Killer Nashville Noir

by Clay Stafford

• • •

  The blood loops swiftly down the new pair of tubes, into the two fresh, flattened sacks on either side of the donor chair. The chair is now reclined beyond horizontal, the head angled halfway to the floor. George surveys the pair of needles in the pale neck, burrowed into the two jugular veins, which continue to drain even though the heart has stopped. “How’d you manage to hit those veins, Blanca?” he asks. “I’m thinking the blood bank didn’t teach you that.”

  “No. I learned that in El Salvador. We did a lot of makeshift surgeries in the clinic, sewed up a lot of guerillas. I could pump a few more ounces out of him if I cracked his chest and massaged his heart, but I don’t think we want to get that messy. This will get us to six pints.” A slight smile tugs at her mouth. “So you were telling the truth after all, George.”

  “What truth is that, Blanca?”

  “When I fussed at you on the phone for staying away so long, you said you’d make it up to me. These six units? That’s a whole year’s worth.”

  He beams—the first full-faced smile he’s managed since Maddie’s death. The first, in fact, since the last time he saw Blanca. “But wait, there’s more,” he says.

  She shakes her head. “No way. After these two, he really will be done, George.”

  “He will. But I won’t.”

  He walks around the ashen, lifeless form lying between them and kisses her brown forehead lightly. Then he eases himself into the donor chair behind her. “I hate to make more paperwork for you, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d get six more bags.” She stares down at him, her eyes widening. “My truck’s backed right up to the loading dock. The key’s in the switch; the chains and blocks are in the bed—two sets.” She crosses herself. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt your back. You got a gurney somewhere in here?” She nods slowly. “Just wheel us out and slide us into the bed of the truck. There’s a tarp there, too. You might want to cover us up for the drive down to the river.” He grins. “When you get to St. Marks, pull right up against the railing—don’t worry about scraping up the truck; it’s a piece of shit anyhow. Heave us right over the side. Piece of cake for a woman who used to carry wounded guerillas out of the jungle.” He holds up a cautionary finger. “Make sure you dump us in the middle of the channel, though, not on the bank.” He hesitates, and then adds, almost shyly, “Say a prayer for me when I hit the water?”

  “George,” she begins, but he holds up a hand to silence her, his index and middle fingers raised, almost as if in benediction. Then he pivots the two arms of the donor chair outward, so they’re at right angles to his body, and arranges himself on the cruciform shape.

  As she goes to collect needles and bags, he closes his eyes and imagines himself floating, hovering above incubators and operating tables. “This is my blood,” he murmurs to the babies, “which is shed for you and for many.”

  SHUTTER SPEED

  by Anne Perry

  Jenny McAllister might not have been the most beautiful woman in the great hall, but she was certainly the most memorable. Even in the London high society of Wallis Simpson’s circle, the passion in her face drew attention, as if there were a flame inside her that no pain or fear could quench. The Great War had been over for eighteen years, but the horror of it still permeated everything. The remnants of a lost generation danced too wildly and laughed with too much ease. The cocktails, the music, and the elegance masked the fear, but did not hide it.

  Herr Hitler had raised Germany from the ashes again and brought order, hope, and work to the whole country. The Great Depression was lifting at last. And yet there were people who could not see the shape of the future. They looked at the changes and spoke of another war. Jenny could remember the women in the village gathering, grey-faced. Almost every family had lost a husband, a brother, a son. Some had lost all. Even those who returned were unrecognizable as the young men who had gone, heads high, willing to give their lives. Those who returned were maimed in body and in soul. Jenny looked in their eyes and saw the ghosts of those they had left behind. It must never happen again, for any reason at all, no matter what the cost.

  Beside her, Ivor Cavendish tucked his arm into hers and together they moved into the crowd. His will for peace was as strong as hers. That was why they were here at this hectic party with the laughter and the wine. Of all the things she loved about him, his willingness to speak out against the warmongers was the most important.

  He bumped against the camera in its case over her shoulder. “Do you have to bring that even here?” he asked with a wince.

  She smiled back at him. “Of course I do, I’m not willing to be a fashion photographer forever. If I can get one really good picture of Wallis Simpson, I could get magazine editors to take me seriously.”

  “There are already hundreds of pictures of her, Jenny,” he shook his head.

  “Not ones that reveal who she really is, behind the façade,” she argued. “The camera can tell truths more powerfully than any amount of words, truths that you can’t forget, or disbelieve.”

  His answering look was affectionate, but unconvinced. He saw Daniel Carslake, one of their group, all passionately keen to persuade, to work, and to argue for peace in the distressing political climate of Europe. Daniel was pushing his way through the crowd, Maude Dennison a step behind him, their faces eager.

  “Just not under Oswald Mosley,” Maude said before Daniel could speak. “We’re gaining strength, Ivor.” She acknowledged Jenny with a smile, but Ivor was the leader. “Lord Halifax is gaining more support all the time,” she added.

  Jenny looked at Daniel and saw a mixture of emotions in his dark face. He was an enthusiast, and yet things were always more complicated with him. He saw nuances others missed, moral implications that troubled him. At least that was what she thought.

  “True,” he agreed with Maude. “And the Prime Minister is pretty sensible. It’s only Churchill that’s the real warmonger. I don’t know why he can’t see that Hitler’s our natural ally, and the real enemy is Russian communism.”

  “He doesn’t matter,” Maude said quickly. “His career is finished.”

  Ivor nodded. “We don’t need to consider him. It’s nothing to us if Germany expands to the east. Bring a little order and moral discipline.”

  Daniel hesitated, but it was no more than a shadow across his face. “Of course not,” he agreed. “Come on. We’ve got people to meet!” He turned and led the way further into the room where three or four friends were clearly waiting for them.

  The music seemed to be everywhere, sentimental, recklessly bright, words that were witty, and yet said everything about dancing with ghosts along the verge between passion and disaster.

  Ivor’s arm tightened around Jenny’s shoulder and she felt the warmth of it with a surge of pleasure. They were on the edge of becoming lovers, and she was more than ready for it. It was a commitment to the will to live, to build a new world, no matter who stood in their way.

  They moved through the warm summer night from hall to garden, always to laughter, and to one or two couples dancing in the street. There were parties everywhere. Jenny took photographs of several famous people, beautiful women in gowns that she would love to have worn herself. Fashion was exquisitely feminine again, easy, flowing, and unashamedly sophisticated. It was part of her job, and she must do it, until she could do what she wanted, which was to take pictures of what really mattered: news, triumph and tragedy, portraits filled with light and shadow that caught the character in an instant of revelation.

  At the third party, she became separated from Ivor because she caught a glimpse of the Prince of Wales and seized her chance to photograph him. He was standing in the half-light, watching people dance, and he looked oddly wistful. He was a small, slender man with fair hair, and the face of a Peter Pan who might never grow up. She caught him perfectly, or so she thought. She would know for certain only when she developed the film in her darkroom at home.

  It was an hour later when she encountered the notorio
us Mrs. Simpson in one of the richest houses on Park Lane. She was emerging from a darker corridor into the main landing under the chandeliers. She was totally composed, certain that people were looking at her. The shadow caught her for a moment, passing from one light to another. Jenny took two pictures. If she had timed it as she meant to, she would have captured the instant of uncertainty just before the harder, more brittle public composure returned. Wallis was about the same height as the Prince, angular, almost aggressively elegant, and terribly alone against the darkness behind her.

  Jenny knew that she really must go now and find Ivor. Even if he were annoyed with her, he would understand if the pictures she had taken were anywhere close to as good as she believed. She knew where they had planned to go, and she would catch up with them.

  Outside in the street, people were milling around, laughing, flirting, perhaps a little drunk, but she passed through them easily enough. She saw Lucas Garrow, one of Ivor’s group, but one she was not certain that she liked, mostly because he behaved as if he were trying to exclude her, and she resented it. She walked on, deliberately avoiding him.

  The next street was on the edge of a square, and there were several young men standing on the corner half in light, half in shadow. They were clearly involved in a heated discussion. She heard a couple of insults, pretty unpleasant. Someone threw a punch and it landed hard enough to send the other man sprawling. Quite suddenly it was truly ugly, arms swinging hard and low, a scream of pain. They were too far from the streetlamp to see anything clearly.

  This was far more than a few aristocrats at a party, fighting over a difference of political opinion. She opened up her camera case and began to focus, but there was no time to fiddle with exposure. She shot as many pictures as she could, at least three of them savage blows on an unmoving figure. She could not intervene, but at least she could make news of it, perhaps even expose those involved. They would be just the same young men who went to war before, blindly and willingly. She might show them clearly enough to stir up the undecided, the watchers who refused to fight for peace.

  She was still taking pictures when she felt Ivor’s hand on her arm and the next moment he had taken the camera away from her.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded furiously, his voice loud and high pitched. “You could get yourself killed!” He forced her away, half dragging her from the pavement across the road and into a side street, hurting her arm with the strength of his grip.

  “It was just a street fight, Ivor,” she protested, angry herself now. “Young men too drunk to behave discreetly. It could well serve our cause, if they’re the ones spoiling for another war. When I develop them we’ll see who they are. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “Not at the cost of you being attacked!” he responded. “You’re damned lucky no one saw you with that bloody camera!”

  “Give it back to me,” she said levelly. They were in the shadows between street lamps. “Ivor, I’m not hurt. Please don’t make a fuss.”

  He passed the camera back to her. “You should have more sense!” He was still angry, still frightened for her.

  She took his arm and moved closer to him. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve got some great pictures of Wallis Simpson, and I’m fine.”

  “I’ll come with you,” he said immediately. “If there’s anything in your pictures that the police should see, we’ll take them to the station.”

  “Thank you,” she accepted with a sudden upsurge of gratitude.

  He tightened his arm around her. “Come on, Sweetheart! Did you think I’d leave you to do it alone?”

  • • •

  At her flat, she went straight to the darkroom and began to work, Ivor behind her, watching, but being careful not to get in her way. As soon as the door was closed, she doused the light and transferred the film from the cartridge onto the developing reels and then into the tank. With its lid firmly in place, she turned the light on again and added the developing solution. In between rhythmically agitating the tank, she poured the printing chemicals into their trays, and the smell of the undiluted stop bath was revolting. But she was used to it, and nothing could distract her from the process.

  It was not until she had developed, washed, and dried the negatives and was making her contact sheet that she felt Ivor so close behind her that his weight forced her against the table almost painfully. But she was too intent to complain as, slowly, the face of the Prince appeared.

  “God that’s good!” Ivor said in amazement. “You’ve caught…I don’t know what! It’s amazing…and frightening.”

  The warmth rushed through her. It was good, but far more importantly to her, Ivor could see it. He understood and valued her talent.

  The picture of Wallis was outstanding, too; it was enigmatic, almost frightening in its complexity, and there was an element of tragedy in it also. She could feel Ivor behind her, his breath on her cheek. His hand rested on her shoulder.

  She began on the strip of film frames that held the scenes of the fight. The negatives were almost transparent, which meant there was too little light, as she had feared. The prints would be all dark and muddy, maybe even indistinguishable. She looked at them one after another. In the second to last, it was clear that there was a body lying on the ground and a tiny white spot near it.

  Ivor’s hand was on her neck. He was hardly breathing.

  “Go on!” he urged. “Faces. You need faces!”

  She chose the best of them and exposed them onto the paper. As she slipped the paper into the developer, images emerged slowly in front of her. Ivor was pressing her so hard against the bench that the pain made her cry out.

  “It’s no good,” she gasped. “I’m sorry! Ivor! Don’t!”

  He let his breath out slowly and stepped back. “No, I’m sorry. I just hoped…I thought for a moment that you had something. But you’re right. It’s just too dark. It could be anyone. It would have been evidence…” He kissed her on the cheek, gently now. “But the pictures of Edward and Wallis are superb. You are a brilliant photographer, Jenny. I’m proud of you.”

  • • •

  The dead man in the fight was identified as their friend Dan Carslake. The shock and the grief of it caught them all. It seemed so totally pointless. Jenny was still thinking of it a week later when she stood in the garden of her grandparents’ house in the Cambridgeshire village of Selborne St. Giles. Her Uncle Joseph lived here now, with his wife, Lizzie. Jenny’s mother was his sister. The war had marked them all, in some ways Joseph the most deeply. He had been a chaplain in the trenches all the way through. Now he spent his time trying to help those who would never recover.

  She stood on the lawn and watched the sunset breeze whispering in the elm trees and the starlings wheeling across the sky, black against the light. It could have been 1914 again and she a child in the last hot summer of the world’s innocence, before war and the Depression had changed everything.

  She did not hear Joseph’s footsteps across the grass. He put his arm around her gently and she leaned into him a little.

  “What’s wrong with Uncle Matthew?” she asked him. One or two of Matthew’s remarks had hurt her this evening. He had been quick-tempered, and there was a gloom underlying most of what he had said. She had come home hoping for backing after the violence in the street, and Dan Carslake’s death. She had liked him, and also she felt a certain guilt that she had been so close, and done nothing, not even realizing what she was seeing.

  Joseph let his arm fall. “He lost a man this week,” he answered. “Intelligence Services, so he can’t say much about it, but it cuts deeply.” Matthew was high in one of the secret services, and she was used to the necessity for secrecy, and the loneliness of that. But she also knew that he did not approve of her pacifist sympathies.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. She meant it as sympathy, not apology. “I lost a friend too.” She found the words hard to say. “He was killed in a stupid fight in the street. Too much to dr
ink, and it all got ugly.”

  “Be careful, Jenny,” Joseph said softly. “You’re mixing with some strange people. I don’t think their values are really what you believe.”

  “Yes, they are,” she said vehemently. “I know they seem trivial at times, but underneath the banter, they care desperately. We don’t want another war! Surely you of all people can understand that? We didn’t know at the time what the war was really like, the trenches, no man’s land, the senseless, awful death of thousands of men every day. But you did! You were there! We aren’t going to let that happen again…not ever, for any reason at all. Hitler is only doing what he has to, to get order back into his country, and work, and food. Do you think it would be right, or even sane, to hate them forever?”

  “No…”

  “What then?”

  Joseph was silent for several moments. The last light shimmered in the elms and the breeze was still warm.

  “It isn’t what you want, or what you will fight for that is the real measure of a person,” he said at last. “It’s what weapons you are willing to use to get it. You cannot justify a thing if it is gained at someone else’s cost.”

  “We can’t fight everyone else’s battles either,” she said reasonably.

  “How close does it have to come before it’s your battle, Jenny?” he asked. “Your neighbor is the stranger beaten and left in the street anywhere. Not just the one in your own street whom you know already.”

  That stung. “Take off your dog collar, Uncle Joseph. I want to fight against there being another war for anyone, not just us.” She took a step away from him so he could not put his arm around her again. “I don’t hate anybody, except the old men who won’t let go of the hatreds, like Churchill and his friends, who want to start another war all over again. What’s the matter with them? Wasn’t half the world in ruins enough?”

  He started to say something, then changed his mind. “Be patient with Matthew,” he said instead. “He knew and liked the man he lost. He sent him himself, to penetrate one of the right wing groups who want us all lock-stepping into Utopian obedience and conformity, no laughter, no questions.” There was a bitterness in his voice that startled her. She turned to look at him and saw that the waning light accentuated the grief in his face. She put her arms around him and felt the fragility in him, and the weariness. He was sixty now, and working far too hard, trying to help countless men wounded from the last war.