by David Achord
My phone rang as I turned into my driveway. At first, I was going to let it go to voicemail, but decided to answer. I’m glad I did.
“Hello, Thomas. It’s Reverend Hollinsworth. I hope I did not catch you at an inconvenient time.”
“Not at all, Reverend. What can I do for you?”
“It’s more like what I can do for the two of you,” he said. “With your photography skills, I was able to read the journal with greater ease, and last night, I decided to sit down with a tumbler of scotch and reread the sections where the ink was badly faded.”
“Oh, you’re a fellow scotch drinker, are you? I knew there was something I liked about you.”
The reverend chuckled. “I like the single-malts with peat accents, what about you?”
“I’m mostly a Balvenie man,” I replied.
“Ah, yes, an excellent brand. A few of us get together once in a while and have a tasting. We alternate between scotch and bourbon. Perhaps you’d like to join us one evening. Sometimes we engage in Bible study, sometimes we’ll talk about women.” He chuckled at his own joke.
“I’d love to,” I replied.
“Excellent. Don’t tell anyone, but we usually meet at the church. I’ll text you when we have the next get together. In the meantime, let me ask you. Do you still have a copy of the journal?”
“Yes, I do. I was planning on converting it to a PDF and read it when I had the time.”
“Perhaps you should read it as soon as possible,” he said. “I would recommend going straight to page 351 and start reading from there.”
The page number was easy to remember; it was the same cubic inches of the engine of my Ford Mustang.
“Alright, Reverend, I’ll get right on it. Can you give me a hint?”
I heard the reverend make a tsking of his tongue. “Thomas, I cannot in good conscience allow those words of condemnation to cross my lips, even if it was written by my blood kin. It’s best that you read them for yourself.”
“It sounds serious,” I said.
After the reverend’s mysterious phone call, I proceeded directly inside and downloaded the images from my camera onto my computer. It was going to take a while to convert them all to a PDF format, so I went directly to the picture in question.
I read it twice, and then decided maybe now was a good time to read the entire journal. I’d been good about abstaining from adult beverages during the day, but I couldn’t help myself. I poured a finger of scotch before sitting at my desk and started at the beginning.
Sassy Hollinsworth had a natural flair for writing. Her opinions of the local aristocracy were hidden in cleverly veiled sarcasm. It was a great read and lasted me throughout the night. Anna texted me at midnight.
You awake?
Yeah, what’s up?
At a nightclub with Marti and we’ll probably be here a while. I’m spending the night at her apartment instead of driving home.
I responded that I understood and admonished both of them to be careful.
Okay, dad!
She punctuated it with a bunch of silly emoticons. I continued reading the entire journal and finished at two in the morning. I couldn’t wait to tell Anna what Sassy had to say about the Carmike family.
Chapter 19
My phone gave off the signal indicating I had a new email, and it was from Ronald. Curious, I opened it, but before I could read the attachment, Ronald called.
“He’s got another fight going,” he said breathlessly.
“Who?”
“Candy-Man. He posted it. Didn’t you see the email I sent you?”
“Are you referring to the email you sent me ten seconds ago? Why no, I haven’t had the chance.”
Ronald sighed, like he was dealing with a slow-witted child. “Well, I thought you’d like to know.”
“I appreciate it,” I said.
“Are you going to go to it?”
“Yeah, I believe I will.”
There was silence on the other end, and if I didn’t know better, I believed Ronald was contemplating going with me.
“Okay,” he finally said. “But he didn’t post the exact address of where it’s going to be.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“The event is somewhere in Memphis, but the instructions direct you to a bar first. You order a Blue-Ribbon beer from a bartender named Grupp and then you ask for the address. Oh, and he said if Grupp doesn’t like you, he won’t tell you where it is.”
“Ah, he’s using a cut-out,” I said.
“What’s that?”
Ronald was a genius when it came to computers, but he was naïve to the ways of the world, so I gave him a brief explanation.
“The bartender is most likely a friend to Candy. His job is to vet people. He makes sure they’re not cops or troublemakers before he gives them the location.”
“Oh.” Ronald then chuckled. “Then you’re screwed. You look so much like a cop it oozes out of you.”
He had a point. I was square-jawed, clean-cut, and maybe a little hard around the edges. And, my age would be a factor; Grupp was looking for the younger crowd. Yeah, it was going to be a problem.
“I guess I have to figure something out,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, I appreciate the info. How’s things going with Marti?”
“Um, she’s not so bad, I guess.”
I chuckled. “I guess she grows on you. Alright, I think I have some phone calls to make.”
“So, are you going?” he asked again.
“Yep.”
“Be careful. And keep your phone on so I can keep track of you.”
I assured him I would before disconnecting and read his email, which gave more detail about the event. I plugged the address in Google. It was a little over two hundred miles away. Taking traffic into consideration, the drive would take around four hours.
There was no doubt I was going. I’d not uncovered a single lead since finding Jason Belew’s decomposing remains. Detective Brannigan had said the same, although I wasn’t sure he’d tell me if he did. Either way, I had nothing.
So, yeah, I had to go. I had no idea if it would be productive, but as my old homicide sergeant used to say, you’ll never sell that vacuum cleaner if you don’t knock on the door. We used to tease him about being a door-to-door salesman back before he became a cop, but he’d laughingly deny it and instead claimed he was once a male stripper and had to quit because the women kept getting into fights over him.
Now it was time to figure out who I could use as backup. I instantly thought of Duke, but he was currently living in Colorado, as far as I knew. Thinking of Duke made me think of a biker brother of his, Flaky. One thing about Flaky, he’d never be mistaken for a cop. The twin brother of Charles Manson? Definitely, but not a cop. I scrolled through my contacts and pushed the dial icon.
“Hey, Thomas, what’re you up to?” he greeted.
“I have a little job I’m going on tonight and I’d like someone low-key to watch my back. Are you interested?”
“Me and Bull have a little club business going on, but we’ll be through in an hour or so. What’ve you got in mind?”
He listened as I explained.
“And it’s in Memphis?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’ll drive, and I’ll make it worth your while.”
I listened to him repeat everything to someone, who I assumed was Bull. Both Bull and Flaky were outlaw bikers. Technically, I met Bull first. He was the bouncer at a local gentlemen’s club and I had served civil papers on him. He didn’t like it, and made it clear I had offended him and he wanted to take a piece out of my hide, but we eventually worked our differences.
I met Flaky when I was in jail. I had been charged with murdering my wife and Flaky had been caught in a stolen car. I’d been put in isolation, for my own safety they said, and Flaky was a trustee. Our mutual friend, Duke, had put in a good word for me and we’d become decent friends during my short stint.
“Yea
h, I’m in. Bull wants to come to, what about it?” Flaky asked.
I thought about it a second. Bull was a big man and a good guy to have on your side if things went sideways. The problem was, he had a quick temper and was hard to control.
“Yeah, okay. Tell him I’ll even spring for the beer if he keeps his temper in check.”
We settled on them coming to my house in an hour and we’d leave from here. I spent the time getting ready. I packed an overnight bag and then, out of habit, I checked the fluids and tire pressure of my Explorer, even though it was only a week old. It was a long-ingrained habit and I’d probably never change.
I chuckled to myself at the thought of thinking of Bull and Flaky as friends, but we were. Anna said I had a likeable personality and people naturally trusted me. I didn’t know about that, but I always tried to be honest and straightforward. And even though I was once a cop and those two were hardcore bikers, we’d still developed a friendship.
I always believed I inherited my personality from Uncle Mike. He was a courageous and honorable man and I tried to emulate him. His only flaw I ever knew of was he fell in love with the wrong woman, which I had also done. My wife was beautiful, bubbly, even a little zany. We’d fallen in love and married quickly. But there was something missing, something flawed. Whatever it was, it led her into the arms of another man, and it ultimately led to her murder.
After her death, I lapsed into somewhat of a funk. I had heard one of those radio talk show therapists once call it functional depression, which seemed apt. In the months after her death, I learned more about my beloved wife and I realized I had married the wrong person. It wasn’t until the death of her lover, the man who had murdered her, that I was able to find a sense of closure.
That led to me finding Simone. Simone was a wonderful woman. Beautiful, smart, down to earth, she had it all. She was the one for me. But then she and her daughter were murdered by her ex-husband. It damn near drove me over the edge.
So, did I have a character flaw? Did I find the wrong women to fall in love with or, worse yet, was I some kind of evil jinx?
Only God knew the answer.
Bull and Flaky were punctual and we were on the road in minutes. I explained to them about the cut-out man and how my clean-cut appearance probably would raise his suspicions. The two men assured me they’d have no problem getting the directions to the location. We spent the time on the road catching up and talking about Duke. Bull and Duke were at odds with each other when Duke decided to retire from the outlaw biker life, but Bull grudgingly admitted he respected the man.
“I’d like to be able to retire with a million bucks,” Flaky remarked.
Bull gave me a look. “You know where he’s living now, don’t you?”
“I have an idea of the general part of the country, but that’s it, and don’t bother asking me where.”
Bull glared at me and grunted, killed a beer, and changed the subject to a 1950 Indian Chief that recently came into his possession.
“Sure, as long as it isn’t stolen,” I said. He responded with another grunt.
Once arriving in Shelby County, my phone directed us off of the interstate and down a couple of side roads before reaching our first destination.
“Nice bar,” Bull said when I’d parked.
He was being sarcastic. The bar was seedier than the garden section at Home Depot. It was a one-story affair of concrete blocks that was painted black and stuck in between a vacant lot of abandoned cars and a boarded-up barber shop. I gave them some beer money and the two of them went inside while I stayed in my SUV. A homeless panhandler managed to sweet talk a dollar out of me and ten minutes later, I saw Flaky and Bull walk out.
“We were the only white boys in the place,” Flaky said.
“He charged us fifteen bucks for two beers,” Bull added. “Fucking asshole.”
“Did you get the address?” I asked.
Flaky handed me a cocktail napkin with some scribbling on it. I plugged the address into my phone and exited the parking lot.
The event was located a couple of blocks off of I-40 in the inner city of Memphis. It was an abandoned warehouse, a rectangle of steel and concrete blocks. Memphis loved concrete blocks. The building may have been painted white once. Now, it was a grimy gray mixture of soot and other pollutants. There were already several cars in the parking lot when we drove in and a line forming at the front door.
As usual, I scanned the area and the people, mentally performing a threat assessment. There were no security cameras that I could see and what little lighting there was only managed to cast off a dull alabaster hue. The demographics of the customers was one dimensional, to say the least.
“Are we going to be the only white people here?” Flaky asked. “All I see are black folks.”
“I honestly have no idea,” I said. “But that’s what it looks like.”
“I hope you’re packing,” Flaky said to me.
“I am,” Bull replied.
I pointed at the door-men with their metal detecting wands. “We won’t be able to go inside if we’re armed.”
“Shit,” Bull muttered.
“Yeah, I agree. C’mon, we’ll lock them up.”
When I bought this shiny Explorer with all of the bells and whistles, I purchased an aftermarket gun storage safe which was specifically designed to fit into the center console. Yes, the glove box was big enough to hold two guns and had a lock, but I liked the hardened steel of the aftermarket safe. Bull grumbled in protest, but he surrendered his gun, a Charter Arms Bulldog, and I secured both of our firearms in the safe.
We got a few odd looks when we got in line, but in between Flaky looking like a crazier version of Charles Manson and Bull’s enormous size, any smartass remarks were said in whispers. The interior of the warehouse was fairly plain looking. More peeling paint on the interior walls, and a few portable lights here and there. An old wrestling mat was in the middle of the building that people were lingering around.
I spotted Candy almost immediately. He was standing by a dry erase board, which had the odds listed for each fight. He was hustling and taking bets. There was a Slavic-looking guy standing nearby doing some hustling of his own. I watched as he made multiple hand-to-hand transactions and would deftly slide the money into his pocket. In the short time I watched, it looked like he’d pulled in a hundred bucks. Not bad.
There was more side action going on here and there, and I caught a couple of hard stares. Sometimes, young men would get their bravery up from their friends, booze, and drugs. This was not a place to give anyone a stare down. I had a polymer blade hidden in my belt. It wasn’t metallic so the metal detecting wand did not catch it, but I preferred to avoid any type of confrontation. Besides, Bull’s looks alone discouraged anyone from getting froggy.
I made an effort of appearing to be casually looking around, never resting my eyes on anyone for more than a second or two, but I was scanning, making mental assessments. Every time I gazed around, I’d center back on Candy and watch his action. He was taking bets and selling baggies of weed as fast as he could, all with a broad grin, showing a little bit of gold in his mouth. After several minutes, he turned it over to his assistant, a greasy-looking man wearing an outdated Adidas warm-up suit, and casually strolled to the wrestling mat, which had been laid out in the middle of the warehouse. He then produced a cordless microphone, turned it on, and tapped it with his finger.
“How’s everyone doing tonight?” he yelled. There was a lackluster response, so he yelled even louder. “I said, how’s everyone doing tonight!”
This time, he got some raucous cheers, which brought a smile to his face, revealing a couple of gold teeth, which he did not have when we went to his house.
“Alright, much better. Tonight’s going to be a night you’ll be talking about when you’re old and sitting around in the nursing home. We’ve got some fantastic fighters, and after the fight’s over, we’re going to party until the sun comes up and all you playas have
to either go to work or go back to your ole ladies!”
There were more cheering and catcalls, which made Candy grin even more. He jawed a little more before getting the first fight underway. A ref stepped up and got the first two fighters ready. They were so young they looked like they were still in high school. The ref called them together and gave a convoluted set of instructions, which led me to doubt he was a trained referee.
They touched gloves, backed up to their respective corners, and waited for the ref to make the call, which he did by shouting, “Hell yeah!”
They started slowly and were applying their technical skills, but it soon denigrated into a primal brawl of swinging for the fences. The ref stood there, grinning gleefully, which made me suspect he was high. Eventually, one of them connected with a roundhouse right. His opponent staggered. A couple of additional punches sent him into sleepy-land. Needless to say, the crowd went wild. The next three fights were more of the same.
“This is some decent shit,” Bull said. I turned to look at him. He’d found a fifth of Jim Beam from somewhere, and he and Flaky were doing their best to kill it.
The fourth fight was a heavyweight match. Some god-awful rap music started blaring over the loudspeakers as a large black man started strutting out of a door from the far end of the warehouse.
“That boy’s been doing some juice,” Bull declared.
It wasn’t often that I agreed with Bull, but he was right. The man was huge, with a torso the shape of an upside-down Christmas tree and not an ounce of fat on him. He bounced on his toes as he made his way to the mat.
“Now, entering the ring, our hometown boy, Chocolate Thunder!” Candy shouted.
The crowd now legitimately went nuts. His entourage of four crackhead-looking men, encouraged by the cheers, began breakdancing. Honestly, it looked like they were going into some kind of epileptic seizure. Candy presented Chocolate Thunder’s opponent, a man who was almost my age, balding, and with considerably more girth. He didn’t look like he stood a chance.
Still, I saw a hardness to his eyes and despite the fat, he was surprisingly light on his feet.