by Scott Pratt
“Okay. I’ll tell my boss I need to burn a few vacation days to unwind; I’m due for a vacation anyway. I’ll tell my wife I’m going on a business trip. This better be one hell of a story.”
“No guts, no glory. Isn’t that what they say?” Billy said. “You just have to keep it under wraps until the right time. No one else will know.”
“Let’s do it then. By the way, where am I taking you?”
“To my house, Rocky Top Estates, out by the river. I have a lot of planning to do.” Tears began to pool again in Billy’s eyes. “I have to say goodbye to my brother.”
Chapter fifty-eight
The townspeople braved a rainy afternoon to pay their last respects to John Beckett, a man they only thought they knew.
A steady stream of mourners filed through the stately corridors of Jamison Funeral Home, which was used to handling services for Sevierville’s most prominent families. There had been an overflow crowd just a couple of days earlier when one of Dolly Parton’s cousins was laid to rest.
The collection of John’s pictures was scattered about for the people to look at as they slowly made their way to the front of the chapel. Snapshots in time.
John at Florida State, at the height of his powers, locked on his target as he delivered a pitch with all his might.
He and Billy hoisting an AAU championship trophy in front of their proud parents, big smiles all around.
Sitting on the hood of a police cruiser as a boy at his father’s station.
With his mother at Myrtle Beach, arm in arm, not long before her death.
The adoring way Anna Beckett looked at her youngest son said everything about the bond between them. If there was any comfort in this tragedy, it was that maybe they were together again.
Franklin and Billy were greeting the masses in the chapel, beside a closed oak casket, and from the look of things they were going to be there for a while. The funeral would follow, and a graveside service would be held across the street at Roselawn Gardens.
It took more than three hours for the line to clear. By then the chapel pews were almost full. The preacher walked out and started to escort Billy and his father to a side viewing area.
Fighting to stay composed, Billy took just a moment to scan the congregation. The faces were mostly a blur, but there along the aisle on the back row, a solitary figure caught his attention.
Rachel.
The sight of her sitting there in a black dress, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, stopped Billy in his tracks. It took a lot of nerve for her to show up.
Franklin tugged at Billy’s arm and guided him to a seat around the corner with perhaps fifteen other relatives, distant aunts and uncles and cousins. He couldn’t have named half of them.
The preacher was a stranger, too – a newcomer at the Methodist church where the Becketts were lifelong members – but he spoke eloquently about forgiveness and redemption, topics that certainly applied in this case. He then recited Psalm 23, maybe the only piece of scripture John knew. The Lord is my shepherd …
One of John’s old schoolmates sang Amazing Grace at the end, and there was a prayer and everyone was invited to attend the burial service. It was short and fairly uplifting under the circumstances, the way John would have wanted it.
Billy walked quickly around the corner to check the crowd as it began to disperse, but she was gone. He turned to his father.
“Did you see her?”
“Who?” Franklin said. He was in another place entirely.
Chapter fifty-nine
The finality began to sink in the moment they turned and staggered away from the casket. It was just the two of them now.
Billy felt completely numb as he walked through the wet grass, shoulder to shoulder with his father, toward the black hearse at the bottom of the hill. Dozens of friends and acquaintances stood under umbrellas and watched them pass. Another surreal scene at Roselawn Gardens.
A funeral home attendant opened a limousine door and Franklin stepped in. Billy was about to join him when he heard that familiar voice call his name. Rachel was alone on the other side of the street, rain dripping from her hair and down that beautiful face.
“Wait just a minute, Dad,” Billy said. He closed the door and stood still by the limo for a moment.
They were locked in each other’s gaze as Billy walked over to her. “Why did you come?” he said softly.
“I needed to be here. John was a good man ... he didn’t deserve this. No one does. I’m sorry.”
“And that’s it?”
She hesitated and dropped her head.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about us, too. I do owe you an explanation.”
Billy walked back to the limo, leaned in and said a few words. The driver handed him a small umbrella and then left with his father.
Rachel had turned and was starting slowly toward her car. Billy opened the umbrella and they walked close together.
“You were right. I did know about the cocaine,” she said. “It seemed innocent at the time. We were on the road, and getting high helped pass the time. John was fun to party with; it was never more than that.”
“Did you know where the stuff came from?”
“Not at first, but John told me later. It was Jarvis’s father who brought it to him down in Florida. The whole thing had been set up.”
“Charles?” Billy said. “How did he get involved in this?”
“I don’t know, but he was the guy who handed off the package. He was supposed to be trying to get Jarvis to turn against you, with John’s help. It wasn’t apparent to me that he was just working for Romano.”
Billy’s eyes narrowed in that familiar way.
“And what about Romano’s son? How does he figure into this?”
“I don’t know, honestly,” Rachel said. “He’s a musician and I got to know him after he moved to Charleston and was playing around town with his band. We’re just friends.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“He was playing in Charleston several weeks ago.”
“Didn’t you know his last name and ever put the pieces together?” Billy said.
“He didn’t use Romano. He was Paul Richards to me – Paul Richards and the Hit Men.”
“Sounds like a hell of a coincidence that all these people have closed in on me. Unbelievable, really. And you have no idea where Jarvis is?”
“I don’t; you have to believe me,” Rachel said. “I asked Paul and he said he didn’t know either.”
“So you’ve talked to Paul recently?”
“Just briefly on the phone. He was collecting his stuff to go home. He should be back in New Orleans now.”
Rachel unlocked her Mercedes as they walked up. They got in and everything was quiet for a minute. Billy was trying hard to clear his mind and process this new information.
“So when did you know Frank Romano was behind this?” he said.
“He called me on my phone when I was driving back to Charleston, just to make sure I got the message. He was blackmailing me to leave Knoxville for good, to leave you.”
Rachel shook her head. “That was a terrible day.”
“There have been a lot of those lately,” Billy said. “But things are about to change.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to New Orleans to find Jarvis. This nightmare is going to end, one way or another.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
Rachel said she was afraid of how things would turn out and was planning to go back to Charleston to lay low for a while. Maybe she’d get into the family business and start fresh. Billy knew she wasn’t going to be pulled back into this odyssey with Jarvis.
“I probably won’t come back this way again,” she said. “I just wanted to be here today. For John, and
for you. Our time together really meant a lot to me ... I’m so sorry for the way it ended. You deserved better, and so did John. I hope you don’t hate me.”
Billy left it right there. He got out of the car, patted the top and looked to the heavens, which were raining down upon him as she drove away.
Chapter sixty
After two weeks in captivity, the Autumn Blaze no longer resembled the elite football player that had grabbed the nation’s attention.
Wearing an orange jumpsuit, like the Orleans Parish inmates, he had lost several pounds. Gone, too, was that unmistakable air of confidence. Escape was no longer an option. Jarvis wasn’t sure he could run, even if he had the chance.
The heavy door opened and daylight filtered into the small, dank room. He sat up on the dirty mattress on the floor and found himself in the shadow of a large man standing over him.
“So I finally meet the great Jarvis Thompson,” came a booming voice. “You don’t look so great, kid.”
Jarvis squinted, trying to adjust his vision, and said nothing. One of his ankles was shackled to the wall. Like a prisoner of war, he could see no clear future, no way out. But what kind of war was this?
Frank Romano pulled up a chair and parked his oversized frame, guarded by two armed men at the door. Their silhouettes resembled Tommy and Gene, but Jarvis couldn’t be sure. Several different men had been around since he was first brought to the old warehouse and locked in a storage room in the back. Even in his condition, it took three to wrestle him through the door and subdue him.
“We still have those nasty syringes if we need them,” Romano said. “We’re not going to have to go through that again, are we? You have to stay calm, for your own good.”
Jarvis still said nothing.
The crime boss turned and one of the guards handed him something wrapped in thin white paper. He flipped it to Jarvis, who instinctively made the grab. Food.
“It’s a po’ boy,” Romano said. “Welcome to New Orleans.”
Jarvis hesitated and then peeled back the paper and stuffed one end of the sandwich in his mouth. Romano looked at him curiously. He enjoyed having Billy Beckett’s famous protégé under his control, being so close to the agent’s heart and soul. There was even a touch of awe. So this was a world-class athlete.
“I hear your football team is really missing you,” Romano said. “Are you missing those guys?”
Jarvis remained silent, his face a blank slate.
“What about your agent? Bet you’re missing him, too. You know he’s why you’re here.”
Romano had finally struck a nerve.
Jarvis took a sip of water and wiped his mouth. “Why do you say that?” he said.
“He’s a lowlife, and so you’re soiled, too.”
“Because he’s a sports agent? I thought you liked those guys. I kept hearing about how you wanted me to sign with Sonny Bradley. Isn’t he your boy?”
“Not anymore,” Romano said. “I don’t care who you sign with, as long as it’s not Billy Beckett. And that’s assuming you ever have a pro football career, which is a pretty big assumption at this point.”
Jarvis took another big bite of the sandwich. He was starting to perk up.
“So what did Billy ever do to you?” he said.
“Let’s just say I have an old score to settle with him. I’m a vengeful man, I admit it.”
“Does that mean you’re just going to kill both of us? Your men could have done that at Billy’s house that night.”
“That would have been too easy,” Romano said. “I don’t want to kill Billy Beckett right now. I want to control him. I want him to suffer. Losing you, losing his brother, losing his pretty girlfriend, losing his business ... maybe after he’s suffered long enough, I’ll have one of the boys put a bullet in his head. Gene could have already done it more than once.”
“What about me?”
“We’ll see what your life is worth. You’re a football star, but I don’t really give a damn about athletes. They’re spoiled and greedy, and in the grand scheme of things there’s no real money in managing their affairs. Just prestige, and I already have that.”
Jarvis was now more perplexed than afraid. His life in the projects had taught him a few things about violent men. They were insecure, and you could get in their heads if you did it right. You just had to tread carefully.
“What prestige?” he said. “All I see is a fat guy who runs a drug ring and ruins lives.”
Romano chuckled.
“Are you trying to make me mad, kid? That takes balls, especially when you’re sitting there chained to the wall. You obviously have a lot bigger balls than your old man did.”
“So you know him, too?”
“Knew him. Very briefly. He was a loser, and I’m sure he was a pathetic excuse for a father. But he might still be around if he just knew how to follow instructions. Of course, he’d be out there somewhere killing himself slowly with all the drugs and booze. We just sped up the process.”
Jarvis sat back against the wall and ate the last of the sandwich. “What do you mean?”
“I mean Charles, your father, is long gone. He couldn’t dig his way out of that old Domino sugarcane field in Chalmette. You better hope he’s the last in your family to suffer an untimely death. You people are living dangerously.”
The big man stood and turned to leave.
“How long are you going to keep me here?” Jarvis said.
“I haven’t decided, but you can’t stay forever. Too many people are looking for you; I know Billy Beckett is. He’s got a lot invested in you becoming a big NFL star.”
“I’ll sign with another agent if you’ll just let me go and leave Billy alone.”
Romano laughed.
“I’ve got another idea. Let’s see if we can’t lure Billy down here and have a little chat. We’ll make it easy for him. If he was going to the cops, I’m sure he would have already done it. I know he’d love to end up being your hero. Wouldn’t it be something if we had both of you guys right here, together again? I can see it now.”
The crime boss lit a cigarette and narrowed his eyes, like he was envisioning the scene, finally having Billy Beckett under his thumb. There was a trace of euphoria on his face.
“It’s been a real pleasure meeting you, kid,” he said. “This is probably not going to end well, but you never know. It’s kind of like a Hail Mary pass. Sometimes you get lucky.”
The door closed and Jarvis was again alone in the darkness.
Chapter sixty-One
The first order of business was to find Mark Fletcher. The private eye had been out of touch for days, and the alarm was growing as Billy and Trey Birchfield rolled into the Big Easy late on an overcast afternoon.
Birchfield knew the story by now and was chomping at the bit to get to the bottom of it. He had been talking to his reporter friend at the New Orleans Tribune on the way down and wanted to see what may have transpired in the last few hours.
Billy dropped him at the door of the newspaper and headed to a hotel down in the Warehouse District. Birchfield was cleared through security and took the elevator to the third floor. His friend, David Mettetal, was standing there to greet him when the door opened.
“It’s about time you made it down here,” Mettetal said. Birchfield stepped into the hallway and shook his hand. “Too bad it’s not Mardi Gras season. The town will only be crazy instead of insane. Come on in.”
Mettetal was a veteran of the police beat and about as connected as any journalist in the city. If the cops knew something, it wasn’t long before he knew, too.
The men walked through the newsroom and sat down at his crowded cubicle in the corner. They had been classmates at Fordham University, and both left journalism school with designs on making a difference. Judging from all the plaques on the wall, Birchfield could see his friend
had done well.
“Coffee?” Mettetal said.
“No, thanks. Maybe we can have a beverage later.”
“How long are you in town?”
“That’s a good question. As long as it takes, I guess. My boss thinks I’m on vacation.”
Birchfield was anxious to learn if there had been any scuttlebutt about Fletcher’s whereabouts since they had spoken earlier.
“So this PI has been down here looking into the Jarvis Thompson case,” Mettetal said, “and now nobody knows where he is?”
“That’s about it. Like I told you, he was supposed to be meeting again with these two guys that used to work for Romano. The calls quit coming a few days ago. We’re afraid maybe he got too close.”
“Well, he hasn’t turned up yet, and that’s probably a good thing. When it comes to Romano, missing persons usually aren’t missing for long. They’re found floating in a pond, or laying in a ditch along the road somewhere. It’s never a very subtle message.”
“Like Sonny Bradley?”
“Exactly,” Mettetal said. “And just like that case, there never seems to be enough evidence to tie Romano to it. He’s always just out of reach. That’s why I suppose he’d be bold enough to kidnap someone like Jarvis Thompson, although it’s still crazy to think about.”
“So the cops know what’s going on but haven’t been able to stop him?”
“We have some hard-core criminals down here – it’s still one of the most dangerous cities in the country – and Romano is getting more notorious all the time. There’s a certain glamor to it, I guess, and his organization is so tight-knit, the cops are never able to pin these murders on him. There have probably been a couple dozen like that this year, still sitting in the unsolved file. Of course, the way some of the cops operate, you can’t be sure what’s going on behind the scenes.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean corruption is rampant,” Mettetal said. “You can’t trust a lot of the boys in blue, or the politicians. Some of them have been flat-out bought by Romano, and he’s getting his money’s worth.”
