by Lisa Turner
“I got this, Officer,” Billy said, and took Augie’s arm. “I’ll see that he gets home.”
Augie yanked his arm away, then focused on Billy for the first time. “Oh, hey, man!” He threw his arms around Billy in a bear hug.
“Break it up,” the cop said and jerked his thumb toward Main Street. “Beat it. Both of ya.”
Augie took hold of Billy’s arm. “Yes, sir, Officer, I’ll take care of this.”
They walked to the trolley line. Billy looked over at Augie, who bounced in his sneakers as the choir started up a new song. “The cop was right. You could’ve hurt those kids.”
“Naw, man, I love kids. I just got carried away.” Augie wiped sweat from his face with his sleeve. “You’ve been gone for months, haven’t you?”
He’d never told Augie about Mercy or that he’d left Memphis to give Atlanta a try. “I’ve been doing a little traveling. How about if we pay Mr. Peanut a visit? We’ll catch up.”
Augie gave him a grin and a slap on the back. Augie had once commanded respect as one of the finest catchers to ever play the position for the Cards. No one in the major league could spot a hitter’s weaknesses like Augie. He knew every batter, he knew his own pitchers, and he knew every major league field.
Then one day good-humored Augie became sullen. The next week he turned euphoric, driving his teammates crazy with nonstop chatter. During games, he would throw balls at rats running across the field. There were no rats. And there were no cameras in the air vents of his hotel rooms or people who wrote down everything he ate. Over the course of the season, he continued to call great games, but easygoing Augie had begun arguing with the umps and getting tossed to the clubhouse on a regular basis.
The psychiatrists said he was suffering from a mood disorder and paranoid psychosis—a loss of contact with reality. The meds they prescribed made him foggy headed on the field. His stats went down. His play suffered. When he dropped off the meds, the cycle would start over.
By the end of the third season, Augie’s illness had taken over. The general manager exercised the club’s buyout clause, which must have been valued in the millions. That left Augie a rich man but shut out of baseball for good. He’d moved back to hometown Memphis eight years ago.
Not long after, Billy met Augie at Bardog, a popular downtown watering hole. As a kid, Billy had dreamed of playing pro ball, so he got a kick out of knocking back a few brews with a major leaguer and talking up the game. They’d hung out together over the years, even catching a few Redbird games at the ballpark.
They took over a sidewalk table in front of the Peanut Shoppe with its sign of Mr. Peanut wearing a top hat and monocle. Augie bought a bag of fresh-roasted peanuts, shelling and tossing the nuts to the pigeons strutting at their feet. Billy bought a turkey sandwich and stowed the sack from Red’s place in a seat under the table.
“Tell me some good news,” he said, wolfing down his food.
Augie gave him a sidelong glance. “I have a new interest.”
“A woman?”
“Oh, hell no. I asked my last blind date if I could call her. She said sure and gave me the number for dead animal pickup.”
Billy laughed.
“Guess she was afraid of my love.” Augie grinned and shook his head. “No love on the horizon. I spend my mornings selling sports memorabilia and photos on eBay. Afternoons, I shoot the shit with the guys at Bardog. Some days I’m so doped up on meds, I can’t string two sentences together.”
He rattled the bag and flung peanuts at a squirrel. “When I played ball, I had something to prove every day. The last few years there’s been nothing. Now I’ve got a project. You wanna hear?”
Billy sensed a more involved story than he had time for, but what the hell. “Sure.”
“My father passed away six months ago. I was cleaning out his house and found scrapbooks of news articles from the sixties, along with letters my mom had written to the editor. She was a vivacious woman, always had people over to the house. I told you she died when I was six, right?”
Billy nodded.
“My dad was a structural engineer on assignment in London. My mom grew up in London, a real smart cookie. She got her master’s in education at Oxford. They met at a party. He was white, she was black, which didn’t matter in London. They got married and moved to Memphis. Back then most whites in Memphis had never met an educated black person much less one with a British accent. She wasn’t a maid, but they didn’t consider her to be an equal either.
“My mom was big into the civil rights movement. Both my parents were. She taught English in a black high school. They promoted her to principal, but that wasn’t enough for my mom. She ran for a seat on the school board, made a lot of speeches, wrote articles for the Press-Scimitar.” He paused, smiled a little. “She scared the shit out of the racists. After she got elected, they couldn’t shut her up. You following me?”
He was aware of the grief beginning to cloud Augie’s face. This story wasn’t going to be the good news he’d hoped for.
“Every Sunday, my mom left early to pick up an older couple who couldn’t drive themselves to church. Dad always took me to Sunday school. Mom must have been backing out of the driveway when it happened. My father was in the shower. He didn’t hear the explosion, but I did.”
Augie swallowed. As he spoke, his eyes emptied as if he were staring into a black hole. “Mom drove a ’64 Pontiac Tempest, white with red leather seats. It was a wedding gift from my dad. When I got to the front door, she was . . .” His voice fell off. “The car was on fire.”
Billy had witnessed people trapped in burning cars—the flailing, the screams. You try to wall off those memories and hope they won’t follow you into your dreams. He couldn’t imagine how a six-year-old would deal with it.
“I’ve never told anyone this,” Augie said. “No point talking about what you can’t change. But then things did change. I’m convinced now that she was murdered.”
Billy’s skepticism must have shown because Augie’s hand went up.
“Just listen, okay? After she died, three men came to the house. My father was scared. He was fucking scared. I was a kid, but I saw it. Two of them took my dad into the living room. My dad let the other guy get me alone in the kitchen. The man grilled me about my mom’s activities, like she’d been doing something illegal. He made me cry. After they left, my dad took me to an afternoon ball game. We never once talked about what was said. He pretended it didn’t happen.”
Augie grunted, wiped his mouth. “I was six. Just six. I found out later that the detectives spent one week investigating and then closed the case.”
“But—”
“Let me finish. After the funeral, my dad dumped everyone he knew who was connected with the civil rights movement. He married a white woman from Tupelo. Court-ordered busing was starting up. White people were mad as hell. I could pass for white, so we became a white family. My dad must have thought ‘white’ was safer.
“Going through his house a few months back, I found a second box of letters addressed to my mom, personal attacks about her politics and her election to the school board. Eight were death threats, untraceable, of course. My folks must have expected blowback and hadn’t taken the threats seriously.”
A choking sound escaped his throat. He thrust himself out of the chair and took short laps up and down the sidewalk with his fists held tight at his sides. Billy looked away, giving his friend his privacy.
Augie sat down. “Sorry. It gets away from me.” He cleared his throat. “The men who came to the house were FBI. I remember their badges. Mom died three months after Martin Luther King was assassinated. After reading those letters, I decided I had to find out why the FBI questioned us and why my mother died. So I’m investigating her death.”
Billy took a breath. Cops develop the ability to emotionally distance themselves from victims and their families, a key to surviving the job. And as compelling as the story had been, Augie was sometimes delusional.
/> “How are you looking into this?” he asked.
Augie hunched his shoulders, defensive. “An investigative journalist approached me a few years back. He was working on a piece about mental illness in major league sports. He knew things about players I thought no one would ever find out. I declined to comment, but at the same time I was impressed by his research. I kept his card.”
“So you called him.”
“Yeah, after I found those letters. I asked him to look into my mom’s case. He’s writing a book. A lot of questionable shit happened in this city around the time of King’s assassination. He said his book ties in with my questions about my mom’s death, so we’re collaborating. The book is going to be a real eye-opener. People in this city will be shocked.”
Chapter 9
Augie leaned back in his chair—focused, reflective, a different man from the one who’d made a fool of himself in Court Square. “What do you think of my project?”
“I think your family went through hell. What was your mom’s name?”
“Dahlia Poston.”
“Beautiful name.”
“She was a beautiful woman. Brave woman.”
Billy balled up his sandwich wrapper, giving himself time to think. He wanted to know more about the journalist. “Does this guy write for local publications?”
“No, a big paper in the Northeast. He was investigating a dirty politician who got in bed with the paper’s publisher. The politician managed to have my guy canned. This book is his comeback.”
Of course Augie had believed the guy. Who can resist a good comeback story? “Any money passing between you?” Billy asked.
“I’m paying for research.”
Augie’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want anyone poking around in his business, which was understandable. So tomorrow, after meeting with the chief about his reinstatement, he decided he would run down to central records and pull Dahlia Poston’s file. If the journalist had visited records, his name should be on the checkout register. Billy would take it from there.
Augie yawned and pointed at the sack under the table. “What’s that you’re hauling around?”
Billy considered whether to bring up Red’s and Little Man’s deaths, then remembered he’d seen Augie talking with both men at a show they’d played in a club a couple of years ago.
“Did you know that Little Man Lacy fell into that construction dig next to the Blue Monkey the other night?”
“I heard. Rough luck.”
“Red Davis died this morning on a bench outside of Central Station.”
Augie’s eyes widened. “Man! I hate that. Was it a stickup?”
“More like a heart attack. I ran into Red in the terminal last night. A cop named Frankie Malone came by on patrol. He was all right when we left him.”
“Right. Mz. Police Goddess. She’s intense. I wouldn’t want to tangle with her.”
“Mz. Police Goddess.” That fit. “Frankie caught the call on Red this morning. The scene bothered her, so she asked me to take a look at the body. I didn’t like what I saw, either. We searched a house where Davis and Lacy had been squatting. Red told us about a cursed jacket, some Santería thing. You know anything about Santería?”
Augie reared back. “Oh, buddy, that’s strong stuff to the people who believe it. A lot of the Cuban players are into it.”
Billy opened the bag and pulled out the photo of the girl sitting at the piano. Her waist-length hair, pulled to one side, revealed a backless gown cut to the base of her spine.
“We found this in their room. Have you ever seen this girl?”
Augie stared at the photo. “Wowee-wow. Is she related to one of the guys?”
“I don’t know.” He took out the staff paper with the song “Old Fool Love.” “I figured the Blues Hall of Fame would want this song if we can’t find his relatives.”
Augie frowned. “A couple of weeks ago, I ran into Red at Confederate Park. He asked for a short-term loan of two thousand.”
“Two thousand dollars?”
“He said he had a sure thing coming through. As collateral he offered to sign over the publishing rights to ‘Burning Tree Blues.’ We went to the bank, got papers notarized. I guess ‘Burning Tree’ is mine now.”
Billy thought a moment. “He called it a sure thing?”
“Maybe he called it a business deal, I don’t remember. He talked like it was solid.” Augie shook his head. “This wasn’t about booze and lost weekends. Red was kind of solemn when he asked. That’s why I went ahead.” His head dipped. “And I have to admit, I collect blues history. I wanted the publishing rights. I didn’t care if he paid me back.”
Billy pulled out the jacket, a camel-colored tropical-weight wool with wide lapels and stylized side pockets. They spread it on the table. He flipped back the right panel of the jacket and read the label: TAILORED BY BERNARD.
“Bernard had a shop on Main Street in the fifties,” Augie said. “He dressed Elvis, Johnny Cash, Roy Orbison, B. B. King. If you wanted quality and style back then, you went to Bernard.”
“Is he still around?”
“They closed the Main Street shop. Bernard would be in his late eighties.”
Billy ran his hand across the right inside breast pocket and felt a lump. Slipping his fingers in, he pulled out a stack of three-by-five photos. He shuffled through them. The Chevy Impala and Ford Fairlane parked in the background suggested the photos had been taken decades ago. One of two men appeared in every shot, taking turns behind the camera. They both sported crew cuts and intense expressions. The taller one wore black-rimmed glasses. In every photo, they were talking with folks on the street. The majority of the people were black, some were white. Ages ranged from teenaged to elderly. Bell-bottoms and Afros put the photos in the mid- to late sixties.
He checked the left breast pocket. It was empty.
“May I see those?” Augie ran through the pictures slowly, frowning, and handed them back.
“Recognize anything?”
“Nope.” Augie got to his feet, scratching his crotch. “I’m late.”
“You’re not late. What could you be late for? What did you see?”
“Got to go, my friend.” Augie shot the crumpled Mr. Peanut bag into the can and took off walking across the trolley tracks.
Billy picked up the stack and flipped through them. This time he caught it. The tall guy, the one with the glasses, was wearing the Goodwill jacket.
Chapter 10
The tiny salon was tucked between a Speedy Cash store and an Exxon station on Summer Avenue, a formerly thriving thoroughfare whose remaining businesses were struggling to keep their doors open. The salon’s sign read EL CORAZÓN DE FUEGO PELUQUERÍA, or Heart of Fire Hairdresser.
After dropping Billy off at Court Square, Frankie had driven there hoping to get a lead on the conjure bag and possibly the person who had made the spell.
A few months ago she’d noticed the word “Botánica” hand-lettered at the bottom of the salon’s sign, a botánica being an herb shop that specializes in folk medicine and Santerían magical remedies. Curious, she’d stopped to see if the version of the religion she’d known in Key West had drifted up to Memphis.
In a small room at the back she’d found spiritual candles, packaged herbs, and potions that believers use regularly. The shop owner, a curvy young blonde named Mystica Arnaz, had explained that she was a new initiate and not qualified to make up complex ebbos, but that customers came in for the candles and remedies. It was a good business.
Frankie parked out front and made a list of fresh plants, known by the Yoruba word “ewe,” that were needed to make a purifying bath. Santería is an earth religion. Its power to heal and defend against evil comes from plants that can be found in the tropical forests of the Antilles. She was pretty sure Mystica wouldn’t stock the exotic plants, but a Santerían priest, a santero, would. A santero would also have the knowledge and means to make a death curse. Mystica might know such a person; however, getting the
name from her wouldn’t be easy. Every aspect of Santería is rooted in carefully guarded secrecy.
Frankie tweaked her short bangs in the mirror and checked her cheek. If she did manage to find the ingredients for a ewe, she would take a long soak tonight, something she hadn’t done in years. The bath might calm her anxiety and help her get some sleep.
Inside, trance dance music pulsed and fluorescent lights shone on the emerald-green trim and glossy walls. Packets of herbs on a rack advertised the power to make “Your Husband Leave His Mistress” or to “Chase Bill Collectors from Your Door.” Neon prints of The Last Supper hung above shelves stacked with candles, statues of the Virgin of Guadalupe, and miniature skeletons draped in monks’ robes.
The three stylists, all busy with clients, wore jewel-toned skirts, dramatic makeup, and their dark hair flowing down their backs, the opposite of Frankie’s cropped style and preppy clothes. She could girl it up with the best of them, but as she walked past these women, she felt like a eunuch in a harem.
The exception was a stooped old woman at the back of the shop, who was wiping down a chair with a rag, her sharp nose and chin giving her head the flattened shape of a hatchet blade. She wore her gray hair knotted on top of her head and her apron tied with twine over her shapeless dress. Frankie got a whiff of cigar smoke as she walked by. The woman made a hissing sound as she dipped her rag in a bucket.
Mystica stood behind the counter, her heavy-lidded eyes focused on Frankie as she approached. Her last time in, the young woman had suggested hair extensions, making the assumption that Frankie’s short cut had been a hairdresser’s disaster.
“I’m so glad you’ve returned,” Mystica said. “A beautiful lady should have long hair.” She ran her fingers through her own blond mane, and her gaze passed lightly over Frankie’s bruised cheek.
Frankie held up her list and started to speak, but Mystica was already hustling from behind the counter.
“Come have a seat,” she said, attempting to herd Frankie toward a chair. “I will show you samples of extensions. Blond for you, I think, and below the shoulders like mine. Long hair is a woman’s power. Men prefer it.”