back toward the D.A.’s office.
As soon as I reach the car, I dial directory assistance again. There’s a listing for a Willie Pinder on Gaylor Street. This time I dial the number myself.
“Yeah?” says a coarse voice.
“Is Willie there?”
“This Willie.”
I hang up.
Gaylor Street is in a black neighborhood off the road that leads up to the city cemetery. It takes several trips through blocks of small, brightly colored houses, but I finally find the ex-chief’s Dodge pickup parked on the street. A cracked pad of cement leads to the rear of the house. I drive around and park near Pinder’s back porch. It’s fully screened, with rust eating the black wire in big orange patches.
“Who the hell are you?” shouts a hostile voice. “You just call me on the telephone?”
I wave broadly at the dark screen. For all I know, I’m looking into the barrel of a shotgun. “I’m Penn Cage. I’m looking for the former chief of police, Willie Pinder.”
“Who you work for, chump?”
The screen door opens with a screech of protesting springs, and a big black head appears in the opening. The sleepy-eyed face says late fifties, with some rough years on the back end.
“Car like that, you ain’t no process server. Must be a lawyer. You work for my ex-old lady?”
“No. My name’s Penn Cage. If you’re Willie Pinder, I want to ask you about the Del Payton murder.”
At the words “Del Payton” the sleepy eyes wake up. “I’m Willie,” he says, looking closely at me.
“You got my name, right?”
“Trouble. That’s your name.”
“Will you talk to me?”
“Sure.” Pinder laughs. “I might be hearing your last words. Come on up.”
He holds the door open for me. Three steps lead up to the porch, the kind of weed-grown slat steps that snakes like to lie under in the heat. In one bound I am up and through the door, which slaps shut behind me with a bang like a pistol shot.
“Porch is far enough,” says Pinder. “Hotter inside anyway. AC’s busted. You want a beer?”
“Sure.” I try not to glance at my watch; it can’t be eleven a.m. yet.
Pinder goes inside and returns with two sweating cans of Schaefer. He hands me one, then sits beside me in a green iron lawn chair, pops the top off his can, and drinks.
“So you’re retired now?” I say, opening my beer.
He laughs again. “That don’t quite seem to say it. I’m fucked now. How about that?”
I’m not sure how to proceed. I don’t want the man’s life story, but neither do I want to offend him. Thankfully, Pinder spares me.
“You the crazy man who popped off about Del Payton in the paper?”
“I mentioned the case.”
“Case? Ain’t no case on Del Payton.”
“What about a file, then? There must have been a police file.”
He takes another long swig of Schaefer. “I was pretty busy back then. It was all I could do to hold the goddamn place together.”
“I’m sure. Still, I’d think you might have wanted to check some things the white chiefs had let slide for too long.”
Pinder sniffs and looks through the rusted screen. “I worked in that department eleven years, and I never saw no Payton file. Didn’t think there was one. But when the old chief gave me the combination to the station safe, and I opened it up, there it was. Sitting on the bottom of a stack of insurance policies. Just like that. First day on the job.”
“Did the police seriously investigate the case in sixty-eight?”
He smiles. “In 1968 the city slogan was ‘Natchez, Where the Old South Still Lives.’ It looked like they investigated. There was lots of confidential-informant reports, rumors tracked down, stuff like that.”
“Any suspects?”
“A couple.”
“Who?”
He smiles enigmatically. “You know, I might ought to check the file. My memory ain’t what it used to be.”
Something quivers in my chest. “How can you check the file?”
“Easy. I got it inside.”
Jesus. “You made a copy?”
“Nope. I got the original. Took it when they screwed me out of my job.”
I feel like hugging him. “May I see it?”
“I ain’t no loan library, boy. I think we’re talking about a rental situation here.”
“How much?”
Pinder’s face goes blank as he computes a price. “Five hundred,” he says finally, a note of challenge in his voice. “And you read it right here in front of me.”
When I think of what I just paid Ray Presley for my father’s .38, I feel like laughing. “A thousand,” I counter. “But I take the file with me. I’ll photocopy it and get the original back to you within twenty-four hours.”
Pinder has lost a little of his studied calm. “How ’bout two thousand?”
“What’s in the file? How long is it?”
“About twenty-five pages. Plenty of names in there, if that’s what you’re after.”
“Any mention of Judge Marston in it? He was D.A. back then.”
Something ticks in the ex-chief’s face. “That motherfucker in there.”
“Two thousand it is.”
His head slides back on his neck, his eyes full of suspicion. “I don’t want no check, now.”
“You get the file, I’ll get the cash.”
“You got it here?”
“Oh, yeah. Get the file.”
While Pinder goes inside, I go to the car and open the spare tire well, count two thousand dollars from the remaining twenty-five, and return to the porch. Shuffling and sliding sounds come from inside the house, as though Pinder is moving furniture. Then the door bangs open and he reappears with a worn manila folder in his hand. I hand him the cash, and he takes it, but he doesn’t pass me the file. He sits down again and drinks from his beer can.
“You
