Authors: Reavis Z Wortham
A low pressure system stalled over San Angelo made it seem as if rain was their new way of life. Ned met Cody in the sheriff's office parking lot and they drove through a light drizzle to both of Chisum's body shops to see if anyone had come in with damage to a hood or fender. No one reported repairs consistent with the hit and run, but they promised to give Cody a call if they ran across anything.
When they were back in the car, Ned shook water off his hat onto the floorboard and plucked the microphone off the dash bracket. “John, you listening?”
Thunder rumbled as Cody steered the sheriff's car onto North Main. It was gloomy enough that the lights came on in the stores and reflected off the wet concrete and bricks. Most of the people without umbrellas stuck to the covered sidewalks for shelter and avoided the open town square and its Italian marble fountain. “You could use his call numbers, you know.”
“Yep, and he'd answer the same.” Ned didn't like call numbers. He preferred to use the radio the same way he talked.
“Go ahead, Mr. Ned.” Deputy John Washington's voice was deep and rich even through the cheap radio speaker. John was a mythical figure in Chisum, a giant of a man whose shoulders brushed most doorframes when he passed. He was the first official black deputy in the county, and though it wasn't written anywhere, Big John's assignment was to represent the law to the colored folks.
Ned considered John a family member. They worked closely together through the years, and had a reputation that covered northeast Texas. Both men were fair, but didn't take any nonsense from anyone, black, white, red, or green.
“Me'n Cody are heading over to Malcom Jackson's shop. You want to meet us there?”
“Sure 'nough. Trouble?”
“Naw. Checking body shops. You heard about the hit and run in Center Springs?”
“I did. A'ite. See you there.”
Cody turned south. “Where's the shop?”
“You ain't been there?”
“Not that I remember.”
They passed Nathan Jewelers. “Hit West Washington and keep going.”
Cody glanced at Ned, and then did a double take that would have been funny any other time. “You okay?”
Ned wondered what Cody knew. He hadn't been feeling great for the past couple of weeks, and his stomach tingled deep inside where he'd been shot months ago. “I'm fine. Why?”
“Your face is beet red. Your blood pressure must be up.”
“I feel a little flushed is all.”
“You're more than flushed. You better run by Doc Heinz's office.”
“You're bound and determined to get me into the doctor's office these days, ain't you?”
“It's not that, but you were supposed to go by a long time ago for him to check out that wound. I don't know why you don't do it.”
Ned absently rubbed his belly where the bullet had caused considerable damage. “Because I've got better things to do than have him poke at me for a minute and then want ten dollars for looking at my tongue.”
Pools of water spotted the broken streets. The houses changed from the Craftsman, Tudor, and Victorian styles to more modest bungalows and saltboxes. Fewer houses were painted, and those that were, boasted bright colors. They cruised down streets without curbs. In places, grass only grew in the ditches full of running water. Contrasting with other parts of town, the yards were mostly bare mud. Scattered among those who seemed to barely survive, other houses bloomed bright with late season flower and vegetable gardens.
Despite the weather, the neighborhood corner mom and pop grocery was busy. Ned pointed. “Across the street there.”
What was once an unpainted livery stable had been converted to a garage. Wide oak trees shaded two bare dirt lots packed hard and black from years of spilled grease, oil, and traffic. Over the double doors, a hand-painted sign reading “Mechanic” hung on gray boards warped and rotting. Despite its age, the substantial structure was a testament to craftsmen from the past.
While a group of loafers watched through the open double doors, Cody pulled as far off the street as possible. It was Cody's first time in the “colored” part of town as the sheriff, and the looks thrown his way told him he needed to drop by more often, to get to know those folks.
“Howdy!” Cody waved toward the cluster of men sitting inside out of the rain. “Y'all doin' all right today?”
Ned stuck close to the side of the car, holding the fender for stability. “Howdy, men.”
A couple of hands rose in return. Most simply watched. There was a tension in the air. The loafers appeared loose and comfortable under light from bare bulbs dangling from the grimy, open rafters overhead. But nearly everyone shifted in some way, far from their earlier relaxed positions.
A radio blared with colored music. Ned remembered that Cody called it Motown once when they were talking about modern music.
“I'm Sheriff Cody Parker.”
“I know who you are.” A barrel-chested man stepped around a jacked-up International pickup and through the open doors of the shop, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “We do somethin' for y'all?”
As Ned turned toward the voice, a figure standing in the drizzle at the outside corner of the building seemed to evaporate behind a car on blocks.
Cody nodded toward Ned, letting him take the lead, since the hit and run happened in his precinct. Ned leaned against the garage doorframe, stopping under the eaves to stay out of the water dripping from the roof. The strong odor of old grease, gasoline, and mildew boiled out the door. “You're Malcom?”
The man stuck the rag in one pocket of his overalls. “Yessir.”
“I knowed your daddy. Henry.”
“He was.”
“Henry was a good man.”
“He was.”
“We had a hit and run out toward Center Springs a day or so ago. A man was killed.”
Malcom's experience with the law leaned more toward jailed kinfolk and friends than visits from the sheriff's office. “Was he colored?”
“No, white, and we don't know who did it.”
One of the loafers raised his voice. “So y'all come out here to see if it was one of us done it?”
The man in his twenties, wearing black slacks and a white t-shirt wore the biggest, bushiest head of hair Cody'd ever seen outside of television or the newspaper. “No, not the way you put it.”
“How come it's always a nigger done it?”
Ned felt his face fill with pressure. “You didn't hear that from us.”
“I see the two of y'all standing
here
.” He rose with two others of similar age. One bumped a cane-bottom chair as he stood and it fell with a clatter against a stack of car parts. The man's voice grew louder. “Y'all don't have no business accusin' any of us for runnin' anyone down.”
Cody slipped both hands into his pockets of his khakis, hoping the move would show he wasn't aggressive. “We haven't accused anyone of anything.” He dismissed them to address Malcom. “Has anyone come in with a dented fender, or hood? Maybe said they run over a cow or a deer or something?”
The angry young man tugged at his t-shirt, as if to give his chest more room to puff out. “How about y'all takin' this somewheres else to
in-ves-ti-gate
?”
Ned's eyes grew cold, and his head felt as if it would pop from the pressure. He was suddenly aware of water splashing off the tin roof into a nearby catch barrel. Malcom remained still, waiting to see what might happen.
Ned raised an eyebrow at the younger man. “You got a name?”
“Yeah, what's it to you?”
“I always like to know who I'm talking to.”
“You're talkin' to
me
.”
Thunder rolled over the shop, vibrating deep in their chests. Malcom's eyes flicked to the man. “Dee-wight. We ain't doin' nothin' but talkin'.”
“Yeah, and so'm I.”
Cody met Dwight's gaze and held it steady. “We're checking all the shops, to see if anybody came in for repairs. That's all.”
“I believe you're here trying to pin a killin' on somebody that don't look like you. That's it, ain't it? It's easier to convict one of us than it is one a y'all.”
“You're wrong, Dee-wight.” The deep rumbling voice sounding like it originated from deep inside a 55-gallon barrel came through the open back door of the garage. It for sure didn't belong to the slender black man who stumbled through the door, propelled from behind. Deputy John Washington pointed toward an overturned bucket beside an engine hoist. “Spec, you sit down right there. What'chu runnin' for?”
The gangly man who'd earlier ducked around the corner hung his head. “Nothin'.”
“Not for that warrant for assault, or the one for suspicion of armed robbery outta Dallas? Your brother's name came up on that one too. Hubert Geroid, weren't it?”
“No suh. You got the wrong man for that, and I ain't seen Hubert in months.” Spec rested his elbows on his knees.
John gave him the eye. “Uh, huh. You and me'll be talkin' later.” He raised an eyebrow at the young man who'd been arguing with Ned and Cody. “Dee-wight White, why you squarin' off with them lawmen?”
“They here accusin' us⦔
“Naw, you're talkin' to hear your head rattle on that one. I don't believe they here to
accuse
anybody about nothin'. They askin' questions is all.”
Ned shifted his position to regain Malcom's attention. “Malcom, we've already been to two other shops in town. Now, all we need to know is if you've had anybody come by with body damage, like they might have hit something.”
“Nossir. No body work. Most of our folks don't have money for such things, dents and all. We try to keep the motors runnin', that's all.”
Cody stepped close to Malcom and extended his hand. “Since I'm sheriff, I'll be around every now and then to check and make sure everything's all right. Y'all need anything, you don't have to just call Deputy Washington anymore. The sheriff's department works for the whole town.”
Malcom relaxed and returned the firm grip. “That'd be fine.”
Cody smiled. “Ned, you ready to go?”
“I 'magine we better.”
John cleared his throat. “Mr. Ned, if you don't need me to go with y'all, would you mind if I hung around here for a little while?”
Both he and Cody were grateful for the opportunity to back out gracefully before things escalated even further. “You go ahead on. I'll talk to you back at the courthouse.”
“I'll see y'all in Mr. O.C.'s office if I get done here in time.”
It galled Ned to leave, but staying and arguing wouldn't do any good with men already angry and itching for a fight. Rubbing his belly, he followed Cody to the sheriff's car.
Cody slammed his door and narrowed his eyes. “We're going straight to the doctor's office.”
“No we ain't.” Ned put his wet hat on the seat between them and slammed the door.
Cody tilted the rearview mirror toward Ned. “See how red your face is? That ain't a mad you got on there. It's something else.”
Ned adjusted the mirror and sighed. “All right.”
James and Pepper were on the way home from her Grandpa Ned's house when he remembered Ida Belle's order to pick up a loaf of Ideal bread. He pulled into Oak Peterson's gravel drive and left the engine running while he went in.
Arms crossed in her usual aggravated posture, Pepper stiffened when she caught sight of John T. and Freddy killing time with the Spit and Whittle Club that had migrated from Neal's place. She didn't expect to see them, even though Freddy was local. John T. periodically attended the Center Springs school when he was a kid, but they'd moved away during his junior year and he seldom hung around either of the stores unless Marty was with him.
Pepper's heart jumped when Freddy glanced in her direction. She slumped down in her daddy's car like a rabbit in a briar patch, hoping John T. didn't recognize her.
Cale saw the car from the domino hall and came up on it from the off side. He spoke softly so the men nearly thirty feet away couldn't hear. “Hey, girl. I have the money to go.”
Pepper kept her head down and didn't pay any attention to Cale. Her thoughts were on the two young men sitting in the middle of the farmers staying dry under the overhang. She knew almost everyone in Center Springs and wished she was more like Top. He wouldn't have recognized John T. that night, and he for sure wouldn't have known who Top was. Top wouldn't have been in the middle of all this.
Cale tapped her shoulder with his finger. “Hey, Earth to Pepper.”
She had to bring herself back. “Huh?”
“I have the money. We can go.”
“Where'd you get it?”
“Stole it.”
She pushed him. “No you didn't.”
“I did.” He grinned and puffed up his chest. “I take care of my woman.”
“So when are we going?”
“Uh, later, I guess.”
Frustrated with the answer, she frowned and stared forward, refusing to further the conversation.
Half-listening to the story Frederick Winters was telling there in front of Oak's store, Freddy hadn't been able to take his eyes off James' car from the moment it pulled up, sure it was Pepper's white face he saw on Friday night as they flashed by on their way to the bottoms. He was wishing Marty was there, so he could ask him what to do, but since that night, Marty kept making up excuses to stay home and take care of his mama.
He figured Marty was scared, but that was all right with Freddy. It gave him more time to hang out with John T., who made Freddy feel tough, as long as he didn't have to talk much so's people would notice his lisp.
But he felt the bottom of his stomach fall out because Pepper didn't want to make eye contact, an insult in such a small community. Freddy glanced at John T. who was staring a hole through the car, not paying a bit attention to the lies swapping back and forth between the farmers.
Pepper's voice was soft. “In the morning.”
“That's too soon.”
“We have to get out of here.” She pointed at John T. and Freddy, keeping her finger below the window.
Freddy nearly panicked, convinced that she was telling the boy beside her what she'd seen that night. His face prickled with heat.
Arms folded over his chest and ankles crossed, Colton Marsh tilted his head. “John T., me and the Wilson boys was trying to remember when y'all moved to Center Springs.”
John T. pulled his attention from the car and focused on Carlton, wondering why the farmer had any interest in him. “I's in the third grade. The folks starved out of Tahlequah and had some kinfolk here at the time.”
“That's what I was telling them. They remembered your mama and daddy as hard-working people.”
“They were. Worked themselves to death picking cotton for other men.
Their
folks died in the Depression of the same thing. I don't intend to follow 'em. I'll probably go out behind the wheel of a car.”
Freddy could tell Pepper was talking about him and let the front legs of his chair down with a thump.
John T. frowned. “What?”
The other members of the Spit and Whittle club noticed. “Why, that boy's white as a sheet.”
“You all right, son?”
Freddy shook his head. “We got to go.”
James Parker came out of the store with a paper sack in his arm containing more than bread. He stopped for a moment to speak with the farmers under the overhang. He also knew Freddy pretty well, and had a good idea of who John T. was, though he didn't care for the young man who most folks figured would at some point spend the rest of his life in Huntsville Prison.
John T. gripped Freddy's shoulder. “I believe I'll take him home.” He flashed a grin at those around him, quickly making up an excuse. “I don't believe snuff agrees with him.”
The farmers laughed. To a man they all knew the results of dipping.
John T. led Freddy away from the gathering. “Suck it up, stupid. What's wrong with you?”
He nodded toward Pepper. “They're talking about uth.”
Pepper was pouting when Cale noticed Pepper's daddy coming toward them with John T. and Freddy following close behind. “Listen, I'll call you tonight.” He spun on his heel. “See you.”
James stopped beside the car and handed the sack through the window to Pepper. “Let's go, girl.”
Freddy and John T. passed James on the way to John T.'s car and nodded hello.
“Howdy.” James slammed the door and left without a backward glance. Pepper watched the two young men out the back window until they disappeared from sight.
She turned back around and shivered.
John T. and Freddy watched the car disappear. The heavy drizzle caught in their hair like dew on a spider's web. John T. unrolled a pack of cigarettes from his sleeve. “We might have to do something about her.”
The pit of Freddy's stomach fell out. Now he was truly terrified.
Freddy wished he'd never gone to the movies that night. Hanging out with Marty and John T. suddenly wasn't worth it, even if they did pay attention to him.