"Professionalism," Constable Drayton said, looking out his front window. "That's what we're striving for. No more breaks, no more politics. You get me?"
Grady knew enough to look him in the eye and say "Yes, sir." Obedience came easy when you were forty-two, widowed and raising four kids on a carpenter's pay in rural South Georgia. He had to moonlight as a part-time deputy constable. He shifted his weight uncomfortably, a chunky, balding man with a scraggly sand colored moustache, who needed eyeglasses to read road maps after dark.
"That's how we ran it in the State Patrol," Drayton went on. "Straight down the middle. You try to slip and slide and, by God, I'll nail your tail to the wall. One of my sergeants was a drunk. He came sniveling to me, saying that he couldn't help himself and that he needed treatment. I ignored him. Troopers can't be whiners. When he smashed up a patrol unit, I called in the brass from Atlanta and the D.A.'s office and we got that sergeant serving a one-year sentence for Official Misconduct. Otherwise, people would say that we were covering for him. I told the jury that no punishment was too harsh for a policemen who went bad. What do you think about that?"
I think I need to eat, Grady thought silently. He said "Yes, sir" again and thought that he had been saying that too much lately.
Constable Drayton was a bulky blond man whose hair was now turning white. His brown eyes poked deeply at you while his mind shifted gears. The Constable showed his age, years spent working his way up to Captain of the Georgia State Patrol. Nobody in the town of Darien, population 1700, knew much about him except that he had spent the last twelve years in North Georgia. He had retired and come to Darien so that he could live near the ocean. After the previous Constable had died of a heart attack, the Darien Mayor appointed Drayton to fill the spot. Grady did not even know where he lived.
"Of course, I'm not asking you to work harder and smarter for nothing," Drayton said. "You're making $7.50 an hour now as a part-time deputy. By the end of this year, I could boost you to nine dollars even, if you work out. Then I'm going to need a detective to handle follow-up investigations. Even in a small town, we need a detective. So keep your eyes open on calls. Show me what you can see under the surface. Because I've got to fire some deputies. The Mayor says that we're over¬-staffed. Only the best will keep their jobs. Now let's go to work."
Soon, Grady learned what the Constable meant by going to work. So did the three full-time and six part-time deputies. The Constable found one man snoozing on duty just before sunrise and fired him on the spot. Another showed disrespect and was suspended for a week without pay. He quit the next day. The deputies' loud talk with each other covered their fear of the new Constable.
Constable Drayton seemed to be everywhere. He caught two boys stealing a CB radio from a pickup truck. He stopped a domestic violence fight by arresting the wife. He would come silently down a lane and pull up to a deputy's car window to see if he was sleeping. Then he would grill the deputy about the recent crimes and patrol rules. Everyone stuttered and dropped coffee cups when he was around.
For the first time in his life, Grady asked himself why he was wasting his own life in Darien. He asked because he did not seem to know the people here any more. They all approved of their tough new Constable. Grady knew enough to keep his mouth shut. But he thought about folks who claimed to be correct and pure all the time. Colonel Ollie North and Clarence Thomas defended themselves on TV and claimed that they were honest, high-minded public servants. Just like the Constable.
Grady watched the town's leading citizens more closely now, seeing them wear stylish jackets and neckties to work. He wondered if they called themselves 'professionals', too.
Maybe they were just as mean as the Constable. Maybe that was how you scratched out a decent living nowadays. You had to grind weaker, softer fools into the ground. Grady did not know. Grady was handling a two-car accident in the Food Lion parking lot when the Constable drove up. Constable Drayton stared at Grady a bit before asking him what was the problem.
Grady tried to slow himself down as he spoke. The Constable always made him nervous.
"This Ford was coming away from the curb in front," he answered, pointing. "The Chevvy was already in the roadway. They clinked up a little bit. Jimmy Thomas, that's his Chevvy, and he just wants a report for his insurance company." "Ci-tations?"
Grady didn't like the Constable's tone but he covered up. "No, sir. It's just a little old fender-bender, really."
"Oh? I don't understand you, Deputy. If you're playing a game with me, I don't like it. Now you cite that man for pulling away from the curb too fast. Georgia code 16-04-66. And cite that Chevvy for Driving Too Fast For Conditions."
"I'm not playing a game, sir."
"See that you don't. What would the man's insurance company say if you didn't cite that car? You need to cover yourself or else they'll be asking you all kinds of questions. Get this, May. Someone's to blame for every accident. For every thing. It's time for you to straighten up and fly right. Or else, how do I keep you on the payroll? We're cutting back. The town wants their money's worth. Think about it." He gunned his car and left. Both drivers had heard Constable Drayton. Jimmy Thomas was part of Grady's old crowd. They had hunted and played football and fished together. Now Jimmy looked down at his own workshoes. All three men knew that a ticket would push their insurance rates higher while they needed the money for house bills and car notes and emergencies.
"There's nothing I can much do, fellas," Grady said, ashamed of himself. "He's got the law on his side, is what it is."
"He says someone's to blame for everything," said Willie Williams, the Ford driver. "Well, who's to blame for him?"
"God dog, Grady," Jimmy would still not look at him. "Are things that bad that you've got to ticket your buddies?"
The next night and day, Grady thought about the Constable. He thought about forgiveness, too. He played with his four children in back of their house. Then he cooked them hamburgers and rice mixed with okra for dinner. Their chatter calmed him down. But he worried about his little family. The oldest boy was only 12. None of them could bring in any money. Their only way to reach college would be through Army ROTC breaks. For the next ten years, Grady would still be juggling bills and dancing one step ahead of the devil.
At sundown, he brewed himself a cup of coffee and dressed for the night shift in his tan windbreaker, blue jeans and work shoes. He pinned the small silver star stamped "Deputy Constable, town of Darien" to his windbreaker chest and put the .38 Colt in a comfortable hip holster, next to his handcuffs. His softening belly pushed against the belt buckle. He was parked near the Interstate when the portable radio buzzed. "Darien Three, prowler at 17 Pine Court Road," the radio rasped. "See the woman there."
Grady swung his family car around and drove to that address. He cut his lights a hundred yards away and coasted quietly to a stop. He got out, jamming his long black Mag-Lite flashlight into his belt. Grady listened and scrutinized the area before knuckling the door.
A tense blonde woman with a long thin neck showing blue veins opened the door, chewing nervously on her lower lip.
"I'm Grady May from the Constable's office, ma'am," he said. "Can we help you?"
"You most certainly can." She blew whiskey breath towards him. A cigarette burned in her left hand. "There was somebody up here at the door just before you came. He was knocking loud enough to wake the dead. I wasn't expecting anyone. When I hollered out, they didn't answer. So I called y'all."
"You did right, ma'am." Grady looked around again, more carefully. "There's some tracks left here. You just lock up now. I'm going to nose around some."
"Don't bother with my neighbors," she said tipsily. "All they do is tell tales on me."
Grady left her door. He padded quietly to the front yard and went down on a knee to examine sneaker tracks in the soft dirt. Two cigarette butts lay alongside them. Grady examined the butts and breathed out heavily. It hurt his flabby legs to squat like this. But he needed this silly pocket-money job to keep his family together.
When he was finished with his examination, he sauntered back to his car. A twig snapped off to his left. He shone his flashlight into the pine trees. Someone moved. Grady put the light on a small black man in blue work clothes, trying to slide behind a tree.
"You there!" Grady called. "Constable's office! Come on out of there, sir!"
"But what did I do?"
"Come on over and we'll talk, sir. Just step over here."
The prowler was agitated. Sweat shone on his dark face. A pencil-line moustache showed his vanity. Grady smelled aftershave.
"I didn't do nothing!" he whined. "That lady that lives there, I did some yard work for her once in a while. So I stopped by to see about work. I knocked. That's all, officer."
"Just calm down, sir. What's the lady's name?"
"I call her Miss Ginger."
"Let's talk to her." Grady escorted him to the door. The same blonde woman opened it.
"Miss Ginger, you remember me?" the black man bleated. "Walter Mobley from Turner Road. I just stopped and this po-lice jacked me up. I didn't mean any harm, ma'am."
The woman whipped her head from side to side. "Walter, it's after ten o'clock. You don't need to come around here this late. You always telephoned me before. Now you come around and wake me up?" She got angrier as she talked. "Officer, I want you to arrest this man for being in my yard."
"Well, ma'am, I'm sorry but I can't do that."
"You can't? What's your name?"
"My name's Grady May, ma'am."
"If you don't arrest this man, I'm going to complain on you. Now you tell me why you can't."
"Now, ma'am, since you ask me," Grady said shakily. He knew that the Constable could use a citizen's complaint to fire him. His belly iced up from fear. "I can't arrest him unless I have probable cause to think that he did a crime.
"I'll have your job!"
"Ma'am, there's some mud on your slippers. You stood next to this man in the mud right there in front of your house. The tracks show up plain. And there's two cigarette butts with lipstick on them next to his Reebok footprints. So you stood there talking to him tonight for a while. I don't know why you want him arrested now. But I'm not going to do it." The house door smashed open, jolting Grady. He saw Constable Dray ton's angry pink face with drunken tears streaking his cheeks. The Constable clutched a bottle of Jack Daniels and cursed.
"You promised, Ginger!" the Constable roared. "You said it wouldn't happen anymore! Promised me when we came here. Now you're at it again! Lying and running around."
"No, no, listen to me!" the woman pleaded. "He just worked here, that's all. He was coming around here tonight to-steal something. You know how they are."
"Liar!" He lurched forward and smashed the bottle against her head. Walter Mobley yelped and fled. The woman sank slowly to the porch. "Damnit, you're my wife. I thought I heard someone out here. So you make up a story about a prowler. But it's just your newest boyfriend. I ought to horsewhip you."
The woman cried, with bits of broken brown bottle glass and blood showing through her thin blonde hair. The Constable swung his foot against her heaving ribs.
"You're pretty good at figuring, May," the constable said. "You'll make a good detective. What do you say?" he reached out his free hand to shake. Grady grasped the hard hand. With his other hand, he slipped a handcuff on him and then swung his boss around to lock his left wrist. "I say I'll have to get along without it," Grady said. "Some kind of way." "Are you crazy? You can't arrest me. You're fired."
"I'll get along." He thought about his children. "Without you, Constable. And people like you."
This story is in New Mystery magazine III#2. It was Mr Hickey's first professional debut.
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