by Stuart Woods
“Well, I cuts some grass and does some odd jobs.”
“Where were you on Saturday night, a week ago?”
“I was in jail, suh.”
“In the Delano jail?”
“Yassuh.”
Sonny got off the motorcycle, walked as quietly as he could to the corner of the garage, and looked around. Foxy was standing with his back turned, some ten yards up the hillside, stripped to the waist, leaning against a shovel. There was a mound of fresh red Georgia earth beside him. He was sweating profusely.
Sonny felt like a balloon that had been filled with an intoxicating gas. He stepped out from behind the garage. “Hey, there, Foxy baby!”
Foxy whirled, astonished, his eyes bulging.
Sonny threw back his head and laughed loudly. “Hey, I didn’t mean to scare you, buddy. Just paying another friendly little call. Told you I would, didn’t I?” He laughed again.
Foxy looked wildly about him. He seemed to be trying to gather his wits.
Sonny threw up a hand. “Hey, now, buddy, don’t get nervous on me. Just a friendly little call. Am I interrupting something?” He began to walk slowly up the hill toward Foxy, who began backing away.
“Hang on, there, don’t run off on me. I want to see what you’re planting there.” Sonny continued up the hillside. He looked quickly around to be sure that Foxy had no gun. He walked past the mound of earth and stopped, looking down into the hole. The corpse of a teenage boy lay pitifully before him; the eyes seemed to stare at Sonny’s belt buckle.
“Well, looka here,” he said, half over his shoulder to Foxy, half to himself. “Look what we got here.” He threw back his head again and laughed wildly. “Foxy, you old fart, do you know what you’ve done? You’ve went and saved my ass, do you know that?” He looked around him. “And when I get some niggers up here with picks and shovels, I bet you’re gonna make me fucking famous!”
He put his hands on his hips and rocked up on his toes. A rush of joy pounded through him, and he had a split-second fantasy of some sort of presentation ceremony, where Hugh Holmes and Billy Lee were pinning a big medal on him. He rocked back on his heels and up on his toes again, sucking in a huge breath, and then the back of his head seemed to explode. The wind flew from him in a garbled noise, and he pitched forward into the yawning red hole before him.
Foxy had swiveled nearly a full 360 degrees in swinging the shovel, and he sat down abruptly, his legs in a tangle, the longhandled shovel over his shoulder.
Sonny swam in a sea of black-and-red semiconsciousness for what seemed like several minutes, unable to sort his thoughts or make sense of what had happened to him. Then he was suddenly brought to a level of alertness by something striking him sharply across the shoulders. He opened his eyes, trying to orient himself, and pushed upward just far enough to focus on a pair of dead eyes six inches from his own. He realized he was lying face down in the grave on top of the boy’s corpse.
He was struck again from behind, and this time he noticed dirt trickling down around his neck and onto the body beneath him. Christ, the old bastard was burying him alive! He struggled to get his arms beneath him in a better position to rise, and as he did, Foxy stepped into the grave, straddling him, and ripped his service revolver from its holster.
Sonny, still struggling, heard the pistol being cocked, but never heard the explosion that followed the bullet as it smashed into the back of his skull. Nor did he feel the pistol land on his back, nor the earth that followed it.
Billy could see Patricia standing behind the house, waving to him, as he tramped across the pasture, the dog at his side carrying a stick in his mouth, begging for Billy to throw it once more. Patricia was holding her hand to her head as if it held a phone. He walked slowly across the last few hundred yards to the house, in no hurry for news.
He had gone out at midmorning, taking a sandwich and a bone for the dog. He had relished the solitude and the company of the retriever, knowing that he had done all he could do on every front, that everything now depended on others. He had walked over his fields and through his woods—places he had not known since he had last walked this way with his father. He had thought a lot about his father during the day, wished he could be here, wished that Will Henry had lived to see the grandchild that would be born the following spring. Wished he could tell him the things he had learned as a man, things he could not tell Mr. Holmes, nor even Patricia—not yet, anyway.
“Will you hurry up, for God’s sake!” she shouted across the last hundred yards. “It’s Bert Hill, in Greenville.”
He wiped his feet on a burlap bag at the back door of the new house and walked over the bare floors and through the empty rooms to the front hall and the phone.
“Billy?”
There was regret even in the way the man spoke his name. “Yes, Bert.”
“Billy, the news is bad. I’m sorry, I’ve been had on a platter.”
“What happened, Bert.”
“Skeeter fed me a witness at the last minute, and I bought it, and put him on.”
“A witness? Who?”
“Do you know a colored fellow called Johnson? Pieback Johnson?”
“Sure, he’s the town drunk. One of ‘em, anyway.”
“He claimed to have been in jail that Saturday night on a drunk charge and to have seen everything. He backed Sonny’s story to the hilt. The grand jury wouldn’t indict.”
Billy sank down onto the marble floor.
“Billy, you there?”
“Yeah, Bert, I’m here. Look, there was no way to see that coming; it’s not your fault.”
“I still feel rotten about it, though.”
“Butts is going to get fired anyway, he beat up a guy at the fair last night, and Holmes took it to the council. I’m sure he’ll be able to dump Butts.”
“He’ll still be a free man, though.”
“Yeah, but at least he won’t be a cop any more. Nobody’d ever hire him again after what’s happened. We might even be able to get him on an assault with a deadly weapon. He had a blackjack. There’s some talk about extortion, too.”
“Anything I can do, Billy, please believe that. I’d love to nail the bastard.”
“I’ll let you know after I’ve talked with Holmes, Bert.”
“Any news on the election yet?”
Billy looked at his watch. “The polls close in half an hour, at eight. We’re having an open house down here after that. We’d love to see you.”
“Thanks Billy, but I’m whipped. This isn’t the best day I’ve had for a while.”
“See you soon, then.”
Patricia was standing next to him. He told her the news.
“Never mind. Mr. Holmes called earlier, said he had good news. He ought to be here in a few minutes. Why don’t you get changed?”
It was half past eight before Holmes and his wife arrived, and a number of guests were already drinking punch and wandering through the nearly completed house. He pulled Billy aside into what would be Billy’s study.
“First of all, I know about the grand jury. Bert Hill called me. It’s a shame, but it probably isn’t going to matter much after what’s happened.”
“What happened at the council meeting?”
“It went well. There was a resolution to fire Butts. There was no reason to do anything about Charley Ward until after we heard from the grand jury, but I had a little talk with him this afternoon, and he’s quit, resigned.”
“What about the carnival manager? I’ve been thinking about that. Those people will be on the road again next week, and we’ll have one hell of a time getting him back here to testify.”
“It looks like that won’t be necessary. Sonny Butts took off this morning.”
“Took off?”
“Left town, apparently, ran. Damndest thing, he didn’t go in his own car; he took the police motorcycle!”
“But that doesn’t make any sense. Why would he do that?”
“The way I figure it is Butts was so scared ab
out the grand jury and about the council, that he didn’t wait around for the news; he just bolted. But the state patrol has been to his place, and he apparently didn’t take anything with him, clothes or anything.”
“But if he were going to try and run for it he’d surely take what he could, and he wouldn’t run on something as conspicuous as a police motorcycle. That would be completely crazy.”
Holmes shrugged. “So is Sonny Butts.”
Billy nodded. “You’ve got a point there. He must have just popped his cork.”
“That’s what I think.” Holmes grinned. “And if he ever does turn up, he’ll have to face a charge of stealing the motorcycle.”
Some time later Holmes was called to the phone. Billy watched as he stood in the hall and talked. Holmes returned to the bare living room, and called for silence. “Ladies and Gentlemen, as you may have heard, there has been a Democratic primary in the state of Georgia today, which is as good as an election. As a result, you will, early next year, experience a change in your elected officials. I have some results here.” He consulted a small notebook.
“Sheriff Skeeter Willis has been reelected.” There was a murmer of disappointment. “In the city council races, Ellis Woodall and Dr. Tom Mudter have been elected, you veterans will be glad to hear, and, perhaps more important to those here, the state senate seat heretofore occupied by your humble servant has been handily won by our host.” He raised a hand toward Billy and Patricia. “Senator Lee, come over here and make us a speech.”
That night Billy and Patricia dragged their mattress from the trailer over to the new house, up the stairs, and into the master bedroom. Billy opened all the windows to let in the cool night air, and they slept in each other’s arms.
Billy woke in time to watch the sun rise over the woods and fields behind the house, and though he was no more a farmer than his father had been, he felt that he had returned to the land.
He tiptoed down the stairs, walked to the trailer, and, rummaging in his tiny desk, found the family Bible. He opened it and ran his finger slowly down the generations of his people to the point where his marriage to Patricia was recorded, and to the blank space where his child’s name would be written.
He walked back to the house, into his new study, and placed the Bible carefully on the walnut mantelpiece. Then he climbed the stairs, crawled into bed with his wife, and quickly fell asleep again.
Book Three
Tucker Watts
1
AN INDIAN SUMMER DAY gave way to the cool of an early-autumn, New England evening in 1962. As the sun sank into the sea, the small group moved closer to the driftwood fire they had built on the beach at Gay Head, on the island of Martha’s Vineyard. The women were getting ready to steam clams and left the men to their conversation, which, as always, concerned politics.
“All right,” one of them said. “Let’s not labor the point. Let’s just assume for the sake of argument that he does decide to dump Lyndon. Who do we want, and why?”
“You mean who does he want, don’t you?”
“No, I mean who do we want. He’s going to ask, you know, and we’d better have an answer when he does.”
“A southerner or a westerner,” somebody said.
“Yeah, but a liberal southerner or westerner,” somebody replied.
“I didn’t know there were any.”
“Comparatively speaking, then.”
“Yeah.”
The conversation continued for a few minutes, and names were bandied about.
“Those are the names I heard before the convention, before Lyndon,” said the senior man, the one who had first asked the question. “Isn’t there somebody new, fresh, that we haven’t considered? Can’t we apply some imagination to this problem?”
“How about the lieutenant governor of Georgia?”
Heads swiveled. The voice belonged to a member of the group who had not yet spoken at all.
“What’s his name—Lee? Well, that’s imaginative, David. Tell us why,” said the senior man. Kass was New York, Jewish, NYU, instead of Boston, Catholic, and Harvard. It intrigued him that the suggestion had come from that quarter.
“Okay,” said Kass. “Forget for a moment that he’s only a lieutenant governor and not nationally known. I’ll get to that in a minute. He’s an interesting man.”
“What’s his background like?”
“Born on a farm, son of a failed cotton farmer who became a small-town Chief of police and got shotgunned for his trouble; Andy Hardy upbringing, law school, the war. Bomber pilot in England, pulled down a DFC and a purple heart. Not exactly PT109, but he got a B-17 that was all shot up and the crew back in one piece when most guys would have abandoned. Married an Irish girl he met in London, one son, good law practice, cattle farmer. He established a reputation early on for defending blacks in tough cases.”
“Now he’s beginning to sound interesting.”
“Several terms in the state senate, effective there, in spite of a reputation for being soft on segregation. Ready for this one? Supported JFK for vice-president at the ‘56 convention.”
“Applause, applause. Prescient, wasn’t he?”
“Not exactly. Elected lieutantant governor in ‘59, supported Lyndon in ‘60.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Not necessarily. He came over quickly when we got the nomination and worked his ass off in the general election, when people like Herman Talmadge were sitting on theirs. Instrumental in our taking Georgia.”
“That’s better.”
“Moderate to conservative on fiscal matters. You don’t get elected in Georgia if you’re not. But he’s been a leading voice of moderation and compromise on race issues. Pushed for better jobs for blacks, backed desegregation of public facilities. There’s a story, apparently true, that his wife once fought off a bunch of Klansmen with a shotgun.”
“No kidding? That’s terrific. Imagine what you could do with that in a campaign.”
“Yeah. As I say, he wouldn’t pass for a flaming liberal in Massachusetts, but he’ll do, for a southerner.”
“Sounds like you’ve been doing some research on him, David. Maybe you can tell us why he went with Lyndon in ‘60, when he supported JFK for VP in ‘56?”
“Remember a guy named Hugh Holmes?”
“Uh, something with Roosevelt, wasn’t he?”
“Informally. Roosevelt saw a lot of him on the Warm Springs visits. Apparently had a lot of respect for him. Anyway, Lee is a protégé of Holmes, and Holmes and Lyndon have known each other for a long time. I suspect that influenced Lee’s judgment at the time. He’s firmly in our camp now, though.”
“How’s he come off, personally?”
“He’s no redneck. Pleasant southern accent, clean-cut, forty-eight, but looks younger, in good shape—tennis player. Dresses conservatively. He’s no intellectual giant, but he’s bright. Well traveled, knows a few politicians in England and Ireland through his wife’s family.”
“Is the wife Catholic?”
“No, Protestant family. Goes to the Baptist Church with him. She’s the cattle farmer, apparently, and good at it. Handsome woman, good campaigner.”
“Okay, what’s the catch. Booze? Women?”
“Light drinker, straight arrow, from all accounts. If he fools around, he knows how to keep it quiet.”
“Does JFK know him?”
“They’ve met a number of times. Got along. Bobby spent a day with him in Atlanta during the campaign. He was impressed.”
“Sounds too good to be true.”
In the firelight, Kass could be seen to grin. “Did I mention that he’s a brigadier general in the Air National Guard? Commands an air-transport group.”
“Come on, David, you’re making this up.”
“I kid you not.”
“Barry Goldwater would shit in his pants. Okay. what’s the catch? Why isn’t he better known?”
“The catch is, he’s only a lieutenant governor. Can you name one lieutenant governor
of any state except Massachusetts?”
“No, now that you mention it. So how does he overcome that?”
“He runs for governor in ‘63. Georgia governors are elected in off years. But there’s still a catch.”
“Yeah?”
“The race question has hardened up now. If he runs as a liberal he’ll have a tough time winning.”
“And if he backs off on race we can’t use him.”
“Right.”
“What do you think are his chances?”
“No better than even right now, and they could get a lot worse. A wrong move, a misstatement, and he’s down the tube.”
“Then why are we even talking about him this early?”
“You asked. And he’s worth it.”
“What can we do to help him?”
“I’ll have a look in the pork barrel.”
“Careful, now, we don’t want to put some congressman’s nose out of joint. Tell you what. Send his file to me Monday morning—I’m assuming you’ve collected a file, or you wouldn’t know so much—and I’ll slip it to the boss when the time is right.”
“Okay.”
The senior advisor grinned. “Oh, David?”
“Yeah?”
“How does he get along with Georgia’s Jews?”
“Just dandy.”
“I thought so.”
2
BILLY LEE arrived at his office in the Georgia Capitol shortly before nine, having picked his way through the heavy traffic from Dobbins Air Force Base in Marietta. It was mid-November, and his group had been on alert, ready to be called to active duty, since mid-October, when the Cuban missile crisis had taken place. Billy had been working since that time to ready his unit for call-up, and he was relieved to be going back to a normal schedule, now that the crisis had abated.
His mail was stacked neatly on his desk in two piles, one of letters which his secretary, the formidable Sarah, had opened and screened, and one of those which appeared personal or of sufficient importance to be seen first by him. He was continually amazed at her uncanny ability to decide in which stack a letter belonged. He could not remember her ever having erred in that or any other regard, and he once again blessed the day that the Georgia civil service had disgorged her into his office on the occasion of his inauguration.