Chaingang

by Rex Miller

  Who the fuck was he? Royce had never seen him before, and for a few seconds he got mixed into the dope equation—he sure as hell could have passed for a stone killer—but then he regained control and realized how he was letting his imagination screw him around. He took a very deep breath, hopped back in his ride, and headed out Cotton Avenue to talk with Cullen Alberson, if he could find him, visions of “Bigfoot” still stomping around in his head.

  Royce Hawthorne had spent the better part of two days calling and visiting and calling again. He'd come nearly full circle, and only managed to actually interview—if that's the word—two persons who'd sold ground to the mysterious Community Communications Company of Alexandria, Virginia. Weldon and Cullen, the first two guys he'd tried to reach, had both been open and accessible. But as luck would have it, he'd spun his wheels the rest of the next day trying to make contact with the other eight property owners.

  He was now around to the tenth seller, Bill Wise, who owned, among many other holdings, Bill Wise Industrial Park, a precariously prosperous gamble that had once held great promise for Waterton. Wise, who'd made a fortune in used office furniture down in Nashville, had moved to Waterton thinking it was virgin investment territory. He'd set up a used office furniture outlet in Maysburg, which had done well, and purchased large pieces of ground in both Maysburg and Waterton, calling them—optimistically—industrial parks, and landscaping them for the flood of industry that would someday push out from Paducah, and Memphis, and St. Louis, looking for low-rent settings for plants, factories, offices, and other building sites. When the industrial parks had withered on the vine, Wise had filled them himself: with office furniture showrooms, warehouses, and sprawling flea markets that always seemed on the verge of going under.

  Bucky Hite, another drinking/smoking/snorting buddy of Royce's, was one of a dozen men working in the corner of Wise's northeast property, on the piece being developed by Community Communications Company.

  There were several cats and backhoes at work, and some heavy equipment Royce wasn't familiar with, and he was parked at the edge of the field waiting for Bucky, who was busy being harangued by a man who appeared to be the foreman on the job. He looked at his notes that summarized what he'd learned on Mary's behalf during the last couple of frustrating days:

  1. CULLEN ALBERSON—He had been presented a “killer offer,” his words, fifty thou, so much money he hadn't even talked it over with the missus—he just signed the deal then and there. He'd had no further contact after the deal was consummated with Sam Perkins, and no dealings with any Mr. Sinclair or the buyer.

  2. WELDON LAWLEY—Sam had done the initial leg-work, and Lawley had looked at the contract. Said okay. The company sent him a bank draft. (It had taken a visit by Mary to pry the info out of First Bank of Waterton's office manager Lester Peebles.) The draft came via a New York bank, Chase Manhattan. Another hour of LD calls had netted the information that the draft had been purchased by Merchant's Bank in Washington, D.C. They had no information, or were not able or willing to find out, about the initiation of the large cash draft.

  3. GILL POINDEXTER—Sam had finalized the deal, and they had again deposited money. This time First Bank was unable to help. The family was apparently out of town, and neither Royce nor Mary had been able to get hold of Gill or Betty Poindexter.

  4. RUSSELL HERKEBAUER—He and his sons were on a hunting trip out West. Would be gone for a couple of weeks. Mrs. Herkebauer did not know the details of the deal, or she wasn't talking without her husband's okay.

  5. DOYLE GENNERET—Gone on a business trip. His foreman, Dean Seabaugh, was busy with the animal auction and didn't have time to talk. Royce had tried to get him to open up, telling him a man had disappeared and that if Seabaugh didn't talk to him, he'd eventually have to talk to the cops. This had really frightened Seabaugh, who had said, “Big fucking deal,” and slammed the door on him.

  6. LUTHER LLOYD—Gone. Mrs. Lloyd said he was “running around somewhere” and didn't know when he'd be back. “Probably late.” Royce left word. When nobody called back that evening, he dialed the Lloyds’ and nobody answered.

  7. RUSTY ELLIS—Gone. Nobody had seen him around the farm in a while. Royce had driven out to the farmhouse and found some papers in the driveway. He peeked into the mailbox and saw a collection of junk mail.

  8. CELIA and LETITIA BARNES—Out-of-town owners. He had not been able to reach either of them by telephone. Their sharecroppers knew nothing about the land deal.

  9. AUGUST GROJEAN—Just about took his head off when he called. “I ain't saying nothing about nothing without my lawyer.” He'd just been through extensive legal battles over his ground, and he refused to listen to reason. He had given Royce his Memphis lawyer's number for a telephone contact, and so far he'd been unable to reach the lawyer by phone.

  10. BILL WISE—Last on the list. He had just missed Wise, somebody said at the flea market, and was waiting for a word with Bucky, whose voice carried across the field.

  “They do that to everybody. They do it every damn time. I don't see how the crooked sum'bitch stays in business."

  “I called him,” the foreman shouted from his truck. “I told him, ‘You short me two yards every time you pour out here, goddammit, and I ain't taking that shit off you people again. If you short me again, I'll buy from fuckin’ Flat River if I have to, but I won't use you again.’ I told him."

  “What did he say to that?"

  “'Oh, I never shorted you no two yards,’ he says. Well, I know better.” Another comment was drowned out by the equipment noises.

  “He's nothing but a fuckin’ crook."

  “I'm going."

  “All right."

  The truck pulled out across the bumpy field, and soon Bucky Hite made his way to where Royce was waiting.

  “Sorry about that. The boss had a bug up his butt."

  “Sounded that way."

  “Fuckin’ Jerome Thomas crooked us outta some more concrete. Nothing new there.” He frowned.

  “So I've heard."

  “Got anything?” Hite asked.

  “Say what?"

  “You holding?"

  “I got a joint."

  “No. I mean blow."

  “Not right with me,” Royce said.

  “Oh well, no biggie."

  “I wanted to ask you about this deal. What's cooking with all this?"

  “Some big company, man. Outta D.C., I hear. Going to make a big park like Six Flags. That's confidential. Going to mean a shitload of new jobs.” He raised his eyebrows. “You know—some of us got to have them things."

  “Fuck you.” They laughed. “Six Flags? Out here? Bullshit."

  “No—really. That's what I heard. Foreman says in a few days they going to pour footings, and man, it's going to be big. You trying to get a gig?"

  “Not so's you'd notice. I'm just asking for a friend.” He decided he'd tell Bucky. If anybody in Waterton hadn't heard about the disappearance, this would take care of it. “Sam Perkins? I don't know if you heard yet, but he's missing. I'm a friend of the family. Just, you know, asking around."

  “Yeah. I heard. Cops asked everybody already. They got hold of some dude that he was doing business with, and he told the cops he didn't know anything. So I heard.” This guy driving a backhoe knew more than the man's wife, Royce thought.

  “What dude? Somebody Sam was dealing with?"

  “Yeah."

  “Was it a guy named Sinclair?"

  “Beats the shit out of me.” He shrugged. “Ask the cops, man."

  “Me and the cops aren't on the best of terms."

  “Yeah, I hear that,” Bucky said.

  “Where'd you hear that anyway?"

  “Foreman. No ... shit, I don't remember. Maybe it was some guy at Judy's. Hell, I can't remember."

  “Try."

  “We were eatin’ at Judy's. Seems like—oh, I know who it was. Kelly McCauley's husband."

  “Who's Kelly McCauley's husband?” He was getting
very tired of this. He wanted to go back to the cabin and do some tootski and get his shit together.

  “Jeezus. Kelly's the chick with the big guacamoles that works in Kerns's office. She overheard him talking about this guy who'd been doing business with the real estate dude, okay? He told ‘em he didn't know anything. They had two or three missing people, and they all had some mutual connection with the project.” He pointed at the construction work behind him. “It turned out to be nothing. Just coinci—"

  “Hold it, Bucky. What people? I never heard anything about any two or three missing people. Who were they?"

  “Beats my ass.” He shrugged again. “You wanna know—go ask Kelly McCauley. Don't she live over near you?"

  “I don't know her."

  “Kelly McCauley,” he repeated, cupping his hands in front of his chest. “Lives over there by Waterworks Hill next to Diane's."

  “Oh. Wait a minute.” Royce's mind finally slipped back into gear. “She lives in that trailer next to Diane's Hairquarters."

  “That's the lady."

  “I know who she is. Yeah—I'd seen them around, I just didn't know the last name. Where does he work, do you know?"

  “Uh-uh."

  “Okay. Thanks, man. Hey—if you hear anything about Sam Perkins, or hear anything else about these missing people ... do me a favor? Call me. If I'm not there, just leave word, ‘kay?” He got out a pen and wrote Mary's phone number on a scrap of paper.

  “Okay. No problem."

  “What the hell would somebody wanna put a Six Flags way the crap out here for?"

  “Not a real Six Flags, man. Some kind of ... um ... you know, like Expo deal, where they do scientific shit and people take tours through it. Hey—how the fuck do I know? Just don't knock it, I'm draggin’ double time and a half!"

  “Lotta new hands around?” Royce glanced around.

  “Some."

  “What's that big fucker do? You know who I mean—about the size of two refrigerators?” Royce held his hands apart as wide as he could. But Bucky just looked at it, obviously having no idea who he was referring to.

  “What big fucker?"

  “You'll recognize him if you see him, dude.” Royce laughed. “He blots out the sun.” He thanked the man and they said good-bye. Hite went back to work, and Royce started driving back to town. He was surprised the big boy wasn't one of the new construction guys.

  As soon as Royce was out of sight, Bucky Hite crumpled up the phone number and threw it into the dirt.

  Fuck it.

  Waterworks Road was a short piece of well-traveled blacktop that ran from Cotton Avenue, at the base of Waterworks Hill, to the boonies beyond Waterton's remote water treatment plant and reservoir.

  The low-rent housing started about fifty yards off the road on some corner pastureland where an old single-wide was visible behind a thicket of weeds. Royce thought about knocking. Asking his questions real friendly.

  Next to the broken mailbox a piece of rubber tire lay coiled like a dead blacksnake. He'd seen Kelly McCauley before. A slightly heavy young woman with a child's hands, big, bouncy breasts, and a provocative if rather porcine look around the eyes and nose. She lived there—in the trailer—and the look of the place stopped him.

  Maybe he thought her old man would hassle him, coming up to the crib to rap with little Mama. Everybody was always sniffing around Kelly. Checking out those big, soft handfuls of love. Hanging around the city administration building, where the jail was, trying to get a look down those low-cut things she wore to work sometimes. Maybe Kelly had a little problem, too.

  Or maybe he could imagine her slamming that door in his face when he started asking questions about what she overheard her boss, Chief Kerns, say about this and that. That's striking pretty close to the lunch bucket. If Kelly had half a brain, she'd clam up. Next thing—Marty Kerns would be bringing him down to the jail for a little talk and a late night swim in the fish tank.

  Whatever brought him to his senses in time stopped him dead and turned him around, sent him back to his ride, and headed him on down Waterworks past Diane's Hairquarters and around the corner.

  One of his fave pay phones was located in front of a ma-'n'-pa grocery. He stopped. Got out. Dropped change and dialed the McCauley residence. Three rings.

  “Hello."

  “Is this Mrs. Kelly McCauley?” he asked, putting as much hard twang in it as he could muster.

  “Yes."

  “Mrs. McCauley, this is Sheriff Guthrie. Are you the lady works for Marty Kerns over in Waterton?” Tough and coarse, with most of the resonance coming right out of the nasal passages. A rumble he could almost feel in his face.

  “Yes, sir.” A little question mark in her tone now. The voice she used when Marty got pissed at her. Her deferential kissy-ass voice.

  “Ma'am, I understand that you have been overheard making some statements that several persons are being sought in missing-persons cases in Waterton. Do you know you could get in serious trouble repeating what you heard there on the job? That's privileged law enforcement information."

  “I don't know what you're talking about."

  “Don't bother denying it, ma'am. Marty Kerns has already heard the tape, and so have I. You were recorded in a surveillance of another investigation, and you were taped at a place of business called Judy's Cafe, Mrs. McCauley. Your voice has been ID'd as being the one who divulged information about an ongoing case. Don't you know that's punishable under three different Missouri statutes?” He was really getting into it. In the pause for air he could almost hear her brain going a mile a minute. Trying to remember what she might have said. He pushed it. “Now, why did you tell Mr. McCauley that all these other persons were missing?"

  “I didn't say that,” she blurted. “I just was telling him about the one Perkins case. And, you know, I might have said that Rusty Ellis and them Poindexters was missing, too. That's all I told him, honest. It was just them three cases, and they wasn't related at all. And what I say to my husband don't go any further.” She was starting to get hot about it.

  “Chief Kerns is not pleased about you talking like that in public where anybody can hear you. You know better than to be discussing cases like that."

  “I'm sorry.” She put a little whine back in her tone.

  “What else did you hear about the Poindexters or Rusty Ellis or Sam Perkins? Did you overhear other things about the case?” He knew the second he said it, he'd lost her, but he was patting his pockets looking for notes, a pen, something to write on, trying to keep his voice in character, and he knew as he uttered it that it didn't sound official enough.

  “Who the hell is this, anyway?” She was smarter than she appeared. He mumbled something about being in touch with her later and hung up. Back in the car and hooking back to Cotton and down King's Road in the direction of the Perkins house. More cocaine paranoia with claws perched on his shoulder, ready to go for the throat.

  “Hi.” She was surprised to see him at her door.

  “I—” He choked up and coughed, so full of information, he couldn't pull it all together. She knew it was something bad.

  “Come in and sit down, Royce. You're so pale you look like you're about to pass out."

  “Something's wrong, babe. I don't know what the hell's happening here, but...” He shook his head, not believing the thoughts bouncing around inside it. “Sam isn't the only person missing.” He took a deep breath.

  “I've been asking everybody who was part of the land deal, that I could find. Some don't want to talk. Some don't know anything, or they're damn good actors. Others—they've vanished or they've gone into hiding or been abducted or ... whatever. I know this guy, I see him around the bars and stuff. He's got a job out there at the big construction site. He let it slip that he'd overheard Kelly McCauley, Marty Kerns's secretary, talking about others being missing. Mr. and Mrs. Poindexter. Rusty Ellis. Sam. All parties to the big land deal. And Sinclair or somebody else Sam had been dealing with has been in touch with the
cops or they've found him.” For the first time he was consciously aware he'd neglected to ask the McCauley girl about who that was.

  “I acted like I was a sheriff and called her. Confirmed the business about Gill and Betty Poindexter and Ellis being missing. But I forgot to ask about the cops having had contact with the firm Sam was representing. She probably wouldn't have known much. Marty Kerns knows a lot of information that he's been keeping from you."

  “Son of a—” She was beet red with anger. Getting up to get her purse and car keys. “I'll get an answer from him, and it had better be a good one or—"

  “Keep your cool if you can, Mary. You might need him before this is over."

  “I'll keep my cool, all right.” She was raging. This was no surprise. She'd known that Kerns had information he wasn't giving her. “Come on, if you want to go with me."

  “I probably would just make it worse. He'll be more likely to talk if I'm not there. We don't get along."

  “Stay here, Royce. I'll come back as soon as I talk to him."

  “Okay."

  “Thanks.” She looked at him with deep feelings, wanting to say more, but too full of this news to articulate it. He nodded and smiled, and she was gone.

  At first Marty Kerns was cool, and tried to play it close to his vest, but when she started screaming she was going to the paper, calling her state senators, and suing the town—among other things—he opened up and told her about the case for the first time.

  “It's something that looks a lot worse than it really is, Mary; that's part of the reason you weren't brought up to speed about the others that are missing. We're pretty certain it is just coincidence, and the last thing you want to do is start rumors in a little town like Waterton. That's the other aspect of it. If some of these folks got the idea people were vanishing or somethin', you'd have a panic on your hands in no time. People would be spotting UFOs, and serial killers, and God knows what! The truth is that people turn up missing all the time, even in small towns. The police get routine calls every day from somebody whose wife or husband has been missing for a couple days. Ninety-five percent of the time it's a ... uh ... domestic problem or something. Not like your situation with Mr. Sam. You get older folks vanish all the time, Mary. They wonder off and get lost or lose track of what time it is—things like that. Usually it's no big deal. It isn't this time either. It just could be blown up outta proportion because a couple of the people happened to have been doing some business in a real estate deal. That's the only reason you weren't told. It wasn't necessarily that relevant."