“I was in Montgomery picking up fifty thousand dollars,” I told him and then waited for a reaction to show on his face. None appeared. This I found odd. “That doesn’t surprise you?”
He drank from his glass. “What do you want me to say, Sidney? You want me to say, ‘Wow, that’s a lot of money’? What do you expect?”
“I don’t know what I expect.”
For whatever unfathomable and idiotic reason I decided to level with him further. “I became afraid that I was followed from the bank, that somebody was going to steal my money. And then when I met that Thornton Scrunchy, you know with the same last name as the guy from the bank, I got really scared.”
Still, he listened without showing any reaction.
“Why so much cash?”
“It was for the sisters. It’s for their church. They seemed to think god sent me down here to build their blasted temple. I don’t know how to build anything, so I had some money wired to the bank in Montgomery. The money was for them. I would have given it to them, but that Scrunchy was there.”
“So, you’re one of them good Samaritans.”
I laughed. “An idiot.”
“Where’s the money now?”
“I hid it.”
“Good move.”
“Is this where you point a pistol at my head and make me take you to it?” I asked, half smiling.
He swallowed the last of what was in his glass. “No, this is where I close my eyes and sleep for another five or ten minutes. You think about this killer you want to catch. Maybe I’ll dream about your kind of money. Fifty thousand good ol’ Uncle Samuel Greenbacks. Man oh man.” He laughed softly as he seemed to drift off.
If I wasn’t digging myself deeper, I was certainly lengthening the trench. The rain was not letting up, but was now smashing into the windows. I couldn’t see the trees clearly anymore.
What I did see clearly was the murder of the doppelganger of Not Sidney Poitier. He was struck on the back of the head by a redneck named Thornton Scrunchy who was subsequently disappointed to find no cash in the dead man’s pockets. Probably every KKK-connected miscreant in a five-county swath of Alabama was in on the murder and the search for the money. Whether the Chief was, I obviously didn’t know. But as he slept there I resolved to attempt to Fesmerize him upon his waking. I thought I might have a better chance and an easier job if I awoke him before he was ready. I perched myself on the edge of my seat and leaned into my stare — my eyebrow arched, my head tilted slightly, and I cleared my throat, again, louder, again. The man stirred, slowly opened his eyes, grew immediately alarmed by my posture, then fell into what I recognized as a successful Fesmerian submersion. He sat there even more like a lump and stared into the space that was me.
“Can you hear me, Chief?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Tell me your full name.”
“My name is Francis Rene Funk.”
“Really?” I leaned closer to him. “When did you learn about the fifty thousand dollars?”
“When you told me,” he said.
“Do you know who killed the man in the chest?”
“No.”
“Do you suspect anyone?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Whom do you suspect?”
“Thornton Scrunchy.”
“Why?”
“Because of what you said. He thought the black boy looked like you. He does look like you.”
“Do you want to hurt me?”
“No,” he said.
“Will you hurt me?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you believe my life is in danger?”
“Yes.”
“Look into my eyes,” I told him, and when he did, I said, ‘When I say ‘Chief, I need your help,’ you will help me. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You will defend me, protect me if I need you, if anyone is trying to hurt me. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
I told him to go back to sleep and wake up in ten minutes. I sat there just a little less afraid than I had been, convinced at least of the fact the man with me meant me no harm. I was certainly no less confused. I felt terribly guilty for the man who looked enough like me to have been killed. I didn’t know what to do about the money. I had been stupid about it. I should have taken Sister Irenaeus to the bank and simply had her open an account, but it was too late to change any of that. I thought of the money hidden in the satchel and wondered how it was faring in the rain and wind. For all I knew one-hundred-dollar bills were floating all over southern Alabama.
The rain was letting up when Chief Francis Rene Funk awoke, but there was no sign or promise of a blue sky to come. There was only gray, dark clouds, wind, and mud. We got back into the Chief’s car and slipped and slid our way back to the highway. We drove to the diner, and I saw my car in the parking lot, at least what was left of it. It had been stripped and left open and bleeding in the pouring rain. The only consolation to what I saw as the loss of a friend was the fact that the thugs had not found what they were looking for.
“What now, city boy?” the Chief asked.
I shook my head, shrugged.
“Well, let’s eat something.” He parked beside my Skylark. “Need to eat something.”
“Tell me, Chief, what is a Smuteye?”
“You never had corn smut? Come on, boy.”
In the diner, Diana was surprised and pleased to see me. “Sidney,” she said. “They didn’t kill you?”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” I said.
She laughed.
“Give this boy some corn smut,” the Chief said.
“You sure you’re ready for this?” Diana asked.
“No. What is it?”
“Corn cancer is what it is,” said the man in the tractor cap who was sitting right where he had been seated when I was arrested.
“It’s a fungus,” she said. “Tastes real good. We eat it with eggs. The Mexicans called it Huitlacoche.”
“What Mexicans?” I asked.
“The two that come through here about three years ago. They said it means raven shit.”
I looked at the Chief’s face and recalled his charge to not let any harm come to me. I nodded. “Okay, let me have some.”
Diana scrambled some eggs in a pan, divided them onto two plates, slapped some toast beside the servings, and the opened a plain jar from which she scraped black matter. She slid the plates in front of us.
“Have at,” the Chief said. “The Mexicans said it’s good for you-know.” He glanced down at his crotch.
“What happened to these Mexicans?” I asked.
The Chief smirked. “Well, we chased them into the swamp, and one of them never come out. We caught the other one, what was left of him, and sent him to the county jail farm.”
“What did they do?” I asked.
“I don’t rightly recall.”
I finally took a bite of the corn smut. I didn’t gag like I thought I might. It was a little like mushrooms. I at once sort of liked it and wanted to spit it out across the counter.
“What do you think?” Diana asked.
I was saved from having to answer by the opening of the screen door. A familiar voice split the room.
“Anybody here seen a fellow who looks just like Sidney Poitier?” It was Ted.
“Ted,” I said.
“Nu’ott?”
“It’s me,” I said.
“If you say so. Podgy told me you needed some help. What are you eating?”
“It’s called corn smut,” I said.
“And you’re eating it? Is it good?”
I shrugged.
Ted looked at Diana. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” said Diana.
“Fix me up a plate of that,” Ted said.
“You can have mine,” I said.
Ted sat beside me, and I pushed my plate in front of him. “Ted Turner,” I said, “this is the chief of police.”