I do know what it feels like to be ass-deep in alligators, Cedrick Hamilton thought, as he toyed with the round, walnut and brass paperweight that he kept on the desk in his den. Some organization somewhere had given it to him for something, but he couldn’t remember who or what, and, though it was inscribed, he couldn’t come up with the energy or curiosity to pick it up and look. He just rolled it across his desk from hand to hand. On a normal Sunday he would have been getting ready for church, a political requirement of the job, but his depression was becoming oppressive. There was too much he couldn’t control.
Four years before, when he was made superintendent, his life became dream-like. He was young for such a position, handsome, an upwardly mobile black man—though not too black in his color or his thinking—who was generally acceptable to both races. He learned early that public school administration was ninety-five percent politics and five percent educational expertise. Even the controlling force in the industry, the Boards of Education, were lay people, some without a high school education, determining what he could or could not do. It was an irrational situation. He could imagine I.B.M. being run by outsiders with no knowledge of technology. It wouldn’t be a Blue Chip.
After undergraduate school at Clemson, where he ran track, He earned an MBA at Georgetown University and stayed on for a Ph.D. Being black was not as much of an asset in business as in education, so he had chosen education, and it had served him well until now. With his background, it didn’t take him long to realize that if the public schools were a business, they would be bankrupt in a month. The money was there and he was its victim.
Now, four years later—as in the old cliché—the dream had become a nightmare. There were guarded accusations of racism in hiring from the whites and a feeling among his own race that there were not enough blacks in administrative positions. In addition, there was Harold Taylor who needed firing before he created serious problems, and a board that wouldn’t hear of it until after the bond issue passed, about which, he had grave doubts. Those were the small issues. The most serious problem was a district-wide audit that had been called for by a senior citizens political group and would take place within the next three months. Audits never bothered him, but this one was different; the district would have no input in choosing the firm who would conduct it. If whoever was chosen was even mildly efficient and looked in the right places or asked the correct questions, he knew they would expose gross improprieties.
It was easy to corrupt the system. Kick-backs from vendors in education were as commonplace as payola was in the music business in the fifties. Student trips could be scheduled and ‘paid for’ from numerous funds that were virtually unaccountable and then quietly canceled—the cancellation fee being split between the travel agent, the comptroller and the superintendent. No one ever bothered to follow the funds even if they could have. School moneys passed through inept hands, and those hands were so caught-up in their own self-importance and greed, that the granting of a few small perks, inclusions in travel to conferences and meetings—some legitimate, some not—and pats on the back here and there, awarded Cedrick Hamilton immunity from question. Incompetent people put in positions that monitor a maze of ill-defined financial cubbyholes seemed a perfect way to operate, and that’s what he had done. Now he sensed it all coming apart, and there was nothing he could do.
Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. The quote had stuck with him since he first heard it in a History of Economics course at Clemson University. Professor Robert Childs, although he was white, had been like a father to Cedrick Hamilton, taken him under his wing and guided him through the social inequities faced by a young, black man in an essentially white college.
The professor had also uttered the most astounding words young Cedrick had ever heard to that point in his life. They were sitting in a university coffee shop when Childs said, “You know, Cedrick, I’ve thought about it a lot, and if I ever get the chance to come back to this planet after I have ‘shuffled off this mortal coil’, so to speak, I would like to come back as someone like you: intelligent, black and not angry. And that last part may be the most important. You have the world at your feet. Fuck worrying about being a token, and don’t expect sympathy from either race because you’ll get none. And don’t expect your ethnic leaders, as sincere as they might be, and I’m sure they are sincere for the most part, to make advancements and carry you along with them. They won’t, and you’re too smart to expect them to. If you wait for that, you’ll be waiting forever.
“You’re educated and intelligent, and those two do not necessarily go hand in hand, as I’m sure you’re aware. You have also, by the grace of God, been fortunate enough to master the social graces, something few of either race have done. You have it all, and because of that you will be resented by whites who think you’re an ‘uppity nigger’—excuse the word—and to others, those ‘brothers’ who want to wallow in reparations, who are envious of you and too angry or unmotivated to do anything for themselves, you will be nothing more than another ‘oreo’. Last word: don’t ever begin to hate because when you begin to hate, you forget to think. Jimmy Hoffa said that. Who the hell knows where wisdom might come from? Another good lesson.
“Lecture complete. I am very proud of you, Cedrick, and we will never mention this again; however, if you ever hear a young, black man say, ‘I want to be like you and do what you’ve done’, you’ll know who it really is. Hell, I might even wink.” Robert Childs smiled. Hamilton would never forget the man.
When he was appointed superintendent, he had, for all intents and purposes, been granted absolute power, and, true to the theorem, he had been corrupted absolutely. Or so he sometimes felt. Try as he might, he could not reconstruct the naive reasoning that projected him in that direction except, perhaps, that he had never tasted power before and saw it as an opportunity, and, of course, the money, which now seemed redundant. He presently possessed more than he ever imagined possible. The system had given him everything any person—white or black—could hope for. He could not find any reasonable answers, except his own lack of wisdom. He wished he could talk to Robert Childs right now, at this moment, but he died shortly after their coffee shop conversation. Cedrick Hamilton had been looking for him ever since.
He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and took out the thirty-two caliber pistol he kept there. With it in his hand, he thought, “If I just do it without thinking about it, without giving it any consideration, just a reflex action, pull the trigger...,” but then he considered it.
When the telephone rang, he slipped the gun back in the drawer, looking around as if someone were watching. He allowed three rings, to compose himself before he picked up the receiver.
“Cedrick Hamilton,” he said.
“Well, how are we doin’ this mornin’, Cedrick? Thought you might have already left for church,” Charley Clay said in his quiet, good-natured way.
“I’m fine, Charles; how about you?” Hamilton said flatly.
“Fit as a fiddle. Listen, I need to talk to you about a project that’s comin’ up. Wondered when you might have some time.”
“Let me look at my calendar,” he said, covered the mouthpiece and stared into space for a minute or so. He didn’t need another project. How much deeper was he going to bury himself?
When Charles Clay recruited him to grease the racial wheels and use some of his northeastern acquaintances in their ‘business’ endeavor, he had no choice but to go along. He was in trouble. An affair with a white female attorney had gone sour, and she had apparently committed suicide when he wanted out. Though only a few people knew of the relationship, the young lady’s death raised some questions and created rumors. Made public, Cedrick Hamilton would have been finished in Covington and maybe the whole state, maybe even education period. Charles Clay was one of those who knew, and he protected Cedrick Hamilton. Indentured him.
“When did you have in mind, Charles?”
“What about Thursday evening? We could have dinner.”
“Charleston?” Hamilton asked.
“If it makes you more comfortable, Cedrick, I suppose Charleston is all right, but you know I hate that drive.”
“It’s not what I prefer either, but you know I can’t go anywhere near this town without being accosted by parents, teachers or politicians.”
“I know. Charleston. Thursday night. Five-thirty too early for you? I don’t want to get back to Covington too late.”
“That’s fine. Where?”
“Millon’s. Haven’t been there in awhile,” Clay said.
“Millon’s it is,” Hamilton said.
“I shall look forward to it, and so should you, Cedrick.”
“I’ll let you explain that when I see you.”
“Have a good day.”
“You too, Charles.” In all the times they had been together, he had never confided anything to Clay about what he was doing in the school district. They discussed the political aspects of his position, and they talked about bond issues, school taxes and those kinds of things, but never any of the finances of the district. Maybe it was time. Perhaps Charles could come up with some ideas that would help solve his problems. He didn’t know how, but the man was a master of manipulation. He had proved that.
A Cooper’s Hawk sailed across the marsh as if it were being propelled by Zephyr’s own private winds. Sam watched its movements and gloried in its freedom. The bird made a large circle, took a sharp dive into the grasses and came out with a small rodent in its beak. The price of carelessness, Sam thought. He respected freedom, knew it was taken for granted by most people. The luxury of day-to-day decision-making was unappreciated for most of his own life; fortunately, experience had taught him the value of that luxury. The one discomfort in his life at the moment was that he couldn’t support himself with some self-employable skill.
Sam sat on his deck eating his breakfast. He wore only a pair of denim cut-offs and a well-worn pair of boat shoes, which at some point in their history had been white, but were now the gray of dried plough-mud. He had done his run early before the heat became oppressive, followed it with a twenty-minute workout, and after a shower came out to the deck feeling as good as he thought it was possible to feel. It was still a wonder to him that he had come to enjoy exercise. For years it held no place in his daily regimen.
It was only eight o’clock. There were no plans for the day other than to pick up a fiberglass repair kit at Harry Tom Cooper’s Boat Dock and do a small resurfacing job on some spider-cracks in the surface of his boat. It was at the top of his to-do list. However, when he got the repair kit if he decided he didn’t feel like working on the boat or if something more appealing came up, it would remain at the top of his list for tomorrow or the next day. It was the way he had come to live.
Breakfast done, he lit a cigarette, leaned back in his chair and rested his coffee cup on his bare stomach. He couldn’t imagine a better life than he was living at the moment. If teaching was a requirement to make all this possible, so be it.
Harry Tom Cooper’s place could never be mistaken for a yacht club, though there were a few large sailboats and cabin cruisers moored there. It consisted of a working dock that served as home base for half a dozen shrimp boats, a retail fish store, and a general store that sold everything from fishing gear to picture books about the lowcountry to beach toys and souvenirs for the tourists.
Sam parked the Rover and walked across the parking lot that was covered in oyster shells crushed to pumice by cars, trucks and boat trailers. The early morning warmth was accelerating. A couple of fishermen were already at the cleaning tables working on fish they had caught during the night. The fish weren’t large, so from a distance, Sam could only suppose they were sea bass or trout. Skeeter Crewes was on the dock filling the tanks of a twenty-eight foot Grady-White, and another customer was backing a boat trailer carrying a mid-sized Whaler toward the launching ramp in front of the store’s entrance. It looked like Harry Tom was going to have a busy day.
“Mornin’, Sam,” Cooper said when Sam came through the door. “What gets you out so early this mornin’?” Harry Tom was the consummate “good-ol’-boy”—overweight, big smile that no one could read, bourbon-rosy cheeks, an unpressed and questionably-colored Exxon shirt that hid his belly, which extended well-over the Harley-Davidson belt buckle that held up his jeans. He had no visible ass.
“Not early, Harry Tom; it’s after nine.”
“Just don’t see you down here much in the mornin’.” The display case Cooper was standing behind, looking at the newspaper and sipping coffee, served as the counter, bar and checkout station.
“I have to work. Don’t have mornings except on weekends. And don’t you rub that fact in, you ol’ sumbitch.” Larkin was smiling.
“Well, school be out soon; maybe you’ll come around more often. Spend some of that fuckin’ money you makin’. You here to buy somethin’ or see Skeeter? He’s workin’ today, you know.” Harry Tom never passed up an opportunity to get in a shot on Larkin.
“Come to buy something, but I’ll probably say hello to my neighbor before I leave.”
“Sure wish I could put him on regular, year-round. I know he needs the money, and he’s a good worker, but I just cain’t. Too much dead-time outta season.”
Three black men came in, pulled four six-packs of malt liquor from the beer case, paid Harry Tom and left.
“I don’t know how they can drink that damn stuff,” he said. “Tastes like horse piss to me, but they come in ever mornin’ ’bout this time.” He laughed. “Hell, I don’t even know where they get the money, but it’s two or three times ever day.”
“Always a way,” Sam said.
“I guess so. Now what you come to buy? I gotta get that money outta your hand ’fore you change your mind.”
“I need a fiberglass repair kit.”
“Shit, that boat’s been in the sun too long, Sam. You do it this year, there’s just gonna be more surface cracks next, and you’ll have to do it all over again.” He leaned forward on the counter, as if sharing a secret. “Now I’ve got a real nice—mint condition, actually— twenty-six foot Mako I can give you a good price on. Want to take a look at it?”
“What kind of motors?”
“Twin hunderd and fifty Mercs. Sumbitch will flat fly.”
“Not fast enough, Harry Tom.” Sam tried not to grin.
“Don’t fuck with my brain now, boy. I know I ain’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I seen your boat, remember? All I can do is offer. Cain’t save people from themselves or their mistakes.”
Skeeter Crewes came in through the back of the store just as Harry Tom was going to get the repair kit.
“Happenin’, Sam?” Skeeter said, holding out his fist to touch knuckles with his friend.
“Just doin’ chores. You workin’ all day?”
“Looks like. I hope. Been a short month, but I got three mouths that don’t stop eatin’ even if I do.” Skeeter went to the beer case and pulled out two Coca-Cola’s. “Have a drink on me,” he said. “Gone be hot today looks like.”
“Yeah, I may just have to turn on the air-conditioning,” Sam said with a superior smile.
“Fuck you, White Man. I may just have to invite all my friends and family over to sit in your house. How ’bout that?” Skeeter said with an even broader smile.
“Oh, Lord. Well, you know you’d be welcome, Skeeter.”
“I know I would, but you ain’t met all my family and friends.” He took a swallow of his Coke. “How you and that Miss Blondie Blonde doin’? I seen her in a boat headin’ toward your house. You in trouble yet?” Skeeter Crewes grinned.
“Maybe I better ask if you’ve been keepin’ tabs on me?”
“Just watchin’. She was out here the other day. I don’t think she knew we were neighbors.”
“Why do you say that?” Sam asked.
“Well, she was askin’ ’bout people who live ’round here, familiarizin’ herself she said. Seemed nice enough, but a little….uh…What the hell’s the word, Sam?”
“Pushy? Smart? Ignorant? Naïve?”
“Naïve. That’s a good word for it. Anyway, she was askin’ ’bout people, but when I mentioned your name, I got the feelin’ you were the only one she really wanted to know much about. Didn’t hide it very well. See what I’m sayin’?” He laughed. “You in trouble, boy.”
“You love that, don’t you?” Sam asked.
“What?”
“Callin’ me ‘boy’.”
“Absodamnlutely.”
“Well, I think what’s on your mind is your imagination.”
“What is it then?”
“I don’t know, but don’t tell all my secrets, okay, Son?”
“Hell, I don’t know any of your secrets, but don’t worry ’bout me tellin’ ’em anyway.”
Harry Tom came back with the repair kit and put it on the counter in front of Larkin.
“Twenty nine ninety-five,” he said with a grin. “Sure you don’t want to look at that Mako?”
“If I was before, I’m not now. How much mark-up have you got on this damn stuff?” Sam asked, as he put a ten and a twenty on the counter.
“You pay for that Co-Cola?”
“Skeeter said it was on him. Told me he gets ‘em free,” Sam said as he turned and headed for the door.
“On your ass, he gets ‘em free. I’ll put both of ’em on your tab, Larkin.” Cooper said. Sam was already out the door.
During the drive back to his house, Sam saw that the three black men, who had come into Harry Tom’s for beer, had gathered a couple of friends and settled in around a large, wire spool that made a shaded garden table in front of a mobile home he assumed belonged to one of them. Sam knew he could come back at five o’clock and find them in the same place, maybe with a few more friends. He wondered what they talked about all day and what they would talk about tomorrow when they would be in the same place.
What Skeeter Crewes said about Chaney’s apparent interest in him was bothersome. Why was she making an obvious effort to insert herself into his life? How could she afford to live in Beau Rivage if her salary were commensurate with the other officers in the area? And, regardless of what Skeeter said, why did he feel every time he was in her company, that she was picking his brain, probing into his personal life? Maybe Skeeter was right; maybe she was looking at him for carnal purposes, but he didn’t think so.
During the week Karen Chaney tried to put Larkin out of her mind and concentrate on her mission. It wasn’t easy; the man challenged her abilities as an investigator. She spent time in town, visiting shops, went to the library, took a carriage tour, asked questions about the town and its people of anyone she could engage in conversation, and never wore her uniform unless she was in the office.
On Wednesday she ate dinner at the Oyster Creek Inn. She was the only woman sitting by herself in the dining room, but that didn’t bother her; she was used to eating alone. It came with the territory. She was nicely dressed in off-white, linen slacks and a pale blue, long-sleeved, silk pull-over. One man in the place stood out, he was in his mid-fifties, she guessed, not bad-looking, probably handsome when he was younger. He circulated the room, glad-handing customers and operating in a proprietary manner. She was not surprised when he came to her table and introduced himself as the owner, Charles Clay. In Ray Breslin’s orientation tour, he had mentioned Clay as Covington’s most prominent attorney, not one to arrest during Water Weeks. He would be worth checking out.
The ambiance in the dining room surprised her. It wasn’t stuffily formal, but gracious beyond any other place she had been in the area. Observing the clientele was interesting—the regulars easily identifiable from the tourists. And the food was good. It was a pleasant experience.
The red light on the answering machine was blinking when she entered her townhouse.
She closed the door, locked it and went to retrieve whatever message awaited her. She immediately recognized Neil Dougherty’s voice.
“You out shootin’ up the town or somethin’, Belle? I’ll be in the office catching up on paperwork until about ten-thirty if you want to call tonight. Or you can catch me at home in the morning. Talk to you.”
It was ten o’clock when she sat down and dialed her friend’s number. She was sitting on the over-sized, sectional couch in the living room. Quite a few of her nighttime hours were spent there, watching the light-adorned boats trading up the river toward the marina where they would bunker in for the night. It was a spectacular view.
“Dougherty,” the voice on the other end of the line said.
“Hey, Blue. I got your message.”
“Why hello, Darlin’. How are things up in the lowcountry? Is that a paradoxical construction or what? ‘Up in the lowcountry’?”
“I have no idea what it is; something that would stump a Mississippi-born Irishman, I suspect. How are you? You’re working awful late.”
“I’m fine. Workin’ late because I went fishing this afternoon.”
“Get anything?”
“A few king mackerel and a new informant. What about you? Catch anything?”
“No bad guys.”
“What about good guys?” he asked probing her personal life. It was tiresome.
“Couple that may need checking out. Lawyer here in town. Pretty powerful. Probably nothing, but he does own a restaurant, knows everybody and everybody knows him. There is no present reason for suspicion, but it’s all I’ve got for the moment.”
“You said a couple….” Decision time. Dougherty could find out anything there was to know about Sam Larkin, but she didn’t want to expose Sam Larkin to Neil Dougherty. She wondered if she was afraid to find out anything bad about the man. Sam could wait. Clay would satisfy Neil for awhile.
“Let me get a better line on the other one. As far as I know, there’s really nothing there, and I wouldn’t want to waste your time. Too many real bad guys out there.” There was silence on the line. “What?” she asked.
“You’re talking fast. I know you, Karen. What’s going on?” Karen. The professional approach. He was serious.
“Actually, me and this other guy, we been sleepin’ together since an hour after I arrived in town. He’s fantastic and if it keeps up, I’m gonna be too tired to work.” It was mean, meant to hurt. Neil Dougherty was, in spite of everything, her best friend. She felt guilty. More silence. “I’m sorry, Blue. I’m okay. Leading a nun’s life up here, not that it’s any of your business. I’ll let you know when I want something. Just check out Clay for me. I can handle this. I’m beginning to think we’re on a wild goose chase anyway.”
“Be careful,” he said and hung up the phone. Angry, she knew.
Her mind was spinning in a thousand different directions. She was in limbo, getting nowhere, but maybe there was nowhere to get. She liked Sam Larkin. In an investigation you weren’t supposed to like anyone. At least not to the extent that it affects your judgment. His past had to be pursued.
She looked out the window, saw what looked like a thirty-eight foot sailboat heading toward the marina, leaned back on the couch and closed her eyes. What a life, she thought.