Memphis Noir

by Laureen Cantwell

  Blind Mary and I werent close. We were colleagues, traded little rituals of respect whenever we crossed paths, but I dont know her like I know, for instance, Wanganegresse or Papa Joe. That dont mean I dont like her. Im a hermit by nature and profession. I dont get close to nobody.

  But Blind Mary I liked. Blind Mary I respected. She was seventy-four years old and still getting around, still sharp, still doing her hoodoo thing. She had been the salt of the hoodoo earth and whoever killed her was going to have to answer to me.

  I am the Conqueror.

  You need me, you call me. I will come.

  A Game of Love

  by SUZANNE BERUBE RORHUS

  East Memphis

  “Another glorious day in paradise,” Cookie Shay said, descending the main staircase and entering the foyer. She wore her tennis whites, as she did most mornings. Sometimes she even played.

  Justin scrutinized her appearance. Her flawless makeup and carefully styled hair were at odds with her sporty attire. “Are you heading to the club?” he asked.

  She sighed. “I’m carrying a tennis racquet, Justin,” she said. “Of course I’m going to the club. Where else could I go dressed like this?”

  To the cheating side of town, he mused, hearing the Eagles song in his head. Aloud, he said, “And which of your young fellows will be your doubles partner today?”

  She favored him with a smile that almost reached her eyes. “Well, bless your heart, Justin! Are you feeling all fragile-like?”

  He didn’t answer. A man had a right to feel fragile if he thought his wife was looking to step out on him.

  Cookie kissed his cheek. He gave a discreet sniff as her floral perfume wafted over him.

  “Sugar, you know I only have eyes for you. By the way, don’t forget we’re having dinner with the Jackmans tonight.”

  “Why can’t we just stay home? I hate having to make small talk at dinner.”

  She blew him a kiss as she crossed to the front door, nodding perfunctorily at the uniformed maid who handed her a coat. Her cherry-red Audi convertible waited in the portico in front of the home, its motor idling. “Six o’clock, Justin. Try not to stay late at the office.”

  After the door shut behind his treasure, Justin continued into the kitchen where his breakfast and newspaper were waiting. He knew his wife had married for love—the love of money. They’d struck a bargain that suited them both—his wealth purchased her beauty. They’d been happy enough for years.

  He’d been so proud of his young, athletic wife, smiling tolerantly when his friends ribbed him about robbing the cradle for his obligatory second marriage. She was only twenty years younger than he; it wasn’t as if he’d married a child.

  Last year, though, he’d become aware of a certain distance on her part. In public, she still laughed at his jokes, held onto his arm, and deferred to his wishes. But in private, she now expressed an independence that he found both worrisome and annoying.

  She’d begun to change last February, during the annual US National Indoor Tennis Championships, held at the Racquet Club of Memphis. Cookie had volunteered at the tennis tournament for as long as he’d known her.

  “You want the cherry preserves this morning, Mr. Justin?” the maid asked. He grunted. He always wanted the cherry preserves. Why did they have to have this conversation each morning? Despite the troubled economy, it was difficult to find a decent maid willing to work full-time without living in. Justin insisted the staff went home each night so they could have their privacy. He wanted Cookie to himself whenever possible.

  Cookie’s volunteer position for this year’s tournament involved seeing to the needs of the players. “Player liaison” was a critical position in the tournament hierarchy. Cookie was thrilled to be entrusted with the responsibility and crowed about her significant “promotion,” as if that word could be applied to a volunteer job. The US Indoor attracted the top talent in the tennis world each year as well as a fine roster of up-and-coming players.

  Up-and-coming players with youthful, hard, athletic bodies, legions of fans, and a sexy self-confidence with which Justin (and his burgeoning potbelly) couldn’t compete. Many of them also sported foreign accents that increased their appeal with their fans. And with Cookie. Justin could tell. He knew his wife better than she thought he did.

  One player from Spain had been Cookie’s pet project last year. Enrique and Cookie were inseparable during the week-long tournament. Cookie hosted a party in his honor at their home after he won a place in the semifinal competition. She’d paraded Enrique in front of their friends while Justin had seethed. He’d been pleased when Enrique lost his semifinal match by a large margin, due in no small part, he was sure, to the hangover the young man must have suffered in Cookie’s care.

  He dunked his cherry-laden toast point into his coffee. This year’s tournament, scheduled to start next week, would be different. Justin wouldn’t leave Cookie’s side. He’d already alerted his staff at the bond division of First Tennessee Bank of his intention to watch the entire tournament with his season tickets rather than only attending the evening matches. The staff would have to placate his clients while he protected his most valuable investment, Cookie.

  * * *

  Cookie spent the week prior to the tournament at the Racquet Club, tied up in meetings that kept her out long after Justin returned home each evening. If he’d wanted a working wife who was too busy to cater to him, he’d have kept his first marriage, Justin mused. Still, he forced himself to refrain from upbraiding her. The US Indoor only came once a year, mercifully, and Justin could allow Cookie her little indulgences.

  “How’s this year’s crop of players?” he asked her Saturday over a rare lunch at home. Cookie preferred to make reservations rather than food, so the meal consisted of leftovers from last night’s visit to Folk’s Folly Prime Steak House.

  “Lovely!” she enthused. “It’s been so exciting watching them qualify. I can’t wait for the first round to start Monday, can you?”

  “Mm,” he said. “Can’t wait. Any players in particular seem like they’ll do well?” He watched her face carefully, looking for signs of deceit. If she had her eye on any tennis boy-toy, he wanted to know as soon as possible. He’d let the situation get away from him last year. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  “Well, there’s a Norwegian I think will do well. I watched him today.” Her gaze dropped to her plate, appearing to search for something within the spinach soufflé.

  So the Norwegian would be this year’s threat. “What’s his name, darling?”

  “Trygve” she answered. “Isn’t that the cutest name you’ve ever heard?” She pronounced it again, slowly, “Trigg-va.”

  “Cute all right. How’s he ranked?”

  “He’s not even ranked in the top tiers,” she said. “That’s what’s so excellent. He’s going to be a total surprise. He’s won a few tournaments in Norway, but nothing outside that country. Still, he won his qualifying match easily today. We should host him, don’t you think? He’s staying at the Doubletree next to the club, but I imagine he’d be so much more comfortable with us.”

  Justin thought about this. He was a proponent of the maxim to keep one’s enemies close, but to host his wife’s crush in his own home again? What would their friends say? That he’d gotten what he deserved for marrying someone so much younger?

  “I think it best we leave him where he is,” he said. “As the player liaison, surely you can’t be perceived as having favorites?”

  “Maybe you’re right. Let’s just plan a party for him after the tournament is over, okay? I know he’s going to do well.”

  “Absolutely,” he agreed. “We’ll just keep it our little secret until the end, okay?”

  Impulsively, she gave him a hug across the table. “You’re so good to me,” she said.

  He gazed into her eyes. “Don’t you forget it, baby.”

  After lunch, they walked across the property, stopping at the horse barn. Nathanial, the stab
le master, greeted them with his usual somber expression.

  “Did the stallion settle in?” Justin asked, clapping a hand on the older man’s shoulder.

  “Full of energy, but coming along nicely.”

  “Fancy a ride?” Cookie asked, the twinkle in her eye reminding Justin of the mischievous young woman he’d married. “We won’t have much time all this coming week.”

  Justin agreed and allowed Nathanial to saddle up the stallion and Cookie’s roan. They rode to the far reaches of their estate, allowing the horses to ford the stream that separated the pastures. Cookie’s horsemanship was as flawless and graceful as her tennis playing. The twilight reflected on her face, emphasizing her beauty. It was chilly for Memphis, with temperatures in the forties, but it was, after all, February. Spring would arrive in a few short weeks. Justin could wait. He’d always been a patient man.

  On the far side of the stream, Cookie and Justin rode to a small cave. The cave itself was an anomaly; the high water table of West Tennessee didn’t allow for basements, much less caves. Justin suspected that the “cave” was really a burial mound built by the Chickasaw centuries before. He’d explored such mounds at Chucalissa, the Indian village south of downtown. He had no intention, of course, of allowing archaeologists to invade his property.

  He dismounted the stallion and squatted at the entrance to the cave, careful to keep the knees of his trousers out of the dirt. He reached inside and pulled out a half-full bottle of chardonnay.

  “Me first!” Cookie said, leaning down from her saddle to reach for the bottle.

  With an indulgent smile, he handed it up to her. She uncorked it and took a swig then passed it to him.

  * * *

  The week unwound in its slow, familiar course. Monday morning, Justin descended to his company’s gold box on the east side of the court and took his seat. The box was deserted, as he’d expected. None of his fellow partners in the bond division had scheduled any guests today. The big action in the tournament wouldn’t occur until later in the week.

  Once settled, he consulted his program. Cookie’s Norwegian was scheduled for the final qualifying round beginning at eleven a.m. Theoretically, of course, the young man could fail to qualify for the tournament, especially since he was virtually unknown. Justin doubted that would happen, however. Cookie had an instinct for success. If she said the boy had a chance to win it all, she was probably right.

  “Justin!”

  He glanced up from his program and stood, offering his hand to the sheriff. “Buddy! Good to see you! June,” he said to the sheriff’s wife, kissing her on both cheeks. “Y’all are here early. Do you watch the qualifying matches every year?”

  “Why, we sure do,” June said, folding her jacket and placing it on the seat next to her. She and her husband sat in the row in front of Justin. “You’re the slacker who only comes for the big matches. And poor Cookie’s here practically around the clock.”

  “Well, someone has to earn a living,” Justin said. “And how do you have time to attend all the matches, sheriff? Does crime take a break during the US Indoor?”

  Buddy laughed. “Not quite. June usually brings a friend to the daytime matches. I’m just killing time before an appointment later.”

  * * *

  Cookie tightened her grip on her clipboard as she dispatched the last volunteer to her duties. Honestly, it was such a nuisance to manage a volunteer staff. The legion of housewives who comprised her hospitality team cancelled commitments at the last minute, chatted when they should be focusing on their jobs, and flirted outrageously with players half their ages.

  She glanced at her watch. If she hurried, she could catch Trygve’s final qualifying match. She was confident he’d win, but she’d like to be there to provide a bit of emotional support. After all, the guy was only twenty-one, and here he was alone in the USA, competing against some of the top players in the sport.

  She intended to ignore the fact that Trygve was slightly younger than she was. No matter. She knew she looked good for her age—slim, athletic, and with the best skin spa treatments could buy. The boy was clearly smitten, and he’d be leaving the country in a week. A perfect friend.

  Of course, there was the little matter of Justin to deal with. His devoting an entire week to watch the tournament was unusual and therefore alarming. He couldn’t suspect her of having had an affair with Enrique last year. After all, they’d entertained him in their home. She was sure Justin wouldn’t have agreed to that if he’d been suspicious.

  Dear Justin. He was a good man but not very exciting. When she went out with him and his friends, she felt like a teenager who’d rather sit at the kids’ table than listen to the adults drone on about their business affairs.

  “Cookie! I am glad to see you.”

  She turned at Trygve’s voice with its sexy accent, a cross between Arnold Schwarzenegger and the Swedish chef from The Muppet Show.

  Trygve crossed the players’ lounge in two strides and grasped her hands. “A kiss for luck?” he said. “I must win this match, or I go home tonight.”

  Reflexively, she scanned the room to ensure they were alone. Satisfied, she tiptoed to plant a gentle kiss on Trygve’s stubble-covered cheek. “Don’t worry, you’ve got this.”

  He buried his hand in her straight, raven-black hair and tugged her closer, then bent to plant a kiss firmly on her lips. “You will be watching, yes?” His second kiss parted her lips and invaded her mouth.

  “Not here, Trygve,” she said. “There are too many people with access to this room. My husband can’t find out about us.” Despite her words, she was unable to resist cupping his angular jaw, then sliding her hand down the sinews of his neck.

  “Your husband is idiot to let you leave his side. If you were my wife, I’d have you next to me all the hours of the day and night.” He pulled her closer, nestling her against his broad chest.

  What a suffocating thought! Cookie shivered. It was bad enough having Justin haunting the tournament this year. At least her connection to Trygve had a time limit. This time next week, he’d be back home in Ålesund, just a fond memory to tide her over until next year’s tournament.

  “You’d better get ready, and I have work to finish before I can watch the match.” She nudged the muscular arms encircling her waist, and Trygve released her. “I’ll see you after the match. Good luck!”

  He stole another kiss before she made it to the door.

  * * *

  She met him again in the players’ lounge after he won his qualifying match in straight sets. Several competitors, early for their own matches, relaxed in the lounge, watching the stadium action on the closed-circuit televisions.

  Cookie was putting the finishing touches on the lunch buffet when Trygve swept into the lounge, bristling with excitement. He caught her in a bear hug. “Did you see me?” he demanded.

  “Yes, I did, Mr. Nilsson,” she said, wriggling free. “We all did. Congratulations!”

  He glanced around, seeming disappointed not to be alone with her. “Yes, well. Now I suppose I am qualified. I do not play again until the second match tomorrow. What shall I do with my free time?” The upturned corner of his mouth contained hope and an invitation.

  “Mr. Nilsson, if you’ll follow me, I will show you the Racquet Club’s weight room as well as the spa, in case you wish to book yourself a massage.” She led him from the curious glances of the other players.

  “Trygve, you have to be more discreet,” she admonished him once they were in the hall. “You’re going to get me in trouble with my husband and with the officials.” She’d hate to lose her volunteer position at the tournament, but losing her marriage wasn’t even an option. Justin wasn’t too demanding, as far as rich older husbands went.

  “I don’t care. I want to celebrate with you. And when I win the whole tournament, I want you by my side when I accept the trophy.”

  “We’ll worry about that later. For now, why don’t you go back to the hotel and swim or something? I’
ll take a meal break around three, and I’ll meet you in your room then, okay?” She graced him with a smile promising future favors.

  * * *

  Justin plopped into his seat for Tuesday’s first-round matches. June sat in front of him, this time accompanied by another lady. Justin greeted them, and June made the introductions.

  “Justin, I’d like you to meet my bridge club partner, Ms. Camilla Barnes. Camilla, this is Justin Shay. He’s a bond trader for First Tennessee and has just the loveliest wife.”

  He took Camilla’s hand. Obviously a stay-at-home wife. He could tell a woman’s employment status by the strength of her handshake. Businesswomen gave a decent pressure, but the ladies-who-lunch crowd tended more toward a limp hand. Justin never knew if he was supposed to shake it or kiss it. Camilla, with her Talbots dress, coiffed silver hair, and delicate grip, was a lifetime luncher.

  They settled in for the first match, an unexpectedly exciting contest between two young American players. Justin tensed when the opponents for the second match were announced.

  Trygve.

  “Oh, Camilla, you’ll like this next fellow,” June said to her friend. “Just you wait.”

  The Norwegian won his first set 6-2. Before the next set began, June took the opportunity to turn and speak to Justin.

  “Isn’t he marvelous?”

  “He moves so quickly for such a massive man,” Camilla interjected, “and my goodness, he’s got the wingspan of a condor! He can reach just about anything his poor opponent hits at him.”

  “Yes, he’s a marvel,” Justin said.

  “And I just love his ponytail,” June said. “He looks like a Viking, if Vikings wore tennis shorts and carried rackets instead of battle axes.”

  “Ooh, look, June! He’s fixing to change his shirt! Pay attention!”

  When Justin left the stadium at the dinner break, he saw that he’d missed a call from Nathanial, his stable master. He returned the call.