Chiefs

by Stuart Woods

  “Sorry, Sonny, I just—”

  But Sonny was wading into the crowd. He caught the girl’s eye over her partner’s shoulder and held it as he approached them. She gave a little frown and rolled her eyes sideways at the sailor. Sonny read the look. You’re cute, but watch it with this guy, it said. He stepped up to the couple and tapped the sailor firmly on the shoulder. The young man turned and looked at him, surprised. Sonny smiled. “ ‘Scuse me,” he said, in his friendliest manner. “May I cut in?”

  The sailor’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. “Fuck off,” he said, and turned back to the girl.

  Sonny grasped a fistful of navy uniform at the shoulder and turned the man slowly toward him. The smile left his eyes. “I don’t think you understood me, swabby. The army is cutting in.”

  The sailor looked him up and down, took in the ribbons. He had a few of his own. “What the army is gonna do,” he said, “is get cut up, not in.”

  Fletcher, the club’s owner was suddenly present, towering over both of them, shoving his big belly between them. He held a child’s baseball bat in one hand, its large end wrapped in black friction tape. “All right, boys, the back door is right over there.” He nodded toward a fire exit in a corner of the room. “This discussion takes place outside.” He slapped the bat into his left palm for emphasis. “Right now.”

  Sonny smiled again. “Yes, sir, Fletcher.” He motioned the sailor toward the door. “After you, swabby.” The crowd parted to let them through, then fell in behind. The girl leaned toward Sonny as he passed her. Her eyes were bright with excitement.

  “He’s got a knife in his sock,” she whispered quickly.

  Sonny nodded his thanks. “Come on, honey, I need an audience.” As they moved toward the door Sonny slipped a ring from his left hand to his right. The stone moved back and forth easily, esposing the sharpened corners of the setting. He watched the sailor moving ahead of him. Lots of hard muscle there; the guy had thirty pounds on him, easy. No close stuff; stay back and cut him up; see how he likes the sight of his own blood.

  The sailor shoved the door open and started down the short flight of steps to the parking lot, Sonny staying close behind. The sailor was starting to turn around. “Okay, soldier boy, how do you want—”

  Sonny, pushing off the bottom step, had started to swing as the man turned. The blow caught him high on the cheekbone as he came half way around, and his own momentum helped spin him to the ground, hard. He started to his feet, swearing, but Sonny stepped quickly in and clipped him above the left eye, sending him down again. Now the sailor noticed that he was bleeding from both sides of his face, and as he rose his hand went to his ankle and began to come up with the knife, switching it open. Sonny took one long step forward and kicked him in the face, like a football player going for the extra point. The sailor’s feet left the ground as he flew backwards. The knife fell from his hand, and Fletcher stepped on it, but there was no need; the sailor lay where he fell.

  “All right, folks,” Fletcher yelled to the crowd. “It’s all over. Everybody back inside, the band’s only playing for another half hour.” He turned to Sonny. “You better scat before he comes to, or you’ll have to kill him to stop him.”

  Sonny walked over to the girl, slipping the ring back onto his left hand. “Give me the car keys,” he said to Charlie, who was standing beside her. She was breathing as hard as he was, he noticed.

  “You’re gonna come back for me, ain’t you, Sonny?” Charlie asked.

  Sonny took the girl’s hand and started for the parking lot. “Why don’t you get a ride with somebody, Charlie. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t worry about the car.” He handed the girl through the driver’s door and got the car started. “You’re Charlene, right?”

  “Charlene Pearl.” She was still breathing hard. So was he.

  “I’m Sonny Butts.” He spun the car out of the dirt parking lot onto the highway and drove a few hundred yards to a dirt road that led to Fletcher’s catfish pond. She slid over to him and put her hand on his thigh.

  “You took real good care of Maxie, you know that? He never knew what hit him.” She was up close, breathing into his ear. Her hand moved up to his crotch. “Hey, hey,” she giggled.

  “Take off your pants,” he said, concentrating on driving fast. She laughed and wriggled out of them. “And your sweater, and the brassiere.”

  “Is that all, hon?”

  He whipped the car into a little clearing off the road and stopped. They got out, and the girl crawled into the back seat without a word. Sonny unbuckled his belt and shed his pants and uniform tunic; then he was on her and in her, driving, biting the big nipples, driving, driving. They came together in less than a minute, noisily. Spent, they lay in a heap on the back seat and fought for breath.

  “It was the fight, wasn’t it?” he said, finally, panting. “The fight got you going.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, panting herself. “It got you going, too, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” he replied. “It always does. It does it every time.”

  4

  HUGH HOLMES and Marshall Parker stood in the dim light of a disused barn on the outskirts of Delano. “What do you reckon you’ll need to fix it up, Marshall?”

  “Mr. Holmes, I figure to patch up the roof and make the walls weathertight and to put in a couple of potbellied stoves and otherwise get it in shape to work in, that would take about fifteen hundred dollars—that’s with me doing most of the work myself.”

  “How about tools and enough spare parts to get you started?”

  “Another five hundred dollars, I reckon.”

  “And you’ve figured your expenses, your rent and things?”

  “Yessir. And he’ll give me a option to buy it at three thousand dollars. That’s with just over two acres of land.”

  Holmes thought that sounded high, but it was a white man selling to a black one, and if Marshall did well enough to buy the place the bank might help him negotiate a better price.

  “Marshall, I know you worked for Mickey Shelton before the war. That where you learned how to work on cars?”

  “Well, sir, I didn’t do much for him except grease jobs and oil changes and flat tires, like that. It was in the army I really learned about vehicles. We didn’t have a proper motor pool in my outfit, and we found out we’d get things running a lot quicker if we did it ourselves instead of taking them to regiment.”

  Holmes nodded. He could understand how an outfit that came to be known as Eleanor Roosevelt’s Niggers might have its problems getting help from an all-white unit.

  “Then after we left Italy and went to England to get ready for the big invasion, we were stationed down in Cornwall, in the southwest part of the country. We were living in tents and on ships hidden and camouflaged up these rivers, and we had a lot of time on our hands, so I started going down to this little village, St. Mawes, and helping out this old gentleman, Mr. Pascoe, in his garage. I worked on Austins and Wolseleys and even Jaguars. Course, they were real short of parts, and we had to make do, and it was real good experience. I got so I could fix parts you’d usually throw away. That’ll stand me in good stead around here right now, I reckon, since parts are still pretty scarce, and most colored folks like to get things fixed ‘stead of replacing them.”

  Marshall did not mention the Sunday dinners at the Pascoes or the sailing in Falmouth Harbour with their daughter, Veryan, or how, for the first time, he had been made to feel like an equal by white people. They still corresponded. Holmes had noticed that Marshall spoke more like a white man than a black one and supposed that must have been the result of his English experience. He hoped the man’s speech wouldn’t cause problems for him.

  “Good point. Tell you what, Marshall, we’ll make you a loan of a thousand dollars to start—you say you’ve got some money saved up?”

  “Yessir, over two thousand dollars.”

  “Well, you put half of that in a savings account at the bank, and you’ll still be earning i
nterest on it until you need it. Do you know about that?”

  “Yessir. I got all the way through high school.”

  “And when you get on down the road a little bit, and we see how you’re doing in business, maybe we can let you have more money to help build it up. That all right?”

  “Yessir, that’s just fine, and I sure appreciate it, Mr. Holmes, I sure do.”

  “Well, Marshall, you’ve always been a good fellow, and if you work hard and build up something for yourself here in your garage, folks’ll have faith in you, and you’ll be surprised what they’ll do for you.” Holmes looked at his watch. “You come on down to the bank tomorrow morning, and we’ll fix you up. I’ve got another stop to make this afternoon, and I don’t believe I’ll get back before closing time.”

  Holmes left Marshall Parker at his new barn-garage and drove to the other side of town. Idus Bray had shrewdly figured on a housing shortage for returning veterans and had set up a trailer park on a piece of his land there. Patricia Lee met him as he drove up to the tiny box she and Billy were living in. Billy arrived as Holmes was getting out of his car. There were greetings all around.

  “Well, Miz Lee, how are you appreciating Idus Bray’s hospitality? You enjoying your spacious new home?”

  She kissed him on the cheek. “Mr. Hugh, he promised me land, a farm,” she grinned, tossing her head at Billy. “And look at this—I’m living in something the size of a stall in my father’s stable. If Daddy could see this he’d horsewhip my husband.”

  “Listen to her,” Billy said. “We’ve only been home a week, and she’s complaining already. I’ve bought meself an Irish shrew, I have.”

  “Well,” said Holmes, “we might be able to make a start getting you out of the grips of your wicked landlord. Come take a ride with me.” He looked at the rusty ‘38 Ford convertible Billy was driving. “Let’s take my car.”

  They drove north on Highway 41 for a couple of miles, then turned east onto the unpaved Raleigh road for another two. Holmes turned off the road and drove a hundred yards up a slight rise and stopped. Billy stared ahead of them. A tall stone chimney stood alone on the little hill. Cows grazed where the house had been. Oaks, sweet gums, and a few pecans shaded the area.

  Billy got out of the car silently and walked toward the chimney, followed by Patricia and Holmes, carefully avoiding the cowpats. He stopped and looked around him.

  “No shortage of fertilizer for the grass,” commented Patricia.

  Billy nodded at a pile of manure near her feet. “That near enough marks the spot where I was born.” He pointed upward. “Up one floor. Not exactly a marble monument, is it?”

  Patricia’s mouth fell open. “This was your father’s place? The cotton farm?” She looked around her. “You never told me it was so beautiful.”

  “To tell you the truth, I never remembered it as being beautiful. I haven’t been out here since I was thirteen. It is beautiful though, isn’t it.” His eyes swept the trees and meadows. “My God.”

  “It’s for sale,” said Holmes.

  “Who owns it?”

  Holmes looked embarrassed. “Well, I do.”

  “You do?”

  “I bought it from the bank. Hoss Spence wanted it, but your daddy said to me once that he’d rather the bank have it than Hoss Spence. I leased the grazing rights to Hoss after Will Henry died, but I couldn’t bring myself to sell it to him. He could never figure out why. He’s mad at me for it to this day.”

  “How much land is there?”

  “Six hundred and forty-one acres. Your great-granddaddy owned more than three thousand when the War Between the States started. Reconstruction was hard. You can have it for what your daddy owed on it, plus interest from that time. You’ll be assuming his debt, sort of. Works out to about twenty thousand. I reckon a house will cost you thirty. Materials are short, but there’s good timber on the place, hardwoods. There’s a sawmill three miles down the road. I know a fellow over at La Grange has got a wrecking business. He’s got a lot of old brick. Pretty when it’s cleaned up. We’ll find you some cement and copper pipe somewhere. Roofing’s a problem, but we’ll find some.”

  “Twenty thousand’s too cheap.”

  “I’ll have got a reasonable return on my investment. You forget, Hoss has been paying me for the use of the land. The bank’ll be getting your mortgage business, too. I’m no fool.”

  Billy looked at Patricia. “Say yes to Mr. Hugh, or I’ll divorce you,” she said.

  He turned back to Holmes. “The bank has itself a customer.”

  “There’s just one condition,” said Holmes. “I want to make you a wedding present of the brick. I want to give you something that’ll last.”

  Billy started to protest. “Shut up, Billy Lee,” Patricia said, then put her arms around Holmes and kissed him, making him blush. “Thank you, Mr. Hugh,” she whispered in his ear. “Thank you so very much.”

  On the way back to town Holmes asked where Billy had found the Ford convertible. Billy told him.

  “You should have checked with me,” Holmes said reprovingly. “Still, I know a fellow could probably fix it up for you.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Billy replied.

  5

  OFFICER SONNY BUTTS strolled out of the Delano police station and into the bright June morning. This was his favorite time of day and his favorite thing to do. He threw a leg over the big Indian motorcycle, flipped out the kick starter with a toe, rose into the air, and came down with all his weight. The engine roared the first time, and he throttled back for a moment as he kicked up the stand and adjusted the aviator sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. The black leather seat was hot from the sun and felt good against his genitals as he pulled smoothly from the station’s parking lot into Main Street and headed unhurriedly through the business district. People waved, and he waved back or gave a little two-fingered salute from the bill of his cap, if the recipient was a city councilman or a storeowner.

  At the traffic light at Main and Broad, Hugh Holmes waved him to the curb. A young man in a blue suit, very tall and skinny, stood with him.

  “Morning, Mr. Holmes.” Sonny was instantly on his most correct behavior. Holmes always made him a little nervous.

  “Morning, Sonny. Meet the new preacher at the First Baptist Church, Brooks Peters. Preacher, this is Officer Sonny Butts, one of our combat veterans, joined the police force about three months back.”

  “Glad to meet you, Sonny.” The preacher sounded as though he really were glad.

  “Welcome to Delano, Brother Peters. My mother and I go over to West Side, so we’re not in your congregation, but maybe we’ll get to hear you at a revival sometime.” Sonny knew exactly how to talk to Baptist preachers, just as he knew how to talk to most kinds of people.

  “That’s a powerful-looking machine you’re riding, there.”

  “Yes, sir, I guess it is. We picked it up for just about nothing at a war-surplus sale down at Fort Benning last month. Only had seven thousand miles on it. Real good buy for the city, I reckon.” He shot a look at Holmes, who said nothing, but gave a low grunt of indeterminate meaning. “Well, Preacher, Mr. Holmes, I better get going on my rounds. Nice to meet you.”

  Sonny pulled away from the curb and continued down Main, then up Second to Broad and on up the mountain. At forty miles an hour the breeze was downright cool. He felt wonderful. At the top of the pass he swung across the road and parked in the shade of a billboard for the Bijou Theater, advertising the current attraction, The Best Years of our Lives. Sonny had seen the picture the night before and had identified strongly with the Dana Andrews character, the former soda jerk who had come back to his home town and been unable to find work. He felt grateful again for his job. All through the film he had kept wanting to say to Andrews, “Apply for a police job, you stupid bastard, then you won’t have any trouble holding onto your women.”

  He kicked the stand down and sat sidesaddle, waiting. A lone mailbox stood not eight feet from where he was—F
oxy Funderburke’s mailbox, he knew. He was surprised to recognize a piece of mail protruding from the box. Even though he couldn’t read the whole return address, he knew what it was, because he had opened an identical envelope at headquarters only that morning. It was a catalogue for police equipment. That guy was a real cop freak. The back bumper of his pickup truck was studded with stickers and stars from various police and sheriff groups that solicited memberships from the public. People joined them because they thought they might not get arrested for speeding if a cop saw the stickers. Before he could think further about Foxy, a car flashed past the billboard doing at least fifty.

  Sonny caught up with the car before it had gone a mile. It was one of the new ‘46 Fords, and it had a police-association badge stuck to the rear bumper. Sonny pulled up alongside and waved the surprised driver over. The man got out to meet him.

  “What’s the problem, Officer?” The man was grinning, friendly.

  “I’m afraid I clocked you doing forty-five in a twenty-fivemile-an-hour speed zone, sir. Can I see your license, please?”

  “Sure.” The man pulled out a wallet and opened it. His driver’s license was displayed opposite a card with a big star on it, a police-association membership card. He was still grinning. Sonny noted the license number and began writing out a ticket. The man stopped grinning. “Say, didn’t you see my association card?”

  “Oh, yessir, and I want you to know how much we appreciate your contributing to the association that way.”

  The man watched Sonny continue to write the ticket. “But don’t members get some kind of special consideration?”

  “Sir, we want to give you every consideration we can. So if you’ll just follow me down to the station we’ll try to have you on your way with the absolute minimum of inconvenience.” Sonny handed the bemused man his license and got on the motorcycle. “Just follow me, sir.” He kicked the machine to life and led the way.

  At the station the man paid a twenty-five-dollar bond to Chief Melvin Thompson and left in a huff. “That’s three this week, Sonny,” the Chief said. “Sure you’re not cutting ‘em too fine? The council likes the income, but they wouldn’t want to get a reputation as a speed trap, like some of those south Georgia towns on U.S. 1.”