I met Elizabeth Teague while working on a “Murder in Humboldt’ She and Mary Ellen Maxwell (the lady who had invited me to the party) were the closest of friends. Both these ladies lived and operated at a level much above Carson Reno – but I felt honored to call both of them friends.
Liz and I had not really spoken since my last visit to Humboldt and I assumed her calling was related to the upcoming party. I gave her a call.
She answered on the second ring. “Hello, this is Liz.”
“Hello, this is Carson. Do I have a real person or is this a recording?”
“Sweetheart, you have the real thing. Great to hear from you – thanks for calling me back.”
“What can I do for you? You have a boyfriend that needs some ‘go-away’ muscle work, or are you calling to get an update on how the lower class lives?”
“Neither, smart-ass. I wanted to know if you were going to make Mary Ellen’s party,” she snapped.
“Yep. I have plans to be in Humboldt tomorrow evening and available for the gala event the next day. You are going – I assume?”
“Absolutely, I would not miss it. I need to remind you that a tuxedo is required. I’m sure yours is in the cleaners, so you might want to dust it off, okay?”
“Done that – I am one prepared detective.” I’m sure she did not really believe that.
“Great. I’m looking forward to seeing you again. Are you available for a drink and catch-up conversation tonight?” She asked.
“Yes mam, I am available,” I probably answered too quickly.
“Listen, handsome. Don’t get your libido worked up. I’ve got an early flight out tomorrow and then back late so I can make it to the party. There won’t be any breakfast date, so you can calm the prostate and keep your charm to yourself – this time. We have a deal?”
“Are you always this proud of yourself – or do I bring the best out of you?”
“I’m always this proud. Now, do you want to have a drink or not?”
“I do, but I’ll do you one better. I need to go to the Manhattan Club this evening – you up to that?”
“Wow – maybe I have misjudged you Carson Reno. I would be happy to be your guest at the Manhattan Club. I have just the outfit.”
I was sure she did – and I wanted to see it!
“I’ll pick you up at 8. That work?” I said.
“Are you still driving that black thing you call a car? If so, NO - you may not pick me up. I’ll pick you up. Where do you live?”
I gave her my address and directions. Hey, I’m not crazy!
~
T he Manhattan Club is located at 1459 Elvis Presley Blvd. – and it is actually just down the road from Graceland. The King has been known to rent the whole club on special occasions and throw his own ‘private’ parties. For us ‘normal folks’, it’s actually an upscale supper club which offers a full menu and name entertainment on most nights.
My hopes were to get a sighting of Brian Jeffers and make some decisions for myself on what he might or might not be up to.
~
A t 8:03 that familiar red Corvette rolled into the parking area in front of my apartment building. It had barely stopped when Liz jumped out and threw those long arms around me. Her kiss was long, sincere and wet. She finished with a familiar nibble on my ear.
“Hey Carson Reno. You are as good looking as I remember,” she laughed.
“And you’re not bad yourself, Miss Teague.” Her blonde hair was shorter than I remembered and she was still sporting a great tan – one of those tans you can actually smell, when you get close enough. Her dinner dress was short and red - very red. Much brighter than the corvette - if that was possible. The dress had thin narrow straps, showing just enough to tease but keep the looker wondering. With her matching high heals, I felt overpowered – I think Liz liked it like that!
I headed around to the passenger door but she beat me there.
“No sir – Mr. Reno. I don’t drive on dates.” With that, she tossed me the keys.
We spent the short drive catching up on activities and talking about Mary Ellen’s upcoming party. It was hard work just talking and keeping this 327 cubic inch/four speed monster under control, while letting my eyes soak up as much of Liz as I could. She was nice to look at.
~
T he doorman took charge of the corvette and our hostess took us to a table close to the dance floor, but not too close to the band. It was perfect.
Early evening was spent with wine, appetizers and salad. Memphis Slim was the entertainment - along with some other recording groups out of Sunny Side Records. I didn’t see who I was looking for and it seemed my search for Brian Jeffers was going to come up a zero. Turns out, I was just looking in the wrong place.
We ordered steaks and Liz took the obliged trip to powder her nose. I used this opportunity to visit the bar and ask the bartender a few questions. After some simple talk I asked, “I understand a lot of famous people come in here.”
“Yep, sure do – but not tonight. You’re out of luck. Best we got tonight is an ex-mayor and some ‘would-be’ thugs.”
“Oh, yeah? You mean Ex-mayor Jeffers – right? I’ve looked around but haven’t seen him,” I offered casually.
“That’s because he’s not in the main dinning room,” the bartender replied while washing some glassed. “They’re having dinner in the back – the ‘Blue Room’. It’s private for those who don’t want to mingle with the regular folks. You need a drink?”
“Yes, a Jack and Coke please. How do you get into this ‘Blue Room’?” I answered.
“You don’t. Let me get you that drink,” he said walking away.
Liz had returned from the powder room and was in her seat when I got back to the table.
“Drinking again?” she asked. “Wine not good enough for you?”
“Hey – I told you I’m working. I just needed to pump the bartender, and getting a drink was part of the program. I’ll save it until after dinner.”
We were still waiting on our steaks, so I excused myself and pretended to search for the men’s room. However, I was really looking for this ‘Blue Room’ - it wasn’t hard to find. In the back of the band area was a small dark hallway that led to a single door. The sign on the door read ‘The Blue Room’.
Acting ignorant, I quickly opened the door and walked in – much like I expected to find the men’s room behind the door. What I did find was a room full of interesting people having a private dinner. Randy Price, the bodyguard, immediately greeted me at the door and told me this was a private party. I apologized, turned and left – but not before taking note of who surrounded the large dinner table.
Seated at the table were:
Brian Jeffers – ex-Mayor
Darlene Lassiter – Barry Lassiter’s widow
Chuck Hutchinson – Chief of Police
Carlton Scruggs – Shelby County Sheriff
Terry Davis – President of the Dock Workers Union
And two others I could not identify. They had their backs to me and didn’t turn around at my intrusion.
Back at the table, we had our steaks and then settled for an after dinner cocktail rather than desert.
Memphis Slim was just getting into his rhythm when the hostess seated Brian Jeffers and Darlene Lassiter at a table close to the band. I guess the dinner meeting was over.
They only sat long enough to order a drink and then immediately hit the dance floor. He wasn’t a half-bad dancer and Darlene was hanging onto him like a wet suit. She was leaving very little room between her and him – making a statement about their relationship.
I assume other members of the dinner party must have used some unseen door for their exit – because no one else made an appearance in the main dinning room.
Liz and I danced a few, but we mostly just talked and got to know each other better. At midnight she let me know it was time to go and I obliged – Brian and Darlene just seemed to be getting started.
She left me in fr
ont of my apartment building with another wet kiss and I told her I would see her at Mary Ellen’s – if not before.
~
A ndy was still cleaning his bar when I stopped in at the ‘Down Under’ for a nightcap. The place was empty except for a young couple huddled up in a corner booth. The jukebox was playing Booker T and the MG’s ‘Green Onions’ - and Andy was timing his cleaning to the beat of the music.
“Andy, can I still get a Jack/Coke? You can put it in a travel cup – I need to use your pay phone before calling it a day.”
“Who in their right mind would want to talk to you at this hour of the night?” he asked.
“Probably nobody – but I know I can leave them a message.”
Fortunately, the phone was located in an area where I could hear and speak over the loud music. I placed a call to Larry Parker, Chief of Detectives for Shelby County. I knew he wouldn’t be there, but central dispatch would take the message, and he should get it first thing in the morning. The message was for Larry to call me at my office first opportunity tomorrow.
Larry had been a policeman for as long as I could remember. He worked his way up the ladder and, unlike many others, had done it through honesty and good police work. I trusted him and he had never let me down. Our friendship goes way back to the beginning. He was a sponsor for my private detective license and had always been there when I needed him – and I think I needed him again.
Jackson, Tennessee
L arry Parker had already called twice by the time I walked in the lobby door.
Marcie yelled across the desk “Hey Carson, the police are looking for you this morning. A Captain Parker has already called twice. You in trouble?”
“I am always in trouble,” I shouted back. “Just sometimes more in trouble than others. Did he leave a number?”
“Yes, it’s on your desk and your tux is hanging on your door.”
Dispatch quickly passed me through to Larry. I told him I was headed out of town and asked if he could arrange to meet me for lunch? I promised no more than a half-hour. He agreed and I suggested we meet at Sandy’s on Summer Avenue – it was close to his office and also convenient to me driving out of town.
Sandy’s was new to Memphis and had grown very popular over the past few months. Hamburgers were their specialty, but they actually had a good menu, if you could get past the burgers!
As I expected Sandy’s was crowded – it was lunchtime. Also, as I expected, Larry was already there when I arrived. He had claimed a window booth and was working on a Sandy’s Burger and fries when I sat down.
“You couldn’t wait? I’m buying lunch – didn’t I mention that?” I hadn’t.
“No you did not. But, now that I know, I’ll add a shake and some cheesecake. Thanks Buddy."
“Not being personal Larry, but if I were you, I’d skip that shake and cake. I saw you on TV last week and there wasn’t enough room for you and the reporter on the same screen. What would you dress-out now – about 250?”
“220 and you know the camera always makes you look heavier than you are. Now, I know we didn’t come here to discuss my diet – so let’s hear it,” he said before downing what was left of his burger.
“Can you think of any reasons why an ex-mayor, the Chief of Police, the Shelby County Sheriff and various other shifty characters would be having a meeting in a back room of the Manhattan Club?”
“Dinner?”
“I’m sure they had dinner, but I believe there is something more to it.”
“Jeez, Carson. Can’t people have dinner in private without some mystery being involved?”
“I’m sure they can, but I need to tell you some other things.”
I told Larry my story, starting with my visit from Monica, the mysterious map that evidently came from Bernie Taylor and then my crazy trip to Arkansas to see Watson Clark. I finished with my observations from last night at the Manhattan Club.
“Interesting,” he said.
“Yes it is interesting. And if I can get my hands on that file, I believe we’re going to see some big names take a big fall. We both know that our Memphis Mafia friends on Beale Street want no part of this city/county consolidation. The prostitution, gambling, illegal weapons, booze and drug operations would take a real hit – maybe even shut them down.”
“Interesting,” he said again.
“We both know a lot of money is changing hands – it has to be. Otherwise they couldn’t get away with all the things they do. We just don’t know ‘whose’ hands and I think this file might just tell us that.”
“Interesting,” he said again.
“Is that all you can say – interesting!” I exclaimed.
“Okay, Carson, what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to check out this guy Bernie Taylor – he works at the Commercial Appeal and I think he knows where this file might be. I also think he might be in danger. Watson has himself hidden away in Arkansas and you can check on him later – he’s so scared we would never get the file from him anyway. I also need you to re-open the investigation into Barry Lassiter’s death. I’ll offer even money that somebody threw him over that rail, and I have a pretty good guess as to who did it.”
“You want me to make some waves – huh?”
“Absolutely not. Think up some excuse to re-open the death investigation and keep everything on a low key – especially concerning Bernie Taylor.”
“Okay – what else?” Larry asked.
“Just stay in touch. I’ll be in Humboldt for a few days – you know how to reach me there – I’ll be at Chiefs.”
“Okay – I’ll call if I find anything you need to know. Otherwise, let me hear from you when you get back in town. Now, here’s the check. Thanks for lunch,” he said getting up to leave.
He was finished and I still hadn’t even ordered!
“Larry, one other thing. That fellow named Dollar you sent to the pen for running an auto theft ring – didn’t he make parole and relocate to Jackson?”
“Alfred E. Dollar. Can’t ever forget that name. He had a big operation – stealing cars, changing vin numbers, selling used cars for new, turning back mileage – this guy was a real piece of work. Yes, he made parole and relocated to Jackson, but I’ve not heard anything from or about him. Why?”
“Just curious. I’m working on a case for one of Jack’s clients – in Milan, Tennessee. Embezzlement at a car dealership, but it’s got a bad smell to it. If our friend Alfred E. Dollar is in the area, he might have some information to share.”
“Carson, I suggest you be careful with this guy. His name doesn’t fit his personality. He’s not a nice person and I would be very surprised if he voluntary shared any information with you. And you can also bet that whoever he is currently running with, isn’t of much better character. Just be cautious.”
“Will do. I’ll stay in touch,” I offered as Larry walked away.
I ordered a Sandy’s hamburger to go and pointed the Ford east on Hwy. 70/79. At Brownsville I stayed on Hwy. 70 and drove toward Jackson, rather than Humboldt.
Bemis is a section of Jackson’s south side. If you were looking for trouble, Bemis would a good place to look. I headed for Bemis.
I figured if I had any chance of finding Alfred E. Dollar, Bemis was be my best place to start. Bars and used car lots lined both sides of Hwy. 45 South, and after buying a few beers at ‘Murphy’s’ – I found out what I wanted to know – Alfred E. Dollar was in the area and was a regular. According to the bartender, my best bet for finding Alfred this time of day would be the Bemis Pool Room. That was my next stop.
My problem was that I didn’t know what Alfred E. Dollar looked like – so I really wouldn’t know him if I saw him. This made my questions more difficult and dangerous, as I was about to find out.
I sat on a stool at the pool room bar for 30 minutes and never got the feeling that Alfred E. Dollar was in the room – that based upon the conversations going on around the bar, pool tables and domino games. Expecting
the worst, I asked the biggest and ugliest fellow in the poolroom if he knew where I could find Alfred E. Dollar.
He walked over and blew his beer breath in my face as he asked, “Just who wants to know?”
“Me. I want to know. I am the one who asked. What are you confused about?” He visibly did not appreciate my words or tone.
“Mister, are you drunk or just as stupid as you look,” he said leaning over and putting his face only inches from mine. “Would you like for me to break your nose before or after I throw you out?”
“Those are a lot of questions – just let me answer them this way,” I said backing away from his stinking breath. “I don’t know Alfred E. Dollar by sight. But what I do know is that I have two loaded car haulers parked between here and Bolivar, and I need a buyer. I was given the name Alfred E. Dollar and also given the understanding that he might have an interest. That’s why I am asking where I could find Alfred E. Dollar. Does that answer any of your questions?”
“Who’s ‘giving’ all this information? Are you a cop?” His face was once again getting closer to mine – I’m sitting and he’s standing.
“How come you keep answering my questions with more questions? Let’s start over. Do you know where I can find Alfred E. Dollar?”
“No.”
“Thank you for the conversation – it has been interesting. Do you have any suggestions on where I might look? Now, just so we are clear – that is a different question from my original one. Can we skip the foreplay and try for a Yes or No?”
“No.”
“Thank you,” I said turning around on my barstool and trying to get him out of my face.
Then he added, “But if you’ll leave your name and number where you can be reached, I’ll see that Al gets it.”
‘Al’? No wonder I wasn’t getting anywhere, I was using the wrong name! Anyone with a handle like Alfred E. Dollar would certainly feel better with just a simple – ‘Al’. How could I have been so stupid!
The Price of Beauty in Strawberry Land Page 4