* * * * *
It was a little before noon when we got a somewhat inebriated Ron Wheaton on the speaker phone. He wasn’t yet aware of his sister’s untimely demise, so Milton broke the news. He was a little stunned she was dead, but you couldn’t say he was upset. A good sign for what we had in mind.
Then as Milton began to describe how this innocent, gracious southern belle was brutally murdered by her decadent but extremely wealthy husband, you could feel this real estate agent’s righteous indignation grow into an incandescent fury. He agreed that this affront to southern womanhood couldn’t go un-avenged, so in memory of his dear sweet, departed sister, he agreed to hire Milton as his attorney and to sue the Whippy family for damages. As Mr. Wheaton couldn’t afford any hourly fees—a recent downturn in the real estate market, he told us—he was more than willing to settle on a fifty percent commission fee on any settlement.
Sandy knew some lawyers in Atlanta, and after another quick series of phone calls, they were on their way to Wheaton’s apartment with the contract. By early afternoon, we had an ironclad agreement with Wheaton to sue the Whippy estate. Milton also used some of his connections to find out what information the suicide note had actually contained. He confirmed that all the Sheriff knew was that some detective was involved and what he looked like. My name had yet to come up.
I called up Ernie, and found out the pictures were ready to go. I asked Ernie if they were any good. He said not to worry, everyone that needed to be recognized could be. I told him to put the negatives in a safe place and to meet me at the Gaston County Sheriff’s Department at five o’clock, pictures in hand.
I told Sandy to call up the Whippy’s lawyers and tell them it was urgent that they get to the Sheriff’s office. I was coming in to tell the law all that I knew about the death of Lawrence Whippy.
He called Whippy’s lawyers up, informed them of what I said, and we left together in my car for Gastonia. All I had to do now was spin a story for the cops.
We got to the Sheriff’s office a little before five and Ernie was already there. He showed Milton and me the pictures from the motel. After we stopped laughing—and inwardly cringing a bit—Ernie drew me aside and showed me the pictures of Milton and Tamara’s rendezvous at the lake cabin. We both understood, without saying a word, there was no need to show them to Sandy. He knew we had them.
Intimidate, don’t humiliate!
Ernie had just put the photos back into his briefcase when the two lawyers from the firm that represented the Whippy Food chain pulled into the parking lot. They got out of their car and walked over to Milton. Introductions and handshakes were made. At first, the lawyers wanted to talk in private and suggested going to their offices, but Milton and I knew we had to see the police first. We declined and walked quickly into the Sheriff’s office before they could object. The lawyers followed.
I walked up to the main desk and informed the dispatcher on duty that I was the private detective who was referred to in the Whippy suicide note. I was ready to cooperate fully with any official investigations in the matter. After few hurried phone calls, we were escorted into a conference room. Within a few minutes, the duly elected Sheriff of Gaston County, Jonah Campbell, and a couple of his plain clothes deputies had joined us.
According to Milton, Campbell had been Sheriff in Gaston County for six years. He was in the back pocket of the Whippys and a few other of the wealthy industrial families in the area. They had bankrolled both of his campaigns for Sheriff and in return he made sure union organizers and other such riff-raff were given short shrift if they wandered into the county.
As he entered the room, I looked him over. He looked like a lawyer. Well groomed, gray hair and dressed in a plain, dark-blue business suit. However, Sandy had told me he’d never gotten past the eighth grade and when he spoke, sure enough, he was pure redneck.
He took one look at me and growled, “So why didn’t you come in this morning, you little shit?”
Milton sprang into action.
“Sheriff Campbell,” he cooed, “I assure you that as soon as my associate heard of last night’s tragic events, he made every effort to get in to see you as soon as possible. Rest assured you’re going to have our complete cooperation in this matter.”
Campbell shrugged his shoulders, glanced around the room and then looked at me again.
“If you’re so damn innocent, why all the damn lawyers, asshole?”
This buffoon and his two thugs couldn’t intimidate me. They had nothing on me, and I knew it. So I decided to call his bluff.
I turned to Milton and Ernie and said, “He’s right. Why don’t all of you lawyers retire to another room? I’m sure I’ll be fine with Sheriff Campbell here. Ernie, you too can go, since you had nothing to do with this.”
Milton was a little surprised at this, but Ernie, God bless his him, knew what was expected. He stood up and gently patted his briefcase.
“Sure, kid. You ain’t got nothin' to hide. We’ll step out while you talk.”
He motioned to the lawyers to exit with him, “Gentlemen?”
Milton already knew that the real negotiations were going to take place away from Campbell. He and the Whippy lawyers left the room.
Campbell sat there for a second and then started to grin at me.
“Well, son, I didn’t think you had the balls.”
He waved at his thugs to stand around me. “I bet you’re a college boy, aren’t you?”
Here we go, education envy. I decided to rub it in a bit before we got started.
“Of course, I’m also a former Naval Officer. Were you ever in the military?”
He got red in the face.
“Army … corporal … and I always hated little shits like you, telling me what to do. Now by God, the tables are turned.”
Quickly, he leaned over and slapped me.
“Gonna cry for your lawyer now, college boy?”
I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. I knew that was the only shot he was going to risk taking with my lawyer so close by, so I just looked at him with a smug little smile.
“Just what is it you wished to speak with me about, Sheriff? I’m here to help.”
He knew he’d lost the intimidation game, and he knew that I knew he’d lost it. He looked pissed.
“Just start at the beginning.”
So I started. I told him about being hired by Tamara Whippy and Milton. I told him about following Whippy around. I told him about seeing him going to a motel. I told him about opening the door with a passkey. I told him about seeing Whippy engaged in sex with another man. I told him about being shocked and stumbling into the room. I told him about Whippy admitting he married Tamara as a cover to hide his being queer. Finally, I told him I was getting ready to report what I’d found out to Mrs. Whippy and Milton when I heard about the murder suicide.
I didn’t tell him about Milton being the guy who set Whippy and Tamara up. I didn’t tell him about taking any pictures. I didn’t tell him about my knowledge of the pre-nuptial agreement.
Campbell and his boys just sat there and took it all in. After I was finished, Campbell stood up, walked around the room a bit then turned to me.
“Before I believe all this horseshit, I want to know the name of the queer Whippy was with. I want to confirm this.”
Here it comes, I said to myself. This was the one area I had to really finesse. If they interview Zeke Stanley about this, then the truth will come out. The pictures, the blackmail, everything. I might not be in legal trouble, but the money from any Whippy settlement will disappear if the existence of the photos became common knowledge. The whole deal rested on what I was about to say. I had to ruin any credibility Stanley might have and delay any interviews with him until after we settled with the Whippys. I was counting on two things to keep this on track.
Homophobia and love of stock-car racing.
“Well, Sheriff, I can tell you the man’s name and where he works. But if you go talk to him, you’re g
oing to lose a chance to bust up a male prostitution ring operating right under your nose.”
As soon as I said it, Campbell and his two detectives froze then slowly turned their heads toward me and stared. Eventually, one of the detectives murmured, “Male prostitutes? Why should women pay for it when men will do it to them for free anytime they ask?”
The other detective leaned over and whispered in his ear for a few seconds, and then it dawned on the poor dumb bastard what I meant.
Campbell flopped into the chair next to me.
“You got one minute to explain that last remark.”
So I told him about Whippy admitting that his boyfriend was a prostitute named Zeke Stanley and his going rate was in the “hundreds.” This news upset all these manly men around me, but the kicker was telling them where this ring was operating out of Darren’s Gas and Lube.
That pushed ’em over the edge. A murder-suicide of a wealthy scion and his wife was one thing, but to have a male prostitution ring operating out of one of the premier motoring hubs of the county was quite another. This was NASCAR country, for crying out loud, and some things—like mom, racetracks and filling stations—are sacred. You could have told these yokels that their daughters were operating a whorehouse out of the local high school, and they wouldn’t have been nearly as upset.
Campbell sat there, dumbfounded, for a few moments then sighed.
“I can’t believe it. I had that pervert fix my brakes only a couple of weeks ago.”
Immediately, both his deputies began to regard him a bit warily. I sort of egged them along by lifting one eyebrow at this statement and giving my best “Well, hell, you never know” look at the two men and then scooted my chair a few more inches away from Campbell.
The Sheriff immediately realized his faux pas and quickly launched into damage control. Can’t let it get out that one is associating with known homosexuals, you know. Guilt by association and all that.
“By damn,” he yelled, “I’ll put a stop to this sort of crap in my county. This ain’t New Orleans, not by a long shot I tell you.”
I chimed in, “Sheriff, I don’t presume to tell you your business, but might I suggest you put a wire on someone and record Mr. Stanley offering to prostitute himself?”
By now, Sheriff Campbell was in full battle mode. All thought and concern of the Whippy murder gone from his head.
“Damn good idea! A sting, that’s what we want, a goddamn sting.”
It was then the door opened. Ernie and all the lawyers entered. I noted that Ernie had a small grin on his face, so I knew things had gone well.
One of the Whippy lawyers walked over and whispered in the Sheriff’s ear. Together, with Milton and Ernie in tow, they exited the room. I just sat there with the other lawyer and two deputies.
About ten minutes later, everyone entered the room again and Campbell announced for all to hear that the case was closed and ruled a murder-suicide. He then said my services were no longer required. I got up and left.
Ernie, Sandy and I went to a local diner, where I was filled in all the details of the backroom negotiations.
Milton had quickly informed the lawyers of Larry Whippy’s sexual orientation and Ernie produced the pictures to back him up. Milton also informed them that he was now representing Tamara’s sole surviving sibling who was insisting on suing for damages.
The lawyers saw the writing on the wall and placed a phone call to Whippy’s old man. He understood the score real quick and asked how much for the photos and film.
Ernie, Sandy and I had agreed in advance to ask for a cool million to settle. This meant a $500,000 fee, with half going to Ernie and myself and the other half to Milton, but here is where Sandy showed his true genius as a lawyer. He told Whippy’s lawyers, right up front, that we were initially going to insist on a million dollars, but, now, in consideration of the Whippy family loss and a desire by all parties to wrap this up quickly, we were willing to work out a deal.
What was agreed upon was that Whippy Foods, Inc would hire Sandy’s firm and Twillfigger Investigations to do a “security survey” of Whippy Food stores for 500 grand. They would also settle with Ron Wheaton for $100,000.
Of course, per our agreement, Ernie, Sandy and I would get half, leaving Ron with only $50,000.
The Whippy’s would get the film and photos in return. The bottom line was that the family would only have to pay $600,000 vice one million. Sandy, Ernie and I would still get our full, half-million dollar fee and then some. Everyone would wind up a winner—well, almost everyone, but what Ron Wheaton didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
All that was left was for old man Whippy to call off the Campbell, which he did with a quick phone call. Campbell knew which side his bread was buttered on.
Two weeks later, Ernie and I were looking at a certified check for $275,000. Milton also began spreading the word that Ernie and I were two detectives “you could do business with.” Our phone started ringing off the hook.
About a week later, Sandy sent me a copy of the local paper from Gastonia. Below the headline of “Male Prostitute Ring Busted!” was a picture of a proud Jonah Campbell escorting a somewhat worse for wear Zeke Stanley to a patrol car. The story under the picture said, “After an extensive investigation by the Gaston County Sheriff’s Department, Ezekiel B. Stanley, formerly employed at Darren’s Gas and Lube, was arrested yesterday for pandering and crimes against nature. Bail was set at $10,000. A formal court date has yet to be determined.”
American justice, Carolina style.
Chapter 9