Darktown: A Novel

by Thomas Mullen

  Rake hadn’t expected the ribbing he received in training camp, the Yankees laughing at his accent and marveling at some of his expressions. They asked if he knew how to tie shoes, did he use toilet paper. Called him “cracker” and “hick.” And these were the ones who were being friendly. Then there was the drill sergeant who insisted they sing “Marching into Georgia” when they ran, and the New Yorkers who asked to see his KKK card and inquired whether he was a Grand Dragon or a Grand Wizard or a Grand Elf. He’d never felt such Southern pride as he did when fighting back at those Northerners and their indecipherably hard consonants, and despite the fact that he was miles from home, he felt a closer kinship with his father and departed grandfather, always so quick to denigrate Yankees for the way they belittled the proud old Confederacy.

  Still, the annual hike up Kennesaw—the long slogs in memory of the Lost Cause—seemed irrevocably changed due to Rake’s time in Europe. Fighting one’s own war will do that. The bitter, cleansing tang of past sufferings no longer seemed in need of remembrance when one’s own wounds were relatively fresh. He had tired of seeing Old Glory waving over wrecked battlefields in Europe, so he had little taste for seeing the Stars and Bars on this or any other formerly hallowed ground. The soldier in him couldn’t even appreciate the ancient battle of Kennesaw Mountain anymore. Most textbooks described it as a victory for the South, as it slowed Sherman’s march and forced him to retreat. But Sherman had kept on marching, simply taking a wider tack to Atlanta and the sea. Praising this as a glorious last stand seemed rather like an ex-pitcher regaling people with stories of an impressive strikeout but failing to mention the fact that the next batter had swatted a game-winning homer.

  Rake had thought about asking his father’s advice about how to handle Dale, and even what to do about Dunlow, but he’d held his tongue. He’d focused instead on climbing the mountain, pacing himself so the old man could keep up.

  It was nearly midnight when Underhill headed northwest on Newnan Street, recrossing the invisible color line into a white area and then, half a mile later, turning onto a gravel drive. Rake continued past the drive, glancing at the cloud of dirt just visible in the dark. Underhill was driving into an old foundry, which had closed down two years ago. It had made railroad cars and engines, he recalled, but hadn’t been used for anything in a while. What the hell was Underhill doing here?

  Rake pulled over. He opened his glove box and removed his revolver, putting it in his pocket.

  He hurried in the direction where Underhill’s car had disappeared, avoiding the gravel and finding enough dirt and grass to keep his footfalls silent.

  The foundry itself was three blocks long and as tall as a five-story building, most of its windows still intact. Its very size and dormancy put him in mind of the destroyed or abandoned factories and munitions plants—and in some cases entire towns—he’d seen in Germany. Some of the surrounding light poles were still lit, probably on the city’s dime to make this place less appealing to those searching for late-night terrain to ply illicit wares. This wasn’t Rake’s beat but he was willing to bet a squad car made a point of driving around here at least a couple of times a night.

  Rake walked alongside the building, hoping to stay invisible. He was more certain than ever that Underhill had deliberately been taking a circuitous route to get here. He was meeting someone, and for all Rake knew the someone was already here.

  He stopped at a corner of the building. Twenty yards away, Underhill was walking up a two-flight fire escape, then across a long gangway from the main foundry building to a smaller one, his steps loud on the grating. Then he opened a steel door and closed it behind him.

  Rake hurried after, gun in hand now, though when he made it to the gangway he slowed down again, mindful of the racket Underhill’s feet had made and not wanting to repeat it. He looked behind him and below him, though there weren’t enough lights for him to see very far.

  Rake put his hand on the knob, which was so rusted he wasn’t sure it would turn—or did he just need to push it open? It did turn. He could feel flakes of rust adhering to his palm as he turned the knob slowly, then applied pressure to the door, hoping it wouldn’t make as much noise as it had when Underhill had walked through.

  He realized it was a mistake before he’d even taken a step. Beyond the door, all was pitch black. He’d taken only one step inside when he felt a blow at the back of his head.

  He wasn’t sure if he remembered falling, but he was definitely on his ass now.

  The part of his head that had been hit was leaning against the door, but he couldn’t feel the door, at least not yet, because he felt numb. He tried to steady himself with a hand on the floor, but then the sole of a large black shoe appeared. He could make it out only because a trace amount of light was coming into the room from outside. He could see the shoe coming, inch by inch, but his body was curiously unable to do anything about it.

  The sole pressed into his clavicle and pushed him flat on the floor.

  The shoe stepped back into the darkness, and now what Rake saw was a gun.

  He sat up, much more slowly than he was trying to, and Underhill’s body began to materialize around the gun.

  “Don’t move.”

  Rake obeyed. He was sitting up now, but there was nothing behind him and he wondered if Underhill would kick him down again. He’d dropped his gun and wondered where it was.

  The numbness was already being replaced by a throbbing pain in the back of his head and a pang of nausea in his gut.

  He barely had time to think Already the second time I’ve had a gun on me from close up before Underhill leaned down, gun nearly in Rake’s face, and patted Rake’s pants pockets and his ankles in search of a weapon.

  “You got another one? Roll over and keep your hands high.”

  Rake grudgingly did so, and then he felt Underhill searching for a weapon at the small of his back. Then Rake turned, sitting up again.

  Underhill leaned back in the doorframe, enough light on him that Rake could study the man’s expression. He hadn’t shaved that day, and maybe not the day before either. He had a wart on the left side of his neck, which Rake remembered from the detailed physical description in his file. Like Dunlow, the man had a gut on him, but not as much of one, and he wasn’t as tall. His straw hat was pushed back a bit, the brim not shielding his eyes from view. Rake’s revolver was tucked into the ex-cop’s belt.

  Underhill was studying Rake, too, from a decidedly more comfortable vantage point. His face was alarmingly blank, like he was weighing pros and cons in his head.

  “You’re pointing your gun at a cop,” Rake said, and he knew it sounded weak even as he spoke it.

  “Big deal. I’m a cop.”

  “You were a cop.”

  “Really.” The hint of a smile. “You so sure about that?”

  Rake looked to his sides, wondering if there was anything he could grab and throw.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Underhill said. Another pause as he assessed his prey. “They don’t seem to teach surveillance so well anymore.”

  “I skipped that class. In favor of the one about how not to be a dirty cop.”

  “Oh yeah. One of them new classes. Didn’t have those when I was a rookie.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “And what else have you heard?”

  Rake wondered what the man was really asking. “I assume you recognize me.”

  “Remind me.”

  “That’s right, you were fairly in the bag that night. When we pulled you over, the night you had Lily Ellsworth with you.”

  Underhill’s expression was maddeningly difficult to read. Rake wondered, did the man have a particularly good poker face or was Rake just bad at this?

  “And who might that be?”

  “Come on. You got me sitting on the floor, you could at least have the dignity not to lie to my
face. Let’s do this like men at least.”

  Underhill chuckled. “You are an inscrutable little one, ain’t ya?”

  “She was in your car, with a bruise on her lip. Then you hit her again and she ran off. Dunlow pulls you over, lets you off with nothing but a slap on your wrist. That same night, she’s shot.”

  “With a .22,” Underhill said. “This look like a .22 to you?”

  No, this was a .45 that was staring Rake in the face. Underhill seemed so insulted by the suggestion he might fire a ladylike weapon that he’d dropped his poker face, at least temporarily.

  “How’d you know it was a .22?” Rake asked.

  “Got friends in high places. Which oughta make you far more wary than you appear to be.”

  Rake sat up taller, partly because he wasn’t comfortable and partly to see how much movement Underhill was prepared to let him get away with.

  “So who was she?” He tucked his feet beneath his ass so that he was kneeling. It was awkward and would be painful if he stayed that way for long.

  “You think you’re conducting an interrogation here, son?”

  “Who was she?”

  Underhill laughed. This seemed to entertain him greatly. “She was a nigger.”

  “And.”

  “And you are exhausting my patience.”

  “You were sweet on her, but she didn’t go for the older, portly types, and so—”

  Underhill’s foot moved quite a bit more quickly than it had before, but this time Rake was expecting it. He leaned to his right and the foot struck his side, rather than his stomach. Before that blow had even landed, though, Rake had straightened his legs, springing upward and driving a fist into Underhill’s groin.

  Rake heard the gun land but couldn’t see it, as Underhill had nearly fallen over and was leaning on him now, his bulk pressing Rake’s head into the wall. Rake swung twice with his left, hitting Underhill in what he thought was the stomach. It was almost like hitting a heavy bag, he was that big and solid. But deflating fast. Underhill stumbled, one knee hitting the ground. Rake pushed him with one hand and with the other he reached for the revolver in Underhill’s belt. He had it in his hand now, but then Underhill batted at it and it hit the floor.

  The two of them squared off, both of them standing on the landing outside the dark room—Rake still had no idea what was in there. They kept their eyes mostly on each other, but each glanced down at the ground occasionally, looking for the two guns.

  Rake saw one first.

  It was Underhill’s, and it was no more than two feet to his right, just at the edge of the landing. Without fully thinking this through, he stepped forward and kicked it off the landing. He heard it clatter against the wall, then land in something wet.

  “You son of a bitch! ” Underhill yelled.

  “You sure you want to do this, old man?” Rake asked, his fists at the ready. “You were smart enough not to shoot a cop. You smart enough to walk away?”

  Apparently not. Underhill again showed that he was more spry and agile than his bulk would suggest, feigning with a right and then delivering a near-perfect jab to Rake’s face. A fraction of an inch more centered and it would have broken his nose, but it still stung. Rake’s right eye blinked a few times, watering despite himself, rendering him half blind.

  Underhill stepped in to take advantage, but he was such an immense target that Rake landed two blows of his own, then the ex-cop staggered back. Underhill was leaning against the guardrail and seemed unsteady on his feet. His hat had fallen off somewhere along the way.

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing, son? You ain’t a detective. You’re Dunlow’s goddamn partner! You looking to dig an early grave?”

  “You’re not gonna put me there, old man.”

  “It doesn’t have to be me that does it, son. You’re making one hell of a mistake.”

  “Why? Tell me what I’m doing wrong. Explain to me how I’m putting myself in danger by asking an old ex-cop questions. Connect some goddamn dots for me.”

  “If you think I’m gonna spill everything to some college-boy rookie, you’re damned mistaken.” Underhill paused for a moment, as if hoping that’s all he needed to say. “We can go ten rounds if you like, and we’ll see how many teeth either of us have left, but you won’t know a lick more than you do now. You’ll only have a hell of a lot of injuries that you’ll have to explain to your sergeant tomorrow.”

  Rake sorely wanted to hit the bastard again. The adrenaline was blasting through his veins with such ferocity he would have hit a wall if he had to. But what Underhill was saying had the unfortunate ring of truth.

  Rake lowered his fists and stood taller, though he watched his adversary carefully. Underhill didn’t look like he was in any condition to go even half a round, but he’d gotten the drop on Rake twice already, and Rake wasn’t going to be thrice fooled.

  Rake shifted to his side and felt something under his foot—his gun, most likely. He kept his foot there and tried not to give away his discovery.

  “Glory be,” Underhill exhaled, leaning over now, hands on his knees. It had been impressive how he’d managed to battle through that blow to the jewels, Rake thought. The big ox was able to endure a hell of a lot of pain. “I don’t envy Dunlow one bit having to put up with the likes of you.”

  Rake wondered if he’d made a mistake, if he should have beaten Underhill until more secrets spilled. Or he could pick up his gun and threaten him. But even if Rake wasn’t a detective, he was a cop, and even if Underhill was a former officer, he was a civilian, and the thought of beating up a man just to prove a point would have meant he was no better than his damned partner.

  So if a beating wouldn’t work, he would go for the tried and true method of insulting a Southerner and forcing him to verbally defend himself: “You got kicked off the force for running numbers, yet you like to kid yourself that you still have friends in high places. You’re an old fat man with no pension, living in the past.”

  “You and damned Dunlow can issue all the traffic citations you want. Go lock up some drunk niggers, too.” He tapped himself in the heart. “It’s us that gets called in for the tough jobs.”

  “Yeah, you’re a big man.” Rake still had no idea what he was talking about. “I’ll be seeing you around.” He motioned for Underhill to head down the stairs first.

  Underhill walked slowly. Rake bent down and put his gun in his pocket, then followed a few paces behind.

  At the ground level, Underhill walked over the ledge, which apparently was where his gun had disappeared. “That was a damn fine gun you just got rid of,” he said.

  “Frightfully sorry about that.”

  The triumphant feeling seemed to fade with every step as Rake walked back through the lot, over the hill, and to his car. His head was throbbing worse than before, and he felt a bit dizzy, either from that first blow or the punch to his face. What felt worse was the realization of what Underhill had revealed. That he still thought of himself as a cop, or close to it. What had he meant by “tough jobs”? And he’d distinctly said “us”—“it’s us that gets called in for the tough jobs”—so who was us? Underhill and Dunlow, or some larger group? It could have all been bluster, but the fact that Underhill knew the murder weapon was doubly troubling; either he had pulled the trigger, or had been involved, or was somehow privy to inside information.

  He leaned against his car, waiting for the wooziness to pass. He wondered how bad he looked, and how much worse he might look in the morning.

  Then he heard the shots.

  Two of them, close together, but definitely not an echo, because he picked up a distinct, slight echo from each. Coming from the very place he’d just left.

  He sprinted as fast as he could, his heart pounding and his stomach very much not in favor of this much activity after that blow to his head. He ran with the flashlight off, not
wanting to expose himself to the shooter. He couldn’t see very well but at least they couldn’t see him.

  He stopped at a corner, slowly peered around it, aimed his gun at darkness. He didn’t see anyone else moving, didn’t hear anything. Then he saw Underhill not far from where he’d been when Rake had left. Before he’d been on his hands and knees, looking for his fallen weapon. He was still on the ground, but this time he was on his back, one knee raised but the rest of him flat.

  Rake spun around, calling out “Police!” and demanding that someone come out. But someone did not reply. He was acutely aware of the fact that he was out in the open, and if someone had taken Underhill down with a rifle, he would be next. From the distance he’d been unable to determine if it had been a pistol or a rifle shot. His flashlight revealed nothing but old metal and dirt and decay and rust.

  Then he heard something, small and far away, and he only realized it was a car door shutting when he heard the engine. Coming from the other side of the building, the sound fading already.

  He walked over to Underhill and crouched down. A bruise was forming on his cheekbone from one of the punches Rake had landed. What was far more noticeable was the red chest and two gunshot wounds, the blood everywhere. Rake stood back up and looked at the blood on the ground, tried to make sense of it, and quickly. If someone had shot Underhill with a rifle, if an ambush had been set up along one of the catwalks or some other spot on this vast building, then there likely would have been a longer blood trail. And Underhill would have fallen differently, staggered. No, someone had shot the man from up close.

  Shit, shit, shit. Could Rake call this in? Could he explain his presence here?

  He looked at his knuckles. They weren’t bad. They wouldn’t look so bad tomorrow. He thought. He hoped.