Ted Bell - Spy

And, if you can believe this one, they wanted him to attend the conference and maybe even present his report if there was time enough on the schedule. He hadn’t even told Daisy about it, it was so preposterous.

Somebody at the U.S. State Department had read his paper. If that didn’t beat all, he didn’t know what did. He hadn’t told anybody at all of course, even Homer or June. But, you couldn’t help but be a little, not proud of it, but gratified that somebody that high up in government was actually interested in what you had to say about things.

The Prairie County Courthouse stood in the center of the town square. It was a four-story building dating from 1914, still all original right down to the doorknobs. Even the big sash windows. It was made out of yellow brick and had four doors, one set on each side. The parking was on the south side, the main entrance was on the north, facing Main Street. One of his predecessors as sheriff, an old man named Wyatt, was now working three days a week as an unpaid deputy. Wyatt had a thing about landscaping. He’d put in some walnut trees that had grown pretty big now. They gave a nice shade on hot days.

His office, as well as Wyatt’s, was up on the second floor overlooking the main drag. There wasn’t much to see up there other than a spittoon, a hat rack, and a checkerboard. June and Homer spent a whole lot of time playing checkers most afternoons. When he walked in he was startled to see the place so empty and he realized he’d been so preoccupied he’d plain forgotten Daisy had reminded him it was Sunday. Then he saw June Weaver, who was sitting with her shoes propped up at a desk just outside his door.

There was loud snoring coming from Wyatt’s office. He came in on Sundays to get away from the Cowboys game his wife always had cranked up full volume. Wyatt was a good man. He’d taken over as sheriff when Franklin’s daddy had been killed in the line of duty. His father and Wyatt had gotten into a shootout with some bank robbers and a stray bullet had nicked Franklin Sr.’s heart.

June was a pretty little brunette gal. About Daisy’s age, she was in her early forties but looked younger. Always watching her weight, not that she needed to do that much. She had her nose deep in a movie magazine.

“Hey, Junebug,” he said to her, trying not to spook her.

“Hey, Sheriff. What are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d try to finish that dang report.”

“Well, it’s past due.”

“Anything happen I should know about?”

“Phone hasn’t rung once.”

“Well, we figured on that, right?”

“Yessir, I guess we did. I’m sorry.”

“You want any coffee?”

“I’ll bring you a cup.”

“I ’preciate it, Sheriff.”

He’d brought June coffee and then stared out his office window for a while, just watching folks stroll by down below. Then he’d gotten going on his paper pretty good and an hour or more went by before he knew it. He looked up and saw June was standing in the doorway saying Homer was on the radio and needed him quick.

“He say what the trouble was?”

“He said there was a big bunch of ’em out at the Wagon Wheel raising hell. Liquored up and smashing furniture. Somebody’s firing his gun in the air out back.”

“Cowboys must be losing pretty bad.”

“He said they were calling for your head.”

“Ain’t my fault the ’Boys are losing. All right. Tell him I’m heading on over there. Phone rings, some news about the girls, you let me know.”

“I got operators standing by.”

“Be good. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“You take care now.”

The Wagon Wheel was five and a half miles south of Prairie. It was just about what you’d expect, the kind of place folks used to call a juke joint or a roadhouse. There was a lot full of dusty pickups when he turned in. A lot more than you’d normally see, unless it was the play-offs or there was live music like they sometimes had whenever the T-birds or some other band was passing through on the way to somewhere else.

Franklin pulled up and parked next to Homer’s cruiser. He noticed the front door was open and the motor was still running. Looked like he’d been in a hurry and felt the need of bringing the Mossburg shotgun too. He made his way through a covey of big Harleys parked near the entrance, taking note of a couple of bikes he’d not seen before. New Mexico tags.

His boots crunched on broken glass when he walked through the door. He saw Homer with his back up against the bar, blood on his face. Two men were holding his arms out to the sides while another one worked on his midsection with the butt end of a busted pool cue, shouting at the top of his lungs, his voice full of rage and spittle. The man with the cue stick was Mr. J.T.Rawls. His face was bright red and his eyes were blazing in the miraculously unbroken mirror behind the bar.

“Why didn’t you shoot me when you had the chance, you little fuckin’ shitbritches?” J.T. asked. “Huh? Answer me! You want some more? Awright, you—”

“That’s enough of that,” Franklin said, raising his voice just enough to be heard above all the TV football noise and the music and shouting going on inside. Every head swiveled in his direction and he was conscious of how he must look to them. He was wearing what he wore every day of his life including Sundays. Dress trousers, a starched white shirt, and a necktie representing Old Glory. His badge was clipped to one side of his belt, his sidearm clipped to the other.

“Enough of what?” Rawls said, turning drunkenly toward the doorway on one heel of his boot.

It got quiet fast.

“J.T., put down that stick. You two boys let Homer go.”

“Or, what?” Rawls said.

“Yeah!” somebody shouted. “Or, what?”

It became a kind of a liquor chant, “Or, what?” did, everybody focused on him now, saying it over and over, and Homer slumping to the floor. Homer’s shotgun, Franklin saw, was lying on top of the bar in a puddle of beer. There was movement now, as the men formed up close on J.T.’s flanks. A couple of men he didn’t recognize stepped in, putting themselves between him and the rancher. They were the motorcycle owners, wearing leather chaps and vests. Big fellas with prison tats on their biceps.

“I got to see about my deputy,” Franklin said, walking toward them so they had to step aside.

He waded through the mess of angry men toward Rawls and his deputy, resisting the temptation to put his hand on his sidearm. He was just determined to keep moving forward and that’s what he did. Suddenly a hand reached out and grabbed his shoulder and hung on.

“Let me go, Davis,” he said to the wild-eyed man. There were tears in the man’s eyes. Davis Pike’s son Tyler had been a member of the posse. After a couple of seconds of staring at each other, the man looked away and let go. He just looked broken and lost.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Franklin said, and kept moving.

Franklin figured there was about fifty of them in the place. Most if not all of them were drunk as skunks and past all caring which way this thing went. And a lot of them had weapons. He saw some .357s stuck in the waistbands of jeans and a couple of rifles here and there.

When he got to J.T., he stopped about two feet in front of the man. Rawls’s chest was heaving, shallowlike, and his eyes had a methamphetamine glitter to them. Suddenly Rawls reached around behind him and grabbed Homer’s shotgun off the bar.

“Give me that gun, J.T.,” Franklin said softly.

“Yeah. Both barrels, killer,” he said, too wasted to notice the Mossburg was a single.

“I am not a killer. I never did kill anybody didn’t need killing.”

“No? What about my son? What about all them poor boys you sent to their deaths? What about them? You got ’em scalped! What about all the daughters of men here? You know? They’re gone, ain’t they? Might as well be dead! You know what I think? I think we’ll have us a trial by jury right here. I think we can find twelve angry men in this room.”