Art lifted his pot and poured coffee all over Smitty’s lap. Smitty yelped and swore. Then he jumped up and struck Art in one catlike move.
Art toppled backwards, taking one of Myrtle’s tables with him. “No!” cried Garnet, sliding across the booth. But she couldn’t get out. Smitty blocked her path, waiting for Art to rise. Women gasped. Men hesitated, maybe wondering if breaking this up was worth getting themselves hurt over. Garnet sat frozen, pale as skim milk and eyes wide. Art climbed awkwardly to his feet. Smitty continued to swear, brushing the soaked front of his jeans.
Art clenched his fists and Smitty crouched again, ready to spring. I flew out of my booth and hurried their way. “Stop it, right this minute!” I commanded. “Both of you. Get out of here, Smitty. You know better than to brawl in a public place. Art, go back to the kitchen.”
“He burned me!” Smitty put one hand over his crotch. “You saw it, Judge. He poured boiling hot coffee all over me. I ought to sue.”
“He—” Art began. His face was scarlet with fury or embarrassment.
They were both still talking at full voice when Buddy spoke behind me. “What’s going on?” I was sure glad he’d arrived. Garnet sat in their booth, shaking, looking at the floor like she hoped a hole would appear in the tatty linoleum and swallow her up.
“These two were wrangling, but it’s over. Go on, Smitty, get out. You weren’t burned. I’ve just had coffee from that pot, and it’s like bathwater.”
I have to admit I was trembling inside, wondering what I’d do if he didn’t leave. A lot of folks, including me, were surprised when Smitty glanced out the plate-glass windows in front, where Willie and Tyrone slouched on the sidewalk, and gave me the devil’s own smile. “Sure, Judge. Anything you say.” The way he swaggered out, I half expected a patter of applause. Art slunk to the kitchen, his face still red.
Buddy joined us just then. “Glad you were here, Judge. Thanks.”
I didn’t reply. I was too busy hurrying to the corner booth. As I had feared, the notebook was gone. Smitty had created a most effective diversion.
10
I asked, but nobody had seen who took it. I tried to call Ike to tell him to pick up the trio. He didn’t answer. When I called headquarters, the dispatcher said, “I’ll give somebody the message, but almost every officer we’ve got is over at the school, and the rest are tied up with a bad wreck out where they put up the new four-way stop signs. You and I both know nobody remembers those signs are there.”
Disgusted as much with myself as with Smitty, I motioned for Myrtle and pushed my cup her way. “Bring me a fresh cup, as hot as you’ve got it.”
As she brought it, Martha and Cricket returned. Buddy and Garnet walked with them, chatting. Buddy carried his paper neatly folded, but Garnet’s unzipped book bag hung precariously on one shoulder. She was still pale.
“Did you get the picture I mailed you?” Cricket was asking Garnet.
She nodded. “I loved it. Thank you.” Her bag slipped and she automatically shoved it higher.
Buddy frowned. “Zip that thing and put in on properly, before you spill everything.”
He wasn’t the only man right then who wanted to run her life. “Put my picture on your wall,” Cricket commanded, “and I’ll send you my new one when it’s done. It’s going to terrorize you!” He climbed onto the bench, picked up his crayon, and started coloring industriously.
Seeing Garnet’s startled look, Martha explained, “That’s his new word for scare. And by the way, that thing we were talking about after class yesterday? It’s getting checked.”
Buddy had moved toward the register, but turned back. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” Garnet gave Martha a warning look, biting her lip so hard I was afraid she’d draw blood.
Martha waved one hand to show how unimportant it was. “Just something I promised Garnet I’d check on after I spoke to her class yesterday.”
“Okay. Come on, Garnet, let’s go. I want to drive by the high school. We seem to be the only two people in town who haven’t seen it today.” He turned to me for confirmation. “Sounds like they said some pretty nasty things about DeWayne Evans.”
Considering how much Garnet admired DeWayne, Buddy could have been more tactful. Cricket had perked up his ears, too, so I quickly said the first thing that came to my mind. “Speaking of DeWayne, Buddy, have you talked to him? He came by my office yesterday and said there’s something he needs to discuss with you.”
Before he could answer, Garnet’s book bag finally fell. Books, notebooks, pens, and loose papers flew all over the floor. “Oh!” She knelt, her face pink with embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”
When Art came rushing to her assistance, the pink deepened. She seemed real glad when Cricket slid off his bench to help, too, although his glare at Art was ferocious.
Except for a frown when it happened, Buddy acted as of nothing was going on at his feet. “Yeah, DeWayne came by the office early this morning.” He leaned closer to me and said so no other table could hear, “Did he tell you who he really is? Little Gerrick Lawton. We used to play together as kids.” He shook his head ruefully. “He used to be littler than me. I could pick him up. Now he could give me three inches and a good fifty pounds. I sure hate for his sister to bring all that up again about his daddy, though—especially after what happened this morning. Well, gotta run.” He headed for the register again, calling impatiently, “Hurry up, Garnet. I need to get back to the office.”
By then Art and Cricket had collected her books and papers. When Art walked her toward the front door, Cricket climbed back onto our bench, picked up his yellow crayon and drew a circle, pressing so hard he snapped the crayon. “This bee is going to sting those two mean old dogs.”
Art stayed with Garnet only a second, before Myrtle’s frown sent him back to work. Garnet gave Buddy a quick sideways look, then hurried back to us. “Could Cricket come home with me for the day? I don’t have anything to do, and I’d love to have him.” She wasn’t dumb, that girl. With Cricket along, Buddy wouldn’t be as likely to fuss.
Cricket, of course, was enchanted. He swaggered out like a prince consort. While they waited on the sidewalk for Buddy to finish paying, I signaled Art for another cup of coffee.
“How many cups is that, Mac?” asked Martha the Nurse with a frown.
“I sent the tepid one back, and I’m gonna need all the stimulants I can get when Ike and Chief Muggins hear what I’ve done.” Since Cricket was gone and I could talk freely, I told her about the notebook. “I had it in spitting distance and let it get away.”
She reached out and touched my hand. “There are some things we cannot fix no matter how much we want to. You know that. So stop worrying. There’s bound to be another way to find out who painted the school.”
“Tell that to Ike. He’s coming in the door.”
He hurried over to our booth, apologizing before he reached us. “Sorry to be late. We had a crash on the highway, and most of our folks are tied up over at the high school, so I had to go. Where’s the notebook?”
I felt sick as I described how cleverly Smitty had engineered its retrieval. Ike listened glumly. “I’ll get a warrant to search their houses. Maybe we’ll find it, but I doubt it.” He sighed. “That Smitty’s got more smarts than a bee sting.”
“Smitty is slime,” I corrected him.
“Sure he’s slime, but he’s smart slime. He’s cut from the same cloth as generals or corporate CEOs. If somebody had taken charge of him early—say in the hospital nursery—”
Martha shook her head. “Sometimes I doubt that the womb would have been early enough for Smitty.”
“Did you get Tyrone’s jacket?” I asked.
He shook his head. “He claims he lost it. I’ve got deputies alerted to check out Dumpsters, but the force is spread pretty thin right now. Don’t take this personally, Judge. We can’t win them all.”
“At the moment,” I pointed out, “we aren’t winning any.”
11
I felt pretty useless as I left Myrtle’s. “Is there anything I can do to help here?” I asked, but the Almighty was slow with inspiration, so I strolled toward the office. I was barely paying attention to items in shop windows until a ceramic cat in the Second Chance Thrift Store caught my eye. He was black and white, with a pink bow around his neck and a look on his face that said, “You needn’t look for the cream. I already found it.” Bethany collects ceramic cats, and I knew she’d love that one.
I went into the store and greeted Wilma Roberts, who is almost as tall as she is wide and has kept that store going for twenty years in spite of garage sales and competition from a shop run by the Church of Full and Complete Righteousness across town. She wanted three dollars for the cat, which was probably more than it had cost new. She accepted two, which was all I had left in my wallet. While I paid, I asked, “How’s business?”
“ ’Bout like usual.” She shoved bushy brown hair off her forehead. “Some folks give me stuff I can sell and some use me to get rid of junk. Just before you came in, I was unpacking the clothes barrel I keep out back, and somebody put a jacket in there that’s so filthy I don’t know if I can ever get it clean enough to put on my rack. Looks like it’s been worn to paint in.”
I’ve lived long enough to know answers to prayers come in many forms, but it took all the self-control I possessed not to dance a jig or burst into the “Hallelujah Chorus.” “Could I see it? I’ve been needing a painting jacket.”
She broke out with the gasps and wheezes that meant she was laughing. “This one would swallow you whole. It’d be big even on Joe Riddley.”
“Could I just see it?” I restrained myself from pushing past her into the back room.
Wilma shrugged. “Sure, but you ain’t gonna want it.” She waddled through the door and came back almost at once, carrying a khaki jacket. She was right about how filthy it was. She was also right about the paint. It was blue.
“I know somebody who would just love that,” I told her honestly. “I’ll take it.”
“Oh, Judge, I can’t sell it to you until I get it cleaned up a little, and I honestly don’t know if I can get the paint out. Can you come back Monday?”
“I want it just like it is. I can get it cleaned.” I whipped the jacket out of her protesting hands. “I’ll give you a check. I don’t have any more cash.” I also wanted to leave a paper trail.
She grabbed it back and clutched it to her more-than-ample chest. “I ain’t priced it yet.”
“I’ll give you five dollars for it.”
Wilma studied that jacket like it had suddenly turned to gold. “I don’t know. That’s gonna be a mighty fine coat once it’s cleaned.”
“You said it’s junk. I’ll give you seven.” I whipped out my checkbook.
“You couldn’t make it ten, could you?”
“Nope, I’ve already written the check.” If Wilma didn’t come down on her prices, shopping at a superstore might be cheaper.
She folded the jacket like it was made of cashmere and put it in a plastic bag recycled from one of our two grocery stores in town. The logo read SHOP SMART.
“I did,” I assured the Boss Upstairs as I headed toward the police station.
Isaac appreciated the joke and assured me the jacket was enough to pick up Tyrone for questioning. I just wished we could find some evidence on which to pick up Smitty. Was there anybody who might know if he could draw?
My question was answered that afternoon when Ridd flopped down in my wing chair in a manner guaranteed to eventually shatter its legs. “Some days, it’s a good thing I don’t believe in firearms, or I’d shoot somebody’s head off,” he growled, sounding just like his daddy.
“Got a particular head in mind, or will anybody’s do?”
“It’s not a joking matter, Mama.”
“I know it’s not. Did you see DeWayne?”
“Yeah, but he’d already seen the school before I found him. He was shaking so bad he could hardly stand up, and he’s threatening to pack his bags and move. I told him he needs to stand and fight, but he says he’s already gone through people staring at him and whispering behind his back, and he isn’t up to doing it again.”
Ridd sounded so dejected, I offered him a sliver of hope. “Ike’s closing in on the perpetrators. We’re pretty sure it was Smitty’s gang.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “It sure wasn’t Smitty who drew the picture. I had him for geometry, and he can’t draw a straight line. Tyrone might have, now. The graphics-art teacher says he’s got a lot of talent. He did caricatures for last year’s yearbook, and they were incredible.”
I described the notebook, and immediately Ridd said, “That’s Tyrone’s. He carries it everywhere, in his jacket pocket.”
I can’t tell you how bad that made me feel. I liked Tyrone, but he’d gotten himself into some pretty hot water. “How long’s he been running around with Smitty?”
“Not long—since spring, I think. Tyrone’s not bad. He’s just easily led.”
I reached for the phone. “Drawing those pictures on the school was bad, son. He didn’t have to follow Smitty’s lead. Do you still have last year’s yearbook?” He nodded as Ike answered the phone.
Before I could say a word, Ike crowed, “We got the notebook, Judge! Found it in a Dumpster over by the school. The cover’s been wiped, but the inside pages have Tyrone’s prints all over them. Found somebody who sold Willie Keller the spray paint, too.”
“There’s got to be evidence somewhere pointing to Smitty. You and I both know Tyrone and Willie didn’t think up all that mess.”
“Smitty may have thought it up, but he wasn’t there—at least according to Willie. Willie swears Smitty was over at his house playing video games from six last night until four this morning, then crashed on his living-room sofa—which alibis Willie, too, of course.”
“Wet Willie would swear a black horse was white if somebody put him up to it.”
“Maybe, but we can’t disprove it this time. Willie’s mother corroborates that Smitty was asleep on her couch when she got home at eight after working the night shift at the nursing home. She’s an aide.” Ike sighed. “At least we got Tyrone. He’s at the youth detention center until his hearing tomorrow.”
“You and I both know Smitty had to put him up to it. Have you asked him about that?”
Isaac would never have snapped at me if he hadn’t been under pressure. “Of course I asked him, but he’s not talking, and you know as well as I do that we can’t bring Smitty in without evidence or a witness.”
“I have another question. How could our patrol cars miss seeing somebody painting that building? It must have taken well over an hour.” Isaac didn’t answer. “We do still have night patrols, don’t we?”
Ike was quiet so long, I thought he’d hung up. Finally he admitted, “Not right now. The chief feels they are an unnecessary expense. Says we don’t get much crime at night.”
“Then how come I get called out of bed to go down to the jail several nights a week? And what does he call last night’s episode—a party?” We both knew I was just letting off steam. Ike would never say anything derogatory about a senior officer.
“How’s Chief Muggins using all that money he’s saving?” I knew the answer as soon as I asked the question. Good thing, because Ike wouldn’t have answered that, either. He didn’t have to. It was as clear as my newly washed window that Chief Muggins was able to drive a fancy new cruiser because he was leaving our town unprotected at night.
Later that afternoon I held a probable cause hearing for a woman who had set a county record in passing bad checks. Afterwards, I ran into Judge Roland, a juvenile-court judge and an elder in our church. When we’d exchanged those little pleasantries that grease the wheels of civilized society, he asked, “You know Tyrone Noland, don’t you?”
“A little. He used to sweep up for us to earn spending money.”
Judge Roland shook his head in dismay. “I sure
was sorry to get a call about him this afternoon. I had him in a Webelo Scout troop years ago, soon after his daddy left. When I heard his name, all I could think of was ‘Why haven’t I kept up with that boy all these years?’ ”
“Does it ever feel to you like we’re letting kids slip through our fingers around here without noticing? We all get so busy. Years pass—”
“—and a child doesn’t have many years before he’s an adult. What bothers me most is, I look back and wonder what I’ve been so busy doing that was more important. Tell me, Mac, given that most of the evidence is circumstantial but real good, would you have released him to his mother, or kept him until his detention hearing tomorrow?”
I thought it over. “Sending him home would really mean sending him right back to the boys who got him into all this trouble. I think I’d have put the fear of God into him, sent him to the youth-detention center, and then gone home to pray.”
He clapped me on the shoulder. “I did the first two, but hadn’t thought to do the third. Let’s both pray for Tyrone. He needs it.”
The problem is, once I’ve prayed for somebody, I begin to feel responsible for him. So when I had to go to the jail late that afternoon to set bond in a marijuana possession case, I found myself swinging by the YDC—better known as juvey—on my way back to the store. Tyrone was sitting by himself in one corner of a common room that had seen a lot of living.
His hair hung down beside his face like a black shade. He didn’t look up when I moseyed over and said, “Hello, Tyrone. They treating you all right?”
“I’m okay.” He picked at a scab on one finger.
I looked around. A bored guard was sitting near the door. Two kids were sprawled on a sagging couch watching TV. I figured it was turned that high to accommodate their damaged hearing. Another three were playing cards at a table so beat up it could be sold as distressed furniture. “You got everything you need?”
He shrugged. “I need to get out of here.”
Who Let That Killer in the House? Page 9
