A Thousand Falling Crows (8 page)

Tom Turnell owned the market these days. It had changed hands more than once since Haden had first sold it, but the name Lancer's always stuck. Most folks would have probably objected if the name
had
changed, gone somewhere else, like Sonny wanted to, if that would've ever happened.

The screen door stood ajar, and the front door was open, like usual. Four empty chairs sat facing the lot, Tom's version of the liar's bench, most often found outside of such establishments, though these chairs sat empty on most days. Had since the Stock Market Crash.

Sonny pushed inside, wet from the rain and self-conscious of the empty sleeve pinned to his right side. He stopped just inside the threshold.

The store was dimly lit. A scattering of bare bulbs hung from the ceiling over the two aisles that reached to the back wall. The walnut wood floor was scuffed and scratched from the years of traffic and was nearly black in color. The shelves were thin, not heavily stocked but freshly dusted. Sonny was hoping for a week's worth of canned beans, but he'd make a pot to last if he had to boil some from a bag.

The market doubled as a post office, and an ice house sat on the north side of the building. Tom's nephew, Bertie Turnell usually ran the ice route, and Tom doubled as postmaster when Bertie was out making deliveries. Sonny didn't see the ice truck out in the lot, so he assumed that Bertie was gone. As it was, Tom stood behind the long counter at the front of the store alone, staring back at Sonny, his mouth slightly ajar, like he was surprised to see a living human being and didn't know what to say.

“How'd do, Tom,” Sonny said, taking his hat off and shaking out the rain that had collected in the brim.

Tom Turnell was thin as a newel post and just as bald as the finial that normally sat atop it. His eyes were sunken, with dark half-moons of worry extending down to the top of his cheeks. Smiles were rare inside the market. Most folks had little money to spend and would most likely try and barter their next meal instead of paying for it, thus the sign that hung on the front of the counter: “All Transactions Require Money. No Exceptions. No Local Scrip Accepted.”

Some towns had turned to printing their own currency since the banks and the treasury couldn't be trusted. Scrip was local money. Money for whatever the reason Tom had decided not to accept. That decision probably made business more difficult than it already was.

“Well, if it ain't Sonny Burton out on a day even ducks would declare too wet to swim in. What're you in need of that brings you here?”

“Got some empty space in the cupboard,” Sonny answered. A puddle had collected at his feet from the hat. He broke eye contact with Tom and stepped toward the first aisle.

There was always an aroma in a grocery store that Sonny found comforting. Fresh vegetables, barrels of cornmeal and flour, along with talcum powders, Lux soap, and bag upon bag of potatoes, all mixing into a recognizable and expected smell of plenty. But on this day, all of those smells were distant, minimal, like they were just memories. There were no bags of potatoes to be seen, and all of the barrels had the lids pulled tight.

“Truck out of Dallas that brings me canned goods was hijacked three days ago,” Tom said. “Ruffians emptied it, then set it on fire.”

Sonny nodded. “Folks are getting desperate.”

“You can say that again.” Tom looked up at the metal roof, cocked his ear to listen to the rain pelt it, then watched a thin stream break across a rafter and find a place to fall to the floor. “I don't know how much longer any of us can hang on,” he said, rushing to put a pail under the current leak. Three other pails sat scattered about in the aisles. “Most of us bought a bill of goods when we sent Garner to Washington to be Roosevelt's number-two man.”

There was nothing Sonny could add to those sentiments, but he was in no mood to talk politics. Having a Texan as a vice-president had been a moment of hope that had fallen away as quickly as the shine of a new window. The victory had quickly become covered with the dust and grime of the Depression, just like everything else. “I suppose you don't have a week's worth of Van Camp's, do you?”

Tom shook his head. “Two cans is the best I can do for you. I got some cheese that I‘ll let go of for twenty cents a pound. Normally twenty-five, but you made an extra effort to come out. Besides, you took a rough bullet from them two outlaws. Be the least I can do for a man the likes of you.”

“I‘m in no need of charity, Tom. Thank you just the same.”

The market-owner stared at Sonny, then moved from the pail to the counter where a pile of cheese rounds sat. “You don't want any cheese then?”

“Sure, I‘ll take a couple of pounds, but at the regular price, if it's all the same to you.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

A look of disappointment crossed Tom Turnell's face, but he nodded with understanding and went about cutting off two pounds of cheese with a strand of wire knotted to two opposing wood handles.

Silence, with the exception of rain falling on the roof and the hum of the Coca-Cola box by the door, returned to the inside of the market. Sonny was glad for it as he realized the good fortune of bad weather. There would be no one to stare at him if his luck continued. He could get what he needed and get home without seeing anyone, or being seen by anyone, other than Tom.

His concern about his inaugural appearance to the outside world had been steeped in self-pity, conceit, and pride. Maria Perza, the Mexican woman, his
mommasita
, would have been disappointed in him. Pride was the biggest of all sins as far as she was concerned.

He picked up a basket woven of thin wood that looked like it had once served picnics instead of groceries, then set about navigating the aisles for his immediate needs. Long-term groceries would have to wait until another day—which didn't settle well.

First thing Sonny did was find the Van Camp's. He reached for them with his right hand, but realized, a half-second later, that it wasn't there. He let the basket slide to his elbow, hooked it there, then leaned forward to grab one can of the beans. Every act was going to require relearning. Even putting a can in a grocery basket.

It was awkward bending his wrist back and juggling the basket at the same time, but he managed on the first try with a little toss. The task would prove more difficult the fuller the basket got. Slowly, cautiously, Sonny made his way up and down the aisle, careful to put only what he needed in the basket. There was little on the shelves that offered reward, or pleasure. Sometimes a Baby Ruth candy bar would satisfy his craving for sweets, but it felt like a luxury he could ill afford. These days, most folks thought the chocolate was named for Babe Ruth, the Sultan of Swat himself, but Sonny knew better. Baby Ruth had been named for President Grover Cleveland's daughter.

Tom had the chunk of cheese waiting on the counter. Sonny hoisted the basket onto the counter next to it.

“Looks like that ought to keep you for a spell,” Tom said.

Sonny nodded. “Probably best send Bertie out with some ice for the box first chance he gets.”

“Won't be no call for that one of these days, I suppose. Frigidaires'll be in every house, if you can imagine such a thing. Bertie'll have to find something else to cart around. Ain't good for much else, but don't tell my brother I said that. He thinks the sun rises and falls on that boy. I suppose there are worse things.”

Sonny ignored the comment. Any man in law enforcement was a keeper of secrets whether he wanted to be or not. He reached back and took his wallet out of his pocket, looked Tom Turnell in the eye, and forced as much of a smile as he could muster. “When I was a boy, I couldn't imagine driving a truck. Figured there'd always be horses and wagons. I would've never made it here on a horse on a day like today.”

Tom Turnell smiled briefly. “Still are folks that just got a horse and a wagon, probably always will be, but I guess I see your point. Lord knows, you can't stop progress. Not even the government can do that.” Tom began to punch in numbers on the cash register. After taking everything out, boxing it as he went, he totaled the machine, and said, “Well, Sonny, that'll be four dollars and seventy-eight cents.”

Sonny counted out five ones and handed them to Tom. “If you get any more Van Camp's in, have Bertie run me out some.”

“You got a phone?” Tom handed the change to Sonny, who laid it back on the counter.

Sonny nodded.

“You call me with an order and I‘ll save you a drive here. We quit doing delivering a while back because of the tone of things in the world, if you know what I mean. Same thing that happened to my delivery truck could happen to Bertie. Couldn't stand the thought of such a thing.”

“Yes, I have a phone.” The idea of getting groceries delivered heightened Sonny's mood. He almost smiled broadly for the first time in memory. “Can you add on one of those Baby Ruth bars?”

“Sure, I can. I sure can.”

A pair of headlights swung into the parking lot, drawing Sonny's attention to the door. At first, he thought it was Bertie returning from an ice delivery, but it was a car, parked close to the overhang.

The rain had picked back up, and the distant horizon beyond the car—a make and model Sonny couldn't identify—was gray and murky, like a thick fog had settled in with the storm or a cloud had crashed to the ground.

It was hard to see anything clearly, but it looked like a woman, or a girl, was behind the steering wheel, which was the first thing that Sonny thought was unusual. Men drove most of the time, and women rode in the passenger seat.

Before Sonny could gather his thoughts or turn his attention back to Tom, two men rushed in the front door, their faces obscured by red handkerchiefs pulled over their noses, both waving shotguns like they knew how to use them.

“Hands up,” one of them yelled. They looked like mirror images of each other: same hair, same height, and same skin color—Mexican. Only their eyes were different. One was confident, the other was fearful—a follower, that much was clear. “This here's a robbery. Do as I say, and nobody'll get hurt.”

CHAPTER 10

Sonny hesitated, staring at the lead man, the one doing the talking. His mouth went dry, and a tremble started deep in his stomach. He allowed his left hand to dangle where it was, tried not to move, but the surprise of the robbery nearly knocked him off his feet. The last emotion he thought he would confront on this day was true fear. His previous tangle with two outlaws hadn't turned out so well.

Both men had stopped just inside the door. The quiet one, the fearful one, leveled his shotgun directly at Sonny's head. The other one, the talker, was focused on Tom. He was confident, strident, certain of the task at hand. Cockiness was a dangerous ingredient in a situation like this. Sonny knew that better than anyone.

“Didn't you hear what I said, old man?” The talker turned his attention to Sonny. Tom's hands had gone straight up in the air at the first command. For some reason, he didn't look surprised. Probably had been through a robbery before, or expected it to come through the door sooner or later. It was hard for Sonny to know for sure, since he didn't know Tom that well.

“I don't have
hands
,” Sonny said. He was trying to figure out a way to help Tom, buy time, find an opportunity to turn things their way, and get to his gun without alerting the duo that he was armed.

“Hand. Then raise your damn hand.” The talker brought his barrel level with his partner's so they were both focused on Sonny.

Tom stood still in the periphery, hands reaching to the ceiling. He looked like he was playacting a statue or a tree. There was no emotion on his face, and he barely blinked. It was like time had stopped, catching Tom Turnell unaware. But that wasn't the truth. The market owner was completely aware of every movement, every sound. Sonny was sure of it. Just as he was sure that somewhere close, under the counter or nearby, a weapon of some kind sat waiting. A man like Tom would be prepared for something like this, especially with the hooligan barns across the road. He just seemed too calm, too resigned, not to have some kind of plan.

“Go ahead now, old man, don't make me do somethin' I‘ll regret,” the talker said, with a flip of the gun's barrel. There was an obvious, familiar accent at the end of his tongue. Sonny had already determined the two were Mexican, but he didn't recognize either of them. They'd covered their faces like old-time bandits, which wasn't a bad move on their part. Sonny probably wouldn't have known them anyway—they were young—but he could identify them later if he could get a good look at their faces.

“Your mother must be proud,” Sonny said. He said it in Spanish as coldly as he could.
Su madre debe estar orgulloso.

It surprised the talker that he could speak the language so clearly, so fluently. He glanced over to his partner. “Keep him covered,” he said in Spanish as well.

The partner said nothing, just nodded as the talker lowered his weapon and walked over to Sonny, stopping inches from him. He was shorter than Sonny and had to look up to make eye contact. He smelled like juniper berries and sweat. The foulness spoke to Sonny. The talker'd been in a room with a batch of bathtub gin recently, but it was more than that. The kid—and that's all he was, a kid—was afraid, too. It was just harder to see at a distance. There was a twitch in his right eye. Sonny wondered if this was his first stickup.

“Don't try anything stupid, amigo,” the talker continued in Spanish. “We just want money. No trouble, you understand? But I will hurt you if I have to. My brother might even kill you—just for the fun of it.”

Careful
, Sonny thought,
you're giving yourself away, amigo
. He said nothing, though, just nodded, looking at the talker's head, then over to the other one. Quiet ones could be even more dangerous than cocky ones.