Dead South (Mattie O'Malley FBI agent) Read online

  D E A D S O U T H

  By Daniel A. Adams

  Chapter One

  It was only a matter of time until the party turned into a drunken brawl. It wasn’t “if” it was “when” and judging by the flow of moonshine, when was coming very soon. What had started as a dozen men, knocking down pints of moonshine after a hard day at home on the couch, had turned into a full-blown party with well over two hundred men and women in attendance. It had started a little after 10:00 P.M. and by 2:00 A.M. most of the partygoers were well past drunk and on their way to passing out. A dozen or so “pick ‘em up trucks” were parked along the river bank with their lights aimed at a sand bar that extended out two hundred feet into a large, slow-flowing river. The license plates on the trucks told where—Mississippi and when was 2004, August 21 to be specific. A Saturday for anyone keeping track.

  The term men and women in Mississippi has a far different meaning than elsewhere in the country for in Mississippi, girls and boys as young as sixteen were considered adults because that was the legal age of consent. Most of the prettier teenage girls were dancing with older men, men old enough to be their fathers and maybe even their grandfathers. The older women, many on the wrong side of homely and over-weight, stood in a group, eyeing their husbands and boyfriends as they danced with the perky younger women. Being courted by an older man was a status symbol for the teenage girls who intentionally dressed sexy to attract the older men. Unfortunately for the older women, it was a one-way street for the men and no such arrangement existed for them. So, they stood shoulder-to-shoulder with their pints of moonshine and gossiped about the girls and who was screwing whom. What made the men attractive to the teen girls certainly wasn’t charm, good looks and the knowledge of how a shower works because most of the men wore the same clothing weeks at a time, didn’t shave unless the old woman got after them and only had a nodding acquaintance with the bathtub. No, it was a man’s standing in the community that got the teens attention. The high school football coach was at the pinnacle of the food chain and everyone else got what he didn’t want. It was rumored the local high school football coach had seven young women in his stable of beauties.

  It was hot—of course it was—because in Mississippi, in the summer, in August, there is humidity and heat. Not just a little humidity but humidity that would make a man sweat out his shirt on the walk from his house to his car. There was a tepid breeze, blowing off the water but the partygoers were used to the heat and hardly noticed it. Someone might comment about the heat but it wasn’t a topic anyone spent much time on because it was what it was. Woods surrounded this particular section land. Not big, high-standing trees, but low, paper-mill trees, good for nothing but to be ground into pulp, bleached and flattened into paper. Densely packed around the trees was a wide assortment of bushes and plants that made a hike through the woods a sweaty nightmare, not that anyone at the party had intentionally hiked anywhere. The only reason the men went into the woods was to shoot something—usually a deer or bear—and occasionally one of their friends. The women had absolutely no reason to go into the woods except for a few steps when nature called.

  On this particular night there was a lot of friction in the air because the coach had let one of his girls go and she was now in play and the older men were positioning themselves to move in on her. Her name was Libby and she was sixteen, very pretty and very aware of the stir she was causing. She was tall for her age, standing six feet tall in her bare feet. Her long brown hair hung down over her shoulders and her pretty brown eyes flirted with all of the right older men; the Mayor, the Sheriff and of course the undertaker. While most of the girls wore shorts and halter-tops, Libby wore a very short skirt that accented her long slim legs. That along with a skimpy tube top completed her outfit and to put it mildly, she was the toast of the town. She had a boyfriend—Tank—who was a junior and the varsity center but she knew screwing him wouldn’t get her half as far as a fling with the Mayor. She had been one of Coach Remming’s girls for a year but she rarely got to be with him because of the other girls. She had confronted him about it and he had suggested it was time for her to move along. There were other things to consider besides a title. Two of the county’s most powerful men never ran for politics or held office because they didn’t need to.

  One of the men was Paxton Flatt and the other was Poplar (Poptop) Baxter. Both men were in their fifties and there the similarities ended. Paxton was a White, burly, hairy, homely man, in his mid-forties with ugly teeth and ragged beard. Why a pretty teenage girl would have any interest in him was absolutely unfathomable unless you knew that Paxton ran most of the booze in the county and was one of the wealthiest men for several counties. Poptop on the other hand, was tall, skinny and topped by an unkempt mop of red hair. When he was in the sun, his white skin burned quickly and popped up an amazing array of freckles. He too had a little more than passing acquaintance with hygiene products preferring to wear the god-given sweaty smell of a workingman. It didn’t matter much to his wife because she considered bathing something that uppity rich people did because they had nothing else to do. But Poptop owned the only clothing store in town, a store full of baubles and pretty things that every girl in town wanted. So, although they weren’t much to look at, or smell, each man had something that made him attractive to the younger women.

  Paxton and Poptop were drunk but after a lifetime of drinking, drunk was an arbitrary term. They had probably each consumed a quart of moonshine and although they were sweating and slightly wobbly, they were still sober enough to notice Libby gyrating in her skimpy outfit near the big bonfire that had sprung up in the middle of the sandbar.

  “She’s askin’ for it, Poptop.” Paxton observed. “She’s been waggin’ her ass in front of me all night. Don’t know why Remming booted her but she’s a keeper for sure.”

  “Do tell. You think I ain’t got eyes. But if your old lady finds out, she’ll cut off your balls and taxidermy ‘em over the mantle.”

  “You let me worry ‘bout my balls. I’m gonna pick that cherry.”

  “She’s seein’ Tank. He’s a big boy. Might break you in half.”

  Paxton looked at Poptop. “You think I’d fight him. I’d shoot the dumb bastard and screw her on his dead body. If I don’t get to her, the Mayor will. He’s been watchin’ her since she got here. I figure he’ll make a move soon as his old lady passes out and she’s damn close. Hey, you might take a shot at his wife since she’s passed out. She wouldn’t remember anything cause your dick couldn’t hit two sides at the same time.”

  Poptop gave Paxton the finger. They both looked at the young teen girl. She gave Paxton a long slow look then looked toward his truck.

  “Damn, she’s a bold one. Guess the coach trained her well,” Poptop said.

  “I’m goin’ to get some of that.”

  Without another word, Paxton walked across the sand bar to where Libby was now dancing with Tank. Paxton elbowed Tank out of the way and the young man wisely beat a hasty retreat to the outskirts of the firelight where he glowered at Paxton.

  “I got your message,” he growled.

  She stuck her nose in the air, a look of feigned arrogance.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she sniffed.

  “Don't play with me, girl. I ain't one of them little boys you been dry-humpin' behind the church. You want a real man, start actin' like it.”

  Paxton was aware his wife and the other women were watching him but he didn’t give a fuck. Look all you want, he thought. In fact, if any of them wanted to come along to the back of his pickup truck they could watch him hump her like a dog in heat.

  “A real man takes what he wants,
” she said.

  “Get your ass on over to my truck,” he ordered. He saw the flash of obedience in her eyes and knew he had gauged the situation correctly.

  Noonan Duff, a good ten years older and twenty pounds of muscle heavier, rudely stepped in front of Paxton so he faced Libby.

  “You want to dance?” he asked Libby.

  Seeing she had two older men interested in her, Libby quickly stole a glance around the sand bar and to her delight, saw that everyone was watching her. She had the limelight.

  “Get your ass out of here,” Paxton snarled. He hadn’t fought in at least ten years but in his first 30 years of life, he had done nothing but fight. He fought dirty and fast. He had already apprised Noonan and knew the younger man was no match for his inspired ferocity.

  “Old man, you better walk away while you can, or they’re gonna have to carry you home.”

  Paxton didn’t know Noonan but he had heard about him. Noonan had been a boxer and he was sure he could lick any man in town although his theory hadn’t been tested on anyone as mean and underhanded as Paxton which is why, with a lightning move, Paxton belted Noonan on the jaw with a hard right.

  The fight was on. The crowd quickly formed a circle around the men who, with fists raised, circled each other in a circle. Blood dripped from a wide cut on Noonan’s chin.

  “You’re gonna pay for this,” Noonan growled.

  Paxton charged the younger man, swinging haymakers that both hit and missed the younger man. Noonan didn’t back down but launched hard, calculated punches that hit Paxton’s ear, temple and jaw. All drew blood. In the rush of adrenaline, neither men felt the blows but their bodies would later on in the brawl. The crowd screamed and bellowed support for both men—the crowd really didn’t care who fought; they just wanted to see someone get his ass kicked. Libby, very conscious of her role in the drama, barely stood aside from the two battling men and subsequently her dress was spattered with blood from Noonan’s first punches. She would keep the dress for many years, always ready to tell the story of how two grown men fought over her.

  The men were pretty evenly matched. Even though Noonan was younger, Paxton’s natural meanness and sneakiness easily offset the difference in years. Noonan fought with his head down and his chin covered while Paxton swung wildly, hoping to connect every couple of punches. They slammed into each other, fists beating hard on their opponent, blood streaming down from various cuts and scrapes. Paxton’s hand got caught in Noonan’s shirt and with a single swipe of his arm; Paxton tore the shirt off of Noonan whose chest was marred by several fist-sized red spots.

  Within two minutes, Paxton was exhausted and he knew unless he did something, he would get his ass kicked. He had noticed Noonan lowered his head after he threw a hard right, and the next time he did, Paxton head-butted him on the forehead. Staggered, Noonan backed away, covering his head with his arms but Paxton went right after him, pummeling his head and neck with blows. And had Noonan been a few years older, and untrained in boxing, Paxton probably would have put him down right then, but Noonan kept his chin and eyes covered, letting Paxton’s blows crash into his arms. In the few moments he had, Noonan recovered enough to slam a hard fist into Paxton’s gut, a blow that sent the air, whooshing out of Paxton’s lungs.

  The two men split apart, took several rasping breaths then rushed each other. Only this time, Noonan knew he could take Paxton. He also knew to watch for Paxton’s cheating ways and ducked the older man’s head butts, eye gouges and nut shots. Working methodically, Noonan began to take Paxton apart, one blow at a time. He crushed both Paxton’s eye sockets, his nose and knocked out several teeth. His last and heaviest blow, caught Paxton on the temple and the older man went down into the dirt. If nothing else, Noonan was a quick study and he had learned to fight dirty to win. With Paxton down on his hands and knees, Noonan drew back his foot to break some ribs.

  Only his foot never connected. Halfway to Paxton’s ribs, Paxton suddenly swung up his arm, a pistol gripped in his fist.

  BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

  Paxton shot Noonan in the guts three times with his .45 auto. The bullets punched through Noonan’s shirt, leaving surprisingly round holes from which erupted three geysers of dark blood. With a surprised look on his face, Noonan pitched forward, flat on his face.

  With screams and yells, the crowd instantly evaporated from the sand bar. One minute there had been more than two hundred people watching the fight, the next, no one but Noonan in sight. And where nearly 100 pickup trucks were parked beside the river, pandemonium as they all tried to get away. It looked like bumper cars as they trucks slammed into each other, bounced off and did it again. A driver would crunch a truck out of his way only to be crashed from behind by another truck. Crash after crash, crunch after crunch, the demolition derby played out on the narrow road that went through the forest back to the main road. Only a few trucks escaped unscathed and that was because they wisely waited until the other trucks were gone. Several feuds started that night, feuds that would go on for several generations and several killings, all because Noonan cut in on Paxton’s action.

  Kingswood, Mississippi was a small town of 2,000 people on the east side of the Mississippi River some 75 miles south of Vicksburg, Mississippi. Sustained by the Mississippi fishery, farming, cattle and hogs, the town had survived several economic busts more by luck than anything else. The town was approximately two miles wide and five miles long with half the population living on farms and rural houses and the other half living within the city limits. Separated from the surrounding small towns by woods, the town looked like something from the 1950’s with a downtown that could easily have been plopped down anywhere in the Midwest without changing it much. The main street, Northfork Street, ran alongside the river, curving where the river curved, and bending where it bent. Streets on the Mississippi River side of Northfork were short because the road ran so close to the river. Streets heading east out of town were long and lined with a canopy of tree branches.

  On this particular day, a crowd was gathering in the town square for a big event—a parade—the Klu Klux Klan was celebrating its one-hundredth year in Kingswood with the parade and a big barbecue at the fair grounds. Dressed in their white robes and masks, the Klansman milled around, talking and joking and occasionally indulging in a little horseplay. Even with their masks on, the Klansmen knew each other and greeted each new arrival with gusto—loud gusto. Even though it was only 9:00 A.M. most of the men were drinking which raised the volume of the crowd noise several hundred decibels. Pocket flasks were passed around until they were empty at which time someone else would offer his flask and it too would be emptied. Where Northfork Street crossed First Avenue, a group of men dressed as clowns, roared around the pavement on tiny cars, cutting close to anyone who dared to cross the street. The Klansmen’s families lined and other spectators lined Northfork Street for several blocks. Kids ran back and forth across the street, daring each other to evade the clowns in the little cars. One young kid, maybe ten years old, didn’t evade a car and was run over by the slightly tipsy clown. After making sure the kid was ok, the mom smacked him hard on the ass, angry that he had shamed her in front of the crowd. Everyone was happy and having a good time.

  A nondescript, late model, light green sedan eased through Northfork Street, driving around groups of people in the street and gradually working its way to a driveway on the east side of a building marked with a sign that read SHERIFF’S OFFICE. The car parked in the side lot and a woman stepped out of the car—not just any woman but a beautiful, sexy Black woman in a business suit. Her name was Mattie O’Malley and she was thirty something, trim and sophisticated. From her polished loafers to her neatly cut hair she exuded confidence and grace. Figuratively, she was a sleek Jaguar in a parking lot full of Ramblers. Her business suit was cut tight and it fit her like a glove. Everything about her said class.

  As she walked toward the Sheriff’s Office, she glanced at the activity in the park. It didn’t take a brain sur
geon to figure out what was going on. As she reached for the doorknob, a man in slacks, boots, a white shirt and big hat called to her.

  “’Scuse me, Mam, but there ain’t nobody inside. They’re all over at the parade.”

  Mattie lifted a badge out of her pocket, flashed him with it.

  “FBI. I’m looking for Sheriff Wilks.”

  The man pushed off the wall he had been leaning against and eyed her like she was a lab experiment. His gray eyes didn’t miss anything as they traveled up and down her body.

  “Ain’t that sumpthin’,” he exclaimed. “I never seen a nigger FBI lady before.”

  “That’s strange,” she countered, “Cause I’ve met a whole lot of redneck asshole sheriffs.”

  The man brightened, smiled at her then laughed.

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Mattie O’Malley—Jackson Office.”

  “You don’t look Irish.”

  “Why, because I don’t have a potato stuck in my ass?”

  The man laughed. A real laugh.

  I’m Sheriff Wilks,” he said. “Honey, you have a tongue that could cut concrete. I think I like you.”

  “Gee, aren’t I lucky.”

  “They give you a gun, Honey?

  “Sheriff, I don’t have time for this.” She nodded toward the park. “What’s going on?”

  The Klan’s putting on a little parade. Nothin’ special.”

  “Are your men providing security?”