The Gone Dead Train (16 page)

Beale Street was once called the Main Street of Negro America. It was now cordoned off for the droves of beer-bellied Americans, the Brits, the Germans, and the Japanese tourists who come to Memphis in search of genuine Delta blues. A few of the original buildings had survived urban renewal, but not many. Beale had transitioned into a corridor crowded with flippers doing handsprings, hoochie-coochie souvenir hawkers, and burned-out bluesmen with their Crate amps set up on the sidewalk and their tip buckets out in front of their mike stands. Years had passed since those players had looked anyone in the eye.

Billy hated to see the street's culture being beaten down and ripped off, people showing up to capitalize on the low-down Delta blues. After hearing Augie's story about his mother and reading Dahlia Poston's file, he understood why Beale Street and its people were on Augie's mind.

It was midmorning. He turned the corner to find the street pretty much empty except for a few tourists loitering in front of store windows. After partying late in the clubs, they looked dazed, like accident victims who'd wandered in off the highway.

A pasty-faced horn player came out the side door of an all-night blues club, his tenor sax swinging from its neck strap. He was tall, boneless, rat-slender. He wore suspenders over a wife-beater T-shirt and dark glasses with small round lenses that made his eyes look like black holes. He leaned against a telephone pole, swung the mouthpiece to his lips, and blew hot blues riffs right out of the club. The sound echoed down the street and tore at Billy, reminding him of Little Man's soulful sax.

Little Man and Red were gone. Augie was lying in the morgue with the shit beat out of him. Not one of the three had been at the top of their game, but they'd all deserved a better end.

Cops learn to avoid the emotional wreckage of their jobs. Let a case get under your skin and a fuse ignites. The anger runs out of control. That's when mistakes happen. He could feel his anger building with every step and knew it was dangerous. These deaths were personal.

He opened the door to the museum, the space Calvin Carter had used for decades as his studio. The museum had recently been established to preserve and display images that documented sixty years of African-American life when racism ruled the South. Carter and his camera had captured it all.

In 1968, two black Memphis sanitation workers were crushed to death by a garbage truck's faulty compacting mechanism. Outrage sparked the “I Am A Man” campaign that drew Dr. King to Memphis. Carter's photos recorded the public workers' strike. He also sat in on private meetings between Dr. King and his entourage before Dr. King's assassination. The King photographs were the centerpiece of the museum's collection.

The building had raw, wooden floors and a wide storefront window that provided plenty of natural light. Contractors had stripped away wallboard to expose the old brick, a perfect backdrop for the socially provocative photographs.

A prosperous-looking group was sitting around a conference table at the rear of the long, open space, watching a PowerPoint presentation. Garrett, seated at the far end of the table, noticed Billy standing inside the door. He whispered to the man on his left and came to his feet with some difficulty. The twist in his spine was more evident than it had been the day before. Survivors of catastrophic injuries—head trauma, spinal injuries, gunshot wounds—have their good days and bad. Garrett came forward, leaning heavily on his cane, his eyes reddened and his coordination slowed by pain meds. This was already a bad day for Garrett. It was about to get worse.

Garrett frowned as he approached and put out his hand. “Detective Able. What brings you here?”

“I have disturbing news. Augie Poston was murdered last night in his apartment.”

“Jesus. Murdered?” The skin at Garrett's throat was slack, his cheeks hollow. He rubbed the back of his neck and peered at Billy. “A home invasion?”

“That's to be determined.”

“Was he shot?”

“I can't discuss it, sir.”

He placed his hand on Billy's shoulder. “Forgive me. My condolences. Augie told me yesterday that you were the one friend who'd always stood by him.”

Billy flashed on Augie's crushed skull, his fractured arm. No one was there to stand by Augie last night. Not even good ol' Billy.

The group at the table had gone quiet, listening, so the two men moved toward the window, and Garrett lowered his voice. “I'd like to offer an observation. Addicts come through Robert House all the time. I'm familiar with the signs of meth use. Augie was flying high yesterday. I even asked if he was on something.” Garrett shrugged. “It's possible he had a habit and got involved with the wrong people.”

The comment jolted Billy. Augie had denied being off his meds. He'd kicked over a chair to emphasize the point. But meth?

“Augie was no crackhead,” he said.

“I saw what I saw. A drug element should be considered.” Garrett squinted at Billy's swollen mouth. “The two of you were close to a fistfight at the funeral home. Did Augie do that?” Garrett raised both hands in apology. “Sorry, none of my business. Forgive the questions of a recovering lawyer. Now, tell me, is there anything I can do?”

“Handle the funeral tomorrow. Augie would appreciate it.”

“I'll be happy to. By the way, James Freeman and Augie were friends. His office is across the street. I'll let him know.”

Billy turned to look out the window at the building's black awning with the name
FREEMAN PROPERTIES
outlined in gold. “Freeman knows,” he said.

“I have to get back to my meeting. Don't worry about the funeral. Again, I'm sorry about your friend.” Garrett hobbled to the table and took his seat.

Billy remained by the window, feeling light-headed and off his feet. Could he have missed something as obvious as Augie doing crank? Augie talked about doping in baseball and how it was ruining the game. He hated drugs, especially the antipsychotics he was chained to. But what if he'd taken the chance of combining his regular meds with the high of meth in order to work on the book?

Dealers are a dangerous crowd. A wealthy ex-ballplayer would be red meat to them—prey to be taken down.

The sound of chairs scraping the floor told him the museum meeting was coming to an end. He wasn't in the mood to continue the conversation with Garrett. He started through the door just as a man with a shabby goatee came loping down the street with his arms flapping. When he got to the New Daisy Theatre, he stopped and stripped off his clothes. He was short, muscular, hairy, built like a fur-covered stump. He fell to his knees in front of the marquee and babbled at an older couple strolling by. They scurried away.

“Mr. Garrett, dial 911,” Billy called over his shoulder. “Tell dispatch it's squirrel day out front of the New Daisy Theatre. Send a car to pick up a nut.”

He stepped onto the sidewalk, wondering just when he'd become a magnet for the floridly psychotic. Crazy people are strong. Naked people are slippery. He hoped all he'd have to do was keep an eye on the guy until the cops showed up.

The man got to his feet. “Jehovah God! Destroyer of the world,” he bellowed. He leered at Billy and galloped in his direction. It was Augie all over again.

“Stop! Police,” he warned, but the guy kept coming.

A right cross sent the guy sprawling on the brick pavers. He rolled to his feet and shook his head. His fists came up. He charged again.

This time Billy grabbed his forearm and slung him to the ground. Stunned, the guy lay on his back, one hand on his head and the other cupping his balls.

The patrol car showed at the end of the block. While the officers cuffed Mr. No Pants, Billy noticed Garrett and his people lining the museum's window to watch the show. This was theater to them. People hate cops, but they can't get enough of what they do.

The patrol car pulled off. Billy went to sit on the curb in front of Freeman's place, his head in his hands, feeling shot out and disgusted. His gaze wandered over the buildings across the street. He'd never sat on this curb, but what he saw now was somehow familiar. Then it fell into place—the museum's facade, the cornice molding over the door, the fire hydrant Frankie had pointed out. He turned to look at Freeman's window behind him and the New Daisy marquee next door.

It was there, bits and pieces of the architecture he'd seen in the photos.

He was sitting at ground zero.

F
rankie's phone rang in the bedroom. She ignored it, standing in front of her bathroom mirror, mouth full of toothpaste, running late for an appointment with Ramos that was to begin in forty-five minutes. The outfit she'd chosen lay on the bed along with the copy of
To Kill a Mockingbird
that she'd planned to take with her. The book would serve as a plant if she failed to get the information she wanted today. She could return once more to pick up her forgotten book. Surprise visits can be revealing.

The phone continued to ring.
Shoot
. It might be Billy. She rinsed and ran to the bedroom to answer.

“Can you talk?” Billy's voice sounded strained.

“Yes. What's happened?”

“Augie Poston was murdered last night. You know who I'm talking about?”

“The ballplayer. He had some kind of breakdown.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “What's that got to do with you?”

“Augie was a friend. I dropped by his apartment at the DeVoy this morning. A neighbor, James Freeman, claimed to have discovered the body a few minutes before I got there. I'm not convinced he wasn't involved.”

“Freeman. He's a burly guy, real quiet. Some kind of real estate mogul.”

“He's at the CJC now giving his statement. I'll give mine tomorrow.”

A weed whacker buzzed in the yard below Frankie's bedroom window. The sharp smell of spring onions drifted through her window. Billy's friend had been murdered. Homicide wanted a statement from him. Not good.

“I'm sorry,” she said quietly. “We'll catch the bastard who did this.”

“I'm not so sure about that. Dunsford is lead on the case.”

“Oh, fuck. Excuse me, but no fucking way. Really, I'm sorry.” Dunsford would be the one to take his statement. Billy might strangle the guy.

Over the phone she heard the last notes of a sax solo followed by hoots and applause. “Where are you?”

“On Beale Street. I tracked down Sid Garrett at a meeting in the Calvin Carter Museum. Do you know Garrett?”

“The civil rights lawyer, shot in the back by a client.”

“He was helping Augie with the arrangements for Red and Little Man's funeral. He's agreed to take over the service tomorrow.”

Feedback from a guitar screeched through an amp and blasted Frankie's ear. “I can't hear you over that racket.”

“Big Jerry is setting up in front of Eel-Etc. Hold on. I'll walk down the street.” Seconds passed. The interference lessened. “You know those photos from Red's jacket? They were shot on Beale Street, some taken through the window of what's now James Freeman's offices.”

“How do you know?”

“Freeman's offices are across the street from the museum. I was on the sidewalk after talking to Garrett. The setting clicked with me.”

She tried to overlay what she knew of Beale Street onto the photographs. “I've walked that beat. I can't see it.”

“Most of the buildings have been demolished. You pegged the movie marquee. It's the New Daisy Theatre.”

He drew in a breath. She heard his exhaustion.

“A friend of mine is on duty at the CJC,” he said. “He'll get a summary of Freeman's statement for me, and call when they've cut him loose. Freeman will want to check in at his office. I'll pick up the photographs to verify the location. Then I'll drop in on Freeman and ask a few questions.”

“You've been through a hell of a shock. You might consider keeping your distance from Freeman. You're both witnesses in a murder investigation.”

“I'll handle this,” he said sharply. “You're meeting with Ramos today, right?”

He'd changed the subject so abruptly she backed off. “In about thirty minutes. I'll go in and push him to make a death curse. If he agrees, I'll confront him with the curse from Red's scene. He could be directly involved or he could have sold the curse to someone.” She checked the time. “I have to go.”

“Hold on. Don't move past his willingness to make the curse. Get the information and get out.”

“I can handle a blind witch doctor.”

“You don't know his game.”

“He doesn't know mine. Besides, I carry a .22 Magnum pug in my handbag.” She ran her hand over a warm patch of sunlight on the duvet. “Billy, I'm sorry you lost your friend.”

F
rankie settled into the comfy pillows of the large wicker chair that faced Sergio Ramos's desk. His office walls emanated a cool transparent green, a color found in many Cuban homes. Shelves of books behind his desk included works of psychology, anthropology, world religions, and West African cultures. The collection was no intellectual prop. After reading his Internet biography, she was convinced he was legitimate. He could no longer read, but he may have kept the books with the hope of regaining his sight. Or maybe he just loved his books.

Ramos sat across the desk from her, wearing his dark glasses, a crisp navy shirt, and gray wool slacks. Looking at him, it was hard to believe this serene human being had the ability to concoct a spell that would drop a Santerían believer in his tracks.

She used her real name when she filled out his patient questionnaire. Under occupation she'd written the word “security.” He asked her to read aloud the answers to questions that had stars beside them, personal information that mattered most in a therapy session.

He gestured toward the window. “Beautiful day. Memphis is a good city, but I do miss the sound of the ocean.”