from the tip.
“I need to explain something, Mears,” he said. “This business. It’s about the truth, right?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Indeed it is, Mears.” He puffed at the cigarette and leaned back in his chair. “It’s about the truth. When the truth sells papers. Do you understand?”
When I asked Sheriff Curtis about the assault, he sighed and shook his head. He was slumped in his chair. He looked tired. “About the last thing we needed right now, Charlie. We had a couple folks outside again last night. What I’m worried about is a deputy going off half-cocked and shooting somebody.” He poured coffee from the pot on the stove.
“Well, the assault,” he said. “Lawyer’s daughter in Phoebus. Colored boy’s in the house. Turns out he’s the gardener. Neighbor lady decides to bring over some cornbread right out of the oven for supper. There he is, inside with the lawyer’s fifteen-year-old girl. Girl starts screaming, says he broke open the door, intending to have his way. Course he’s a good-looking young buck. Now you know and I know, Charlie.”
He looked at me sternly.
“Hell, maybe you don’t know.” He sighed. “Deputy said there wasn’t a scratch on the door. Hardware like new. Girl swore an affidavit, so that’s all there is for it. He’s there in a cell next to your girl. Name’s John Wesley.” He nodded. “That’s right, like the preacher.” He sipped his coffee and leaned back in the chair. “So we might get even more folks coming round, hollering. Colored girl’s scared half to death as it is. She asked for you, by the way.”
I looked at the jail door. “Go on, go on,” he said. “It ain’t locked. Just be quick.”
“Mr. Charlie!” Virgie spoke before I was to her cell. “You was right. I has me a lawyer. Mr. Fields, got his office right down the street from us. Mr. George Washington Fields.”
The colored boy stood in his cell and stared, but did not speak.
“That Johnny,” Virgie said, nodding toward his cell.
“Miss Hattie ask me come into the house,” Wesley said. “I ain’t breaking down no door.”
“Don’t talk, Johnny,” Virgie said. “That what Mr. Charlie told me, and he right.” Wesley slumped onto his cot.
“Can you read, Virgie?” I said.
“Miss Price taught me some,” she said. “But it been a while.”
“All right,” I said. “I have to go. I’ll be back soon.”
“See you then, Mr. Charlie. You ain’t talked to my daddy, has you?”
I shook my head.
Sheriff Curtis had the deputy’s report ready. I took down the full names of the individuals and the address for my story on the assault. Then I confirmed with the clerk of court that George Fields was representing Virginia Christian. Fields had named a second attorney, James Thomas Newsome. I had covered one of Newsome’s cases in Newport News. He was an excellent advocate. I could follow up on the attorneys later. For Lewter Hobbs and Montague, the Commonwealth’s attorney, I’d have to catch the ferry over to Sewell’s Point. I decided to head to the shipyards instead.
While I waited outside the dry docks, I took Maebelle’s biscuit from my pocket and ate it. Then I smoked a cigarette. As soon as the shift whistle blew, men began to emerge. Cahill was not nearly as tall as the others walking down the steel ramp, but somehow he took up space. The denim cap he wore flopped back on his head. A man walking next to him said something and Cahill laughed heartily, throwing his chin up. His white teeth flashed under his thick moustache. He put his hand on the man’s shoulder and laughed again. His forearm was thick and pocked with burns. A red bandanna was tied around his neck. His denim overalls were dirty with oil and grease below the line where his welder’s apron would fall.
“Mr. Cahill? May I speak with you?” Cahill paused and studied me.
“Well, Jack, it seems you’re quite the celebrity,” the big man next to him said. He slapped Cahill on the back and walked on.
“Sure, son, it’s a free country,” Cahill said. He grinned and started walking. “This about the widow woman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, come on then. I’ll buy you a beer. Talked to one of your buddies yesterday. Young fellow, about your age.”
“Was his name Pace?”
“Yes, that’s it. Pace. Real go-getter. Here we are.” The entrance to the saloon was level with the street. Men in greasy overalls lined the bar. Two made room immediately.
“Belly up, Jack,” they said.
“Draft?” the bartender asked.
“Yes, and for my friend—what’ll you have, friend?”
“A soda.”
“A draft and a soda it is,” the bartender said. He drew the beer and a sarsaparilla and set the mugs on the bar. Cahill gave him some coins. “Let’s go over here where it’s quieter,” he said. We went to a small table by the entrance. “What’s your name, son?”
“Charlie Mears.”
“What do you want to know, Charlie? I didn’t kill the widow woman, if that’s what you’re inquiring about. The deputies had quite a few questions for me about it.” He took a deep swallow from the mug and wiped his moustache. The muscles rippled in his arm.
“About your neck cloth?” I took a sip of the sarsaparilla. It was bitter.
“Yes, the neck cloth. The finger marks on her throat. The cuts and bruises on her face and head. The broken spittoon. She was a tiny woman, Charlie, and frail. I could’ve crushed her skull with one hand.” I knew he wasn’t bragging.
“They wanted a man around the house, Charlie,” he said. “The widow flirted like a girl. They wore my neck cloths, they wore my navy blouse, danced around, teasing each other. They wanted a little romance in their lives, Charlie.”
“Do you think the Negro girl did it, then?”
“I don’t know. She’s little, too. But stout. I’ve seen her lift a kettle of wash water it would make a man grunt to do. She could’ve killed the widow. But it don’t seem likely. If she did, something must’ve happened. The widow could be hard on that girl. But the girl always took it.”
“I appreciate your time, Mr. Cahill.”
“Sure thing, Charlie.” He lifted the mug and drank it dry.
“Did you find a new place to live?”
“A room,” he said. “Just down the street. Expect I’ll shove off soon. I saved up a little money.”
“Where do you think you’ll go?”
“Subic Bay,” he said. “Man can live like a king. I have a wife there.”
“Why didn’t you bring her with you?”
“She’s Filipino,” he said. “Colored. We got a little boy. He’d be colored too, way the damn government sees it.”
I went to the paper and wrote up the story about the assault in Phoebus. Then I wrote a sidebar story about Cahill and suggested the headline, “Navy Veteran Unsure About Killer.” On the way to my rooms I saw a bookshop with the lights on. Inside I found an illustrated edition of The Pilgrim’s Progress for Harriet and A Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck, a picture book I thought Virgie and John Wesley could share.
When I got back to Lincoln Street it was past hours for the trolley. From the porch I could hear frogs calling in the marsh near the church. The air was still. Then I heard what sounded like a chain jangling on the cobblestones. In the twilight I couldn’t make out a thing. At the edge of the pool of light from