Dead South (Mattie O'Malley FBI agent)

by Daniel Adams

  In small towns, the general store is the grocery store, bait and tackle store, hardware store, deli, hunting and gun store, clothing store and gas station all rolled into one. This particular store was big when compared to the average general store. It covered five thousand square feet, had eight gas pumps and boasted the best deli food this side of the Mississippi. Over the years the owner had kept track of what people ordered and what stayed on the shelves forever and had winnowed out the stuff that didn’t sell. As a result, most of the things on his shelves sold quickly. If they could help it, the locals didn’t shop at his store because his prices were very high compared to the big discount stores in Hansville, a town about forty miles east of Kingswood. Problem was when they needed something fast, he was the only game in town. Not only that, his snacks and food were fresher than the big box stores. So, at 1:00 A.M. when the baby needed cough syrup his open 24 hours a day store was a lifesaver even if the bottle of cough syrup was a dollar more than the big stores.

  Mattie didn’t bother looking for the batteries. She asked the bored clerk at the cash register where they were.

  “Second shelf from the top—back wall.”

  As Mattie walked the long walk to the back of the store, she noticed some of the goods that were for sale. She saw fishing poles, guns, rafts, clothing, cook wear, groceries, lanterns, bait, candy and a lot of other stuff. It was really a well-stocked store.

  She found the batteries with ease. Taking off her watch, she read the tiny battery number off of the case. She quickly found the new battery on the display. Package in hand, she hurried toward the front of the store. As luck would have it though, she stopped for a moment to look at blouse. She heard the clerk call a greeting to someone.

  “Hey, Toby, you still a virgin?” Junior Barnes razzed the clerk.

  “Ask your sister,” the clerk quipped, slapping a high five with Leroy. All three of them laughed.

  “Good one,” Leroy exclaimed.

  “We got a load of grass comin’ in Saturday. You want a pound?”

  “How much?” the clerk asked.

  “Two hundred,” Junior Barnes responded.

  “Ok. You gonna bring it over?”

  “Sure, why not,” Junior Barnes replied.

  “We eatin’ free today?” Leroy asked.

  “Sure,” the clerk told him. “My boss ain’t here today. Graze away.”

  Mattie was tuned into the conversation. Moving closer to the front of the store, she peeked around a shelf. She saw a huge Black man and a shorter, stocky White man. Something clicked in her mind. These must be Rafe’s thugs from Atlanta. There couldn’t be two men Leroy’s size in the tiny town. She thought about confronting them about Jenny but decided against it. She didn’t have a shred of hard evidence to connect them to the crime. As she started to turn back to the blouse something happened that could only be Karma.

  “Get me a beer,” Junior Barnes said to Leroy.

  “Check.” Leroy clicked his tongue.

  Recognition flashed instantly across her mind. She knew these two.

  Junior Barnes went to the potato chip rack where he snagged two bags of chips. Opening one of the bags, he stuffed his mouth full of chips. Meanwhile, Leroy went to the beer cooler where he retrieved four bottles of beer. While they were both out of sight, Mattie snuck over to where all of the gardening tools were hung on a wall. Staying low, she grabbed a crowbar off the rack. With the clerk eyeing her suspiciously, and her pressing her finger to her lips, she snuck out of the front door. Hardly had the door closed behind her then Leroy and Junior Barnes returned to the checkout counter.

  After opening their beers, they ate potato chips and swilled beer for a couple of minutes before heading for the exit, Leroy in the lead.

  One step out of the door, Mattie stepped out from behind a display rack. Drawing back the crowbar, she swung it with all of her might at Leroy’s head.

  WHANG!

  The crowbar hit at the base of his neck and he dropped like a rock. Before Junior Barnes could react, she twirled the crowbar around and rammed him in the stomach with it. Potato chips and beer spewed out of him like a fountain. Retching, he grabbed his stomach—gagged—and she hit him on the chin with the crowbar. He was out cold before he landed on top of Leroy.

  Across the street, Sheriff Wilks couldn’t believe his eyes. He ran across the street to where Mattie stood over the two men.

  “Why’d you hit them?” he snapped.

  “These are the two guys who assaulted me at the motel.”

  “You’re sure?” he asked.

  “Positive.”

  Leroy stirred and looked groggily up at the Sheriff.

  “I get hit by a car?” he asked.

  “No, a crowbar. Get up. You’re under arrest.”

  Leroy sat up. When he saw Mattie with the crowbar, his eyes darkened.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  He scrambled to his feet.

  “You dead!” he growled.

  The Sheriff calmly reached for his gun—a move that Leroy knew too well. He knew the Sheriff would shoot him. At his feet, Junior Barnes tried to focus on what was happening.

  “What happened?”

  “Get up,” the Sheriff responded. “You two geniuses are going to jail.”

  “Rafe ain’t gonna like it,” Leroy argued.

  “Tough. Help him up. If you ain’t walkin’ in ten seconds, I’m gonna shoot both of you.”

  Even Mattie knew he would do it. The shooting in Doctor Flint’s office proved it.

  Leroy lifted Junior Barnes to his feet. With the smaller man leaning on him, Leroy steered for the Sheriff’s Office.

  “You could have killed them,” Sheriff Wilks stated.

  “Not with the crowbar,” she said. “With my bare hands, who knows.”

  “I’ll lock ‘em up.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  They parted company.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  After getting her watch battery in, Mattie decided to go back to Doctor Flint’s house to regroup. She needed a couple hours of quiet time to think through everything she had learned. If she was going to solve Paxton’s murder, she needed to put the pieces of the puzzle together. She had several new pieces that might just give her enough solve it. Actually, her conversation with the Sheriff had not gone off as badly as she thought it would. She guessed he had told her the truth about his involvement with Rafe. Just little things. If that was the case, maybe he was an ally. But if he had been at Perkins Landing there was no way she could trust him.

  As she drove along the main street a bright yellow Camaro blew by her like her car was standing still. Curious as to who was driving the Camaro, she tucked her car in behind it and followed it through several neighborhoods. To her surprise, it pulled into the driveway of Grace’s new mansion. Just for the hell of it, Mattie pulled in behind the car.

  A second later Beau climbed out of the car. Seeing her, he drew himself up to his whole five foot five inches and gave her an insolent sneer. As she approached him, he leaned back against the car.

  “What do you want?” he barked.

  She guessed her weighed 155 pounds--not much weight to back up a big mouth.

  “FBI. What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t have to talk to you so why don’t you leave.”

  Mattie was tired of people giving her shit.

  “You’re wrong about that. Put your hands on the car.”

  Beau ignored her order.

  “Bit me, nigger!”

  That did it. She slugged him in the stomach. Not a karate strike, just an ordinary fist to the stomach. As he doubled over, she slammed his head into the trunk of his car.

  WHUMP!

  Down he went, sprawled out like a rag doll.

  She gave him a couple of seconds to recover then hauled him up by his arm.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

  He screamed like a little girl.

  “My arm,” he sobbed.

  Leaning hi
m against the trunk, she lifted his shirtsleeve. Underneath was a white gauze pad held on with tape. She pried up the tape. Underneath the bandage were three bloody holes in his arm. All about the size of bird shot.

  “How did you hurt your arm,” she asked. She knew but she wanted to hear it from him.

  “Ain’t none of your damn business,” he scowled.

  He was a slow learner. He’d been hit in the stomach and his head bounced off the trunk and he still thought he was in charge.

  “You little son of a bitch, you were at Perkins Landing last night. You’re going to jail.”

  He started crying.

  “You can’t prove it,” he sobbed.

  “You’re under arrest. Put your hands behind your back.”

  She turned him around.

  “Wait! Wait! I’m only sixteen. Give me a break.”

  “Like you gave me,” she replied.

  She cuffed one of his wrists, just to let him get a feel of the steel bracelet.

  “Please! Let me go. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  What he didn’t know was that she would have to let him go anyway. He was a juvenile.

  “Were you at Perkins Landing last night?”

  “Yes, but they made me go—to take my dad’s place. I didn’t want to go honest. They said I had to take my dad’s place. See, once your family is in the Klan, you can’t quit.”

  “Where did you get the money for such a nice car?”

  He tried to hold back but saw she wouldn’t let it go.

  “From Grandpa Jubal.”

  That surprised her, considering Jubal’s debt to Rafe.

  “Why would he give you that much money?”

  Beau didn’t want to tell her but he knew she would take him in.

  “ Cause I got something on him.”

  It didn’t surprise her a bit. So, Beau had been blackmailing Jubal.

  “What?”

  Tears started down his cheeks.

  “I can’t—“

  “Kid, I’m losing patience with you. You have five seconds to tell me or you’re going to jail. You pick.”

  It must be something very bad, she thought, something Jubal was willing to pay a blackmailer for.

  “A couple of months ago I came home from school early—“

  He hesitated. She saw his eyes scan the area as if he was going to run.

  “Don’t even think about it. I’ll catch you before you leave the driveway,” she warned.

  --“I caught Grandpa fuckin’ my mom.”

  That shocked her. It would shock anyone. Jubal fucking his own daughter-in-law. Incredible.

  “You’re saying that your grandpa was having sex with your mother—his own daughter-in-law?”

  “Yeah. Every time dad went out on the road, grandpa came over and fucked mom. He did make it right though, he paid her $25.00 every time.”

  “And that makes it right?”

  “I guess.”

  “How long did this go on?”

  “Maybe four or five months,” Beau responded.

  “So, instead of telling your dad about it, you blackmailed Jubal?”

  “I needed the money. It didn’t hurt no one. They was gonna do it whether I knew about it or not.”

  “Do you see how wrong it is for your dad’s father to fuck your dad’s wife?”

  “Somebody had to do it. Dad was gone all the time.”

  “Unfucking believable,” she swore. “Did you know your mother got a four hundred thousand dollar loan from the bank?”

  “Yeah, she gave Grandpa Jubal two hundred and fifty thousand of it.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “She wants Jubal to leave Grandma and marry her. They want to run away to Tahiti and never come back.”

  For an instant a picture of Jubal on the beach in Tahiti flashed through her mind. It was horrible.

  “Kid, you want some advice. Get in your car and drive as far away from this place as you can and don’t ever come back. These people are as screwed up as they come.”

  With that, she went back to her car and drove away. Sometimes when you turn over rocks, there’s nothing there but sometimes there are things you don’t ever want to see. She had rolled over the wrong rock.

  She went right to the Sheriff’s Office. When she walked into the office, Deputy Frank was the only one there.

  “Deputy, do you know where the bedroom slippers are we took from Noonan?”

  “In the evidence room.”

  “Will you get them for me?” She requested.

  “Sure.”

  He was gone several minutes. When he came back he had the slippers in his hand. They were in a clear plastic evidence bag.

  “I need to sign these out so I can send them to the lab.”

  “No problem.” He handed her a document to sign.

  “The Sheriff’s gonna want to know why you took them.”

  “Tell him Jubal stole them from under Noonan’s bed the night Paxton was murdered.”

  “Ok. Oh, by the way, have you seen Deputy Dave?”

  “No, but I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

  With that, she left.

  Outside, she opened the evidence bag and took out the slippers. One look inside the right slipper told her everything she needed to know. She had been right. After putting the evidence bag on the front seat, she opened the trunk. Taking out a pump-action, 12-gauge shotgun, she loaded it with buckshot. Six rounds. Next, she put on her bulletproof vest. Lastly, she put four extra loaded magazines in her pocket along with six extra shotgun shells. She was going to a party.

  Like the Sheriff had told her, she couldn’t miss the KKK Bar. She just drove out of town and about five minutes later, she saw the sign. Actually, if you read the sign it was the KK Bar but she supposed it didn’t matter much to the patrons who probably couldn’t spell that well. As she drove up to the bar she saw it was completely surrounded by pickup trucks. She didn’t see a single car. In most parts of the U.S. the bar would be considered a dive. It was a ramshackle collection of buildings that evidently had been thrown together over the course of many years. The largest building, the one with the sign and the one that seemed to be the front entrance, was in the form of a teepee. It was three stories tall while all of the rest of the buildings were one-story. The bar was surrounded on all sides by forest. The two-lane asphalt road went by one side of the property. She guessed there were at least 200 trucks in the parking lot. That meant at least 200 rednecks and Klansmen inside--good odds for them and bad odds for her.

  She locked the Bu car doors then walked to the front entrance. The music was so loud she could feel her face vibrate with the sound. She checked the shotgun one last time, made sure her pistol was free in the holster and then stepped through the door. The bouncer was the first one to see her. He was a big White man with huge shoulders but when he saw the shotgun in her hands, he quietly disappeared. If the music was loud outside, it was ten times louder inside. Cigarette smoke hung in the air like a fog bank. The bar was laid out in an “L” shape with the small section of the “L” on her right. It ran about 30 feet and then opened into the long section of the “L” which opened into a very big room. The bar ran along the edge of the “L” so it was “L” shaped too. There were at least 30 Klansmen sitting and standing at the bar on the short side of the “L” and another 60 lined up along the long side of the “L.” The rest of the patrons were dancing or where she couldn’t see them. The only women that she could see were the cocktail waitresses who wore skimpy bunny costumes and some local ladies on the dance floor.. From what she could see, most of the waitresses would have looked better in sackcloth and ashes. One of the closer ones to her had to be at least 200 pounds. Of course compared to a lot of the men, she was a tiny thing. Everyone was talking loud, smoking, belting down shine or dancing or just hanging out. It was a boisterous crowd that didn’t know things were about to go south on them.

  Mattie walked into the bar with the sawed off pump shotgun
clamped against her left side with her left index finger on the trigger. Although it looked awkward, it wasn’t. She had practiced the grip many times. It left her right hand free to use her pistol. Unfortunately, because of seeing her quick draw at Doctor Flint’s house, no one was going to be surprised by it. Well, maybe. The music was so loud it drowned out just about everything, She could hardly hear herself think.

  Mattie was halfway along the bar when the bar tender saw her. Inconsequentially, she noticed his name was “Don.” He was a big man with a beer gut, thinning brown hair and a triple chin. His apron was heavy with dirt and grease. It looked like it hadn’t been washed since it was new. She didn’t know it but Don was a big bully. He loved to pick on weak people. When he saw Mattie, he figured he had a victim.

  “Niggers ain’t allowed in here.”

  Mattie gave him a hard look. She wasn’t about to take any bullshit from him.

  “FBI. Turn off the jukebox.”

  “Fuck you, bitch. You don’t give orders here.”

  She swung up the shotgun and blasted the jukebox. Instant silence. With one hand, she jammed a fresh shotgun shell into the shotgun. It was a handy trick to know. Startled by the shotgun’s blast, patrons from all over the bar crowded into the bar area to see what was going on. Most of them were armed with some kind of weapon or another. She saw Jubal, sitting with a bunch of good old boys at a table near the bar.

  “Jubal, you’re under arrest. You can come peacefully or I’ll drag your ass. Your choice.”

  Everyone looked at Jubal then at her. They were astonished that she would have the guts to come into their bar—a lone Black woman with only one gun showing. Several of the men discretely pulled out pistols—just in case. At the bar, a half-dozen rednecks slid off the bar and stepped in front of her. Not one of them weighed less than 300 pounds. They were very sure of themselves—them against a lone, skinny nigger.