by Todd Morgan
“Uh oh.”
“Uh oh?”
“Yeah. His name is Derrick Fletcher and he’s a triggerman for one of those Irish outfits up north.”
“What’s his story? He any good?”
“Word is, he’s one of the best.”
“How did he end up working with a cracker like Starling?”
“There was a screw up on his last job.”
“I thought you said he was one of the best.”
“He is. He did his last job too good.”
“How’s that?”
“He was sent to get a guy and another guy was there. Fletcher took them both. Only problem was the other guy was somebody’s nephew or cousin or something.”
“Oh.”
“So he was sent down here until the heat cooled down and some sort of arrangement could be worked out.”
“Thanks, Andy.”
“Watch your back, Beason.”
“You know it.”
“Rhode Island, huh?”
“What he said.”
“Any idea what state that’s in?”
***
Erin was out on the town, the princess finally in bed, worn out by her big day with family, and I was on the computer. A glass was on the desk. A big one.
I hadn’t had much luck tracking down Derrick Fletcher’s background. Without a middle name, social security number, or last known address, the search was too broad. There were some possibilities—too many possibilities—and I didn’t see the point in chasing it down further. He was in Chickasaw Falls, not Providence or Boston, so his address wouldn’t do me much good. He was a hitter so any criminal record he had was fluff. He was with Starling now in the Dixie Mafia, so whatever outfit he had been associated with had no bearing.
Fletcher concerned me for the sole reason he was dangerous. I didn’t need Andy to tell me that; I could see it the first time we met. Fletcher was only here because of Starling and that was the real problem. A New England hit man and the Dixie Mafia were looking for Amber Noble. Fletcher told me they meant her no harm and I believed him. But for the life of me, I couldn’t see why they wanted her found. I would have to take that up with Steven the next time we talked.
My glass was empty and I took it into the kitchen. I dropped in a handful of ice, filled it with dark Bacardi, splashed in a little coke and a taste of lime juice. Real limes were better, but the juice was a whole lot easier to work with.
Amber Noble had been gone for one week and I knew she wasn’t coming back.
Chapter Twenty
The Lexus was waiting for me in the sock factory lot. I parked across from him, about halfway down. It would increase my exposure time, but it would break my habit patterns. I hadn’t seen Starling and Fletcher for several days and that concerned me. I would have felt better if I had known where they were—especially Fletcher—and until I was confident they had left town, I wasn’t going to make it easy for them.
The door popped open as I approached. He was in a dark, carefully tailored suit and a silk tie. Expensive overcoat. Heavy bags under the eyes, the lines across his face looked deeper. He was in obvious misery.
“Morning, Melvin.”
“Beason.”
He followed me up the metal stairs and waited patiently while I unlocked the heavy outer door, then the door to my office. Jenks took off his coat and dropped it over one of my decrepit wooden visitor chairs. He didn’t sit, choosing to pace.
“I did what you told me and it didn’t work.”
As if it was my fault he was playing office tag with his secretary. “You gotta give it time.”
He ignored my suggestion. “What am I supposed to do now?”
I sighed. “What does your lawyer say?”
“I don’t have a lawyer.”
“You don’t have a lawyer?”
“Actually, I have three lawyers. A real estate lawyer, an estate lawyer, and a financial lawyer. I don’t have a divorce lawyer.”
“You need to get one.”
“Why?” he demanded. “I’m not getting a divorce.”
“Prepare for war, pray for peace.”
“I’ve got nothing without Cynthia.” He stopped long enough to hold out his hands. “I’ll just do whatever that prick she sent asks.”
I shook my head. Eric was going to kill me. “How long have you and Cynthia been together?”
“Since college.”
“She went for you because you laid down for her?”
He smiled, remembering pleasant memories. “She said I was the first man who stood up to her.”
“Exactly. She was attracted to you because of your strength. If you want her back, you can’t show weakness now.”
Jenks snapped his fingers. “Hey, that’s pretty good. Can you recommend somebody?”
“Beth Sproat. She’s one of the best.” I quickly added, “Don’t mention my name.” If word got out that I was referring the opposition to quality representation, I would be out of business in a week.
“So I should do whatever she says?”
“No. Where are you staying?”
“Hotel.”
“The first thing she’ll advice you to do is move back in the house.”
“Sounds good to me.”
I shook my head. “Not if you want Cynthia back. How would you feel if you had to lie down next to somebody chasing every skirt in town?”
“I’m not doing that anymore.”
“I know that,” I admitted. “Cynthia, however, doesn’t. She needs her space and won’t get it if you keep bumping into each other.”
Melvin frowned, resumed pacing. “Then why would the lawyer to tell me to move back in?”
“She won’t be concerned with restoring the marriage—only the divorce. A quirk of the law is that whoever moves out is relinquishing their right to the property.”
“I don’t give a shit about the house.”
“Exactly. Get an apartment, show a little backbone, let her know you’re not going to lie down.”
Another frown. “This is going to be hard.”
“I expect so.”
More pacing.
“Then what?”
I shrugged. “Let her know you still love her, that you don’t want this, but if she is looking for a fight, she can have one. Show her you’re still the man she fell in love with.”
“At the bar, you told me to do whatever the lawyer said.”
“That’s when I thought you were getting a divorce.”
Melvin stopped. “What do you think now?”
“Now, I don’t know.”
He nodded. “Thanks, Beason. How much do I owe you?”
“For what?”
“I want to pay you for your time.”
“Melvin, I can’t take money from you. I’m not a counselor. Besides, I work for the other team.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
***
I slid into the booth a few minutes before the appointed time. I ordered a sweet tea and the waitress left me with a menu, though I wouldn’t look at it. Some routines are unbreakable.
He walked into the restaurant at the stroke of noon, a button down blue shirt, black slacks. The regal bearing he wore like cologne. He gave me a slight nod as he took the seat opposite to me. The waitress appeared and put a coke before him.
“Good morning, Judge.”
“Morning, Vicki.”
“The usual?”
“Please.”
“Beason?”
“Turkey club.”
Vicki shook her head, smiling. “You boys.”
“How you been, Luther?”
“Can’t complain.”
“Rochelle back yet?”
Luther gave me a curious look. “Who told you about that?”
“You did.”
“When?”
“Last week,” I said. “After you ran off the power company truck with that shotgun.”
He broke eye contact, carefully unwrapped his silverware, sipped h
is coke. “She’s home.”
“Everything okay?”
He held out his hands. “We’ll see.”
Rochelle was Luther’s second wife with whom he shared a second family. His starter wife had left him when she had learned about Rochelle, taking their two kids with her, a son my age and daughter a few years younger. Rochelle had effortlessly moved in and promptly became pregnant.
“How’s your dad?”
My parents and Luther and the original Mrs. Strange had been close, family barbeques, Martin and I sharing an interest in martial arts, traveling across the state and the south for competitions. The relationship had cooled with the divorce, then warmed with time, never reaching its previous status.
“He’s good. I saw him yesterday. Business may be starting to pick up.”
“Tell him I said hello.”
Something about the way he said it and something about how my father had reacted when I mentioned Luther’s name told me they were on the outs. It happened. Two strong personalities clashing before gradually coming back together. I could ask and find myself in the middle of a minor feud or I could let it go. “How’s Martin?”
“Good. He’s hoping to make partner this year.”
“I’d bet he’s working his ass off.”
“You’d bet right.”
The food came and we dug in. Luther’s usual was a shrimp pasta concoction I had tried once. It couldn’t touch my sandwich.
“What are you working on?”
“I’m looking for Amber Noble.”
“The restaurant owner’s wife?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“She may or may not have left him,” I explained. “That’s why I’m looking.”
“They always come back.”
“Really?”
Luther smiled. “Most of the time.”
“I’m also looking for Stella.”
“Stella?” He pushed back from the table. “Why?”
“Sarah asked me to.”
“You sure that’s a good idea?”
“No.”
He thought about it, dug in his pasta and came up with a shrimp. “How’s it going?”
I shook my head. “I figured it would take an hour—tops—on the computer. But it looks like they went to the bank that day and were abducted by aliens. No activity on their socials, no new addresses—not even anything on her car.”
“You think they got new identities?”
“I did. Now, I’m not so sure.”
“Why not?”
“New ID’s take time—and money—to do right. They didn’t leave with much and I don’t really see the point.” I set the sandwich down and sipped from my tea. “I could understand them dropping off the grid for a while, until I calmed down, but not for this long.”
“You’re not exactly known for your forgiving nature.”
“Probably not. Stella was never afraid of me and Adrian acted like he wasn’t. She had a baby and he had two kids. As low as my opinion of them is, it’s still hard for me to believe they could walk away so completely.”
“It happens.”
“Stella hasn’t even contacted her mother and you know how close they were.”
“You sure?”
“Pretty sure. Nobody can lie like Felicia, but I’ve seen that old hag drop crocodile tears over her daughter. She even encouraged me to look.”
“Huh.” Luther took his glasses from his nose and laid them gently on the table. “What do you think happened?”
I took a bite from my heaping sandwich, afraid to even put into words what had been nagging at the back of my mind. “They may have got caught into something Adrian and I were working on.”
“Something serious?”
“Definitely.”
“Mighty big coincidence for them to vanish right after looting the checking accounts and it be something else.”
“Yeah.”
Luther smoothed his tiny mustache with thumb and forefinger. “You may not want to solve this one.”
“I don’t. Sarah does. She deserves to know what happened to her mother.”
He shook his head. “Damn mess.”
“Yeah.”
We finished and both of us left a ten on the table. As we walked to the door, Luther turned to me. “Beason?”
“What?”
“Where did you put my shotgun?”
***
The parking lot was mostly empty, whatever the lunch crowd had been had already broken up. The sky was slate grey, the threat of rain hanging in the air. I left the Jeep and pulled my leather jacket close, unwilling to zip it and restrict my movements. Still no sign of Starling and Fletcher.
The place was dark, not the classy kind of dark, the gloomy kind of dark. Dark wood floor, dark paneling, few windows, little in the way of lights. The furnishings were old, not antique, the air close and a little musty.
No one greeted me at the door. I climbed onto a stool at the empty bar. A few minutes passed before a man came out and gave me a double take. Black button down, black pants.
“What can I get you?”
Finally, a bartender who didn’t know me by drink. “The owner.”
“The owner?”
“Yeah. I had a bad muffaletto yesterday and spent all night on the can. I need to speak to the owner of this place—not the manager.”
“Uh.” He looked over both shoulders for help. He didn’t find any. “Let me see if he’s still in.”
“He better be or I’ll be going by his house.”
“Hang on.” He beat feet and retreated back into the kitchen. A few minutes later, the owner came out, his back stiff, ready to do battle. Black button down. Black pants. Arm wrapped, no sling.
Steven shook his head when he saw me. “Beason.”
“We need to talk.”
Steven turned to the barkeep at his elbow. “I’ve got this. Go help clean up.”
“Sure.”
Steven took a rag and began wiping down the bar. “You want a bowl of gumbo or something?”
“I’ve already eaten,” I said. “Have you heard from Amber?”
“No. Have you?”
I shook my head. “No trace of her. Yet.”
“What do you want?”
“Is Amber in some kind of trouble?”
“Trouble? What do you mean?”
“Is she in any legal trouble?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“Two members of the Dixie Mafia have been following me lately.”
“Dixie Mafia?” More of the bar wiping. “I thought that was a myth.”
“Evidently not. They’ve been pressuring me to find Amber.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” I said, “they’re not pressuring you.”
We were silent for a long moment.
“Steven, what has Amber gotten herself into?”
He took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling. “She’s been acting weird lately. Suspicious, like she was hiding something from me.” His gaze fell on me. Hard. “I thought it was because she was fucking you.”
Those bottles at the back of the bar beckoned to me, calling me by name. I tried to ignore them. It wasn’t even two o’clock
“What was she into, Beason?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Plenty of drugs in a hospital.”
“I doubt that’s it,” I said. “I think she may have seen something or heard something she wasn’t supposed to. Wrong place at the wrong time.”
“You’d know more about that than me.”
Zing!
I stepped down from the stool. “If you think of something, let me know.”
“Don’t hold your breath. Amber was always very good at keeping secrets from me.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“My man.”
“I need to find Jeremiah.”
“He is at the same shithole he has a
lways been at.”
“All night?”
“And half the day.”
“You staying out of trouble?”
“No.”
“Try.”
“No.”
“How long are you staying?”
“Couple of months. Maybe forever.”
“It’s good money.”
“Yeah, but you got to earn it. You need backup with Jeremiah?”
“I can handle it.”
“I know you can, Bees.”
“Thanks, Nero.”
***
Late evening, I passed over the Chickasaw River into the “Bottoms.” The sun clung weakly and stubbornly to the western sky. I drove through government housing projects, fifty year old brick duplexes, laundry flapping in the breeze, abandoned cars next to gleaming Escalades. Groups of teenage boys huddled on the corners in their thick jackets and baggy jeans. Sneakers hung from power lines, always one pair to a line. Four years ago, those lines held two sets.
It had taken me a long time to understand how shoes came to be dangling over the streets. I had thought it was a long running juvenile prank, steal your buddy’s Nikes and throw them over the power lines. It was more serious than that. Much more serious. Every pair of shoes staked out a drug territory. Two pair on the same line indicated the territory was contested. Jeremiah had been busy since I had left the force.
I parked the Jeep on the pavement of the Neighborhood Grocery. The spidey sense I had brought back from Afghanistan made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I pushed open the door and the bell jingled. The first half of the long building had shelves stocked with items that met the specific requirements of the WIC program, the coolers on the side with milk and cheese, eggs alongside beer and wine. A counter on the right ran the length of the store, a menu on the wall advertising sandwiches and hamburgers. The overweight woman at the counter greeted me with crossed arms.
“Evening, Shante.”
“Detective.”
I made my way through the aisles to the back of the store. A half dozen young men were drinking beer and playing cards. They gave me dead eyes and I gave it right back, not pausing as I went through the door into a dark, narrow hall. A man rose from a wooden chair as I approached.