Blockbuster

by Richard H. Smith

  “You saw the body? I heard Spence found him.”

  “Got there just before they carried him away.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “What?”

  “Okay, I admit it,” Hogan said. “I hated that bastard. You saw how he talked to me.”

  “I know, I know,” I said, and I thought again of the many times Bullock had humiliated Hogan, or tried to. I didn’t blame him for despising Bullock. Not one bit. “Who do you think did it?”

  “Like you say, I wasn’t the only one who hated his guts. All I know is that he was still in his office when I took off around eleven forty-five. Saw the light on. And his stupid Cordoba was still out front.” That sounded convincing, I thought. Was it true?

  “My guess is robbery,” I said. “But he was butchered. I’m telling you. Who does that for money?”

  “Who knows? Who cares?”

  “Man, you really hated him.”

  “That’s what I said. He had a dead rat for a soul. I hope he’s burning in hell. Is that clear enough for you?”

  “Crystal. Well, how about Milton?”

  “You saw him pull the knife. I didn’t.”

  “Maybe. But, no, I doubt it. He’s just a kid. Anyway, how did it go with Detective Riggs?”

  “He got me mad. Maybe he thinks I did it. He wouldn’t let me in the theater yesterday. Didn’t like the way he questioned me. Had me squirming like a worm in hot ashes. Went all over my T-Bird too.”

  Hogan glanced over toward the projection booth entrance. He looked worried. He knew Riggs had been up there.

  “Got the same treatment,” I said, trying to make it feel it was just Riggs doing his job. “He made me nervous too.”

  “Why should you be nervous?” Hogan said, giving me an extra close stare.

  “Look. Neither of us need to be worried,” I said, not wanting Hogan to think that I suspected him. “Detective Riggs told me they estimate the time of death around two. All of us were long gone.”

  “Two?” Hogan said, still looking anxious. “Did you talk about the bad blood between me and Horace?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I had to, Phil.” This was awkward. But what could I say?

  “Sheeeit!”

  “Phil, what was I supposed to do? Lie? Anyway, after he was through with me, he had to figure everyone couldn’t stand Horace. Come on. It was going to come out.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I told him about it too. Well, most of it.”

  I liked the way the conversation was going. His comments felt real and honest. A small part of me still reserved judgment, but my earlier panic made me laugh inwardly.

  Changing the subject, I announced, “Guess what, Drucker asked me to take over as manager. I took it.”

  “You?”

  “Don’t look so surprised,” I said, though he had good reason to be.

  “Aren’t you getting big britches.”

  “You have no idea how large my ambitions are.”

  “And Horace’s body ain’t in the ground.”

  “He wanted me bad, Phil.”

  Hogan stepped back and said, “You know I want you too.”

  Before I could think of a response, Kenny entered the theater.

  “Kenny Riley,” Hogan said. “What’s your lazy ass doing over here?”

  “I resent that remark,” Kenny said, but with a smile.

  “Kenny here is our new assistant manager,” I said.

  “Is that the best you can do?” Hogan said, “I guess he can’t help he’s ugly, but do we have to scare people too? Was his daddy a raccoon?”

  “Look who fell out of a tree and hit every branch on the way down,” Kenny shot back.

  “At least my family tree has more than one branch. But, I don’t know. He’ll do,” Hogan held out his hand so that Kenny could give him a high five. Kenny’s right hand awkwardly connected with Hogan’s.

  “Phil, what do I have to do to get one of them Jaws posters?” Kenny asked.

  “Bless your little heart,” Hogan said. “Get in line.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The manager’s office was a mess and reeked of substances I preferred not to think about. I found two cardboard boxes for Bullock’s personal items. They were a sad mix of things, such as a Norelco electric shaver, an imitation gold watch with a broken minute hand, a jar of Tums, and two bottles of Jack Daniels. I planned on bringing the items to Sue Ellen, if she wanted them.

  Bullock had loved his Jack Daniels. The best-selling whiskey in the world for a reason, he would repeat, yet distilled in a dry county in Tennessee. The strangeness of that fact never failed to get him laughing and shaking his head as if it explained everything confusing in life.

  Some items I was sure Sue Ellen wouldn’t want were a stack of Playboys and various personal care items linked with Bullock’s women. Several I could not identify their function, and I found them difficult to touch, wishing I had a pair of those latex gloves I’d seen Detective Riggs using. I put these throwaway items in a heavy-duty plastic bag destined for the dumpster out back and the final anonymity of the county landfill. The cot, perhaps best summing up the man, Horace Bullock, was no longer in the back room. Riggs must have confiscated it.

  Conflicting feelings about Bullock arose in me as the odors of a life snuffed out still haunted the air. Disgust won over pity, and I wanted the lingering stench gone. I fetched a bottle of Ajax from the supply room and used it to wipe every surface. Then I went outside to the back of the theater and tossed the bag into the dumpster. Out of a superstitious fear I couldn’t shake, I said a prayer for the dead.

  My thoughts turned to Spence. I had dreamed about him the previous night. In the dream we were both inmates on a prison farm like the one in Cool Hand Luke—perhaps Officer Slocum, and his resemblance to the prison guard in the movie, had affected me more than I realized. Curiously, in my dream, Spence had challenged the prison warden to a game of chess. With a white hat and a nasal twang to his voice, the warden looked and sounded like Strother Martin, the actor who played the character in the movie. It was a crazy setup, like a prizefight, with inmates and guards gathered around, yelling and clapping at every move. Spence kept a mask of cool mastery, even as beads of sweat merged and flowed down his skin and drenched his prison clothes. The warden, his uniform also soaked with sweat, concentrated like it was life or death. Along with the other inmates, I rooted for Spence. We whooped and hollered when Spence checkmated the warden. That’s when something woke me up. I now reflected on the dream as if it had actually happened and felt disappointed that the dream had ended before I got to see the warden’s reaction to losing.

  What did Spence think about Bullock’s murder? I called his number. He answered right away but said he was heading out to fix up some of his rental property. He suggested I meet him at one of his Massey Street houses, and then we might have a late lunch at a nearby restaurant. I jumped at the chance. Interesting, I thought. Spence had rental property.

  I’d driven near Massey Street many times on the way to the airport. Most homes in the area were small and humble. Some were rundown, but there was a sizable middle-class community, especially around North Carolina Central University, the historically Black school in Durham. The largest Black-owned insurance company was headquartered in Durham, as well as the Mechanics and Farmers Bank. There was a reason Durham had once been called the “Black Wall Street.”

  I drove down Fayetteville Street, past St. Joseph’s Methodist Church, and took a left on Massey. I slowed to count street numbers and came to the address Spence had given me. It was a small, single-story house with whitewashed siding and a slither of a front porch, set on a narrow plot of land, like most of the houses on Massey. Spence’s Buick filled the cramped driveway.

  Spence was in the patch of backyard playing with his lab, Blackjack, who I’d encountered a few times on Saturdays when Spence brought him to the theater. They were pulling on either end of a stick. Blackjack let go when he saw me and gave me strong, croaky barks, unti
l he seemed to recognize me and settled down, tail wagging. With his once jet-black fur graying in places, he struck me as the same age as Spence, in dog years. I scratched him behind the ears.

  Blackjack stayed right at Spence’s heels as we entered the house through the back door. Drop cloths, anchored by cans of paint and a step ladder, covered the hallway and the living room. My nose stung from the smell of wet paint and turpentine.

  “Be renting this out presently,” Spence said. “Needs a little touch-up. Like my places looking fine when new folks move in.”

  How many places did Spence have?

  “You rent out other homes?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. All on Massey, two on this side and three on the other. See the one yonder?”

  He directed my gaze out the window at a house across the street.

  “That’s the one I want to get next. It’s historic. Want to fix it up as something special, a landmark.”

  “Landmark?” I said, showing my skepticism. Nothing about it suggested anything special. Two windows had plywood nailed over them.

  “Blind Boy Fuller’s home, till he died in ’41. Doubt you know of him.”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Played masterful guitar and sang in these parts. Songs were powerful.”

  “He lived there?”

  “When he passed. A historic site, that’s what I have in mind to make it. First, need to buy it. ‘I Want Some of Your Pie.’ That was my fav-or-ite.” He sang the title out loud.

  I laughed. “That’s a lot of property to manage.”

  “Naw, rent to good folks. Enjoy it. Always keep busy. Don’t need the theater job, but I like it too. Don’t mind the work. Benefits, they good, enough to have put up with Horace Bullock, may he rest in peace, somewheres. These days, don’t need much sleep. Three hours, I’m up.”

  “Three?”

  “Putting two grandkids through college.”

  “Jeez.”

  I was learning many new facts.

  “Thaddeus. He’s at Central. Ricardo will be starting up the road at Chapel Hill come September. Now that Ricardo’s going to be a lawyer. He’s an apt a kid as you’ll find. Put him at anything, he makes a success. He helps me the paperwork for the rentals.”

  “Spence, I’m just about desperate to learn what you think about all that’s happened.”

  “Let’s grab us some vittles.”

  “But, Spence, tell me, pah-lease tell me.”

  “Eyeballs is floating. Why don’t you head out to the porch, and I’ll join you.”

  I waited on the porch and thought hard. Spence Reeves, landlord. I looked over at the Blind Boy Fuller house. I sure hoped that Spence would get his wish. And it sure enough needed a historic marker next to it.

  Spence came out onto the porch. Blackjack was still behind the screen door. Spence opened the door a crack and said to Blackjack in a quiet, eerie voice, “Now, Jack, you stay, stay watch here, until we get back. Hear?”

  Jack looked straight at Spence, and I swear to God gave him a nod like he understood every word. Spence slipped him a small dog biscuit too, which he’d been keeping in the palm of his hand, and closed the door.

  We headed up Massey.

  “Hadn’t seen a thing like what happened to Mr. Bullock since Carrizal.” Spence said, stopping in his tracks as if his recollection created a wall, right in front of us.

  “Carrizal?” I asked, wondering aloud what Spence was talking about.

  “Carrizal, M-eh-ee-co, Nate. We lost sixteen men that day. Most cut up worse than what I saw yesterday.”

  We were quiet for a few moments. I couldn’t think of what to say.

  “Let’s get some grub,” Spence said, and we started off again. My stomach rumbled.

  I asked, “Did you know about Horace’s women?”

  “He was a rooster,” Spence replied.

  “He owed gambling money too.”

  “Knowed it, seed it, heard it,” Spence said. “Those men came around twiced. They didn’t pay me no mind. Mr. Bullock owed a big sum. Over thirty grand.”

  “No wonder he looked so worried,” I said.

  “That shell fired a while back and was sure to explode,” Spence said.

  “Yeah.”

  It took me a second to understand what he meant.

  “They’ve arrested Milton,” Spence said, without missing a beat.

  “What?” I felt a rush of concern for Milton. He wouldn’t have done this kind of thing.

  “His daddy called me about it. Mom’s taken sick over it,” Spence said.

  “He couldn’t have. Could he?”

  “Milton didn’t do it,” Spence said, as if the issue needed no discussion.

  “But why did they arrest him?”

  “He ran. That’s why. Hiding in his aunt’s farmhouse near Apex.”

  “He pulled a knife on Horace. I saw it.”

  “Hotheaded kid, true enough,” Spence said. “You try figuring how to be a Black man in a white man’s world. Would a son of yours kill a man like this?”

  “Well, no.”

  “And you saw the body. No scrawny, sixteen-year-old kid would do this. This was planful. Milton’s no premeditated killer. Anyway, his daddy helped Detective Dupree find him. Know each other from church. Had to do it. Word was out.”

  “Why would he run? And where was he Saturday night?” These things would need explaining.

  “You ain’t been Black, Nate,” Spence said forcefully, suggesting slight disappointment in me.

  “No, Spence, that I have not. That was stupid of me.”

  “Don’t blame you. That would make me stupid. Anyway, they found him hiding and hungry in a shed next to an old tobacco barn.”

  “Poor Milton,” I said.

  “Reckon they had to arrest him, Milton running like he did. Got themselves a good lawyer, though. Won’t stick.”

  I said, “That means the person who did it is still out there.

  Spence chuckled.

  “Could have been my sickle that killed Mr. Bullock. But here we are. Let’s eat.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I studied the outside of the restaurant from across Fayetteville Street as cars rushed by in both directions. The restaurant was a simple, narrow structure sided with brick veneer, extending back from the road about thirty yards.

  “Let’s go,” Spence said, and I followed his lead through an opening in the traffic.

  Spence held the door for me, and the smells and sounds of cooking made me ravenous. Although I heard talking and laughter, I could make out little as my eyes adjusted from being outside in the sun’s glare. The further back I looked, the darker things appeared and in rough outline. Then, clusters of people sitting together emerged like images in a photographer’s developing tray. On the right, I saw other customers on swivel stools along a counter in front of a grill area. Many gave Spence a greeting before I could see them clearly.

  Two men stood up near a front table.

  “We’re finished, Spence. Let’s clear this collateral damage,” said one of the men, a barrel-chested, well-upholstered guy of advanced but indeterminable age, with as dark a complexion as I’d ever seen. He wore fine threads, neatly pressed. He collected the plates and brought them to the counter. The other man, wearing the overalls of a car mechanic, yet with no trace of oil, snatched up the empty glasses. He had light skin and was thin as a piece of plywood. After a chorus of see-you-laters, they both left in separate directions.

  An olive-skinned woman with large rimmed spectacles, her frizzy hair gathered up in a loose bun, came from behind the counter. After introductions, she said,

  “Lunch for you gentlemen?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Spence said. “You okay with catfish and biscuits, Nate?”

  “You bet.”

  “Coming right up.” She placed two glasses of ice water on our table.

  I chose a seat while Spence exchanged a few words with a huge man working on some fried chicken at the counter. Afte
r Spence settled into a chair, he completed the thoughts he started about ten minutes earlier.

  “Point is, a heap of other folks could have wanted to do it—and done it easy. I could’ve done it easier than Milton—though I had no reason, no good reason.”

  “Does Milton have an alibi?” I asked.

  “They’re working on that. Parents think he’s covering for somebody. Not someone who did it, but someone Milton was not supposed to be with.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Might could be,” Spence said with a grin and a wink.

  “If Milton didn’t do it, who did? Would robbery involve that kind of killing? Think they’ll ever find the deposit bags?”

  “See that man sitting on that stool?” Spence said in a low voice, as if I hadn’t asked my question.

  “The big guy, distinguished-looking?” I said, lowering my voice too. I knew it was useless to try controlling the direction of Spence’s thinking.

  “He is at that,” Spence said. “Looks like a bear too, right?”

  “I guess he does.” He did.

  “Well, he goes by the name of Carl ‘the Bear’ Easterling. He coaches basketball at Hillside High School. His ’67 team averaged 107 points. Called it the ‘Pony Express.’ Now, you haven’t heard of it, have you, Nate? Even though you live in these parts.”

  “No, I have not.”

  “But I’m thinking about that swivel stool he’s sitting on.”

  “Just an old stool, Spence.” Now where was he heading?

  “Should be set up at the Smithsonian In-sti-tute in Washington, DC. Its own exhibit.”

  “Why, Spence?” I had no idea how he could make this claim.

  “That stool is where Malcolm sat and drank soda pop when he visited Durham.”

  “Malcolm? Who? You don’t mean Malcolm X?” Each hair on the back of my neck and down my arms stood on end.

  “That’s right.”

  “He came here? He actually sat there?”

  “Truthful to God. Several times. They wouldn’t serve him downtown. Back then, leastwise. Not that he wouldn’t have preferred here anyway. Saw him with my own eyes. Black suit and bow tie. Soft-spoken, not like people think of him when he was giving speeches and confronting folks.”