“Harley-hoo.” Big and bear-like, he engulfed her in a hug, smelling of sauce, spices, and roast pork. He wore asbestos oven mitts on both hands and a plastic pig snout atop his head. His face was flushed from a surplus of beer and standing over a metal drum filled with hot coals and hog halves. He looked really happy to see her. “Get yourself a beer out of that cooler and sample some of the best pulled pork you’ll ever put in your mouth, girl.”
She opted for just the pork. There was nothing like Memphis barbecue. Methods and recipes were closely guarded secrets of the couple hundred teams competing for the trophy and prize money, and presentation played a huge part. Teams from all over the country came every year to cook pork. They took it pretty seriously, but managed to have fun along the way. It was obvious Butch was getting into the having fun part.
Kicking back in a folding chair at a long table covered with butcher’s paper, she chowed down on a huge sandwich dripping with sweet, tangy sauce, pulled pork that was juicy, tender, and crisp on the edges, and topped with a generous mound of fresh coleslaw between two buns the size of dinner plates. Just the way she liked it. Messy.
“Ever had better?” Butch wanted to know when she’d wedged the last bite into her mouth and she shook her head.
“Never,” she said when she could talk again. “It’s the sauce.”
“And the slow cooking. We’ve been at it since Wednesday. Judging’s tomorrow. I think we have a good shot at it this year. Came close last year. What you been up to, Harley girl?”
“Working. I brought some tourists down to sample beer and barbecue.”
“Not a bad job. Guess you aren’t with that banking company anymore, huh. The one you worked at last time I saw you.”
“Nope. Stress got to me. Now I just deal with drunks and old ladies. It has its moments.”
A fat man in Spandex shorts and no shirt jiggled into the booth; he was bald, wore a pink plastic pig snout held on with elastic bands over his ears, and had a cup of beer in each hand.
“Hey, cutie,” he said, leering at Harley, “wanna come dance?”
Music blasted from all the booths, country, rock and roll, and bluegrass, CD players vying for air space. The Porky Pigs had opted for country, and Travis Tritt belted out a song about love gone wrong. Like that was a new theme.
“No,” she said politely, “but thanks for asking.”
“C’mon, baby, it’s time to par-tay.” He bounced around, rolls of fat jiggling so hard it was a wonder he didn’t start a seismic episode. Maybe he didn’t realize Memphis was on the New Madrid fault line and earthquakes were predicted for some time in the next century.
“She’s not interested, Junior,” Butch said, and gave the fat man a shove that sent him back toward the gate in the white picket fence erected around their booth. “Drunks,” he observed genially as Junior ambled away, then poured a cup of beer down his throat and belched. “You ought to come work for me, Harley-hoo. It’d give you a chance to Mace guys like Junior.”
She grinned. “Thanks, but I’m already packing.”
He squinted at her pepper spray on her belt. “Damn if you ain’t. You always were the most dangerous girl in the neighborhood.”
That gave her an idea. He’d grown up on Carnes, right around the corner from Mrs. Trumble. Not really expecting success, she asked if he’d known Mrs. Trumble’s nephews.
“The weasels? Yeah. A little. They were a couple of years older than me, about seven or eight years older than you, I guess. They didn’t hang around much when they came down for their summer vacation. Not that I blamed ’em since they had to deal with Trumble. Crazy old bat. I heard she recently got killed in a home invasion.”
“Yeah, that’s the story.” How tactful of him not to mention Yogi and Diva.
“Wouldn’t put it past Archie and Neil to go in like vultures now. They moved down here a while back, heard that they visited her every blue moon. Probably couldn’t stand each other’s company too much. Not that that’d stop ’em from wanting anything they could get.”
“Neil?” She frowned. Why did that name ring a bell? “Archie’s brother?”
“Yeah. The two of ’em had different last names. Half-brothers. Archie’s daddy came from up in Michigan somewhere, I think. Why you askin’ about those screw-ups?”
He looked a little drunk, but it was hard to tell with Butch. He always had such a happy expression anyway.
“Well, Mrs. Trumble’s dead now. Makes you wonder about her family, y’know? She used to give us all such a hard time. I never really thought about her having her family visit, especially kids. Maybe that’s why I never met them. And, of course, she hated us.”
“Hell, Harley, I’d have hated us, too. We used to hang out on my corner and get into all kinds of shit.”
“It was fun.”
“Oh yeah.”
Reminiscing was always fun, sometimes helpful. Like now. It had popped into her head why the name Neil rang a bell. The manager at Jernigan’s Jewelers was named Neil Campbell. It was one more link. Bobby really shouldn’t underestimate her. Neither should Morgan.
It was hot and muggy, even with a fan blowing pork fumes across the plywood and canvas booth built to look like a farmhouse. Plaster and concrete barnyard animals had been set on lurid green outdoor carpet, and bales of hay were strategically planted all around the fifteen square foot area. Wooden blocks spelled out The Porky Pigs on a weathered plank hung above the gate. The booth directly across the wide stretch of avenue crowded with people had a Hawaiian theme. Hula dancers swayed provocatively in grass skirts, but the effect was somewhat diluted by pink plastic snouts. Miss Piggy goes Hawaiian was painted on a piece of driftwood stuck into mounds of sand scattered over their allotted space. A couple of fake palm trees with real coconuts swayed in the rising wind. It was nice just sitting and enjoying the crowd and warm weather. She could almost forget everything but the moment.
Still, she kept an eye on the darkening clouds over Arkansas. If it rained, she’d rather be in the lobby of The Peabody than trudging through mud. Besides, she had a couple of calls to make, and it wasn’t exactly quiet here. Bands were cranking up near the huge metal scaffold erected at the other end of the park. She sat back and enjoyed the day while she could.
She hadn’t run into any members of the group she’d brought to the barbecue, but she doubted they’d care about the rain. It was nearly five now, and she hadn’t heard from them. Two more hours and she’d be free, but the approaching storm apparently had other ideas.
Clouds moved in fast, and the wind picked up. Butch gave her another hug and insisted she take some barbecue with her. It had begun to rain by the time she reached the gates at the foot of Beale Street. Slow at first, then faster, it came quickly across the river like storms so often did. Only this one looked pretty bad. Officials using bullhorns ordered everyone in the park to leave, even those participating in the cook-off. People vacated Tom Lee Park in droves, funneling like lemmings through the gates. Fierce winds blew canvas tents and trash all over the bluffs, whipping rain against people and cars. The smell of rain diluted exhaust fumes and made streets slippery. Cars switched on headlights and horns brayed warnings. At the first sign of any inclement weather, Memphis drivers turned into complete idiots with homicidal tendencies. Tempers flared, metal bent, and police handed out tickets like Mardi Gras beads. The drive back to the Marriott ought to be really fun.
By the time she reached the hotel she was drenched. Even her tennis shoes squelched with each step. Her tee shirt stuck to her like a second skin and the hem of her jeans flapped against her bare ankles. It was uncomfortable, and worse—cold. Her sports bra did little to hide the fact her own headlights were on, nipples beaded up and very visible under thin white cotton.
Teeth chattering, she crossed her arms over her chest and stood in the lobby while she tried to figure out what to do. A trip to the bathroom might help assess the damage. It was just off the lobby past the pay phones, and a line curled out into the
hallway. She wasn’t the only one to take refuge. She looked longingly at the lobby bar. Irish coffee sure would taste good right now.
Wedging her way into the crowded Ladies room finally, she let out an “Eek!” when she saw her reflection. Mascara streaked her cheeks, her hair stuck out in wiry spikes, and she had barbecue sauce on her chin. Not her best look.
It didn’t take too long or much effort to scrub her face, but the hair took ingenuity. Gel had clumped into a gooey mess not even her comb could separate, and ignoring the horrified look from the restroom attendant, she stuck her head in the sink. It was the only way. When she came up dripping, the attendant handed her a small terry cloth towel. It was worth a five dollar tip when she left.
She went outside to the covered walkway and sat on a bench away from lobby music and conversation, and dialed Tootsie. He hadn’t heard from Harley’s group yet and declined her suggestion they go out to Jackson Avenue later on. He didn’t even sound too sorry about it.
“Can’t make it. Did you call Baroni?”
“You’re turning into a nag, Tootsie. That’s not an attractive quality in a man wearing chiffon.”
“Bitch,” he said affectionately. “Now answer my question.”
“Bobby’s not interested. He thinks I’m crazy and making stuff up. And I’m about halfway convinced Bruno’s a lost cause. He may be working for the dark side.”
“It’s always possible. Take my advice—and I know you won’t—go to a movie tonight. Stay away from Jackson Avenue. Let the cops handle it, baby.”
“That’s just it. They aren’t handling it. They’re after Yogi and not paying any attention to the guilty guys. All I need is some solid proof to get Bobby to listen.”
“Just what kind of proof do you expect to get?”
“I don’t know.” That was, unfortunately, true. She hadn’t the least idea what would turn the light bulb on for Bobby. “Photos, maybe.”
“Of—?”
“Pictures of thieves in action, or maybe stolen jewelry. Christ, Tootsie, offer suggestions instead of questions.”
“You aren’t listening to my suggestions.”
“I hate it when you’re right. Okay. I’ll stay away from Jackson. Maybe Cami will help me clean up my apartment instead. It looks like hell.”
“Come by and see my show if you’re out later. I go on at ten.”
“I’ll bring that dress to you Monday, I swear. I oughta be able to find it by then.”
“No sweat, baby. I’m feeling more Marilyn than Liza tonight anyway. Storms always make me feel blond instead of brunette.”
“You’re so crazy.”
He laughed in a throaty, Marilyn Monroe kinda way and hung up.
She called Cami, but there was no answer. Probably feeding the zoo. She’d just get rid of the Marriott guys, then clean up the van and head that way. Good thing the storm had put an end to a long evening baby-sitting drunks.
This time, Bailey sat in the rear of the van, reeling and singing all the way to the Marriott in East Memphis. It took nearly an hour due to the wet streets, traffic lights out, and the usual crazy drivers. By eight o’clock, she’d cleaned the van and let herself into the office to log herself out and leave the keys. Old Mr. Grinder greeted her in the lobby on her way out, and he spent fifteen minutes giving her a replay of the break-in the night before.
“I might’a got ’em if I’d seen ’em,” he vowed, “but they got clean away. Guess they knew better than to mess with me.” He looked like a dried apple doll, all wizened and shrunken, with tufts of white hair sprouting randomly atop his head, but he obviously had an exaggerated sense of his own power.
“You’re fearsome, Mr. Grinder. I wouldn’t want to mess with you.”
That was very true. He’d probably end up shooting her by mistake.
The last shreds of light were fading when she reached Cami’s house. No lights were on. It had rained here, too, though it didn’t look like it had stormed as badly. It was weird that Cami’s house was the only one without lights. Streetlights put off a fuzzy glow and neighbors had lights.
Even stranger, the front door was unlocked so that all she had to do was walk inside. The dogs met her barking frantically, but there wasn’t a cat to be seen. “Curiouser and curiouser,” she muttered, feeling a lot like Alice in Wonderland. She flicked on the den light but nothing was out of place that she could see. Of course, it might be hard to tell, with cat toys littering the floor and doggy doodles here and there.
“Hey Cami?” No answer. There was no sign of her in the house, and she wasn’t outside on the wooden deck or in the backyard. The Saturn still sat in the garage. Hair prickled on the back of Harley’s neck as she walked back through the house. It was just as odd that there were no cats as it was that there was no Cami. A dozen cats would be hard to miss.
Going back to the kitchen, she flipped on an overhead light. A white sheet of paper stirred under a magnet on the refrigerator. It was short and to the point:
“If you want to see your friend alive you’ll answer your phone at 9.”
Jesus. A cold chill seeped through her that had nothing to do with damp clothes. She looked at the clock over the door. Five minutes to nine. She dug in her backpack for her phone. The battery was low. She plugged it into the charger just in case. It rang almost immediately.
The familiar voice said, “Go to a pay phone at the corner of Ridgeway and Knight Arnold. Bring the necklace. Wait for my call. If I see one cop, she’s dead.”
The line went dead before she could say anything. Damn. This was crazy. What if he was bluffing? But what if he wasn’t? This was all her fault. She’d led Archie right to Cami. If anything happened to her, she’d never get over it. Okay. Now she’d call Bobby. This was some serious shit. True to form, he wasn’t in and she left a message on his cell. It was brief and to the point:
“Bobby, I’m at Cami’s and she’s been abducted. I’ve got to meet the guy somewhere, but I don’t know where yet. I’ll let you know as soon as I do. Call me.”
She hung up. For whatever reason, the nephew—one or both, and her money was on Archie—had hidden the necklace in Yogi’s workshop. Now he wanted it back. And she didn’t have it. Damn, damn, damn.
The pay phone at the corner of Ridgeway and Knight Arnold was at the edge of the Circle K parking lot. On Friday nights, it was busier than usual, people going in and coming back out with six packs of beer and the usual chips and cigarettes. A strip of townhouses sat on the other side of the convenience store, fronted by a white rail fence and scattered trees. A man came up the hill and approached the phone, and her stomach dropped. He didn’t look like the guy who’d hit her, but she wasn’t really positive Archie had Cami. He could have hired someone else to grab her. She watched the guy warily.
“You gonna just stand there, lady? I need to use the phone.”
“Uh, I’m expecting a call. It won’t take but a minute.”
He gave her an impatient look. The unspoken rule of pay phone etiquette demanded he remain at least a yard away from the phone when it was in use, but there were no rules regarding the distance if she was just waiting for a call. The guy paced back and forth a few minutes, and then came back to within a foot of her.
“I gotta use the phone, lady. If you ain’t gonna, step aside.”
She held out her cell phone. “Use this one until I get my call.”
Blinking, he looked from her to the cell phone in her hand, then shook his head, walking away and muttering about crazy white women. She completely sympathized.
Ten minutes later the phone finally rang and she leaped to answer it.
“Go to the pay phone in the Cloverleaf shopping center and wait for the next call at ten.”
Again, before she could ask anything, he hung up. Dammit.
“This is freaking stupid,” she muttered, and got back on her bike and fired it up. If it was just a trick, she’d kill the asshole when she caught up with him. Was she sure he even had Cami? She could have just t
aken the cats to an all-night vet for shots or something. Of course, that’d be damn near impossible without her car. Or a bus. He must have Cami, but why would the guy take the cats? It would not only be impossible but crazy.
She cruised by the house again and quickly checked to be sure Cami hadn’t miraculously appeared, but there was no sign of her. However, she did spot a couple of the cats. Punkin sat in a chair, eyes narrowed at her as she stepped over the baby gate. Sam came up to her, his cry rather strident.
“Got scared and hid, huh,” she said, and he pushed at her hand with his head. So Cami obviously hadn’t taken cats anywhere, as they were still here, just hiding. She let the dogs out to pee and thought about calling Bobby again. No way would she call Morgan. He could be a part of this. There was some kind of connection between him and Bates, and she was positive there was a connection between Bates and Mrs. Trumble’s nephews. Both Neil and Archie had ties to Bates, but she didn’t have time to ponder the situation. She let the dogs back in and shut the back door, then put out some dry food for all the animals.
She grabbed a sweater from Cami’s closet and left. The night air dripped with recent rain. Slick streets gleamed under street lights and the red and green glow of traffic signals. She made the turn onto Mt. Moriah and headed west. It was a toss-up whether to take the interstate or city streets. Traffic was always a bitch on rainy nights.
When she stopped at a red light and put her feet down for balance, she glanced in her side mirror and saw a long black car going east make a U-turn. An adrenaline rush pushed through her veins as tires squealed on wet asphalt. Cami? Was it the prick who’d taken her? The car looped around cars slowing for the light and ended up in her lane, two cars back. She peered hard in the side mirror.
Tinted windows hid the occupants’ identity, but there were two of them. Archie must be following her to be sure she didn’t bring the cops. She’d just go on like he’d said and wait at the pay phone for his call. He’d probably been watching her wait at the Circle K.
Hound Dog Blues Page 17