Chiefs

by Stuart Woods

  “And if he doesn’t work out?”

  “I don’t think it would be that much of a problem. A small hitch. Unless he failed publicly in some important way, if he turned out to be dishonest or made a complete fool of himself. That could set things back quite a lot.”

  “It could set you back quite a lot. This election is going to be a near thing. You can’t afford a public embarrassment. That’s why I did some further checking on Major Watts.”

  Billy looked at Holmes in surprise; he was suddenly tense. “How did you do that? More important, what did you find out?”

  “A friend in Dick Russell’s senate office had a word with somebody in the Pentagon who went through his record.”

  “And?”

  “It seems Tucker Watts was something of a problem for the army in his youth. He went in as a kitchen helper, you know. Never even went to basic training. He did a lot of hell-raising, it seems, got into some fights. Fortunately for him the army didn’t pay much heed to blacks fighting amongst themselves. He managed to stay out of the stockade, but he was broken twice, once from corporal, once from sergeant, during the thirties. It wasn’t until the war broke out and he got into a Negro combat unit that he seemed to take hold. After that his record was excellent. His early problems were overlooked when they needed leaders in his unit. And after Truman desegregated the services he was in a good position for promotion.”

  Billy heaved a sigh of relief. “I thought for a moment you had come up with something really bad.”

  “No, he’s apparently all he seems to be. I have hopes for him. I’m not looking forward to telling six young white policemen that they have a new, black, Chief, though. All of them have been in the service. I hope that will help them adjust to the situation.”

  The doorbell rang. Patricia, who had seemingly been dozing in her chair, got up. “I’ll get it.”

  Billy slapped his knee. “That will be this reporter—new fellow down here with the Atlanta bureau of the New York Times. I told him he could drop by for a talk this afternoon and completely forgot about it. His name is John Howell, Trish.” Patricia left the room and returned shortly with a slender, sandy-haired man in his late twenties. Billy made introductions.

  Holmes shook the young man’s hand. “Well, I’ll leave you gentlemen to it. Rainy Sunday afternoons make old men sleepy.” Patricia showed him out while Billy showed the journalist to a chair and offered him coffee and brandy. He accepted both.

  “This weather is more like New York than what I expected in Georgia,” he said.

  “How long have you been down here?”

  “Just a couple of weeks. I appreciate your seeing me on a Sunday. I was down in Columbus on something else, and it was on the way back.”

  “Not at all.”

  Howell opened a stenographer’s notebook and produced a ballpoint pen. “I’m really just after background. Being the new boy, I need to get around the state and meet as many people as possible. That was the legendary Hugh Holmes, was it?”

  “In the flesh.”

  “His name seems to keep coming up, no matter who I’m talking to. Is there anybody in the state he doesn’t know?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I spent two years in the Washington bureau before coming down here. He wasn’t unknown up there. For that matter, neither were you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I had lunch with a guy at the White House before I left. David Kass. He suggested I see you early on. Tell me, what do you think of the rumors about Kennedy dropping Johnson from the ticket in ‘64? We can go off the record about this if you like.”

  Billy hoped he didn’t show the jolt he felt at the question. Was the White House planting rumors about him? Howell hadn’t quite said that Kass had mentioned him in that regard, but the implication was there. “I’m perfectly happy to be on the record about that,” Billy said smoothly. “I think Lyndon Johnson has been a tremendous asset, both in the campaign and in the vice-presidency, and I expect he’ll continue to be that kind of asset on the Democratic ticket in 1964. I certainly hope so.”

  “You think Kennedy will stick with Lyndon, then?”

  “The President hasn’t confided his views on that subject to me. Or on any other subject, for that matter. The lieutenant governor of Georgia sits a long way from the White House. I’m amazed you would even ask my opinion.”

  “You have no contact with the White House, then?”

  “My wife and I had dinner there early last year, an intimate little group of about seventy, as I recall. We had a Christmas card from the first family.”

  “How about David Kass?”

  “He was down here on some business or other a few weeks ago and paid me a courtesy call. The governor was out of town. I bought him a cup of coffee.”

  “He seemed impressed with you.”

  “He must’ve liked my coffee.”

  To Billy’s relief Howell dropped the subject of the White House and moved on to his gubernatorial ambitions. Billy admitted his interest but did not commit himself. The conversation wandered over a wide range of subject matter for more than an hour; then, as Howell was making to leave, Billy had a thought.

  “There’s something coming up that might interest the Times.”

  Howell opened his notebook again. “Shoot.”

  “You’ll have to hold it until the middle of next month, and I’ll have to ask you not even to talk about it until then.”

  Howell paused. “I don’t know.”

  “You can read about it in the Constitution then.”

  “All right, all right.”

  Billy told him about the appointment of Tucker Watts, the whole story from Chief Breen’s phone call to the present, asking only that the story not be attributed to him. Howell scribbled rapidly, asking an occasional question.

  “Will this be an exclusive?”

  Billy shook his head. “I’ll have to give it to the Atlanta papers on the day, but at least you can run it simultaneously. You’ll have time to talk with Watts, too.”

  Billy walked the journalist to his car with an umbrella and bade him good-bye. On his way back into the house he reflected that at the White House they might get around to the Atlanta Constitution now and then, but they saw the New York Times every day.

  7

  BY TUCKER’S retirement date of December 2, 1962, a contract between himself and the city of Delano had been agreed and signed, and a Chief’s badge sent to him by Holmes via Billy. Holmes had also sent him a clipping from the Delano Messenger announcing his appointment to the job and giving a detailed summary of his military career. Tucker was amused that no photograph illustrated the announcement. He visited a uniform store and outfitted himself, bought a .38 service revolver, and had a laminated identification card made.

  On his retirement day there was a small party for Tucker and Elizabeth at the Fort McPherson Officer’s Club. Tucker was given a Rolex wristwatch and Elizabeth a set of gardening tools, the best the post exchange had to offer. They were very pleased. The base commander had some nice things to say about Tucker’s work, and then, suddenly, they were civilians. That evening, as they were trying to get used to the idea, Hugh Holmes telephoned.

  “Major Watts?”

  “I guess it’s just plain Watts, now.”

  Holmes laughed. “Chief Watts, I reckon. I’ve got a house I think you ought to have a look at. Can you and your wife come down here tomorrow?”

  “I expect so. Do you want us to come to the bank?”

  “The house is on the north side of town, about three miles out. Why don’t we meet there?”

  “All right.”

  “After you pass through Warm Springs you drive for about ten minutes, and you’ll come to a country grocery store and barbecue stand on the right-hand side of the road.”

  “I remember that. Smoky’s it’s called, isn’t it?”

  “That’s the place. Just past a big dairy farm. You’ll see a lot of cattle. Well, after the barbecue stand it’s
the first road to your left, a dirt road. There’s a mailbox says ‘Worth’ on it. The house is about a quarter of a mile from the road. Say, about ten o’clock in the morning? That too early for you?”

  “No, that’ll be fine.”

  “Good, see you then.”

  They drove to Delano in bright, cold weather, enjoying the ride. Elizabeth was excited, and Tucker knew the place would have to be really unsuitable for her not to want it. They had never owned a house. A few minutes past Warm Springs they came to the gate to the Spence farm, and had to stop for a herd of dairy cattle crossing the road. They were coming from milking, Tucker knew. He had walked behind them so many times with his father. He felt a prickle of something as he looked up the hill at the Spence house and the shacks beyond. Anger? Fear?

  Past the barbecue stand they found the Worth mailbox and turned into the road. The house soon appeared from behind a grove of pecan trees. It was frame, white, with green shutters; not large, but not small, either. Hugh Holmes was standing on the front porch, rubbing his hands together.

  “Come in out of the cold,” said Holmes. “I’ve got the heat running. It should get warm shortly.”

  They walked slowly through the house. A living room, separate dining room, three bedrooms, one of which could be a den, large country kitchen. Out back were a garage and another outbuilding which had once been a barn.

  “Worth built this house in the early thirties. He was farming then, but not long after that he went to work for the railroad. Retired this year. He and his wife bought an apartment down in Panama City. Moved last month. There’s a little over five acres with the place. Hoss Spence, the dairy farmer up the road, bought seventy acres from Worth, but he didn’t want to give him anything for the house, so Worth held that back, along with the land on this side of the creek, yonder. The property’s bounded by the creek, the highway, and the railroad right-of-way, back there in the trees. You get a couple of trains a day, but apart from that it’s pretty quiet.”

  “What’s he asking?”

  “Twenty-eight. I think he’d take twenty-five.”

  “How’s he feel about selling to black people?”

  “All he’s worried about is selling. He replaced the coal furnace with a heat pump a couple of years ago. There’s a well and a septic tank. Worth was pretty handy; kept the place up. You could find some boys to pick the pecans on shares. There’s half a dozen peach trees over there, too. Keep you in preserves and ice cream.”

  “How about financing?”

  “I can fix up twenty thousand for twenty years at six percent. That’d leave five down.”

  Tucker looked at Elizabeth. She was practically vibrating. “I love it,” she said.

  “Well, you can tell Mr. Worth he’s got a buyer, Mr. Holmes.”

  “That’s just fine. If you want to give me five hundred in earnest money we can close next week. A lawyer here has got his power of attorney.”

  Tucker wrote him a check. Holmes handed him a bunch of keys. “There’s a front and a back door key there. You’ll have to figure out the rest. I’ve got to get back to the bank, so I’ll leave you with your new place. Worth says that whatever’s here goes with the place. I think there’s a lawnmower and some other stuff. I think you got a good buy.”

  “I’ll start to work on the fifteenth, then, as agreed.”

  Holmes grinned. “You’re already on the payroll. Take the time until the fifteenth as a Christmas bonus. Come see me whenever you like; let me know if I can be of any help.”

  Holmes shook hands and left them. Elizabeth ran around the house, looking into closets. She came back with a broom and a dustpan. “Come on, Tuck, let’s get it cleaned up.”

  He laughed at her. “Why don’t we figure out what we have to do to the place, first.” They walked through the house. The paint was mostly in good shape. Elizabeth didn’t like the wallpaper in the master bedroom. Tucker pulled at it, and it stripped off easily. “Why don’t we just paint in here?” Elizabeth said.

  “Okay with me”.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, go buy some paint.”

  “Right now? We don’t even own the place yet.”

  “Just as good as,” she said. She picked up a piece of the wallpaper and pointed at a cream color between flowers. “Get a gallon that’s exactly this color, and brushes and all that. By tonight we can have this place ready to move into.”

  Tucker kissed her and left the house, turning onto the highway and driving in a leisurely fashion toward town in his brand new Oldsmobile 98, a retirement present to themselves. As he crossed the bridge that marked the Delano city limits, he slowed to thirty-five. To his surprise, a police car pulled up next to him and the driver motioned him to pull over. There had been no flashing light or siren.

  Tucker pulled over and sat quietly in the car. The police car stopped ahead of him, and a large sandy-haired young policeman hefted his bulk out of it and approached. Instead of stopping, he walked slowly all the way around the car, looking it over. When he finally arrived at the driver’s window, Tucker pressed a switch and the window slid silently down. Tucker sat slumped in the seat, looking straight ahead.

  “Well, now,” said the young cop, “electric windows, too. Boy, this sure is some car you got yourself.”

  Tucker said nothing.

  “This is your car, of course. You didn’t just swipe it out of somebody’s driveway, did you?” It wasn’t quite a question. “Okay, sport, outta the car.”

  Tucker slowly turned his head and looked at the policeman. “What for?” he asked evenly.

  An astonished look came over the cop’s face. “What for? Why, because I told you to, that’s what for.”

  Tucker shook his head. “That’s not a good enough reason. I wasn’t speeding. You’ve got no cause to believe I’ve committed any crime.”

  The cop stared at him incredulously. He reached to his side, pulled out a large pistol and pointed it at Tucker’s head. “How about this? Is this a good enough reason? Now you get your black ass out of that car, you son of a bitch, and do like I tell you.”

  Tucker uncoiled himself from the car and stood up, towering over the policeman. He was wearing a blue suit and a necktie. The cop patted him under the arms for a gun, then stepped back and holstered his pistol.

  “Why, don’t you ask me for my license and registration?” Tucker asked.

  “I’ll ask the questions here, boy. Now, lemme see your license and registration.”

  Tucker gave them to the cop, who glanced at them.

  “Awright, Marvin”, said the cop, “I’m going to get back in my car and drive down to the station, and you’re going to follow me real easylike.” Tucker’s name was written on the license as Marvin T. Watts, in the military fashion. “Then we’ll see whether you own this car. And by the way, I clocked you doing fifty-five in a thirty-five-mile-an-hour zone.”

  “Horseshit”.

  “You mouth off to me one more time, and I’ll blow a hole in you, you hear me? Now you get in that pretty new car and follow me, and don’t you even think about going anywhere else.” The fat young man hitched up his pants and walked to his car. Tucker got into his car and followed him to the police station.

  There were two other police cars parked in front of the station, and when the policeman and Tucker entered the building, there were three other officers in the main room. One was talking on the telephone, his feet up on a desk, picking his teeth; the other two were running around the room shooting at each other with water pistols.

  “Whacha got, Tub?” the one on the telephone called out.

  “Speeding, resisting arrest, Bobby. Maybe a stolen car.”

  Bobby turned back to the phone. “Listen, honey, I gotta go book a colored gentleman on a number of charges. I’ll be by there around noontime. You keep your motor running, hear?” He hung up, got to his feet, stretched and yawned, ambled over to the counter that separated the waiting area from the squad room, and dug a form out of a drawer. He tugged a ballp
oint from his uniform shirt and looked at Tucker, bored. “Awright, high roller, what’s you name?”

  Tub slid the license and registration across the counter. “His name’s Marvin, Bobby. That’s nice, ain’t it? Marvin.”

  “My name is Tucker Watts,” said Tucker, tossing his open wallet with his badge and ID card onto the counter. “But you can call me Chief.”

  Hugh Holmes left the bank and headed for the police station with some trepidation. He had been putting off meeting with the members of the police force to tell them about their new Chief, but time was growing short now. It was time to spread the word, and the police station was the place to start.

  As he approached the building, he acquired a queasy feeling in his stomach. Tucker Watts’s shiny new Oldsmobile was parked in front of the station, along with all three police cars. Holmes hurried through the entrance, but stopped in the entrance hallway when he heard Tucker’s voice coming from the squad room. The new Chief was not actually shouting—indeed, he was speaking at a quite normal volume—but there was an edge in his voice which made Holmes not want to interrupt him. Instead, he leaned against the wall and listened.

  “I noticed in your records that you have all served in the armed forces at one time or another. Good, because you will all know what I mean when I say that this police force is a military organization and from this minute forward it is going to be run like one. Do you understand me?”

  There was an affirmative mumble from several voices.

  “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “That means military courtesy, military bearing, and, for the time being, military procedure. It is very clear to me that none of you knows the first goddamned thing about police procedure. We’re going to change that, but for now military procedure will do. Just pretend that you’re back in the army and that I am your commanding officer. If that doesn’t work for you, pretend I’m God. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Starting right now, nobody on this force has any rank at all. You’re all patrolmen. There is no seniority. I’ll decide, based on your performance, who will get promotion and responsibility. Which one of you is Strickland?”