after a long day’s work, and took a cup of coffee while I asked him about the night Albert Patterson had been shot in the alley beside the kitchen.
“I saw just one man,” Gibson said. “I went outside to get some air and I seen that one fella in the tan suit at the back of the alley.”
“And you didn’t recognize him?”
“No, sir.”
“You never saw him before?” I asked.
“No, sir.”
“What kind of tan suit? A uniform?”
“Naw, just a suit. You know. A Sunday suit.”
“How long until you heard the shots?”
“Couple minutes.”
“Would you recognize the man’s picture?”
“No, sir.”
“How come?”
“I didn’t get a good look at his face.”
“Was he a white man?”
“I couldn’t say.”
Gibson excused himself, and John Patterson pulled a notebook from his suit jacket and made a notation. He started to take another bite of pie but instead mashed the crust with his fork and pushed away the plate with a grunt. He just stared into space for a while and breathed.
“You know your mother gave Anne a kitten,” I said, just reaching for something in the silence. He leaned into the table and watched his hands. “Would you tell her thank you for us?”
Patterson nodded. “That old cat is always having kittens.”
“How’s your mother?”
Patterson shrugged and blew out a long breath. Ross Gibson walked to the front of the Elite and clicked off the neon OPEN sign.
“You know, there was a long black car parked just across the street,” Gibson said. “Now, that fella sittin’ at the wheel had to have seen somethin’.”
“You know the make?” I asked.
“It was dark.”
I laid down a couple dollars under the smoldering ashtray, and we left through the front door, passing by the long, vacuous stretch of alley in between the Elite and the Coulter Building.
The alley was quiet and warm, almost absorbing the sounds from the passing cars and our dress shoes. I stopped as Patterson walked into the alley. I didn’t feel it was my place, and knew there was little for John to do but to play back the killing of his father over and over like a broken projector.
A long mural advertising Coca-Cola had been painted on the side of the cafe. The sky above was broad and open and black, a ceiling lightly shining from a soft moon.
I stayed on the sidewalk and watched as Patterson found the spot where his father was shot and kneeled. He touched the warm asphalt and stood, turning his head slowly in each direction.
A patrol car roamed slow on Fifth and shone a spotlight down into the alley – we were frozen in its swath. The black-and-white looked as if it hadn’t been washed in ages, and craggy faces peered out from where windshield wipers had cleared away red dust.
Patterson looked into the light, blinded. I waved the men on. But the car stayed, the two cops conversed, and then it finally moved on down Fifth.
“Did you know about that car Gibson mentioned?” he asked.
“Lots of folks saw it. I think it was one of those long cars they made before the war. No one seems to know the make. Britton and I’ve been checking around, but we’re not getting too far.”
John and I walked together in the stretch of alley behind the Coulter Building – a long embankment filled with mulberry trees and scrub oak and long, twisted stretches of kudzu. We moved up and around the post office, just across the street from the county courthouse, and Patterson took off his jacket and held it in the crook of his arm.
He placed his right hand in his pocket. Even at night, the summer heat was tremendous.
“I make bad decisions when I’m mad.”
“Don’t doubt yourself.”
“Attorney general? I don’t have any business holding office.”
“And Si Garrett does?”
At Fourteenth Street, Patterson looked past the Confederate monument and up to the second floor; all the lights were dimmed. He then twisted his head back to the alley and bit into his cheek.
He nodded to himself.
“You’re sure, aren’t you?” I asked.
“I don’t have a doubt in my mind that Arch Ferrell is shielding the man who killed my father. He helped plan it and probably stood at that window in the courthouse, watching this very alley, probably took a drink after he knew it was done, and then rang off a long-distance connection with the attorney general for this state.”
I nodded. I opened and closed the fingers of my swelling hand.
“But knowing doesn’t give us much,” John said. “Fuller must’ve been invisible on a Friday night in Phenix City. Didn’t anyone see that sonofabitch run from that alley and back to his sheriff’s office or into a getaway car? He has this entire town scared shitless. They saw him. That cook saw him. I know there are others, but we can’t do a thing but sit and wait. I just hope the pressure works on that man’s rotten soul.”
ARCH FERRELL TOOK A SEAT AT BERT FULLER’S BEDSIDE AND waited for a chunky woman with blond hair to leave the room. The woman kept baby talking to Fuller as she finished shaving the left side of his face with a straight razor. She cooed and rubbed the fresh red skin – half his face still covered in lather – while he stared at the ceiling and spoke to Arch.
“You can speak freely,” Fuller said.
“I’d rather wait,” Arch said.
“You need a shave. Come on, let Georgia take care of you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Arch, you look terrible. Look like you haven’t bathed in a week.”
“I said I don’t want a fuckin’ shave. Now, get your snatch out of here and let’s talk.”
The woman’s head snapped back as if Arch had slapped her and she dabbed off the last bit of shaving cream from Fuller’s face and briskly walked out of the room.
“Arch, there was no need for that.”
“Did you break your goddamn head, too?”
“No.”
Arch leaned in and whispered, “I need to know what you did with that gun.”
“It’s taken care of.”
“What did you do with it?”
“It’s gone. Ain’t nobody gonna find it.”
Arch nodded and leaned back into his seat. He looked around Fuller’s huge garage apartment and four racks of guns by the front door. Western movie posters were tacked to the walls, along with wanted posters and mug shots, maps of Russell County and Columbus. A framed picture of Fuller with Big Jim Folsom and another with Lash LaRue.
“I have news,” Arch said.
Fuller raised up with a groan and placed another pillow behind his back.
“Si is coming back. He plans on resuming his duties as attorney general.”
“What about… you know,” Fuller said and made a circular motion with his index finger around his ear.
“He said he’s well. I spoke to his brother about an hour back.”
Fuller nodded. “I pray for him.”
