Wicked City (20 page)

“I heard he was good with the pistol.”

“He was also good with a baseball bat when he was a strikebreaker,” John said. “He’s who the Birmingham fat cats called when the union bosses came to town. And as Persons kept talking, General Hanna took a deep breath and stood, his face turning red as a beet. You know, in the war he commanded a Pacific jungle unit that inflicted so many casualties he set Army records.”

“Persons will never go for martial law,” I said, dropping a wrench into a toolbox and slamming down the hood of a ’48 Ford truck.

John shook his head. “He said everything was going to be under control. He said you couldn’t judge the situation by some bumps in the road, and said he had great faith in the state investigators.”

“He can’t be talking about ole Smelley.”

“I told him what I suspected about Smelley. But he didn’t buy it. He said Smelley was a good man and was doing a hell of a job.”

We walked outside, and I closed the bay door of the garage, sealing it with a padlock. I found a spot on the edge of the platform of the gas pumps and sat down. My back ached; my feet ached. It was late, but there was still plenty of soft gold light. I lit a cigarette and stretched out my legs.

“So then he offered to send in more troops. But Hanna wasn’t satisfied with that. He knew that was what Persons was going to offer when we drove over this afternoon and was prepared. He knew it was just a political move to keep the newspaper boys off his back. And Hanna told him that. Hanna said he wouldn’t leave the governor’s office till he had a green light to bust up the rackets.”

“You want a Coca-Cola?” I asked John. But John said no. He looked more tired than me. His shirt was soaked through under the suit jacket, and despite his obvious exhaustion he paced underneath the overhang as he talked.

“So then Persons turned to me and ignored Hanna, as if I’d put Hanna up to this. He said, ‘I don’t understand what you want from me, John. I send you the National Guard, and the full cooperation of state investigators. Our acting attorney general is devoting his full time to the investigation into your father’s murder. I can’t do much more. You even went to Washington to ask for help. That move embarrassed our entire state. And, like they said, this is a state matter.’ And that’s when I knew this was going to be a big old pissing match. He was absolutely furious that I’d gone to Washington. He actually said I’d embarrassed the state of Alabama. Can you believe that?”

“And that’s when Hanna let him have it.”

“You bet,” John said. “Hanna stood up as tall as that little fireplug could, those stars on his shoulders, shaven head, and leaned into the desk and said, and I quote, ‘Governor, I mean no disrespect by this but you don’t seem to hear a goddamn word of what’s being said. The local crew of cops in this town is about the sorriest gathering of bastards I’ve ever seen in my life. They don’t want us there, never wanted us there, and won’t get off their fat asses to help. They want Phenix City back to its wicked ways. And that’s fine if that’s what you want, too. But don’t go and blow smoke up our ass and tell Mr. Patterson here that everything is being done. Because, sir, it sure as shit is not. We’re sitting around with our thumbs up our assholes while these hoods and gangsters ride past us every day, pointing and laughing at us like they’re at the goddamn zoo.’”

“He said that?”

“He sure did. He told Persons, ‘They intimidate witnesses and blow up people’s homes. They aren’t scared of us in the least ’cause they all know we’re just there for the news boys to pose for some pictures. So, to the point, sir? Either use us to break this town apart or send us home. I don’t mean to be so frank. But here it is, Gordon. Either shit or get off the pot.’”

“Glad Hanna didn’t bring a baseball bat.”

“Persons couldn’t believe anyone would talk to him like that in the mansion.”

I smiled, finished the cigarette, and squashed it under the sole of my work boot.

“Persons wasn’t behind the desk; he was standing at the side, feeling around that Nazi belt buckle and the little buttons and springs. He said, ‘Can you put this in a report?’ and Hanna said, ‘Goddamn, it’s been five weeks since this man’s father was gunned down. The local police haven’t interviewed a single suspect.’”

I smiled at him, knowing what was about to come, knowing John had told me every detail because I knew where all this was headed.

“Britton gave you the Mr. X records, didn’t he?” I asked.

“Well, Hugh let some of the newspaper boys take a listen this morning. But, for some reason, he wanted a couple of them held back. He wanted me to deliver them to the governor. I guess he thought Persons should be well versed on the entire situation.”

“How long did it take for him to call you?”

John smiled. It was the first time I’d seen him smile since his father’s death. “The governor left a message for me before I pulled into my driveway.”

“And what did it say?”

“Apparently, that recorded conversation he had with Hoyt Shepherd about campaign contributions came through clear as a bell.”

“Can I ask what happens next?”

“I guess he saw the big splash Mr. X made in the afternoon papers. Did you see Hugh was quoted with saying that there was more where that came from? Well, the governor said he had some phone calls to make.”

“
WHO THE FUCK IS MR. X
?
” HOYT SHEPHERD SAID, PULLING
a big, fat cigar from the side of his mouth as he spun in the chair of Cobb’s Barber Shop and rattled the front page of the
Ledger.
Jimmie Matthews sat in a waiting chair, next to the coatrack and by the plateglass window, and nodded. “Did you see this bullshit? Did you read it?”

Jimmie nodded. The barber, a relative of the former mayor, stepped away, added his scissors to the blue Barbicide, and walked over to grab some electric clippers.

“It says right here that this goddamn, mysterious Mr. X turned over plastic recordings of crime kingpin Hoyt Shepherd having intimate phone conversations with known state and local politicians, including Big Jim Folsom, winner of the Democratic ticket for governor. Hell, they even say I had a talk with — get this — an unknown party about the killing of Fate Leburn. Hell, that damn bootlegger’s been dead almost ten years. Who’s digging up this shit on me? Let me tell you one damn thing. Jimmie, are you listening to me?”

Jimmie nodded, dressed in a crisp white shirt and tie, blue suit, and crossed his legs. He acknowledged his partner with a tip of his cigarette. His hair already nicely trimmed and slicked down with a good splash of Vitalis.

“You mark my words, they’re gonna hang me for this. Right? These people, these National Guard Nazis and that green-as-grass prosecutor, Sykes, need a warm body and my fat ass is just the right size.”

Hoyt’s big face turned a hard shade of purple as Mr. Cobb trimmed the hair off the back of his neck and shaved off some black fuzz on his ears. Hoyt’s big jowls flexed and twisted, and when the buzzing of the clippers stopped and Cobb reached for another pair of scissors for a few stray hairs, Hoyt continued: “Let me tell you something. There ain’t no Santa Claus, there ain’t no fucking Easter Bunny, and there ain’t any goddamn Mr. X. It’s the RBA trying to fry my ass for Pat getting himself killed, and they are gonna try every dirty trick in the book till I’m sitting in the hot seat at Kilby waiting for some old boy to flip the switch and grill me up like a side of bacon because it would make a hell of a picture.”

Matthews shifted in his chair and recrossed his legs. He finished the cigarette and stubbed it out in a plastic tray on top of a big fan of
Field & Stream
and
Gent
magazines. He shrugged. His diamond cuff links twinkled.

Hoyt plugged the fat cigar back into his mouth and kept reading, Cobb snapping off the stray hairs and giving him a slick comb with some of that jug of Vitalis.

“Part it to the side,” Hoyt said, not looking up from the newspaper. He grunted. “I look like a fucking country preacher.”

The bell jingled above the old barbershop door and in walked Frog Jones and Red Cook, a couple clip joint owners. They walked inside, looking at the floor, no one to beat or shoot or rob, and they looked as dejected to Hoyt as little kids without their toys.

Hoyt looked back to the paper.

“What the hell is wrong with you two? I ain’t seen y’all’s names in the paper in a while.”

The door opened again, and as Cobb removed the apron and Hoyt stood from the chair two guardsmen walked in and waited for Hoyt to turn. But Hoyt watched in the mirror as he counted out the change into the barber’s hand and simply said: “Let me guess: Mr. X sent you.”

One of the young boys held out a piece of paper to Hoyt Shepherd and said: “Sir, Mr. Bernard Sykes would like to see you at the Ralston Hotel immediately.”

Hoyt nodded, walked to the coatrack, and grabbed his porkpie hat. “Well, that is just goddamn fantastic. I can’t wait.”

“THIS SURE IS A NICE SUITE. HOW MUCH ARE THE TAXPAYERS
shelling out for such comfort, Mr. Sykes?” Hoyt Shepherd asked.

Bernard Sykes opened his mouth and then closed it, looking to a couple of junior men at the attorney general’s office and then back to Hoyt. In his pleated trousers and tailored shirt with painted tie, he nervously circled the dining room, where Hoyt sat at a long table. Sykes felt for the back of a chair, obvious to Hoyt that the man wanted to continue to stand to get a leg up, but Hoyt didn’t care for games or this nervous kid.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Hoyt asked. “All that walking and talking is getting on my nerves. When you’re trying to gain some confidence, you need to sit down and be a regular guy. Don’t stand over someone and act like a hard-on.”

Sykes’s face changed colors and he crossed his arms. He stood still and placed his hand over his jaw and mouth. He nodded and nodded as if unlocking some kind of secret about Hoyt Shepherd’s character.

“Listen, unless you’re gonna feed me lunch or buy me a drink I think I’ll be on my way. There wasn’t a damn thing on any of the mysterious Dr. X’s recordings about Albert Patterson.”

“Mr.”

“What?”

“It’s Mr. X, not Dr. X.”

Hoyt nodded and pulled out a fresh cigar from his shirt pocket. He unwrapped it, the plastic making harsh, crinkling sounds, and stuck it into his mouth. “Since you’re not from here and don’t know much else besides what the newspapermen stink up in their print, I’ll fill you in. Me and my partner, Jimmie Matthews, sold out our interests in every single club in Phenix City two years ago. You can verify that with anyone in town. And as far as Pat? Hell, Pat and I had some problems, and I never wanted to see him your boss. But there ain’t a criminal in Phenix City with half a brain who’d kill a fella that way. I mean, give me a little credit. I know about fifty better places I could’ve had Pat plugged, if I wanted. But to shoot down the man in an alley on Fifth Avenue on a Friday night is as stupid as it is reckless. Just about dumber than shit, if you ask me.”

Sykes grinned a bit and gave a nervous laugh. “So, you are telling me that you would’ve killed Mr. Patterson in another way?”

“Yes, sir. That is exactly what I said, and you wouldn’t have found him for a long while either.”

“You do that often? Make people disappear?”

“Goddamn. Can we get on with this bullshit? This is the deal, son. My boys and all the gamblers in Phenix City wouldn’t touch killing Pat, because the odds were worth shit. And everyone knew that the house would come a-tumblin’ down.”

“What about the bombing last night? Did you know about that?”

“Read it in the papers same as you.”

“But you’d have reason to want to quiet Mr. Britton.”

“Thought we were talking about Pat.”

“So who killed Mr. Patterson if it wasn’t one of your hoods?”

“I’m gonna let that one slide, kid,” Hoyt said, puffing the cigar up into the air and then right into Bernard Sykes’s eyes and Hollywood hair and ski-slope nose.

“So?”

“Get them out of the room,” Hoyt said, leaning into the table and helping himself to a pot of coffee. As he poured, Sykes cleared the room of all the prosecutors and the stenographer, who’d waited for the official interview to begin.

The table between Sykes and Shepherd was filled with empty boxes from a fried chicken joint and half-drunk cups of coffee and bottles of Coca-Cola. Ashtrays spilled out with ash, and mounds of newspapers and stacks of papers spilled over the table and onto the chairs.

Hoyt took a sip of coffee and then made a face. It was cold.

After some thought, he leaned in and started to talk, and Sykes couldn’t hear so he leaned in, too. Close as lovers across an intimate table, he caught Hoyt’s words: “Do you really need to look much further than Bert Fuller? Let me tell you something, he’d been ratfucking me for the last couple years, cutting the biggest, fattest piece of the Phenix City pie. Did you know someone broke into my goddamn home the night Pat got himself killed? They blew my safe with dynamite, nearly set my office on fire, and took fifty thousand dollars? With all this shit going on, I couldn’t even get a sonofabitch at the sheriff’s office to take down my name. Now, that’s something to make a man a little pissed off.”

Sykes looked up over his notebook. He tapped his pen.

“You got to know something, me and Pat had an understanding. We knew what teams we played for. You can’t hold a grudge if a man’s been straight with you all along. With Pat, he didn’t make no secret of cleaning up this town. But to break into a man’s home, and me knowin’ it had to have been someone I hold close? Now, that is an insult. And let me be straight with you, Mr. Sykes. If I find out the sonofabitch who did that to me, he’s as good as dead.”

“You understand what you’re saying to me?”

“Yes, sir. And I’ll be damned to hell if me getting robbed wasn’t Fuller’s doing, too. If there is slop in the trough, he’s gonna eat.”

“Deputy Fuller?”

“Hell, you catch on fast, kid.”

“Who else? Other policemen?”

“Policemen? Bert Fuller is a shakedown artist and a pimp, and since I’ve grown comfortable in my retirement he’s about bled me dry on protection. But I don’t know about other folks with the sheriff. If it were my guess, I’d say Fuller and Johnnie Benefield.”