Free The Clearing by Tim Gautreaux Page B

was hatless, even though the day was white hot.
    “Aldridge, that right?”
    The mill manager nodded. “You’re the law in Tiger Island.”
    “Today, oui et non . The parish sheriff called and deputized me on the phone.” He put his hands in the pockets of his baggy gray pants. “He asked me to come check on that colored boy what got shot. I been down in your quarters talking to the people.”
    Randolph waved him to a chair across from his desk. “Why didn’t you talk to some white workers first?”
    The old man’s eyes were little gray balls quick with elemental judgment. “It wasn’t no white man got killed.”
    “What did they say?”
    “They said the boy got what he had coming. If they say that down there,” he pointed to the Negro side of the mill, “then, me, I don’t have to ask nobody else.”
    The mill manager reached into his desk and retrieved two glasses and a bottle of brandy. He wanted to cut his mind loose from its moorings. “Here’s a drink, if you want it.”
    The marshal saw the glass and pulled his chair close. “Colonel Palmer, he called the parish people from over in Shirmer. The momma wanted to know for sure what happened. I’ll tell her what the men back there said about the damned dago dealer, and she’ll have to live with it.” He took a sip of the brandy and shook his head. “ Mais, you got to tell your brother to take it easy. Ten years ago he could of shot up the whole place and the news, it wouldn’t travel much.” He motioned with his glass to the telephone. “Now, some people can ring up a newspaper, and it’s getting harder to hide every little thing.”
    Randolph poured another shot into Merville’s glass. “He’s been out here eight months. How much have you heard about him?”
    The marshal tilted his head. “We’ve had dealings. But I don’t much talk about people behind they back.”
    “Neither will anyone here at the mill.”
    “What’d he tell you?”
    “Nothing.”
    The old man sniffed. “I ain’t surprised, no. I just finished talking to him and he said he didn’t remember killing nobody. Oh, I talked to him maybe five minutes, and then he walked off singing a song like he’s beaucoup fou, yeah.”
    The mill manager let out a long breath. “I don’t speak French.”
    “Plenty crazy. No offense.”
    “I can’t find out exactly what he’s been doing.”
    The marshal looked around at the invoice-littered tables, the black typewriter, then back at the mill manager, his face showing that he felt sorry for him. “In Tiger Island we got a little two-room hospital. One night one of your white pull-boat operators come in with a slug through his leg and his thighbone broke. He’d been beatin’ on his old lady when Mr. Byron paid him a visit. Then back in cold weather they brought two poor bastards that work for Buzetti into town in the baggage car, one with a broke jaw and the other with a bullet in his gut. Before that it was Buzetti’s poker dealer with his foot half shot off. We got other business like that from your brother. Now, me, I don’t know who been hauled out on the train in the other direction, or who holes up back in here to get well.” When he peered at his empty glass, the mill manager poured him another inch. “Tell your brother, when his head’s a little more clearer, he can pound the shit out of whatever bastard needs it. He’s a good man.” He swallowed a spoonful of brandy. “But whoever gets the smokin’ end of his
    .45 got to deserve it. And no more better come out in a box. The parish sheriff in Franklin is startin’ to pay attention to this place.”
    “Are they paying attention to you?”
    He sucked brandy from the bottom of his white mustache and then laughed. “Minos told me you was watching that from the boat. Me and them rousters. Mister, I let a fight like that get the better of me one time. I went down there in the pitch dark and tried to talk to the crazy fils de putains and shot one in the leg with a