Memphis Legend

by Brian Crawford

  A quick survey of the room told me all I needed to know. I had found Boyd, alone and sitting in a chair with his ankles duct taped to the legs of the chair. His hands were free, and he had a small knife in one hand. There was dried blood around his eye from a cut on his left brow. Both eyes were black and swollen. I suddenly felt no sympathy for knocking Tyler out for the second time in less than a week, even though I was completely aware of the possible repercussions of two concussions spaced so close together. The look of confusion on Boyd’s face quickly turned into a large grin.

  “I’ll be doggone,” I said, “You are in here after all. Anyone one else in here?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Let’s get you out of here.”

  I heard the thud before I actually felt it. A dull, heavy sound, like someone beating a big stick against a hollow log. When my head shot violently forward, I knew I had been hit from behind. Instinctively, my hand shot to the back of my head. I felt the warm liquid. When I brought my hand forward, it was covered in blood.

  I turned to face my attacker, but it seemed like I was moving in slow motion. My reaction speed was diminished. My vision was a little hazy. It was like someone had found a dimmer switch in my brain and had used it. Holy crap, how hard have I been hit.

  I was almost unaware of the long metal rod, a car part, probably a stabilizer bar, that came arcing through the air at me. There was no way to avoid being hit. My response was not a conscious one. My brain was not functioning at full speed yet. It was not even an instinctual fight for survival that guided me. Instead, years of training, years of forming and honing the neural pathways inside my brain and body took over. I stepped toward my attacker, thus minimizing the impact of the blow I could not escape. I twisted my body and braced. The blow to my left shoulder hurt, but there was no actual damage. I grabbed the metal object with my right hand and jerked it violently towards me, pulling my attacker, Junior Estes, into the room. Junior released his grip on his weapon and bull rushed me driving me backward into the wall of the shed. We crashed to the floor with Junior on top. He was throwing blows down on me. None of them were landing with any real effect.

  I was on my back, my legs around Junior’s torso in a classic closed guard position. My head was still bleeding, yet I was strangely aware that I was now smiling because Junior thought he had the advantage. Without his weapon, the tide of the fight had shifted. I knew he was not going to be able to pass my closed guard position. Too many hours of wrestling and Jiu-Jitsu had prepared me for this moment. Junior must have seen my smile because his lips pursed, brows furrowed, and eyes narrowed in a look of extreme anger. He wound up a big punch with his right hand but missed. I deflected it across the midline of my body. His forward momentum carried him across my body. A classic mistake. I pulled his arm over further while crunching him forward, bringing his head down near my chest. From there, all I had to do was open my legs, move them higher, one up over his head and hook them together. His shoulder was locked in an armbar, a move that makes an opponent’s elbow or shoulder bend unnaturally. With some upward pressure from my hips, I had Junior writhing in pain.

  Junior was tapping my leg with his free hand. “Stop! Stop!”

  “Are you trying to tap out? This is a fight, dumbass. I should just break your arm and be done with it.”

  “Don’t break my arm. Please.”

  I don’t know why, but I didn’t break his arm. Maybe it was Boyd standing over me watching in a state of awe at the whole thing. Maybe it was because now that he was loose from the tape I simply didn’t have to break the arm.

  “Shut up, Fireplug. Graham, grab my Glock from my hip and point it at this dickhead.” Boyd complied. “If he even thinks about getting up, put one in his knee, okay?”

  “Gladly.”

  Junior stayed on his back while I released him from the armbar and stood up. Tyler was still where I last saw him. Breathing, but not moving. Hopefully, it was not going to be another Tom Harty type situation.

  Quickly, I pulled the shirt off my back and placed it on the back of my head, applying direct pressure to my wound. Boyd and I had similar expressions when we saw the amount of blood on the floor where I went down.

  “Keys!” I yelled. Junior just stared at me. “Read my lips. Keys. Where are they? I need the gate open, and I’m taking the Mustang. Got it?” More staring. “Don’t look at me like that. Graham’s never shot anyone. I have. Got no qualms about it, in fact. So, once again. Keys.”

  Something about my tone must have scared Boyd; I could see it. He must have thought I might shoot Junior if I did not get my way. Junior must have felt it too because he immediately handed over the keys to the Mustang. He also led us to the switch that opened the gate.

  Boyd said, “By the way, where’s my Sig?”

  “In my brother’s office, on the desk.”

  Boyd handed me my Glock and walked down the hall to retrieve his gun. Junior was telling the truth; Boyd returned carrying his Sig. He said to me, “You okay? That was a lot of blood back there.”

  “It’s just a simple laceration. And head wounds often bleed like that. I will probably need stitches, though.”

  We climbed into the Mustang, Boyd in the driver’s seat while I sat in the front passenger seat. Before leaving, I turned to Junior. “This is the second time I let you off easy. I could have snapped your elbow in half, but I didn’t. You know why? Because you’re not the person I am looking for. You’re just the dickhead that keeps getting in my way. Don’t make that mistake again. My goodwill is all used up. I’m going to find out who killed my friend’s son. No matter what. So stay the hell out of my way.”

  It must have been the blood on my hand that made me do it. Blood that made me realize the A-hole standing in front of me tried to kill me with a metal bar. Because after seeing the blood, I pointed my Glock at Junior. He looked remarkably unfazed until I pulled the trigger and fired a shot into the ground between his feet. He could not hide the surprise that I actually fired a shot in his direction, nor could he disguise his relief at not being shot. Hopefully, my point had been made. I closed the door and motioned for Boyd to drive.

  CHAPTER 28

  Boyd and I were recovering in my apartment after being treated at Memphis Memorial. My laceration needed eleven stitches, Boyd’s eye needed four. Other than the cut on my head, I was uninjured. Boyd had two black eyes to go with the stitches but was otherwise uninjured. Although he helped kidnap my friend, I prayed that Tyler was alright. He had most likely suffered his second concussion within a week and from what Boyd said it sounded like he was still suffering from post-concussion syndrome following the first one. Junior might have a sore shoulder for a few days; I had torqued it pretty hard, but he was lucky Boyd had been able to cut himself free. If he hadn’t, my plan was to dislocate either the shoulder or the elbow. Jackson missed the whole thing. Boyd guessed he had left to get dinner for the group.

  Boyd and I had both apologized to each other more than once. He was sorry that he had given up his firearm so easily, thus putting himself in a position that he needed to be saved from. I apologized for not giving him more direction on selling the illegal alcohol. By selling all of it in one day, he had made the Estes brothers feel threatened by his presence. I had not wanted that. I had meant for him to sell a little bit at a time, just enough to draw attention but not ire. What was done, was done, Boyd had said, but I could not help thinking that we had missed our opportunity for Boyd to have an effective dialog with the Estes brothers.

  Boyd looked up from his beer and said, “You know, it’s not a complete loss.”

  “Yeah, how so?”

  “Now we have someone we can watch or listen to. We could see if they lead us to anyone else, or maybe we could figure out who this Dunham guy is they were talking about. Plus, Tyler did mention that you have to go down to Mississippi to find any good gambling. Maybe what happened today was just a speed bump in the road heading in the direction we wanted to go in the first place.”
r />   “Hell of a speed bump, but you got a point. You’re no longer any good undercover anymore, though.”

  “So what. I still have listening devices. I could bug the hell out of that junkyard. They are bound to be talking about what happened. Maybe we’ll hear something good.”

  “They got a lot of cameras around that place. You might be seen getting them in place.”

  “Okay, the laser mic then. They are a pain in the butt to set up, but I can be miles away if need be. Unless you want me to blind the cameras with a powerful laser. Wait, I don’t have one of those with me. Damn. Laser mic is the best bet then.”

  “You could use the woods LeClair and I were hiding in. Perfect view of the building with plenty of cover. I don’t recommend using the Mustang anymore, though.”

  Boyd said, “Probably not a good idea. I could drive to Huntsville tomorrow and get my truck.”

  “No, would take too long and your truck could always be traced back to you. I still want no record that Boyd Dallas was ever in Felton County. I’ll buy another car tomorrow. Black out the windows.”

  “L.T., I can’t let you do that. I’ll get my truck. You spent enough money on this investigation so far. Especially since you might lose your job at the hospital, and you’re driving a $100,000 car and live in the biggest damn apartment I have ever seen. You can’t even afford to put up walls and finish the upstairs of your building.”

  I smiled and laughed a friendly laugh at Boyd. “That’s sweet. You think I’m broke. The car…it’s paid for. This apartment…it’s paid for. And it’s not finished because I haven’t figured out what I want to do with it yet. I’m not sure I want neighbors.”

  “How much damn money do they pay ER doctors?”

  “Not enough to do all that. My dad left me some money. Quite a bit. I use that money to invest in real estate and flipping cars for a profit. My Mercedes, I almost sold it yesterday for a $15,000 profit. Not bad for part-time work over a couple of months, if I say so myself.”

  “You’re a trust fund kid? Why’d you join the Navy?”

  “Long story.” Boyd stared at me for a few seconds before shrugging it off. Once again, I had deflected answering questions about my past, even with my friends. It was not a healthy habit; I knew that. It was time to start a new habit. “Fortunately, we got the time.”

  I told Boyd about my parents, the professional football player, the prima ballerina. My sports accolades. The drunk driver, and my lost dreams. Boyd was a pretty darn good listener.

  “So you were depressed. Makes sense.”

  “I was not depressed,” I replied, “I was angry.”

  “Bullshit. You were depressed, which is why you were angry. If you had just been angry, you would have gone on to play professional football or go to the Olympics in wrestling. Anger would have motivated you, L.T., not held you back. You were friggin’ depressed, and nobody helped you with it. What a crying shame.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You weren’t there.”

  “I don’t need to have been there. Everyone probably looked at this 6’4” man-child who can beat up men twice his size, and thought, hey, he’ll be okay. But you weren’t okay, and you weren’t a man. You were a 16-year-old kid.” I opened my mouth to protest, yet no words came out. “Look, I may not be a doctor, but don’t bother telling me I’m wrong because we both know I’m not.”

  I did not argue with him. I couldn’t. Because deep down inside, I knew he was right. Which kind of pissed me off, especially when I thought about the fact that not dealing with the depression had caused me to build up emotional walls. Virgil, my best friend for the last 20 years, had hinted at it before and chastised me for living in the past, but he never mentioned depression. Maybe even Virgil liked to think of me as unbreakable. The man who conquers anything that gets in his way.

  “Wow, save a guy’s butt twice, and this is how he repays me,” I said in an obvious facetious tone.

  Boyd stood up and walked over to the windows, looking out at nothing in particular. “That’s how I roll, don’t ya know,” he said. We were both quiet for a couple of minutes. Boyd was at the window staring off into space; I was lying back on my couch. “Hey, does Ellie drive a little red car with 4CASTR on the license plate?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Because she just pulled up.” Just what we needed I thought. Not that I didn’t want to see her, but we were trying to keep Boyd’s presence a secret. Boyd read my face. He could see my indecision. “Hey, don’t worry. It’s a big apartment. I got a feeling I’m going to want to get up real early, so I’ll take a nap in the other bedroom.”

  Boyd was walking towards the other bedroom when we both heard a key in the door to my apartment. He did not let his bad ankle stop him from running into the bedroom just before the front door opened. It was close, but he managed to stay unseen.

  Ellie entered the room smiling as she saw my head peering at her over the back of the couch. “So this is how my currently unemployed boyfriend spends his time.”

  She was joking around. That was a good sign. Our relationship had been tense ever since I got involved with investigating Paul’s disappearance, even more so once I got arrested, and Paul was found murdered. I joked back, telling her that I was just trying to figure out the best spot for a TV. Ellie crossed the room to give me a kiss. One of her hands started to go to the back of my head. Immediately, I grabbed her hand and held it in mine. Surely, she would have felt the shaved spot on my head, maybe even felt the stitches. We spent several minutes sitting on the couch while I asked about her day. She sounded happy and willingly to answer my questions about her day.

  “Okay, sailor, now that we both know I had a typical day in the life of a weather girl, how has your day gone?”

  “Meteorologist,” I corrected. “I think I have a good lead on organized crime.”

  “Really. Already? So where did you get the lead?”

  “Can’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Plausible deniability.”

  Ellie huffed. “Just tell me it’s not my dad.”

  “Seriously? This is a boots-on-the-ground operation. You dad wouldn’t even qualify as an adviser; he told me he wouldn’t know a prostitute if it bit him on the butt.” Ellie chuckled. “So, he probably wouldn’t be a great source of information.”

  “Can you, at least, tell me who you are looking at?”

  “Best if I don’t.”

  “It’s like I’m dating a damn spy or something. So, what can you tell me?”

  “I’m making progress. In fact, I would say I have more than one person of interest.”

  Ellie asked, “And you have managed to get all this information without putting yourself in danger?” Her tone made it difficult to tell if the question was rhetorical or not.

  Serious question or not, I could not bring myself to tell her the truth. I was not sure how she would react to reports of another fight, especially given that the one with Junior might have been a life-or-death struggle. “Nothing dangerous. Just asking questions. Even talked to Junior Estes’ brother, Jackson. It looks like he is going to talk some sense into Junior and have him leave me alone.”

  “But you won’t tell me who the person of interest is?”

  “Plau—.”

  “Plausible deniability,” she interrupted. Her tone made me feel that she was not buying the plausible deniability excuse, but she stopped trying to press for more information regardless. Our conversation turned to more mundane matters. Her work. My future at the hospital. How my other building was coming. After several minutes, I offered to get her some tea. I walked with my head turned back towards her so she could not see the back of my head, then realized I was being stupid. My bushy hair would cover the shaved area to all but the most scrutinizing observer.

  I handed her an iced tea and sat down. She wrinkled her eyes and nose in thought.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You’re acting weird.”

&nbs
p; “I am?”

  “Yes, you are. You’re moving stiffly. Did you spar at the gym today?” I shook my head no. “Your neck still hurt from your night in jail?”

  Once again, I shook my head. I was actively lying to my girlfriend. Not a good relationship building activity. Opening up and talking to Boyd earlier had been beneficial. Maybe I should try to do the same with my girlfriend.

  “I need to come clean about something, Ellie. My head has eleven stitches in it right now from another run in with Junior Estes. He hit me in the head with a steel bar when I wasn’t looking. Then, I kicked his butt again.”

  Ellie quietly mulled over my confession for nearly half a minute standing up and walking into my bedroom. Not exactly the response I had anticipated. Several minutes later she returned. “Is Junior Estes your suspect? I mean your person of interest?”

  “Sort of. I mean, I’m looking for someone down in Mississippi, but I don’t know who. So, instead, I started looking for anyone with ties to organized crime in Emmettsville who might be able to direct me to the guy in Mississippi. At first, I kept thinking he was just some racist prick, or some friend of Eric’s, that was getting in my way. Now I know Junior and his brother run booze.”

  Ellie said, “In other words, he might be the link you have been looking for all along.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Seems like a pretty indirect way of finding the guy in Mississippi.”

  “Well, I don’t have access to a crime database telling me who’s involved with illegal gambling in the area. If I knew for 100 percent that Chief Parker could be trusted, I could have used him.”

  “No, I understand why you didn’t ask the Chief. I’m just wondering why you didn’t have John make a partial payment to whoever has been calling him and then follow that guy back to where ever it is that you guys have to follow them back to. But I’m just a meteorologist, so what do I know.”