Chiefs (30 page)

“Marshall called me about half an hour ago, just as soon as he found it. He didn’t know what to do with it, so he called me. Somebody broke a window in the back of his place and left this there.”

Thomas scratched his head. “Well, I’ll come out there right now, and we’ll take a look at it. I don’t know what the charge would be if we caught somebody, though. It’s not as though anything got stolen.”

“Well, there’s breaking and entering, and I guess if you found out who it was you could make a pretty good case for possession. They couldn’t get it there without possessing it.”

They unloaded the illegal whiskey and locked it in a cell, then proceeded to Marshall’s garage, Billy’s car leading the way, the chief following in the police car. As they came in sight of the garage, Billy said, “Well, now,” and pointed ahead.

Marshall was speechless. Parked in front of the garage were two sheriff’s cars and the Delano Police Department motorcycle. As they pulled to a halt, Billy could see the padlock and hasp hanging from a splinter of the front door. As they got out of the car he could hear somebody trying to raise the sheriff’s car on the radio. He thought he could recognize Charley Ward’s voice. Billy walked into the garage, followed by Chief Thomas and Marshall.

He could hear voices from the back room. “Hello back there!” he shouted.

Skeeter Willis, two deputies, and Sonny Butts all spilled back into the main garage. Skeeter recovered first. “Billy, I’ve got a search warrant here.”

“Well, Skeeter, you better serve it, I guess.”

Skeeter walked over to Marshall and shoved the paper at him. Marshall unfolded it and started to read.

“Have you conducted your search yet, Sheriff?” Billy asked innocently.

“We’re … we were just in the middle of it.”

“Keep going, by all means.”

Skeeter motioned his deputies back to work. Melvin Thomas was next to speak. “Sonny, how’d you get in on this?”

Sonny was ready. “Well, Chief, I was just going off duty this morning—I had the night shift, you know, sir—and I got a call from Sheriff Willis. He said he had a tip that there was some whiskey being sold out of here, and he wanted the department in on the search as just a kind of courtesy, I guess. So I came on out here. We just got here a couple of minutes ago. I didn’t call you, because it didn’t seem like a big thing. I hope I did the right thing, sir.”

“Well, yes, if Sheriff Goolsby called you, you did the right thing. Wasn’t any need to call me on a thing like that.”

The two deputies reported back to Skeeter. One of them shook his head. “Sheriff, there ain’t no shine around here unless its buried.”

Skeeter nodded and turned to Billy. “We had this call; we had to check it out. Looks like there’s nothing here.”

“It’s down at the police station,” said Billy.

Skeeter looked confused. “How’s that?”

Chief Thomas spoke up. “Billy and Marshall turned in two cases of white lightning to me a few minutes ago. Marshall says somebody broke in here last night and left it here.”

Skeeter snorted. “Well, that’s pretty smart, Marshall. You must of knowed we had a tip.”

“If Marshall had wanted to hide the stuff, he had plenty of time,” said Billy. “Instead, he called a lawyer and asked advice on what to do. He took my advice and turned it in to the police. I think that demonstrates his innocence in this. Somebody planted it here and called you. That’s pretty clear, I think.”

Skeeter flushed and looked at the ground. “Yeah, maybe.” He looked up at Marshall. “And maybe we just oughta keep an eye on you, boy.”

Billy interrupted Marshall’s attempt at a reply. “I think you’d spend your time better trying to find out who wanted to put the frame on an innocent man, Skeeter.”

Skeeter signaled to his men. “All right, let’s get outta here. We got work to do today.” He nodded to Billy and Chief Thomas. “See you, gents.” In a moment the two sheriff’s cars were gone.

Sonny spoke. “Well, Chief, I reckon I’ll go home and get some sleep if you don’t need me.”

“All right, Sonny, I’ll finish up here.” Sonny left, and the chief made a cursory inspection of the broken window. “Not much more I can do,” he said. “I’ll destroy the whiskey and make a note in the logbook about this, but unless you’ve got some idea about who might have done this, Marshall, I can’t do any more.”

Billy, out of the chief’s line of vision, shook his head at Marshall.

“No, sir,” Marshall said, “I don’t know who would want to do it.” The chief made his exit and left Billy and Marshall alone. “Marshall, you’ve been getting some of Mickey Shelton’s business since you opened, haven’t you?”

“Yessir, I guess I’ve got a lot of his colored trade. He was charging too much.”

“Some of his white trade, too?”

Marshall nodded. “Yessir, I guess so.”

“Well, that’s what you’re supposed to do in business, I guess. I sure won’t advise you to stop doing that, but I tell you, Marshall, I’d be real careful where I stepped for a while. Mickey Shelton and Sonny Butts are pretty tight, I think, and I wouldn’t be surprised if one or both of them was at the bottom of this thing. You just walk the straight and narrow. Don’t get drunk, don’t drive too fast, don’t get into any arguments with anybody. There’ve been some rumors about Sonny, and you don’t want to let him get you in jail. You see what I mean, don’t you?”

“Yessir, I do. I’ll watch my step.”

Billy nodded. “And listen, if you even so much as get wind of anything else like this, or if you have any problems, you call me right away, hear? You did the right thing this morning.”

“I’ll do that, Colonel, and I’d like to pay you for your time.”

“Well, I think my wife’s station wagon could use a grease job and an oil change. That ought to just about do it.”

Marshall grinned. “Yessir, you tell her anytime, just anytime.”

Billy left and hurried to the bank for his meeting. On the way he thought about Marshall. He would not like to be in that man’s shoes right now.

Chapter 11.

FOXY FUNDERBURKE woke about nine and took his time about rising, as was his custom. When he had shaved and dressed, he went to the kitchen, looking forward to what he would find there.

He felt the tiles first with his hand, then tapped them with a heavily shod foot. Dry. Firm. Foxy was delighted. He ate his breakfast quickly, anxious to finish with the floor. When he was done, he took a stiff brush and scrubbed down the whole surface to remove any vestige of dirt or cement left from his work, then attached a hose to the kitchen faucet and rinsed the floor. He watched delightedly as the water swirled, then inexorably flowed down the cleverly slanted surface to the drain he had installed in the center.

The stains in the old wooden floor had bothered him for years, and now he was rid of them for good. There would be no new stains, either. The glazed surface of the tiles would prevent that. Everything would disappear down the drain. Forever.

His task complete, Foxy went to his closet and pushed back the clothing hanging on the rack to expose another rack behind the first in the deeply built enclosure. From half a dozen things hanging there he chose a neatly pressed shirt and trousers of tan tropical gabardine and draped them across the bed. He dragged a stool over and, reaching to the back of the shelf above the rack, retrieved a peaked cap of matching material. He chose a black woolen necktie and from a box at the back of his sock drawer took two badges. He fixed one to the cap and pinned the other carefully to the shirt. Both badges bore the legend Chief of Police.

Foxy felt good about today. He had had a couple of false starts, lately, suspects who hadn’t panned out, who’d been expected somewhere by somebody. Then Sonny Butts’s visit had shaken him for a couple of days; he’d had to regain his confidence. Now that was back, and the pressure, which had been building for a long time, was nearly unbearable. He knew that because of the pressure he would have to be extra careful not to make mistakes. The need to act had done that to him before, had made him careless in his excitement, and he must not let that happen again. He was in control; he must stay in control. Balancing need against control was the essence of his crusade.

He stared longingly at the uniform. He wanted so much to wear it away from the house, but he controlled the urge. It was too dangerous. He would think of the preliminaries as undercover work, in plain clothes. He had his badge and gun and handcuffs, anyway, should he need them.

He left the house, double-locking the door. He wished, too, that he could have a proper police car, with a black-and-white paint job and a siren. The pickup would have to do.

Foxy was, in fact, a deputy sheriff of Talbot County. Goolsby had sworn him in properly and given him a badge. Honorary deputy, Goolsby had called it, but there was nothing about honorary in the oath, nor did the badge differ from that of other, full-time deputies. When Goolsby had retired, then died, nobody had ever asked him for the badge back. Everyone had forgotten. Everyone but Foxy. The badge had come in very handy.

Foxy knew he would make an arrest today, he felt it in his bones. He fought back the pressure. There must be no escaping. He had not had an escapee in a long, long time. He was too experienced for that now. He knew his work.

As he drove toward the main road, he began to anticipate. He fought the urge; he was superstitious about that; if you anticipated too much something might go wrong. He thought about the questions he would ask. He liked making up the questions.

None of his suspects had ever known the answers.

Chapter 12.

“HEAVENLY FATHER, we thank thee for this day, for the opportunity to worship which we have just enjoyed, and for the food we are about to eat which thou hast given us. We thank thee for our children, Billy and Eloise, for Billy’s deliverance from the war and his return to us, and for the strength thou hast given Eloise in her grief. We thank thee, especially, for our new daughter, Patricia, and for the love she has given us. We ask thy blessing on this day of rest and for the days ahead. Give us strength to serve thee each day of our lives. We ask these things in the name of thy son, Jesus Christ. Amen.”

H. W. Fowler performed each of his life’s duties thoroughly and with care, and he did not exclude a blessing said over a Sunday fried-chicken dinner from these attentions. He would no more have recited a pat prayer than he would have skipped church or a revival meeting.

He had not the slightest difficulty in thinking of things for which to thank God; he found his life full of such things. He felt a visceral pleasure in the gleam of the mahogany dining table and the sparkle of the Waterford chandelier overhead, and in the heft of the sterling with which he now ate. He had chosen none of these things, but he had been thrilled to be able to allow his wife to choose them. His greatest personal satisfaction came from his ability to provide for his family, for his church, and for a long line of Baptist preachers who had found their meager stipends swelled by clothing from his store or cash from his pocket shyly pressed upon them.

He was happy to have his family about him, his wife, his stepchildren, and his daughter-in-law, but he was worried about Billy. There had been something of a void in his life since Billy had become a man and moved beyond his benevolence, and since he could no longer buy him bicycles or send him to law school, he could only worry.

“Billy, I’ve been hearing some talk about this business with Marshall Parker. Eloise, will you pass the gravy, please?”

“What’ve you been hearing, Mr. Fowler?” They all called him Mr. Fowler, even Carrie.

“I was selling a man a suit yesterday, and I heard two women talking over behind one of the dress racks. Emmett Spence’s wife was one of them. I never liked that girl much. Never liked Emmett much, either. Maybe they deserve each other.”

“What did Sylvia Spence have to say about it?”

“Oh, she was going on about you having a ‘nigger practice, as she called it.”

“Well, Sylvia’s got a big chip on her shoulder, I guess. Emmett managed to stay out of the draft because he was a farmer—”

“A farmer’s son, maybe. Not much of a farmer.”

“That’s the truth. But he and Sylvia seem to be real touchy about veterans, and, Lord knows, they’ve got no love for colored people. Word is, Emmett’s in the Klan. Could I have another biscuit, Mama?”

“I’ve heard that.”

“So I guess Marshall Parker represents all the things they hate most—a Negro, and one with a good war record and a good business. You’re not worried about my helping Marshall out, are you?”

“Goodness gracious, no. I think Marshall’s a good boy. His daddy’s been working at the church for years, and I think he got brought up right. I let him have a charge account when he got out of the service, and he’s paid his bill better than most white folks. I’m glad to see a colored boy working hard and doing well, too. It just bothers me to hear folks trying to tear you down that way. Pass the chicken, Carrie.”

“Well, you can’t please everybody, not even in politics. If I’ve got to have enemies I’d just as soon Emmett and Sylvia Spence were among ‘em. ‘

Carrie Lee Fowler spoke up. “Now, Billy, you shouldn’t have any man for your enemy if you can help it.”

“Mama, I feel the same way, but what should I do to make Emmett Spence my friend. What do you think I should do?”