Memphis Legend

by Brian Crawford

  “Don’t apologize. You’re like family to me.”

  LeClair entered the office twirling a set of keys on his finger as I was finishing my conversation with Virgil. I followed LeClair out the back kitchen door into the alley, smiling as I realized it was only the second time I had ever seen my friend outside of the bar. I was following him through the alley to the nearby parking garage. He looked different already. More dangerous somehow. Maybe it was anticipation, or excitement, or a case of the nerves, but his very gait was different. He was treading lightly, moving fluidly, moving like a man on the prowl, moving like a former Marine in the face of possible danger. Asking to borrow his truck had been a great idea, especially since LeClair insisted on coming along with the truck.

  LeClair led me to a late model silver Cadillac Eldorado, a large two-door coupe. The trunk looked large. Perfect. LeClair’s house was on the way, not too far off Poplar a little north of the Botanical Gardens. I had not known what to expect, let’s face it, he was always in the bar. The house was nice. It looked like a home where a married couple with 2.3 kids would live. He pushed his garage door opener revealing a small orange and white panel van. It was an old U-Haul van. If you looked close, you could still see the letters on the side.

  I gave LeClair one last time to change his mind. He gave me a dirty look. “Keys are in it; let’s go mess with some rednecks.”

  LeClair stayed in the Cadillac. We needed two vehicles, one with a trunk and one that could hold lots of boxes. I got the van. Operation Stromboli was officially underway.

  A little over an hour later I was back in Falco’s parking lot. The Mercury with the flat tire was still there. So was my Jeep. I pulled alongside Boyd, who smiled when he saw the van, got out of his car and walked around to get in next to me.

  “Where in the hell did you get this piece of shit?”

  “LeClair.” The passenger door of the van suddenly opened. “Move over and let him in, will ya?”

  Boyd was a little surprised to see LeClair and was even more surprised when I told him that he was going to have to loan Virgil his H&K in the morning. But that surprise paled in comparison when I explained my plan. His mouth was hanging open in shock.

  “What,” I said, “No comment? LeClair called me a devious SOB when he heard the plan.”

  Boyd nodded in agreement. “No shit.” His nodding turned into a large grin as he replayed the plan over in his head. “Alright, I did what you asked; I found out where they are staying. The motel across the street. First floor. Even got the room number.”

  I thanked Boyd and told LeClair to drive his Caddy across the street. I had him back the Caddy up to the hotel as close to the room as he could and told him to stay in the car.

  “Keep it running, in case this does not go as planned.” He nodded. I motioned to Boyd to see if he was ready. He put his hand inside his jacket where his Sig would be resting in the shoulder holster. I walked up to the door, checked my pockets for the stuff I brought along. Crap, I thought. I almost forgot something. I jogged across the street to the U-Haul, returning with a large role of duct tape. “Now, we’re ready.”

  I had decided against kicking the door in. Sure, shock and awe is a great technique, but stealth has its charm as well. Now, if I could just pick the lock without making too much noise. I pulled out my pick and tension wrench. Placed it in the bottom of the keyhole and determined the correct direction to move the lock. That was the easy part. The rest required patience and a feel. A little more practice would have been nice as well. With the pick, I felt around clumsily for the pins I needed to depress. With each metallic click, I kept wondering if I had woken up the two assholes in the room. It took me over a minute, I was sweating when I finished, but eventually I successfully picked the lock.

  I slowly started to open the door. The hinges squeaked a little, but it opened freely; Brent and Daryl had not used the door chain. I slipped the Glock 21 from my holster and walked through the door. Boyd followed, his Sig P226 in his right hand, ready at a moment’s notice.

  The door opened into an old motel room. There was actual paneling on the walls, probably left over from the Seventies. Just like the lock. I could not help but think we had been lucky the motel had not had the newer electronic card reader locks present in most newer hotels. A dresser was on the right side of the room, along with a TV. Two queen beds were on the left. Both men were asleep on top of the covers. Both were fully dressed except for their shoes. Neither man had a gun near him that I could see.

  I motioned for Boyd to take the man on the left; I took the one on the right. Pointed my gun at his head, just out of arms reach. Boyd did the same. I counted down from three with my fingers. No turning back now.

  On three, I threw a pillow at the man’s face. Boyd did the same with the other man. They both woke up to the sight of a handgun aimed at their face. It had the desired effect: a look of pure shock on both of their faces. My guy started to open his mouth. I quickly shushed him with a finger across my lips.

  “Brent, Daryl, look at me. Don’t talk. You assholes know who I am? Just nod.” They both nodded. “So then, you know why I’m here. No need to answer that question. No one, and I mean, no one, can do what you two did to my girlfriend tonight and get away with it.”

  The man on the right opened his mouth. “What do y—.”

  I punched him hard in the face. Shushed him once more. Then hit him in the face again, a little harder. His nose started to bleed. “The first one was for talking when I told you not to talk. The second one for was for calling my girlfriend a weather girl. She’s a meteorologist, asshole.” I punched him again in the stomach. “That one is because, well, that is just because.”

  Boyd was smiling. I could not tell if he was happy I had not shot anyone yet or if he was simply pleased with my performance so far.

  “Now that I have your attention, I need to let you know that if you follow my instructions, then you stand a good chance of making it through this evening with all your pieces still attached. Nod if you understand.” They both nodded. “Good, now I need you both face down on your beds, arms behind your head.”

  They both complied, trying to play it cool, although the look of dread on their faces was giving them away. I tossed Boyd a large zip tie. Covered him while he pulled the man’s arms behind his back and used the zip tie as our version of handcuffs, and then sat him up on the side of the bed. I continued to cover him while he repeated the same procedure with the man I hit in the face.

  I addressed the men again in an eerily calm voice. “Got a question for you. Answer honestly, because I will know when you are lying. SEC football, who do you root for?” Neither man answered right away. They were both trying to figure out what I wanted to hear, but it would not be any use. I did not care what their answer was to my question.

  The one sitting closest to me said, “Tennessee.”

  “So you are a Vol? How about that. And you?”

  The other one said, “Ole Miss.”

  “Good for you,” I said. “You actually answered honestly. So, neither of you like Bama?” Both shook their head. Boyd was looking at me strangely trying to figure out where the questioning was going. “It’s okay. I hate football. My daddy played it professionally and ever since he died, well, the game just leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Graham, here, he is a different story. He loves the Crimson Tide. Bama fan through and through. You know, he actually gets depressed when Bama loses. Depressed over a stupid game.” I paused for dramatic effect. “Now, the good news is that neither of you are Auburn fans. Otherwise, he would probably shoot you out of principle. Wait, you guys are probably wondering where I’m going with this. Sorry, I digress. In a minute or so, Graham and I are going to load you into the back of a car; then he’s going to drive you somewhere. During that time, you are not going to give Graham a hard time. Nothing should come out of your mouth during that time. Not even a Roll Tide, because we all know it wouldn’t be sincere. Remember, you guys have admitted to rooting for th
e wrong team. And you ran my girlfriend off the road and planned on shooting up her house. Graham is the one that shot out your tires before. That’s before he found out you aren’t Bama fans. Give him any trouble, any lip, so much as bang your knee on the back of his seat funny, and, well, don’t be surprised if the crimson you see is your blood oozing out a bullet hole. Nod if you understand.” They both nodded earnestly, eyes wide with fear.

  I had Boyd cover me as I used duct tape on the first one’s mouth. I did not tear off a strip and place it over his mouth. Instead, I wrapped the entire roll around his head covering his mouth. Wrapped it twice. Then I did the same with his eyes. It was probably going to hurt when we pulled the tape off later. I did not give a shit. I taped up the second man the same way, and then we escorted the men outside. LeClair must have seen us exiting the motel room because the trunk suddenly opened. I pushed the men into the trunk, quickly zip tied their ankles together, and closed the lid. LeClair handed Boyd the keys. I smiled as Boyd drove off.

  No one had seen a damn thing. Part one of Operation Stromboli was over.

  ***

  Strasser’s men were on their way to Memphis in the back of LeClair’s car. Boyd was taking them to my apartment. The loading dock to be more exact. They were going to see me again, but, first, LeClair and I had work to do. By kidnapping Strasser’s men, I had launched an offensive against Strasser. The second part of the plan was still waiting. Now I was going to launch an offensive against the Estes brothers as well.

  When Boyd followed Junior around, he discovered where they stored their illegal liquor: the building they bought for the pawn shop. Within minutes, LeClair and I were sitting outside the back door of the building with the van. There was a padlock on the back door, which I was able to pick. However, I could not pick the deadbolt. After three failed attempts, I turned to LeClair. “Screw this. I’m busting out a window, and I’ll open it from the inside.”

  Liquor was stacked in boxes along one wall. Lots of it. Maybe more than the van would hold. Forty-five minutes later the van was full. There were only a dozen boxes left over. I took great pleasure smashing the remaining boxes.

  I was surveying the damage trying to imagine Junior’s face when he realized all their booze was gone. The image brought a smile to my face. LeClair must have noticed. “Feelin’ pretty good about yourself right now, huh, Doc?”

  “Not yet, first I have to leave a note.” I grabbed a Sharpie out of my back pocket. I had brought it from home. I realized I had not brought any paper, so I broke open a box and laid it out flat on the floor, and then wrote in big, bold letters, all caps: I WANT MY MONEY. NO EXCUSES. “Now I’m feeling pretty good.”

  We wasted no time getting out of there after I left the note. We were not going to have to unload the van tonight, but Boyd still had two kidnapped men in the back of LeClair’s Caddy that required my attention. LeClair asked me what I was planning on doing with them. It was a good question. Not one I had an answer for yet. I could not kill them; that would be murder. I could not let them go either. At least, not with their gun hands still intact.

  From the beginning, I had planned Operation Stromboli as a two-pronged offensive against both the Estes gang and Strasser. I was framing Strasser for the missing liquor, and I was planning on implicating the Estes boys in the disappearance of Strasser’s men. If I were successful, then neither side would trust the other side, thus preventing them from being able to launch a united front against Boyd and me. I figured that if we were going to have to fight a battle on two fronts, then they might as well too.

  One positive about driving an old U-Haul van that maxed out at 50 mph, it gave you plenty of time to think, and I needed the extra time. We were over half way back to Memphis. and I still had not figured out what to do with Brent and Daryl. I had figured out what I was going to do with the stolen alcohol. I was giving it to LeClair, along with the liquor I bought for Boyd to use when he was undercover. LeClair would not accept my offer. He kept telling me that there was easily $20,000 in booze in the van, and I had already spent $2,000 on Boyd. But Boyd had paid me back about $1500 on the liquor he sold. So, I agreed that he could buy Boyd’s liquor from me. For $500. LeClair started to argue with me, but he soon realized I would not budge. “I’ll tell you what, LeClair, you can throw in a year’s supply of burgers, and you have to keep some broccoli for me in the back.”

  “Deal,” he said. “You know, I might have an idea on what to do with your new redneck friends.”

  “Cut them up and serve them as barbecue like I saw in a movie last year?”

  “Damn, Doc, what kind of movies are you watchin’?”

  “Fried Green Tomatoes. Kind of a chick flick, but I enjoyed it. Anyway, I was kidding. So, what’s your idea?”

  “Put them in the van, then put the van in the woods for a couple of days.”

  “I want you to know that I hate you, LeClair.”

  “Why?”

  “Because now we have to unload this van tonight after all. And I have to drive this piece of shit back to Emmettsville to stash it in the woods around there. I think I have just the place.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Boyd was sitting on a stool in my loading dock when LeClair and I arrived. Brent and Daryl were still in the trunk, although the trunk lid was open. It smelled of urine in the trunk. One of them had obviously pissed himself during the ride over. I closed the trunk and told Boyd our plan. He seemed to like it. What he liked best was that he was not going to have to help unload the liquor.

  LeClair and I returned after nearly two hours from emptying the truck at his house. It took a little longer to unload because he wanted the boxes in his basement instead of his garage. We also had to stop by a grocery store and buy bottled water and energy bars. It was a little after 5 a.m. when we returned to my apartment. During that time, Boyd had taken the men up to my apartment in the freight elevator and let them use the bathroom. They were sitting on the floor of the loading dock, still cuffed, still blindfolded, and still gagged. I suppose I should have felt sorry for them.

  I didn’t. Not in the slightest.

  LeClair loaded the water and energy bars into the back of the van. I grabbed some other supplies. A couple of blankets, two log chains that I used when pulling motors from cars, and a five-gallon bucket with a lid. Everything I needed for their makeshift prison for the next couple of days. I was not sure what I was going to do with them after that. Probably break their fingers after all and let them go.

  I only had one last thing to do before driving back to Emmettsville. I needed directions to Chief Parker’s cabin. Shortly before six in the morning, I called him and asked him if I could park a van on his property. I did not tell him why. I merely told him it had supplies I needed and that if possible, I preferred to park it in the shade. He readily agreed, especially when I told him that I had an extremely viable lead on who was trying to frame his son. I had to tell him that I had evidence that some local boys involved in the Dixie Mafia had been hired to collect money from Paul. He pressed me to tell him their names, but I resisted.

  “Why won’t you tell me who it is? You afraid of retaliation on my part?”

  “No. Chief, for reasons I can’t get into right now, I just can’t tell you. Not yet. Trust me. Remember, you are a necessary cog in the wheel; you are the law. Which brings me to another request. Two more men have gone missing in your town, Brent and Daryl. You can find their car in Falco’s parking lot. It’s the one with only three good tires. I need you to report them missing to the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation, Criminal Intelligence Unit.”

  “Why in the world would I do that?”

  I did not answer him. I just kept right on talking like I never heard the question. “Brent and Daryl are members of organized crime. They were last seen last night arguing in the parking lot with a short, stocky man who drives a two-toned Ford F-250 Ranger XLT. Picture it with large mud tires and a lift kit. Can you think of a person with a truck like that?”

  “Ju
nior Estes.”

  “Exactly. Last seen talking to Junior Estes, the owner of the two-toned green pickup mentioned by the anonymous caller. You got that?”

  “I got it. I just don’t know what the heck you are up to.”

  “I know you don’t, Chief. And I know it’s frustrating to be kept out of the loop, but, for now at least, the less you know, the better. When you call, someone is going to wonder why you called CIU. Tell them the anonymous caller said he heard them arguing about illegal gambling. And since there was a homicide involving a man in your town that had gambling debts, you thought that CIU was the best place to call. Before you call, though, I need you to go over to the motel across from Falco’s and get their last names and the room number they were staying in.”

  “Can’t you just give me their names and room number.”

  “I could, but I’m not going to. To sell this, I need you to do the investigating yourself. Take another officer with you even. Once you got at least one of their last names, then call it in. Mention the truck, and for the love of God, please make sure that you mention Junior Estes being the only one with a truck like that. CIU may, or may not, tell you how to proceed. If they do give you any direction, follow it. Chief?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “This is important. It will get the heat off Eric, I promise. I know you are confused. Just know this; you know that saying about kicking a hornet’s nest? Well, you are helping me kick the ever-loving crap out of it.”

  The Chief promised he would start on my little project for him as soon as he got to work and then hung up. I turned to Boyd and LeClair and gave each of them a big thumbs up. With any luck, by noon Chief Parker would be calling CIU and implicating Junior Estes in the disappearance of Brent and Daryl. Once the mole inside the Bureau called Strasser, my ruse would be complete. Jackson and Junior Estes would think Strasser declared a personal war on them when he stole their liquor, and Strasser would think the Estes brothers did something to two of his men.