The Killing King of Gratis (5 page)

More than one body was to be buried that day. The old Johnnie would lie in the grave with her friend Millie. A new Johnnie would be born, ready to strike for justice, a baby rattler hatching from its shell. Johnnie looked around the sanctuary, warmed by this thought, baptized by her righteous tears.

J
ohnnie wasn’t the only person seeking justice for Millie’s slaying.

The night after her funeral, a select few met at the Gratis Country Club. Tommy was there, along with the District Attorney, Freddie Broyles. The Superior Court Judge Tim Motte was also present, as was his son and law clerk, Tim Motte, II.

They were called in by Franklin Knox. He was already sitting there, smoking and drinking scotch when the others arrived. Knox finished his drink and turned to address the group.

“Gentlemen, my family has been in this community for years, and we’ve always taken care of it. We have always stepped up to lead and to help, and have given every time we had the chance.” Every man in the room knew that Knox was a crook, but he was the man with the gold so that was okay.

“Yesterday, I buried my daughter. She was my baby girl and becoming one of the leading women of this community. Attacking her is like taking a fire to the town itself. No man should be so audacious as to attack a Knox. We are Gratis.”

He stopped with that and poured another scotch. He drained his glass as the others looked on, saying nothing.

“This can’t stand. Whoever killed my daughter must be brought to justice. I called you men here for a reason. You’re the ones I’ve supported to mete out justice in my town. I expect you all to do your jobs. Sheriff, get the man who did this. You have no other job to do until it’s done. I want your deputies, and you, working night and day until an arrest is made.”

“Broyles, I expect you to try this man yourself when he’s found. Don’t hand this off to one of your staff, and whatever you do, don’t screw it up. DAs are easy to find. I expect you to go after the death penalty.”

“Motte, just make sure you help Broyles get that conviction. There’s no room for fairness here. I expect you to give this piece of shit the same fairness and mercy he gave Millicent.”

“While you men are hopefully doing your jobs, I’ll have some of my own men looking, too. Sheriff, I don’t expect any interference from you if they piss off some folks, but I’m telling you there will be no holding back until the man who killed my baby is dead, or slowly heading there by waiting in jail until they put a spike in his arm.”

His directions given he poured another scotch. The others waited, caught between their compassion for a father and their fear of what this father would do for vengeance. After a sip of his drink he looked at them, eyes wide.

“Well, goddammit, what the hell is everyone waiting for?” The men in the room left, walking with a purpose into the hot night. Franklin Knox just sat there, staring around the empty room and nursing his drink. He hummed the lullaby that sent his Millicent to sleep so many nights as a child, and lit another cigarette.

Franklin hated these men he had to discuss his Millicent with. All they saw in her were her problems, the rumors everyone knew and repeated. Franklin still remembered the child she was.

He saw her swaddled in his wife’s arms when she was born, a toddler laughing when he bathed her in the kitchen sink, the look of wonder on her face after she took her first step. Even when she was having her bad time in Atlanta, and said awful things to him because of the drugs, he could still see his baby when he looked into her eyes.
It wasn’t her fault I messed up and divorced her mother. I did that to her, it was all my doing.

Now, as he sat in his chair and rang for the waiter to bring another bottle of scotch, he lived with a belief no parent should have.
She went bad because I let her go bad, went off and had my fun, and now she’s dead. I decided not to be there, and she had to pay my sinner’s debt. This is all because of me.

That thought haunted him day and night since her death, and no amount of scotch could chase it away. It was a thought that he couldn’t live with, and if that meant he’d drink himself to death, so be it. Franklin was sure he could do that, sure he could lay waste to his body just as he did to Millicent’s childhood.

He was also sure that he would accomplish one more thing before he died. He was going to catch the animal that hurt his Millicent. He wouldn’t stop until that animal was caged or dead. Wherever she was, he would make sure Millicent knew he loved her, and that her daddy wished he could have saved his little girl.

A
week after Millie’s funeral a couple of new faces showed up in Gratis. They drove an old Chevy Impala with big rims, and spent the first part of the day looking around town. They were not impressed with what they saw.

“What the hell, do people really live here?”

“Damn, I don’t know if you can call them people, not like us, anyway. There’s no dance clubs here, no good food, nothing but dumbass rednecks and all these gnats.” This social commentary came from one Todd Bloodsaw in response to his brother Scott’s question.

Todd and Scott grew up in the Cabbagetown neighborhood of Atlanta when it was still rough, two generations removed from living on a dirt floor in the north Georgia mountains. Their mother, Ludell, was the only parent they knew. She never told them about their biological father. The closest they came to having a father figure growing up was Mr. Maurice.

Mr. Maurice, himself married, was Ludell’s Thursday night boyfriend and an Atlanta detective. He was genuinely fond of her and because of him she was able to quit working third shift at the airport. With his help, she got a private investigator’s license at a time when there were few women in the field. Mr. Maurice made sure to drive business her way, getting his lawyer friends to use her in their cases where snooping was needed.

He also taught her how to use a gun and follow people without being noticed. These skills came in handy when she found the drug dealer who killed Mr. Maurice during an undercover drug sting gone bad. The bullet she put through the dealer’s head was fired from a gun that was never found. There were no witnesses, and the dealer was left to rot on a Union County mountain top. The wild hogs ate any evidence.

When they were old enough, Ludell taught her boys the business. They weren’t nearly as good as their mother.
Damn, my babies’ poppa was a real moron
, she thought whenever they fouled up another job. Still, they were big boys and not afraid to scrap. They came in handy when having a little muscle was necessary.

Franklin Knox used them when it was time to get Millie out of the rookie Brave’s condo. He reached out to Ludell again when he started looking for Millie’s killer. Pure investigation was not the boys’ strength, but a heavy hand was expected on this job.

“From what I hear,” said Scott, “this Millicent was one freaky hot piece.”

“No doubt,” Todd answered, “she was down here throwing leg at these rednecks like they hadn’t seen before and they killed her. I guess that happens down here, in this gnat cloud. These inbreds don’t know a good thing when they got it.” The duo had a couple of Millie’s photos. She burned hot even on a Polaroid.

It was still early evening when the two rolled up and parked in an alley a couple of streets down from Daddy Jack’s. They waited and opined about their current assignment.

“I am too old to come down here and look for some dude who offed the local dirty little rich girl. How hot is it, anyway?”

“I don’t know, Todd, around ninety-five degrees I guess, and the damn humidity, damn! If I had known it was gonna be this hot, I would have brought shorts.”

“We don’t work in shorts, dumbass, we’re seersucker with bowtie men. What you wear is what you are. Anyway, hopefully this guy we’re gonna see tonight will be the last of it. I hear he was seeing the woman and knows his way around town, and probably those tunnels too.”

“Just like a bunch of rednecks, digging tunnels under their own town, and dammit if they don’t love to smile. Swear to God, I might just beat the hell out the next person who says “how y’all doing” to me. I don’t know what they have to be so happy about, baking to death in this buggy hole.”

Todd laughed at that. His brother was a punk, anyone could see it, but he agreed with him about the hospitality. This was different from Atlanta. Sure, you got the whole southern thing in Atlanta, but it was more of an act, like you were trying to smile a coin out of someone’s pocket. Here it was real, a disease. They waved at you from their pick-ups and said “hi” when they went by you at the Waffle House. He even saw three men let an old lady get in front of them to pay for gas at the Golden Gallon. It was enough to make you sick. Scott was right. They might have to rough up the next yokel who so much as nodded at them. After all, even in this business, a man has principles.

Later, in the very early morning, the heat finally relented a few degrees. Todd and Scott were still waiting, now crouching in the alley beside Daddy Jack’s near the dumpster. The plan was to snatch their prey when he came to dump the trash. They would stuff him in the trunk of the Impala and take him to one of Knox’s old cabins near the Neck. There they could ask him about Millie’s murder in private. Todd was ready to do whatever it took to get this case done with and get home.

When their target came out, carrying two large trash bags, Scott yelled his name.

“Hey, Newt!”

Newt turned to face the voice, and Scott brought a fist down on the side of his face. He then grabbed Newt from behind, sure he and Todd would be stuffing him into the trunk of the Impala within seconds.

The two investigators, it turns out, should have done more pure investigation before coming after Newt. They should have gone inside to see whether he was drinking more than he should. They should have asked around town to see whether he could take care of himself. They should have definitely knocked him in the head without calling his name first.

Unfortunately, pure investigation really wasn’t their strength. Todd and Scott assumed nabbing Newt would be easier than putting Otis in a Mayberry jail cell. They were wrong. Newt had been around, and then some. One doesn’t romance so many taken women and not get into fights. He had a pretty face, but the scars he carried made him handsome.

As soon as he was grabbed from behind, Newt used Scott as a brace to give him the stability to kick Todd in the gut. As Todd doubled over, Newt brought the back of his head down over Scott’s nose. A warm spray of blood hit the back of his neck as Scott screamed in pain.

While Scott was holding his nose, Newt picked up a brick he kept at the dumpster for such an occasion. He slammed it against the side of Todd’s face. Todd went down to one knee. He came back up with a pistol.
It’s time for this cracker son of a bitch to go down
, he thought. As he leveled his pistol at Newt, Todd heard the most chilling sound one could ever hear in a back alley, or just about anywhere else for that matter.

Kero heard the commotion outside and knew that Newt must have pissed someone off. It wasn’t the first time an angry husband or jilted boyfriend waited in that alley for Newt. Through the back door’s small window he saw the Bloodsaw brothers in the process of grabbing Newt. Kero ran to the office, randomly thinking that they must be hot as hell in their blazers even as he grabbed his shotgun. He was racking the gun when he came out of the door. It was this racking that froze Todd. The words Todd heard next convinced him to drop his pistol.

“You put that gun down, asshole, or you’re going to have to get a new coat. Probably a new bowtie, too.” Todd knew what damage a shotgun blast could do and what a man sounded like when he was serious.
Damn
, he thought,
I can’t believe this redneck got the drop on me
. He fleetingly wondered what his mom would say about it, and then responded.

“I’m putting the gun down, but this doesn’t end anything. We have a few questions for your boy here, and we just want some answers. Nobody has to get hurt.”

“Shoot both of them!” yelled Newt. “They have a hell of a way of asking a man a few questions. That big one was about to kill me!”

“Look, we just want to know what your boy here has to do with Millicent Knox’s murder. We are going to ask him one way or another. Just put the gun down and let us take your boy with us. We’ll have him back in the morning to clean the piss out of the restrooms. You run a bar. You’re not a killer.” Todd smiled at Kero, his capped teeth glistening with blood.

It was then that his brother Scott lost the hearing in one ear. Kero took the butt of his shotgun, reared back, and smashed it against Scott’s right ear, rupturing the eardrum. The small diamond studs he wore in that lobe drooped away from his head, and he fell to the ground. Scott was bleeding from his ear to his nose and now suffering from a concussion. If possible, he had an even lower I.Q. than when the night started.

“Mister, you don’t know me at all. Now take your boy. Take him to a hospital or drop him in a gator pond for all I care. If I see or smell you or any of your kind back here you’re gonna taste this buckshot. And I promise you, fellas, it taste like shit smothered in death.” Kero leveled the gun at Todd and kicked Scott in his general direction.

The investigators stumbled back to the Impala, got in and drove off. When he was sure they were gone Newt turned to Kero.

“Thanks,” he said, “you really saved my ass.”

Kero looked at him and then put the shotgun back on his shoulder.

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” he replied, “and tell me why those gorillas wanted to talk to you about Millie.”

A
round seven the next morning Kero and Newt showed up at Delroy’s home. It was located in the upstairs of an old house near the town square that he used for his office. For Delroy this was a particularly early time for any company. He still smelled of bourbon and cigarettes from the night before, and was cursing before he even got out of bed.