The Last Death of Jack Harbin

by Terry Shames

Curtis steps close enough so he’s towering over me. “That’s just a flat-out lie. I’ve known the man for ten years and never known him to take the slightest interest in a young girl. He’s happily married to a fine woman who knows her duty.”

  I sit back and cross my ankle over my bad knee. I’ll be damned if I’m going to look up at him, so I speak to the air in front of me. “I had a talk with the police department in the town where Marcus grew up.”

  Curtis sits back down in the lawn chair, perching on the edge. “So what?”

  “They confirmed that Marcus was arrested twice for sexual assault on two underage girls.”

  Curtis draws the back of his hand across his mouth as if wiping off an unwanted kiss. He leaps up and stalks around the patio like a caged animal, and then wheels on me. “It’s got to be a different man. Lots of people with the same name.”

  I hand him a photo the police in Mississippi faxed me. He looks at it for a long minute, and then wads it up and tosses it aside. “There’s some mistake. I know this man. He’s a good, law-abiding, god-fearing man.”

  I get up. “Maybe so. But if it were my daughter, I’d want to be damn sure.”

  Jack’s funeral is just about the strangest affair I’ve ever attended. TV stations from Houston and Austin have gotten wind of Jack’s life story, from football hero to Gulf War veteran to murder victim, and they are camped out in front of the Methodist Church with reporters and film crews.

  Some people coming for the funeral want nothing to do with this circus and others are thrilled. I’m not surprised to see Gabe LoPresto and the mayor holding forth. For the benefit of a sleek female reporter, LoPresto points out the principal people in Jack’s life—Taylor, Woody, Curtis, and Marybeth. They are all interviewed in turn on the steps of the Methodist Church, and none of them look happy about it. Thank goodness the vets haven’t arrived yet, or there might be blood on the church steps.

  I try to slip by, but Gabe sics them on me. I tell the guy who shoves a microphone in my face that I have nothing to say. He says he heard I was the person the nurse called when she found Jack’s body. “I understand you knew Jack Harbin his whole life.”

  “That may be true, but it doesn’t mean I have a comment,” I say.

  “This man was gravely wounded in the service of his country, and you have no comment about his murder?” The reporter, who has mastered the art of looking outraged, moves a step closer.

  “That’s right. No comment. Now if you’ll excuse me.” I try to push past him, but a doe-eyed blonde dressed to show off her assets blocks my way. She speaks into her microphone. “I’ve just learned that Jarrett Creek’s mayor has appointed you as special investigator in the murder. Is that true?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Have you got any leads in the case?”

  “No ma’am.”

  Her eyes would freeze hell. “What are your credentials? Why did the mayor put you in charge of this investigation?”

  “You’d have to ask him.”

  “How do you intend to proceed?”

  “Cautiously.”

  And with that they both jerk away from me in search of fresh meat. It’s not that I object to talking to the press, but not until I have something to say. I’ve heard too many lawmen blab to the press and live to regret it. It’s that old thing about keeping your mouth shut and being thought a fool versus opening your mouth and removing all doubt. There will be plenty of time for me to strut myself in front of a microphone after I’ve gotten results.

  I duck inside the church and see Taylor and a tall, distinguished looking man I take to be her husband talking to Curtis. Curtis is inclining his head as if he’s truly interested in what the husband is saying. I wish I could hear the conversation.

  The casket is open, and folks are filing by to take one last look. Marybeth stands to one side of the casket with a grim-faced man and woman. Marybeth told me her sister and brother-in-law would be here. The sister weighs twice as much as Marybeth, which isn’t saying much—she’s still thin. I join them and they seem relieved to have something to focus on besides Jack. They own a second-hand store in Bobtail, and they tell me more about furniture than I ever wanted to know.

  Marybeth tenses up, and I see Lurleen standing uncertainly in the doorway. She’s wearing a dark blue dress and looks pale. “Samuel, do you think she ought to sit with me?”

  “That’s up to you, but I’ll bet she’d appreciate it.”

  “Will you go get her?”

  When I get to Lurleen, she eyes me like I’m throwing a rope to someone clinging to a cliff. “Jack’s mother would like you to come sit with her.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  She swallows. “I’ll be too sad. I don’t want to make it worse for her.”

  “It may be that sharing her grief will give her comfort.”

  She nods. As I escort her, I say, “You didn’t bring your oldest boy with you?”

  “I needed him to stay with the young ones. I don’t think it’s a great idea for a young boy to have to come to a funeral anyway.”

  I’m wishing the boy were here. It occurred to me that the questions I want to ask Lurleen could be laid to rest if I question him instead.

  “Don’t be nervous,” I say as we draw up close to Marybeth. ”You look pretty.”

  “I don’t feel pretty. I wish I could have just stayed in bed today.”

  Marybeth hears her say this and she takes hold of Lurleen’s arm. “I know just how you feel.”

  At that moment I hear the loud racket of motorcycles outside. The vets come in with their wives, which is a good thing, because dressed in their motorcycle leathers they might have been barred from coming into the service. They move into the second row, all except for Walter Dunn, who comes over and hugs Lurleen and shakes hands with Marybeth.

  “I’d like to introduce you to some of Jack’s friends,” he says to her.

  Although Marybeth’s relatives are rigid with disapproval, Marybeth goes over to the vets and shakes their hands and thanks them for coming. Their wives have sat down, but the vets have remained standing.

  I leave them and go sit back with the general public. Loretta scoots in beside me at the last minute, smelling of shampoo and perfume.

  I wonder what the Methodist preacher, David Coogan, will say about Jack. I like Coogan. He’s a dry person, but down to earth. What will he say about someone who made it clear that church held nothing for him? It was Marybeth who asked that the service be held in the Methodist Church. The Baptists probably would have said no way, but the Methodist Church in Jarrett Creek is not wound so tight.

  Coogan doesn’t beat around the bush. “Jack Harbin didn’t find religion soothing to his spirit. But that doesn’t mean the Lord didn’t love him.” He goes on in that vein, and I see some heads nodding. He’s hit the right note.

  “In some ways, Jack was the conscience of our community.” Startled movements. “Like Job, his trials reminded us that life can be a bitter experience, whether or not we deserve it. I once visited with Jack to try to find a way to bring him to Jesus. And he told me that he found his solace in the friends who best understood him.” He looks at the vets seated on the front rows. “It’s not the traditional way of coming to God, but I believe that God spoke to Jack by giving him those friends to comfort him.”

  It’s a short service, but to my mind it’s satisfactory, giving everybody something to think about, and allowing Jack his status as an iconoclast.

  The TV people have all gathered on the steps outside. I suppose they have only so much tolerance for small town wisdom, and that’s what the preacher served up.

  I’m climbing into Loretta’s car to drive her and a couple of other ladies to the cemetery when a giant roar shatters the quiet.

  “Oh, my Lord,” Loretta says. “Will you look at that!”

  There must be a hundred motorcycles gathered in a the high school gymnasium parking lot down the street from the church. Every year the
re’s a big motorcycle rally out at the lake with hundreds of cyclists in attendance. Dunn and his vets must have called on them to give Jack a monumental send-off.

  At the cemetery, everyone gathers around the gravesite, and it’s clear that Reverend Coogan has given his okay to the tribute. Before he starts speaking, he nods and Dunn speaks into a walky-talky. Then the cyclists stream past on the paved road, all decked out in black leather and displaying American flags. I wouldn’t have thought such a display could be moving, but it is.

  When the last motorcycle has gone past, the silence is profound. Coogan asks for the American Legion detail to come forward. Three elderly veterans dressed in uniform salute Jack’s coffin, present arms, and shoot off a three-round volley. Old George Clark, who is in his eighties, can still play taps on his bugle. Everyone at the gravesite is moved, except for Curtis, who stands stone-faced.

  After Bob Harbin died, a wake was held at the Harbin place; but that was Jack’s doing. Marybeth has arranged for a reception at the Methodist hall for Jack. The vets congregate in one corner, their wives huddled nearby. Jack’s high school friends make another group. Gabe LoPresto and the football boosters make a third.

  Most people, including Loretta, mill around Marybeth and Curtis, extending sympathy. They may not approve of Marybeth abandoning her family, but this is not the time or the place to raise that issue. Marybeth looks like she’s barely holding up, and she clings to Lurleen’s arm like a lifeline. You can tell who hasn’t heard about Jack and Lurleen by their puzzled expressions when they see the two women together.

  I go to the food table and fill my plate with sandwiches and Jell-O salad while I ponder what group to approach first. It’s likely that somebody in this hall killed Jack, and I might as well take advantage of the opportunity to nose around.

  Gabe LoPresto’s group is gathered around Coach Boone Eldridge, whose black eye has turned to yellow and whose arm is out of the sling. These fellows may be mad at him for losing the game to Bobtail and may want him fired, but they don’t like the idea that somebody took it out on him physically.

  “It’s not right what happened to you,” LoPresto blusters. This is the same man who was all for tarring and feathering Eldridge after the loss. But since the team won the last two Friday nights, things have smoothed out. He turns to James Harley, who has chosen to wear his police uniform to the funeral service. “What have you done toward finding out who attacked Boone?”

  “We’re on it,” James Harley says. Since Eldridge told me he asked the police to stay out of the situation, I know James Harley is just being defensive.

  “On it how?” LoPresto’s voice is testy. He knows, like everyone else, that James Harley is not just out of his range—he doesn’t even have a range.

  James Harley glares at LoPresto and touches the gun at his belt.

  “You think it was youngsters who did it?” somebody asks the coach.

  “I wish I could tell you,” Eldridge says, hanging his head. “I’m so embarrassed to let myself get caught like that, I can hardly show my face in town.”

  “You know how many of them there were?” I ask.

  James Harley shoots me a resentful look. “I meant to ask you that, Boone. How many were there?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Boone snaps. He takes out a handkerchief and wipes his red face. “They jumped me from behind. Could have been two, could have been three. If it’d just been one, I could have held my own.”

  “Where were you when you got jumped?” LoPresto says. There’s something funny in his voice, and I realize he has some doubts about the matter. I wonder what that’s all about.

  “Sons of bitches attacked me right in front of my own home!”

  “Must have made some racket. Your wife didn’t hear it?”

  “They dragged me into the thicket down the street from the house.” Eldridge loosens the knot of his tie, as if he’s struggling for air. “Tell you the truth, I’d just as soon let it drop. I’m on the mend, and I doubt anybody’s ever going to figure out who it was.” He avoids looking at James Harley.

  “You’re probably right,” LoPresto says. “I understand you and Jack had a chance to mend fences after the loss to Bobtail.”

  Eldridge snorts. “Wasn’t any fences to mend. You know Jack, he was always spouting off about something. Neither of us was one to hold a grudge.”

  “That may be,” LoPresto says, “but Jack said you brought some tequila over to the house Sunday after the game to soothe things out.”

  “It never hurts to sow a little good will.”

  When they start talking about last Friday’s win, I ease on off to talk to the vets. I’m surprised when Walter Dunn hugs me. I’m not much for hugging other men. “You were a good friend to Jack after Bob died, and I won’t forget that,” he says.

  “Nobody could measure up to you fellows.”

  “We were just doing what we’d do for any one of us,” Dunn says. “Band of brothers.”

  Everyone nods and toasts with their punch. Dunn slips a flask out of his pocket to see if I want a little spike in my punch, but I wave it away.

  “How often did you all get together with him?” I ask.

  “Not as often as I’d have liked,” Dunn says. He tilts his head in the direction of the wives. “Them and the motorcycle shop keeps us busy.”

  “All of you work for the shop?”

  “We own it.” Dunn speaks with pride. “It’s a co-op.”

  “You all from around here originally?”

  “I’m from Hearne,” one of them says, and another is from Nacogdoches. A sharp-faced boy with arms full of tattoos says, “I’m from California. I just came here after I met Dunn . . .”

  “He figured he’d be better off in Texas,” Dunn says, cutting him off. The guy from California turns red.

  “One thing we all did every few months is go over to the casino in Coushatta,” Dunn says. “Jack enjoyed that.”

  “Jack bet any big money?” I ask.

  Dunn looks surprised. “Naw, Vic here is the only one of us spends big.”

  One of the others pipes up. “He’s not married, so he has plenty of cash.” They all laugh.

  “But Jack enjoyed playing? What was his game?”

  Walter grins ruefully. “He liked to play blackjack or craps, either one, and one of us would bet for him. Sometimes he’d listen so close when we played craps that I think he could hear what numbers came up on the dice.”

  The sharp-faced boy is staring at Walter, his expression still angry. “That last time wasn’t so good, though. Remember how pissed off Jack was when we left?”

  “Never did figure out what got him going,” another one says.

  Dunn tosses back the rest of his punch. “Well, we better gather up the ladies and head on out. I guess we’ll see you around.”

  Taylor sees me coming toward the group of people she’s with. She steps away and hugs me. “I want you to meet my husband.” She pulls me over. “Alex, this is Samuel Craddock, the man who went to Waco with me.”

  Taylor’s husband makes a good first impression. He’s my height, about six feet, with broad shoulders and he meets my eyes directly. His dark hair is cut neatly. His suit is probably expensive, but it isn’t ostentatious. If anything, he looks a bit stuffy.

  “I appreciate your helping Taylor out, going to Waco. I’ve got my hands full at work.”

  “I didn’t mind a bit.”

  Taylor’s mother lunges toward us. Taylor tenses. She’s always been a little allergic to her mother, who is well meaning, but doesn’t always curb her tongue. “Samuel, I haven’t seen you in a while. When you called me for Taylor’s number the other day, why didn’t you tell me what had happened to Jack? And what happened to your leg?”

  “Mamma, don’t badger Samuel.”

  I lean over and give Agatha a shoulder hug. “That’s all right. Your mamma’s right, we don’t get a chance to visit much.”

  “I’m just so stirred up about what happened to Jack
, I don’t know that any of us is safe in our bed.” She rattles on like that for a few minutes. I catch Loretta’s eye and she cruises over and takes Agatha off our hands.

  By the way Woody and Laurel aren’t looking at each other, I expect they’ve had a fight. Seems like funerals either bring people together or shake them apart.

  Some receptions go on all afternoon, but this one breaks up early. I wait for Loretta while she bustles around helping with cleanup. On our way out, she says, “That Curtis is awful close with a dollar. He argued with Annie Milton when she told him the usual donation to Methodist ladies’ auxiliary is $100 for a reception. Annie told him to keep his money. Nicely, of course.”

  “He didn’t take her up on it, did he?”

  “Gave her $50.”

  “Just a minute.” She waits while I go back inside.

  I slip some money in the donation box. Annie is still there, and sees me. “You don’t need to do that.” She gives me a sharp look. “Loretta told you about Curtis, didn’t she?”

  “I know I don’t have to contribute,” I say, “But when it comes time for my funeral, you all better do it up right.”

  I’ve just gotten out of my funeral clothes and back into my blue jeans, and am putting on a pot of coffee when I hear someone coming up the front steps. Through the screen door, I see Taylor and her husband.

  “Are you busy?” Taylor says.

  “Not a bit.”

  “With Mamma rattling on at the reception, Alex hardly got a chance to say hello.”

  Alex’s smile is strained. He has put in his time and is ready to get back up to Dallas. Why has Taylor brought him here? I offer them something to drink, but both of them say they had plenty at the reception. There’s an awkward moment.

  “Funeral went off okay,” I say.

  “Those motorcycles,” Taylor says, shaking her head.

  “Alex, you must think this is a pretty rowdy little town,” I say.

  He doesn’t reply, because he’s staring at the Melinda Buie painting above the fireplace that I bought in Houston a few months ago. After a minute he moves onto my Wolf Kahn and then to each of the pictures around the room. Finally he turns his gaze to me. “Where in the world did you get these pieces?” He looks at Taylor. “This is why you wanted me to come here, isn’t it?”