'You haven't had more trouble with Garland T. Moon, have you?'
'No, sir.'
'See there, it just needs Bible study.'
At around 3 a.m. a Mexican in the drunk tank heard the cables on the elevator working, then the wire-mesh door rattling open and a key turning in the barred second door. Harley Sweet walked down the row of cells past the drunk tank with a paper bag rolled in his right hand, his leather-soled boots echoing off the concrete floor, a bleached straw cowboy hat cocked on his head.
The Mexican in the drunk tank, who was surrounded by men sleeping on the floor, pressed his face against the bars and tried to see farther down the corridor but could not.
A key turned in another cell door and Harley's voice said, 'Turn around and lean against the wall. Your face sure don't brighten my work. Your mama must have beat on it with an ugly stick.'
The Mexican in the drunk tank heard scuffling, intense and prolonged, with no words spoken, like that of men who know the cost of a wasted movement or an exhalation of breath. Then there was a single, abrupt gasp, a body collapsing on the floor, followed by a series of blows, which began with a whistling sound, like a baton ripping through the air, then the thunk of wood against muscle and bone, and more blows, one after another, until the Mexican pressed his palms against his ears and crouched in the back of the drunk tank and hid from the sound.
Five minutes passed, then the cell door at the end of the corridor clanged shut again and a figure dressed like Harley walked past the bars of the drunk tank, the straw hat held to the side of his face. The wire-mesh door on the elevator clattered into the jamb, and the walls hummed with the reverberations of the elevator's motor as the cage dropped to the first floor.
A few kids who were still dragging Main said they saw a figure in boots and a white straw hat emerge from the side door of the courthouse and walk across the darkened lawn to Harley's truck, tap on his shirt pocket as though the package of cigarettes he discovered there were a nice surprise, light one, and drive away.
The turnkey who came on duty at 6 a.m. rode up to the third floor of the courthouse and saw nothing out of the ordinary. At 7 a.m. the trusties brought up the food carts loaded with aluminum containers of grits, fried ham, white bread, and black coffee. The men in the drunk tank were fed first, then Lucas Smothers, who had been moved into an isolation cell by the showers. A trusty stopped his food cart in front of Jimmy Cole's cell and tapped a wood serving spoon against the bars.
'Fixing to tote it back, Jimmy Cole… Hey, boy, you want to eat, you better roll it out.'
The trusty looked more closely at the man in the bunk, who was dressed in jailhouse whites, and at the striped pillow pressed down on his face with one arm, and at the thin coppery glint buried in the folds of his throat. The trusty whirled and shouted down the corridor at the turnkey: 'Inmate out on the ground, bossman!'
'What the hell you talking about? That's him right yonder,' the turnkey said, pointing through the bars. Then the turnkey saw the chipped, black baton on the floor under the bunk and the lower part of the face under the pillow. 'Oh Lord have mercy,' he said, and unlocked and flung back the door and then gingerly pulled the pillow loose from the arm folded across it like a person who cannot watch the next frames of film about to flash on a movie screen.
The copper wire had been unwrapped from the head of a broom, twisted into a hangman's noose, dropped over Harley Sweet's neck, and then razored into the flesh. Later, the medical examiner would report that the blows with the baton had been delivered while Harley Sweet strangled to death on his knees.
Garland T. Moon wolfed his breakfast and talked the trusty into filling his tin plate again with grits and the ham fat from the bottom of the serving container. Then he leaped up and grabbed the lip of a steel crossbeam at the top of his cell with his fingertips and did chin-ups in his Jockey undershorts, the veins and sinew in his body erupting across his skin like nests of twigs.
'Hey, bossman, don't Mr Sweet's mother live at 111 Fannin Street?… I'd put a guard on her if I was y'all. You got Jimmy Cole out on the ground, there ain't no telling what might happen,' he said. He dropped flat-footed from the steel crossbeam and giggled uncontrollably.
The courtroom was almost empty when Lucas Smothers appeared before the judge and had his bail reduced from $150,000 to $75,000. His father, Vernon, was supposed to appear in court with a bondsman. He didn't. I put up my property for the bond, then waited on the front steps of the courthouse for Lucas to be processed out of the jail.
Vernon Smothers parked his pickup by the curb and cut across the lawn toward me. He wore a pair of dark blue overalls that were wet at the knees.
'Where were you, Vernon?' I asked.
'Putting in pepper plants. I didn't watch the time. That little snip of a bondsman didn't call me back, either. What happened in there?'
'I went his bond.'
'I ain't asked for that.'
'It's no big thing.'
His eyes looked out at the glare of sunlight on the walk, the traffic in the square, the old men who sat on benches by the Spanish-American War artillery piece. The olive skin of his narrow face twitched as though someone were touching it with the tip of a feather.
'Them that's got money use it to put their shame on others. That's the way it's always worked around here. I won't abide it, though,' he said.
'Vernon, don't hurt your boy again.'
'Seems like the calf's mine only when it's time for you to lecture, Billy Bob.'
I walked away from him, through the doors of the courthouse and down a hallway whose woodwork seemed infused with the dull amber glow of its own past. Marvin Pomroy came out of his office and almost collided into me. His face was bloodless, as though it had been slapped.
'What's wrong?' I said.
'We messed up. Moon and Jimmy Cole did time together at Sugarland,' he answered.
'You're not communicating, Marvin.'
'The witness… The customer who saw Moon go into the store where he killed the old woman… Somebody sliced her back screen and stabbed her to death with a screwdriver this morning… Harley's truck was found in a pond a half mile away.'
I saw Lucas Smothers walk down the circular stairs in the center of the courthouse, a possessions bag in his hand.
'We've got no physical evidence to put Moon in that store,' Marvin said.
I stared into his face and the knowledge there that I didn't want to accept.
'That crazy sonofabitch is going to get out, Billy Bob.'
'Lucas's deposition-' I began.
'It won't hold up by itself.'
'Does Moon know that Lucas…' I could feel the pinpoints of sweat breaking on my forehead.
'You already know the answer to that… I'm sorry. We thought we had this guy halfway to the boneyard,' Marvin said.
Lucas walked toward us, his face uncertain in front of Marvin.
'How y'all doin'? Is my dad outside?' he said.
I sat alone in my office with the blinds down and tried to think. I kept seeing the grin on the face of Garland T. Moon, the latex skin, the liquid blue eye; I could almost smell the breath that was like fermented prunes. I pulled open the blinds and let the sunlight flood into the room.
The secretary buzzed me on the intercom.
'Mr Vanzandt and his son are here to see you, Billy Bob,' she said.
Jack Vanzandt, the college baseball star who'd fought in Vietnam and had come home decorated and had made a fortune in the Mexican oil business, then had lost it and made another fortune in computers. He'd called yesterday, or was it the day before? Yes, about his son, the one who had been expelled from Texas A amp;M.
'Bad day for a talk?' Jack said.
'Sorry. It's been a peculiar morning,' I said.
Jack still lifted weights and worked out regularly on a speed bag and played polo at a club in Dallas. He was well mannered and intelligent and made little of his war record. Few found any reason not to like him.
His son was another
matter. His blond, youthful face always seemed slightly flushed, overheated, his gaze turned inward on thoughts that swam like threadworms in his green eyes.
'Darl had a fistfight with a Mexican kid. We'd like to just shake hands and forget it. But it looks like the family found out we have a little money,' Jack said.
'What about it, Darl?' I asked.
'At the American Legion game. Kid scratched all over my hood with a nail. I asked him why he did it. He said because of the cheer we were yelling in the stands. So I told him it was a free country, people can say anything they want 'cause that's why we got a First Amendment. Wets don't like it, they can swim back home.'
'What cheer?' I asked.
'"Two-bits, four-bits, six-bits a peso, all good pepper bellies stand up and say so."' His eyes smiled at nothing. He rubbed the thick ball of muscle along his forearm.
I looked at his father.
'The Mexican boy had to have his jaws wired together,' Jack said.
I took a yellow legal pad and a ballpoint pen out of my drawer and pushed them across my desk toward Darl.
'I'd like you to write down what happened for me. Just like you're writing a school essay,' I said.
'I just told you what happened,' he said.
'Darl has dyslexia,' Jack said.
'I see,' I said. 'I tell you what, I'll get back with y'all this afternoon. I'm sorry I'm a little distant this morning.'
Darl Vanzandt played with the high school ring on his finger, his cheeks glowing with peach fuzz. His eyes seemed amused at a private thought. Then he looked me straight in the face and said, 'My father says Lucas Smothers is your woods colt.'
'Go to the car, son,' Jack said.
After Darl was gone, his father extended his hand.
'I apologize. Darl has serious emotional problems. His mother… It's called fetal alcohol syndrome. He's not always accountable for the things he says and does,' Jack said.
'Don't worry about it,' I said.
'I really appreciate your helping us, Billy Bob.'
He squeezed my hand a second time. His grip was encompassing, long lasting, the skin moist and warm. After he was gone and I was seated again behind my desk, I found myself unconsciously rubbing my hand on the knee of my trousers.
Why, I thought.
There was a cut, an indentation, newly scabbed, the size of a tooth, on the ring finger of Darl Vanzandt.
No, I told myself, you're letting it get away from you.
That night, as an electrical storm raged outside, L.Q. Navarro stood in the middle of my living room, his ash-colored Stetson tipped back on his head, and said, ' You were as good a lawman as me, bud. When they're poor and got no power, like Lucas and the dead girl, and other people get involved with what happens to them, you know it's a whole sight bigger than what they want you to think.'
' Why'd you go and die on me, L.Q.?'
He twirled his hat on his index finger, and an instant later, through the window, I saw his silhouette illuminated by a bolt of lightning on a distant hill.
chapter six
The next day, after work, I dug night crawlers and cane-fished with a little mixed-blood Mexican boy in the tank on the back of my property. His name was Pete, and he had blue eyes and pale streaks the color of weathered wood in his hair, which grew like a soft brush on his head. He grinned all the time and talked with an Anglo twang and was probably the smartest little boy I ever knew.
'That was the Chisholm Trail out yonder?' he asked.
'Part of it. There're wagon tracks still baked in the hardpan.'
He chewed his gum and studied on the implications.
'What's it good for?' he asked.
'Not much of anything, I guess.'
He grinned and chewed his gum furiously and skipped a stone across the water.
'Black people say you spit on your hook, you always catch fish. You believe that?' he said.
'Could be.'
'How come you don't marry Temple Carrol?'
'You have too many thoughts for a boy your age.'
'She sure spends a lot of time jogging past your house.'
'Why do you have Temple Carrol on the brain this evening, Pete?'
'Cause there she comes now.'
I looked over my shoulder and saw Temple's car drive past my garage and barn and chicken run and windmill, then follow the dirt track out to the levee that circled the tank. Pete thought that was hilarious.
Temple got out of her car and walked up the slope of the levee. Her face looked cool and pink in the twilight.
'He's out,' she said.
'Moon?'
'None other.'
'Excuse us, Pete.'
I leaned my cane pole in the fork of a redbud tree, and we walked down the levee. The late red sun looked like molten metal through the willows on the far bank.
'He was at your office,' she said.
'What?
'Sitting on your steps for maybe an hour. In a blue serge suit and a Hawaiian shirt that's like an assault on the eyeballs. I told him your office was closed. He just sat there, cleaning his fingernails.'
'Don't mess with him, Temple. Next time call the cops.'
'What do you think I did? A half hour later, this new deputy, Mary Beth Sweeney, shows up. I told her I was glad somebody from the sheriff's department could finally make the trip from across the street. Get this, nobody sent her. She just happened to be driving by. She told him to hoof it.'
Temple forked two fingers into the side pocket of her blue jeans.
'He left you a note,' she said.
It was written in pencil, on the inside of a flattened cigarette wrapper.
Mr Holland, I find it damn inconsiderate you dont post your office hours. Call me at the Green Parrot Motel to talk this thing out.
Garland T. Moon
We were back at her car now. She opened the driver's door and reached across the seat and picked up a revolver. It was an ancient. 38-40 double-action, the metal as dull as an old nickel with holster wear.
'Keep this. You can add it to your historical collection,' she said.
'Nope.'
'I got a friend in Austin to run Moon on the computer. Corrections thinks he did two snitches in Sugarland.'
'Thanks for coming by, Temple.'
She lowered the revolver, which she held sideways in her palm.
'Where's it end?' she said.
'Excuse me?'
'You gave up your badge, then your career as a prosecutor with the Justice Department…' She shook her head. 'Because you think an accidental death takes away your right to judge people who are evil?'
'Pete and I are fixing to fry up some fish. You're welcome to join us.'
'You make me so mad I want to hit you,' she said.
Later that evening, I called the sheriff at his home.
'My PI made a 911 on Garland Moon,' I said.
'So?'
'Nobody was dispatched.'
'What's the man done?' he asked.
'He was in your custody. You let him out. I don't want him on my doorstep.'
'You think I want this lunatic on the street?'
'To tell you the truth, I'm not sure, sheriff.'
'You're a natural-born pain in the ass, Billy Bob. Don't be calling my house again.'
After I hung up, I called a friend in the sheriff's department and got the address of Mary Beth Sweeney. She lived in a new two-story apartment complex with a swimming pool just outside of town. It was 9 p.m. when I walked up the brick pathway at the entrance, and the underwater lights in the pool were turned on and pine needles and a glaze of suntan lotion floated on the surface. The lawn was empty, the portable barbecue pits left on the flagstones feathering with smoke.
I climbed to the second landing and rang her doorbell. My right hand opened and closed at my side and I felt warm inside my coat and wished I had left it in the Avalon.
Her face had a meaningless expression when she opened the door.
'Sorry to bother you at
home. But I heard Garland Moon was at my office,' I said.
'Yes, is there something I can tell you?'
'Maybe. If I'm not bothering you.'
I waited.
'Come in,' she said.
Her small living room was furnished with rattan chairs and a couch and a round glass table. A yellow counter with three stools divided the kitchen from the living room. She was barefoot and wore jeans and a white and burnt orange University of Texas Longhorn T-shirt. A copy of The New Yorker was splayed open on the glass tabletop and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses lay next to it.
'You just happened by and saw Moon outside my office?' I said.
'What's this about, Mr Holland?'
'I think I'm developing an ongoing problem with the sheriff's office. I think it's because of Lucas Smothers.'
She hadn't asked me to sit down. She placed one hand against the counter and pushed her feet into a pair of white moccasins as though she were about to go somewhere. Her eyes were violet colored, unfocused, caught somewhere between two thoughts.
'You shouldn't come here,' she said.
'I wonder how I should read that. Is there hidden meaning there? I always have trouble with encoded speech.'
'If you don't like rudeness, you shouldn't keep forcing the issue, Mr Holland.'
'My name is Billy Bob.'
'I know who you are.' Then I saw the color flare behind her freckles, not from anger but as if she had made an admission she shouldn't.
'You like Mexican food?' I asked.
'Good night.' She put her hand on the doorknob and turned it.
'Tomorrow night? I appreciate what you've done for me.'
She opened the door and I started outside. I was only inches away from her now and I could smell the perfume behind her ears and hear her breathing and see the rise and fall of her breasts. A tiny gold chain and cross hung around her neck.
'Moon won't come at you head-on. He'll use Jimmy Cole,' she said.
I felt my mouth part as I stared into her eyes.
It was sunrise the next morning when I pulled into the dirt drive of Vernon Smothers's two-bedroom white frame house, with a mimosa in the front yard, a sprinkler spinning in a sickly fashion by the wood steps, a partially collapsed garage in back, and every available foot of surrounding property under cultivation.
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