Walking Woman (Gratis Book 2)

by Jackson, Jay

  “Amy, seriously, hurry up with the good news.”

  “Okay. It was a partial match, though, to a probationer named Frederick Fennerly, aka Flip Fennerly. Since I like to follow things up, I checked his court records in Fulton County. He’s got at least four convictions here, the last one five years ago for an aggravated assault. Seems he hit someone with a tire iron. Anyway, I got the plea paperwork from the clerk’s office, and I think you might know his attorney.” Amy went silent again.

  “Well damn, Amy, don’t tease me. Who was his attorney?”

  “Just one Mr. Racey Bridges, Esquire, or at least ex-esquire. Before he got his indefinite suspension, these two were client and attorney. So, Delroy, how about them peaches?”

  Delroy smiled. As always, Amy went further than expected and found the hidden nugget. He wished he was there to hug her. Of course, he wished that all the time.

  “Those are some mighty sweet peaches, no doubt. Look, I owe you one, maybe two. You gonna let me pay you back?”

  Amy waited before she answered.

  “Maybe. I might. First, do what you have to do there.” The two said good-bye, and Delroy reluctantly hung up.

  Too soon.

  Amy’s voice still massaging his ear, he looked at Kero.

  “Well, damn son, you look like you just saw a ghost. A beautiful, naked ghost. You want to let me know what she said, or you just gonna look stupid?”

  Delroy smiled at his friend.

  “We gotta call the Bloodsaw brothers. They’re gonna make a little visit to one Mr. Frederick ‘Flip’ Fennerly. They’re gonna have to ask him some questions, starting with a very important one.”

  “And which question would that be?” Kero was getting perturbed with his friend. One call from the right—or wrong—woman, and he turned into an idiot.

  “That question, Kero Peters, is what’s an old felon from Atlanta doing down here in Gratis, and why the hell is he touching a window on the back of Claudia and Jewel Peters’s house?”

  Kero considered that question. He wasn’t sure who this Fennerly person was, but at least there was a name to start with. Maybe his old friend wasn’t such an idiot after all, and maybe Amy was the right, not wrong, woman.

  Maybe.

  34.

  Flip was having a really good night. He started the evening at Malone’s in Hapeville, drinking a couple of pitchers before heading up to the Pink Pony off I-85. It was still early when he arrived, at least an hour before the “A” team would hit the stage. He stopped at Fuzzy’s Place to have a couple of drinks first.

  Fuzzy’s was a real dive, situated in a ramshackle building with walls covered with sports memorabilia, mostly Braves and Bulldogs. It always felt like 1975 in there. One almost expected to see a pre-Smokey and the Bandit Burt Reynolds in the corner, talking up a young lady with feathered hair. Fuzzy himself was in there most nights, working the room and taking care of everybody. People came to see him, as well as to listen to blues music and drink strong cocktails. It was getting rare, in Atlanta, to have an owner who was grateful for his customers. Times were changing. The old joints were going away, priced out of the market by rising building leases. Sleek, soulless lounges were rapidly taking their place.

  Flip drank at Fuzzy’s for a good hour longer than he meant to. Francine Reed was singing that night, and was on fire. Even a slow-wit like Flip appreciated that much talent, and he drank five rum-and-Cokes while listening at the bar. Finishing his last drink, he closed his tab and walked out.

  Fuzzy’s parking lot consisted of only a few spaces in front, with most of the spaces situated on the crumbling, buckled slab in the back. There was no moon out that night, and the only light came from the glow of the headlights and businesses on North Druid Hills Road and Buford Highway. Flip stumbled on the broken pavement, cursing each time he righted himself before falling. “Son of a bitch!” Flip almost fell over a large canyon of broken asphalt. With a drunkard’s grace he recovered and reached into his pocket for his keys.

  “Hey, Flipper! You are one drunk asshole, aren’t you?”

  Flip looked up, trying to make out the figure five feet in front of him.

  Where did he come from?

  “Who the hell are you calling a drunk, ass-hat?”

  “Hey, Flip, you look like a drunk dummy!” A voice came from behind him, almost yelling. Confused, Flip turned around.

  Trying to focus, he stared intently at the second figure behind him. That person’s cigarette barely revealed the outline of his face, but he could make out a yellow bow tie directly under his chin.

  “Well hell, looks like the old Bloodsaw brothers. Y’all gotta be careful calling a man an asshole. That man might not think it was too funny.” Flip knew the brothers, and had even had drinks before with Scott at the Cheetah. He didn’t hate them, which for Flip was about as close to friendship as he got.

  Friendship was the last thing on the mind of either of the Bloodsaw brothers. As Flip looked at Scott, about to ask him if he wanted to go to the Pink Pony (It’s porn babe Madame X night, bro) Todd slammed a billy club into the back of his skull. He noticed that blood and a wisp of hair clung to it when he pulled the club back.

  “Damn, Todd. I think you killed him!” Scott shouted, his voice loud enough to register in own his feeble ears.

  “Shut up, dumbass, and help me get him in the car!” The brothers loaded him into the brown Crown Vic they had driven for the occasion. Flip weighed an easy 230 pounds. They needed the extra trunk space.

  The trio got on I-85 and headed south, getting off the highway once they were near the Braves stadium. The Crown Vic eventually pulled up behind a house in Mechanicsville. The old home was stripped inside, with boarded-up windows and gouged holes in every wall. Their mother’s since-deceased boyfriend, Mr. Maurice, would meet her there every Thursday when they were carrying on, twenty years before. His wife knew nothing of the place. Mr. Maurice signed it over to Ludell before his last undercover assignment, the one that ended with a bullet in his head. The place wasn’t worth much, but Ludell kept it. She had no interest in selling. It reminded her of the one man she ever gave a damn about. The little house was also useful. Some cases involved dirty business, the kind where people might scream in pain. This part of the neighborhood was a good place for that particular type of business. Nobody lived there except for addicts or squatters, and they never called police.

  The brothers got Flip out of the trunk and carried him inside.

  He’s breathing, so that’s good, Todd thought as they tied him to a solid wood chair placed in the middle of what used to be the living room. Their mother and Mr. Maurice had spent many evenings in that same room, drinking Lowenbrau and watching the Braves on the Superstation.

  Both brothers got a beer from a cooler packed with Budweiser. It might be a long night, as Flip had a reputation for being a pretty tough nut. There was no reason to be thirsty.

  During their third beer, Flip came around.

  “What the hell? What the hell?” He looked around the room, the two men in rumpled seersucker suits and bow ties slowly coming into focus. Noticing the cans in their hands, he continued.

  “Hell, ain’t nobody gonna give me a beer? This is some worthless-ass party y’all are throwing. Got any weed?” Flip laughed, the pounding in his head starting to grow. He tried to ignore it, not wanting to give Todd any satisfaction. Flip’s tough reputation was earned, won in the dirtiest alleys in Atlanta.

  “Hey, Todd! Flip’s awake!” Scott shouted.

  “Really, you do see me standing right here, don’t you?” Todd squinted at his brother.

  If he was a dog, we’d have to put him down.

  “Yeah, Todd, I’m awake. Why don’t you untie me and let’s be buddies?” Flip’s head was thumping with every heartbeat. He couldn’t hear his own words even as they came out of his mouth.

  “Buddies? Me and you, Flipper, we ain’t never gonna be pals.” With that, Todd punched Flip in his gut. Being tied to the chair, Fli
p couldn’t double over as he threw up. His dinner from Malone’s dribbled down his chin and onto his shirt. Chunks of bleu cheese–drenched fried chicken dabbled his red collar.

  “Damn, there is just no call for that,” Flip said after he caught his breath. “What have I ever done to either of you?”

  Scott stayed in the corner, watching as his brother pulled Flip’s head back. He hoped his brother wouldn’t kill Flip. He wasn’t morally opposed to killing, but he didn’t feel like all the cleanup afterward.

  “Seriously, fellas, if you’re gonna do something to me, can’t you at least let me know why?”

  Todd released Flip’s head and stepped back. He had no intention of killing anybody. Flip wouldn’t tell on them. Sure, he might attack them one night in the future, on a moonless night just like tonight, but he wouldn’t tell on them. A busted head was just the cost of being in the investigating business.

  Todd grabbed a beer out of the cooler and handed it to his brother.

  “Give the man a drink.”

  Scott opened the beer and held it up to Flip’s mouth. Flip drank, not caring that beer spilled down his face and onto his crotch.

  “Well, Flip, you see, it’s like this. You went and got our client in a little place called Gratis into some trouble. Seems that y’all played a mean trick on her and she went crazy and almost stabbed a policeman. We need to know why.”

  Flip was surprised that they knew about his trip to see Jewel, but wasn’t about to show his hand.

  “What the hell is Gratis? Look, the only mean tricks I have are the ones I pick up on Metropolitan Avenue.”

  Todd walked up to him and smacked him in the back of his head. Flip thought his head would explode.

  “Don’t lie to me. Your dumb ass left a fingerprint on that lady’s back window. Seems like you would’ve figured by now that gloves would be in order. You were a slow learner growing up, weren’t you, stank-for-brains?”

  “Fingerprints? I don’t know a thing about fingerprints.” Flip lied, but knew his situation was poor if there really were fingerprints.

  How’d we forget gloves?

  “Not a thing, huh?” Todd was starting to get impatient. Wanting to speed things up, he punched Flip in the face and brought the heat. Flip’s chair reared back, almost falling over—until Scott stopped it. “Let’s hear you now, Mr. I Don’t Know Nuthin’. You’re lookin’ like you don’t know much, just right now. What do you think, Scott?”

  Flip threw up again, bringing up the beer nuts he ate at Fuzzy’s.

  “Stop, please man. Just stop.” Flip’s head was throbbing, and he couldn’t hold it up.

  “Seriously, Todd, you might want to back off a little.”

  Todd shot his brother a “shut-up-little-weasel-brother look,” and then turned back toward Flip.

  “You’re gonna tell me about your Gratis trip, and then you’re gonna tell me about what Racey Bridges has to do with it. Now Flip, let me warn you, I’m gonna know if you’re lying. Lying ain’t gonna go down so good, you know?”

  Flip looked up at Todd and nodded, just barely. Pain sloshed through his head with even the slightest movement. It took some time, but Flip told them everything he knew. He told them about going down to Gratis with Paulie, meeting with Racey, and everything else. Satisfied, the brothers untied him and drove him to the University Avenue exit, where they kicked him out of the car. He landed in the gravel on the side of the road, the crushed rocks scraping his face and making him bleed anew. Flip called Paulie, who dropped him off at the Grady ER early that morning. When asked what happened, he told the doctors that some unknown person jumped him. Even as he was lying, though, he knew. He knew what they did, and he knew what he would do soon enough.

  When I’m done with those two, they ain’t gonna be laughing about a damn thing. They ain’t gonna be doin’ nuthin’ about a damn thing. Who knows, their momma might be needing to call a hearse.

  35.

  The next morning, Delroy got a call from Todd Bloodsaw. He told Delroy that Racey hired Flip and “some mope named Paulie Waycock, seriously, Waycock,” to scare Jewel into selling. He told him that Racey was working for someone, but they didn’t know who it was. When Todd assured him “I made sure Flip really meant it when he said he didn’t know who Bridges was working for,” Delroy stopped him from saying anything else. The less he knew the better.

  Using private detectives could be risky for an attorney, especially two as sketchy as the Bloodsaws. The State Bar would have his license if they thought he condoned or knew about the Bloodsaws’ actions. To the Bar, violence was never the answer. Delroy agreed with them, but also believed that sometimes you had to get a little creative. Jewel’s freedom was at issue. He had the unenviable position of believing that she was innocent.

  Being a defense attorney could swallow a person. Trying to help people with their problems, and seeing them get hurt more often than not, was a hard thing to do day after day. It became exponentially harder when you believed your client to be innocent. The thought of being the only thing between an innocent person and jail haunted Delroy. More than a few nights, unless he was too deep in the booze, he awoke around three o’clock and lay in bed. He would work out, over and over, how he was going to save the innocent ones. Always, he was afraid that he would fail.

  Now he had two innocent clients keeping him awake at night. He worried about failing them and their cousin, too. Kero was the best friend he ever had on this earth. If Delroy couldn’t help him, or his family, his law degree was useless.

  “Well T-Bone, what are we gonna do here?”

  The little dog looked over from the top of the couch. He was on his perch, able to guard the whole room. Turning his head, T-Bone perked up his ears.

  “Look, doing fox ears at me doesn’t help. Let’s go for a walk.”

  Delroy got his dog from the couch and put on his leash. They went out the front door and headed toward the Potluck Diner. The owner was a friend and made sure to get T-Bone a bowl of water whenever they stopped by. The little dog was panting by the time they arrived, needing four strides to every one of Delroy’s.

  The two went inside and settled into a booth near the back. T-Bone sat in the booth beside Delroy, lapping up the water the waitress brought after getting Delroy’s order of meatloaf with mashed potatoes. She already knew to bring a piece of bean-pot bacon for T-Bone. The man and his dog were waiting for their meals when Ray Doster started walking their way. Ray was Jewel’s and Claudia’s neighbor, living on the other side of their land from Benny Parker. He was a large man, weighing in at 250 fairly solid pounds. He had a mouth well suited to the rest of him. Noticing Ray walking their way, Delroy whispered to his dog, “You might have to bite this one, buddy. He deserves it.”

  “Well look at this, we got us a lawyer and his dog eating with the rest of us regular folk. What you gonna have, Delroy, a bowl of bullshit cobbler?” Ray laughed at his joke, sprays of spittle launching with every gleeful snort.

  Delroy looked up, considering his answer.

  “Well, Ray, I figured you probably finished the rest of that particular pan of cobbler. I was just gonna get a little meatloaf and drink some tea. How things going for you?”

  Ray had stopped laughing by this time and looked down at T-Bone.

  “Well I see you brought the smarter half of your firm with you to lunch. Where’s your little lady partner?” Ray knew all about Delroy and Amy. He never missed one of Johnnie Lee’s columns.

  “Well, Ray, she ain’t here. There anything I can do for you, or you just going to stand there looking confused?”

  Ray didn’t like being disrespected by anyone, especially a lawyer he outweighed by sixty pounds. He looked down at Delroy, wondering what would happen if he yanked him up by his throat. Weighing the circumstances, and realizing it may not be a good move for someone who owned the local Allstate agency, he answered, “You need to tell your two law-breaking clients that they need to sell their place. By sell I mean to me. I’ll give
you a fair price, ’cause I’m tired of them being over there. Hell, I buy new ammo every week not knowing if I’ll have to use it or not.” Ray had had his eyes on the sisters’ land for a long time. If he ever got the place, he’d push the house down with a dozer and hunt on the land. Monster bucks were all over it, running the river trails. To him, the place was wasted on two useless oddballs who didn’t care to hunt or use the land.

  “Couple of things, Ray. If you ever hurt those ladies, the GBI, FBI, and everyone else will know about that ammo crack. I’m probably going to see Tommy tonight, and I’ll let the sheriff know your plans for all your bullets. Second, if they do ever want to sell that land, I’ll help them. We’ll place you somewhere in the back of the pack of potential buyers. Somewhere between Mr. Shit and Mr. Out of Luck. Don’t worry, I’ll let them know.”

  Delroy smiled at the bigger man. Just as Ray decided that his business wouldn’t be hurt too badly by whipping this smug lawyer in public, the Potluck’s owner approached. Kevin Stiner carried a plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes in one hand, a smaller plate of bacon in the other.

  “Ray, you make any trouble in here, you ain’t never coming back in. I don’t need that kind of business. I mean it—you need to go ahead and leave for the day. Come back tomorrow and your sweet tea is free. Today, go.”

  Not wanting to lose access to the best fried chicken in town, Ray slowly started to leave. Walking toward the door, he mumbled something about “anyplace that serves dogs,” and “I’ll take a free slice of pie tomorrow, too.”

  “Well thanks, Delroy. You drove away one of my worst customers. Seriously, that man doesn’t know how to tip with anything but pocket lint. How’s things?”

  “Things are fine, Kevin, thanks.”

  Delroy tucked into his plate and was halfway through the large slab of meatloaf before he took a breath. Looking down, he saw that T-Bone was just as intent on his limp, delicious bacon.

  Old Ray Doster is one idiot, Delroy thought as he finally took a gulp of tea, but he sure does seem to want the sisters’ place. Wonder if he knows Racey Bridges?