by Kim Smith
I nodded.
“The whole situation went down as a warning, with him laid out execution-style making it obvious to the underworld and cop world alike that a war was on. His investigation was compromised and all trails have since gone dead.”
I rubbed my arms in the cold of horror.
“Remember the night when I ran into you and Brown over by Mina’s house? I was hoping Rafe would have some street info for me. He can be helpful that way sometimes.”
“He’s an informant? I had a feeling you were looking for him for some other reason besides just saying hello.”
He shook his head. “No, he’s pretty good with keeping his ears open and his profile low.”
“That’s good for you I guess.”
He went on. “Then, this last time when I got to Rafe about your car, he was high, paraphernalia lying on the chair beside him. Common denominator, heroin.”
I frowned. This was news. “I didn’t know he—”
“—he doesn’t.” The look on Sal’s face told the whole story. His cousin was in trouble and he was worried sick.
Rafe’s bleeding nose and swollen face returned to my mind. “You didn’t beat up your cousin, did you?”
He shook his head. “Nope. He was just like I found him.”
“What did he tell you about the situation? Who shot him up?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. He swore they would come back and kill him next time. He stole your car to have a different set of wheels to ride around in, as well as exact revenge, by the way. He was planning on giving it back after you got the message.”
“Okay, so going back a little—what has this got to do with Dwayne?”
“He knows people who know people. You two can nose around together and keep each other safe. You know, get info, and if any of it smells of my cousin, let me know. He’s in deeper than he needs to be, and I still haven’t figured out why. That’s what we need to work together to find out. You’re the unluckiest, lucky girl alive. If anyone can stumble onto the answers, it’s you. Besides, the bad guys may connect you to Rafe now, unfortunately, and keeping an eye on you will be easier if you are keeping in touch with me.”
“So what do we do first?” I felt a little sick at his last statement. I didn’t want to be connected to the bad guys. It didn’t feel good to have a cop tell you that you may be a target.
“Turn Brown loose. That guy knows everyone. He’ll know who’s into drugs. I have to talk to Scott about those missing caskets.”
“While you’re with Jason Scott checking on caskets, see if you can locate a pretty woman with red hair, maybe late twenties. She showed up at Bubba’s gravesite and Dwayne said she worked for Scott. Her actions said she was on a personal visit to pay angry respects to the dead.”
Sal frowned. “Angry, eh? Got a name?”
“Shelley. No last name.”
He tapped his fingers on the table top. “I think I kind of remember her. What else does Brown know about that? Damn, I guess I need to talk to him.”
I squirmed. Dwayne would run as fast as he could in the opposite direction if he knew Sal wanted a sit-down for Dee to spill his guts. “He’s been sort of leaning toward a group of friends who hang out in midtown.” I glanced at him nervously. “Rafe knows those friends, too.”
He leaned back in his chair and scratched an eyebrow. “I’m not going to enjoy this at all, am I?”
I took a perverse pleasure in grinning at him as I dialed Dwayne’s number.
It took a few rings before he picked up.
“What?” he answered.
“Have you had dinner?” I asked.
“Too hard to spread butter with one hand.”
“How about we come and get you?”
“We?”
“Sal’s with me.”
“Y’all been slapping happies?”
“Ugh.”
“Okay, I’ll be ready in five.”
“The Mamas’ place okay with you?”
“They serve wings?”
“With buffalo sauce, usually. For you, I’d bet Aunt Tillie will find some blue cheese.”
“Done.” He disconnected.
I scooped up Dwayne’s keys, and Sal and I started out. Might as well use all Dwayne’s gas since he was unable to do it. My car needed to be parked for a while. It had seen enough action for one week.
Chapter Eleven
Tillie’s Home Cookin’—It’s GOOOOD! was busier than usual. Since most of Mississippi had banned smoking in casual dining settings, we had our run of the place. We ended up sitting in a section close to the front window. Sal sat facing the door.
I wondered if all cops and men in general did that, or was it only the ones with dark eyes? At any rate, I felt totally safe with my dining partners, one facing trouble head-on and one adjusting his ankle holster for easy access with the hand on his unhurt side.
Cathy, one of the restaurant’s more fashionable waitresses, strolled over, her hair pulled back in a ponytail that swung from side to side as she walked. She placed menus in front of us.
“What’re y’all drinkin’?” she asked, hands on her hips.
I ordered water, Sal had coffee, and Dwayne ordered a diet drink. We were the Odd Squad.
When she walked away to get our beverages, Dwayne leaned in and said, “I know y’all didn’t want me to come out here tonight so you could make this town think you was pro-gay, anti-racist white folks. What’s up?”
Sal fiddled with the packs of sweetener, and I shot Dwayne a warning look. There was only so much digging he could do before the cop in Sal would come out.
Sal started talking. “Some drugs have turned up in all the wrong places. Including in bodies. You hear anything about activity among your friends that might be illegal? Maybe even murder for points?”
Dwayne shrugged. “Always somebody doin’ somebody.”
“This won’t be a usual killing thing. This will be like planned, big-time crime stuff. Heroin being scored in large quantities and someone wanting to move it.”
Dwayne sat back, cupping his elbow protectively. “I’ve overheard a lot of talk about dirty cops in Memphis trying to screw up some plans. You have similar troubles down here?”
“Worse. Working an angle that might be connected.”
Cautiously, Dwayne replied, “Angles can get you in big trouble with some circles. Who’s involved?”
I flinched. Would Sal tell him about Rafe and the connection to drugs?
“I’m trying to figure that out.” Sal looked at Dwayne like a dog waiting on a bone. “So you know anything?”
Dwayne shook his head. “Nope. Did you grill Rafe when you had him down at your joint? He knows the same people I know.”
Sal nodded. “He’s as tight-lipped as a flute player.”
Cathy brought the drinks, straws, and small coffee creamer containers. “Y’all ready to order?” she asked. I nodded, grateful for the disruption of tension.
Dwayne ordered buffalo wings and ranch dressing. I ordered grilled chicken salad, and Sal ordered the Thursday special, salmon patties. One of Tillie’s specialties.
Dwayne unwrapped his silverware and neatly laid it on a napkin. “You gonna keep on shovelin’ shit until you get something outta Rafe, ain’t ya?”
Sal paused before answering. “This heroin is the real deal. They killed a cop with it who was getting too close to the truth. I can’t wait on Rafe to decide to cooperate.”
“Somebody you know?”
“Maybe.”
“Say Rafe does know something. Could he be next?”
“If we don’t get something concrete to stop them, there’s that possibility.”
Dwayne wrinkled his nose and took a sip of his drink. “Maybe Rafe’ll talk to me--if I can find him. But until then, I can check around. See if anyone is buying, selling, or trading. Have to slum around up in Mempho-town though.”
He gave Sal a strange glance, almost like angry. It was weird how his voice changed around the cop. You
could certainly tell he was no fan of the SLPD or anyone else right now.
“Know anyone you can call? Like now?” Sal asked, resignation making his shoulders slump.
Dwayne laughed shortly. “Naw man, they’d all be asleep right now. They’re like vampires. Only come out at night.”
Sal didn’t reply as my aunt Nancy arrived laden with plates and pecks on the cheek. She placed food before us, made a little small talk, and left. We were quiet for the next few minutes as we ate. Then when conversation resumed, it was Dwayne who took the lead.
“So, now that you have effectively enlisted my damn aid for your cause, what’s up with Bubba’s case?”
“Active investigation,” Sal said, around a mouthful of salmon. “Waiting on forensics.”
“Well, he didn’t fuckin’ stuff himself in that flower cooler, man.”
Sal looked down at his plate. Dwayne stabbed a piece of chicken into the small plastic cup of dressing and gave our cop friend another hateful stare.
After we dropped Sal off at his car, I drove us into Memphis. Dwayne wanted to see if he could get any information from anyone in the bar where he and Rafe and Bubba used to hang out. Personally, I believed he wanted to talk to Everett about Bubba. If the two were having a thing on the side and Rafe found out, well, that might lead to a mighty big disagreement between him and Bubba. Maybe even one worth killing over. One of those crimes of passion the newshounds liked to gab about.
I followed his directions to a dark corner bar in Midtown near the old fairgrounds. I disliked this part of town for a number of reasons, the top one at the moment being the way the whole area smelled. If the age of sewers could be known by their smell, I would declare the ones in this area to be several million years old. I wanted to hold my nose.
After much grunting and moaning, I finally got Dwayne out of the car, and we strolled into the booze can where we plopped down on stools running alongside the bar. Most of the patrons in the establishment— quantity was light—were black, but I expected this for such an urban place. Most were men and most were drinking.
A tall, medium-built black man with a bald head and narrow mustache worked from one end of the bar to the other refilling glasses and wiping up spills.
When he got to us, Dwayne smiled and slid him a twenty. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself,” the bartender answered, taking the twenty. “You want your usual?”
“Nope. Need information right now,” Dwayne said, situating himself on the stool. “We’re hopin’ you know someone who knows somethin’ about someone who knew someone.”
The man laughed. “Well, that’s as clear as a milkshake.” Then he reached over and shook hands with me. “My name’s Everett. I run this dump.” He tilted his head toward Dwayne. “My boy’s got bad manners.”
He didn’t have to tell me. I was on the inside track.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said. Everett had a Mid-western accent. He wasn’t old Memphis.
Dwayne exhaled the way he did when he was getting peeved. Then he glanced around, and leaned closer. “Look, the dude’s dead. I can’t be too straight up about shit, you know what I’m sayin’?”
Everett grew serious. “Okay. What’dya need to know?”
“All right. I need to know who was with Bubba when he was in here over the last few days, and I also wanna know if Rafe Ramirez was slinkin’ his ass in here with any strangers. Anyone who could be trouble. And you don’t need to look at me like that, either. I figure if anyone knows what trouble looks like, it’s you.” Dwayne finished with a hand wave. I wanted to laugh at his gesture. It was such a girly thing to do.
The bartender nodded at someone behind us, and placed two glasses of soda on the bar for us. “Act like you’re in here to drink. I can’t guarantee who’s watching.”
We complied. I wanted to turn around and see who’d sat down behind us but figured that would be a dead giveaway as to who we were and why we were here. Everett pulled a canister of peanuts out and slowly filled two small bowls.
“Bubba was working here with some puffy dude. Looked like he was stuffed full of marshmallows. You know the kind…fat and wealthy looking. Rafe always seemed to show up when he was here too, but you knew that,” he said. “He’s been hanging out with some mean looking honchos. They even wore black.”
Dwayne leaned forward a little. “Could you recognize them again?”
Everett nodded. “Wouldn’t mistake any of them. None belonged in this fine establishment. Looked like mobsters straight out of the old days.”
“You know anythin’ about drug deals goin’ bad down south?”
Everett shot him an intense look before turning his head from side-to-side, stretching his neck muscles. “South where? South of the state line or South America?”
Dwayne shrugged. “Can’t say for sure, but south of the state line would be a good start.”
Everett shook his head and walked around the end of the bar to deliver some peanuts to the newcomers.
Dwayne downed his soda. “Guess that answers that,” he said with a burp.
“Are you going to ask about the loan?” I whispered, disappointed. Everett hadn’t told us what we needed to know about drugs or anything else. “Maybe if you offered him cash. You know, like real money? You have to loosen his lips.”
“Gimme time.”
Everett came around the bar and arranged some bottles on the far side. I could tell he was watching activity in the bar by looking in the mirror. He was good at it, too. If I hadn’t been looking at him, it would have been unnoticed.
He asked softly over his shoulder, “You need more info?”
“I recently discovered you didn’t give Bubba some money he was hounding everybody about? Why not?”
Everett straightened and grinned before moving back over close to Dwayne. “Now, how’d you know about that?”
“I have my ways,” Dwayne answered, looking at his glass.
“I told him I would pay him when I got something for my money,” Everett told us. “He knew what I wanted in exchange. He kept his ace.”
My face grew hot as understanding sank in. I didn’t want to know this stuff. I resisted the urge to put my hands over my ears and flap my tongue.
“Anything goin’ on with y’all or was that just playin’ patty-cakes?” Dwayne asked.
“He played a lot, but not with me. I can’t tell you stuff I don’t know.”
Dwayne slid another twenty out of his pocket and stood up. “A’ight. We may have more questions. I’ll be back either way.”
“Making burgers soon,” Everett told him. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“Whew, boy. Can’t miss that,” Dwayne replied, with a grin.
We strolled out of the bar and once we were on the street, I asked, “What’s so special about the burgers?”
“Black angus. Man-meat. I think he wanted to talk more, but not with you taggin’ along.”
I watched traffic for a moment before answering. “Well, fine. I can get black angus at any old hamburger joint. Man-meat is not my favorite anyway, give me chicken any day. Besides, I was uncomfortable in there where known killers, thugs, and general ne’er-do-wells hang out. I don’t think I want to hang out with you here.”
“These guys ain’t that bad.”
I tilted my head and tried for a sneer.
He remedied his statement. “They ain’t all bad anyway.”
I didn’t answer. Dwayne’s opinions and mine didn’t match at all sometimes. But they were his crowd, his crew. I could leave him to them.
He promised to be careful and was confident he could catch a ride with some of his friends who would filter in later at the club, so after assuring him I could find my way back to South Lake with no help, I jangled his car keys under his nose and took off.
I was half-way home when I realized with his injury he was a sitting duck if anyone wanted to get physical. Maybe with Everett on his side and his other friends in tow, he’d manage to keep things light. I hoped s
o. Sal wasn’t going to be happy if I had to call him out in the wee hours again.
Chapter Twelve
By the time I got home, it was too late to do anything constructive. I slid the Mustang into a slot, snagged my mail from my mailbox, and went up to my apartment to sort through the pile, hoping for less bills and more junk. Later, while I checked my bank account balance on my phone, I shoved a bag of popcorn in the microwave. What I really needed was a beer and a corndog, but I didn’t have any of either.
Then I scrolled to my voice mails. Three messages. The first one, Aunt Tillie asking what size underpants I wore. She’d found a good sale at Macy’s. I was jealous. The pumps I had purchased while out with Dwayne had been the last shopping I’d done in some time.
The next message was a garbled mess like someone was eating the phone. I deleted it.
The third message was more interesting. Sal’s voice came on and said, “Come on, chica, pick it up.” When I didn’t, he sighed and disconnected.
My curiosity flickered to life. He didn’t sound like he was calling to ask for a date, but I was sorry I’d missed his call nevertheless. I punched the call back option. It was his office number. It was late, but cops always worked, right?
He didn’t answer. Now my interest was a burning itch, so I called his cell number, and thought hard for a quick excuse if he wanted to know what the hell I was doing calling at half past ten.
He picked up. “Yeah.”
“Hey, I got your message. What’s up?”
“Thanks for being so timely,” he said with a snort. “On a sort of self-imposed stake-out. Totally off the record. Wanna join me?”
“Is it dangerous?”
“You carrying?”
“Yes, or well, I can be.”
“That might make things dangerous, but okay. Load up. Just in case.”
“Where are you?”
“Scott’s cemetery.”
Whoa! What? I shook off my shock. “Where in the cemetery? That place wanders forever.”
“I’ll meet you at Bubba’s plot. I left the gate unlocked.”