hitched up the Bowie knife he carries in a belt scabbard, touched a tip of his black Western boot to the corpse, and screwed up his fat face into a parody of Porky Pig, no personal offense meant to you, Porky.
Cliffie, Jr., is the chief of police.
At one time Black River Falls was owned and operated by the Whitney family, a branch of Eastern millionaires who came out here when one of the men got involved in some kind of legal trouble involving stock swindles. They tried to create a small version of a New England town out here on the prairie. They were imperious, of course, and snobs, of course, and contemptuous of the rest of the town, of course. But they brought sound town government, good and fair law, and an eagerness to keep the town clean and modern, all the virtues of New England Yankees.
World War Ii changed all this, as it changed so many things, good and bad. Cliff Sykes, Sr., owned a small construction company at the start of the war. Then he entered into various federal contracts with the government. He built airplane runways, roads, training camps. And his brothers and sisters practiced every kind of black-marketing there was. One of his sisters was even an Allotment Annie, a woman
so-called because she married soldiers just about to ship overseas and collected their monthly allotment checks. One New York woman was indicted for having forty-six husbands. I doubt that Helga Sykes had had that many husbands, only because there weren’t that many blind soldiers.
Anyway, the long run of the Whitney family, begun in the previous century, came to an end. The Sykes clan were not only wealthier, they were more powerful. They took over this part of the state, including our town. And thus it was that Cliffie Sykes, Jr., who had failed to pass the police entrance tests given by six other towns, started his law enforcement career as our chief of police.
“You smell that, McCain?”
“Yeah, I smell it.”
“He crapped his pants.”
“Yeah, you said that, Sykes.” I only called him Cliffie when I was so mad I didn’t care anymore.
He pointed to the snake cage. “I should go get my shotgun and kill every one of those bastards.” He pawed his stubby hands on the front of his khaki uniform, the kind Glenn Ford always wears when he’s playing a lawman.
Secretly, Cliffie thinks he’s Glenn Ford. Secretly, I think I’m Robert
Ryan. Which I am, pretty much, except for the height, the good looks, the deep voice, the masculinity, and the charm.
“Or you could always just take them to the woods and set them free,” Kylie said.
He seemed to see her for the first time. She’d be pretty hard to miss. She was the only pretty one of the three of us. Everybody else he’d run outside.
“Say, what’re you doing here?”
“I’m with McCain.”
“And what’s McCain doing here, while I’m at it?” he said.
“McCain is doing here what Muldaur asked him to do,” I said.
“And that would be what exactly?”
“Exactly, that would be trying to ascertain if somebody was trying to kill him.”
“He told you that?”
“He told me that.”
“Why’d he think somebody was trying to kill him?”
“He thought it was because of all those pamphlets he was handing out.”
“What was wrong with those pamphlets? I read a couple of ‘em and they seemed all right to me.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” I said.
“And anyway, the snakes killed him.”
“I don’t think so.”
“That’s what you told me.”
“No, it wasn’t. That’s what you told yourself.
You haven’t even asked me what killed him.”
“Well, if he was doin’ all that
heebie-jeebies stuff, then what killed him?”
Kylie said, “Poison.”
“Yeah, snake poison.”
She shook her fetching head. “I don’t think so. We studied snakes in biology in college.”
“College,” Cliffie scoffed. “A training ground for commies.”
Kylie sighed. She was used to him. “Snake venom rarely produces symptoms like
Cliffie, Jr., is the chief of police.
At one time Black River Falls was owned and operated by the Whitney family, a branch of Eastern millionaires who came out here when one of the men got involved in some kind of legal trouble involving stock swindles. They tried to create a small version of a New England town out here on the prairie. They were imperious, of course, and snobs, of course, and contemptuous of the rest of the town, of course. But they brought sound town government, good and fair law, and an eagerness to keep the town clean and modern, all the virtues of New England Yankees.
World War Ii changed all this, as it changed so many things, good and bad. Cliff Sykes, Sr., owned a small construction company at the start of the war. Then he entered into various federal contracts with the government. He built airplane runways, roads, training camps. And his brothers and sisters practiced every kind of black-marketing there was. One of his sisters was even an Allotment Annie, a woman
so-called because she married soldiers just about to ship overseas and collected their monthly allotment checks. One New York woman was indicted for having forty-six husbands. I doubt that Helga Sykes had had that many husbands, only because there weren’t that many blind soldiers.
Anyway, the long run of the Whitney family, begun in the previous century, came to an end. The Sykes clan were not only wealthier, they were more powerful. They took over this part of the state, including our town. And thus it was that Cliffie Sykes, Jr., who had failed to pass the police entrance tests given by six other towns, started his law enforcement career as our chief of police.
“You smell that, McCain?”
“Yeah, I smell it.”
“He crapped his pants.”
“Yeah, you said that, Sykes.” I only called him Cliffie when I was so mad I didn’t care anymore.
He pointed to the snake cage. “I should go get my shotgun and kill every one of those bastards.” He pawed his stubby hands on the front of his khaki uniform, the kind Glenn Ford always wears when he’s playing a lawman.
Secretly, Cliffie thinks he’s Glenn Ford. Secretly, I think I’m Robert
Ryan. Which I am, pretty much, except for the height, the good looks, the deep voice, the masculinity, and the charm.
“Or you could always just take them to the woods and set them free,” Kylie said.
He seemed to see her for the first time. She’d be pretty hard to miss. She was the only pretty one of the three of us. Everybody else he’d run outside.
“Say, what’re you doing here?”
“I’m with McCain.”
“And what’s McCain doing here, while I’m at it?” he said.
“McCain is doing here what Muldaur asked him to do,” I said.
“And that would be what exactly?”
“Exactly, that would be trying to ascertain if somebody was trying to kill him.”
“He told you that?”
“He told me that.”
“Why’d he think somebody was trying to kill him?”
“He thought it was because of all those pamphlets he was handing out.”
“What was wrong with those pamphlets? I read a couple of ‘em and they seemed all right to me.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” I said.
“And anyway, the snakes killed him.”
“I don’t think so.”
“That’s what you told me.”
“No, it wasn’t. That’s what you told yourself.
You haven’t even asked me what killed him.”
“Well, if he was doin’ all that
heebie-jeebies stuff, then what killed him?”
Kylie said, “Poison.”
“Yeah, snake poison.”
She shook her fetching head. “I don’t think so. We studied snakes in biology in college.”
“College,” Cliffie scoffed. “A training ground for commies.”
Kylie sighed. She was used to him. “Snake venom rarely produces symptoms like
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