The Devil's Palm

by Bob Knapp

  “Please! We're not children. Don’t lecture us about morals and crime. Insulted! Humph! I know for a fact, quite a few of us have visited Las Vegas ourselves, hoping to strike it rich—and who knows what else. And while we’re talking Vegas, look how gambling fostered its economic development. Their citizens hardly pay taxes. Casinos and businesses pay the taxes. Vegas' crime rate is no worse than any other big city’s. I think the possibilities are exciting. Let’s have a little dose of reality here in Madison.”

  Fowlkes turned to catch Gates’ attention and flashed the “stop” signal. Gates had his head buried in his notes, probably thinking about his story for the next edition of the Mills Valley View. Finally, Gates looked up, noticed Fowlkes, and plodded toward the podium.

  It was too late. Tom Jenkins had already taken the podium microphone. His hair, not accustomed to having been plastered down with water when combed, was struggling here and there to regain its former position.

  Jenkins, taking a deep breath as his one eye scanned the audience, cleared his throat and huffed again. “It's a blessing to see you folks. Don't often get to the city. Plus, I couldn't live with myself if I didn't speak up.” He swallowed hard as he ran a thumb under an overalls strap.

  “Excuse me, Sheriff Fowlkes, but we don't need no casino or your money. We made it so far without help from the big money rollers. We kin make our own way. Everybody knows I got girls. Shouldn't have to try to explain the goings on at a casino. And I'd hate to see that propity all torn up, having them big city types tromping all over.”

  Fowlkes nodded to Gates to get the microphone from Jenkins. From Jenkins blind side, Gates managed to slip a handhold on the mike, but couldn't wrest it from Jenkins's iron grip.

  “Now just a minute there, Charlie Gates,” Jenkins said. “I don't get to talk to my neighbors much.”

  Gates gave another tug, but Jenkins ignored it and continued. “I love life up at Lost Cow Run. Worth more than any kinda money. Better than working a mine, like I used t'. I sometimes feel God near when out on my place or hunting.”

  “Mr. Jenkins,” Gates called, “it’s nine o’clock. Time to conclude the meeting.”

  Jenkins raised a finger in a just-a-minute gesture and continued. “About Andy's place—he was thinking of a church up on top. For a fact, he put it in his will.”

  Jenkins paused and looked to the ceiling at the rear of the room. Some people turned, thinking he was gazing at something in the back.

  He continued, “Just imagine, a beautiful stone church, surrounded by God’s nature. Its bells call to ya across the valley. Think of it—a beautiful church, with a light on the steeple, pointing to the heavens. Now wouldn't that be something, up on that hilltop!”

  The veins on Fowlkes’ neck were like fat snakes burrowing under red clay.

  13

  Railing

  “Come join me, Michael,” Howie Crabapple said.

  Hanover looked straight up. Crabapple sat in a rocking chair on his front porch. A long flight of wooden steps rose steeply from the gravel drive on the right side of the house to meet the porch. Beyond the porch, the rock-strewn hill dropped precipitously for 200 feet before meeting a large grove of trees growing on a less severe incline. At the base of the hill ran Route 18, and just beyond it, the Jug restaurant and Middle Island Creek.

  After having worked in dark coalmines, Crabapple liked the open view. He had retired with a full disability—black-lung- disease—a result of working the McElroy Mine far too long. The disease had emaciated him and given him a smoky gray appearance. He looked considerably older than his forty-five years.

  Crabapple always had a bit of a tale to tell; whether it was true or not was up to the listener to determine.

  Hanover took the steps two at a time, carrying a box of groceries with a loaf of bread on top. He took care to not allow the box to rub against his white knit shirt. He believed that in the retail business, appearance was important.

  “How’d the meetin’ go? Anything excitin’, besides that Candy Melon-something woman?” Crabapple’s laugh triggered a bout of coughing. He wheezed as he rose from his chair, went to the porch rail, and spat over the side.

  Hanover’s ears reddened at the mention of Candy. He hoped that Crabapple didn’t notice. “Candy Melowicz, Howie. Melowicz. “Don’t you spread your tales. Those are long ago days. I’m married now.”

  “The way I hear it, seems you forgot.”

  “You heard it wrong. Now, lay off me. Where you want your groceries?”

  Howie grinned. “Same place as always—kitchen table.”

  Crabapple followed Hanover into the house. Crabapple, shirtless, put his thumbs under his overalls straps to hold them up as he walked. The wooden screen door slammed shut behind them.

  “And yes, the meeting turned out really well. The council voted down your new landlord’s request for the zoning change,” Hanover said.

  Crabapple sat at the kitchen table, wheezing from the walk from the porch. “Really! Bet Sheriff Fowlkes was none too happy.” Crabapple gasped for breath. “Seems like a nice enough fellow, though. Told me not to worry about rent for a while. Fifty bucks a month can sure help.”

  “Good—you can start paying off your grocery tab,” Hanover said.

  “That big, huh?”

  “Yeah, that big.” Hanover joined Crabapple at the table. “I bet Fowlkes is after something.”

  “He asked me about this place. I told him where the old oil well was, out on the flat,” Crabapple said.

  Hanover looked down at Crabapple. “You better watch your tongue, Howie. Some things don’t need to be said to some people. Fowlkes already lives in that oil baron’s mansion. Next thing, he’ll want to become one.”

  “It's his property; he's bound to find that well.” Crabapple leaned forward in his chair. “I'm not that big a blabbermouth. Look, I didn’t say zip about what I saw the night Andy was killed.”

  Hanover’s eyes widened as he leaned toward Crabapple. “You witnessed something related to Uncle Andy’s murder and didn't tell me?”

  “It seemed like nothing. Just somebody slamming shut a car door down on Route 18,” Crabapple said. “See, yesterday I wrote myself a note on the back of that envelope and put it up on the ice box to remind me to tell ya when ya came.” He began to push away from the table and reach for the note. Hanover sprang to his feet, retrieved it and handed it to Crabapple.

  Crabapple handed it back to him. “Got seventy bucks in it, too. That cover my tab?”

  “It's a big help,” Hanover said. He read the note: “Tell Mikey bout noyz at Andes 2 o clock midnit.” Hanover then jotted, $70.00, paid, on the envelope's opposite side and shoved it into his pants pocket, then jotted the same on Crabapple’s grocery receipt.

  Crabapple grinned. “And how you know it was murder?”

  “Uncle Andy would never have been in the road in the middle of the night. So why you telling me now?”

  Crabapple coughed. He held a dirty handkerchief up to his mouth and, hacking, walked onto his porch. He cleared his throat; spat over the railing, then came back into the kitchen. “Whew!” he said. At the table he put his forehead down on his arm.

  Hanover waited, frowning, for Crabapple to look back up.

  “Sorry,” Crabapple said, wheezing. “I been thinkin'…maybe it was something else. The sheriff’s car was there—or some other police cruiser.”

  Hanover wrinkled his brow.

  “The light over Andy’s doorway, the Jug’s, was shining through those red and blue emergency lights on the cruiser,” Crabapple said. “I thought Andy maybe heard something and had called for the sheriff. But I guess the sheriff was there because of the accident.”

  “Except I found Uncle Andy’s body before anyone else and I called Fowlkes, right away—after daybreak. That was the first he knew about it.” Supposedly. “So why was a patrol car at Uncle Andy’s in the middle of the night?”

  Hanover paused, but really didn't expect an answer. “Maybe, f
or now, it's good you didn't report what you saw to Fowlkes. You really can't trust him. So don’t tell anyone about that cruiser. I'll take care of it.”

  Hanover walked to the door. “And by the way, you better get that porch rail fixed.”

  * * *

  The window air conditioner in the Madison County Sheriff’s Office fought valiantly but was losing the battle. Fowlkes stood directly in front of the conditioner with the phone to his ear.

  “Hold on a sec, Sergeant. This old air conditioner's rattling in my ear,” Fowlkes said. On the line was the state police supervisor for Madison and Tyler counties.

  “Yes, we received the forensics from the State lab,” Fowlkes answered. “They matched those of the owner of the vehicle, the old Crown Victoria. We’ve charged him with involuntary manslaughter and leaving the scene of an accident.” Fowlkes paused for a reply.

  “Yes, the accident investigation showed it clearly,” Fowlkes said into the phone.

  Fowlkes frowned. “No, no idea who saw a patrol car at the scene at the time of the accident.” He cursed to himself. “I was the first officer on the scene...8:35. Who told you?

  “Thank you for getting to me so quickly. We’ll look into it.” Fowlkes hung up the receiver, turned the air conditioner back on, walked into his washroom and splashed cold water on his eye. Howie Crabapple had to be the one who saw us and told Hanover! Fowlkes cursed aloud. On his way out, he folded the wet paper towel at its creases then dropped it into the wastebasket.

  Fowlkes’ intercom rang as he approached his desk. He pushed the intercom button. “What is it?”

  “Mr. Gates on line one, Sheriff,” Helen said. “Calling about the Council's zoning meeting.” Helen’s desk was behind the reception counter that faced the main entrance into the Municipal Building. “He sounds a little upset.”

  “Helen, I was about to buzz you. Get León and Waxter in here! They're off duty. Tell them to hurry—no excuses.”

  Fowlkes pushed another button. It's bad news, or Gates would've been here at nine, ogling Helen while he waited for me. He put the receiver to his ear and spoke. “What, Slim?”

  As he listened, Fowlkes swiveled his desk chair around to face the window. The sun had almost reached its zenith and was amplifying its attack on his office. He took one last look at Main Street, stood, and shut the yellowed Venetian blind.

  Fowlkes raised his voice and cursed. “I thought you had this under control. Only two councilmen for the zoning change. And one is you! You're nice to people and this is the thanks you get.”

  As Gates whined in his ear, Fowlkes realized he had misjudged the big man's abilities. Why Gates was chair of the council, he didn't know.

  “You recall our agreement . . . too bad,” Fowlkes said. He shook his head in disbelief at Gates' answer. “It's results that count. Put whatever you want in the Valley View. People only buy that worthless rag to wrap their fish in!”

  Fowlkes interrupted Gates' comeback. “You bet I'm going after the other five council members. Before I'm through, this town will beg for a resort.”

  Fowlkes slammed down the phone, shattering the cradle. “Helen,” he yelled, “I need another telephone. Get one from the Council Office.” He headed for his private restroom and returned holding a wet paper towel to his eye.

  Helen, new telephone in hand, was escorting León and Waxter inside. León wore a flowing black shirt, grey slacks and highly polished pointed black shoes.

  “Where have you been?” Fowlkes demanded.

  “Down at Millie's Cool River Café. I love saying that name. It's the nearest thing to a bar in town.”

  Fowlkes saw that León wasn't allowing himself to get ruffled. Fowlkes cooled himself down. “How about you, Chet?” he said, eyeing Waxter's white undershirt, drooping with sweat, hanging over his Bermuda’s. His eyes first darted to Waxter's hairy legs and arms, then to Helen's low cut blouse as she bent over to plug in the telephone.

  “Asleep in the hammock.” He looked guiltily down at the floor.

  “Ah, but good, you two got here fast, refreshed and ready for work,” Fowlkes said. “At least somebody can do something right.”

  Helen cast a harsh glance at him, then looked hurt.

  “You too, Helen—all the time—thank you.”

  Fowlkes observed León turn to watch Helen leave. She is an attractive woman, although her graying hair, fixed that way, gives her a matronly appearance. What do they call those models? Full-figured. That's Helen.

  León and Waxter stood behind the two guest chairs facing Fowlkes' desk.

  “León, think about her after you complete this little task I have for you.

  “And where are your uniforms?”

  “Helen said—”

  “—To hurry. You'll need to be in uniform for this assignment. Get them on as soon as you leave here.” He glared at Waxter. “And look sharp!”

  * * *

  Waxter panted as he reached the top of Crabapple's long stairway. The back of his shirt was already dark with perspiration from his ride in the patrol car. He had thanked Fowlkes profusely when his request for an open collar tropical uniform had been granted. León continued to wear a tie that matched the dark blue stripe on the outer seams of his deputy's khaki pants. He and Waxter removed their hats as they stepped onto the porch where Crabapple sat. Waxter took out a handkerchief to wipe his brow.

  “What brings the sheriff's office to my humble abode, twice within three days?” Crabapple asked.

  “Official business this time,” Waxter answered.

  “Don't mind me settin' in the sun,” Crabapple said. “Seems I'm cold all the time, lately. You boys kin sit over there where it's still shady.”

  León studied the rail to which Fowlkes had referred in his instructions. “Better get that railing fixed, Senõr Crabapple,” he said. He turned his head and winked at Waxter. Waxter blanched.

  “Sheriff Fowlkes, my new landlord, said he'd fix it. Be a few days. He seems to have an eye for those kinda things. Poor ol' Andy, never noticed.”

  “Yes, we're really sorry about Mr. Mehrhaus. He was your friend, too?” Waxter said.

  Crabapple put his hand to his mouth and smothered a cough while nodding, “Yes.”

  “Quite a view you have. Almost straight down from your porch.”

  “Satan's Slope, I calls it.”

  “What building's that, down through the trees?” León asked.

  “That's Andy's pl—” Crabapple coughed and sought to use his handkerchief. As his hacking continued, he shuffled to the porch rail.

  Waxter looked at Crabapple sympathetically. “That cough—must keep you from sleeping.”

  The deputies waited a half-minute as Crabapple coughed and spat over the rail.

  “Wakes me a lot,” he managed, wheezing. He then coughed some more, still hanging onto the railing.

  “We're trying to get a handle on what happened down at the Jug the night Senõr Mehrhaus died,” León said.

  “You taking medicine for that cough?” Waxter asked.

  “My kitchen counter's covered with bottles. It's my lungs, black lung disease.”

  “You know we got the gringo that hit him.” León said. “The man denies it, saying he was home in bed. His Crown Vic was the car involved. If we could pin down the time of the accident…”

  Crabapple did not respond.

  “I hear lots of miners get black lung disease,” Waxter said.

  “I worked the McElroy Mines.”

  “Senõr Crabapple, if we could fix the time a patrolman was there to investigate, it would help. You awake any that night, Mr. Crabapple?”

  “Yep.”

  “Tell us about it,” León said.

  “I had finally settled down, when I heard a car door slam—I thought. From out on the porch I saw lights, them's that's on top patrol cars, down by the Jug. Figured it was Sheriff Fowlkes responding to Andy's call.”

  “The lights were on?”

  Crabapple stifled a cough, but then
the cough took over. He shook his head negatively as he struggled to the rail once more.

  Behind Crabapple’s back León signaled Waxter to “come on”. Waxter grimaced, but joined León in following Crabapple to the rail.

  Waxter leaned over the rail to see Crabapple's face. He patted Crabapple on the back. León, on Crabapple's other side, cocked his leg and gave the left side of the railing a hard kick. The rail, with Crabapple's and Waxter's weight on it, pulled its nails from the left post, Crabapple's side. The rail's collapse over the side gained momentum. Crabapple, still coughing, clung to the rail with one hand and reached desperately for Waxter, who was out of reach. The rail swung out over the cliff, like a large gate, with Crabapple hanging from its far end.

  The right post acted as a pivot. Nails creaked. Waxter grabbed the post with one hand and pushed back against the rail with his other hand to keep from joining Crabapple. His weight, and the leverage exerted by the rail, threatened to tear out the post.

  León raced to Waxter and, gripping the very same post, reached for and caught the top of Waxter's trousers at the belt. Time seemed to stop as the three remained precariously balanced. Crabapple, in his weakened condition, hacking, could no longer hang onto the rail. Waxter and León heard Crabapple's coughing as he plummeted to the jagged rocks below. The rail, now released from Crabapple's grip, sprang upward a bit, enough for the two to regain their balance on the porch.

  “You fool!” León said. “You could have gotten us killed. Why'd you lean on the railing?”

  Waxter seemed not to hear as he gazed down at the crumpled form far below. A tear falling from his cheek raced to meet the stricken ex-miner.

  14

  Coffeecake

  Becky stared across the threshold at the man outlined by the last of the evening sun's low rays. Her eyes sought those behind the blue glasses then darted about the room. The smooth honey brown complexion of her neck and cheeks reddened. “Oh, Sheriff Fowlkes, I wasn't expecting anyone. Everything's a mess. I'm baking for the store.”