Paper Gods

by Goldie Taylor

  “And you’d be right. Only I know exactly why my free-spending wife married me. She burns through more cash than a Silicon Valley start-up. I don’t have a good-looking bone in my body. Hell, I ain’t easy on the eyes, but Libby Gail has been mine since the day I picked her up for the Swan Ball in my daddy’s new Cadillac.”

  “Gabriella loves me just fine, car or no car.”

  “I’m sure she does, Lucky. I’m sure she does.”

  “I can’t imagine being with anybody else. You ever once think about stepping out on Libby Gail?”

  “You mean with another woman? Hell no. Libby Gail Smoot would skin me alive.”

  “Not even once?”

  Virgil shook his head vigorously and replied, “No, not even one time.”

  “What about Whit? I hear he was quite a scoundrel in his day. He must’ve had the pick of the litter.”

  “Whoever told you a thing like that?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “Who is this ‘they’ you’re talking about?” Virgil said, perking up. “Gossip is worth less than a plug nickel.”

  “You know how the women are. My ex-wife used to talk about it all the time. You know how Sarah is when she gets a little Scotch in her. It doesn’t take much.”

  “And what did she say, exactly?”

  “Only that Whit was a man about town. Even liked black women back in college. Sarah said he used to sneak off down to Spelman to see some gal.”

  “Sarah should mind her own business.”

  “So, it’s true?”

  “I’m not saying it is. I’m not saying it ain’t.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  Hampton banged the keys and cursed the blank screen. He’d begged Tucker for a new laptop, only to get another rambling admonition about how he should be glad to still have a job when city papers around the country, big and small, were scratching for profits like a one-legged cat in a sandbox.

  “Shit!” he shouted.

  Hampton blew out a gust of air and started praying out of desperation. The full of his professional career, including an unfinished manuscript and years of investigative notes, hung in the balance. After a hard boot, the monitor took its time lighting up again. Hampton groaned, plugged in a spare external hard drive, and waited for the system to back up. He’d scrubbed the house, looking for his old drive, upending boxes, tearing through laundry baskets and kitchen cabinets, but came up empty. He’d been forced to buy a new one, which required getting an extension of the gas bill, but couldn’t help wondering what he’d done with the other one. After a string of Hollywood celebrities got hacked and their nudes were posted all over the internet, he didn’t trust virtual storage spaces and word-processing websites. His Google Docs account had been hacked twice in the last year.

  He watched the files transfer as he gnawed on a fried bologna sandwich and swigged a warm cranberry Red Bull. Claire was working late, and he didn’t want to bother her for another care package of her delicious food.

  He’d spent most of the evening laying out the League’s dirty work, half admiring the way they stayed within the confines of state statutes and federal campaign finance law while aggressively buying up elections. To what end, he did not yet know. If there was a political ideology, Hampton couldn’t find one. Although now that he had the Hawkins Amendment, his suspicions only deepened.

  He’d written a spate of stories about Reclaim Atlanta, which was now back in business and about to run a second round of television commercials, according to his sources, but his editors refused to print a syllable. It was clear, at least to Hampton, that the League was behind Reclaim Atlanta the first time, and had chosen Mayor Dobbs at least twice before. But according to his sources, they had a new dog in the hunt now: the Reverend Dr. Rudolph D. Goodwin, a televangelist with a doctorate of divinity from a diploma mill out of the Cayman Islands and an honorary degree from Blessed Heart University. It was a curious choice, given Goodwin’s nonexistent political track record and previous silence on any issue of note. Goodwin came out of the gate swinging.

  The death of the mayor’s brother complicated matters. Goodwin issued a statement and suspended his campaign out of respect for the Dobbs family. Hampton went to the prayer vigil, despite Claire’s admonitions that it would be disrespectful to go inside the church. And it was a good thing he did, especially since Dobbs announced her candidacy from the pulpit that night. In any other race, any other candidate might have postponed active campaigning, he noted in the story that he would file the following morning. It was a damn good speech, he had to admit. However, the special election would last only a few weeks, and this was Victoria Dobbs, he reminded himself, a woman who saw a political opportunity in nearly everything.

  Hampton did not want to think like that now, no matter how much he personally despised her. But Mayor Dobbs was ruthless, just as Chanel Burris warned. Hampton knew that firsthand. It had been less than a year since he was on the receiving end of her fury. He was dead sure that Dobbs was behind his car accident, not to mention the nasty rumors that had circulated about him on the blogs while he was still handcuffed to a hospital bed, even if she hadn’t hiked up her silk skirt and crawled under the hood of his car herself.

  Eighteen months back, when Hampton first shared his suspicions about the existence of a political loose group operating out of a post office box in Buckhead, Tucker figured it was a pint of whiskey doing the talking and told Hampton so. He ordered Hampton to shut it down.

  “Maybe Boney Jeffries isn’t such a lunatic after all,” Hampton said, pleading his case.

  “Listen here, Boney could find a reason to start a fight in an empty broom closet,” Tucker said, dismissing the story without so much as reading beyond the lead paragraph. “And here you are, chasing conspiracy theories like a two-dollar whore on nickel night.”

  There was some truth to that, Hampton mused as he tapped the keys on his laptop. Riding the wave of a four-pack of energy drinks, he’d been waiting hours for a call to come in. He tried to forget that he was home alone without even his dog to warn him if something else went down. The locks had been changed and burglar bars installed, none of which gave him any lasting comfort. He could think of a dozen ways to die, all of which were better than getting shot up in a home invasion. Hampton figured nobody would come looking for him, save for Claire or maybe Tucker, and then only if he botched another deadline. He’d been targeted in that robbery. He knew that for sure, but figured the whole story would get him laughed out of an APD station house.

  Nigga, we whatn’t supposed to kill no fuck-ass dog.

  Hampton was startled when his smartphone buzzed a little before 11 P.M.

  “Sorry it took me so long. I had a gig last night and I didn’t really see anything,” the woman said apologetically. “They stopped talking every time a server walked back there. They ordered the room sealed around eight o’clock. They wouldn’t even let Ole Karup inside, and he all but owns this place.”

  “Ole is still around, eh? He must be two hundred years old by now.”

  “White cowboy hat and all,” she said, referring to the unofficial reigning King of Buckhead. “Ole was pissing bricks. He tore out of the valet line in a white drop-top Bentley.”

  “And this was last Thursday night? Tiffany, did you recognize any of them?”

  “Yeah, J. T. King, Bertram DuBose, Virgil Loudermilk. They come in all the time. There was some black guy I didn’t recognize. Dark complexioned like Wesley Snipes and short. Maybe around fortyish.”

  “I’m betting that was Cordell Russell.”

  “The waffle guy?”

  “One and the same. Pretty sure.”

  “The preacher man got here first,” Tiffany, his all-time favorite snitching hostess, said. “I recognized him from television.”

  Oh, how he missed her deliciously warm lips and the way she wrapped herself around him. Tiffany had once been his favorite
pastime.

  “He came in by himself, checked in at the desk, and waited by the oyster bar until Mr. Loudermilk arrived.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “Oh, and there was a Mr. W. Whitney Delacourte,” she added. “I only know because he paid the bill and I got a peek at his credit card. He went to the upstairs bar for drinks after the meeting broke up. He looked real sad, though. Didn’t talk to anybody except the bartender and the bottom of a double-malt Scotch. He didn’t leave until after last call. The bartender called him Whit, like they were old friends.”

  Hampton’s tongue knotted up in his mouth.

  “I know that name,” Tiffany said. “Why does it sound familiar?”

  “Does Delacourte Enterprises ring a bell?”

  “Oh, right. Right. Isn’t that the family that owns your newspaper?”

  “That and twelve more. They also own a chain of one hundred and fifteen television and radio stations around the country. DCI is probably your cable and internet provider too. It stands for Delacourte Cable and Internet.”

  “Dang, that’s rich!”

  “He lives in a twenty-five-thousand-square-foot mansion up on Garmond Drive. One of the biggest private residences inside the city limits, second only to Tyler Perry’s house on Paces Ferry Road.”

  Hampton long suspected that Whit Delacourte was an active member of the League, though he should’ve put two and two together, since Loudermilk was involved. No one could ever place Delacourte in the room, though, until now—and at least according to the official campaign disclosure reports, he hadn’t made a single personal contribution to any politician anywhere since 1975, when he gave five hundred dollars to then-Governor Jimmy Carter’s presidential campaign exploratory committee. By Hampton’s calculations, Whit Delacourte was a few years out of Emory Law and a junior associate at a big-name firm around that time.

  “Sorry I couldn’t get more. We were pretty busy that night.”

  “You got more than enough, thanks.”

  Hampton’s stomach rumbled. Maybe from the greasy sandwich, maybe from the confirmation that with a single keystroke, somebody like Whit Delacourte could end his career.

  He’d met him only once, at a company-sponsored holiday party, and found him kind, if aloof. Hampton traded pleasantries with his wife, Patricia, whom he found just as lovely and everybody called Patsy Jo, while her husband raised a toast to another good year. Nobody mentioned the coming layoffs, of course.

  Hampton found last year’s annual filing for the Ezra J. Hawkins Foundation, but there was no mention of any especially large donation from any Delacourte company or family members. The W. Whitley and Patricia J. Delacourte Family Foundation wrote a $200,000 check after the congressman’s death to help underwrite the memorial expenses and establish a scholarship fund in his name, said a press release that Hampton discovered on the nonprofit’s website. He spotted a $100,000 gift from something called the Liberty Fund, but could find no trace of it other than a one-page Articles of Incorporation, a reference to its address in Ball Ground, Georgia, and its registered agent: Elizabeth G. Smoot.

  He searched the secretary of state’s corporate database again, using the name of every Delacourte he knew. He cross-referenced the Ball Ground address for the Liberty Fund, which turned out to be a home titled to ESG Enterprises, an LLC incorporated by Elizabeth G. Smoot. Who she was and why she was interested in Hawkins escaped Hampton, until he remembered Loudermilk’s wife, Libby Gail. He quickly found his wedding announcement in the Atlanta Times-Register online archives. The house and everything having anything to do with the Liberty Fund was held in his wife’s name.

  Whit’s son, Coleman Delacourte, had a partial interest in a construction company known as Resurgens Properties, though Hampton didn’t find it consequential and the entity didn’t appear to have any financial ties to Hawkins. According to tax records, Resurgens built multifamily housing complexes and a few strip malls.

  “What’s this about? Are you writing a story?” Tiffany asked.

  “I can’t really say.”

  “When am I going to see you? I’ve got a chilly bottle of wine with your name on it.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Hampton said, and then demurred. “I don’t drink anymore, and I haven’t dated in a very long time.”

  “Who’s talking about dating? A little fun, that’s all. I’ll do all the work.”

  “Hey, um, I’ll check in with you next week and see what you’ve got going on, okay?” he said, wriggling away.

  Tiffany Lullwater was a pretty girl, twenty-six and banking on a singing career that hadn’t come to fruition. She had long tanned legs, long flaxen hair, and a sweet Tennessee accent that used to make Hampton’s heart race. It had been a long time since he had a woman, any woman, let alone one like Tiffany. Hampton realized he didn’t want to be that man anymore.

  Seeing Claire again, eating her glorious food, listening to her melodic voice, made him miss her touch. She’d clearly moved on, and he’d tried to convince himself that one day he would too.

  “You still miss your wife, don’t you?”

  Hampton didn’t answer. Instead, he thanked Tiffany, said good night, and got back to work. Between the League, Delacourte Enterprises, and Dobbs, Hampton had his hands full anyway. And now, there was the matter of ESG Enterprises and Resurgens Properties.

  His files on Mayor Dobbs had grown to a healthy thickness over the years.

  State Senator Victoria Dobbs-Overstreet was sworn in under the Gold Dome three days shy of her thirty-sixth birthday. By all accounts, she worked twenty hours a day, every day of the forty-day legislative sessions, making friends on both sides of the aisle. During her tenure, her name was near the top of every important piece of legislation signed into law. She lorded over the Democratic caucus with an iron fist and knew well how to cut a deal with Republicans, who now controlled both chambers—even when there seemed to be nothing up for negotiation. Dobbs seemed to find political leverage where none was thought to be had and used it like a sledgehammer.

  Speculation had it that Dobbs wielded a dossier on nearly every sitting member of the state legislature, some information more personal than others, and on Governor Martinez, too. Dobbs kept a rumored blacklist, and anybody on it was politically dead or soon would be. She was more feared than revered in some quarters, Hampton knew, though the governor wouldn’t waste a breath before she clocked Dobbs over the head if she got a clear shot.

  Over the years, he’d met with more than a few sweaty-palmed lawmakers who were looking to drop the dime on Dobbs. None of them had the goods to make an ethics charge that would stick. Hampton figured that nobody, not even Virgil Loudermilk and his pay-for-play preacher, could stand in her way. If anything brought down the Great Torie Dobbs, Hampton surmised, it would be Dobbs herself.

  He scooted closer to his desk, pulled up and replayed the audio of a 911 call. It had come from a blind email account and was encrypted with a passcode that arrived separately. No APD detective, outside of the official public affairs spokesperson, would dare talk to him on or off the record these days, so the method of delivery was not surprising. What it contained, however, was another matter altogether.

  Seems a neighbor on Andrews Drive called in a domestic dispute of some sort, nearly a week ago. The yelling outside woke her from a cold sleep. From a second-floor window, Mrs. Gaffney said she could see two people fighting in a driveway below. She never said who they were, but the address matched the Dobbs-Overstreet residence. A dispatcher assured her that a squad car was heading to the scene, though there was no record of a response included in the message. Hampton thought back to the campaign event and remembered the bandage on Dr. Overstreet’s head and the statement put out by her office to explain it all away.

  “Must’ve been some boat she hit you with,” he said, gleefully pecking the keys on the computer.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Six pallbearers marched along the brick walkway toward the Potter’s Field, a dark metallic
gray casket hoisted onto their suited shoulders. Pastor Melham stood at the center, far edge of the enclosed portable tent, wearing a long black cassock and a matching ceremonial stole. He nodded as the coffin was lowered onto the silver brace and secured. His freshly shaved head glistened in the midsummer heat. A barefoot woman, dressed in a black leotard and flowing gossamer skirt, performed a liturgical dance, her palms stretching to the heavens in silent praise, as the family took their places.

  Althea took little Chippy onto her lap, making room on the row of satin-covered foldout chairs for Miss Rosetta and their kinfolk. Victoria, her husband, and their twins filed into the seats beside them. Melham offered Marsh a pitying glance, and then bowed his head in prayer.

  “Some wounds heal over time, though even in our grieving we must embrace the lesson of our scars,” he began.

  He concluded with a few words about a merciful God and how only the righteous would see the face of Jesus.

  “There will be a full accounting,” Melham said. “And yet, an equal portion of grace has been afforded to us all.”

  When the preacher was done gently chastising the living about the ephemeral nature of life and the abundance of grace, Victoria rose from her seat. She stepped to the foot of the coffin. With a warm soul-soaked voice, she began to sing.

  May the works I’ve done speak for me,

  May the works I’ve done, oh Lord, speak for me.

  Her alto voice was strong and wonderful. The mournful mood seemed to lift. There was no organ and no choir, no cheering band of campaign supporters. Her arms outstretched, lifting her eyes over the steely gray casket, adorned with an array of white roses and lilies, and into the sky, this was between her and her God.

  May the life I live speak for me,

  May the life I live speak for me.

  When I’m resting in my grave,

  I want to hear my Master say,

  May the life I’ve lived speak for me.

  As Victoria retook her seat to a round of soft amens, the history of the burial ground unspooled in her head. Oakland Cemetery, situated along Memorial Drive and not more than a mile outside of downtown Atlanta, was the final repose of the city’s founding fathers, political leaders, and other dignitaries who littered the history books. Her father was buried here, as were golfing legend Bobby Jones, author Margaret Mitchell, and Maynard Jackson.