by Lou Bradshaw
“What were you doin’ at the crash site, he wants to know?” Chuck asked me.
“Looking for a chain that I lost.” I told him.
“He was lookin’ for a chain. Yeah, that’s right, a chain. He’s the tow truck driver; he was out there last night. Yeah…no… Oh, he’s a almost grown kid…I just think of him as a kid.
He turned back to me, “Can you go up to Marshfield this afternoon? Never mind, they’re coming here. Be back here in an hour. They’ll want to talk to you.” I nodded, gave a mock salute, and slipped out.
I used that hour to run home and let the folks know what was going on. Of course they got the official version. The same one I gave Chuck and company. There was no way that I was going to mention that fruit jar full of money in the rafters at the cabin. I had a quick shower, a change of clothes, and some food. Then I went back to ‘The Office’ for my session with Roger, Chief Deputy, Cook.
I was a little nervous now that I had some time to think about what I was doing. It wasn’t like stealing a few gallons of gas; it could turn into some pretty serious stuff. There was a bushel basket full of dope, a wad of money, and a dead body in this caper. At the very least I was guilty of tampering with evidence, but I’d taken it too far to back out by then, so I played the hand I’d dealt myself.
When I got back, Roger was already there, he introduced himself to me and said we’d have to wait a few minutes because the sheriff was on his way. Roger was sitting in Chuck’s chair, and Chuck was standing against the wall. He was in the awkward position of trying to look important in my eyes, yet still be subservient to the chief deputy and soon to the sheriff.
Roger said to Chuck, “It’s going to get kinda crowded in here. Go see if the town cops have a room we can use.” For a second I thought Chuck was going to click his heels and salute. I think the only reason he didn’t was it was too crowded to bring his saluting arm up.
Chuck left and Roger started making conversation. “Let’s see,” he said, “ your name is Leroy Brickey, and they call you Little?”
“No,” I said, “they call me Lee. Some fools use to call me Little Brick, because my father has always been called Brick. But that doesn’t happen much any more.”
“Okay, Lee it is. You lived here long, Lee?”
“All my life. 18 years.”
“It’s a nice little town. I need to get over this way more often.”
I had the feeling from the way he said it that he had no intentions of spending any more time here than he had to.
Roger was about 40 – 45 years old, with thinning red curly hair, about 5’10”, and looked as though he was the first one at the table come dinner time. He was a chain smoker lighting one Winston after another. His eyebrows were so light that it looked like he didn’t have any. His cop hat was on the desk; he had taken the wire ring out of it, so that it drooped on the sides like the guys in the Black Hawk Comic Books. I got the mental picture of one of those Black Hawk planes with his fat body squeezed in so tight that his head was ready to explode. Chuck came back in time to save Roger from an exploded head, and said we could use the Council Room. Roger told him to raise the sheriff on the radio, and tell him where we would be, but it wasn’t necessary because the sheriff was pulling up at that very moment.
Sheriff Dave Cook climbed out of that shiny new Ford, and he looked like he was supposed to in every way. He was over 6’ tall, raw boned-slim, and about the same age as Roger, but in much better shape. He was wearing an off white cowboy hat, a khaki colored shirt with flapped pockets, and those little things on the shoulders with buttons. His string tie was held together with a turquoise and silver slide. Instead of a standard police Smith and Wesson .38 in a black snap-flap holster, he had on a big old Colt .45 Six Shooter in a tooled western holster – cooler than hell.
He had a long manly face, well-tanned, high cheekbones, and vertical creases that a woman would call dimples, but that was no kind of word to use on a man like that. To top it all off he had on very dark aviator style sunglasses. I was so impressed that if I had been old enough to vote, I would have voted for him simply because he looked the part.
Chuck told me to go on into the council room and wait for them. I did as I was asked; apparently they had some cop stuff to talk about, and didn’t want me in on it.
Presently, they came in; the sheriff was introduced to me, but didn’t offer to shake hands or anything – so maybe I wouldn’t vote for him after all. When he took off his aviator glasses and cowboy hat, he looked enough like Roger for me to feel a lot more at ease. I wasn’t dealing with the FBI, just some hillbillies in sheriff suits. They had brought the packages with them, and both had been unwrapped. The chief deputy was doing the talking; my guess was that the sheriff was just along to add his expertise, since this was probably going to be a pretty big deal. After we got the preliminaries out of the way, we got down to my story.
Roger asked, “Why were you out at the crash site this morning, Mr. Brickey?” I liked that ‘Mr.’ part.
“I was looking for a tow chain that was missing from the truck. My old man would have had a fit if he’d had to buy a new one, so I went back and looked for it.”
“Did you find it?”
“Uh huh, it was on the other side of the ditch, where I must have carried it thinking I would need it, then laid it down when I didn’t. You know those things cost about 12 bucks with a hook. Why Brick would have a cow if I lost one.”
“And that’s where you found the bundles?”
“Yep, just a little ways up the hill. First one and then the other. I looked around a bit after that, but didn’t find any more.”
“And you opened one?”
“Yeah, I thought it they might be something I could use. At first, I didn’t connect them with the wreck, I thought somebody had just lost some stuff along the road.”
“How well did you know this…uh Malcolm Willis?”
“Not real well. He only came in once with a regular customer who came in just about every week or so.” I went on to explain about Luther’s job and how we got to know each other over the last 6 months. I didn’t mention his warning or how scared he was a few weeks back.
He asked me a number of other questions, most of which he already knew the answers to. I guess he was trying to trip me up. He asked me about various narcotics, which I really knew little or nothing about.
Then he surprised me by asking, “Mr. Brickey, Lee, would you be willing to take a Polygraph test…a lie detector?”
My heart missed a beat.
Chapter 17
That threw me off my guard for a second, then I sat up and put a big grin on my face and said, “Yeah! Boy would I! Neat! That’d make me the coolest guy in town. Do you think I could?” I’d often heard that the best defense was a good offense, but I’d never really understood it until just then. My response seemed to dampen him a little. I didn’t think they were going to go to the expense and hassle of a test if they thought I was just a dumb kid looking for glory. Besides, one of the times that I was awake in Civics Class it was brought out that lie detectors were not admissible in court and they couldn’t make you do it.
Roger said, “Well, we’ll see.” And I knew that I would never be hooked up to that contraption.
After a few more questions, Sheriff Cook called it off with a change of subject. Speaking as if I weren’t even there, he said to Roger, “We’re going to have to let the state boys in on this, because we have to send a sample to their lab, but we can’t let them come here and grab all the spotlights. So don’t make it easy for them. Let’s get that car impounded, and go out to the site and get it all wrapped up tight. Take Brickey here with you, get some pictures, make it an open and shut traffic accident, and the county recovers a huge stash of heroin!”
“Ah ha,” I thought, “the sheriff wasn’t there for his expertise, he was there for the headlines. A brass plated politician right down to his pearled handled Colt.”
* * *
We went out
to the crash scene and tramped around in the weeds and shot up about a bunch of film. I showed them where I found the dope, at least where I wanted them to think I found it. I hate to feel superior to anybody, but with those guys it was hard not to – so I did. I felt like I was playing Scrabble with a couple of guys who didn’t speak English, I was definitely in charge, but they didn’t know it.
They were so interested in headlines that they weren’t seeing the rest of it. They didn’t see that a human was dead, whether I knew him well or not he was still dead. They didn’t know that Luther was scared to death, or that he was talking crazy just a few days ago. They couldn’t know about Luther’s fears because I hadn’t told them. I didn’t tell them because I didn’t want them nosing around because I had stolen $ 4500. I didn’t even know who I had stolen it from, but I knew that if that money had been legitimate it would’ve been in a bank, not wedged under a car seat.
All these morons could see was public relations for Cowboy Cook. Nothing would be solved; we wouldn’t know where the drugs were coming from or how to stop them. But David, the Colt wearing cowboy hatted Sheriff, Cook would get reelected in November as usual.
“Oh kid,” that was # 2 speaking – I wondered what happened to the Mr. thing, “this doesn’t get out till we’re ready to announce it. Got it?”
“Got it.” That was me speaking.
All at the same time, I was smug, confused, and pissed. Sure, I was a thief again, but who was the victim, some drug dealer in Memphis? What was he going to do put in a claim at the county court house to get his property back? Not hardly. And what about Malcolm, didn’t he account for something? After all, he was just a working stiff trying to make a living (I gave him the benefit of the doubt). Then there was Moe, Larry, and Curley running around in sheriff’s cars, not caring about anything except looking good come November.
There was just something about the way the ‘duly constituted authorities’ were handling things that naturally ticked me off. I was so steamed when it came time to haul that Cadillac up to the county garage at Marshfield, that I called Earl in to take it, which cost me 5 bucks out of my own pocket.
I was trying to get some work done in the sign shop, when Mack came in and suggested a couple of beers at Mona’s; he could make some really fine suggestions from time to time. A little TV baseball and some conversation was just what I needed. I was hoping that I wasn’t in over my head, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it now but play out my hand.
* * *
I went into the shop earlier than usual on Monday. There were a lot of small jobs to be done and some touch up work on some larger jobs. So far, everything was on schedule, and things were working out pretty well. Usually, it was steady, but now and then you had a monster week like last week. I didn’t consider myself a sign painter. I was pretty good for a small town boy, but I still had a lot to learn, especially about brush technique. I looked at every sign that I came across, checking for style and design. My work was becoming bolder, and I was using more of the available surface.
I would often have to rewrite the customer’s copy, because most people want to put as many words as possible on a sign. They give no thought to the fact that nobody will read any of it if there is too much of it. It was a pure case of quality beating the hell out of quantity.
I got things pretty well shaped up and told Brick that I needed a few hours to take care of some things. He almost asked what kind of things, but he didn’t. He was starting to show me the consideration of a valued employee and not treating me like his kid – I appreciated that. When I left the station, I hotfooted it to the cabin and got the $ 4500, which I took into Springfield to the Empire Bank. There I rented a safe deposit box and filled it with cash. Doubling had a really nice little bank with a whole room full of safe deposit boxes, but I didn’t want to make it too easy for anyone to find mine. Maybe I was being too careful, but that was an awful lot of money, about a Corvette and 1/3.
While I was in Springfield, I went over to the college, picked up some class bulletins, and checked to see if there was anything else I needed to do or find out. They told me I was all set for the time being, but they would be contacting me for tests and registration and such.
With that taken care of I drove on back to Doubling and to work. I figured that I’d be hearing from Chuck as soon as the lab tests and the autopsy were complete. He just had to show how much important information he had by sharing it. He was like some big shot buying drinks and meals, trying to make folks think he had a lot of money. Well, if someone wants to throw money or information my way – let em. Deputy Dumb Ass was waiting at the station when I pulled up.
I was barely out of the car before old Chuck was dragging me out back away from everybody, and was he ever excited. He started to stammer and made no sense at all until he finally said, “Brickey! Boy do you know what that stuff was? That stuff tested out pure – pure dee H…Horse…Heroin! All 4 ½ pounds of it! Do you know what that stuff is worth on the streets of Kansas City?”
“No.” Sometimes I’m a man of few words.
“Well, a lot, I’d say. A lot more than me or you will ever see in one place from doin honest work, that’s how much. Easy 60 to 70 thousand dollars is how much.”
“Son-of-a-bitch.” Was all I could think to say – still being a man of few words.
I found myself with both my hands out in front of me, kind of holding an imaginary package in each, hefting their weight. I had held $70,000.00 and turned it over. I looked at Chuck and found him holding 2 imaginary packages, and drooling on his shoes. We both stood there lost in our losses for a few seconds, until Chuck finally snapped out of it.
“Oh, you got to keep this quiet, let it die down, and go away, understand? The state boys are getting involved because of the size of the stash. They want to flush the shipper and take ‘em out. So mums the word – keep it under your arm …ha-ha.”
“Okay.” I said. I was getting real good at that man of few words thing.
“Boy-oh-boy is the sheriff steamed. He can’t tell anyone about it until the state boys say it’s okay, and that could be quite a while. Is he ever pissed.” I didn’t say anything, but I was thinking that it couldn’t happen to a nicer politician.
“Oh, by the way,” Chuck went on, “ that nigger didn’t fall asleep. He had 2 bullet holes him. One in the left leg, and one in the left side; he must have bled out at 80 mile an hour. Probably took him 50 miles to die. How he kept it on the road for that long I’ll never know. But actually, I guess he didn’t keep it on the road, did he? Ha – ha – ha, get it, ha – ha.” Chuck really was a dumb ass all the way down to his sense of humor.
Malcolm had 2 bullets in him, Jesus, that’s when it occurred to me that I was scared. I was starting to realize that things could get rough. Maybe I should come clean with the cops. Now that was probably one of the dumbest thoughts I’d had in a while, those Bozos wouldn’t be any protection, and that money would never make it to the treasury. Sheriff Cook would buy a new cowboy hat and another Colt.
I asked myself the same question that I had been asking myself a lot lately, “How the hell do I get myself into these messes?” I went back to work; I needed to stay busy.
* * *
That evening I got a call from Junior Bradley, our local area state trooper. He lives in Doubling and is more or less responsible for this part of the zone. I didn’t know the trooper who had been out at the wreck. Junior must have been off duty or something. Ted Bradley was nobody’s Junior anything; he was a big, tough as nails, ex-marine with a face like a 5-year-old kid. He was a little shy of 30, with a couple of years of college and the makings of a good career.
He wanted to take my statement regarding the fatality of Saturday, last. That was kinda how he talked. He asked me if I wanted to meet him some place or should he come to the house. I told him to meet me at the station since I had some more work to do. I told him that I’d be there in about 15 minutes.
When he got to the station
, he bought us each a coke including Jacky who was jumpin’ the pumps that night. We went into the sign shop to talk. After rounding up another chair and both of us getting comfortable, he began. It was pretty much the same stuff that Roger had covered, but Junior seemed more professional and with better English. As long as you didn’t look at that 5 year old’s face, you had the feeling that this guy was in charge, but one look at that little kid’s kisser and it was all down the drain.
When we were finished I told him that I wanted to meet him here and not at the house because I didn’t want to upset the folks. Then I told him what Chuck had told me and that I had no confidence in the politicians as protectors. That earned me a smile. He seemed to relax a bit and said, “I’m going to level with you, Lee. There are some pretty nasty people involved here. We know, or think we know, who most of the players are. I don’t think you’re in any danger, but I can’t guarantee it. You may be contacted by someone from out of the area. I don’t know what guise they might use, maybe insurance investigator or maybe a friend or relative of Willis.”
“If you’re contacted, just tell them that you hauled that wreck in, and, yes, Willis was a customer. For your own sake, say absolutely nothing about the Heroin. Just play it dumb. You can do that can’t you?” I nodded. He didn’t know just how dumb I could play it.
“Oh.” I said, “I just remembered something. It may not be important, but Luther usually paid for his gas in cash, but from time to time he’d use a company credit card. It had an authorization name on it… Bourbon…no Borden… Bardone, yeah, that’s it Bardone.”
“Yeah, Willis had a card like that on him, that’s a good piece of memory work. Did you keep a copy?”