His first night back in Memphis, Sergeant Detective Billy Able hit G4 on the jukebox, “Me and the Devil Blues.” He felt at home sitting on his favorite bar stool at Earnestine and Hazel’s, drinking Miller High Life delivered by the bartender without his even having to ask. The music matched his mood for the evening—raw and personal.
He raised the cold Miller to his lips and let the liquid roll down his throat. Coming up the long way, the hard way, you lose track. You tell yourself, “Anything good comes natural. Give it time.” You buy a bullshit line like that because slipping past a problem is less complicated than looking at it full on. At thirty-three years of age, Billy knew sliding past a problem was easier. You close the door and hear the click of the lock behind you.
He’d packed up that morning in Atlanta and walked out on the love of his life. After the eight-hour drive, he’d stopped at his place on the river to throw water on his face then had come directly to Earnestine and Hazel’s, the most authentic piece of real estate in the city. Years ago, Otis Redding ate his lunch at Earnestine and Hazel’s. Sam Cooke, Jackie Wilson, James Brown, Tina Turner—they all hung out with the ladies. Tonight, so would he.
The bar filled with purple light as the jukebox kicked in with a Red Davis classic, “You Ain’t Enough for Me.” The jukebox was famous for spontaneously singling out a man and speaking to his pain. Billy was that man tonight. He swigged more beer. You ain’t enough for me. Maybe that’s what Mercy had been trying to say all along, and he hadn’t been listening.
What he wanted now was a few beers and some peace. He didn’t want to get drunk, just comfortable. He considered the next few days to be a well-deserved vacation. A ten-dollar tip left on the bar would change all that.
He spotted the ten before the bartender did. They both watched the skinny punk in the motorcycle jacket snake the bill into his back pocket. His buddies laughed and slapped him on the back for his audacity.
Tonight Billy wasn’t a Memphis cop. He’d been on leave for nine months. The ten bucks weren’t his responsibility.
“Hey!” the bartender yelled at the guy’s back.
The punk turned to make a smart-ass remark, stumbled into a table, and knocked a drink into a woman’s lap. The two men at her table jumped to their feet and threw back their chairs.
Billy knew what would happen next. A brawl, then the bartender would come from around the bar with a sawed-off pool cue. Broken chairs, busted lips. He set his beer down and stood up. The bartender had a new baby at home. He needed the ten bucks. Besides, it was theft.
The jackass with the money strolled toward the door. Billy shot out his boot and tripped him. The guy went facedown, hard. His buddies took one look at Billy’s face and cleared out. He picked the bill from the punk’s back pocket and slapped it on the bar. The guy got to his feet and ran.
Law school students wandered in. Soul burgers hissed off the flat-top grill. Behind them came the “S and P” or “Stand and Pose” group—the men in their polo shirts and pressed khakis, their big-bosomed women in strapless sundresses that they had to constantly hike up like they were hauling two-pound bags of flour on their chests.
The bartender set Billy up with another brew, but it didn’t taste as good as the first. This wasn’t the homecoming he’d intended.
He checked his watch. Still time to catch Ruby Wilson at the speakeasy above B. B. King’s Blues Club on Beale Street. He walked outside and stood at the curb. The night had a swelter on. He stepped into the street and felt gravity pulling through the soles of his boots. He was back in Memphis.
A Riverfront trolley with its square windows of light sat in front of Central Station. A young woman turned from the window to speak with the man seated beside her. They laughed. Billy felt Mercy’s fingers wrap into his, even though she hadn’t reached for his hand in weeks. Until that morning he believed they still had a chance.
The sound of a blues guitar lifted in the night, coming from the train station’s main terminal. The evening still had potential. He decided to check it out.
He forgot that nothing good ever happens after midnight.