Brand claims was playing poker,” Rexard agreed unemotionally. “It’s tough on Brand having it happen… right on top of them saying Jethro Home has skipped town.”
“That leaves only one other witness for Brand,” Shayne said slowly.
“Yep. Dave Burroughs. I’d hate to be in Dave’s shoes right now. Wasn’t so bad when he had two others to back him up.” The heavy congressman spoke in a heavy voice.
“Were there any witnesses to Margule’s accident?” Shayne asked casually.
“If there were I reckon they’re not talking,” said Rexard.
There were lines of tension in Shayne’s gaunt face. He took a sip of brandy. It went down easier now that the way had been paved by Ann Cornell’s corn. He looked slowly around the restaurant. It was well-filled now. There was a small cleared place in the center where a few couples were dancing to a hillbilly tune from the juke-box. A lot of men and some women were lined up at the slot machines, feeding coins into the machines and pulling cranks and waiting apathetically for the cylinders to stop so they could deposit another coin.
He wondered what their attitude toward the ending of the strike was… what they thought about the highway accident that had removed one of George Brand’s witnesses from the jurisdiction of the court while a second one of the trio had unaccountably disappeared. What did these people think about a police force and a judge and a small army of special deputies who acted wholly outside the law?
If the group gathered in the restaurant was representative of Centerville’s citizenry, Shayne decided that they didn’t think about things like that. Over a period of years they had probably ceased to resent being pushed around by the local authorities. Those who could, he surmised, catered to the police and tried to get in on the graft. Those not lucky enough to do that tried to avoid trouble by being passive and staying out of their way.
Lucy and Titus Tatum pushed their chairs back and got up to dance. Shayne poured more brandy in Rexard’s glass and jerked his head towards Titus.
“One of your local politicians?”
“Titus isn’t as bad as some,” Rexard told him. “Knows which side his bread is buttered on and doesn’t cause any trouble.” He hesitated, then added, “Nobody gets elected here without backing from the city hall bunch.” He accepted a cigarette from Shayne’s extended pack and confided, “Miss Lucy says you all are just driving through.”
“We might stay over a few days,” Shayne told him. “Depends on several things.”
“She didn’t say what your business might be,” Rexard probed.
“Didn’t she?” Shayne scowled into his glass for a moment, then watched the couples who were dancing.
Rexard turned in his chair, grinned broadly, said, “That Titus. He’s quite a chaser. Seems like he took a shine to Miss Lucy soon’s he saw her sitting here alone. But you needn’t make nothing out of that,” he went on hastily. “He’s a gentleman, if I do say so.”
Shayne wasn’t particularly concerned with Lucy and the Centerville Lothario. She knew when to be naive and when to get tough. He said abruptly to Rexard, “I don’t quite understand the situation here about the miners. Aren’t they affiliated with John L. Lewis’ United Mine Workers?”
“Not in Centerville. Some mines in Kentucky are organized, but not hereabouts. Organizers from outside don’t last long.”
“What happens to them?”
Rexard lifted his skinny shoulders. “Lots of things. Car runs over a cliff, maybe. Like Joe Margule this afternoon…”
“You mean they get rubbed out?” Shayne interrupted sharply, turning his gaze from the dance floor to his bald-headed companion.
Rexard moved uneasily and looked cautiously around. “For God’s sake Mr. Shayne,” he said in a low voice, “don’t say things like that out loud. It’s not healthy in Centerville. We leave well enough alone here. The mine owners don’t like
“That leaves only one other witness for Brand,” Shayne said slowly.
“Yep. Dave Burroughs. I’d hate to be in Dave’s shoes right now. Wasn’t so bad when he had two others to back him up.” The heavy congressman spoke in a heavy voice.
“Were there any witnesses to Margule’s accident?” Shayne asked casually.
“If there were I reckon they’re not talking,” said Rexard.
There were lines of tension in Shayne’s gaunt face. He took a sip of brandy. It went down easier now that the way had been paved by Ann Cornell’s corn. He looked slowly around the restaurant. It was well-filled now. There was a small cleared place in the center where a few couples were dancing to a hillbilly tune from the juke-box. A lot of men and some women were lined up at the slot machines, feeding coins into the machines and pulling cranks and waiting apathetically for the cylinders to stop so they could deposit another coin.
He wondered what their attitude toward the ending of the strike was… what they thought about the highway accident that had removed one of George Brand’s witnesses from the jurisdiction of the court while a second one of the trio had unaccountably disappeared. What did these people think about a police force and a judge and a small army of special deputies who acted wholly outside the law?
If the group gathered in the restaurant was representative of Centerville’s citizenry, Shayne decided that they didn’t think about things like that. Over a period of years they had probably ceased to resent being pushed around by the local authorities. Those who could, he surmised, catered to the police and tried to get in on the graft. Those not lucky enough to do that tried to avoid trouble by being passive and staying out of their way.
Lucy and Titus Tatum pushed their chairs back and got up to dance. Shayne poured more brandy in Rexard’s glass and jerked his head towards Titus.
“One of your local politicians?”
“Titus isn’t as bad as some,” Rexard told him. “Knows which side his bread is buttered on and doesn’t cause any trouble.” He hesitated, then added, “Nobody gets elected here without backing from the city hall bunch.” He accepted a cigarette from Shayne’s extended pack and confided, “Miss Lucy says you all are just driving through.”
“We might stay over a few days,” Shayne told him. “Depends on several things.”
“She didn’t say what your business might be,” Rexard probed.
“Didn’t she?” Shayne scowled into his glass for a moment, then watched the couples who were dancing.
Rexard turned in his chair, grinned broadly, said, “That Titus. He’s quite a chaser. Seems like he took a shine to Miss Lucy soon’s he saw her sitting here alone. But you needn’t make nothing out of that,” he went on hastily. “He’s a gentleman, if I do say so.”
Shayne wasn’t particularly concerned with Lucy and the Centerville Lothario. She knew when to be naive and when to get tough. He said abruptly to Rexard, “I don’t quite understand the situation here about the miners. Aren’t they affiliated with John L. Lewis’ United Mine Workers?”
“Not in Centerville. Some mines in Kentucky are organized, but not hereabouts. Organizers from outside don’t last long.”
“What happens to them?”
Rexard lifted his skinny shoulders. “Lots of things. Car runs over a cliff, maybe. Like Joe Margule this afternoon…”
“You mean they get rubbed out?” Shayne interrupted sharply, turning his gaze from the dance floor to his bald-headed companion.
Rexard moved uneasily and looked cautiously around. “For God’s sake Mr. Shayne,” he said in a low voice, “don’t say things like that out loud. It’s not healthy in Centerville. We leave well enough alone here. The mine owners don’t like
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