The Gone Dead Train

by Lisa Turner

  Dedication

  For my friend Linda Kichline and my cousin James Flatter

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  The sunset was a red slit of light like a devil’s eye, hanging low and depraved over the Mississippi River bluff. Storm clouds thundered all around as Little Man Lacy ran for the river, his pants legs flapping, his long arms and big hands pumping as he moved up the street past the train depot. He was seventy-three years old, tall and skinny, his nose and earlobes giving way to gravity. He was meant to be a bluesman all his life, long as he could play. Instead, he’d dropped his music by the side of the road, abandoned his sax, like leaving an infant alone in a tub. Now fear was his instrument. His lips pressed together, and he hummed as he raced, searching for the pain that made his music real. But even the music couldn’t help him now. He ran for the mighty Mississippi with all his heart, knowing water was his only salvation.

  The Evils were upon him. He knew the power and the nature of the woman who’d released them. His breath whistled in his lungs, not because he was weak, but because the Evils were drying up everything strong inside. If he made it to the bridge, he might trick them into jumping in the water where they’d be trapped with no escape. Then he would stand on the bridge and laugh at their mistake, because everyone knows that once the Evils set out to take your soul, they’ll have you one way or another. You can’t shrug off fate, but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t try.

  The storm clouds hanging between him and the river saw him coming. They opened up, and the rain fell down. The water gave him hope that he wouldn’t be taken, but the Evils just laughed, the sound buzzing in his ears like a thousand metal toys clicking.

  By the time he reached the top of the hill, the street had filled with rain and mud that soaked his shoes. The mud was draining from the deep hole dug in the ground, deep as a cave. He saw DANGER signs and the neon sign for the Blue Monkey Club shining blue and yellow in the sky, which he took as a good omen. The river pulsed nearby, pounding in its banks. He heard its music.

  He was a bluesman. He still had hope.

  Then, around the corner came the woman carrying the Evils. She was tall and wearing golden hoops in her ears. She called out his name, “Little Man Lacy!” as she moved across the street like a viper on legs. She came at him with a small gray bag held high, a conjure bag made for carrying things only the Evils know.

  His heart tore open. He turned to make a run for the river, but the mud was slick, and his feet went out from under him. He was falling.

  The last thing Little Man Lacy saw as he tumbled into the pit was the woman’s eyes shining in the dark.

  Chapter 1

  His first night back in Memphis, Sergeant Detective Billy Able hit G4 on the jukebox, “Me and the Devil Blues.” He felt at home sitting on his favorite bar stool at Earnestine and Hazel’s, drinking Miller High Life delivered by the bartender without his even having to ask. The music matched his mood for the evening—raw and personal.

  He raised the cold Miller to his lips and let the liquid roll down his throat. Coming up the long way, the hard way, you lose track. You tell yourself, “Anything good comes natural. Give it time.” You buy a bullshit line like that because slipping past a problem is less complicated than looking at it full on. At thirty-three years of age, Billy knew sliding past a problem was easier. You close the door and hear the click of the lock behind you.

  He’d packed up that morning in Atlanta and walked out on the love of his life. After the eight-hour drive, he’d stopped at his place on the river to throw water on his face then had come directly to Earnestine and Hazel’s, the most authentic piece of real estate in the city. Years ago, Otis Redding ate his lunch at Earnestine and Hazel’s. Sam Cooke, Jackie Wilson, James Brown, Tina Turner—they all hung out with the ladies. Tonight, so would he.

  The bar filled with purple light as the jukebox kicked in with a Red Davis classic, “You Ain’t Enough for Me.” The jukebox was famous for spontaneously singling out a man and speaking to his pain. Billy was that man tonight. He swigged more beer. You ain’t enough for me. Maybe that’s what Mercy had been trying to say all along, and he hadn’t been listening.

  What he wanted now was a few beers and some peace. He didn’t want to get drunk, just comfortable. He considered the next few days to be a well-deserved vacation. A ten-dollar tip left on the bar would change all that.

  He spotted the ten before the bartender did. They both watched the skinny punk in the motorcycle jacket snake the bill into his back pocket. His buddies laughed and slapped him on the back for his audacity.

  Tonight Billy wasn’t a Memphis cop. He’d been on leave for nine months. The ten bucks weren’t his responsibility.

  “Hey!” the bartender yelled at the guy’s back.

  The punk turned to make a smart-ass remark, stumbled into a table, and knocked a drink into a woman’s lap. The two men at her table jumped to their feet and threw back their chairs.

  Billy knew what would happen next. A brawl, then the bartender would come from around the bar with a sawed-off pool cue. Broken chairs, busted lips. He set his beer down and stood up. The bartender had a new baby at home. He needed the ten bucks. Besides, it was theft.

  The jackass with the money strolled toward the door. Billy shot out his boot and tripped him. The guy went facedown, hard. His buddies took one look at Billy’s face and cleared out. He picked the bill from the punk’s back pocket and slapped it on the bar. The guy got to his feet and ran.

  Law school students wandered in. Soul burgers hissed off the flat-top grill. Behind them came the “S and P” or “Stand and Pose” group—the men in their polo shirts and pressed khakis, their big-bosomed women in strapless sundresses that they had to constantly hike up like they were hauling two-pound bags of flour on their chests.

  The bartender set Billy up with another brew, but it didn’t taste as good as the first. This wasn’t the homecoming he’d intended.

  He checked his watch. Still time to catch Ruby Wilson at the speakeasy above B. B. King’s Blues Club on Beale Street. He walked outside and sto
od at the curb. The night had a swelter on. He stepped into the street and felt gravity pulling through the soles of his boots. He was back in Memphis.

  A Riverfront trolley with its square windows of light sat in front of Central Station. A young woman turned from the window to speak with the man seated beside her. They laughed. Billy felt Mercy’s fingers wrap into his, even though she hadn’t reached for his hand in weeks. Until that morning he believed they still had a chance.

  The sound of a blues guitar lifted in the night, coming from the train station’s main terminal. The evening still had potential. He decided to check it out.

  He forgot that nothing good ever happens after midnight.

  Chapter 2

  Billy bounded up the steps of Central Station in search of the blues guitar. During World War II, the cavernous terminal had been packed with travelers, a hub for fifty passenger trains a day carrying thousands of troops and tons of cargo. Now, The City of New Orleans was the only train that looped between Chicago and New Orleans, stopping in Memphis, morning and evening.

  The terminal was empty except for a young guy across the way, playing a Les Paul Goldtop through a mini amp. The kid wore alligator boots and high-dollar jeans with a manufactured rip in the knee. Had to be a college student with a rich daddy.

  He was working his way through “The Gone Dead Train,” a delta classic by King Solomon Hill. The notes bounced off the walls and flew straight to the top of the terminal like they were steel-winged birds. The kid’s guitar chops weren’t bad, but nothing in his young life could connect him to those heartbreaking lyrics. What he was, wasn’t authentic.

  Another man, old and brown-skinned, sat at the far end of the oak bench that ran the length of the terminal. His suit was stained and his tie hung askew. His legs were crossed at the knee, so a portion of one skinny calf showed above his sock. He’d twisted away from the kid and his guitar, head down and arms folded over the middle of his body as if he were being assaulted by the sound.

  Billy recognized Red Davis, the bluesman whose song he’d just heard on the jukebox. Davis and his partner, Little Man Lacy, had come to Memphis in the aftermath of Katrina. He’d expected them to be the kings of Beale Street. Instead, they showcased at a couple of minor clubs and ended up living on the streets. Like so many other flood victims, Katrina had knocked the fight out of both men.

  The kid’s guitar screeched and wailed through the final bars, making Red’s head jerk up. The old man glanced left, spotted Billy across the way, and came to his feet, eyes glistening with anxiety.

  “What ’chu want from me?” he called in a hoarse voice.

  Billy raised a hand. “Not a thing.” He took a step back, thinking he could still make Ruby’s set if he didn’t get caught up in this.

  The kid broke in. “Mr. Davis, did you like that last riff? I wondered if I could sit in with you guys.” He beamed, apparently having heard the word “yes” all his life. “Mr. Davis?”

  “Get out ’cheer, boy, you’re bothering me,” Red snapped. “I got a train to catch.”

  Billy knew the train for Chicago was two hours gone and wouldn’t head back until tomorrow morning. He looked around, saw no bag and no guitar case for Red.

  Still, the damned kid wouldn’t back off. “No one blows a harp like you. No one plays bottleneck guitar like you either, not even Furry Lewis.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a wallet, held it up for Red to see. “I’ll pay if you let me sit in.”

  Red swayed, the bulge of a pint showing through his suit pocket. “You can kiss my ass, son. That’s what.”

  The kid’s face reddened, then he smirked at Billy and nodded toward Red. “I saw him come in the terminal so I played ‘The Gone Dead Train’ as a send-off. But he’s not going anywhere. He’s drunk. Guess people get old and lose it.”

  Billy considered popping the kid for his insolence. “You heard Mr. Davis. He wants you out of here, so move it.” The guy shot him a belligerent look but went ahead and packed up the Les Paul. He left by a side door.

  Red looked around, rheumy-eyed and unsteady on his feet, patting his jacket pocket with his hand as if reassuring himself. Before leaving for Atlanta, Billy heard Davis and Lacy had checked into Robert House to dry out. Judging by the pint in Red’s pocket, that was over. He’d like to get the old guy off the bench before security came along and booted him out of the terminal. Not what he’d had in mind for the evening, but it needed to be done.

  “Nice night,” he said, walking over and picking up the street odors clinging to Red’s suit.

  “You can kiss my ass too, Officer. I’m going to Chicago.”

  No surprise Red had made him for a cop. The man must have spent a lifetime being hassled by rednecks carrying badges. He might be drunk, but his instincts weren’t far off.

  “I’m Billy Able. We met the night you and Little Man showcased on Riddle Street. We talked about Blues Alley, the old club on South Front. Remember?”

  Red studied him, still suspicious. “I remember. Maybe.”

  “The jukebox at Earnestine and Hazel’s played ‘You Ain’t Enough for Me’ tonight. The crowd loved it.”

  Red met his gaze, coming out of himself at the compliment. “That song’s about men making fools a theirselves over women. I had me a lot of women. Beautiful women. Now I’m just an old fool. Ain’t nothing so strong as old fool love.” He waved a finger at Billy. “Get old. You’ll know.”

  “Ruby Wilson had a stroke a couple of years ago, and she still sings at Itta Bena. You and Little Man could play club dates any night of the week to keep your hand in. It’d be like picking up money off the ground.” He tried to soften the tone of his criticism, but it didn’t work.

  Red reared back. “Ain’t none a yo’ damned business what I do. Me and Little Man worked twelve-hour days alongside grown men when we was kids. We got our reasons for not working now. And we ain’t worried about the music. Every time we put it down, it comes back.” He coughed and dragged his hand over his mouth. “It always comes back.”

  Billy pictured Little Man Lacy, tall and agile, a man without the power of speech but who could say all that needed to be said when he had a sax in his hand. Come to think of it, where was Little Man? The two men were always together.

  “Where’s your partner?”

  Red coughed again and cut his eyes away.

  Somewhere below the terminal, a door slammed. Red’s body jerked, and a shadow overtook his face. Fishing out the bottle, he collapsed on the bench, his fingers shaking as he struggled with the cap. He took a long pull.

  How had a man like Red Davis ended up creeping around a train station at midnight, looking spooked out of his mind?

  Red lowered the bottle and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “That damned kid over there. He’s got no right playing that song. Shit. That song’s about dying. Heaven and hell. I know which direction I’m going. It’s not too late for me.” He peered up at Billy. “You know which way you going, son? Is Jesus gonna save your soul?”

  Chapter 3

  Patrol Officer Frankie Malone began walking her shift at the south end of the downtown precinct. She looked in on the P. Wee Saloon, dead except for eight conventioneers who’d drifted down from Beale Street in search of a grittier scene. They were sitting with their backs to the bar, so tanked they needed to be strapped to their stools. A musician sat on the stage under a blue spot with his steel guitar laying across his thighs. He slid a bottle neck across the strings, his lips moving as he talked to himself, almost like he was playing at home alone. When the song ended, the out-of-towners whistled and stomped, breaking him out of his dream.

  Frankie signaled the bartender. He nodded that he would call a couple of cabs rather than let the drunk tourists ride the trolley back to their hotel.

  Two blocks up South Main she crossed the street to make a pass through Central Station, which closed in an hour. She would finish her foot patrol then pick up a cruiser and make her rounds in the rest of the ward.

  Appr
oaching the station, a metal door slammed open and a scowling teenager carrying a guitar case and amp stalked across the street to the Arcade Restaurant. He didn’t look like trouble, so she let him go and took the stairs up to the main terminal. At the top of the steps, her hands went cold despite the warm night. She stopped to check the crescents of her thumbnails. They were blue. Been that way all day. Been that way since the accident.

  The terminal was empty except for an elderly man sitting on the bench and a younger white guy who was talking to him. She recognized the older man as the musician, Red Davis, but she’d never had a reason to speak to him. The other man, maybe in his early thirties, was standing in front of Davis, staring down with a look of concern. At the sound of her steps, the younger man’s hand brushed the small of his back, the reflexive move of a cop feeling for his weapon. He turned in her direction. She saw it was Detective Billy Able, looking thinner than she remembered, and tired. His hair was too long for her taste, but he was still attractive in that bad-boy way.

  “Evening, Detective,” she called across the terminal.

  “Evening, Officer,” Able responded.

  She remembered his voice, smooth and disarming, God’s gift in an interview room. That’s where Able had made his reputation. She heard he could charm the panties off a nun. Seemed like he’d been gone for months, then she remembered his partner had died under questionable circumstances, followed by that nasty case involving Judge Overton and a little girl. The case had dominated the local news for weeks. She heard Able had taken a leave of absence after that and left town.

  Giving her hands a quick rub, she walked up. “Frankie Malone. Good to see you back in Memphis.” They clasped hands. He blinked, most likely at the chill in her grip, and his gaze brushed her bruised cheek.

  “This is Red Davis,” he said. “We were discussing heaven and hell.”

  “And women,” Davis added. “We’re talking about women.”

  “Sorry for your loss, Mr. Davis.” She noticed Able’s puzzlement and realized he might not have heard the news. “Little Man Lacy fell into a construction dig by the Blue Monkey Thursday night. The crew found him the next morning. Cause of death hasn’t been determined.”