[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
tried her best, but it was hard with a father who was a sharecropping drunk who
beat any living creature within reach when the urge took him.
Unconsciously, Quintard rubbed his right forearm, feeling the four round scars.
He was ten when he accidentally kicked over that pail of milk. Only his young,
catlike reflexes prevented his father from stabbing the pitchfork into his stomach
for the mistake.
Quintard smiled and took a belt of bourbon. Paybacks were hell and he got his.
The cops decided his father died during a robbery, since his body, the back of his
skull laid open and his brains spilling out, was found lying facedown behind the
Dirty Dog Pub, his nightly rendezvous point. His wallet was gone and so were
his shoes.
Twelve-year-old Anson Quintard tied the shoes to a lead pipe and threw them
into the deepest part of the Yellow River. No one would ever find them there, he
thought as he heaved the pipe over the water. No one ever had.
As far as money was concerned, things were no better after his father died. His
mother still had seven kids to raise and was able to take in only a few loads of
laundry and sewing each week. The kids brought in what they could from
picking cotton and other odd jobs around town, but food and clothes were scarce
most of the time. Anson left the moment he graduated from high school. He
wanted to leave sooner, but loved his mother dearly, and it was her desire that he
at least get a diploma.
His mother now was dead, and though most of his brothers and sisters still lived
in the Atlanta area, he rarely visited. There was nothing to say to them.
After high school, he went to work in Watkins Hardware Store in Buford and
saved his money like a miser. When Quintard was twenty-four, the bank
foreclosed on Watkins's mortgage and he jumped at the chance to buy the
business for a pittance. In his behalf, he offered to let Watkins work there, but
the old man couldn't bring himself to work for someone else. He died three
months after he lost the store. Quintard didn't attend the funeral. It was on a
Thursday and he couldn't leave the store, he said, even though all the other
businesses in town closed for half a day.
"Just because Watkins is dead doesn't mean the whole world has to stop,"
Quintard said at the time.
The position on the commission had come fifteen years before and he now was
the ranking member. He never ran for commission chairman because he knew
public scrutiny would be horrendously high. It was much easier to work if you
weren't the one people came to for answers or targeted for dispute.
Photos and memorabilia hung on his walls like Little League trophies in a young
boy's room. In many ways, they amounted to the same thing. They were proof
that he helped his community. That he was needed; important.
There were plaques of commendation from the Gwinnett County Heart
Association, the American Cancer Society, the American Lung Association, the
Jaycees, Civitans, Shriners, and dozens of others. He snorted in laughter when
his eyes fell upon the one from the Gwinnett County Fraternal Order of Police
for his participation in the organization's annual Toys for Tots campaign.
In among the plaques were dozens of framed photographs of Quintard with local
and state dignitaries. There was one with him and former Governor Lester
Maddox, one with current Governor Joe Frank Harris, one with Atlanta Braves
slugger Dale Murphy, even one with home run king Hank Aaron.
Hell, I'll even throw my arm around a nigger if it'll get me some votes, Quintard
thought and giggled.
Feeling supremely proud of himself, Quintard picked up the phone and dialed a
number he had used often in the past couple of weeks. It rang several times
before someone answered.
"Anthony Bradley," the voice on the other end said.
"Tony, this is Anson Quintard. I've got a tip for you."
"I'm not sure I want any more of your tips," Bradley said, "The last one almost
got my ass beat."
"Yeah, I heard about that," Quintard answered. "But here's something that will
help you get back at Medlocke. I'm not sure the police are doing enough on this
investigation. I don't think Detectives Medlocke and Franklin are serving the
people of this county. I'm thinking of calling an investigation into it."
"You're going to call an investigation into the investigation? Don't you think
that's a bit much?" Bradley asked.
"Hell no, I don't think it's too much. And I think you'd be derelict in your duty if
you didn't look into what the police are or aren't doing to solve this case."
"Seems to me you think everybody's derelict in their duty except yourself,"
Bradley countered. "You know, ever since my run-in with him, I've been
checking up on Medlocke. I've heard nothing but good things. Other reporters
like him. They say he shoots straight and doesn't bullshit. People in this
community like him. They respect the fact that he's come back from the death of
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]