Out of the Blues (11 page)

Terrance stepped up. “Seventh Cav. Right? You're due for your medical. They got your transport waiting.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“We'll be your escort, soldier.” Terrance and the railroad police sergeant waited while the man gathered his belongings. They would escort the veteran back to the medical bus and from there would deliver him to the VA.

Jackson and Salt continued down the tracks. “We've always dealt with the Vietnam vets, but now we're beginning to get guys back from Iraq and Afghanistan,” he told her. Another set of tracks, its spikes red-brown with rust, merged with the tracks they'd been walking. Horizontal lines on the adjacent brick wall indicated some former use of the structure. “Blest be the tie that binds,” Jackson said.

“What?”

“Blest be the tie that binds. You've been humming that hymn ‘Blest Be the Tie That Binds.'”

Salt replayed what had unconsciously been going through her head. “You're right. I didn't realize I was doing it.”

Down the tracks in front of them was a ledged tunnel, trash-strewn, gang-signed, broken furniture here and there, and people, ten or more, swaddled in blankets and lying on the long, flat concrete shelves. A small drift of smoke wafted from a nearby fire barrel, beside which lay a brown dog of an indeterminate breed. The dog stood and trotted over to one of the blankets.

“Georgia Brown Dog,” Jackson said.

“I heard that,” Salt said.

“Poleese.” Jackson waved his flashlight. “Poleese.” They stopped well shy of the mouth of the tunnel while he radioed their location. “5582 to radio, hold myself and 4133 out at the tracks under Marietta and Central.”

The shapes began to undulate, then heads and hands emerged. The dog trotted away. The sounds of bottles clanking against concrete echoed through the tunnel.

“HOPE Team checking,” Jackson said, moving in. “HOPE Team.”

“Fuck you, Jackson” came from one of the sleeping bags, its occupant shifting but not turning out.

“That you, Makepeace? Come on, man.” Jackson took Salt's arm and led her to the side of the tunnel. “Makepeace is lots of time really agitated before he gets his coffee. Let's give him a minute.”

The rest of the campers were silent as they gradually began to stir, throwing off layers, retrieving toiletries, cans, water, bags, and packets from stashes, packs, and crevices.

“I've got some information, guys,” Jackson announced. “The Gateway has gotten more rooms, SROs,” he said, referring to the city's center that coordinated services for the homeless.

“Fuck the Gateway.” Makepeace stuck his head out, eyes bulging.

“Naw, man. Not
at
the Gateway. Rooms, single-room occupancy, SROs, in apartments or houses, not shelters. Gateway just makes the arrangements.”

Two women, both wearing Grady bracelets indicating their recent stay in the hospital, came over. “What we got to do to get them rooms?”

“Just check in at the Gateway. They do the paperwork and you're in,” Jackson told them.

Salt unfolded some of the Pearl flyers. “I'm Detective . . .” She stopped and took out one of her new business cards. “They call me
‘Salt.' I'm looking for this woman.” She handed them both a flyer and a card. Jackson passed Makepeace and went on into the cavernous tunnel, passing out his cards and the Pearl flyers.

The women took their time looking at Pearl's mug shot. “Uh-uh.” They shook their heads. “We ain't been out here long. Ain't seen her.”

“Goddamn. Goddamn.” Makepeace ripped back his wrappings and slung his legs by picking them up at the knees, hurling himself upright. “Give me the goddamn picture.” He motioned Salt with his fingers, then snatched the flyer from her hand as soon as she was within his considerable reach. “Pearl. You satisfied now? Her name is Pearl. Used to be Pretty Pearl, a singer, now she Pitiful Pearl. Yeah, I know most every goddamn soul out on these tracks. You'd think they'd hire me for the fucking HOPE Team. HOPE Team. You better hope they leave you the fuck alone.”

“Dude, is that any way to talk?” Jackson walked back to them.

“Fuck you, Jackson Thornton. In case you hadn't noticed, this is not the fucking Biltmore.”

“Mr. Makepeace—” she began.

Makepeace interrupted. “So Mr. Hope here told you who I am. What's a nice white girl doing out here anyway? Don't you have some doilies to make or some tea to sip?”

“Do you know where Pearl is staying?” Jackson asked him. “Salt is a homicide detective. She's hoping Pearl can help with an old case, Mike Anderson's death.”

“What's it worth to you?” Makepeace reached behind him, grabbed aluminum crutches, adjusted the braces, and swung himself to standing. “You got any fucking cash?”

Salt looked to Jackson, who said, “Come on, man. Don't be like that.”

Makepeace turned his face away and spit, then turned back. “I saw
her 'bout a week ago out on the corner at Spring and Mitchell, in that parking lot where those churches come and let the do-gooders feel they selves all warm all over 'cause they put together some peanut butter sandwiches and went all the way to the jungle of downtown Atlanta to feed some actual black people.” He slapped a crutch against the tunnel's concrete support.

“Do you know where she's sleeping?”

“If she's street-feeding could be anywhere, but I'd look for her around that parking lot on the sandwich days.” He jerked his head down, then turned his body toward the abutment. Over his shoulder he said, “Now I've got to go attend to my toilet,” giving the last word the French pronunciation “twa-let.”

Jackson reminded the campers again about the newly available rooms, and he and Salt returned to the tracks. “I thought the Gateway was supposed to be coordinating with the churches so that they wouldn't be doing street feeds anymore,” Salt said.

“We met with those churches. Gateway gave them the tour, showed them the facilities where they could serve and prepare meals, the whole spiel. But for some of these churches and organizations it's more about them, their charity, than helping people get off the street. Makepeace in his own way was telling the truth.”

“What about Big Calling? Midas Prince seems to have a lot of clout. Can't he get the message to the other churches?”

“Shit, that place is the worst of all. They just warehouse people and collect the grant money. Last week I watched a van pull up in their parking lot and throw a garbage bag of sandwiches at some guys. Reverend Gray? You know him? He quit there.”

“Really?”

“He went to the health department, the district attorney, told them the place was infested with body lice and that the drug dealers run the place,” Jackson said.

“They hire enough off-duty guys at the church. I ran into Sandy Madison there the other day,” said Salt.

“The church is one thing—Reverend Prince has plenty of money to keep things looking good there. But he runs the shelter on grants, very little of the shelter's funding comes from the church. It makes him look like he's the savior of Atlanta's homeless, the go-to expert.”

Salt stopped. “Listen.”

“What?”

She went over to the rail closest to the wall on their right, the southbound line, knelt, and put her hand to the rail. “Sounds like someone hammering on metal.”

“Not on that line. It's been out of use for a long time. The railroad isn't working on them either, not until they decide what they're going to do with the area. It leads to the Gulch,” Jackson said.

“I've heard something about them rebuilding the area, a new terminal or something? We've been chasing perps into that place forever,” Salt said.

“President Obama's administration is backing the project. They want to turn it into something like what it was in the beginning, a terminal that serves local, state, and interstate lines. Maybe they're excavating or surveying. Maybe that's what you heard.” He knelt down and put his hand beside hers on the rail. “Or maybe it's John Henry's ghost.” He nudged her with his elbow. “Come on. Let's finish up.”

They continued on down the line, Jackson alternately humming and singing, “My daddy was a steel-driving man, Lord, Lord. My daddy was a steel-driving man.”

I
finally take a day to be with my girl and I find her cavorting with not one but three other guys.” Wills stood smiling in the entrance of the dojo. He bent down to untie his shoes, came in, and performed a mannerly bow to the sensei altar. Theo and Miles, gis flapping, belts askew, aimed their small bodies toward him as he slouched into an exaggerated protective squat against the wall.

Salt and Pepper caught the boys before they pounced on the detective, forcing them to maintain discipline, a bow to each practitioner and the sensei. “Patience, Grasshoppers, patience,” Wills said to them. Then they fell on him, hugging and trying to get him down. Wills tumbled them to the mat, then he and Pepper bowed to one another in collusion against their small opponents. It was all too much for Wonder—even though he was trained not to enter the dojo, he barked in the doorway.

Wills laughed as he pushed each of the boys into showing off the forward rolls they'd been taught. Pepper pushed them back toward Wills as the boys somersaulted into combat stances, back and forth.

Salt bowed to Pepper, to each of the boys, to the sensei, and went over to Wills, bowed and kissed his eyelids. “I have a little patience, only a little,” she whispered. They left Pepper sitting seiza with his sons and went downstairs to the kitchen.

“Water, lemonade, juice?” Salt opened the refrigerator.

“Whiskey. My hours are all turned around,” Wills answered.

Salt got lemonade from the fridge, opened the cabinet below the butcher-block counter, and took out a bottle of good bourbon. “You're handsome even when you're dragging.”

Wills slid his loosened tie from his shirt and leaned on the edge of the kitchen table. “I'm beat. Went by the house just long enough for Pansy and Violet to tell me they hate me.”

“Your dogs don't hate you. All your girls go belly-up for you.” Salt widened her arms, exposing and wagging her middle, Pansy and Violet–like. “They miss you, just like I do.” She went to him and teasingly kissed each side of his lips lightly.

He put his arms around her waist, his face in the V of her gi. “After this case is wrapped, let's go away somewhere, for at least a week.”

“Agreed.” She held his head for a moment, then was distracted by a whiff of cedar. “I'm sure I don't smell very good. We've been practicing for over an hour. Let me fix you your whiskey.” She slipped from his arms. “You want to tell me about how the case is going?”

“The case is all I've been talking about, thinking about, working on, for weeks. I need a break.”

The boys, thumping and yelling their way down the stairs and hall, ran into the kitchen with Wonder on their heels. Theo screamed, “Get him, doggie.” Both boys jumped on Wills.

“That'll do, Wonder.” Salt held her hand for the dog to come to her side. “And you boys, too. I'll get you some lemonade.”

“What is all this noise?” Pepper stood in the doorway from the hall.

“Theo was trying to get Wonder to bite me,” said Miles.

“Was not.”

“Were too.”

“Was not. I just told him to get you.”

“Okay guys, cool it,” Pepper said, offering both forearms for each boy to grab. He swung them up and then to the floor.

“Neat trick.” Wills grinned at him. “How's it going, big guy?”

“Goin'.” Pepper and Wills clasped hands in a brother shake.

“Who wants lemonade?” Salt reached for glasses from an overhead shelf.

“Nope, not today. I've got to get these guys home and get ready for work.”

“Oh, Dad.”

“How is Narcotics?” Wills asked.

“Daaad.”

“Let's get together and talk sometime when I don't have the monsters with me.”

“Aw, Dad.”

Woof!
Wonder circled the boys, skipping and skidding on the wood floor. He stretched out his front legs, inviting them to play.

“Hey,” Salt shushed him.

Pepper had both boys at the back door. He bowed to Salt and pulled the kids outside.

“Whew, kids sure fill up a house,” Wills said.

“You must be beat. How 'bout I run us a bath?”

“Us?”

Salt smiled while Wills took a big sip of the whiskey she'd poured.

Wonder groaned and sank to the floor.

—

“
I
WISH
you could see yourself.” Wills leaned toward Salt at the other end of the claw-foot tub. “Your curves shine.”

She leaned forward and cupped her hands around him.

“Oh, girl,” he groaned.

—

A
PERFECT
BREEZE
carrying the earthy, lanolin scent of sheep and gardenia cooled them as they lay on top of a faded blue quilt.

“I don't want to talk about the case, but I have to tell you.” Wills lifted the Saint Michael from between her breasts. “We're getting a Homes connection.”

“The Homes?” she repeated. Man's gang materialized in her mind's eye, standing, propped against the short walls of the housing project walkways. “The Homes is a long way from Buckhead.” She lifted her head, mirroring his position. A mockingbird squawked on the limb of the tree nearest the bedroom. Wonder could be heard scratching on the inside porch screen door. Salt sat up. “I want to hear about it. Let me get the beastie.” She grabbed a T-shirt and shorts from the chest of drawers.

Wills wrapped a large towel around his waist. “My wardrobe, I fear, is limited. I didn't stop to think about a change of clothes.”

“You're fine. Come just as you are, perfect for eating watermelon.”

—

L
ARGE
WEDGES
of red melon on grass-green plates sat on the table in front of Wills and Salt. “First good melon of the season.” Salt fed Wills a bite. They ate with their fingers, slicing bits with table knives and sharing the saltshaker. Wonder had finished warning the mockingbird and was lapping from his white bowl, lifting a mouthful of water and letting it sluice through his jaws to the floor.

Salt admonished the dog. “Do not slop.”

“Snitches are saying that somebody heard somebody, you know how it goes, say that a guy, ‘DeWare,' common spelling”—he rolled
his eyes—“is the only name we have, supposed to be a crackhead, stays in The Homes, bragged about killing the rich white woman.” He dropped his shoulders with an audible sigh, the pressure from the case was growing, accumulating and rolling down on Wills.

In the 1800s, “Buckhead” had been a rowdy trading post distinguished by the deer head and antlers that marked the intersection of what would become two of Atlanta's most prosperous avenues. The north side neighborhood was now Atlanta's well-to-do, mostly white area. A photo of the victims accompanied every media update of the case: Laura Solquist and her two pretty daughters, blond with flawless complexions. They'd been found dead in their upscale home, the mother with arms around both her daughters, all three with entrance wounds to the front of their foreheads.

“To make things even more complicated”—Wills leaned over the melon, juice dripping from his chin—“it's beginning to look like the marriage wasn't all that happy. A dancer from the Gold String came in after having seen the victims' and the husband's photos online. She said he was one of her ‘regulars'—that he was at the club a lot and that he paid her for ‘extras,' as she put it. Now I'm wondering if his wife knew. But his alibi is still holding. His phone records show him calling from Florida, and his business associate confirms his story.” Wills stuck the knife upright in the scooped-out rind. “What about your case? How's it going with the squad?”

“Okay.” She shrugged. “I went out with the HOPE Team. I love those guys. I've met some interesting characters, a blues band, their manager–slash–guitar player who knew Mike Anderson,” she said, then took a breath. “And I've had a dream about a dog,” she added.

Wills cocked his head. “Do not, whatever you do, go telling anybody, especially in the squad, about dreams.”

“I wouldn't. But these dreams I have sometimes seem like . . . connections or something. I don't know how to describe them.”

Wills leaned forward. “You—your fine mind makes the connections. You pay attention to what might not seem important to others.”

Salt got up and took the rinds and plates to the deep sink. “I'm just sayin'.”

Wills followed her, put his arms around her from behind. “Chick detectives.” He nuzzled into the back of her neck.