by Parrish, PJ
“That,” Louis said softly, “is why I couldn’t let it go.”
Dodie unscrewed the top off the Jim Beam and took a swig. Louis let several moments pass.
“What are we going to do. Sheriff?” Louis asked.
Dodie looked up at him. “We’re gonna wait for that report you asked for from the FBI. Once they tell us the medallions match, we’ll be able to see where we’re going with this.”
“You going to bring anybody else in on this?”
“No, not yet.”
Louis paused. “Sheriff, when can I come back to work?”
Dodie pursed his lips. “Tomorrow soon enough?”
Louis smiled slightly. “Thank you.”
“Just a minute, Kincaid. One more thing.”
Louis sat back down.
Dodie looked suddenly ill at ease. “I want you to listen to what I’m gonna tell you. And I don’t want you getting riled and readin’ too much into it.”
Louis waited.
“You gotta be careful ‘round Miz Abigail.”
Louis bristled and Dodie held up a hand. “I ain’t passin’ no judgment here, but people are talking. You gotta have a clear head about these things,”
“Sheriff—”
“I know you think it don’t matter, and maybe it shouldn’t,” Dodie went on, “but look at it from her standpoint. She’s young and right stubborn. Maybe, jus’ maybe, she just wants to piss off her old man.”
Louis shook his head, partly in frustration, partly out of weariness with the whole business. “There’s nothing going on between us. Sheriff.”
“It don’t matter, Kincaid. That’s my point.” Dodie paused, sitting back in his chair. “You gotta understand. Women here are different.”
Louis rested his elbows on his knees, bringing up his hands to cover his face. Good God, now Dodie was going to lecture him on Southern women, and there was no gracious way to escape.
“Black and white just don’t mix easy here, Kincaid. But that don’t mean that some men don’t get a taste for it, or that some women want what they can’t have.”
Louis stared at the floor. He looked up at the sheriff slowly. “What did you say?”
“I didn’t mean no offense there, I—”
“None taken, just repeat what you said.”
“I’m just sayin’ some women like to play with fire. Messin’ with a black man when you have Max Lillihouse for a father is just asking for trouble.”
Louis’s eyes took on an excited gaze. “Sheriff, I need your permission to talk to someone.”
Dodie’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”
“Maisey Kelly.”
“Maisey?” Dodie said. “What’s Maisey got to do with you and Miz Abigail?”
“Nothing,” Louis said. “But she may have a lot to do with Eugene Graham.”
The color dripped from Dodie’s face. He stared at Louis, unblinking. “Kincaid, where are you going with this?”
Louis was trying hard to recall exactly what it was Ethel Mulca-hey had said about the young Maisey. “Do you suppose,” Louis said, “that Miss Maisey once wanted someone she couldn’t have?”
“Jesus, Kincaid…”
“Sheriff, I have to talk to her,” Louis stood up.
“There you go again,” Dodie said.
“Sheriff,” Louis said softly, knowing he should just shut up. “I can do this your way. I can be discreet.”
Dodie scratched his head, avoiding Louis’s eyes. “You ask a lot, Kincaid.”
“I won’t go without your permission.”
Louis watched him. A cloud crossed Dodie’s gray eyes and he began to tap his fingers softly on the blotter.
“These people are my friends, Kincaid,” Dodie said quietly. “I’ve known them all my life.”
Louis bit his lip. He knew this was causing Dodie pain, but the fact was, these people were killers. He pressed on, trying one last time.
“Please, Sheriff,” he said.
Dodie was staring at the clay head. Louis slumped slightly, knowing suddenly the permission would not come. He rose, setting the chair back against the wall.
“I’ll wait for the report,” Louis said gently. “I’ll see you Monday.”
He walked toward the closed door.
“Louis.”
Louis turned back. Dodie was swaying slightly in the swivel chair, still looking at the clay head.
“Yes sir?”
“You be gentle with Miss Maisey,” Dodie said. “She’s sick-like.”
Chapter 21
Max squinted through the thick gray smoke of Big Al’s Tavern and watched as Marcus Allen sprinted into the end zone. The bar erupted into cheers and howls, punctuated with an occasional “Ah, shit,”
Max looked away from the television and down into his drink, watching the ice cubes bob against the side of the glass. Then he raised the glass and took a quick swig of the scotch. Across the mirror behind the bar was a silver banner that proclaimed WELCOME TO BUD LITE’S SUPER BOWL XVIII. Balloons shaped like footballs and beer bottles swayed in the dank air. Propped up against the register was a large piece of cardboard with numbers drawn on it, the Football Square, which gave all takers a chance to win an easy $500 by choosing the final total points.
He had bought three, but he had no chance now. Max stared at the cardboard. He didn’t care about the $60 he’d bet on the Football Square. What he cared about was the $5,000 he had laid with his bookie for the Redskins to beat the spread. But the Raiders were now ahead 35-3, and Max had been so sure that Theisman had it in him to pull off the upset.
The noise in the bar kicked up a notch as a commercial came on. Max looked up and found himself staring into the face of a handsome black athlete wearing Fruit of the Loom briefs. Max’s gaze drifted over the athlete’s lean body and he thought of Kincaid. The image mutated and the man in the briefs was lying in a bed with Abby, his Doll Baby He took a quick drink of the scotch and gagged, sending the scotch down his chin. He grabbed a napkin and angrily wiped his face. He slammed the glass on the bar.
“Billy Ray! Billy Ray! Fill up this damn glass,” he yelled.
The bartender set a bottle of Johnny Walker Red on the bar and sauntered away, back to the television. Max grabbed the bottle.
“Hey! Lillihouse!”
Max peered through the cigarette smoke down the bar. Shit. It was Elmer Miller. Cheap, whiny bastard.
“Hey, Lillihouse, still selling lemons at that car lot of yours?”
Max looked away. “You didn’t have to buy the damn car.”
“Hey,” Miller called out, turning on his stool to the knot of men at the pool table. “You guys know what Ford stands for? “Fix Or Repair Daily!”
Laughter rippled through the men.
“Always the clown, aren’t you, Elmer?” Max muttered.
“I just think a man oughta make good on a bum product, that’s all. That piece of shit you sold me ain’t run in near nine months.”
Max filled his glass to the rim. “Not my problem.”
“Yeah, yeah…not your problem. I’m out two thousand bucks and it ain’t your problem.”
“That’s what I said.”
Miller licked his lips. “I guess you got bigger problems to worry about. Like trying to keep that daughter of yours in line.”
Max was staring at Miller but the man didn’t seem to notice. He was huddled with his friends now at the far end of the bar, whispering, and suddenly the group burst into raucous laughter.
Max turned away, gripping the glass. Their sick cackling vibrated in his head, blotting out all the other sounds, all other thoughts.
Billy Ray, the bartender, took a step toward Miller, shaking his head, but Miller ignored him. “Ahh, Lillihouse went down the hill to fetch herself a nigger…” Miller said in a singsong voice, just loud enough for Max to hear.
Max bolted from the stool but Miller’s friends quickly surrounded him. Max tore at them, trying to get to the cowering man, but two men got their arms ar
ound Max’s shoulders and pulled him back. Max muscled one off, knocking him against the bar. His hand groped for Miller’s flannel shirt.
“Come here, you little fuck!”
Miller jumped off his stool and backed up against the wall, cowering but grinning drunkenly. “C’mon, c’mon,” he called.
Two other men had jumped in to hold Max. They pushed him back, wedging him against the bar. One of the men, Jimmy Beechum, worked for Max and was talking to him, trying to calm him down. Everyone in the bar was on their feet, watching. The only sound was that of the television announcer as the Raiders marched down the field.
Billy Ray leaned over the bar and removed Miller’s beer. “You better get out of here, Elmer,” he said.
“Why?” Miller sputtered. “I ain’t done nothin’. I wanna watch the game.”
“Let’s go, Elmer,” one of his friends said in a low voice.
It was only after Miller and his friends had left that the three men holding Max let him go. Max jerked free. He drew in heaving breaths and wiped a shaking hand across his face.
“You okay?” Jimmy Beechum asked.
“Fine.”
Max slowly went back to his place at the bar. He refilled his glass and took a quick drink, still standing. He felt a hand on his shoulder.
“I can fix this for you, boss,” Beechum said. “If y’all want me to.”
Max set down his glass and reached over to the next stool for his coat. “No, I’ll take care of it,” he said hoarsely.
He went to the door and shoved it open. The Redskins kicked a field goal and cheers from the bar rippled through Max’s head as he headed home.
Grace picked up the crystal decanter and slowly poured the sherry into the glass. She watched, mesmerized, as the golden liquid trembled from the lip, then she carefully replaced the stopper and set it aside. She closed her eyes. The room was cold. The fire had died down to a faint orange glow in the black hearth. She shivered and raised the glass to her lips.
The front door banged open, reverberating in the foyer. The glass slipped from Grace’s fingers.
“Abigail!”
Max’s voice echoed in the foyer. Grace turned stiffly.
He appeared at the archway, his face red, his chest heaving. Grace shrank back into the shadows. Max squinted, focusing on her.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
“I…I don’t know,” Grace whispered.
Max swung toward the stairs. “Abigail!” he bellowed. Then he spun back toward Grace, taking a step into the library. “Where the hell is she?!”
Grace retreated slowly behind one of the wing chairs.
“Answer me, goddammit!” he shouted.
Grace’s eyes darted past Max, looking for an escape. But he turned suddenly and started for the staircase.
“Abigail!”
He was gone. She let out a deep shudder, reaching for the chair to stop her body from shaking. She heard his heavy tread going up the stairs and she closed her eyes.
Abby waited, her heart hammering. She had heard him yelling downstairs. And now she heard the heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. She drew in a sharp breath, holding it. Something was wrong tonight. Usually, she would hear him stumbling into his bedroom, followed by the slam of the door. But not tonight. Tonight, something was different.
Her heart was racing and she sank back against the headboard of her bed, waiting, staring at the door. Her brain was screaming: Lock it! Quick, go lock the door!
It was too late. He pushed open the door and stood wavering in the hallway, his hands on the door frame, bracing himself.
“Why didn’t you answer me!” he demanded.
In the dim light of her bedside lamp, she could see him. His sparse hair was awry around his flushed face. His tie hung crooked and his wrinkled white dress shirt had pulled free of his pants. Even from this distance, she could smell the sweat and the whiskey.
He staggered over to her bed. She shrank back, pulling her knees up. He was staring at her, his eyes bloodshot, but with something other than just a booze haze. She stiffened, thinking of her mother, whom she had left sitting downstairs in the library just a few minutes before. Whatever it was that had set him off this time, she knew that this time he wasn’t going to take it out on Grace.
“Daddy? What’s wrong?” She tried to make her voice sound calm.
“You,” he said in a low voice.
She froze. Oh dear God, he had heard the talk.
“Daddy, I haven’t—”
Max moved quickly, lunging forward and grabbing the front of her sweatshirt. He jerked her toward him and she let out a yelp. Then she felt the sharp sting of his palm on her cheek. Her head was sent spinning back into the pillows.
“You fucking nigger-loving slut!”
She tried to scramble away from him, but his hands clamped down on the back of her shirt. He climbed on the bed and spun her over, drawing back his hand. Abby’s hands flew to her face, catching the brunt of his blow. He twisted her shirt around his fist, yanking her closer, slapping at her.
His foul breath flooded her face. He drew back a fist, but she jerked her shirt from his grasp and rolled away from him. He grabbed for her but missed. She slipped off the comforter and dropped to the floor.
Abby scrambled across the room and got to her feet, pressing against the door, blood trickling down her chin.
“I didn’t do anything!” she shouted.
“You think I’m stupid?” he yelled. “You think people don’t tell me what you and that nigger are doing?”
Abby spun around and jerked open the door. Max’s arm shot out and it slammed shut. He backhanded Abby, sending her careening into the bedside table. A small lamp crashed to the floor. She pulled herself up, glaring at him.
“Let me out of here,” she said angrily, brushing her hair from her bloody lip.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“I’m getting out!” Abby yelled. “You can’t treat me like you treat her!”
Max came for her but Abby flung herself at him with a fierce cry, catching him off balance and sending him crashing back against the wall. He toppled over a small bench. She flung open the door and ran out and down the stairs.
Max stumbled after her. “Abigail! Abigail!”
She grabbed the banister and skidded down the stairs, falling at the bottom. She scrambled to her feet and looked back at Max standing at the top, a blur of black-and-white in the shadows.
“Get back here!” he shouted. “I’ll find you! Don’t you walk out that fucking door!”
Abby heard a sound and turned to see Grace standing at the door of the library. She felt her chest tighten.
“Abby,” Grace whispered, “Don’t go…”
Abby grabbed her keys off the table in the foyer. Max was stumbling down the staircase, screaming after her. She pulled open the front door and ran out into the cold night.
The Commodores were singing softly on the radio. Louis had almost drifted off to sleep when the telephone rang out in the hallway. It was late and he knew it was probably for him. He pulled himself out from under the warm quilt and went out into the hall.
“Hello?”
“Louis! Louis, it’s me, Abby! Come get me, please. I need you!”
He snapped awake. She was crying. “Abby, calm down. What’s wrong?”
“Please, come get me! I’m so scared.”
“Where are you?”
“I…The Texaco. Out near the bypass. Please come!”
“Abby, stop crying. I can barely understand you.”
“Oh, Louis, I need you…”
The door of Bessie’s room opened and she stuck her head out. “All right, Abby,” he said. “Stay there. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
He hung up and started for his bedroom.
“Louis, where you going?” Bessie asked.
“It’s all right, Bessie, go back to bed.”
“Don’t you go gettin’ involved with that girl. It’s trouble,
you hear?”
But he was already in his room, pulling on his clothes. A knot formed in his gut. This wasn’t just another of Abby’s ploys to get his attention. He grabbed his jacket and hurried down the steps out into the cold night. The car’s heater hadn’t even kicked in by the time he got to the Texaco station. He pulled in next to Abby’s yellow Firebird. Before he could get out of his car, she yanked open the passenger-side door and jumped in.
“Drive, just drive,” she said breathlessly.
He stared at her. She was without a coat and her hair was a tangled mess. Her sweatshirt was ripped and splattered with blood. “Abby, what happened?” he demanded.
She was sobbing. “Just drive!”
He switched on the overhead light. When he reached over to push back her limp hair, she flinched. There was a jagged cut on her right cheek and a bruise was forming on her jaw.
“Dear God,” he whispered.
She pulled away, burrowing against the window, away from him. “He’ll come after me,” she whimpered. “Please, get me out of here.”
Louis thrust the Mustang into drive and peeled out of the lot. He headed out of town, into the darkness of the countryside. The road was empty, a gray line that stretched into the tunnel of dark trees. He heard her crying and reached for her hand.
Louis spotted a sign for Great Oaks Park and swung in. Parked cars with steamed windows dotted the road, and Louis drove past them, far back into the trees, parking between two large oaks. He left the engine running and turned to face her.
“Abby, talk to me,” he said. “Who did this? Was it your father?”
She nodded.
Louis turned away from her. He stared out the windshield at the dark trees. He clenched his jaw, wanting to hit something, anything. Finally he jerked open the door and got out. He just stood there for several seconds, pulling in deep breaths of the cold air, trying to calm himself. He started walking in a tight circle, toward the back of the car. Suddenly, he kicked the bumper. He kicked it again and again. Damn him! Goddamn him to hell! He wanted to shoot the bastard.
“Louis? Are you all right?”
He came back to the open door and leaned in, breathing heavily. His stomach knotted again at the sight of her face. He let out a long, slow breath, trying to release some of the anger with it. He could be no help to her this way. He had to stay calm.
