and all eyes were on the editor's office. Sally appeared in the doorway. A look of panic widened her usually soft calm eyes.
“I'm sorry Mr. McWhirter, I... Jack...” Sally stammered.
“It's alright Sally,” Bill said. “Close the door, please.”
Sally closed the door. Jack was too angry to speak.
“You scared the hell out of Sally,” Bill said in a calm controlled voice.
“This is wrong, Bill,” Jack hissed between clenched teeth.
“I know, kid. It's damn wrong and I told them that. I told them you could and should get a damn lawyer and sue us for plagiarism. They shouldn't have used any of your piece if they weren't using it all, or at least giving you credit for it.”
“What happened?” Jack managed to look at Bill, but his voice remained a
ragged snarl.
“It's not just the family, Jack. The Mayor called, and the Sheriff. I don't know who else, but the word from upstairs is that we run nothing on the murder, the Lumbee, or the colored club. Anything that might embarrass the family is not going to press. Word is, the case will never go to trial. It'll be pled out as soon as Locklear's lawyer gets back to town. The Observer's under the same pressure. This story is dead and buried, Jack.”
“Since when is the news dictated by the interest of the rich and powerful.”
“Come on, Jack. It always has been. You know that. They buy the paper and ink, they can tell us what they want printed.”
“I guess I'm just stupid. I thought the News was above that. I thought we were printing the truth.”
“Look, Jack, it was wrong to steal your copy, I'll give you that, but they can and do dictate what stories we print. That's just the way it is. And they argued that since you're under contract they already own the rights to your copy. So slipping it into Chris' boring piece to spice it up was just an editorial decision. They should have listed you as contributing, but...”
“Alright, I quit,” Jack growled.
“Come on, Jack, don't do that. I'll make them print a retraction, and say that part of the story was taken from yours. We can renegotiate your contact so they can't use your copy like that again. Work with me here, son. You're one of the best writers I've ever known. We can work this out.”
“This is a cover-up, Bill. The whole case against that Lumbee boy is fiction. They're going to send that boy to prison just to save the family's reputation because their daughter had a penchant for Jazz, liquor, and colored men. And just because her family has political friends we roll over and help hide the truth. But that's the kind of story a real newspaper should be all over.”
“You bring me that story, with proof to back it up, and I'll resign if they don't print it front page above the fold. But until you have the whole story, documented, it's just rumor and innuendo. Neither paper is going to take the political hit without hard documented facts.”
“Fine, I'll get the damn story, and I'll write it. If the News won't print it, I'll go to the Observer. Hell, I'll go to Raleigh if I have to, or Atlanta. From now on I'm freelance.”