Memphis sits on the Fourth Chickasaw Bluff, a ridge formed by buckling tectonic plates and the twisting course of the Mississippi River. The bluff is the highest point on the river’s western bank between Natchez, Mississippi, and Cairo, Illinois. From the cobblestone landing in front of Billy’s barge, the riverbank rises to Riverside Drive then ascends to Front Street.
Billy left the barge after sunset, the air thick with mosquitoes tracking him like tiny helicopters up the incline to the top of Monroe Avenue. He carried a copy of the Memphis Flyer, folded to protect the photos he’d discovered in Red’s jacket. His plan was to go to Bardog, order Aldo’s spicy four-meatball appetizer and a cold draft, and then work through the stack while watching a Cards game on TV.
Jesus Junior, or “J.J.,” as he was known to every beat cop, stood on the sidewalk between Bardog and the Little Tea Shop. He was tall and brawny, an imposing figure in white track pants, a white jersey with HOLY GHOST written in rhinestones across the back, and spotless white sneakers. He made a living hustling tourists and selling the Flyer to people who didn’t realize every downtown doorway had a rack full of free copies. His big money came from preaching Jesus. For a few extra bucks he’d throw in eyewitness accounts of Elvis riding his motorcycle around Memphis in the middle of the night while eating jelly doughnuts.
J.J. was a hit with the tourists. The city attracts the kind of people who want their stories about Elvis and Jesus told right together.
“Detective Cool,” J.J. said, giving out his best glinty smile. “You been gone so long I thought the Rapture took you.”
Billy nodded and kept moving. He didn’t want to talk tonight.
“I hear Red Davis passed this morning, and you and Officer Frankie checked out their trap house.” J.J. put his hand to his heart. “Sad day for us. A happy day for heaven.”
Downtown residents know each other like it’s a small town. News of death moves especially fast.
Billy stopped. “There’s another guy living at that house.”
“You mean Tyrese?”
“Yeah, Tyrese.”
“That boy’s been staying at his auntie’s house in Yazoo City. She carried him back this morning.”
“How do you know?”
“I seen ’em drive in.” J.J. swung his head from side to side. “Tyrese don’t know nothing about Red and Little Man, I can tell you that. People wears him out, know what I’m saying?” J.J. nodded. “Now I got a favor to ax you. I’m facing incarceration for lifting a bag of Cheetos out of Jack’s Food Store.”
J.J. was known for his high expectations and low accountability. His criminal sheet ran long with minor shoplifting charges.
“Just Cheetos?”
“Maybe a Colt 45. Maybe three. And some change off the counter. I got a court date. I’m axin’ you to step up. Make it right.”
“You need to speak to your buddy Jesus about this one,” Billy said, reaching for the door. “I can’t clean up your mess.”
Inside, the bouncer sat to the right of the door, drinking a Red Bull. Amanda the bartender saw Billy coming and cued up Steve Earle’s “Regular Guy” on the jukebox, one of his favorites. A few customers sat at tables, and there was that guy who always sat at the end of the bar next to the kitchen pass-through. Billy happened to know his name was James Freeman, a powerfully built man in his fifties with a face like a closed book. An untouched draft sat next to Freeman’s half-empty mug, which meant he had company. Billy had never met Freeman and didn’t care to tonight. He wanted supper and to watch the ball game in peace. He grabbed a big man bucket-style stool at the end of the bar near the door.
The regulars know about the stools. Avoid the ones called recliners—you lean back and you’ll wind up on your ass. The small man stools are two inches shorter than the big man stools. They make short men look shorter and tall men uncomfortable because they can’t rest their elbows on the bar. The owner said he could afford to replace all the stools but thought competition for the big man stools gave the place a healthy edge.
Amanda brought over a draft. On the big screen, the Cards were playing at Atlanta, bottom of the eighth with the Braves at bat. With a 3–1 count, Rodriguez hit a towering pop-up in front of the plate. Brewer, the latest catcher for the Cards, lost the ball in the lights, fumbled, and fired it over the head of the first baseman covering home.
“That play has to be made,” the TV commentator groaned. “The Cards are in deep trouble. Augie Poston would never have made that kind of error.”
“You can’t replace a man like Augie Poston,” his sidekick added.
Billy looked away from the screen. As bad as he felt about Augie losing his career, he could still have a decent life if he stayed on the meds, which he suspected Augie wasn’t doing. Just like today, the possible consequences of that decision could be devastating.
Two years ago Augie had shown up late at Billy’s apartment, paranoid as hell, claiming someone had rigged his car with a bomb. When Billy didn’t buy it, Augie slammed out, hot-wired Billy’s 1946 Chevy pickup, and crashed it through the front window of the former Welcome Wagon building at the corner of Court Avenue and North Second. Then he closed out the night by slugging a responding officer.
The incident had put Billy in a bind. Admit the pickup had been stolen, and Augie would be charged with a felony. Say he’d given Augie permission to take the truck while knowing he didn’t have a license and Billy would have been responsible for damages.
As it turned out, the assistant DA had been a baseball fanatic. He reduced the charges to careless driving. Augie pled no contest to the charge of hitting the officer and was given a six-month suspended sentence. He paid for the damages, but the pickup, the only thing left to Billy in his uncle Kane’s will, was totaled.
A week later, Augie showed up at his door and swore he’d never go off his meds again. Billy had taken a friend at his word.
Pushing Augie out of his mind, he ordered meatballs and another draft, then spread the stack of photos in front of him for inspection.
The time frame was definitely sixties or seventies in some southern city: Memphis, Jackson, Little Rock, Birmingham, Atlanta. The two men appeared to be FBI and the photos were surveillance shots. Even with the initials of the guy wearing the glasses, it would be hard to get a name.
Amanda delivered the meatballs and a side of kale she’d ordered for him. “Welcome back, Detective. Eat your greens.”
Quite suddenly he felt Mercy sitting on the stool beside him, lifting her wineglass and giving him that sly glance that always kept him wondering. She was a puzzle, a mystery.
No, he told himself with a shake at his head. Get the story straight.
The relationship had been rocky for the last few months. He hadn’t landed a job in law enforcement, and Mercy had begun keeping longer hours at the bakery. When they did get together, there was nothing to talk about. He’d thought it was a dry spell they could work out. Then yesterday, when he asked her to sit down and talk about their future, she’d sprung the new lease for the bakery on him.
He’d walked out. He’d heard the click of the lock behind him.
Someone yelled his name from across the bar and jerked him out of his thoughts.
“Hey, Able!” Augie strolled past the kitchen’s pass-through window, drying his hands on a paper towel. He said a few words to Freeman, then reach for his draft and began sliding it down the bar.
Oh, for God’s sake, Billy thought as he dragged the Flyer over the photos to hide them.
“You saved my ass today,” Augie blared. “I was a damned idiot getting out there dancing.” He still wore the plaid shorts and was now limping.
Billy picked up his fork. “Glad I could help. I’m eating right now.”
Augie’s green eyes glittered. “Freeman and I were discussing my book project. You and I talked about that, right?”
“Look. I’m sorry about your mom—”
Augie hauled a big man stool next to Billy. “The journalist got a copy of her file. He said the case was improperly handled. My mom was murdered.” Augie stared at him, his face overheated and expectant, waiting for a response.
He wasn’t about to go away.