Sonny was in a kind of frenzy. He was taking some punches, but the blackjack hurt where it hit. His opponent was bleeding heavily from the nose. Sonny stayed back, jabbing with his left hand, keeping the man away from him, using the blackjack with his right. He loved the feel of it when the leather billy struck home. He used it on the man’s upper arms and on his ribs, he didn’t want him going out too soon; this was too good. Danny fell to one knee, and Sonny lashed out with his foot, catching him under the chin, unaware of the crowd quickly forming around him.
Danny sprawled backwards, and Sonny followed, kicking the semiconscious man wherever he could, in the ribs, in the face. Something wonderful was welling up inside Sonny, something more powerful than anything he had felt since the war. He was on the verge of release, when suddenly he was yanked backward by the collar and sprawled, full-length, in the sawdust. He was back on his feet instantly, the excitement pouring from him; then he stopped. Colonel Billy Lee was standing between him and his victim.
“That’s enough, Sonny,” the colonel was saying quietly, but urgently. “Give me the blackjack.”
Sonny looked around him and saw the crowd for the first time, looking at him in horror. He tried to speak, but failed. Finally he was able to say, “Resisting arrest.”
The colonel took the blackjack from him and flung it away. “Butts!” Another voice from behind him. He turned and faced Hugh Holmes. “Now, listen to me. I want you to go home right now.” Sonny started to speak again, but Holmes waved him quiet. “No, I don’t want to hear it. You just go home and stay there. I’ll talk with you tomorrow.”
Sonny looked around at the crowd again. Women were hustling their children away from the scene. No one was saying a word. They were just staring at him. He realized that his fly was open, and he quickly buttoned it. He flushed. The front of his trousers was soaking wet. He turned and started up the midway, and the crowd gave way before him. He was confused. It must be the booze. He had to go home and think.
While Tom Mudter bent over Sonny’s bloody victim, Billy watched the policeman half walk, half run, up the midway, but his mind was not at the fair. He was in a London pub on V-E Day, listening to a young infantry captain tell him a war story, the worst war story he had ever heard.
Chapter 23.
HOLMES put down the phone. Billy realized that it was the first time he had ever seen the banker truly angry.
“That’s the last one,” Holmes said. “The full city council will meet at noon tomorrow.”
“Do you think there’s any chance at all they’ll back him?” Billy asked.
“They’ll back him over my dead body,” said Holmes, and Billy felt that they might finally be about to see the last of Sonny Butts. Holmes got up and poured Billy and Patricia a drink. They had arrived at his house only as he was finishing with his calls.
Holmes sat down again. “I’ve got the carnival manager to agree to press charges for assault and battery, if necessary, though he was afraid to do it at first, and he told me Sonny extorted some money out of him to let him keep the hootchy-kootchy show open, too. If the council shows any resistance at all to getting rid of Sonny I’ll plunk down that complaint on the table, and we’ll see what happens then. In anticipation of Butts’s going I’ve already asked the governor for some state-patrol help while we look for a replacement.”
Patricia spoke up. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, now, what the grand jury does.”
“Oh, yes, it does matter,” said Billy. “Butts has to go to jail, or maybe to a mental hospital.”
Holmes looked surprised. “You think he’s crazy?”
“Didn’t he look crazy to you tonight? The man’s a menace to civilized society. He’s got to be put away.”
Holmes took an unusually large pull at his bourbon. “Billy, I owe you an apology.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s my fault that this thing has gone so far. I had a lot of reservations about Butts from the beginning, and I should have spoken up.”
“You had no way of knowing what would happen.”
“No, but when the rumors about the beatings down at the jail started, I should have known they were true, I should have stepped in. Marshall Parker would still be alive today if I had done something about that early on.”
Billy shook his head. “No, sir, you can’t blame yourself.” Billy could not absolve himself, though. If he had been quicker to understand, if he had taken responsibility sooner… . Well, he would have to live with that; he would have to find a way to make up for it.
Sonny was late getting to the station. He was hung over as hell, and Charley would just have to work a couple of extra hours. He wondered why Charley hadn’t been on the phone, complaining.
But Charley wasn’t at the station. When Sonny walked in he found a uniformed state-patrol sergeant sitting at Charley’s desk.
“Chief Butts?” The patrolman stuck out his hand. “Morning, I’m Dave Barker, from the La Grange post. My commander sent me down here to give you a hand, seeing as how you’re short an officer. I relieved your other man, Ward. Hope that was okay.”
“Yeah, sure, uh, Dave.” He motioned toward his office. “I’ll be in here if anybody needs me.” He started toward the door.
“Oh, Chief.”
“Yeah?”
“There was a message from a Mr. Holmes about half an hour ago. He says you’re to be at City Hall at twelve-thirty today for a city council meeting, without fail. He says just to wait in the city manager’s office until they’re ready for you.” The patrolman seemed to avoid his eyes and turned quickly back to his newspaper.
Sonny stood frozen in the doorway. “Yeah, okay,” he was finally able to say. He went into his office and closed the door.
In Greenville, Bert Hill called the case against Sonny Butts and Charley Ward before the grand jury. His first witness was Annie Parker.
“Annie Parker, you are the widow of Marshall Parker?”
“Yessir.”
“What did your husband do for a living?”
“He had a garage. He was an automobile mechanic.”
“His own business, was it?”
“Yessir.”
“Where did he get the money to start this business?”
“He saved most of it up in the army, and he borrowed some of it from Mr. Holmes at the bank.”
“Marshall served in the army, did he?”
“Yessir. He got some medals, too. The biggest one was a Silver Star, in Italy.”
Hill let that sink in with the grand jury for a moment, before continuing his questioning.
Sonny sat at his desk for nearly an hour, staring straight ahead of him. He had to think of something, had to think of a way out of this, but his mind wouldn’t work. He dug a bottle out of a desk drawer and took a long pull. After a moment, he took another one.
“Mr. Fowler, what is your business?”
“I have a dry-goods store in Delano, on Main Street.”
“Were you acquainted with Marshall Parker?”
“Yessir, he was a customer at my store, a good customer, paid his bill on time every month. Better than a lot of white people.”
There was a small stir among the grand jurors. Bert Hill was sorry Fowler had said that. He hurried on to his next question. “Did Marshall Parker come into your store on Saturday night a week ago?”
“Yessir, he did. He and his wife, there.”
“Did you smell any liquor on Marshall Parker?”
“No, sir, I did not. He was as sober as I was.”
“How would you describe his frame of mind.”
“He was in a real good mood. He said he’d had his best week since he opened his business, and he wanted to buy his wife a new dress.”
In the back of the room Annie Parker began to cry. It was the first time she had let anyone see her cry since Marshall’s death.
Sonny paced the office like a caged animal, thinking, thinking. He needed a good arrest, something to make him look good to the city council, but what? Traffic tickets wouldn’t do it this time. He thought about the porter at the hotel, the bootlegging business. Not good enough. Besides, half the council probably bought liquor from him. Sonny needed something bigger, more important. The phone rang in the station room. The patrolman stuck his head in the door.
“Phone for you, Chief.”
Sonny snatched up the instrument. “Chief Butts.”
“Hey, Sonny, it’s Tank Talbot, up in Atlanta.”
It took Sonny a moment to concentrate. Oh, yeah, Tank was in state-police headquarters.
“Yeah, Tank, how you doing?”
“Not bad. Listen, you know those missing persons cases you called me about a little while back?”
Sonny sat up straight. “Yeah, sure, what about them? You got something new on ‘em?”
“Naw, not on them ones, but I got a fresh one for you, might be down your way.”
“Yeah?”
“There’ll probably be a bulletin in your morning mail, but I thought you might miss it.”
“Yeah, Tank, thanks a lot.” Sonny quickly found the bulletin in the mail on his desk. Tank read aloud from it.
“Name, Harvey Charles Mix; age, seventeen; five eight; hundred and thirty-five; blonde hair; green eyes; no scars or markings. Sounds like them others, don’t it?”
“Sure does, Tank. Got anything else?”
“He’s from Chattanooga; his folks think he might be headed for Florida.”
“That might bring him through here, all right.”
“Damn right, listen to this. This is new. He called home Friday night, and his daddy got the operator to check on it. He called from Newnan.”
“That’s forty miles north of here.”
“Right, and if he was hitchhiking to Florida he’d have to take Highway 41 south, there’s no other road, and that brings him right to you.”
“That sounds good, Tank. Anything else” “That’s it.”
“Okay, I’ll check it out and let you know if I find out anything.” Sonny hung up. His hands were trembling. His mind flashed through the file in his bottom drawer, the missing boys, the circle of marks around Delano, Foxy’s nervousness when he visited unannounced. Then Saturday morning came back to him. Somebody getting into Foxy’s truck over the mountain. He tried to remember. Did he see a blond head? Yes. Yes!
He quickly slipped the bulletin into the file and started for the door. Optimism flooded through him now. This was all he needed. Before the day was finished, he’d be a hero again. They wouldn’t be able to lay a finger on him. He charged through the station room, startling Sergeant Barker.
“Be back in a while, Sarge,” he shouted over his shoulder. In the parking lot he paused at his car and turned instead to the motorcycle. It started on the first kick, and he roared up the hill toward Broad Street, revving flat out through the gears.
Barker got to the front door in time to see him take the corner at Broad Street and turn up the mountain.
“Dr. Mudter, have you attended dying men before?”
“I was a medical officer in the army, in the Pacific, the island invasions. I saw them by the hundreds.”
“Those that were able to speak before they died. What did they have to say.”
“They had messages for loved ones. If they felt guilty about something they wanted to confess.”
“Has it been your experience that men in those circumstances tell the truth?”
“Yes, it has. Why would a dying man lie?”
“Did you feel that Marshall Parker told you the truth?”
“I very definitely did. I told him how important it was for him to tell me the truth. He knew he was dying.”
Sonny flew up the mountainside, over the crest, and down the hill to the turnoff to Foxy’s house. He shifted down and drove more slowly. The motorcycle could be very quiet at low speeds.
Further up the dirt road, at the top of the hill, he cut the engine and coasted silently down toward Foxy’s house. It appeared around a bend, seeming quite normal, its flower beds and trees laid out in perfect symmetry. He bore down around the house, heading for the rear. Beyond the detached garage he could see something, someone.
As Dr. Tom Mudter finished his testimony, Skeeter Willis entered the grand-jury room and whispered something to the prosecutor. There was a brief exchange between them, and Bert Hill nodded. Skeeter went to the door and beckoned to someone. A tall, thin black man entered, and Skeeter pointed him toward the witness chair. He was sworn in, and Bert Hill addressed him.
“Walter Johnson, is that your name?”
“Yassuh. They calls me Pieback, though.” The man was sweating and trembling slightly.
“What is your occupation?”
“Well, I cuts some grass and does some odd jobs.”
“Where were you on Saturday night, a week ago?”
“I was in jail, suh.”
“In the Delano jail?”
“Yassuh.”
Sonny got off the motorcycle, walked as quietly as he could to the corner of the garage, and looked around. Foxy was standing with his back turned, some ten yards up the hillside, stripped to the waist, leaning against a shovel. There was a mound of fresh red Georgia earth beside him. He was sweating profusely.
Sonny felt like a balloon that had been filled with an intoxicating gas. He stepped out from behind the garage. “Hey, there, Foxy baby!”