Death of a Rainmaker

by Laurie Loewenstein

  There was no way to ask. She saw he was clearly expecting her to politely thank him and leave. Pronto. The room was sweltering. Trying to maintain the demeanor of the well-meaning church woman, Etha thanked him for his time and hurried out the door.

  * * *

  Later, when Etha delivered dinner to the cellblock, Carmine was sitting on the bunk, head bowed so low that his eyes were hidden. All she could see was the greasy crescent of hair flopped across his forehead.

  “You must be starving,” she said lightly. He mumbled and Etha had to ask him to repeat his words.

  “Thanks, but not hungry.”

  “Goodness.” She paused and set the tray down. “What’s wrong?”

  “My lawyer stopped by. Told me it doesn’t look good—that the case against me is strong.”

  Etha stiffened.

  Carmine shrugged. “So what’s the use of eating? In a couple of months I’ll be strapped into the chair and that’ll be it.”

  “Don’t even think that. I’m making progress on—”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I don’t feel like talking.”

  And no matter how many times she tried to coax a word or two out, he refused until she finally slid the tray through the slot “for when you’re hungry later,” and slipped out the door feeling gut-punched.

  * * *

  Two floors below, Ed was gathering himself to ask Viviane to join him at the Maid-Rite later that evening. He waited until the two clerks were out to slip down the hall. He didn’t want an audience if she turned him down. When he strolled in, she lifted her face from her typewriter. He took in the cool milk of her cheeks, the wash of freckles across her nose, the heavy brown hair.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked.

  Ed broke out in a sweat. “I’d like to treat you to a hamburger after work today. If that’s okay with you, that is. I can drive you home afterward.”

  Viviane’s lips, Ed noticed, were a particular shade of pink. She was saying something. The words eventually reached his ears: “Why yes. I’d like that.”

  And so, shortly after the courthouse clock struck five, Ed escorted Viviane out through the foyer. There wasn’t much said during their walk to the Maid-Rite. Ed thought he might have mentioned the drought. Viviane may have answered. But something busted loose between them after they settled on two stools at the end of the counter and ordered. Ed suddenly found himself telling Viviane about his year in the CCC. The joy of toeing a shovel into the soil during a morning of honest work. It was like throwing open a window on the first warm day in May, he said. Welcome fresh air after a cramped winter. He told her about growing up in Chicago and the grimness that fell on the city after the economy soured.

  When Ernie slid two hamburgers, buns glistening with grease, their way, Ed continued to talk and Viviane to listen. After a bit, Ernie came back, pointing out, fussily, that their supper was getting cold. Ed and Viviane grinned and dug in. Then Ed ordered a piece of pie to share. Viviane talked about the degradation of the soddie. How humiliated she had been when he drove her home that first time. How when she climbed out of bed each morning, an imprint of her head, outlined in dust, remained. She said her dream was to leave Jackson County. And that she was going to move to Oklahoma City or maybe even Chicago as soon as she could.

  As they ate and talked, the life of the diner surged around them. An overalled man sat down on the stool next to Ed and nursed a cup of coffee for a long while. The Johnson boys, the quiet bachelor brothers, came in for their nightly supper of corned beef hash. Two teachers in print dresses spent twenty minutes gabbing about the upcoming school year as they fastidiously crushed Saltines into Ernie’s chili.

  It was going on seven o’clock when Viviane, glancing at her watch, exclaimed, “Goodness! I’ve got to get home. Let me run and powder my nose.”

  Ed paid up and watched as she made her way down the narrow hall to the ladies’ room.

  “That one’s a keeper, I’d say,” commented Trot, who was the latest occupant of the stool beside the deputy.

  Ed, unaware of the comings and goings beside him, turned with a start. Trot produced a sunken grin. The smell of whiskey was strong. “Yes, well . . .”

  “You know, when I was young I had a girl just as pretty. But I had to go away for a while and when I got back she was gone. Don’t let that happen.” Trot shook a finger at Ed. “Biggest mistake . . .” His voice dribbled off.

  “Sorry to hear that,” Ed said politely and turned away, but Trot had not yet run out of gas.

  “Another thing. I see your badge there.” He flapped a hand in an exaggerated fashion toward Ed’s shield. “Got a ride from one of your kind after my machine broke down at that there auction. Much appreciated.”

  “Oh, yeah. The sheriff, I guess,” Ed said, with his head still turned away and watching for Viviane’s reappearance.

  “’Twas him,” Trot said, too loudly. “Told me about the arrest. CCC boy? Hard to believe. Just a kid.”

  “They grow up fast.”

  “I just hope you’re sure of what you’re doing. Hate to see an innocent kid take the heat.”

  Ed frowned. “If you’re saying we’re railroading the suspect through the system, you’d be wrong.”

  “Not saying that.”

  Viviane returned and Ed ushered her away from the old coot and out the door. As they drove to the soddie, Viviane complained about the county clerks, and Ed, half listening, plotted his next move—which was to invite her to the movies.

  When he pulled down her lane, her parents and grandma were seated outside in the twilight while her brothers chased each other around the pump. They invited Ed to sit on one of the straight-backed chairs brought from the house. There was not much talk, just a silent appreciation of the cool air. The scrub turned from silver to purple and, far off, a single cottonwood stood sentry on the flat prairie. How beautiful, Ed thought, as desire and contentment rose in his chest.

  Chapter seventeen

  The next morning it was barely eight a.m. and yet, if hung outside, tobacco would cure in an hour—the air was that hot and dry. Another tick mark on a desiccated year. The fan in the sheriff’s office blew hot air on the lawmen’s necks. Temple was taking a phone call. Ed typed.

  “I’ll be snookered,” Temple said at last, dropping the receiver into the cradle.

  Ed glanced up. “What?”

  The sheriff stepped to the bulletin board, thickly feathered with an array of foreclosure announcements and county regs, with the only visual relief being a couple of Wanted posters in garish fonts. With his thumb and middle finger, Temple thumped the mug shot of a spectacled man. “Alvin here and his pal Harry have been arrested.”

  Ed jumped up. “No kidding.”

  Both men were well-known criminals. Alvin Karpis, in and out of prison since he was sixteen, was wanted for kidnapping a banker and murdering a Missouri sheriff. Harry Flanagan was his getaway driver.

  “Yep. The Texas boys tracked them down. Both are being escorted to Missouri under armed guard for extradition.”

  Ed emitted a low whistle.

  “And guess what lockup the rangers are asking to use for an overnight stop?” Temple pivoted. “As if we don’t have enough work with the Coombs case and the usual bunkum.”

  The telephone buzzed again. The caller’s voice commandeered the receiver even before Temple could identify himself.

  After a couple of minutes, the sheriff managed to wedge his toe into the flood of words. “Just the one,” he said loudly. “Got a separate women’s lockup but I don’t see—” Another monologue overran Temple’s voice. He rolled his eyes at Ed, then sighed, said, “Yes, I do. I’ll take care of it. Will do.”

  “Now what?” Ed asked.

  “Now they’re wanting us to clear out the cellblock and move our prisoner to the kitchen lockup. Seems Alvin and Harry are at high risk for escape and the rangers don’t want any back-and-forth between them and other inmates.”

  Someone tapped on the office
door. Ed startled as if the two public enemies were busting in then and there. But it was only Viviane with a stack of papers that needed signatures.

  “Put them with the other stuff I’m not going to get to,” Temple said.

  Viviane began tidying up the sheriff’s desk, aligning the edges of the papers, brushing off eraser crumbs. She glanced shyly at Ed who smiled tightly in return.

  Temple moved toward the door. “I’ll let Etha know. Then we’ll move DiNapoli.”

  * * *

  Stepping into the apartment, Temple heard little Sally Clark lurching through a Mozart sonata as if she were a mule staggering under a load of bricks.

  Temple leaned through the dining room doorway. “When you’re finished,” he said to Etha.

  Ten minutes later, Sally was galloping out the kitchen door as if the place were on fire.

  Etha trailed behind. Temple poured a cup of coffee.

  “Problem?” she asked.

  He raised the cup as if in toast. “You’ll be happy to know we’re moving DiNapoli into the cell here.”

  Etha pressed her palm against her chest. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank the Texas Rangers.” He filled her in on the transport of the two criminals.

  “Do you think it’s safe? Having them next door?”

  “Four rangers on duty around the clock. Steel doors. Wrist and ankle shackles. It’s safe.”

  Etha exhaled. “I’ve been wanting to tell you that Carmine hasn’t eaten since yesterday’s breakfast. Just sits on his bunk studying his hands. He thinks he’s going to the chair.”

  Temple rolled his lips between his teeth for a couple of beats, then said gently, “Honey, that is a possibility. If he is found guilty he—”

  “But he’s not!”

  “That’s for the jury to decide. I don’t have time to nursemaid DiNapoli. We’ve got hardened killers on their way. Get this cell ready so we can move him over. Please.”

  Making sure a boy is fed and housed isn’t coddling in my book, Etha thought with a sniff. She hauled two bags of turnips and a crate of canning jars from the cell and into the hallway. Then smoothed the wool blanket on the cot and brought in an extra pillow.

  Twenty minutes later, low voices trickled from the cellblock. Then came the clank of shackles. She rushed to the bedroom, unable to bear the sight of Carmine in chains. After Temple’s and Ed’s footfalls receded to the lower floors, she emerged. Carmine was curled like a snail on the cot, his back to her. She studied the line of his shoulders, his skinny haunches.

  “Hungry?”

  He shook his head.

  “I was going to bake up a big old pie.”

  Nothing.

  The flour and lard were warm in her hands. After shaping the dough, she wrapped the ball and set it to chill in the icebox. Carmine’s feet hung limply over the end of the cot. How to settle his mind? She drifted into the dining room to tidy up the sheet music scattered across the top of the upright. Music could take you away from your worries, sure enough. Carmine had been blowing on a harmonica the night she met him. She absentmindedly collected the loose song sheets. Wonder if his harmonica is up at the CCC? Wouldn’t hurt to take a drive over there and find out.

  * * *

  Past the edge of town, Etha cranked down the car window to inhale the sun-baked grasses and dilute the reek of gasoline. The sedan lumbered along comfortably and her hopes lifted for some unknown reason.

  She pulled into camp. The clusters of bunkhouses and open spaces were deserted. She stepped out of the car and adjusted her hat. Through the screen door of the office she spotted the commander. She tapped lightly.

  “Can I interrupt?” she asked.

  Raising his head from paperwork, Baker smiled and rose. “Sure enough. I don’t get many visitors.” He pushed open the door and gestured toward a chair. Etha settled in with her pocketbook on her lap.

  “What brings you here?”

  Etha had met Commander Baker only once, and her first thought had been of how well-ironed his shirt and pants were despite the fact that he was unmarried. It was the same today. The creases looked as sharp as knife blades. Above the pressed collar, his face was unreadable.

  “It’s about Carmine. He’s in an awful spot and is just as nerved up as can be. He hasn’t swallowed a morsel since yesterday noon.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “And so I was thinking that maybe having his harmonica would help ease his mind.”

  The commander cocked his head. “Didn’t know he played.”

  “He’s quite good. I heard . . . I heard someone say so. And I was wondering, if his harmonica was here, if you’d let me take it to him.”

  Baker studied his laced fingers. “Don’t see any harm. His things are here for safekeeping. I was getting ready to ask Temple what to do with them, as a matter of fact.”

  Etha smiled. “I truly think it will do him a world of good.”

  The commander crossed over to a large wooden storage cupboard. “Our first group of CCCers built this for me. Did a pretty good job, I’d say.” He yanked on the door, which stuck a bit, and pulled out three canvas duffel bags. “We’ve had a couple of the corps run off in the middle of the night. Couldn’t take the discipline, I guess. Not sure which bag is Carmine’s.”

  He peered inside the first two and tossed them back into the cupboard. The third he plopped on his desk chair, yanked its drawstring, and reached in. Out came a crumpled work shirt with DiNapoli stenciled inside the collar. A thin towel, four pairs of rolled socks, two Popular Science magazines, and a battered edition of The Maltese Falcon emerged.

  “He might want that,” Etha said, reaching for the book. “If you don’t mind.”

  Baker waved. “Sure. Not locating a harmonica as yet.” He dug deeper.

  Etha absently flipped through the Falcon’s pages. A snapshot that had been tucked between the leaves fell to the floor. Before an ivy-covered wall, a woman in a limp dress posed with a baby. Both stared directly into the lens. Her heavy-lidded eyes were dark, as were the child’s.

  “Carmine and his mother! Don’t you think?” Etha exclaimed.

  Baker squinted at the photo. “Could be.”

  “It is! Spitting image.” Etha patted her mouth. “Such a shame to lose his mama. Does she look poorly to you?”

  Baker leaned forward. “Maybe.” His fingers deep in the bag, the commander’s face lit up. “Got it.”

  The dime-store harmonica had been played hard. Its frilly engraved lettering was mucked with sweat and saliva.

  “Seen many a mile,” Baker said, handing it to Etha, who wrapped it in a clean hankie and tucked it into her purse along with the book and the snapshot.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” she said, rising and smoothing her dress.

  * * *

  Back home, Carmine was stretched out on the cot, motionless as a rabbit gone to ground.

  “I brought you a few things from camp.” No response. Etha decided to carry on as if they were having a conversation. “Your harmonica and the detective book.”

  Nothing.

  She kneeled and slid them under the bars.

  “Now I’m going to bake up that pie. I’m betting you’re a pecan man, right?” Etha drew the apron over her head, removed the dough from the icebox, and lit the oven. She hummed “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” a song from her girlhood. As she smoothed the dough, she kept her eyes on the rolling pin, thinking Carmine was more likely to thaw if unobserved.

  When the pie was assembled and ushered into the warm oven, she finally turned. Carmine was sitting up, more or less, with his chin sunk to his sternum and arms limp. But he was upright. The Maltese Falcon was not in sight.

  Etha drew up a chair. “Any chance you know ‘By the Light of the Silvery Moon’?”

  Carmine raised his head sluggishly, his eyes dull with misery. “No ma’am.”

  Hearing the heaviness in his words, Etha wanted to cry but pushed her voice into the upper range of f
alse cheer. “Yes, I guess that’s before your time. How about . . . well, what do you like to play?”

  He shrugged.

  “Oh, come on.”

  He picked up the harmonica off the floor. Rubbed it against his thigh. The bang of a door slamming two floors below echoed up the stairwell.

  “Guess this one, sort of.” Carmine pursed his lips and, warming up, blew out a couple of scales. The opening notes of “California, Here I Come” issued from his lips, warbling through the reed.

  Etha smiled. “Give it some snap.”

  Carmine picked up the pace; the notes straightened their spines.

  “Hey, I’ve got sheet music for that. Hold on.”

  Carmine smacked the mouth organ into his palm, clearing it of spit.

  Etha rushed into the dining room. “Got it,” she called out. She settled herself at the keyboard, fingers rounded. “Come in on three.”

  Etha counted off loudly, then they both jumped in. They ran through the song twice.

  Back in the kitchen Etha said, “We’re getting there. You need to slow down on the chorus. And come to a full stop on the fourth bar.”

  “Bar?”

  Etha knuckled her hips. “You can’t read music, can you?”

  He shrugged.

  “I’m going to teach you.” She snatched the key to the lockup from off the nail beside the door and opened the cell. “Come on. I’ll show you what I’m talking about.”

  Carmine hesitated. “I don’t think I’m supposed—”

  “Don’t be silly. The piano’s this way.” Etha marched toward the dining room. Carmine hesitated again, then followed, the harmonica pressed to his breastbone.

  Patting the bench, Etha said, “Sit beside me. Now, see this big fat note all alone? That’s the come as in, California, here I come. You’re not sitting on it long enough. Listen.”

  Etha hit the keys firmly, depressing the A down good and long. “Hold it for four beats. See?”