Blood and Roses

by Douglas Pratt

  Kristi said, “I will call and file it. Insurance will want a police file at the least.”

  The ride back into Memphis was quiet. Despite my complaints, I wasn't as angry about the truck as I portrayed. Initially, it was a violation of my space. However, the truth of the matter was that I didn't have any sentimental attachment to the thing. The only real thing I was feeling was annoyance at the inconvenience.

  As I considered that, I decided that I was being childish. The truck was insured, and I would have it fixed or replaced at little expense.

  Kristi pulled up in front of the Preservation.

  “Here you go,” she announced in case we weren't paying attention.

  “Thank you, Kristi.”

  Leo chimed in as well, “Yes, thank you. I didn't want to spend the night in a jail cell.”

  “It was my pleasure. And $2500.”

  “Send me a bill,” I told her.

  “Don't worry,” she smiled. “The ride back was for a friend.”

  I leaned across the front seat and kissed her cheek. “You are awesome. It's not too late, we could grab some dinner.”

  “Not tonight. How about a couple of days?”

  “Deal, you tell me when.”

  Kristi’s eyes shifted to the rear view mirror where she could see Leo. “Nice to meet you, Leo.”

  “Trust me,” he said, “the pleasure is all mine.”

  “Try and keep this kid out of trouble,” she told him.

  “That's not really my specialty.”

  “Then keep one of my cards handy,” she quipped as she pulled a business card from the sun visor and handed it to him.

  As Kristi pulled away, leaving us on the curb, Leo said, “I'm really sorry about your truck. The whole thing might've gotten away from me.”

  “It's no big deal. I knew what we were getting into.”

  Leo slapped my shoulder. “You were great too. At least up until you got knocked out.”

  “About that, I think I could use some aspirin, or something stronger.”

  Leo said, “Why don't you head up, grab a drink, and I'll hike over and grab some grub for us.”

  The idea of getting upstairs and washing off the residue from Carl’s floor and the Mason city jail appealed to me. The drink sounded like an even better idea.

  “So,” Leo asked as he waved the card Kristi gave him. “Kristi? Are you two?”

  Chuckling, I said, “No, but, trust me, you aren't her type.”

  “Max, I’m everyone’s type.”

  “She prefers blonds,” I said, “and vaginas.”

  His ego visibly deflated a bit. “Maybe she...” he started.

  I put my hand up. “Don’t even finish that thought.”

  He shrugged. “At least, I have a decent lawyer.”

  He trotted down the street in search of food. The elevator dinged as I entered the lobby. When the door opened, Angela stood in the car. In a short sun-dress, she looked like she was dressed to go out, probably dinner.

  “You look great,” I fawned over her.

  “Thank you,” she said. Then her tone turned to concerned. “You look like you've been beaten up. Is everything okay, Max? I had two policemen come by last night asking about you.”

  “I'm so sorry. It’s fine. I mean, it’s not really fine. I’m okay though.” I added , “A friend of mine was murdered the other night.”

  She gasped. “What happened? Where?”

  I made a conscious decision not to share the where and how yet. Instead, I responded, “He tried to call me while I was with you. The police just wanted to make sure I had an alibi.”

  “How are you holding up?” she asked as she grabbed my hand.

  “Truth be told, it's complicated. He and I hadn't talked in a decade. I’m not even sure why he called me.”

  “He was murdered after that?” she asked. “While you were at my place?”

  I nodded.

  She stared at me with sad eyes. “You feel responsible, don’t you?”

  “I’m not really sure,” I lied.

  “Max, we’ve gotten close lately, and while I don’t know every intimate detail about you, I know you carry a lot of baggage.”

  “I’m sorry, Angela,” I said. “I’m not trying to throw anything at you like that.”

  She squeezed my hand. “Not to put more on this than it is,” she said, “but I do care about you. We are friends, after all. Even if there are benefits.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Do you need anything? I can come up and talk,” she offered.

  “No, you look like you are heading out. Date?”

  “Just dinner.”

  I said, “I'm just going to have a nice dinner of aspirin and bourbon.”

  She reached in her purse and pulled out two pills. “Vicodin. So much better than aspirin.”

  I took the two pills and thanked her. She leaned in and kissed my cheek.

  “Rest up, though,” she said. “I doubt this guy is going to make the cut, and I would like to repeat Saturday night.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I responded.

  She walked out of the lobby to a Toyota with a lighted Lyft placard. I was watching her walk, but my mind was elated.

  Angela was this gorgeous but caring woman. Perhaps, letting her go out with another man was a big mistake on my part. There had been several female companions in my life, but no serious relationship since Lisa. Maybe Angela had that potential.

  Stepping on the elevator, I decided to at least ask her to dinner. My thoughts were still swimming around her when the doors opened. I keyed the entry code and went to the kitchen.

  My head had been throbbing since I woke up on the floor of the roadhouse. My clothes were dingy, and my hair felt greasy. Overall, I needed a shower.

  The paramedic warned that I might have a concussion. It wasn't my first. The last time the emergency room doctor warned me about drinking alcohol. I didn't listen then, either.

  A 13-year-old Old Jefferson was in the cabinet. I poured two fingers into a tumbler and dropped one ice cube in it. Out of an idea of conservation more than anything else, I decided to take only one of the Vicodin. The other might be better served later when the first had worn off.

  After adding another shot of bourbon to my glass, I pulled an album from my collection. Robert Nighthawk’s 1964 Live at Maxwell Street. By the time the needle finished hissing through the speakers, my body was resting in the overstuffed chair facing the balcony doors. The sky was beginning to mellow from the deep, summer blue to hues of orange and purple.

  The bourbon and painkiller took little time to relax me, and before the needle made it through Nighthawk Shuffle, my eyes were closed.

  9

  Roxie’s was exactly the kind of place I expected it to be. Neon girls gyrated on the roof. Grimy stucco that had once been pink covered the exterior from a remodel in, what I estimated was, the 1990’s. No doubt the initial intent was to class the place up. If so, that was a complete fail.

  The engine of the red Hyundai coupe that the rental agency purred silently so that the cold air prevented me from breaking into a dripping sweat. I sat in the cool car and stared at the front of Roxie’s waiting for anything of interest.

  When morning arrived, or rather when my eyes finally opened, I was in my bed, still dressed from yesterday. The back of my head was still throbbing. Luckily, there didn’t seem to be any swelling.

  Despite the splitting headache, I stared at the ceiling above my bed, trying to rein in the myriad of avenues my brain was traveling down. Thoughts swirled around about Nathan and his daughter. Nathan was a father. I didn’t really know him anymore. The Nathan I knew enjoyed shotgunning beers and doing keg stands. Not the little league coach.

  Nathan changed since our college days. Everyone evolves, but it’s not something we can see in ourselves.

  There comes a point, I suppose, in everyone’s life when the idea of a family seems unlikely. While children were never some goal I was seeking to
achieve, there was a sense that one day that might happen. Someone to carry on the Sawyer name. As time passes, I think it might have slipped past me. I don't have any serious prospects, and I'm not really looking.

  A few years ago, I thought I had it. Fate proved me wrong. For the last few years, I resigned myself to a solitary life. Friends and passing lovers. The only family I had was far from me. Being alone seems like my destiny. I'm not usually that bothered by it. Who I am makes me happy.

  But this morning, Nathan was on my mind. He was someone that, ten years ago, I would have considered a similar soul. Yesterday, I realized that he had changed, but so had I. According to Alison, he had spent countless hours searching for her. Right up to his death. He was single-minded, a trait that I had found was ever-present in me.

  That all lead me to this moment. Sitting in an air-conditioned Hyundai. Watching a strip club in an industrial area of Memphis. Waiting to confront a sex peddler.

  Elon Manning wasn't hard to research. Manning was on the edge of the news. He proclaims himself to be a restaurateur and entrepreneur. He does own a few restaurants. None of them have white tablecloths or a wine list. Not that I don't love a hot wing or fried chicken. He also owns four different gentlemen's clubs in Memphis.

  If Mama was right, and I wagered that she knew what she was talking about, then Manning used this club as his base of operations.

  My phone showed a picture of him from a story about his recent purchase of a building in a more suburban area of Memphis. Residents were in an uproar, according to the newspaper, because Manning would only be buying this property in order to build a strip club next door to the neighboring church and preschool. Of course, the residents wouldn't know about the purchase if the reporter hadn't told them they should be scared of it. At least the media had something it could use to stir the public ire.

  The photo was taken at an upscale event. Manning wore a crisp black suit and a half-smile. Silver streaks cut down both sides of his head. He was in his early 50’s. He wore a tightly shaved goatee. At a glance, he looked sleazy. Or maybe, my mind gave him that designation subliminally.

  For the last half hour, I watched the building. The afternoon sun was baking everything. Heatwaves emanated off every surface. Roxie’s was slow this afternoon. Only a handful of guys came and went, but then it seemed evident that the crowd stayed away from the club during daylight hours.

  On the way here, Leo suggested a different tact. He would scout the club for Manning. At first, I thought he must feel a little guilty about my getting clubbed in the head yesterday. However, I didn’t think he would ever let that kind of thing show.

  The longer I sat in the lot, the more I decided that he just wanted to hang out with the naked women.

  By now, he had been in there for nearly 40 minutes. From the text he sent, I knew that there were eight customers, one bartender, six dancers, one cocktail waitress, and three potential threats. Plus one 50-year-old African American that fit Manning’s photo. Leo had even included a grainy photo he snapped from his phone.

  No time like the present, I told myself. Plus, I was tired of sitting at this point. I squinted, even through my sunglasses, as I crossed the pothole-filled parking lot to the door. The inside of Roxie’s was almost pitch black compared to the outdoors. My eyes took several seconds to adjust as a behemoth of a man asked me for the five-dollar cover. When I handed a bill to him, he swiped a handheld metal detector over me before opening a wide oak door separating the entrance from the naked girls.

  The only clue that it was daylight outside of this cave, filled with strobe lights and the din of AC/DC vibrating my bones through the speakers, was the obvious lack of clientele. A bouncer leaned against the bar, talking to two dancers sharing a plate of nachos. A third girl hung from a brass pole, gripping it with only her right knee. The leg strength was something to behold. Four of the eight patrons sat at the edge of the stage motionless. Their faces showed zero interest. I wasn't sure why they would bother to pay to look at naked girls if it didn't excite them. Of course, too much excitement could be worse. A precarious balancing act on par with the one hanging ten feet above the stage.

  Scanning the tables, I counted three of the other patrons. Manning sat at a table in a back corner. His was the only table with a reading lamp. He showed less interest in the girls. Instead, he was intently reading. His face glowed eerily, illuminated from the tablet he was holding.

  My head swiveled to find Leo. I couldn't see him anywhere. Not seeing Leo doesn't mean he can't see you.

  A thick dark-skinned man, obviously the third of the three threats Leo noted, was sitting at a table near Manning. His eyes stared at the phone in his hand.

  When I neared the table the bodyguard looked up.

  “Mr. Manning,” I said approaching with some measure of caution. Both of my hands remained visible. The last thing I wanted was to be judged as a threat and shot.

  The bodyguard rose, and I locked eyes on him for a second.

  “Can I help you?” Manning said in an ingenuous tone.

  “ I’m looking for a girl,” I said.

  He grinned viciously and motioned toward the girl now sliding down the pole as “Rock You Like a Hurricane” echoed through the empty club. “I believe you are looking in the wrong direction,” he said.

  “ Yeah, I’m looking for someone a lot younger,” I said, “ a 15-year-old girl that was kidnapped in Cincinnati a year ago.”

  Manning’s eyes flicked toward his bodyguard who I already sensed on my approach.

  “I think you need to leave,” Manning said.

  “I want to talk first,” I demanded.

  A hand gripped my arm, and I cut my eyes to see the bodyguard’s other hand resting on a gun holstered under his jacket. “Mr. Manning said to leave,” the man said.

  The next second blurred as the bodyguard jerked away from me and rolled to the ground. Leo caught his wrist and flicked the gun to the ground. I scooped it up and turned leveling it at the bouncer who had been leaning against the bar. He had barely made it three steps toward the ruckus before the barrel of the gun stopped him.

  Leo rose up, keeping his foot pressed against the bodyguard’s neck. “Don’t get up,” he ordered the man on the floor as he motioned for me to hand him the gun.

  When I did, he pointed at the bouncer and wagged his finger forward, ordering him to take a seat. The man obeyed, and Leo retrieved a Glock from his waistband. He handed the second gun to me. Then he pulled the bodyguard up off the floor and pushed him into the seat next to the bouncer.

  “Now,” Leo said calmly, “why don’t we get back to the question at hand.”

  Manning stared at the whole encounter as if the outcome was of no concern. He offered a shrug.

  “The girl I am looking for is a 15-year-old that was kidnapped last year,”I repeated.

  “I don’t kidnap girls,” he stated.

  “I didn’t say you did, but my understanding is that you know about such things.”

  “Your understanding is wrong.”

  “Let’s say it isn’t,” I said. “ Hypothetically, of course. Let’s say you are aware of and probably even participate in the trafficking of minors. If that were true, then it might be worth killing someone over.”

  “It’s not true. I haven’t killed anyone.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t. You have guys for that sort of thing.”

  Manning folded his hands. “If that were true, hypothetically, then annoying someone like me might be detrimental to your existence.”

  Leo laughed, and Manning’s eyes darkened.

  “I’m not overly worried,” I assured him.

  Manning stared at me blankly.

  I let out a sigh. “You know, let me lay my cards out.”

  I placed the Glock on the table, then I pulled my phone out and opened a picture of Naomi.

  “I just want to find this girl.” I placed the phone on the table so Naomi was smiling at Manning.

  “Everything I h
ear is that if it involves girls in Memphis, then Elon Manning has his fingerprints on it.”

  He held his glare

  “This probably wasn’t the best way to get your attention, but we have already burned that bridge. This girl’s name is Naomi. Even if you don’t have her working, I bet you know who might.”

  Manning leaned back and folded his arms.