by Wayne Zurl
“Before we start dinner, I’d like to ask a favor,” I said. “Would one of you mind introducing me to your honored guest?”
Feeling like a kid forced to eat a distasteful vegetable, I wanted to satisfy my obligation to meet Webbster and get that out of the way quickly.
Joe Rex, the first one back in action, answered my question. “Well, Sam, ya shore do like ta get rot down ta bidness, don’t ya? I thought y’all would have already met Bucky somewhere along the line, you both being members of the law enforcement fraternity.”
“No, I’m afraid not,” I said. “I just thought it would be polite to meet him since I started using his chair last week.”
That got a few chuckles from the boys.
“Sure thing. Ol’ Bucky is jest over here talkin’ with a few of the other officers. Come on, and let’s go introduce ya.”
I can’t tell you why, but I felt an apprehension about meeting the former chief. It was protocol, of course, but the idea I harbored about his dishonesty, kept me from enjoying what I considered an obligation.
I’ve always believed that I’d defend a cop who worked for me if they seriously screwed up—if that occurred as a genuine, good-faith mistake. Conversely, I’d hang someone out to dry if I caught them taking a nickel for their own benefit. Where did that leave Webbster?
As I walked over to meet my predecessor, I hoped he’d just say hello and fade away into a crowd of people who had more tolerance for him than me.
When Joe Rex and I approached, I noticed Buck had corralled Bettye, Junior and Will Sparks, who all stood there listening to him. None of the three looked enthused with the old boy.
Buck looked about my age. Shorter than me by three inches and more than a bit overweight, his hair was mostly gray, poorly cut and slicked straight back, Bela Lugosi style. He went beyond having a double chin—more like a quadruple, jutting forward with an overbite. He reminded me of a stereotypical big-bellied, Southern sheriff seen in countless movies.
He wore a gray polyester sport jacket with wide lapels, a white dress shirt with a spread collar that didn’t close over his fat neck and a harlequin-pattern tie terminating about four inches north of his black trousers that hung just south of his king-sized belly.
Joe Rex did the honors. “Buck, I want y’all to meet your replacement, Sam Jenkins.”
Buck stuck out a pudgy hand and said, “Hit’s a real pleasure, Sam. I been tole you’re from a big Noo Yawk department. Welcome to Tennessee, son. I wish y’all good luck and God’s blessin’s.”
His statement almost made me throw up.
“Prospect’s a real fine place,” he continued. “I’m sorry to leave, but ya know how it is, Florida and all that saltwater fishin’ calls.”
His handshake felt surprisingly firm, but the look in his eyes bothered me. Coupling that look with his penchant to make a dishonest dollar, I checked my wrist to see if he pocketed my watch.
What could I say? The man was a crooked cop acting like a local hero.
“Hello, Buck.” I almost tried to sound sincere. “I’m looking forward to working in Prospect. I promise to take good care of your police department.” I thought I’d like to hear something similar from my replacement.
He grinned and nodded, looking like a malevolent numbskull and acting like he cared.
Joe Rex saw a chance to escape and jumped on it with both feet. “Y’all must excuse me. I see someone I need to talk with.”
He hurried away, probably needing more sweet tea.
Junior looked polished in a sport jacket and open-necked shirt.
Will, also in a jacket, could have been the poster-boy for the Mister Appalachia contest. Shorter than Junior by three inches, Will’s reddish-brown hair crossed his forehead in bangs and looked like it hadn’t been combed since his first haircut. I thought his mom and dad should have named him Opie.
Bettye wore a burgundy wrap-around dress. Her blonde hair fell just below her shoulders.
“Sam,” Buck said, “I heard you already know this here little lady. Bettye jest about runs the department. Y’all be nice to her. The big fella here’s, Junior Huskey. Junior’s a good boy, as is Will Sparks there. Sammy, we’uns are kindly like a big happy family ‘round here. Jest a big happy family.”
I should have strangled the fat bastard for calling me Sammy.
“I understand…Bucky. Family is a good thing.”
Just being in the same room with that oaf annoyed me.
Then, turning toward Bettye and the two other cops, I said, “Okay, children, just think of me as your kindly old Uncle Sammy…part of that big happy family.”
“Sam,” Buck said with a serious look, “I heard what you said, but I got ta tell ya, son, ya cain’t go gittin’ too friendly with the rank an’ file of a po-leece department.”
He spoke as if our three companions weren’t present. His remark offended me; I knew how they must have felt. Who did that prick think he was, telling me how to supervise a bunch of cops?
“Show weakness, Sammy,” he continued, “an’ ya lose ‘em. Treat ‘em like a good, stern father would, an’ they’ll re-spect ya. Don’t ya fergit now, y’all are the boss here.”
I felt the tips of my ears start to burn. I took a deep breath and tried to think of something intelligent to say, but couldn’t. I’d gotten angry, and I wanted to hit him. I took a step closer to the man and glared at him, hoping I’d get him to back off.
I finally understood the apprehension I sensed earlier about meeting Buck Webbster. Our inevitable confrontation, a classic struggle between two old wolves for the alpha-male spot in the pack would inevitably happen. Buck didn’t want to let go, and I wanted everyone to recognize me as the new boss in town.
Why do I get myself involved in these things?
“It’s been a real…experience meeting you, Buck,” I said, standing only inches from him. He dropped his eyes. Of course, I wouldn’t have hit him right there in the restaurant. But maybe I should have given him a quick knee to the groin no one would notice. I remember his last expression and his eyes, especially his eyes. I knew I’d made an enemy, one with powerful friends.
I felt someone touch my arm and turned a little to my left. Bettye had put her hand on my sleeve. We looked at each other. I took in a breath through my nose and let it out slowly.
“You worked for a busy police department once, Sam. I’ll bet you’ve got lots of stories to tell. The boys here would like to hear some, and so would I.”
Bettye’s voice could melt the winter ice on a windshield in Buffalo. “Yes, ma’am, I’ve got enough war stories to choke a horse, and some even have a basis in truth.” I may have made an enemy that day, but I also recognized a true friend. Bettye smoothed out an incident that could have ended up in the outhouse.
Buck Webbster was no fool when it came to avoiding a confrontation.
“Well,” he said, “I guess hit’s time fer me ta go an’ see the mayor, see what’s next ta happen here. Y’all be good now.”
After he left, I looked at Junior and Will and then at Bettye. I grinned, felt a little foolish, and said, “Let’s put those war stories on the back burner until one rainy afternoon when we’ve got nothing else to do, shall we?”
“Yes, sir,” Bettye said, “that sounds fine. And then we can ask you about that li’l dinosaur pin, too.”
“Sure you can. I’ll make up a great story.”
Bettye looked pleased with herself, and the two boys nodded.
I noticed the crowd started taking their seats, so I said, “The bartender has a beer with my name on it. How about I get you people fresh drinks before dinner?”
Bettye and Junior agreed. Will said he wanted to visit the men’s room.
We moseyed over toward the bar where a few people sat on the rustic cedar stools—two couples who looked more like tourists than misguided souls there to wave good-bye to Buck Webbster and one solitary black man. A guy all of six-feet-four-inches tall and a solid 235 pounds, sat alone at the end of
the bar. He looked more like a cop than a tourist. I settled onto the stool next to his.
“Chief,” Bettye said, standing behind me, “This is Officer Stanley Rose. Stan’s been off since you started working. Stan, this is Sam Jenkins, our new boss.”
The big man looked over his right shoulder, swiveled on the bar stool in my direction and gripped my hand with something that looked like a paw belonging to Sasquatch.
“Good to meet you, boss.” He spoke with a neutral accent, sounding from no particular part of the country. “I understand you were a real cop once.”
“Yeah, but like that old song, long ago and far away. Good to meet you too, Stanley.”
The bartender walked over and asked what we wanted. I ordered a draught of Blue Moon, he refilled Bettye’s glass with white Zinfandel, and Junior took another Budweiser that he drank from the bottle. Stanley sipped from his half-empty glass and set it on the bar.
Bettye settled onto the stool next to me. Junior remained standing behind us.
“How long have you been working here?” I asked Stanley, “You don’t sound like a local.”
“I’ve been here three years. Three years in May. I’m from Los Angeles. I worked with LAPD for a while.”
“So I heard. But before you tell me why you’re here in Tennessee, can I buy you a refill?”
“Sure, thanks.” He drained his glass and spun a massive index finger in the air to get the bartender’s attention. “Another Beam and Coke.”
The barman strolled over and took away Stan’s glass.
“Bourbon and Coca Cola?” I said. “I haven’t seen anybody drink that since I was a kid in the Army. You have a sweet tooth?”
Without skipping a beat, he put on a big exaggerated grin and said, “Yas Massah. It’s a nigra thing, ya know. We likes ar sugah.”
“Stanley!” Bettye said. “Stop that.”
Junior laughed. The bartender dropped off Stan’s drink and hurried away.
“That was cool,” I said. “You went from sounding like you’re from Ohio to doing a perfect Uncle Remus. If you do a song from Porgy and Bess, I’ll really be impressed.”
Without offense, Rose asked, “You’re not some kind of a racist, are you, boss?”
His big smile showed the whitest teeth I’d seen since Farrah Fawcett did toothpaste commercials. His expensive-looking gray suit and crisp white shirt were impeccable.
“No, just a confirmed smartass.”
“Smartass I can like. The last guy was enough of a racist to satisfy me for a while.”
“Don’t worry, partner. We’ll get along famously. We’ve got something in common,” I said. “In this neighborhood we fit in like a couple of pork chops at a bar mitzvah.”
Stanley laughed, loud enough to draw looks from the other people around the bar. Then he said, “Oh, Lordy, Massah Sam, y’all shur have a way wif woids.”
Bettye spoke up again. “Sam, Stanley! People are looking at us.”
Stanley laughed. I needed to have the last word, and it’s not difficult for me to sound like Ronald Reagan.
“Well, there you go again, Stanley, soundin’ like Uncle Remus. Just like ya did in Song of the South.”
I looked at Bettye and smiled. She closed her eyes and shook her head. Junior grinned like a little kid and seemed to be enjoying our act.
To our right, the sound of a spoon tapped against the side of a water glass drew the attention of everyone in the restaurant. Mayor Ronnie Shields’ voice called the festivities to order.
“If I can get all y’all to take a seat, we’ll start havin’ dinner and wish our friend Buck Webbster a happy retirement.”
“Come on, guys,” I said. “Let’s find seats. The pecan trout they serve here might make all this seem worthwhile.”
Four of us walked toward the dining area and found empty seats at the back of the room—like the bad kids in high school.
After a few Councilmen made innocuous speeches about Buck’s dedicated service to the city of Prospect, (Did no one read the newspapers?) about his expertise as a police officer, (He used to sell plumbing supplies, but got the job because his brother was a county commissioner.) and about our best wishes for his future, (Certainly not mine.) Buck made his own speech and accepted a Seiko watch that cost more than his service as a police officer was worth.
At the conclusion, I noticed plenty of dry eyes in the house. So did the wait staff; they immediately served the salads.
* * * *
The rest of the party went quicker than I anticipated, and the pecan-encrusted trout exceeded my expectations.
I met several more members of the Prospect Police Department, drank another pint of Blue Moon and said my good-byes.
By ten o’clock, the bright sky of early evening changed to dark and cloudy. The temperature felt fifteen degrees cooler than when I arrived, so it made sense to drive home with the top down.
All settled into the cockpit, I fired up the six cylinders and headed west.
Back at home, my wife waited patiently for my arrival. Actually, she seemed engrossed in a game of computer Scrabble. Not exactly a woman pining away for her absent husband, but Scrabble kept her out of trouble.
I kissed the top of her head while she sat in front of the flat screen monitor, let my hands wander down her sides until I got smacked just before doing what naughty boys do to their well-built girlfriends.
“Spoil-sport,” I said and left the computer room to hang up my sport jacket and change into cooler, more comfortable clothes.
When I arrived downstairs, she handed me a large gin and tonic. “How did your dinner go?”
“Not bad. I met a few more people and had a wonderful time meeting Buck Webbster. I think he’s a certified imbecile. God, what an asshole. He’s like someone out of a James Lee Burke novel.”
“That bad?”
“Worse. After him, it won’t take much to look like an all-star at Prospect PD.”
“You’re awful, but I love you.” She kissed me on the cheek.
“Anyway,” I said, “how tough can it get on the ‘mean streets’ of Prospect? I mean, Tennessee ain’t Bedford-Stuyvesant.”
“I know, sweetie, but here you don’t have thousands of fellow police officers ready to help as soon as you whistle. I’m not saying you’re all alone, but maybe you should be a little careful.”
Chapter Fourteen
On Tuesday morning, the workers of the Municipal Building began another day governing the citizens of Prospect.
I started out spending an hour completing a few more things that the inconsiderate moron Buck Webbster left unfinished.
After a stop in the men’s room, I’d put myself to work on Cecil Lovejoy’s background investigation.
As I ambled back into the office, Bettye motioned me toward her desk. She held the phone to her ear.
“He just walked in, sir. Hold on, please.” After she spoke to the caller, Bettye covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “A man wants to speak to the chief. He didn’t identify himself and doesn’t sound like he’s from around here. It may be long distance. Nothing shows up on caller ID. I’ll transfer it.”
I answered my office phone, “This is Chief Jenkins. May I help you?”
From the other end I heard, “You don’t sound like you’re from Tennessee.”
“Not originally. I’m from New York.”
“No kiddin’? Me, too.” It sounded like he was. “You on the job up there?”
“I was,” I answered.
“City, Upstate or on the Island?”
“The Island,” I said. “Hey, listen, I’d love to get all nostalgic with you about the old hometown, but to whom am I speaking?”
“To whom?” He laughed. “Who the hell says to whom? Jeez. This is Ralph Oliveri, FBI Knoxville, formerly of Queens, by the way. South Ozone Park to be exact.”
“I’m Sam Jenkins, Ralph. What can I do for you?”
“No, no, no, my new friend. It’s what I can do for you.”
“No kidding, a Fed wants to do something for a local cop? What’s it going to cost me?”
I put a little humor and a pinch of sarcasm into my answer. I’d worked with guys from the FBI before.
“Ah, good old New York cynicism.” He didn’t sound offended. “As you no doubt know from reading Sunday’s News-Sentinel, there was a homicide in Prospect recently. No?”
“Yes, I seem to remember something about that. You think someone killed that guy up in Kentucky and dumped him in Prospect? Are you guys looking at an interstate transportation of a body case?”
“Ma’done, don’t get snitty on me. It just so happens we’re working a totally unrelated case, and your vic’s name popped up. Very interesting stuff we have here. You should come and see what I’ve got. You might plotz. If nothing else, it’ll give you a few places to look for suspects.”
Obviously Special Agent Ralph Oliveri, formerly of Queens County, hadn’t heard that Prospect PD was out, and the TBI was in on the Lovejoy case. I looked at that opportunity as an obligation to screen the FBI’s evidence before alerting the TBI about what they had.
Jenkins, you’re a devious devil.
“Wanna give me a hint before I drive into the big city? I can be there this afternoon, like two-thirtyish?”
“No, to your first question, and two-thirtyish it is. You know where we are?”
“Sure, I’m a cop. I know everything—except who killed Cecil Lovejoy. But you’re going to help with that. I’ll see you at 2:30.”
We both hung up.
Bettye, Stanley, Vernon and Junior, my newly formed homicide task force, promised to be in the office at four o’clock. I told Bettye about my meeting with the FBI. She said if I got back late they’d be there waiting.
I could already feel the loyalty oozing all over.
* * * *
I’ve always been a proponent of the old adage “What goes around, comes around.” I like common sense…sidewalk philosophy. But how did that adage relate to my current world?
After I graduated from the police academy, I got assigned to a patrol precinct. As with all junior men, I’d been detailed as a footman. That’s not the guy who hangs on the back of some Lord or Lady’s carriage, but rather the cop who walks a beat.
My beat was on the poor end of town. Most often, I spent my tours writing traffic tickets or arresting someone for minor drug possession or something else that required little investigation. That made the bosses happy and was usually fun.
