Dead South (Mattie O'Malley FBI agent)

by Daniel Adams

  Where the road started down a long slope to the river, she saw Paxton’s place a mile or two ahead of her. She wasn’t sure who would be there. She knew Paxton had been married and had a couple of kids. What she didn’t know was what her reception would be. Paxton had been Klan, which meant the odds were good his wife shared his views. Hell, for all she knew, a dozen Klansmen were at Paxton’s place comforting his widow. It was going to be interesting.

  She parked her car in the driveway near the house. When she exited her car, she saw a truck parked on the side of the house. It was either painted brown or it had been driven through enough mud to cover up its original color. Her best guess was that it had once been white. As she walked to the door, two big mongrel hound dogs came baying across the yard. They weren’t a threat just LOUD. Five seconds later three more dogs joined them. It was bedlam. With the noisy dogs milling around her, she knocked on the door. A moment later, a woman looked out at her through the dirty screen door.

  “Hello, I’m Mattie O’Malley, FBI,” she said, extending her badge. “Are you Paxton’s wife?”

  Her name was Grace Flatt. One thing stuck out in your mind when you first met her. She was smoking a big, green cigar.

  “Shut up, you mother fuckers!” she screamed.

  It was all Mattie could do not to cover her ears. Grace’s strident voice could cut plate steel.

  Discouraged, most of the dogs wandered away. It was quiet except for the ringing in her ears from Grace’s scream.

  “Yeah, I’m Grace. What do you want?”

  “I’m investigating the death of your husband. Can I ask you a few questions?”

  Opening the screen door, Grace hawked a huge globe of spit into the face and eyes of a hound dog that had been too slow to leave. With a howl, the dog spun around and ran away.

  “Get out of here you son of a bitch!” Grace screeched after him.

  This time, Mattie couldn’t help it. She clapped her hands over her ears. She was afraid Grace would be offended but it didn’t seem to bother her.

  “What’s to investigate?” she snapped. “That bastard Noonan killed him.”

  Mattie heard some kids yelling somewhere inside the house. Didn’t anyone at the Flatt house talk in normal tones?

  “There’s going to be a trial and we’re going to have to prove that Noonan did it. If we don’t prepare our case right, Noonan might get off and we don’t want that, do we?”

  Grace hawked another big globe of spit that took a butterfly off a dandelion flower.

  “You see that?” Grace asked. “Bet none of you city slickers can do that.”

  “Very impressive,” Mattie said.

  “You think Noonan’s gonna get off?”

  “No, but we have to be prepared. Can I come in? It would be easier to take notes at the dining table.”

  With a loud crack, Grace yanked the screen door shut.

  “Ask your questions out here. We ain’t never had no nigger in the house.”

  Mattie was seething but kept her cool.

  “I understand. We had the same rule about ignorant White trash.”

  Not quite sure what Mattie meant, Grace gave her an evil glance.

  Mattie opened a little notebook.

  “Do you know why Paxton and Noonan argued at Willow Bend?”

  “Why does it matter? There was always bad blood between ‘em.”

  Grace lit up the cigar and blew a huge stream of smoke through the screen door. Now Mattie knew why it was so dirty. She stepped to one side to dodge the smoke.

  “Any particular reason for the bad blood?”

  “Years ago, Noonan sold my husband a lame horse. Paxton got even by burning down Noonan’s barn. They have been feudin’ ever since.”

  None of it made any sense to Mattie. She understood the words but the mentality behind them totally escaped her. Burning down a barn because of a lame horse seemed excessive. She figured a lame horse was a couple of hundred bucks. As for the barn, it had to be thousands of dollars. Maybe she would have Doctor Wilson explain it to her.

  “Last night, did you hear anything suspicious—a car—voices—shots?”

  “Usually the damn dogs wake me up if anything happens, but that night, I didn’t hear a peep out of them. Guess I was sleeping too good.”

  Four very grubby children, ranging in age from three to ten, ran out of the house, screaming at the top of their lungs. One kid was in front and the other ones were chasing him—not really him so much as the dead puppy he was pulling on a short cord. The ones chasing the puppy had sticks that they used to whack the corpse. Stepping aside, Mattie watched as the kids ran around the corner of the house.

  “Mam, that puppy was dead,” she exclaimed.

  “Do tell?” Ya think I’m blind. Course it’s dead. Paxton shot it. Damn kids wouldn’t keep it out of the house. They’ll get rid of it when it starts to stink.”

  Mattie was at a complete loss of words. She couldn’t believe anyone could be as ignorant as to let their kids play with a dead puppy. She had seen things that shocked her, things that offended here and things she found downright disgusting, but never all three at once.

  “You don’t think it’s strange that they’re playing with a dead puppy?”

  “Ain’t hurtin’ nothin’. The puppy don’t care.”

  Mattie had had enough. She had reached her breaking point. She just didn’t care what would happen. She had something to say.

  “Maybe you can bring Paxton home from the morgue for a couple of days and let them drag him around.”

  “GET OFF MY PROPITY!” Grace screeched. She slammed the door so hard it broke off one hinge.

  Turning, Mattie headed for the barn. As she neared it she noticed a shed against the west side of the ramshackle structure. Like the barn, it was only a stiff breeze away from total collapse. With one eye out for Grace and a shotgun, Mattie opened the shed door. It was dark inside. She took her key ring out of her pocket. On it was a tiny flashlight for just such occasions. She played the light back and forth across the inside of the shed. It contained one thing. Moonshine. Crates and crates of it. She had stumbled on to Paxton’s two loads of stolen moonshine. Parked next to the crates of booze was Paxton’s old truck. It was still partially loaded with crates. She opened the driver’s side door. Instantly her nostrils were hit by a wall of stale body odor. She stepped back, her hand covering her mouth and nose.

  She waited five minutes before the smell had dissipated enough for her to search the truck. She went over every square inch of the interior. She found a .22 caliber Derringer, a bottle of shine and a rusty pocketknife under the seat. The floor was covered with fast food boxes, pop cans, leaves and other debris. She thought she had struck out until she looked behind the seat. Hung up on the frame was a pair of women’s panties. Mattie bagged them then finished her search without finding anything else. As she walked by the rear of the truck, she picked a bottle out of a crate. Gingerly, she took a swig—gagged—dropped the bottle. It felt like liquid fire burning down to her stomach. From this incident she learned a valuable lesson. She couldn’t hold her liquor.

  Several miles away, Sheriff Wilks pulled over a car on a deserted stretch of road. It wasn’t a random stop. He knew Dusty Pew was alone in the vehicle. Sheriff Wilks had chosen this spot to pull him over for two reasons; very few people drove this particular section of highway and it was surrounded by thick woods which gave Sheriff Wilks the privacy he needed to conduct his field interrogation. Dusty knew it was Sheriff Wilks behind him. Getting out of his car, he walked back to the patrol car, stopping just off of the left fender. Sheriff Wilks stuffed his baton in its holder then stepped out of the patrol car.

  “Why’d you pull me over?” Dusty asked. He was thirties, pudgy, had thinning brown hair and wore slacks and a white shirt.

  “You was speeding,” Sheriff Wilks told him.

  “Couldn’t have been more than a mile or two over,” Dusty objected. “I’m real careful to drive the speed limit.”


  Sheriff Wilks pointed with his nightstick. “You got a tail light out, too.” When he turned to look at the taillight, Sheriff Wilks hit him hard behind the ear. Dusty dropped like a sack of potatoes. Before he could blink, Sheriff Wilks was on him. With the skill of a master craftsman, Sheriff Wilks beat him up one side and down the other. Dusty squalled the first few hits but just blubbered after that. Sheriff Wilks worked him over a good five minutes before he stopped. Red welts covered Dusty’s exposed flesh. Grabbing his arms, Sheriff Wilks pulled Dusty over on to the grass next to the road. Dusty didn’t fight back. He just groaned. Sheriff Wilks put Dusty in a chokehold, with the baton under his chin.

  “I heard you poisoned Big Blue—won yourself a lot of money,” Sheriff Wilks said.” Sheriff Wilks choked him harder. “That don’t go in my county, Boy. Not gonna have that kind o’ cheatin’. No, sirree Bob.”

  Sheriff Wilks let up on the chokehold. Dusty coughed, retched and gulped for air.

  “Don’t hurt me no more,” Dusty pleaded.

  Sheriff Wilks whacked him on the side of the knee, a blow that hurt like hell but left little bruising.

  “You ain’t even beginnin’ to hurt, Boy.”

  “Didn’t—poison—Big—Blue,” he gasped.

  Sheriff Wilks had given himself ten minutes to take care of Dusty. He figured no one would drive by in ten minutes but after that, anything could happen.

  “You’re lyin’, Boy.”

  Sheriff Wilks snapped his baton into Dusty’s other knee. Dusty screamed with pain.

  “Owww. No more, Sheriff, I swear I ain’t lyin’.”

  “You gotta do better than that.”

  He choked Dusty a little longer. As he let go of the baton, he glanced at his watch. Two minutes to go.

  “I heard—talk—don’t know about—it. People—was—sayin’ it’s one—of the—hands.”

  “Who?”

  “Ain’t heard—no name—honest, Sheriff. I’d tell—ya if I knew.”

  Sheriff Wilks pulled Dusty to his feet. Dusted him off. Leaned him against the patrol car. He liked Dusty. They’d had coffee together a couple of times. As a matter of fact, they had gone deer hunting together the previous fall. Dusty had invited him and a half dozen local businessmen to his cabin up in the hills. They’d had a lot of fun. Dusty provided everything. Booze. Food. Women. But Rafe’s business trumped their friendship.

  “I find out you lied to me, I’m gonna feed you to the gators, Boy.”

  “I didn’t poison Big Blue. I just run my horse for fun. I don’t need the money. You check, you’ll find out I bet on Big Blue and my horse.”

  “We’ll see. Now beat it.”

  Without looking back, Dusty drove away.

  Sheriff Wilks leaned against the hood of his patrol car. He knew Dusty wasn’t lying. He hadn’t poisoned Big Blue. Dusty was too soft to take a beating. He had coughed up everything he knew after only a few hits from the baton. Some people were like that. Soft on the outside and soft on the inside. Mattie on the other hand would probably take a beating and come back for more. Sheriff Wilks knew people and Mattie struck him as one tough cookie. When Jubal and his gang came for Noonan, she had stepped up like a man unlike Clyde who had hung back and waited to see which side won. She had been quick with the gun—very quick—but he was sure that if it had turned into a brawl, she would have held her own against men twice her size. Unknown to anyone in Kingswood, Sheriff Wilks was a Black belt in Karate. He never used it so that anyone would recognize what he was doing. Something about the way Mattie walked told him she was into Karate or some other form of unarmed combat. Maybe Judo or Kung Fu. She didn’t put her weight down on her feet. He’d noticed that right away. Instead, she floated when she walked—not really floated but it was the best way he could describe it. If he was right, and any of the Klan picked a fight with her, they would deeply regret it. The other thing about her he liked was how quick she made decisions. Almost as fast as him. She made a decision and stuck with it.

  Going over to the grass, he wiped Dusty’s blood off of the baton.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After Mattie left Paxton’s place, she drove back to Kingswood in her Bureau car. She only saw one other car on her way back to town. And she didn’t see one single farmer or hand in the fields. Or equipment. Where were they, she wondered. Did everyone go fishing or to a bar? Or did the fields just operate on autopilot until harvest time? It was a mystery to her. The more she didn’t see anyone, the more she watched. All in all she was very perplexed. On the outskirts of town she saw a fruit stand that was open for business. She slowed to a stop in front of it. An old man in bib overalls and two weeks of gray beard stood behind a counter full of corn, watermelons and cantaloupes. As she got closer she saw his shirt was crusty with dirt and sweat. Had she been ordering food, she would have turned around and left but personal hygiene didn’t matter much to a watermelon. She could wash it off at the motel.

  “I want a good, ripe watermelon,” she said.

  “I knew that soon as I saw you,” he replied. “You’re that FBI lady that fast drawed Jubal. I heard ‘bout that. Give you a free—“

  He never got the words out because he was looking into the barrel of Mattie’s 9MM Glock. She had drawn her pistol so fast it appeared it had magically jumped into her hand.

  “Mother fuck!” he exclaimed. He was shocked. He had heard how fast she was and now he had seen it—not actually seen it because it was too fast for the human eye to follow.

  “Pick me out a good one, gramps,” she said. She holstered the pistol.

  “Holy shit! Reaching under the counter, he brought out a beautiful melon.

  “Best one I got,” he said, handing it to her.

  “Let me ask you something, Pops? Where is everybody? I haven’t seen a single person in the fields.”

  “Farmin’ don’t make much money any more so they got to work at jobs to take up the slack. Most of ‘em work at the stills. They get home around 4 or 5 and then do their farm work.”

  “Why aren’t you working at a still?”

  “Don’t need to cause I make enough off of this fruit stand.”

  “How’s the corn?”

  “Wouldn’t sell it to anybody I liked. Its feed corn. Tough as rawhide. You could break a tooth on it.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Elmer Lake.”

  “I’m Mattie O’Malley.” She didn’t offer to shake. He did. They shook hands.

  “First time I ever touched a nigger,” he said.

  “You know what’s under this black skin?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Same thing that’s under your white skin. Muscle. Bone. Blood. You see what I’m saying?”

  “You’re sayin’ we’re the same?”

  “Something like that. Thanks for the melon, I gotta go.”

  “I’m gonna tell everyone you was here.”

  “Better be careful. The Klan hears that and they might burn your house down.”

  He looked at her with amused eyes. “Hon, I am the Grand Wizard of the Kingswood Klan. Nobody’s gonna burn me out.”

  Ten minutes later, she spotted Sheriff Wilk’s patrol car parked on a street next to a park. It was a large park with a nice lake. There were a couple of canoes out on the water. What was great about the park was the huge trees that towered over most of the land. After locking her car, she walked through the park to see if she could find the Sheriff. Five minutes later, she found him near the lake where he was frisking a vagrant who didn’t seem very happy about the whole procedure. As she got closer, she saw the vagrant was a huge man who stood at least six feet eight inches tall. She guessed him to be at least two hundred and sixty pounds, which meant he outweighed Sheriff Wilks by at least forty pounds. How the Sheriff had managed to cuff the tough-looking vagrant was beyond her.

  “Need any help?” she asked.

  He had seen her coming. “I got it,” he said. “Waldo here just decided to leave town. Doesn’t like
it here any more.”

  Sheriff Wilks helped Waldo to his feet. Waldo was a little unsteady on his feet. Mattie didn’t have to guess why. The imprint of Sheriff Wilks’ baton was clearly visible slightly below Waldo’s right temple.

  “What did Waldo do?” she asked.

  “Waldo urinated into the town lake which is where I catch the bass I eat,” the Sheriff explained. “Which way do you want to go, Waldo, north or south?”

  “North.”

  “You want to come along to the city line?” Sheriff Wilks looked questioningly at her.

  “Why not.”

  They walked in the general direction of Sheriff Wilks’ patrol car.

  “So, where you from Waldo?” she asked.

  “Detroit.” Waldo was a man of few words.

  “What are you doing down here?”

  “Looking for work. I heard there was jobs.”

  “Only jobs around here are at the stills,” Mattie told him.

  Sheriff Wilks looked at her with surprise in his eyes.

  “Where’d you here that?” Sheriff Wilks asked.

  “From Elmer Lake. He wants me to come to the next Klan meeting and give some pointers on race relations,” she deadpanned.

  It took Sheriff Wilks a moment to get that she was joking.

  “That’s funny,” he said but his eyes weren’t laughing.

  “Did you play pro ball?” Mattie queried Waldo.

  “Four years for the Miami Dolphins. Inside tackle.”

  Sheriff Wilks stopped. “I remember you. You got your knee blown out. Walton. Jim Walton. That’s right. They called you Waldo.”