Dead South (Mattie O'Malley FBI agent)

by Daniel Adams

  Deacon reached for his hat, his mind clouded with anger—but he stopped. It wasn’t worth it.

  “Seein’ how you sassed me, I ain’t payin’ for this load either,” Paxton boasted.

  Seeing his truck was full, Paxton got in the cab. He drove away without a backward glance.

  One of Deacon’s men, a man known only as Asa, nodded his head after Paxton.

  “What are you gonna do about him?”

  “He’s one dead cracker,” Deacon promised.

  The Nickel Diner was located near the town square on North Fork Street. It was where all of the locals ate. The menu was simple, the food good, the portions large and the prices cheap. The number one item on the menu was fried chicken with gravy, a side of beans and a baked potato. All of that, plus a drink was only $3.99. The Diner was where everyone met to drink coffee and gossip. If you weren’t a topic at the diner, you weren’t a mover and shaker in the town.

  Mattie entered the restaurant, ignored the hard stares from a varied collection of motley locals and spotted Sheriff Wilks at a back table. He saw her but didn’t wave or acknowledge her in any way. She didn’t really care. She wasn’t there to make friends. If Sheriff Wilks wanted to ignore her, she was cool with it. She stood beside him until he had to look up.

  “Your deputy said you were here,” she told him.

  “Remind me to shoot the little prick,” he commented. He took a swig of coffee before continuing.

  “What exactly do you want, Agent O’Malley?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Can it wait until after I eat?”

  “I haven’t talked to Noonan. He’s still unconscious. What about Paxton, where is he?”

  “I sent him home.”

  “Could that have something to do with a little thing called bribery?”

  “No, but I’m sure you think so.”

  Unbidden, she sat down across from him. A momentary look of annoyance flashed across his face before he could hide it.

  “Why else would you release an attempted murder suspect without bail?”

  “You’re a big pain in the ass. I don’t have to explain anything to you.”

  “It's like this. Paxton has seven kids and a wife at home who depend on him to put bread on the table. If I hold him in jail, he don't work, and if he don't work, they don't eat. Is that plain enough for ya?

  “Why didn’t you just say that to start with instead of giving me shit?”

  “You didn’t give me a chance.”

  “I want to talk to him. I can’t go home until I do.”

  Sheriff Wilks thinks about it before he replies.

  “Be at my office at 7:00A.M. tomorrow morning. I’ll take you to see him.”

  “Ok, Do you know what he and Noonan were fighting about?”

  The Sheriff looked tired. He picked up his spoon.

  “Can't say as I do. But it don't matter. If it wasn't one thing, it would be another. They was both itchin' for a fight.”

  Mattie holds up a clear evidence bag that contains the three forty-five shell casings.

  “If you’re interested, I picked up three forty-five shell casings out at Willow Bend.”

  The Sheriff didn’t reach for the bag. He downed a big spoonful of eggs and hash browns before he continued.

  “Yeah, and if you want more of them, all you have to do is dig down in the dirt. There are hundreds of them.”

  “Where are all of the Black people, Sheriff? I’ve been in town two days and I haven’t seen one.”

  “You’re in the South, Hon, people tolerate you ‘cause you’re an FBI. YOUR people who live here know how it is. They stay away from places they ain’t welcome. Come to think of it, I don’t think there’s ever been a nigger in the Diner before.

  “Sheriff, how’d you like it if I called you “dago” to your face?”

  The Sheriff’s face colored. He didn’t say anything for a while.

  “You think I’m Italian?”

  “I did a little checking. Your dad and mom were Italian immigrants when Italians weren’t very welcome in the U.S. Cause you’re White, YOUR people learned to blend in so now they’re acceptable. But underneath that uniform, you’re still a dago.”

  “So, what do I call you—Afro American—Black American—What?”

  “How about Mattie?”

  She rose. Stood a moment.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  With that, she walked away.

  Jubal sat on a chair in his horse stall at the fair grounds and pondered what to do with Number 13, which hadn’t placed in a single race. Jubal had finally reached the point where he believed what every one had been telling him for the past three years. Number 13 was not a racehorse. It hurt Jubal to admit it because he had hand-raised Number 13. Because Number 13’s sire had been a champion, Jubal had figured the big colt couldn’t help but win but he had been wrong. He knew he should sell Number 13 to whoever would buy him but he just couldn’t do it. Maybe if he changed jockeys Number 13 might win. He used Dewey because he was free but Dewey had absolutely no sense of how to ride. He thought about who he knew that could ride a horse. Before he could start on a list, the stall door banged open.

  “You hidin’ from us?” Leroy asked, his mere presence enough to scare any normal person.

  “No—I—uhh—“

  “Rafe wants his money,” Junior Barnes said, stepping around Leroy.

  “I’m good for it, honest,” Jubal whined. “I just need some more time.”

  Leroy sat down next to Jubal.

  “You win any money today,” he asked.

  “I lost a grand,” Jubal admitted. “I borrowed the money ‘cause I thought my horse was gonna win. He almost did.”

  Leroy and Junior Barnes both laugh.

  “Your horse couldn’t win a race if the other horses were all dead,” Junior Barnes sneered. “Rafe don’t think you’re tryin’ hard enough.”

  “That’s not true,” Jubal objected. “All I do is try to make some money to pay off Rafe. I sold all of my equipment. I ain’t got nothin’ left to sell.”

  Junior Barnes hauled out a silenced pistol from his waistband. Seeing the pistol, Jubal began to shake.

  “Don’t kill me—Please—I got a wife—“

  “Rafe wants us to give you a message.”

  “Please—Please—Don’t kill me,” Jubal sobbed.

  “You got two weeks,” Leroy snapped. “Two weeks, you got it? After that, me and Junior Barnes get to skin you like a big fat catfish.”

  Junior Barnes and Leroy laughed at the prospect of skinning Jubal.

  “I’ll have it. I promise,” Jubal blubbered.

  Junior Barnes lowered the pistol. Seeing that, Jubal relaxed, he had survived. But he relaxed too soon. In one smooth motion, Junior Barnes raised the pistol, fired. WHAP. He shot Jubal’s right big toe. Jubal’s scream was cut short by Leroy’s massive hand closing across his mouth. Junior Barnes leaned his mouth down close to Jubal’s ear.

  “Two weeks—that’s all.”

  With a final smirk, Junior Barnes headed out the door. Leroy stayed behind a moment.

  “You scream, I’ll come back and skin you now.”

  Leroy left.

  Rolling around on the floor, Jubal stifled the screams of pain he would have shrieked but he knew what would happen if he opened his mouth. He was in agony. He knew there would be no second reprieve. Even as he writhed in agony, his mind was racing to find a way to save his ass.

  Paxton and his wife and kids lived in a ramshackle house eleven miles north of Kingswood on a dirt road that went from the main road down to the river. Several hay fields surrounded the house. They were irrigated by water from the river. A big barn stood behind the house. It was badly in need of repairs and paint. Other outbuildings were scattered around the property. Corrals around the barn were host to a variety of farm animals. Old junker cars and farm equipment, surrounded by weeds dot the farmyard.

  An old weather-beaten sedan
stopped in front of the house and Jubal, and his wife, Hannah, got out of the car. It took longer for Hannah because she weighed 300 pounds and was wider than she was tall. What she lacked in stature she more than made up for with facial hair, which gave her the fuzz-faced look of a teenage boy. She wore a featureless smock that she had made herself. It was basically a square with a hole for her neck and arms. Had it not been on her, it might have been mistaken for an outdoor cover for a large riding lawn mower.

  Jubal came around the car to help her. He was limping heavily and grimaced in pain as his tow hit a big rock. He hadn’t gone to their regular doctor to have his toe fixed up, choosing instead to go to the school nurse who did medical work on the side. She also would keep her mouth shut because Jubal supplied her and her friends with shine. A fact he didn’t even have to mention. She had been shocked by the perfectly round bullet hole in his big toe until he explained who had done it. Helen hated Junior Barnes who had roughed her up because she owed Rafe some money. She had sold her car to get together the funds to pay off Rafe and had spent a year walking to work until she put enough money together for a car.

  As Jubal and Hannah approached the house steps, Paxton, and his wife, Grace, came out the front door.

  “Hey, Pop, why you limpin’?” Paxton said.

  Before he could answer, four kids burst out of the house, in loud pursuit of a small, happy puppy that stumbled down the steps and out into the driveway. Yelling at the top of their lungs, the kids ran after the puppy that disappeared in the tall grass across the driveway.

  “Damn! Them kids are noisy,” Jubal yelled.

  “Shut up, you little bastards,” Paxton roared.

  The kids wisely shut up. They stood a while, looking at where the puppy had disappeared then headed for the barn.

  “Hope you’re hungry,” Grace smiled. She was an attractive woman except for her belly that hung slackly from her waist to mid-thigh. It was the result of the home-birth of their last son. She hadn’t gone to the doctor after her belly sagged and by the time she did, it was too late. She had long gray hair that hung in a ponytail down her back. Her face was deeply tanned, made that way by her constant work in the garden, which she did to supplement the allowance Paxton gave her for food. Her food budget had shrunk over the years instead of growing and she had to cut corners any way she could to keep food on the table. Paxton didn’t feel it was his problem. Her face, which had widened with each childbirth, was still pretty although wrinkles had begun to show at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

  “We’re hungry alright,” Hannah answered, “We ain’t had anything since lunch except for a couple of pork chops and a cherry pie.”

  “Come on inside,” Paxton ordered. “Why talk about food when we could be eating.”

  They moved into the dining room, slower than normal because of Jubal’s limp.

  “What happened to your foot?” Paxton demanded.

  “Horse stepped on it.”

  “Break anything?”

  “Don’t think so. If I’d had my gun I would’ a shot it.”

  “That horse is no good. You should get rid of it.”

  The four kids suddenly reappeared, screaming loudly as they chased the puppy around the table.

  As the last kid passed him, Paxton swung his fist and slammed the last boy in line in the side of the head. The kid went down—out cold. Paxton shoved him with his boot until the kid groggily came to.

  “I told you to shut up and get that damn dog out of the house. Next time, somebody’s gonna get hurt.”

  Still wobbly, the kid hustled out the door.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Can I get you men a drink,” Grace asked.

  “Bring us two glasses and a jug,” Paxton grunted.

  He showed Jubal a red spot on his fist.

  “Fuck that kid’s got a solid head. Felt like I hit rock.”

  “Use a club. That way you don’t hurt your hand,” suggested Jubal.

  “I used to pitch rocks at you and your brothers,” she laughed.

  “Yeah and you didn’t miss much,” Paxton agreed. I still got a knot on the back of my head from one of your rocks.”

  “Next time them kids come through here, I got a rock in my purse. I may just see if I still got the touch.”

  “They ain’t your problem,” Paxton objected. “You raised your kids now it’s my turn.”

  Grace returned with the glasses and a jug that she handed to Paxton..

  “You mind if I smoke?” Hannah asked Grace.

  “Not at all.”

  Hannah pulled a big green cigar out of her purse. She bit off the end and held it out to Jubal who lit it for her. She pulled in a lungful of the smoke and blew it to the ceiling.

  “Nothin’ like a good cigar. Paxton, I don’t mean to stick my nose where it don’t belong but I think you’re bein’ to lenient on your kids. You’ve told ‘em three times to shut up and they keep right on makin’ noise.”

  “You’re right, Ma, I have sort of let the little bastards take advantage.

  Paxton poured two glasses of shine. He kept one and gave the other to Jubal.

  “Here’s shit in your eye,” he toasted.

  “Up yours,” Jubal replied.

  They tossed down the drinks in one gulp.

  “How’d that flea-bitten nag of yours do today?” Paxton asked.

  “She led most of the way but ran out of gas on the final quarter. She just needs more seasoning.”

  “What she needs to be is canned. She’s only fit for dog food. I’ve got pigs that can out run her.”

  The puppy scurried back into the dining room with the kids screaming after it. They chased the puppy around and around the sofa.

  Without a word, Paxton went to the mantle where he picked up a pistol and shot the puppy.

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  “Next time I tell you something, you damn sure better listen,” he bellowed.

  The kids poked and prodded the puppy that was stone cold dead. One boy took a piece of rope out of his pocket. After rolling the puppy over, he tied the rope around its tail. Dragging the puppy behind him, he ran out of the room with the other kids hot on his tail.

  “You ladies get in the kitchen. Me and Paxton’s got some business to discuss.”

  After the two ladies disappeared into the kitchen, Jubal and Paxton sat down at the dining table.

  “Son, I know money is tight for you but I wondered if you could see your way clear to loan me $25,000?”

  “Shit, Dad, that’s a lot of money. What’s it for?”

  “I got a chance to invest in a lead mine that is guaranteed to pay 50 to 1 as soon as it’s developed.”

  “I ain’t heard nothin’ about no lead mine.”

  “It’s in Alabama. One of my old army buddies found it. It’s very hush hush.”

  “I might be able to get you ten.”

  “Good enough. When can you get it?”

  “Tomorrow, by noon.”

  “Good.”

  A White, pimply-faced teenage boy with a shock of brown hair came into the dining room. His name was Beau. He was Paxton’s oldest.

  “Hey, Grandpa, what up?”

  “Hey, Beau.”

  “I gotta go turn off the well or it will flood,” Paxton said. He went out a side door.

  Beau looked around to make sure no one else could hear.

  “Where’s my money, old man?” he whispered.

  “Things are real tight this week,” Jubal complained, “how about we skip a week?”

  “We got a deal, old man, so pay up or get a beating.”

  “Jubal counted out some bills and threw them at Beau.

  “You happy, you little bloodsucker,” he snarled.

  “Kiss my ass,” Beau grinned. “You better have my money on time next week.”

  Beau left. Jubal poured himself another shot of whisky and downed it.

  Fuck, he hated Beau.

  After a dinner of ham, sweet potatoes, mashed pota
toes, green beans, dinner rolls, gravy, shine, cherry cobbler and brandy, Jubal, Hannah, Paxton and Grace retired to the patio where they sat in easy chairs that faced west. Hannah brought along some cinnamon rolls and a plate of fried chicken just in case she got hungry later on. Paxton rounded up two jugs of good shine that they passed around as they watched the stars and fireflies. The other entertainment was the two large-size bug zappers that hung from poles on each side of the patio. Their blue light flooded the yard, giving everything a bluish tinge, including their faces. When a moth or other flying insect hit the blue filament in the center of the zappers, it would POP! with a loud noise. But every once in a while, something really big would fly into the zapper, and instead of a POP, there would a BANG! that dimmed the lights and sent a big cloud of smoke up into the sky above the zappers. When the men were by themselves, they would bet on whether an insect they saw would be a POP or a BANG. Every once in a while, something really big would fly into the zapper and there would be a shower of sparks, a loud buzz and the zapper would go dead. They had never seen what caused the zappers to die but whatever it was, the electricity didn’t bother it.

  “My garden’s doing real good this year,” Grace bragged. “I got tomaters the size of cantaloupes and green beans as long as your arm.”

  “What did you use for fertilizer?” Jubal asked.

  “Old horse shit.”

  “Can’t use fresh horse shit,” Jubal observed. “It’ll burn your plants.”

  “You always did have a green thumb,” Paxton acknowledged.

  “Old horse shit will grow a big garden for anyone,” Grace said.

  “Son, you want to go down to the lade and do some catfishin’ tonight?”

  “Can’t, Pop. I gotta fix my baler. Damn thing won't kick out the bales and Ernie and his crew are comin' over first thing in the mornin' to cut that alfalfa.”

  “Did you hear about that big catfish, Eric Hanks caught off the landin’? They said it weight 150 pounds.”