by Maxwell Cynn
“You're killing me, Jack. You're the best reporter I've got, the best damn reporter in the state. Don't walk out on me. We can negotiate. Contracts are negotiable, you know that.”
“Yes, and I just figured out that if I write the story and someone powerful enough wants it buried it goes in the trash bin or gets chopped up to say whatever they want. This is a deal-breaker, Bill. I'm quitting, before I write another story. When it's done I want the freedom to make sure it's printed. All of it.”
“Alright, Jack. I can respect that. But think about what you're doing. You're pissing on some powerful people and being a staff writer throws some of that heat at the paper and not just you. There's some protection in being on staff, even if there are some restrictions.”
“It didn't protect Daniel,” Jack hissed back.
Bill winced as if he'd been struck with a blow.
“I'm sorry, Jack. I'm really sorry.”
“Me too, Bill.”
Jack turned and walked out. When he got to the street he kept walking, aimlessly. He didn't bother with the trolley, he needed to walk, clear his head. He ended up over on Cedar Street, the spot where he'd found Daniel lying dead on the pavement. He sat on the curb and stared at the dark street. There was no sign of the blood that had flowed in the gutter that night. It was surprising how much blood could come out of a man.
Jack lit a cigarette. He needed to work it all out. It all tied together somehow, he was sure of that. He knew Dunhill was heavy in the local booze trade. He owned the Crown Club, obviously owned the Mayor and the Sheriff as well. That was no surprise. No one could get elected without the support of a few key families, the Dunhills among them. But he was local money. Jack didn't think locals hit Daniel and Dunhill wouldn't hit his own daughter, even if she was dating a colored. More likely that the colored boy would have gotten lynched, nice and quiet.
Steve said that Mechum worked part time at the Crown, Dunhill's club. And he worked with KLH. Maybe he was the key. If Mechum had turned coat and went with the Chicago Mob that would make sense. Both Daniel and the Dunhill girl could be mob hits; Daniel to shut him up and Dunhill to intimidate the locals. But why go after the colored boy? Maybe just convenient. Dunhill couldn't afford to let it out that his daughter's death was part of a turf war. That would hurt him more than his daughter's indiscretion. So they helped Mechum cover it up?
Maybe they didn't know Mechum had changed sides. He was playing it both ways. Maybe that's what Daniel knew, and Mechum had to kill him. Hell, maybe the Dunhill girl found out about Mechum and he killed her too. It may have not had anything to do with the local power struggles. Maybe Mechum had killed them both on his own and no one was the wiser. Both were killed with a large caliber gun at close range. Mechum had motive and opportunity. He was a better suspect than the Lumbee all day long.
Jack stood and walked on down the street to Morehead, then turned and walked east toward Mrs. Duke's place. The sun was setting behind him. He had probably already missed dinner. We walked briskly, but without hurry. There wasn't much he could do with his theories until he had more evidence.
Chapter Twelve
Jack walked into Mrs. Duke's and everyone was cleaning up from supper. Steve was walking out of the kitchen and toward the front door.
“You're late, Jack,” he said jovially. “I already ate your part.”
“There's still a little left if you want me to fix you a plate, Jack,” Catherine said, swatting Steve's back playfully.
“I'm not very hungry,” Jack said through a strained smile.
“It was nice having you over again, Steve,” Catherine said. “Don't be such a stranger.”
“You headed out?” Jack asked Steve.
“Yeah, I'm on duty at seven.”
“Sorry I missed you.”
“Yeah. Let's go out tomorrow night. I'm off and Darla will still be in Atlanta.”
“Yeah, that would be swell. Come by and get me.”
“See you tomorrow. Thanks for the dinner, Mrs. Duke.”
Steve left and Jack walked up the stairs to his room. He poured a shot of gin in his glass and sat on the edge of the bed. He'd finished two more when Helen walked in through the adjoining bathroom.
“Knock, knock,” she said. “Am I intruding?”
“No, not at all. You want a drink?”
“No thank you. You've already seen me drunk once.”
Helen laughed, but Jack didn't look up from his drink.
“You alright?” She knelt down and tried to meet his gaze.
“Yeah, just swell,” he said darkly and poured another shot.
“Want to talk?”
“I need a lawyer,” he said, meeting her soft eyes.
“What happened, Jack?”
“I quit my job at the News.”
“Why?”
“Did you see the article in today's paper about the Dunhill girl's funeral?”
“Yes. There wasn't much there. It didn't even say how she died.”
“I wrote an article, more detailed, but they took Chris' piece and spiced it up with some of mine, and gave him the byline.”
“You want to file a suit for plagiarism?”
“No.”
“Why do you need a lawyer?”
“My editor told me, under contract, the paper can use my copy any way they like because I'm on staff.”
“That may be true. There is a lot of leeway in a contract.”
“I want to make sure quitting terminates the contract. I don't want them to own anything I write from now on.”
“I'll need to see your contract.”
Jack stood up, walked over to his dresser, and opened the top drawer. He pushed aside Daniel's thirty-eight, the garter he'd caught at Steve's wedding, and pulled out a cigar box. He set it on top of the dresser and searched through the papers inside; his high school and college diplomas, his birth certificate, his saving passbook, his check book, an old driver's license, Daniel's old driver's license. He pulled out a folded stack of papers and handed it to Helen, then sat back down on the bed.
“You mind if I sit?” she asked.
He shook his head and poured another shot. She sat beside him, daintily crossing her legs, and studied the contract. Jack downed the shot and fell back on the bed with his eyes closed.
“This is a terrible contract, Jack,” she said disapprovingly after a few minutes. “Your editor was right. The articles you write for the paper become their sole property. They can edit, change, even combine them with other articles without your permission. There is a small hole, however.”
Jack opened one eye and looked at Helen's back. She was still staring intently at the papers.
“They only control articles you submit to them, or ones they assign to you. You could still freelance as long as the story idea was your own. Once you submit it, however, it belongs to the paper whether they print it or not.”
“What if I quit?”
“You have that option. Either party can terminate the agreement. However, anything you've written on assignment or have submitted to your editor, even partials, are the property of the paper.”
“Can I freelance, after I quit, or do they have rights to anything I offer them?”
“You need to terminate the contract in writing to cover yourself. You can stipulate that you have no outstanding assignments and that any future submissions will be considered as freelance work and not under this contract. Then you could negotiate a freelance contract or negotiate article-by-article.”
Jack sat up. “Okay, let me ask something a little more complicated. This story, the one on the Dunhill murder, Bill assigned me to the story the morning after the murder. I wrote the initial article. Then I wrote the one they butchered. If I write another article, on the murder case, do they own it?”
“Oh, that is a little tricky. They could argue that they have rights to it. If you sell the story to another publisher they could sue you for breach of contract. I think you could defend against it, but i
t could get messy.”
“How about the story Daniel and I were working on. I wrote the article about Daniel's death, and the trainload of gin was part of it too. Do they own that story?”
“Again, you are on very unstable legal ground. If they want to cause you grief, they could claim rights to anything that can be construed as a continuation of an assignment or article started while you were on staff. They could contest almost anything you write. They may not win, but it could frighten other publishers away from your work. Do you have a literary agent?”
“No.”
“I could write something up for you, terminating the contract and reclaiming your rights to all future articles. If it's worded right it could insulate you from future litigation, if you can get them to accept it as your resignation.”
“That would be swell, Helen. Thank You.”
“Can I use your typewriter?”
“Sure. I can't use it.” He laughed and held up his still swollen hands.
Helen sat at the small desk and read over the contract again, making notes on Jacks pad. Jack picked up another pad from the desk, two pencils from a cup, and walked over to the bed. He poured another shot and set the jar and bottle on the table by the bed. He sat down with his back against the headboard, pad of paper on his knee, and tried to write something, anything. Writing always calmed him and cleared his head.
He looked up at Helen. She was intently studying the contract. Inspired, he began a description of a plucky lawyer, sitting at her desk, agonizing over world-changing legal arguments. He noticed how the light from the harsh overhead bulb brought life to the soft auburn ringlets falling gently over her shoulders. The play of light revealed rich shades of brown and just the subtlest hint of red. Her hand rose slowly and idly threaded a stray curl behind her ear. Delicate lips quivered almost imperceptibly, unconsciously forming words as she read. She picked up a pencil, shaking it restlessly, then scratched a note. She put the pencil down and frowned, then flipped back to an earlier part of the contract. Her brown eyes were intent on the page, scanning quickly back and forth. Her eyes softened, her cheeks rose, and a smile curled on her lips.
Helen put the contract aside and quickly rolled a clean sheet of paper into the typewriter carriage. Jack could almost see the bright light dawn behind her eyes. Her long delicate fingers played across the typewriter like a master pianist's hands dancing across ivory keys. The smile grew broader and Jack couldn't stop his own lips from curling. She was so beautiful, so intense, so...
The harsh sound of sirens broke the quiet evening and shook Jack from his thoughts. He sprang up and ran to the open window. A patrol car sped past and turned down Tryon Street into town. He bolted for the door.
“Where were you going?” Helen asked.
“I'm still a reporter,” Jack said opening the door.
Jeff was in the hallway, reaching for the door to his own room, when Jack's opened.
“Hey, Jeff! Great. Can I use your car?”
“Sure, Jack,” he said, digging in his pocket for the key. He tosses it to Jack. “What's up?”
“Don't know,” Jack said, “but I'm gonna chase the cops and find out.”
Jack dashed for the stairs and Helen stepped into his still open doorway.
“Oh, hi, Helen,” Jeff said, a little embarrassed.
“Does he always fly off like that?” she asks nonchalantly, as if she were not standing in the doorway of a man's bedroom.
“Yep,” Jeff replied, calmed by her own easy air.
Jack grabbed his coat and hat from the rack and hit the door at a full run. He jumped into the topless car without opening the door and jammed the key in the ignition. The car screeched onto Morehead Street and squalled around the turn onto Tryon Street. He could see the blue lights flashing in the distance and his foot pressed the throttle hard to the floorboard. There was not a cop car made that could beat the Carby Sparrow. The roadster's tires left the pavement briefly as he ran the stoplight at Stonewall Street and barreled into downtown.
Jack was gaining on the blue lights when they turned left. He had a feeling where the excitement might be. He turned the corner and there were two patrol cars, their lights still flashing, on the street in front of the Gold Club. The roadster slid in behind one of the patrol cars and Jack cut the engine. He saw a police motorcycle parked on the sidewalk and there were a dozen or so people milling about on the sidewalk. They were all dressed in high fashion for their night on the town. A uniformed officer was questioning one of the couples. Jack jumped out of the car and made his way through the crowd to the door.
“Hey, Jack,” an officer shouted. “You can't go in there.”
Jack kept moving. He was through the outer door and down the dark narrow hall when the thick inner door opened and Steve stepped out.
“Hey, Jack,” Steve said, in an official, though friendly tone. “Turn around. Did Jenkins let you by?”
Jenkins was coming down the hall toward them.
“No,” Jack said. “I bolted through.”
“Come on, Jack,” Jenkins said. “You're gonna get me in trouble.”
“Come on, Jack,” Steve said. “Let's go out and have a smoke.”
The three men walked back up the hall and out into the cool night air.
“I've got him, Jenk,” Steve said and walked toward his motorcycle. “Jeff finally got that thing on the road?”
“Yeah, it's a blast to drive. It'll outrun anything on the road.”
Steve pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered Jack one. Jack took it and reached in his pocket for his lighter. He lit both. Steve took a long draw and let out a cloud of smoke that wafted lazily down the road.
“I don't see the wagon?” Jack noted. “This isn't a bust. What's the beef?”
“Murder,” Steve said. “Someone punched Butch's ticket in the alley behind the club. High caliber in the back of the head. Bobby heard a gunshot and ran out back. He found the body, but didn't see anyone.”
Jack wondered why he was getting the rundown so easy, even from his friend.
“One of the waitresses said she went out for some fresh air and saw Butch talking to Mechum. She slipped back inside. It wasn't ten minutes before the gunshot. It's got to be him, Jack. Same type gun, bullet in the head. Three murders in a month, two in the last week, it can't be coincidence.”
“Jeb told me awhile back he saw Daniel arguing with Mechum the day before he was killed. That was nothing out of the ordinary. But the girls up at the Excelsior say Mechum hangs out there a lot, harassing them. He got banned from the club, but he catches them outside. It all fits, Steve. All three murders.”
“And Mechum was the arresting officer in the Dunhill case.”
“And the one who found the body. Who's the detective on this?”
“McNally.”
“Does he have all the connections?”
“I told him what I know. I didn't know about Mechum messing with the girls, but I'll tell him. You know you can't report any of this.”
“Don't worry. I don't have anyone to report it to. I quit the News.”
“So what were you doing chasing sirens?”
“I still write, I just don't have an outlet at the moment. I'll write the story, but I'll check with you before I try to sell it.”
“Weren't you under contract with the News?”
“Helen's working on that. So it might be a few days before I can sell it anyway. But let me hear if you find out anything else.”
“Sure thing.”
“Thanks, Steve.” Jack put his hand on Steve's shoulder then turned back to the Sparrow.
Chapter Thirteen
Jack drove back home, a little slower than before. The exhaustion of the day, and the liquor, was dulling his mind and body after the adrenalin rush. He planned to go back over his notes with a keener eye toward Deputy Sheriff Mechum. He parked the car in Jeff's usual spot and dropped the keys off on his way to his room.
His room was empty and he could hear wat
er running in the bathroom. He opened the drawer that held his jumble of notes, notes for his various articles and books. He spread them out on the bed, looking for anything he had on Mechum, then organized them into three case files, one for each murder, and another for things pertaining to involvement with organized crime. That became the biggest pile. The deputy was all through his investigation.
There was a soft knock on the bathroom door and Helen stuck her head in.
“Are you back?”
“Yeah,” Jack said without turning.
“Mind if I come in?”
“Not at all. I may have a break in the Dunhill case.”
Jack turned and Helen was standing in the doorway with her hair up in a towel that was twisted around her head. She was wearing a soft cotton nightgown with prints of wildflowers in pastel blues, pinks and greens. The gown dipped low at her neck exposing soft pale skin that would never be seen in public. It hung softly over her ample curves and brushed the floor at her bare feet, but the buttons down the front ended at her upper thigh, leaving the lower part to slip open teasingly, exposing glimpses of her long smooth legs when she walked in.
“I was bringing you the draft of your resignation, but...” She moved toward him briskly, causing the gown to open more than it should. She didn't seem to notice. “You first.”
Jack forced his mind, and eyes, back to the piles of notes.
“Daniel and I were investigating local organized crime and government corruption,” he began. "This is all our notes. The siren I chased tonight took me to the Gold Club and another homicide. The bartender was shot, just like Daniel, just like Dunhill, with a high caliber handgun. The last person seen with him was Deputy Sheriff Mechum.”
Jack went on to explain all he knew about organized crime in the area and the recent turf war with the new Chicago group. He'd known the moonshiners all of his life. The Chicago mobsters were different. They had more money, and less morals. The locals weren't seen as criminals, just good-ole-boys who liked to drink and drive fast cars. It was almost a game between them and the local police. Once Prohibition passed Congress, and the Feds got involved, the game turned serious. That's when the gangsters came to town with their Canadian hooch.