Pawnbroker: A Thriller (9 page)

Chapter 33

Bobby Knight’s funeral was a major affair. First Baptist, where we attended regularly—so had Bobby, every Easter and Christmas—was overflowing with people paying their respects. It was an old building with an old air conditioner that just didn’t have the horsepower, prompting people to fish around in the hymnal pockets for last week’s bulletins, anything to serve as a fan to stir the hot, soggy August air. Bobby’s casket, a bluish metal affair with chrome hardware, was parked at the foot of the altar, shaded in the crimson and gold light that filtered through a big stained glass window over the baptistry.

From the lectern, Brother Rick described a wonderful and selfless civil servant, a man of the people who would be desperately missed by all who knew him. For some reason, he failed to mention the sleazy wife-stealing element of the dearly departed’s character. Tommy Mitchell gave a brief eulogy, and somehow the church still stood.

Then came the procession, right up Main Street, which was lined with people on both sides for the length of the business district, all the way to Montello Memorial Gardens on the north edge of town.

I didn’t want to go but Penny insisted. She thought we might see someone there who looked out of place. The whole affair was a melee of contradictory feelings for me. I hated the bastard for messing with my wife and I wanted to chuckle while they lowered him into the ground. But I couldn’t. Truth was, I had liked Bobby for a long time—and he obviously didn’t force her.

So I didn’t laugh and I didn’t cry. I stood quietly beside my wife as she bit her lip and cried quietly over her lover, and watched the crowd for something out of place, not expecting to see anything. But I did. Standing at the back of the crowd, in a skinny little New Yorkish pair of sunglasses and a suit too nice for Montello, was a man who plainly did not belong.

It wasn’t just the clothes, either. He had slicked-back hair and a raw-boned face that made him look uncannily like a hawk. I turned back to the ceremony and listened as Brother Rick eased into the close with the ubiquitous line about ashes and dust. Bobby’s wife and son were crying now. Like a hawk. I sensed something and looked back over my shoulder. Hawk was looking right at me, as was the man now standing beside him, Sheriff Ricky Ballard. Like a hawk. Those three words rang some mental bell from a distant past. Like a hawk.

I tried to convince myself that it was coincidence, that they had no interest in me. I was simply in their line of sight, nothing more. Down deep, however, down in the place where denial has no power, down in the part of the soul where fear is born, I knew. This went to the top of the dirty little Pontocola County power structure, and it had everything to do with me. Standing there in the thick heat, I shivered. Just once. Then I heard a squeaking noise and turned back toward the grave to see the funeral attendants cranking Bobby down into the ground.

*          *          *

Halfway back to the car, which was uphill, someone behind me said, “Hold up there, Gray.” I turned around and saw Charlie Langford huffing his way toward us. Charlie—he must be at least seventy—carried some old war wound and used an aluminum cane, the kind with four little rubber-tipped feet. He panted, his face red, drenched in sweat.

“Hey, Charlie,” I said, then waited until he caught up with me before continuing on at a much slower pace.

“Never would’ve thought it of you, Gray,” he said, wheezing from exhaustion in the brutal heat.

I stopped walking, turned to face him, and motioned Abby to go on ahead of me. “Thought what?”

“My long-time client, whom I had already counseled on the matter at hand, mind you, gets arrested. I wait for his call, but it never comes. Then I find out he’s brought in the Memphis Showboat. That’s what they call him, you know.”

I stared at him, speechless.

“Hellfire, Gray. Don’t you give me that look,” he said, punctuating the really important syllables with his cane on the asphalt path. “You betrayed me.” Tap tap tap tap.

“Now hold on—” I tried to say.

“Old Charlie not flashy enough for you, I suppose?”

He was getting pretty loud now, enough so that people were starting to stare.

“Like I said, never would’ve thought it of you. Never.” Tap tap.

I’d had enough of this nonsense. “How long’s it been since you tried a murder case, Charlie? Ten years? Twenty? Ever? I think the world of you, but this is my life we’re talking about, so get a grip.”

He stood there wheezing, his eyes fiery. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. He reached inside his coat and pulled out an inhaler, puffed on it a couple of times. “Mark my words, Gray, you will pay for this.” Tap tap tap tap tap.

Chapter 34

COURTYARD MARRIOTT, SUITE 135

MONTELLO, MISSISSIPPI

“Y
ou still haven’t found the body?” Ballard said.

“Not yet, but—”

“Save it, Mitchell. You’re an incomp. And who the hell gave you the authority for Bobby Knight?”

“I had no choice.”

“Neither do I.”

Mitchell saw him cut his eyes toward Docker and nod ever so slightly. Oh shit. He reached for his shoulder holster but it was too late. His hand was on his gun but it was still in the holster, while he was staring at the business end of Docker’s gun, a nickel-plated Colt Government Model .45 ACP. Damn, that was a hell of a hole.

He slowly withdrew his hand, turning it palm out to show Docker it was empty. “Take it easy there, pal.”

Docker said nothing and kept the gun trained on him. Mitchell turned to Ballard. “Please, you don’t have to do this.”

“I think I do.”

“For God’s sake, why?” Mitchell was on the verge of tears now, his voice cracking.

“You’ve become a liability.”

“I’ll straighten it all out. I guarantee it.”

“Your ‘guarantees’ to this point have been worth exactly shit.”

“Just tell me what you want me to do. Anything. I’ll do anything.”

“I’m going to give you one last chance.”

Mitchell exhaled. “Thank you, thank you. What do you want me to do?”

“For now, just get the hell out of my face.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, Sheriff, sir,” Mitchell stammered as he backed all the way to the door, opened it, and backed through it into the hallway before closing the door and beating a hasty retreat.

*          *          *

Inside the room, Docker holstered the Colt and looked to Ballard for instruction.

“Please kill that whining pussy.”

Chapter 35

Penny and I were back at the shop, studying the digital photos she’d shot of the mystery guy and Ballard at the funeral. “Sure you’ve never seen him around here before?” she said, pointing to Hawk.

“There’s something...” Like a hawk. What was it about that phrase and that guy? Something familiar, though I was sure I’d never seen him.

Penny tilted her head, an “I’m waiting” gesture.

I shook my head. “It’s nothing. I don’t recognize the guy.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah. What now?” I said. I couldn’t get Ballard off my mind.

“We wait.”

“I’m no good at waiting, Penny. I need to do something, not sit around and wait for whatever it is Ballard has in store.”

“Don’t read too much into the fact that he looked at you, Gray. We don’t kn—”

“Yes,” I said, “I do know. Ballard’s involved, and that’s way bad news.”

She arched her eyebrows.

“Ricky Ballard’s grandfather—his name was Critch—was the biggest moonshiner in the state, until the Depression hit. All at once, nobody could afford his product. He had to make a living, so he ran for sheriff. The other candidate moved to Georgia in the middle of the campaign, reportedly because Critch threatened to kill him if he stayed in the race.”

She looked skeptical.

“Oh, it gets better,” I said. “Critch’s son, Harley, got court-martialed in the Navy. He was in the second wave at Normandy. When the door on the landing craft dropped for the men to exit, he shit his pants, literally, and refused to leave the landing craft. Did four years in Leavenworth, then came home. Worked as a deputy for his daddy, got married, had a kid, ran for sheriff when Critch retired in 1952.”

“And won?”

“Ran unopposed. By then it was well understood that this was Ballard country. Nobody had the stones to go up against them.”

“This sounds like a bad movie, Gray.”

“Yeah, well, check out the sequel. Remember, Harley had a kid.”

“Ricky?”

“Ricky,” I said. “He actually had potential as an athlete. Dominated as a linebacker, even though he refused to practice. That worked fine in a high school where no one dared discipline a Ballard, but not college. He got a football scholarship to Ole Miss. Pulled the same crap, thought he could do as he pleased during the week, then show up on gameday and be a star. Coach Vaught kicked him off the team, and when his father raised hell, he found out that his influence didn’t work in Oxford. The university expelled him. He turned eighteen in sixty-eight, Vietnam draft in full swing. Went to Canada, stayed several years, finally came home.”

“After the amnesty kicked in?”

“No, way before that.”

“And he wasn’t prosecuted?”

I laughed. “Like I’ve been telling you, Ballards are untouchable in Pontocola County, Penny.”

“But the feds, they—”

“Never heard a word from them. Ricky went about his business until Harley was tired of being sheriff, then took over in yet another one-man race. That was in eighty-eight, and as you know, he’s still with us.”

“Aside from the political monopoly, you think he’s corrupt?”

“More than corrupt. There are rumors that he’s had people killed, even that he’s personally killed people.”

“And you believe it?”

I nodded. “I’ve seen him in action, Penny. With my own eyes. Couple of years ago, a carload of kids from over in Lee County were here on a Friday night, riding the main drag like the local teenagers. Abby and I came out of the theater about the time they drove by.

“One of them whistled at Ballard’s daughter, Juliet. She was maybe fifteen, sitting on the trunk of a parked car. Drinking beer, dressed like a slut and showing it off bigtime. We didn’t think anything about it. Hell, guys whistle at loose-looking girls, you know?”

“Sure,” Penny said.

“Anyway, they keep a uniformed cop downtown on weekends, usually a reserve. He walks around, just keeps an eye on things. Well, this guy keys up his walkie-talkie and tells the dispatcher that ‘some Romeos from Tupelo are serenading Juliet.’ Then he demonstrates with a whistle on the radio. Just joking around on a Friday night, nothing to it.”

“The sheriff heard it?”

“Next thing we know, his Escalade comes screaming down the street, strobes firing, siren screaming. He slides to a stop, blocks the street, jumps out. Swearing at the top of his lungs, demanding for the officer to point out the perpetrators who insulted his little girl.”

“Oh, no.”

“Yeah. The cop knew he’d screwed up. He hadn’t intended to get the boys in trouble, and he sure didn’t want them to get hurt. So with Ballard standing there bellowing, the guy just sort of freezes.

“‘You point out those bastards right now!’ Ballard says. The cop still just stands there, dumbfounded. Ballard yanks a slapstick out of his pocket and hits him across the side of the head. I couldn’t believe it. Ballard takes off toward his truck, and I run over to the cop. He had a bad gash across the cheekbone and it was pouring blood. I yell for Abby to get me something to put on it to try to stop the bleeding.”

Penny’s eyes were wide now, her mouth open.

“Abby hands me one of those little purse packs of Kleenex, and then I hear this weird grunt behind me, in the street. I turned around, and get this: Ballard had Tasered the boy who was driving the car.”

“Oh, my God!” Penny said.

“It’s summer, the car windows were down. Ballard had just walked right up and fired in through the driver-side window. The barbs were stuck in the kid’s face, Penny. He was convulsing, foaming at the mouth. Ballard looks absolutely insane, screaming, still pouring on the voltage.

“I was stunned. One of the kids on the street had obviously dialed nine-one-one, because I heard sirens heading our way from several blocks away. For the moment, though, Abby and I were the only conscious adults there except for our crazy sheriff, and I was afraid the boy would be dead if I waited.”

“What’d you do?”

“I tackled him. Held him down until the cruiser got there with a pair of officers. They might’ve shot me if not for the bleeding cop on the sidewalk. He backed up my claim that Ballard was out of control. When I let go, Ballard got up, glared at both of us, then walked to his fifty-thousand-dollar police SUV and drove away. That cop moved the next week. The kid’s parents filed a lawsuit, but it settled before it went to court. I’ve never heard another word about my end of it.”

“Think Ballard’s holding a grudge?”

“Until today, I was hoping he didn’t. That was delusional. Bastards like him don’t let anything go. There’s also the fact that I’ve somehow mucked up the works of his latest scheme or operation or whatever you want to call it. To hell with him, though. I want my life back and I intend to take it, as much of it as possible, anyway.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” I shook my head.

“You found out about Knight and Abby, didn’t you?” she said.

“How’d you...”

“It’s my job to find out what’s going on, Gray.” She reached over and squeezed my hand, looked into my eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Seems the old cliché about the last one to know...” My voice sounded like it was coming from someone else, disconnected, distant. To think that a stranger knew, a woman, especially this woman, was so humiliating. Who else knew? Everybody in town? How could Abby have betrayed me, made such a fool of me? At that moment, I hated her. Really, really hated her.

“Let’s do something constructive,” Penny said. “We don’t have the surveillance tape, but we do have both living eyewitnesses right here.” She nodded down the counter-line toward LungFao. “Let’s go through exactly what happened, and don’t leave out anything.”

I thought it was a waste of time, given the gazillion times I’d already replayed the scene in my mind without coming up with anything different, but she was the pro. The shop was empty, so I gave my version of what happened, then motioned LungFao to the front to give his.

While he recited, I pondered, trying for the millionth time to make the puzzle pieces come together.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Penny said, causing me to turn around.

“What?” I said.

“He just gave a different account as to what Johnny said.”

“How so?”

“You said he demanded money. LungFao says he demanded ‘what he came for.’ Which is it?”

I looked to LungFao. LungFao looked to me. He seemed sure. I pondered. “You know, I think he’s right,” I said. I scrunched my lips and played it back again in my mind. “Yeah, he is right. He said, ‘As soon as I get what I came for, I’m out of here.’”

“Could still mean money,” Penny said.

“No. Think about it:
what I came for. And then there’s RoboVoice, who keeps talking about giving it to him.”

A customer came in and I gestured for LungFao to take care of her, then turned back to Penny.

“But what?” she said.

I shrugged.

“What do people normally ‘come for’ in here?”

“Lots of things, obviously, but at the core? They usually come in either to pawn something, buy something, or redeem something.”

Penny chewed on her bottom lip. “So, how do we figure out which one of those three Johnny was here for?”

I was already on my way to the door. “You two mind the store. I’ll be back.”