The Best of Evil

by Eric Wilson

  “Oh, really?”

  “He disappeared after Mom’s funeral, so how was I to know where he’d gone? The thing with you and Mom at the river—I don’t think he ever got over that.”

  “How’d you find out that he was in Hohenwald?”

  “He called me.”

  “What? Just for fun?”

  “Outta the blue. I picked up, and there he was, introducin’ himself and askin’ to speak with you.”

  “With me?”

  “You’d never let that happen, so I met with the man myself. Had lunch.”

  “You met with him?”

  “He said he wanted to spill some family secrets. Time to rattle the ol’ skeletons in the closet, he told me.”

  “And you had to keep it all to yourself.”

  “Who drove you to the Lewis monument a week ago?”

  “You did—”

  “And who’s kept tellin’ ya about the connections to our own history?”

  “You have. But—”

  “Hold on now.” He held up a hand and bowed his head. “Tell me, please, who set you up to go on national TV and put this thing to rest? Your big chance to get The Best of Evil?”

  “You did, oh wise and wonderful big brother.”

  “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

  “But you tricked me. Suckered me into it.”

  “ ’Cause you won’t listen.” He tapped the latest issue of the Scene. “Can’t even spare a minute of your time. Just bound and determined to fix it all on your own. Been that way since you were six. You’re the strong one, isn’t that how it goes?”

  “If you say so.”

  “You’re not so doggone complicated as you make yourself out to be.”

  “Okay. You have me all figured out. Tell me, Johnny, what do you see?”

  “It’s all written there on your tattoos.”

  “Life on the edge,” I said. “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “You’ve watched Gladiator one too many times, kid.”

  “Seriously. What’re you keepin’ from me?”

  “Like I been tellin’ you, it’s high time you faced the stuff in the past and moved on. But I can’t make it happen. You gotta let go. Till you do that, you won’t be ready to face the rest of these ghosts.”

  “What ghosts? What secrets?”

  “You listenin’ to a thing I’ve said?”

  “I’ve gotta let go first. Okay. I get it.”

  “If you don’t, they’ll haunt you till the day you die.”

  “Am I the only one in the dark here?”

  “We all are, Aramis. Each one of us, just tryin’ to find our way.”

  “Whatever.”

  I brought my Pop-Tart from under the table and nibbled around the edges. Licked my lips. Savored each warm and gooey bite.

  “All that sugar in your system?” he said. “It’s no wonder you’re so cranky.”

  Sarah’s breathy voice floated into the kitchen. “Johnny Ray Black? Did I hear you say ‘sugar’?”

  I was outta there. I hurried toward the park still fumbling with the buttons on my shirt.

  Centennial Park was quieter than usual this Friday morning, so it was no surprise to hear Tina shuffling along with her dog.

  “Hi, Tina.”

  “Walking and talking, an old crone, alone.” The mist thinned her voice.

  “Stop by if you need a hot cup of joe,” I said. “I’ll be open at six.”

  “A matter of time, to find the dark grind.”

  A layer of fog hovered over the wide lawn, giving shrubbery and stonework the illusion of poking through wisps of battlefield smoke. I could almost smell the gunpowder as I thought about Civil War conflicts where blood was spilled and history etched into the landscape and disposition of the South.

  The past fifty years in Music City have echoed those racial struggles.

  In 1960, hundreds of African Americans staged nonviolent protests, taking seats at lunch counters in downtown Nashville. Had Detective Meade’s parents been here then? Watching the world change before their eyes?

  After numerous beatings and arrests of unresisting young black men, the general population’s sympathies swung to the protesters’ side. On April 19, when a councilman who had spoken up for the cause had his house bombed, nearly four thousand marched in silence on city hall. Addressing the issue without compromise, the mayor stated that discrimination based on color was morally wrong.

  The next day Martin Luther King Jr. spoke at local Fisk University, declaring, “I did not come to Nashville to bring inspiration, but to gain inspiration …”

  Within weeks, lunch counters began opening to diners of all races, all colors.

  In some ways we’ve come so far. In others, we’re just scratching the surface.

  Through the fog, I spotted Freddy C curled on cardboard beneath a tree.

  “Freddy C.” I nudged his shoulder and caught that salty hushpuppy scent.

  One eye crept open. Watery. Slowly focusing. “Artemis?”

  “I’m on my way to the shop. Where’ve you been?”

  “Nowhere special.” He sat up, pulled a hand through his graying beard.

  “You hungry? I’m running over to Krispy Kreme if you wanna join me.” I’d had breakfast already, but I knew he would never let me watch him eat. “I can’t do a whole box by myself.”

  “Shouldn’t show my face. Shouldn’t do it, not today.”

  “You okay?”

  “Thanks for wakin’ me. Gotta get movin’.” He folded the cardboard beneath his arm while his wary eyes surveyed the park.

  “Is this about that warning the other day?”

  His neck stiffened, and his eyes rolled my way. “Could be.”

  “You said something, Freddy. Said I had trouble.”

  “We got trouble.”

  “Okay. We.”

  “A man’s been watchin’,” he said. “Hangin’ around. He’s not a good man.”

  “Who is he? Does he have a hooded sweatshirt and black high tops?” It was worth a shot.

  Freddy C shook his head, his reedy hair shifting on his scalp. “He’s not really a man. Not a man at all.”

  “A ghost?”

  Freddy stood upright. “You think I’m crazy? Think I have a few screws loose?”

  “Not at all. What do you mean then, he’s not a man?”

  Freddy buttoned his coat, tucked in his scarf, and withdrew his grocery cart from its hiding place in the bushes. “Stay outta my hair, you hear.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “And if you’re smart”—he tapped his finger against my temple—“you’ll get him. You’ll get into his hair. He’ll no longer take what doesn’t belong to him.”

  “Is it my Uncle Wyatt? Do you know him?”

  “Gotta go.” Freddy C pushed past me. “He’s here somewhere.”

  I glanced around. “We’re fine. I think we’re alone.”

  “I’m not safe to be around. I’m tellin’ you now, I’m no longer safe.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  How could a place change so drastically in the span of a few hours? Last night’s performance had jolted Black’s with electricity. This morning’s gloom washed surfaces in cheerless hues.

  The Purity delivery driver arrived with my milk order. He, too, seemed morose. In silence we unloaded gallon containers—whole, two percent, and skim—into my upright fridge, then quarts of half-and-half into the undercounter unit.

  “We billing you?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I normally just sign.”

  He extended his clipboard. I scrawled my signature and then locked the door again as he left. Extra security measures seemed like a good idea.

  I was ready for opening. And glad to know an officer had been assigned to Brianne’s place. She would be here soon.

  Between the silence and the thought of seeing Brianne, my thoughts seemed to come together.

  Had I washed my hair? Brushed my teeth? Scrubbed both ar
mpits? A clean bill of inspection.

  Checked zipper? Done.

  With my mind rattling over these adolescent anxieties, I found a zone. Maybe I’d been trying too hard previously, shoving puzzle pieces against one another in hopes of finding a match, but in that moment I saw something. So what if Johnny Ray and Uncle Wyatt wanted to keep secrets from me? I’d piece this together on my own.

  I bumped into a table and sat in the empty dining area with my first cup of morning joe, a special concoction of my own. I blew and sipped. Blew and sipped. I looked back at the mahogany bar and thought of Darrell Michaels standing there, his back turned as he faced the counter. An easy target for the guy in the Old Navy shirt and painter jeans. No more than twelve feet away.

  You need the whip …

  What whip?

  I theorized out loud, “Lewis had a whip of some sort … and ICV wants it because it leads to the gold … if such a treasure exists. Maybe a Spanish payment in gold Lewis intercepted on its way to Wilkinson.”

  It all made sense.

  But a few questions remained. Where was the whip? How had these secrets been passed down through the centuries? Who’d sent the handkerchief to me? And who had planted the lock of brunette hair in my bedroom?

  “Got a minute?” Ignoring appalled stares, Detective Meade stepped to the front of the espresso line. “I need to speak with you about last night.”

  “What happened?”

  His gaze went from Brianne’s position at the espresso machine to a padded leather booth. “Let’s take it over there.”

  “Now?” I jerked my chin at the line of patrons.

  “Aramis,” he said softly, “someone was outside her place.”

  Brianne looked up at the next customer and smiled. I didn’t think she’d heard.

  “Be right back,” I said.

  Her mouth turned down, and she continued steaming an ordered triple breve.

  “We’ve stood here patiently, and now you’re leaving?” a woman called to me.

  “It’ll be quick.”

  “The past few times I’ve been in here, this poor girl’s been left to shoulder the majority of the work. As the owner, you owe it to your—”

  “Folks.” Meade stepped in, holding up his identification. “I’m Detective Meade, Metro Police. If you’ll be so kind as to let me pull Mr. Black from his duties for just a few moments, I’ll be better able to do my job of protecting you and your loved ones.” He was circumspect enough to avoid mentioning last week’s murder on this spot. I appreciated that about the man. The less said, the better.

  Grudging nods and furtive whispers released us to our corner.

  “Who?” I asked again.

  “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to disrupt your flow,” the detective said.

  “Who was it? Tell me what happened.”

  “The same man we spotted on security footage at your parking lot.”

  “What camera? At Johnny’s and my place?”

  “Your brownstone. We obtained the tape last evening, the one from the day your mother’s handkerchief disappeared.”

  I hadn’t even known the parking lot had a security camera. But I was suddenly thankful it did. “So, Detective, who is this guy? What’s he look like?”

  Meade’s face adopted that disinterested look again, his eyes dark and dull against his coal black skin. “I need you to look at the video. See if you can provide a positive ID.”

  “You can’t tell me what he looks like? Did he have one of those hooded sweatshirts? That’s what the mugger was wearing. Jeans and high tops.”

  “A fairly generic description, I hate to say.”

  “Or maybe a golfing visor?”

  “That’s an odd thing to ask, isn’t it?”

  The beauty of the detective’s method struck me. By leading and hinting, he had me throwing out suggestions, popping off theories. He wasn’t trying to tie me up in my own words, though he seemed capable of it. Rather, he was priming the pump of information. Perhaps my subconscious had a few facts still down there.

  “Leroy Parker,” I said.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s a parole officer.”

  “I know who he is. We’ve been in contact with him regarding the death of young Mr. Michaels. He’d been overseeing the kid’s progress.”

  “Did he tell you about the Spanish gold?”

  Meade’s eyebrows rose, slow and purposeful, bulldozers shoving furrows into the dark earth of his forehead. He folded his arms across his chest. “Gold, Mr. Black?”

  “Uh. Yeah.”

  “Spanish?”

  “That’s what he told Darrell.”

  “And why would Mr. Parker say such a thing? He’s been silent on the subject in our interviews, not a word in his reports. Perhaps you can enlighten me.”

  “Never mind.”

  “Please continue now that it’s out on the table.”

  Customers were checking their watches and looking at me. I was losing my grip on reality, and soon I’d be losing business as well.

  “The line,” I said. “I need to help Brianne. When I come in to look at the footage, we can talk about Parker.”

  Detective Meade nodded. “We’ll do that.”

  “Can we jump to the description? Real quick?”

  “Sure. The man on the film is middle-aged, graying hair and long beard, squat build, dressed in layers of sweaters and coats. He looks like a homeless gentleman.”

  “Freddy C.” I thought it out loud.

  “That’s right. He’s never been fond of police officers, or any authority, for that matter. With things recently uncovered in his record, he’s become a person of interest in our”—Meade let his eyes slide across the room as he lowered his voice—“ongoing investigation of the sexual assault cases.”

  “That’s hard for me to believe.”

  “He’s from Chicago. Did you know that? He was a janitor at an elementary school, indicted on molestation charges eight years ago. Went to trial, but they failed to get a conviction. The defense argued that the victim’s testimony had been coached by the prosecuting attorney.”

  I shook my head. “Freddy’s my friend.”

  “Regardless.”

  “I wanna see the footage.”

  “The sooner the better. Meanwhile, we can’t ignore threats such as the one you received in the alley. Last night the officer was unsure of Freddy’s mental state and called for backup before approaching him, but Freddy vanished. We’ll be sweeping the park, bringing him in to answer a few questions. I’d like to put this case to rest.”

  Stay outta my hair, you hear … I’m no longer safe.

  I suspected that Freddy would be nowhere to be found.

  “I’m authorizing round-the-clock surveillance on Ms. Douglas,” Meade added. “No need for her to know for the time being. But it might put your mind at ease to know she’s being watched.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it, Detective.”

  “I’ll let you get back to your customers.”

  I sat up. “Wait. Will they be watching tonight?”

  “Undercover officers? Yes.”

  “Oh. That’s a good thing, I guess.”

  “Aramis, is there something you’re not telling me?”

  The idea of a date under the eyes of armed officers seemed disturbing and a bit creepy. If we shared a good-night kiss on the porch, would it be recorded in some report? “Thing is,” I said, “we’re having dinner. Me and Brianne.”

  “Together?”

  “You’re sharp, Detective. Nothing gets by you.”

  “You just behave yourself, and there’ll be no problems.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “I believe you.” Meade cocked his head toward me and wagged a long finger as the hint of a bemused smile touched his cheeks. “Remember, we’ll be watching your every move.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Office space is hard to come by. Mine is a converted broom closet.

  Tucked into the
corner of Black’s, behind the kitchen and wash area, it has two cinder-block walls, and it’s not a place I choose to spend my afternoons. Hot or cold, the space smells like the inside of an old balloon.

  Not pleasant.

  My files and receipts are stored there, and a safe crouches beneath the gray metal desk. Photos and permits hang on the walls, and a dinky computer monitor sits atop a stack of Jack London hardbacks, which I bought on eBay months ago but have yet to read.

  Who has the time? Plus, they’re collectibles, and I’m afraid to crack the spines.

  Next to the mouse sits my pocket-size, gold-leaf New Testament. A modern translation, thank goodness. The way I see it, Jesus never spoke English—King James or otherwise—so I’m sticking with what I can understand.

  My mom read the Bible once in a while. Never said much about it, just read.

  I do the same, to make her proud. To be reminded I’m not alone.

  Today I went online with hopes of cracking open the secrets of Meriwether Lewis. Rumors of riches had trickled down to the present, and—just my luck—these weren’t warm, friendly rumors. They’d left me with a knot on my forehead, a bruise on my thigh, and piercing pain in my side. They’d cost my mother’s life. A young man’s as well. And now they threatened Brianne’s safety.

  “Twenty minutes left,” Brianne called to me from the counter.

  “I know.”

  “I didn’t get a lunch break yesterday. I really need it.”

  “I know.” I went to the Google search engine.

  “Not that I’m complaining, Aramis.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Why do you keep saying that? If you know, you’d let me go. The truth is, Mr. Smarty-Pants, I need to do some shopping for our meal tonight, get some fresh veggies from Farmers’ Market.”

  Tonight. Me and her and the calzone. I could just picture it. Me dancing through a minefield of romance while undercover officers watched my progress through binoculars.

  “We’re still doing that?” I said.

  “Doing what?” she purred.

  “Well. Dinner, of course.”

  “How can you ask that? Tell me you’re kidding.”

  I poked my head through the office door. “Are there customers out there?”

  “What do you care? If I didn’t know better, I’d say I’m running this place. ‘Make the sandwiches. Heat the soup. Mop the floors. Take care of the drink orders.’ I’ve really tried to keep a good attitude, considering I’m new to the job and still learning the ropes. But honestly, Aramis, it’s starting to get to me. We were here until what time last night? After ten thirty?”