Lonny Jackson is a fair man ...
most of the time. I've seen him dump guys for a lot less
than Emmett Patterson done ... or I should say, didn't do."
"Got any ideas why he put up with Patterson?"
Runnels studied the question a moment. "Naw. Ask
him."
"How long had Patterson worked here?"
"Ten years or so, I think. Let's see." He squinted his
eyes and wrinkled his forehead as if the facial contortions
would force the old memories from his brain. "He came
here about the time the girl disappeared. Yeah, maybe a
little after. No, it was before."
A bell went off in my head. "Girl? What girl?"
Runnels shrugged and lit another cigarette, a menthol.
"Way back, a runaway girl passed through. Nice little girl.
I didn't know she was a runaway then, but when she turned
up missing a while later, the cops come by. Don't know if
they ever found her or not. But Emmett, he was here then
because I remember him flirting with the girl."
"Oh." For a moment, I thought I might be on to something, but the bell stopped clanging. "What about yesterday? You see him?"
"Not until the tractor ran over him."
"You saw the tractor run over him?"
He shrugged. "Not exactly. When I stepped outside, the
tractor was going past the tree, and there wasn't no one driving. I didn't see nothing else for a few seconds, and
then this dark pile sort of squirted out from the discs."
I grimaced at his picturesque description. "Then what?"
,.Not much. I didn't pay no attention. Then Mrs. Morrison showed up. She waved me over."
I glanced at the tree. "What was his main job around
here?"
Runnels shook his head. "No main job. Besides me and
Lonny and the lab people, everyone here is a kind of jackof-all-trades."
"You mean, everyone drives the tractors, forklifts, and
so on?"
"Yeah. That was Emmett. Just manual labor. He didn't
have the smarts for the laboratory. They do quality control
stuff in there. Some of them even taste the whiskey."
Sounded like my kind of work. I wondered how much I
would have to pay them for the job, but I dismissed the
idea. Probably had all the tasters they needed anyway.
I looked around the distillery grounds. Behind the maintenance barn was a row of cottages, all of the same Spanish
facade as the distillery and the main house. Each had a
chimney and a stack of firewood next to the door, just as
the distillery itself, which was set in the midst of a grove
of oaks at least a hundred and fifty years old. My eyes
focused on the one under which Emmett was killed.
A shiver ran up my spine. "Some operation you got here.
You take care of all the equipment?" I nodded to the trucks,
forklifts, tractors, and farm implements lined up in the
maintenance barn. I eyed the logo, a white circle, in the
center of which were the red letters CHD, joined in such a
manner to form what looked like a backward D connected
to a forward D by a horizontal bar. Reminded me of a
barbell.
"Yeah. What with the maintenance on the distillery, it
takes all my time."
"This is a lot of equipment for one person to take care
of. You responsible for all of it?"
Runnels' crumpled face lit. "Every last bit. And none of it ever stays outside. That's why it lasts so long. Why, the
old lady, she'd fire my rear end if I didn't treat the equipment like a good looking woman."
I chuckled at his analogy. "Looks like you do a good
job." I was serious.
With an air of surprising conviviality, he replied, "Hey,
thanks. I appreciate them words. Of course, I get some help
from time to time." He took a last drag on his cigarette and
flipped it in an arc through the air. "Any more questions,
Mr. Boudreaux? I got work to do."
"Yeah. One more. Who took out the tractor yesterday?"
"Hawkins. That's another punk. Him and Emmett run
together. All these kids today are punks."
"How come Patterson ended up driving it?"
Runnels shrugged. "Beats me. That all?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
He turned to the barn, then hesitated and looked back at
me. "You