“They did believe you, Dad. They just didn’t mind.”
“Didn’t mind. Now he’s bamboozled their land from them so he could get rich on oil, did they mind then? Now the banks are going to take their farms and there aint thing one they can do about it do they mind? After he started wearing them white robes and burning crosses out in the woods, did they mind then? How about when the annex was burned down, and the Catholic church?”
The mayor in white robes and crosses, Sterno thought. What is going on here?
“Alright, Dad. We don’t know if that has anything to do with anything.”
The old man pressed his cane into the floor, stood up on it, hobbled over to the table clearing his throat. Closer, in better light, what Sterno saw was a serious man with a still-fresh flame burning behind those milky eyes.
“Let me tell you a story, Charlie Sterno. This is why I brought you down here. I’m here to tell you, this town aint a stranger to murder. Get us some whisky, Tessie.”
She had it close by, brought and poured three glasses before she sat on the bottom stair, settling into a long story, it looked. The old man sipped his whisky like it was boiling, five or six quick sips in a row. Then he was ready.
“I knew Pat McMurray before he was rich, before he was a tycoon, anyways—seemed like he always had a little money. It was me who had him sniffing around here for oil in the first place. Told him they found it up by El Dorado, might want to look here in Price. Thought it’d be good for the county, good for the town. That fat son-of-a-bitch Greentree took him in like family, lifelong friends in a week. Everything was goody gumdrops, then soon as Pat is back on a train to Oklahoma, fat man goes right to buying up all the property McMurray and his boys were looking at—didn’t think they’d notice or care, I guess. Went broke. Had to borrow for down payments and make up the rest with promises, a little down payment and a big heap of manure.”
“He wanted all those mineral rights,” Sterno said. Piecing it together as the story unraveled.
“What the hell did you just mumble to me? What’d he say?”
“Mineral rights, Dad.”
“Mineral rights, you say? Oh yes-siree, he wanted those mineral rights. He wanted the whole pie,” Mr. Price said, “not just a couple pieces, are you listening to me? He thought if he had more land, he’d get a better price overall and by the acre both. Bargaining leverage, or some such thing. Thought he could out-big the big boys. Makes not a lick a sense, if you think about it, which is something that idiot aint too practiced in. Thinking. But hell if these clod-hoppers around here didn’t buy it up like candy on payday. Bunch of damn fools. Greentree gets to thinking about Topeka and all these fools wanna ride the future governor’s coat tails. You’ve met Abner, aint’cha? Can you imagine that shit-for-brains in the state house? Good God, I’d have to move to Nebraska.”
“The oil men pulled out,” Tess put in, “and so he had to give up the governor run. He had no money to fund it. He was banking on their investment in his land. Thank God. He’s a nice enough man, but thank God.”
“That fat-assed son-of-a-bitch never gets his gusher—Ha! Never sees one coffee cup of crude. Goes bankrupt, totally ruined in six months. Turns out Pat McMurray never trusted Abner in the first place. Never liked him. Had it through the grapevine that Greentree wasn’t so nice as people think. An Irish hater, and a Negro hater, and a Yid hater, a Mexican hater, a Commie hater, a fairy hater. You name it, he hates it. Which you gotta wonder why someone like this would go into business with a proud Irish company like McMurray, who are not Scots-Irish, you can bet, but from County Kerry or some such place. Catholics, is what I mean, are you listening to me?”
“Yes, sir.”
The old man was starting to tire, so Tess scooted his chair to the table for him. Now sitting, his voice was free to range.
"Turns out, before he made some money in the stock market, he’d been a badge with the Kansas City Police Department, but was fired for slapping around and damn near raping a fifteen-year-old boy with his club. A little apple-cheeked boy right off the potato boat. This is a while ago, late nineties, when he was a much younger man. Turns out the kid was not just a hood and a pick-pocket, but also the close nephew—a younger sister's kid—of a captain in the damn-near all-Irish police department of Kansas City; and Greentree knew this when he took that club to the poor kid's behind. So our mayor is not only fired, he's given the bum's rush out of town and his house accidentally burns down, which I don’t need to tell you is the practice in Missouri.”
“Dad…”
“By the way, his name was Neuwald back then too—he changed it before moving out here. Point is, are you listening to me, young man? Point is, many years later, here he is in this land deal with this Irish oil company. Well, it isn't too long before ol' Pat McMurray starts to smell something he doesn't like, gets to digging backwards, back to K.C. eventually, and he sends a couple of his men to Price to keep an eye on things. Henley and Fitzpatrick were their names—"
"Irishmen."
"Irish blooded, anyway. I can barely understand a word you’re saying, young man. Tessie, get him another whisky. So where was I? Yes, these Irish boys spend some time in Hope County, watching Greentree. They’re the ones who told me all this business about Kansas City. They stayed right here in the hotel, aint that right Tessie? Nice enough men, for detectives. They're here pretending to be company vice presidents, but believe you me, these two buttered their bread the same way you do, Mr. Pinkerton Detective Agency man. Except these two were very private detectives—in-house men and damn good at their job. Then they were just one day last winter gone. Checked out and left in a hurry. Rushed right out of here. We figgered they'd hustled back to Oklahoma because of that refinery fire, but they wasn’t just gone, they was real gone."
“’Real gone.’”
“Gone from this earthly world, is what I mean. Show him the papers, Tessie.”
With a groan Tess stood from her spot, came to the table, removed a stack of papers from the box, laid them out on the table for Sterno to read. On the top was an article from the February 17, 1922 edition of the Daily Oklahoman that read: "MCMURRAY OIL RAZED: TWO STILL MISSING." The one beneath that, from the same paper, a smaller column of print beneath the fold: "NO REMAINS FOUND IN MCMURRAY DEBRIS - Two Vice Presidents Still Missing." The third article came from the Wichita Eagle, May 19 edition: "TOPEKA HOPEFUL QUESTIONED IN MCMURRAY OIL DEBACLE - A Deal Gone Sour."
"Abner Greentree," Sterno said, reading.
“Hell, McMurray and those boys of his find out Greentree’s running for governor on a Klan ticket. He pulls right out. Show him the poster, Tessie.”
Tess Helmcamp pulled a large piece of heavy paper out from the bottom of the stack, handed it to Sterno. It was a campaign poster for Greentree. "This is from his first and last round of bills. He was running on the 'New Conservative' ticket—that's what they called it here. Look down there in the corner."
Sterno saw in the corner a cross of straight white bars bisected at the middle, set within a solid field of black in the shape of a circle.
"You recognize that cross?"
He recognized this cross. It was the same symbol he’d seen while on jobs in Missouri, Kentucky, Arkansas, Tennessee, Illinois, everywhere. He knew that if it were on a flag and not on a piece of paper, that solid black field that held the cross would be blood red.
"This is not your grandmother's Klan anymore. These boys are over four million strong and they're making plays at state houses across the country."
"Mmndiammna."
"That's right. Looks like they're going to get them a governor, even if it is just Indiana. Anyway, we'll see how long that lasts. Point is, your man Greentree is connected with the highest levels of the KKK—not just connected, he is in the highest levels of the Klan, though I never could find out his title, O Mostest Grandest Kolossal something—they spell everything with a k and the whole thing is just embarrassing to good Americans. The point is, highest leve
ls, lowest levels, it don’t matter, they make their point with ropes and torches all the same." With that, he reached across Sterno, turned back to the top of the stack again: "MCMURRAY OIL RAZED: TWO STILL MISSING."
There was silence while Sterno pieced together the story. "They never found the two guys, I guess."
“Are you listening to me, young man? Those boys are pushing up sunflowers somewhere. Those woods up north of Greentree’s house, if I had to guess, where those boys make their lightnin’.”
The mayor, Sterno thought. A Klansman. He just couldn’t chew it that way. He’d been around Klansmen enough to know them with or without the hood. Then again, the Klan was so big now, folding in more normal people. And a murderer too? That big dopey mayor? Were Sterno’s instincts getting so dull that he couldn’t see a murderer right in front of him?
“I’m having trouble seeing that mayor involved here,” he said.
"Well, maybe I don’t know a damn thing. Maybe I’m just a crazy old man. But like I said, there aint a town on the prairies of Kansas that aint had to be fought over in some way or another—religion, politics, what have you. And this means people get hurt, and sometimes killed in these fights. It’s a damn shame, I liked that boy, Charlie Sterno. Aint that right, Tessie? I always liked that boy. He used to bring over those oat cakes his mom makes for the horses, without me asking and without charging me a penny. A damn wonder with a horse, that boy. Never seen anything like it, and I’ve rode with Indians."
Sterno nodded at this. He was not listening to him.
Mr. Price went on for a bit, then turned off like an electric light. “The devil knocks on the door with honey in his right hand and hell in the other. Remember that. And when you get back out there in the daylight where you can see, take a look-see at that mayor, you might just find he had a reason to come after that boy. But mind you me, if and when you do start looking at him, you do it with one of your eyeballs on the back of your head and opened up wide. I like you, Charlie Sterno, and my little girl does too, so you take care out there, and bring yourself back here for some of those pork chops you missed last night. Are you listening to me, young man?"
25.
It was four-thirty on May 1 and the first storm had passed over, leaving behind it the near and far calls of birds, a full rainbow to the northeast, and a breezeless peace. Flora Greentree was in her room, gazing out at the dripping trees and beyond these the perfectly straight line where the purple-black slab of clouds of the storm to come met the high, milky lemon sky left in the wake of the one just passed. As the rain and wind had pounded the house, her nerves had longed for peace; now all was quiet and this was much more difficult than the storming.
She heard the car and was at first relieved for the break in the silence, then she saw the rusty, mud splattered Chevrolet emerge from the oak-lined lane leading from the road. The car squeaked and rattled to a stop in the wet cement of the turn-around. After a few seconds its driver stepped out. He used a finger to dig a wad of chewed tobacco from his cheek, and a fresh wad went right in after it. When this was done, he reached back into his car, came up with his little rifle, limped to the porch beneath her room.
No, Flora thought. Not Gomer.
He looked to her window, smiled, tipped his hat. Flora closed the curtain.
She paced quickly in a straight line from her door to the window, window to door. If all of the sudden Gomer was there with his gun to guard the house, this meant they knew something. They couldn’t know she was escaping could they? They must, though. Somehow they knew.
She thought fast about what to do. Jove Moreland was in the barn, on duty today to drive her mother and father to the barn dance. He was her only hope.
Gomer couldn't be seen, but from time to time she could hear him dragging his boot across the front porch. She snuck down the back stairs, ran across the lawn holding her dress up, found Jove in the barn, greasing the motor of his own Model T, waiting for her father to return with the Cadillac. She told him plainly what was happening; there was no time for anything else. “I’m running away with Tommy Donnan,” she said breathlessly, and as it left her lips a jolt of fear shot through her that stayed with her for many days. “But I need to find him first, and I need your help.”
Jove listened to her with his eyes leveled at hers. He showed no emotion as she spoke.
"I know it's a lot to ask of someone who works for Daddy. I promise I’ll do my best to make sure you'll keep your job under Daddy no matter what happens."
She waited for his answer. He stared at his old Ford while he thought it over. As it happened, it was not her request which he had been pondering, but only a part of it.
"Naw," he said. His heavy brown eyelids blinked once, and in this blink his gaze was leveled again at Flora. "Naw. I'll take you anywhere you want to go, Miss Flora."
So, if Tommy did not come for her—which by God she hoped he would—then she would go to him.
*
At this same moment, six miles away and around the bend in the road, Tommy Donnan arrived at his house, took the horse to the stable, hurriedly baited her and wiped her down, whispering her calm as he worked. It was only then he noticed Millie standing in the doorway to the stable.
“What in hell happened to you?”
She was looking at his shirt, soaked through from the rain, but still splattered pink with blood from his lip. He had ridden through the storm, abandoning the road to go across the new furrowed fields and fallow fields and green carpeted wheat fields to his home.
“I have to be fast,” was all he said.
She followed him to the house, both of them walking briskly. Her innocence in this struck him as sad and in these moments with her she felt very young to him. She had always wanted to be right in the middle of what was happening; now she finally was right in the middle of what was happening and she had no idea what was happening.
In his room he changed shirts, trousers, cleaned his face. “Where is everyone?” he asked.
“Mother and Junior have been in town all afternoon, helping getting the barn ready for the dance.”
“Right, the dance,” he said, checking then pocketing his watch as he tucked in his shirt. He went to the closet, dragged his trunk out to the middle of the floor, where he placed a pack with his toilet items next to his Shakespeare before latching it shut. “And where’s Pa?”
“He went to get ‘em. He thinks there’s another storm coming. He wanted to get them back before it got here. What in all hellfire is going on here, Tommy?”
Tommy took a deep breath. “I’m going away for a little while, Millie. And I don’t have time to argue with you about it. Now grab the other end of this thing.” She still didn’t seem to comprehend. He went away a lot, races in Ohio, races in Texas—she still didn’t see the difference in those and in what was happening all around her today.
He checked his watch; it was fifteen minutes before five o’clock. After bringing the trunk down the stairs, through the living room and onto the porch, he checked it again—just before five.
“It aint gonna get no shinier the more you gawk at it, now come-awn, lazy bones!” Millie said. She had gotten caught up in the urgency in the moment. They slid the trunk across the yard and into a shaded area in the stable. This took a few minutes. When they had it well enough hidden, they threw a horse blanket over it for good measure. For a second they stood there breathing until Tommy came back to life.
He used a grease gun on the axles and the wheels. He tightened the joints on the singletree, the axles and the seat.
“Alright, here I go,” he said. “I’m not going to be long, Mil. Just to her house. Everyone is busy in town. It should be very easy. Where’s Junior?”
“You already asked that. Why’re you so nervous? If everything’s easy?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“What are you going to do after you come get your trunk?”
He thought for a moment. “Then we're leaving,” he said.
She became very quiet. The trunk. The packing. It took the words coming straight from his mouth for her to finally catch on. “What do you mean, ‘leaving’, Tommy? Leaving where? I ask you, where the hell are you leaving to?”
“Only for a while, okay?”
“You been planning this this whole time. To just leave with her? Is that why you made me promise?”
“It—“
“Well, I don’t promise anymore, goddamnit. You damn fool, you’re gonna run off in the middle of the thunderstorm?”
“The—“
“This aint no picture show, Tommy. You’re liable to get struck by lightning. What if there’s a twister?”
He took her shoulders in his hands, got down to one knee so that she was actually looking down at him. “Listen soldier, I’m sorry I had to lie to you. Remember, I did tell you there was some danger.” His voice was soft, and cracked just a little bit: he was beginning to feel the strong, wet sadness of a goodbye.
“How long are you going to be gone?” she asked, with worry in her voice too.
“Not long. Only until we feel it’s safe for her to come back. Where the hell is Junior?”
“Where're you gonna go?” she asked.
“West.”
“Why do you have to rush off like this. What’s the big rush?”
“It has to be tonight. Now.”
He could see the tears gathering behind her eyes. In order not to cry she had to get back to work on the buggy. “Well hell, I don’t see why the hell you got to run off like this,” she said.
They pulled the buggy out into the daylight. The high, pale yellow sky was fringed by a jaundice-tinted horizon on one side, on the other a black wall of clouds.
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