A Bleak Prospect

by Wayne Zurl

She heard herself screaming again and felt her blood pressure rise. Her face flushed. She stopped, took a deep breath and looked toward a window framed by gold brocade drapery.

  “Why hello, Miss Pearl,” he said calmly, as if an altercation was the furthest thing from his mind. “Y’all have a nice visit with the Judge?”

  Her anger took hold again. “You show me no respect, Cecil. I have endured your sordid affairs for years, but now you bring a strange woman into my house for sex. This is intolerable.”

  “This is not the first time, darlin’,” he said, brushing a few strands of thin sandy hair off his forehead. “You’ve not been this upset b’fore.”

  “What do you mean not the first time?” Her expression changed from anger to surprise. Her blue eyes widened.

  “Course not, Pearly. See, what ya don’t know don’t hurt ya.”

  “I will not stand for this, Cecil. Not in my house, damn you.”

  Smiling again, her husband began an explanation he’d given more than once before.

  “When ya decided ta stop havin’ sex with me after Travis was born, I tried ta explain my manly needs. Remember? I do have needs, ya know. I’m not too old ta want a woman’s company.”

  “Oh, please,” she snorted.

  “See, you’re disregardin’ me now just like you’ve done in the past. So, I found my own way in the world, so to speak.”

  The grin on his jowly face infuriated her. Cecil shrugged off her anger.

  She watched him turn his focus back to the computer, once again ignoring her.

  Stepping to the side of his large mahogany desk, she stood there as he transferred photographs from the camera’s memory card to the area of his computer where he stored his personal pictures.

  “Oh, Lord have mercy, Cecil, you made pictures of her.” Pearl saw dozens of amateur photos of a nude woman. “Well thank the Lord. At least she’s an adult.”

  “Pretty woman, ain’t she?” he asked, as if speaking to a friend.

  Pearl pushed her husband, took the mouse from his hand and double-clicked on one of the thumbnails. A larger shot of a woman’s bare back came up on the screen. The woman had a good figure and a firm backside, Pearl thought. Curiosity spurred inside her to learn more about the woman, so she advanced the sequence of photos several more times. The quality of the posing and photography left much to be desired. Finally, a full frontal shot appeared. Pearl saw the model’s face clearly. The woman looked directly at the camera with a sad expression.

  “God damn you,” she screamed. “I know this woman. She sells lightin’ fixtures. How in the name o’ God could you bring her here? I could abide you pickin’ up whores and beddin’ them in a Knoxville hotel, but I will not have you bring a local woman, someone who works right here in Prospect, into my house—for this? I warn you, Cecil. End this affair with that woman now.”

  “Or what, Pearly?” Cecil’s voice sounded soft, not confrontational.

  Pearl looked at him with a feeling of hatred. She hated his womanizing. Hated the way he spoke to her. Hated him for always wearing yellow shirts.

  “Or I will make arrangements for someone to speak with her,” she said, “and I assure you, it will end. She does have a husband, I believe. Does she not?”

  “Gonna use one of the judge’s storm-troopers ta enforce your laws, Pearl?”

  “I will do what I must to maintain my dignity. I swear, Cecil, I should have left you years ago. No, damn it, I should have had someone kill you!”

  Cecil laughed. “Well now, ya might could,” he said, “I believe ya surely might could—then or even now. But ya know why ya won’t?” Neither did he wait for an answer nor did she offer one. “Cause ya like my money too much, Miss Pearl. Yes, indeed, ya surely do. The Judge may give ya the power ya love, but it’s ol’ Cecil who’s got the money—and ya love that cash, don’t ya? I was never sure which meant more ta ya.”

  Cecil allowed himself a moment to chuckle.

  “I die, and ya only git a pitiful small insurance policy and the bidness,” he said. “Ya wanna run the bidness yerse’f? The way ya spend, ain’t enough money in the whole world ta last very long. I’m jest worth too much alive and on the hoof, darlin’. I jest keep makin’ money hand over fist.’’ He laughed aloud at his own words.

  Furious, her pride seriously bruised, Pearl rushed out of the office. She stopped in the hallway and for what she thought good measure, yelled back, “Damn you to hell, Cecil Lovejoy. God forgive me, but I wish you dead!”

  Chapter One

  Few people believe me when I speak about my life altering experience at the checkout in Wal-Mart.

  An elderly woman with a cart piled high with groceries scurried toward the express line before I could cut her off. Life is unfair. I only needed a roll of duct tape and a package of D cell batteries. She belonged at another register.

  Once there, the old girl moved slower than a Galapagos tortoise. Even the cashier showed her impatience.

  Before the woman finished writing a check, her milk began to curdle.

  As I waited for her to unload a half-ton payload onto the tiny counter, I noticed the headline on a copy of the Knoxville News-Sentinel lying on the newspaper rack. Prospect’s Top Cop Nabbed in Gun Sting.

  As I read further, I learned that agents of the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation arrested Chief Albert J. “Buck” Webbster for selling confiscated handguns in the parking lot of a Knoxville gun show.

  Stupid bastard, I thought. Lose your job, your pension and your reputation for a couple hundred dollars.

  Finally, the old lady wheeled her cart of groceries toward the exit. A sergeant from McGhee-Tyson Air Base, wearing a crisp set of cammies, tapped my shoulder.

  “Your turn, bud.” He pointed toward the register.

  I folded the paper. “Thanks. I was just taking a nap.”

  “I hear that,” he said.

  I bought the paper and headed out to my truck. With the warm sun shining on the cab of my F-150, I continued reading about Webbster.

  The long and detailed article outlined how the state cops played Buck like a hillbilly banjo. Twice they bought guns from him. After that, they executed an arrest warrant in his office at the Prospect Police Department. Embarrassing would be an understatement.

  The old lady at Wal-Mart didn’t change my future. The newspaper did.

  I used to know a lot about police work. The article started me thinking.

  The mayor’s conference room in the Prospect municipal building measured about fifteen by twenty. Mayor Ronnie Shields and I sat together at one end of a long oval table in padded armchairs.

  “We’re pleased someone with your experience would apply for a job with the Prospect Po-leece,” he said.

  “And I appreciate you granting me an interview so quickly.”

  “You understand, Sam…” he said, “Do you mind if I call you Sam?”

  “Of course not.”

  The young-looking mayor wore a navy blue suit and impeccable white shirt.

  “Good. Please call me Ronnie.”

  I nodded and gave him a brotherly smile, wanting to pick a piece of lint off his right sleeve.

  “As I was sayin’, we need ta fill the chief’s position real quick. Circumstances bein’ what they are, Buck Webbster has ta push his retirement through fast as the state kin process it.”

  I nodded again, wondering how much the mayor’s suit cost. His striped tie must have topped seventy bucks.

  I learned from a friend at the county sheriff’s office about Webbster getting saved by the local good ol’ boy system. Thanks to friends in high places, the county DA waived prosecution with an understanding Buck would retire and leave the state. Not a bad deal when you weigh it against the idea of a convicted cop doing hard time.

  “If the Council were to choose you as our new chief,” Ronnie said, “would starting next Monday pose a problem for ya?”

  I had discussed this new venture with my wife, Katherine, before I dropped off a resume and
filled out an application a few days earlier. She thought getting back into the world after years of retirement would do me good.

  “No, sir, I can start on Monday if necessary.”

  The mayor nodded with a big grin. He noticed the lint on his sleeve, picked it off and dropped it on the gray tweed carpet.

  “There’s jest one thing, Sam,” he said. “The salary ya asked for is a bit more than we anticipated starting the new chief with. Is your price negotiable?”

  Ronnie Shields seemed like a nice man. I decided to spare him my hard-ass act and negotiate honestly. Honestly. Not stupidly. Whenever I try to sell something, I pad my asking price.

  “I know Tennessee salaries are considerably lower than those in New York,” I said. “I based my request on my last year’s pay up there. That was fourteen years ago. Considering the responsibilities involved here and how you need to restore confidence in the department, I thought the figure seemed reasonable.”

  Ronnie sat back and raised his eyebrows.

  “Mr. Mayor,” I continued, “you need a competent man quickly. You only recruited locally to get someone for next Monday. And I know only one other man with supervisory experience applied, a patrol sergeant. The others were all deputies or police officers. I’ve run sections with annual budgets of around a million dollars, and you don’t have to worry about me getting arrested.”

  He hung his head slightly and gently rocked back and forth.

  “You’ve got me there, Sam. I guess you had went and done your homework.”

  “I was a detective for a long time. Getting information comes naturally.”

  “I unnerstand,” he said. “You’ve got a fine record.” He tapped the copies of my application and the resume he held. “Between the Army and your former po-leece department, you got a whole bushel full o’ medals. Still, startin’ with eighty thousand dollars is a lot o’ money for li’l ol’ Prospect.”

  “I understand, too. But that’s still less than some of the top brass at the Sheriff’s office make.”

  He gave me a hard stare and waited.

  “Okay, Ronnie, let me make it a little easier on your budget. I’ll knock off ten thousand for two years if you buy me a new car.”

  “A new car?” He almost choked on the words.

  “Webbster’s car is four years old. I’d need one soon anyway.”

  “You shore did some homework.”

  I smiled and tried to look humble. It wasn’t easy.

  “Alright, Sam, I think the Council may approve that. Are we still talkin’ about a five-year contract?”

  I nodded. “With a ten percent increase on the fifth year.”

  A pained look crossed his face. “Okay, I’ll call ya.”

  Just back from taking Bitsey, our old Scottish terrier, for a walk, I stood in the living room watching two gray squirrels scampering around beneath our birdfeeder, eating the sunflower seeds dislodged from above.

  My wife left for the public library where she does volunteer work. I planned to spend the morning at home. Then the phone rang, and the dog barked, making sure I heard it.

  Ronnie Shields spoke to me. “I’ve got good news for ya, Sam —and some bad news.”

  Good news and bad news? You think I’m a fine guy, but you’re not going to hire me. C’est la vie.

  “You’ve got my attention, Ronnie. Give me the news—in any order.”

  “Well, sir, the Council accepted your conditions, and they want to hire you. Now, that’s good, ain’t it?”

  “It certainly is.” I think.

  “The bad part is we’ll need you to start Friday. I forgot we have a big event comin’ up this Saturday that requires a po-leece supervisor. Buck Webbster is officially off the payroll as of Thursday night. I’m sorry, Sam, but kin ya he’p us out here?”

  I like smooth. Ronnie gave me bumps. But I agreed. I can be a schlep at times.

  “Sure I can,” I said. “You want me there Friday morning?”

  “How’s two o’clock? I’ve got a meetin’ with the Finance and Payroll people in the mornin’.”

  “Two o’clock it is.”

  “Jest one more thing, Sam.”

  “Yes?”

  “Would ya mind stoppin’ here next Wednesday night after work? The Council is havin’ a meetin’. They’d like ta say hello.”

  I saw bumps. Then I got potholes. I only wanted a nine-to-five job. “Okay, what time?” I began to wonder if taking on a new career at my age made any sense. I’d hate to admit being wrong. I thought about that egotistical guy who said, ‘I thought I’d been wrong once, but I was mistaken.’

  Chapter Two

  Friday, July 21st, looked bright and sunny. Kate would leave home at 9:30, as she did every Friday, to meet seven of her friends for their weekly mahjongg games.

  After breakfast, I stood on the front porch looking east toward the Smoky Mountains. A big orange ball rose over the green pasture across the road where grazing horses chased annoying flies by flicking their tails. Closer to me, a swarm of gnats became visible in the backlighting.

  I had little planned for the already warm day.

  It’s appropriate for a newly employed police officer to carry a serviceable firearm. A cop with a gun is like a lawyer with a code of ethics: you may not use it very often, but it’s good to have around in case you need to show someone.

  I went downstairs, opened my safe and checked my guns.

  For my last three years in New York, I carried a Glock semiautomatic. Logically, something that allowed me to carry fifty rounds of 9mm ammunition in the gun and two extra magazines sounded like the way to go. Who wants the bad guys to have more firepower?

  Although I liked the Glock 19, my Smith & Wesson revolver remained my favorite. The old .38 would make me look like an aging gunslinger, like Jimmy Stewart or Henry Fonda in one of their last western movies.

  I took out the Smith, rubbed the blued steel finish with a silicone cloth, loaded it with six 158 grain, hollow points and locked it back in the safe. I’d carry that.

  Ready to go again, all I needed was a badge and, if absolutely necessary, a uniform.

  At 9:40, Katherine kissed me good-bye and asked me to wish her luck at the mahjongg tables.

  I said something inscrutably oriental, something Charlie Chan would have told Number One Son. I kissed her again and told her to drive safely.

  She wished me good luck with my new boss.

  After Kate left, Bitsey and I settled into the living room prepared to kill the morning with a borrowed Agatha Raisin novel. I sat in a wingback recliner and switched on the Tiffany lamp. Bitsey jumped onto one of the love seats. She made a couple of circles and hit the cushion like a paratrooper hitting a drop-zone. The effort that dog expended just to relax amazed me.

  Two banks of floor-to-ceiling bookcases formed the wall on my left; a mountain-stone fireplace occupied the center of the wall. I’m very comfortable in our living room. Bitsey could get comfortable on a bed of nails.

  I read for less than an hour and found Agatha wasn’t doing it for me. Maybe her incessant smoking bothered me. I hate it when people smoke. Listening to her bitchy behavior during the last few chapters annoyed me, too. Or perhaps it was because she volunteered to man a tombola stand for her women’s club, and I had no idea what the hell a tombola stand was.

  By afternoon, I’d be a police chief. Why was I reading about a middle-aged woman butting into police business in the midlands of Old Blighty?

  I tossed Aggie onto the window seat after deciding to make a surprise visit to my new police department.

  Looking natty again in a jacket and tie, I thought my pick-up was no vehicle for a new boss to arrive in on his first half day at work.

  I opened the overhead door to our garage where my restored 1967 Austin–Healey 3000 Mark III convertible sat waiting for me. What more could a middle-aged sports car enthusiast want? James Bond, eat your heart out. The last time I read anything about you, you drove a Saab.

  Dropping into
the blue leather bucket seat, I depressed the clutch, switched on the key, touched the starter, and the three-litre engine growled to life.

  I headed east on US 321, turned north across the Little River and made my way via back country roads to Main Street in Prospect.

  At the head of the tree-rimmed square, the Municipal Building stood as a proud symbol of small town government. The building, only a little more than twenty years old, possessed all the style and charm of the 19th century, like one of those great old Carnegie Libraries.

  Inside, a visitor could find the Mayor’s Office, the Planning Commission, the Budget and Finance Department and all the other sections needed to run a small city.

  The necessary evils of society were also represented: the Magistrate’s Court—for perpetrators of misdemeanors and minor violations—and the Police Department.

  I drove around back where employees parked and where a few city trucks shared territory with the police vehicles. I didn’t want a zealous cop towing away the Healey, so I parked in a visitor’s spot rather than the area marked ‘Police Vehicles Only’.

  Inside, the PD layout looked unlike any of the old-fashioned precinct houses where I worked back in New York. No elevated desk dominated the lobby where a sergeant supervised a crew of desk officers. It looked much like any business office you might walk into.

  A pretty, blonde female in uniform sat behind a large desk with a glass partition behind her. A desk nameplate read Police Officer Bettye A. Lambert.

  “Hello,” I said.

  She looked up at me over a pair of little granny glasses.

  “Oh, hello,” she said, taking her attention away from the report lying on her desk. “May I help you?”

  “I’m sure you can.” I offered her my hand. “I’m Sam Jenkins, your new boss.”

  Officer Lambert stood and returned my handshake “Oh, uh…hello, Chief. What are you doin’ here today? You’re not due in until Monday.”

  The narrow reading glasses sat low on the bridge of her nose. Her hazel eyes sparkled with tiny flecks of brown and gold. A blonde ponytail swayed slightly. The color looked natural, perhaps with a little help from Miss Clairol, but natural enough for the likes of me. Her khaki shirt and charcoal green pants fit extremely well.