The Heavenly Table(112)

“Ah, I don’t think he’d like—” Cane started to say as they got to the corner, but then he stopped in mid-sentence. Coming down the street was the group of soldiers they’d seen earlier, only now two of them were pulling with their horses a car that looked exactly like the one Chimney had bought. “Clear the way,” the stout man who’d been giving orders earlier called out as citizens jammed around the auto. “Get back, I said! Get back!”

“Stay here and don’t move,” Cane told Cob. He pushed his way through the swarm until he was within five or six feet of the car, and that’s when he saw Chimney, bound in manacles and sitting with a stony look on his face beside a soldier manning the steering wheel. In the backseat lay another man partly dressed in a bloody uniform, obviously badly hurt. Jesus Christ, two hours ago everything was fine. A sick feeling swept over Cane, and his ears buzzed with all the voices going on around him.

“What the hell happened?”

“Goddamn it, people, clear the way!”

“They say that skinny boy shot Pollard that owns the Blind Owl, but the soldiers caught him ’fore he could get away.”

“Back off!”

“Someone said he’s one of them Jewetts they been hunting.”

“No way.”

“Hey, quit your shoving, goddamn it.”

“What about the one in the uniform? Did the boy mess him up like that?”

“No, it was Pollard did it. Had him chained up in his back room cuttin’ on him.”

“I told my wife just the other day that damn army camp was going to lead to trouble.”

“Jimmy Beulah said the same thing.”

“Aw, shit, Fuller, you don’t want to listen to anything that ol’ coot says. He put some boy’s eye out the other night at the Big Penny.”

“Look there. Is his fingers cut off?”

“Just on the one hand it looks like.”

“They say Triplett sold him that car.”

“Well, that explains why they’re pulling it then.”

“Be just like Trip to sell a car to a bandit.”

“Here comes Chief Wallingford. You wait and see, he’ll try to take credit for the whole shebang.”

“Jack Meadows said he’s got a new lady friend over in Fayette County.”

“Shit, she can’t be much of a lady if she’s hangin’ around with ol’ Pus Gut.”

“Wonder where the other ones are?”

“Who you talkin’ about?”

“The other Jewetts. There’s supposed to be three of ’em, ain’t they?”

Cane swallowed some bile and hurried back through the crowd to where Cob stood eating from a bag of peanuts he’s picked up on the way out of the lobby. “Come on,” he said in a low voice, “we got to get out of here.”

“But what about Mr. Bentley? Think we could—”

“We’ll talk about that later,” Cane said, grabbing Cob by the sleeve. “Come on, I need you to hurry.”

“Don’t go too fast,” Cob complained after only a few yards. “My leg’s hurtin’ me.”

“All right,” Cane said, “all right.” He slowed down and glanced behind them, tried to steady himself with a deep breath. “Just do the best ye can.”

“What’s going on back there anyway?”

“I’ll tell ye later,” Cane said. “Right now we got to get back to the hotel.”





69


SUGAR HAD BEEN following the two brothers the entire time, and once they entered the McCarthy, he ran the three blocks back uptown to find the police chief. Although Malone and his patrol had passed on through with Chimney and Bovard on their way to the army camp, the crowd of onlookers continued to swell. Wallingford, irate that the sergeant had acted so uppity when he asked him what had taken place, was headed back to the jail with his other son, Luther, to call the general’s headquarters and make a complaint. He’d already sent Lester over to secure the Blind Owl before it was looted, and Pollard’s carcass before some sicko got hold of it. When he heard footsteps running up behind him, he flinched and closed his eyes. Jesus Lord, was this the end? It was one of the downfalls of being a lawman for so many years: having a great number of enemies. You never knew when someone might get the notion to do violence to you, just for trying to maintain a little bit of order in this world of chaos. Sure, nine times out of ten the assassin might only be planning to throw a pie in your face, or call you a dirty name or two, but then again, he might gun you down in cold blood, like what had happened to his friend sheriff Buddy Thompson, over in Athens County a couple of summers ago. Blasted clear out of his chair on a Sunday while reading the funny papers, by the family of a man he’d arrested for running a white slavery ring that catered to clients looking for Appalachian females endowed with the stamina of an ox and the woodsy know-how of a Davy Crockett. It was a lot of pressure, living on edge like that day after day, and that’s why, he figured, he ended up doing reckless shit like taking on mistresses he couldn’t afford. “Hey, Chief,” he heard someone say in a ragged pant. “Hey, Mister Police.”

When Wallingford opened his eyes, he saw before him the filthy black man Lester had arrested for cleaning out Pollard’s outhouse. “Jesus Christ, you again? Boy, you nearly give me a heart attack.”