“Charlotte Luckey. She had promise, but spent too much time chasing the men – if you know what I mean?”
“I do, but I don’t remember the name, and that’s not unusual.”
“Gotta go. See you later.” She went back to work.
~
T he crowd was dull and I didn’t see any potential clients. I made my way back to the ‘Down Under’ and finished the evening with Andy. He had his new jukebox in operation and playing ‘Little Eva’ singing ‘The Loco-Motion’ over and over and over again.
I only had one Jack and Coke – then I took the elevator home. The bed felt good.
Watson Clark
I stopped by the Commercial Appeal building on my way into the office. The receptionist informed me that Watson Clark no longer worked for the paper. Evidently, he had resigned unexpectedly a few weeks after the Barry Lassiter incident. I guess that is the reason I couldn’t locate any additional details to match with his initial reporting of the death.
She had no idea where I could locate Watson, but offered to ask around among his former close friends. I left her my card and asked her, or anyone, to call me if they knew how I might locate him. She seemed nice and agreed to call if she found out anything.
~
M ason Brown was the first person I met as I entered the Peabody lobby.
“Mason, I understand you had some excitement around here yesterday.”
“Yes sir Mr. Reno – we certainly did. That is the most excitement these ducks have had since that hen laid her eggs in one of the potted plants.”
“Huh?” I frowned.
“Yep, she laid her eggs in one of the lobby planters. I tried every way I knew to get that hen off her nest – she wouldn’t budge. That duck was not leaving those eggs.”
“What did you do?” I asked, not knowing what else to say.
“Well sir, I put that potted plant, along with the hen and her eggs on the elevator every evening and took it to the roof. Next morning, I’d put them back on the elevator and bring them back to lobby. I did that for two weeks until she finally hatched those eggs. Mr. Reno, that was the most stubborn duck I had ever dealt with!”
“Mason, I know there is a lesson to be learned about women somewhere in that story – there must be,” I laughed.”
As I turned to head toward Marcie’s switchboard Mason yelled, “Mr. Reno – we were cleaning your office this morning and your rubber plant is missing. What happened to it?”
“It died – lack of water.” It seems everybody was concerned about my rubber plant. Mason just looked at me and scratched his thin gray hair.
When Marcie finished the call she was on I asked “Any messages?”
“No. Here is your mail and I want you to know that I am very very mad at you.”
“Why? What did I do?” I asked.
“If you needed your plant watered, why didn’t you ask? You just let it die and I would have been happy to have taken care of it for you,” she was serious!
I just stood there. What could I say?
“And Carson, you will need a tux for this event in Humboldt. I’m sure yours is ‘in the cleaners’, so walk on over to Lee’s and have him fit one for you. You’ve only got a couple of days.”
“A tuxedo? You’re kidding – right?”
“I am not kidding. So scoot yourself over there – it won’t take him long.”
Lee was a tailor and owned a tuxedo and bridal shop located just off the lobby. Fortunately, I’m a common size and Lee said he could have it ready for me tomorrow. He would leave it in my office.
I am not a tuxedo guy. But one thing was certain, probably no one would recognize me at the party. Guess that was good – I think.
~
T oday’s mail was uninteresting. A few window envelopes and some advertisement flyers about the upcoming Cotton Carnival. Just as I was tossing them in the trash – the phone rang. It was Marcie.
“I have a call for you, but they won’t give me a name,” she said.
“Okay, put it through,” I told her quickly.
I answered, “Hello, this is Carson Reno. How may I help you?”
A male voice that sounded shaky and a couple of octaves above normal spoke, “Are you Carson Reno the private detective?”
“Yes, and to whom am I speaking?”
“Never mind who this is. Are you the guy looking for Watson Clark?” he asked.
“I’m the Carson Reno that stopped by the Commercial Appeal office this morning and asked for Watson Clark – if that’s what you mean.”
“Yes, I guess that is what I mean. Listen, Watson and I were/are good friends. We worked together for over 10 years and I’m really concerned about him,” he said nervously.
“Concerned in what way?” This was getting interesting.
“Let’s just say concerned. Can you help him?”
“First, I would need to find him and second, I would need to know what kind of help he needed. You are talking, but you’re not saying much.”
“I know, but I don’t want to get him in trouble.”
This conversation was going in circles. “Look, whoever you are. First, you want to know if I can help him and then you say you don’t want to get him in trouble. You tell me where I can find Watson Clark or I’m hanging up. Okay?”
“I’ll have to draw you a map,” he said with his shaky voice.
“A map! Can’t you just give me an address or phone number?” This was getting stranger by the minute.
“I don’t know the address and he ain’t got a phone. You want the map or not?”
“Okay, a map it will be. Where can I meet you?”
“You can’t. I’ll have someone drop the map off at your office.”
“When?” I asked.
“Within the hour,” he said quickly.
Before I could again ask him his name – he hung up.
I immediately called Marcie.
“Marcie, within the hour, someone will be delivering a map for me. When they get here, ring me and stall them – somehow. I need to talk with the person delivering the map. Okay?”
“A map? What kind of a map? Maybe buried treasure?” she giggled.
“I don’t know,” I said quickly. “Just stall them if you can, please.”
“Okay, I’ll try,” she snapped back.
~
F ifteen minutes later Marcie called. “A guy is here with an envelope and he says he needs to deliver it to you personally.”
“Super. I’ll be right there.”
My disappointment was evident quickly. The guy with the envelope was a messenger – one of many who move documents quickly around the downtown area – mostly by bicycle.
“Where did you pick up this envelope?” I asked the young, short man who was wearing shorts and a funny hat.
“At the Commercial Appeal – reception desk. They called dispatch and placed an order for a pick-up with delivery to Carson Reno at the Peabody Hotel. Are you Carson Reno?”
I responded with a ‘yes’ and handed him my business card along with a dollar tip. He left with a ‘thank-you’. My plan for identifying the mysterious caller hadn’t worked.
~
B ack in my office I opened the brown 8 ½ by 11 envelope. Inside was a smaller envelope, also with my name printed on the front.
I opened the smaller envelope. Inside I didn’t find a map, but printed driving instructions. It read:
West Memphis to Interstate 55 North. Take the Turrell exit and drive West on Hwy. 63 through Marked Tree. Then take Hwy. 14 West toward Harrisburg. Drive 4 miles and turn left – south on State Rd 373. Drive one mile then turn left – east on Buckhorn, a dirt road. Drive ½ mile and then turn right – south on Collier Lane, a dirt road. Follow Collier Lane until it dead ends. There you will find a dirt driveway and a mailbox that reads Amos Duncan. Follow the driveway until you come to a yellow house trailer.
That was it? No indication of what or who I would find at the Amos Duncan residence? I’m th
inking, “this is crazy.”
But I guess I’m just crazy enough to follow these idiot directions – or certainly curious enough anyway. Besides, it was a nice day for a drive in the Arkansas countryside.
~
I still drive a 56 Ford – left over from college. It’s black, 4 doors, V8, manual transmission and nothing fancy. It is however, very functional and very dependable – not to mention it is built like a tank. It is also very fast – fast enough to get you into trouble quickly and, hopefully, fast enough to get you out of trouble just as quickly.
I put my old Ford on the road, driving across the Mississippi River Bridge, through West Memphis and then north on Interstate 55. It really was a nice day for a drive, and once you leave the populated area of West Memphis, there wasn’t much to look at but flatland, rice fields and wild ducks.
As I’m driving, I’m wondering what would make a man leave a home and job to live in a trailer located down some dirt road in rural Arkansas? Obviously, he was hiding from something or someone and it had to be serious enough to prompt such a radical transition. Guess I would just have to wait and ask whomever I found at the Amos Duncan residence.
The directions were accurate. As I turned off the pavement at Buckhorn, I was amazed at just how rural this location was. No houses, that I saw, and only a few scattered mailboxes and no driveways – just rice and soybean fields for as far as you could see.
At the end of Collier Lane, I found the mailbox – although I’m not sure it had seen mail in quite some time. It was barely standing and leaning seriously to the left.
I followed the driveway for only a few hundred yards before coming upon a small group of trees and a yellow house trailer parked underneath. There were no visible vehicles, so I was wondering if maybe I was on a wild goose chase – or in this case – a wild duck chase.
As I opened the car door - a voice from somewhere behind me said, “Put your hands where I can see them and don’t turn around.”
Of course I immediately turned around! Bad idea.
He stuck the double barreled shotgun in my stomach and said quietly, “Mister, either you don’t hear well or are just looking to get your insides spread all over this thing you call a car.”
“Listen, my name is Carson Reno – I am a private investigator from Memphis. I need to talk with Watson Clark regarding a case I am working on. Someone who works at the Commercial Appeal gave me directions to this place. For reasons I don’t understand, that person would not identify themselves. Look, there is no way I could have found this place without directions – but apparently there has been a mistake. So, if you will remove that shotgun from my belly, I’ll just get into my car and forget we ever had this conversation. OK?”
He backed off. “I guess that would have been my friend Bernie. Bernie Taylor. Bernie and I worked together at the paper – he would have been the one who gave you directions. No one else could have.”
“Are you Watson Clark?” I already knew the answer.
“Yes. Now, you want to tell me why you’re here?”
“Is there some place we can talk – without the shotgun?” I was hoping.
“Yes, let’s go inside.”
Considering the outside appearance, the inside of his trailer was not what I expected. It was well furnished and well kept. I got the feeling of a woman’s presence – not sure how I could tell, but it was just too well kept for a man living alone.
I began by telling Watson my story and the reasons I wanted to talk with him. He sat listening and chain smoking Camels - with no emotion or questions.
“So Watson, I am here to gather information – not here specifically to help you. You haven’t asked for help – your friend Bernie did.”
“I’m not asking now. I’ll tell you my story and then you can decide if you can – or even want to help.” He lit another unfiltered Camel and began his story.
This property and trailer belonged to his wife’s family – Amos and Mary Duncan of Newport, Arkansas. He and his wife, Amy, spent as much time as possible at her parents’ home in Newport. But they had limited house space, so the majority of the time they stayed here at the trailer. His wife was currently in Newport and expected to return later that afternoon.
Prior to the death of Barry Lassiter, Watson had been working an assignment story on the city/county consolidation. His digging into the story lines had not taken him straight to Brian Jeffer’s mayor’s office – as he had expected. Where it did take him was to Steve Carrollton’s office on Beale Street. It seemed a lot of money was changing hands in order to have this consolidation go the way Steve Carrollton wanted – which was no consolidation at all. The politicians he owned – those he had bought with Memphis Mafia money, supported his interests. Brian Jeffers was evidently one of these.
Barry Lassiter had supplied much of this information to Watson. Barry and Brian Jeffers were at odds about most everything and Barry saw him as a way to get Brian out of office and, hopefully, in jail. Watson and Barry had put together a significant file on corruption surrounding the mayor’s office and had plans to deliver the file to the DA. The day before that delivery, Barry took his fall from the 100 North Main building. Watson had also been at that cocktail party, but didn’t witness the fall. He did, however, know that Barry was not drunk and this fall was no accident. The facts stated that no one had witnessed the fall, but just before going over the rail, he had been in heated discussions with both Brian and Steve Carrollton – on the balcony. He had last seen Barry Lassiter with two of Steve Carrollton’s associates – who he did not know at that time.
Watson said he had made a preliminary report on the incident but omitted many of the details. His concern was the investigation, or lack of investigation, by Chuck Hutchinson’s police department – and then his concerns and fears got worse. He admitted he was just too afraid to take his file to the DA – and decided to wait until things cooled. They didn’t.
Bubba Knight and Bobby James showed up at his house one night after midnight. They beat him up, knocked around his wife and ransacked their house. They were looking for the file and they found it. Bubba and Bobby also left him with the message that if another copy of this file existed – it would be used in his obituary. Watson and Amy had gotten the message. They packed up and slipped out of town in the middle of the night.
I had questions.
“Does another copy of this file really exist?”
“Yes, but I wish it didn’t.” I don’t think he wanted to tell me that.
“Okay, we’ll come back to that later. Where does Darlene Lassiter fit into this story?”
“I’m not sure. But I do know she shed very few tears at the funeral. I figure she had plans to follow the money and stay as close to Brian as possible – I understand she has done just that – right?”
“Possibly. Watson, how do I get my hands on that file?”
“You don’t, and if I ever get my hands on it again, it won’t exist! We have made ourselves comfortable here – or at least as comfortable as we can be. I don’t intend for my wife or myself to have an unfortunate accident – do you understand?”
“I do understand. But if I can find you a way out of this and a way to get your lives back to normal – without fear from any of the Mafia hoods – would you turn the file over to me and the DA?”
“I’ll think about it. Now, I need you to leave. My wife will be home soon and I don’t want her to know you were here. She believes no one can find us here, and I would just as soon keep her believing that.”
“Okay,” I said headed to the front door. “Here’s my card and phone number. Please call me if anything else comes to mind or if anybody else tries to contact you. Meanwhile, I have some ideas that just might lead to a solution and find a way to get you and Amy back where you belong.”
“Right now we belong here,” he said frankly. “Please leave and lose those driving directions – understand?”
“Understood,” I said over my shoulder and getting back in th
e Ford.
I rolled down my windows and put the nose of the Ford into the wind. It was a nice fall day, and I would enjoy the drive back to Memphis.
I had already reached Interstate 55 by the time Amy arrived back at the Amos Duncan trailer. She had brought a pot roast from her mothers and a fresh carton of Camels for Watson – he was a chain smoker.
The bomb had been placed behind the trailer and strategically close to the propane tanks that furnished cooking fuel and heat. What the bomb didn’t destroy, the fire did. When someone finally discovered the tragedy, nothing remained but scorched ground and smoldering metal where the Amos Duncan trailer had once been. The fire had gotten hot enough to burn Amy’s car and most of the trees in the area. With no neighbors, it would be two days before anyone missed Amy and Watson – and only then because Amy had not called her parents as promised.
~
M y drive back to Memphis went quickly. My first thought was to call Monica, but it was too early in the investigation for that. I think I’ll concentrate on Mr. Brian Jeffers and see what he has been up to since leaving office. I knew Steve Carrollton was in jail, but things like that usually had little effect on underworld activity. Either they ran it from jail or someone else quickly took their place. I also had the feeling that little had changed with the changing of the name on the mayor’s office door.
The Manhattan Club
M arcie had already left when I finally got back to my office. She had a note posted where I COULD not miss it.
Call Elizabeth Teague at 901-478-2233.
It was a Memphis number, so I knew that Elizabeth Teague must be back in town. She had an apartment in Germantown, and despite placing many calls to her; we had not spoken in several weeks.
Elizabeth Teague is the kind of woman every man needed to know - at least once in his life. Taller than most, she had those kind of legs that just keep going and going. Unlike most women I meet, she had class – sometimes to her detriment, but she had class. Slim, blonde, well put together and a personality that gave your hormones an electric shock. Liz worked for Southern Airways and was, literally, a jet setter – traveling across and around the world with her work.
The Price of Beauty in Strawberry Land Page 3