Chapter Thirty-Two
It was nearly dinnertime when I got home, and my grandmother was bustling around the apartment, her oxygen tube trailing behind her. She gave me a wet smack on the cheek when I walked in and told me she was fixing supper.
“Smells good!” I said.
“It should,” she told me. “I had Coralee run down to the butcher shop and buy some nice T-bone steaks for us to celebrate me comin’ home.” I got washed up and she went back into the kitchen to finish broiling the steaks. She was cooking a big pot of french fries in hot grease on top of the oven, and she had cut a glistening wedge of lettuce for me.
We sat down to eat at the kitchen table and she asked me what I’d been doing. “Any more of that private eye stuff today?” she said, and I told her what had happened. She chuckled.
“I know just what you’re thinkin’, baby.” She put a bite of steak in her mouth and chewed slowly. “You think Lester III is mixed up in all of this, maybe even done some of it himself?”
I had to admit the thought had crossed my mind. “But you got to understand,” she continued, “Lester’s too dumb to do most of what you’re sayin’, and besides he’s got no reason to go killin’ anyone. What for? He’s got his daddy’s money and his momma’s looks, and all he has to do is get by until his daddy hands him the business.”
“If he’s so dumb,” I replied, “why will he get the business? Won’t he just run it into the ground?”
“I reckon Lester Sr.’s smart enough to get some people in there who know what they’re doin’, just so he can prevent that from happenin’. The Macaboos didn’t make millions by leavin’ things to chance.”
I ate another french fry. “They are worth millions, aren’t they,” I said.
“Sho’ nuff,” she said. “A bunch of them.”
“And it’s all tied up in the bakery, isn’t it.”
“Far as I know,” she replied. “They used to own a few other little things but I believe they got rid of them all and now the bakery’s it. Not that they should worry, it makes money hand over fist.”
I put down my fork and thought for a moment. “So if anything were to happen to the bakery, they’d be in big trouble.”
She laughed. “People like that are never in too much trouble. They’d find a way to make another million soon enough.”
I let that comment sit in the air, but it worked its way into the back of my brain and rooted around like a worm in a manure pile. I decided to explore the story of the bet with her, and was surprised to hear that she’d heard it before.
“That’s a story the colored folks have been tellin’ for a long time,” she told me. “I think it’s one of those stories that they change the characters to fit the town, know what I mean? I don’t think it ever really happened.”
I showed her the photo of Senior Tompkins and Lester Macaboo. She looked at it closely. “That’s them, alright. I don’t recall whether they were ever too close or not, but I doubt it. Lester Sr. was a tough old character and he wouldn’t have had any truck with a colored boy like that, leastways not to the extent you’re talkin’ about.” She finished her dinner and I was still eating. I doubted that what she said was true, perhaps only because I wanted to believe all of my theories were beginning to fit together and make sense. After I finished eating, she went to lie down and I did the dishes. After I finished, I went into the living room, sat down on the sofa and turned on the TV. But I couldn’t pay attention. I wanted to see Sally Ann and I wanted to keep playing detective.
I picked up the phone and called Sally Ann’s number.
Her father answered: “Martin residence.”
“Sheriff Martin?” I asked. “It’s Carey Lovett.”
“Oh, hi, Carey. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been thinking about the case. The one thing I can’t figure out is why that man at the bakery came after me.”
“Maybe he didn’t like your car?”
I laughed. “I don’t think that’s it.” He laughed, too. “How about we go out and talk to him?” I suggested.
“Carey,” he replied, “it’s Saturday night. Do you know what the folks on that side of town are doing right about now?”
“Eating dinner?” I asked hesitantly.
“Probably not,” he said. “More than likely they’re taking baths and getting dressed for the biggest night of the week. There’s an old saying: sin on Saturday, repent on Sunday. If the man who hit you is anything like I think he is, he’s probably getting ready to head out to a roadhouse over to Powell or thereabouts. He won’t be too interested in talking to us tonight.”
I figured he was right, so I chose plan B. “Is Sally Ann home?” I asked. She was, and we went to the movies and tried not to talk about the Macaboos or the Mackenzies or anything but each other. I got home later than I should and slept in on Sunday morning. Had I known what the rest of the day would bring, I probably would have kept right on sleeping.
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