Brett Halliday: Michael Shaynes' 50th case

“Do tell? Miz Marvin Blake, I reckon you mean.”

“You know the one I mean.” Alonzo chuckled obscenely. “Don’t tell me you ain’t looked at her walkin’ down the street the way she was always doing.”

“Nuh- uh, Mist Peters. This here colored boy don’t never look at no white women the way you mean. I got troubles enough ’thout that. They know who done it to her?”

“Not yet.” Alonzo sat on the bench and spat a stream of tobacco juice into the dust between his feet. “They got detectives from Miami and the State Police and all. I reckon they’ll be around here to your house any time, checkin’ alibis and all. You got one for last night, Pris?”

“Got one what?” The Negro appeared honestly bewildered.

“An alibi. Can you prove where you was at?”

“I was right here to home asleep.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Must I needs to?” Pristine wrinkled his forehead. “I ain’t bin off the place for three days, an’ that’s the truf. My ol’ pick-up is busted down an’ I cain’t even get to town to take in a load to my customers what I promised a delivery yestidy.”

Alonzo said, “Is that a fact? I reckon that’s about all the alibi you need, Pris. How about fetchin’ me a quart?”

“Shuah. I get it from back the shed.”

Pristine Gaylord got up from his end of the bench and strode toward a shed at the rear of the shack which housed his pick-up truck. Alonzo watched him go, and began to shake violently. “A thousand dollars!” he thought, awed. “A thousand goddamn dollars.” He got to his feet slowly, fingering a sharp-bladed knife in his pocket while a devious and delightful and horribly evil plan formed swiftly in his mind.

As soon as Pristine disappeared behind the shed, Alonzo darted forward to his car, drawing the knife from his pocket and opening a long and wickedly pointed blade. The right rear tire was worn almost paper thin, and Alonzo drove the point of the knife into the soft rubber on the side, twisting as it went in.

Air whooshed noisily from the tire and Alonzo hurried back to the bench. He was seated there, dipping forefingers into his sack of Mail Pouch when Pristine returned carrying a Mason jar of moonshine dangling from his big right hand.

Alonzo exchanged a dollar bill for the jar and unscrewed the lid, glancing aside at his car as he did so. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered, “Looks like I got a flat tire there.”

Pristine followed his gaze, and both men walked over to look at the flat tire. “Must of just oozed out when I drove up.” Alonzo kicked the flat tire moodily. “Tell you what, Pris. I was jest about to say I’d drive you in town to make that delivery. If you’ll get the jack outta the back and put on the spare, I’ll do it. Me, I’ll set in the shade and have me a drink of corn likker an’ watch you sweat doin’ it,” he added gleefully.

“I shuah will do that, Mist’ Peters,” Pristine grinned back at him. “I’ll have that ol’ tire changed in nothin’ flat.”

Accordingly, Alonzo sat on the bench in the shade and screwed the lid off the Mason jar and tipped it up and drank from the sweetish liquid inside, and presently he was behind the wheel of the Chevvy and rolling in toward Sunray Beach with Pristine Gaylord seated happily beside him and on the floor of the car, behind the front seat, there was a cardboard carton containing twelve Mason jars of shine destined for customers who had expected delivery the preceding day.

And in the locked trunk of the car was a flat tire and a jack and a lug-wrench, and in Alonzo Peters’ mind was the vision of one thousand one-dollar bills fluttering about in front of him, his for the grasping, his for the taking, his to do with as he would.

Alonzo Peters sat very erect, looking from side to side as they entered the town from the west on Main Street, and Pristine stirred uneasily beside him and said, “You best turn to the left next corner, Mist’ Peters. Maybe best if I get off there.”

Alonzo drove straight on across the intersection and headed toward the center of town. He didn’t say anything. He was hunched tightly over the wheel, his face in a concentrated frown. Pristine began to protest again beside him, in a low, hesitant voice, as the Chevvy approached the City Hall and Police headquarters, and Alonzo slowed, seeking a parking space in front.

He swung in sharply, directly in front of City Hall. There, by the grace of God, was Randy Perkins just pulling in to the curb in front of him. Randy Perkins was the grizzled veteran of the Sunray police force who hated niggers and loved to keep them in line. Alonzo jumped out from behind the steering wheel and hurried around the front of the Chevvy to intercept Randy as he got out of his patrol car. He grasped the officer fiercely by the elbow and pulled him around so he confronted Pristine, who still sat in the front seat of the Chevvy.

“You better arrest him quick,” he said harshly to Perkins. “I done brung him in, and this is as far as I kin go. I’m turnin’ him in,” he whispered into the officer’s ear, “fer murdering Miz Blake last night. You better stick him in jail while I go inside and claim the thousand dollar reward they’re offering fer him.”

It was almost seven o’clock when Michael Shayne returned from his trip to Moonray Beach down the coast. He drove directly to the motel where he found Rourke waiting for him in his room. The reporter was slouched on the bed with a pint bottle of bourbon open on the table beside him, and a sour expression on his face.

“Heard the big news?” he asked as Shayne came in.

“No. I just drove in.”

“They got the guy. That is, a guy at least, But he’s sure as hell going to be the guy before this night is over, whether he is or isn’t… if you get me.”

Shayne sat down with a heavy frown. “Tell me.”

“It’s a colored boy. Name of Pristine Gaylord. Runs a little still, they say, and lives all alone about twelve miles out of town. He’s cut out for the part. Considered a troublemaker and served two sentences for aggravated assault. Neighbor of his brought him in for the reward. A white man that I wouldn’t pick over the Negro myself, but he is white. He places Gaylord here in town at midnight. Claims he was driving home from up the coast and passed this colored boy hiking down the road about two miles out of town. He didn’t recognize him as he drove past, but he had a flat tire a few minutes later, and this Gaylord comes walking up and he recognized him as a near neighbor and offered him a ride home if he’d change his tire. He says Gaylord acted funny and wouldn’t give any explanation for being out there at midnight, except that his car was broken down at home, but he didn’t give it much thought until he heard about Mrs. Blake on the radio at four o’clock. That’s when the reward offer was broadcast,” Rourke interpolated sourly.

“So he drove down to Gaylord’s place and offered to bring him into town to make a moonshine delivery, and he drove him straight up to the police station and turned him in. And that’s it.” Timothy Rourke spread out his hands disgustedly. “I’ve been around town keeping my ears open, and things are building up fast. They’re not saying too much in front of an outsider, but the Rednecks are coming in from the back country, and there’s going to be a lynching in this man’s town tonight unless somebody does something pretty damned quick.”

“What’s Gaylord’s story?”

“He hasn’t got any story. He just denies everything. Claims he hasn’t been off his place for three days and that Alonzo Peters… that’s the white man who brought him in… is purely and simply lying about picking him up on the road last night. But I helped shoot that story, damn it. I told you about the eager-beaver young cop with the fingerprinting outfit. I got him and we opened up the trunk of Peter’s car and there was a flat tire all right. With the suspect’s fingerprints all over the jack and lug wrench… fresh enough to’ve probably been made last night. Which seems to prove Peters’ story, and puts the colored boy right here on the scene at the right time.”