A Little Death in Dixie, page 31
Fred sneered. “Yeah, right. That’s not enough cash to get a look at my daughter. What else you got?”
Dr. Jimmy’s hand began to tremble. He was going to have to play along with this piece of road kill to get a look at Rebecca Jane or find out where she was being held. After that he’d come back wearing a police wire to get the kind of evidence that would put these people out of business forever.
He lifted the corners of his mouth in what he hoped looked like a smile. “I’m out of cash. What would you suggest?”
Fred’s gaze fell on Dr. Jimmy’s belt buckle. “I like the looks of your buckle. Is that brass or gold plate?”
“Gold plate,” he lied.
“Good enough. I’ll go pick her up so you can take a look. After that, we’ll see what we can work out.”
Dr. Jimmy drew the leather through his pants loops, calling on all his reserves to keep from whipping the flesh off both these miscreants. He handed over the belt.
“Mighty fine,” Fred said, inspecting the sculpted tree. He turned it over. “What’s this word on the back?”
“Forever,” Dr. Jimmy said, knowing Evie would understand why he had to give it up.
Fred laughed. “I guess this proves it. Nothing lasts . . . forever, I mean.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Friday 4:40 p.m.
Billy left the Dupree house too pumped and angry to do anything but drive. He sought the comfort of the Mississippi back roads, driving past his home church and his uncle’s roadside restaurant, with its locked doors and boarded-up windows, but his emotions continued to simmer. The sadness he’d seen on Mercy’s face when he left was too much.
WEVL 89.9 played a string of Memphis blues artists—Jim Jackson, Furry Lewis and Sleepy John Estes. Billy was into it until they played Floating Bridge— a heartbreaker of a song about a drowning man. That made him switch to the Cardinal’s game on AM 560. He turned up the volume and let the play-by-play crowd out his mental rehashing of the confrontation with Dupree.
In the bottom of the ninth he noticed the afternoon light slanting across the road and realized he’d been drifting the way Lou used to do. He headed back to Memphis and ended up on Front Street at Lytle’s—a bar reborn from the bones of an old cotton broker’s warehouse. Lytle’s Bar was a hangout for every upwardly-mobile drinker living downtown who’d lost his job, his lover, or his good sense. Today Billy qualified for two out of three of those categories.
He grabbed a seat at the horseshoe-shaped bar and ordered a double shot of Jack with a beer back. After a few swallows, he closed his eyes, savoring the whiskey burn on the back of his throat, and the image of that jackass Dupree thrashing around on the ground. The memory of Overton blindsiding him with Mercy brought him up short. Damn. He gulped more whiskey. He could kick himself for not leveling with Mercy sooner. But what was he going to say . . . by the way, Mercy, I slept with your sister?
“Another Jack and keep them coming,” he said to the bartender.
And how the hell had Overton found out about the affair? Lou, the only other person who knew about it, had always been tight-lipped. Maybe Lou was drunk when he talked to Overton and let it slip. Hard to believe, but then the Lou he’d discovered this week was a complete stranger.
He knocked back the second Jack and chased it with half the beer. Punching Dupree in the mouth had felt damned good, but it was going to cost him his job. A dismissal by the board would ruin his permanent record and ultimately trash his career. His only choice was to resign and move on to another city with a clean slate. In this line of work, you’re not always right, but you recover and make up for lost ground. If you don’t, you’re done.
Billy watched the after-business crowd drift in, cocky lawyers and stockbrokers with their sleeves rolled up, ending the week early. The bartender bumped up the volume and dropped off another round. Ladies came through the door, moving to the music and shedding their office jackets to reveal low cut dresses. Across the room, the crowd parted for a young woman whose blond hair swung across her shoulders. She waved to a man sitting at the end of the bar. Billy noted the way she touched his hand as they took their seats and how she leaned into his gaze.
Mercy had that same earnest way about her. She made him want to take her into his arms.
He remembered how she’d looked to him for some sanity while she stood next to the wrecked Mercedes. Then Overton had blurted out about the affair. The disappointment on Mercy’s face nearly broke him. Protecting the investigation had seemed like a valid reason to hide the affair from Mercy, but his silence had also ruined his chances with the best woman he’d ever known.
If he didn’t do something fast, he was going to lose her. He slid off his stool and flipped open his cell. It was dead. He sat back down. Maybe it was best. He was drunk, and he hadn’t even tasted the whiskey. When he had a better grip on himself, he would ask her to hear him out.
The activity picked up. On the far side of the bar, a tall guy with salt and pepper hair was talking to the two best-looking women in the room. The guy turned around to set down his glass. It was Sam Waters.
Billy picked up his beer and walked over. Sam saw him coming and held up his drink.
“I hear the Dupree case is a wrap. Congratulations.”
“Here’s to American Justice, long may she behave.” Billy drained his mug, saluted Sam with it, and caught the bartender’s attention. “Another round for both of us.”
“You look a little worse for wear,” Sam said. “Got a problem?”
“It’s all good. Hollerith took over the case, and I’m suspended.”
“Rumor called it ‘medical leave.’”
“Nope. I’ve been working hard to get my ass kicked off the force.”
“Now you’re preaching to the choir. If I’m not on probation, I don’t know how to handle myself.”
Billy nodded. “By the way, I met one of your old buddies this morning . . . Tutwiler Jackson.”
“How’s Tut doing?”
“He’s in a wheelchair. Diabetes took his legs. Said he’d like to have some of that money he and Lou skimmed off the strip clubs so he could hire a private nurse. You know, go out in style.”
He glanced over to gauge Sam’s reaction. Sam’s gaze didn’t waiver, but the muscles in his jaw worked.
“If you’ll excuse us, ladies,” Sam said to the women. They made a show of pouting and left. “Look, Able, in my book reliving history ain’t worth much. It generally just pisses people off.”
“I’ve been shoveling Lou’s bullshit all week. I need some real answers about Lou.”
“That’s a big change from the other night.”
“I’ve picked up some wisdom since then.”
Sam slapped him on the back. “Yep, and you’re still standing.”
The room pulsed. Billy leaned against the bar to steady himself. “Tell you what, you talk and I’ll listen.”
“You won’t take a swing at me?”
“I’ll hold off.”
Sam took a swig of his fresh drink. “Here goes with the history. Lou and I worked together off and on since I joined the force. He knew who to avoid in the department, where the bodies were buried. We partnered in Vice, which included working the topless bars. When I came on the scene Lou already had the players in line. I mean there were the usual underage drinkers, the occasional G-string malfunctions, but overall the clubs ran pretty clean. They were taking in big money in those places. Large money.”
Sam paused to wink at a flirty redhead across the bar. He held up his glass and swirled the ice. “Sorry. I got distracted. Before long I noticed most clubs we busted kept their liquor license and opened right back up. And Lou had a lot of cash. He didn’t flash it around, but pocket money wasn’t an issue.”
The bartender dropped off a bowl of popcorn. Sam dug in and tossed back a handful.
“I started asking the dancers questions. They didn’t give up much, but enough to make me suspicious. Later, I got wind of a big cocaine delivery, so I got the warrant and set up the bust. I didn’t tell Lou. When we showed up at the club, the drugs were gone. I figured that was no coincidence and confronted Lou. We had a knock-down-drag-out. That’s the day I told you about—the one where he chased me around the cruiser with a broken beer bottle. I thought about it for a week and then met with Internal Affairs. They told me the FBI had a sting running on the clubs and didn’t want local bullshit screwing things up. They told me to back off. I transferred out of Vice. After awhile, Lou moved over to Homicide.”
A week ago, Sam’s story would’ve been fighting words. Now it made sense.
The redhead gave Sam a blatant come-hither look. Sam nodded to her and drummed his fingers on the bar. “You remember the other night when I said Lou made some underhanded choices?”
“You said life sucks when you find out Superman’s a jerk. I almost slugged you.”
“I’ll tell you what really sucks . . . when you have good reason to rat on Superman. Got to go, my friend. Duty calls.”
Sometime during his talk with Sam, the sun had set. Billy went back to the bar and found a seat. He watched car lights trail electric blue tracers outside the windows, and people on the sidewalk move like jerky cartoon characters. He was good and drunk. Rarified drunk. That didn’t stop him from realizing Sam’s story had corroborated Tut’s version of the graft scheme. But one piece was missing. How did Tut get all those cases dismissed? A bailiff can arrange for a cop to be a “no show” and make a few cases go away, but Tut said this set-up had gone on for a long time. That meant a judge had been in collusion with Tut and Lou.
One phone call would confirm the guilty judge, but Billy already knew the answer. It was the Honorable Buck Overton. If the grenade story was a lie, he now knew the real reason for a relationship between Lou and the judge. It had paid off for both of them.
Billy was too drunk to think anymore. He paid his tab and weaved onto the sidewalk. The fresh air helped keep him on his feet, and the traffic kept him from veering off the sidewalk—real-world stuff a guy could focus on. Something with a bone in it.
He made it to the barge. Somehow the key fit the lock, and he turned on the lamp without knocking it over. He put his cell on the charger and noticed the machine’s blinking message light. Probably Hollerith calling to tell Billy he had to go up before the board. Screw it. He went to the galley, poured up the last of a bottle of whiskey, and knocked back half the glass. Definitely hell to pay in the morning after a daylong fuckfest of bad news and more booze in one night than he’d drunk in six months. He plopped onto the sofa with a buzz in his head, and his eyes feeling like they’d been taped open.
Now that he had a fix on Overton’s motives, he wanted to hear from Lou. He wanted Lou to explain the graft and why he’d killed himself. Why he left it to his friends to cover for him. The disc with the video of the ballgame sat on top of the TV. He struggled up, switched on the set, and fed it into the player.
He watched himself crouch over the plate and swing at a ball, low and inside.
“Strike two, asshole,” Lou growled under his breath. “You’re on your way out.”
“YOU’RE the one on the way out,” Billy yelled and threw a book at the screen. Lou thought he was God almighty, the self-righteous bastard. Gave Billy hell for two years—the real rookie treatment.
“Strike three,” the ump called over catcalls from the other team.
He watched himself bounce the meat end of the bat in the dirt. The bat flipped out of the frame. Lou zoomed in, picking up his frustration.
“Too bad, bud. How about if we get in the batting cage next week, get you straightened out?” Lou said.
It sounded like the old Lou. No sarcasm, no meanness.
“Great,” he heard himself say. “When?”
“Line it up for the weekend.”
The screen went to black. He sat there a full minute before realizing the show was over.
He slumped back on the sofa, sipping the end of the whiskey. They never made it to the batting cages. Lou’s attitude had gone downhill after that game. In fact, from that time on Lou hadn’t made much sense at all.
He got up and weaved to the galley for a beer. Why not keep a good buzz going? Couldn’t hurt. He found two cans of Bud and hoop cheese wrapped in wax paper. He grabbed all three, managed to set the beer on the counter and fumbled the cheese.
“Butterfingers,” he said out loud.
As he bent to pick it up, he heard Lou say, “That’s right.” He came up slowly, staring at the cans of beer on the counter. Okay, no more booze. Then he heard a splashing sound followed by a squeal that sent him scrambling to the TV.
The screen was all lit up again. “Atta girl, hop in,” Lou said.
Billy was looking at Lou’s back as he knelt beside a bathtub filled with bubbles. The camera had been positioned above and behind Lou. It wasn’t clear if someone was holding it.
“Feels good, Daddy,” a child’s voice said.
“Let’s have that foot, young lady. How did you find a mud puddle in the middle of an asphalt parking lot?”
A child’s delicate foot lifted out of the water. Lou took it and began washing between the toes with a sponge. He moved up her leg then started on her other foot. “How about singing a song?”
“Is the camera on?” she said.
“Of course, Miss Monroe.” Lou splashed bubbles, making the girl laugh.
In a little girl’s voice, she sang Marilyn Monroe’s song about diamonds being a girl’s best friend. Lou glanced over his shoulder and grinned into the lens, happier than Billy had seen him in a year.
Here, finally, was the answer. Lou must have met someone and taken on the responsibility of her child. For some reason, he’d kept it a secret. He would have needed a lot of money to support Ruby and a secret family. The money pressures might have put Lou under.
“Daddy, I want to go outside and play,” the child said with a pout in her voice.
“No, sweetie, it’s not safe. That’s why you have to stay quiet as a mouse and keep the door locked. The bogeyman might come and steal you away from Daddy. You don’t want that do you?”
“No . . . ”
“Don’t you like our new home in the sky and your clothes and games? And having Daddy come home to you every night?”
“I do.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t want to go back. I want you to be my daddy always.”
“Tell me again what you’ll do if Daddy can’t come home for a few days.”
“I’ll draw and play games and practice singing and dancing.”
“And you can watch movies. Your movies will always be on.”
“And I’ll eat Cheerios and peanut butter sandwiches.”
“That’s right. There’s plenty of food. What else?”
“I’ll take my Sleeping Beauty pill every morning, and I’ll wait right here till you come home. That way the bogeyman won’t get me.” She splashed the bath water, ending her list with a flourish.
“Smart girl,” Lou said. “You’ve got it down.”
Billy frowned. What bogeyman? What the hell was Lou talking about?
“Daddy, get the duck, I want the duck tonight,” the child’s voice pleaded.
“You think you’ve been a good girl this week?”
“Yes!”
Lou moved to sit on the edge of the tub. The screen came alive with the face of a beautiful child about six years old, her blond hair piled on her head and secured with a ribbon, her tiny shoulders and chest covered in bubbles. Her smile for Lou was irresistible. Lou stood and walked out of camera range. Billy heard him opening a cabinet in another part of the bathroom.
The child played with the bubbles, making peaks then flattening them. Her fingernails glittered with blue polish, and she wore diamond studs in her ears and a gold and diamond chain around her neck. On a shelf behind the tub, he saw a doll that had Marilyn Monroe’s features, a bouffant hairdo and a sparkling evening dress.
Two muffled pops punctuated the sound of her splashing. Lou reappeared carrying what looked like champagne bottles with gold metallic wrappers at the necks. The girl squealed and clapped.
“Cold Duck for my sweetheart,” Lou said and upended both bottles into the bath. The child splashed the water with her feet, tilted her head back, and began singing about diamonds again.
Lou knelt beside the tub on one knee, absorbed in the girl’s performance. The camera caught them both—she was the actress; he was her adoring fan. Lou’s pupils dilated. His mouth went slack.
A chill hit Billy. No man should look at his child that way.
The girl sang another song, just like a little Marilyn Monroe. When she’d finished, Lou helped her out of the tub, murmuring to her as he wrapped a towel around her small body and began to rub her all over. She closed her eyes, seeming to relax and enjoy the attention. Lou dropped the towel, picked up the naked child and cradled her in his arms.
“Love you, Daddy,” she said.
“I love you too, Rebecca Jane.” Then he bent his head and French-kissed the child long and full on the mouth, hugging her tiny body to his chest. When he’d finished, before he turned to leave the room, Lou looked at the camera and winked.
Everything that happened to Billy next was involuntary. The bile rose first. Then all the alcohol he’d drunk flooded his mouth and spewed onto the floor in front of him. He staggered across the room, knocking over the lamp, trying to get to the TV. His foot shattered the screen on the third try. He grabbed the player and flung it across the room. The room was dark now, and he dropped to his knees, sobbing. Everything made horrible, perfect sense.
If he’d known about the girl, he would have killed Lou himself.
Billy opened his eyes. A square of moonlight glowed in front of his face. He was lying on the floor and smelled boozy vomit in the room. He must have passed out. In the shadows, he saw the gutted TV lying beside him. Something horrible had happened, but he couldn’t remember what. He sat up. The bathroom scenes from the video tore through him, the details burning into his brain.
My, God. Lou had taped himself molesting a child. Billy’s throat closed, keeping the bile down this time. He rubbed his face, trying to clear his mind. He remembered Lou calling her Rebecca Jane.
