A Higher Hand
by Gary Clifton
Homicide Detective Florence Williams tossed a folder on Detective Edward “Easy” Washington’s desk. “Pair a’ murders in the Bridge District. Somebody put three in Punjab’s sorry head. He was way overdue. An’ one a’ his whores.” She shuffled papers.
Easy looked up. “Punjab? Heard he’s been crossways with one of Ol’ Big Peewee’s heavies. That Chauncy Gronk, rich white dude. Dunno why the mope hangs around down there. The girl...?”
Flo read: “Uh, Jennifer Lynn Smith, white female, 23. Damn, a Valley Girl. Only three arrests...Address on her driver’s license shows a snooty address out on the Northside.”
Easy looked at the file. “Chauncy Gronk, that little rattlesnake lives out that way.”
Gronk, 24, with a long sheet and two trips inside, was a scrawny, vicious little monster well known to cops to be willing to commit any crime, anytime, anywhere. Family money had kept him from being sent to the joint forever.
Washington smiled, showing a gold tooth among a row of glistening ivory. “Good riddance to Punjab. The girl’s another hobby whore. I’m dammed if I’ll ever figure why rich people with nine bathrooms gravitate to that neighborhood. Has Society Mom showed up downstairs, shrieking about lousy police work?”
“Says here she’s in Europe. Got lawyers to handle it.”
“It? Good grief.“
Flo said, “Patrol’s still holding the scene. Get your ass up.”
* * *
Easy gunned the plain, battered old Ford down the sidewalk to the glut of uniforms circling the pudgy medical examiner’s field agent. Several squad cars, overheads flashing, were tumble-parked, blocking the street in front.
Dripping wet in the swelter, the M.E.’s man squinted over gold-rimmed half-glasses. “Took y’all long enough.”
“Sheet says this didn’t come in till sunup,” Flo said.
A portly sergeant stepped up. “As usual, nobody heard nuthin’. Guy goin’ to work come across the bodies. You know how these people are, Easy.”
Easy grinned, flashing his gold tooth. “Yep, Sarge, been one of ‘these people’ forty-two years. They a mess, bro.”
The Sarge tried to reach for higher moral ground: “Punjab first took two or three in the back of the head, then the whore tried to run, caught three in the back.”
Flo knelt over the girl. “I agree. Six-shot .38, run outa ammo.”
Easy wheeled the battered Chevrolet onto the gravel parking lot of the rear of XXXX Pawn, the choice location to buy and sell stolen property in the city. Owner, operator and head thief, Ol’ Big Peewee Pollard was draped on the glass counter.
There was more than one Peewee in the area. Crazy Peewee often ran naked down Third Street, singing “Jingle Bells.” Peg Peewee was a one-legged auto mechanic over at Leroy’s Auto. But this was Ol’ Big Peewee and he didn’t like cops.
A pair of hired security goons sat in lawn chairs on opposite sides of the lobby. One was Chauncy Gronk. The metallic clatter of pistols hitting the floor were familiar sounds to the cops.
Easy stuffed both .38 revolvers in his belt, patted each man down, and recoded any information either was carrying. “Peewee, we make either one for the Punjab or the girl and you get a piece of the murder rap.”
Chauncy’s pistol was a .38. A faint hope appeared. They carried both pistols to the lab. Bad Chauncy’s pistol had killed both victims. After only a moderate ass-kicking, Ol’ Big Peewee happened to remember that Chauncy had mentioned that Punjab was working a hooker who just happened to be Chauncy’s first cousin.
Easy started around the counter again, when Ol’ Big Peewee just also happened to recall that Chauncy was hiding out in the girl’s fancy home on the far north side. Easy and Flo led a crowd of four uniformed cops into a home that they figured was worth more than the gross domestic product of Russia.
Chauncy was arrested while sleeping in a compartment above a third-floor bathroom. Easy asked, “Chauncy, if the spat was over your cousin working the street, why the hell murder her?”
Said the madman: “Ain’t admittin’ I did nothin, but as a matter of family honor—”
Flo cut him off: “I can’t stand this.”
* * *
The New-Age judge who was assigned to the case had no ear for street names or the violence of the crime, but she did seem emotionally charged by the family honor situation. So, her excellency spat on precedent, the appellate process, public opinion and common sense; she stepped over the straight of the matter and sentenced Chauncy to a holy mission of redemption. She summarily dropped charges on Ol’ Big Peewee. Judges are sometimes a little daft.
“The court will advance $200. You will purchase sufficient ladders, paint, thinner and related equipment. Then proceed to the First Church of the Limb of the Lamb and paint the steeple white. The court will check on your progress into divine work in two weeks. Failure to comply, Mr. Gronk, and you will be reincarcerated.”
Chauncy had been inside churches when he burglarized them, but on top?
He spent half the money on lines he sniffed with Ol’ Big Peewee. Therefore, short of funds, he bought half the paint the hardware guy recommended, three times the thinner, and genuinely began painting the steeple white.
Surveying the steeple, he decided that farther up, the ratio of thinner to paint was more forgiving. He added more thinner. Then he had an epiphany.
Easy and Flo drove past. Chauncy was sitting under a tree reading the Bible. He told them this story: “I was painting near the top, using too much thinner and too little paint. Suddenly, I slipped and fell. I screamed, ‘SAVE ME!’ and a giant hand caught me. A deep voice boomed, ‘SINNER, IF YOU WISH TO BE SAVED, YOU MUST SWEAR TO REPAINT AND THIN NO MORE.’
“I painted her all over, and I’m enrolling in theological school Monday morning. Praise be!”
Easy drove away. “Well?” Flo asked.
“Prolly got hold o’ some bad dope. Whatever works, hallucinations included.”
Copyright © 2025 by Gary Clifton
