by Bill Crider
The rain started to fall harder. Rhodes could hear it splattering against the window panes.
“It could be pretty big money,” Ballinger said, “if you added it all up. But I don’t think anybody really bets all that much at one time.”
Rhodes knew that already. Ford didn’t take any big bets. Just a lot of small ones.
“Where do they bet?” Rhodes asked. “I know money changes hands at the games, but not a lot of it. The people we’re talking about wouldn’t be caught dead near Hayes Ford at a game.”
“They sure wouldn’t. Or anywhere else. Hayes runs a little book with an unlisted number he’s got.”
So that was it. Pretty simple when you thought about it. It might even be enough to put Ford out of business.
“How does he pay off and collect?”
“I don’t know about that part of it. I don’t bet, and I don’t ask.”
“But as far as you know, no one has made a large bet with him?”
“Not enough to kill anybody about, if that’s what you’re getting at. Never more than forty or fifty dollars at a time. It’s just in fun. But some people might bet more. I wouldn’t know. Anyway, I imagine Ford takes bets on lots of other games. Colleges, pros, basketball, too. It all adds up.”
Rhodes wondered if it all added up to murder. He stood up.
“Thanks, Clyde. I’m not going to mention this to anyone.”
“I sure hope not,” Ballinger said. “I’d never be able to go to the drugstore on Saturday morning again.”
The drive to the commissioner’s office was cold and uncomfortable because Rhodes had gotten wet on his short jog from Ballinger’s office to the county car. The rain continued to fall, sluicing across the windshield as the wipers whipped it aside.
The precinct office where Mrs. Wilkie worked was a long metal building, only the front part of which served as the commissioner’s office. The back was a warehouse and garage for the heavy equipment used in keeping up the county roads in the precinct. Rhodes could see a bulldozer and a maintainer through the curtain of rain as he trotted from his car to the office door.
Mrs. Wilkie looked up when he entered. Rain was dripping from his hair and running down the neck of his shirt. Without saying anything, Mrs. Wilkie opened a desk drawer and brought out a box of tissues. Rhodes pulled several from the box and dried his face. He thought that he’d be better off if he could bring himself to wear a Western-style hat, like every other sheriff in Texas.
“Thanks,” he said when he was finished. He handed her the box.
“Certainly,” she answered, putting the box back in the drawer.
She was always formal with him now that he was a married man, and she no longer dyed her hair the amazing shade of orangey red that it had once been. It was brown, with quite a bit of grey in it; she was at least ten years older than Rhodes, not that she would have admitted it. She was wearing a dark blue suit with a white blouse.
“Are you here about my telephone call?” she asked.
“That’s right. I understand that you’ve heard motorcycles again.”
The first time motorcycles had cropped up had been not so long ago, when Rhodes had been dealing with a man called Rapper. Rapper was still around somewhere, Rhodes supposed, though it hardly seemed probable that he would be back in Blacklin County. His first experience there hadn’t turned out very well for him.
The only reason that Rhodes was visiting Mrs. Wilkie himself was that there might possibly be a connection between motorcycles and Brady Meredith. The County Line was about the only place nearby where bikers hung out, and then only when they were passing through. It was a tenuous connection, but Goober Vance had also mentioned steroids. Rapper was probably a lot of things, all of them unsavory, but dealing in drugs was one of his specialties. If a coach wanted black-market steroids, Rapper could no doubt supply them.
Besides, Rhodes thought, the fact that Rapper seemed to have turned up in Blacklin County again right at the time someone had been murdered was suspicious in itself. Rhodes didn’t much believe in coincidence where murder was concerned.
“I hear them at all hours of the night,” Mrs. Wilkie said. “It’s a terrible racket. I can never get back to sleep after they wake me up. I think they must be hanging around at the Gottschalk place again.”
Rapper and his friend Nellie had been camping out near a lake on their last visit to the county. They might be there again, as unlikely as at seemed. It wouldn’t hurt to drive down there and look around.
“What about last night?” Rhodes asked.
“Oh, yes. I was at the game until about ten-thirty, and I know you were there, too. I thought you handled things very well.”
She gave Rhodes what she probably thought was a coy look. He much preferred her formal approach.
“Thanks. I was just doing my job. What about the motorcycles?”
“They came by late and woke me up. It was just after one. I looked at the clock.”
That would have given them plenty of time to have been involved in killing Brady Meredith, assuming that Dr. White’s estimate of the time of death was correct.
“I’ll check it out,” Rhodes said. “If they’re still there, I’ll see that they don’t bother you anymore.”
“I’d appreciate that. I need my beauty sleep.”
Rhodes started to tell her that he was sure she did, but somehow that didn’t seem like the right thing to say.
“I think it’s just terrible about Coach Meredith,” she went on. “Do you think these motorcycles have any connection to his death?”
Rhodes said that he wasn’t sure. “But you never can tell.”
“I know. That’s why I called. Not just because I can’t sleep, but because I remember the last time.”
Rhodes thanked her for being a public-spirited citizen and turned to go.
Mrs. Wilkie called him back. “Mr. Allen wants to see you before you go. He’s in his office.”
Uh-oh, Rhodes thought. There could be only one reason that the commissioner wanted to see him, and he didn’t really want to discuss Meredith’s death with anyone right now. There was no way to avoid it, however.
“I’ll just let him know you’re here,” Mrs. Wilkie said, picking up her telephone.
The door to Allen’s office was just behind and to the right of Mrs. Wilkie’s desk. Allen opened the door and motioned for Rhodes to come in.
When they were both inside and seated, he said, “What progress have you made on the Meredith killing?”
That was exactly what Rhodes had expected him to ask, but that didn’t mean he had a good answer for it.
“I’m looking into several things,” he said, which he knew would be too vague to satisfy Allen.
And it was. He said, “What things?”
“Well, Mrs. Wilkie tells me that there’s some chance Rapper’s back in town. You might remember him.”
“I remember, all right. Could he be mixed up in this?”
“It’s a possibility. And there are several other people who may or may not be involved. I don’t want to mention any names until I have more to go on.”
“I can understand that. I don’t want to put any pressure on you. But you know how important it is to get this cleared up, don’t you? We can’t have it affecting the team.”
Rhodes could have told him that the team was already affected, but he didn’t. Allen should be able to figure that out for himself.
“Winning district has brought this town together like nothing I’ve ever seen,” Allen went on. “We can’t have this murder tearing down what’s been built.”
Rhodes supposed that it was only natural for everyone to want to keep things running along as always, but at the same time he thought people should realize that murder wasn’t something that you could just smooth over. It was quite likely that his investigation was going to involve a lot of people who would rather not be involved and upset a lot of people that the commissioner would rather not upset.
“I’ll
do what I can to get it solved fast,” Rhodes said, which was true. It was what he always did.
“That’s good enough for me,” Allen said.
Rhodes didn’t believe him for a minute. What he really meant was “That’s good enough for me just as long as the football team goes right on to the next game as if nothing has happened.”
But something had happened. One of the coaches was dead, and Rhodes was going to have to talk to the players. Even if he didn’t talk to them, they were naturally going to be affected.
There was no need for Rhodes to say any of that. Allen wouldn’t like it, and it wouldn’t do anyone any good.
“I appreciate your support,” Rhodes said, and then he left.
Rhodes stopped by the jail to tell Hack to get on his computer and see whether anyone in the county had bought a .32 pistol recently.
“Say, within the last couple of weeks. That might give us a place to start.”
“Ever’body in Clearview already has a gun,” Lawton pointed out. “Don’t you watch TV? This is Texas.”
Hack said, “Besides, people don’t all buy their guns at Wal-Mart. They buy ’em at flea markets. If I was goin’ to buy one, that’s where I’d get it.”
“I thought you liked using that computer of yours,” Rhodes said. “And while you’re at it, since everybody already has a gun, you might as well check that out, too. Check everyone who’s got a .32 pistol registered.”
“I’ll check it out. I never said I wouldn’t. You want me to send Ruth out there to the Gottschalk place to back you up? You always get in trouble when you don’t get back-up.”
“You can send her if she’s not busy,” Rhodes said, but he didn’t really think he’d need her. He didn’t even plan to get out of his car. How much trouble could he get in?
Mrs. Wilkie lived in a little brick house in Milsby, a tiny community that had once been a town with its own school and post office and businesses. There was hardly a trace of it left now, just a few homes and some vacant buildings. The school was used as a community center when it was used at all.
Rhodes switched on his headlights as he drove by Mrs. Wilkie’s house in the rain. It was only the middle of the afternoon, but the combination of the clouds and the rain made the day as dark as early evening. Rhodes thought that if Rapper were really camping out down by the lake, he’d be pretty wet by now.
Rhodes didn’t like camping himself. He preferred the comforts of a real bed and central heat and air to sleeping on an inflatable mattress in the weather provided by nature. But if you were in Rapper’s line of work, you didn’t necessarily want to check into the nearest motel.
Rhodes turned off on an unpaved dirt road made slick by the rain. He drove slowly and carefully; it wouldn’t do to slide off into the ditch that ran alongside the road. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to get out by himself.
The turn into the Gottschalk property was marked by a cattle guard. There was no gate, and the cattle guard ratcheted under the tires as Rhodes drove across it.
He didn’t relish the idea of driving down the rutted road that led to the lake. It was dangerously muddy and the rain was still falling. Even more embarrassing than sliding into the ditch would be getting stuck in the mud. However, he’d said he’d check on things, and it was too late to back out now. Besides, there was no place to turn around. That would mean getting off the road, and getting off the road, such as it was, would be even worse than staying on it.
So Rhodes kept on. The trick to driving in the mud was to keep going, slowly but steadily. If you stopped, you couldn’t get any traction, and you were likely to dig yourself a hole that you couldn’t get out of.
At the top of a little hill, Rhodes looked out over the lake, which of course wasn’t really a lake at all but simply a large stock tank.
Because there hadn’t been much rain for several months, the lake was not as large as it sometimes was. There was a large muddy margin between the bank and the water, which was being dimpled by the rain and riffled by the wind.
Down at the bottom of the hill near the lake, Rhodes saw the tents, two cheap one-man jobs probably bought at a discount store. The motorcycles were beside the tents with canvas covers thrown over them.
Sure enough, Rhodes thought. Rapper was back in town.
Chapter Seven
Rhodes started down the hill. He was sorry that Mrs. Wilkie had been right about the motorcycles, since the presence of Rapper was going to complicate things considerably.
Or maybe not. Maybe he could tie the whole thing up in a neat package right now: Rapper killed Brady Meredith in an argument about the payment for steroids.
Somehow he didn’t think it would be that easy, however.
When he got to the bottom of the hill, he looked around for a place to park. There was a wide, flat grassy area near the tank dam about thirty yards from the tents. He didn’t want to walk that far in the rain, but he didn’t suppose he had much choice in the matter. Anyway, the rain seemed to be slowing down a bit.
Rhodes drove onto the grass, parked, and got out. The rain was no longer falling hard; it was more like a heavy mist in the air now, but it clung to his hair and soaked into his shirt and pants. The grass was so wet that cold water was squishing in his shoes by the time he’d walked halfway over to the tents. He told himself that if he ever bought himself a Western hat, he’d get some boots, too. Waterproof boots.
By the time Rhodes got near the tents, Rapper was already standing in front of one of them looking at him.
Rhodes had never liked Rapper, because there had been nothing about him to like. He’d proved himself to be a congenital liar and a bully. He was short and pudgy, with his thinning hair greased straight back in a widow’s peak. He was wearing dirty jeans and a denim jacket with the sleeves ripped off at the shoulder seams, and even in the dim light under the lowering clouds Rhodes could see the Los Muertos gang tattoo on his arm. He looked a little like Eddie Munster, grown old and gone to seed.
“Hey, Sheriff,” Rapper said. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“I didn’t think I’d ever be seeing you again, Rapper. You must like it in Blacklin County.”
Rapper held up a hand that was missing the ends of a couple of fingers, thanks to his last encounter with Rhodes.
“Not much,” he said. “You know, I think if you’d cared about me, you’d have looked for the rest of my fingers. Maybe I could’ve had them reattached. They can do stuff like that now, even in backwoods town like yours. These stumps hurt like hell when it rains like this.”
Rhodes wasn’t sympathetic. “Then you should stay out of the rain. In fact, maybe you should just stay out of the county. Why don’t you pack your tent and move on before it gets completely dark. That way we won’t have a problem.”
Rapper turned to the tent next to his own. “You hear that, Nellie? The sheriff thinks we oughta move on. What do you think?”
Nellie came out of the tent. He was pretty much as Rhodes remembered him, thinner and more fit-looking than Rapper, with wavy graying hair slicked back on the sides.
“You tryin’ to tell us what to do, Sheriff?” he asked. “Seems like you’d have figured out by now that Rapper and I don’t take very well to bein’ told things. Ain’t that right, Rapper?”
Rapper took a step toward Nellie and thumped him in the chest. “I’ll speak for myself, Nellie. When I ask you what you think, don’t you ever try to speak for me.”
“Sorry, Rapper,” Nellie said, cringing a little. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“And it won’t happen again,” Rapper said.
“And it won’t happen again.” Nellie backed up a step. “I promise.”
“I guess I can’t blame you for what you said, Sheriff,” Rapper said, turning back to Rhodes. “I guess it’s just natural for you to get a little uppity with me, when even the help doesn’t seem to know its place.”
“I’m not getting uppity,” Rhodes said. “I’m telling you to move on out of here.”
/> “I heard you, but we’re not moving anywhere. We like it here.”
“Yeah,” Nellie said. “We like it here.”
Rapper didn’t chastise him this time. Apparently it was all right for him to back up the boss, just as long as he didn’t try to express the boss’ thoughts.
“While you’re here, then, we might as well have a little talk,” Rhodes said.
“What about?” Rapper asked.
“About where you were last night around midnight.”
“Why that’s pretty hard to remember,” Rapper said. “Can you remember where we were, Nellie?”
“Not me. I was too drunk.”
Rhodes looked at the two men. In the mist and the dark, standing in front of their tents, they looked like a couple of Neanderthals. All they needed was a couple of stone axes and a club.
Rapper stared back at Rhodes unconcernedly. He reached under his jacket and brought out a red-and-white crushproof box of cigarettes. Marlboros, Rhodes noticed as Rapper stuck one in the center of his tight little mouth and lit it with a green plastic lighter.
“It’s too bad that you can’t remember,” Rhodes said. “I’ll have to take you in for questioning, then.”
“What’s the charge?” Rapper asked.
“Trespassing.”
“You must be getting forgetful in your old age, Sheriff,” Rapper said, smoke curling around his head. “You know this land belongs to Nellie’s uncle, and Nellie’s uncle said it’d be just fine for us to stay here for as long as we wanted to.”
“Even considering what happened the last time you were here?” Rhodes asked.
“We talked to him real polite,” Rapper said. “We told him we’d clean up after ourselves and that we wouldn’t piss in his lake.”
“So what’re you gonna do now, Sheriff?” Nellie asked. “Go away and leave us alone?”
“No, I’m not going to do that. I’m going to take you in.”
“You got no grounds,” Rapper said.
“Sure I have. Suspicion of murder.”
“You must be crazy,” Rapper said. He threw his cigarette to the ground and stepped on it. “We didn’t kill anybody. You take us in and we’ll be out in ten minutes.”
