Shotgun Saturday Night

by Bill Crider

  “Well, ah, you see, Sheriff, there’s been a little problem here, and . . . well . . . ah . . .”

  “Let’s put it this way,” Rhodes said. “Just answer yes or no. Did you put those boxes in that brush pile?”

  “Well, now, Sheriff, there’s a word you lawmen use . . . I think it’s ‘extenuating.’ Yes,” Rawlings said, sounding relieved, “that’s it. ‘Extenuating circumstances.’ That’s what we have here, Sheriff, a plain case of extenuating circumstances.”

  “Yes or no?” Rhodes said.

  “Well, yes, I did put the boxes there, but there are extenuating circumstances,” Rawlings said. Rhodes thought of Raymond Burr playing Perry Mason.

  “Just exactly what are the circumstances?” Rhodes asked.

  “Well, as you may know, Sheriff, we usually burn amputated limbs.”

  “I know,” Rhodes said. He was getting a little tired of Rawlings’s runaround. “But not in fields.”

  “Of course not,” Rawlings said. He chuckled to show that he understood Rhodes’s irony. “But I’ve been doing some work with tissue samples. That’s why I had the limbs in the first place, you see. I certainly didn’t do all those amputations in the little hospital here. We’re just not equipped. And in fact, that’s the real problem. A lack of proper facilities. The furnace is just too small, frankly. It just wouldn’t handle the job.”

  “So you decided to dump the remains,” Rhodes said.

  “Well, I, ah, wouldn’t say ‘dump.’ I just wanted to dispose of them in an accepted and sanitary manner. They would have been burned, you know.”

  “There’s just a little complication,” Rhodes said. “The man who found those boxes is dead. Someone killed him last night.”

  There was a lengthy silence. Rhodes listened to the clanking of the air conditioner and snatches of the football game. Finally, Rawlings spoke again. “Do you think that this, ah, incident will get into the news media? I have a . . . a professional standing.”

  Rhodes thought of the Blacklin County news media.

  He thought of Clyde Ballinger. “It might,” he said. “But that’s beside the point. Right now, you’re connected with a murder case, and that’s more important than your ‘professional standing.’ Besides, there’s the matter of proper disposal. I’ll be talking to the state Health Department tomorrow about that problem.”

  “I see.”

  “No, Doctor, I don’t think you really do,” Rhodes said. He was trying not to lose his temper, but it wasn’t easy. “I want you up here in my office tomorrow morning. I want a strict accounting of every single limb in those boxes. I want you to be able to prove where every one of them came from. And while you’re at it, you might be giving a little thought to exactly where you were on Saturday night.”

  Rawlings sucked in his breath. “Are you accusing me . . . ?”

  “Not at all,” Rhodes said. “But I want you here in the morning at ten o’clock.”

  “But my patients!” Rawlings protested.

  “Get someone to cover for you, or cancel your appointments,” Rhodes said. “It’s either that, or I get the Houston police to pick you up.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to be there, then,” Rawlings said reluctantly. He didn’t sound happy.

  “Fine,” Rhodes said. “I’ll see you at ten o’clock.” He put the telephone down before Rawlings had time to reply. “Some people are more interested in covering their own backsides than in helping the law,” he told Hack.

  “What do you mean ‘some people’?” Hack said. “You mean everybody.”

  Rhodes grinned. “You’re right,” he said.

  The telephone rang, and Rhodes picked it up. It was Dr. White, calling from Ballinger’s. “I can’t tell you much, Sheriff,” he said. “Not much to tell, really. Bert Ramsey died from a shotgun blast to the chest, fired at close range. I’d say not more than four or five feet. Double-ought buckshot. About ten P.M., depending on when he ate supper, which was steak and beans, mainly.”

  “That’s it, huh?” Rhodes asked.

  “Not exactly,” White said. “There’s one other little thing that might be of interest to you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ramsey had a tattoo,” White said.

  “I think he was in the Army,” Rhodes said. “I guess lots of guys get tattoos in the Army.”

  “Not this kind,” White told him. “I think I’ve seen a picture of one like it in the newspapers. It’s a skeleton, riding a motorcycle.”

  “I’ve seen that, too,” Rhodes said. “Los Muertos.”

  “That’s what I thought,” White said. “They’ve been in the news a lot lately.”

  “That’s a fact,” Rhodes said. “Thanks, Doctor.”

  “Anytime,” White said. They hung up.

  “What’s that about Los Muertos?” Lawton asked.

  “Bert Ramsey had one of their tattoos,” Rhodes said.

  No one said anything for a minute. They listened to the clanking and clattering of the air conditioner. Rhodes leaned back in his chair, causing it to squeak its high-pitched squeak.

  “He’d been doing handyman work around here for a long time,” Hack said at last.

  “Seems to me that he was in the Army before that,” Lawton said. “Least, that’s what I always heard.”

  “Makes you wonder if we heard wrong,” Rhodes said. “I thought I remembered it that way, too. But maybe he wasn’t in the Army. Maybe he was just gone somewhere else. Maybe he was a member of a different organization.”

  “What’s that mean, anyway, that ‘Los Muertos’?” Hack asked.

  “You ought to know that one,” Lawton told him. “You must be gettin’ old. Means ‘the dead ones,’ or maybe just ‘the dead.’ “

  “Or maybe ‘dead men,’ “ Rhodes said.

  “Why the Spanish name?” Hack asked.

  “Nobody knows,” Rhodes said. “There aren’t many Chicano members of the gang, as far as I know. Besides, they started a long time ago. It could be that someone just liked the sound of it.”

  “Any way you slice it, they’re bad business,” Lawton said.

  “You know it,” Hack said. “I surely do wish you hadn’t been askin’ me to check up on whether the DPS boys had seen any motorsickles in the county lately, Sheriff. Even just thinkin’ that Los Muertos might be tied into somethin’ that you’re workin’ on makes me a little nervous.”

  “You reckon all them stories they tell on that bunch are true?” Lawton asked.

  “I don’t know,” Hack said, “but if even half of ‘em are, then I don’t want a thing to do with those boys.”

  “To tell the truth, I don’t either,” Rhodes said. He leaned forward in the chair. There was a high-pitched squeak.

  “We got to get us some WD-40,” Hack said.

  Just then there was an alarming crashing and clattering from the air conditioner. It sounded as if someone had thrown a pair of pliers into the fan motor. The sound increased in intensity and pitch, then gradually began to trail off until it sounded more like someone tapping on a piece of steel with a ball-peen hammer. Then there was no noise at all. The air conditioner had stopped completely.

  “I told you so,” Hack said.

  Chapter 6

  Most of what Rhodes knew about Los Muertos, he’d read in the newspapers or heard from other members of the law-enforcement fraternity. None of it was good. For the more than twenty-five years of the gang’s existence, the members of its various chapters had been more or less at war with the members of any other gangs in the state, as well as among themselves. There had been numerous crimes linked to the gang, and some of them had even been proved and tried in court. Rhodes could recall at least two convictions for armed robbery and one for murder. There were probably plenty of minor convictions for assault that he’d never heard of.

  Lately, however, the members of various chapters had settled their differences, formed a rough confederation, and begun making money the new-fashioned way—running dope. Their bi
kes were fast and easily maneuverable over most terrain. Most of them could travel wherever and whenever they wanted, not being too tied to regular jobs, homes, and families. They were a close-knit group and trusted no one, as most of their secrets stayed within the gang.

  No one knew exactly where the dope—mostly marijuana—came from. One theory was that it was grown in Mexico and then smuggled across the border, but Rhodes and many others tended to discount that theory on the grounds that it would involve trusting third, or maybe even fourth, parties, unless Los Muertos crossed the border themselves. Someone would have had to grow the weed, and someone would have had to bring it across. Rhodes didn’t know where they got the dope, but he didn’t think it came from Mexico.

  Blacklin County didn’t have a dope problem. Or at least it didn’t have a dope problem that Rhodes knew about. It was true that every now and then one of the deputies would come in with a high school kid who had a little marijuana in a baggie. Usually it was hardly enough to measure. Rhodes doubted that he’d seen anywhere near a pound of marijuana in his whole tenure as sheriff, taking it all together. Maybe he was letting his imagination get the better of him. All because of a little tattoo.

  He left Hack and Lawton looking disconsolately at the air conditioner and went out into the late afternoon heat. Soon the inside of the office would be like the inside of a baked potato. He hoped they could get the air conditioner repaired soon. He’d left Hack instructions to call Romig’s Appliance first thing in the morning.

  He idly laid his hand on top of the white county car, then jerked it back. The roof had been baking in the afternoon sun and was as hot as an exhaust pipe after the Indy 500.

  Then he remembered that he hadn’t eaten lunch. He went back inside and called Ivy Daniel, who agreed to go out for a bite with him. He left again, but this time Hack and Lawton were smirking wisely at one another, forgetting the air conditioner for the moment.

  Rhodes wished that he could clarify his thoughts about Ivy. He guessed that in the way of small towns everywhere, it was pretty general knowledge that they were “keeping company” and that they were being closely watched for signs of impending matrimony.

  He wasn’t sure that he was ready to let the town rumor him into marriage, however, and he really had no idea how Ivy felt about the subject. It wasn’t something that they had talked about.

  When Rhodes’s wife had died, he’d felt an emptiness that he thought would never go away. It had, very slowly, and one of the reasons was Ivy Daniel. He’d begun to feel very strongly for her, and in fact he told himself that that was part of the problem. He never wanted to lose someone and feel that emptiness again. If he got too attached to Ivy, he would be vulnerable.

  Ivy, on the other hand, was independently minded. Rhodes told himself that she was quite happy to be going out with him occasionally to eat or visiting at his house when there was time. He told himself that she wouldn’t be happy as his wife—he kept terrible hours, he was on call all day, every day, he never knew when he’d be at home. He also knew what rationalization was.

  He picked Ivy up at her house. She was dressed in jeans and a white blouse, and Rhodes realized again how slim and youthful she looked. He tried to suck in his stomach so that his belt buckle would show.

  “Where are we going to eat?” Ivy asked as she got in the car.

  “Lester’s,” Rhodes said.

  “Great,” Ivy said. “I haven’t been to Lester’s in a week or two, and that’s too long.”

  Lester’s was just on the outskirts of Clearview. It was not fancy enough to be called a restaurant, or even a café. Lester’s was a barbecue joint, and it looked the part.

  When Rhodes and Ivy drove up there were three cars and a pickup parked in front of what looked like an old house in poor repair. It had once been painted green, but that had been years ago. It had a slight list to the left, as if someone very large had given it a shove. In front was a piece of plywood on which someone had printed in black paint, with a very wide brush and an unsteady hand: LESTERS BBQ. As Hack had once told Rhodes, “Lester don’t believe in puttin’ up a front.”

  Ivy and Rhodes walked across the dry grass of the yard to the front door. They stepped up on a wooden step and went inside. The inside of Lester’s was dim and permeated by the smell of barbecue. They found an empty table and sat in two rickety chairs.

  There was no cloth on the table, which was covered by a worn but spotless piece of linoleum. The menu was hand-printed on a piece of plain white paper. There wasn’t much choice. You could have barbecue with beans or without beans. White bread. Water, tea, or a soft drink.

  Lester waited on the tables himself, and he came in shortly after Rhodes and Ivy were seated. He was an old, wrinkled black man, with skin so smooth it looked like polished wood. He’d been making and selling barbecue since Rhodes was a boy.

  “How you, Mist’ Rhodes?” Lester asked in his deep, husky voice. “An’ you, Miss Ivy?”

  “We’re fine, Lester,” Rhodes said. “How’s the meat today?”

  “Nice an’ lean, Mist’ Rhodes,” Lester said. “Hard to find a nice lean brisket these days, but I do it.”

  “We’ll both have a plate with beans, then,” Rhodes said. “And I’ll have a Dr. Pepper.”

  “Me, too,” Ivy said. “I’m picking up your bad habits.”

  “Man ain’t got no bad habits,” Lester said. He went back into the kitchen to slice the meat. He had a one-man operation and intended to keep it that way.

  “What’s new?” Ivy said.

  Rhodes told her about the conversation with Dr. Rawlings and about Bert Ramsey. It sometimes surprised him how easily he could talk to her.

  “Bert Ramsey built the fence around my back yard,” Ivy said. “About five years ago. He seemed like a nice, hardworking sort of a man. Why would anybody kill him?”

  Rhodes told her about the Los Muertos tattoo, and about Ramsey’s mother hearing the motorcycles. He went on to tell her about Buster Cullens and Wyneva.

  “And you don’t think there’s any connection between Bert’s murder and those boxes he found?”

  “There doesn’t seem to be,” Rhodes said. “No one involved in that had any reason to kill Bert. As far as I know, nothing illegal has been done. Adams and Rawlings seemed pretty cooperative.”

  “Then all you have there is a mess.”

  “Right. Somehow, some way, we’ve got to get those things taken care of.”

  They talked quietly, unaware of the other occupants of the room, all of whom were concentrating on their food. The only real sounds were the clicking of silverware against the heavy china plates that Lester provided.

  Then Lester arrived with their food. The meat was cooked just the way Rhodes liked it, slowly, all day, over a hickory fire. Lester had not yet given in to the latest fad, that of cooking his barbecue over mesquite wood.

  But it was the sauce that Rhodes liked best, and the sauce was Lester’s greatest secret. Not too thick, not too thin, it was a dark, reddish-black in color, spiced just right by whatever secret ingredients Lester cooked into it. It had a bite, but not too much of one. It was slightly sweet, but tantalizingly so. Rhodes loved to dip his bread in it and eat it, with hardly a guilty thought of his waistline. Ivy didn’t mind. She liked it, too. When they finished, their plates were gleaming white.

  “Lester won’t even have to wash those if he doesn’t want to,” Rhodes said, though he knew Lester would. The county health inspector had told Rhodes that Lester had the cleanest kitchen in the territory.

  Rhodes paid Lester, who had an ancient cash register on a table near the door. A collector would have paid a premium price for that cash register, Rhodes thought.

  It was only seven-thirty when they stepped outside, which meant that there was plenty of daylight left. “I thought I’d ride out to Mrs. Ramsey’s,” Rhodes said. “I’ve got to find out about that tattoo. You want to come along?”

  “Sure,” Ivy said. “I never pass up a chance to see how the
law operates.” She took his arm and they walked to the car.

  Mrs. Ramsey’s house, like Bert’s, looked well kept. Rhodes suspected that Bert was probably responsible, since Mrs. Ramsey hardly looked the type to favor yard work. The house had been recently painted, and the screens of the neat screened-in porch on the front looked almost new. There were no tears in them anywhere. Mrs. Ramsey’s old Ford sat beside the house in the dirt driveway.

  “You don’t have to go in,” Rhodes said as he stopped the car. It always made him a little uncomfortable to interrogate women, for some reason. Not that he wasn’t good at it. It was just a feeling that he got, and he wasn’t sure how Ivy would feel about the situation.

  “Don’t be silly,” Ivy said. “I’m not going to sit out here in this hot car. Besides, I might be able to help. The poor woman must feel terrible about what’s happened.”

  “Thanks,” Rhodes said. He was glad that Ivy would be coming in. Just having her there might make things easier. They got out of the car and walked to the porch. Rhodes rapped with his knuckles on the wooden frame of the screen door, causing it to rattle loosely.

  They heard Mrs. Ramsey’s voice from inside. “Comin’.”

  Rhodes watched through the screen as she came into view from the front room. Her step was heavy, and he almost expected to hear the floorboards groan under her weight. She lifted the hook latch from the screen and held it open. “Y’all come on in,” she said.

  Mrs. Ramsey’s living room was not as neat as her son’s. A yellow Afghan on the back of the couch was in disarray, and the plant on the television set obviously hadn’t been watered in far too long. The straight-backed wooden chairs were old and worn. The television set, however, was nearly brand new.

  Mrs. Ramsey saw Rhodes looking at the television.

  “Bert bought me that,” she said. “He bought me lots of things.” She looked around, as if trying to see what else her son had bought her. Then she looked back at Rhodes.