that.”
“Like what?”
“Like what you call the heebie-jeebies.”
“So if it wasn’t snake poison, what was it?”
“We’ll have to let the autopsy tell us,” I said.
The ambulance siren cut through our conversation as the boxy white truck swept up in front of the open doorway. You could hear the attendants hitting the ground and yanking the gurney from the back.
Cliffie, thumbs in his gunbelt, swaggered up to meet them.
“Why aren’t I surprised Cliffie liked those pamphlets? And I’m not saying that just because I’m Jewish. I’d be mad even if I
wasn’t.” Then she smiled. “And by the way, McCain, the rabbi put some more guns in the basement of your church last night.”
“I’ll alert the monsignor.”
They made swift work of Muldaur, the ambulance boys.
When they were lifting him onto the gurney, Cliffie, ever helpful, said, “Sorry about the smell, boys. He crapped his pants.”
“You calling Bci?” I said, referring to the state Bureau of Criminal Investigation. Without their help, small towns just can’t do adequate scientific crime investigations.
“For what?”
“For what? To find out who poisoned him.”
“Did it ever occur to you, McCain, that maybe one of his snakes bit him earlier and he was just having a delayed reaction. Snakebites can do that, you know.”
“Clifford Sykes, Jr.,
Herpetologist,” Kylie said.
“What’s that herpe-thing mean?”
“It means snake expert.”
“Oh.”
He’d obviously thought she’d insulted him.
Then he said, “So I call them in and it turns out to be an accidental snakebite and then I look like a fool.”
“Gee, I can’t imagine you ever looking like a fool, Chief,” Kylie said in her sweetest voice.
“Well, God knows you and that left-wing rag you work for have tried to make me sound like one every chance you get.”
Maybe it was the innumerable times he’d arrested people for crimes they hadn’t committed. Maybe it was the year he pocketed half the ticket sales to the policeman’s dance. Maybe it was the time The Clarion pointed out that it was Cliffie’s first cousin Luther who was not only selling our town its police vehicles but also charging twenty percent over the sticker price. It wasn’t real hard to make a case against Cliffie.
“We couldn’t do it without your help,” Kylie said, all sweetness again.
Cliffie was about to respond when one of the children raced into the church. Cliffie did not like this. When Cliffie tells you to stay out, he gets most unpleasant if he sees you defying him.
He lunged for the kid and shouted, “Hey, you, twerp!”
“Maybe he’ll shoot him,” Kylie said.
“Nah. Nothing worse than a
pistol-whipping, probably.”
The kid wanted to see the snakes, was the thing.
He rushed up to the cage and stood gazing in fear and amazement at the serpents that hissed and rattled at a world as alien to them as theirs was to us.
“You get away from there now,” Cliffie said.
“They wouldn’t bite me, Chief,” the boy said. He was probably eight, with a bowl-job haircut like Larry’s of the Three Stooges, something Mom probably gave him at
home. “I don’t have sin in my heart. I really don’t.”
“You heard what I said.”
Cliffie yanked him down from the platform and dragged him outside.
Something had been troubling Kylie all evening.
Something that was becoming clearer and clearer on her girlish, elegant face. Somehow, I sensed that it didn’t have anything to do with the church here, frightening as that had been.
“You give me a ride home, McCain? I guess I’ve about had it. Watching him die like that took it out of me.” She slid her arm through mine.
“Let’s go outside.”
Heat, mosquitoes, fireflies, and the smell of gasoline, cigarettes, and sweaty people awaited us. The place was already becoming a carnival. On a summer night in a small town there’s nothing front-porch folks would rather do than follow ambulances. Put up some iced tea
“Like what?”
“Like what you call the heebie-jeebies.”
“So if it wasn’t snake poison, what was it?”
“We’ll have to let the autopsy tell us,” I said.
The ambulance siren cut through our conversation as the boxy white truck swept up in front of the open doorway. You could hear the attendants hitting the ground and yanking the gurney from the back.
Cliffie, thumbs in his gunbelt, swaggered up to meet them.
“Why aren’t I surprised Cliffie liked those pamphlets? And I’m not saying that just because I’m Jewish. I’d be mad even if I
wasn’t.” Then she smiled. “And by the way, McCain, the rabbi put some more guns in the basement of your church last night.”
“I’ll alert the monsignor.”
They made swift work of Muldaur, the ambulance boys.
When they were lifting him onto the gurney, Cliffie, ever helpful, said, “Sorry about the smell, boys. He crapped his pants.”
“You calling Bci?” I said, referring to the state Bureau of Criminal Investigation. Without their help, small towns just can’t do adequate scientific crime investigations.
“For what?”
“For what? To find out who poisoned him.”
“Did it ever occur to you, McCain, that maybe one of his snakes bit him earlier and he was just having a delayed reaction. Snakebites can do that, you know.”
“Clifford Sykes, Jr.,
Herpetologist,” Kylie said.
“What’s that herpe-thing mean?”
“It means snake expert.”
“Oh.”
He’d obviously thought she’d insulted him.
Then he said, “So I call them in and it turns out to be an accidental snakebite and then I look like a fool.”
“Gee, I can’t imagine you ever looking like a fool, Chief,” Kylie said in her sweetest voice.
“Well, God knows you and that left-wing rag you work for have tried to make me sound like one every chance you get.”
Maybe it was the innumerable times he’d arrested people for crimes they hadn’t committed. Maybe it was the year he pocketed half the ticket sales to the policeman’s dance. Maybe it was the time The Clarion pointed out that it was Cliffie’s first cousin Luther who was not only selling our town its police vehicles but also charging twenty percent over the sticker price. It wasn’t real hard to make a case against Cliffie.
“We couldn’t do it without your help,” Kylie said, all sweetness again.
Cliffie was about to respond when one of the children raced into the church. Cliffie did not like this. When Cliffie tells you to stay out, he gets most unpleasant if he sees you defying him.
He lunged for the kid and shouted, “Hey, you, twerp!”
“Maybe he’ll shoot him,” Kylie said.
“Nah. Nothing worse than a
pistol-whipping, probably.”
The kid wanted to see the snakes, was the thing.
He rushed up to the cage and stood gazing in fear and amazement at the serpents that hissed and rattled at a world as alien to them as theirs was to us.
“You get away from there now,” Cliffie said.
“They wouldn’t bite me, Chief,” the boy said. He was probably eight, with a bowl-job haircut like Larry’s of the Three Stooges, something Mom probably gave him at
home. “I don’t have sin in my heart. I really don’t.”
“You heard what I said.”
Cliffie yanked him down from the platform and dragged him outside.
Something had been troubling Kylie all evening.
Something that was becoming clearer and clearer on her girlish, elegant face. Somehow, I sensed that it didn’t have anything to do with the church here, frightening as that had been.
“You give me a ride home, McCain? I guess I’ve about had it. Watching him die like that took it out of me.” She slid her arm through mine.
“Let’s go outside.”
Heat, mosquitoes, fireflies, and the smell of gasoline, cigarettes, and sweaty people awaited us. The place was already becoming a carnival. On a summer night in a small town there’s nothing front-porch folks would rather do than follow ambulances. Put up some iced tea
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