Save the Child

by Jimmy Craig Porter

  “Give! What’s this give stuff?” Ginger jumped in. “You don’t even have a yard.”

  “I can get one.”

  “Why haven’t you?”

  “Never needed one ’til now.”

  “What makes you think you need one now?”

  “Cause Buck done promised me a pup. Ain’t that right, Buck?” Buck barked twice, excitedly. “See, I told you,” Drummer said.

  “Damn it, Buckshot! If you don’t stop giving them away, we won’t have any to sell. You’re a lousy business dog. That’s all I can say.” He looked up at Dave. “I suppose you want one too?”

  “Hell, yeah. I’d love one.” His eyes bugged. He had wanted a lab for several years.

  Ginger shook his head and sought a new beer, never saying a definite yes or a definite no. Drummer gave Dave a knowing grin, and both men rubbed Buckshot. It was like three teammates congratulating each other on a score.

  “Another beer, Rick?” As if Hopkins was his lone friend.

  “Don’t I get a puppy?”

  “You’ve got one! And a good one, too. Stays at home, plays with the kids. None of this hanging out in the bars, giving his puppies away.” He looked sternly at his dog. “Aren’t you ashamed?”

  Buckshot hung his head down and followed behind Ginger, fearful he had let his master, his friend, his daddy, down. He laid down underneath Ginger’s stool, depressed… all of two minutes… then he was snoring away his blues.

  Dave left, feeling on top of the world. A great job, climbing the ladder, wife and new baby, new house, new truck, and now he was going to get a new dog.

  Ginger and Hopkins sat drinking beer and talking about fishing in the spring. “Let’s pull out the raft and go try for some small mouths,” said Ginger.

  “Where?”

  “There’s a two-day trip starting at Baker’s Crossing and getting out in the park. We’ll take Drummer. He can drop us off and drive to the park and pick us up.”

  “He doesn’t want to float?”

  “Are you kidding? He hates water. Scared to death of it. Wouldn’t catch him dead in a river. Only takes showers, no baths.”

  “Why would he even want to go?”

  “Loves to fish. He could set up camp and fish for two days.”

  “That sounds pretty good. Let’s do it.”

  “Great. The middle of March.” He looked intently at Hopkins. “Clear some time at work.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Just you don’t screw it up.”

  “Me? I’ve never…’

  “Give me a beer,” Hopkins interrupted.

  Ginger stood obediently. “Wise ass!”

  “Did you meet Bev’s parents?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Well, how did it go?”

  “You know… it just went.”

  “No, I don’t know. What do you mean, ‘it just went’?”

  “Here, drink your beer.”

  Before Hopkins could respond, the door opened, revealing Bev’s bright smile. She gave Hopkins a wave, Buckshot a naptime stroke, and Ginger a kiss.

  “I was just asking Ginger how things went at your folks.”

  “Oh, great.” She beamed, looking at Hopkins and then at Ginger. “In fact, they want us over for dinner on Sunday. You can watch football with Dad. Is that okay with you?”

  Ginger glanced at Hopkins’ sly grin. “Yeah, that will be fine.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll call Mom.” She motioned toward the office. Ginger nodded.

  Hopkins took a drink and watched Bev move gaily through the kitchen door. He swallowed the remaining beer and then, without looking up, pushed the empty bottle toward Ginger. “Could I have another, please?”

  “Go ahead, say it. I know what you’re thinking. Don’t play coy with me.”

  “What did I do?’ Hopkins threw up his hands. “I just asked for a beer.”

  “You said that with a grin on your face.”

  “Hey, what’s wrong with a grin? I’m just trying to be friendly.”

  “Well, don’t! Just drink your beer and shut up.”

  “Well, a few more beers and I’m going home for a nap; maybe that will get rid of this headache.”

  Ginger shook his head. “Boy, I feel protected.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Jane Worthy watched intently from her front door as the crew from Channel 5 unloaded their cameras and microphones. She turned to her husband, John, reclined in front of the television, before returning to the view of the outside. Davis Wilson, a long-time friend and local anchorman, was giving instructions as he marched up the aggregate sidewalk.

  “John, it’s Davis!” The words reached her husband as he retreated down the hall to the privacy of his study.

  The study was lined with shelves of books, not only medical, but biographies of presidents, scientists, artists, writers, even movie stars. He took pleasure in reading about their lives, the obstacles they overcame to gain their moments of fame. Of course, they were not married to Jane. He assured himself that was one obstacle that would change the fate of any man. One wall was devoted to mysteries and detective stories of all kinds, fantasies and science fiction, as well. Another wall spoke of classical literature, philosophy, religion, and history. And in the middle of this castle of books was his desk: his throne of power, his magic carpet.

  The doctor of medicine closed the door and assumed the position at his desk, which had brought so much happiness. But unlike times past, there was no magic this time. His thoughts were only of his dead son. He wanted no part of his wife’s crusade. In this room he would grieve and remember, laugh and cry. In this room he would seek sanctuary.

  “Davis. I’m so glad you’re here, personally. I was so afraid you wouldn’t come.”

  “Of course I’m here, Jane. You and John are my friends. Anything I can do to help I will be glad to do. If you don’t want the cameras here, I’ll send them away.”

  “No, Davis. I want you to tell my story, the story of losing my son, the enormous pain and loss.” She lowered her head.

  “Jane,” he looked into her eyes, putting her hands in his. “You let me handle this. You just try and rest. How is John?”

  “He is taking it hard. So hard. He hasn’t spoken at all, just sits alone, staring into space.”

  “Jane, we’re going to set up. I’m going to ask you a few questions. That’s all. If you get upset, we’ll stop.”

  “Okay. Why don’t you set up facing the straight-back chair?”

  The chair was bluish grey with a floral print, held by a dark mahogany frame. A matching mahogany end table with an antique lamp was to its side. Behind it, on the wall, was a softer tint of the same grey. Several family portraits adorned the wall, mostly of Jeff as a child, then his high school graduation and a more recent scholarly print of a studious young man in a dark blue suit.

  Davis placed Jane Worthy in the chair, delicately balanced on the edge, head tilted mournfully. The camera focused respectfully down. Davis pulled up a small stool with no back, one he carried with him. He placed it subservient to the interviewee, checked his mike, and began the interview.

  Looking into the camera at his audience, and speaking in a reverent tone, he said, “This is Davis Wilson, with an exclusive interview with Jane Worthy, mother of the late Jeffrey Worthy, who was murdered Christmas Eve night.” The camera moved from his face to the petite, middle-aged woman sitting fragilely across from him.

  “First of all, Mrs. Worthy, on behalf of our community, I want to express our deepest sympathy to you and your husband. Most of us could not imagine such a loss.”

  A faint, polite smile appeared. “Thank you, Davis, and until now, I could have never imagined such a thing myself. My husband and I…,” she paused. “Our world is shattered. Losing a loved one is difficult enough, but losing one in such a violent manner is beyond understanding. We appreciate all the concern and the prayers.”

  “Mrs. Worthy, I unders
tand that your son had come home for Christmas and innocently walked into the robbery in progress.”

  “Yes, that’s correct. Dr. Worthy and I had gone out for a while. When we returned, we found him brutally shot to death in this very room. The tree was knocked over and our gifts were torn open and thrown aside. I guess Jeff was in his room. The noise must have awakened him. If only he hadn’t come home so early, he would still be alive today. Our material losses can always be replaced, but our son is lost to us forever.”

  “We have just learned that the police suspect the same man who killed your son also tried to hold up a liquor store and was killed in the attempt. But only after he murdered the clerk.

  “Such a tragedy, and at this sacred time of the year,” he continued. “I was told that it wasn’t our law enforcers, but an unarmed citizen, who startled the thief and shot him with his own gun. The police haven’t released a statement as of yet, but our sources confirm this.”

  The camera moved in close as Mrs. Worthy raised her head, tears flowing down her cheeks. “I would personally like to thank this brave individual. If not for his courageous efforts, who knows how many more people would have been victims. I will be able to sleep better, knowing my son has been avenged and this murderer is off the street.”

  The interview concluded, and the crew moved out their equipment. Davis Wilson and Jane Worthy went to the kitchen for coffee.

  “Davis, I want you to bring me this man who killed my son’s assailant. I want to meet him in person.”

  “I’ll take care of it personally, Jane.”

  “I know you will. You’ve been a good friend.”

  “Well, I know you’re tired, so I will go and let you get some rest.” He stood, and Jane walked him to the door.

  As he walked down the sidewalk, Mrs. Worthy called after him, “Davis.” He turned. “Bring your camera.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Ginger locked the front door of the bar behind Bev, who was driving out to his house some twenty miles outside of town. She was going to feed the dogs and prepare a late supper for the two of them. That’s how she put it. Surprisingly, Ginger liked the idea. His liking it bothered him. Before long, she would be moving in, and what would that lead to? He needed to think. He wasn’t sure about what, but he felt like he needed to think.

  “Well, Buckshot, it’s just you and me. How ’bout a beer?” He walked around the bar, flushed out two beers and a bowl. He flipped the television on and poured his dog a beer. “Let’s see what’s happening on the boob tube. Maybe check out the news. See if there’s been any more blood spilled. Make Uncle Rick crazy.”

  Ginger sat at the bar and half-listened to the news. He could do a lot worse than Bev: short, petite, excellent body, smooth complexion, cute button nose, and long black hair. But there was something else much more important: he enjoyed being with her. That was unusual for him. Most women he was sexually attracted to he didn’t particularly enjoy hanging out with, and the women he enjoyed being around he wasn’t that attracted to.

  Maybe he was sick. Perhaps. It was Christmas and the holiday spirit. Love? Nah!

  Ginger’s attention went to the screen. A blonde with a red and green Christmas blazer was reporting on the holiday murders. After reiterating the known facts, she started with the familiar “according to our sources and a person close to the scene.” Ginger wished for once they would simply say, “Rumor has it.” She led in with the interview of Mrs. Worthy. Ginger listened with mixed feelings of sorrow, disgust, fear, and relief.

  Sorrow for the family, disgust that a person could violate another person, fear it could happen to him, and relief it didn’t. Mrs. Worthy’s pain seemed sincere, but he wondered about her motives. Hopkins’ concern about the LPD taking some heat seemed more than justified, and with Mrs. Worthy’s civic mindedness, Hopkins’ band of merry detectives would be under the gun for quite a while, and not just with the press. The politicians, the vote-needers, would be pressuring the chief. This was no south-side murder. This was a murder in the silk-stocking district, the elite community where crime was supposed to be nonexistent. Mrs. Worthy loved a cause and publicity, and the murder was committed by a black man, on drugs, alcoholic, with a criminal record. Ginger was surprised they didn’t name the newest hero, but if they had, the media would be swarming for months. Ginger had an uneasy feeling, and it wasn’t about Bev. Something about the murders just didn’t sit right with him. Too easy. Too choreographed. Something was amiss. Maybe Hopkins knew what it was. Probably was some detail Hopkins had not mentioned.

  Buckshot belched and walked toward the door. “I’m with you, boy. Let’s go home and get a little.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Joe Cooper pulled his red Dodge pickup along the curb in front of Rick Hopkins’ house. The house was a middle-class home in a middle-class district. It was similar to the block of houses that ran on both sides of the street. The outside trim needed paint, and there were a few bare spots in the lawn. The drive was cluttered with a seldom-used bass boat that was deteriorating rapidly, a semi-new GMC pickup, and a four-door Oldsmobile. Bicycles of different sizes dotted the concrete and grass. A soccer ball was in the middle of the yard, waiting to be kicked. It was a modest house, but as far removed from Joe’s means as Hopkins was from the house Joe had been in on Christmas Eve.

  Halfway to the front door, Joe was greeted by a fourteen–year-old and a twelve-year-old, informing him their dad was in the den watching TV. Joe walked through the entry, glancing at a formal dining room to the left. The entry led straight ahead to the den. He paused before entering. To his right was a hall that led to three bedrooms and a bath. The den was paneled with a dark walnut stain, very popular in the 60s. The room gave an overall impression of being lived-in, with an aged sofa, matching chair, and cluttered coffee table. The only modern look was the big-screen television and the recliner that held a napping Detective Hopkins, his new friend. How ironic. A college bowl game was on but held little interest for Hopkins. Joe Cooper looked around the room and saw nothing but a mortgage and an overextended checkbook. There was nothing he wanted here. Perhaps before, but as of Christmas Eve, his tastes were quite different. This was much too quaint for him. Hopkins was 100 percent white picket fence. This knowledge gave Joe immunity for the future, an edge, in case he needed one. Hopkins may be a good cop, but he liked barbeques and Little League more. And for a while, so would he.

  Hopkins shook his head, awakened by something but not sure what. He turned his head toward Cooper’s smiling face.

  “Sorry to wake you, Sergeant Hopkins, but there are crimes to be solved.”

  “Not today. I have an agreement with all criminals that my day off shall be crime-free.” Hopkins watched Cooper give a polite chuckle. “Have a seat, Joe. The women went to exchange what I bought them for Christmas. My wife complains that I never pick out her gifts. So I went shopping, picked her out a nice pantsuit, even picked out Marjorie a sweater. And what did they do? Rushed out to exchange them. Women!” Hopkins gave a semi-intent stare at Cooper. “No special lady in your life?”

  “No, not at the moment. I’ve been traveling too much for a serious relationship.”

  “Chasing hail storms?”

  “Hazard of the trade.”

  “They all have them, don’t they?”

  “I suppose so. What’s yours?”

  “Well, there are several, but the worst is dealing with the criminal element.”

  “You mean the bad guys?”

  “The slime of society. Do anything, say anything for a dollar. Then turn around and say how they were mistreated, framed, given a bad rap.”

  “I know the kind. Met a lot of them, but most were contractors and insurance adjusters.” He smiled.

  Hopkins appreciated the humor. “The legal scum of the earth.”

  “Yeah, there’s still a contractor in Houston who owes me three grand.”

  “What happened? You want a beer?”

  “Sure.”

  “Go on,
I’m listening.” He quickly retrieved two Miller Lites.

  “Well, I ran a crew for him. Got the standard price, but for any jobs I sold, I got a sales commission. He paid me my normal fee, but he kept putting off my commission.”

  “Give any reason?”

  “Yeah, the insurance company hadn’t paid him. Come to find out he was using my money to buy materials for the next job, and I wasn’t the only one he was scamming. He was doing the same to other subcontractors as well. His salespeople were getting ripped off even more. They were selling tons of jobs and not getting paid for half of them. He blamed everything on the insurance companies. He promised each contractor and salesperson that he would give them a thousand dollar bonus. Just do one more job. Well, after one more job he was nowhere to be found. Seems he owed more than his roofers. His suppliers had cut him off. Several bookies were asking around for him, and it seemed he had a cocaine problem, which caught up with him in Denver. He tried to buy some cocaine from one guy and sell it to another guy. Unfortunately, both guys turned out to be working for the same people you do.”

  Hopkins reared. “Serves him right, the SOB.”

  “Yeah, but,” Cooper paused, “I never got my money.”

  “Yeah, that’s too bad.”

  “Well, all the same, I wish I’d found him before the cops did.”

  “Then you would have been in jail.”

  “Maybe, but I wouldn’t have been broke any more, and I would have had the satisfaction.”

  Hopkins semi-analyzed him but nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I see your point. Is that why you’re here?”

  “More or less. I heard about the hailstorm from another roofer. I was born here and haven’t been back since I was a kid, so…”

  “Here you are.” Both laughed.

  “Let me change real quick before they get back. We’re supposed to be there in less than an hour. We’ll be late, and I’ll get blamed.”

  Hopkins began to pull at his tattered T-shirt as he wobbled down the hall. His grey sweats were riddled with holes and spotted with brown paint that matched the exterior trim. Cooper hated do-it-yourselfers. Always trying to save a buck and usually screwing up the job. If he had the money, he would never do anything himself.