Tutwiler Neely III's personality quickly drove away any sympathy that his appearance could have attracted. Neely's deep set, too-close together eyes were exactly midway between his orange flattop and his repaired harelip. This caricature of a face combined with his dwarfish build to give him a harmless cast to those that did not know him. To those that did, Neely's one-sided meanness prevailed over all his physical misfortunes. Tutty Neely had lots of acquaintances and no friends.
As the third generation master of the Neely Woods Management Company, Tutty Neelys's days were spent looking for piney woods to turn into lumber. Hour after hour he would pore over a map of Louisiana in his office, legs dangling from a swivel chair, searching for property that his family had not yet ravaged.
Tutty Neely's business was so important to tiny Old Hickory, Louisiana that the miserly bachelor routinely went months without paying on accounts he kept with every merchant and service provider in the parish. Most of the vendors were so fearful of losing his business that they seldom sent overdue notices on the bills. For his part, Neely seemed to know everyone's breaking point, paying just enough on each account to keep them hungry for his trade. Even his church, which depended greatly on his solemn pledge to tithe, received little.
Once a month Tutty Neely made his calculations. After dark he would walk the quarter mile from the back of his house to the smokehouse. His course took him through the woods, past his pens of fighting cocks gurgling contentedly. Safely inside the smokehouse, with the door locked, he would tie a dampened bandanna around his mouth and nose. Then he would exhume the large strongbox that held over a million dollars in cash. From it he would count out the month's dispersal, place it in a paper sack for deposit the next morning, and instruct the secretary to issue the checks. Some folks got a little, some none. Only the telephone company and R.E.A. got their accounts paid in full.
For thirty years Tutty Neely had carried on this skinflint family tradition. At twenty eight he had inherited the mantle from his father, Tutwiler "Junior Boy" Neely, Jr., when the elder Neely fell over dead in the middle of a heated arqument over his account at the Pleez-Ur-Sef Quick Stop.
"Ole Mista Junyah Boy, he fell ovah," reported Sheriff Wayman Witty in a an accurate, if somewhat dispassionate, obituary pronounced to the surviving son.
Sheriff Wayman Witty was indirectly on the payroll of the Neely company. That is, he received cash-payments from the Neelys for services rendered, extra legal and illegal. His nephew, Elmo Witty, was a deputy and contemporary of Tutty Neely. Elmo stood only five feet seven inches, but significantly enlarged his frame with endless hours of weight lifting. He tailored his uniform to reflect every available bulge.
It wasn't too many years after Mister Junior Boy's demise that Sheriff Wayman Witty did his own rendition of a felled loblolly, leaving the chief law enforcement position to nephew Elmo Witty.
It was between those two obituaries that the most tense years of the civil rights struggle in the South occurred. Old Hickory, for the most part, was untouched from strife due to the access that blacks had to the town's services.
For example Thigpen's Stop'n Eat, the town's only restaurant in that time, had a unique combination of integration and segregation. The small, turquoise clapboard cafe was identified by a red Coca Cola sign bearing the establishment's name. Four of the twelve metal legged, formica topped tables were understood by custom to be reserved for black patrons. On those tables the formica was a black and white swirl; on the others, pink and white.
The patrons would stand and wait until a designated table was available during busy times. An uninformed visitor could be confronted with the odd scene of people waiting for a table while inappropriate ones remained unoccupied.
All the waitresses were white and, of course, only waited on customers of common pigmentation. Black patrons were served by the black busboy who could pour water and clean tables for whites, but not take their orders or serve their food. The cooks were all black, but since the kitchen was hidden from view, that was not an issue.
Since most of the customers were acquainted, it was not uncommon for whites and blacks to converse with one another from their tables, like neighbors talking over a backyard fence. The weather, crop condition, and the price of hogs were subjects uncolored by race. This congenial, if somewhat stilted, atmosphere, which marked race relations in Old Hickory, was suddenly interrupted by events that closely followed the funeral of Tutwiler "Junior Boy" Neely Jr.
Mister Junior Boy had ruled the Neely Company sternly. His employees were mostly unskilled blacks, whose earnings seldom exceeded the minimum wage. Their only company benefit was a ham at Christmas. The hams were handed out by Mister Junior Boy, along with a sermon about how lucky they were to be employed by the company. "Wern't for my family bidness, y'alld all be on the welfare," went the Christmas homily. What the message lacked in warmth was unfortunately balanced by its truth.
A feeble attempt at unionization had brought the wrath of Mister Junior Boy down so hard on the work force that they refused to even speak to organizers when they were contacted by them. "Fuss one y'all I see with any them agitators can kiss his job goodbye."
The simple fact was that they were as expendable to Mister Junior Boy as the trees his company cut. "Niggers and pines," he liked to say, "is two things Looziana ain't runnin out of."
Tutty Neely was clear evidence that the Neely apple had not fallen far from the tree. He picked up where Mister Junior Boy left off and then some. "My daddy had a pay envelope ever week for any one y'all was willin to work," he announced to the assembled workers after the funeral. "Ain't nothin changin includin no unions." Notwithstanding this pledge, the organizers in Baton Rouge sensed opportunity and decided to give it another shot. On their first attempt, the organizers had found a curious ear at the home of Silas Tisdale, a long time Neely worker. Silas Tisdale was not the typically meek Neely Woods Management employee. He was an experienced, dependable, and talented logger. His nickname, "Pine Tree," had been earned as a center on his high school basketball team, not in his profession.
Well into his forties, he was still within five pounds of his teenage playing weight. Both Mr. Junior Boy and Tutty accorded Silas a respect uniquely his. They often consulted Silas on technical matters, and paid him more than several white workers. Mr. Junior Boy liked to brag to his friends, "Got me a nigger can tho' a dime on the ground, an land a goddam pine right on it!" And Silas Tisdale could.
In spite of Mr. Junior Boy's dire warnings, Silas Tisdale was eager to know more about the union. It was the union medical plan that especially interested him.
"My boy, he stutta. Gottim a speech peddament," he related to the organizers. "If'n I had that medical plan, I'd be able to get that theppee they got in N'Awlins."
The conversation went on for hours, but in the end, Silas heeded the employer's threat. Without Silas' leadership, the effort to organize quickly died. Now, with Mr. Junior Boy gone, the union was anxious for a fight, and so was Silas Tisdale.
Within hours of the organizers presence in Old Hickory, Tutty Neely was aware of their every move. He issued the traditional family threats to the work force in general and to Silas Tisdale in particular. But this time the threats rang hollow. Neely Woods Management was about to be unionized.
It was, that is, until the night that Silas Tisdale didn't make it home from work. Driving home with his son, he stopped his truck at a telephone pole to post a sign announcing the union meeting. As he returned to the truck, two cars approached from opposite directions. One was a police unit, lights flashing, bearing Sheriff Wayman Witty and Deputy Elmo Witty. From the back came Tutty Neely's Buick with a blue police light flashing on the dashboard. The sheriff shined a light on Silas and ordered him to stand still.
"Boy you know that's tresspassin' puttin them signs on private property?" the sheriff asked in a tone that sounded like he was investigating a capital offense.
"NO Suh sho don't. They's signs all ovah dem postiss. I thought it'd be awright." Silas answered with confidence but also with respect.
"Thought? Thought? You ain't thinkin' at all. You lissen heah. You gotcha a good job with Mista Tutty heah. You puttin' up all that union trash gonna cost you a job an git ya in trouble with the law. Now you go back'n take down every wunna dem signs or l'll run yo ass in. Heah?"
Silas shook his head no and was heading for his truck when Tutty Neely spoke. "You lissin Silas. YOU lissin good. you get those signs down and stop messin with them agitators."
Silas remained silent and turned back toward the truck. Tutty Neely raised his voice. "Silas! You goddamn no good, get back overheah!" Silas continued toward the truck, but didn't reach it. Three gunshots penetrated his neck and skull. In moments he was dead in a ditch, shot from behind by Tutty Neely.
Sheriff Wayman Witty was mildly irritated, Deputy Elmo Witty could not believe what he saw, and the Tisdale son lay on the floor of the truck frightened that he would be next.
"Tutty, that ain't no way to deal with this," the sheriff said with a calm regret that he would be inconvenienced.
"This is gonna be a real pain in the ass, I can see that. Elmo, you didn't see nuthin. Tutty you get yo ass outta heah and gimme that gun. Reportts gonna say I pulled him over for speedin'. He threatened me and resisted arrest. Case closed."
And the case was closed. The Tisdale son slipped away unnoticed, and told the whole story to his mother. Verna Tisdale was too afraid to tell anyone but her preacher. "Da Lawd'll keep him, Verna. He was a good man and da Lawd'll sho punish Mr. Tutty even if da law don't." The preacher knew the law wouldn't, and so did everyone else.
Union activity ended abruptly after Silas Tisdale's murder. Tutty Neely used the incident to lecture the work force on respect for the law. In Tutty Neely's mind, Silas Tisdale had got what he deserved. His conscience was unencumbered, if not clear.
The societal change over Tutty Neely's [subsequent] thirty year reign impacted him minimally. The major exception was the relationship between Neely Woods Management and the sheriff's department. Elmo Witty resisted all of Neely's financial overtures. The sheriff was an honest enforcer of the law. He had once even had the temerity to issue Tutty Neely a speeding ticket.
It was that speeding ticket that rested on Tutty Neely's desk along with his other financial obligation notices, as he conducted his monthly ritual. He ignored the garbage collectors truck as it meandered past his office to the containers. He paid no notice when it stopped outside his door on the way out. The diesel engine idled loudly as the driver, a large middle-aged black man, climbed out. His well-fit khaki uniform bore the logo, Nathan's Disposal
Service, on one breast pocket. On the other pocket was the driver's name, Lucius.
Lucius knocked gently on the screen door leading to Tutty Neely's office, and took several steps back. An obviously irritated Tutty Neely looked up with a growl and waved Lucius inside.
"Mmmistah Tttutty, uh, Mmmistah Nathan said ttuh give ya dis." Lucius handed Tutty Neely an envelope containing an invoice declaring that the Neely account was ninety days past due. It stated further, that unless the driver received a check for the entire amount, service would be discontinued.
On reading it, Tutty Neely dialed the number on the bill, and exploded into the phone to Nathan Jarvis.
"Nathan, you an asshole, heah? You got a bill to collect, you call me or come by. You don't send no goddam nigger in here to collect yo money. He ain't gettin a penny, heah?" He slammed down the phone and glared at Lucius.
"Get on outta heah, now. I ain't got no time for you, neither." He pushed Lucius out of the door, following him to the truck.
"You tell that bossa yours. I don't want him sendin no more niggers up here. Period! You unnastan?"
Lucius had heard enough. With his left hand, he seized Tutty Neely around the neck, like a bantam rooster caught in a barnyard. Lucius hooked the fingers of his right hand around the back of Tutty Neely's belt.
The little man quickly found himself high in the air over the larger man's head.
"Leggo me, nigger, leggo." Tutty Neely yelled, arms and legs writhing like an upside down turtle.
Lucius did not answer, only tightening his hold as he marched toward the garbage truck. The idling diesel engine blended in a metronomic harmony with the compactor grinding the refuse of the Neely Woods Management Company.
Tutty Neely's howl grew louder as the pair neared the truck. Still silent, Lucius bent his elbows back like a basketball player preparing a free throw. Then with a smooth thrust forward he tossed his passenger into the belly of the grinding container. Tutty Neely hollered unintelligibly as he fell into the mess. His sounds of panic were quickly overridden by the mechanical groan of the compactor.
Inside Tutty Neely suddenly noticed pain throughout his body. He could neither see nor hear, and his breathing was deteriorating into a gasp. The pain and struggle was brief. He no longer felt it necessary to breathe.
Lucius threw the switch closing the hatch to the compactor, and bounded into the driver's seat of his truck. He put it into gear and headed for the landfill.
Tutty Neely felt a consciousness of sorts. His mind registered messages, but his senses did not function. In his dark and silent world, he felt no pain; the stench of the garbage truck imparted no offense. A gallery of images passed his mind's eye. The first was the doctor holding a mirror before him after his childhood harelip surgery. The second was his beloved strongbox buried beneath the smokehouse. These were familiar images in Tutty Neely's mind. Not familiar was Silas Tisdale's corpse, and it [which] came next. It evoked no more sympathy than the first time held seen it.
Tutty Neely had it figured. He was in that twilight state between life and death, where one's life is said to pass before him. Good and evil were not part of his amoral view of life, but self pity was.
If God hadn't given him that harelip, he would have tithed honestly. He might have treated people better. Certainly he would reconsider killing Silas Tisdale. In fact, no, he shouldn't have killed him with or without the harelip.
Up in the cab, Lucius had just inserted his favorite cassette, Forty Gospel Favorites, into the player. He hummed along to "Jesus Lifted Me Up" as he turned the truck sharply to the left down a gravel road. When the tape reached the chorus, Lucius belted out, "JJesus lliff me up, hallejuhah, unhuh!"
In the back, Tutty Neely was having two fading thoughts. He shouldn't have gotten a harelip and he shouldn't have killed Silas Tisdale. Therein was the sole contrition that Tutty Neely showed for his awful life. With an acknowledgment of those regrets to himself and his creator, his mental gallery closed.
The truck rambled into the landfill as the cassette moved on to "You Can't Be A Beacon, If Your Light Don't Shine." Lucius raised the carriage of his truck and its contents tumbled quietly into the pit. The days haul of garbage had been disposed of and Tutwiler Neely III was dead and buried.
The disappearance of Tutty Neely became a matter of wild speculation in Old Hickory. The biggest argument was whether he had disappeared of his own accord. One story had him fleeing to Brazil with suitcases full of cash to meet Miss Elva Jean Conway. She was the proprietor of Elva Jean's Baton Twirling Academy, who had been missing herself for some six months. The consensus though was that he was probably the victim of foul play. There were few people who would have been without a motive.
Sheriff Elmo Witty slumped in his police unit at Old Hickory's only traffic light. Staring at the highway, he sipped a complimentary cup of coffee from the Pleez-Ur-Sef Quick Stop and pondered the disappearance of Tutty Neely, now two weeks old.
There were several detectives on the case, and the sheriff was a street cop. But Elmo Witty knew more about Tutty Neely than anyone. Elmo Witty was the only person, except his Uncle Wayman, that Tutty Neely had taken to the smokehouse.
After Uncle Wayman died, Tutty took Elmo there in the course of explaining the arrangement that Elmo had succeeded to. It never occurred to Tutty that Elmo might turn him down. Elmo put the incident out of his mind and never discussed it with Tutty or anyone else.
Elmo downed his coffee and headed for the Neely farm. He would soon know whether Tutty Neely had left Old Hickory voluntarily. The sheriff parked next to the individual roosts of Tutty's fighting cocks and began making his way by foot to the smokehouse. To no surprise to him, Elmo found the strongbox full of cash, just as Tutty had left it.
After the initial satisfaction of meting out punishment to Tutty Neely, Lucius was full of remorse. He was a Christian man of faith and it was unthinkable, to him, that he could have taken someone's life. Lucius was so upset and frightened that his stutter became worse. He prayed and prayed asking for guidance. No answer came.
Lucius drove his garbage truck on his usual route, bypassing the Neely Farm, which was no longer on his call list. He listened intently to the cassette playing, Prophet Hezechiah E. Williams: REVIVAL! He countered the pitch and roll of the truck with a prayerful sway of his body. "Tteach Ppreacher, unh huh, amen!" he punctuated at appropriate intervals.
He broke out of his spiritual trance, hitting his brakes firmly, and swerved to avoid an injured dog on the road. He rushed to its side. A German short hair pointer, of obvious pedigree, lay moaning in pain. Lucius saw its leg was injured, picked it up carefully, and put it on the seat of his truck. As he placed an old shirt over the dog to keep it warm, he noticed the collar had a brass nameplate. The dog's name, Tracer, was inscribed on the plate, along with that of its owner, T. Neely III.
Lucius pronounced each word as he read the nameplate. As soon as the import of the situation hit home, he put the truck back on the road with the speed of an animal fleeing danger. Not a minute later, he was approaching a disabled police car. Outside of the car stood Sheriff Elmo Witty waving at Lucius to stop.
"Boy, sho glad to see you, Lucius. Been stuck out heah a half hour. My radio's busted and they ain't been a soul come by. Gonna getcha to bring me into town." Elmo did his law enforcement strut as he arranged his holster and opened the door to Lucius' truck.
"Shsho thing, shef, gotta hurt dog on dda seat. Be careful." Lucius was scared.
"Gotdamn boy! What da hale you doin with Tutty Neely's champin bird dog. You know who this is? This is ole Tracer, gotta be worth two grand if he's worth a penny." Elmo's mouth hung opened so wide that he lost the small thaw of tobacco he had nursed since his car broke down.
Lucius was trembling now. Without provocation, without questioning, he was about to confess to the murder of Tutty Neely.
"Shef Emmo, I gotta tell ya sumpm real bad. I done put Mista Tutty in da pit. he daid." The cathartic confession had come out without a single stuttered word.
Elmo Witty's mouth incredibly opened even wider. He backed out of the truck and began pacing up and down the shoulder of the road, measuring the words of Lucius, and nervously rearranging his holster. He hitched his pants and turned to Lucius, who was now outside the truck too. The rapidly recovering Tracer leaned his head back and rolled his eyes to better view the conversation.
"Now Lucius, lissin heah." Elmo lowered his voice and spoke paternally. "Memba way back, when you tole Uncle Wayman and me bout you bein in da truck when Mista Tutty shot yo daddy."
"Yassuh, sho do." Lucius was staring at the ground.
"An you memba Uncle Wayman an me tellin you we sho was sorry, but there wasn't nothin' we could do. Memba?" Lucius nodded in agreement, eyes still cast downward.
Elmo paused, folded his arms, and squinted as he fixed on Lucius. "Mista Tutty done disappeared. Ain't nobody seen hide nor hair of him in weeks. Ain't nothin' you nor me or anybody else can do about it. Simple fact is lots a people ain't gonna miss him. Oncet he's gone, he's gone."
"Yassuh. Sho hope da Lawd have mercy on him, and me too."
Lucius was looking directly at Elmo.
"I'm a lot mo worried bout him than you." Elmo spoke with a feint smile as he removed the collar from Tracer's neck. "Now you take care this dog. He can plum point, and fetch Up too. Best you get me into town."
Lucius Tisdale pointed the truck toward Old Hickory with Tracer set comfortably between him and the sheriff. Lucius popped his gospel tape into the player. It began in the middle of the a chorus of Amazing Grace. Sheriff Elmo Witty grabbed Lucius' right hand with his left, raising them both high over Tracer's head. He closed his eyes and joined in: "I oncet was lost, but now I'm found. Was blind but now I see."