Death of a Rainmaker

by Laurie Loewenstein

  Ed checked his watch. “Everyone will be at the flag-lowering ceremony.”

  “And?”

  “Can we wait until it’s over and the guys head to dinner? I mean, it’ll really take the starch out of the fellows if they have to watch a CCCer led away in handcuffs.”

  Temple pulled beside the office and set the brake. Twisting to look Ed in the eye, he said, “I know this is tough. But you’ve got to remember which side your bread is buttered on now.”

  Ed nodded.

  The two men sat silently in the sedan until the corps began streaming toward the mess hall. Commander Baker spotted the lawmen and trotted over.

  Temple climbed out of the car and extended his hand. “Sorry to be here with bad news, but we’ve got a warrant for DiNapoli.”

  “I figured, soon as I saw you pull up. I’ll have him brought up from the mess hall. He’s on KP. Why don’t you fellows wait inside my office? I’ll send someone for him.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  Temple stood looking at one of the maps while Ed paced. Baker settled behind his desk. No one spoke. Five minutes later, Senior Leader Davies knocked on the door.

  “Reporting with DiNapoli as requested, sir,” Davies said.

  “We’ll talk to him privately,” Baker responded. “Go get some chow.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Davies spun on his heel and marched out.

  Baker turned to Carmine. “The sheriff here asked to see you.”

  Carmine sagged but kept his eyes on Temple’s face.

  The sheriff began: “I’m here to arrest you for murder in the first degree of Roland Coombs on August . . .” As he pulled a paper out of his pocket and read out the warrant, Carmine shook his head.

  “This ain’t right. This ain’t right.” The young man’s voice was low and steady.

  When Temple was finished, Carmine turned his back so Ed could clamp on the cuffs.

  As they pulled out onto the main road, striations of pink and orange flowed from the setting sun. At the courthouse, Temple led the way through the back door and up to the third-floor cellblock. He glanced at the door to the apartment. Mondays Etha oversaw the church auxiliary meeting and, in the absence of cooking smells, he figured she was running late. He inserted the spike key into the steel door of the jail. The air was stuffy. There had not been a prisoner since earlier in the month.

  “Get him settled,” Temple said to Ed. “I’ll be downstairs filling out the paperwork.”

  Ed led Carmine into the first cell and removed the cuffs. A narrow metal bed with a thin mattress covered in blue-striped ticking stood beside a porcelain sink and a toilet bolted to the wall. The odor of urine and bleach was strong. Carmine dropped onto the mattress with his elbows on thighs, his head in his hands. From a cupboard by the cellblock door, Ed drew a blanket and towel and handed them over. Then he pulled the cell door shut with a firm click.

  “We’ll bring some dinner,” Ed said. “Anything else you need?”

  Carmine shook his head.

  “The sheriff is fair. He’ll make sure you get treated fair.”

  “Didn’t do it,” Carmine said, staring at the floor.

  Ed felt as low as he had in a long time. He headed out into the hallway. Every fellow in the corps was a down-and-outer by definition. But still, he couldn’t figure how anyone could throw away three squares and a chance to earn some dough. How come Carmine let a two-bit fight with a fast-talker get the better of him?

  Down in the sheriff’s office, Temple was hunched over a half-completed report. Ed lit a cigarette and began typing up his notes. Neither man, caught up in his own task, heard Etha come in the back door and mount the steps, although she was making no particular effort to be quiet. Up in the apartment, she shucked off her street clothes and pulled on a housedress. Temple would have to be satisfied with creamed beef on toast. She found a note taped to the icebox: Prisoner in cell #1. Needs dinner. Oh God, she thought. Her stomach wobbled.

  Snatching the cellblock keys off the ring by the door, she dashed into the hall. Her fingers jittered as she struggled to fit the key into the lock. Inside, the last bit of daylight fell on Carmine, who lay on a cot, stiffly staring at the ceiling, the boyish charm drained from his face.

  Her voice was thick: “No!”

  He jumped up. “What? What are you doing here?”

  “Our apartment is next door.” She cocked her thumb toward the hall, then approached the cell. “What happened?”

  Carmine’s eyes pooled. “It’s a mistake. I didn’t do what they said. I didn’t.”

  Etha pulled a chair over to the cell and settled herself. “What did happen?” she asked in a quiet voice.

  He scoured his running nose and eyes with a shirtsleeve. After a moment he gathered himself. “You see, we was joking around at the bar. I’d had a couple of beers. We all did. It was the first time I’d gotten a town pass since coming into camp. I was dying of thirst. Then the explosives guy pulls out this silver lighter. My grandpa had the same one. With fancy swirls and whatnot. Nonno used to sit me on his lap and let me thumb the wheel. You know, strike it up. So when I saw that same lighter, I wanted it.” He squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Go on,” Etha said.

  “You’re going to think less of me, but I used to boost stuff all the time. But I haven’t swiped anything since I’ve been at camp. I swear.”

  Etha studied her hands. “I believe you.”

  “But the lighter was different. So after I lit my smoke, it slipped into my pocket nice and snug. At first, the fellow didn’t take note. But then he did. I guess I could have laughed it off, like I did it without thinking. You know, Oh, sorry. But I couldn’t. It was as if it were Nonno’s—the only thing I was ever going to have of his. The fellow pushed me. Started yelling. People stared. Something inside me exploded. Bang! I shoved back. He darted for my pocket to grab the lighter and I popped him in the nose. Got him good. A real gusher. My buddies hightailed it.” He fell silent.

  “And then what?” Etha asked.

  “Usually when I paste someone, they go down,” Carmine continued, gesturing with both palms up, “but that Coombs was no slouch. He came back and caught me in the jaw so hard I swore it was broke. I’m ashamed, ma’am. Yes I am. But I didn’t hunt that man down and kill him. I holed up in town, in someone’s backyard shed. Then the next day, after the storm, I started hoofing it back to camp. Stopped at the jungle for a bite, where you saw me, and then on to camp. Never laid eyes on the fellow after Friday night. I’m not a killer. I’m not.”

  Carmine pressed his forehead against the iron. Etha’s gaze slid away to a steamy afternoon not long before Jack died. He and his gang were sprinting through the neighborhood’s open yards in a game of tag. Etha, who was pinning towels to the clothesline, noticed the feebleminded boy from one block over flitting along the sidelines. As Jack raced past the boy, she heard her son yell, “Hey, dummy . . .” The rest was lost amidst the shouts of the other boys. Her eyes had widened in anger. She snatched him by the shirt as he flew by, yanked down his trousers, and spanked him with a hard hand.

  “Don’t ever let me hear you use that word again,” she had hissed as he struggled to tug his pants up over skinny hips, his face slick with tears and snot and humiliation.

  “What word? What?”

  Jack, she knew, was entirely capable of fibbing and evading, especially when scolded. Yet as she had studied his face that day, she saw nothing but confusion.

  “What did you shout at Davey just now?’

  “Asked him, Hey, do you wanna play? Like that.”

  Etha grabbed his arm. “Is that the truth?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “You didn’t call him a dummy?”

  “No!”

  She pressed her hand against her mouth. “I’m sorry. I thought I heard something else.”

  There was a tick of silence. Then he mumbled, “Can I go now?” When she reached out to ruffle his hair, he’d ducked and trotted off. For the remainder
of the day he had dodged her touch. The next week he was swimming with his gang in the Illinois River and never surfaced.

  Etha thought of all of this as she studied Carmine’s face.

  “I’m not a killer,” he said.

  She bit her lower lip. “I believe you.”

  “You do?”

  Etha nodded, gingerly passing her hand through the gap between the bars to touch his dark waves.

  Back in the kitchen, as she whisked milk and flour and tossed in chips of dried beef, Etha began laying out an argument for Carmine’s innocence.

  His kindness had been evident from the moment they’d met in the hobo jungle on Saturday evening. It was, in fact, only a few hours after Coombs’s death at midday. Only a few hours and yet it had been Carmine who had showed compassion when she had foolishly driven out to the edge of the tracks. He had been one of the first to greet her. And it had been Carmine who walked her to her car after she had blurted out that her husband was the sheriff. Thinking back on that moment, she tried to recall how Carmine had reacted when the words flew from her lips. Murph, the old hobo, had immediately condemned her and there had been fear and shock in the eyes of the others. But what about Carmine? As Murph denounced her, Carmine had gently taken her arm. There was no fear in his eyes. No terror. Which would surely have been the case if he had killed a man earlier that day. Indeed, he had escorted her to the sedan as if they were concluding a social engagement. He promised to make sure she got back on the main highway safely. He had remained in her rearview mirror as she bumped down the dirt road and finally reach the asphalt. He was a young man who kept his word.

  While the sauce thickened, Etha pulled a metal tray from the cupboard and wiped it clean. She toasted two slices of bread, laid them in a shallow soup bowl, and ladled the chipped beef on top. There was room on the tray for the bowl along with a slice of yesterday’s pie and a glass of milk. Everyone knew that growing boys needed milk. Etha picked up the loaded tray and moved slowly, so as not to spill, into the outer corridor and on into the jail. Carmine stood at the cell door, his fingers wrapped around the bars.

  “Smells mighty good,” he said.

  “I have been known to scorch the cream.”

  She passed the tray through the open slot in the cell door.

  Carmine sat on the cot, carefully balancing his dinner across his knees.

  “Did you wash up?” she asked.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Etha took her seat.

  “Can’t remember the last time I’ve had home cooking,” Carmine said, his voice thick with pie. “Guess it was that chicken you brought out to the jungle. But that’s been it for a while.”

  “Do they feed you well at camp?”

  “Oh, yeah. You can fill yourself up. But it’s nothing like this.”

  “And before you joined the CCC? When you were on the road? Did you have enough then?”

  Carmine scooped the remainder of the pie into his mouth, flicking his tongue around a glob of filling sticking to the corner of his lips. After swallowing, he said, “It was hit and miss out there. Most days I lived on stale bread. Canned beans or sardines pretty regular too.” He wet his finger, scraped it across the residue of sugar and cooked apples stuck to the plate, then licked it clean. “’Course, I got many a handout . . . bologna sandwiches, a glass of milk, whatever the housewife had in her icebox. A lot of them didn’t have nothing much on hand and some didn’t even have an icebox. You always remember those folks that have nothing and still give you some.”

  Etha’s icebox had never been empty. She pressed her fingers to her mouth. “Oh Lordy.”

  Carmine shrugged. “Take what you can get. Sometimes, when I hopped off in a town, I’d stroll into a restaurant and tell the waitress I was waiting for someone. She’d show me a table and bring a glass of water. Most places had bottles of ketchup and crackers set out. I’d pour the ketchup in the water and stir in the crackers. Helped kill the hunger pangs.”

  Etha rose. “I’m going to bring you another piece of pie right this minute.”

  “Wouldn’t turn it down.”

  “Hand me the tray.”

  As she hurried through the outer hallway, Temple was climbing the stairs. “Got the prisoner fed?”

  “Yes. Just need to bring him a slice of pie.”

  Temple lifted his brows. “Getting fancy with the jailhouse menu?”

  In the kitchen, Etha hastily shoved the dirty pie plate under the soup bowl. “We have plenty.”

  Temple shook his head. “Don’t forget he’s been charged with killing a man. Bashing in his skull. Don’t let DiNapoli hoodwink you. I mean it.” He strode down the hall. Water splashed in the bathroom sink.

  Etha slid the second slice of pie onto a dish and hustled back to the cellblock. “Here.”

  Carmine took the plate and held it up, admiring its contents. Etha walked toward the hallway.

  “Can’t you stay?” he asked.

  “No. I’ve got to get the sheriff’s dinner.” When she turned at the door, he was sitting on the bunk, the pie untouched, and looking so forlorn her heart ached.

  Over dinner, Temple didn’t want to talk about the arrest. Instead he went on about Doll’s claim that when he was elected sheriff, the county would save on gasoline.

  “He’s saying he can cover this county on less than fifty gallons a month. That’s of bunch of hooey. Pardon me,” Temple said, gliding his fork over his empty dessert plate. “Any more of this pie by chance?”

  Etha flushed. “Sold out. Coffee?” As she set the cup and saucer on the table, she said, “That Doll surely has an inflated opinion of his merits. Do you think people are buying it?”

  Temple studied his coffee cup. “Hard to say since no one is going to tell me straight to my face that they aren’t voting for me. But I’ve got a bad feeling in my gut. Too many foreclosures, too many stills busted up, too little rain. Folks are angry and they’re looking for someone to blame. I don’t want to scare you, but I’m worried.”

  The living room was the coolest spot in the apartment; its north-facing windows captured whatever breeze happened by. After switching on the radio, Temple took up the newspaper and dropped into his chair. Rudy Vallee sang “I’m in a Dancing Mood.” Etha started to work her knitting needles on what was to be a cap for the Bonwells’ new baby, but a book on the shelf had fallen sideways and she got up to straighten it. She sat down again. Then she noticed the geranium needed water. All the while she fretted about Carmine.

  Temple shook the newspaper. “Will you listen to this! Rogers says in his column here that he’s flying to Alaska this week. He and Wiley Post are off on a sightseeing trip.”

  “Umm . . .”

  “You all right, sweetheart? You don’t seem yourself.”

  “I don’t know. Guess I’m a bit all-overish tonight.” She took up the needles again.

  Later, as Temple climbed into bed beside her, she tried to lose herself in a novel recommended by Vermillion’s librarian.

  Temple stretched out on his back and bent his arms behind his head. “You know, I just can’t figure why that kid did it.”

  Etha tensed. She tented the book on her stomach. “Oh?” she said, trying to keep her tone even. “How so?”

  “It would make a lot more sense if DiNapoli went for Coombs right after their fistfight. Followed him out of the bar and whacked him on the head. A crime of passion. But for DiNapoli to plan it out. To wait until the next day and then trail the fellow to the pictures. All because Coombs accused him of nicking a lighter?”

  Etha chose her words with care: “It does sound improbable, now that you say it.”

  “Except that I’ve got him with access to what I think is the weapon—I’m waiting for Hinchie to take a closer look at it—and what is almost certainly the victim’s blood on his shirt, and a witness who saw him at the movies on Saturday.”

  He leaned over and kissed her. “I’m too tired to think on it anymore. Sleep well.”

  But Et
ha couldn’t sleep. Not a wink. After mindlessly turning the pages of the book for a few more minutes, she clicked off the bedside lamp. Temple snored lightly. She thought over the bits of Carmine’s story that she knew, worrying about him alone in the cellblock.

  At 2:13 a.m., Temple snorted mightily and woke himself up. After tossing and turning for hours, Etha was still staring at the ceiling.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Fretting about Carmine.”

  “That’s what’s troubling you?”

  “Yes. All by his lonesome. He’s just a kid, you know. I think you should move him into the kitchen lockup. That way he’d have some company.”

  Temple exhaled heavily. “Didn’t I warn you not to let yourself be scammed by that kid? He knows all the angles—grew up streetwise, then bummed around the country. He’s staying in the cellblock.” With that, he rolled over on his side and slid effortlessly into sleep.

  But Etha’s vigil continued until dawn leached through the curtains, when, surrendering, she rose, found her slippers, and shuffled into the kitchen.

  Chapter fourteen

  Two days later, on Wednesday, the state of affairs was unchanged. Temple remained confident he’d arrested the right man, but Etha’s thoughts were evolving. Very early that morning she had concluded it was not enough to believe Carmine innocent. She needed to prove it. Living with a sheriff had taught her there was always the possibility of stones unturned. And after a lifetime in small towns, she knew how to navigate the gossip, rumors, and webs of family relationships that muffled and hid realities; thick layers of paint that had to be chipped away to get down to the bare wood of truth.

  After washing up Temple’s breakfast dishes, Etha added a ladle of hot water to the pot of coagulated oatmeal and sugared it up good. Putting on a falsely cheerful face, she carried the tray with the oatmeal and two cups of coffee next door. Carmine was at the sink, head bowed, hands gripping the sides of the porcelain as if steadying himself in a fiercely pitching rowboat. When he turned to face her, pink rimmed his eyes.