It Takes Two by Elliott Mackle

Author:Elliott Mackle [Mackle, Elliott]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Amazon, Retail
ISBN: 9781555837549
Goodreads: 1229218
Publisher: Lethe Press
Published: 2012-06-02T04:00:00+00:00

Taps

By five minutes to two that afternoon, the limestone steps of the First Methodist Church were three-deep in late-arriving mourners. A Cadillac hearse and two limousines were parked out front, flanked by three black-suited undertakers, eight pallbearers and a cigar-chewing News-Press photographer.

Hillard Norris was definitely traveling first class.

The pallbearers looked self-conscious and vaguely official, like county commissioners running for reelection. Bowing to ladies and children and occasionally touching the white carnation boutonnieres pinned to their lapels, they greeted other men with handshakes and shoulder-pats. The undertakers muttered to each other without moving their lips. The photographer kept glancing around, clearly waiting for something that hadn’t happened yet.

Two dozen Klansmen, some in robes, others in wash pants and flannel shirts—or whatever else constituted Sunday best—were assembled to the right of the church door. Their womenfolk had been sent inside. The few blacks present, all Norris family employees, I guessed, and all dressed in strict black and white mourning, slipped quickly past the white knights, their eyes searching the ground for nickels.

Bud didn’t like me attending the funeral. “You can’t find anything better to do?” he’d complained the day before. “You some kind of ghoul?”

“If it’s gonna fuck up your investigation real bad,” I had answered, “I can skip it. But you can’t blame a guy for wanting a better look at the bitch who tried to kill him.”

“Don’t sit near me,” he’d replied, scowling. “I’ll be in the back. And I’ll be working.”

Entering the sanctuary, I scanned the crowd. Bud wasn’t there. Ralph Nype, the city-desk reporter for the News-Press, was one of the few people I recognized. He was seated about halfway up the center aisle. Back in December, he’d written a feature story on the hotel’s new menus and waitresses. He’d also done the whitewash job for the Hillard Norris obituary.

Nype favored Sears-Roebuck suits, suede shoes and flower-pattern neckties. Today’s shoes were dusty black, the suit a nubby green raw-silk model with not enough shoulder padding. The tie was stormy-weather gray with coconut-brown orchids. Nype had a narrow face, birdcage torso and long stork’s legs. Journalism had clearly not made a man of him.

Firmly ignoring an usher’s peremptory push toward an empty space behind a column, I walked forward, tapped Nype on the shoulder and stepped around his knees. Glancing over the top of his glasses, he made room in the pew and stuck out his right hand.

“Glad to see you,” I whispered, shaking his hand with both of mine. “You working or a friend of the family?”

“Little of both,” he answered, returning the handshake and adding his left hand on top. A gold wedding band gleamed dully. “You know them well too?”

“Just him,” I said. “He was a valued friend of the house. We like to honor our patrons in any way we can.”

Nype cocked an eyebrow but didn’t inquire about the nature of Norris’s business at the Caloosa. His eyes stayed busy, checking off each soul who entered the church.

“What’s this gonna be like?” I inquired as if innocently, wanting to keep the information flowing.

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