Phantom Nights (35 page)

He watched Leland Howard's press conference on the courthouse walk through a front window of Dunkel's with a headache that was bad enough to occasionally blur his vision. He had used much of his low store of energy just hitching a ride into town. It felt like time to escape the heat, lie down, go to sleep. Yawn. For
hours
. The store manager's office would be vacant for the rest of the afternoon. No one at Dunkel's would mind if he stretched out on the deep red leather couch there.

But Mally wasn't having any of that. Her reflection right alongside his in Dunkel's window. Reminding him. He needed to write that all-important letter first.

You could bet she would nag him gently until he did.

Then it ought to be okay to get some rest before nightfall. Getting out to Cole's Crossing before the
Dixie Traveler
passed would be difficult without his bike.

A
reporter from the
Chattanooga Times
asked Leland, "Are you planning on hiring any more ex-convicts to work for you?"

Leland didn't like his tone but gave the question grave consideration as he paused to brush perspiration from his eyelashes. Hell apparently had rented Evening Shade for the day.

One eyelid wouldn't stop its crazed twitching. He soothed it with a fingertip, looking up at the sky with its glare and wisps of clouds that held no promise of rain.

"In spite of the tragic and unforeseen events of the past few days, I think it is important for us all not to lose faith—in our system of justice and in our fellow man. Mr. Giles served eight years for the crime of manslaughter, and during that time he was considered to be a model prisoner. I had every reason to believe his rehabilitation was complete"—
Goddamn that fucking eye!
—"and therefore had no hesitation in providing him with a job as my chauffeur on the campaign trail, a first step toward regaining his dignity and usefulness as a member of society." Tears and perspiration crawling down his cheeks together with a couple of green flies sailing around his head as if he were a foundered horse gave Leland the heebie-jeebies. "To answer your question: Yes, I
would
hire another parolee from our state's excellent prison system. Let us nuh-never forget that acceptance of, and forgiveness for, another man's failings is—it's the heart and soul of a civilized community."

"That's all for today, gentlemen," Gipson Culverhouse said.

I
t had been a mistake to order the fried-egg sandwich. After three bites Leland excused himself from the large booth at the rear of the Hob-Nob Cafe, went into the men's room with sweat all over him cold as mercury and the eye still twitching. He puked up his guts. It put a strain on his heart. Head down, he hung by his widespread hands in the stall crucifixion-style until Culverhouse sent Ray Villapando in to check on him.

"I'm not feeling so hot," Leland said. "Need to lie down. Have them cancel Murfreesboro tonight; I can't take another Goddamn county fair. And would you drive me up to my farm?"

They were walking through the nearly empty cafe, Leland in front, when he almost bumped into Bobby Gambier, who had just come in.

"You don't look so chipper, Mr. Howard."

"Yes, I know, it's the heat."

"Floyd Smart told me I'd probably find y'all in here. I have some news."

"Good or bad?" Leland attempted a smile. He just wanted Bobby to get out of his way.

"Depends on your point of view. James Giles killed himself this afternoon over at the community hospital."

Leland put a hand on the edge of the lunch counter. "What? How?"

"He managed to move himself enough in the bed to get his hand on the fan cord. Put it in his mouth and chewed until he electrocuted himself."

The others in the back of the cafe had their heads up. Listening.

"Good God. James. What a terrible end to—"

"If you could provide me with the name of his next of kin."

"There's a sister he mentioned. But I don't know anything about him really." The motion of overhead fan paddies repeated in a tinted mirror behind the counter matched the speed of Leland's heart.

"Well, we should be able to track somebody down might be willing to spring for the burial."

"That's all right. I mean I'll—take care of it. The expenses. Now if you'll excuse me—August, sweet Jesus. August won't let you breathe in these parts."

"For a fact?" Bobby touched the brim of his hat and stepped aside. Followed by Villapando, Leland made it out to the sidewalk, where he looked around in confusion. Villapando took him the rest of the way to the limo, Leland popping a candy into his mouth. The limo was parked in the shade of a draggy-looking collection of river birches. They didn't like the heat either.

Bobby came out and stood beneath the sidewalk canopy watching the limo pull away, taking his hat off to let a breath of air and some light into his moody thoughts.

"That man is going to blow," he said to himself. "Question of when and where."

T
hey had left the courthouse square behind, heading north, when Leland became aware of the pale blue envelope near him on the back seat. His name was on it. Leland Howard. Marked Personal. The handwriting neat, feminine.

He picked it up, turned it over. Put it in his lap and took out his gold toothpick, worked to dislodge bits of candy from his molars. His stomach still felt awful. A lava pit. He tasted blood on his tongue from his gums. Still he continued to poke away. He looked at the envelope again with the impulse to throw it out the window. He was always getting notes from women who wanted to fuck him. Frequently they enclosed photos. Lewd, most of the time. Women who took their own photos and, obviously, did their own developing. Those who hoped to tempt him with beaver shots.

He clenched his hands, which had been trembling, then used his toothpick to cut open the envelope. Slipped out the folded notepaper.

Hello, Leland

It's time we saw each other

again, don't you think?

I have everything your

father gave to me. I don't

want it, but I want the

thousand dollars you

promised to give to me.

I expect you to keep that

promise, Leland.

Meet me tonight by the

old depot at Cole's Crossing.

Nine-fifteen. Just after dark.

I've changed. But you'll

still know me when you

see me.

Come alone. It isn't in

your best interests to

disappoint me.

Mally Shaw

The Red Dress

"W
e missed you at supper," Bobby said to Ramses Valjean. "Not that it was all that special, but Rhoda's candied yams are pig-out famous at church suppers around Evening Shade."

Ramses sat on the edge of the low iron bed in the small room he had been given, a courtesy respectful of his status, in the Jim Crow ward of the community hospital. He had removed his dress shirt and tie and hung them over the back of a chair. His suspenders were down and he was barefoot. There was a tinge of yellow-gray to his complexion. A couple of raw cracks appeared at the corners of his mouth when he smiled.

"Candied yams. My mother made them too. I am, unfortunately, no longer digesting my food very well. There are other complications, so I have revised the timetable I mentioned to you a few days ago. My pancreas has nearly stopped producing insulin. I had a shot this afternoon from Dr. Crawford. Tomorrow—well, I'll have to see."

Bobby nodded. He didn't know what to say.

"But I could use a drink. If you have the time."

"I've got the time."

L
eland Howard sat in the parlor of the house at his farm with a .38 revolver in his lap and sunset at the windows.

It isn't in your best interests to disappoint me.

The fifth of Maker's Mark on the table beside him was two-thirds empty. He poured another shot. So far he didn't feel a thing. His tongue a little numb at the edges, that was all. Otherwise he was sober. The tremoring of his hands had nearly stopped. His mind was clear. But he was aware his limit wasn't too far away. There would come a point where one more shot—half a shot—would lay him out as limp as a two-dollar whore.

Someone was trying to make a fool of him. Best guess, a female relative of Mally Shaw's who also had been visiting Mally on Saturday night. Hid out when he arrived but overheard, maybe witnessed, everything that went on between him and Mally. Hadn't been a young white boy after all; Giles had been wrong about that, and it had cost him his life.

He heard a tractor outside, Claude Long yelling at his half-witted son to close the gate. They were going home to their own place adjacent to Leland's farm.

Jim Giles dead, a signed confession down at the sheriff's, and it wasn't enough, his father shriveling in his crypt but still one jump ahead of Leland . . . who pictured that aged head secretly alight in darkness with death's lolling grin. He felt a slippage of nerve, steeled himself. The damned key that the deputy had casually dropped on his desk blotter was, Leland had no doubt, to an extra safe-deposit box, perhaps under an assumed name, where his father had left the proof that would send Leland to prison. But the key was no longer a threat to him. The letter writer had made that clear. Mally, it would seem, had emptied the box before last Saturday.

I have everything your father gave to me
.

Some greedy relation of Mally's now had the goods on Leland Howard.

Or thought she did. What was the point of pretending she was Mally? To scare him? As if he were simple, a lamebrain like Claude's speckled boy?

The thousand dollars you promised
.

Leland felt insulted. It provided a keener edge to his anger. He raised the shot glass to his lips, reconsidered, and set the glass aside. He picked up the Colt from his lap and stood, opened the gate. The brass rounds of cartridges gleamed in the reddening light at the windows. So red the world might have been on fire.

No, this is what you get
.

The tremor that had stilled in his hands was in his gut, an overture to massive fear that put him off balance.

But what if one killing wasn't enough? How many could there be—faceless, taunting conspirators, stepping out of shadows to make their own demands?

Leland closed the gate of the blue-steel revolver and put it in a boot, rolled down the cuff of his twill trousers to hide it.

He walked outside into the red shift of evening, wearing the day-long heat like a hair shirt. On the porch he looked past tinkly glass wind chimes at the empty kennel run. His dogs were being put to death. Something swung disastrously through his mind, a psychic weight like a wrecking ball. He almost lost his balance again but clung to a newel post.

. . . And the days of his childhood had run long and playful, the quick nights slept away while his heart held the heat and lure of the sun. Now his days were shorter, shadowed, intolerable; his heart, like the sun, was dying in his breast. There was no mercy in the hung prisms through which he backward viewed his fate. His life was dwindling, darkly, toward a climax of nightmarish calamity.

He had no run left in him. But his tormentors would keep coming.

Wouldn't they.

Elegiac tears rolled down his cheeks.

If they made him kill them, who could say the fault was his?

B
obby said to Ramses Valjean, "So the painters are almost finished at Bernie's house. She and Cece go over there this afternoon to check everything out, and can you believe it, Bernie's not happy. She's still gagging on the fumes although Cece says she can barely smell them herself, and to boot Bernie's second-guessing all of her color choices. Should have been peach in her bedroom, she decides, not apricot. Just have to do everything all over again. Also she's worried now that some paint may get on the upholstery of some of her heirloom furniture even though the boys use drop cloths everywhere. Asks Cece if she could move the stuff over to our house for now, seeing as how we're a little shy on furniture ourselves in a couple of rooms."

Ramses nodded. "The woman has wiles." They were at one of the picnic tables behind Pee-Wee's Good Eats with a paper-bagged pint provided by Pee-Wee, Ramses wearing his blind man's specs, facing a sunset like deep fire in a canyon of clouds. George Dickel in paper cups. At Bobby's urging, Ramses had eaten a couple of bites of a toasted cheese sandwich. Pee-Wee's was still open, but they were alone in the picnic area.