Dead South (Mattie O'Malley FBI agent)

by Daniel Adams

  “Not around here. It’s just a cost of doing business.”

  Mattie heard music coming from another room.

  “That’s Pachobel.”

  “Do you like classical music?”

  “It’s all I listen to.”

  They stopped at a dark doorway. Doctor Flint disappeared inside. A few moments later, he returned.

  “He’s unconscious. You probably won’t be able to talk to him until tomorrow.”

  “Damn, that means I’ll have to spend the night.”

  “I feel for you. I felt the same way my first night here. Can I ask you something outside of business?”

  “Why not?”

  “Are you married?”

  “Only to the Bureau.”

  “I’m married to medicine.”

  “Looks like we both don’t have lives,” she laughed.

  “Hey, why don’t I take you out to dinner tonight and we can talk about classical music.”

  “Have you noticed I’m Black? I don’t think the townspeople would take kindly to you having dinner with me.”

  “Screw them. I’m the only doctor for 200 square miles. Anybody gives me any trouble the Sheriff will take care of them.”

  “I’ll think about it. Where’s the best motel?”

  “The best and only motel is two miles east on Northfork.”

  “Thanks.” She hesitated. “I didn’t expect to meet anyone here who’s color blind. It’s very refreshing.”

  “I didn’t expect to meet a beautiful single woman, either. But here you are.”

  “Here I was,” she blushed. “I’ve got to go.”

  “I have 10,000 classical CD’s. You’re welcome to have a look after dinner. I might show you my special “romance” CD.”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  Out at the Fair Grounds spectators filled the grandstands in anticipation of a day of horse racing. It was a festive atmosphere with neighbor and friend hollering greetings across the other spectators. It was still a little hot with the temperature hovering around 90 degrees. The first race was scheduled for 2:00 P.M. If they waited until 6:00 P.M. to run the first race, the temperature would drop to 70 degrees but what they gained in coolness they lost in the millions of mosquitoes that swarmed up from the river at dusk. So, rather than face millions of blood-sucking insects, they scheduled the race for early in the afternoon.

  Down by the stalls in the middle of the racetrack, the trainers and owners prepared their mounts for the various races. There were probably one hundred horses scattered around the infield, which was closed to spectators. Some of the horses looked like thoroughbreds while others looked like plugs. Inside one of the better stalls, Jubal gave Dewey final instructions on how to ride the race. Dewey seemed distracted which irritated the hell out of Jubal. The horse wore Number 13.

  “Stay away from Big Blue. He’s goin’ down. You be ready. If you screw up, I’ll beat your ass black and blue.”

  “Stan said Rafe’s got a whole lot of money bet on Big Blue. Rafe ain’t nobody to mess with. He’ll kill you.”

  “Guess he’s gonna lose. Too bad.”

  “Are you crazy? Rafe’s gonna be mad as hell.”

  “Nobody’s gonna know nothin’ unless you open your big mouth.”

  Dewey started to take off his racing gear. Jubal grabbed him by the front of his shirt.

  “I ain’t gonna do it.”

  Jubal shook him like a terrier shakes a rat.

  “Listen, you little shit. You're gonna ride this horse and keep your mouth shut or I'll tell Rafe you did it. You poisoned Big Blue.”

  “He won’t believe you. He knows I’m scare to death of him.”

  “He will when I tell him the bottle of poison is hid in your house.”

  “But it ain’t.”

  Jubal shook him again. “It is now. Paxton’s hiding it there right now. And you know what else? I bet $200 in your name against Big Blue. Now do you think Rafe will listen to you?”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  “Now you get it.”

  Jubal let Dewey down. Without a word, Dewey got on Number 13 and rode out.

  Down by the Mississippi River, Mattie walked out onto the sand bar where the big party had been the previous night. All that remained of the fire was a pile of ashes. She looked at all of the footprints in the sand and knew there was no point in making plaster casts. It would be a total waste of time. She made her way from one end of the sand bar to the other without finding anything. Near the fire, she found a dried pool of dark blood where Noonan had lain after being shot. She knelt beside the blood and scanned the sand for anything out of place. She didn’t move for five minutes. The first thing that caught her eye was a shiny object glinting in the sun. Reaching into the sand, she pulled out a bullet case—a forty-five shell casing. She dug around the area and found three more. Noonan had been shot three times by a forty-five and she had three empty forty-five shell casings. She was making progress.

  Standing up, she walked to the area where the trucks had been parked. She found several marijuana butts among the other debris scattered among the grass and bushes. It was easy to see the parking area had been chaos after the shooting. She counted a half-dozen pieces of car bumpers and fenders lodged in tree trunks and limbs. She got a camera out of her car and took pictures of the sandbar and parking area. After an hour more of walking the area she was satisfied there was no more evidence to find. With a grateful sigh, she drove away; glad she wouldn’t ever have to return.

  The third race of the afternoon was underway. Fourteen horses ran along the backstretch with Number 13 at the front. Number 13 was running strong which was a surprise to everyone at the track because Number 13 had never led a race in the entire three years Jubal had raced him. Dewey, who was used to being in the back of the pack, started to believe that just maybe, for the first time in his life, he was riding a winner. Kicking the horse in the ribs, he urged it to go faster. On the sidelines, Jubal smiled a broad smile. Everything was going to plan. All Dewey had to do was keep Number 13 against the rail so any horse that wanted to pass, had to go around the outside.

  As the horses hit the far turn, Number 13 was clear two lengths over the nearest horse. There were six horses bunched up behind Number 13, including Big Blue. All wanted to pass Number 13 but the jockeys knew going around the outside would cost their horses a lot of energy, so they waited. Number 13 swooped around the inside curve and headed for the finish line. Four horses swung wide at the curve, moving outside to try to pass Number 13. Number 4, a young mare, stretched out her legs and began to close on Number 13. Dewey flailed at Number 13 for all he was worth—he had to win. Big Blue’s jockey saw a momentary opening between Number 13 and Number 4 and reined the big horse into it. With a burst of speed, Big Blue moved up beside Number 13 then tumbled to the ground, his forward momentum carrying him into Number 4. Both horses went down—followed a second later by three more hard-charging horses.

  Jockeys were tosses aside like dolls as the horses bugled and screamed, their bodies a tangled mess of legs. Number 13 surged for the finish line but out of nowhere, Number 24 rocketed past him, beating Dewey and Number 13 to the finish line by two lengths. With the aid of several track officials, the jockeys untangled their horses and led them away. But Big Blue stayed unmoving on the track. At the finish line, Jubal tore up his betting tickets and threw them on the track. With an oath he angled across the track to where Dewey sat on Number 13.

  In a special box near the top of the grand stand, a hawk-faced White man named Rafe Cummings turned to his two companions with hard anger in his eyes. Rafe was not a nice man. In fact, he was a mean, treacherous, evil, ruthless son of a bitch who would do anything to make a dollar. He was forty something, fit, hard-eyed and had black hair cut very short. He wore slacks, a nice Polo type of shirt and loafers. If you saw him on the street you would think he was a well-dressed businessman but instead, he was a well-dressed crime boss whose tentacles spread across the entire stat
e. If a criminal committed a crime, you could be sure Rafe got his cut. One of his companions was a huge Black man named Leroy Jones. Leroy was six feet ten, weighed 324 and could bench press 400 pounds. He had a few extra pounds around the middle from sitting too much. He worked out three times a week at the local gym. Leroy wasn’t particularly smart which didn’t impede his chosen profession in the slightest. He had gone to college where he excelled in football and sorority girls. Had he not sustained a severe knee injury he probably would have turned pro. Without football to keep him occupied, he had drifted into drugs, which is how he had met Rafe. To work off a drug debt, Rafe had let him do a little work for him—sort of collection work but with a lot of broken bones.

  The other man, Junior Barnes was White, short, nearly bald and forty pounds overweight. He was also certifiably crazy, with a propensity to settle any argument or confrontation with the 9mm automatic tucked in his waistband. He wasn’t scared of Leroy because he knew a single round from his pistol would put the big man down for good. Because of his short stature, he did most of the things short me do to prove they are just as good as taller men. He drove a big 4-wheel drive truck. When he wasn’t driving the truck, he drove a very fast motorcycle—without a helmet. He wore boots with tall heels that made him look at least five feet ten. When he went on a date, which was rare, he wore a toupee, which he had secretly purchased in Las Vegas. He carried two guns; the 9mm and a single-shot .45 caliber derringer in his boot.

  “He looks dead,” Rafe observed. “He hasn’t moved since he went down.”

  “I think Number 4 tripped him. Maybe he busted his neck,” Junior Barnes suggested.

  “Let’s go. Leroy, find Mercer and tell him Big Blue’s not to be moved until I say so. If he gives you any trouble, break something.”

  “On it, Boss.”

  Leroy hustled away while Junior Barnes and Rafe made their way to the bottom row of the grand stand. People saw them coming and quickly moved out of the way. No one wanted to upset Rafe. A few people nodded to him but no one voiced a greeting. With Junior Barnes trailing a few feet behind him, Rafe walked on the track until he came to Big Blues body. Several men who had been looking at it quickly got lost. Rafe scanned the body then watched as Leroy hurried to join them.

  “It’s all set, Boss.”

  “He give you any trouble?”

  “Nope.”

  Leroy knelt beside Junior Barnes who was carefully examining Big Blue from tail to head. When he came to the horse’s mouth, he pried it open. Leroy lifted the horse’s lip with one of his huge fingers.

  “He was poisoned, Boss.”

  “You sure?”

  “Looky here at his gums. See that blue color. That’s poison. As long as he wasn’t running hard, it didn’t bother him but once he started runnin’, it blew out his heart. I used to know the name of it.”

  Rafe’s face clouded over with anger. Both men shut up because they knew Rafe had a hair-trigger temper.

  “Some motherfucker cost me one hundred grand and I want to know who it was.”

  “We’ll get right on it, Boss,” Junior Barnes promised.

  “Find out everyone who bet against Big Blue and everybody who won over five grand. Bring me the list.”

  “What about Big Blue, Boss? You want us to bury him?”

  “No. Take him to the slaughterhouse and tell Jeb to freeze him. Tell him not to do anything with the body unless I say so or we’ll put him in there with Big Blue. Got it?”

  “Check.” Junior Barnes made a snapping noise with his mouth and pointed his finger at Rafe a move he had seen Goober make on the Andy of Mayberry Show. He had thought it was cool so he had added it to his cool moves. He was the only one who thought it was cool. Rafe tolerated it for the moment but if it got on his nerves, he would have Leroy break Junior Barnes’ finger.

  “Find that bastard Jubal and tell him he's got two weeks to come up with what he owes me. After that, I'm gonna start cutting off body parts.”

  “You want us to rough him up a little bit?” Leroy asked.

  “Shoot off his big toe. That’ll let him know I’m serious.”

  “Check.” Junior Barnes made the noise again and pointed his finger at Rafe.

  Inwardly, Rafe made a note to talk to Leroy about it.

  “Get going,” Rafe ordered. “I want some answers by tonight.”

  Back in Kingswood, Paxton drove through an upscale neighborhood on the east side of town. Upscale to a Mississippian meant the homes had indoor plumbing and bathrooms. Paxton was in a bad mood. Things had been going south on him every since the shooting and he needed something to turn around his bad luck. He had thought about going to the fortuneteller on the edge of town but when he got there, she was closed. That in and of itself was a bad omen not to mention all of his other troubles. The only bright spot in his life was his date with Libby. As he came around a corner, he saw her waiting in the street in front of her house. She waved but he didn’t wave back. He wanted her to know her place. As soon as he stopped, she jumped into the truck and scooted across the seat next to him.

  “Better go. My dad’s coming.”

  Paxton dumped the clutch, burning rubber all the way down the street. Who cared about her dad? Certainly not him.

  True to her word, her dad, Gus, rushed around the side of the house in time to see Paxton’s truck screech around the corner.

  Gus picked up a rock and hurled it after the truck.

  “I’ll kill you, motherfucker!” he screamed.

  Inside the truck, Libby snuggled up against Paxton.

  “Your dad know about me?”

  “Yeah, he heard about the fight.”

  “He say anything?”

  “Yeah, he said I couldn’t go so I snuck out.”

  “I got to see Deacon Boggs then we’ll go someplace private.”

  “All of the girls are jealous of me. Ain't none of 'em ever had two grown men fight over them. It's so romantic.”

  “I don't want you tellin' them everything we do. A woman's got to keep secrets.”

  “I know that, silly.”

  Moments later, Paxton’s truck headed out of town.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Deacon Boggs was a Black man who had survived and prospered in a business that was dominated by White men. What had kept him alive and out of the Klan’s sights was his ability to make cheap, good-tasting moonshine that none of the White men could match. For the most part, the local White moonshiners bought moonshine from Deacon and then called it their own. Deacon didn’t care because everyone knew it was his hooch. And even if someone didn’t know, he didn’t care because every load he sold put more money in his pocket. He only hired Black men. Not because he was a racist but because the local Whites wouldn’t work for a Black man. He had a dozen men who bought the makings for him in faraway towns so they couldn’t be traced back to his still. Even though it was a big pain, he moved his still lock stock and barrel every three months even if the cops hadn’t found it. Most of the White moonshiners had a grudging admiration for him because of his expertise in bootlegging. On more than one occasion a White moonshiner had snuck into his camp to ask him how to solve a particular problem. Deacon gave good advice, which explained his longevity in the business.

  His men had just finished a run of shine when he saw Paxton’s truck grinding up the narrow dirt road that dead-ended a mile beyond Deacon’s current camp. As soon as he saw the truck, he called to his men.

  “Paxton’s coming. You three get rifles and hide out in the woods over there. If I take off my hat, shoot the son of a bitch.”

  The three men quickly left to do his bidding.

  “Get rid of that good stuff and get that shit no one will buy. Hurry it up.”

  By the time Paxton’s truck stopped near the still, the good hooch had been moved into hiding and cases of a bad run had been moved next to the road. Paxton wasn’t worried. He had a dozen heavily armed men backing his play so even if Paxton got crazy, his men would take care of
him. Deacon saw there was a young girl in the car, sitting next to Paxton. He recognized her as being in his daughter’s class at the high school. His hatred of Paxton rose a couple of notches but he kept his cool.

  “Where’s the money you owe me?” Deacon called.

  “What money?” Paxton asked.

  “For the last load I sold you.”

  “I ain’t gonna pay for that. You know damn well the Sheriff grabbed me before I even got a mile from your camp.”

  “Ain’t my problem what happens to a load after you pick it up from me,” Deacon said, trying to keep cool.

  “The hell it ain’t. For all I know, you tipped off the Sheriff so you could sell me two loads.”

  “You ain’t getting’ no more until you pay me,” Deacon said stubbornly. Actually, he didn’t care because he was going to fuck Paxton like a tied dog.

  “That ain’t smart, Deacon. Think about it. If I bring the Sheriff back up here, you’re out of business and you sit in jail for a year.”

  “You do that and they’ll find little pieces of you scattered all over the county,” he threatened.

  Paxton stepped forward so they were face to face.

  “Listen, you black motherfucker. You better watch your fuckin' mouth or I'll have the Klan up here and burn you out for you can say watermelon. You talkin' to a white man, boy.”

  Deacon feigned anger, his hand on his hat. He thought about what kind of trouble he would be in if he took off his hat.

  “Get out of here!” Deacon snarled.

  “Not until I get a load.”

  Deacon motioned to his men who began loading the bad hooch into Paxton’s truck. The ploy had worked.

  “That Libby in your truck?” Deacon asked.

  “None of your business,” snapped Paxton. “Tell your lazy ass niggers to work faster. I got things to do.”