by Stuart Jaffe
“I take it you did the landscaping for this brothel?”
Robertson scowled. “No, I did not. You need to have some patience, young man. Let me tell the story.” To emphasize his point, he took a leisurely sip of his coffee. He set it back down with a soft clink.
Drummond slid in close to Robertson. “Give him time. You can see it on his face. He really wants to tell this story.”
Max did as instructed. He exuded serenity as he waited. Drummond was right. Robertson was eager to tell his story.
“Now, there I was, a little kid, mowing lawns, weeding, and such. And it comes that our group got hired to do some homes that were on Elizabeth — same road as this brothel. As boys are wont to do, we got a lot of talking going on. One of the boys, his name was Nico — big Italian fellow — he ran the whole business. There was a home about two doors down from the brothel. The missus, she clearly had an eye for Nico, and whenever we mowed that lawn, she always found reasons to call him inside.”
“Sorry to interrupt, but that house — was it a blue house?”
A flicker of something shot across Robertson’s face, but it vanished before he spoke again. “Yup. The blue house. Anyway, this woman, she’d take Nico in and do their thing. I was too young, of course, to know what was going on, but he would come out and tell stories and we all learned about the birds and the bees from those tales.
“Here’s where the story’s going to take a turn that you might be interested in. You see, Nico bragged that this woman, while her husband was away, would take him down into the basement and they’d have their fun in a tunnel. He called it the Tunnel of Love.”
“A tunnel?”
“Yup. He said we wouldn’t believe what we’d see there because the tunnel led to the brothel.”
“Why is there a tunnel from a stranger’s house to the brothel?”
Robertson shook his head and shoulders at the same time. “You ain’t too smart.”
Drummond nodded. “I’ve got to second that one.”
“You see, young man, Prohibition was going on at the time. If you’re going to run an illegal operation like a brothel — a place full of music, dancing, and parties going on — then that means lots of alcohol. And you’ve got to get the alcohol in. Even if there were a bunch of police on the take, you can’t just be hauling bathtubs of hooch through the front door. A corrupt cop can only turn a blind eye to so much. Not to mention that, considering all the high-level members of society that were rumored to frequent this particular establishment, those people would need a way to get in and out without being seen. I don’t know if you’ve been around that area, but the houses are awful close together.”
Max smirked. “So, they had a deal with the people in the blue house. With all the booze coming in and the people who had to protect their image sneaking through the tunnel, presumably, the owners of the blue house got a payoff. Is that about right?”
“Now you’re understanding. Anyway, Nico really wanted to show off all that was going on. Especially after some of the boys started ribbing him and doubting him. So he said next time the lady of the house called him in, he would take her upstairs to the bedroom. Then we would be able to sneak on in, go downstairs to the basement, and check out the Tunnel of Love for ourselves. Who knows? Maybe we’d even get to see what goes on in that brothel. Well, for a bunch of young boys, there was no question we were going. Next week came around, she called Nico in, and we gave him about five minutes before we all tiptoed down to the basement.
“There it was. This low tunnel leading off into the dark with stairs running down. One of the fellows with us, Jimmy, he got cold feet. So, we posted him on the stairs to warn us if Nico and the lady got finished before we were ready. Then me, Felix, and Coco all went down the tunnel. It was a dank place, not well lit, and all brick. On one side, there were shelves full of liquor. All different kinds. I’d never seen so much booze in my life. When we got to the end, we saw a big, metal door with a sliding peephole up top. We had no doubt that on the other side of that door, we’d find a guard. If we didn’t know the password, we’d not be getting any further. Had to be careful back in those days when it came to such things.
“Before you ask, we didn’t knock, we didn’t know any secret word, and I ain’t ever been in that brothel. But even with those walls and doors being thick, we could hear enough. We sat there and listened to somebody partaking in the brothel’s services.” Robertson gazed at the ceiling, his wrinkled mouth twisting as if he had tasted a foul meal. “I had never heard sex before. Based on the performance that woman gave, I had a misconception about what to expect when my first time came around quite a few years later. We did swipe a taste of all the booze. Nasty stuff, but we had a hell of great time getting drunk. Lots of fun. Until Jimmy yelled for us to get out. We ran back outside and tried our best to mow the lawn without throwing up.
“That’s really all I go to tell you. Hope that helps you out, answers your questions, and gives you whatever you’re looking for. Now, if you’ll excuse me, a friend of mine is coming out here to meet me in a few minutes so that we can play some Magic and talk over happier times.” He put out his hand and waited for Max to shake it.
As Max rode along the highway back towards Winston-Salem, Drummond floated above the passenger seat and stared. “Something on my face?” Max said. “What do you want?”
“You don’t seem satisfied by what we learned.”
“You’re the big detective. You didn’t really buy that whole thing. Didn’t it seem like some made-up, little fantasy?”
“In my experience, never underestimate the will of a man trying to get whores and alcohol. Especially a young man.”
“Maybe. But something didn’t feel right. Besides, Robertson couldn’t have been more than eight at the time. Hardly an age to be seeking out whores.”
“Depends. Some of us are more masculine than others. I had urges from when I was six.”
“Stop right there. I don’t want to know about your urges.”
“Look, I told you Robertson might be holding back something. But as far as I could tell, he seemed like a nice, old man. I didn’t get a sense that he killed anybody or anything like that.”
“I’m not saying anything that extreme. I just think there’s more to the story.”
“There always is. But if you think he’s lying, I can go out to this brothel and pass right through the ground. If there’s a tunnel, I’ll find it.”
“No. I’m pretty sure it does exist. Your confirmation of it is important, but we’ve got something more important to do right now. Your friend Floyd Johnson’s waiting for us. We need to talk with him. Maybe what he says will clear things up, save us all a lot of trouble. And I can’t have you checking out this tunnel when I need you in order to talk to Floyd Johnson.”
“Your wife can talk to Floyd Johnson for you.”
Max struggled to keep his face stoic. “Sandra has a few things to take care of today. She’ll be with us later, but right now, I need you. You’re the experienced detective.”
Drummond made no attempt to hide his smile. “That I am. Glad you’re finally learning to appreciate me. Let’s go.”
Chapter 20
Drummond directed Max to the Skinner Warehousing Company — an old brick and steel complex situated on the northern side of Winston-Salem. It sat on a hill with a concrete drive wide enough to handle three trucks. Aside from the main building, two more were connected by a rusting, tin overhead walkway. Weeds poked through cracks in the concrete. Bits of the brick walls had been chipped off. Yet fresh paint covered several docking bay doors as well as doors on the fire escape — all painted a garish purple.
As Max pulled up the drive, he saw an open field in his rear view mirror. It looked to be several acres before the city continued on with more warehouses and other industrial buildings.
Max shut off the car but did not get out. He watched the warehouse. “I thought we were going to a cemetery.”
“This is where Flo
yd Johnson was buried. He never got a real grave. He died in the early 1900s. Back then, this was mostly fields. Over time, the city built up and on top of him.”
“Please tell me Floyd isn’t Native American. This isn’t something like an Indian burial ground.”
Drummond snickered. “No. Back in those days, lots of people got buried out in the woods or where there weren’t many homes. Cheaper than a cemetery.”
“You said he died tragically. What happened to him out here?”
“My informants said he died tragically, but nobody could tell me how.”
“Then how can they know it was tragic?”
“Because he won’t move on, yet he’s hiding in the middle of this warehouse. Something bad had to have happened to him.”
“Yeah. I suppose. You know, this place looks like it’s actively being used. You have a plan for how we’re going to get in there and talk to Floyd?”
“We sneak in, of course. I’ll go through the wall, unlock a door for you, we go on in. He should be hanging out in the middle of warehouse B, which is filled with boxes, crates, that kind of thing. Long as we keep it mostly quiet, nobody’s going to know we’re there.”
“You’ve already checked the place out?”
“I’m good at what I do.”
“So you keep telling me. Okay, since you’ve done the reconnaissance, do we have to worry about surveillance cameras or anything like that?”
“As long as the doors are opened from the inside, they don’t trip the alarm. If you open them from the outside, you’ve got about thirty seconds to punch in a code. But I’ll be opening the door for you, so there won’t be any problem. You’re going to be fine.”
“Somehow you don’t instill me with great confidence.”
While Drummond flew through the building, Max scurried up the drive. Cars rolled by on the main road behind him. Though none of the cars stopped, though nobody jumped out and yelled Hey, what are you doing? Max still felt as if a giant, neon sign flashed an arrow over him with the word CRIMINAL emblazoned upon its side. He wished he had waited until the night for this excursion, but had he done that, he would have been facing a ghost in the dark. Perhaps this way was better.
Up ahead a side door opened outward. Max’s blood paused until he saw Drummond step forward. The ghost held the door and gestured Max in.
“Anytime now,” Drummond grunted.
Other than the strain in Drummond’s voice, Max saw no sign of the pain the ghost endured. Touching the corporeal world always brought with it burning agony. Max jogged ahead and slid in past the ghost.
When the door closed, only sunlight illuminated the warehouse; however, stacked crates blocked most of the windows, cutting the light further. Dust clouded the little light that managed to break through.
“Stay close so you don’t get lost.” Drummond floated ahead. Though his pale skin glowed in the darkness, he shed no light on the surroundings. As Max followed his partner deeper into the warehouse, the limited light dimmed even more. Glancing down some pathways, all Max saw was darkness. Without warning, Drummond halted, and Max nearly walked through the ghost.
Drummond put a finger to his lips. “He’s right up ahead.”
Of course, Max saw nothing. But long ago, he had decided that seeing one ghost was more than enough. Drummond flew over a section of the boxed-in corridor. He dropped down with fists on hips, facing Max. “Floyd Johnson, I get the feeling you’re trying to avoid me.” Drummond’s smarmy face dropped. “He’s running Max. Stop him!”
Before Max could point out the idiocy of Drummond’s command, he felt ice pass straight through his body, prickling his skin and numbing his teeth — Floyd Johnson had just zipped by. Drummond dashed through a wall of crates. From a distance, Max heard, “This way, Max. Follow me. Follow my voice. I need your help.”
Max tore off into the darkness, following every time Drummond cried out his name. He had no clue what he could do to help, but for the moment, he simply followed in a bizarre version of Marco Polo.
“This way, Max, this way! Come on, Floyd. Stop making this so hard. We just want to talk. Max, over here!”
Max sprinted down one corridor and up another — and twice found himself facing a dead end. All the time, Drummond continued to shout his name and that of Floyd Johnson. Max raced back and opted on a different direction, hoping to meet up with Drummond fast. Up ahead, he caught sight of an open crate with a crowbar leaning against it and a black Sharpie balanced on the top edge. The crowbar wouldn’t help fighting a ghost. But a Sharpie — that gave Max an idea.
With marker in hand, he ran harder, cutting down one direction than another, until he finally reached Drummond. His partner hovered at the opposite end of a small clearing with a worktable set to the side. From Drummond’s pose, Max had a pretty good idea that Floyd Johnson stood in the middle — between them all.
“Come on, pal. We only want to talk,” Drummond said.
Max uncapped the marker. He drew a circle on the side of the nearest crate and filled it in with gibberish symbols. “Floyd, that there’s a holding sigil. You can ask Drummond how nasty that can be. You can get near this, now, without it causing a lot of pain. But if I have to, I’ll put the final mark on it, and you’ll be sorry.”
Drummond nodded. “You don’t want to mess with Max. He’s very talented with magic.” Drummond’s smile disappeared into a cold, hard expression. “Floyd says you may be strong with magic, but you ain’t as strong as the Hulls.”
Max’s throat tightened. He moved a few steps closer. “Let us help you. We promise we’ll protect you from the Hulls.”
“That’s right,” Drummond said. “You can trust us. Whatever they got to do with this, we can handle it.” Drummond listened for a moment, then continued, “No, no. You can believe me. That there is Max Porter. Now, look at me, Floyd. The Hulls cursed me, but I’m free thanks to that guy. He’s not afraid of them. He’s stood up to them many times before. But we can’t help you if you clam up. We’ve got to know your side of this, what your involvement is.”
Max waited in the ghostly silence as Floyd responded. After a while, Drummond looked straight at Max. “You are not going to believe this.”
Chapter 21
On June 3, 1898, Floyd Johnson considered himself to be one of the luckiest black men alive — he had been hired by The Casper Company to work in their warehouses, helping ship crates of whiskey. Besides being better than any job Floyd had ever had, it got him away from the back-breaking labor of the tobacco fields. For a man whose parents had been plantation slaves, this job meant a promotion to a better life for him, potential to provide for a wife, and possibly even enough money for a child.
Not two months in, he met Milton Hull. (Max raised an eyebrow. “Another Hull?” Drummond shrugged. “It’s Winston-Salem. You’ll always hit into the Hulls.”) Milton was a sharp-looking man with slicked hair and a pencil-thin mustache. He moved with confidence like a movie star who knew everyone watched him and wanted to be like him. At the same time, there was a weakness just behind that mustache. A trembling child within him. Whenever he let a glimpse of that truth slip through, he lost all of his swagger for a few seconds.
Floyd had always been a quick-witted fellow, and Milton liked that. He also liked that Floyd would do most of the heavy lifting in the warehouse.
At lunchtime, the two would often share beers on the rooftop. The entire time, Floyd would be nervous and uncomfortable. White people never treated a man like Floyd this way, and if anyone else in the city found out, it could be dangerous — even deadly. However, this particular white man had the name Hull, and that changed a lot in the equation. Floyd knew that the Hulls were good friends to have. Obviously, Milton was learning from the ground up so that he could be involved in management in the years to come. Though Floyd never saw another Hull, he figured Casper must have struck a deal, either for money or influence, and Milton’s employment was part of the deal.
As their lunches became more frequ
ent, Milton opened up more of his life. He revealed that his connection to the Hull family came via a cousin to those in power. No Hulls controlled The Casper Company. Milton had applied for the job on his own. He planned to learn the whiskey business so that he could start his own company sometime down the road.
“See here, Floyd,” Milton said, smoothing down his mustache. “The Hull family, they like the male bloodline. And I’m a cousin through my mother. You understand? My last name — it ain’t even really Hull. It’s Smalls. So, the main family probably ain’t too happy with me using their name. I say screw ‘em. I’m learning the whiskey trade fast, and when I can, I’m going to break away from this joint and start my own whiskey trade. And I want you to come with me.”
It wasn’t until 1900 that Milton found his opportunity. All during those two years, he worked on Floyd and when the time came, he had convinced Floyd to join. For Floyd, the decision was monumental. Giving up a job that had provided him much — only three months earlier, he had married Priscilla Kumsar, and they hoped to have a baby soon. Not that that made for the best time to leave, but Milton promised great success and a higher position — running the entire warehouse. That was more than Floyd ever imagined achieving in his life, so he grabbed the opportunity.
Milton never revealed his full plan until they both had quit — an unpleasant affair but with the result that The Casper Company promised they would never work in the whiskey business again. That first night, as they operated their still in the woods north of downtown Winston-Salem, Milton produced a crate full of empty, blue Casper bottles. He then explained that magic — witchcraft — was a real thing. The Hull family had access to witches, and though Milton’s low standing in the family prevented him from directly using these magical women, he had certainly learned a lot from them over the years. He knew a spell or two.