Death in West Wheeling Read online

“Skip.”

  I shoved my hand at him. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Skip.”

  He looked at me suspiciously an’ made no move to shake. “Why’s that?”

  “Ain’t every day a man gets to meet a legend.”

  “Legend?”

  “Ain’t you Skip Jackson?”

  “What if I am?”

  “Well, ain’t many your age’d have the sense to clear out on a old man’s tryin’ to skin him alive, an’ the savvy to find somewhere like this to hole up in ’til he’s growed enough to be on his own.” It was a arrangement the County Welfare’d legalized by havin’ Skip declared a ward of the agency. “Takes brains,” I went on. “Maybe enough you’ll be runnin’ the whole county one day.” I could see him puffin’ up at that, but he shook his head.

  “You some kind of smart-ass?”

  “Next to Miss Nina Ross, the smartest ass in Boone County.”

  “You’re weird!”

  I let the slur pass as I opened the car door an’ removed Clyde from my seat.

  “Hey!” he said. “I thought you said that was real!”

  “It is.” I shoved Clyde under the seat. “You didn’t ask me if it was live.” He scowled. “Only a fool’d keep a live rattler in his car.” I’d known a few—gun runners an’ moonshiners, mostly. One of ’em died a snakebite when he wore through his seat, an’ his guard-snake bit him in the balls. But that’s another story … “You didn’t come out here to discuss my security arrangements,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

  He must’a decided to see it my way, ’cause he finally said, “You still lookin’ for Mr. Devon?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, there’s someone might be able to tell you somethin’.” I waited. “My cousin Angie. She’s a friend a his.”

  I raised my eyebrows, an’ he made a face I took to mean, “Gimme a break.”

  “Mr. Devon’s not like that. He wouldn’t hurt a kid. He’s friends with most all of ’em.”

  “Okay. Angie here today?”

  “Naw. That’s the problem. She ain’t been here since Mr. Devon left.”

  “That’d be Angie Boone?” He nodded. “The girl your older brother, Ash, is sweet on?” Again a nod. “Why do you suppose nobody’s bothered to mention it to me?”

  He shrugged. “Prob’ly nobody but me or Mr. Devon’d notice. Angie’s sixteen. She don’t have to come to school.”

  I got into the car but didn’t start it ’til I’d rolled the window down. “Much obliged.”

  “Hey, can I ride in your car?”

  I reckoned I owed him. I reached over an’ unlocked the passenger door; he scooted round the car an’ got in.

  “I can only take you to the road.”

  He grinned as he nodded. “All right!”

  By the time we got there, he’d learned how to operate the Mars lights an’ the siren, an’ I figgered I’d created a monster. Or, mebbe, made a friend.

  ATF

  My office is on the second floor of the town hall, in the northeast corner of the buildin’ which is on the southwest corner of Main an’ Cross. Its chief advantage is it’s got windows facin’ both streets, so I can keep an eye on the main drag, an’ the bank, the drug store, all the in-town trouble spots, an’ the post office, which is on the east side of Cross Street, without leavin’ my seat. I got a comfortable chair—a semi-recliner that swivels—a desk big enough to spread my lunch out on—days I bring lunch, a chair for visitors, an’ a filin’ cabinet with the police radio an’ a coffeepot.

  When I got back from the mission, I went up to my office an’ found a stranger sittin’ in my chair, with his feet on my desk. He didn’t rush to take ’em off when he spotted me.

  “You must be the deputy sheriff,” he said. He was wearin’ snakeskin cowboy boots, tan slacks, a white dress shirt with no tie, a sport jacket, an’ state police shades.

  I nodded an’ tried to keep what I thought of his manners from showin’. “An’ you’d be?”

  He reached into his jacket an’ come out with a license wallet, which he tossed on the desk between us. “Special Agent Arnold, ATF.”

  I restrained the urge to ask if that was Benedict Arnold or Arnold the Pig as I picked up the wallet an’ looked at it. There was a official-lookin’ badge an’ a officious-lookin’ card that said, George Arnold, an’ United States Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. No picture, but the attitude was right, an’ the shades were pretty much in character. I pulled my visitor’s chair up to the visitor’s side of my desk an’ sat down. “What kin ah do fer yew, Special Agent Arnold?” I could see him fightin’ to keep his sneer from showin’. Local deputy sheriffs seem to have that effect on ATF agents.

  “I’m looking for one of your local good old boys,” he said. “One Ash Jackson.”

  “What’s he done?”

  “Nothing that concerns you. Where will I find him?”

  “Don’t guess I could say. Hell, maybe.”

  “Don’t get smart with me.”

  “No chance. If I was smart, I’d locked my office ’fore I went out.” I put my feet on the desk an’ reached behind me to open the middle drawer of my filin’ cabinet an’ take out my fifth of Old Grandad. I opened it an’ took a swig before lookin’ back at Arnold. I was pleased to note he seemed to be havin’ trouble keepin’ his cool an’ was at a loss for somethin’ to say. Finally, he put his feet on the floor an’ said, “Does the sheriff approve of your drinking on the job?”

  As it was plain he didn’t like to be kept waitin’, I took another swig an’ put the bottle back in the drawer ’fore I said, “Sheriff ain’t here. An’ there ain’t no department regulation ’gainst drinkin’ on duty.”

  “You’re pathetic! When will the sheriff be in?”

  “Can’t say that neither. You wanna leave a message?”

  “You know what the penalty is for interfering in a federal investigation?”

  “Can’t say I do. You didn’t say nothin’ ’bout no investigation.”

  “I told you I’m looking for Ash Jackson.”

  “Duly noted. If you tell me where you’re stayin’ I’ll let you know if he shows up. That’s the best I kin do. I’d like to talk with that good ol’ boy myself.”

  That seemed to surprise him. “What for?”

  “Nothin’ major. Little matter of a missin’ person.”

  Arnold instantly lost interest. “Federal jurisdiction takes precedence.” He stood up. “I’ll be at the Motel Six. If you find him, I expect you to let me know immediately.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  He started to say somethin’ else, then just shook his head an’ stalked out. I stayed where I was until I was sure he wasn’t comin’ back, then went to see which way he went. When he come out of the buildin’, he climbed into a government-issue car parked on Cross Street an’ drove off in the direction of Motel Six. Then I closed up my office an’ went to find out from Nina what was really goin’ on.

  Myra Boone

  When I got done talkin’ to Nina—who for once didn’t know as much as me—I called the hospital an’ the funeral home. No luck. Then I started at the library, askin’ about things in general an’ Mr. Missin’ Devon in particular. My big sister Alethia, who’s been librarian since Ma retired to Florida, ’membered Devon. He’d been a frequent visitor to the library—’til about a month ago. I wondered out loud why I’d never run into him.

  Thia said, “Maybe if you’d spend less time at the post office …” Thia don’t entirely approve of Nina—thinks she’s too young for me, an’ wild.

  “Don’t start, Thia.”

  “No point,” she said. “You’re free, white, and twenty-one.” Thia is only five-four an’ skinny, but she sometimes forgets she ain’t my ma.

  “Not to change the subject much, but has Ash Jackson been in recently?”

  “Ash Jackson has never been in here. Try the Sports Bar.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “What’s the connection with Rog
er?”

  I shrugged. “I’m just killin’ two birds on one trip. ATF’s lookin’ for Ash.”

  “If he comes in, I’ll tell him.”

  “Nah, don’t do that. If you see him, call the sheriff.”

  “Anything else I can do for you?”

  I held up one of the pi’tures of Devon. “You might could put up this poster,” I said, knowin’ my grammar’d give her fits.

  She passed on the chance to correct it, an’ put Devon on her bulletin board, right next to the America’s Libraries READ poster of Whoopi Goldberg.

  None of the clerks at Saveway had seen Devon, who I was beginnin’ to think of as RD. Same went for the Baptist preacher—Reverend Nathaniel Church, an’ the folks at the Shell station, the drug an’ feed stores, the restaurant, an’ the three in-town bars. Neither the high school bus driver nor the grammar school secretary, who knows even more than Nina ’bout what’s goin’ on, knew anythin’. By the most amazin’ coincidence, no one I talked to could remember the last time he’d seen Ash Jackson, either. I timed my visit to the post office to coincide with the arrival of the Greyhound bus, but the driver didn’t remember pickin’ up anyone in Boone County since Christmas. It figured. Just to be thorough, I planned to hit the Truck Stop an’ the Sports Bar, where someone should have seen Ash if not RD, but it was beginnin’ to look as if Nina’s guess about them was on target—Ash’d run Devon outta town, or mebbe worse, then decided to make hisself scarce ’til things cooled down.

  After talkin’ to the Greyhound driver, I had just enough time before supper to take a run out to the Boone place an’ find out what Angie knew about it all.

  The Boones have the biggest farm in the county—three hundred good acres with a blacktop drive, a two-story white house, an’ a pi’ture-postcard barn. The place looked deserted. I rung the bell an’ waited two or three minutes, then moseyed ’round back where the Boones parked their trucks. The backyard was blacktopped, too, an’ the area between the house an’ barn was ringed by farm equipment, some covered, all well kept up. There was a old-fashioned Coke machine—the kind with the little glass bottles for a quarter—next to the back door. I got outta my car an’ bought a couple of Cokes. I had to open both of ’em right there, ’cause they was the kind you need a church key to get into. I half-emptied one while I looked ’round.

  Mars Boone’s Ford 150 was gone, but Myra’s Toyota was pulled up next to the barn door, which was open. The big storage area, inside the barn, was empty, guarded by a Rottweiler big as a Kenworth tractor. He didn’t bother to get up or bark when I got near, just growled a little when I got closer than he liked. There wasn’t no doubt what’d happen if I crossed the line.

  I went back to my car an’ followed the wheel ruts from the edge of the paved yard to the dirt lane runnin’ between the fields. It weren’t bad, as unpaved roads go, but the squad bottomed out a couple times ’fore I got to the field where a tractor was circlin’ the hay field. In the distance it looked like a Matchbox toy.

  At the field gate, I stopped to watch. Myra Boone was drivin’, rakin’ the hay that’d probably been cut yesterday. She had on a long-sleeved shirt an’ a wide-brimmed hat to keep the sun off. I got out of my car an’ finished my Coke while I waited for her to come round. When she stopped an’ cut the engine, I got the second Coke an’ walked over. I took off my hat. “Afternoon, Miz Boone.” She didn’t get down, an’ I had to look up to her.

  “Homer.” She wiped her face on her sleeve. “What brings you up this way?”

  I handed her the Coke. She smiled an’ took it, waitin’ for a answer. I said, “One of the teachers from the mission turned up AWOL. I thought maybe Angie might’a heard ’bout it.”

  “Why Angie?” Myra seemed a tad alarmed.

  I shrugged. “Jus’ coverin’ all the bases. She’s the only kid I ain’t talked to yet.”

  I thought Myra looked relieved. “She’s still at school.” She took a pull on the Coke bottle, then got a puzzled look on her face. “Why’n’t you talk to her when you questioned the other kids?”

  “I thought one of ’em tole me she wasn’t there. Guess I must’a misunderstood.”

  “Damn straight. She goes to school every day. Else she’d be out here with me, earnin’ her keep.” She took a long swallow of Coke that half emptied the bottle.

  I nodded again. “She mention anythin’ to you about one of the teachers leavin’?”

  “Nope.” She finished the drink an’ handed me back the bottle. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Maybe you could have Angie stop an’ see me next time she’s in town?” Maybe I’d have to find Angie sooner than that. “Or gimme a call if she’s heard anythin’ ’bout that missin’ teacher?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” She restarted the engine, an’ whatever else she said got lost as she put it in gear.

  I left the empties by the Coke machine on my way back to the road.

  the Truck Stop

  The sign over the pass-through from the kitchen said: EVERYONE BRINGS JOY TO THIS ESTABLISHMENT, SOME BY ENTERING, OTHERS BY LEAVING. I figured I fell into the former category, ’cause Charity Nonesuch lit up like a gambler at Las Vegas when she spotted me.

  “What can I do you for, Homer?” she axed. “Coffee for openers?”

  I set down at the counter. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The sign out front says HARDSETTER’S FOOD AND GAS, but everyone just calls it the Truck Stop. It’s the best place in Boone County to eat well an’ cheap. There’s always half a dozen big rigs out front—a sure sign of a good place—an’ Cadillacs an’ New Yorkers park in b’tween the Chevys, Fords, an’ GMCs. Locals from West Wheeling an’ Okra drop in ’fore goin’ out for a show, or bowlin’, or a evenin’ of power shoppin’ at the Wal-Mart. Bein’ a single man, I’m a fairly regular customer myself.

  Charity set a steamin’ mug in front of me an’ waited.

  “The usual, Charity,” I said.

  She scribbled “S&EOE” on her notepad, then put the order on the pass-through ledge. She looked ’round to see if her other customers needed her, then got herself a cup of coffee an’ leaned over the counter. She’s blonde, an’ what I would call a generous woman, in every sense of the word. When she leaned toward me, I got a eyeful of her generous endowments, barely contained by a tight, V-neck blouse.

  “What brings you up this way?” she axed.

  I took out one of the missin’ man posters, which I had rolled up in my front shirt pocket, an’ spread it out on the counter. “I wonder if you know this man?”

  She gave me a sly grin an’ said, “Wouldn’t be surprised. I know most of the men in Boone County.”

  I knew what she meant. I had a standin’ invitation, myself, to stop by her place for dessert.

  Then she got serious. She took a look at Roger Devon an’ shook her head. “Can’t say I’ve seen this fella. Been missin’ a month, it says here. Sad.”

  I said, “Yeah. It was a long shot, anyway. He’s one of the Pine Ridge missionaries.”

  Charity pushed off from the counter an’ circumnavigated the room lookin’ for customers in need of refills. There were three long-haul drivers, regulars, an’ a couple Okra boys in Beastie Boys shirts. When she come back, she axed, “What else is new?”

  “We got a revenuer in town.”

  That made her prick up her ears. “Treasury man?”

  “ATF.”

  “Am I gonna hafta drag every detail outta you?”

  I shrugged. “Not much detail. He’s got a badge an’ a attitude, an’ he’s lookin’ for Ash Jackson. You seen Ash lately?”

  “No. Must be goin’ on a month since he’s been in.” She didn’t sound too troubled about that. “There any connection between that and this young man gone missin’?”

  “There you got me, Charity. Far as I can see, there’s just the timin’ to connect ’em.”

  “And Angie Boone.”

  “Word does get ’round.”

  She blushed. “Well, Rye Willis delive
rs our … supplies.” She meant the home brew the Truck Stop kept under the counter for regular customers.

  “An’ Len Hartman delivers your mail. He oughtta get extra for the newscasts.”

  “He said Nina told him. She oughtta know.”

  “She oughtta know better’n to pass along gossip.”

  Charity ignored that. “You want I should tape this poster up on the counter by the register?”

  “I’d be obliged.”

  Diamond Jim

  After a leisurely feed at the Truck Stop, I stopped by my house to change into my civvies an’ swap the County squad for the old Dodge pickup my ma gave me when she moved away. Then I moseyed along to DJ’s, West Wheeling’s sports bar.

  DJ’s is between West Wheeling an’ Okra, an’ technically, outside the town boundary. It’s owned by Diamond Jim Bradley, a big man—six-two an’ wide as a defensive lineman—with a Cheshire cat grin. He’s called Diamond Jim ’cause his taste runs to Rolexes an’ diamond pinkie rings, an’ he wears expensive suits an’ drives a Lincoln. In spite of his substantial size, it’s rumored he’s a vampire ’cause he hardly ever goes out in daylight. I personally disallow such talk—no one as fond of good livin’ as Jim could be such a bloodless wonder. An’ whatever you say about his morals, which some compare unfavorably to a tomcat’s, you gotta admit he’s generous to a fault. As soon’s I walked in, he was on top of me, offered to give me good odds on the playoffs, buy me a drink an’ a steak dinner, an’ fix me up with “a cute little number named Trixie.”

  When I finally convinced him I was there on business, he said, “I’m gonna figure out your price some day, Deputy. Everybody has one.”

  “Mebbe. But what makes you think you’d be able to afford mine?”

  He laughed an’ said, “I love a man with a sense of humor.”

  I let that go.

  “Well, if I can’t buy you or corrupt you, what can I do for you?”

  I showed him my pi’ture of RD an’ axed if he ever seen him. He hadn’t. He hadn’t seen Ash Jackson, either. By the time I’d established that Ash hadn’t been by in over a week, a payin’ customer’d wandered in, an’ DJ hustled off to greet him. Not before he ordered the bartender—with a wink I wasn’t s’posed to see—to give me a drink an’ his “full cooperation.”