An Ace-in-the-Hole

Abstract

FEATURED AUTHOR—FICTION An Ace-in-the-Hole James B. Goode SAM WILSON WAS NO ORDINARY MAN in the community of Beartrack. He struck an unusual pose as he drove his metallic green 1951 Dodge along the twisting mountain roads—always dressed in a black suit, always wearing his short-brim, black Stetson hat, and always with an unlit King Edward cigar clenched between his yellowing teeth. He nodded toward everyone he passed, whether he knew them or not. Politics required that he be more safe than sorry. He would throw his right hand up above the metal dashboard in a quick, jerking motion. Those who passed could see his broad, weathered, road map face dominated by a pale, bulbous nose magnified by the split windshield of the Dodge. Today he was headed to the Knob County courthouse to meet with the district magistrates, a once-a-week habit he had fallen into when he first was elected county judge twelve years and three terms ago. He parked the Dodge behind the courthouse in a narrow spot marked with a menacing sign which said in big, bold red letters: "RESERVED FOR THE COUNTYJUDGE: VIOLATORS WILL BE SHOT!" He smiled as he read the sign. Baldy, his deputy, had put the sign up after the jailer had allowed the family of a prisoner to park in the Judge's spot. Sam walked up the cut stone steps leading to the side entrance of the courthouse, opened the big mahogany door, walked down the tiled floor and straight into the reception area of his office at the back of the rotunda. Nona, his secretary, sat at the big oak desk blowing on her freshly painted fingernails. She kept on blowing as she greeted Sam. "Good morning, Judge Wilson!" she said. "Franklin Marsh is in your office. One of his dump trucks has broke down, and he wants you to call C. W. in District 5 and see if he can borrow one for the day." She turned the back of her hand an arm's length away from her face and surveyed the bright red polish. "C. W.'s probably already left for the meeting this morning," Sam said. "Call Eldon, C W.'s driver, at the District 5 office and tell him to bring a ten-ton dump truck over to Four-Mile to meet C. W.'s bridge man at Saylor's grocery." Sam shuffled through the mail Nona had placed in the wire basket on the edge of her desk. 6 "Some guy called from District 1 and wanted to be put on the list to get some gravel dumped on his driveway." Nona playfully winked at the judge. "Doggone-it, Nona! What did you tell him? When will these people learn that there is no dad-blamed list. The only dad-blamed list, if there is a dad-blamed list, is in my dad-blamed head!" He slammed his Stetson onto the brass hook on the wall beside his office door and disappeared inside. Nona rolled her eyes to the ceiling. She could hear the low din of Sam's voice as he talked to Franklin Marsh. She couldn't really tell what they were saying, but every so often the words would get louder as one or the other made some exclamation. They hadn't been inside the office long when the phone call came. Nona knocked lightly and stuck her head around the door. "Sam, Slade Pugh's on the phone ... ," she said. She promptly turned and closed the door softly. Sam lifted the black earpiece from the telephone cradle and scooted his chair closer to the desk so he could speak into the mouthpiece mounted on the stand. "Slade Pugh!" He talked loudly into the receiver. "What can I do you for?" He asked. "Sam? Sam ... this is Slade ... they found my mama dead this mornin' ... a lyin' down there in the kitchen of the home place on Watts' Creek. Said she died of a heart attack sometime yesterday." "I swan ... well I swan ..." was all Sam could manage. He took a deep breath and let it out like steam escaping from a pipe. "Fronnie...