by Bob Knapp
Morella straddled León and pointed the gun at León.
“You gonna shoot me now, Moose?” León said. “Prove that civilians shouldn’t have guns? Go ahead, shoot.”
Morella tossed the gun into the pit behind him and motioned for León to attack him. León took the opportunity to scramble to his feet, but kept his distance. He circled Morella slowly and kept to a slight crouch.
It had been a long time since León had been in a good fight. This was a nice excuse, with the law backing him up. He studied Morella's thick neck and muscular arms. Evidently the result of lots of bull work, maybe some weight lifting, too. But León guessed Morella had scant experience as a fighter.
“I'm taking you and your guns in, Morella.”
He feinted. Morella charged. León sidestepped and threw a punch that landed beneath Morella's ear. León dodged a retaliatory roundhouse. Morella followed it with a swift body block across León's knees. León heard a crunching sound and pain jolted through his right knee. As León went down, Morella threw himself at him. León rolled out from under Morella before Morella could pin him to the ground. In agony, León, in a crouch, pulled his Krupp boot knife from the sheath strapped to his left calf. Morella kicked at León's jaw, but caught León in the chest instead. León staggered backwards, still clutching the knife. Morella swung at the knife with the other foot, but missed and stumbled off-balance. León slashed out, cutting across Morella's blocking arm. Morella recoiled. León hobbled into a stance ready to thrust or slash. Morella clutched at his wound as blood dripped through his fingers. The men stared at each other, breathing hard.
“This what you want your boy to see, his old man fighting a sheriff's deputy?” León said between gasps.
“Fighting for justice.” Morella lunged and threw a punch with his uninjured arm. León ducked the blow and thrust his knife at Morella. The knife sliced through the side of Morella's shirt, releasing a widening ring of blood.
“Stop, Moose, before I kill you.”
“Or before I kill you.” Morella backed carefully to the stack of concrete blocks, grasped a block with two hands, and with one fluid motion, swung the block and released it in León's direction. León dodged so that the missile landed to his right. Behind him was the scooped-out foundation, at least ten feet deep. Another block sailed in León's direction. He danced out of the way again. Morella held a block overhead and ran at him. León hobbled in the direction of his patrol car, but Morella quickly narrowed the gap, cutting him off from the car and pinning him to the edge of the hole. León flung himself to the bottom of the pit, losing his hold on the knife, in his fear not feeling the twist to the ankle opposite the damaged knee.
There were two thuds behind him—the concrete block and then Morella, landing on his feet at the bottom. The gun lay fifteen feet away—more than twenty from Morella. León ignored the pain as he limped for the gun, then threw himself at it as Morella's shadow overtook him. León's fingers closed around the gun as a heavy boot stomped the barrel back into the dirt. Heedless of his own wounds, Morella grasped León by the shirt and dragged him to his feet. Holding the front of León's shirt with one hand and drawing back the other, Morella pounded him in the face. Morella released the shirt and threw León back so that he landed on his butt.
“Dad, what are you doing?”
The men looked in the direction of the voice from the rim above them. The sun behind MJ made of him a blackened silhouette and temporarily blinded the men.
There was a long pause. The only sound was that of heavy breathing.
“Deputy León and I have a disagreement, MJ,” Morella said, and hauled the stunned deputy to his feet so that he could pile another roundhouse into the deputy's jaw. León staggered backwards and slumped. His arms hung at his sides.
“Stop, Dad!” MJ leaped into the hole and ran at the men. Before he could get there, Morella again hit the helpless lawman. MJ shoved himself between the two combatants.
“Dad, stop! Stop!”
Morella pushed the boy aside. “No. Get out of my way.”
MJ again thrust himself in front of his dad and stayed there as León backed away and found his pistol.
“Señor Moose,” he panted, “you are under arrest.” He held the gun pointed to the ground. “If I have to, I'll use this.”
Morella shook his head slowly. “Okay. Okay.”
“Dad, you're bleeding,” MJ said.
“I'm fine, MJ. After we clean up here, I'll be going with the deputy. Now, give Deputy León and me our soda pop.”
* * *
“Bring the prisoner in here, Waxter, and remove those leg irons. He's not going anywhere.”
Fowlkes stared at the bandaged arm and wrapped ribs of Moose Morella. “Aren't you a handsomely wrapped package? And all for nothing. A little cooperation and you wouldn't be sitting in a jail cell. Being obstinate, that's sort of a bad habit with you, isn't it? And you messed up my deputy. Bad, too. Now I have to take your statement—do his work and mine.”
Morella rested his manacled wrists between his legs and glared at the shining hardwood floor of Fowlkes’ office. Old yellow pine. The floors contrasted with Waxter's beat-up shoes. The chains from Morella's ankles rattled as the deputy gathered them from around his ankles and placed them in a wooden box on top of a cabinet.
“Are you listening?” Fowlkes put his face, now red, next to Morella's, but then recoiled. “Don't you ever brush your teeth?”
“Which of your five questions do you want me to answer?” Morella asked. “Don't matter. The answer's 'yes'. Let me outta here. I got jobs to get done. Joanie's bringing the bail money.”
“Unless you can do some fast talking, I don't think Judge Newsome will be granting any bail. You've got yourself plenty of problems. Number one is attempted murder of a sheriff's deputy.”
Fowlkes braved the odor and put his nose down to Morella's face. “While you cool your heels, you think about what you're going to tell me before I fill out these papers for Judge Newsome. And here are a few little hints. Do you know that property you're building on does not have proper zoning? And give a little thought as to how you can obtain a building permit. You want to have to fill up that hole? All to be remembered when you attend the next County Council and discuss my zoning permit. If you ever get out of here—alive!
“Waxter, take Morella back to his cell.”
24
Collection Day
The chilly night air played at the back of Fowlkes’ neck, reminding him that the November First deadline was less than two weeks away. He pounded Hopper's front door again, blew into his cupped hand and slipped it back into his pocket. His other hand held a large brown envelope. Fowlkes could hear fussing inside.
“Grant, will you get that door? I'm doin' my nails.” The voice seemed to come from on the other side of the door.
“What?” came from farther away.
“Get the door!”
Fowlkes waited. Silence. He pounded again.
“You heard me, Grant. Get the door!”
Footsteps descended a stairway; the door swung open and light spread from the room and across the porch. Hopper was dressed in the clothes he had worn at Bayer, slacks and a dress shirt, but no tie. Evidently, he had worn a suit to work. His mouth froze into a little “O”. Blood drained from his face, but his lips managed a smile. “Sheriff, what…can I do for you?” He stood looking at the envelope in Fowlkes’ hand.
“Don't let him stand there in the cold, Grant!” Mrs. Abby Hopper, wrapped in a large bathrobe, sat in a wingback chair not ten feet from the door and filed her nails. She eyed Fowlkes’ envelope and straightened.
“Just wanted to talk with Mr. Hopper about the special council meeting that Slim—Mr. Gates—is calling,” Fowlkes said. He waved the envelope. “Could we speak privately?”
Abby's eyes widened like a gambler's who had been shown a wad of greenbacks. Fowlkes could barely suppress a grin.
“It's okay, Sheriff,” she said. “Grant and I don't h
ave any secrets.” She now sat on the very edge of her chair.
Hopper's face reddened from its deathly pallor.
Fowlkes smiled. It was obvious that the missus was not going to leave the room. He waved the envelope again. He loved the effect the gesture had on them.
“Come up to my office, Sheriff,” Hopper said, then hunched and turned to the stairway, ducking the darts that came from Abby's eyes. Upstairs, he turned to Fowlkes and put his finger to his lips, then pointed downstairs in the direction of his wife. Shaking his head in warning at his door-less office, he led Fowlkes into his bedroom and closed the door behind them. The pink bedclothes and white furniture were a vivid hue, much brighter than León's and Waxter's pictures had made them seem. The color spoke volumes to Fowlkes.
Fowlkes pulled the first of the pictures from the envelope and handed it to Hopper. Hopper's hands made the pictures tremble.
“Hot looking woman, isn't she?” Fowlkes said and passed another picture to Hopper. Hopper took the picture and sank onto the bed. He stared at the pictures before tossing them both face down on the bed. He put his head into his hands.
Fowlkes could not stop smiling. “You ought to see the video. Academy Award stuff.” He extended another picture toward Hopper. “Looks like you're getting your exercise.”
Hopper refused to take it. He twisted his handlebar moustache between a thumb and forefinger. “What do you want from me?”
The door at Fowlkes’ back began to open. “Would you boys like some coffee? I put some on,” Abby said from behind the opening door. “I have some of Hanover's coffeecake downstairs, too.”
Hopper dived at the pictures to hide them. Fowlkes sidestepped to put himself between Hopper and his wife, but it was too late. She had seen her husband's reaction.
“Let me see,” she said. There was a lilt to her voice. She reached for the pictures, now firmly in Hopper's grasp and held against his chest. He forced an indifferent smile.
Fowlkes turned to Abby. “Here, let me show you.” He reached into the envelope.
Hopper gasped, “Don't . . .” He sat dumbstruck, his mouth open.
Fowlkes restrained himself from bursting into laughter as he placed pictures into Abby's hands.
The smile on her face faded to a puzzled look. “What's got you so upset, Grant?”
Hopper started to his feet. “I can explain…”
“Let me.” Fowlkes handed another picture to Abby. “I was trying to keep these pictures private for a while, but then decided they would help convince your husband to vote for the commercial zoning for my property. I'm not so sure I succeeded.”
“They're very nice,” Abby said, turning her head one way and then another as she shuffled through the pictures.
Hopper was speechless.
“So this is what it's really going to be like?” Abby said.
“Even better,” Fowlkes scowled at Hopper, “if the zoning passes.”
Hopper blanched.
Abby batted her eyelashes at Fowlkes and handed the pictures back to him. “They're very professional. Who did them?”
Fowlkes looked squarely into Abby's face. “Only council members have seen these pictures. After the zoning is approved, I'd like to make a big splash in the community, a surprise, you understand? I don't want it spread by some distorted gossip about how I'm messing up the countryside or something.”
Abby shook her head as if she understood. “I'll keep it quiet. Coffee?”
“Yes, please. Could you give Grant and me a few more minutes?”
“Vote for it, Grant,” she said, then glided out the door, but not before looking back at Fowlkes.
Fowlkes displayed the pictures he had shown Abby and smirked. “You think you're off the hook?” He grinned as Hopper plopped back down on the bed. “My architect worked these up for me. Those buildings are what you are going to see at the Jug.”
Fowlkes bent to put his face inches from Hopper's and growled, “I also know about the Council's plans to take the property from me. Don't even think about it.”
Fowlkes took the pictures from Hopper. “If you want to see the video, I'll set up a screening. By the way, Helen enjoyed the pictures, too.”
* * *
Printed on the frosted glass window of the door was: “Arnold Tuckett, General Manager, Natrium Plant, PPG Industries.” Tuckett's secretary, dressed in a dark maroon pant suit, held the door half open.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Tuckett. But Sheriff Fowlkes said it was urgent that he see you.”
Fowlkes could see into the room past the half-opened door. Tuckett, pen in hand, was immersed in papers. The room surrounding him was small and functional. This room isn't fit for a man of Tuckett's position, Fowlkes thought. At least, it could have a rug.
Tuckett waved Fowlkes inside and proffered his hand and a seat. The turn of Tuckett's lips did not match his welcome. His face was cold and sterile like the room. He waited for Fowlkes to speak. This was not the Tuckett Fowlkes had seen in Madison.
“I won't keep you, Arnold. I'm trying to meet a bit of a deadline myself. I brought you a little present.” Fowlkes paused, but Tuckett held his silence. Fowlkes withdrew a blue box of playing cards from his vest pocket. “Made especially for you.”
Fowlkes held the box out to Tuckett.
Tuckett stared back.
“Look at the cards—very unusual. Collector's item.” Fowlkes held the cards a little closer to Tuckett.
Tuckett waited.
Fowlkes opened the box and shook the cards out into his hand. He took several from the deck. “See? The Ace of Spades on one side, Queen of Hearts on the other.” He displayed each of the three cards in turn. “All the same, every card in the deck. It's amazing what Slim Gates can do with that rickety press of his.” He laid the deck and the open box on Tuckett's desk. “Yours.”
Tuckett's eyes did not waver from the Sheriff's. He sat with his face slack and his hands folded in front of him.
Fowlkes leaned forward, his voice louder. “I'm electioneering, Mr. Tuckett. For the upcoming Council meeting. The commercial zoning is very important to me. That's why I came in person. If you don't want the cards, give them to your little queen, Nicole.”
Tuckett's nostrils flared at the mention of his daughter.
Fowlkes picked up a card and faced the Queen of Hearts toward Tuckett. “Your Queen of Hearts!” Fowlkes said, and tore the card in half, dropped the pieces on the floor and ground them under his foot.
Tuckett held his steely glare on Fowlkes.
Fowlkes felt his eye flicker behind his blue sunglasses. He rose to his feet and strode to the door. “I'll see myself out. Tell your cronies the Jug is my property! It's gonna stay that way.”
* * *
With the deadline for the zoning on the Jug property fast approaching, Terrance Fowlkes went directly to the next Madison County council member. Fowlkes now stood in a Hanover's Store aisle behind Tom Jenkins. Jenkins knelt on the floor behind an opened box of canned green beans. Ker-chunk, ker-chunk, ker-chunk. Jenkins stuck price labels on the can tops with the automatic labeler. With strong hands grasping four cans at a time, he slid the cans onto the shelf.
Midway through the next layer of cans, Jenkins turned and looked up. “Sheriff Fowlkes—didn't see you standing there.” Jenkins stood and automatically reached for his overall strap, but the overalls had been replaced by a red flannel shirt and blue jeans. “Kin I help you? You looking for something?”
“Matter of fact, I was looking for you.” With his Stetson adding another four inches to his height, Fowlkes dwarfed the farmer. “How's it feel to be a stock boy?”
“Gotta admit it's been an adjustment. I don't know how many trips the old wagon's got left in it, neither. It's about thirteen mile to the store.” Jenkins's good eye looked into Fowlkes’.
“I guess you're hoping to get back to hunting up there on Cow Ridge?”
“I been out. Working twenty hours a week at the store gives me plenty time. Hah! Got me a ra
bbit with my slingshot. Cheaper'n buying shells for my gun, anyway.”
Fowlkes had to smile in spite of his mission. “That's not going to work so well with the big game.”
“Yeah, but with the drought I ain't seen too many deer. I'm making me a bow. Going to have to practice a lot though.”
“We could work something out to get your guns back.” Fowlkes jingled the keys in his pocket.
“Soon's I work off my debt to Michael, I'll save up for my permits and license and all. Fair's fair. We all gotta support city hall,” Jenkins said.
“The zoning vote is coming up at the council. I need your support on that. I could cover your costs on those hunting permits. I even have an extra box of shells laying around.”
Jenkins stooped down and continued to label the cans. Ker-chunk, ker-chunk.
“I better get my work done,” Jenkins said. “Michael's not paying me for nothing. Have a nice day, Sheriff.”
Ker-chunk, ker-chunk.
Fowlkes opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. What was the use? He watched for a few moments. “Enjoy the job.”
Ker-chunk, ker-chunk. Jenkins never looked up. Ker-chunk, ker-chunk.
* * *
Fowlkes stomped into his office, swore and slammed the door. The walls and windows shook. “Who does that Jenkins think he is?” Fowlkes lined up his right foot with his trashcan and barely missed kicking it through the window and out into the street. Spying the scuff on the toe of his shoe, he slammed into the can again. He cursed Jenkins, Tuckett, all the members of the council and the entire populace of West Virginia. He yanked open his bottom desk drawer, retrieved black shoe polish and brush and attacked the scuff.
Finished with the polishing, Fowlkes threw the can through his door into the outer office. “Helen, get me a new can.” He'd have to get a new pair of shoes that evening. “And send out for Morella's supper. Now! And I want to take it to him myself.”
* * *
Fowlkes watched through the bars as Morella chowed down Millie's Friday special, “Golden Catfish with Fries and Coleslaw.”
