by G L Rockey
“Don't know, somewheres south of here, I think.”
* * *
Dressed in Levis, tank top, twin buckle black boots, Gillian circled the block on her bike and came back to watch for Snakebite's Rolls Royce to exit the spot where he always parked.
Shortly before 3:00 A.M., she saw Snakebite get in his Rolls, start up and pull away. Gillian, far enough back to keep the Rolls taillights in sight, followed south on Interstate 24. Speeding at near 80 MPH, after twenty minutes, off at Epps Mill exit, she turned off her bike’s lights. Keeping the Rolls taillights in sight, a short distance, turned back a single lane road, she followed. A few miles later the Rolls turned into a gated entrance.
Gillian parked her bike and made her way past outbuildings, through thick growth. At a clearing she saw a large house, lights on. She eased up to a window and saw Snakebite inside going toward a door that looked like it led to a basement. She waited then went inside and eased her way down the same steps. Noting a decomposing flesh smell, she saw it, a gray steel door with a tiny window near the top.
She looked inside. Wild eyed, Snakebite sodomized a young girl.
* * *
Tuesday morning, up at 8:00 A.M., Stella, a sleepless night stewing about that house in the sticks with the G. P. Heinz #26 mail box, Carr’s Jaguar parked outside, Gillian's bike parked next to it, no lights on, called Bernard at The Berry. Sick, she wouldn’t be in. She then poured herself a cup of coffee, lit a Pall Mall and, at the kitchen table of her one bedroom mobile home, turned on her computer. Working Google, she found: Register of Deeds, property, Ridgetop, Tennessee, Robertson County, 26 Miller Road.
She clicked on the hit and read:
Parcel ID: 10603A04002
Legal Description: latitude, 36.30 n; longitude, 86.82 w
Property Class: Farm
Acres: 15
House Number: Rural Box #26
Street: Miller Road
City: Robertson County
Owner Name: XXX
She looked up … thought, what’s that last XXX, porn or something. She printed a copy, drank coffee and looked over the newfound information.
Then she called a friend, Real Estate agent Charlene Dancing about property deeds. Charlene said she should try to get a look at an abstract, it had a history of the property owners.
Stella went to the County Court House. In the Hall of Records, she discovered that the former owners of the property at #26 Miller Road were Ancel and Maria Kensington. The title had transferred to a Guy Pickle.
She looked up. Images of that mail box … G.P. Heinz … Heinz … pickles …. “Guy Pickle!” She stared at the name. “He's a fucking cop, some shit about workers comp, me falsifying records, busted the bejesus out o’ me while back, son of a bitch.”
She then checked the Hall of Records for Kensington last names. She found an open adoption, papers available. She read that Ancel and Maria Kensington had adopted a girl, Joyce Ann Kensington. Adoption origin, Baptist Children's Home.
She made a copy and drove to Nashville's main library.
She went to The Tennessean morgue files. She typed Kensington into the computer and skimmed a twelve-year-old story:
…Ancel and Maria Kensington, killed in a car bombing … Ancel worked as a special agent for the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. Maria taught music at Springfield High … survived by only daughter, Joyce Kensington, a freshman at Springfield High School….
“Who the hell is Joyce Kensington?” Stella scratched her chest.
Outside, Stella lit a Pall Mall, walked around the block, then drove the twenty eight miles north to Springfield High School and asked if she could search the library's year book. She was writing a family tree genealogy book. In the library she found the year book for the year of the Kensington accident. She flipped pages until she found the school pictures for the freshman. She turned a page and there she was, younger, but no doubt about it, Joyce Kensington.
“Son’ bitch. Gillian Phoenix,” Stella whispered as she stealthily ripped the picture from the yearbook.
Back at her trailer, piecing the puzzle together, Stella opened a bottle of Rolling Rock and, at her kitchen table, took out a sheet of The Berry Inn stationery and started a list:
1. yearbook picture
2. shack in country deeded to Guy Pickle, FORMER OWNERS KENSINGTON, DAUGHTER JOYCE
3. Carr’s piece of junk parked in front yard of shack
4. Jackson and Gillian makin it
5. Ancil Kensington, TBI agent
6. adoption papers
7.Gillian (AKA JOYCE) not playing with full deck, gets sick at last minute, customer bitches to snakebite that shes rigid, cold, backs out for some shit reason….
Stella lit a Pall Mall and propped her feet up on a kitchen chair.
After a minute, her face brightened. She called the Baptist Children's home and asked for the person in charge. Connected to the Executive Director, Stella said she was a reporter for The Tennessean, was doing a feature story for the newspaper, “Successful Adopted Children”. The theme was how some adopted kids had achieved fulfilling lives, made a contribution to society. She said she had some incomplete information on a Joyce Kensington, daughter of Ancel, the T.B.I. agent killed, several years ago, in a car bombing.
“Yes, isn't it wonderful that Joyce was able to follow in her father's footsteps, her being with the T.B.I. and all.”
Stella hung up. “Son’ bitch times two.”
She accessed her computer search engine and typed in: Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. Clicked on Criminal Investigation Division, and at a underlined link: Tennessee Human Sex Trafficking and its Impact on Children and Youth; she clicked and a PDF file loaded. She scrolled down, down, down the file to: Middle Tennessee Focus Group Attendees.
Under that she read a list:
Tennessee Bureau of Investigation
Special Agent Tom Kelly
Assistant Special Agent in Charge Dick Allen
Special Agent Jim Aldendorf
Special Agent Joyce Kensington
She almost fell off the chair, “Bingo.”
She copied the page and drove to Peggy's house. Grinning like she’d been dealt a royal flush, she told Peggy the news. She was going to take everything straight to Snakebite. Peggy had a smarter idea. “Take it to fat ass Berry Frazer. He’s in debt to Snakebite up to his eyeballs, he’d pay a ton for this bombshell, have Snakebite by the short hairs.”
* * *
Tuesday night business looking up, Snakebite, dressed in a white western suit, white western hat snugged on his head, wraparound sunglasses pressed tight to the bridge of his nose, sat at Felix The Cat's bar. Between drags on his Malboro 100, he drank rum and Coke and watched Angelo talking with Gillian at the service bar.
From the Wurlitzer, Neal McCoy's recording of “Every Man For Himself” blared.
A reflection in Snakebite's sunglasses, he saw Berry ambling down the red carpeted stairway from The Haute Cuisine.
He whispered under his breath, “Lucky me.”
Berry signaled Snakebite to join him in a booth in the back corner. He winked at Gillian, then smiled at Angelo. “I'll have a Manhattan South, put it on Snakebite's tab.”
Taking his drink, mumbling, Snakebite joined Berry, said, “Whaddaya smilin’ for, fat boy? You eat the canary?”
Gillian arrived with Berry's drink. Berry stroked her back, “Hi there, picnic girl.”
Gillian smiled, winked at Snakebite, turned and walked back toward the service bar.
Berry watched her walk away then peered into Snakebite's sunglasses, said, “You got a problem, my man.”
“I don't get some cash, you’s the guy with the problem.”
“I'll make you a deal, if what I know keeps you out of jail, off death row, we're even.”
Snakebite smirked, “Get the fuck outta here.”
“If not, I'll owe you double.” Berry offered his right hand for a shake.
Snakebite paused, then said
, “I'll let you know after I hear the melody.”
Berry leaned close and lowered his voice, “Remember that Ancel guy, way back when, investigating you, had an accident….”
“Prick cop.”
Berry looked toward the service bar where Gillian stood. “Guess what I found out about the Tall One over there?”
“She's six four in heels.” Snakebite chuckled.
“Wrong, shit face.”
Hisss, “Watch it.”
“Guess whose stepdaughter she is?”
Snakebite waited to hear.
“Ancel's”
The tip of Snakebite's tongue peeking out then retracted. He said, “Get the fuck outta here.”
Berry, shaking his head, smiled, “And guess what else?”
Snakebite hissed.
“She's a special agent, T.B.I.”
“Are you fucking on something, man?”
“And her name ain't Gillian.”
Snakebite started to stand, “You lost it, man, go get me some cash.”
From his inside coat pocket, Berry took a copy of the documents that Stella had copied and threw them on the table top. He trumped it with the torn out yearbook picture of Gillian, name caption, Joyce Kensington. “Take a look at Joyce Kensington.”
Snakebite took off his sunglasses and sat. His pink eyes, slits of red, twitched. He looked to the service bar where Gillian stood. He looked at Berry, “Where you get this shit?”
“What's it matter, I got it.”
“This is phony, fixed up.”
“It's public record, check it out, and look at these.” Berry showed him a picture of a white Jaguar and motorcycle parked in front of a small white house. Another picture, through a window, showed Jack and Joyce embracing. Berry smiled, “They have their own little love nest in the country.”
Angelo wandered by and leaning over the table, quickly scanned the pictures over Snakebite's shoulder, said, “Whan's going on?”
Snakebite said, “Go back to work.”
Angelo left.
Snakebite studied the copies and said again, “Them is phony, fixed up.”
“That class photo is right out of a high school yearbook, check it out, the website on that copy.”
Snakebite put his sunglasses back on. “Where you get this?”
Berry smiled, “None of your fucking business, shithead.”
“Hissss.”
Berry nodded toward Gillian, “Before you do anything … give me an hour, send her over my office, then she's all yours.”
“Hissss.”
Berry placed five crisp hundred dollar bills on the table. “Give her these … tell her a tip is waiting.”
* * *
Accepting the out call date, Gillian reasoned, the bust of scumbag Snakebite Walker coming down, she didn’t want to mess it up. Besides, she had seen this bozo Frazer in action, she could handle him. She changed clothes and left Felix The Cat on her bike for TV12.
* * *
11:02 P.M., TV12's Broadcast House deserted except for a technician in the control room, Berry waiting at the front door. Seeing Gillian arrive he smiled, held the door open, and escorting her to his office, said, “Glad you could make it sweat pea.”
They entered his office, he closed, locked the door, and taking off his suit coat, said, “Hows 'bout a Manhattan South?”
“No thanks.” Changed from her Kitten outfit, Gillian wore a white T-shirt, jeans, and black slouch boots. Her brown leather purse dangled from a strap over her left shoulder, she placed it on the floor next to the coffee table.
Sweaty hands, Berry grabbed her and tore at her T-shirt.
“Hey, back off.”
“Didn’t Snakebite tell you, I like kinky stuff.”
“Adios amigo, I’m not your girl.”
He held his hands up, “Okay, okay … have it your way … how’s bout a drink.”
She paused.
“Come on, just one.”
“Just one, no kinky stuff.”
Berry chucked, walked to the bar and fumbled with a silver tumbler. “Take a look at that view at night.” He nodded to his window overlooking Nashville. “Go ahead, take a look.”
He waited until she was looking out the window, then opened a drawer and retrieved a small white envelope containing 3 milligrams of Rohypnol. He emptied the contents into a long stemmed cocktail glass and poured in the Manhattan South mix, dropped in two cherries then tiptoed up behind Joyce and blew a “gotcha” in her ear.
She turned reflexively.
Smiling, he handed her the drink and said. “Here we go, toddy for the body.”
She took the drink.
“Drink up.”
She sipped.
“You get the five hundred?” Berry went back to the bar.
“Yes.”
He chuckled and poured himself a drink.
She turned back to look at the view.
“You know Snakebite long.” Berry called.
“Not to … you?”
He walked to her, held his glass up, tapped hers and, as he studied her eyes said, “Cheers.”
She sipped.
He nudged her with his hip. “To Nashville.” He tapped her glass again and winked.
She sipped.
Berry looked out his window. A full moon hung low over the city. He waited, watched out of the corner of his eyes, smiled, “Beautiful ain’t it.”
“Yes.”
He turned to her and said, “You like porno pictures?”
She tensed.
Berry chuckled, “Relax, how'd you like that station picnic?” He put his arm around her shoulders. “You're a great little swimmer.” He squeezed her arm then walked to his desk, took his time, “You been in the business long?”
“Long enough.” She turned to face him
“Uh huh, understand you know our Jack Carr.”
“Seen him in the Cat.”
“Uh huh….” he walked to her, tapped her glass, sipped, winked.
She sipped.
“You know ol’ Jack is fucking every female we got in this station, ruined our weather girl, Peggy Moore, reason we had to let her go.”
“Oh, what that’s to me?”
Feeling wobbly, she set her drink on the sill. Realizing she had stupidly slipped up, he had drugged her, she started to the door, wobbled and leaned against one of Berry's easy chairs.
Berry chuckled.
She glanced at the floor. Blinked her eyes.
Sweat rings under his arms, Berry went to her, sniffed her hair, then pushed her into the chair. “Sit down!”
As she fell back, he tore at her T-shirt.
She flailed her arms sluggishly and reached for her purse.
Berry grabbed her, stared into her eyes, ripped her T-shirt off and sucked her breasts.
Dazed, she bit at his hands, tried to pull free, bit, tried again to reach for her purse.
He punched her face, dropped his trousers, and shoved his snakelike white penis in her face.
* * *
Gillian came too, looked to one side, still groggy she saw that she was surround by thick maroon carpet, her torn clothes lay scatted next to her purse.
She realized where she was, what had happened. She heard water coming from the bathroom, she felt sticky stuff on her face, her hair … she heard Berry whistling then, through half open eyes she saw him walking from the bathroom.
Nude, he kicked her then kneeled, spread her legs, probed her and began bashing her face.
She reached for her purse, retrieved her straight razor.
CHAPTER 8
Jack’s Time
Tuesday gone wherever dead days go, Wednesday new and upstart, Gillian on my mind; I had not heard from her since her admonition, when I left her at the farm Monday morning, to say nothing about us to anybody. Eternal optimist that I am, wondering if this was another of her ‘later’ deals, I had stayed for the 10:00 P.M. news, piddled around afterward ended up at The Green Onion, ordered an iced tea that
brought the house down. Not too many patrons, Pete invited me to sit in with band so I did.
Having played a couple sets, into a mellow version of Alabama's “The Closer You Get”, I noticed Sago come in. He looked chalky white. He sat at the bar. I nodded to Pete and went to sit next to Sago.
Sago's moist chocolate brown eyes more moist than usual, he said, “Guess what Kemosabe?”
“Tony Longtoe ate your bacon cheese.”
“Big S-Stuff raid is coming down in the pretty quick.”
“Where'd you get that?”
“Detective Little.”
“And guess what else is under the flow?”
“I'm afraid to ask.”
“Remember you asked me to check out Gillian back when the crows flew east.”
“That was a hundred years ago.”
Sago put his hand on my arm, “Her father was with the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation, he and his wife were murdered.” He looked at me in depth, “Gillian is Ancel's stepdaughter.”
It's like that Champ's right to the stomach followed by a kick in the plexus.
He squeezed my arm, “Her name is Joyce Kensington, she's T.B.I., special agent … she’s been undercover … she's going to be leading the S-Stuff raid.”
When you hear things like this it's like the time you wake and can remember only bits of a bad dream.
From The Green Onion to Felix The Cat normally a forty-five minute drive, one eye in the rear view mirror, I made it in thirty, double parked and hiked down the outside steps.
Inside, under garlic smelling smoke, George Jones wailed “I Am What I Am” from Wurlitzer.
There were two customers at the bar, a few in booths.
Angelo stood at the service bar talking to two new Kittens that I didn't recognize. He gawked at me.
As I walked to the bar, I cased the corners for goons. None.
Angelo waddled over, charcoal crepe paper face, and said, “What you doin’ in here, you know Snakebite….”
“Where is she?”
Dark look: “I doan know nutin.”