her hand. “Come on, girl. Can’t you take a joke? Now why isn’t Hoke gonna like this story?”
“Because the big boys upstairs are going to say it’s Southern Gothic nut stuff, not hard news.”
“You want to tell me that all those wars and hearings and bullshit on the front page are about anything in the world except pussy and power and greed and little boys worried about the size of their dicks? What the hell do you think news is , girl?”
Sam dropped money on the table. “Well, you know, I never realized you were so smart, Julia. I’ve said the same thing more than once myself.”
“Sheeeeit.”
Nine
Savannah’s Chief Detective Dan Clayton was blond and wiry with the kind of energy more at home in New York City than this dawdling Southern town.
He’d come around the side of his desk and was sitting with Sam, reminding her of Hoke, except instead of the cigarettes, Clayton chewed.
“Pardon,” he said, pointing to his mouth. “Gave up smoking almost a year ago. Wife says I don’t quit the gum soon, she’s trading me in. But I do that, it’ll be the rocking next,” he said, the chair rocking in constant motion, “and after that the talking. She says I run races even in my sleep. But I guess you didn’t come here to talk about my problems. What can I do you for? You writing about the bus kidnapping?”
“No,” Sam said when Clayton finally took a breath. “Julia Townley just told me more about that than I ever need to know.”
“Julia?” Clayton snorted. “She’s something, idn’t she? There’s folks around this town think she ought to be run off, but I say, fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke. Lot of high and mighty people in Savannah pretending they never screwed or went to the outhouse. You know what I mean?”
“Sure do.” Then she got down to it. “You remember I called you a few days ago about Randolph Percy?”
“Oh, yes.” He leaned back within a centimeter of disaster. “Now I gotcha. Well, I tell you. He’s a smooth old bird. One of the slickest.”
“Then there’ve been other inquiries?”
“Hell, yes. Had calls from departments up in Charleston, in Macon, from down in New Orleans. One not long ago from Decatur, right next door to you.”
“And?”
“It’s always pretty much the same. You can’t arrest a man for having an eye for rich old ladies. And I’ll give it to him. He has the best taste in septuagenarian lookers I’ve ever seen.”
Clayton was up and pacing the room now, his feet pretty much keeping time with his gum.
“The questions always come from family or friends. Never from the women themselves.”
“But they’re able to ask?”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re alive?”
He stopped and pulled the gum out of his mouth and stared at it before popping it back.
“Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, no. Now am I right, you’ve got another old lady in Atlanta who’s got herself involved with Percy and you’re concerned about her, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, this is how it seems to go. Sometimes the woman dies and leaves Percy her money. Usually quite a bit of it, though I’d say he hasn’t hit the pot at the end of the rainbow yet. And sometimes she doesn’t die, and she and Percy have a fine old time. ’Course, I imagine she picks up all the checks, but that fact never seems to bother her. I mean, we haven’t gotten any calls from them, complaining, if you know what I mean.”
“You think he’s a killer?”
Clayton turned, stared at her, and chewed for a few beats.
“Could be. Very well could be. But there’s never been reason enough for pursuit.”
“Any autopsies?”
“Yep, as a matter of fact. A couple. Natural causes. Complications of old age. It’s not like if he does kill ’em he bashes ’em with a baseball bat. Gets kind of iffy, you know, when you’re dealing with people that age. It’s not the same as investigating a thirty-five-year-old who’s popped off and left him a bundle.
“Because the big boys upstairs are going to say it’s Southern Gothic nut stuff, not hard news.”
“You want to tell me that all those wars and hearings and bullshit on the front page are about anything in the world except pussy and power and greed and little boys worried about the size of their dicks? What the hell do you think news is , girl?”
Sam dropped money on the table. “Well, you know, I never realized you were so smart, Julia. I’ve said the same thing more than once myself.”
“Sheeeeit.”
Nine
Savannah’s Chief Detective Dan Clayton was blond and wiry with the kind of energy more at home in New York City than this dawdling Southern town.
He’d come around the side of his desk and was sitting with Sam, reminding her of Hoke, except instead of the cigarettes, Clayton chewed.
“Pardon,” he said, pointing to his mouth. “Gave up smoking almost a year ago. Wife says I don’t quit the gum soon, she’s trading me in. But I do that, it’ll be the rocking next,” he said, the chair rocking in constant motion, “and after that the talking. She says I run races even in my sleep. But I guess you didn’t come here to talk about my problems. What can I do you for? You writing about the bus kidnapping?”
“No,” Sam said when Clayton finally took a breath. “Julia Townley just told me more about that than I ever need to know.”
“Julia?” Clayton snorted. “She’s something, idn’t she? There’s folks around this town think she ought to be run off, but I say, fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke. Lot of high and mighty people in Savannah pretending they never screwed or went to the outhouse. You know what I mean?”
“Sure do.” Then she got down to it. “You remember I called you a few days ago about Randolph Percy?”
“Oh, yes.” He leaned back within a centimeter of disaster. “Now I gotcha. Well, I tell you. He’s a smooth old bird. One of the slickest.”
“Then there’ve been other inquiries?”
“Hell, yes. Had calls from departments up in Charleston, in Macon, from down in New Orleans. One not long ago from Decatur, right next door to you.”
“And?”
“It’s always pretty much the same. You can’t arrest a man for having an eye for rich old ladies. And I’ll give it to him. He has the best taste in septuagenarian lookers I’ve ever seen.”
Clayton was up and pacing the room now, his feet pretty much keeping time with his gum.
“The questions always come from family or friends. Never from the women themselves.”
“But they’re able to ask?”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re alive?”
He stopped and pulled the gum out of his mouth and stared at it before popping it back.
“Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, no. Now am I right, you’ve got another old lady in Atlanta who’s got herself involved with Percy and you’re concerned about her, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, this is how it seems to go. Sometimes the woman dies and leaves Percy her money. Usually quite a bit of it, though I’d say he hasn’t hit the pot at the end of the rainbow yet. And sometimes she doesn’t die, and she and Percy have a fine old time. ’Course, I imagine she picks up all the checks, but that fact never seems to bother her. I mean, we haven’t gotten any calls from them, complaining, if you know what I mean.”
“You think he’s a killer?”
Clayton turned, stared at her, and chewed for a few beats.
“Could be. Very well could be. But there’s never been reason enough for pursuit.”
“Any autopsies?”
“Yep, as a matter of fact. A couple. Natural causes. Complications of old age. It’s not like if he does kill ’em he bashes ’em with a baseball bat. Gets kind of iffy, you know, when you’re dealing with people that age. It’s not the same as investigating a thirty-five-year-old who’s popped off and left him a bundle.
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