by John Farris
"Who he brought back to the farm with him, after which there was considerable commotion going on. Did you hear your hounds?"
"I was sound asleep. I'd read the papers, had a couple of whiskies—"
"A hunting man knows the voices of his dogs, Mr. Howard. They wake him from his deepest dreams. No matter how tired or drunk he is."
Culverhouse said sharply, "Mr. Howard was not drunk."
"Yet he claims to have slept through the night totally unaware of what, according to Giles's confession, must have been one hellacious uproar on his farm."
Leland said, "You have no idea how exhausted—"
"I lost both of my parents several years ago. A drawn-out death for my mother. It was an ordeal, and I certainly sympathize with you in your time of grief. But I don't believe your story. I don't believe this confession either. I do have reason to believe you went to Mally Shaw's house last Saturday night. Giles won't give you up, because what good does that do him? He's going back for a full stretch anyhow—"
Culverhouse stiffened and lit into Bobby with his eyes. That cooking-the-goose radiance he employed to finish off a flummoxed witness.
"Mr. Howard does not have to deal with any more of your questions or your allegations!"
"No, he doesn't. He's here voluntarily."
"Then if there is nothing else, we will be leaving, sir."
"Just one more thing, and thank y'all for your time," Bobby said. He looked thoughtfully at Howard. "You were at one time employed by your father's bank?"
Howard was half out of his chair. He sat down again, reluctantly.
"Yes. In the trust department."
"Uh-huh. Well, I was wondering if you could tell me"—Bobby rolled back in his chair far enough to pull open the middle desk drawer; he took out a manila key envelope, opened it, shook out a little fine ash along with a blackened steel key onto his desk blotter—"what this looks like to you, Mr. Howard."
No one but Bobby could see Leland's reaction. A puzzled moment, a flash of apprehension, a tightening of the bold blue eyes.
"It's a—yeah, could be a safe-deposit-box key."
"We found the key this morning while sifting through the remains of Mally Shaw's burned-out house. Burned out by some Molotov cocktails, according to Chief Sheffer." Bobby tapped a finger on the papers to one side of his blotter. "I wonder why that wasn't in Giles's confession too?"
"Sir, do I need to remind you—"
"Hold on, Mr. Culverhouse," Bobby said, not looking at him. All of his attention was on Leland. "Only one bank in town since Farmers and Merchants closed up shop. Then it's likely, don't you think, that this key is to a box at West State Bank? You can still make out the number on it if you care to have a closer look."
Leland shook his head slightly. He wiped at perspiration in the hollows beneath his eyes.
"I gave Joe Rollander at the bank a call about an hour ago," Bobby said. "Mally never had an account at West State, and she didn't have a safe-deposit box either. The same was true of her late husband, William. So if this is a key from your, I mean your daddy's bank, wonder how it happened to turn up where we found it? In the morning I'll obtain a court order—justified by the suspicious nature of the fire that destroyed Mally's home—and we'll find out who rented the box and have a look at the contents."
Leland nodded as if he'd been asked a question, but there was a tragic vacancy in his eyes for a few moments until Gipson Culverhouse gripped him by the shoulder from behind.
"We're finished here."
No one else spoke. Leland rose from his chair. J. B. Garretson coughed into his fist. Bobby, still watching Leland, put the key back into the envelope.
"Thank you, Mr. Howard. That is all I need from you. For now. Mr. Culverhouse, gentlemen—a pleasure."
Leland turned to look at his lawyer. He had the expression of someone trying to turn on the energy, rev up the manly confidence, the flair, that championship swagger. Reporters were waiting, and in tomorrow's press he would be absolved of any possible wrongdoing in Mally Shaw's death. But the smile he had for Gipson Culverhouse failed with a tremor, like the exhausted wings of a dying moth. Culverhouse's controlling hand slid down Leland's sleeve to his elbow. Before walking his client out of the office, he looked once more at Bobby with his own smile, lean and respectful, no more patronizing amiability for a hick deputy. He nodded. Bobby nodded back.
When they had all cleared out Garretson said to Bobby, "Your Daddy could do that."
"Do what?" Bobby said, bouncing the lightweight envelope and key in the palm of one hand, smiling abstractedly.
"Turn loose hell with your stare." Garretson took a sack of tobacco from his shirt pocket to roll one, ambled over to peer like an owl at the seat of the chair Leland Howard had occupied. "Like that cowboy actor he resembled, you know, Tim McCoy."
"What are you thinking about, J. B.?"
The deputy looked up from the chair seat. "Well, now, ol' Leland went out of here looking like Mr. Soft Cock in a bedful of naked Miss Americas. Thought he might have left his balls behind."
"He didn't have any when he walked in," Bobby said. "Something's eating him real bad, and I don't mean Mally Shaw. He's got moral termites. You can smell 'em before you see 'em."
Mary Wingfield's voice came over the intercom.
"Bobby, line two. It's the hospital."
Alex Gambier didn't know beans about women's clothes. The dress he eventually picked out for Mally to wear that night looked very nice to him. It wasn't silk; the department store on Courthouse Square didn't carry anything that expensive. But it was tomato red with hem- and neckline ruffles in a darker shade of red. And an extra helping of high style, as the shopgirl helpfully pointed out to Alex, were sparkly little mirrors of assorted sizes called pailettes. The shopgirl, Sylvia Blocker, a first cousin of Francie Swift's, said she wished they'd gotten in that dress in her size. She was a fourteen.
"Fall off your bike?" Sylvia asked Alex, looking again at the bandage over his ears and Mercurochromed scratches like warpaint on his face and neck.
Alex selected the dress in Cecily's size and charged it. He thought Mally and Cecily were about the same size. After Mally wore the dress tonight for her—what had she called it?—rendezvous, Bobby could give it to Cece later on as an anniversary present.
He watched Leland Howard's press conference on the courthouse walk through a front window of Dunkel's with a headache that was bad enough to occasionally blur his vision. He had used much of his low store of energy just hitching a ride into town. It felt like time to escape the heat, lie down, go to sleep. Yawn. For hours. The store manager's office would be vacant for the rest of the afternoon. No one at Dunkel's would mind if he stretched out on the deep red leather couch there.
But Mally wasn't having any of that. Her reflection right alongside his in Dunkel's window. Reminding him. He needed to write that all-important letter first.
You could bet she would nag him gently until he did.
Then it ought to be okay to get some rest before nightfall. Getting out to Cole's Crossing before the Dixie Traveler passed would be difficult without his bike.
A reporter from the Chattanooga Times asked Leland, "Are you planning on hiring any more ex-convicts to work for you?"
Leland didn't like his tone but gave the question grave consideration as he paused to brush perspiration from his eyelashes. Hell apparently had rented Evening Shade for the day.
One eyelid wouldn't stop its crazed twitching. He soothed it with a fingertip, looking up at the sky with its glare and wisps of clouds that held no promise of rain.
"In spite of the tragic and unforeseen events of the past few days, I think it is important for us all not to lose faith—in our system of justice and in our fellow man. Mr. Giles served eight years for the crime of manslaughter, and during that time he was considered to be a model prisoner. I had every reason to believe his rehabilitation was complete"—Goddamn that fucking eye!—"and therefore had no hesitation in providing him with a job as my ch
auffeur on the campaign trail, a first step toward regaining his dignity and usefulness as a member of society." Tears and perspiration crawling down his cheeks together with a couple of green flies sailing around his head as if he were a foundered horse gave Leland the heebie-jeebies. "To answer your question: Yes, I would hire another parolee from our state's excellent prison system. Let us nuh-never forget that acceptance of, and forgiveness for, another man's failings is—it's the heart and soul of a civilized community."
"That's all for today, gentlemen," Gipson Culverhouse said.
It had been a mistake to order the fried-egg sandwich. After three bites Leland excused himself from the large booth at the rear of the Hob-Nob Cafe, went into the men's room with sweat all over him cold as mercury and the eye still twitching. He puked up his guts. It put a strain on his heart. Head down, he hung by his widespread hands in the stall crucifixion-style until Culverhouse sent Ray Villapando in to check on him.
"I'm not feeling so hot," Leland said. "Need to lie down. Have them cancel Murfreesboro tonight; I can't take another Goddamn county fair. And would you drive me up to my farm?"
They were walking through the nearly empty cafe, Leland in front, when he almost bumped into Bobby Gambier, who had just come in.
"You don't look so chipper, Mr. Howard."
"Yes, I know, it's the heat."
"Floyd Smart told me I'd probably find y'all in here. I have some news."
"Good or bad?" Leland attempted a smile. He just wanted Bobby to get out of his way.
"Depends on your point of view. James Giles killed himself this afternoon over at the community hospital."
Leland put a hand on the edge of the lunch counter. "What? How?"
"He managed to move himself enough in the bed to get his hand on the fan cord. Put it in his mouth and chewed until he electrocuted himself."
The others in the back of the cafe had their heads up. Listening.
"Good God. James. What a terrible end to—"
"If you could provide me with the name of his next of kin."
"There's a sister he mentioned. But I don't know anything about him really." The motion of overhead fan paddies repeated in a tinted mirror behind the counter matched the speed of Leland's heart.
"Well, we should be able to track somebody down might be willing to spring for the burial."
"That's all right. I mean I'll—take care of it. The expenses. Now if you'll excuse me—August, sweet Jesus. August won't let you breathe in these parts."
"For a fact?" Bobby touched the brim of his hat and stepped aside. Followed by Villapando, Leland made it out to the sidewalk, where he looked around in confusion. Villapando took him the rest of the way to the limo, Leland popping a candy into his mouth. The limo was parked in the shade of a draggy-looking collection of river birches. They didn't like the heat either.
Bobby came out and stood beneath the sidewalk canopy watching the limo pull away, taking his hat off to let a breath of air and some light into his moody thoughts.
"That man is going to blow," he said to himself. "Question of when and where."
They had left the courthouse square behind, heading north, when Leland became aware of the pale blue envelope near him on the back seat. His name was on it. Leland Howard. Marked Personal. The handwriting neat, feminine.
He picked it up, turned it over. Put it in his lap and took out his gold toothpick, worked to dislodge bits of candy from his molars. His stomach still felt awful. A lava pit. He tasted blood on his tongue from his gums. Still he continued to poke away. He looked at the envelope again with the impulse to throw it out the window. He was always getting notes from women who wanted to fuck him. Frequently they enclosed photos. Lewd, most of the time. Women who took their own photos and, obviously, did their own developing. Those who hoped to tempt him with beaver shots.
He clenched his hands, which had been trembling, then used his toothpick to cut open the envelope. Slipped out the folded notepaper.
Hello, Leland
It's time we saw each other
again, don't you think?
I have everything your
father gave to me. I don't
want it, but I want the
thousand dollars you
promised to give to me.
I expect you to keep that
promise, Leland.
Meet me tonight by the
old depot at Cole's Crossing.
Nine-fifteen. Just after dark.
I've changed. But you'll
still know me when you
see me.
Come alone. It isn't in
your best interests to
disappoint me.
Mally Shaw
TWELVE
The Red Dress
"We missed you at supper," Bobby said to Ramses Valjean. "Not that it was all that special, but Rhoda's candied yams are pig-out famous at church suppers around Evening Shade."
Ramses sat on the edge of the low iron bed in the small room he had been given, a courtesy respectful of his status, in the Jim Crow ward of the community hospital. He had removed his dress shirt and tie and hung them over the back of a chair. His suspenders were down and he was barefoot. There was a tinge of yellow-gray to his complexion. A couple of raw cracks appeared at the corners of his mouth when he smiled.
"Candied yams. My mother made them too. I am, unfortunately, no longer digesting my food very well. There are other complications, so I have revised the timetable I mentioned to you a few days ago. My pancreas has nearly stopped producing insulin. I had a shot this afternoon from Dr. Crawford. Tomorrow—well, I'll have to see."
Bobby nodded. He didn't know what to say.
"But I could use a drink. If you have the time."
"I've got the time."
Leland Howard sat in the parlor of the house at his farm with a .38 revolver in his lap and sunset at the windows.
It isn't in your best interests to disappoint me.
The fifth of Maker's Mark on the table beside him was two-thirds empty. He poured another shot. So far he didn't feel a thing. His tongue a little numb at the edges, that was all. Otherwise he was sober. The tremoring of his hands had nearly stopped. His mind was clear. But he was aware his limit wasn't too far away. There would come a point where one more shot—half a shot—would lay him out as limp as a two-dollar whore.
Someone was trying to make a fool of him. Best guess, a female relative of Mally Shaw's who also had been visiting Mally on Saturday night. Hid out when he arrived but overheard, maybe witnessed, everything that went on between him and Mally. Hadn't been a young white boy after all; Giles had been wrong about that, and it had cost him his life.
He heard a tractor outside, Claude Long yelling at his half-witted son to close the gate. They were going home to their own place adjacent to Leland's farm.
Jim Giles dead, a signed confession down at the sheriff's, and it wasn't enough, his father shriveling in his crypt but still one jump ahead of Leland . . . who pictured that aged head secretly alight in darkness with death's lolling grin. He felt a slippage of nerve, steeled himself. The damned key that the deputy had casually dropped on his desk blotter was, Leland had no doubt, to an extra safe-deposit box, perhaps under an assumed name, where his father had left the proof that would send Leland to prison. But the key was no longer a threat to him. The letter writer had made that clear. Mally, it would seem, had emptied the box before last Saturday.
I have everything your father gave to me.
Some greedy relation of Mally's now had the goods on Leland Howard.
Or thought she did. What was the point of pretending she was Mally? To scare him? As if he were simple, a lamebrain like Claude's speckled boy?
The thousand dollars you promised.
Leland felt insulted. It provided a keener edge to his anger. He raised the shot glass to his lips, reconsidered, and set the glass aside. He picked up the Colt from his lap and stood, opened the gate. The brass rounds of cartridges gleamed in
the reddening light at the windows. So red the world might have been on fire.
No, this is what you get.
The tremor that had stilled in his hands was in his gut, an overture to massive fear that put him off balance.
But what if one killing wasn't enough? How many could there be—faceless, taunting conspirators, stepping out of shadows to make their own demands?
Leland closed the gate of the blue-steel revolver and put it in a boot, rolled down the cuff of his twill trousers to hide it.
He walked outside into the red shift of evening, wearing the day-long heat like a hair shirt. On the porch he looked past tinkly glass wind chimes at the empty kennel run. His dogs were being put to death. Something swung disastrously through his mind, a psychic weight like a wrecking ball. He almost lost his balance again but clung to a newel post.
. . . And the days of his childhood had run long and playful, the quick nights slept away while his heart held the heat and lure of the sun. Now his days were shorter, shadowed, intolerable; his heart, like the sun, was dying in his breast. There was no mercy in the hung prisms through which he backward viewed his fate. His life was dwindling, darkly, toward a climax of nightmarish calamity.
He had no run left in him. But his tormentors would keep coming.
Wouldn't they.
Elegiac tears rolled down his cheeks.
If they made him kill them, who could say the fault was his?
Bobby said to Ramses Valjean, "So the painters are almost finished at Bernie's house. She and Cece go over there this afternoon to check everything out, and can you believe it, Bernie's not happy. She's still gagging on the fumes although Cece says she can barely smell them herself, and to boot Bernie's second-guessing all of her color choices. Should have been peach in her bedroom, she decides, not apricot. Just have to do everything all over again. Also she's worried now that some paint may get on the upholstery of some of her heirloom furniture even though the boys use drop cloths everywhere. Asks Cece if she could move the stuff over to our house for now, seeing as how we're a little shy on furniture ourselves in a couple of rooms."
