That Night at the Palace

by Watson, L. D.

  Jesse ran to the corner and dropped down to the roof of the police station and then quickly shimmied down the drainpipe, this time with no hesitancy or fear of the high building. When he hit bottom he darted around the corner and almost ran directly into Jewel Stoker, who was standing solidly with her arms crossed in the middle of the alley north of the police station.

  “What are you two doing?” She asked in a tone that was not so much of a question as a demand for information.

  Jesse froze, having no idea if Jewel was trustworthy, “Ah, nothing.” He finally replied.

  Jewel stood her ground, glaring at him.

  Jesse needed to move. He didn’t have time to waste on this girl. Still he couldn’t help but want to stay a few minutes. He and Cliff spent many an hour fishing off the side of the bridge and debating who was prettiest, Jewel Stoker or Gemma or Jettie Crawford. Jesse had, until that particular moment, always argued in favor of Gemma, where Cliff held firmly in Jewel’s camp. Gemma was girlier, and though that sort of thing was often annoying, Jesse just couldn’t keep himself from looking at her whenever she was around. Jewel, on the other hand, was a bit of a tomboy. She was also a year older and often acted like it. However, at that moment as she stood in a t-shirt and a pair of jeans with her arms crossed like a parent, she sure looked pretty.

  “I won’t tell anyone, but I know you two are up to something,” she said with a devilish smile that stopped Jesse’s heart.

  Jesse’s eyes brightened. “Come on.”

  The two ran to the street, where Jesse stopped and peered around the corner. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

  Jesse looked at Jewel. “Go to the Palace and look in the door.”

  “What’s in there?”

  “Just go look and tell me what you see.”

  She hesitated and then started walking up the street past the police station. When she got to the movie theater she turned and looked back at Jesse, who stood at the corner watching. She then went past the ticket booth to the doors and out of his sight. A moment later she stepped back into sight and bent over laughing. Finally she stood upright and waved for Jesse to come.

  Jesse hesitated but walked cautiously to where she stood. Jewel started to speak but broke out laughing and pointed at the door. Jesse took a deep breath and walked to the door, carefully pulled it open, and looked in.

  Across the lobby and directly in front of the concession stand stood Able McCormack on an a-frame stepladder. Able was wrestling with Cliff’s legs, which were flinging wildly as they hung from an air vent. Alongside the ladder stood Doris Broussard the concession operator, a half-dozen onlookers, and Chief Hightower, who was also laughing.

  “Hold still, and I’ll pull you through,” Able shouted angrily at Cliff.

  “Let go of me.” Jesse heard from the vent pipe.

  “What were you doing on my roof?” Able demanded.

  “I lost my kite. Now, let go of me.”

  “You lost your kite in my vent?”

  Jesse watched as Cliff’s shoulders and finally his head appeared. He then turned wide-eyed with fear and looked at Jewel who was still laughing. He turned and cautiously began walking away with Jewel alongside. Two blocks down they turned the corner and sat down on the grass under a sweet-gum tree in front of the Methodist church,

  Jesse’s heart was pounding, knowing that he was probably in as much trouble as Cliff. Then he looked at Jewel, who was still giggling. Suddenly the image of Cliff’s legs swinging from the vent entered his mind, and he burst out laughing.

  #

  At exactly 7:00 a.m., Cliff Tidwell slung a homemade burlap shoulder bag of seed around his neck, picked a grubbing hoe from a pile of tools in a wheelbarrow, and began the start of what promised to be a very long week of hoeing and planting. The ground had been plowed a week earlier, but Cliff’s father had not yet gotten to the chore of seeding the four-acre patch. Unfortunately, as a result of the previous day’s ill-advised decision to try and steal a bag of popcorn, the job of planting that section fell to the twelve-year-old.

  As Cliff began working, his eyes focused on the long straight row of red dirt ahead, about twenty feet away Jesse lifted one of the strands of barbed wire and slipped through the fence. He then held it up for Jewel to slip through. The two walked to the wheelbarrow and took a couple of hoes. As Jesse began hoeing the row next to him, Cliff looked up at his friend.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We went up together, we might as well go down together. Besides, if you had gotten the popcorn I would have eaten it.”

  Cliff then noticed as Jewel on the third row began hoeing, “What’s she doing here?”

  “She saw us go up,” Jesse answered. “How much trouble are you in?”

  “I’ve got to plant this field. And Mr. McCormack said that I can’t come back to the picture-show until after school starts. Does anyone know you were up there with me?”

  “Everybody in town except my mom,” Jesse replied with a smile.

  Cliff began hoeing. “You know, if you had gotten caught and I got away I’d still be in bed.”

  “No you wouldn’t,” Jewel piped in. “I’d wake you up and make you come out here just like I did him.”

  #

  WASHINGTON’S FEED STORE

  ELZA, TEXAS

  10:45 a.m., Sunday November 16, 1941

  Thomas Jefferson Hightower breathed a long sigh as he shut off the motor of his 1941 Ford Police prowler. The car was the only good thing about that job. Being the chief of a one-person police department had very few perks. The brand new car was, for all practical purposes, the only perk. Six months earlier the town council had given him a choice - they could get him a car, or they could hire a second officer. He opted for the car because it didn’t make sense to have a second officer to chase down a bank robber if they had to do it on foot. Not that chasing down a bank robber was an issue. Elza had very little real crime to worry about. Mostly he had some drunk doing something stupid, like Irwin Stoker walking into the Palace with a loaded shotgun. Still, it would be nice to have a second man to take a few of the midnight phone calls or block traffic for the occasional funeral.

  For the most part, his ten years as the Elza Police Department hadn’t been all that bad, until today. For the second time in his career in law enforcement, Jefferson was in way over his head. He hadn’t had any real training. He’d been hired because his uncle Darrell was mayor and Uncle Darrell was only the mayor because Elza needed a city charter to get the state of Texas to give them money to put a traffic light where Highway 84 crossed Main Street. In the state of Texas, city charters required that there be an elected town council, an elected mayor, and a police chief.

  It seemed like the best deal in the world at the time. It was a steady paycheck, and back in 1931 there weren’t that many steady jobs. It wasn’t hard work because there just wasn’t that much crime, and he got to carry a gun right out in the open. On the downside, until recently, he’d had to drive around in a worn-out 1928 Model AA Flatbed delivery truck that he bought second-hand with the words “Bradford’s Store” permanently faded onto the driver-side door.

  It had been a long morning for Jefferson Hightower. First, at 5:36 a.m. on the one morning of the week that he got to sleep past five, his phone rang with Susie Tidwell on the line frantic because Clifford hadn’t come home last night. Susie had heard about the events at the Palace through the Cherokee County Party Line News Service, which is what Jefferson called the local rumor mill. The telephone was the most remarkable invention in history, but at the very same time it was the worst thing that had ever come along. Almost every phone in town was on a “party line,” which meant that a single phone line was shared by a half-dozen customers. This meant, naturally, that if your cousin in Memphis gave you a call, as many as six people were listening in, and within an hour, half of Elza would know that your cou
sin’s wisdom tooth fell out the same day his wife ran off with a dentist. On the good side, the night that someone tried to steal George Henry McMillian’s cash box, all it took was a single phone call and Jefferson was there in less than ten minutes. On the other hand, let some fool shoot off a scattergun at a coyote, and within thirty minutes Jefferson would be getting calls saying that no less than John Dillinger was robbing the bank. Never mind the fact that Dillinger had been dead since ’34. And then something happens like Irwin Stoker marching in the Palace, and it didn’t take an hour for most of Cherokee County to know that Jewel Stoker was pregnant with Cliff Tidwell’s baby and Irwin darn-near killed him over it. It took a good ten minutes to convince Susie that Irwin didn’t shoot Cliff because Irwin was sitting in jail sleeping off a fifth of back-forty hooch.

  Then, just as Jefferson was about to sit down to his scrambled eggs and sausage, he got his second call of the morning. Apparently Cliff Tidwell’s noisy Ford coupe was crashed into the loading dock at Nickel Washington’s feed store out on Highway 84.

  Ten minutes later Jefferson was looking at the second worst crime scene of his career. Nickel had said on the phone that there was blood and Jefferson had feared that Cliff might have knocked his head on the steering wheel. He rushed over because the poor kid most likely tried to make it home and was probably knocked-out, drunk, and bleeding someplace. Unfortunately, what had happened was a lot worse.

  Jefferson hadn’t seen so much blood since Peterson Crawford got run over by that train. The passenger seat was almost black. He didn’t think it was really blood until he touched it. Sure enough, the seat was still wet and his fingers came up red as strawberry. The confusing part was that the stuff was only on the passenger seat and not on the driver side. Could there have been a passenger that got hurt? Only the car hadn’t crashed into the loading dock all that hard; the car just had a tiny dent. Even more confusing was that Cliff didn’t leave any footprints. The only tracks around the car were Jefferson’s and Nickel’s. The closest footprints that they could find were up by the highway, nearly a hundred feet away. Cliff must have gotten out of the car and let it roll down the hill into the dock.

  Jefferson had responded to a lot of car crashes in his ten years as chief. He even had a couple with deaths, but he had never seen a crash that was anywhere near that bloody. And he certainly hadn’t seen a bloody crash without a driver around.

  Though he was a one-man police force, Jefferson wasn’t completely alone. Back when Peterson Crawford got killed, it became clear that there were times when he needed some help, so the town council began to set a little money aside so Jefferson could pay temporary deputy police officers. Shorty Newman and Hobe Bethard had agreed to be on call for those times. It seemed like a good idea to get the car out of sight before the Cherokee County Party Line News Service had half of Elza coming out to see the bloody seat. So, before he headed over to the Rose’s, he called Shorty and Hobe on Nickel’s phone and had them move the car over behind the jail and cover it with a tarp.

  Chapter 3

  ELZA, TEXAS

  June 26, 1936

  The summer of ’36 had settled into a regular routine for Jesse and Cliff. Like everywhere else in the country, Elza had been hit hard by what was being called the Great Depression. Jobs were hard to find for everyone and especially hard for a couple of twelve-year-old boys who were only looking for ways to make enough money for a few luxuries like soda pops and Moon Pies.

  Cliff, though, was more enterprising than the normal twelve-year-old and managed to work out a deal with two of the merchants. As a result the boys started their day at eight in the morning at Washington’s Feed Store sweeping and stacking sacks of feed. Then they went to McMillan’s store where they swept floors and stocked shelves. Washington gave them five cents each but from McMillan they didn’t get any cash but they got two RC’s each a day and a Moon Pie each. George Henry McMillan, who had spent his entire life in the mercantile business, often remarked that he had never had to negotiate so long or so hard as he did with Cliff Tidwell, especially for a service that he really didn’t want or need.

  Nevertheless, the two boys spent their mornings working at McMillan’s then would make their way down Main Street with ice-cold RC’s in hand and usually a Moon Pie or some peanuts. Generally by mid-morning they would meet up with Jewel, who spent the morning doing chores for her mother before joining the boys on the curb across from Anna-Ruth’s.

  “What are we goin’ to do today?” Jewel asked as if they were loaded with options.

  “We can go fishin’.” Cliff replied as if it was an entirely fresh idea.

  Jewel rolled her eyes. “How long’s it been since the last time one of you caught a fish?”

  Cliff and Jesse looked at each other and shrugged. “A couple of weeks.”

  “You know why?”

  The two boys looked at one another and again shrugged.

  “You two are morons. It’s too hot. They don’t bite when it’s hot. Even I know that. If you went in the mornin’ you might get somethin’, but not now,” Jewel replied somewhat smugly.

  “We gotta work in the mornin’s. Otherwise we couldn’t buy the RC’s.” Jesse responded.

  Jewel shook her head, “I know you have to work, and I appreciate you bringing me a RC every day. I’m just sayin’ that it’s dumb to go try to catch a fish every afternoon when there isn’t a chance on God’s green earth that you’re gonna catch one.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s kind of like us sittin’ here every day when we know good and well that Romeo’s not going to go over there and talk to Gemma Crawford,” Cliff joked, causing Jewel to laugh so hard soda came out her nose.

  “Sorry, Jesse,” she said once she regained control.

  Jesse scowled at the two, “So what else is there to do besides fishin’?”

  Cliff took a long sip of RC. “You guys want to go see a ghost town?”

  Both Jewel and Jesse perked up.

  “What ghost town?” Jesse asked, somewhat suspicious.

  “There’s a ghost town north of the highway.”

  Jesse and Jewel looked at one another and laughed.

  “Honestly,” Cliff argued, “My pa told me about it. Back in the old days there was a mining town called New Birmingham.”

  “What did they mine around here?” Jesse asked, sure Cliff was pulling one of his stunts.

  “I think it was iron ore.”

  “So what happened to it?” Jewel asked, becoming convinced.

  “Pa said that the ore played out.”

  Jewel’s smile grew wide with excitement. “How long will it take us to get there?”

  “I don’t know, an hour or two. We follow the tracks to where they curve by the shantytown and then follow that old road ‘til it plays out.”

  “My mom doesn’t want me to go out by the shantytown.” Jesse interjected, looking for a way out of following Cliff on another one of his adventures.

  “We’ll cut through the woods?”

  #

  Southern Hotel,

  New Birmingham, Texas

  June 26, 1936

  Darnell “Shakes” Blankenship was two weeks and a day past his thirty-seventh birthday when he moved into his “summer home” in the Southern Hotel in New Birmingham, Texas. The Southern was a fine hotel in its day, but unfortunately it had fallen into some disrepair as of late. The roof, for example, had fallen in twenty or thirty years prior, and the three floors of guest rooms had long since collapsed into the lobby, leaving an enormous hole. Shakes liked to think of it as his own private solarium. His room was what he assumed had previously been a kitchen behind the lobby next to what once was probably one of the finer restaurants in the little boomtown. He had to climb over the rubble to get there, but the section he used had a roof, and the walls seemed solid. All things considered, it was far better than sleeping on the damp gro
und in a shantytown.

  Shakes was a hobo.

  In the spring of 1921, Shakes, then known as Darnell, graduated at the top of his class from Rusk High School not fifteen miles away. That September he enrolled in Stephen F. Austin Teacher’s College in Nacogdoches where he studied mathematics. Most of the freshmen had their hands full just making grades, but for Darnell education was easy. When not in class he held down two jobs. Making money was important to Darnell. After two years he managed to save almost a thousand dollars and transferred to the University of Chicago where the tall, lean Texan earned a Bachelor’s degree in accounting.

  After graduation, Darnell Blankenship secured a job with the firm of Lockyer and Hornsby, two of the founding traders on the Chicago Stock Exchange. Darnell was on his way. The young man had a quick mind and calculated numbers like a human abacus. As a result he rose fast in the firm. In just two years Darnell had already been written up in the Financial Times as one of Chicago’s bright young minds in the world of finance.

  That same year he got word that both of his parents had been killed in an automobile accident on their way back to Rusk from a trip to visit relatives in Houston. Darnell wanted to go down there, of course, but he simply couldn’t spare the time. The firm was swamped with work. He knew that it would take at least a week to go down to Texas on a train, handle the arrangements, and travel back. A week at the Exchange was like a lifetime; things happened so fast in the market. More importantly, the competition for jobs like his was unrelenting. If he left, there was a good chance that there would be no job to come back to.

  So after a long, heated, and extremely painful telephone conversation with his sister, most of which he could hardly understand from all her sobbing, Darnell managed to talk his way out of the trip. But it was costly. He promised to turn over to her all of his inheritance, which amounted to a house, his father’s hardware store, and what little money his parents had saved. Still, that wasn’t enough for his sister, who never wanted to see him again. He had to promise that if he didn’t have time to pay his respects to his parents that he would never come back to Rusk.