The tall one grinned. “Whatever you say, Stump.” He sniffed loudly and shook his head. “Ought to know better,” he said to Casey. “Ain’t right, butting in.”
A brief unanswered prayer to be somewhere else, and Casey nudged the door all the way open with his foot as he stepped onto the threshold, letting them see him all for the first time. Cord Teague stopped before he’d taken two steps, his fisted hands unsure what to do next.
“Aw, Christ,” Stump said. “Shit, I know you, you’re that retard at the houses,”
Casey didn’t move; he just stood there.
He wasn’t about to start anything himself, but he’d been in enough fights in his life to know the signs—the bluster, the doubt, the wonder just how tough this big man was. Sometimes there was good advantage to looking the way he did.
“Well, goddamnit, Cord, I got to do everything myself?” Stump reached to a nearby desk and picked up a length of pipe. He brandished it at Casey, one last warning. “Stupid retard.”
Deliberately, slowly, Casey let his face go blank. Nothing there but the eyes. Slightly narrowed. Watching.
“Stump,” Cord whispered, backing slowly toward the alley door, unable to take his gaze from Casey’s face.
Casey straightened, just enough, and filled the doorway side to side. Still no fists, no warning glare. He just stood there. Watching.
Cord grabbed the doorknob. “Stump.” His hand slipped off, and he tried again. “Stump, let’s ... come on, Stump, leave it be.”
“I told you once, I told you a hundred times, you stupid son of a bitch, we can’t let—”
“Just leave,” Casey said, his voice quiet. Rumbling. The mutter of thunder on the far side of the horizon.
Stump blinked at him, frozen for a moment before he raised the pipe as if ready to club him, but he couldn’t stop his hand from trembling just enough to betray his nerves.
“Leave,” Casey repeated. “You’ve made your point Get out.”
Cord yanked the back door open and stepped into the alley. “Come on, Stump. Jesus ... come on.”
Stump was clearly torn between giving ground and losing face in front of his brother. A warning glare at Hull, and he kicked viciously at the papers by his feet, whirled, and made to take one last bash at the printer Cord was supposed to have tipped over.
Casey was faster.
He grabbed Teague’s wrist and hauled up, nearly pulling the shorter man off his feet. Off-balance, Teague cocked his free arm to throw a punch, teach this meddler a lesson, and stopped when he saw Casey’s expression. Didn’t resist when Casey wrenched the pipe from his grip. Said nothing when Casey dragged him to the door, dangling like a small child about to be punished, and shoved him gently outside.
Closed the door and locked it.
Hull sagged shakily into a wheeled leather chair, hand still on his chest, the other ineffectually swiping at his hair. His face was pale, eyes bright with either shock or tears. His left couldn’t seem to stop jumping.
“You all right?” Casey asked again, gently, setting the pipe down on a desk behind him.
Hull nodded mutely, hesitantly.
“Okay.” He started for the door, paused and said, “I’m taking a paper, okay? There’s money on the counter.”
The editor didn’t respond save for a weak gesture of thanks, and Casey left, picked up his newspaper, and went outside. Across the street he saw Deputy Freck leaving the sheriff’s office. He called out and waved, checking for traffic as he trotted to the other side.
Freck, hands on his hips, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, waited impatiently.
“Might want to check over there, on Mr. Hull,” Casey told him, pointing with the paper. “He had some trouble with Stump Teague and one of his brothers.”
“Is that so?”
“Nearly wrecked his office.”
“No kidding.”
Casey didn’t know what to say next. He glanced over at the Weekly office, muttered, “Just thought you ought to know,” and started for the park, half expecting to be stopped. When he reached the bike stand, he fiddled unnecessarily with the combination lock, using the time to see what the deputy would do.
Instead of checking on Hull, the deputy watched him, hands still on hips, and what might have been a smirk on his lips.
A gust of anger, a temptation for confrontation, before he dropped the newspaper into the deep wire basket behind the seat and wheeled the bike to the curb. Once there he paused for a trio of cars to pass, then pushed off, waiting until he was steady before looking back again.
Freck hadn’t moved.
The anger returned, and he pedaled hard, leaning over the handlebars, letting the wind nearly blind him. It wasn’t Freck that bothered him, it was the shame he felt for not staying to make sure the old man was all right.
Not your business, he told himself harshly.
No, he answered, but it damn well used to be.
* * * *
2
1
D
eep autumn; Tuesday; late afternoon.
Norville Cutler considered himself a decent judge of a man, a fairly canny businessman, and someone who could measure the size of a customer’s wallet and its willingness to be emptied even before that customer took off his sunglasses so his vision could adjust to the deliberately dim lighting of either of the causeway shops. It was for the latter reason that most of the time he could be found in the Cutler’s Last Stop on the westbound side. He didn’t give a flying fart who left the damn island; he only cared about those on the way to it. They were the ones with the most money to spend. He also kept at least two people on duty at all times—a woman pretty enough to convince any man in Bermuda shorts that a genuine Caribbean shark’s tooth was just the thing to add to a key chain, and a man with just enough flare and exotic danger about him to convince most women in large hats and rhinestone sunglasses that a genuine Puerto Rican coral necklace was the perfect thing to accentuate that marvelous tanned cleavage.
All of which had made him a comfortable living. But what had made his fortune before he’d reached fifty came after he had taught himself the finer points of real estate management—buying and selling, appraisal, and making sure that what he wanted was on the market when he was ready to buy it, and not a moment before.
Obstacles were only hurdles, not impenetrable walls.
“I don’t believe it,” he said. “One stinking old man, and you can’t even handle that.”
A man of average height, an easy living paunch, and a three-piece tailored suit with French cuffs and gleaming Italian shoes, he didn’t for a minute believe in the Good ol’ Southern Boy image. His idol was the shark that used to belong to the large bleached jaw mounted on the wall behind him. He also didn’t believe in getting too close to his off-the-books employees, which was why he stood behind the display case, hands spread on the glass top.
“I don’t understand.”
Outside, a rising sea slammed against the causeway walls and barriers. A slow wind hummed around the building’s corners. The sun just past its zenith; the long front window reflecting the interior in cold pale grey despite the brightness outside.
Stump and Cord Teague stood in the wide aisle, hangdog, and not a little afraid.
“He busted in,” Stump told him flatly. “We was in the middle of the message when this guy busts in.”
“Chisholm,” Cutler said.
Cord, half a step behind his brother, nodded, his hands trying to find a place to hide.
Cutler stared at the rings and necklaces, bracelets and pins in the case under his hands. A part of him thought that no one knew Mandy Poplin made most of them; another part wondered why the Teagues had to become such a problem, especially since he was so close to the end. Three brothers, none as stupid or thick as they made out in public, parents long since gone, no wives or steady girlfriends, living in raised shacks on the edge of the marsh. They were his pet project, and he was, now, beginning to regret it.
�
��You tell him anything? Chisholm, I mean.”
“No,” Stump answered, insulted. He swiped angrily at his beard. “We was just startled, that’s all.”
“Big,” Cord whispered. “Sumbitch is big.”
Cutler knew exactly what he meant. It was one of the reasons he’d hired the man—someone that big lurking around, the tenants were less apt to cause him grief.
“Hull knows anyhow,” Stump said with a sharp nod. “He didn’t get hurt, like you said, but some of that computer stuff ain’t working so good no more.” When he grinned, his long teeth seemed startlingly white amid the black mustache and beard. “We didn’t finish, but I know he gets it.”
Cord wandered off, peering in the cases, grunting to himself, staring at the walls where stuffed marlin and shark, sea bass and barracuda were mounted on polished pine shields. “Tall,” he said, his voice quiet, barely heard. “Was tall, that retard.”
Cutler ignored him. “Look,” he said to Stump, “if he understands, that’s fine. Real fine.” He raised a finger. “But I don’t want one more issue of that rag on this island, you hear me? If that damn daughter of his, or any of her friends, try stopping you stopping the next truck ...” He sniffed, looked at the ceiling. Shook his head slowly. “He’s been sniffing around Atlanta, Savannah, Mr. Teague. For an old man he sure gets around, sure knows a lot of people he shouldn’t. It just isn’t healthy.” Abruptly he gripped the sides of the case and leaned forward, forcing Stump back a step. “You know the old saying, that Sixties thing? War is not healthy for children and other living things? Something like that?” His eyes narrowed. “This is war, Mr. Teague. We’ ve won some, we’ve lost some. But if you know what’s good for you, we won’t lose any more.”
He straightened.
He smiled.
A gust of wind slapped at the building, the ceiling lights flickering, just for a moment.
He took an envelope from his jacket pocket and laid it on the glass. “You’re getting rich, Mr. Teague, you and your kin. Make sure you live long enough to spend it.”
* * * *
2
It didn’t take long for Whittaker Hull to clean up. Once the papers had been piled on his desk, a broom took care of the glass, and a spare monitor kept in a closet replaced the one Teague had smashed.
He couldn’t stop shaking.
He stared at the pipe lying on Ronnie’s desk and knew it had been meant for his leg, or his arm, but only after it had been used on the rest of the office’s equipment. He reached out, and pulled his hand back. He couldn’t touch it.
He couldn’t stop shaking.
He sat, he stood, he opened the alley door carefully to be sure the Teagues had gone; he went into the front room and saw the dollar bill Chisholm had left on the counter.
The sheriff, he thought; I’ll report this to Vale and let him handle it.
“Oh ... Christ,” he whispered, half in disgust, half in defeat. He leaned heavily against the counter, one hand absently fussing with his tie. Sure, let good old Vale handle it. Each time the delivery truck had run into trouble, he had reported it, and each time, Oakman had assured him he would get right on it. Handle it personally.
Nothing had happened.
Hull didn’t think Vale was in Cutler’s pocket, but it didn’t matter. The sheriffs growing lack of courage had, over the past couple of years, become legendary. No, infamous. Make peace at all costs had become the man’s motto, and to hell with the next election, he was on his way out anyway, why rock the boat, stir the pot, make waves.
He sighed loudly and lowered his head.
He couldn’t stop shaking.
He couldn’t banish the image of Chisholm standing in the doorway, appearing out of nowhere. For a second Hull was positive he had seen anger there, close to rage, and had actually, momentarily feared for the Teagues’ lives. Chisholm could have crushed them without half thinking, but he hadn’t.
That voice had done it for him.
He closed his eyes, in shame for his own weakness, for not putting up a fight no matter the consequence, and in remembering that voice.
“Dear Lord,” he whispered.
He couldn’t stop shaking.
* * * *
3
Being a minister in a community of such flux and flow in population was a challenge Lyman Baylor had accepted with enthusiasm. He hadn’t cared that many of his colleagues, and most of his family, considered this tantamount to exile; he hadn’t cared when his father had questioned his sanity, since the alternative had been a thriving congregation in New Orleans.
“But that,” Lyman had argued, “is already established. All I’d have to do is go there and fit in to something that’s already running. I wouldn’t be much more than a mechanic, making sure everything gets oiled.
“But this ... this is going to be work. Hard work. And I don’t mean the accounts and the politics and all the rest of that business. This is souls, Dad. I’m talking about souls.”
Five years later, close enough to thirty to count the hairs on the back of its head, he was still excited. Still smiling each morning, still writing each sermon as if it were his first, still delighted each time he picked the hymns for the church’s electronic carillon. He knew that half his congregation, mostly the staid and the elderly, hadn’t yet stopped thinking of him as a mere child, just a caretaker preacher until a real one came along, but he didn’t care. He had never missed a service, never missed a call on the sick and the shut-ins, never missed an opportunity to be seen in every quarter of the island.
“They’ll think you’re a pain in the butt, Ly,” Kitra had cautioned in the beginning. “They’ll call you a Bible-thumper.”
“You mean a religious man.”
“No, you know full well what I mean. An extremist. That’s not the same. And they’ll avoid you, Ly. They’ll think you’re a nut and they’ll make our lives miserable.”
Not anymore.
On official duty, as he called it, he wore his light grey suit and maroon shirt, white cleric’s collar; off-duty, he dressed in his civvies and spent time on the docks talking with the fishermen about tides and fish and baits and seasons; spent an evening or so a week in one of the town bars, the more respectable ones at first, talking and listening and playing a little pool or a few games of darts; took Kitra to the restaurants and got to know the owners, the waitresses, the waiters, the busboys; visited the few remaining steady members of the parish and got to know their lives.
Never pushing;
Never apologizing when asked his profession. But always... always making sure the people he spoke with knew when services began on Sunday morning.
“You know,” Ben Pellier had once said, “no offense, but you sure don’t act like a preacher.”
Lyman had paid his bill and said, “Well, actually, Ben, yes, I do.”
And he was official today as he backed out of the rectory driveway, first on his way to Whittaker’s office to drop off the church’s ad, then over to Mayor Cribbs’ office to demand a reason why Geraldine Essman’s murderers had not yet been apprehended. It had not, of course, been reported as murder, but Lyman knew in his heart it wasn’t anything else but.
Mrs. Essman had lived in a small bungalow on Draper Street, a block in from Midway Road. The place had been burgled the night before Halloween, the last straw in a long stretch of incidents the old lady had suffered since the beginning of the year. Word was, she had been mildly beaten and locked in a closet. Word was, the moment Deputy Salter had opened the closet door she demanded the name of the best real estate agent on the island.
Two weeks later, after prowlers had broken a kitchen window, a massive heart attack put her in a grave behind Reverend Baylor’s church.
Lyman had known her well.
Left untouched and undisturbed, she would have lived to be a hundred.
He smiled at the image of her, sitting as always in the front pew, watching him carefully, daring him to err either in Scripture quotation or interpretation. A
tough old bird who deserved much better. As a matter of fact—
And he cried out when something slammed into the side of the car.
He jammed the brakes on, switched off the ignition, and looked worriedly to his right, in time to see a bicycle wobble backward and fall against the curb. Oh, Lord, he thought, licked his lips, touched his heart briefly, and moved as fast as he could around the rear bumper.
Oh, Lord, he thought again when he saw the big man sitting in the street.
“Mr. Chisholm,” he said, kneeling beside him. “My goodness, Mr. Chisholm, are you all right? I didn’t see ...I was ... I’m so sorry, I should have been more careful. Are you all right, sir? Are you injured?”
Riders in the Sky - [Millennium Quartet 04] Page 10
