Courtin' Murder in West Wheeling

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  Then Leroy turned on his microphone an’ greeted the crowd. He had a local reputation almost as good as the original Leroy Vandyke, so it was a good guess most of the audience was there to be entertained, not to buy nothin’. Leroy described the first horse, a chestnut mare, but before he could name a starting bid, Mr. Smith pushed through the crowd an’ said, “I’ll give you one hundred dollars for the whole sorry lot.”

  Leroy put a sad expression on his face an’ shook his head, then he looked hard at Rye. “Mr. Willis, this gentleman’s cut off.”

  Smith turned redder than the horse’s coat as the crowd roared.

  “I’m gonna start the biddin’ at twenty-five dollars, Leroy said. “25? 25? 25?” A local farmer raised his hand an’ Leroy said, “I’m bid 25. Now 30? Wanna bid 30? 30? I got 30! 35? 35? 35? Now I’m bid 35. 35. Do I hear 40? 40? 40! Now 45? 45? 45?

  “Don’t stop now! 45? Last call 40 dollars. New bidder! 45! Can I get 50? 50? 50? Sold for 45 dollars!” He pointed at the winning bidder. An’ Bello hurried over to get the man’s name as Leroy started describin’ the next horse.

  After that the bidding got fast and furious. Leroy played bidders off against each other with stuff like “You gonna let her walk off with that fine mare for only forty dollars?” an’ “Twenty-five dollars! I seen dead horses go fer more than that.”

  Once Rye’s second an’ third round of free samples started kickin’ in, neighbors who’d been rivals at anything—goin’ back to high school football—started biddin’ against each other like they was mortal enemies. One little black gelding went for five hundred dollars. Which made me wanna thumb my nose at Mr. Smith. Didn’t have to stoop that low, though. Smith headed back towards the parking lot looking fit to kill anyone who so much as said hello.

  The jackass come up fer bid last, an’ it seemed like the only folks left hangin’ around were just curious ’bout who’d be fool enough to buy a jackass. Leroy tried to start the biddin’ at twenty-five but got no takers. “Come on, folks somebody’s gotta want this cute little feller. What’m I bid?”

  A little kid held up his hands and said, “I got fifty cents.” His dad pulled his hand down, shakin’ his head at Leroy.

  A high school kid offered to pay two dollars, so Leroy started his chant with “I’m bid two dollars. Wanna bid 3? 3? Three dollars! Wanna bid 4? 4? 4?” Leroy looked at the kid who’d started the biddin’. He just shook his head. Somebody finally said, four, an’ Leroy started up again with, “Now I’m bid 4? Can I get 5? 5? 5? Last call four dollars.”

  Somebody in the back raised his hand. Leroy said, “New bidder! Five dollars! I’m bid 5. Wanna bid 6? 6? 6?” Leroy looked around, but it was plain the novelty was wearin’ thin, an’ nobody was goin’ over five.

  “Sold! To the gentleman in the White Sox cap.”

  Everybody stared. The man just took out his wallet an’ handed Bello a five dollar bill.

  I couldn’t help myself. I hadda go over an’ ask. “Just outta curiosity, Mister, what’re you plannin’ to do with a jackass?”

  “I’m going to give him to my sister.”

  I figured that could start a family feud, but it wasn’t my problem. I was just happy to be shut of the critter. Last I seen of it, the man in the Sox cap was tryin’ to get the jackass to follow him away from the auction ring.

  Leroy, meantime, was advertizin’ his next auction—a farm sale just over the state line, all prime equipment in mint condition. Successful bidders lined up to pay fer their bargains an’ make arrangements to pick ’em up or have ’em delivered. I hung around to watch ’cause some of ’em was startin’ to sober up an’ wonder could they back outta the deal. I said, “All sales is final,” so many times I was starting to feel like a recorded messenger. Most of the complaints went somethin’ like, “What am I going to do with a wild mustang?”

  “Whatever you’d do with a tame one.”

  “I don’t know anything about taming horses.”

  “Well, you’re in luck. We happen to have Bello Willis, the world’s best horse whisperer, right here in Boone County. He won’t just train your horse, he’ll train you how to train it. Time you’re done, your horse could be worth three times what you paid.”

  “I suppose he charges an arm and a leg.”

  “You’ll have to take that up with him.”

  “How am I supposed to get the damn thing home?”

  I felt like tellin’ him failure to plan ahead on his part didn’t constitute a emergency on mine, but what I said was, “You kin arrange transportation with Mars Boone.”

  The next guy I give my suggestions to said, “I’m not going to fool around training a horse!”

  “That feller who offered to buy the whole lot for a hundred dollars might go as high as five bucks for it.”

  “I paid seventy dollars for that animal!”

  “Well then, you might could donate it to the Hiram Walker Farm an’ get a tax write-off.”

  Sadie Hawkins race

  The Sadie Hawkins Race was set up to start in the middle of the fair grounds race track. Two lines, bachelors in one, single ladies in the other. Martha Rooney was stationed on the sidelines, half way between with a bullhorn an’ a starter pistol, an’ instructions to fire as soon as everybody was in position. Married townsfolk an’ underage kids lined up on the sidelines with Ben Rooney, Mars Boone, D.W. Truck an’ his missus, an’ the Lopez family—all formin’ human fences to channel the action away from parkin’ lots and animal pens.

  Under pressure from Nina, I took my place in line between Rye an’ Bello Willis. An’ I noticed Don Firenzi, Richard Truck, the Jefferson brothers—Tom an’ Jeff—an’ half a dozen Jacksons fillin’ out the roster. Behind us was most of the women Rye an’ Nina and I’d mentioned in our discussions of likely prospects. Nina was standin’ elbow to elbow with Cheryl, who looked like she’d got pointers from someone—she had a rope looped over her shoulder. Wilma Netherton, sportin’ a butterfly net, was lined up next to Alice Bowne, who was wearin’ new-lookin’ runnin’ shoes.

  I shook my head an’ looked at Rye. “Ready?”

  “No. I ain’t.” He looked back at the ladies’ line-up an’ turned white as skim milk. Made me want to see who could scare him—he’d never turned a hair facin’ down the ATF or the entire Jackson clan.

  Billie Bonds had squeezed in between Alice Bowne an’ Patrick Truck’s sweetheart an’ was starin’ at Rye like a rattler after a mouse.

  “Ready?” Martha yelled into her bullhorn. “Set…” The bang of her starter pistol drowned out the word “GO!”

  I started walkin’ towards Nina, who looked pretty disgusted that I wasn’t givin’ her any kinda challenge. I hadda dodge Wilma’s net, ’fore Nina give up waitin’ an’ grabbed me by the shirt-front. She staked her claim with a kiss that musta set tongues waggin’.

  Most of the other men fanned out an’ took off or turned to look for the ladies they wanted to be caught by. Cheryl musta been practicin’, ’cause she dropped a loop over Bello on the first try.

  Tom an’ Jeff Jefferson took off like them Kenyan fellers always win the New York marathon. They was outta sight ’fore you could say scat.

  Rye took one look at Billie Bonds and run over to Madam Romany. “I surrender!” She looked like you coulda knocked her over with a feather. Rye glanced at Billie Bonds, then at Ms. Romany. He took her hand and brought it to his chest, closed her fingers around a handful of his shirt front an’ said, “Take me. I’m yours. Please! You kin throw me back later if you change your mind.”

  Madame Romany glanced at the other prospects. Cheryl had Bello, who was too young for the fortune-teller anyway. Patrick Truck’s long-time sweetheart was clingin’ firmly to his arm, an’ Mary Lincoln was holdin’ hands with Don Firenzi. The only other unclaimed single men in sight were two of the Jackson brothers, who looked like biker gangsters, an’ Willy Donner.

  Madam Romany nodded. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, but okay.” She let go of Rye’s shir
t and slipped her arm through his.

  Rye looked at Billie Bonds again—like a guy who’s just made it over the fence ’fore the pit bull nailed him. Billie just looked thoughtful.

  I stake-out a truck

  Nina didn’t have a chance to do nothin’ with her Sadie Hawkins prize ’cause it was my turn on the night shift. I give her a good night kiss an’ a rain check, an’ sent Skip home with my sister Penelope an’ her kids.

  Time the fairgrounds cleared out, an’ all the out-of-towners had made their ways back to the interstate, West Wheelin’ was quiet as the grave. Cruisin’ the empty streets gimme a chance to think on all that’d went down since Handy Taylor found the skeleton in Silas Hanson’s ditch, from the truck hijackin’s to Harlan’s murder. I figured most of them had to be connected—it was too much coincidence that our local Injun expert ended up like the long dead Injun, an’ that the barbecued truck driver had been haulin’ a suspicious load of horses in a stolen truck in the same general vicinity that the liquor truck hijackers was stealin’ trucks as well as liquor. I was pretty sure the hijacked liquor was stashed at the Lower Fork Distillery. Unless—like Rye suggested—they was makin’ liquor with a replicator. An’ the booze was probably bein’ sold at Cheap-Ass Likkers outlets.

  Problem was how to prove it. Not even a sympathetic judge was gonna issue a warrant to search the premises or either concern’s records without some probable cause. Coincidence didn’t qualify. Unless we could catch the hijackers in the act an’ follow ’em to where they took the loot, we was S.O.L. The state cops had been tryin’ to do that since Underhill an’ I cooked up the idea. So far, with no luck. It was likely too easy to spot the tails. I wondered could we get LoJacks fer all the liquor delivery trucks operatin’ in our part of the state.

  Next mornin’, soon as Festus took over patrol, I swung by the state cop shop to ask.

  “You got a great imagination, Vergil,” Underhill told me after I’d laid it all out. “While you were at it, did you imagine how we’re supposed to pay for a bunch of LoJacks?”

  “The insurance companies—”

  He shook his head. “Most of the shipments weren’t insured for enough to make them care. But I think we’re making headway. We’re about three days past due for a hit.”

  “None of the fellers we nailed so far is talkin’?”

  “The only one we got a snowball’s chance in Hell of turning is that last one you nailed—Wooten. If we offered to overlook his driving without a license, assaultin’ a peace officer, and putting in twenty-hour days behind the wheel.”

  “Well?”

  “I’ll talk to my boss—see what we can do.”

  “Is Wooten still in lock-up?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Let me have a word with him.”

  • • •

  Goodson Wooten—Sonny—was a changed man. Not only had he been off his feed in lockup, he’d shed any remainin’ attitude. I guess the lawyer he’d demanded to see had painted a grim pi’ture of his prospects, ’cause Sonny said he'd be happy to talk to us—even signed a waiver. An’ when I asked was he ready to cut a deal, he was eager as Priceless after a rat. He was also ready to talk about the liquor he’d been haulin’.

  Someone—he was fuzzy on just who—had offered to pay him to deliver it to Cheap-Ass Likkers. He was s’posed to be paid cash when the goods was off-loaded. Nothin’ particularly s’picious about that. Lots a companies paid independent truckers to deliver their goods, an’ sometimes they paid cash to get a better price. Truckers went along with that ’cause they wasn’t plannin’ on declarin’ all the money or payin’ taxes on it. That was the deal Sonny’d made with Cheap-Ass.

  From what I’d been able to find out, apart from his problems with his CDL, Sonny was a straight-up feller. He owned his rig an’ had kept up the insurance premiums—far as the insurance company knew he was licensed to drive the whole time his license was suspended. An’ if we’d just drop the charges, he’d still be licensed an’ insured.

  I told Sonny to hang tight an’ went out to dicker with the state. They was of the opinion that a turkey in a pen is worth a flock on the run.

  “Nina didn’t have probable cause or permission to search his load,” I told Underhill. “I was fixin’ to send him on his way.”

  Underhill wasn’t convinced.

  “I’m willin’ to drop the assault charge,” I said, “an’ look the other way on the rest if he cooperates.”

  “Cooperates how?”

  “Just goes back to work haulin’ likker ’til someone hijacks his truck.”

  “How’s that gonna help us? You gonna buy him a LoJack?”

  “I’m gonna stake his truck out.”

  “Like that’s worked for us.”

  “From the inside.”

  Underhill started to nod, then stopped himself. “What’s to keep him from tippin’ the hijackers off?”

  “He ain’t a bad man. He’s a local with a wife an’ a mortgage. An’ I doubt he wants to spend more time in jail.”

  • • •

  After we cut Sonny loose, I went back to the office an’ reorganized my schedule, an’ called my sister to make arrangements for Skip. Then I broke the news to Nina that I’d be workin’ nights for the next little while. At the post office. Where she couldn’t make too much of a scene. After which I threw a Mini Maglite, my little mirror for checkin’ under things, an’ a thermos of coffee into a backpack, an’ charged up my cell phone. I had Sonny pick me up at Hardsetter’s. “You got a cell?” I asked him ’fore I climbed in the trailer.

  “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

  “I’m gonna give you my number, an’ if you see anything suspicious, I want a heads-up.”

  He nodded an’ closed me into the back, then set out to make his first pick-up.

  Inside, the trailer was pretty new an’ fairly clean, but also pretty tight. No holes from damage or fer ventilation. Fortunate for me, the roof was some kinda plastic that light could shine through—though that didn’t help once the sun went down, an’ the doors at the back wasn’t air-tight.

  The job was mostly boring. And a lotta work. Half of the places Sonny picked up from wouldn’t help him load the truck, an’ half the places he delivered to wouldn’t help him off load. Just to speed things up, an’ ’cause I didn’t have anything better to do, I helped him some. Keepin’ outta sight, I’d bring the boxes from the front of the trailer to the doors, and he’d take ’em from there. Or Sonny would lift the boxes up, just inside the doors, an’ I’d stack ’em in the front. If the load come on pallets, which had to be moved with a forklift or front-end loader, I’d make myself scarce till they was nearly done, then make like a hitch-hiker, bummin’ a ride after Sonny pulled out.

  Sonny’s schedule varied quite a bit, though we made sure he was stickin’ to the allowable number of hours. That was the only thing that saved my ass ’cause I was still Sheriff an’ had family responsibilities. An’ Mrs. Shaklee kept remindin’ me to evict myself immediately. After a week of sleeping in the back of the moving truck, followed by days of harassment by Nina for neglectin’ her, I got lucky. Sonny made a pick-up, an’ I’d just nodded off when my cell phone woke me up. I turned it on and said, “Deters.”

  Sonny’s voice whispered in my ear. “Sheriff, we’s bein’ hijacked. Two guys with guns—”

  Then I heard, “Get out of the truck!” and the sound of the phone hitting the truck seat. The phone didn’t go dead, but what I heard next was too confusin’ to make much sense of—sounded like shouts an’ doors slammin’. I kept listenin’ for a clue to what was goin’ down now. The truck started movin’, an’ I could hear gears shiftin an’ traffic sounds. No shots. Maybe that meant the hijackers hadn’t killed Sonny.

  Then someone said, “It’s me. We got the shipment. Tell Wilcox we’re heading back. And he better have cash this time.” For a while the speaker musta just listened, ’cause all I heard was truck an’ traffic noises. Then he said, “Bullshit! Tell Wilcox
to tell him he can bring the money himself. I’ll drop a dime to ATF before I let him stiff me again.” He paused, then added, “Son of a bitch!” Softly. Like he was just commentin’ to hisself.

  The rest of the ride he was speechless—so to speak. I heard the radio—traffic an’ weather an’ Brad Paisley’s latest chart-topper. An’ truck noises. After a half hour, the truck slowed and I heard the driver say, “Open the gate.” The truck slowed even more, then turned right and drove a little further. As soon as it stopped, I heard what sounded like a industrial strength overhead door openin’. The truck did a three point turn and backed up beepin’—not far. Then the motor cut off. The truck door slammed. Heard the overhead door again. Another door slammed, a little ways off. Then quiet.

  I whipped out my cell an’ speed-dialed. When I heard Underhill say, “State Police, Sergeant Underhill,” I said, “Dan, I think I’ve run down our hijackers.”

  “You sound funny, Vergil. You been drinking?”

  I was startin’ to get high from the adrenalin, but no point tellin’ him that. “Nope,” I said. “Just a bad connection.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Inside the Lower Fork Distillery. I think. You better check my phone coordinates for certain.”

  “You got a warrant for that?”

  “Don’t guess I need one. They kinda invited me in.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Truck I been stakin’ out from the inside just got hijacked.”

  “You in any immediate danger?”

  “Not till they decide to off-load the truck.”

  • • •

  Which they decided to do not long after I hung up. I heard what sounded like a regular door bein’ slammed. An’ voices, though I couldn’t make out words. Someone fiddled with the latch on the trailer doors. Light come in through the widenin’ crack between ’em. I had my Sig out, aimin’ it down the beam of my Mini Maglite.