Thorazine Beach

by Bradley Harris

  I’ve been receiving tailor-made dress shirts in the mail. From Thailand. “But they’re British style,” MacDonald says. And a couple of luridly European ties, definitely not from Thailand. Or eBay.

  Red Line’s looking for a real P.I. now, a no-pretend employee—they’re branching out. “No promises,” Eileen said yesterday. And she insisted on putting an ad in the paper. “It’s the thing to do. Protocol, you know.” She looked at me, dead cold. Smiled. Handed me an envelope. “But this might improve your chances.” Inside, unsolicited, a five-thousand-dollar bonus cheque, on the Dwayne Poteat case, from Giant Bloodsucking Insurance Group of America, made out directly to me. Some veepee even wrote a note on her own stationery: Jack…Thanks for the photo of the year!

  The Guest Inn has a new manager now. Met him Monday. Guy with a smile. “We are repaving, you are please parking over there, one veek only.” His badge read: Mr. Patel. I had to ask. “No,” he said. “Many Patel. Many many. You park there, please, one veek.”

  On a wider front, Barbara Jean McCorkle seems to have escaped the net. The FBI’s not talking. Nor INS. Nor Homeland Security. MacDonald’s on the whatsit-commission for real now, he tells me, but claims he’s out of the loop on that specific subject. He means, of course, he’s just not talking. But the TV news this morning said Interpol’s looking for Barbara Jean somewhere in eastern Europe. Where the girls in the pictures have gone, those of them still alive, is anybody’s guess.

  In more local news there’s this…I have not had a drink, now, in 447 days, by the grace of God, one damn day at a time. Mitzi will definitely need a new radiator, two new tires at least. But I think I can deal with that. I’ve finally bagged that bill stamp I’ve been looking for—the eight-cent first-issue blue, feather-in-the-bun, in a nice, bright block of four—mint, full gum, never hinged. And I heard a few minutes ago by phone, from MacDonald himself: Down on Mount Moriah, just an hour ago, Clayton McCorkle, alone in his room at the Marriott, dead.

  Somewhere, they tell me, Jesus weeps. I haven’t seen it myself. And even in the dark and the quiet, I haven’t quite heard. But for no reason I can fathom, I still believe.

  Acknowledgements

  To those who, in various times and ways, have taught me writing or encouraged that writing: Guy Bailey, Shelley Baur, John Bensko, David Carson, Jamie Clarke, Teresa Dalle, Rick DeMarinis, Adrienne Devine, Charles Hall, Donald Hays, Al Heinreich, Barry Isaac, David H. Kelley, Jim Kelly, Stephen Malin, Jo McDougall, Kai Nielsen, Rosemary Nixon, Gordon Osing, Gene Plunka, Jim Rendall, Tom Russell, Brett Singer, Bruce Speck, Charles Stagg, Aritha Van Herk, Bill Washburn, Miller Williams.

  To manager Kisan Patel and the staff of Panera Bread #4604, Germantown, Tennessee, and Scott Shellhart and the staff of Panera Bread #4602, Memphis, who have fueled this and so much other writing, endured so much of me.

  To Kris Clinton, Blue Line Investigations LLC, of Bartlett, Tennessee, and to Marti Miller, private investigator, Memphis.

  To the girls: Leah Bailey, Mary Berni, Kristin C, Megan Conti, Trish Fritsche, Liane Limport, Connie McConnaha, Linda M, Janet Pink, Julia Roa, Debbie Smith, Donna Tingley.

  To artist-friends Les Linfoot, Angela Hoehn, Glenda Brown, who have taught me much about the connections between paint and words.

  To Tony Branson, my fine friend, my own private Idahoan. And Sandy Branson.

  To the members of Toastmasters International, and many Toastmasters friends across the world, all of whom help me believe.

  To Holly Schmidt—artist, conversationalist, inspiration, friend, and a MENSA man’s dream-date.

  To my editorial clients and writing students, who keep my pen sharp. Thank you, especially, to those of my clients—Jim Paavola, Nancy Roe, Bill Townsend, Tonya Zavasta significantly among these—who have the jam to try their hands at fiction, the determination to dedicate themselves to learning craft, and the unseemly nerve to chafe at some of their editor’s suggestions.

  To friends, old and new…Craig Cope, Norma Duke, Ingrid Enns, Bill and Leslie Garries, Doug Levis, Gary K. Lowe, Charlotte Stokes, Tim Yip.

  Most especially to my beloved wife, Elizabeth Deeley, for love and patience and friendship of a quite extraordinary order.

  And, as a cavalier afterthought, to my bitch-goddess and perpetual muse, Peg Oneil, always the faithful fan, friend, encourager, and a disturbingly accurate critical reader. I know you never did like this text, Peg. You never did wear those boots for me, either. And now, you’ll pretty much have to do both.