Chiefs (25 page)

“I’ve promised Trisha a farm, a working farm.”

“Good, good. We’ll find you some land hereabouts and work out a mortgage. Farmer-lawyer is a hard political combination to beat in this state.” Holmes got to his feet. “I think this calls for another drink.”

“I’m having a tough enough time keeping my feet on the ground now.”

Holmes began to pour for both of them. “Nonsense. Since you were a small boy, Billy, your feet have never been anywhere but on the ground. You’re going to do well, boy, really well.” He sank back into his chair and looked at Billy appraisingly. “There’s just a chance, with a lot of luck, that you could go all the way.” He sipped his bourbon and stared into the fire. A tiny smile played across his lips. “The first southerner since the War Between the States. Wouldn’t that be something.”

As they drove home to his mother’s house in his stepfather’s car, Patricia snuggled close to him. “All right, then. Let’s have a report,” she said.

“Well, it appears I’ve just been appointed to the Georgia State Senate.”

“Appointed? Don’t you have to get elected?”

He laughed and put his arm around her. “Oh, I have to run. You’re going to get to meet every storekeeper and dirt farmer in the Tri-Counties. But in this particular district one vote elects, and I’ve already got that vote.

“All right, start at the beginning.”

Chapter 3.

SONNY sat at a table on the edge of the dance floor at Fletcher’s, a road house five miles north of Delano, and watched the girl. A hillbilly band in cowboy suits was cranking out something mournful, the whine of the steel guitar leading the way, and the floor was crowded, but Sonny saw only the girl. Charlie Ward, Delano’s only other police officer besides the chief, sat at his elbow and peered at Sonny through the thick glasses that had kept him happily out of the war.

“Jesus, Sonny, it’s going to be great having you on the force, it really is. You and me together are going to snatch some folks sideways in this town, you wait and see.”

“Yeah, sure, Charlie.” Sonny signaled the waitress for another Pabst. He nodded at the girl as she drifted past in the arms of a beefy type in a sailor’s uniform. “Who is she?”

“The readhead? She’s from La Grange. Name’s Charlene something. Not bad, huh?”

She was better than not bad. She was tall and had her hair swept back on one side with a flower behind her ear. Her angora sweater was pulled down tightly over her breasts and secured at the waist by a belt. “I love that,” Sonny said. “I love slim girls with big tits.” He took a short swig of the fresh beer and started toward the floor. Charlie grabbed his sleeve.

“Hey, listen, that guy’s got a mean reputation around here.

You better wait ‘til she sits down.”

Sonny took hold of Charlie’s wrist and squeezed until the fingers opened. “Don’t crease the uniform, kid.”

“Sorry, Sonny, I just—”

But Sonny was wading into the crowd. He caught the girl’s eye over her partner’s shoulder and held it as he approached them. She gave a little frown and rolled her eyes sideways at the sailor. Sonny read the look. You’re cute, but watch it with this guy, it said. He stepped up to the couple and tapped the sailor firmly on the shoulder. The young man turned and looked at him, surprised. Sonny smiled. ” ‘Scuse me,” he said, in his friendliest manner. “May I cut in?”

The sailor’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. “Fuck off,” he said, and turned back to the girl.

Sonny grasped a fistful of navy uniform at the shoulder and turned the man slowly toward him. The smile left his eyes. “I don’t think you understood me, swabby. The army is cutting in.”

The sailor looked him up and down, took in the ribbons. He had a few of his own. “What the army is gonna do,” he said, “is get cut up, not in.”

Fletcher, the club’s owner was suddenly present, towering over both of them, shoving his big belly between them. He held a child’s baseball bat in one hand, its large end wrapped in black friction tape. “All right, boys, the back door is right over there.” He nodded toward a fire exit in a corner of the room. “This discussion takes place outside.” He slapped the bat into his left palm for emphasis. “Right now.”

Sonny smiled again. “Yes, sir, Fletcher.” He motioned the sailor toward the door. “After you, swabby.” The crowd parted to let them through, then fell in behind. The girl leaned toward Sonny as he passed her. Her eyes were bright with excitement.

“He’s got a knife in his sock,” she whispered quickly.

Sonny nodded his thanks. “Come on, honey, I need an audience.” As they moved toward the door Sonny slipped a ring from his left hand to his right. The stone moved back and forth easily, esposing the sharpened corners of the setting. He watched the sailor moving ahead of him. Lots of hard muscle there; the guy had thirty pounds on him, easy. No close stuff; stay back and cut him up; see how he likes the sight of his own blood.

The sailor shoved the door open and started down the short flight of steps to the parking lot, Sonny staying close behind. The sailor was starting to turn around. “Okay, soldier boy, how do you want—”

Sonny, pushing off the bottom step, had started to swing as the man turned. The blow caught him high on the cheekbone as he came half way around, and his own momentum helped spin him to the ground, hard. He started to his feet, swearing, but Sonny stepped quickly in and clipped him above the left eye, sending him down again. Now the sailor noticed that he was bleeding from both sides of his face, and as he rose his hand went to his ankle and began to come up with the knife, switching it open. Sonny took one long step forward and kicked him in the face, like a football player going for the extra point. The sailor’s feet left the ground as he flew backwards. The knife fell from his hand, and Fletcher stepped on it, but there was no need; the sailor lay where he fell.

“All right, folks,” Fletcher yelled to the crowd. “It’s all over. Everybody back inside, the band’s only playing for another half hour.” He turned to Sonny. “You better scat before he comes to, or you’ll have to kill him to stop him.”

Sonny walked over to the girl, slipping the ring back onto his left hand. “Give me the car keys,” he said to Charlie, who was standing beside her. She was breathing as hard as he was, he noticed.

“You’re gonna come back for me, ain’t you, Sonny?” Charlie asked.

Sonny took the girl’s hand and started for the parking lot. “Why don’t you get a ride with somebody, Charlie. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t worry about the car.” He handed the girl through the driver’s door and got the car started. “You’re Charlene, right?”

“Charlene Pearl.” She was still breathing hard. So was he.

“I’m Sonny Butts.” He spun the car out of the dirt parking lot onto the highway and drove a few hundred yards to a dirt road that led to Fletcher’s catfish pond. She slid over to him and put her hand on his thigh.

“You took real good care of Maxie, you know that? He never knew what hit him.” She was up close, breathing into his ear. Her hand moved up to his crotch. “Hey, hey,” she giggled.

“Take off your pants,” he said, concentrating on driving fast.

She laughed and wriggled out of them. “And your sweater, and the brassiere.”

“Is that all, hon?”

He whipped the car into a little clearing off the road and stopped. They got out, and the girl crawled into the back seat without a word. Sonny unbuckled his belt and shed his pants and uniform tunic; then he was on her and in her, driving, biting the big nipples, driving, driving. They came together in less than a minute, noisily. Spent, they lay in a heap on the back seat and fought for breath.

“It was the fight, wasn’t it?” he said, finally, panting. “The fight got you going.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, panting herself. “It got you going, too, didn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “It always does. It does it every time.”

Chapter 4.

HUGH HOLMES and Marshall Parker stood in the dim light of a disused barn on the outskirts of Delano.

“What do you reckon you’ll need to fix it up, Marshall?”

“Mr. Holmes, I figure to patch up the roof and make the walls weathertight and to put in a couple of potbellied stoves and otherwise get it in shape to work in, that would take about fifteen hundred dollars—that’s with me doing most of the work myself.”

“How about tools and enough spare parts to get you started?”

“Another five hundred dollars, I reckon.”

“And you’ve figured your expenses, your rent and things?”

“Yessir. And he’ll give me a option to buy it at three thousand dollars. That’s with just over two acres of land.”

Holmes thought that sounded high, but it was a white man selling to a black one, and if Marshall did well enough to buy the place the bank might help him negotiate a better price.

“Marshall, I know you worked for Mickey Shelton before the war. That where you learned how to work on cars?”

“Well, sir, I didn’t do much for him except grease jobs and oil changes and flat tires, like that. It was in the army I really learned about vehicles. We didn’t have a proper motor pool in my outfit, and we found out we’d get things running a lot quicker if we did it ourselves instead of taking them to regiment.”

Holmes nodded. He could understand how an outfit that came to be known as Eleanor Roosevelt’s Niggers might have its problems getting help from an all-white unit.

“Then after we left Italy and went to England to get ready for the big invasion, we were stationed down in Cornwall, in the southwest part of the country. We were living in tents and on ships hidden and camouflaged up these rivers, and we had a lot of time on our hands, so I started going down to this little village, St. Mawes, and helping out this old gentleman, Mr. Pascoe, in his garage. I worked on Austins and Wolseleys and even Jaguars. Course, they were real short of parts, and we had to make do, and it was real good experience. I got so I could fix parts you’d usually throw away. That’ll stand me in good stead around here right now, I reckon, since parts are still pretty scarce, and most colored folks like to get things fixed ‘stead of replacing them.”

Marshall did not mention the Sunday dinners at the Pascoes or the sailing in Falmouth Harbour with their daughter, Veryan, or how, for the first time, he had been made to feel like an equal by white people. They still corresponded. Holmes had noticed that Marshall spoke more like a white man than a black one and supposed that must have been the result of his English experience. He hoped the man’s speech wouldn’t cause problems for him.

“Good point. Tell you what, Marshall, we’ll make you a loan of a thousand dollars to start—you say you’ve got some money saved up?”

“Yessir, over two thousand dollars.”

“Well, you put half of that in a savings account at the bank, and you’ll still be earning interest on it until you need it. Do you know about that?”

“Yessir. I got all the way through high school.”

“And when you get on down the road a little bit, and we see how you’re doing in business, maybe we can let you have more money to help build it up. That all right?”

“Yessir, that’s just fine, and I sure appreciate it, Mr. Holmes, I sure do.”

“Well, Marshall, you’ve always been a good fellow, and if you work hard and build up something for yourself here in your garage, folks’ll have faith in you, and you’ll be surprised what they’ll do for you.” Holmes looked at his watch. “You come on down to the bank tomorrow morning, and we’ll fix you up. I’ve got another stop to make this afternoon, and I don’t believe I’ll get back before closing time.”

Holmes left Marshall Parker at his new barn-garage and drove to the other side of town. Idus Bray had shrewdly figured on a housing shortage for returning veterans and had set up a trailer park on a piece of his land there. Patricia Lee met him as he drove up to the tiny box she and Billy were living in. Billy arrived as Holmes was getting out of his car. There were greetings all around.

“Well, Miz Lee, how are you appreciating Idus Bray’s hospitality? You enjoying your spacious new home?”

She kissed him on the cheek. “Mr. Hugh, he promised me land, a farm,” she grinned, tossing her head at Billy. “And look at this—I’m living in something the size of a stall in my father’s stable. If Daddy could see this he’d horsewhip my husband.”

“Listen to her,” Billy said. “We’ve only been home a week, and she’s complaining already. I’ve bought meself an Irish shrew, I have.”

“Well,” said Holmes, “we might be able to make a start getting you out of the grips of your wicked landlord. Come take a ride with me.” He looked at the rusty ‘38 Ford convertible Billy was driving. “Let’s take my car.”

They drove north on Highway 41 for a couple of miles, then turned east onto the unpaved Raleigh road for another two. Holmes turned off the road and drove a hundred yards up a slight rise and stopped. Billy stared ahead of them. A tall stone chimney stood alone on the little hill. Cows grazed where the house had been. Oaks, sweet gums, and a few pecans shaded the area.

Billy got out of the car silently and walked toward the chimney, followed by Patricia and Holmes, carefully avoiding the cowpats. He stopped and looked around him.

“No shortage of fertilizer for the grass,” commented Patricia.

Billy nodded at a pile of manure near her feet. “That near enough marks the spot where I was born.” He pointed upward. “Up one floor. Not exactly a marble monument, is it?”