“Tell me about Mobile. Why’d you do it? Who paid you?” Ryder hovered the pillow over James’s face.
“I don’t know. That’s the truth, man. I got a phone call a few days before my…act. Said if I could come outta retirement and do a bit I’d come out five grand ahead plus expenses. I held out for eight. Plus expenses.”
“What was the bit?”
“Man on the phone said I had to make you guys—the cops—look bad, like po-lice brutality. Didn’t care how I did it long’s there was a crowd and TV cameras. Piece of cake, man, that little stoop and that fat ol’ mama to drop on.”
“Fake blood, too.”
“Blood bags under my tongue. One bite and I’m gushing. Looks ugly as hell. But I didn’t have nothing to do with no little girls.”
“Who hired you?”
“I was only close to him twice, for the down payment and the final payoff. And I didn’t see him; it was night.”
Ryder tossed the pillow to the floor and stood
slowly, tacitly signaling belief in the story. If James continued to be truthful, Ryder would allow him the dignity of speaking without coercion.
“Tell me about meeting the bag man.”
James narrowed a suspicious eye. “What gonna happen to me?”
“Depends on how I like what I hear.”
“Man paid me from a car. Like I said, it was dark and I didn’t barely see him. He pull up, flip me an envelope, I counted and got gone. Same the night after the action.”
“You just fall off the turnip truck, James? You got some kind of read on the guy, didn’t you? He white or black, young or old, ignorant or educated?”
James sighed, looked at the ceiling. “White guy. Kind of a round face. Over forty, but prob’ly not fifty. Not no high-falutin’ professor kind of talk, but not ignorant. Asked if there was anything special I needed. Told me I might have to sit in Mobile a few days, wait out the right time.”
“But you got lucky.”
“Got me a call saying there was this preacher going over to stir things up at some apartment—and the timing might be right, y’know?”
“Tell me more about the pay. Man give you a number to call him at?”
“No number. But he knew about me. Said my age was pretty good, but it be better if I looked older. So I talcumed my hair to give it more age.
Bent over some and walked creaky, talked older, put a little Tom in it. I can do that stuff.”
“You fooled me. What else?”
“I told the guy I couldn’t do anything that brought in a lawsuit cuz I was on the hot list at all the big insurance carriers. He said it wasn’t anything like that. I had to come to town, wait for the moment, stick it to the cops, and haul ass. I wasn’t supposed to hang around and let the po-lice start in with questions.”
“What kind of car the guy drive?”
“Kinda big, long. Square, not that air-ee-odynamic kind of thing. Dark, like black but maybe dark blue or purple or something. Nothing fancy like a Benz.”
“What else?”
The man looked down and to the right, body language for lying.
“Nothing.”
Ryder bent and picked up the pillow. James held up his hands and began backstepping. “You a cop. I can’t tell no cop ‘bout what I think.”
“Here’s how it is, Jimmy-Jim. I represent no police agency at the moment. Right now I want you to think of me as a concerned citizen.” Ryder squeezed the pillow for emphasis.
“OK, Mister Concerned Citizen. It felt like the guy had some kind of in with the system, like the cops or something. Least that’s what I figured.”
“Why?”
“Way he talk. Like he knew how many cops
might show up at the scene, the way they be acting when they hit the ground. Said I could take some of my cues from the Rev, y’know; said the preacherman love to hear hisself talk and I could maybe use his noise to play off.”
“You get the feeling this preacher was clued to the action?”
James shrugged. “Can’t say yes, can’t say no.”
Ryder turned toward the door. He paused and pulled out a business card, flipped it to James. “You come up with anything else, or hear from this guy, call this number. It’ll be worth your while.”
James studied the card, confusion in his eyes. “The Gumbo King? I’m supposed to call a muthafuckin’ restaurant? Hey, come back here, man. What is this craziness?”
Jacy Charlane sat cross-legged on the cot with a book on her lap. There were books beside her on the bed, books on the floor. The Minute Hour had brought the books. He hadn’t said a word, just set the books down near the steps that came from the World, then scampered up the ladder again.
Some of the books were baby books, picture books. But some were cool, with stories she could read. She didn’t know why the Minute Hour had brought the books, but was happy he had. When she read the books it was like she wasn’t there.
Sandhill floated blissfully in a cloudbank. It felt like a waterbed filled with warm custard; he wanted to lay in the clouds for ever.
“Mr Sandhill?”
Though he was in the clouds, the voice seemed to come from above. Sandhill reluctantly felt himself lift through the white layers. He fought to open his eyes. An angel was calling him, that’s
what it was. He sighted the angel between his feet, about a quarter-mile away, framed against a square of white as if guarding the portal to heaven.
The angel was psychically beaming him a recording of a conversation they’d had several years ago. “
It’s Tylenol with codeine, Mr Sandhill. It’ll make your side feel better. What’s with the hat?”
“It not a hat, Nurse Ratched, it a crown. I am the Kumbo Ging.”
A load roar and the angel zoomed up to within feet. The roar trailed off to little more than a tingling in his temples.
“Mr Sandhill. Hello?”
It wasn’t an angel; it was a woman. She was leaning against the credenza and backlit by the window. Each time she spoke she was louder.
“Mr Sandhill, I don’t have much time.”
He opened his eyes fully. “I hear you quite well, Mayor. You don’t have to shout.” The words came out slow and thick. Norma Philips moved closer and looked into his eyes dubiously.
“Are you tracking in there?”
He pointed at the table a few feet from his bed.
“Water.”
Sandhill fumbled for the bed control and raised himself to sitting position. Philips handed him the pitcher. He drank all the water, then rubbed ice over his face. The wall clock showed that he’d drifted off for three hours. Ryder would be back soon.
Philips gave Sandhill an arched eyebrow as water and ice splashed down the front of his gown. “Are you alright, Mr Sandhill? You sure you’re coherent?”
“This is Oslo, 1956, right?”
“Don’t screw around. I want to get gone before visitors arrive, but I want you fully rational before we talk.”
Sandhill gave his face a second ice treatment, then dried it with the blanket. “OK, I’m rational. What’s the hurry?”
Philips set a brown leather briefcase on the credenza and popped it open, removing a thick, rust-colored tome with splitting binding. On the binding, printed in gold leaf, were the words,
Alabama Legal Statutes and Enactments.
“You were a law student for three years, Mr Sandhill. A good one, I suspect. Perhaps you’ll be able to interpret this. Check section 32-A.”
She handed him the opened book, her finger tapping the relevant paragraphs. Sandhill studied the heading. “Revised rights and privileges of the Mayor of Mobile, Alabama, enacted…February 4, 1923…
1923
?”
“Read it.”
It took less than a minute to read, his eyes widening with every sentence.
“Holy shit, Mayor. This was because of Prohibition, right?”
“I’d think so, given the date and newspaper accounts of the time. It seems there were some corrupt cops around, either bootlegging themselves
or looking the other way. Good cops were booted from the force, probably because some of the brass were violating the Volstead Act. The mayor needed to reinstate cops he trusted, without permission of the police hierarchy.”
Sandhill narrowed an eye at Philips. “This ordinance was never rescinded? It’s still in effect?”
“A lot of old articles and ordinances are still on the books. You can’t build a privy within eighty paces of a well. You can’t tether a horse in front of a funeral parlor. They may be archaic, but they carry the full force of law.”
“So you can reinstate me to the department?”
“All you need is an affidavit signed by the mayor,” she said, pulling a single sheet of paper from her briefcase. “Just like this.”
He studied the document: the date, two brief paragraphs and the mayor’s signature. Philips said, “It’ll keep you from getting busted for interfering with police business since, of course, you’ll be a cop again, same rank.”
Sandhill pictured himself holding up the sheet and yelling, “Stop thief.”
“I’ll need my shield.”
“That I can’t help you with.” She paused, raised a questioning eyebrow. “Perhaps you might ask Acting Chief Squill.”
“He’s the last person I want to know about this.”
“I suspect that’s the right answer, Mr Sandhill.”
Sandhill treated Philips to his best scowl. “Why are you doing this?”
“That’s my business at present.”
“Who else besides you knows about this?”
“No one.”
“Can we keep it that way?”
Philips nodded. “I hoped we would.”
Sandhill crossed his arms and looked Philips in the eye. “What exactly do you want me to do?”
“Investigate, Detective. Stick your nose into things. Find those girls.”
She turned to leave. Sandhill cleared his throat. “I, ah, already have a couple of irons in the fire, your honor.”
“Somehow, I expected that, Mr Sandhill,” Philips said over her shoulder, the door closing in her wake.
“You did great with James, Ryder,” Sandhill said, standing unsteadily in front of the mirror and buttoning his blue denim shirt for the second time. “Something strange is cooking, crazy gumbo, a porridge of the weird. I’m wondering if Gentleman Jimmy might be right about an MPD connection. But why would cops want to spark a riot? Politics? How’s Philips rank with the boys in blue?”
Ryder thought for a moment, watching Sandhill wince as he bent to tie his shoes.
“Most cops didn’t like her appointment, gut reaction to her community empowerment days. They figured she was another cop-hating lefty.”
“Now?”
“She kicked that impression in the ass by immediately pushing for better equipment and training. Plus any cop can attend classes at University of South Alabama for a third of the cost, a federal grant she tracked down. She’s also pushing to put more cops on the street. Most won’t admit it, but the majority of the rank-and-file will vote for Philips come November.”
“Aside from Terrence and his boys, what does the general brass think?”
“Pretty much the same, I imagine. Even if someone had it in for her, I can’t see them taking a chance with a scammer like James. Too risky.”
Sandhill snorted. “And they’re not that creative.”
“You think Squill could do it? He’d benefit most from a change of administration.”
Sandhill stood and began filling a duffle with the hospital water pitcher, drinking cup, a packet of plastic dinnerware. He lifted the bedpan, studied it from all sides, then jammed it in the duffle.
“Terrence is so hot to be big chief I’m surprised he hasn’t spontaneously combusted. But I always figured him as too lily-livered to risk his career by doing something starkly illegal. He’ll slit your throat from behind, but he’ll have all the right paperwork.”
“You think?”
“I’ve been wrong before, Ryder. It’s scarcer than snowmen in Morocco, but it’s happened.”
“So where from here?”
“Earlier I managed to walk down the hall and back without winding up on my belly. It’s progress. I’m going to rest at home a couple hours then head back out.”
Ryder knew arguing was futile. “I’ll tag along. I got nothing else to do.”
Sandhill lowered himself to the bed on rubbery knees. “Grab my crown over there, would you? Then let’s blow this antiseptic hellhole and see about getting my shield back.”
“It’ll never happen.”
“I can’t do anything without my badge, Ryder. I might get my ass shot off if I can’t wave it.”
Ryder said, “Might be friendly fire, too.”
Sandhill scowled at a dusty memory. “Squill adored the moment I handed over my shield.”
“What’d he do with it?”
“Threw it in the top drawer of his desk and slammed it shut. He’s changed desks a half-dozen times since then but I’d bet my badge is still in there, his biggest trophy. Terrence probably pulls it out every so often just to spit on it.”
Ryder frowned at a thought in his head, like it was an unwelcome visitor. He dropped Sandhill at his apartment and drove away, the frown still clouding his face.
An hour passed. Sandhill answered the knock at his door in a purple bathrobe with a golden crown embroidered on the back. He liked it even though Marie said it made him look like a royal eggplant.
Ryder, his face wan, stood at Sandhill’s threshold.
Sandhill said, “You look a little stressed, Ryder. Where’d you go?”
Ryder entered, jamming the badge wallet into Sandhill’s hands as he passed. Sandhill’s mouth dropped open and he studied the gold shield like it was the last piece of the true cross.
“Good old 1818. Ryder, you’re amazing. Was it really in Squill’s desk?”
Ryder walked to Sandhill’s kitchen area, removed a bottle of Glenfiddich from a cabinet, and poured two fingers in a tumbler. His hands shook. So did his voice.
“Top drawer. In the back.”
Sandhill said, “Was it tough to get?”
Ryder emptied the glass, poured another, banged down the liquor and brought the bottle to the couch. He sat heavily and put his palms over his eyes.
“Ryder?” Sandhill asked. “You OK?”
“I was rooting through Squill’s drawer, pocketing the badge, when I heard his footsteps outside the door. I think I jumped over his desk.”
Sandhill’s eyes went wide. “He came in with you in his office?”
“I pretended I’d come to beg my way off suspension. He threw my ass out and said if he saw me anytime in the next month I’d spend my remaining career directing traffic.”
“You’re a warrior prince, Ryder. They’ll build you a longhouse in Valhalla.”
Ryder rubbed his gut. “Can you get ulcers in an afternoon, Sandhill?”
“There’s antacid in the bathroom cabinet. You really jumped the desk?”
“Without touching it, I think.” He paused. “I did get something interesting from Zemain; spoke with him outside HQ. Remember when the cruisers came around the corner by Nike’s place and everything unraveled? Guess who told them to come running.”
“Who?”
“No one knows. Someone got on the frequency screaming, ‘Go, go, go…officers in trouble.’ No one recognized the voice.”
“Two-inch radio speakers aren’t real accurate
for vocal quality. You get higher fidelity at a drive-through.”
“No one’s owned up to making the call. It’s assumed someone saw the crowd tighten and thought we were in the soup.”
“So either it was a panic call, or…”
“Or someone pouring gasoline on the flames.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Sandhill said, polishing his badge on his robe.
“There’s something else, too. The phone company ID’d the cellphone used to call you. It belongs to Barney Sackwell.”
Sandhill squinted at a recollection. “Name’s familiar.”
“He works in the City building, a traffic engineer. Not sure when he lost the phone. He was doing a traffic count on Airport Road when he noticed it was missing.”
Sandhill nodded as the recollection pushed into the light.
“Sackwell the traffic geek. He was pushing to kill half the on-street parking on my block. I got the merchants together and we raised a stink. I don’t think he likes me.”
“It’s no reason to shoot you, Conner. He’d used the phone on his way into work the day before yesterday, but later noticed it was gone.”
“Not a smash and grab?”
“Sackwell said he found his passenger-side door unlocked. Also says he might have forgotten to lock it, but it’d be the first time; says
he’s real careful, even parking in the municipal garage.”
“So if Sackwell did lock his door…”
“Someone used a key. Or maybe a slim-jim,” Ryder said, referring to a metal strip used to disengage locking mechanisms.
“I’d vote for the slim-jim, easier to get. Who, outside of crooks, locksmiths and bartenders knows how to use one?”
“Repo men. Wrecker drivers. Parking attendants.” Ryder paused. “And, of course…”
Sandhill nodded. “I know cops who can pop a door as fast as unzipping their pants.”
Ryder held his hands out and studied them; the shaking had mostly subsided. “Where do we go next?”
Sandhill pulled his cellphone from his robe, index finger poised over the keypad.
“I think Gentleman Jimmy-Jim should pay me a visit. Got his number?”