“You know something, Cal?” Lynch said. “I can’t recall a day when I’ve been threatened so much. First old Lucifer here with his film and then you acting uppity and making threats just because it’d be in the best interest of the community if you was to resign. Now when you think it over, you’ll just pick up that pen and write out a real nice letter of resignation and sign the original and maybe three or four carbons. You might mention something about personal reasons and other interests. That’s always good, isn’t it, Lucifer?”
“Usually,” I said.
“You want him to say something else?”
“No.”
“See how cooperative everybody’s being, Cal?”
Loambaugh’s nose had quit bleeding and he dropped the bloody towel on the table. “I swear to God I’m not resigning. And the first thing I do when I get back to the office is open the safe and take out some stuff I’ve been saving. Then I’m going to call in the FBI — that’s right, the FBI, Lynch — and they’re going to rack you so hard you won’t know if you’re in Swankerton or Cincinnati.” He picked up the writing paper and the carbons and threw them across the table at Lynch. They fluttered in the air, caught a current from the air-conditioner, and floated back in a zig-zag pattern to the table. Lynch waited until the last one had settled to the table before he spoke, and then it was only a mild query,
“Is that a fact?”
“You goddamned right it’s a fact. This afternoon, Lynch. This very afternoon, not more than a couple of hours from now.”
Lynch got up from his chair and bent over the table. He carefully assembled the papers and the carbons in two neat stacks and slid them back across the table to Loambaugh.
“Write it out, Cal, for your sake,” he said in a soft tone.
Loambaugh shoved his chair back and rose. “You can get me fired, you sonofabitch, but you ain’t about to get me to resign. Ever. You’ll like it back in Atlanta, Lynch. And that’s where you’re headed sure as shit stinks.” He turned to leave.
“Little Timmy Thornton,” Lynch said in a low, soft voice that still managed to stop Loambaugh in midstride. “Little Timmy Thornton, five years old, with a torn up rectum where somebody cornholed him.”
Loambaugh turned slowly and his face was pale and his hands began to shake. He looked at his hands as if they belonged to somebody else and then rested them on the back of a chair. But the shakes were in his arms now and they seemed to travel up them slowly until they reached his shoulders. He quivered visibly, but seemed unaware of it. His face was no longer white, but almost gray instead, and his eyes were fixed on Lynch in an unblinking stare as if he had just peered into the future and didn’t much like what he’d seen.
Lynch wouldn’t look at Loambaugh. He gazed at the surface of the table instead, and when he spoke again, his voice was still low and soft as if he were talking to himself and was comfortable doing so. “Well, we’ve been talking about a lot of threats here this afternoon, haven’t we, Cal? So I’m going to talk about something that I thought I’d never have to. I’m going to talk about little Timmy Thornton with his torn asshole and little Beth Mary Fames, all of six and a half, with her little pussy chewed up so much that they had to take twelve stitches in it, and maybe I should mention little Barbara Wynnewood, who got it both front and rear and then had all of her upper teeth knocked out because she bit it. Now these are the ones that I got evidence to prove, Cal. I admit that there are a couple of others that are nothing but pure D speculation and rumor, but the ones I mentioned, well, I got the facts and even some nigger witnesses to back them up. Now I suggest you sit yourself down and write out that resignation and then we’ll just forget about everything that’s been said and done in this room this afternoon.”
I watched Loambaugh disintegrate as Lynch spoke. He slumped, caved in really, I suppose, and I wondered if he would ever get his posture back. His eyes glazed, but they never left Lynch, and they seemed to watch the words that came out of the fat man’s mouth. He continued to tremble and his mouth opened and his swollen tongue played around his lips, but he didn’t seem aware of it. His color went from gray back to pasty white and a couple of red spots appeared high up on his cheekbones. When Lynch stopped talking, Loambaugh looked around warily as if he might have stumbled into the wrong room. Then he pulled out a chair, sat down on it cautiously, like an old man, reached for the paper and carbons, interleaved them in a mechanical fashion, and began to write. His hand still shook and he wrote large, bearing down hard on the paper with the pen. I watched him sign his name. He did it carefully and slowly, as if these were the last times he would ever sign it. All five copies. He put the pen down slowly, pushed the papers toward Lynch, rose, and walked out of the room. He moved blindly, bumped against two chairs, and fumbled with the sliding doors.
Lynch watched Loambaugh leave and when he was gone, the fat man said, “Now, by God, I hated to do that to old Cal.” He slipped the carbons from between the sheets of paper and handed me one of the copies. “I’ll turn the rest over to the mayor and the city council. You drive a hard bargain, Dye. Mighty hard.”
I folded the carbon of the resignation and put it in my pocket. “You haven’t heard it all yet.”
Lynch turned slowly in his chair until he could face me. He looked as if he expected to chew something that would taste bad. He swallowed once and coughed. “I haven’t heard it all?” he said.
“No. There’s more.”
“You better tell me what it is then, hadn’t you?” He was using the same low tone that he had used on Loambaugh. I didn’t like it.
“I name the new chief of police.”
“You?”
“That’s right.”
“You name the new chief of police,” he said slowly, spacing the words so that he could savor each one. “You.”
“Me.”
“Well,” he said. “Huh. That’s really something, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Part of the whole deal, huh?”
“Part of the deal.”
“I suppose you got a candidate?”
“That’s right.”
“Can I ask who?”
“Sure.”
“Who?”
I smiled and tried to make it a reassuring one. I don’t think I succeeded. “Who?” Lynch said again.
“Homer Necessary,” I said.
Chapter 31
There were five messages under my door when I returned to room 819 in the Sycamore and all of them urged me to call Mr. Gorman Smalldane. I tossed them into the wastebasket, stretched out on the bed, and made a careful study of the ceiling. In my mind I could still hear the sound of my voice which, in retrospect, had all the warmth of a mechanical duck as it quacked away the afternoon, first with Lynch and Loambaugh, and later, for another hour, with Orcutt, Necessary, and Carol Thackerty. It had taken that long to describe how Homer Necessary would be sworn in as Chief Necessary at a special meeting of the Swankerton City Council come next Friday afternoon, which was three days off.
“You’ll receive a hand-delivered letter from the mayor tomorrow offering you the job,” I told Necessary.
“How far did you have to bend?” he said.
“Over backwards.”
“Be more precise, Mr. Dye, please,” Orcutt said.
“I know what he means,” Necessary said. “He means I clear it all with Lynch.”
“That’s right,” I said. “You might be able to fix an overtime parking ticket without checking, but that’s all.”
“Did you have to concede so much?” Orcutt said.
“Once he’s chief, I don’t think Homer’s going to give a damn what I conceded.”