Nell looked at him coolly, a hint of a smile on her face. “The word’s ‘prosecute,’ Jasper. And you’ve never been innocent in your life. Besides, if I’d ever prosecuted you, then you wouldn’t be here tonight.”
“I’d be breaking rocks in the federal joint, right?” He grinned.
“I don’t think they break rocks anymore,” she replied sweetly. “And certainly not at night. But I’m sure they have some other activities you’d find sufficiently unpleasant.”
“Ain’t she a delight?” Sparks asked, looking at me and laughing. “You always know where you stand with Little Nell.”
I hoped he was right.
We made small talk, then just after the waitress brought our orders the club’s owner appeared at my elbow. At least sixty years old, Sam Lodke dressed like he didn’t give a damn what he wore and probably didn’t. That night he was in a pair of threadbare khakis and a checked gingham shirt that had bargain rack written all over it. He was slim and dark and about five eight, and he walked with a pronounced limp from an old childhood injury. Back in his early years he’d been a class-A machinist and was said to be a highly skilled carpenter. People who knew him reported that he still loved to work with his hands. A millionaire several times over, he had his finger in every scheme and scam on the Gulf Coast between New Orleans and Mobile.
“Mr. Sam!” Sparks said in greeting. “Sit and have one with us. Meet my friend Hog Webern.”
“Pleased,” Lodke said, and gave me his hand, then turned to Sparks and shook his head. “I can’t stay, Jasper. But I wish you’d drop by the office before you leave. I’ve got some information for you.”
“Sure,” Sparks said expansively. “Always love your information. Thanks.”
A few minutes later I got up to go to the bathroom. The men’s room at the Gold Dust had a tiny foyer you had to go through to get to the door. Overhead a bright fluorescent light with a mild pinkish hue gave the little room an unearthly feeling. When I came out, Jasper Sparks stood leaning there in a corner, his drink in hand. “What’s up?” I asked.
“We need to talk a minute, Hog. If you have time.”
“Sure I got time, Jasper.”
“Listen,” he said. “I phoned a guy I know in Dallas this morning. It was a business call, but we got to visiting, this and that, you know how it is. And he, uhh…Well, he said you got some bad shit coming at you over this Danny Sheffield deal.”
The underworld grapevine always amazed me. Wallace had only put the story on the street two days earlier, and here it had already hit Biloxi. “Yeah,” I said. “I heard the same thing. But what can I do?”
“He claims they’re talking indictment,” he said.
I sighed. “What’s gonna happen is gonna happen.”
“How does that make you feel?”
I gave him a shrug. “Well, to tell you the truth, Jasper, it’s not the most pleasant prospect I can come up with at the moment, but as you know yourself a pending indictment and a conviction are two different things. That’s what you got to look at. A conviction. Everything else is just busywork.”
He nodded. “How’s your money holding up?” he asked, staring right at my face, his blue eyes hard and searching in the room’s harsh light.
I laughed a bitter laugh. “Going fast.”
“It always does, man.” He kept examining me closely as if he were trying to make up his mind about something. Finally he said, “I may have a couple of things coming down in the next few weeks if you thought you might be interested.”
Bingo! It was what I’d come for, but I hadn’t hoped for it nearly so soon. According to prison records, Jasper Sparks had an IQ in excess of a hundred and fifty, but in this case he was being very foolish. Deep down he believed that everyone was as corrupt and dishonest as he himself, and so eager was he to turn a cop and confirm this view that he had no more self-control in the matter than I’d had the day I saw my antique trolling rod hanging in that junk shop window. No doubt he was looking for some heavy talent, too. If he knew me, then he knew my record, and that told him that I could handle myself when the guns began to shoot.
“I don’t know, Jasper,” I said doubtfully, not wanting to appear too anxious to take up his offer. “That kind of activity leads to complexities, if you understand what I mean. And I’d really like my life to be a little simpler than that from here on out.”
“Who wouldn’t?” he asked with a laugh. “But sometimes a man can’t make a living that way.”
“You may be right.”
“I’d like to be able to tell you more, Hog. But it’s like with the Masons. You don’t get the big secret password until after you’re in.”
“That’s okay,” I told him, looking right into those cool blue eyes of his. “If I throw in with you I can handle it, whatever it is. If I don’t throw in, then I don’t want to know.” “Good enough,” he said, and stuck out his hand.
“Have fun?” Nell asked an hour later as I pulled out into the street.
“Hoods are always amusing to me,” I replied. “I’ve spent a lot of time with them in my life. That’s what a good part of police work is. Hanging around with criminal A trying to get something on criminal B.”
“So that’s how you do it?” she asked.
“Organized crime people do it that way. Hit the joints, talk to your informants, cultivate some new ones if you can. Whores make especially good snitches. You know, if you think about it, what I did wasn’t a whole lot different from what Sparks and that bunch back there at the Gold Dust do. You’re out there keeping weird hours, figuring the angles, looking for the opportunities. The main difference is that they’re looking for opportunities to rob and steal, and I was looking for a chance to nail them on something.”
“Sounds like a young man’s game to me.”
“It is, and that’s why I’m retired. By the way, Sparks said that you were a federal prosecutor at one time. Is that right?”
She nodded. “Assistant federal prosecutor. That’s why I was living in Dallas.”
“Then you know most of what I’m telling you, anyway.”
“Not necessarily. The majority of our cases came from the FBI, and they walked around in funky-looking suits and wrote things down in little black books. And if Hoover ever caught one of them talking to a whore, he’d have sent him to Outer Mongolia.”
“They’re good, Nell. You have to give them that.”
“They’d be better if they spent some time in the real world.”
“What do you want to do now?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Could we go to your place?” she asked softly. “You knew that’s what I had in mind, didn’t you?”
“I hoped it was,” I said, and tried to give her a sincere smile.
“Good. I’d hate to think I was imposing.”
I laughed at the idea. “But you certainly misled your poor old auntie about where you’d be spending the night.”
“Not really. I told her I was staying with a friend who lived down on Beach Boulevard a ways. And your motel is down Beach Boulevard, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. About six blocks down.”
“And we are friends, aren’t we?” she asked sweetly.
“God, I sure hope so. ...”
Eight
An hour later she slipped from the bed and donned her blue silk robe. Then she pulled a pint-sized silver flask out of her bag, and asked, “Brandy?”
“Sure,” I said.
She went in the bathroom and came back with two paper cups. After pouring us each a big shot, she curled back up on the bed beside me and handed me mine. “That was ...” she said.
“Was what?” I asked, a little anxiously.
“So gentle. You were…I don’t know…reverential, almost.”
“And why not? You’re the most beautiful woman I ever made love to. I’m grateful.”
“Oh, please—” she began, shaking her head.
I reached over and put my fingers gently over her mouth, sil
encing her. “It’s true,” I said. “Don’t ruin the moment by arguing with me.”
She stared at me, her gray eyes unblinking. “I think I believe you,” she said, her voice a near whisper. “I actually think you’re telling me the truth.”
“I am. I promise.”
“Do you think you could do it again?”
“Will you give me time to finish my brandy?”
Early the next morning I dropped her off at Vernon Kittrel’s office where she’d left her car the day before. We kissed good-bye in the parking lot after I’d promised to call her around five that afternoon. I had breakfast at a little café I’d found called Lucy’s Place, then returned to my room and read the Jackson papers. The war in Vietnam was grinding on into its sixth year. This war was necessary, the government claimed, in order to get a lasting peace in Southeast Asia. Which was necessary to stop the communists from taking over someplace else. I’d forgotten where because I was sick of the whole mess, just like ‘most everybody else I talked to.
About eleven I went out for a little more shopping. I dropped by the junk shop where I’d found my trolling rod, and while rooting around in the back room I came up with a nice Orvis bamboo fly rod from about the same period. I couldn’t resist it.
After I left the store I drove a few miles down the coast just to feel the deVille eat up the road. Later that afternoon I found myself gravitating back to the Gold Dust to see if anybody was there. I found Sparks and Hardhead Weller in the corner booth. After ordering a beer, I walked over their way, and asked, “What’s happening?”
“Slops Moline is coming to town,” Jasper said.
“Never heard of him,” I replied honestly.
“Well, he spends most of his time over around Atlanta and Charleston,” Sparks said. “So I don’t see why you should have. Come to think of it, I don’t believe he’s ever operated this far west before.”
“So why now?” I asked.
“Word is he did a couple of guys up in Providence about a week ago. They ain’t actually after him for it, but he thought maybe…Well, you know, out of sight out of mind.”
“Makes sense,” I said, not knowing how else to respond to such an illogical assessment of police priorities. “Tell me about it.”
“This is just street talk, you understand. But I think the way I got it is right. You see, his real name is Carmine. He’s one of those Charleston Italians, and his granddaddy fought in the Civil War. For the South, of course. And Slops, he don’t like Yankees. And he especially don’t like colored Yankees. Hell, I’m not sure he likes anybody, to tell you the truth. But anyway, he got his hands on a pound or thereabouts of smack. Now, Slops doesn’t normally fool with the drug trade, but this was just something he came up on in the course of business, you understand. Like something you’d find lyin’ in the road, if you get my drift.”
I nodded. “Sure. I understand.” I really didn’t, though. Packages of heroin never fell off anybody’s pickup down at Fredericksburg when I was growing up. But…
“Anyhow, he hears about this guy in Providence who’s supposed to be the Main Man when it comes to the junk trade. And Slops, he just wants to turn the stuff quick, make a little money, and be done with it. So he talks to some people who talk to some people who get in contact with the guy, and they set up a meet there in Providence. Then him and a running buddy of his named Little Larry Snow go on up there, and be damned if the two guys they’re supposed to meet with aren’t spades. Slops, he don’t like this worth a damn, but he figures since he’s come that far, he may as well go ahead and see what they got to say.”
I nodded. The attitude was nothing new to me. Back then it was rare for white southern hoods to do business with Negro criminals on any level. Especially in the hooking game. In fact, in a few towns like Kilgore, Texas, and Greenville, North Carolina, Dixie Mafia pimps had such good working relations with local authorities that any Negro pimp who tried to run white girls would find himself quickly dead and no questions asked. Even in Dallas, black pimps confined their activities to the area around Fair Park or over in Oak Cliff, a working-class section of the city west of the Trinity River. My old boss Bill Decker didn’t like the idea of white girls working under black pimps, and he didn’t allow it in Dallas County.
“Now, what you got to understand,” Sparks continued, “is that when it comes to business Slops is the kind of man who ain’t interested in socializing, if you get my drift. He’s a serious guy who likes to just forget all the amenities and get with it. But the head spade, he just won’t cut down and deal. Flat won’t get down to business. I mean he’s shuck-jiving and talking about what a boss player he is like he’s trying to impress Slops, which I don’t need to tell you ain’t gonna happen, anyhow. So this shit goes on and on until finally Slops just rips out his piece and shoots the guy. Right in the mouth.”
“No joke?” I asked.
“That’s the way I heard it. So the other spade, he says, ‘Shit!! How come you shoot my man?’ And Slops says, ‘He talked too much.’ So then this guy goes to squawking and running down a rap on them, saying, ‘Man, you can’t shoot nobody for talking too much.…Jabber! jabber! jabber!’ and on and on until Slops lets him have it too. Bang! Then he turns to Little Larry, and says, ‘Let’s go back home. All these fuckers up here talk too much to suit me.’ “
Back at my apartment I called Blanchard to try to get some information on Moline and Snow. He wasn’t in, but I managed to find Bob Wallace at his office in Garland. He told me to give him a little while to run the names. Thirty minutes later the phone rang. “Carmine Francis Moline,” he said as soon as I put the receiver to my ear. “Born Charleston, South Carolina, December second 1928, but he’s got a sheet that goes plumb back to the Ark.”
“What’s on it?” I asked.
“What ain’t?”
“In other words—” I began.
“In other words he fits right in with Sparks and the rest of that bunch.”
“How about Snow?” I asked.
“Lawrence Edward Snow. Born Dayton, Tennessee, October twenty-fifth 1935. He’s been charged with armed robbery, unlawful transportation of unlicensed alcohol, and grand-theft auto. Three felony convictions, two of them probated. One prison term. Three years’ federal time on the second transportation charge. Did eighteen months of it. He’s a naughty boy, but Moline is the real heavy. He’s suspected of killing two colored dope dealers up in Rhode Island last month. There’s no real evidence, so nobody’s getting all excited about it.”
After we hung up I showered and shaved and called Nell. She told me to pick her up at six. When I arrived Aunt Lurleen was nowhere to be seen, but Nell was dressed in a pair of jeans and an Ole Miss sweatshirt, and she was ready to go.
“What do you want to do?” I asked as soon as we were in the car.
“Let’s go get a hamburger.”
“A hamburger?”
“Yeah. There’s this little place over across the bay that makes the best in the state.”
“Okay,” I said. “Then what?”
She smiled wickedly. “Then we go back to your place and canoodle some more.”
Best hamburger I ever ate. The canoodling wasn’t bad either.
Nine
I took her home a little before eleven, then stopped by the Gold Dust. The crowd was thin that night. Only Sparks and Freddie Arps and two hookers were in the corner booth. The tall blond was absent, but Sparks had his arm around a cute little wench with big breasts and red hair. I signaled the waitress for a beer and headed their way. As I approached the booth, Sparks leaned over and spoke to Freddie Arps for a few seconds. Arps nodded, and then he and the two girls scooted from the booth and headed for the bar.
“How’s it going, Hog?” Sparks asked. “Could be better, to be honest with you.” “So I keep hearing. You think about what I said yesterday?” “A lot,” I replied with a nod.
“Looks to me like you may need some money for a good defense lawyer before long. I’m not moralizi
ng, you understand—” “I know, Jasper. I know exactly what you’re saying.” He looked at me closely. “Hog, did you do ol’ Danny Boy?” “Goddamn, Jasper! You know I’m not about to—” He held up his hand and stopped me. “Peace, man. I didn’t mean nothing by it. What I wanted to say is that you may hear about how me and Danny Boy were supposed to be big buddies, and I didn’t want you to worry about that. The fact of the matter is that in this business, being buddies ain’t exactly what it is in the square world, if you get my drift.”
I got his drift, and it was a revealing admission on his part. In his business there were no real friendships. Or damned few.
“Besides,” he said, his face grim with an old memory, “the fact is the sorry little cocksucker turned me around for eight thousand last year, so it was just a matter of time until I was gonna go after him myself.”
“What happened?” I asked.
He gave me a dismissive shrug. “Same old shit you hear about all the time. We did a job together, and he swung with the money. It was a private deal, just between me and him. Nobody else knows about it, so I’d just as soon you didn’t say nothing.”
“Sure, Jasper,” I said. “But from what I hear, you weren’t the only one. It seems like Danny had been turning a lot of people around lately,” I said.
Sparks nodded in wise agreement. He and I had ourselves a tacit understanding. It had been time for Danny Boy to go, and who actually sent him on his way was nothing more than a matter of chance and circumstance.
“So what about the deal we were talking about last night?” he asked. “You interested?”
“Jasper, you know that I spent most of my life working the other side,” I pointed out. “Can you live with that? I mean, I don’t want to be having to prove myself every third day, explain my movements and all that—”
He snorted scornfully. “Shit,” he said. “I’ve mobbed out with cops before. Right here in Biloxi, as a matter of fact.” He leaned forward, his hands cradling his drink, and said the most revealing thing I ever heard him say. “You see, Hog, I don’t believe there is another side. I think there’s just this big gray area in the middle, and the middle goes all the way out to the far edges.”
The Sweet and the Dead Page 6