dispatches
The bottle of Coke went flat sometime around eleven. Now it sits on the window ledge behind the
mesh screen, a summer fattened bluebottle climbing down the neck to drink. The
harsh late afternoon sun sears the glass.
“Mrs Deadman, Mrs Deadman… listen ma’am…. I really cannot be
of assistance in this matter.” The burned out cigarette stains Riley’s fingers,
the heat of the receding tip, catching his index finger, jolts him to cast the
still smouldering Lucky into the ash-tray; as on the other end of the telephone
the voice persists to press her case. “I do not have the jurisdiction ma’am.”
Riley takes another cigarette from the packet. “Mrs Deadman please, you have to
hear me out. I do not have the legal powers to act in this matter.” The match
flares sulphurous. “And I agree,” Riley states, emphatically. He pauses, to
light the cigarette, before adding, “I have an appointment with your husband at
eight. And I will explore the options with him. Mrs Deadman, rest assured you
have my sympathy.”
The office is small, dominated by a large desk, and a
newspaper picture of Martin Luther King attending a communist training camp.
This picture catches Riley’s eye as he prepares to leave.
“Bastard,” he says with venom.
The business of the day had not subsided. A line of negroes
snakes out of the courthouse door. Cars with out-of-state plates warily process
up and down Main street, the inhabitants viewed with suspicion by the local
people. This suspicion is returned in full.
The chair is taken in the barbershop. A thin man with unkempt
appearance, whose hair despite the best efforts of George refuses to play ball.
At first Riley doesn’t pay attention, but as he turns the pages of the magazine
he catches sight of the man’s reflection in the mirror. There is something
familiar about him.
“No, I’m just saying,” says the man, in reply to George’s
question, “he said if I want to get a job at the hospital I have to be a
resident. And then I get here and they say it don’t matter. And I can’t
register anyway.”
“But you already said you got a job.”
“Oh I got a job.”
“Then why do you want to work at the hospital. You know they’re
crazy right?”
The man laughs. A fulsome laugh; like there is something
wrong with the question, “you have no idea how crazy this world is. Why, if I
didn’t know better, I’d say they was sending me here for an alibi.”
“Why would you need an alibi?” interrupted Riley, still
trying to place where he had seen this man before.
The man in the mirror stares straight at Riley: his eyes
bright with mirth, “don’t worry officer, I’ll be gone by sunset, I have friends
coming to pick me up.”
“Why would you need an alibi?” Riley asks again.
The man adopts a more serious tone now; his grey blue eyes
weighing Riley in a balance that displays an acute understanding. “Excuse my
manner of speech,” he says, “I was being friendly.”
The body lay half exposed; one of the legs chewed by rats
from the nearby creek. The burial had been rushed. Riley saw at once the marks
on the ankle of the good leg; the unmistakable mark of manacles. He knew at
once the man would be declared one of the escapees.
As the night closed in they fetched lamps and without much
care or ceremony they dug the naked body out. In that glow the shock of the tumours
was heightened. Three or four huge growths bulged from the man’s neck, stretching
his black skin to a pale redness. The doctor crept forward to examine the body
for signs of violence.
A small flask of whiskey was produced and they all took a
sip.
“Does he have any paperwork?” asked Riley
“Only if it’s up his ass,” commented Sam, tugging at the
leash of his hound, to bid it be still.
“Well I ain’t looking.”
News of the body spread fast. And by morning it was the talk
of the town. Journalists who had come in to cover the registrations seemed to
have forgotten that story; if only for a moment. Because there was no news, the
man had escaped from prison with two others and they had killed him and hidden
the body. Riley repeated the story so often that even he believed it. But of
course he didn’t believe it. And of course no one mentioned the tumours, since
that would have proved the lie.
No, Lincoln Lynch was a violent thief and he had got what
was coming.
“Mr Deadman,” declared Riley, clearing his lunch from the
desk.
“Carry on eating Riley,” said Mr Deadman, closing the door. “I
have a gift for you, from my wife.” Mr Deadman placed the stone jar on the desk
and pulled the chair from the corner. He sat down and smoothed his white cotton
trousers. “I need to speak to you about these registrations.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make the meeting.”
“Of course, I understand.” Said Deadman. “But time is of the
essence and we need you to help us.”
Riley stood at the window watching Deadman get into his Cadillac.
He looked down at the Coke bottle: at the bluebottle floating dead, without the
slightest hint of struggle.
And he drank it; insect and all.
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