Dead South (Mattie O'Malley FBI agent)

by Daniel Adams

  “Can’t, Grace. I got some business to attend to. Maybe tonight.”

  She looked almighty good in her new clothes.

  “Just for a little while. This house is so big and lonely.”

  Jubal glanced around. None of the neighbors could see the front porch.

  “Ok.”

  He entered the house, marveling at the huge living room. He guessed that his entire house would fit in the one room.

  “You want me to show you around?”

  “Some other time.”

  “Come on, I’ll put this in the refrigerator.’

  The kitchen was almost as big as the living room. He watched as she put the casserole in the refrigerator.

  “You been busy?” she asked.

  “Busy enough. Been getting ready for hunting season.”

  “Paxton was talkin’ about bow hunting this year.”

  “Not for me. I can’t hit the broadside of a barn. Say, where’s the kids?”

  “Sent the little shits to day care. I don’t care if I ever see ‘em again.”

  “Ya need any help around the house?” He hoped she said no. He didn’t want to actually have to work.

  “No. I hired it all done.”

  Jubal had a delicate issue to discuss with her.

  “You know the package we talked about. Do you have it?”

  “Sure. I’ll get it.”

  She hurried out of the kitchen. A moment later Beau came in the back door.

  “What are you doin’ here, old man?”

  “Hannah sent over a casserole.”

  Jubal wished he could slap the smirk off Beau’s face. He was deathly tired of the punk kid.

  “That all you came for?” the younger man asked.

  “Don’t get smart or I’ll whup your ass,” Jubal snarled.

  “We’re changin’ our deal. Twenty-five ain’t enough. From now on, it’s a hundred.”

  “You’re out of your mind, Boy. I ain’t got that kind of money.”

  “You can get it.”

  “Don’t push me, Boy, you’re getting too damn greedy.”

  He was ready to grab Beau by the throat and choke the life out of him.

  “Fuck you!” Beau sneered. “Get it or else.”

  He hurried back out the door before Jubal could explode. Jubal knew there was only one way to handle a blackmailer. Soon as he could arrange it, Beau was going to have an accident.

  Grace hurried into the kitchen with a manila envelope in her hand. She gave it to Jubal.

  “Here you go. Oh, and why don’t you and Hannah come over for dinner tonight. I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “You betcha.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Mattie drove back to town in silence. She had just killed three men. Even though they were going to kill her, taking their lives had been the last thing she wanted to do. Had she had even a little more time, she would have considered wounding the men instead of killing them, but with only a second or two until they would have gunned her down, she had had no choice. It was kill or be killed. That didn’t make it any easier. In her mind’s eye she saw each man as her bullet hit him in the heart—the shocked look only moments before they died. The Bureau trained agents to shoot to kill, not wound. There were reasons for this. In a gun battle adrenaline surges through the shooters, causing hands to shake, brains to fog and easy shots to be missed. Mattie had reviewed a major report on officer shootings that showed most bad guys were hit by ricochets off the pavement not by direct fire by the officers. Most shootings occur so spontaneously and quickly that there is little or no time to prepare. As the officer’s gun clears his holster, he is already unconsciously squeezing the trigger, sending bullets into the ground at his feet or into the pavement ahead of him. These just-out-of-the-holster rounds are the ones that usually hit the suspect.

  She parked her car near the back entrance to the Sheriff’s office. She didn’t want to attract any attention, leading Deacon into the jail. People were already paying too much attention to her. Deacon hadn’t said a single word on the drive back to town. He was most likely thinking about how he could stay alive once Rafe found out what he’d told Mattie, she thought. On this point she was right. Deacon knew his chances of survival were nonexistent unless he could somehow convince Rafe that she had tortured him. His ear was a pretty good indication he wasn’t lying. He was going to ask Sheriff Wilks to take a picture of him before he cleaned all of the blood off of his face and ear. He knew the wound looked a lot worse than it was which was perfect. Deacon also was afraid of Mattie although he would never admit it to anyone. Her lightning fast draw had him spooked. It just wasn’t natural for someone to move that fast. Even though his three men had been experienced gun hands, she had shot all three of them before they could get off a shot. It made him shiver.

  Mattie scanned the area around the car to see if anyone was watching her. Not seeing anyone, she got out of the car and stretched. Going around the car, she opened the door for Deacon. It took a lot of effort for the big man to extricate himself from her car.

  “If you try to run or cause a fuss, I’ll shoot you,” she warned.

  “Just get me inside,” he replied.

  Grabbing Deacon’s arm, Mattie headed for the back door. They were halfway there when someone yelled.

  “Hey, you, FBI, I want to talk to you.”

  She turned to see Jubal heading toward her. Behind him a bunch of the town loafers lined up on the sidewalk. They wanted to see Jubal knock Mattie down to size. Since Jubal outweighed her by 200 pounds, she didn’t have a chance. If she gave him any guff, he would crush her like a grape.

  “You’ll have to wait. I have to book my prisoner.”

  Jubal had worked himself up to a sullen rage. He didn’t give a damn about her prisoner.

  “Hell, I will. I ain't gonna stand by while you screw up the case against Noonan. He killed my boy--in cold blood--and now you're stirrin' things up--confusin' people--makin' them think that somebody else done it.”

  Jubal faced off in front of Mattie, his face only a couple of inches from her face.

  “This isn't the place to talk about it. You want to wait while I book my prisoner, then I'll talk to you.” Losing her temper wasn’t an option. She kept cool.

  With Deacon in front of her, she angled toward the rear door. If she could make it to the back door, she could avoid the confrontation with Jubal. She had only taken two steps when she felt him grab her shoulder. A very bad move. With almost inhuman speed, she whirled, grabbed his hand in a Judo hold and jammed it up behind his back. Spinning him around, she slammed him into the back of a nearby police car.

  THUMP!

  Using all of her strength, she shoved upwards on his arm.

  “If you touch me again, I’ll break your fucking arm,” she snarled. “You got it?”

  Jubal didn’t have it.

  “Let go of me!” he bellowed. He tried to use his weight to twist away from her but she held firm.

  “Let go of me, PLEASE,” she said.

  With his arm held tight Jubal was pretty much out of options. He did a backwards kick that missed her by a mile. She tweaked his arm.

  “Say it!” she commanded.

  He took a swing at her with his other arm.

  “Say it!” she said.

  Jubal finally saw the light. He wasn’t going to intimidate her.

  “Please.” He whispered. He didn’t want his friends to see him beg.

  She let go of his arm. He cradled it like it was going to fall off.

  “If you want to talk to me, come back in half an hour,” she told him.

  “I’m done talkin’, nigger. Noonan ain’t getting’ off cause of you. He killed my boy and he’s gonna pay.”

  Jubal walked away, heading for his friends.

  “You must want to die young,” Deacon observed. “That man’s big in the Klan. If you stay, they’re gonna fry you like a trout.”

  “He’s just blowing off steam,” she co
untered. “He’ll cool down.”

  “He will—after you’re dead,” Deacon stated coldly.

  Inside she found Deputy Dave sitting at his desk, reading a magazine. When he saw Mattie and Deacon, he leaped to his feet.

  “Sheriff!” he called.

  Sheriff Wilks hurried out of his office. He tried to hide it but he was shocked to see Deacon and Mattie.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “I need him locked up.”

  She sat Deacon down in the chair next to Deputy Dave’s desk.

  “What for?”

  She sat down in a nearby chair. She was tired.

  “Murder—attempted murder.”

  “Whoa now. Who did he murder?”

  “Dewey Young. Deacon and his men cooked him in the still.”

  “I’ll be damned. What’s this all about, Deacon?”

  Mattie found it interesting that Sheriff Wilks asked a murder suspect what had happened rather than the FBI agent who had brought him in. It made her wonder which side of the law Sheriff Wilks was on.

  “I wants a lawyer. I ain’t saying nothin’ more.”

  “You better send the Coroner up there. Tell him to take four body bags.”

  Sheriff Wilks couldn’t hide the astonishment on his face.

  “Four!” he said sharply.

  “Dewey and three of Deacon’s men. They tried to shoot it out with me but they were too slow.”

  Sheriff Wilks looked at Dave. “Put him in a cell,” he said.

  Deputy Dave took Deacon back into the cell area.

  “When you stir up things, you really stir hard,” Sheriff Wilks said.

  “Only way I know to go,” she replied.

  Mattie needed to sleep. The rush of adrenaline had given way to the tremendous fatigue that comes after the adrenaline is gone. Leaning back in the chair, she closed her eyes.

  “I talked to Gus Kirkland. My gut feeling is he didn’t kill Paxton—not because he wasn’t going to—he was ready—but because his truck broke down.”

  “How do you know his truck was broken down?”

  “Because I told him how to fix it.”

  “You?” he snorted.

  “Me. My dad started me fixing cars when I was nine.”

  “I knew Gus didn’t do it.”

  “He thinks Deacon did it--Deacon thinks maybe it was Rafe. I'm sort of leaning toward Rafe myself. I think that Dewey Young's death is somehow related to Paxton's. Deacon doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to put someone in a still. I think he’s too smart for that. I don’t know about Rafe.”

  “Course you don’t have any evidence against Rafe, right?”

  “That’s right, but I have time to find it. You know, when I drove down main street this morning, I saw Grace Flatt moving into one of those big houses. What's that all about?”

  The Sheriff wasn’t surprised which meant he already knew it. What she found surprising was that the Sheriff knew just about everything else, but nothing about Rafe.

  “Paxton drove truck. He had life insurance through the company. Grace was the beneficiary.”

  The insurance money explained everything but one thing.

  “How did she get the money so fast. I’ve never heard of anyone getting their money so fast. Two days?”

  “I heard she got a loan against it from the bank.”

  “Who runs the bank?”

  “A woman named Mia Clagg,” he responded.

  “How much was the policy?”

  “One million dollars,” he grimaced. “She’ll blow it all in a year or less.”

  He was probably right. With no one to guide her and no experience, she would probably blow all of the money. It was sad.

  “Guess I better talk to Mia.”

  The Sheriff laughed. “Be sure to wear steel shorts when you do?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Ok. What about Sarah Davis?”

  Sheriff Wilks studied her before replying.

  “What do you want with Sarah?”

  “Deacon said he was at her place all night the night Paxton was killed. She’s his alibi. I’m guessing but she’s Black, right?”

  “That’s a fact. What’s strange is she owns the Triple K bar but she can’t drink there because it’s Klan.”

  “Nothing surprises me about this place. So, where is the Triple K?”

  “It’s out on Route 17 about a mile out of town. You can’t miss it. Klan’s there just about 24/7.”

  “Except Sunday morning when they’re in church,” she joked.

  He laughed then turned serious.

  “You need to watch your back. You’ve made a lot of enemies.”

  “You know what they say. Welcome to Alabama.”

  She started to get up then remembered something.

  “Do you have time to bring me up to speed on something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Until I got here, I thought moonshining died out in the Thirties. Am I in some sort of time warp or is moonshining in vogue again?”

  “Moonshining never stopped. It just went deep undercover. After the Thirties, people quit talking about it so it disappeared from the national conscious. But in the South, it kept on going strong. People around here have been moonshining for ten generations. The only difference now is there are fewer moonshiners and the ones that are still in the business have big operations. The Mob controls most of the really big stills. The problem is that in order to make money, you have to be bankrolled by someone with deep pockets. There are three major stills in this county. All of them are controlled by one man.”

  “Rafe Cummings.”

  “That’s right. Rafe has a lot of money so he can keep the stills in supplies. That’s what’s critical. Most of the smaller stills sold out to him because they couldn’t afford corn.”

  “Who buys it—I mean besides the locals?”

  “Most of it goes back east to bars that sell shots of moonshine for a buck.”

  Mattie thought about it a moment.

  “That doesn’t seem like a good deal. You can drink a shot of legal stuff for a buck.”

  “A gallon of shine sells for $20. A gallon is roughly 85 shots. So, the bar owner makes $65 on each gallon he sells. They got all kinds of names for the shine. Sunshine. Georgia Moon. The moonshiner makes it for about $4 a gallon so he makes $16 a gallon. Not bad for setting up a boiler in the woods. Problem is, a pick-up load of shine has probably around 200 gallons so a load is worth $3,200. That’s good money but not worth hauling it from here to New York.”

  “So how does it get there?”

  “Tractor trailer loads. That’s where the big money is. You figure 7,000 gallons times $16 and you’re looking at some serious money.”

  “So, if Rafe sends two truckloads a week, he’s making a quarter of a million dollars”

  “Yep.”

  “But what legit bars in New York would sell illegal liquor?”

  “The Mob has set up a bunch of non-licensed bars called nip joints or shot joints. All they sell is shots of shine. If they get raided, they just go somewhere else.”

  “I hate to ask. How many truckloads does Rafe send a week?

  The Sheriff hesitated. Blabbing any of Rafe’s business often came with a hefty price tag, usually a quiet piece of swampland to call your own.

  “Six.”

  “Wow! That’s over a half a million dollars a week.”

  “That’s why moonshining is still around. It always has been big money.”

  Mattie didn’t go back to the motel. She knew better. Instead, she drove to Doctor Flint’s house where she found him finishing up with his last patient. After helping him clean up, they went to the living quarters behind the clinic. Since she didn’t cook, he whipped up some spaghetti and meatballs that they downed in short order. As soon as they washed up the dishes, they retired to the living room for wine and good music. They both sat on the floor with their backs against the sofa. The
mood was very mellow. With their wine glasses in hand, they listened to a couple of songs in quiet reverie, neither one wanting to break the spell that held them together.

  Outside, in the darkness next to the bushes, the peeper watched the couple with lust in his heart. From his vantage point he could see Mattie’s shapely figure and occasionally when she bent forward, he was rewarded with a glimpse of her breast. He leaned closer to the window, his eyes focused on her. If he played his cards right, he might just get a little of that.

  “I don’t know why you stay here, John. A doctor with your talents could find a job anywhere. I’ve only been here a couple of days and if I have to stay much longer, I’m going to slit my wrists.”

  John took a long sip of wine before he replied.

  “I worked at one of the most prestigious hospitals in the world. The pay was good, the hours reasonable, it was a great life. But I got bored. Everything was so organized and regulated that by the time I saw a patient, he was nothing but a name on a chart. It was like being a worker on an assembly line. The patients came in, I diagnosed them, they left, and I never saw them again. So, I quit. Then one day I happened to see an ad in one of the medical journals for a town that needed a doctor. I came here for a visit and decided that this is what I wanted to do. I thrive on challenges.”

  “It’s a challenge just to get people to bathe. It’s a challenge to get them to eat right. It’s a challenge to get them to brush their teeth. It’s a challenge to get them not to drink that rotgut shine. How many challenges do you need?”

  “You get used to it. You just have to lower your expectations or not have any at all.”

  “Expectations of what? Do you think you can change anything? This town isn’t going to change. They have no reason to change. They are content with the way it is. It hasn’t changed since the Civil War.”

  Without saying anything, he kissed her. It was supposed to be a short kiss but it changed into a long, passionate kiss with a lot of groping. Being a doctor, he knew just where the hot spots were.

  “You won’t believe some of the home remedies and backwoods myths I’ve heard.”