A Casualty of Indifference - Zoom Inside the Book by Headline Books / Zoom Into Books

■■■

DAVID SELBY

David Selby was born and educated in West Virginia. A veteran of stage, screen, and television, including such popular series as “Dark Shadows” and “Falcon Crest,” the actor and award winning author’s last novel, Promises of Love, won awards at the Paris and Hollywood Book Festivals and an award in the International Reader’s Favorite Book Awards. In 1989, he was honored as a distinguished alumnus of West Virginia University and was given the first Life Achievement Award from the West Virginia University College of Creative Arts. He received the distinguished West Virginian Award from the state in 2002. In 2004, he received an honorary doctorate from West Virginia University. He and his wife fund a guest artist series at West Virginia University, and he has made many guest appearances around the state. David is a member of the Cleveland Playhouse Hall of Fame, and in May 1992, he received the Distinguished Alumnus Award from the College of Communications and Fine Arts at Southern Illinois University, where he had earlier earned a PhD. In 1999 he received the Millennium Recognition Award from the Shakespeare Theatre in Washington, DC. He lives with his family in California. For more information, visit DavidSelby.com.

A CASUALTY OF INDIFFERENCE

Mary Ellen Heater’s grandfather discovers a body while searching for cans and bottles at the local garbage dump. On closer inspection, he recognizes the body as his oldest granddaughter, Mary Ellen’s sister. It appeared to him that she had been shot twice in the head at close range. The grandfather’s discovery leaves the family shattered. Against her father’s wishes, a devastated Mary Ellen, determined to solve her sister’s murder, convinces her older brother to persuade the local kingpin of a known ‘drugs for guns’ place called “Deadend,” where her brother works, to hire her. She does not inform her brother why she wants the job, other than needing money. She does not mention her determination to gain information that will help solve her sister’s murder. Mary Ellen puts her promising singing aspirations on hold and with her grandfather’s help, she sets out on her quest to avenge her sister’s murder...which will have ramifications for the whole community.

DAVID SELBY

David Selby

Publisher Page

an imprint of Headline Books, Inc.

Terra Alta, WV

A Casualty of Indifference by David Selby copyright ÂŠ2019 David Selby All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents, except where noted otherwise, are products of the authorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any other resemblance to actual people, places or events is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form or for any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage system, without written permission from Publisher Page. To order additional copies of this book or for book publishing information, or to contact the author: Headline Books, Inc. P.O. Box 52 Terra Alta, WV 26764 www.HeadlineBooks.com Tel: 304-789-3001 Email: mybook@headlinebooks.com Publisher Page is an imprint of Headline Books ISBN 13: 9781946664662

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019937114

P R I N T E D I N T H E U N I T E D S TAT E S O F A M E R I C A

To all those who have been on the front lines facing the many problems that have confronted West Virginians and others in our country.

Give us courage, gaiety, and the quiet mind. Spare us to our friends, soften us to our enemies. Bless us, if it may be, in all our innocent endeavors. If it may not, give us the strength to encounter That which is to come, that we be brave in peril, Constant in tribulation, temperate in wrath, And in all changes of fortune and down to the gates of death, Loyal and loving to one another. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Robert Louis Stevenson

1 It appeared to him the skull had been crushed. He assumed the half-buried body had just been dumped in the entrance of the old abandoned mineshaft that locals used as a garbage pit. The mineshaft looked as though it could cave any time. The Captain bent over his oak-hewed cane, his head bent so far down into his chest that from behind he looked like the headless horseman. Many thought he was ‘weird,’ withdrawn, eccentric, creepy, a cold wind, whenever they would see him walking the roads in his dark duster. He never acknowledged people’s stares, didn’t talk much to anyone. Many knew him by sight, if not by name, because he had hiked every hollow and mountain in southern West Virginia, and his loping gait was easily recognizable. Locals admired his discipline. Rain, snow or sleet, the Captain did his thing, not wishing to be disturbed. Some laughed that he was as spooky as some outsiders felt southern West Virginia to be – rugged, untamed, wild but not too wonderful - something dreaded, like the dense, deep mountain woods on a moonless midnight. His face, the lines deep, was tense. His hands were gnarled with arthritis. He carefully planted each foot and slowly bent further down to get a closer look at the victim’s buried face resting in the damp, coal dust, garbage-infested ground. He carefully brushed away the dirt and garbage and turned the face toward him, gently moving the matted hair aside. He made out what looked to be a woman’s mangled face. It appeared she had been shot twice in the head. The Captain suddenly realized it was his granddaughter’s face he was staring at. He dropped to his knees and pulled her lifeless body to his chest. The Captain, winded, panting hard with tears and a little dizzy, held his granddaughter tight for the longest time. He 5

finally gathered the strength to lift her body. He felt an ache in the pit of his gut. Perhaps it was the fear of the unknown... or worse - the known. His granddaughter was dead. He was reaching for something he could not put his hands on or his mind around, trying to understand something that perhaps was not understandable, at least not to him at this horrible moment. His weekly hike up the mountain was a time to meditate, to ask forgiveness for being weak, for not having done enough...to question - what is right, what is love, what do we owe each other. On reaching the top of the mountain, he would always feel at ease, at peace, centered. The mountain was his psychiatrist. As he walked back down the mountain, he would have some sense of who he was. The troubles he had, the fears, the obstacles, would seem to dissipate after a stay on the top of a mountain. It was a rhapsody for the soul. Now, holding onto his granddaughter’s lifeless body, he could only bury his head and cry, and yell...no, he screamed across the cloud-covered hollows to the mountains beyond - to God above! He cried, “God, God. Why?” The Captain had always been strong, and when he wasn’t, he pretended he was. He kept up a strong front. His emotional filter was broken. But no one was there to see. It helped to cry, he thought. You had to be strong, practical, and productive to live in the mountains of southern West Virginia. You learned early on that you could not be vulnerable. He kept things inside. If you feel that you, like some West Virginians do, are an outsider, one who is somehow deficient, you know you can never give up. “Come on, please God.” The Captain’s kind was what America needed. Like many mountaineers, the Captain sometimes found it hard to be convinced that who he was and what he had to offer was what the country needed. “Me?” He found it hard to be fragile, to be weak. That’s not allowed! Mountaineers are rugged if nothing else. But now here was a reality, an unpleasant truth, he could not face. His granddaughter was dead. His tear-filled eyes took in the morning mist with the thick fog rising off the Tug Fork River below and settling into the valleys of the southern Appalachian Mountains. The Captain rued the wishful thinking that the mountains would once again soar over the savage raping of their beautiful peaks. That was no more possible than the dream that coal was coming back. He had survived longer than many of his dearly beloved mountains, but now... “Why?” He never imagined he would live longer than 6

his granddaughter. He staggered a few steps to an outcropping of rocks and slowly lowered himself to his knees, careful not to jostle her body. The current order of things was not the way it was supposed to be. His grandchildren were to have better lives. “Damn, damn...oh, God.” A wood thrush momentarily diverted his attention from smoothing her hair from her still beautiful face, which had camouflaged the dents of her wrecked life, her isolation and loneliness, like the thick wondrous trees camouflaged the slurry ponds and abandoned mines and chemically laced water. He had prayed for his granddaughter not to give up. He knew she was on the verge of turning her life around from depression and addiction. His prayers had faced other challenges, but he found himself in a quandary, never more so than at this moment, when his latest prayer had left him doubting the power of prayer. He coughed a couple of times to clear the phlegm and wiped his weary eyes with the sleeve of the arm that wasn’t holding her head. He thought, looking down on her face if a kinder system had only seen the grace and loveliness of this young woman he called Precious. The Captain knew that despite his granddaughter’s beauty, she had been, like so many, expendable. He was almost positive he knew her killer was close...one of their own, a terrible thought, one who knew no restraint in enriching his power while the rest put their heads in the sand, refusing to deal with reality. Indifference killed his granddaughter. Here on the mountain, holding Trudy’s cold body, the Captain vented his anger, frustrations, with shouts to ‘Almighty God.’ No one could hear his tearful tirades. A short time before, all was right with his world, as right as it was ever going to be. His granddaughter had told him she was going to be fine. “More than fine,” she had said. Through his tears, he suddenly remembered the world had first come to his home over a year or so ago. The knock at the door was tentative at first. Despite living far up hollow, a deadend hollow to beat all hollows, there was a slow then determined knock at his door. He opened the door enough to see a welldressed man. “Is Trudy Heater here?” the suited man asked. “Who wants to know?” asked the Captain. The suit flashed his card. “Agent Wayne Anderson, FBI.” The Captain took a long look at the man. 7

“Are you lost?” “Her mother said I might find her here.” “She only overnights when she’s not getting on at home, but she’s not here now,” smiled the Captain. “My wife knows her mother,” said the agent. “They are both teachers at the high school. She told my wife that she thought her daughter would like to talk to me,” said Agent Anderson. “I thought maybe she would talk to the some of the high school students about the dangers of drugs. I think they might listen to her rather than someone like me.” “Afraid I can’t help you.” “I’ll try again. Sorry to bother you.” There was a quiet homage to the dead amid a soft rustling of the last remaining leaves that were, like the Captain, holding on. He contemplated, wondering if he should bury his granddaughter on the mountain and let the poor soul rest. But he was wise enough to know we learn by going where we have to go, to not give up, even through unchartered waters. The Captain remembered the suited man who came to his door that morning and knew what he had to do. He carefully laid his granddaughter’s body on the ground and pulled a burlap bag from his coat pocket, one he used to collect litter on the mountain. He gently pulled the bag over his granddaughter’s body, again bending to kiss her cheek before covering her face – a lost soul whose cries were not heard or were, perhaps, simply ignored. He lamented that Trudy had been trashed, discarded, like the land where she had spent her life. That told the Captain something about the time he was living in and about his fellow man. He hesitated a moment, sucked in a deep breath, his fingers arthritic with little round marble knuckles. He could still grasp his walking stick, and he needed no stents to keep his ticker going. Using his cane for support, he lifted the burlap bag-enclosed body and carried it the remainder of his way. His eyes were straight ahead, knowing there was no satisfactory answer. But that would change, he promised himself. That afternoon the weather had turned cool, dark, and dank. He drove, with the covered body of his granddaughter in the bed of his pick-up, to Agent Wayne Anderson’s F.B.I. Office in Beckley. Agent Anderson greeted him warmly. “Captain Heater. It’s been awhile.” “Wasn’t sure, when I called, if you would remember me.” 8

“I sure do. I was looking for your granddaughter then.” “Yes, well, I have brought her to you.” The Captain walked back to the bed of his pickup and pulled back the blanket that covered his granddaughter’s body, resting on his sleeping bag. He motioned for Anderson to have a look. Anderson did. “My granddaughter,” said the Captain. “The girl you came looking for.” “I’m sorry,” said Agent Anderson after a long moment. “Where did you find her?” “Near the foot of the mountain, not far from where I live. She was half-buried at the entrance of a mineshaft full of garbage.” “How long ago?” “This morning.” “I see,” said Agent Anderson.” “I was trying to decide if I was going to let her parents and sister see her body...as you can see, the back of her head’s practically blown off. I decided not. Better they remember her beautiful face. I came here because I had no choice. The locals would scratch their heads and fill out a meaningless report. That would be it. The FBI hasn’t done much better in these parts.” Agent Anderson nodded. “I’ll have to send the body to the lab.” “You’ll let me know the results?” “Of course. I’ll also need to have photographs of where you found her.” “I didn’t see anything there. People dump their trash.” “Captain, I’m sorry I never got to see your granddaughter.” “Yes. She was in drug rehab at the time. I didn’t tell you,” said the Captain. “I understand.” “She told me she was better. She said she had a wonderful job. She seemed happy. Trudy was a good girl, popular, like her younger sister. Hadn’t given up on having a better future. Now that future is gone. Drugs, Agent Anderson, directly or indirectly, robbed me of my granddaughter. Trudy sacrificed everything for drugs, I think, every meaningful relationship in the obsession for... what? Another high? Is that what they say? I don’t pretend to understand this world. But these dealers, drug companies, whatever, are killers, murderers is what they are. Trudy’s supplier, I wager, was and is pullin’ in several thousand a 9

month selling pills and guns, whatever. She was involved with a couple of movers and shakers in Charleston. I had wanted her to come in and talk with you. She was afraid, I think.” “We’re getting closer to indicting some people. It’s possible your granddaughter knew too much. Just speculation.” “Doesn’t matter. She’s gone.”

2 Except for his expanding stomach, Dewey Long was a walking advertisement for “clothes make the man,” an unusual sight in the southern mountains. He was seated in a cushiony leather chair with one leg up on a salvaged metal table in a grimy office of one of his used-car lots. He unbuttoned his sport coat to give his ever-expanding girth, which matched his ego, some extra room as he studied the checkerboard, weighing the pros and cons of his next move as intently as he would weigh the advantages and disadvantages of a more honest life, or at least a less corrupt life than the one he was leading as the major, drug and pills for guns dealer in the southern Appalachians - a life where he didn’t have to keep looking over his shoulder. But Dewey was placated by the notion that he knew all the answers. Dewey’s “special favor man,” when he needed a big favor, was Charley Wise, and wise Charley was. Not a compassionate man, Charley. He was a savvy Charleston power broker, part PR man and part big time state lobbyist who had an almost likable no-apology take on “what’s in it for me.” “You sure you want to make that move?” Charley asked Dewey. Dewey leaned over the checkerboard, his fat belly pressed under the table’s edge, so the table actually sat on his belly. He smiled at Charley, like the cat about to devour the mouse. “I’m always sure,” said Dewey. “Yes,” smiled Charley, “never an anxious moment.” Dewey was more of a client of Charley’s than a friend. Dewey was in debt to Charley for having bailed him out of a couple embarrassing situations – the pregnant mistress who had been paid off to keep her out-of-state abortion quiet. Then there was Dewey’s recent well-publicized nasty divorce, where Dewey 11

was charged with wiretapping his wife’s phone and bugging her house. “She testified you tried to run her down with one of your used cars.” “So what? A new one would have been a waste of money. My detective spotted her cavorting with the damn judge in the back seat of her SUV. And this was a couple of months after she had won big in our divorce settlement, coincidently, with the same judge who ruled generously in her favor.” “We all read about it. You had to be restrained and dragged out of the courtroom, all the while screaming, ‘you pig! My wife is a pig!’” “The bitch pig was wearing a big smile.” “You lost your well-mannered cool, Dewey.” After the divorce settlement, Dewey pleaded poverty. But it was hard to feel sorry for Dewey. His used car lots spread throughout southern Appalachia like dandelions. His car collection included a couple of MG’s, a Hummer that was all decked out aka military, and several antique trucks. He also had a plane stored at Yeager Airport in Charleston. The court had ordered the plane be sold with half the money going to Dewey’s ex. “She’s the ex-wife from Hell,” said Dewey. “She walked away with half of everything I own.” “Excuse me, Dewey, if I don’t expect to see you homeless.” “She got the Country Club Drive house and immediately changed the locks.” “I believe you went in and removed the living room furniture.” “She also walked away with a generous share of my cash - a good chunk of which had been stashed high up in the eave of the garage. Somehow she knew where it was.” “Dewey, you sound a bit terrified by the prospect of not being sure of your next move.” Charley looked down at the checkerboard and made a move that had Dewey cornered, though Dewey didn’t realize it. “Didn’t I tell you, Dewey, about making sure you had a soft place to land?” “A fair portion of my ill-gotten gains is undeclared and hidden overseas.” “Spoken like a true and ardent anti-tax, anti-government man. You paid a price for your ex to keep her mouth shut about your business. Silence can be expensive. Killing her would have 12

been cheaper,” said Charley. “I tried,” said Dewey. “Couldn’t get anyone to do it, especially since she’s now rumored to be the girlfriend of Sheriff Goodson. Hate that tin-badge son-of-a-bitch.” Truth was, Dewey hated most people. Charley had not been surprised when Dewey showed up at his Charleston office in need of a favor. He had always found Dewey to be rather entertaining. Prior to the divorce, Dewey had put road kill in his ex’s mailbox and sent her banana muffins, her favorite, sprinkled on top with rat poison and bits of the court order that had ordered him to keep away from her. Then there had been the tax problem Dewey had with the IRS. He had neglected to pay over a half-million in taxes and fees for government land he was using for his cattle to graze on where drug agents found a sizable crop of thriving marijuana plants. Dewey also had, a few years before, stiffed his employees for a million by withholding payroll taxes for himself. Then there was the cocaine conviction. But Charley told authorities Dewey would help with their drug investigation. He told Dewey to sell cocaine to a couple of business associates in a set-up. It worked. The business associates were convicted. It also didn’t hurt that the former business associates were competitors of Charley’s in the PR and lobbying game. Some people jokingly speculated as to how Dewey made so much money from his used car lots. Mountain people were practical, and many bought used cars rather than new. It was all Charley’s doing. Slicker than ice he was. Charley had convinced Dewey to run a television ad campaign with himself as the pitchman. He had Dewey dress up as a city slicker with an evil mustache that he twirled while waxing on to the television camera, “Would you buy a used car from this man?” Charley early on had zeroed in on the fact that Dewey had an elevated view of himself. “God,” Charley called him. At the time, Dewey could have sold God a used car. Dewey was bombastic but funnily so, and it was hard to hear anyone else’s opinion, especially on gun control, but his passion for cars and his knack of having a way with people, Charley felt, would make for good television ads. Dewey created a larger-than-life personality, where truth be damned, where embellishments ruled, like a sick child-like warlord. Everything was “brilliant,” fantastic,” “phenomenal.” Dewey simply played himself. He loved the attention television brought him. He gloried in it. But after the divorce, he was feeling 13

financially pressured - an exaggeration to say the least. There were still plenty of spoils to go around. Used car lots had a lot of traffic, and Charley, at first, had teasingly floated the idea to Dewey that used car lots could be a good delivery system for drugs. Dewey laughed, but he didn’t need the hint. He had been using the Avis system for several years. He had even convinced a like-minded nursery wholesaler to let him pack guns and drugs in the bottom of plant containers, targeted for delivery to nurseries up and down the east coast. Dewey was very smart and innovative and proud of it. Only he had the key to the secret room of knowledge. When Charley decided to expand his business, feeling that legalized weed was just a matter of time in the state, he invested in a start-up headed by one Henry Mann, a local African-American high school history teacher, who had once been Charley’s driver and the man who had first come up with the idea of Deadend, a mountain retreat where customers could kick back, and relax with a joint or two. However, a year or so later, Charley decided that a black high school history teacher was not the way he wanted to go. “Why the change?” Dewey had asked. “To be honest, my money people would not support a black-owned business. I assumed ownership under a dummy corporation and then installed Henry Mann as manager. That worked for a time, but my grander plans would have been in conflict with a manager who is black with a conscience and is a well-respected history teacher at the high school.” At the time, Charley, always thinking, suspected that Dewey’s reputation would not suffer being the owner, on paper, of Deadend. No one would be surprised. Charley knew Dewey did whatever it took to win, no matter the game and with a ‘fuck you’ nod to the law. Charley had an idea for Dewey that would help bail him out of his little imagined financial setback. “How is your ex?” asked Charley, knowing full well that the ex was one of the few who had never been fooled or put off by Dewey’s brashness. When she filed for divorce, Charley rightly suspected that she knew where the bodies were buried, literally. “How is she? She’s rich, that’s how she is.” “She saved your ass back when she said you were with her at the time your associate was silenced.” 14

“And so I was,” said Dewey. “Well, silence is golden. I’m just saying, according to the newspaper, she had your back with an alibi.” “Anything’s possible,” said Dewey with a smirk. “All you need is money.” “All she needed.” “A lot of it. Yes?” “Yeah. So what’s new? This place is not on your radar,” said Dewey, nodding his head. “You claim you’re not as flush as you were before the divorce?” “It’s true. Christ, I’m lucky to have the clothes on my back.” “Funny man, you are. Doubt you’ll be filing for unemployment anytime soon, what with all your off-shore accounts.” Charley smiled his PR best. He knew he held the cards. Dewey’s addiction to acclaim, power, and pretty women had left him with no choice. “Why are you here?” asked Dewey, contemplating a checker move. “I like checkers,” said Charley. “But I do have a proposition for you.” “I’m listening,” replied Dewey. “I need a front man for that club I told you about. It’s a half hour up the mountain from Last Chance...a legit club, but if you feel like running astray, doing a little business on the side,” Charley grinned, “all you need do is put a camera at the bottom of each end of the mountain and you’ll have a half-hour warning of any law officer.” Charley gave a little laugh as if he were joking. But he knew all he had to do was plant the idea and give Dewey time to chew on it. Dewey was blatantly obvious in his ‘above it all’ attitude concerning the law. He liked to brag about never paying taxes. Charley couched Deadend as an opportunity for Dewey to score big, to help his cash flow. Dewey had gotten used to a certain standard of living that only the richest West Virginians enjoyed. Though relatively few were in the top brackets, Dewey’s used car lots along with his extracurricular activities had, prior to his divorce, put him up there with the elite. “I figure since your divorce, my offering comes at a good time. You need quick money, cash. Right?” “Can always use money. What have you got in mind? “You have to be in the game. That’s the fun. What else will 15

you do, Dewey? Become a health care or social assistance worker who pays less than Walmart?” “I wouldn’t be caught dead at Walmart, not in my life. They got a stranglehold on this fucking state,” replied Dewey with all the disdain he could muster, which was considerable. “There isn’t a single Costco in the state, not one! I have to drive to Cincinnati! Country’s going to pot.” “Let’s hope,” laughed Charley. “You’re shopping at Costco now?” “I told you! People today can’t even afford a used car. Why? There used to be a dozen or so working coal mines on my way to my office. Now, I’m lucky to pass one.” “I believe you’ve had a pretty lucrative sideline - from Atlantic City to Miami,” said Charley. “You’re right...Had. The heat’s been turned up. Boy Scout sheriff and FBI homeboy trying to earn do-good badges.” “So what’s your choice? Go legit? What else? Move up north with the Marcellus shale folks and the pot of gold called natural gas, or go to the eastern panhandle - the once new bedroom community of DC - plenty of money there with your ambassadors and other DC celebrities - good cocaine - heroin market. Down here, Dewey, you’re stuck. Western coal is the new golden child. So, it’s better to push the envelope. Agreed?” “Depends on what’s in it for me?” “A way to recoup from your divorce and have some fun,” said Charley with a sly grin. “Listen, we could hit the jackpot. You’ve got to adapt. It’s what you make of it, Dewey.” With that, Charley smiled again. “You’ll be your own man, like always. Remember how you started with one used car lot? One commercial? Well, in time we can have clubs all over the state. This business could expand, fairly quickly, too.” “Yeah, but the Internet is the store, Charley, even in southern Appalachia.” “E-bay for drugs?” “Oh, Charley, please, I’m taking your advice – legit it is.” “And if I believe that...” Charley laughed. “That’s how we go, bricks and mortar are just for show,” Charley sang. “We’ll take options on property up and down the Ohio. When legal pot comes, we’ll be ready. You and me, pal. We will be the sole distributor down here, up and down the Ohio, along with the eastern panhandle, the whole state.” 16

“The whole east coast,” added Dewey. “But legal weed was voted down. The feds got to the politicians and, as you know, my hatred for politicians runs deep.” “Let bygones be bygones, Dewey. It’s just a matter of time,” assured Charley. “We’re working on it.” “Politicians are afraid that medical marijuana will lead to other uses,” laughed Dewey. “Forget it.” “That’s the idea, other products. I see little difference in having a beer or a couple of shots of whiskey and a joint,” said Charley. “Don’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable or that they’re doing anything wrong if they smoke a little weed. It will take time here, I know. We just have to be patient. Medical marijuana has been passed into law. Unfortunately, it prohibits marijuana in its natural, flower form. Still, it will be a win-win. West Virginia can get $45 million in taxes and save $17 million currently spent on enforcement. Weed can have a positive impact on the opioidbased painkiller and heroin epidemic by offering another, lessaddictive alternative to people.” They both knew the pressure was on to aggressively prosecute drug abuse. Prescription pill abuse had long been a problem, thanks to people like Dewey. The deadly heroin overdoses led the nation by far. “So weed is the answer. Pills have a bad rep now,” said Charley. “So bad that the small and quiet weed growers are generally left alone, and the state’s Federal court does not welcome weed possession cases. Public opinion about weed is changing.” Dewey knew the federal attorney for southern West Virginia was going after the pill abusers, but heroin overdosing had taken some of the pressure off. “One thing persuasive for legislators,” Charley told Dewey, “is the tax money generated, after regulation costs, could be used to set up substance abuse programs and drug prevention programs in the schools. Think about it. That’s good PR for the politicians. If there’s money left over, they can build a veterans’ home in your area, Dewey. You’ll be a hero, a star. Whatever, I would advise not getting married again or make sure you have a prenup. But I don’t want any monkey business, Dewey. Guns for drugs could upset the apple cart.” “Every place has its thief and druggie, Charlie...hey, the government bailed out the banks, you can put me back on top.” “Fair enough. The mountaintop club is the first one.” “Prototype,” said Dewey. 17

“Yes, and it has to be right. I’ve already got a lawyer involved. We’re going to file for distribution rights all through the state. Got to do it before Starbucks does.” “Get them before they get you?” “You got it, Dewey. No mercy for the enemy. We’ll locate the dispensaries in strategic spots where legal marijuana can be enjoyed.” “If it’s ever legal. You know that good people don’t smoke weed.” “Sure! Relax, my friend, it will be. It will be up to each state to decide. They’re not going to take away any freedoms that are already in place. That’s a big fight. Trust me. It helps to have friends on the inside. Our man’s in the White House.” Dewey assumed Charley knew what he was talking about. Dewey appreciated Charley’s contacts, his sources of money. He appreciated Charley’s lobbying the state legislature, so he didn’t mention the fact that three of Charley’s clients in an adjacent county, including a sheriff and county commissioner, had recently been convicted of election fraud and sentenced to prison. But no one in the state knew better where the bodies were buried than Charley. Dewey knew Charley was well insulated. Impunity was the word that came to mind with regard to certain politicians and others who, like himself, played loose with the law. Dewey grew up amidst the seedier side of southern West Virginia and had long seemed well insulated with layers of friends, like Charley, with political and economic power - not unlike the time-honored Sicilian mafia. Rising prosperity in northern West Virginia had not trickled down to the southern portion of the state. Many shops had been boarded up. And while the people of southern West Virginia were wary of outsiders, they still could be very warm and welcoming with offers of food and drink. They didn’t appreciate the ‘woe is me attitude’ of some writers. But they also didn’t appreciate having their noses rubbed in the squalor, as they felt happened when Obama put a dagger through coal’s heart. People tended to know, or at least think they knew, what their neighbors were up to, and if there were some hanky-panky at Deadend, it wouldn’t take long for people to know. “You know, Dewey,” said Charley, “the price of doing business in southern Appalachia is dealing with some dishonorable characters, present company excepted. It helps to know who 18

they are. Certain families still have power and money. There is nepotism and corruption, like in Greece. It’s part of their history and ours. People feel abandoned, subservient when the power’s in the hands of a few... but we are the system. After the pizza place closure and your marriage falling apart, you’re going to have to re-insulate yourself with a man like me. I don’t have any big solutions, no ‘almost heavens.’ But I can keep you going, keep you out of the devil’s kitchen. In short, Dewey, my offer is too good to pass up.” “I like the way you talk, Charley.” “We want weed to be legal. The politicians, some of them, can make things difficult. Would they stand up for us if we get in trouble? Not on your life. Take your ex.” “Please.” “As I recall, she ruled the school board with an iron fist and gave jobs to most of her relatives. She also had, years before, ironically, given Henry Mann his teaching job – thinking that hiring an African-American would take the sting off her putting so many relatives on the county payroll. She’s the demonic despot of the hills, even more tyrannical than you. Is she smarter?” “I taught her everything she knows.” “You did a good job. The last governor dared not visit her hills without a bevy of state troopers at his side. Hell, being a public office holder is a license to steal – sheriffs, mayors, even dogcatchers. It’s the few bad apples that paint all the good people. But what do you do? Wink at it - that’s what we do. I sleep better, trust me.” “Wink at it, huh.” Dewey laughed, thinking Charley was a little casual with his ‘nothing to worry about.’ It sounded like the slick PR man that he was. “You haven’t been an angel, Charley.” “I’ve told a few fibs in my time, and you’re no saint by any means, Dewey. So I’ll keep my eyes open because you might be, I dare say, tempted to bend the law.” Charley said that without a smile. It was a warning. “Me? Whatever gave you that idea,” said Dewey and chuckled. “Besides Deadend is out in nowhere land... a private club, right? The sheriff won’t touch it as long as I don’t flaunt it in his face, and everyone keeps his mouth shut. You really think legal marijuana has a chance in this state?” “According to my contacts, the war on marijuana is like the war on poverty - it will never end. Eventually, weed will be legal. 19

The state will propose a limit on possession, and they want to have,” Charley laughed as he said, “Compassion Centers.’” “Legalized marijuana will help alleviate a lot of problems,” said Dewey, “even in West Virginia there is income inequality.” “Is there now?” Charley laughed. “That’s why you’re so good, Charley. You have no compassion center. You know where the money is so you can be the first to hit up the few who have it.” “I try,” said Charley. He looked at Dewey for a moment. “It’s a shame about Trudy Heater.” “If you say so,” said Dewey after a moment. “What do you know about what happened?” “Nothing. Can’t say I’ll miss her. Certainly won’t miss the newspaper hounds sniffing around.” “What did you expect, Dewey?” Dewey didn’t say anything. “It’s the newsman’s job to sniff out the truth. Trudy was smart and pretty and could charm the tightest tightwad. She was a big help to me, especially with certain buyers who neglected their payments.” Charley smiled. “Like you, Charley, I have no compassion center.” “I’ll remember that. Trudy was a good woman. She had cleaned up her act. If you hear of anything, you let me know.” Dewey was silent. Charley decided to drop the subject. “We want to be the distributor of all the products that might develop. My legislature man will draw up a resolution hailing the number of illnesses medical marijuana can treat.” “Including cancer and epilepsy?” “Yes, along with alcoholism and a slew of others.” “Pain. Weed helps pain. I know that for a fact,” said Dewey. “Social Security is on the horizon for us. Not all bad news – unless they cut it.” With that, Charley laughed. “The state needs money. Community gardens and farmer’s markets are nice, but they won’t help the bottom line. Natural gas is in the driver’s seat now. It’s holding the gun. The governor knows a majority of people support legal marijuana in West Virginia. We have to wait and see what the feds will do.” “Why? Colorado and Washington didn’t wait. 20 states have legal medical weed.” “We have to control access,” said Charley. “They don’t want to create more problems. Have more kids turning on, getting high.” 20

“That hasn’t been the case in the states that have legal weed! Use has pretty much been the same and dropped in some cases,” said Dewey. “Plus they drink less beer.” “I’m impressed. You’ve done your homework. Maybe weed and alcohol complement each other,” said Charley. “You think?” “The state would like to make some money on this if it comes to pass, which I’m sure it will. We just have to be patient. Depending on how dispensaries are run, some make money, some don’t. Fees will cover the costs so taxpayers won’t have to. It’s a win-win for us, Dewey, if we play our cards right. Not the way you play checkers.” “I love checkers,” said Dewey. “But you have a tendency to be overly optimistic, cocky. You take chances because you’re too greedy and suddenly you find all your kings in a vulnerable position to be jumped. At those times, your wife, now ex, delighted watching you go down in a blaze of expletive glory.” With that Charley jumped Dewey’s king and had his one remaining king cornered. Neither man was smiling.

We hope you enjoyed this Zoom Inside the Book Excerpt from A Casualty of Indifference by David Selby Purchase the book here! DavidSelby.com http://davidselby.com/books/acasualtyofindifference.htm Headline Books https://headlinebooks.com/book-author-profile/david-selby/ Amazon https://amzn.to/3bztz46 Visit Zoom Into Books to meet the author https://zoomintobooks.com And Subscribe to the Zoom Into Books YouTube Channel (It's Free!) to meet award-winning authors, actors, and more! https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCZ_752fV55A7-72cu7nexuA

■■■

DAVID SELBY

A CASUALTY OF INDIFFERENCE

DAVID SELBY