Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Thank you
Links
Crimson Blood
Douglas Pratt
Crimson Blood is a work of fiction. Any names, places, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Douglas Pratt
All rights reserved.
For Ashlee, I love you
1
Sometimes I make rash decisions. I can have a narrow vision when something seems wrong. This rush to action before thinking can be disastrous at times.
Which is why, I didn’t see the other guy, and why I’m falling face first onto the asphalt.
I should probably back up and start over. I really only wanted to get drunk tonight, which I was doing very well for a bit. Possibly find a pretty girl, but that was certainly secondary in terms of goal achievement.
My evening started pretty bland. I was going to dinner with my friend, Leo, who was in town for some business. When Leo says he is doing business, it’s best to not ask questions. For plausible deniability.
Leo finished his business, again I don’t ask or care, and picked me up for dinner and a night out. I live in Memphis, on the east side of town, and we went to a little Italian place called Brooklyn Bridge. We enjoyed several bottles of wine and a nice dinner.
“Feel like making it a late night,” Leo asked.
“Always, what do you have in mind?”
“Women.”
Leo always has women on his mind, and once women meet him, they seem to have Leo on their mind. The first thing I thought when I met Leo was that he was a tall wall of muscle. He towered about six feet five inches, which put him nearly a foot taller than me. He spent several years in the Marines doing things he wouldn’t talk about. Now he does, what he calls, private work. Yet, with all the death that Leo has been around, he is a laughing, charming guy. Women apparently find that immensely attractive.
Don’t misunderstand me. Leo and I are vastly different, but I am not jealous. In truth, I have been on a self-prescribed break from women for the last year and a half. I had a woman in my life, and she wanted to take a break. I keep hoping that she’s going to reconsider.
I asked Leo, “So by women, are you looking for long term or for tonight?”
“Long term, I have all weekend.”
“So, Beale Street it is.”
Beale Street is a stretch of street in downtown Memphis lined on both sides with blues clubs and restaurants. Blues legends like B.B. King and W.C. Handy gave the street its musical heritage.
“Yes. Can we Uber down there, Max?”
“I’m sure not driving.”
I live about a mile from the restaurant in a house I bought back in 2003. At the time, I thought it would make a great house to have a wife and kids grow up in. Now, I look at the big yard and three extra bedrooms with some “what might have been” emotions.
We drove back to the house, and I ordered an Uber, that arrived in five minutes. Half an hour later, we were standing on the corner of Beale and Second next to B.B. King’s Club.
I got the opportunity to see B.B. play his club a few times. When his fingers picked at the strings of Lucille, his beloved guitar, he emanated the blues. Of course, I grew up on the blues and jazz. My father was a die hard blues fan who raised me on B.B, Muddy Waters, Robert Johnson, Etta James, Billie Holliday and a slew of other blues men and women. My mother, on the other hand, fed me jazz and vocalists from Count Basie and Miles Davis to Frank, Dean, and Sammie.
When I get to Beale Street, I love the clubs that play the real blues. Leo, though, loves the dance clubs where the girls come to play.
Leo moved through the crowd that still had a handful of tourists with Graceland shirts. However, the crowd was changing from the touristy day crowd to the partying night life. October in Memphis still tends to offer warm nights, and warm nights on Beale offer girls in dresses that stopped well before mid thigh and held onto the shoulders with thin straps.
Club 152 is just a few doors down from the corner where we were dropped off. Probably the largest dance club in Memphis, 152 has outlasted numerous other clubs specializing in thumping bass and grinding dancers.
Leo walked straight up to the bouncer, who looked huge to me, until you saw him standing next to Leo. We showed our IDs to prove we were over 21, and Leo paid the $10 cover for each of us, and we stepped into a world of strobing lights and fast paced music echoing throughout.
Leo motioned for me to grab some drinks while he moved around the room. I found it humorous to see the nonverbal signals and the look of reconnaissance that Leo fell back into. I chuckled to myself.
Leo is a beer drinker, and while he will on occasion drink whiskey with me, he prefers beer. Cheap beer too. Probably from years of living on a military salary. I worked on converting him from domestic swill to something better. He has enjoyed a few of the local beers in Memphis. But Leo was born and raised in St. Louis, and as far as he is concerned the only beer fit for an American to drink comes in a red and white can.
Still I like to broaden his horizons, I ordered him a local Wiseacre draft and a Jack and Coke for myself. The bartender, a blonde wearing a t-shirt two sizes too small with a rip from the neck to mid cleavage, asked me if I wanted to start a tab. I gave her my credit card and my name.
I carried the drinks back through the crowd to see Leo already on the dance floor with two girls that I guessed were less that 22 years old. I signaled him that I had his beer, and I grabbed a table against the wall.
Seated with my back to the wall, I was able to watch the crowd. Leo was still dancing with the two girls. He was between them. My eyes moved around the room as I sipped on the Jack and Coke.
She was standing on the other side of the room texting on her phone. The purple in her hair shimmered in the strobe lights. Her head would swivel around every few seconds. She was people watching. When her eyes turned my direction, I caught her gaze. From across the room, the blue in her eyes was so evident that I didn’t want to break the stare.
Something about her was alluring. She looked out of place, as if the club was out of her comfort zone. Yet she was enjoying the moment.
Her face turned away from me quickly. Studying her across the club, I wondered what brought her here. She was very much alone, and I watched as she rebuffed two attempts to talk to her from guys sliding past her.
Definitely younger than me, I guessed her to be middle to lower twenties. At the same time, a certain level of life experience came from her. The way she handled potential suitors and the look she gave the people involved in the sweaty, rhythmic mating rituals was like someone watching an experiment. All the same
, she seemed to be enjoying every moment.
I didn’t move. I just watched her and sipped on my drink. She glanced my way again, locking her eyes on me. Then the corners of her mouth turned up slightly. I smiled back.
Leo appeared in front of me.
“Man, did you see those two?” he yelled over the music.
I nodded.
“I can share if you want.”
“No, I can get my own,” I yelled back.
Leo turned the bottle up and grinned. He carried the bottle back to the dance floor where the girls beckoned him to return.
My eyes went back across the room to the purple-haired girl. She was gone. A sinking sadness hit my heart despite the fact that I had no intention of talking to her. I was sad to see she had left.
Until she stood in front of me.
“Hi,” she said loudly with a smile.
Surprised, I exclaimed, “Well, hello there.”
“I got the impression that you liked me,” she said boldly.
Slightly embarrassed, but equally intrigued, I said, “Yes, you definitely caught my eye.”
“I’m Lauren,” she said extending a dainty hand tipped with manicured nails that were the same shade as her hair.
I took her hand. The soft, cool skin caressed mine as she gently shook my hand. The allure that I noticed across the room hung in the air around her.
“Max,” I said feeling as if the words fumbled out of my mouth.
Her head moved in close to mine. Our cheeks only inches apart.
“I was about to go get something to eat. Would you care to join me? This,” she made a circle in the air with her finger, “is too loud for decent conversation.”
“I would love to,” I answered.
“I hear there is a good rib joint next door.”
“Yes, on the corner.”
Drawing closer, her lips were in my ear and her warm breath tickled my lobes as she said, “Tell your friend you are with me. I won’t keep you forever.”
I consider myself a calm, collected individual. Yet in that moment, I felt giddy, intoxicated. I sent Leo a text. He wouldn’t see it for awhile, but then he looked happy with the two dancing girls.
Lauren pulled her phone out and swiped an upside down N on the locked screen. “What’s your phone number,” she asked again drawing so close to my ear that I could have sworn I felt her tongue flicking my ear as she talked.
I leaned in and gave it to her. She typed on her screen.
“There,” she whispered in my ear, “you can always get me now.” Then she grasped my hand and walked out of the club.
The fall air was cool compared to the inside of the club. On the street, she almost skipped exuding a childlike enthusiasm.
“I’m starving,” she said. Her blue eyes reflected the neon signs. “Do you like ribs?”
“This is Memphis. If you don’t like ribs here, you just don’t like ribs.”
A smile crossed her face. I amused her, and I don’t think it was my sense of humor. I felt self conscious, a feeling I’ll admit doesn’t hit me often.
“Where is this joint?” she asked again. Her voice engaging in the tone.
“Blue’s City Cafe,” I said. “Right on the corner.”
We walked a couple doors down and a older, black man at a podium waved us over.
“You guys want some ribs!”
It wasn’t a question.
Lauren beamed. “Yes, sir. I’m dying to try some.”
“Sweetheart,” the old man rasped, “these are the best ribs in the city.”
He was arguably correct. Blues City Cafe has a restaurant with a 50’s diner quality to it. Off the side, a bar area offers live music, usually blues. The ribs, while argued among many, have been the best I have found in the city.
“Good,” she said with excitement in her voice.
The old man escorted us to a booth. The music from the bar section was loud enough to hear, but not overpowering.
“You’ve been here before?” she asked me.
“Lots. He’s probably right. These might be the best ribs in the world.”
“Good,” she pushed the menu to the side. “You order for me.”
When the server arrived I ordered a half rack of ribs to share. I had eaten earlier with Leo, but I would happily share a rib or two.
“What do you drink?” I asked her.
“What single barrel bourbons do you have?”
I grinned. When she ordered a Booker’s on the rocks, I did the same. As server started to walk away, Lauren stopped him.
“Would it be okay if we got our bourbons in real glasses? I hate drinking good bourbon from plastic.”
Glancing around the room, I saw that everyone had clear plastic cups holding their cocktails.
“Yes, ma’am.” The server left to place our order
“You’re a bourbon drinker?”
“Always. You?”
“First drink my dad ever gave me. A Jefferson Reserve 15 year. Poured it over two ice cubes, because three would water it down too much.”
“How old were you?” she inquired.
“Thirteen. It was my thirteenth birthday.”
“Cool dad. I imagine for your twenty-first, he got you the whole bottle.”
Shaking my head, I said, “No, my parents were killed when I was eighteen.”
“Oh,” she said in a soft voice. Her hand stretched across and touched mine. The touch of skin was cool, yet heat streamed through me.
“I’m so sorry,” she continued. “I didn’t mean to bring it up.”
I waved off her comment and said, “It’s okay. It’s been a long time. I choose to remember them for things like teaching me what good bourbon was or my mother dancing with me at fifteen to Sinatra’s, ‘Witchcraft.’”
“That’s awesome,” she exclaimed. “Can I ask what happened?”
“Sure,” I answered. “They were murdered. My father was an attorney who came across a cover up of improprieties in the town I grew up. They were murdered to try and stop him from exposing them.”
“Wow.”
“My father, though, made duplicates of his evidence. I was able to find the copies and helped get them arrested.”
“Oh, so you were like, some hero.”
“I doubt that. So tell me about you?”
She giggled. “There’s nothing about me. I’m just out exploring the world. What do you do then? No, don’t tell me. Let me guess.”
Our bourbons arrived. Lauren lifted hers up and swirled it in the glass.
“Okay, let me guess.”
Smiling, I said, “Go for it.”
“You don’t look like a banker.”
I shook my head.
“You don’t work with your hands either.”
I waited some more.
“I bet you went into law like your father.”
I shook my head. “No, I didn’t. I actually was a reporter at the Memphis Post for a few years.”
“Was?”
“Yes, I quit in a huff. I decided to take early retirement. My parents left me a nice inheritance, and it has been invested very well over the years.”
“So, you are like a lay about?” She asked with a playful grin.
“I suppose so.”
The server carried our ribs to the table.
“Here are some wet naps,” the server said placing several packages of moist toilettes on the table.
Lauren turned her head to him. “You don’t think I’ll get messy, do you?”
“Ma’am, everyone gets messy.”
“That’s the fun part,” she teased and poked him in the thigh.
The server grinned at her and walked away speechless.
Lauren pulled a rib off the rack and started eating it. After three bites she smirked.
“These are delicious.”
“I told you. Best ribs in the city. Maybe the world.”
She cleaned the bone and set it on the plate. Smudges of barbecue sauce were at the cor
ners of her mouth. She dabbed her napkin to remove them. She used the camera on her phone to check for sauce. She smiled and snapped a selfie.
She leaned across the table.
“Max,” she said radiating a joy, “we should go find all the rib joints in the world and see.”
“We can get a head start in Memphis.”
She shook her head. “No, you already know these are the best. Let’s go somewhere else.”
I sat back in the booth and stared at her, not knowing whether to take her seriously or not.
“Where would you want to go first?”
“Texas. They have ribs don’t they?”
“Yes,” I said. “Generally, beef. You are quite impetuous.”
She smiled bigger. “No, adventurous. I want to go everywhere.”
Then she looked into my eyes. “Come with me.”
“You don’t know me. I might be dangerous.”
Laughing, she replied, “No, I’ve seen killers. You aren’t one.”
I couldn’t respond to that.
“I’m serious, Max. Let’s go. Tonight. Leave right now with the clothes on our backs.”
For a moment, I felt some doubt. I’ve known women who dated me because I had money. She didn’t give me that sense at first, but the “aha” moment seemed to be arriving.
As if she were inside my mind, she answered the unasked question. “Don’t worry, I have money too. I’m not wanting you to pay for me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No,” she said, “but you thought it. For a second.”
“Why me then?”
“You don’t believe in love at first sight?” she asked, and I couldn’t tell if she was teasing or serious.
“I don’t think so. I’ve never experienced it.”
She stretched across the table and kissed me. Her soft lips brushing slowly across mine before they pressed hard against my mouth.
“I do. I think you are probably amazing, and I want to find out.”
“Wow,” I said. “I’m rarely speechless.”
“See,” she teased. “There is something here. Tell me right now you don’t want to go.”
In that instance, those words would not come out of my mouth. I did want to get to know her. If it was her beauty, which was simple and not something she appeared to dwell on or if it was some Siren song from her, I wanted to know her.
Crimson Blood Page 1