by Todd Morgan
“Do you know where she might have gone?”
“I expect she is holed up in a hotel somewhere. She’ll turn up in a day or two.”
“Without her purse?”
She shrugged. “Husbands don’t know everything about their wives, do they, Beason?”
Zing!
“No,” I agreed. “They do not. When was the last time you talked to her?”
“Sunday night. She called on her way to meet you at the hotel.”
“Do you believe she is going to leave her husband?”
“Maybe. I think she is in the process of working it all out.”
“Your mother doesn’t have a very good opinion of her husband.”
“No.” She held out her hands. “Steve is…okay. I never had a problem with him. Though, I never had to live with him.”
“What do you believe Amber will do?”
“I expect she’ll move in with me for a little while.”
“She’ll leave her job? In this economy?”
“It’s not that far of a drive. Besides, I’m sure I can get her on at the hospital. Nurses and truck drivers can always get a job.”
“You’re a nurse, too?”
“Peas in a pod, Amber and I.”
“Are you married, Madison?”
She batted her eyelashes. “Like that’s ever stopped you before.”
I felt my face warm. “I was only wondering if your husband would object to Amber moving in.”
She shook her head. “I’m still waiting on my prince.”
“Big house for one person.”
Another shrug. “Seemed like a good investment. At the time.”
“I know what you mean.”
“That fucking housing bubble.”
Somewhere a dog barked outside. “Where should I look next?”
“Beats me,” she said. “You’re the detective.”
Madison had that energy, that look, that fire, that same…something that had pulled me into Amber like a heat seeking missile. I stood to leave, forcing myself to cut the interview short. I knew what that something could do to me. “If you hear from her, will you have her call me? Or the police?”
“Sure.” She rose and led me to the door. Juicy was scribbled across the seat of her sweats.
I took out a card and at the door said, “Maybe you could call me, too? If you hear from her.”
“Maybe I’ll call you anyway.”
***
Madison gave me a shortcut back to 431 so I wouldn’t have to drive back through Gadsden. I passed a dirt race track and a home with approximately four hundred roosters tethered to their small shelters. Cockfighting is illegal in Alabama, but raising cocks to fight was not. If I hadn’t been going slow to admire the beauty of the valley, I would have run pell-mell into a speed trap.
The general rule for a good barbeque joint; the worse a place looks from the outside, the better the food. I found the perfect one back on the highway, closer to shack than restaurant. Chirt parking lot, tin roof, I had to share a long table with six others, three blue collar types elbow to elbow with three men in ties. I ordered a sandwich, fried dill pickles and a sweet tea. As I waited for the food, I exchanged small talk with the others, the weather, the ongoing bingo scandal, but mostly college football. How they did in the bowls and what we could expect in the fall.
The sandwich came and it was all I had hoped for. Spicy pulled pork topped with coleslaw, ranch dressing in a plastic container to dip the pickles in. I ate half the pickles first. The sandwich was the kind that once you picked it up, you couldn’t put it back down. A roll of paper towels was on the table and I put it to good use.
While I chewed and wiped away sauce, I thought about the mysterious case of Amber Hogan Noble. The mother was worried to death. The sister wasn’t concerned in the least. It was obvious that this family didn’t keep secrets from one another—both were aware of our affair. I had the feeling Amber and Madison may have been closer than either was to their mother. Completely understandable. I had an inkling that Madison knew exactly where her sister was. Hence, the absence of concern. For all I knew, Amber’s damaged car was in the garage, Amber herself hiding upstairs or down in the basement. The mother had called, and even if she hadn’t, all Amber needed to do was see my Jeep and secret herself away.
If Madison wasn’t worried, then neither should I be.
Except, I was.
I finished my lunch, left a ten on the table and took the tea with me.
Chapter Eleven
A familiar Lexus was waiting for me in the sock factory lot. I parked in the handicapped space and the Lexus door popped open.
“Camp, we need to talk.”
“No, Melvin,” I said. Jenks was in his proper bank attire, dark suit, red tie. “I don’t think we do.”
That threw him. He was unaccustomed to being told no. “Well, we do.”
I sighed. Some things were inevitable. Like death and taxes. And cheating spouses. “Come on then.”
We went up the metal stairs. The sky was blue and the wind was singing in the piney woods next to and behind the factory. I unlocked the heavy outer door and pointed to my office door. I went in behind him, turning on lights and checking the answering machine. Nothing. I walked around the desk and sat. Melvin chose to pace.
“I need your help.”
“I can’t help you,” I tried to explain. “I work for the other side.”
“Yeah, I talked to that fucking lawyer,” Melvin spat. “A regular shark, that boy.”
“What he gets paid for.”
“I can’t believe a man like you works for a man like that.”
I held out my hands. What are you going to do?
“You’re on his team.”
“Right.”
“See, that’s what I’m trying to say.” He put both hands on my desk, leaning forward. Dark circles were under his eyes, fatigue and worry stretched across his face. I knew the hollow feeling he was going through. “I don’t want teams here. I only want us working for the same thing.”
“Your divorce?”
He violently shook his head. “I don’t want a divorce.”
“Out of my hands.”
“You’re going to help me.”
“How, Melvin? How could I possibly help you?”
“You’re going to help me get her back.”
“What?”
“Have you ever been divorced?”
“No,” I answered honestly.
“See, you know how to keep a marriage together.”
“Actually, I’m the last person you should—“
“I don’t know where else to go,” he cut me off, not listening and I let him run with it. “I realized this morning that I don’t have any friends. I’ve got business associates and social contacts, but I don’t have anyone I can talk to. All of the people I call friends, I got because of Cynthia. Everybody likes her—loves her—and it’s not like I can go to them for help.”
“So you came to me.”
“Cynthia is the best friend I ever had.” Jenks was on the verge of tears. “The only friend I ever had.”
Another sigh. “What does she say?”
“She won’t talk to me. She wasn’t home when I got there last night and she ain’t answering her phone. I don’t know where she is. Or the kids.”
“Kids are probably in school.”
“How can I get her back if she won’t even hear what I have to say?”
“This is a big change.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You need to give her some space.”
“Space?”
“Yeah. Let her settle down a bit. Maybe with a little time, she’ll talk to you.”
“I can’t do that. I have to do something.”
“Just wait.”
He resumed pacing, before suddenly stopping. “Can I send her flowers?”
I shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
“How about a letter?” he pleaded. “A
love letter like I used to write her. Not an email.”
“Sure. One letter. Tell her you love her and you’ll do anything—especially giving her a little time.”
He nodded enthusiastically. “It’s gonna be hell.”
“Yes, Melvin,” I agreed. “It will be.”
I missed the car doors slamming but heard the stairs creak. Heavy footsteps, more than one pair. The outer door banged open, then the office door. I was almost relieved to see my two new friends.
“Hello, Clarence.”
The big one frowned. “Nobody calls me that.”
His tag number had led to his driver’s license and then to his credit rating. The score was not good. And you thought the internet was only for porn. “Your momma did.”
He had on a long coat and his pale partner was in a blue parka. Both men kept their hands in their pockets. “Have you found the girl yet?”
“We are all looking for that special someone.”
Jenks said, “Not me.”
Starling jerked a thumb at the bank president. “Who’s he?”
“A…friend.” What else could I say?
“You need to find the girl.”
The .45 was still in the holster at the small of my back. “What girl?”
He jabbed a meaty finger at my chest. “You know,” he said. “Find her and find her fast. Or you’ll answer to us.” He gave me his best hard stare and walked out. His partner gave me a nod. There was a lot in that nod, in that look. What are you going to do? He backed out the door.
Alone, Jenks said, “What was that all about?”
“Beats hell out of me.”
Chapter Twelve
It wasn’t much of a car lot. Three twenty year old cars slowly returning to earth—one sitting on a rim—the makes and models only to be determined by close inspection. A gleaming white Bronco, a la O.J. Simpson, with huge mud tires sat next to a dilapidated trailer.
I climbed the cinder block steps and pushed through the door. Andy Chen was one hundred percent Mandarin Chinese, his parents fleeing Hong Kong ahead of the communist takeover and somehow ending up in north Alabama. He had graduated with my brother and was the biggest redneck I had ever met. Andy, phone in one ear, smiled at my entrance and held up a finger.
“You want the odds that New England will beat Indianapolis in the Super Bowl?” The widescreen television was tuned to ESPN, flanked by four other smaller sets, two on each side. ESPN News, ESPN Two, ESPNU, and ESPN T or Y or X or whatever was left in the ESPN family. “I’ll give you fifteen to one.”
Pause.
“You got it,” he said. “I’ll put you down for two bills.” Andy hung up, flipped through a yellow notebook and scribbled something down. He spat tobacco juice into a Dixie cup and said, “Beasily. Long time, no see.”
“How you been, Andy?”
“Can’t complain. Or find anybody who gives a shit.”
“The way of the world.”
“You?”
“About the same.”
“How’s Gus?”
“He’s good. Building roads for the state.”
“He still married to Tonya?”
“Yeah. They’ve got a couple of kids now.”
Andy leaned back, put his hands behind his head and his boots on the table. Not hiking boots like mine, but rattlesnake cowboy boots. “Man, that was the hottest girl in our school.”
“Still is,” I said, “but don’t tell her I think so.”
“She knows. How a man like your brother ended up with a tasty treat like that is beyond me.”
“The Camp men have been well endowed through the ages.”
He laughed, reaching desperately for the cup, barely getting to it in time. He spat. “Don’t forget I had PE with him for four years.”
“I must have gotten his.”
Andy shook his head. “You detecting?”
“Yep.”
“Private?”
“Yep.”
“You come here looking for work? I could probably hook you up,” he said. “I’ve gotta couple of dead beats you could scare the hell out of for me.”
“No. Thanks. How do you know I didn’t come in to trade in my Jeep?”
Flat eyes.
“Any of those cars even run?”
“They did when I parked them there.”
“How long ago was that?”
He shrugged. “Five years? What do you need, Bees?”
“Information.”
Andy arched an eyebrow. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Clarence Starling, out of Shreveport.”
“Big Bird.”
“Big Bird?” I laughed. “And he got pissed when I called him Clarence.”
“I bet. Nobody calls him Big Bird to his face either. His younger brother is Little Bird and so…” He held out his hands. “You got trouble with Bird.”
“I’m not sure.”
“I’m telling you, if he’s in your life,” he told me, “you’ve got trouble.”
“What’s his story?”
“Big player in the mafia. Drugs, women, guns.”
The Dixie Mafia wasn’t your typical criminal organization. It was more of a loose collaboration. No godfather, no omerta, no rules. But if you were plugged in (like Andy was) and needed something on the wrong side of the law, the Dixie Mafia could deliver.
“He’s been hanging around. Maybe Little Bird, too.”
Andy spat. “What’s this other guy look like?”
“Little fellow. Real pale. Hard.”
Andy shook his head. “Definitely not Little Bird. This boy talk funny?”
“I don’t know. He never says anything.”
Andy went serious.
“Who is he?”
“Not sure. I need to make some calls. What do they want?”
“At first, they just kept showing up. Now they want me to find a girl I’m already looking for.”
“Then you need to find the girl.”
Interesting. Andrew Chen had known me since childhood. He knew firsthand what I was capable of, the road I had traveled. “Trouble, huh?”
“Yep. The bad kind.”
“What other kind is there?”
“Not like this.”
“Once I find the woman,” I said, “if she doesn’t want to be found, she gets to stay lost.”
Andy took a deep breath. “Call me.”
I stood to leave. “You took a bet that the Patriots would beat the Colts in the Super Bowl?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s impossible,” I said. “They play in the same conference.”
“Most bets are impossible. That’s how I make money.”
“Then why didn’t you give better odds? Like a hundred to one?”
Andy grinned. “If I give them unbelievable odds, they won’t believe it. You have to show them what they want.”
Chapter Thirteen
An electrician’s van was on the street in front of my house. I parked in the garage next to Erin’s Volkswagen and went through the kitchen. Neither child nor dog came running at my entrance. I was not surprised. An important looking letter from the bank was waiting for me on the counter. I ripped it in half and dropped it in the garbage.
An old man was on the floor of the den, his back against the couch. With one hand he held Sarah, with the other he tried to push Blondie (who was furiously licking his face) away. Dressed in work clothes, a pencil behind his ear, his unruly grey hair poked out of a baseball cap. “Hey, dad.”
Okay, maybe he wasn’t that old. The older he got, I had to admit, the older I got. “Hello, son. I just stopped by to see my two girls.”
Sarah was beaming, Erin sat smiling in the easy chair. Sarah said, “Three girls.”
Dad said, “What?”
“Sarah. Erin. And Blondie. Three girls and one boy live in this house.”
“That’s right, baby. I almost forgot about you.” He goosed her ribs and she giggled. That giggle always did something to me.
“You could’ve called.”
“I gotta call now?”
“No.” I smiled. “You have a key. Just to check if we were home.”
“Who said I was coming to see you?”
I laughed. “You going to stay for supper?”
He shook his head. “I can’t stay long.”
“There’s plenty,” I said. “You can save the TV dinner for another night.”
“You talked me into it.”
I went back into the kitchen, turning the oven on. I took four potatoes and put them on the rack before going outside and firing up the gas grill. I know purists say charcoal is the only way to go, but when you grill as much as I do, who has the time? Blondie did not bound after me. Inside I put the chicken wings on a plate and shook out Butt Rub over them. Because everybody loves a good butt rub. I took the chicken and dropped them on the grill. I put a pot of water on the stovetop and chopped the heads off the broccoli and dropped them into the pot. I melted butter and mixed it with two cups of barbeque sauce, spicy for dad and I, honey for the girls. Every ten minutes or so, I flipped the wings. This was the perfect opportunity for a beer, but my father didn’t drink. I knew he wouldn’t object, yet I still couldn’t stand to disappoint him. I heard Sarah singing I’m a little Teapot followed by laughter and raucous applause. Twenty minutes out, I filled a cookie sheet with frozen biscuits, topped them with more melted butter and shoved them in the oven alongside the potatoes. Jesus loves the little Children and more applause. Ten minutes to go, I lathered the wings with sauce. Jesus loves me, this I know. A regular concert.
I put all the food on the plates and then the plates on the table, sprinkling the broccoli with shredded cheese. I announced that dinner was ready and Sarah and Blondie came running, Erin trailing and dad struggling to catch up. Sarah said, “Broccoli. Yuck.”
“It’s good for you.” I scooped a tiny helping on her plate.
“Can I put cheese on the tator?”
“Sure, baby.” I cut her potato and she dumped a handful of cheese on each half.
“Honey for me.”
I took two wings and ripped them apart for her. We sat and ate and talked. Or rather Sarah talked, regaling us with tales from preschool. Dalton wants to “date” Anne, but Anne already has a cousin for a boyfriend. Jack got timeout today for getting out of his seat. And on and on.