by Bill Crider
“You’ve been running the place without much help.”
“Yeah, but Hamilton was the boss. He kept the books. He made a lot of the deals.”
“Who gets the business now that he’s gone?” Rhodes said. “Did Lester have any heirs?”
“Maybe nobody. Lester’s got a cousin down in Houston. That’s the only one I know about. I guess I’d better let him know.”
“Good idea. Have him get in touch with Clyde Ballinger about funeral arrangements.”
“I’ll do that,” Crockett said.
They talked for a while longer, but there was nothing Rhodes could do for Crockett. Crockett didn’t have any helpful information for Rhodes, either, so Rhodes left and started back to Clearview.
Almost as soon as he left Hamilton’s property, he saw a car behind him. There were two men inside. Just as he got to the cemetery, the driver started honking. Rhodes pulled over and got out of the Charger. The driver behind got out, too, as did the passenger.
At first glance the men looked like aliens from an old black-and-white science fiction movie, but then Rhodes realized it was just a couple of ordinary citizens, one of whom wore a half-face respirator mask with replaceable filters.
The other man had on a white particulate breathing mask, not quite as much protection against the smell as the more expensive respirator, but it would do the job. It was also a good bit cheaper.
“Sheriff Rhodes?” the driver asked.
His voice was tinny, and Rhodes saw that he had a little amplifier affixed to the respirator mask.
“That’s me,” Rhodes said.
The mask was attached to the man’s head by rubber straps that went around the back and across the top. Wild gray hair stuck up around the straps.
“I’m Dr. William Qualls,” the man said, as if he expected Rhodes to know who he was. He didn’t offer to shake hands.
Rhodes knew him, all right, not that they’d ever met. Qualls was a retired university professor from Houston. He taught a couple of literature classes as a part-time instructor at the local community college, and he’d written numerous letters to the Clearview Herald, all of them complaining about air pollution in Mount Industry.
According to his letters, Qualls had moved to the little community for his health. He’d left the frightening pollution spewed into the skies by the chemical plants and refineries of the Texas Gulf Coast for the pristine air of rural Texas, only to find that he was choking on the fowl (as Qualls put it in the letters, with a pun definitely intended) stink of Hamilton’s chicken farm, which Qualls contended was even more of a danger to his health than the pollution he’d fled.
“I’ve heard of you,” Rhodes said. He looked at the other man. “I know Dr. Benton, too.”
C. P. Benton, known as Seepy, was a math instructor at the community college. He claimed extensive experience in criminal investigation on the amateur level, and he’d been tangentially involved in a couple of Rhodes’s cases in the past.
Benton also claimed to be musically talented, and while Rhodes had heard him play guitar and sing, the sheriff wasn’t convinced of Benton’s talent. Currently, Benton was at work on his magnum opus, a book entitled The Unreality of Reality, which he’d described to Rhodes as “Castaneda without drugs.” Rhodes wasn’t at all sure what that meant. He supposed he’d have to read the book and find out, if it was ever published.
“Hey, Sheriff,” Benton said, his voice muffled by the mask. “How’s Deputy Grady?”
For reasons that weren’t clear to Rhodes, Ruth Grady seemed attracted to Benton, who reciprocated her feelings.
“She’s fine. What are you two fellas dressed up for? Halloween’s not until the end of the month.”
“You know why we’re forced to wear these apparatuses,” Qualls said. “I don’t see how you can stand to breathe without one.”
“We professional lawmen are fearless,” Rhodes said, looking at Benton, who liked to talk about how many push-ups he could do.
“We’re teachers,” Benton said. “We’re not supposed to be fearless. Except in the classroom.”
“Bravery has nothing to do with it,” Qualls said. “There’s no way to fight the kind of pollution you’re breathing in, Sheriff, without wearing a mask. You ought to know that by now. How often do you think they change the litter in those chicken houses?”
Rhodes started to answer, but Qualls held up a hand to stop him.
“I’ll tell you how often,” Qualls continued. “Once a year. Think about it. And do you know what happens then?”
Rhodes knew the answer to that one, too. He’d read Qualls’s letters, and he’d heard from more than one person in town. He didn’t answer, though, because he knew Qualls was going to tell him anyway.
“They have to rototill it after each batch of chickens leaves, but after a year or so they take it out and spread it around as fertilizer. To make the grass grow. Out in the open like that, it just stinks more, and it’s even more damaging to our health when the wind picks up the parasites and germs and spreads them all over the county and beyond.”
“Does that explain why you’re here, Seepy?” Rhodes asked.
Benton, who lived on the side of Clearview directly opposite from Mount Industry, nodded.
“The smell even gets out to my house sometimes,” he said. “So the germs and parasites must get out there, too. They don’t use all that soiled litter for fertilizer, you know.”
Rhodes knew. He didn’t want Benton to say more, but Benton went right ahead.
“They put it in cattle feed, too,” Benton said. “Think about that the next time you eat a hamburger.”
Rhodes didn’t want to think about it.
“I don’t eat much meat myself,” Benton said. “Thinking about those chickens and thinking about what goes into a steak has pretty much turned me vegetarian.”
Rhodes didn’t think that would happen to him.
“I’ve been working with William on the situation at Hamilton’s,” Benton said. “Something really should be done.”
“Something’s been done already,” Rhodes said.
“What’s been done?” Qualls asked. “Don’t tell me the state’s finally taken action. If so, I’m surprised and gratified. Is that why you were up there at the farm? Is the state going to shut it down? Please tell me that’s what it is.”
“That’s not what it is,” Rhodes said.
“Darn,” Benton said.
“What has been done, then?” Qualls asked.
“Lester Hamilton’s dead,” Rhodes told them.
Rhodes couldn’t really tell because of the mask, but Qualls didn’t appear too saddened by the news.
“What happened to him?” Benton asked.
Rhodes gave them a quick summary.
“That’s too bad,” Benton said, though he didn’t sound sincere. He must have realized it because he added, “It’s always sad when someone dies. Some good will come of it, though, if they have to shut down that farm. Is that what you were talking to them about up there?”
“Not really,” Rhodes said. “I talked to Crockett, but he didn’t have any idea what would happen to the farm. It’s too soon.”
“I’m sorry the man’s dead,” Qualls said, but the tinny voice coming from the speaker didn’t sound sad at all. “I’m glad there’s a chance it’s the end of the chicken farm, however. Thanks for letting us know, Sheriff.”
“Glad to help out,” Rhodes said.
“See you, Sheriff,” Benton said, and the two men got back into Qualls’s car.
Rhodes watched them drive away. He couldn’t blame them for not being upset about Hamilton’s death, and he hoped they wouldn’t blame him for wondering if they might have had something to do with it.
Not that they could have. It was just an accident.
Rhodes repeated that to himself as he got into the county car. It was just an accident.
Still, he couldn’t help thinking that he’d overlooked something obvious already, something that
was wrong with the whole thing.
7
Because he’d missed lunch, Rhodes decided to stop at the grocery store before he went back to Clearview. Not many stores like it were left in the county, though at one time there had been many of the small mom-and-pop operations spread around in little communities that had almost disappeared themselves.
Tall oak trees shaded the old wooden building, and the leaves littered the sandy ground around it. The porch sagged to the left, and the store needed a fresh coat of paint. Its tin roof was covered with large rust spots.
A fat black-and-white cat slept on the porch. It opened its eyes and looked at Rhodes when he got out of the car, but it must not have seen anything of interest. It stretched without getting up and went right back to sleep.
Rhodes went up the steps. The screen door was rusty. It hung a little askew, and the hinges squealed when Rhodes pulled it open.
The store’s owner, Mitch Garrett, lived in back in a little house that was attached to the building. It was as old and rickety as the store.
Garrett was known to some of the residents of the community as Snuffy. Rhodes had never called him that, however. He sat behind the counter of the store, leaning back in a metal lawn chair. His feet were propped up on the counter. Rhodes saw the worn soles of an old pair of cowboy boots.
Garrett was small, dried up, and tobacco colored. In the dim light of the store, he looked a little like a mummy. Rhodes had no idea how old Garrett was, but he’d owned the store for all of Rhodes’s life.
“Hey, Sheriff,” Garrett said. He didn’t get up. The shelves behind him held a few canned goods. The cans looked dusty to Rhodes. “What can I do you for?”
“How about a candy bar and a Dr Pepper?”
Garrett waved a hand. “Help yourself.”
Rhodes walked past the counter to the back of the store where an old Frigidaire stood beside a red-and-white Coke box that was as old as the refrigerator. Rhodes got a paper towel from the roll that sat on one side of the Coke box. Then he opened the door of the box and pulled a Dr Pepper from the icy water that was circulated by a little pump in the corner. After he wrapped the dripping bottle in the paper towel, he popped the cap with the opener on the box’s side.
He found a box of Zero candy bars in the Frigidaire. As far as Rhodes knew, Garrett’s store was the only place in the county where he could get a cold Zero. He reached inside and took one. The bar’s wrapper didn’t have a polar bear on it as it had when Rhodes was a kid, but it would taste the same. An ice-cold Zero and Dr Pepper in a bottle. Two of life’s real pleasures.
“You been up to the chicken farm?” Garrett said while Rhodes removed the candy wrapper.
Rhodes took a bite of the Zero. It would have tasted better if the smell of the chickens hadn’t still been in his nose and everywhere else.
“That’s where I was,” Rhodes said.
“Stinks up there, don’t it.”
It wasn’t a question, but Rhodes nodded anyway. He drank some Dr Pepper. It was so cold it almost made his teeth hurt.
“Stinks here, too,” Garrett said. “You’re the only customer I’ve had all day. Not that this place has ever been a gold mine, but I used to sell some candy bars and a little bread and milk. Not so much these days. People don’t want to buy anything to eat in a place that smells like this. I’m surprised somebody hasn’t snuck up there some night and burned those chicken houses to the ground.”
Rhodes remembered visiting his grandfather many years ago. One Sunday they’d gone out to the chicken yard and picked out a hen for Sunday dinner. His grandfather had wrung the chicken’s neck, whirling the clumsy bird around and around in his big hand, and when the neck and chicken had parted company, the chicken’s body hit the ground running. It had run in a circle for what had seemed to Rhodes a long time before bumping into a tree and falling and twitching a time or two before becoming still. Rhodes had a feeling that if his grandfather did anything like that today, he’d be the subject of protests from all kinds of groups that would regard the action as extreme cruelty to animals. It had even seemed cruel to Rhodes at the time, but he’d thought it wouldn’t have mattered much to the chicken whether it had had its neck wrung or its head chopped off with his grandfather’s hatchet.
As memorable as that part of the experience had been, what had stuck with Rhodes even more than the flailing chicken was the smell when his grandfather had plunged the chicken into boiling water before plucking it. It was a smell of dampness and singeing, a scorching odor that seemed as if it would never go away.
Rhodes had helped with the plucking, and he could still feel the damp feathers as they stuck to his hands, but it was the smell that had capped the whole epsiode.
“You don’t want burning chickens,” he said. He wondered if he could eat the rest of the Zero. “It’s a worse smell than what you have now.”
“Don’t I know it,” Garrett said. “I smell burning all the time.”
Rhodes had heard about this smell, too, but he hadn’t experienced it. Not all the chickens in the long houses survived to be taken away and processed. Some of them died. The bodies were disposed of in “pathological incinerators” with two-stage burners that supposedly turned the chickens into inorganic ash very quickly and destroyed any pathogens. Qualls had written letters to the paper implying that as a cost-cutting measure someone wasn’t following the proper procedures.
“I’d be about broke if it wasn’t for all the Asians,” Garrett said.
Jennifer Loam had done an article about the Asians who came from all over Texas to visit the persimmon orchards on Calvin Terrall’s place at Mount Industry. Terrall had grown peaches for years, but the peach crop had become an unreliable moneymaker because of drought and hard winters. Persimmons were resistant to those things. Chinese, Koreans, and Japanese living in big cities like Dallas and Houston drove to Mount Industry to get the fruit that was an important part of their cultures but that was hard to find in American cities.
“They mostly come on weekends,” Garrett said. “If they’d come every day and stop in for a Coke and a candy bar, I’d be doing fine. Trouble is, there’s not as many of them coming as there was a year ago.” He paused and sniffed. “Not near as many. It’s the smell. They don’t like it any more than you and me do. Maybe less. Hamilton and Terrall have gone round and round about it.”
Terrall had written nearly as many letters to the Herald as Qualls had. Rhodes had read all of them, and he’d taken a few calls from Terrall as well.
Rhodes managed to finish his candy bar and wash it down with the Dr Pepper. He paid Garrett for them.
“People around here sure do have it in for Lester,” Garrett said. He swung his legs down from the counter and stood up to put the money in his old-fashioned cash register. After he counted out the change, he said, “Tell you the truth, I don’t like him much myself.”
“He’s not going to bother you anymore,” Rhodes said.
“Who’s that? Lester?”
Rhodes pocketed his change and nodded. “Lester’s dead.”
Garrett didn’t seem surprised. “Too bad, I guess. How’d it happen? Old man Terrall take an axe to him?”
“Nothing like that. He had an accident. He drowned.”
“Noodling, I’ll bet.”
“You’d win that bet,” Rhodes said.
“He should’ve had somebody with him, but who’d go? Nobody could stand him except those he paid, and they all have work to do. ’Sides, they didn’t like him any better than anybody else around here.”
Rhodes was beginning to think that instead of going to Lester’s funeral, people would throw a wingding of a celebration.
“Why didn’t they like him?” Rhodes asked.
“ ’Cause he worked ’em long hours and didn’t pay ’em much. People need a job these days or he couldn’t have got anybody to work at that place unless he paid double what he’s paying now. The ones that work there resent it.”
“Was there anybody in this
county that liked him?”
“Just one fella, so I hear.”
“Who?”
“Harvey Stoneman. You know him?”
“The preacher at First Baptist.”
“That’s him. ’Course since he’s a preacher, he has to like everybody. It’s in his job description. That’s not why he likes Lester, or liked him if old Lester’s dead like you say.”
“He’s dead all right.”
“Harvey’ll be sad about that, maybe the only one who will. He liked Lester, and you better bet he liked Lester’s contributions to the church. Lester never showed a sign he felt guilty about all the trouble he caused around here, but he gave heavy to the church. I think he was making up for his sins, or trying to.”
Rhodes supposed that meant there’d be a funeral after all, and not a celebration. Stoneman wouldn’t be the only one who appreciated Hamilton’s contributions to the church.
“I’ll kinda miss old Lester myself,” Garrett said. “Now and then he’d stop in and buy a Coke. Little friendly gesture, I guess you’d call it.” He paused. “Didn’t help the smell any that I could tell.”
Rhodes said he had to get on back to Clearview. Garrett followed him out onto the porch.
“You don’t have anybody running against you this year, do you, Sheriff.”
“No. I guess nobody had the energy.”
“I just wanted you to know I appreciated you stopping in and spending a little money since it wasn’t because you wanted my vote.”
“I was glad to do it. I needed a candy bar.”
“We all do from time to time,” Garrett said. “You come back now, you hear?”
“I’ll do that,” Rhodes said.
* * *
Back at the jail, Rhodes heard about the usual assortment of petty crimes that went on in Clearview, including a prank call to the jail from some youngster who thought it would be funny to order a burger and fries.
Hack hadn’t found it funny. “I asked the little scallywag if he wanted cheese with that. He said he did, and I told him to come by and pick it up. Told him we’d check him into the Graybar Hotel for free and provide him with first-class accommodations and some free clothes besides.”
