by Bill Crider
Unfortunately, there was no record of who’d given Kergan the money. For all Rhodes could prove, it might have fallen out of the sky.
“I’m going to leave you two with the computer,” he said. “I have to see a man about a still. If you can find out anything else about where that money came from, I’d appreciate it.”
“We could take turns,” Benton said to Mel. “Like a treasure hunt.”
“I’ll go first,” she said.
“Can you give Mel a ride home?” Rhodes asked Benton.
“I’d be glad to.”
Rhodes left them there, happy as a pair of scratch-off lotto winners.
Jack Mellon arrived at the jail shortly after Rhodes got there, saving Rhodes from the grilling Hack and Lawton would have put him through about the morning’s activities.
Rhodes drove Mellon down to the Big Woods. On the way, he told him about Rapper and Nellie.
“Sounds like they’ve been a real problem around here. Too bad they got away.”
“We’ll find them eventually,” Rhodes said.
His side twinged, and he ran a hand over his chest. When he did that, his shoulder hurt. He owed Rapper a lot this time.
“If you don’t find him, we will,” Mellon said.
“Right,” Rhodes replied.
Rhodes parked at the edge of the woods, and they walked to the still. It was exactly as Rhodes and Ruth had left it. Rhodes had been sure Rapper wouldn’t return for it. It was too big to dismantle easily, and Rapper wouldn’t have been in any condition to do much work.
“Now that’s what I call a still,” Mellon said, looking it over with evident admiration. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one to equal it. How’s it tie in with the little one you took me to see? The one that got lost?”
“I found that one again, too,” Rhodes said. “It’s in a barn not too far from here. I’ll show it to you on the way back to town. The two fellas who were running this one stole it and hid it on someone’s property.”
Mellon walked around the still to get a good look at it.
“They must have been making enough whiskey to keep half the population of Dallas in illegal booze. I wonder who their contact was.”
As soon as Mellon said those words, it came to Rhodes that he might know the contact’s name.
“I think it was a man named Jerry Kergan. He was in the restaurant business here. He’d have known people in the same business in Dallas or Houston, maybe some places that would sell a little ’shine on the side. Kergan must have been helping Rapper and Nellie move the whiskey.”
If Rhodes was right, that would explain the small amounts of money Kergan had received. He’d just been a go-between.
“We’ll need proof of that before we can arrest him,” Mellon said.
Mellon always wanted proof, but in this case, it didn’t matter.
“His name was Jerry Kergan,” Rhodes said. “He’s dead.”
He thought he knew now why Rapper had killed Kergan. Rapper must have known that Kergan went out for a smoke at about the same time every night, and seeing Rhodes in the parking lot, he might well have thought that Kergan had talked to him or considered talking to him. So he’d taken care of the perceived problem the way Rapper naturally would—by killing him.
“Can’t arrest a dead man,” Mellon said. “He must have made a ton of money before he died.”
“Not really.” Rhodes didn’t mention that he’d seen the amounts. “I’m guessing, but I think he just set things up and didn’t take part in any of the actual dealing.”
“It would be hard to make a case against him, then, unless somebody ratted him out.”
Rhodes didn’t think Rapper and Nellie would ever inform on anybody. Not out of loyalty. They’d keep quiet just to be contrary, and Kergan was dead anyway.
Mellon banged a hand on the side of the still. “This baby would be able to put out a lot of liquor. It hasn’t been used much, though.”
“How can you tell?”
“Tell by looking. It hasn’t been here long. I doubt more than three or four batches have been run through it.”
The still did look new. Rhodes hadn’t thought about that. The figures he’d seen of Kergan’s accounts went back several months. Rapper hadn’t been here that long. So Kergan hadn’t been dealing with him. He must have been dealing with the Crawfords.
Then why had Rapper killed Kergan? Rhodes didn’t have the answer after all.
“What do you want to do about the still?” he said.
“I want to get some pictures of it. Then we’ll have our men come up here and dismantle it. We might as well pick up that other one you mentioned, too. What about the man who was running that one?”
“I haven’t arrested him. It’s like you said. I don’t have any proof against him. He claims it was his brother’s still, not his, and now he doesn’t even have the still.”
Mellon laughed. “Your job isn’t any easier than mine. They don’t pay us enough.”
“Sad but true,” Rhodes said.
Back in Clearview, Rhodes and Mellon stopped at McDonald’s for a late lunch. Rhodes knew he shouldn’t eat a Quarter Pounder, but he couldn’t resist.
“You ever see that movie about the man who ate at McDonald’s for a year or so?” Mellon said as they sat in the cruiser and unwrapped their burgers.
“No,” Rhodes said, “and I don’t want to.”
“He didn’t eat anything the whole time except for McDonald’s food. He gained a lot of weight. Just about ruined his health.”
“Don’t tell me any more,” Rhodes said, taking a satisfying bite of his burger.
It was as if Rapper and Nellie had disappeared into some alternate universe. No reports came in about the black Dodge, and there were no reports from any hospitals about treating a man with a gunshot wound to his hand.
“Those two gotta be somewhere,” Hack said when he told Rhodes the news. “They can’t just disappear like Houdini.”
“Looks like they can,” Lawton said. “Looks like they have. They’ve sure done it before. Might’s well write this one off and put it in the unsolved file.”
Rhodes wasn’t going to do that. “I want a deputy to drive by that spot of woods where Rapper had the still every half hour tonight. Rapper might sneak back if his hand’s better.”
“That’s gonna leave a lot of the county unpatrolled,” Hack said.
“Can’t be helped. Besides, if the deputy cruises through Thurston often enough, it’ll make Hod Barrett happy.”
“Wouldn’t anything make Hod happy,” Lawton said.
Rhodes thought Lawton was right. “Well, whatever happens, it’s just for one night. Mellon’s crew will get the still tomorrow. They’ll take the little one, too.”
“You want the deputy to watch Kergan’s barn tonight?”
“That can be part of the route.”
Rhodes didn’t believe Rapper would come after the smaller still, but it was a possibility.
“Some fella named Schwartz called,” Hack said. “He wanted you to know he’s got that flyin’ saucer gadget ready to take to Mr. Ellendorf. Said he’d get it to him tomorrow.”
“Why not this afternoon?”
“He wanted that Benton fella to go with him. Said Benton could explain it better’n he could.”
Rhodes wasn’t sure what needed an explanation. Just turn it on and the saucers would stay away. It seemed simple enough, but maybe there was some secret to it.
“Some woman named Schafer called, too,” Hack said. “The one that owns that antiques store in Obert. She wanted to talk to you about Jamey Hamilton. Something’s been bothering her about him and his shop.”
“That’s all she said?”
“Yep. You want to call her or go to Obert?”
Rhodes remembered that Buddy was supposed to be checking on Hamilton. He asked Hack if Buddy had found anything new.
“Not that he mentioned. Didn’t leave any report, either.”
Rhodes thought he might
as well make the short drive and see what Michal had to say. It might not be a bad idea to talk to Hamilton again while he was there. If Larry Crawford had been dealing with Jerry Kergan, Hamilton might know something about it.
“What about Benton?” Rhodes asked. “Any calls from him?”
“Not a word.”
Rhodes would stop by Dooley’s on the way to Obert. Benton and Muller might still be there, trying to find something on Kergan’s computer. He would have thought they’d have found something by now, as eager as they’d seemed to get to work on the little project Rhodes had assigned them.
Benton’s car was parked in the same place in the Dooley’s lot where Rhodes had last seen it.
Rhodes glanced in the back window and noticed that the guitar case was missing. When he opened the restaurant door, he heard Benton’s voice and the sound of the guitar. The math teacher was singing something to the tune of “The Ballad of Davy Crockett,” but Rhodes distinctly heard the words “Sheriff Rhodes” in place of the name of the famous defender of the Alamo.
Benton stopped his picking and singing when Rhodes walked into Kergan’s office. He was in Kergan’s office chair, the guitar case lying on the floor beside him.
Mel Muller sat at the computer desk. She wasn’t looking at the computer, however. She appeared much more interested in Benton than in Kergan’s accounts.
“Hey, Sheriff,” Benton said. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”
Rhodes pointed out that soon was the wrong word. “I’ve been gone three hours,” he said.
“Time flies when you’re having a good time,” Benton said, smiling at Mel.
“I guess it does,” Rhodes said. He hadn’t been having as much fun as Benton. “What’s that song you were playing?”
Benton looked down at the guitar as if he hadn’t known he was holding it.
“Just a little composition of my own,” he said. “It’s not quite finished. I was working on it, with a little help from Mel.”
“I think I recognized the tune.”
“You probably did. Sometimes I do parodies. You know, like Weird Al Yankovic.”
Rhodes wasn’t sure who Weird Al was, but he didn’t ask. Benton was weird enough for him.
“I thought I heard my name mentioned.”
“It’s a tribute song,” Benton said.
“A parody tribute song?”
“You could call it that. It’s ‘The Ballad of Sheriff Rhodes.’ You want to hear it?”
“It’s pretty good,” Mel said. “Seepy’s very clever at writing lyrics.”
So it’s Seepy already, Rhodes thought. Move over, Dr. Phil.
“I am good at lyrics,” Benton said. “I write a lot of my own songs.”
“I know,” Rhodes said, “but I’m more interested in what you found out about Kergan’s accounts.”
“Oh,” Benton said. “Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing you haven’t seen already,” Mel said. “We did a thorough search. There’s nothing on that computer we haven’t seen.”
“He didn’t use it much,” Benton said. “He didn’t download music, didn’t have an eBay account, didn’t even use his Web browser for anything more than checking the weather report now and then.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it,” Mel said.
Rhodes was disappointed. He’d hoped for something that would lead him to Rapper or Crawford, and all he had was a few figures that didn’t really mean anything.
“Seepy and I are going to work together again,” Mel said. “He’s going to help me design your Web site.”
“For free,” Benton said. “Just another little part of my service to the community.”
“How soon do you think you’ll have it up and running?” Rhodes asked.
“It won’t be long,” Benton said. “Not with me helping.”
“That’s good news. Mikey Burns will be happy.”
“Not that we care,” Mel said.
Benton looked at her, but she didn’t elaborate.
“You two had better leave now,” Rhodes said. “I’ll lock the place up.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to hear ‘The Ballad of Sheriff Rhodes’?” Benton said.
“I’m sure,” Rhodes told him.
First a book, and now a song, Rhodes thought. Before long, he was going to be the most famous person in Blacklin County.
Benton shrugged off Rhodes’s refusal and turned to Mel. “It’s almost time for dinner. We didn’t take a break for lunch. Would you like to go to the Jolly Tamale?”
“I love Mexican food,” she said.
Rhodes loved Mexican food, too, but having sneaked the Quarter Pounder at lunch, he knew he wouldn’t be eating Mexican food for a while.
Benton put his guitar in its case, and he and Mel left. Rhodes looked around the office, saw nothing of interest, and went out, locking the door of the restaurant behind him.
Chapter 28
MICHAL SCHAFER SAT IN AN OLD ICE-CREAM-PARLOR CHAIR IN front of her shop, fanning herself with an old cardboard fan printed on one side with an ad for a funeral home in Arkansas. Rhodes sat in the chair next to her. A small round-topped ice-cream-parlor table was between them. The chairs and table had been painted with white enamel.
After Rhodes admired the table and chairs, Michal told him about the activity at Jamey Hamilton’s shop, which was closed at the moment. An old wooden awning that hung over all the stores along the block shaded them from the late-afternoon sun.
“Remember that I said something about how many customers he has?” Schafer said. “And how fast he got them out of there?”
Rhodes said that he remembered.
“I started thinking about that today. You might have noticed that I don’t have a lot of customers myself, so I have time to think about things like that. Anyway, one reason he was so fast was that some of them looked just the same when they came out as they did when they went in.”
“Which means?”
“Which means they didn’t get haircuts, and if they didn’t get haircuts, what did they get?”
Rhodes had an idea, the same one that Buddy had suggested, but before he could tell her what it was, she went on.
“I do have a few customers, and some people drop by just to talk, so I’ve heard a few things about Mr. Hamilton today. About his cousin, mainly, and you know what I think?”
“You think Hamilton was selling bootleg whiskey out of his barbershop.”
“You must be a mind reader, Sheriff.”
“No. I was just thinking the same thing.”
Hamilton’s place was a small barbershop in an out-of-the way town, in a building located right on a highway. It was the perfect place to sell the whiskey. People from other counties could find it easily, and there was almost no risk involved in the buying and selling.
“I didn’t know people still went in for that kind of thing,” Michal said.
“Everything makes a comeback sooner or later,” Rhodes said. “Otherwise, you antique dealers would be out of business.”
“I’m about out of business anyway. You wouldn’t want to buy this nice table and chair set, would you? I have two more chairs in the back of the store to make the set of four. I can give you a good price.”
“I’ll have to pass, but sooner or later someone will want them. Have you seen Hamilton today?”
“He hasn’t been in. He’s had a few customers come by looking for him.”
“Did they stop or just drive on by?”
“A couple of them stopped. I asked if I could help them. They didn’t say anything. They just left.”
Rhodes got up and walked over to the barbershop. He looked in through the big plate-glass window, but all he could see was the empty shop, with its two barber chairs, its shelf of lotions and hair tonics, its big mirrors on both side walls. He wondered if anybody ever got an actual haircut there.
“Oh, yes,” Michal said when he asked. “I’ve s
een Jamey cutting hair every day. People seem to like his work.”
Too bad he didn’t stick with it, Rhodes thought, instead of taking up a sideline.
“I’m going to drive out to his house,” Rhodes said, walking back over to the round table where Michal sat. “If he happens to come into the shop, it’s all right if you mention that I’m looking for him.”
“You don’t think he’ll flee the country?”
She meant it as a joke, but Rhodes was reminded of Rapper and Nellie, who had fled not only the country but the known universe.
“I hope he’ll stick around,” Rhodes said.
Larry Crawford’s rust-colored pickup sat under the chinaberry tree, where Rhodes had last seen it. The tree’s leaves were already yellow, and the ground around it was littered with yellow berries.
This time, there was another pickup at Hamilton’s house, a red Ford, parked next to Crawford’s, so Rhodes figured both men were there.
Rhodes parked the county car, and when he stepped out, he heard people talking behind the house. He also smelled meat cooking on a grill.
He walked around the house and saw Crawford standing by a big black propane grill. The top of the grill was open and Crawford poked a long-handled fork into the steaks that sizzled above the low flames.
Hamilton sat in the shade of a pecan tree in a green plastic lawn chair, the kind that cost a couple of dollars at Wal-Mart. The tree was infested with webworms. The grayish webs were thick along most of the limbs. The worms, along with the drought, will kill the tree if Hamilton doesn’t do something about them, Rhodes thought.
Hamilton didn’t appear to be concerned with the webworms or with anything else. He held a glass of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. A low table beside him held another can of beer and an ashtray. A second chair stood on the other side of the table.
Hamilton saw Rhodes and raised the beer can in a kind of toast.
“Living the good life, I see,” Rhodes said.
Crawford turned from the steaks. He wore a stained white apron that said LICENSED TO GRILL on the front in big black letters. He didn’t look like a man lost in grief.