popping in the fire. Now he saw it differently. That had been the first shot.
Maybe Luther’s daddy had pulled his gun and that started the shooting.
Goat moved forward to the crest of the wooded hill, his eyes scanning the ground. His gaze found a cluster of golden brass glistening. Squatting, he checked the pile of brass. There were six empty .357 Magnum casings. A revolver. Probably the leader’s whose shot started the ambush. Goat stood and moved farther and found scattered, empty shotgun shells — 12-gauge double-aught buck. Man killers. More gold-glinting brass in the grass caught his attention, and he scooped one up, a .45 ACP. This brass was scattered everywhere. Goat knew he was right: One killer had used a Thompson submachine gun. Goat knew the sound of a tommy gun because he had carried one during the Tet street fighting.
He moved back down the hill and knelt beside Luther. Lightly, he rested a hand on his friend’s cold chest. He continued on, stopping at Luther’s daddy. This time, he pulled the revolver from the dead man’s pocket. It was long-barreled Colt .38, the finish dulled and dinged.
“I’m going to kill ’em,” Goat said out loud. Tucking the revolver into his belt, he repeated, “I’m going to kill every last one of them.”
Chapter 4
“Goat, that’s a pretty car,” Clarence said. Goat was tilted back in the barber chair, hot lather on his face, Clarence’s straight razor glinting three inches above. Poised.
“Thanks.” His GTO sat at the curb right next to the striped barber pole of Clarence’s shop. The three wooden chairs lining the wall were held down by a trio of old men who spent their days spreading gossip. Goat needed information and he knew these old men knew more about what was going on than anyone else.
“That’s not the one the revenuers took?” Clarence asked.
Goat waited until Clarence slid the razor across his chin, scraping as he went.
“Naw, that was a ’61 New Yorker,” Goat answered. He had loved that car. The New Yorker had lots of room in the trunk, and with double springs and shocks and a tuned-up engine, the car was fast enough for Goat to outrun any lawman in Kentucky and Tennessee, even hauling a full load of shine. Until the night he ran out of gas trying to outrun the law.
Clarence nodded, looking down at Goat over his half-glasses. “Yup, I remember now.” Clarence damn well knew Goat had bought the car from Luther’s daddy and hauled the man’s shine. After all, Goat had delivered Clarence’s stash of shine even before he could drive, pedaling his bike to the barbershop twice a week.
The newspaper in Goat’s lap was folded open to the moonshine-murder story. It was two days since an anonymous call had led the state police to the massacre at the moonshine still. Goat thought the story was pretty much right, except for the police’s claim that the killer had called in the murders. Goat figured the police were doing the same thing he’d been doing when he called in the murder: stirring things up. Just like he knew coming to the barbershop would cause a stir.
Goat stared out the window across the Pineville town square to the courthouse, where a dozen cop cars sat. The paper reported that the state police were bringing more troopers to Bell County to keep the peace. With striking miners and rumors of northern organizers trying to start up unions in Bell County, there were fears. After all, unions were just a step away from communism. With blown-up coal trucks and miners beaten on the strike lines, tensions were high, and now with the four men killed in the moonshine murders, the state police were trying to make sure things stayed cool in the summer heat. At least that’s how the newspaperman had put it.
“A shame about them boys,” Clarence said, trying for nonchalant. Goat waited as Clarence did his thing with two more swipes of the razor. He kept his eyes glued to the cop cars across the way, pretending not to be paying much attention to Clarence. “Weren’t you and that one boy, Luther, friends?”
“Yup,” he answered, feeling the barber’s eyes on him. Goat watched as the side door to the courthouse opened and three men in uniforms came out. All three paused to shake out smokes.
“I knew his daddy was making moonshine, but I didn’t know the boy was helping — did you?” Clarence asked. The trio of cops fired up their smokes and headed across the square.
Before Goat could answer Clarence, one of the men in the chairs behind him said, “Hell, everyone knew Luther was making deliveries for his daddy.”
“I didn’t,” Clarence said.
“Oh, yeah,” said the man Goat couldn’t see. “Just a few jars. Like the milkman going door to door. I think everyone in my rooming house, including the teacher, was buying his liquor.”
“I thought the boy was one of those agitators,” another man said. Goat hated that he couldn’t see who was talking behind him, but he didn’t dare move with Clarence’s straight razor working.
“Luther was no communist agitator,” Clarence said. “He just wanted a good job.”
“What are you talking about?” Goat asked, perplexed.
“Northerner socialists down here trying to get the miners unionized,” the second old man explained. “Agitators.”
“The mine owners want the unions stopped?” Goat asked.
There was a snort. “They want it nipped in the bud.”
The three cops were on a direct course for the barbershop.
“Shame about them boys,” Clarence repeated, taking the last of the shaving cream off Goat’s face with a flourish of his razor.
“It is a shame,” Goat said, pointedly nodding toward the approaching cops. “Think they’ll find out who did it?”
There was another snort from one of the old men.
Clarence took a warm towel and patted Goat’s face. “Everyone knows who had them boys killed.” He looked to the approaching cops. “Even they know.”
One of the men said, “Everyone knew that old man was making shine and not paying his due. If we knew, Cassidy knew.”
Cassidy Lane.
The three cops stopped at the square as a farm truck rolled by. Two of them were state troopers in their gray uniforms and Smokey Bear hats. The last man, in a tan uniform, was Aaron Grubbs, chief deputy under the Bell County sheriff.
“You think Cassidy had them killed?” Goat asked.
“There any doubt?” Clarence asked just before the bell above the door jingled.
What Clarence didn’t say but every man in the room knew was that Aaron Grubbs ran protection for Cassidy Lane. If Grubbs was involved in the investigation, there would never be any arrests in the murders on the mountain.
Raising his voice, the barber said, “Afternoon, Officers.” He pulled the warm towel from Goat’s face, threw it over his shoulder.
“How long a wait for a haircut?” the tall blond trooper said.
“We’re all done here,” Clarence said, spinning Goat’s chair so he could see the haircut and shave in the mirror. Goat nodded before he stood.
“I told you Clarence would take care of you,” Chief Deputy Grubbs said. Shifting his attention to Goat, he asked, “Is that your hot rod out front there?”
“Yes, sir,” Goat answered, standing.
“One of those ’65 Pontiacs?” Grubbs asked. His voice was thin and reedy. He rested his left hand on the butt of the big old Smith & Wesson holstered at his hip.
“It’s a ’66,” Goat replied. The blond trooper removed his hat and took a seat in the barber’s chair.
“Don’t look like she’s got much wear,” Grubbs said. “But then I’ve not seen you around. Heard the judge sent you to Vietnam.”
“He did,” Goat replied as he paid the barber. “Now I’m back.”
