“As long as you know what kind of opposition you’re going to have.”
“I know I’m going to have Idus Bray calling me up and telling me to keep my nose out of civic affairs, but he’s already tried that, and he didn’t get anywhere. I was real lucky that I had a professor at the seminary who got fired from a church in similar circumstances, and he gave me a pretty good education in church politics, and as long as I have the support of people like you and Tom on the board of deacons and the veterans and younger people in the congregation, I figure I can weather whatever storms I have to.”
“You know you have our support,” said Billy. Tom nodded.
“We’ve formed a ministerial association in town, too. There are eight churches in town with full-time ministers, and we’re meeting once a week to see if we can’t kind of coordinate ourselves on some points—youth programs, opposition to Sunday picture shows, and civic improvements being among the things we’re already talking about. I’ll see if I can’t get some of the others to make some timely remarks before the primary.”
“Good, now let’s get down to some specific items and see if we can’t use them to scare up some votes. I think the paving of the new Fourth Street extention is something a lot of folks are pretty hot about. They’re all complaining about the mud when it rains and the dust when it doesn’t.”
The group ran through their list of issues and opportunities for another hour and a half and then began to make adjournment noises. Brooks Peters held them back for another moment.
“I wasn’t going to bring this up until I knew more about it, but maybe it’s something we should all keep our ears open about.” He had the group’s attention. “Jim Parker—you know him, he’s the janitor at the church—Jim has hinted to me that there’s something wrong down at the police station.”
“He’s Marshall Parker’s daddy, isn’t he?” Billy asked. Peters nodded. “How do you mean ‘wrong’?”
“Well, Jim won’t say much—he may not trust me completely yet, and he’s pretty tight-lipped anyway—but I gather it’s something to do with race, with some colored prisoners being mistreated.”
“Mistreated by who?” Bob Blankenship was showing particular interest now. Possible news story.
“As I say, I don’t know much, but it seems to be going on on weekends or at night, so Melvin Thomas wouldn’t be around then. That just leaves Sonny Butts and Charley Ward.”
There was silence for a bit. Finally, Ellis Woodall asked, “So what do we do?”
“I don’t guess there’s much we can do, now, with the information so vague, but I think we all ought to keep our ears open, especially with the colored people we know. We don’t want anything bad going on down there.”
The other meeting, taking place simultaneously, was held in a tar-paper shack just off the Scenic Highway atop Pine Mountain. It was lit by a naphtha lamp and lubricated by two cases of Blatz beer. There were eight men at the meeting, among them Emmett Spence, dairy farmer, son of Hoss; Tommy Allen, shoe-repair-shop owner; Mickey Shelton, garage owner; and Sonny Butts, police officer. It was Sonny’s first meeting as a full member after his solemn initiation into the Ku Klux Klan.
Although the meeting lasted as long as its counterpart in the town below, most of its time was taken up with an opening prayer and a lot of talk about fishing, guns, and dogs. The business agenda was short and was concisely phrased by Emmett Spence. “It’s about time we started doing something about our nigger soldier boys,” he said, and belched.
There was a chorus of assent.
“Any ideas?”
Mickey Shelton had an idea. “Marshall Parker,” he said, flatly. “He’s their number-one boy. We bring him down and we bring ‘em all down.”
“Whatsa matter, Mickey?” a voice chuckled back at him. “Ol’ Marshall takin’ too much of your business?” There was other laughter.
“You goddamned right, he is,” Shelton shot back. “He ain’t got no overhead out there in that shack, and he’s fobbin’ off used parts on his customers, too. He’s hit me for about all of my nigger business and some white, too. Hugh Holmes loaned him the money to get started up, and he’s taking his car out there. So is Billy Lee and some others I could mention.”
There was a jumble of remarks. Sonny Butts silenced them. “Mickey’s right. Marshall’s the ringleader in Braytown. He’s getting them all stirred up about registering to vote. If we can put him out of business the rest of ‘em’ll fold.”
Emmett Spence proposed a solution: “Let’s burn the black bastard out.” There was a general murmer of agreement. Tommy Allen stopped it, abruptly.
“No! We can’t go burning anybody out. Burning, horsewhipping, all that’s out. We’ll just end up in a lot of trouble ourselves, and we’ll get the whole town stirred up against us.”
Sonny spoke up. “Tommy’s right. We’ve got to do this legal.”
“How do you mean, legal?” asked Emmett.
“I can’t tell you right off of the top of my head, but let me think about it a little bit, and I guarantee you I’ll find a way to get Marshall in jail.” Sonny paused for emphasis and looked around at the lamp-lit faces. “And once I get him in jail he won’t be a problem to nobody no more.” He winked at them. “I guarantee you.”
A few minutes later, a couple of miles down the highway, a railroad crosstie fastened to a utility pole was erected in a clearing beside the road overlooking the town. The whole had been wrapped in burlap bags and soaked in kerosene. Somebody tossed a burning newspaper at it.
Down in the town, Billy Lee and his group were leaving Tom Mudter’s house. Brooks Peters, about to get into his car, glanced up at the mountain. “Oh, my Lord,” he said. The others turned and looked up at the flaming cross, floating in the night above Delano.
Billy Lee was the first to break their silence. “That,” he said, “is all we need.”
Chapter 8.
“SO, why is this man—what’s his name?—why is he such a character?”
“Funderburke.”
Patricia Lee and Eloise, Billy’s younger sister, were driving through Delano in Patricia’s “new” ‘41 Ford station wagon, which Hugh Holmes had found for her. Eloise had married a young man before the war, and he had been killed in the Pacific early on. She now worked in her stepfather’s store, Fowler’s.
“And he’s called Foxy?”
“His real name’s Francis, but I’ve never heard anybody call him that. He looks kind of like a fox, I guess. Kind of pointy faced.”
“How old a person is he?”
“I don’t know, really. Old. It’s hard to tell, exactly. Between fifty and seventy, I guess. I remember him mostly as a child. All the children were afraid of him.”
“Why?”
Eloise laughed. “Oh, no good reason. It’s not as if he ever did anything to anybody. You know how children are. He just became kind of an ogre to us.”
“I know. I remember people like that from my own childhood. There was a man, a neighbor, who terrified me. When I came back later, when I was all grown up, I sat next to him at a dinner party, and he was charming. How did you know Funderburke had a litter of Labs?”
“He’s raised them for years. He gave Billy and me a puppy when we were little, before Daddy died. We could never figure out why. Did I tell you he was there when Daddy died?”
“No. At the actual deathbed?”
“Yes. In fact, it was Foxy who brought Daddy to the doctor’s office, along with a fellow who was the city manager at the time. He just happened along right after Daddy was shot. I remember Mama mentioning how scared Foxy was. She was surprised, because he always had made such a point of his service in the First War, but he was nearly hysterical, just barely in control.”
“Well, I suppose the circumstances were pretty awful.” Patricia turned into Broad Street and started up the mountain.
“Yes, I don’t think Mama has gotten over it to this day, even after marrying Mr. Fowler. She has a different sort of marriage, I guess, more like just good friends. I don’t think anybody could ever take Daddy’s place.”
“From what I’ve seen of Mr. Fowler, I’d say your mother has done very well.”
“Oh, she certainly has. He is a fine, fine man, and everybody has enormous respect for him in the community and the church. He’s been a deacon practically since he moved here in … twenty-eight, I guess it was.” Eloise pulled her knees onto the seat, turning toward Patricia. “You’ve been in Delano for six months, now. What do you think of it?”
Patricia looked thoughtful. “It’s funny, I’m more surprised by the similarities than the differences. Oh, the landscape’s different, and the heat certainly is, and the houses are different, but apart from accents a lot of the people here seem very familiar. Mr. Fowler reminds me of my father in a way, and your mother is very much like an aunt of mine. I think farmers must be much the same everywhere. Even the race thing doesn’t seem all that foreign. The white attitude toward blacks here is much the same as the British attitude toward the Irish, especially before the revolution.” They crested the pass and started down the other side of the mountain, toward the turnoff to Foxy’s place. “One thing I can tell you, Eloise, if that comparison holds true there’s a lot more resentment among your Negroes here than shows. You mustn’t believe that because they kowtow to you, they like it. They’re people, just like the Irish are people, and if you don’t pay more attention to being fair to them you could be in for an awful time. Ask the British. I try to get Billy to understand that.”
Eloise pointed. “It’s just up here on the right.” A sign appeared, “F. Funderburke, Breeder, Labrador Retrievers, By appointment only/’ and a phone number. “I called ahead. Word is he doesn’t like unexpected visotrs.” Patricia turned into the road and drove up the side of the mountain.
Sonny was covering the police station at noon, which, with Chief Thomas’s proclivity for a long dinner hour still ran from eleven to two. Charley had been covering lately, but Sonny had sent him to eat. Sonny had wanted a nap, but now he found himself restless and bored. He was wondering how to pass the time, when he remembered what was in his bottom desk drawer. In a moment he had the files on the murdered boy spread out on the desk.
He skimmed the two reports, the medical examiner’s and Will Henry’s, then turned to the other files. They were routine, day-to-day stuff for the most part, but then he came across a letter, poorly typed on the stationery of Underwood’s Funeral Home of Waycross, Georgia. It was addressed to Chief Lee, of the Delano Police Department and was brief:
.
Dear Sir:
In answer to your request via long distance telephone today about Frank Collins, deceased, the following are the details as best I remember them, which is good, since I only embalmed him last night. Frank appeared to be killed by a shot in the back from a heavy firearm, which shot went all the way through him. As to other injuries, his feet had some cuts and scratches like he had been going barefoot over rocks or rough ground. His wrists had marks like dents going all the way around and some skin had been scraped off. I would say he might have been tied up right before he died. I didn’t notice any more injuries on the body. Yours very sincerely, C. V. Underwood, Proprietor
.
Sonny quickly noted that the naked boy’s wrists showed such marks, too. But who the hell was Frank Collins? There was no report here on a Frank Collins. He shuffled quickly through the papers. There was no report, but he found some loose pages of notes.
.
7/10/24
Rep. from S. Willis. Man on fence. Goolsby says one shot .45. Sent body Waycross. Checked area nr Columbus hiway, found fence, hobo j., .45 casing, no markings. Spoke F. F. Has .45, shells marked. Spoke Waycross, promised description. Sent Goolsby casing. He and F. F. mad. Happened Talbot. No more go on! How many more?
.
The last words were heavily penciled and underlined, as if the writer had been angry. The notes fit the letter from the Waycross undertaker. It wasn’t too tough to figure out that there had been a second murder, this one … four years, nearly four and a half after the first one, but this one was in Talbot County. Sonny knew a hobo jungle near the Columbus highway. He had knocked a couple of heads together and cleaned it out a couple of times. It was off his turf, but close enough to be a problem. The chief didn’t like hoboes around.
Goolsby was sheriff in Talbot County years ago. F. F.? Foxy Funderburke’s house was near that jungle. Chief Lee must have been to see him, and he had a .45, but what was that about the shells? The casing he found had no markings. That was the sort of casing somebody might use who was loading his own ammunition. Somebody who shot a lot and didn’t want to pay retail for shells. But Foxy’s shells had had markings.
Sonny quickly scanned the reports of the first murder. There was no mention of Foxy Funderburke specifically, but it did say that Chief Lee had questioned the residents of houses near where the body was found. Foxy’s house wasn’t all that far away. Lee must have talked to him. In his notes on the second murder Lee had said that F. F. was mad. Why? Did he object to being questioned when two murders happened less than half a mile from his house? He was the cop freak, wasn’t he? Always wanted to help the police? Why was he mad?
Sonny opened his top right-hand desk drawer and took out an oily rag wrapped around an object. He removed a German Walther P-38 pistol. He slipped the clip out, emptied it, replaced it, and worked the action to eject the round in the firing chamber, then rewrapped the pistol in the rag. He heard Charlie Ward shuffle in the front door, coming back from lunch. He got up and walked past Charlie in the hallway and out to the motorcycle, slipping the P-38 into a saddlebag.