by Bob Knapp
Hanover ignored them. “What's so all-fired important about those pictures? You should have stepped back from my car and let me go.” He picked gravel from his arm and blotted his face and arms with a handkerchief. The blood and dirt on the white cloth looked like an abstract painting.
“Give me my keys. Give me my gun,” Hanover said.
“Fat chance.” Fowlkes took a slow, deep breath. He had carefully chosen his bait when he planned this fishing trip. But Hanover had spat out the hook. Sometimes you had to throw out some chum for the fish to swallow.
Or use dynamite.
“I expected to have a reasonable discussion with you, Hanover. Maybe work out a compromise.
“Let me show you why I asked you here.” Fowlkes looked through his drawings and selected an irregularly cut paper the size of a small envelope. He didn't want to have gone through this much trouble and left empty-handed. “Come over here where you can see Crabapple's house on the hill.”
Fowlkes held the paper at arm's length, toward the house, and stared up the hill. “See how this just fits in when you put it in place of Crabapple's house?”
Hanover shook his head in disgust. “You really thought I wanted to see this?” He stood staring at Fowlkes.
Fowlkes clamped his teeth together. “Come. Look at it—like I showed you. It's a long walk home.”
Hanover sneered and strode to where Fowlkes stood. “Let me see.” He snatched the picture and held it up. It was a cutout of an artist's rendition of Fowlkes’ resort.
“If you stare at it, it looks real,” Fowlkes said. “See how it blends in with the surroundings? Beautiful.”
“I'm surprised. I gotta admit—it looks nice.”
“This is quite an investment for me. I'm anxious to get started. And your word carries a lot of weight on the Council. I've got to have that zoning agreement.”
“That's your problem, not mine.”
“We get this built and tourists will need gas. You can put a gas station at the store. We'll send them your way.”
Hanover almost laughed. “You'd say anything—or do anything.”
Fowlkes ignored the jab. “I can cut you in, make you a partner. Then you can have a say. No cost to you.”
“My vote's not for sale,” Hanover said.
“It was your uncle's place; you'd be a part of it.”
“And after I agree with the zoning, along with the rest of the Council, then you can go do what you want, right. No, thanks.”
What a stubborn jackass. “Be reasonable. What do you suggest I do with the property?”
“You're asking me? Go build a little cabin up there and come out here for some R-and-R and a little fishing.”
Fowlkes held up a picture. “That's what this is, a cabin—but I want to share it, maybe make some money, too. Anything wrong with that?”
Hanover shook his head. “You've never shared anything in your life, Fowlkes. And that's not exactly a cabin.”
Fowlkes’ eyes shot darts. “This is going to happen with or without you.”
“Stay away from me, Fowlkes. I listened to your spiel. Now, give me my keys and my gun.”
Have it your way. I've fished with dynamite before.
Fowlkes got into his squad car and gunned it into the middle of the road, then dropped Hanover's keys and pistol out the window.
16
Mister Good Guy
The building was one of those corrugated metal affairs—cheap and quickly erected. Red rust stains made their way down the faded blue roof and formerly white sides. Two garage doors, now unused except for ventilation in the summer, dominated the front. Above the doors a sign had been painted over, but through the paint had bled the name Johnny's Motor & Body Repair. On top of this was stenciled The Mills Valley View. A small doorway had been cut through the right side of the right garage door.
Fowlkes shook free the ill-fitting door, ducked, and stepped inside. The grey overcast from outside did little to penetrate the grimy windows, not enough to allow him to determine the makes of the rotting cars at the front, buried in dust and junk. The air reeked of decaying grease overlaid with the scent of newsprint, like a bum that had doused himself with Glade bathroom spray. Fowlkes made sure that his clothing touched nothing.
At the rear of the building, fluorescent lights made a hole in the darkness where a man moved back and forth behind some large machinery. Fowlkes made his way toward the light and the steady k-chunk, k-chunk, k-chunk of a Shinohara printing press spitting out paper.
“When you gonna get that door fixed?” Fowlkes yelled over the pounding.
“As soon as this clunker stops gobbling up every extra nickel I get,” Slim Gates said.
“I want to talk with you.”
“I figured.” Gates wrestled a roll of newsprint onto a spindle and deftly fed the paper into the machine as the previous roll ran out. Not a k-chunk was missed. Gates picked up an oiling can and toddled toward the side of the press.
“Hey, I want to talk with you,” Fowlkes said.
Gates breathed deeply, expanding an already tremendous gut. “Want some paper to wrap your fish, huh?” He pumped a little oil from the spout into the machine, turned and pointed the can at Fowlkes, then gave the can a squeeze. A geyser of oil arced toward Fowlkes.
Fowlkes jumped back. “You could have gotten that on my uniform, Fatso.”
Gates stared at Fowlkes and slowly raised the can toward him again.
“Okay, okay, I apologize,” Fowlkes said. “I thought the zoning thing was in the bag. I lost my temper.”
“My money?”
“I'm not paying all that. One-third, that's all. The rest when the Council comes around.” Fowlkes pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket. “Here. Now shut that paper pusher down.”
“You know what your trouble is, Fowlkes? You expect people to do whatever you want, and if they don't, you try to force it down their throats.”
“The Jug's my property. I'll do with it what I want.”
“That attitude comes across to people.” Gates wiped grimy hands on a rag. “They'll balk every time.”
“I thought I was pretty persuasive at the town meeting.”
“With your info.”
Fowlkes’ lip quivered into a sneer. “What else is there?”
“Like the song says, 'You gotta give a little, to get a little.'” Gates’ head rocked side to side in time with his singing. “Give something of yourself first if you want to sell your ideas.”
“You sound like some pie-in-the-sky preacher,” Fowlkes said.
“Or governor. Your uncle, Governor Kirkpatrick; now he's persuasive. Look, you came into Madison out of nowhere, used Kirkpatrick's name—and money—to get yourself elected sheriff, then started throwing your weight around. Nobody knows a thing about what's inside you.”
“You don't know diddle about Kirkpatrick, either. Look, bottom line, I got to have zoning by November first—six weeks. According to you, I have to have people fawning all over me first. And if it doesn't work, then what?”
“Try this idea on for size. Have a picnic: free food, drink, balloons and games for the kids at your old Mehrhaus property. They'll be cozying up to you, fast.”
Fowlkes winced. “They'll fall for that? And who will do all this? I've never even had guests for dinner.”
“Your deputies, the volunteer fire fighters, and Helen Wagner. Open up the Jug. It's got a grill, refrigeration. People can bring folding chairs and blankets to eat outside. You can hold an open house at your place in Madison, too. They're dying to get in there.”
Fowlkes slipped a finger under his sunglasses to quiet his eye. “And track in their dirt, smudge up the walls.”
“You can keep people riled up if you want, or embrace them. I'll run a special flyer, starting with this edition of the View. But you just can't buy your way. Hang out. Let 'em know a little about who you are.”
* * *
Orlando León whistled, sang and flipped a burger. He did a little
shuffle, then held a pair of chili slathered hotdogs and Cokes across the counter to a pimply teen. The boy let the door slam as he hustled out to the creek where a girl waited for him on a blanket in the dry sandy creek bed. León turned to Waxter working beside him. “Chet, stop eating these things. Look, here comes another gang now.”
“I never thought anybody'd come all the way to The Jug just for free hotdogs and beer,” Waxter said.
“Bright sun, seventy degrees and on a Saturday? Nobody'd miss it. But what's got into Fowlkes, throwing a picnic? Must be a catch.”
“And we get the dirty work again, while he's out jawing and playing.” Waxter spread a dozen hotdogs on the grill.
“You—working?” León raised his voice to be heard above the sizzling. “Look at you, stuffing yourself.”
“The hammer's gonna fall, I'll bet you that,” Waxter said.
The door swung open to admit a tall, wiry man accompanied by a girl of about eight.
“Hey, Mister Tuckett,” Waxter said. “Congratulations on the Horseshoe Tournament Trophy. Bet the boys are pretty burned, getting beat by an outsider.”
“Nah. I've lived here longer than some of those men have been alive. They weren't taking prisoners, though. But we had a lot of fun. Even Fowlkes managed to choke down the loss.”
“Something's up with that man. Ran the three-miler and started limping at the finish. The Morella boy, MJ, won,” León said. “And Fowlkes isn't hobbling now.”
“How about a hotdog for Nicole? I'll take a cheeseburger,” Tuckett said. León's eyes bulged as Tuckett shuffled through fifties and twenties for a smaller bill.
“Remember, everything's free today,” Waxter said. “It's on Fowlkes. Nicole, you want a chocolate shake?”
She nodded.
* * *
Tuckett made his way to a group that stood behind Moose Morella's panel truck, talking guns and telling tales. He watched as Morella wrapped his new target rifle in a cloth and put it back in its case. “Sometimes you just don't know people,” Morella said. His biceps bulged from beneath his tee shirt. He owned a construction company with one part-time employee, his son, MJ, a high school senior. “Maybe Fowlkes’ got a heart after all.”
“The kids sure are having fun,” Tuckett said. “They've been all over this place.” He pointed up the hill. “MJ said he thinks there's an old oil well up there.”
“It is a beautiful property.” Morella's eyes swung through the premises, then rested on the creek bed. “Even with the drought.”
“These days, counties own parks and playgrounds,” Tuckett said. “Be a nice spot for one.”
“Too late now.” Grant Hopper always caught the sunset, never the sunrise, Tuckett thought. No wonder, with a wife like Abby.
“We having an impromptu meeting of the council?” The little circle made room for Hanover. “Never too late,” Hanover countered. “Look how they've been condemning people's homes and property so some developer can come in and build a mall. For the public good, they say.”
“We could do that for a park,” Tuckett said. “A recreation area is legit. Not like we'd be lining a developer's pockets and getting kickbacks.”
“Shush, here comes Slim,” Morella said.
“Shush, what?” Gates asked.
“What a great time we're having. Don't want Fowlkes to close up and chase us home.”
“Don't worry.” Fowlkes strode toward the group. “Stay as long as you want.”
“Sheriff, what you doing in jeans and a t-shirt?” Morella grinned. “Didn't know those were in your wardrobe.”
“Hang in there. You'll probably find out a couple more things. A reminder, open house tomorrow at my place, right after church until six. I'll give a few tours.”
The group quieted and focused upon Fowlkes.
“I've got a surprise. We're going to reopen the Jug. I hired six people to run it. Four from Madison, two from Middlebourne. It'll help a few families that are hard up.”
“Say, Fowlkes, how'd you get started in the law enforcement business, anyway?” Gates asked. Tuckett shook his head. It sounded like a prearranged question.
“I'll have to go into my childhood, a little.” Fowlkes settled his Stetson on the back of his head. “You're sure you want to hear?”
Some nodded. “Go ahead,” Gates said.
A few people rolled their eyes, but kept their places.
“I'll make it short. If you're old enough, you may remember the big plane crash in the Rockies near Denver. My dad was on that flight. I was ten years old. My mom had died six years earlier and I went to live with Aunt Cora, an old maid. In spite of how poor we were; those were the best two years of my life. Then Aunt Cora passed away.”
The audience grew as Fowlkes spoke.
“I lived in a lot of places after that, including with my twenty-five-year-old second cousin, right here in Madison County. Henry had a little drug problem.” Fowlkes smiled. “I was impressed by the police officers who arrested him. I ended up in foster homes, the last of which was with Ronald Kirkpatrick, the governor's brother.
“Governor Kirkpatrick sort of took me under his wing. Because of him—and my cousin, through the back door, you might say, I became interested in law, went to college, and majored in criminology. Remember, when I ran for sheriff, you learned that I had been a police officer in Mount Airy, North Carolina, then became a police sergeant in Charleston. Last, you all elected me Madison County Sheriff.”
“Sheriff Fowlkes, I'm puzzled,” Hopper said. “If you're so all-fired interested in law enforcement, why would you want to build a resort?”
Fowlkes’ eye twitched. He took a deep breath. “Aunt Cora. She was the only one that made me feel loved when I was young—except for Ronald and Donovan Kirkpatrick. But because the way she had to live, and her horrible death—she choked to death on a lima bean when no one was around—I've decided to try to not let that kind of death happen to anyone else. I want to build a care center, a village, for the elderly. For what I have in mind—do you realize how many millions that would cost? If I build a resort in the right way it could be easily converted into a care center later, but the resort could pay for itself and build the financial reserve needed to run the village.”
The audience buzzed. “That sounds very nice. But why didn't you tell us that in the first place?” Hanover said.
Fowlkes cleared his throat. “I didn't think you'd be interested in long-term plans. See you all tomorrow after church for the open house.”
The group stared after Fowlkes and Gates strolling toward The Jug, talking with each other.
Hanover, patting his stomach, broke the silence. “This was a very nice day. I'm gonna have to cut down tomorrow.” Then in sotto voce he continued, “But it all doesn't seem to fit with Fowlkes. And he never saw the inside of a church.”
“Bet he comes to church tomorrow.” Hopper twirled his handlebar moustache between thumb and forefinger. “It's all for show.”
“Yeah. Notice the set up with Slim's questions?”
“Stop looking a gift horse in the mouth,” Morella said. “So what?”
Hanover laughed. “Fowlkes didn't do this for nothing. He wants that zoning.”
“Maybe he should get it,” Morella said. He reached up to tap Hanover on the chest. “The old age home sounds like a great idea.”
“You think that's for real? I bet there was a lot left out of his little speech. What do you think, Tom?” Hanover always looked out for Tom.
“Ya gotta count your change.”
“I've got to agree with Hanover, too,” Tuckett said. “Except for his first couple months, Fowlkes has been nothing but surly.”
Morella laughed. “Unless he's around Becky Hanover. Oh, sorry, Michael. I . . .”
“That's okay. I've been getting the picture. And don't forget, he really intends for it to be a casino, but he'll never use that word.”
* * *
“Welcome, everyone, to Mills Mansion, home sweet home.” Fowlkes�
� erect posture and crisp uniform were meant to impress. “I've honed my tour guide skills in anticipation of your visit,” he quipped. The crowd pressing inside politely joined his laughter.
“Before we begin: many items inside are actually state property. If you decide to take them with you, you risk arrest.” At once, he regretted his warning, fearing that he had already alienated his audience. “That's absurd. What Madisonian would steal?” he quickly added. The crowd chuckled.
Fowlkes waited until the last person cleared the foyer. “This room in this type of Victorian architecture is known as the Entrance Hall. At 14 by 16 feet, it is larger than most living rooms in Madison.” Everyone grunted in agreement.
“Let's keep on going into the parlor where we'll hear better. We'll pass through the Entrance Hall several times as we go in and out of rooms on the first floor.”
Fowlkes cleared his throat and projected his voice. “The history surrounding this home is quite remarkable. In the late 1880's oil was discovered near here.”
He pointed to a picture hanging above him. “Mansions, like mine and the one in this picture, line Route 2 in our neighboring town of Sistersville. Mostly men who made their fortunes in oil built them.
“Among the most successful oilmen was Jonathan Mills, after whom this valley is named. He commissioned architect and builder William B. O'Neil. O'Neil built most of the mansions in Sistersville and built the one in which you now stand, The Baron Jonathan Devilbiss Mills Mansion. O'Neil died in 1890, six months before the house was completed.
“Mills, who insisted he be known as Baron, was somewhat of an oddball and wanted to keep his neighbors at a distance. So he sought a large piece of property away from everyone else. Although it was an inconvenience to be out of town (there was no Madison City) he considered this beautiful knoll the only suitable place and had the house erected on its 4.7 acres. In ensuing years most of the land was sold off, so today it stands on little less than an acre.
“Mills only lived to be forty-two. He had bright red hair with a temper to match, which, as you will see, did him in.
“During the second winter after moving into the Mills Mansion, Mills went to an oil field to inspect a drilling operation. He wore a beaver coat, top hat and a long flowing scarf.
