Authors: Tracy Sugarman
Sammy nodded. “Yessir, your honor.” He swiftly poured two tumblers of bourbon. Burroughs said, “Sammy, this is Deputy Sheriff Luther Lonergan.”
The bartender slid the drinks forward, his eyes on the flushed face of Lonergan. “Yessir. I recognized him from the
Clarion
picture. He’s the hero who saved the Negro labor organizer and shot the Negro deputy sheriff.” His voice was so cool and flat that the mayor frowned and Lonergan’s eyes widened.
“Sammy your name, boy? ” The deputy’s voice was very quiet. “I like to remember names, boy.”
“The name is Sparrow, Deputy Lonergan. Sampson Sparrow. And I’m old enough to be your father, sir.” Without another word he turned and moved down the bar.
The policeman turned to Burroughs, his face livid. “Did you hear that old nigger?”
The mayor shrugged and smiled. “Don’t let Sammy rile you, Luther. He’s been pouring drinks for the Shiloh Club since Senator Tildon’s daddy was still running the bank downstairs. Not worth getting upset about.”
Moments later, when Sheriff Haley came in the door, the mayor tapped on his glass and addressed the noisy room. “Gentlemen, I’m glad that our sheriff has joined us because I want to propose a toast to a man who has made us all proud. Our police force and the town are going to benefit from his dedication. I give you Deputy Sheriff Luther Lonergan!”
The glasses were raised. “Lonergan!”
The mayor raised his hand and in the silence he led Lonergan to a nearby table. “Resolution is everything.” He turned to the sheriff. “Don’t you agree, Haley? Your Deputy Lonergan is the personification of resolution.” He paused and then grinned. “Hell, you can’t be irresolute if you’re going to ride a Bronko!”
As appreciative laughter broke around him, Sheriff Dennis Haley looked over at the beaming Lonergan. He leaned back on the bar and said, “Sammy, get me a scotch. I didn’t know we were going to be celebrating such a special occasion.” When the mayor put his arm around Lonergan’s shoulder, Haley called to the watchful Sparrow, “Make it a double.” Sparrow served the drink and crossed his arms, his eyes bright.
Haley raised his glass, nodded to the mayor, and gazed at Lonergan. “Here’s to Deputy Lonergan. A good deputy, willing to learn. I got great hopes for him, Mr. Mayor. He’s a great shot, for openers.”
Burroughs cupped his chin in his hand and stood beside Lonergan as Haley’s voice sliced through the room. “I didn’t know one of my boys was the personification of resolution, of course, but then the boss is always the last one to find out.” The room grew very quiet. “Thank you for pointing that out, Mr. Mayor.”
“Now I don’t think that tone is helpful, Sheriff.” Jamie Steinkraus rose from his seat opposite the bar. “I know Senator Tildon takes a lot of pride in the reputation of his town and this county in keeping its composure under all the stress of this Commie provocation. Seems to me, by being resolute, Deputy Lonergan removed a dangerous rogue officer and was a model of courage under pressure. The mayor was just expressing our gratitude. No reason for sarcasm, Dennis.”
Mayor Burroughs interrupted. “I don’t think the sheriff was being sarcastic, Jamie. We’re all under a lot of stress, with the press on our backs and radicals invading our property. I’m sure the sheriff’s doing the best he knows how. I don’t want to be a Monday morning quarterback, but maybe the best judgment wasn’t used when that Nigra thug, Bronko, was hired.”
Lonergan suppressed a smile as Haley reddened. Burroughs shrugged. “Must have had a good reason, Sheriff Haley. I’m sure the folks here would like to hear it.”
Haley drained his glass. “Law and order. The reason I hired Bronko was to maintain law and order, Mr. Mayor. Lot of folks are out there these days questioning the laws we’ve maintained here in the Delta for a hundred years. Not all that easy with the Feds looking under our beds spite of all the good work Jamie’s Senator Tildon is doing in Washington. And that gets us to the order part.” He paused, letting his eyes travel the room. “I get paid by you to see that order is maintained and that the thousands of our dark brothers who we want in our fields are not in our streets. Or in our beds. I found a black man who owed me and seemed to understand that. In the last five years, four black agitators were eliminated by Deputy Bronko. I don’t remember anybody here calling the office and saying your black deputy shouldn’t have done that, Sheriff. With all due respect, if my white deputies had done that, there would have been blood in Shiloh. I don’t think our good senator would have liked that story, Jamie, with an election coming up. The dirty laundry was handled, gentlemen. I didn’t expect thanks. It’s what I get paid for. But I don’t appreciate being made the goat now or at any time. You want a new sheriff? There’s another election coming up. That’s for your White Citizens Council to decide.” He turned his back and placed his empty glass on the bar. “Goodnight, Sammy.” The old man nodded politely.
“Goodnight, Sheriff Haley.”’ His eyes stayed on Haley as he walked out of the silent room.
The sheriff summoned Deputy Harold Butler to his office late the next afternoon. “Close the door. Got some private business to discuss. Take a seat.” Butler nodded and settled warily in the chair opposite Haley’s desk. “It’s after hours, Harold. Thought you and I should get to know each other a little better.” When the sheriff took out a bottle from his desk and offered him a drink, Butler’s eyes widened and a relieved smile creased his face.
“Thanks. ’Preciate it, Sheriff. Been a long, tough day. Lot of shit hitting the fan after the shooting at the Commie meeting.”
Haley nodded. “Not the best thing that could of happened when the FBI are all over the Delta looking for those agitators. Now the Feds, the reporters, and everybody wanting their name in the paper are kicking up sand. Your buddy Lonergan seems to be riding it full tilt.”
Butler answered slowly. “Well, Sheriff, I work with Lonergan. Wouldn’t describe him as a buddy, exactly.”
Haley’s eyes were unblinking. “What’d you think of the shooting, Harold? You were right there. Think it was a just shot?”
Butler emptied his drink and looked boldly at the sheriff. “I think Lonergan was trigger-happy, Sheriff. Wanted to blow the nigger away and make his mark. End of story.”
Haley chuckled. “Not necessarily the end. Mayor Burroughs seems pretty fond of your partner. No telling what’ll come of it. Lonergan seems to be feeling no pain.” He leaned forward and refilled Butler’s glass. “I guess you could call killing Bronko a career move.”
Butler studied his drink. “You don’t mind my askin’, why you sharing this with me, Sheriff? Lonergan don’t mean nothing to me. I’m just the guy who didn’t shoot Bronko, and got no career move.” He looked up, suppressing a smile. “You have something in mind?”
Haley grinned. “Nothing subtle about you, Butler. You call it like you see it. I like that.”
Butler crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. His tone was confiding. “People who know me always say that, Sheriff.”
Haley nodded. “Doesn’t surprise me, now that I’m getting to know you, Harold.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the desk. “Matter of fact, I know quite a lot about you.”
Butler watched in silence as the sheriff finished his drink and then walked around to the front of his desk to stand over him. “I know about you and the Klan preacher. I know about you and the Kilbrews. Even know that it wasn’t your Klan unit that took out those three Commies, Goodman, Schwerner, and Chaney. Being a sheriff in the Mississippi Delta means you know a hell of a lot about a hell of a lot.” He slowly returned to his seat. “And I know about the statutory rape of that fourteen-year-old in 1957 when you got busted from the Marines in Manila.” He sat down heavily and refilled the glasses. “A man makes mistakes, Harold. I think we all pay our own dues and I’m not passing judgment. Nothing I’ll ever mention again. Just want you to know that the people I choose to work for me are looked over and looked after.”
Frowning, Butler licked his lips and cleared his throat. “Like Bronko?”
“Like Bronko. He was rotting in Parchman Prison before I cut him loose. Then he did what he was supposed to do for the sheriff, and he was taken care of. That Polack nigger was more important to me than you were or Lonergan was. Now my handyman has been blown away by our resolute Lonergan.” He pounded the desk in irritation. “And, goddam, everything has got to be sorted out all over again!”
Watchful, Butler locked his hands behind his head and eased back in his chair. “And you want me to be your new nigger?”
Haley’s eyes were hard. “Only if I say so. Then you say, yessir. And when I say jump, your answer is, how high, boss?”
Butler’s anger rose and his voice was tight. “Yessir.” He wiped his mouth with a stained handkerchief while watching the sheriff. “We’re talking day job or after-hours job?”
“We’re talking about you being there for me when I’m not there. We’re talking about you being my pickup man, my enforcer, the man who has my back. Anybody who has to know, gets to know that the sheriff’s man is Harold Butler. You’re not going to win any popularity contests. You’re just going to get rich.”
“And how do I not get dead like Bronko, instead of rich like you say?”
Haley smiled thinly. “You don’t let killers like Luther Lonergan get too close.”
It was dusk when Nefertiti walked Z to her car. As Z started the engine, a battered Chevy careened off the highway and skidded to a stop. Harold Butler studied the two women through his dusty wind-shield and then got out of his car. He stared in distaste at Fatback’s Platter, then, turning his back on Z, he said to Nefertiti, “Sheriff says you and I got to talk. Inside.” He turned on his heel and walked into the bar.
Z frowned. “I know that man, Titi. No black shirt, but a Facisto.” She looked sympathetically at her friend. “You going to be all right?”
Nefertiti nodded. “I think my silent partner has sent me a special delivery.” She patted Z’s arm and smiled. “Been handling that kind of redneck since I was wearing bloomers, Z. Not to worry. We’ll talk later.”
Butler was behind the bar, pouring himself a whisky, when she came into the shady room. “No,” she said. “That’s not the way it’s going to be.” Her words echoed in the empty room. She walked swiftly to the bar, picked up the bottle and returned it to the shelf.
Incredulous, he stared at her. “What the hell are you doing, nigger?”
She picked up the phone at the end of the bar. “Get me Sheriff Haley.” Her eyes never left Butler. “Sheriff, there’s a honky son of a bitch that has just walked into my establishment, drunk my whisky, and called me nigger. That’s right, Sheriff.” She paused. “Butler? Your name Butler, boy? Sheriff Haley wants to talk with you.”
Butler hesitated, then took the extended phone from Nefertiti’s hand. “Yessir. Yessir.” His face was scarlet when he hung up. “Sheriff wants me to find out what you want me to do.” He swallowed hard. “Then he wants you to call him.”
“I’ll call him when I’m ready. It’s good we understand each other, Butler. Save a lot of problems for you, for me, and for the man we both work for. But when you’re at Fatback’s, you’re working for me. You call me ma’am. You pay for drinks. You’re not a customer. You run my door and keep it clear and see there are no problems for the sheriff. And after work you get paid by me and deliver a personal envelope to Sheriff Haley. And leave. Any questions?”
Butler shook his head, his eyes locked on Nefertiti.
“Fatback’s opens at seven. You be here on time and the sheriff will be happy, something we both want.” She left him and began to set up the tables. It was starting to get dark.
Luke had watched, not daring to believe, as a sooty indigo rim of clouds began to finger the blindingly blue sky. As he squinted in the noon glare, he avidly tracked the ascending veil of gray, and his face cracked into a broad smile when he heard the far, far murmur of thunder that seemed to moan and then hurtle into a booming explosion over the endless rows of parched cotton. The dusty, weary plants bent before the foreign wind that suddenly raked their leaves. A blinding rip of lightning plummeted toward the distant field, and a crashing clap of thunder rattled the tin siding on the weighing machine. The racing storm clouds pell-melled across the sky, drowning the sun and sending gusts of water to pound against the side of the barn. His head back and his mouth open to the blessed water, Luke tore off his drenched shirt and jeans and raced out into the fields, his boots sloshing in the racing currents of water gathering between the rows.
“Willy! Willy! Come out! Come out!”
The lightning that suddenly painted the shadowed laundry where Willy Claybourne was folding the linens startled her. When the clap of thunder seemed to explode just outside, she heard Luke’s yell and raced from the cellar to the porch. Breathless, she stepped out into the driving rain and saw Luke dancing, naked as a child, in a puddle. When he spotted her, he screamed, “Come on in!” His laughter was almost lost in the wind. “The water’s fine!”
Giddy, she abandoned her sodden clothes on the step and went running to embrace him, her eyes bright in the light of the flashing lightning. “Lucas! Lucas!” And they tumbled, hilarious with the wonder of it all, to lie panting on the mud, their eyes turned to the cascading heaven.
“Thank you, Jesus!” Willy shouted.
After midnight, she heard the rush of wind fitfully subside and the pelting rain become a steady murmur on the roof. She rolled on to her side and looked at Luke. He slept like a boy, defenseless and nearly smiling. He could sleep through a tornado, she thought, and her gaze moved to the blind, inky window. There is weather, she thought, even in a marriage. Not just because he’s a farmer. She rolled on her back, knowing that sleep would not return. Because he’s his mother Lillian’s boy. Because he’s his daddy’s son. Because he’s laced to this land. Because he married Willy McIntire. And it’s never been just fair weather for us. Never was for me. Maybe never will be for Luke. But, glory be, it’s raining!
When Mendelsohn drove to the Freedom House it was pouring like he hadn’t seen in the Delta, and it matched how he was feeling. The burned cross had tilted like a drunk in the wet clay and the place looked deserted and sad. Dale Billings met him on the porch and told him Jimmy was on the way. He heated up some cold coffee and they watched it rain.