“Let me see dat picture, you,” he said. When I handed him the picture he studied it for a long time before he spoke. “My mother’s name was Hazel,” he said. “She stood ‘bout five feet tall, her, no more of dat, mon. She work her whole life, mostly laundry for the rich people live in the hills high above the road dat look out over the bay water. One day Robert and me went wid her to carry the buckets. We were both only fourteen. When dat truck swerved to miss the goats in the road it headed right toward us. She shoved Robert and me into the ditch but dat truck, mon, it struck her dead. She land right next to us, she did. I never forget it. I never had a picture of my mother, no. No letter, either. But I’ll tell you this, if I did, I do what it say to do, mon.” Then he did something that surprised me. He handed me the picture then put both his hands on my face and kissed me on the cheek. “Your mother, she don’t live here,” he said as he tapped his finger at the side of my head. “She don’t live in no picture, either.” Then he placed his palm flat upon my chest over my beating heart and said, “She live in here, just like your grandfather do. Go home now. There’s nothing here for you. Not tonight, no.”
How did you ever become so wise, Delroy?
Bottom line? If you find yourself in need, seek out the advice of a Jamaican bartender.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The next morning on my way to work, with little forethought, I turned into the entrance of the cemetery where my mother is buried and wound my way around the perimeter road and parked my truck on the service pathway next to her burial plot. A black Crown Victoria sat on the road a few yards ahead of me, its parking lights on, its engine idling. I got out of my truck and walked with my head down until I was almost abreast of my mom’s gravesite. What I saw when I got there stopped me in my tracks.
Murton Wheeler stood by the grave, a single flower clutched in his right hand. I walked up behind him, but before I could speak he placed the flower on top of her tombstone, his back still toward me and said, “I always loved your mom, Jonesy. You know that, don’t you? She was the mom I never had. Remember how she cried when we got back from sand land? She hugged me like I was her own then kissed me on both cheeks and once on the lips, just like she did with you.”
I walked up next to where he stood and looked him in the eye. “I remember her crying even harder when you disappeared,” I said. “You broke her heart, Murt.”
A morning wind blew hard across the burial ground and the flower Murt had placed atop her tombstone fell off the back. He retrieved it, this time placing it on the ground in front of her marker and used his fingers to half bury the stem in the ground to hold it in place. When he stood, he looked at me and said, “There are things you don’t know, Jonesy. Sometimes things go a certain way and you end up someplace you never knew existed, and you see things that are hard to forget.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Murton?
“I’m talking about trying to figure some things out, that’s all.” He turned a full circle and looked across the cemetery as he did so. “Did you know I was here the day you buried your mom? You didn’t, did you? I can tell by the look on your face. I wanted to talk to you then, but I knew how that would probably turn out.”
“Maybe not,” I said, but even as I said the words I thought he was probably right. “Who were those men looking for you last night at the bar? Why did you leave?”
“You talked to Pate at his church, didn’t you?” he said. “I know you did because I saw you there.”
I was just about to ask him why he was there when the corner of my mother’s tombstone seemed to fragment, the granite exploding outward at the same time a distant gunshot echoed through the trees. Murton pushed me to the ground and I landed face first in the grass. By the time I cleared my eyes of dirt and debris, Murt was running toward the Crown Vic parked ahead of my truck. I started to run after him, but when he climbed in the driver’s side door and drove off I stopped and watched him go. There were no other shots fired, and the shooter, was nowhere in sight.
The damage to my mother’s tombstone was minimal. In fact, given the nature of the design, you probably would not notice the chipped piece missing from the corner unless you were specifically looking for it. A casual glance would reveal what looked like nothing more than a clean spot, as if someone had started to clean away a year’s worth of grime then given up. Nevertheless, I would have to file a report of the gunshot, both with my department and with the city. I stopped at the cemetery office building before I left the grounds, more as a courtesy than anything else and informed the lone worker of the incident. When I showed him my badge and informed him of the incident that just took place, he seemed utterly underwhelmed by the entire situation.
“Did you happen to notice a black Crown Victoria enter the grounds before I arrived?”
“I didn’t see you arrive, so I don’t know if it was before or after,” he said.
“I think perhaps you’ve misinterpreted my question,” I said. “I’m not asking if you saw the car before or after, I’m asking if you saw it at all.”
He rolled his eyes at me the way young people often do when forced to participate in a conversation they want no part of. “There’s a form you can fill out if you want to report any type of vandalism to a grave site,” he said. “But the cemetery is only responsible for the grounds. Any damage to the marker is your own responsibility. It says so in your contract. I saw the Crown Vic a few minutes ago when it left. If they’re friends of yours the next time you see them you might want to mention the speed limit around here is five miles per hour. But you’re a cop right? I guess you’d know that already.”
I looked at him without saying anything, and after a few seconds of silence he asked me if I wanted the form or not. I told him no, but I signed the guestbook as evidence of my being here, wrote the date and time next to my name, then handed the young man my card. “Have a nice day,” I said, then walked out the door.
When I walked into my office there was a note on my desk from my boss, Cora, with instructions to see her when I got in. I tossed my jacket on the chair and walked toward the door, but my desk phone rang so I walked back over and picked up the receiver. It was Bradley Pearson, the Governor’s aid. “Do you mind explaining to me what in the hell is going on over there?”
“Hello, Bradley,” I said. “I’m not sure I understand the nature of your question.”
“Then let me see if I can help you with that,” he said. “The Governor does not appreciate agents from the FBI questioning him in a public setting about a case that you’re supposed to be handling for him.”
Pearson had a way of making something sound completely different than what it actually was. I was charged with leading the investigation into Dugan’s murder on behalf of the state, but Pearson’s choice of words and the manner in which he spoke suggested I was, at the very least, doing a personal favor for the Governor, and at most, covering something up for him and his office. “Let me see if I can clear something up for you, Bradley. I work for the State of Indiana. I am not, repeat, not handling anything for the Governor. The agent you’re talking about is named Gibson, right? He rolled on a bomb threat that turned up bust yesterday and tried to tell me I was interfering with a Federal investigation. If he went crying to the Governor that’s your problem, not mine. Anything else?”
“Yeah, Jonesy, there is something else. Who the fuck is Murton Wheeler?”
I hung the phone up gently and walked over to Cora’s office. It was only ten thirty in the morning.
When I walked into Cora’s office she had Bradley Pearson on speaker, and he was shouting into the phone about how I had just hung up on him. Cora let him go on for a few minutes and waved me into one of the chairs in front of her desk as she did. When his rant got old and repetitive, Cora interrupted him and said, “Listen to me you pathetic little piss pot, the Governor and I go back further than you and he ever will. Much further. In fact, I knew him when you were still in diapers, so hear me when I say this. If you ever call up one of my people and question their tactics, loyalties, or methods of operation again, I will personally see to it that the next political position you hold will be cleaning out the congressional toilets. If you don’t think I’ve got the juice to pull it off then pick up the phone and call me back.” Then for the second time in less than five minutes someone hung up on Bradley Pearson.
If you have a boss like Cora LaRue, going to work in the morning is not too difficult at all.
She puffed out her cheeks, then said, “So Jones man, lay it out for me, will you? Where are we? I can take care of Pearson, but sooner or later the Governor himself is going to come calling.”
