SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

 

            Nelson spent the rest of the day unpacking clothes and equipment that had remained boxed. The next morning, Charlie rose late and wandered in for coffee as Nelson was getting ready to leave. He was wearing jeans, a long-sleeved black knit shirt, and hiking boots. One item of attire caught Charlie’s attention.

            “That’s one ugly-assed belt buckle,” he said.

            “A present. And I’m going to see the donor’s dad this morning so he will notice I’m wearing it and report the news.”

            “What are those things on it? Fishhooks.”

            “Anchors, asshole. They are anchors.”

            “Oh. So where you headed?”

            “To stir up trouble. Want to help?”

            “My particular area of expertise. What would be my mission?’

            Nelson explained the concept of the “mad minute” and how he and the sheriff’s department intended to initiate it. “I’m hesitant to ask you to get involved,” he said. “But if you want some action, I have an idea.”

            “Action is my trademark,” Charlie said. “Besides, I owe you.”

            “Would your girlfriend be interested?”

            “Like she told you, she knows Abbey’s dad. She’ll be game.”

            “Is she working today?”

            “Waiting for some data files to be sent in,” he said. “We intended to ride our bikes, then shower, and spend the rest of the afternoon working on improving my consistency in wild …”

            “Spare me all the details,” Nelson said. “Here’s what I had in mind.”

            An hour later, Nelson turned onto a graveled road in south Armistead County. Pastures framed the road on either side and the cows stopped their chewing to watch Nelson as he drove by, wondering if he had come to feed them. When he drove by, they lost interest and turned away. Farther on, woods replaced the pastures and the road narrowed. It curved slightly and soon the main highway was out of sight in the truck’s rear view mirror. A half-mile later, the road curved again and a fenced area and large metal gate came into view. Nelson slowed and took in his surroundings.

            He eased slowly until his truck was within ten feet of the gate and stopped. He opened the door and stepped out, once again examining his surroundings. Seeing no one, he walked to the gate. It consisted of two sections joined in the middle by a latch that swiveled to connect the two sections. A heavy metal chain bound the sections together and a lock connected the chain. The lock hung inside the compound, indicating it had been last touched from within. Nelson reached and pulled it to the outside. He examined it and let it drop. A small metal sign on the gate announced that it formed the entrance to “The SW Hunting Club.” A larger sign warned intruders away.

            The ground on either side of the gravel was soft and Nelson walked several feet in both directions, making sure that he was leaving footprints. Returning to his truck, he took a card from its box, and examined it. Then he took a pen and drew a large “X” on the front. Turning the card over, he wrote the name of the road on which he had turned and scribbled, “hunting club?” beneath it. He rubbed the card along the bed of his truck and bent it in the middle. He dropped the card into a footprint on the right side of the gate, stepped on it, and returned to his truck.

            As the reversed the truck’s direction, he made certain that the front tires left tracks just beyond the gravel. He drove away slowly, watching the rearview mirror intently. When he was certain that no one had observed him, he gunned the truck and left the scene. Minutes later, he turned onto the state highway and headed toward Armistead.

            The morning rush had ended at Barker’s by the time Nelson arrived. Only one vehicle was parked there, a late-model Toyota Camry, polished to a high sheen. Nelson parked alongside it and walked into the store. Inside, he turned toward “The Collusion Corner.” A thin and youngish man dressed in a flannel shirt and khakis sat in serious conversation with Elvis. When the man saw Nelson, he rose and rushed across the store and caught Nelson in a tight embrace. When they had parted, the man said, “Gideon Nelson. Mr. Badass.”

            Nelson smiled. “Rick Duffey, Ace Reporter.”

            “Editor Emeritus now,” Duffey said. “Thanks to you.”

            “I hear my investment has paid off handsomely,” Nelson said.

            “One can only hope.” Duffey led Nelson to the table where Elvis sat. “And just when did you intend to stop and see your old partner in crime? I hear you’ve been back for a while.”

            “Stopped in twice,” Nelson said. “Both times you were in Caldron. I understand you now own the paper there as well.”

            “Double the pleasure. Double the debt,” Duffey said. “The folks up there begged me to take it off their hands before some national bunch bought it and quit publishing the news from all the rural churches.”

            “Does the Armistead Announcer still do that?”

            “Hell yes,” Duffey said. “How else would folks know that Mrs. Harry Roberts came to services with her nephew Hatchet Maynard, here on a weekend pass from the state pen in Calico Rock?”

            “Hatchet?”

            “Just a name he picked up in the football team’s shower back in high school.”

            Nelson thought for a moment and then laughed. “Are you trying to tell me he is a strutting man”?

            “Strutted himself right into bed with a fifteen-year old girl or, as they call them around here, a ‘slow starter.’ Now he’ll have to post a sign in his yard, when he gets out, stating that he is a sexual predator. She was Pastor Cody’s youngest daughter and half the men in Armistead County are thinking, ‘Hell that could have been me.’ They keep that type prosecution up and there won’t be a high school football team in state in a few years. These are good times for news hounds. That why you told the proprietor here,” he said nodding at Elvis, who had been quietly listening, “that you needed to see me?”

            Nelson nodded. “You know what I’ve been up to, don’t you?”

            “I hear things.”

            Nelson leaned forward. “I thought you might want to help plant the seed for a future scoop.”

            “I’m listening.”

            Elvis rose and walked toward the soft drink cooler. Nelson leaned back and looked Duffey in the eyes. “Wealth and fame haven’t made you honest, have they?”

            Elvis returned and sat three Diet Cokes on the table. “Hell,” he said. “Old Rick here has gained so much stature that he has been trading diphthongs with old Amanda Courtney.”

            Nelson arched an eyebrow. “She’s back in town?”

            “Back in the state and claiming no kin to her recently incarcerated father who, by all accounts, is pretty much enjoying life in maximum security,” Elvis said.

            Duffey reddened. “She comes into town on bank business,” he said. “She handles some of the advertising and that brings her to the newspaper. She wants to talk about publicity, ads and stuff.”

            “As I heard,” Elvis said, interrupting, “to check on a new insertion.”

            Duffey frowned. Nelson laughed. “I’ve missed you guys,” he said. “Now,” he said, turning to Duffey, “can we move from deep insertions to deep background?”

            “What sort of semi-ethical escapade do you want me to join you in?”

            “Simply reporting the truth,” Nelson said. “For you newspaper types, that’s a noun indicating the existence of honesty, accuracy, and conformity with facts.”

            “Heard of it,” Duffey said. “Doesn’t sell worth a damn.”

            “Will you two white devils cut the crap and get down to business,” Elvis said. “My noon crowd’s gonna come in any minute, and I might miss something.”

            Nelson and Duffey both laughed. “Here’s the deal,” Nelson said, and the conversation became serous.

            Nelson left Barker’s as the noon traffic began to build. He shook hands with Duffey before they drove away in opposite directions. Nelson drove toward Armistead and, arriving there, drove to the courthouse. He had to park in the next block because a group of pickup trucks occupied the spaces in front of the building. He walked to the Sheriff’s office at a slow pace, looking around him with his arms in position for ready action. Reaching the office, he entered and found a group of the Soul Warriors occupying folding chairs that had been moved in to handle the temporary crowd. Their eyes filled with hot anger as he walked by.

            Nelson stopped at Mrs. Matterson’s desk and caught a mischievous smile. He winked and said, “Guess he’ll be tied up for a while?”

            “Actually no,” she said. “He’s interviewing his last … uh,” she glanced toward the seated group, “visitor now.”

            At that moment, the door to the sheriff’s office opened and Bully Bridges emerged, clutching a worn baseball cap with a large cross stenciled on the front. When he saw Nelson, he stiffened for a moment, made eye contact, and then turned his eyes to the other men who rose as one. As he walked past Nelson, he brushed him slightly with a shoulder and, in an almost silent whisper, audible to Nelson only, said, “Soon.”

            Nelson watched the group leave. After the last one exited, he turned and smiled at Mrs. Matterson. He shook his head toward the sheriff’s office and said, “May I go in?”

            “I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you,” she said. “Would you like for me to fetch some spray and fumigate the room first?”

            “We’ve smelled worse,” Nelson said, shaking his head. “At least I’m sure he has.” He turned and walked to the door and knocked softly. A voice from within yelled, “Come on in.”

            Once seated, Nelson related to the sheriff all his activities of the day thus far. Sheriff Love listened intently, nodding from time to time. Once he interrupted. “Do you trust all these fellers?” he asked. “You don’t know this man that lives with you that well, or his girlfriend.”

            “I think I know them well enough,” Nelson said. “I think they can pull off the act as a loving couple that well. And you know the local boys,” he said. “They’ll do anything as long as it has a little deceit and trickery involved.”

            The sheriff nodded, and then raised his head to think. Lowering it and nodding toward the reception area, he abruptly altered course. “You know what those motherfuckers told me?” he said.

            “That they love Jesus?”

            “Pretty much,” the Sheriff said. “They all claimed that they didn’t know nothing about no dead colored girl … although they used a different adjective.”

            “Isn’t that what you expected them to say?”

            “Yeah,” the sheriff said, “but that wasn’t the crazy part.”

            “Oh?”

            “Get this. They claimed they only hung out at that club in the woods to hunt during season and to conduct bible studies at other times. Can you fuckin’ believe it?”

            “Bible studies?”

            “Bible studies. They also claim to be spend time renovating the old cabins the original owners built there.” He stopped, closed his eyes, and said, “Oh yes, and cleaning the place, that being next to godliness, you know.”

            “Well,” Nelson said. “As you folks say down here, ‘I’ll swan.’”

            “Indeed,” the sheriff said. “Now what did you find out at the club while I had them all here?”

            “It was locked,” Nelson said. “I poked around the entrance and made sure they knew that I had been there.”

            “Good,” the sheriff said. “That’ll piss them off. Did you notice anything strange?”

            “Not really,” Nelson said, “but there was this one small thing that seemed odd for a hunting club.”

            “Oh? And what was that?”

            “There were no postings prohibiting hunting. You know … the purple paint and all that.”

            “No shit?”

            “No,” Nelson said, “just one sign with a skull and crossbones stating that trespassers would be shot on sight.”

 

New Friends. Old Friends.

Sundown in zion

Chapter thirty-nine

            The weekend came, promising a break in both the weather and, for Nelson, dealing with crime. There remained, however, the problem of beatings. After breakfast and a workout Saturday morning, Nelson showered, dressed, and drove to the hospital to check on Clifton. When he arrived, he found the room empty. Turning to head back to the information desk, he almost collided with nurse Christina Lopez. Both looked at one another, neither speaking. Nelson broke the silence.

            “Did something happen to Clifton?” He tensed.

            “Yes,” Lopez said, “but not what you think.” She smiled. “He’s been moved to the ICU, the Intensive Care Unit.”

            “I know what ICU stands for,” Nelson said. “I know all about them.” He drew in his breath. “Why?”

            “Internal bleeding,” she said. “Apparently something broke loose.”

            Nelson steeled himself for the answer before even asking the question. “How serious.?

            “I’m not allowed to make a diagnosis,” she said. “But serious. He’s in the best hands, though. We have an excellent staff.” She studied Nelson’s face. “What’s wrong?”

            He snapped his gaze back to hers. “Nothing,” he said, as much to himself as to her, “just thinking that I might have acted differently if I had known this would happen.”

            She nodded in understanding. “And that would have fixed everything, right?”

            Nelson didn’t answer for a moment. “How do I get there?” He said.

            “Forget it lad.,” she said. “They won’t let you in to see him. They could think you might be the one who put him there, or worse still, a homosexual lover.”

            A coldness spread from Nelson. His blue eyes seemed to turn steel-gray. His breathing slowed to an imperceptible slowness while his entire being tensed like a spring. Lopez moved back. “I’m not the enemy,” she said. “I like him too.”

            The coldness retreated a step. “I just want to know,” Nelson said, “how he is doing.”

            “The last time I checked, he was doing as well as could be expected,” Lopez said. “They had stopped the bleeding but were afraid to move him.”

            “They let you in to see him?”

            “Sailor,” she said, “I’m an old Hispanic broad with a lot of experience and a bad attitude.” She smiled, saw Nelson continue to relax, and smiled again. “And because I have always fought off the men here, they think I may be gay myself. So …” she looked around to see that no one was listening, and said, “they stay the fuck out of my way. Comprendes?”

            This had completely disarmed Nelson and extinguished his anger. He nodded and said, “Good for you. So you are still attending him?”

            “I didn’t say that,” she said. “I just go over when I get a chance and check on him.” She looked around again. “I’ve already told you, I sort of like the old fool.”

            By now, she had Nelson smiling, “Could you …,” he began.

            “Tell you what,” she said, interrupting him, “if you trust me enough, give me your cell number and I’ll text you reports when I check on him.”

            “You really do like him,” don’t you? Nelson said, retrieving a pen and note pad from his pocket.

            As he wrote, Lopez said, “Hon, any man who loves his dead wife so much that, even though he’s in the worst kind of pain you can imagine, his main worry is that somehow she might be concerned about how he looked after nearly being beaten to death, should make any woman like him.”

            Nelson handed her his number. “Thanks for everything,” he said, He nodded toward the paper. “Any time, night or day.”

            Lopez studied his number. “You keep your powder dry and your temper in check,” she said. “Clifton will need a friend while he recovers.”

            “I think he already has two good ones,” Nelson said. “Three if you count his late wife.” With that, he turned and left. Christina Lopez watched him until he exited into another hallway. Then she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes.

            Two hours later, Nelson was leaving the martial arts studio. His teacher walked him to the door smiling. “Much better today,” she said. “Only a little too aggressive. A skillful opponent will use that against you.” She patted his arm. “As I did. Still sore?”

            “A little,” he said. “But isn’t that how we learn?”

            “True,” she said. “That’s what I tell my other star.”

            “The one who comes on weekends?”

            “Yes,” she said. “A special one, a faster learner than you but less experienced in the ways of the world.”

            “A ‘her’ or a ‘him,’ or can you say?”

            “I’m sworn to secrecy,” she said. “No one must know and …,” she opened the door for him, “I know you are most skilled in surveillance, but remember one thing.”

            “What’s that?”

            “So far, I could still kill you if you get too nosey.” She laughed and pushed him out. “Now go in peace,” she said. “I’m going to do some needlework. You should try it. It’s a great way to relax.”

            His next stop was Tina’s house. He arrived, and before he could exit his truck, she came out carrying a blanket and small ice chest. She placed it in the truck’s bed, but held the blanket clasped in her arms as she turned a complete circle, holding her head high with her chin thrust forward. “That,” she said, “should keep the sons-of-bitches around here provided with gossip for a week.” She climbed into the cab, pulled Nelson to her, and kissed him with emotion and movement in equal measure. “That will add some spice to their speculations.” She stopped talking as she looked into his eyes and blinked. “Oh shit,” she said. “Do we have time for a quick …?”

            “No,” Nelson. “Believe me I wish we did, but I promised them we’d be there by mid-afternoon.”

            “The Navy’s loss,” she said, placing her hand between his legs. “Oh,” she said, “and the sails are filling in hope of a fine voyage.”

            “Will you stop?” Nelson said. He laughed. “And Homer thought his sirens provided temptation.” He moved her hand away, but slowly.

            “Homer’s sirens promised knowledge,” she said. “I could show you how to use the knowledge you already have.”

            “I can’t hear you,” he said. “I’ve mentally placed wax in my ears. It’s a trick they taught us at Coronado Island.”

            “Didn’t know they had sirens there,” she said. She moved away and fastened herself in place. “Now who is it we’re supposed to meet?”

            “Charlie and his new friend, Angela,” he said.

            “Angela who? Is she homeless as well? She bringing her shopping cart with her?”

            “Angela something or other,” he said. “I can’t remember her last name. And no, she isn’t homeless, nor is Charlie anymore, remember?”

            “That’s the last time I hoist your mainsail,” she said. “It seems to make you edgy.”

            The cheerful banter continued until they reached the park near Nelson’s home. They parked, found a quiet spot, and spread the blanket. Nelson went back to the truck and returned with the ice chest and a large bag. They were soon enjoying snacks and wine, quietly watching joggers, dreamers, and happy families enjoying an early spring day. The park was dominated by two structures, one an old building that had been a part of a federal arsenal before the Civil War. The other was a modern art center, the two forming a complimentary tableau. At the eastern         edge stood a building that had been started its existence as a medical school but now served the teaching of law. Tina talked of the site’s history.

            “They hanged a young man here once,” she said, “just a boy—for being a spy. The Yankees, your people, did.”

            “My people?”

            “Your people. Who else would hang a 17-year old boy for having information that was pretty much useless?”

            “They hanged him for that?”

            “And the fact that he wouldn’t give the name of his accomplice.”

            “Who was?”

            “One legend has it that she was his girlfriend, a comely and well-connected young belle.”

            “So he became a spy for her? Died for her?”

            “Gideon,” Tina said, “in case they didn’t teach you this at Coronado Island, men will do anything for the chance of getting a little ‘in and out’ off a beautiful woman, anything at all.” She paused then, “Although when they get older, they get a smarter about it. They don’t take as many chances.”

            This caught Nelson by surprise. His face grew serious and dark. He started to speak, but before he could, Tina yelled, “Oh my god.” With that, she rose, nearly upsetting the wine, and ran toward a couple, a man and woman, approaching on foot, but pushing two bicycles. When the woman saw Tina, she handed her bike to her companion and ran to meet the other. The two met in a long and excited embrace. Nelson had walked to where they all stood by now, and the two men looked at one another, astonished.

            “What the …?” Charlie said.

            Nelson shook his head.

            The two women parted and stood back step to look at one another. “Girl,” the stranger said, “where the hell have you been and why are you here?”

            Tina pointed at Nelson. “Trying to civilize this warmonger,” she said. Then understanding landed. “Oh Jesus,” she said, “are you the Angela?”

            “Fuck yeah,” the other replied. “Are you the Tina?”

            They both cried, “Yes,” again and resumed their embrace. Charlie pointed at one, then the other, then at Nelson and shrugged a question. Nelson nodded.

            When the women had parted for the second time, Angela pointed at the two men. “Did neither of these assholes mention just who their buddy’s girlfriend was?”

            “Hell no,” Tina said. “I thought you were a homeless person.”

            “And I thought you were just some bar-hog,” Angela said.

            “Oh, I am,” Tina said. “First class.” She grabbed Angela’s hand and said, “How have you been?”

            “Fat, sassy, and raring to go,” Angela said. “And you?”

            “Still working on becoming a legend.” They turned to stare menacingly at Charlie and Gideon.

            “You two know one another?” Charlie said.

            Angela shook her head sadly and said, “He ain’t much on the uptake but, given his health, can be damn good in bed when conditions are right. Yours?” She looked at Nelson.

            “Dumb as a bucket of paint at times. Bed? I don’t know. Both times I’ve nearly gotten him there, he fell to his knees and started praying for deliverance from temptation and forgiveness for evil thoughts.”

            Both women laughed. The men stared. After an uncomfortable silence, Nelson said, “How?”

            “She took a class I taught a few years back. We became friends and bummed around together awhile until she took and assignment out of state and we sort of lost touch. I’ve been meaning to look her up, but you know how awful I am.” She turned to Angela and then to Nelson. “Hon, this is Gideon Nelson, scourge of the evil-minded.”

            “And,” said Angela, “this is Charlie Winters, hope for America’s future.”

            The four were soon seated on Tina’s blanket enjoying wine. They filled in gaps, supplied background information, and hinted at future plans. Angela detailed Charlie’s progress in bicycling and in his general health. She prophesied that, “Before long, he’ll perform any time I slip a folded twenty into his jock strap.”

            Tina assured the others that before long, Nelson would get over his fear of strong women and seek a welcome port from life’s storms. The men took this in with mock resignation. The conversation led from levity to a more serious recounting of Nelson’s progress in finding Abbey Stubblefield’s killer, or killers. He outlined his recent interviews, including the one with Tricia Davenport.

            “You mean,” said Angela, “that’s she’s just finishing high school, and has the courage to be openly gay?’

            “She didn’t just come out of the closet,” Nelson said, “she broke the door down and stormed out like a soldier seeking vengeance.”

            “Bless her sweet heart,” Tina said. “But it took a trip to the Ransom Center to accomplish it?”

            “I’m not sure,” Nelson said, “but I think that trip to the Ransom Center was more for her parents than for her.”

            “And she didn’t try to run away?” Charlie said.

            “No. She served her time and came home.”

            “Well where else would a plain-looking lesbian with a goth-hairdo go?” Angela said.

            For the second time that day, Nelson abruptly sank into deep-thought mode while the party atmosphere continued to swirl about him. Tina snapped him from it.

            “Hey Boats,” she said. “Wake up. Somebody wants your full attention, and is quite willing to take it by force, if necessary. You do understand taking things by force, don’t you?” The others laughed.

Fiction Friday

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER FOR

(Our hero, Gideon Nelson entertains a young friend who is upset over the murder of a friend and classmate. Last week, Nelson suggested that young Martin tell him the whole story.)

While Martin collected his thoughts, Nelson rose from the table and walked to a kitchen counter where he grabbed a sack of chips. He opened it and laid the bag in front of Martin. “Take your time,” he said.

            Martin reached and took chip but didn’t eat it. He looked at it and then at Nelson. He placed the chip on the table and looked at his drink. Finally, he said, “Her name is, … was, Abbey Stubblefield and she was special.”

            Nelson nodded but said nothing.

            “She was probably the smartest person in our class. I have a higher grade-point because she liked to argue a little too much for some of the teachers.” He toyed with the chip. “But she was smarter. She was smarter than anyone.” He stopped talking looked at the ceiling.

            “Go on,” Nelson said.

            “She … her family that is, lived in Jacksonville, then moved to Little Rock so could attend Central High. That’s the best school in the state next to the Math and Sciences School.”

            Nelson said, “Jacksonville …where the Air Force Base is?”

            “Yessir, her father is retired military. He was originally from the backwoods of Alabama somewhere but they stayed in Arkansas after his retirement.” Martin stopped again and thought. “He doesn’t talk much about his life before the Air Force.”

            “Brothers and sisters?”

            “She was an only child.” This time Martin took longer to regain his composure. “Mr. Nelson, I can’t begin to tell you how much she meant to that man and his wife.”

            This time it was Nelson who had difficulty talking. “I can only imagine,” he said.

            Martin continued, suddenly seeming to be in a hurry. “She was a little adventurous,” he said. “Like I say, she would argue about anything, but she wasn’t arrogant. It was cute ..” he stopped. “I can’t use that word for her. It was …,” he thought, “disarming.”

            He took a sip from his drink and continued. “She just liked to explore things to their fullest. Do you know what I mean?’

            “I think I do,” said Nelson. “Go on.”

            “Well she had started studying religion,” he said. “If you ask me, it was from a scientific angle, not a spiritual one.”

            “How do you mean?”

            “She would go to these different churches,” Martin said. “She told me she was trying to figure out why there were so many different doctrines.” He smiled, “She would laugh and say she wanted to find out which one of them was right, so she could choose wisely.”

            “Was she a believer?”

            “She was a scientist,” Mr. Nelson. “And she would have been one of the greatest.”

            “So what happened?”

            “She went to this church over at Connerville,” Martin said. “and that’s when it started.”

            “What started?”

            “We all told her not to go,” Martin said, ignoring Nelson. “They don’t like black folk over there one bit. We said she was crazy to even think about it.”

            “What did she say?”

            “She said, ‘Hell man, it’s a damn church. They got to love everybody, even little black girls.’”

            “She say anything else?”

            “She said, ‘I’ll win them over with my smile.’”

            “Did she?”

            Martin looked at him and squinted. “Not hardly.”

            “What happened.?”

            “Well,” said Martin, drinking from his glass, “the first time she went they just ignored her. She said she thought she had turned invisible or something. The preacher did shake her hand when she left.” He stopped.

            “But?”

            “But he sure as hell didn’t ask her back.”

            “So?”

            “She went back anyway. She usually only went to a particular church once. But this time she went back.”

            “Why?”

            “Mr, Nelson, if I knew I would tell you. She was just that way. Her daddy says she always has been.” He smiled at a thought. “He told me one funny story on her.”

            “What was that?”

            “They were stationed in South Carolina when she was in the seventh grade and she entered the science fair. She built this series of interconnected fish tanks and bred male fish with different sized tail fins. She could open gates between the tanks and demonstrate how females of the species would select males with the largest fins. Her parents said it was really something.”

            “And?”

            “First prize went to a white boy who grew plants watered with different liquids—pure water, water mixed with blood, milk, and other things.”

            “He won for that?”

            “It was South Carolina, Mr. Nelson.”

            “I see. So what did she do?’

            “She showed up at the awards ceremony in a white lab code, carrying a clipboard, and wearing a friend’s old graduation cap. Marched up on the stage just before the ceremony started and began asking the judges questions about the standards they employed in their decisions. She was taking notes like she was some serious academic.”

            “And?”

            “She got expelled.”

“Expelled?”

“Expelled. Only reason it didn’t stay on her permanent record was her dad’s base commander liked her and had sort of taken her under his wing. He got involved.”

            “Hard-headed, then?”

            “She could be."

            Nelson sipped his whiskey and freshened it. “So she went back to the church?”

            “The very next Sunday.”

            “How were they this time?”

            “She said this time they weren’t warm and friendly like before.”

            Nelson looked surprised.

            “She was being sarcastic, Mr. Nelson.”

            “Tell you what, Martin, why don’t you try ‘Gideon’ on for size. I’m already feeling old and missing your point makes it worse.”

            Martin laughed. “Okay Mr… Gideon. Anyway, she said the second time she got there before the crowd and took a seat in an empty aisle. Before she knew it, two large boys moved in from her left, two from her right, and two more sat right behind her.”

            “What then?”

            “They began to squeeze her from either side until she felt, as she put it, ‘like her butt was getting a mammogram,’ whatever that means.”

            Nelson laughed. “She sounds witty.”

            “She is …,” Martin said. “Was.”

            “So did they do anything else?”

            “The one in back would lean forward and cough on the back of her neck. A nasty sort of cough if you know what I mean.”

            “Afraid so. Did anyone witness this?”

            “They must have,” Martin said. “But nobody intervened.”

            “So she didn’t go back?”

            “She was going to,” Martin said. “She said she flashed her Number One Point-Five smile at the preacher when she left and said ‘I’ll see you next Sunday’ but he didn’t look too happy about it.”

            “Why didn’t she go back?”

            “We had a project due at school and we all stayed there for the next weekend. Anyway, someone found out who she was and,” he reached for his backpack, “these started showing up on her e-mail.”

            He fumbled with a stack of papers and Nelson said, “How did they find her, do you reckon?”

            “Somebody must have recognized her. Connerville isn’t that far away and Abbey was pretty well known in the area for her academics and sports.”

            “Sports?”

            “She was a world-class swimmer.” He laid some papers on the table and pointed to them. “These came on her e-mail and she forwarded them to me. I made copies for you.”

            Nelson pulled the papers toward him but before he read them, he looked at Martin. “But she didn’t go back?”

            “She got killed the next Saturday. So, no, she never went back.”

            Nelson nodded in understanding and read the first copy.

            An email from “hisworker” read, “We think you would be happier at a nigger church, bitch. Don’t come back to ours.” Nelson turned it over and laid it aside.

            Another one, this one from “hisgreaterglory” read, “if u come back to our church u want be welcome and it will be a denger to u.”

            The third was more menacing still, “hisharvestworker” wrote, “The only nigger we want in our church is a dead one so we can teach our dogs what to hunt.”

            Nelson stopped at this point. “Are the rest the same?”

            “Pretty much so,” Martin said. “There is one that asks if she want to meet him for sex so she can say she achieved her dream of doing with a real man before she died.”

            “I’ll take your word for it,” Nelson said. “Seems like a nice bunch of folks. Tell me about this church.”

            “It’s a big one,” Martin said. “one of the biggest in this area … ‘Connorville Baptist Tabernacle,’ they call it.”

            “Odd name for it,” Nelson said.

            Martin nodded. “You may have heard of it,” he said. “They get in trouble every time there’s an election.”

            “An election?”

            “For telling their folks who to vote for,” Martin said. “and it isn’t the candidate who likes black folks the most.”

            Nelson nodded. “Let’s get back to Abbey. Do they have any idea who murdered her?”

            “That’s what the problem is,” said Martin. “they, the police in Connerville,  don’t seem to care who murdered her.”

            Nelson said, “What do you mean, they don’t care?”

            “They say it isn’t their problem. The Chief of Police says he is through with it.”

            Nelson leaned back in his chair and thought. Then he said, “Someone is found murdered in their city and they say it isn’t their problem.”

            “They set her up in their report like she was a gangbanger and said she was likely murdered in Little Rock and just dumped in Connorville.” He began to tremble slightly and stopped to compose himself. “They say she is Little Rock’s problem if she is anybody’s.” His voice trembled.

            Nelson waited and sipped his whiskey.

            Martin said, “They act like she was some abandoned car the found on the side of the road.”

            “What did they think about the e-mails?”

            “They don’t know about the e-mails.”

            “Didn’t you report them?”

            “I tried.”

            “What happened?”

            “I called the police department and told them I had some information to report. The Chief called me back and said to call the Little Rock Police Department.”

            “I tried, but they said it wasn’t their case. So I called Connorville back.”

            “And?”

            “The Chief told me that I would have a much brighter career if I were to mind my own goddam business.”

            Nelson said, “Did you try make them public. Go to the newspaper? The FBI? Any other law enforcement folks?”

            “Not yet. I talked to Dad and he said something about a Negro Rule and that I could talk to you.”

            “Don’t get involved in white folks business,” Nelson said. “Rule Number Two.”

            “That’s the one,” Martin said. “So here I am. Mr. … Gideon, they had her strapped to a sheet of plywood, face down with her arms spread out like Jesus on the cross.”

            “Shot?”

            “Once in the head.” He began to tremble again.

            “Take it easy,” Nelson said. Let that image fade out of your mind and replace it with a better one. Pain is just a thought process. That’s all it is.”

            Martin looked away and breathed in an out. His muscles relaxed and he looked at Nelson. “It worked,” he said. “Where did you learn that?”

            “Have a chip,” Nelson said, pushing the bag closer to him. “I’ll get us some fresh ice.”

            Martin took some chips and began eating while Nelson took another glass from a cabinet and filled it with ice. He returned to the table and poured cubes into each of their drinks. He sat.

            “Why do you think I could help?”

            “You’re the man,” Martin said, smiling. “Everyone knows that.”

            Nelson smiled. “I’m flattered,” he said. “But I’m also just a common old veteran on disability with no training in law enforcement.” He stopped. “The legal type anyway.”

            “You’re not that old,” said Martin. “Dad says maybe 30 or so?”

            “Close,” Nelson said. “But I don’t see what I can do?”

            “You got Bobby Johnson out of the pen when he was sent up for something he didn’t do. You must know something.”

            Nelson said, “I stumbled onto that one. I probably wouldn’t be lucky again.”

            “Gideon,” Martin said. “Somebody’s got to make this right. We can’t let Abbey go down in history as a gangbanger that just got sassy with the wrong person.”

            “I have no authority in this type situation whatsoever,” Nelson said. “I don’t know a soul in the city you mention and I probably know a half-dozen in Little Rock,” he paused. “And of course I didn’t know Abbey all.”

            “At least go talk to her mom and dad,” Martin said. “They’ll tell you all you need to know about her.” He stopped suddenly and looked away. When he looked back, his face showed a new control. “And it would mean a lot to them to know that some white person around here was interested.”

            Nelson shook his head. “I don’t know, Martin.”

            “There is always Negro Rule Three,” Martin said.

            “I didn’t know you knew that one.”

            “I do,” Martin said. “And it is true: white folks’ shit gotta stop someday.”

            They talked on but Nelson never committed beyond asking around if anyone he knew had suggestions. If Martin was disappointed, he didn’t show it. Instead, he showed the steady optimism that is so typical of his race. He never allowed Nelson to close the door entirely on this new adventure.  Finally, he said he had best get on the road to Armistead.

            Nelson showed Martin to the door and closed it quietly behind him. He turned back into the room and smiled. He waited until he heard Martin’s car start before he moved. Then, a tingle shot up the back of his neck. He heard a muffled voice from outside.

            He turned and stepped quickly to the door and opened it. Outside, Martin had backed his car onto the street and was turning north. Across the street was a dark pickup truck facing the same direction with the driver’s window open toward Nelson’s house. The driver leaned out and Nelson heard the word “Asshole.” Making out the dark outline of a semi-automatic pistol, he bolted through door.

            As he did, the driver, who wearing a ski mask and baseball cap, saw him and the night exploded with the sound of screeching tires and a screaming engine as the truck shot away. It disappeared quickly. Nelson ran to check on Martin, who immediately rolled down his window.

            “What the …?” Martin said.

            Nelson said, “Did you know him?”

            “I didn’t see him,” Martin said. “I just heard him yell ‘hey asshole’ a couple of times.”

            Nelson stared into the night. “Maybe just some local thug having fun,” he said. “Probably nothing.”

            “Maybe,” Martin said. “Scared the shit out of me, though.”

            “You head straight home,” Nelson said.

            “You think I’m gonna, like, chase him down?” Martin said.

            “Straight home,” Nelson said. “And you watch out for yourself.”

            “Thanks for being here for me,” Martin said. “And please think about doing justice for Abbey.” Before Nelson could respond, Martin rolled up his window and eased away into the city night.

            Nelson watched until he was out of sight before he walked back to his porch. He looked both ways, and went inside. Once in, he walked the table and poured two fingers of whiskey into his glass. He sat and drank. He turned over one of the sheets of paper Martin had left and pulled a pen from his shirt pocket. He closed his eyes and thought.

            He wrote down the license number of the truck.

Safe At Home

There’s no argument that I carry a load of benefits. I’ll be the first to admit that being of white, northern European descent, I’m privileged. On the other hand, I’ve learned that those benefits don’t always prevail. I found that out in Charleston South Carolina one night while I wore the uniform of the United States Navy, along with my white face.

I wised off to this police officer, see. Not a real wising-off, just one of my patented “smart mouths,” as Brenda calls them.

Well, with a billy club on my throat, his partner standing by, and my buddies all be done “di di mao’ed” like cockroaches when the light comes on, the officer told me just how much he enjoyed working a sailor over, using quite colorful language, some of which I’m sure he learned during his own stint in the service.

I believed him, for I had seen what they did to poor Danny Altman a couple of weekends before. Charleston was a nasty city then. May still be. Don’t know. I don’t go there anymore. I’d eat at a Chick-fil-A before I’d go back to Charleston. Poor Danny was a small guy, whom the others called, “Shorty.” I always called him “Danny,” for I felt he needed any small bit of respect he could gain. They put him out of the Navy on a “good of the Service” discharge and he died a few months later trying to save a young girl from drowning.

Anyway, he was a mess that Monday they carried home back aboard the ship.  I’ve never smarted off to police officer since. And I’ve never had my head bashed in. I was especially careful for the remainder of my military service in Charleston.

Yeah, I know I’m white.

Let me tell you what happened last time I found myself pulled over by a police officer. I had bought this truck I drive now, and I had my head up my, uh, let’s just say where it didn’t belong, coming home from working in Searcy and hit the limits of the little town of McCrae, Arkansas. I was speeding. There was no doubt about it. I shouldn’t have been. I was sure the officer was about to agree with that. Oh, by the way, he was a large black officer, very large and very black.

By the time he reached my window, I had my registration out. I shook my head when he reached me, got myself ready for a fray, smiled, and said, “Officer, you got me fair and square. I wasn’t paying attention and should have been. I’ve no excuse.”

You should have seen the look on his face. He tried not to, but he finally smiled and said, “Mister, I’ve been doing this for 23 years and that’s the first time I’ve ever had anyone say that to me.” He walked back to his vehicle to check me out, shaking his head and laughing.

He gave me a warning ticket and we both went on our ways. I knew the Mayor of that town well. When I told him that story, he laughed and told how that officer carried an ice chest filled with bottled water in the trunk of his police car and would always stop at the local park and give the youths a drink.

Yeah, I know I’m white. Yeah, I know I have that “Get out of jail free” license plate that maybe one in ten thousand Americans (most former service members) respect. Yeah, I can only faintly imagine what it’s like to be targeted for undue scrutiny by the police. Yeah, I know that of the, (up to) 850,000 police officers in the United States, some are jerks of the highest order, and should be weeded out. In my heart, though, I feel that the police officer "jerk percentage" is lower than that for TV evangelists and I know its much lower than that for national politicians. Yeah, I know I owe a debt of gratitude for simply being the result of a particular-favored male sperm. And, yeah, I know life ain’t that great for others.

But yeah, I know I’m getting a little tired of listening to that crap about police officers being the epitome of evil. I know that when I was in a battle zone and things got hairy, I didn’t want “Johnny Good Shoes” on the next bunker. I wanted the craziest son-of-a bitch in the company waiting with me out on the edge of the jungle. They are the ones who stand there when the stuff starts flying.

Same thing here. We want those who are crazy, or bold, or dedicated enough to drive the gang-infested streets at two o’clock in the morning, seeing things that no human should have to witness, putting up with things nobody should have to bear, while we sleep at home in a warm bed on a full stomach. We just don’t think they should let it affect them.

I, for one, don’t plan to screw around with them and find out if it has.

My Redacted Life: Chapter Three (Cont._9)

It was a nice chilly day in January and Jim Vines and I headed north, almost as far north as you could go and still be in Arkansas. The city of Harrison was located in the north-northwest part of the state a few miles below the Missouri line. I felt kindly toward the city as my family had taken our first vacation there as soon as my brother was old enough to travel.

It was a tricky, twisted, mountainous drive up, but Jim handled the curves skillfully and we arrived without incident. I had almost forgotten how beautiful the northern part of our state is. Geologists say it boasts one of the oldest mountain ranges in the world, once home to huge peaks that wore away in geologic time. Marine fossils still abound from when ancient seas still covered parts of the area.

I was surprised when we drove into town to see the old log cabin motel where we had stayed those many years ago. I wondered if the rooms still had the “pay to play” radios where you could deposit a quarter for 30 minutes or so of music. Didn’t take much to fascinate kids and irritate parents back in the day.

I didn't know it at the time, but the town square contained a monument honoring the victims of the Mountain Meadows Massacre in which some 140 members of the Baker-Fancher wagon train were massacred in southern Utah in 1857. The wagon train had formed just outside Harrison before heading west. 

That day, we found a quiet town that had covered from a major flood a few years earlier. That had convinced the town elders that some planning was due. The town now had a plan and supporting regulations. They paid Jim $300 per month to attend planning commission meetings and make recommendations. That sounded like an easy way make money to me.

What followed was the first planning commission meeting I ever attended. There was some good-natured conversation and minor business that came before the commission, so far nothing complicated.

The mayor owned a local music store. That made him a nice man in my book. The city attorney and I had attended college together and we pretended to remember one another. He had married one of the hottest women ever to attend the U of A. I’d had a secret crush on her and still resented him a bit, but he was a nice fellow. Still is.

When the scheduled business was over, Jim asked if anyone had questions. One of the commissioners held up a group of papers, shook them, and said, “I want to know where they are?”

Everyone looked at him. Jim answered, “Excuse me?”

“These preliminary figures from the 1970 census you handed out last time you came. I want to know where they are.”

“The figures?”

“No, the blacks.”

“The what?”

He brandished the papers again, “It says here that our “population is one percent black and I want t know where they are.”

Silence roared into the room like clouds covering a mountain top.

“One percent?” Jim fidgeted.

“That’s what it says. If that’s true, there are 70 or so living here and I want to know where they are.”

“That’s bound to be a mistake,” someone said.

“Yeah,” someone else said.

“A mistake for sure,” a third said.

“I’m sure it’s an error. I’ll check on it and get back with you,” Jim said and we got the hell out of there.

It was a quiet ride back, and Jim told me a lot about his life and about the world of planning. I could tell he was a little on the thoughtful side. From where did that one percent come?

He solved the mystery next day, reported back, and eased any tensions that might be brewing. Turns out that 1970 was the first year that computers had played a major role in establishing census data. In some places, the computers were only programmed to go as low as one percent. So sometimes areas had people reported as living in a place whether they were there or not.

I never heard of any major uprisings or house-to-house searches because of it, but it provided me great lesson as I launched off into my new career. In the words of a Charlie Chaplin character, “Numbers sanctify.” They can also terrify.

Monument to the victims of the
Mountain Meadow Massacre.
A person destined to become a
major part of my life had relatives
among the victims.