Grievances Page 8

  Bullock removed his mirrored sunglasses with a practiced snap and grasped the hand of the elderly woman who stood at the door, receiving guests. “I’m Ronald Bullock. This is my associate Mr. Harper. We’re so sorry.”

  “Thank you for coming,” she said with a sad smile. “How did you know Sidney?”

  “Business,” Bullock said quickly. I smiled and nodded.

  “That’s remarkable. What did Sidney have to do with your business?”

  “He was a great friend of the business,” Bullock said.

  “Sidney was my sister.”

  “Of course,” Bullock laughed. “Slip of the tongue. She was a great friend of the business.”

  “Mercy,” said the woman. “I never knew.”

  Before she could say more Bullock grabbed my elbow and steered me into the next room where, in the great tradition of Southern funerals, mourners helped themselves to mountains of food. Fried chicken. Baked beans. Lima beans. Green beans. Field peas. Black-eyed peas. Six different kinds of potato salad. Four different kinds of Jello salad. Cole slaw. Biscuits. Cornbread. Lemonade. Sweet tea. The smells made me ravenous and we ate until we were bursting, smiling and nodding at the other mourners and saying nothing.

  When we returned to the car, Bullock marveled, “Chicken from one end of the house to the other and when we got out to the back porch, dessert! You jump on any of that strawberry shortcake?”

  “Ronnie, that was despicable,” I said as we got back on the road.

  “I’d say it was damned good.”

  “You know what I mean. We shouldn’t have done it.”

  “Why?” he questioned. “We hurt nobody and we got fed. And now Sidney’s sister thinks she had even more friends than she really did. We did that poor woman a favor.”

  We stopped for gas outside Hirtsboro. Bullock pumped and when he went in to pay, I went with him. A forty-something woman with bleached blonde hair, lots of gold necklaces, and extremely tight shorts sat on a stool behind the cash register, smoking. She wore a small white T-shirt, which accentuated her impressive chest.

  “How are you today?” Bullock asked, fumbling for his wallet and never taking his eyes off her chest.

  The cashier cupped her hands below her breasts, thrust them out and said in a high, squeaky voice: “Oh, we’re fine! How are you?”

  Bullock was unfazed. I bought a drink, paid for it separately and pretended I didn’t know him. In less than four hours, Bullock had managed to insult blacks, women, gays, break the speed limit, transport guns across state lines, impersonate a mourner, and commit visual sexual harassment. It was going to be a long two weeks.

  “Ronnie, you need to cut it out,” I scolded when we got back to the car.

  “They don’t wear ’em like that if they don’t want you to look,” he growled. “Hell, she probably hears it six times a day and loves it. Did you catch those shorts? They were so tight she had a dime in her back pocket and I could read the date.”

  “Would you just rein it in? When it’s just you, I don’t care what you do. But we’re a team and I’ll be damned if I’m going to have you screw things up right out of the gate.”

  “Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll watch it. Hell with ’em if they can’t take a joke, though.”

  But it was too late. Less than a mile after we left the store, I heard the brief whoop of a police siren and saw blue lights out the back window. Bullock pulled the car to the shoulder, raising a cloud of choking red dust. When it cleared, I saw from the markings on the black and white patrol car that we had been stopped by the Hirtsboro police. An officer emerged from the car and began walking toward us.

  Oh, Jesus, I thought. The guns.

  “I hope he’s not the husband of that clerk,” Bullock said.

  “Maybe her son.”

  The policeman, no more than twenty years old, pimply-faced, pale, and skinny, seemed to float inside his uniform. Looking more like a cop than the cop, Bullock snapped off his sunglasses and rolled down the window. “Afternoon, officer. What seems to be the trouble?”

  The young policeman bent over and stuck his face almost inside the car. A silver nameplate identified him as O. Pennegar.

  “May I see your license and registration, sir?” he asked formally.

  Bullock removed his wallet from his back pocket.

  “Just the license. Not the wallet.”

  Bullock handed over the license and the officer studied it for a long time. I felt like he was trying to recall the police academy procedure for what happens next.

  “What’s the problem, officer?” I asked.

  “Speeding,” said Pennegar. “Twenty miles over. It’s a one hundred dollar fine. You can pay me or we can head into town and visit the magistrate if you request a hearing.”

  “We were going no more than fifty-five!” I protested.

  “I’ll handle this!” Bullock snapped. He turned to Pennegar and said politely, “Officer, I thought we were obeying the limit.”

  “It’s thirty-five miles an hour, sir,” Pennegar said formally.

  “Since when?” I interrupted.

  “Since the Hirtsboro town limit a mile back.”

  “I didn’t see any town limit sign.” I was indignant.

  “There isn’t one. Someone shot it up. But that don’t matter. Speed limit’s thirty-five in town and everybody knows where the town limit is.”

  “Well, we’re not from around here,” I said. “We’re reporters down here on a story.”

  Bullock whacked me on the thigh with the back of his hand. “Stow it, dammit!”

  “What’s the fine again, officer?” he said, turning to Pennegar.

  “One hundred dollars. Pay me or we can go see the magistrate.”

  “Go ahead and pay him,” I told Bullock. “But pay him two hundred. Because the next time we come back through here, we’re gonna be doing the same damn speed.”

  “Can it!” said Bullock.

  Pennegar stepped away from the window. He glanced at the license. “I believe I’ve heard enough from your friend. Now hand me the registration.”

  Without thinking, I opened the glove box. The .38 tumbled out again.

  Pennegar’s eyes widened. They darted from side to side. “Freeze!” he commanded, drawing his gun. “Keep your hands where I can see ’em.”

  Bullock slumped in his seat and stared at me. “You stupid jerk.” Then he turned to the policeman. “Officer Pennegar, at this point I must inform you about all the weapons in the vehicle. In addition to the .38 police special, there is a 30.06 in the trunk.”

  “Step out and away from the car,” Pennegar said. As we climbed out, Pennegar leveled a trembling gun at Bullock and unhooked a set of handcuffs from his belt.

  “Hands behind your back,” he shouted. I obeyed. He snapped the cuffs so tightly around my wrists that they pinched.

  “Officer, we’re not a threat,” Bullock protested. “The weapons are—”

  “Quiet,” Pennegar ordered. He retrieved another set of handcuffs from his patrol car and cuffed Bullock, leaving his hands in the front. He locked us both in the back of the patrol car and searched the Dodge for the weapons.

  “Just keep your mouth shut,” Bullock told me. The patrol car doors were closed. The engine and air conditioning were off. The heat was stifling. My heart was pounding. I started to feel clammy. I couldn’t get my breath. I felt dizzy, queasy.

  “You all right? Bullock asked.

  But before I could answer I retched, hurling the funeral lunch over the floor of the car.

  “Nice,” said Bullock. With the heat, the smell and the embarrassment, it was a miserable ten minutes until Pennegar returned.

  “Jesus, what’s this?” he said with a shudder.

  “Kid puked.”

  “I hope he didn’t pee his pants, too.”


  We rode back to Hirtsboro with the air conditioner on and the windows open and parked in front of the town hall, a one-story, flat-roofed, white cinderblock building on Jefferson Davis Boulevard, two blocks away from the town’s business district. Pennegar jerked me out of the patrol car and led us into the municipal offices. A fifty-ish woman sitting behind a huge desk with a nameplate that read “Patty Paysinger, Town Clerk” looked up from some paperwork, removed her glasses and let them hang from their chain. “Watcha got, Olen?”

  “Speeding and concealed weapons.”

  She eyed us the way my mother did Luke and me when she was sure we had done something wrong.

  I could no longer contain myself. “Ma’am, I’m Matt Harper. This is Ronald Bullock. We’re reporters for the Charlotte Times. We’re not dangerous. We’re the ones who told him we had guns.”

  “I think you can take their handcuffs off, Olen,” she said gently.

  “Yes, ma’am. The magistrate around?” He unlocked the cuffs. I massaged the marks out of my wrists and looked around the room—a wall of metal file cabinets, a restroom, a windowless office, a large closet with a latch on the door. Patty Paysinger motioned us to a couple of chairs at a rectangular table and we sat down. A window-mounted air conditioner rattled noisily. The cool settled my stomach and dried the perspiration that had soaked through my shirt.

  “He’s at home. You go fetch him, Olen, and we’ll see what he wants to do about these two.”

  “Uh, there’s a problem with the patrol car. One of ’em threw up in the back seat.”

  “You can clean it up later,” she said, tossing him her keys. “Take my car. Now, hop.”

  “I think he oughta clean it up himself.”

  “Olen, do as you are told. Now, which one of you was sick?”

  I raised my hand like a grade-school kid.

  “Oh, you poor dear! Let me get you a wet wash cloth.” She disappeared into another room. Pennegar left, slamming the door.

  “The magistrate will be here in a few minutes,” she said when she returned.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said. “Who is the magistrate?”

  “Rutledge Buchan. Been the magistrate in Hirtsboro for years.”

  Rutledge Buchan entered the building as if he had been waiting for the town clerk to announce him. He wore jodhpurs, a western shirt, and brown riding boots which reported every step with a thud. He was tall, maybe sixty-five years old, and carried himself with a haughty, military bearing. His thin nose and chin and deep-set eyes gave him a hawkish appearance. In his left hand, he held a leather crop. His air of authority was such that Bullock and I immediately stood.

  “Well, well,” he said, with a thick drawl. “What do we have heah?” He smacked the crop in his hand. I felt like fresh meat.

  “Two boys from Charlotte. Reporters,” said Patty Paysinger.

  Officer Pennegar had followed the magistrate into the room and interrupted. “Like I told you, sir. I caught ’em for speeding out on the highway. Fifty-five in a thirty-five. When I searched the car, I found the guns.”

  “I volunteered that we had the guns,” Bullock said calmly. “I did it for your own protection and so that you wouldn’t get the idea that we had something to hide. It’s the preferred approach under such circumstances.”

  “Hold on. Hold on,” the magistrate said. “Let’s get comfortable heah.” He motioned for us to sit back down and he started to pace.

  The magistrate turned to Bullock. “Carryin’ a concealed weapon is a violation of the South Carolina Criminal Code.”

  “It would be, sir,” Bullock said politely. “But I have permits.”

  Bullock reached into his wallet, extracted two folded pieces of paper and handed them to the magistrate. Buchan examined them and handed them to Pennegar who inspected them closely and passed them back.

  “Signed by the po-lice chief up in Charlotte, I see,” Buchan observed. I was as surprised as the magistrate.

  Buchan swung a chair around and straddled it so he could face us. “So you boys are reporters from Charlotte?” He said it like “re-po-tuhs.” “What brings you all the way down heah?”

  Well, I thought, this was just as good a time as any to start the investigation of the killing of Wallace Sampson.

  “We’re here,” I said, “to do a story on a killing that happened almost twenty years ago. Victim was a boy named Wallace Sampson. Do you remember anything about it?”

  “’Course I do,” Buchan said. “I was magistrate when it happened. Terrible thing. Shot, if I remember correctly. Never caught anyone.”

  “That’s right.”

  Buchan tipped forward in the chair. “Bradford Hall get you down heah?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “How’d you know?”

  “Hirtsboro’s a small place.”

  Olen Pennegar interrupted. “What about the speeding? Fifty-five in a thirty-five?”

  “Where’d you get ’em?” Buchan asked. “Usual place?”

  “Just inside the missing city limit sign,” I pointed out.

  Buchan rocked the chair back and laughed. “You know, we were gonna get that sign replaced until we realized we couldn’t afford it.”

  “To get the sign replaced? How much could that cost?”

  “Ain’t the cost of the sign. It’s all the revenue we’d lose because we’d be writin’ half as many tickets!” He winked at Patty Paysinger and they laughed as if it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. “Patty, how’s the treasury this month?”

  “Not too good. Olen’s still a rookie. He’ll get the hang of it. But he’s not bringing it in like we’ve been used to.”

  The magistrate turned to us. “I’m gonna have to find you guilty of speedin’ fifty-five in a thirty-five. That’s a one hundred dollar fine and one hundred dollars for costs.” He stood up from his chair.

  “It was one hundred dollars and no costs when we were out on the highway,” I said.

  “That’s right,” Buchan said. “It was. But you chose a hearin’ so you pay the court costs, too.”

  Bullock stood up, took two hundred dollars cash from his wallet and handed it to the magistrate. Buchan peeled off five twenties and gave them to Patty Paysinger. “For the town,” he said. He split the remaining one hundred dollars between himself and Pennegar, who stuffed the bills into his breast pocket.

  “You keep the court costs?” I asked. “Seems like a conflict of interest.”

  Buchan smiled. “Olen had to bring you in. I had to leave the house and come on down here. Ain’t no conflict with our interest.”

  We left the building together. Buchan waited until Pennegar was out of earshot then motioned Bullock and me closer. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, his hawk-like features softening. “Those two make sure I treat everybody the same.”

  “Thanks,” Bullock said. “I understand.”

  Buchan pulled closer. “I’ve known Brad Hall and his family since Moses was in diapers,” he said. “He’s a good boy and, bless his heart, I know he means well. But I don’t believe he’s ever had a job in his life and like my daddy used to say, too much money and not enough to do ain’t a good combination. I would hate to see you boys waste your time.”

  Olen Pennegar dropped us off at the car and pulled away.

  “Jesus,” Bullock sputtered, “you almost blew it. What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I almost blew it?”

  “Yeah. The only reason we had any trouble is that you decided to be a smart ass and lip off to the cop about the sign. Rule number one if you ever get caught doing anything you shouldn’t: Never complain, never explain.”

  “Ronnie, we haven’t even been gone a day and you’ve already broken the speeding laws, spent time in custody, and almost been busted for concealed weapons. All this fast cars and guns macho bullshit. I’ve never been closer to getting
shot or jailed than I have been today. You kept quiet about the derringer! What if they’d searched you?”

  “Hell, they weren’t gonna search me. I’d already admitted to bigger guns than that. Besides, the whole point of a derringer is surprise.”

  “It was an unnecessary risk that jeopardized the story.”

  We didn’t speak until after we had arrived at Windrow where Brad was waiting.

  As the dogs Maybelle and Tasha pranced excitedly, he showed us to our room, apologized for Lindsay’s absence and told us to meet him on the back deck when we had unpacked. When I got there, Brad and Bullock were already deep in conversation. An open bottle of Rebel Yell sat on a table and Bullock was fiddling with the scope on the 30.06.

  “Join us, won’t you?” Brad raised his tumbler. “Mr. Bullock is introducing me to the pleasure of a true Southern bourbon.”

  “I believe I will.”

  We jumped at the loud crack of the 30.06. “Damn,” Bullock said. “Still off.” He resumed fiddling with the adjusting screws on the scope.

  The deck overlooked the Savannah River and off in a low-lying area to the left a swamp of cypress and Spanish moss.

  “You see that Bald Cypress down there in the swamp, Ronnie? The one by Tupelo Gum?” Brad asked.

  “The big one?”

  “Yeah, furthest to the left. See if you can pick off that clump of epiphyte hanging from the branch.”

  “Say what?”

  “The gray stuff.”

  “That Spanish moss?”

  “That’s it, although it’s wrongly named. It’s an epiphyte, not a moss. Part of the pineapple family. Very spongy. Henry Ford used it for seat padding in the Model T.”

  Bullock raised the rifle and fired. A piece of the clump drifted to the ground.

  “Not bad from one hundred yards,” Brad said. “Lemme see the rifle.” Bullock handed it over. Brad aimed at the swamp, fired, and the rest of the clump dropped.

  Bullock whistled. “Where’d you learn to shoot?”

  “You get pretty good if you grow up on a bird-hunting plantation. I could have been on the shooting team at Harvard but I prefer fencing to guns. More sport if both sides are equally armed.” He refilled everyone’s tumbler.