Death of a Rainmaker Read online

  “And thank you very much,” he said, as she dropped the ticket into his upturned palm. He ripped it tidily in half and handed her the stub. “To your right, please.”

  Depositing the pasteboard in her coin purse with a loud click, Mrs. Reed said, “Tell me frankly, is this one as good as Fred and Ginger’s first?”

  “Beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

  “But Screenland said . . .” Mrs. Reed began before Chester overrode her.

  “So there you have it. Next?”

  Mrs. Reed moved along with hesitant steps, as if a pupil returning to her desk after a scolding. Two more moviegoers approached Chester. “Left, please,” he said.

  Soon there was a gratifying crush of patrons, whose voices he knew by heart. Plus, there were at least five or six strangers, most who seemed to be CCC boys—their clothes sweetened with a scent of resin.

  An audience of twenty-three, according to his count. He’d brought in enough to make rent. Enough to avoid the indignity of Dish Nights that so many other theater owners had been forced to succumb to. The idea of passing out free cereal bowls or coffee cups to entice patrons inside, as if he were a waiter or, worse, a volunteer at a soup kitchen, turned his stomach.

  Relieved, Chester counted off fourteen paces to the stairs. Trailing his hand along the cool plaster of the stairwell, he mounted the steps to the projection room. Earlier he’d clamped the news and feature reels onto the two projectors. He’d had to let the kid who ran the projectors go. At first, Chester had been afraid he wouldn’t be able to operate the equipment by himself. But then he’d gotten the idea of slipping a nickel into the sprocket, right near the hub, so he’d know when a reel was nearing its end. When the coin clattered onto the hardwood floor, Chester got ready to start the second projector. Now he flipped a switch and frenzied violin strokes heralded the first frames of the newsreel.

  Back downstairs, he marched across the lobby. Maxine might need change for the two p.m. show. As soon as he pulled open the outside door he heard a faint thrumming of wind that resembled the plucking of thick guitar strings. Chester paused. There it was again, the opening chords of a storm. A duster coming and him with two dozen patrons inside. He’d never had a dust storm collide with a picture show. Damn it. Damn it to hell. He listened once more. The chords seemed fainter. Maybe he’d been wrong. He stepped toward the ticket booth and smacked into Maxine.

  “A duster!” she shouted, her words rattling.

  “How far out?”

  Maxine was wailing: “Tall as a mountain! Oh my God! I’ve never seen one this big!”

  Chester’s mouth pressed into a rigid line. “I need you to tell me how much time before it hits.”

  “I don’t know!” She was so nerved up that the air around Chester pulsed.

  “Step out onto the sidewalk and tell me what you see.”

  She balked. He felt it, in the manner that a mule driver feels his animal stiffen along the telegraph lines of reins.

  A second later she was back. “Just beyond the tracks.” The flesh of his arms broke into goose pimples. The temperature had dropped at least thirty degrees. The dust storm would slam into town in five minutes, at most.

  “Let’s keep our heads. I’ll turn on the house lights and let everyone know what’s coming. Meanwhile, you shut off the projector.”

  Chester pivoted, yanked down his cuffs, and strode inside. Maxine followed him into the lobby. Behind her, the doors rattled and banged. Fingers of wind and dust wriggled under the sills and across the carpet. The fronds of the potted palms flanking the candy counter shivered. Maxine eyed the snug telephone booth in the corner and thought of squatting inside. An image of Mr. Benton’s stern lips, however, sent her up the steps to the projection room two at a time. Peering through the booth’s narrow window she watched the theater owner make his way down the aisle, then flick on the house lights. The audience moaned. Taking her cue, Maxine cut the projector. On the screen, the newsreel decelerated, then froze altogether.

  “Hey!” shouted a young man.

  Downstairs Chester held up his palms. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry to interrupt the show but it seems we have a duster bearing down on us and—”

  Several people quickly rose as if to leave.

  “You all need to stay seated. It’ll be on us any second and this one is particularly big.”

  The theater abruptly went black.

  “Electric’s out,” came a voice from the left.

  “Oh, yes,” Chester flushed, then called up to the projection booth. “Maxine, bring the lanterns.”

  Mrs. Laycomb, the judge’s wife who had brought her elderly mother-in-law to the movie house, could be heard shouting into the old lady’s ear: “See if he doesn’t try to gyp us out of a refund.” Then Mrs. Laycomb’s sturdy oxfords clomped up the aisle. “I’m going to see what’s going on out there for myself,” she announced.

  Springs squeaked as everyone else dropped back in their seats, having gotten used to hunkering down wherever a dirt cyclone found them—in church, at a neighbor’s, in their own porous house outside of town. Within seconds Mrs. Laycomb returned, reporting it was as black as night beyond the lobby doors.

  “Up here too,” Maxine muttered aloud, slowly feeling her way down the stairs from the booth. Why did she have to get the lamps? Mr. Benton was used to the dark. The utility closet smelled of kerosene and floor wax. She bundled three old lamps with oily, blackened chimneys against her chest, undoubtedly smearing her best blouse, and stumbled back through the lobby and into the theater. Sand and topsoil hurtled down on the roof as she traipsed along the aisle. Maxine cringed. What if the roof gives way? Suddenly a load of dirt and a blast of cold air shot in from the left. The exit door must have blown open. She was showered with a spray of sand. Several patrons commenced hacking.

  “Shut the door!” a woman yelled. Maxine crouched in the aisle, making herself as small as possible. After a second or two, the heavy metal door to the alley slammed shut. She rose slowly, still clutching the lamps, and found her way to the foot of the stage. Mr. Benton’s voice rose suddenly in her ear.

  “You’ve got the lanterns?”

  As Maxine lit the wicks, weak applause broke out. Above the ornate plaster ceiling, the rafters creaked and shifted.

  Chester spoke: “Everyone stay calm.”

  There was a general shuffling as the patrons changed seats, moving closer to the light and warmth. Chester was suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue. The unexpectedness of it all had tangled up the careful web of routine that kept his world intact. And then there was the rent money. He was cradling his head in his hands when the sound of Maxine’s shoes on the carpet intruded.

  “Mrs. Laycomb is raising a fuss, saying her mother-in-law is hungry. Should I bring something from the candy counter?”

  Her God-awful lipstick smelled like clotted candle wax. “Why not? Bring enough for everyone,” he replied, irritation clipping each syllable.

  “What should I get?”

  Chester made a brushing motion with his hand. “I don’t care. Why should I care? The bank will have it all soon enough.”

  After a pause, Maxine’s voice came out low, as if she’d dropped her head: “I’ll need the keys to the counter.”

  “I know that,” he snapped, although he’d forgotten that detail. He removed a key ring from his jacket pocket. “It’s the one with the bit of adhesive tape on the top.”

  Returning with yellow candy boxes clasped in her arms, Maxine noted, despite the dim light, that the patrons were settling in. Mrs. Laycomb’s mother-in-law pulled out needles and a ball of worsted from a lumpy knitting bag. Miss Boyle and Miss McDonald, English teachers at Vermillion High, whispered together, their identically crimped heads touching. The loose-limbed CCC boys sat cross-legged on the carpet in front of the stage playing cards. Maxine passed out the Raisinets and found she had two extras. She shrugged, took a seat a couple of rows behind the CCC boys, and opened a box for herself. Three of the boys were sort of c
ute. She removed her glasses and tucked them in her pocket.

  An hour later, the wind still bellowed. Everyone in the county had lived through at least a dozen dust storms and knew what to expect. But Chester was alert to every howl and this storm was the loudest. It seemed as if wagonloads of sand and soil were being flung at the Jewel, scouring its brick walls and hammering the roof with the unceasing cacophony of ball-peen hammers. Layered upon that was the crackle of plaster as the walls heaved under the assault. Behind Chester, the velvet stage curtain released a musty scent.

  Just when he thought he could not stand a second more, the air washing around the doorjambs subsided, the wind’s screams dropped a few decibels, and the size of the clods slamming into the Jewel grew finer—turning to silt, then powder. Chester rose stiffly.

  “The lights are back on,” Miss Boyle called out helpfully.

  “Thank you. It sounds as if . . .” Chester began, but then had to stop and clear his throat of grit. “It sounds as if the storm has moved on. If you CCC boys would clear the front doorways, that would be a help. The rest of you, please be patient for just a couple of more minutes and then we’ll have you on your way.”

  “Are we going to get our money back?” Mrs. Laycomb’s voice rang out.

  Chester hesitated, then drew himself up. “Certainly.”

  Chester and the boys scooped dirt from the front doors and dug a path to the sidewalk. Mrs. Laycomb was the first out, dropping the refunded nickels into her purse and commenting to her mother-in-law that they’d at least gotten to see the newsreel. And for free. When the last of the moviegoers had left, Maxine asked if she should stay for the afternoon show. Chester shook his head.

  “I’ll have to cancel. Everyone will be digging out. But the seven o’clock is still a go, so be back by six thirty.”

  As her footfalls receded, Chester slumped against the lobby doors, sliding down until his rear bumped against the floor. He sat for quite a while, gathering himself. Then he made his way upstairs. In his bedroom, he removed his suit jacket, tie, shirt, and trousers, hanging each in its assigned place in the closet. The Oklahoma School for the Blind had taught him and the other boys the importance of consistency and organization. And as a result had turned out a gaggle of fussy housewives, he thought grimly. A place for everything and everything in its place. But the system largely worked. His biggest terror, until ticket sales began drying up, had been mismatched socks.

  He pulled on an old mechanics jumpsuit and got to work in the auditorium, pushing the carpet sweeper up and down the aisles and wiping the armrests with a wet rag.

  He moved on to clear the fire exit, shoving on the push bar, but the door wouldn’t budge. Odd. He kicked the toe plate until he managed to squeeze through, stepping into at least six inches of dirt that buried his shoes and poured into his socks. From across the way came the sound of Ernie, the owner of the Maid-Rite Dinerette, scraping down the grill. Chester’s stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and here it was—he flipped open the crystal on his wristwatch and fingered the braille numerals—2:45. But he’d have to shovel out the fire exits before getting a bite. The last thing he needed was a citation from the fire marshal.

  Chester bent over the wheat scoop. It didn’t take long to scrape the asphalt near the door. He dug toward the Maid-Rite, the smell of fried eggs and bacon real enough to chew. Suddenly the scoop rammed into a drift. Chester groaned. His muscles already ached. He arched backward to flex his spine. How high was this pile? He raised the scoop, then plunged it in into the drift as a measuring stick. Instead of thudding against the pavement, the shovel’s edge bounced against something slightly springy, several inches down. He drove the scoop into a different spot. Same thing. Maybe the storm had torn off an awning. Chester kneeled. He wormed his fingers into the mound and felt cloth. Not an awning; the material was too thin. And underneath there was something supple. He inched his fingers forward. The fabric gave way to a smooth narrow band. Leather. He yanked his hand away. Lord! A belt. It was a belt. Someone was buried in the drift. He shoved both hands in, digging frantically. The silt poured back down almost as quick as he scooped it. But he managed to unearth the back of a leg. A man’s calf. The poor fellow was facedown. Was he breathing? Chester couldn’t tell. “Ernie! Help! I need some help out here!”

  He clawed at the mound. His fingers lit on an ear. Get to the mouth. The mouth, damn it. The dirt fought back, reburying what he cleared. Ernie didn’t answer. A tooth scraped Chester’s thumb. There! He wiggled two fingers past the teeth, scissoring the jaw open. Inside was more dirt. The mouth was packed solid. Damn! But maybe he could clear it. He shoved his index finger in as far as it would go. Nothing but more dirt. Probably all the way into the lungs. He pulled his fingers out; sat back on his heels. Poor sap. Probably some bum sleeping one off when the duster powered into town. What a way to go. Chester stood and brushed off his trousers. He trudged inside to telephone Sheriff Jennings. Jennings would need to pinpoint the cause of death and identify the deceased. All that would take time. Both evening shows might have to be cancelled. Chester’s hope of making rent evaporated.

  Chapter three

  Earlier that same day, as Chester was greeting the dawn with worries about rent, Sheriff Temple Jennings was steeling himself for the sorrowful task of foreclosing on the Fullers’ farm. The acreage, livestock, and household goods, all part of the bitsy holding scratched out by Jess and Hazel Fuller, was going on the block. Darnell, the banker, would take in the cash while Temple stood alongside, rifle in hand, guarding the bank at the expense of those down on their luck. A couple of years back, Temple had tried to wriggle out of safeguarding the auctions, but Darnell had contacted a state judge who sent a sharp letter stating that foreclosure work fell under a sheriff’s legal duties. And because Temple was a man who stood by the law, even when it left a bad taste in his mouth, he obeyed. He and Etha exchanged words about this sort of thing all the time.

  This morning was no different. He was mopping up yolk with a piece of toast at the kitchen table when she brought it up.

  “For pity’s sake,” she said, her back resting against the sink, coffee cup in hand, “why should you carry water for the bank? Don’t go out to the Fullers’ today and then see if Mr. Darnell has the constitution to turn a hardworking family out of their home.”

  “It’s my job. The bank loaned the money in good faith and it wasn’t paid back and now it’s a legal matter.” The last bit of egg was refusing to be corralled by the toast.

  “You done?” Etha asked, whisking away his plate before he could answer. She plunked the dish into the sink with clattering efficiency. “But there’s nothing that says you can’t send your deputy. Besides that, you think the banks play fair?”

  Temple sighed. “Probably not.”

  “’Course not! I bet there’s a healthy number of businessmen in town who are behind on their payments, but Darnell isn’t going after them.”

  Temple pushed away from the table. “Best get going.”

  Drying her hands on a towel, Etha turned to him. Her face softened. “Now your tie’s all crooked,” she said, adjusting the knot. On tiptoes, she pecked his cheek.

  Although it was an hour before he was needed at the Fullers’ place, Temple bypassed his office, perpetually awash in paperwork, climbed into the county sedan, and motored into the countryside in search of fresh air. Unnerved by Etha’s comments, his stomach was rebelling. He pulled onto the shoulder at the crossroads twelve miles outside of town. Clambering out of the stuffy car, he shook his legs, loosened his shoulders. For the first time in months, the sky was high-vaulted and seamless. A cloudless expanse of blue that bleached white at the horizon. Temple leaned back against the sedan, elbows resting on the hood, long legs crossed at the ankles. He shut his eyes against the clear sunlight and inhaled. It could have been the air of fifteen years ago, when he and Etha had first moved out from Illinois. When the winds blew strong like a tonic. When, across the flat expanse, a man could t
ell where a stream flowed by its hem of leafy cottonwoods.

  He opened his eyes and the illusion evaporated. Nowadays, Oklahoma was nothing but a battlefield of shifting sand dunes and emaciated stalks.

  And not for a minute did he think that the rainmaker hired by the Commerce Club was going to change anything. Last night Temple had been hunting down a whiskey still hidden in a stand of sumac when the TNT blasts reached his ears and his spirits sank. Earlier in the day he’d heard about the huckster rolling into town, heard that the merchant class had been fool enough to consider the man’s pitch. The detonations rocking the prairie had confirmed the sheriff’s fears—they’d taken the bait. Temple never trusted anyone who showed up with only a business card and a handshake.

  Now, dazed by the blighted view on this brilliant morning, he stuck his head through the open window and plucked a bottle of stomach tablets from the glove box. Foreclosures sickened him. How long could he keep swallowing the skunk oil while pretending it was soda pop?

  Thinking back on his exchange with Etha, Temple beat his dusty Stetson against his thigh. A rock and a hard place, that’s what this job was. Shoot. All he wanted was to get today’s foreclosure done and over. That’s what he wanted with all of them but this one was particularly tough. The Fullers had a boy, about the same age as he and Etha once had. And Temple knew that kiddie with his string bean legs would be watching the whole sorry occasion. He checked his watch. The hands had hardly budged.

  Various signs leaned every which way, clustered around the crossroads, crying out to drivers. Temple strolled over. Vermillion Up Ahead! Population 7,261, was the biggest, erected by the Commercial Club a couple of years back. That number would need to be changed, he thought, with all the farmers packing up and moving west. His eyes fell on a newly planted marker: Civilian Conservation Corps Camp Briscoe—5 miles. Since the camp opened a year ago, Roosevelt’s boys had done a lot of good. Planting windbreaks and grading roads. But there’d also been some scrapes between the fellows in the camp, and Temple had been called out twice to handle knife fights.