by Stuart Woods
He leaned over and kissed her. “Pretty good, I guess. Sorry to be so late. The meeting after the dinner dragged on a little.”
“Did you get any questions about the police thing?”
“One. All I could say was that it would go to the grand jury, and we’d see what happened there. As a lawyer, I can hardly let myself get in a position where I’m seeming to go outside the legal process.”
“I suppose not.”
“Did the Messenger come? I want to see Bob Blankenship’s editorial.”
“It’s on the kitchen table. I haven’t had a chance to look at it myself.”
Billy retrieved the newspaper and searched the front page. There was a short article in the bottom right-hand corner laying out the bare facts of the case. There was no mention of Marshall’s statement to Tom Mudter. Confused, Billy looked for an editorial inside, but found nothing. “I don’t understand this,” he said. “Bob took all these notes and promised to run a big editorial. He was mad as hell when the council didn’t suspend Butts and Ward. I’m going to call him.”
“It’s a little late, isn’t it? Why don’t you talk to him in the morning?”
“Dammit,” he said, “I was counting on Blankenship to help get opinion stirred up. There’s no chance of that now. Bert Hill says the way his calendar is moving, it’s going to be Tuesday before this reaches the grand jury, and the paper doesn’t come out again until next Thursday.”
“And Tuesday is election day.”
“Yeah.”
21
FOXY FUNDERBURKE hated to go to town on Saturdays. The streets were crowded, it was difficult to find a parking place, and it was hard to get waited on in the stores. But this Saturday he had a broken toilet, and he had to have a part from town. After circling the block twice, he found a parking spot in front of McKibbon’s Hardware.
He was right, the store was crowded. Rather than wait for help, he began rummaging about, looking for the plumbing he needed.
“Lord, Harry, you should have seen it.” It was Ralph McKibbon’s voice, coming from behind a row of shelves. “Earl Timmons’s sister-in-law is a nurse over at LaGrange hospital, and she said four fellows showed up there at one o’clock Friday morning, said they’d been in somebody’s watermelon patch, all of ‘em had a butt full of bird shot, more or less. They didn’t give their right names, but she recognized one of ‘em—it was Emmett Spence!” He dissolved into laughter, then recovered himself. “Lord, if Hoss ever hears about it, he’ll kill that boy!” He was overcome again. Foxy moved on down the shelves until he found what he wanted.
Another ten minutes passed before he could get somebody to charge his purchase, and Foxy was getting more fidgety by the minute. He had been hunting for some weeks now, without success. Every time he spotted a likely quarry there was something wrong—somebody nearby or something. He had actually picked up two boys, but they had revealed in their conversation that they were expected shortly somewhere, and he had reluctantly let them out of his truck. The pressure was building unbearably now, and he was afraid he’d rush into something and make a mistake. He couldn’t let that happen.
He was out of town and over the mountain before he saw the boy. Foxy’s heart leapt. He slowed down and coasted, taking a long look at him before stopping.
“Hey, there, son. Where you headed?”
“Florida, sir,” the boy answered, smiling. “You going that way?”
“Well, that depends on how much of a hurry you’re in.”
“Oh, I’m not in that much of a hurry. I’m kind of enjoying the trip.”
“Nobody’s looking for you to be down in Florida, then?”
“No, sir, I reckon they’re not.”
Foxy smiled. “Well, if you don’t mind waiting just a little bit while I run by the house, I might give you a ride all the way to Daytona Beach. That do you?”
“Yes, sir! That sure would!”
“Get in, then.”
The boy got in, and Foxy drove away. He had not seen Sonny Butts coming up the mountain, driving toward Delano in his own car.
Sonny’s mind was on his own problems, and he paid little heed to Foxy. It would be some time before he remembered.
At church on Sunday morning Brooks Peters preached on the subject of justice, and no one in attendance could have doubted his purpose.
Brooks stood at the Church door and shook hands with the members of his congregation as they left. Some, Billy noticed, had words of encouragement for the preacher, others muttered a brief greeting and hurried out. Billy noticed that Patricia seemed to be drawing a lot of attention, too, and not a few broad winks. “What’s all that about?” he asked her.
She seemed momentarily flustered, then said, “Oh, word’s getting around that I’m pregnant.”
“I thought the whole world already knew about that. Lord knows, I’ve been telling everybody.”
They had Sunday dinner with the Fowlers; then Billy joined Brooks Peters and the other veterans at Tom Mudter’s. Billy opened the discussion.
“I’ve talked at length with Bert Hill about the grand jury. He says he thinks there’s a good chance for an indictment. There certainly wouldn’t be any question about it if Marshall Parker had been white, but there are some crusty old rednecks on the grand jury, and Bert won’t make any firm predictions.”
He paused and looked around the room. “I don’t see Bob Blankenship here. Anybody know what’s happened to him?”
Brooks Peters spoke up. “Something funny going on there. First, Bob backs out on running an editorial about Marshall in Thursday’s paper, then he goes to his in-laws’ in Brunswick today. Looks like he’s not with us any more.”
“I can’t believe he’d change sides,” said Billy, shaking his head. “I think somebody’s been bringing pressure to bear on Bob. I couldn’t get him on the phone all day Friday, and when I went by the newspaper office, he had already left for Brunswick. Strange. Anybody else having problems?”
There was a general negative muttering. “I’m surprised that nobody has said anything to me,” said Brooks Peters. “I guess having the ministerial association behind me has helped, but folks have long memories. Those who are against what I’ve been saying from the pulpit will get around to letting me know about it sooner or later.”
Billy leafed through some notes. “Okay, status on the races. From what I can gather we’re in pretty good shape for the city council. James Montgomery in Greenville is neck and neck with Skeeter Willis for sheriff.”
Tom Mudter spoke up. “Skeeter has been mending fences and keeping his head down. He went to a lot of trouble to seem to be doing the right thing in the Parker incident, but he’s backing Sonny all the way.”
“Right,” said Billy. “About what we would have expected. Skeeter’s no fool. Well, in my race, Mr. Holmes thinks we’re down a little. We’ll be lucky to pull it off.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Billy,” said Brooks Peters. “From what I hear, things are looking up for you.” He was smiling slightly, and so were some of the others.
Billy was puzzled. “You know something I don’t?”
Brooks sat back, looking smug. “Oh, it’s just what I hear. You’re going to the fair tomorrow night, aren’t you?”
The Tri-County Fair opened its week’s run the following day. “Sure, we’ll be there. I guess every other candidate in the area will be, too. Can’t pass up an opportunity to shake that many hands.”
“How did your meeting go?” Patricia asked. They were driving home late Sunday afternoon.
“Well enough, I guess. Brooks and some of the others seem more optimistic. Seems he’s been hearing something, but he wouldn’t say what.”
Patricia blushed. “Ah, Billy—”
He turned and looked at her. “Yep?”
“There’s something… oh, damnit, I’d better tell you about it before you hear it from somebody else!”
“Tell me about what?” He felt vaguely alarmed.
“Well, Thursday night, while you were in
Warm Springs, we had some visitors at the house.”
“Visitors?”
“The kind in bed sheets.”
“Are you talking about Klan, Patricia? Are you kidding me?”
“No, they dropped by, all right.”
“Well, what happened? What did they do?”
“They… ran, mostly.”
He stared at her for so long he nearly ran off the road. “Trish, come on, tell me what the hell happened.”
“Well, I had this telephone call—anonymous—Thursday afternoon. A woman, somebody’s wife, I think. She said somebody was planning to burn the place.”
Billy whipped the car to the side of the road and stopped in a spray of gravel and dust. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“You had your speech, and I thought you needed to go.”
“All right, all right, so what happened?”
“Well, they arrived, all right, all in their ridiculous bed sheets, with torches, and marched up to the house. I waited behind the trailer.”
“You waited behind the trailer,” he repeated tonelessly. “Then what happened?”
“I, ah, dispersed them.”
“Yeah? How did you do that?”
“With a shotgun.”
“What?”
“Well, it was only bird shot,” she said defensively. “I didn’t fire any buckshot. I was saving that for if they came at me. They never did. They ran.”
“Where did you get a shotgun?”
“I bought it. At McKibbon’s.”
“Ralph McKibbon sold you a shotgun?”
She whirled to face him. “And why the bloody hell not? I’m damned good with a shotgun; I grew up shooting on my father’s land.”
“But Trish, you can’t go shooting shotguns at people. Was anybody hurt?”
“Of course, they were hurt! You think I’d miss with a shotgun at that distance?”
“Jesus Christ, did you kill anybody?”
“No, just wounded some pride, I think. I heard this morning that somebody answering the description of Emmett Spence turned up at La Grange Hospital with three other men and some story about stealing watermelons. They had an amount of birdshot tweezed out of their arses, I believe.”
“Jesus Christ. I don’t believe it.” He shook his head. “My wife taking a shotgun to the Klan.”
“Well, it needed doing. You’d have just tried to reason with them.”
He began to laugh, and she joined in. They became hysterical, rolling about the front seat of the car, tears running down their faces. It was some minutes before Billy could speak again.
“So that’s what all the winks and nudges were about at church this morning. That’s what Brooks was so amused about, too, I guess. God, I wish I’d seen it happen. Emmett Spence, for God’s sake.” They both began to laugh again.
22
THE DOG woke Foxy, nuzzling him behind the ear. He jerked upright for a moment, looking sharply about him, then relaxed and lay back on the grass again. A light breeze wafted over the back yard, stirring the pines over Foxy’s head. He stretched luxuriously, feeling pleasant and secure. It was Monday afternoon, and the boy was holding up very well, even seeming to like it once in a while, Foxy thought. It had been quite a weekend, and the boy was good for another day, at least.
Foxy got up, put on his uniform cap, and went back into the house through the kitchen door, whistling a little tune.
Sonny was up, bouncing on his toes, in high spirits. He had already had a couple of snorts; he had never felt so good. He stopped by the station house to make sure Charley Ward was awake and on duty. Charley was on nights for the week.
“Hey, Sonny.”
“How you doin’, sport?”
“You’re looking real sharp tonight. Gonna take in the fair?”
“You better believe it, buddy. You stay on your toes tonight, hear? Don’t go screwing up right now.”
“Listen, Sonny, about tomorrow—you think we’re gonna come out of that grand jury thing okay?”
“Charley, I told you a hundred times, there ain’t a thing to worry about. Emmett Spence’s daddy is on that grand jury, and a couple of his friends. They ain’t never going to do a thing to a white cop for killing a nigger. So you just suck up your guts and hold still for another twenty-four hours, and we’ll be in the clear. It’ll be nothing but smooth sailing.”
“Gee, I sure hope so, Sonny, this whole thing worries me sick.”
Sonny spun around. “Shut up, godammit! I’m sick and fucking tired of your whining!” Sonny caught himself and settled down. He’d have to watch his temper. He was as nervous as Charley, but he wasn’t about to show it. He’d blow off a little steam at the fair, and tomorrow he’d be terrific.
On the way he stopped by the hotel and paid the porter ten dollars for another pint of Early Times. Fucking nigger, charging him that price. He’d have to do something about him and his little bootlegging business later on, when things had quieted down a bit.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, where did all that come from?” Patricia asked, pointing through the windshield at the bright lights and rides as they approached the fairgrounds in the September dusk. “Did the Kiwanis Club buy all that?”
Billy laughed. “No, no, that’s a traveling carnival. The Kiwanis Club sponsors the fair, and they arrange all the exhibits and award prizes, but they hire a traveling carnival to provide the rides and games. They get a cut of the proceeds, I guess.”
“I was expecting something like an English village fete, I suppose. Just a lot of mince pies and pin the tail on the donkey.”
“Don’t worry, there won’t be any shortage of pies. I’m judging a contest, remember? And, by the way, don’t forget to ask for the recipe.”
“You said you’d never eat my cooking again as long as you live.”
“And I won’t, not as long as we can afford a cook. But the ladies don’t know that, and they’ll be flattered if you ask how they do it.”
“Will there be any livestock?”
“Sure there will, a whole building full. Dammit, why didn’t I think to get you a job judging cattle. You know as much about it as anybody here, and the farmers would have loved it.”
“Maybe I can buy a few head for the farm. We’re going to need a bull.”
They bought tickets at the gate and entered the first of the exhibit buildings, wandering up and down the rows of displays, the pickles and pies, the science exhibits from the school. They shook hands and flattered exhibitors and accepted congratulations on their coming parenthood.
They ran into Hugh Holmes and Dr. Frank Mudter. Dr. Frank wasn’t holding up as well as Mr. Holmes, Billy thought. He looked quite frail. Holmes called Billy aside.
“What do you think about the grand jury tomorrow?”
“Touch and go, I think. If we’d had some kind of a break, some witness besides Marshall’s statement, something else on Butts and Ward, maybe, we’d be in a better position. What do you hear on the election?”
Holmes smiled. “Your wife’s marksmanship is the best thing that’s happened yet, you know. That’s the stuff legends are made of. That story will stand you in good stead for more than just this election. Makes me wish I’d bought Ginny a shotgun forty years ago.”
“I didn’t buy her that shotgun. She bought it herself. She never even told me about it ‘til it was all over.”
“Just as well. You’d only have stopped her.”
“That’s what she said.”
“You know Hoss Spence isn’t exhibiting any livestock this year? First time since we started the fair. He’s really humiliated over this thing and mad as hell at Emmett.”
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer fellow. I hope Emmett can’t sit down for a month. I wish Hoss wasn’t on the grand jury, though. He won’t do us any good.”
A little girl came and tugged at Billy’s sleeve. “ ‘Scuse me, Colonel Lee,” she said. “My mama says it’s time for you to judge the pies.”
“Careful,” grinned Holmes.
“A wrong step there could cost you the election.”
Billy gathered up Patricia and followed the child to the exhibit of pies. For twenty minutes he wandered among them with a fork, testing, judging, licking his lips, and rolling his eyes. Patricia, at the edge of the crowd that had gathered to watch, could hardly keep from laughing aloud.
Finally, he stood before the crowd with a pie in each hand and addressed them. “Only my political enemies could have put me in this position the night before an election,” he said, and the crowd laughed with him. “I believe Abraham Lincoln once found himself in this situation when he was running for Congress in Illinois, and I surely do wish I could remember what it was he did about it.” The crowd laughed again. “I’m faced here with the best peach pie I ever tasted and the best sweet potato pie I ever tasted, and I’m supposed to choose between them. It just isn’t fair.”
Billy looked up and saw Sonny Butts, in civilian clothes, walking through the building toward the midway. He brought his mind back to his task.
“The peach is such a beautiful fruit, and, of course, it’s the symbol of our state, and Meriwether County produces more peaches than any county in America, so I guess a case could be made that a decision against the peach would be downright unpatriotic. That being the case, I hope you can all appreciate what an act of political courage I’m committing when I say I just have to give it to the sweet potato, because any cook who starts out with a sweet potato starts out at a terrible disadvantage. Anybody who can make something as ugly as a sweet potato taste as good as this pie just has to get the blue ribbon.” He kissed the flushed winner on the cheek, presented the ribbons, and fled.
“That was very slick,” Patricia said, when she caught up with him outside the building.
“Never mind that. Did you get the recipe?”
“Both of them,” she laughed, triumphantly holding up two scraps of paper.
“Let’s go look for a bull for you, before the lady who baked the peach pie catches up with me.”
Sonny floated down the midway in a haze of bourbon. He winked at the girls, joked with their boyfriends, rode the rides, and rang the bell with the mallet. He had never felt like this, never, he thought, and he had never felt so horny, either. He had been out of action for more than a week, while his bruises from the encounter with the two girls at the pool were healing, but he was fine now. More than fine.