by David Achord
I was going to leave a note in the mailbox, but before I could start writing, an old green Chevy truck pulled in behind me. A man who looked old enough to have been friends with Andrew Jackson was sitting behind the wheel and a large German Shepherd was sitting in the passenger seat. He motioned me toward him. I walked up to his open window, keeping close attention to the dog, who was in turn staring intently at me. There was a large caliber revolver sitting between the dog and himself.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Open up the gate and get the hell out of the way,” he gruffly replied.
I obliged, walked back to the gate and opened it, but instead of moving off to the side, I drove forward and didn’t stop until I’d reached the house. I parked, got out, and waited.
The old man took his time getting out. The dog got out with him and stood by his side. He produced a pouch of Tennessee Chew out of the front pocket of his bib overalls and put a wad in his mouth the size of a midget’s fist. He chewed on it a few seconds before speaking.
“Who the hell are you and what do you want?” he demanded.
“Sir, my name is Thomas Ironcutter. I have a fondness for old cars and I couldn’t help but spot a car parked in your barn over there. I’d like to take a look at it, and if it’s what I think it is, I’d like to try and buy it off of you.”
He stared at me through squinted eyes for a long moment, and then spit before speaking.
“What kind of car do you think it is?” he asked.
“A Cadillac Coupe LaSalle, and if I had to guess, I’d say it’s a thirty-seven or thirty-eight.”
He spat again. “You saw all of that from the interstate, did you?”
“Yes, sir.”
He squinted while he chewed. “Where’re you from?” he asked.
“Nashville.”
“Nashville? What the hell are you doing down here?”
“I had business in Manchester,” I answered. “So, what do you say? Do you want to show me that raggedy old car?”
He stared for a moment longer, and finally grunted, which I guess meant he’d reached a decision.
“That barn’s awfully dirty for a man wearing his Sunday best,” he said, referring to my suit.
“I won’t mind.”
He grunted again and worked his jaw.
“I guess it can’t hurt for you to have a look at it. Let’s take the truck.”
As soon as he opened his door, his dog jumped in and planted himself in the passenger seat. Rather than fight him for it, I climbed into the bed and sat on the edge. The barn was located fifty yards back behind his house and it appeared to be used only for storage these days. The car was exactly what I thought it was, a thirty-seven LaSalle Opera Coupe, and even though it was covered in a heavy layer of grime and bird shit, she was beautiful.
“What can you tell me about it?” I asked.
“It’s a series seventy. They only made them for three years. That one has a V-8 in it, and I remember it being damn fast. My daddy bought it off of the showroom floor. The engine threw a rod back in the fifties and it’s been sitting here ever since. I was going to fix it up, but I never got around to it.”
“Would you mind if I gave it a closer inspection?” I asked.
“Help yourself,” he said, but not before he spit out a voluminous gob of brown-colored liquid. His dog walked over, sniffed it, and snorted. He didn’t seem interested in taking a bite out of me so I walked into the barn.
I looked it over from top to bottom. The tires were flat and rotten, as was everything else made of rubber. The seats were black leather, and they were dry and cracked. But everything was there. There was only minimal surface rust, and it did not appear it had ever been wrecked. I was careful not to ruin my clothes, so I refrained from crawling under the car. Even so, I knew the car was worthy of restoring. I turned to the old man.
“I have good news and bad news,” I said, starting the haggling process. Unfortunately for me, the old fart had other ideas. He interrupted me by holding a hand up and spitting out another gob of tobacco juice.
“Son, I don’t give a fart in a whirlwind what your bad news is. I’m ready to sell it, but only if the price is right. You either want to buy it or you don’t. If you don’t, just say so and stop wasting my danged time.”
His dog gave a short yip, as if to put a punctuation mark on his master’s proclamation. I thought for a minute or two as I looked over the car.
“Alright, let me ask you this; do you have the original title?”
He spit again. “Not only do I have the original title, I have the build order and the first license plate for the car. Now, do you want it or not?”
“I want it,” I said. As far as I was concerned, this was a no-brainer.
Chapter 13
The old fart must have been a horse trader back in the day. He stated a price, stood fast, and rebutted all of my attempts to haggle him down. In the end, I finally gave up and agreed to pay the price he wanted. I gave my friend Bubba a call, gave him the address, and directed him to come pick it up and tow it to my house. Concluding the fleecing I endured at the hands of the old man, I got back to business and drove to a sprawling apartment complex located on Bell Road in south Nashville.
I recognized Charlie Thomas when he answered the door.
“Hi, Charlie,” I said.
He stared in confusion. “Do I know you?”
“My name is Thomas Ironcutter. I’m investigating the death of your friend, Jason Belew.”
His expression did not change and he stood there, mute.
“May I come inside, or do you want to talk right here?” I asked.
“Um, we already talked to some detective from Manchester,” he said.
“Yes, you did. I’m hoping to get some additional information. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Um, yeah, sure. Come on in,” he said. Another young man whom I assumed was Benny was sitting on the couch with a game controller in his hand. The TV had monsters killing each other. He paused it when I entered.
“This is a detective,” Charlie said to him. Benny eyed me curiously.
“Guys, I’m actually a private investigator. I’ve been hired by Jason’s brother to investigate his death. I won’t take up too much of your time; I was only hoping to get your input about Jason’s death.”
Charlie sat on the couch with Benny and the two of them recounted the night down in Manchester.
“Did either of you notice if Jason had met someone or talked with anyone?”
Charlie glanced at Benny. “He went and talked with one of the fighters,” he said.
“Which one?” I asked.
“The Wolf dude,” he answered. “He followed him to the back room.”
“What do you mean by back room?”
He shrugged. “The back room. You know, where they hang out and get ready for their fight.”
I nodded in understanding. “Did either of you see him after that?”
The two young men glanced at each other again before shaking their heads.
Charlie seemed to have an epiphany of sorts. “I never thought of that. Do you think that’s where he was killed?”
“That’s a good question,” I said. “Is that something Jason would’ve normally done? Wander off?”
“Um, no, not really,” Charlie answered. “I have to be honest though, I wasn’t really paying attention to him. I mean, I never worried about Jason, he could take care of himself.”
Benny nodded in agreement. “We were hooked up with those two girls.”
While we talked, I applied my skill craft and asked several behavior-provoking questions in an attempt to catch any deception, but I found none. The two young men seemed sincere and genuinely upset about the murder of Jason. I gave them my business card and ask for them to call me if they could think of anything. Once in my car, I jotted down some notes. After a few minutes, I tossed my notepad onto the passenger seat and sat there, contemplating what I’d learned, which wasn’t muc
h. A yawn involuntarily escaped and I rubbed my temples. It felt good, and after a minute, I picked my notepad back up and reread my notes.
“Who said this would be easy,” I muttered to myself and was momentarily distracted by two young women parking a couple of spaces down and getting out of their car. From their attire and figures, I deduced they were fresh from the gym. One of them looked back as they walked toward their apartment. Satisfied that the old man was ogling them, she turned her head sharply, causing her ponytail to bounce in a dismissive gesture before they entered the breezeway and out of my sight.
Sighing, I tossed the notepad again. I was done for the day and decided to head home. My phone rang while I was at a stoplight.
“Ironcutter Investigations,” I answered.
“Hi, Thomas, it’s Al.”
I did a mental stutter. “Hi,” I answered. For some reason, I did not expect her to call me back. Well, what do you know?
“How are you?”
“I’m doing well,” I said. “How’re you?”
“It’s been a little hectic. Raising two teenage boys by yourself is always hectic, it seems, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. What are you doing right now?” she asked.
“I’ve been down in Manchester most of the day on business, but I heading back to Nashville as we speak.”
“Have you eaten dinner yet?” she asked.
“No, I haven’t,” I said. “Did you have something in mind?”
“I have my sons with me and we were thinking of pizza. Would you be interested in joining us?”
It was an interesting question. Sure, I was interested in her, but was I interested in meeting her sons? I thought it over for all of two seconds.
“You bet. When and where?”
She directed me to an all-you-can-eat pizza place off of Briley Parkway in south Nashville. On the way, I stopped off at a convenience store and cleaned up in the restroom. I bought one of those body sprays and did the best I could before heading to the restaurant.
They drove into the parking lot at the same time I did. When she exited her car, I must admit, I was impressed. She was wearing a collared orange and white shirt with the UT logo over her left breast and black yoga pants, which she filled out nicely.
“I like the suit,” she said, giving me the once over.
“Thanks,” I answered, wondering if the deodorant was working.
I told her about the car, and then she introduced her sons.
“This is Sterling and Steffen.”
They were typical-looking teenage boys, lanky, a little bit of acne, shaggy brown hair, and the same bright blue eyes as their mother.
“Hi, guys,” I said.
Both mumbled hi back at me. They didn’t seem the type to shake hands, so I excused myself and headed to the restroom. I don’t know why, but I didn’t feel like I’d done an adequate job of cleaning myself up, so I washed up once again and checked myself in the mirror before joining them at the table.
“Wow, you guys must be starving,” I said when I looked at the two plates sitting before the boys. They were stacked with slices. Al chuckled and motioned for me to follow her to the buffet line. She opted for only a couple of slices, as did I.
“I swear, they’re bottomless pits. They would happily eat here every day if I allowed it. Don’t get me wrong, I cook, but sometimes I need a break and this keeps them happy.”
“I understand. Is their dad in the picture?”
She glanced over at me. “No. I’m a widow.”
It took me by surprise. I guessed her in her late thirties, but there was no way she was older than forty. She saw my look and smiled.
“I’ll tell you about it later, let’s eat,” she said and led the way back to our table.
“Mom said you used to be a cop,” Sterling said before I’d even taken a bite of my first slice.
“That’s right,” I said. “Now, I’m a private investigator, like Mike Hammer.”
“Who’s that?” Steffen asked.
“Mike Hammer was a fictional character created by Mickey Spillane,” Al said and then glanced at me. “He was notorious for getting into fights and carousing with loose women.”
“Well, maybe that wasn’t a good analogy,” I quickly said. “Anyway, I’m a private investigator. It’s sort of like being a police detective, but I have no police powers. It’s mostly boring work.”
“Mom said you were arrested for your wife’s murder, but you were framed,” Sterling said.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Al interjected.
“It’s okay,” I replied with a smile and looked at Sterling. “That’s true. It’s a little bit more complex than that, but in the end, the truth came out.”
“Yeah, mom said you killed the man who really murdered your wife.”
“Okay, that’s enough. I mean it,” Al chastised and then looked at me. “I’m sorry.”
I gave her another smile. “It’s okay. So, where do you guys go to school at?”
“MBA,” Sterling said and then felt he needed to explain. “Montgomery Bell Academy.”
“Wow, nice school,” I replied.
“And expensive,” Al said. “I use their father’s pension to pay for it.”
“What did he do?” I asked.
“He was in the Army; he was a war hero,” Sterling said.
“Boy, I’d like to hear that story sometime,” I said.
Sterling nodded somberly and resumed devouring his pizza. The conversation became somewhat muted as everyone ate. It wasn’t until the boys left the table to go back for seconds that Al explained the fate of her late husband.
“He was a career soldier. He was in a Special Forces Unit and he thought he had the world by the tail. Unfortunately, he was killed during his second tour in Afghanistan.”
“Oh, how long ago?”
“Going on three years now,” she said. I saw a hint of sadness, but she covered it quickly. “The first year was tough, but we’ve adjusted.”
“That’s good.” I had no idea what else to say, so instead, I ate another slice. The boys came back with two new plates stacked. My eyebrows arched.
“Oh, Lord, if I ate as much as you guys, I’d weigh four hundred pounds.”
“They could eat all day and not gain a pound,” Al said.
“You guys have to be physically active. Do you two play any sports?” I asked.
“Soccer and golf,” both of them said in unison.
“Ah, I’m no good at soccer, but I enjoy golf. Maybe we can play a round sometime,” I said.
“Sure, but you better be good or we’ll kick your ass,” Steffen said with the grin of a typical cocky teenager.
We talked some more while we ate, and afterward, I walked with them to their car, a pearl white Nissan Murano. The two boys got into the car without asking, giving their mother a slight amount of privacy with me.
“Did you have a good time?” she asked with a hopeful smile.
“I did,” I answered. “We’ll have to do it again.”
“What did you have in mind?” she asked.
I was no dummy. She was ready for another date. A real date.
“How about something this Friday?”
She instantly shook her head. “I have to work Friday, what about Saturday?”
We agreed on Saturday and she told me to plan something nice. I had no idea what would be nice in her eyes. To me, a nice evening was a Nicaraguan blend cigar and a single malt, preferably one that was several years old. I’d have to get Anna to suggest something.
Chapter 14
Reuben Chandler’s official title was Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s Nashville office. We’d met under nefarious circumstances when one of his agents had gone rogue, murdered my wife, murdered at least two other people, and later attempted to murder me.
He arrived promptly at nine and he had company with him. When my driveway sensor activated, I walked outside and waited on them. Three people exited his Ford Explorer, which looked a l
ot like mine, except his was black with dark-tinted windows. Mine was the platinum model and blue in color. Reuben walked over with an outstretched hand.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Good morning, Thomas,” he replied. He had not changed much since the first time I had met him. He was in his fifties, salt-and-pepper hair he kept short, and only a slight hint of a middle-aged paunch peeking out from under his starched white shirt.
He motioned at the other two people with him. “I believe you know Agent Meeks with the TBI, and this is Special Agent Juanita Stainback.”
I shook hands with both of them. Special Agent Stainback was an attractive black woman in her early thirties, and even though she was wearing a conservative cut outfit, she had broad shoulders and her skirt revealed muscular calves. She gave an indecipherable, almost taunting smile as she gripped my hand tighter than most grown men were capable of. I got the impression she was an avid tennis player. I saw Reuben looking over at my Explorer.
“Is that new?” he asked.
“Yeah, I bought it recently.”
He nodded toward his own Explorer. “It’s a couple of years old now. I’ve put over a hundred thousand miles on it already, but it still runs great. You made a good purchase.”
I already knew that, but I nodded in agreement. He was making small talk, delaying telling me the reason for the visit. But the presence of Agent Meeks told me exactly why they were here. It was all about Jason Belew. I gestured toward the door.
“If you all would like to come inside, I have a pot of coffee brewing.”
They followed me to my kitchen table and sat. I played the dutiful host and poured them each a cup. The men took it black, but Special Agent Stainback liked hers with plenty of sugar and cream. Once everyone was taken care of, I sat and started it off.
