“At the moment,” I pointed out, “we aren’t winning any.”
11
I felt pretty useless as I left Myrtle’s. “Is there anything I can do to help here?” I asked, but the Almighty was slow with inspiration, so I strolled toward the office. I was barely paying attention to items in shop windows until a ceramic cat in the Second Chance Thrift Store caught my eye. He was black and white, with a pink bow around his neck and a look on his face that said, “You needn’t look for the cream. I already found it.” Bethany collects ceramic cats, and I knew she’d love that one.
I went into the store and greeted Wilma Roberts, who is almost as tall as she is wide and has kept that store going for twenty years in spite of garage sales and competition from a shop run by the Church of Full and Complete Righteousness across town. She wanted three dollars for the cat, which was probably more than it had cost new. She accepted two, which was all I had left in my wallet. While I paid, I asked, “How’s business?”
“ ’Bout like usual.” She shoved bushy brown hair off her forehead. “Some folks give me stuff I can sell and some use me to get rid of junk. Just before you came in, I was unpacking the clothes barrel I keep out back, and somebody put a jacket in there that’s so filthy I don’t know if I can ever get it clean enough to put on my rack. Looks like it’s been worn to paint in.”
I’ve lived long enough to know answers to prayers come in many forms, but it took all the self-control I possessed not to dance a jig or burst into the “Hallelujah Chorus.” “Could I see it? I’ve been needing a painting jacket.”
She broke out with the gasps and wheezes that meant she was laughing. “This one would swallow you whole. It’d be big even on Joe Riddley.”
“Could I just see it?” I restrained myself from pushing past her into the back room.
Wilma shrugged. “Sure, but you ain’t gonna want it.” She waddled through the door and came back almost at once, carrying a khaki jacket. She was right about how filthy it was. She was also right about the paint. It was blue.
“I know somebody who would just love that,” I told her honestly. “I’ll take it.”
“Oh, Judge, I can’t sell it to you until I get it cleaned up a little, and I honestly don’t know if I can get the paint out. Can you come back Monday?”
“I want it just like it is. I can get it cleaned.” I whipped the jacket out of her protesting hands. “I’ll give you a check. I don’t have any more cash.” I also wanted to leave a paper trail.
She grabbed it back and clutched it to her more-than-ample chest. “I ain’t priced it yet.”
“I’ll give you five dollars for it.”
Wilma studied that jacket like it had suddenly turned to gold. “I don’t know. That’s gonna be a mighty fine coat once it’s cleaned.”
“You said it’s junk. I’ll give you seven.” I whipped out my checkbook.
“You couldn’t make it ten, could you?”
“Nope, I’ve already written the check.” If Wilma didn’t come down on her prices, shopping at a superstore might be cheaper.
She folded the jacket like it was made of cashmere and put it in a plastic bag recycled from one of our two grocery stores in town. The logo read SHOP SMART.
“I did,” I assured the Boss Upstairs as I headed toward the police station.
Isaac appreciated the joke and assured me the jacket was enough to pick up Tyrone for questioning. I just wished we could find some evidence on which to pick up Smitty. Was there anybody who might know if he could draw?
My question was answered that afternoon when Ridd flopped down in my wing chair in a manner guaranteed to eventually shatter its legs. “Some days, it’s a good thing I don’t believe in firearms, or I’d shoot somebody’s head off,” he growled, sounding just like his daddy.
“Got a particular head in mind, or will anybody’s do?”
“It’s not a joking matter, Mama.”
“I know it’s not. Did you see DeWayne?”
“Yeah, but he’d already seen the school before I found him. He was shaking so bad he could hardly stand up, and he’s threatening to pack his bags and move. I told him he needs to stand and fight, but he says he’s already gone through people staring at him and whispering behind his back, and he isn’t up to doing it again.”
Ridd sounded so dejected, I offered him a sliver of hope. “Ike’s closing in on the perpetrators. We’re pretty sure it was Smitty’s gang.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “It sure wasn’t Smitty who drew the picture. I had him for geometry, and he can’t draw a straight line. Tyrone might have, now. The graphics-art teacher says he’s got a lot of talent. He did caricatures for last year’s yearbook, and they were incredible.”
I described the notebook, and immediately Ridd said, “That’s Tyrone’s. He carries it everywhere, in his jacket pocket.”
I can’t tell you how bad that made me feel. I liked Tyrone, but he’d gotten himself into some pretty hot water. “How long’s he been running around with Smitty?”
“Not long—since spring, I think. Tyrone’s not bad. He’s just easily led.”
I reached for the phone. “Drawing those pictures on the school was bad, son. He didn’t have to follow Smitty’s lead. Do you still have last year’s yearbook?” He nodded as Ike answered the phone.
Before I could say a word, Ike crowed, “We got the notebook, Judge! Found it in a Dumpster over by the school. The cover’s been wiped, but the inside pages have Tyrone’s prints all over them. Found somebody who sold Willie Keller the spray paint, too.”
“There’s got to be evidence somewhere pointing to Smitty. You and I both know Tyrone and Willie didn’t think up all that mess.”
“Smitty may have thought it up, but he wasn’t there—at least according to Willie. Willie swears Smitty was over at his house playing video games from six last night until four this morning, then crashed on his living-room sofa—which alibis Willie, too, of course.”
“Wet Willie would swear a black horse was white if somebody put him up to it.”
“Maybe, but we can’t disprove it this time. Willie’s mother corroborates that Smitty was asleep on her couch when she got home at eight after working the night shift at the nursing home. She’s an aide.” Ike sighed. “At least we got Tyrone. He’s at the youth detention center until his hearing tomorrow.”
“You and I both know Smitty had to put him up to it. Have you asked him about that?”
Isaac would never have snapped at me if he hadn’t been under pressure. “Of course I asked him, but he’s not talking, and you know as well as I do that we can’t bring Smitty in without evidence or a witness.”
“I have another question. How could our patrol cars miss seeing somebody painting that building? It must have taken well over an hour.” Isaac didn’t answer. “We do still have night patrols, don’t we?”
Ike was quiet so long, I thought he’d hung up. Finally he admitted, “Not right now. The chief feels they are an unnecessary expense. Says we don’t get much crime at night.”
“Then how come I get called out of bed to go down to the jail several nights a week? And what does he call last night’s episode—a party?” We both knew I was just letting off steam. Ike would never say anything derogatory about a senior officer.
“How’s Chief Muggins using all that money he’s saving?” I knew the answer as soon as I asked the question. Good thing, because Ike wouldn’t have answered that, either. He didn’t have to. It was as clear as my newly washed window that Chief Muggins was able to drive a fancy new cruiser because he was leaving our town unprotected at night.
Later that afternoon I held a probable cause hearing for a woman who had set a county record in passing bad checks. Afterwards, I ran into Judge Roland, a juvenile-court judge and an elder in our church. When we’d exchanged those little pleasantries that grease the wheels of civilized society, he asked, “You know Tyrone Noland, don’t you?”
“A little. He used to sweep up for us to earn spending money.”
Judge Roland shook his head in dismay. “I sure was sorry to get a call about him this afternoon. I had him in a Webelo Scout troop years ago, soon after his daddy left. When I heard his name, all I could think of was ‘Why haven’t I kept up with that boy all these years?’ ”
“Does it ever feel to you like we’re letting kids slip through our fingers around here without noticing? We all get so busy. Years pass—”
“—and a child doesn’t have many years before he’s an adult. What bothers me most is, I look back and wonder what I’ve been so busy doing that was more important. Tell me, Mac, given that most of the evidence is circumstantial but real good, would you have released him to his mother, or kept him until his detention hearing tomorrow?”
I thought it over. “Sending him home would really mean sending him right back to the boys who got him into all this trouble. I think I’d have put the fear of God into him, sent him to the youth-detention center, and then gone home to pray.”
He clapped me on the shoulder. “I did the first two, but hadn’t thought to do the third. Let’s both pray for Tyrone. He needs it.”
The problem is, once I’ve prayed for somebody, I begin to feel responsible for him. So when I had to go to the jail late that afternoon to set bond in a marijuana possession case, I found myself swinging by the YDC—better known as juvey—on my way back to the store. Tyrone was sitting by himself in one corner of a common room that had seen a lot of living.
His hair hung down beside his face like a black shade. He didn’t look up when I moseyed over and said, “Hello, Tyrone. They treating you all right?”
“I’m okay.” He picked at a scab on one finger.
I looked around. A bored guard was sitting near the door. Two kids were sprawled on a sagging couch watching TV. I figured it was turned that high to accommodate their damaged hearing. Another three were playing cards at a table so beat up it could be sold as distressed furniture. “You got everything you need?”
He shrugged. “I need to get out of here.”
I was tempted to say something quick and reassuring and head back to work, but the slump of his shoulders made me perch on a very lumpy chair. “I can’t ask you if you painted the school, but I saw your notebook. Why’d you throw it away?”
His face flushed. “I didn’t! I haven’t seen it since I left it at Myrtle’s.”
“Nonsense. I saw you all come back for it. Smitty drew our attention while you and Willie picked up the notebook.”
He hung his head. “We didn’t get it. Somebody else already took it.”
“That won’t wash,” I told him flatly. “I was there.”
“You didn’t see me get that notebook,” he persisted stubbornly.
We weren’t getting anywhere, so I changed direction. “You’re a real good artist. Do you know that?” All I got was another shrug. “Ridd says your art teacher thinks you could become a professional if you want to.”
A glint of something like pride flickered in his eyes, but it quickly died. “I’d have to go to college. I ain’t got the grades or the money.”
“You’re not dumb,” I reminded him. “You used to make all A’s. You showed me your report cards, remember?” He used to come stumbling in, hardly able to get inside before waving them at Joe Riddley and me.
He flushed again, probably embarrassed I’d brought that up. Boys hate to be reminded of their childhoods. “High school’s real hard.”
“How about if I make you a deal?” He slewed his eyes my way, but he didn’t say a word. “Since it’s a first offense without weapons or danger to yourself or others, they’ll probably just make you work around the school a few hours. Someday soon, I want you to come to my office and we’ll talk to Joe Riddley. Maybe we can give you a job after school this next year and help you bring up your grades—even help you figure out a way to go to art school. If that’s what you want,” I added hastily. I wouldn’t worry right then how we’d hire somebody else if the superstore took a chunk of our business.
“That’d be all right.” Knowing teenage boys, I translated that into ecstatic acceptance.
“The only stipulation will be that you stop hanging around Smitty. He’s poison and we both know it. If he was part of that mess over at the school, you tell the judge. You hear me?”
Tyrone pulled away as if I’d prodded him with an electric rod. “Smitty’s okay.” He didn’t look at me when he said it, though.
“He’s not okay, and it’s not okay for you guys to keep protecting him. He’s using you. Can’t you see that?”
He looked over his shoulder at the kids playing cards. “Smitty’s okay. He wasn’t there.” He spoke louder than he had before. I saw one of the cardsharps look our way, a boy with a hard face and smoldering eyes. His gaze flicked Tyrone like a whip, then returned to his cards.
I leaned closer. “One of his friends? You still need to talk, Tyrone. Somebody’s got to. If they don’t, this will go on for years and years. Believe me, I know. It takes courage, but—”
“You don’t know jack.” He gave the card table another quick, nervous look. One foot drummed the floor. I could tell he was wishing I’d pack up and leave.
I stood. “I know more than you think. Do you need anything?” He shook his head. “Maybe another notebook and a pen?” His nod was almost imperceptible, but I patted his shoulder. “You got it. I’ll bring them by on my way home tonight. Hang in there.”
I was halfway across the room before I heard one hoarse word behind me. “Thanks.”
That June was cooler than usual, so the gnats weren’t too bad. Hopemore lies south of the Georgia gnat line, so we spend a lot of summer evenings fanning away those vicious little no-see-ums. As Joe Riddley and I climbed into bed that night, the sweetness of new crops and fresh-mown grass floated in our open windows and our sheets smelled like sunshine and fresh air.
“Tell me something from a man’s point of view,” I asked before Joe Riddley could fall asleep. “What would make a big, strong boy like Tyrone scared of a weasel like Smitty?”
“Smitty either has something on him—something Tyrone is scared people will find out—or he’s threatened somebody Tyrone cares about. His mother, maybe. You think Tyrone’s scared?”