Memphis Legend

by Brian Crawford

  “Makes sense.”

  “Do I have any of that around here?”

  “Any what?”

  “Any competition.”

  Mason invited Boyd into his office and offered him a seat. “There are a couple of local boys I buy from, but you keep offering up those prices, and I will always have some room for your stuff. I can guarantee that, Mister. Hey, can you get me any Corona? I want to have a Mexican night.”

  Boyd promised to get him plenty of Corona before leaving for the next bar. The next two bars wanted nothing to do with him. One was the bar owned by Charles Mann; Charles was quick to ask him to leave. The next bar, a bona fide dive at the edge of town, was very welcoming. The owner was a small, wiry man in his mid-forties with a strong smoker’s rasp to his voice, yet an amazing bounce to his step and a large friendly smile. He bought over half of Boyd’s supply and even helped him carry it in from the car.

  “Young man, let me offer you a beer.” Boyd knew better than to refuse. The two sat down at the counter in the empty bar and sipped ice cold draft beer. “What brings you up here from Alabama?” Boyd went over his cover story with the man, who seemed to have no trouble accepting it. “You planning on making regular deliveries to this area?”

  “As long as I have a customer base. So, far only found two of you in town wanting to buy.”

  “Falco’s?” Boyd nodded. “Let me save you some trouble. Me and Mason probably the only ones in this town that will want what you are offering, but I got a couple of friends in the area that’ll welcome you with open arms at these prices. I shouldn’t tell you this, but you could even raise them a little and we would still buy from you.” He jotted down the directions to the other bars on a cocktail napkin.

  Boyd said, “Mason mentioned something about some local boys in the same line of business. Anything I need to worry about?”

  “I don’t rightly know. They never had any competition before that I know of, so I don’t know how they’re going to react. Guess you have faced this before, though?”

  “No, not really. There were a couple of us supplying the dry counties down in Alabama. Each of us knew about the others, and we were all okay with it. In fact, we colluded on the prices and purposefully tried to avoid dealing with the same product.”

  Boyd found that lying about his legend was quite easy. He was glad he had taken the extra time allowing L.T. and the others to drill him before starting. Boyd listened to Tim, the bar owner, give him a brief life story about being a marathon runner and the local track coach before taking over the bar five years ago. The raspy voice was not from smoking; it was due to nodules on his vocal cords caused by years of yelling as a coach. Tim did not volunteer any information on the competition, and Boyd knew better than to ask, yet it was good to know the competition existed. Now if he could just flush them out.

  ***

  Boyd drove to the next town and was able to dump the remainder of the alcohol on the first bar that Tim recommended. He had $1800 in cash from his endeavors. He felt bad that L.T. had to absorb nearly a $400 loss on the liquor, even though L.T. had already accepted that fact. Boyd found himself wondering how L.T. could afford to be so indifferent towards money. He had to be in debt up to his eyeballs. L.T. finished his residency only last year and already he was driving a new Mercedes convertible, and Virgil told him that he owned the building where he lived. Maybe the rent from the building was much better than he imagined. It had better be, especially considering his current unpaid leave.

  Boyd was considering his next move while he drove back to his hotel. The Traveler’s Inn, with its interior corridors met the official definition of a hotel. It had only the most basic of amenities. No bar, no continental breakfast, no mini bar, not even a coffee pot in the room. Just a lumpy bed with some equally lumpy pillows. At least the shower was hot with plenty of water pressure. He had stayed in worse.

  Boyd noticed it immediately. The small piece of Scotch tape he placed at the top of the door was broken. The Do Not Disturb sign was still in place, but someone had ignored the sign. Someone had been in his room. Maybe they were still in there. He placed his hand inside his jacket; hand firmly on his pistol in case it was needed. Boyd put the key in the door and then threw the door violently open. The door crashed into the wall. No one was behind the door. No one was in the room either, unless he was in the bathroom. Boyd eyed the bed. He saw the pager and the note from L.T. and then smiled when he realized who had been in his room. He checked out the bathroom anyway, just in case. Better to be safe, than sorry.

  He read the instructions on pager usage. He even tested it with the phone in his room. L.T.’s numerical code was laughable. Why didn’t he just use Military Police radio codes? He played the list of codes over in his head and then he realized the answer. The codes were too confusing, and many did not apply to their situation. Plus, L.T. was not a Marine and Boyd remembered that the Master-at-Arms personnel used a different coding system than the Marines.

  Boyd realized L.T. did not leave him a code for pager received, so he called L.T.’s pager from the hotel and left the hotel number. Boyd waited for ten minutes for a return call, which did not come. The two of them needed to talk to figure out the next step. Boyd was talking time off from work to have his fun, so he wanted to make full use of his time. He decided to drive south into Mississippi and find a state liquor store and buy up all their Corona. He could deliver it to Falco’s tomorrow.

  He replaced the Scotch tape on his door and headed out after leaving a message at the front desk for L.T. He told the desk to tell any callers “thanks for the package.” He decided that after he got back, he could get a bite to eat and then listen in on the Chief or Eric again. Maybe he might hear something useful the second time around.

  CHAPTER 24

  Seeing Boyd delivering liquor to Falco’s made me smile inside. I watched from outside for several minutes before deciding to let Boyd do his thing without me hovering over his shoulder. He had his investigation; I had mine. Except mine was at a standstill. I was waiting to see if my plan for Boyd gave us any leads.

  While I was in the Navy, the plan had taken nearly six months in the Philippines before I had any contact with the people I was looking for. It had taken another three months before I met with anyone within the leadership of the organization. That was only after at least one successful transport of drugs out of the Philippines into Southern California. The group was careful. And dangerous. It took another six months to meet the men in charge of the operation. The sting to get any credible evidence on the suppliers and the head honcho required another three months of planning. In the end, I had to pretend to get greedy and ask for a bigger slice of the profits to get the meeting. Their greed ended up being their downfall. They never suspected a thing. The look on their faces when they realized they had been fooled by an E-4 Master-at-Arms was priceless. However, it paled in comparison when they saw me walk into the military court in my Lieutenant J.G. uniform.

  It had taken a little over 18 months of investigation. Not to mention the 40 days of A school before beginning the investigation. Boyd was taking a week of vacation, and I had an undetermined amount of unpaid leave facing me; it was promised to be less than two weeks. We did not have 18 months.

  I was driving around town trying to think of a plan while my inner voice was talking to me in earnest. Unfortunately, it was talking so fast that I could not decipher what it was saying. After a few minutes, I could make out the noise inside my head. It was no better. My inner voice was coming up with so many ideas that I would have needed a dozen full-time investigators to follow up on everything. I liked it better when it was quiet inside my head. I was circling the block near the police station for the third time when I came up with an idea that should, at least, shut up the voice inside my head. My car came to a stop outside the local library. It was time to find out more about organized crime in the South.

  Like everything else in the town, the library was quaint, looking almost exactly as I had expe
cted a small-town library to look. Other than some offices off to the side, all the books and tables and the two computer stations sat in one room with a small photocopier station in one corner and a children’s book and reading area in the farthest corner. One unique feature was the set of stairs leading to a small balcony that traversed the back wall and the two side walls providing access to a couple of elevated sitting areas and bookshelves that were built into the walls.

  The librarian was not quaint. She was young and very pretty with short blonde hair and an athletic physique. She was wearing a pullover shirt tucked into jeans that fit very well. Not at all what I expected from a small-town librarian.

  “Sir,” she said, “You look lost. Can I help you?” She was not a local either; the accent, or more accurately, the lack of accent, was classic Midwest.

  “I look lost?”

  As I approached, I noticed her name tag said Jenny. “A little bit, yes. First time in a library?”

  I could not recall having met the woman before, so her sarcastic tone caught me off guard. “No. I spend more time in them than most people, I imagine.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. You just weren’t what I expected.”

  “I see; another person that feels I don’t meet the librarian stereotype. Should I grow my hair out and put it up in a bun and buy some of those glasses on a chain to wear around my neck?”

  “Miss, I don’t think it would make any difference. If you lived to be a hundred, you would not look like the stereotypical librarian.”

  “Is that meant as personal flattery or as a denigration of librarians?” The woman was obviously annoyed with me. I had no idea why. “I have a master’s degree in library science. It is a real degree, you know.”

  “I’m aware that library science is a real degree. I got my undergrad from the University of Illinois in Champaign-Urbana, which allegedly has the best library science program in the country.”

  “It does. It’s also where I went to school. So did you play football there?”

  “Now who is adhering to stereotypes? No, I did not play football there, although they did want me to.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Miss, I’m not sure if you are aware of it or not, but Southerners are known for their hospitality. They often take great pride it in. You are going to have a hard time fitting in down here with that attitude.”

  She was eyeing me, studying my face. The stern look slowly replaced by a slightly warmer countenance. “You said undergrad. People that say that instead of ‘degree’ are usually implying they have some amount of higher learning.”

  “I did graduate medical school from UAB, does that count?”

  “Well, I’ll be. I didn’t see that one coming. You work at the hospital here?”

  “No, I work in the emergency department at Memphis Memorial.”

  “You ever hear of a Mulligan?” I nodded. “Well, I’d like one now.” I smiled, allowing her the second chance to make a first impression. “You know, I’ve been here about 18 months, and during that time I think nearly every guy at the gym where I work out has come in and flirted with me at work, harass me is more like it. I thought you were some new guy I hadn’t met yet, so I apologize for my attitude. I swear they must have a pool on me, seeing which one can get lucky with me first.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me; boys will be boys.”

  She smiled for the first time and held out her hand. “Name’s Jenny, how can I help you today, sir?”

  “I’m Dr. McCain; friends call me L.T. I was hoping to dig up some information on organized crime in Tennessee.”

  “Organized crime? Interesting choice of subjects for a doctor.”

  “Unrelated to my work. It’s of personal interest.”

  She directed us to a computer and began putting in search strings. Too many matches came back for my taste on the first few attempts, so we decided to focus the search. After a couple more searches that left me less than impressed, I settled on a book she found without the benefit of the computer that provided an overview of organized crime in the United States. The book largely focused on the famous Italian and Sicilian Mafia families in the United States and their rise to power. It also mentioned the changing tide in organized crime as the Mexican and South American drug cartels entered into the American landscape mostly after the Vietnam War.

  I was almost ready to give up when the author started discussing organized crime in the South. According to the author, many experts refused to call the criminal elements in the South organized due to their uniqueness; they operated without any apparent structure or hierarchical command. One scholar coined the term “Dixie Mafia” to describe organized crime in the South, although “Southern Mafia” and “Good Ol’ Boy Mafia” were also used.

  Jenny returned after several minutes to sit across from me. “How’s it going?”

  “I want to thank you for the book. It’s really up-to-date. I have spent the last half hour reading about the Dixie Mafia.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Me neither. It’s a relatively new term.”

  “Learn anything interesting?”

  “A little.” I had piqued her interest. “I would have never guessed it, but apparently the Dixie Mafia started in Biloxi back in the Sixties and then radiated out from there. The Biloxi connection got shut down a couple of years ago after the feds got involved following massive political corruption, which drove it more underground. Now it exists in pockets throughout the South. Sort of regional, like the Dixie Mafia down in Muscle Shoals, or the Dixie Mafia over in Purdy.”

  Jenny said, “Organized crime in the South, go figure.

  “Organized crime is everywhere in one degree or another, but this seems like a strange group of guys. They have no set chain of command, they are not connected by family origin or nationality, they even often specialize in different arenas, yet they are still unified enough to be considered organized crime, at least by the experts on the subject.”

  “So disorganized organized crime. That sounds about right for a bunch of rednecks. What holds them together?”

  “Ideology.”

  “Ideology?”

  “Yeah, it seems a common hatred of Yankees, Jews, Blacks, and Commies is enough to band them all together, loosely speaking, of course. Well, that, and a common goal of making money by whatever means possible.”

  Jenny commented about learning something new every day before throwing another book at me and walking away. The book told the story of a man whose father had been a corrupt sheriff in Alabama. He had insisted that everyone call him “Chief,” which rang a little too close to home in my current situation. The author discussed growing up in an environment that thrived on corruption and greed. He admitted to selling stolen goods, illegal booze, and drugs, and helping run prostitutes as a young man. It all seemed so normal at the time. Only when he realized that the Dixie Mafia was heavily involved in contract killings did he realize his life was not normal. The author spent a lot of time discussing how the members of the Dixie Mafia usually created small, seemingly legitimate business to use as fronts to buy and sell stolen items. Many times the items were provided by others within the network that did not want to get involved in the distribution process; they preferred to concentrate on procurement, which was especially true for younger criminals involved in anything from petty theft to grand theft auto. Despite the simple writing style and bad grammar and punctuation throughout the book, you could almost feel the guilt dripping off the pages. The author had found Jesus and the book appeared to be written as an atonement for his sins.

  I thanked Jenny for her help and left. Boyd probably would have told me that the visit had been a waste of time, but, as I told Lloyd a few days ago, information is always helpful. The visit also quieted down my inner voice. It had only one thing to say to me, “Work the clues.”

  ***

  I seldom hated my inner voice. However, this was one of those times. What clues did it want me to wo
rk? I had nothing. Ever since Paul had gone missing, I kept coming up with nothing. I was driving around town aimlessly because I did not have any clues. I was hungry, but that was not a clue. I decided against eating in Emmettsville and started the drive back to Memphis. Once again, I pushed the Mercedes through the corners trying to get a good feel for the automobile’s capabilities. My mind emptied itself of everything except the road for the next 45 minutes until I heard my pager go off. I recognized the number as the Traveler’s Inn; Boyd would have his pager with him from here on out.

  Without going home, I drove to the Thai Garden and got a healthy dose of vegetables along with a simple dish of chicken in a red curry sauce. While eating, I tried to work the clues. Nothing came to mind again. I had effectively talked myself out of my only suspect when I realized he could not fight. The rest of my time in Emmettsville I had spent dealing with Junior Estes and getting arrested. My conversations with Lloyd, Charles, and the Chief had not been helpful. None of them had an inkling of organized crime in their county. Charles had mentioned that there were some rough characters in the area, but none he knew of were into gambling. Emmettsville seemed to be a quiet, peaceful town. Only one problem, someone stuck a .22 up to the back of Paul Deland’s head so close as to leave powder burns. And someone was trying to collect $15,000 in gambling debt from Paul. They had to be related. When I went to bed hours later, I was still trying to figure out the connection.

  CHAPTER 25

  Everything was going well with L.T.’s plan. Boyd had sold all the liquor yesterday and was currently making his second delivery to Falco’s. The Corona beer that Mason wanted. No one had even questioned the validity of his cover story, or legend as L.T. called it. They bought it hook, line, and sinker. Boyd had to admit that playing Graham was fun. He felt that he had a real knack for investigating. After all, he had easily found and bugged the homes of both Eric and the Chief. He did not have any leads for L.T. yet, but he felt that would surely change soon.