by Bill Crider
Classes had long since disappeared from the former learning center. When the number of Milsby graduates per year had finally shrunk to one or two-three at most-the town fathers had realized that the tax burden was no longer worthwhile. They could consolidate their school district with Clearview’s and save money. Their children would have to be bused, but that was a small sacrifice. Many of the local residents regarded the day of consolidation as a day of infamy, and it ranked right up there with December 7, 1941, as a topic of conversation whenever sneaky maneuverings were brought up. It was their impression that Milsby had begun to die the day the first students were bused to Clearview.
The town had begun to die long before then, of course, about the time that many of the men on surrounding farms found that they could make plenty of money just by putting their money in the soil bank and not farming a lick. Their families had nothing to tie them to the land, and they left for the delights of the big cities and easier jobs than the daylight-to-dark work required by farming.
But the old schoolhouse still remained. Built in the early part of the century of sturdy red brick, the building was not pretty at all. It was, however, serviceable. Despite the generations of careless youngsters that had subjected it to all kinds of abuse, its rooms still could be used for the activities of Milsby, especially the cafeteria, where the forum was to be held.
Rhodes pulled the county car into the dusty parking area and looked around for a good spot. He had deliberately arrived late, knowing that Ralph Claymore would do the same. At forums like this one, the candidates were not given an opportunity to speak according to the office for which they were running. Instead, as each one entered the building he was given a list to sign. The names were called from the list, the candidates speaking in the order in which they arrived. Claymore liked to arrive late, believing that speaking near the end gave him an advantage.
Rhodes didn’t necessarily share Claymore’s belief. He was pretty sure that nobody ever recalled a thing that any of the candidates said. He was convinced that the main purpose of the forum was to sell cakes, which wasn’t a bad cause, since the money would go to the upkeep of the building. But on the off chance that Claymore was correct, Rhodes had decided to speak near the end also. At least there was the chance that he would get to speak after his opponent and answer any charges that were made, even if it wouldn’t do much good.
Rhodes parked by a Trans-Am, owned no doubt, by one of the other candidates. Surely no one in Milsby drove such a car. He got out and walked to the back door of what had once been the school boiler room, went through the room, and turned left into the hail where the cafeteria was located.
Mrs. Wilkie was waiting for him.
Her hair was spectacular. Rhodes was certain that he’d last seen a similar color and style worn by Carol Burnett in a skit parodying The Little Foxes. Otherwise, Mrs. Wilkie bore no physical resemblance to the svelte Ms. Burnett; tonight she had her formidable girth swathed in something resembling a Hawaiian tent.
“Why, good evening, Sheriff,” Mrs. Wilkie cooed breathily. “You’re just in time for the auction. But don’t forget to sign in first.” She handed him a yellow legal pad and a pen.
Rhodes was glad to see that Claymore’s name was only one person above his own. “Good evening, Mrs. Wilkie,” he said. “You’re looking mighty spruce tonight.”
Mrs. Wilkie simpered and took back the legal pad.
Lord, Rhodes thought, what a man won’t say to get himself elected.
“You just go on in, Sheriff, and have a seat with the other candidates,” Mrs. Wilkie said. Rhodes started for the cafeteria door. “My cake’s devil’s food,” she called after him in a stage whisper.
The cafeteria was brightly lighted by long fluorescent tubes. To Rhodes’s left, the candidates sat in metal folding chairs lined up along the institutional-green wall. On the other side of the room, the Milsby crowd mixed and mingled in conversation. Rhodes didn’t take a count, but it seemed likely that the crowd didn’t outnumber the candidates by many. He turned to his left to look for a seat.
Ralph Claymore was sitting between a candidate named Peter Something-or-other, Rhodes couldn’t recall, who was running for county clerk and Ivy Daniels, who was running for justice of the peace in precinct 4. The clerk candidate was stoutly built, with sandy hair, and in his navy blue suit he looked like a young senator more than a small-town boy. Rhodes had heard good things about him and hoped he’d win. Ivy Daniels didn’t look small-town either. Her short black hair had flecks of gray in it, but her tailored suit revealed the curves of a still youthful body. Naturally, Ralph Claymore was giving none of his attention to the young senator. He was talking animatedly to Ivy Daniels.
And he’s a married man, Rhodes thought. Well, at least Ivy was unattached, or had been the last he’d heard. He wouldn’t have minded talking to Ivy himself, but he didn’t have too much time for that sort of thing. He walked over to the end of the row of chairs and sat next to Jack Parry, a candidate for county judge.
“Howdy, Sheriff,” Parry said, putting out his hand. He was a big, folksy man, bluff and bald, with a full beard and a cigar always in his mouth-that or a dip of snuff.
Rhodes shook Parry’s hand. “How you doing, Jack?” he said.
“Fine, but I’d a hell of a lot rather be having a quiet drink somewhere else right now. How about you?”
“Sure enough. Think we could have skipped out?”
Parry smiled around his cigar. “Not a chance. We might lose only a couple of votes from this crowd, but they’d tell everybody they know which ones of us didn’t show up. No telling how many votes that would be.”
Just as Rhodes was about to answer, a man walked to the front of the cafeteria to a makeshift podium fitted with a juryrigged sound system. “‘Good evening, y’all,” he said. On the second word, there was an electronic scream from the speakers near him, but it died away and he went on.
“I’m Jerry Bob Tyler, and I want to welcome ever’ one of you to the annual Milsby cake auction and candidates’ forum. I know you all look forward to hearing what the electioneers have to say just as much as I do”-which meant not at all, Rhodes thought-”but first we’ve got a real treat for you. Len and Belle are goin’ to do a little of their famous pickin’ and grinnin’.”
Len and Belle tottered out from somewhere in the Milsby crowd. Len, who looked to Rhodes to be about ninety years old, with a fringe of very white hair outlining a pink and liver-spotted skull, held a fiddle. Belle, just as old, and with almost as little hair, carried a mandolin. They stood tentatively by the podium for a second or two, they twanged a few strings. Seemingly satisfied, Len stamped his foot on the floor four times, and they broke into as spirited a rendition of “Soldier’s Joy” as Rhodes had ever heard. It was hard to believe that the fingers of two people so old could be so nimble.
The crowd on both sides of the cafeteria began tapping their feet and clapping their hands in time with the music. The first song ended in a furious crescendo of fiddle and mandolin harmonies, and before anyone could draw a breath Len had stamped his foot again and begun “The Orange Blossom Special.” By the time that one was over, the old man’s head was completely red, and Belle’s face wasn’t much better. But they looked happy.
The old couple was replaced by a boy who looked like he might possibly be in the first grade. The guitar he carried was a cheap black Stella that almost hid him from the audience. Rhodes didn’t catch his name; it sounded like “Tinker.” Whatever his name was, the little boy knew three chords and sang “Sea of Heartbreak” in an alarming monotone that was just enough off key to set Rhodes’s teeth on edge. Nevertheless, he got quite a round of applause.
“Ain’t he cute?” Jerry Bob Tyler yelled over the crowd noise. “He’s gonna be a real star someday, you mark my words.” He raised his hands over his head and applauded loudly, the Milsby audience joining in with renewed fervor. “Now then,” Jerry Bob said when things had quieted. “It’s time to get to a real importan
t part of this evening’s business. The big cake auction!” He waved his right hand to indicate the area behind him.
A few yards behind the podium, on the back wall, panels began to slide up. Where there had once been a serving table for the Milsby students there was now a counter loaded with cakes of all kinds: chocolate, angel food, coconut, pineapple upside-down, devil’s food, sheath, three-layer, and several kinds that Rhodes didn’t even try to identify.
Jerry Bob walked back to the cakes and picked up one of the angel food concoctions. “This here one’s light as a feather, folks, handmade right from scratch if I know anything about cakes, and I’m an old cake eater from way back. What’m I bid on this little beauty?”
“Five dollars,” called out the young senator-type, and the bidding was on.
When it was all over, Rhodes was the possessor of a devil’s food cake for which he’d paid thirty-five dollars. He had no real idea what had made him bid on a devil’s food cake, and he sincerely hoped that it wasn’t Mrs. Wilkie’s. She might expect him to drop by her house to cut it.
Then the speeches began. About the only one that held any interest for Rhodes, except for his own and Claymore’s, was Ivy Daniels’s. Women didn’t usually run for the position of justice of the peace, and her opponent had made any number of subtle references to the fact that the JP was often called upon to leave the house at night, to be present at the scenes of sometimes gruesome accidents or even murders, and to perform other tasks that just weren’t fit for a lady. Ivy didn’t hesitate to counterattack. She felt that women were just as strong as men, and maybe stronger, she told the audience. She’d like to see any of the brave men she knew carry a baby for nine months and then deliver it. Then she’d know just how brave they really were.
Rhodes thought it was a good point, but most of the applause when Ivy sat down was merely polite, nothing more. Ralph Claymore, when his turn came, looked more than ready. He’d already removed his hat, in deference to whatever old-fashioned ladies were still living-and there weren’t many, because it was now quite common to see men who fancied themselves to be cowboys eating in any restaurant in Clearview while wearing a hat or a cap-but he still looked just like a sheriff should look. He was tall and slim, and his Levi’s Saddleman jeans fit him to double-knit perfection. His tapered western shirt had just the right amount of color in it, and his belt buckle tonight was a huge brass armadillo. He stood behind the podium as if he owned the building.
When he spoke, his voice was deep and pleasing. “I know that most of you people here know Dan Rhodes, my opponent in the sheriff’s race,” he began. “Well, I know him too, and like most of you I think he’s done a fine job while he’s been our sheriff. Not many fellows could have done half as well as he has. Why, I’d bet that violent crimes, crimes against persons, aren’t up in our county by more than ten or twelve percent.”
Nine point eight six percent, thought Rhodes, not counting Jeanne Clinton. Here it comes.
But it didn’t come.
“Yep, Sheriff Rhodes has done real well. And the only reason that I’m here tonight is that I think I can do a little better. I’d like to see us have a new jail, for one thing. Not one that is a country club like those Federal pens you read about, not one of those. Just a jail that doesn’t have rats in it, and one that lets an accused man live like a man and not some kind of animal. I don’t mean to treat the prisoners better than I’d treat some of you, but imagine what it might be like if your son or even your daughter got arrested for speeding and had maybe had a little too much to drink and had to spend a night in that jail we’ve got now. . ”
Claymore went on, his voice deep and confident, his tone reassuring, while Rhodes’s mind raced ahead unbelievingly.
What was going on here? Claymore had a valid spot to attack him-the first murder in the county in nearly two years. But he wasn’t saying a thing about it. Instead he was talking about things over which Rhodes had no real control. It was true that the sheriff could use his influence, whatever that might be, and it usually wasn’t much, with the county commissioners; but that was all. The sheriff couldn’t build the jail. He could staff it, see that it was run right and according to all the State and Federal rules that were laid down. He could treat the prisoners fairly. He could see that they were fed properly and got the required exercise. Rhodes had always done this.
“. . And that’s why I’m asking for your vote in the Democratic Primary on May 4,” Claymore concluded. He smiled and dipped his head slightly to the applause.
Rhodes walked to the podium for his turn in a sort of daze. He had no idea what was going on here. True, there weren’t many votes represented by this crowd, but a reporter from the Clearview Herald was in the audience. Claymore could have counted on a fair summary of whatever he said being in the next day’s paper, and he said nothing that Rhodes wasn’t going to refute easily.
Still thinking, Rhodes started to talk. “Friends, Ralph Claymore may think that he can do a better job than I can, but I sure don’t.” He said it positively but with a smile, and got a polite laugh in reply. “For one thing, the sheriff in this county doesn’t have as much control over the building of a jail as you might think, or Mr. Claymore would have you believe. All that’s up to your commissioners, and I think you’ll find that they’ll be reasonable about it.” They had to be, he thought, considering what that judge had said.
“For my part,” he went on, “I’ve always done my best to see that anybody who gets arrested in Blacklin County gets the fairest treatment possible. I don’t think that any of you people here tonight have to worry about what might happen to any member of your family who got arrested on some minor charge, or even a major charge for that matter, because. .”
Rhodes came to a stop then because he suddenly realized what was happening. He realized it even before he saw the little James Cagney look-alike getting up from where he’d been sitting inconspicuously in the back of the audience. Claymore had set him up.
Which meant that Claymore was both smarter and sneakier than Rhodes had given him credit for. Those two men had gotten out of jail only slightly earlier that day, and already Claymore had found them and gotten their stories.
It might not have happened that way, though, Rhodes realized. It was possible that the men, or maybe only the one now getting up, had gone to Claymore. Maybe instead of filing a suit against the county, which they were almost certain to lose, they had decided to work with Claymore for a small payment out of his campaign funds. Either way, Rhodes knew that he was in for it.
The man had by now gotten to his feet and pushed to the front of the sparse crowd. “Sheriff, I’d like to ask you a little question,” he said.
Mrs. Wilkie hurried over to cut him off, and for once Rhodes almost found himself liking her. But it was too late. Her frantic “No questions, no questions. This is not a debate. .” was interrupted by the short man’s voice cutting through like a table saw.
“I’d just like to ask the sheriff one thing,” he said. “I’d like to know if it’s a custom in all counties where the prisoners are treated well for the deputies to beat up on them for no reason.” He pointed to his face, which even Rhodes had to admit looked pretty battered. Maybe even more battered than it had that morning. Good lord, Rhodes thought, could it be possible that Claymore had actually staged the whole thing? Could Johnny Sherman have been framed?
“That’s right,” the man went on, to the crowd now, “my buddy and I got whipped up on for no reason at all this morning, while we were just. .”
“Wait a minute now,” Rhodes said, his voice louder than he usually allowed it to get, which caused the makeshift mike to whistle and squeal once again. “Just hold on,” he said in a normal tone. “You were arrested by a county officer in the course of his normal patrol. You were fighting with another man, and you refused. .”
“That’s bull, and you know it. You laws are all alike, and you stick together when it comes to something like this, but we’ll see. I’m going to sue y
ou and that deputy of yours, and the whole county. Then people will know what things’re really like in that jail of yours.”
Then, before anyone realized what he was doing, the man turned and stalked the length of the cafeteria and out the door.
Rhodes made a few more remarks intended to assure his listeners that things weren’t what they seemed, but there was so much buzzing of talk that he doubted they’d heard a word.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Claymore sitting in his chair, his legs crossed to show off his Tony Lama boots, a slight smile lingering on the corners of his mouth.
There was another fiddle player after that, but hardly anyone paid any attention. “I take it that this is hardly the high spot of your political career,” Jack Parry whispered to Rhodes when he returned to his seat.
“You might say that,” Rhodes said. “I guess it could be worse, though.”
“Yeah,” Parry said. “They might have caught you performing an unnatural act with the Baptist minister’s wife in the choir loft.”
Rhodes grinned. “Or with the minister himself,” he said. “Even you’ll have to admit that between him and his wife there’s not much to choose.”
“Too right,” Parry said. “Well, I’m getting out of here before you get surrounded and questioned. Someone might think to ask me why the county judge is so friendly with a low-down skunk like you.”
Rhodes saw that several of the people from the crowd were making their way toward him. He turned to answer them as best he could. At least, he thought, everything else was pretty much under control.
When the meeting finally broke up and Rhodes got back by the jail, they told him that Billy Joe Byron had escaped.
