Lady Midnight

by Timothy C. Phillips

  “Go now, my good man. The moon is down.” He burped loudly, and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand.

  I really didn’t want to waste time answering questions, or maybe even getting myself bailed out of jail, but I didn’t clearly understand why Britton thought it so imperative that I slip the dragnet. Maybe he didn’t either, I suspected.

  “Why not.” I gave a chuckle and swung my foot over the railing and started down to the ground.

  Carter Britton took a big gulp of his drink as I started to descend, and held his glass high as if in a grand toast.

  “The milk of paradise,” he said, and belched loudly again. I climbed down and jumped the last couple of feet onto the wet grass. Police lights were cascading up around the house. I beat a circular retreat around a small grove of trees and waited until the police had moved up, around and into the house, where I heard shouted arguments being raised by Carter Britton against the fascist methods of the police state.

  I moved downhill to my Buick, started it up and drove away. I wondered if the girl who called herself Nookie Uberalles would deliver my message to Connie. Despite her profession and her casual dress code, I had a feeling she was honest. With any luck, then, I might be able to wrap the whole thing up tomorrow.

  * * *

  I checked into “The Mariner’s Rest” hotel, just outside the Atlanta beltway. It was a long way to the sea from here, I thought, as I lay down like a man stricken, and succumbed to a fitful sleep. My dreams were full of laughing madmen and naked girls that I could not touch. I dreamed then of the dead girl in the river, and she was beckoning to me, and somehow she was naked and she was both the dead girl and the nubile nymph named Nookie, and she came from the dead cold water of the Cahaba with her body glistening, and with a hand extended and fingers flailing like those of a sorceress. She whispered to me to come down and join her in the black depths of the river, where all memory is erased, and every fact about you that made you who you are, is forgotten.

  Chapter 9

  I awoke the next morning feeling none too rested, and was moving out onto the highway of a city that was already hopping with activity, when my cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I took it out and checked the incoming number. It wasn’t one that I recognized.

  “Longville.”

  “Yes, hello. Is this Mr. Roland Longville?”

  “That’s right.”

  “A friend tells me that you are trying to locate Miss Constance Patrick.”

  “That’s correct, I am. Who is this?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. My name is Randy Cross.”

  “Mr. Cross, do you know Constance Patrick’s whereabouts?”

  Randy Cross paused for a moment. “Not exactly. Listen, Mr. Longville, I think it might be better if you came over to my home, where we could talk this whole thing over. I live out in Marietta. You know where Delk Road is?”

  I told him that I didn’t. He gave me directions, and fifteen minutes later, I pulled into the driveway of a massive apartment complex in a neighborhood that had seen its better days. It wasn’t necessarily on a bad street, but the urban sprawl and the general crumbling of civilization would soon see to that.

  The apartments were enlarged versions of what realtors call a ranch-style home, sanitized versions of what the lowest bidder erects in the poor parts of cities the world over. There was a feeling of dispossession, of dejection that hung over the sunny parking lot, that behind the efficiently but artlessly trimmed hedges, everyone around here was just going through the motions and waiting out their time.

  The man who answered the door confirmed this impression. Randy was a tall, thin, soft-spoken man. He was in his late twenties, and looked a bit weathered for his age. He led me into the front room and settled down on a leather sofa. He nodded at a chair nearby, and I sat down opposite him.

  “You wanted to talk with me?”

  “Yeah. I hear that you’re looking for my sister.”

  “Your sister?”

  “Oh, I get it. You’ve probably never even heard of me.” He arose and said, “Hang on a second,” as he walked out of the room.

  He returned with a photo album in his hands. “Take a look,” he said in his soft voice, and sat down again.

  I opened the album. What I saw were pictures of a younger Randy with a younger Connie Patrick, and to my complete surprise, a younger Senator Keith Patrick. Or, the man before he became senator, I thought most likely.

  “You’re saying that you are Senator Patrick’s son?”

  “I’m his son, yeah. Not that you’ll see me in any of those pictures they show on his campaign commercials on T.V. I’m his bastard son, you see. He and my mother were never married. They saw each other before he met his late wife. I’m sort of an embarrassment to him, first because I was born out of wedlock in a time when that was still a big deal; and because I’ve had problems with drugs, been in jail, stuff like possession, you know? So he doesn’t really claim me. I did a couple of years down in Atmore. He gave me some money to go away, basically. He helped me get this place after I got out of jail. Payment for keeping my mouth shut about who my father is. But Connie and me, well, we stayed close over the years. We care about each other.”

  “So you and the senator don’t talk?”

  “Ah, no. Not really. If I need something, I talk to his assistant, that Baucom guy. He sends me money through Baucom around Christmas every year, more to make himself feel good than anything, I guess.”

  “Has he contacted you to see if maybe you heard from your sister?”

  “Like I said, I haven’t heard anything from him, and I haven’t seen Connie, lately. She usually calls me fairly often, so that’s why I became worried when I didn’t hear from her. So I asked around about what to do, and I went to see this private investigator, Bowman.”

  I was taken aback again. “So it was you who hired Bowman to look for Connie?”

  “That’s right. You look surprised. I didn’t tell anyone about hiring him, because I didn’t want it to get back to Senator Patrick. I figured Connie had disappeared for a reason, like maybe she had argued with the senator. That happens from time to time. But still, it isn’t like her not to call me. Whenever they got into a fight, I’m usually the first person she would call.”

  “What do you know about Anthony Herron?”

  Randy’s eyebrows raised slightly. “I’m sorry. Who?”

  “Your father said that she’d started seeing him when the last trouble started. They argued about him. It seems your father didn’t approve of him.”

  Randy grinned. “Well, I haven’t met the guy, but I can guess. Connie likes a certain type, you know? She was all set to marry some lawyer—”

  “—Young Millard Brooks IV.”

  That drew a laugh from Randy. “Right. I never met him, either, but I can tell you that she only saw him to appease the old man. The senator, I mean. Our father. She laughed about that, when we’d talk on the phone sometimes. She never had the least intention of actually marrying the guy. Whoever this Anthony—”

  “—Herron. Anthony Herron.”

  “Well, I’ve never met the guy, but whoever he is, you can bet he’s more the type she really likes.”

  “What type is that?”

  “Counterculture, alternative, a real dropout. He’s probably on the wild side, too, just like dear little Connie.”

  “Well, I’m told he is a musician of some kind. You said that you had drug problems before. Does Connie have a drug past, too?”

  “I don’t know about past.” Randy gave a dry smile. “Connie likes cocaine, Mr. Longville, and the senator knows about it. Believe me. He spends a lot of money keeping that hushed up. A lot more than he gives me to stay out of his life.”

  “Senator Patrick alluded to Connie having wild habits.”

  “Yeah. She has always liked to have a good time, and she had some scrapes in college that the senator got her out of. As for ‘wild habits,’ well, he should know. Anyway, I hired Bowman, and he agreed to
find her just for retainer because he knew I didn’t have a lot of dough. I just wanted him to locate my sister and make sure she was okay. But, I mean, well, I—I heard he got shot. I heard he’s dead.”

  “Yeah. I heard about that, too.” I thought about the dead man slumped in his out-of-place Mercedes, then pushed the image away. “Any idea why someone would want him dead?”

  “No clue. I mean, he was over in Alabama— Birmingham, right? I can’t imagine what he was doing there. It’s all so strange. I thought he’d find Connie in a couple of days, tops, but it had been a week or more since I even heard from him.”

  “It sounds like you two knew each other. How did you meet him?”

  “Oh, you don’t know that either?” Randy smiled and shook his head. “I can see that my dear father is up to his old tricks. He likes to be the only one holding all the cards, no matter what the game.”

  “What ‘game’ are you referring to?”

  “Well, those earlier scrapes I mentioned, that Connie had gotten herself into? Sometimes she would drop out of sight, so she didn’t have to hear it from the old man. They really got into some heated arguments, so she got to where she would just stay away from him until things cooled down a bit.”

  “I think Senator Patrick mentioned that,” I replied, and let him go on.

  “Well, he hired the firm of Bowman and Grant to find her once before. That’s how I knew who Bowman was.”

  “If Senator Patrick had hired Bowman and Grant to find Connie on a previous occasion, I’m afraid I wasn’t told that.” I smiled wanly to myself. Neither had Grant. Grant surely had been lying, when I had visited him.

  “You see, that’s why I hired Bowman. Senator Patrick knew that she crashed here sometimes, especially on those occasions when she wanted to get away from him, so he sent Bowman around to check once before, when Connie had pulled her disappearing act. She wasn’t here, but Bowman came by to ask some questions, see if I knew where she might be. Anyway, he was a pretty nice guy, and so when I needed somebody to look for her myself, I remembered him and gave him a call. He had left his card with me.”

  I got up. “Well, thanks, Randy.” I gave him a card of my own. “If you hear from your sister, please have her call me; I’m concerned for her safety. If you get any more information, don’t hesitate to call me yourself.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  I walked out the door and headed for my Buick. Connie had been born into a life of privilege, wealth, and position. However alluring that life might be to some, she was trying like hell to get out of it. People run away from things all the time. They get born into situations where they feel they don’t belong. Maybe they live on a farm and want to be an actor. Or maybe their parents are theater types and they want to study the law or become a priest. It happens. But most people, I have found, run without a plan. They run away from something, without any idea where they’re heading. Many of them end up in deep trouble. Sometimes it’s better to sit tight. Better to bear those ills we have than fly to others we know not of.

  I have that on good authority.

  Chapter 10

  My cell phone jolted me from thinking about missing girls, dead girls, and another girl I’d seen recently who was very much alive.

  “Roland?”

  I recognized the girl’s voice at once; it was the one who was very much alive. “Hello, Nookie.” I smiled devilishly to myself. Somehow, it just felt good saying that, and it being okay.

  “Hey, Mr. Detective, when I got home the other night I went looking through my closet, because I thought that maybe Bonny—or Connie, if you prefer, had left some of her things when she left. Well, I was right. I thought maybe you might want to take a look.”

  “What kind of things did she leave?”

  “Personal stuff. Letters, pictures, things like that.”

  “I would definitely like to take a look at those things. How does one get to where you are?”

  * * *

  The young woman who called herself Nookie Uberalles lived in an old brownstone near downtown Atlanta. It was a nicely refurbished post-war building. It looked like Nookie was pulling down some big bucks these days, I thought to myself, smiling at the double entendre.

  Nookie gave a little squeal of pleasure when I rang and she spied me through the peephole in her apartment door. That was a rattling of chains and the door opened. She was a casual dresser at home, too; she was wearing just a bra and panties. The panties were blue and there was a little bunny waving at me, right there on the crotch.

  “You like my Hello Kitty?” Nookie asked coyly, a reference, I gathered, to her distinctive underwear.

  “Hard to say no to that,” I managed, as we moved inside.

  “You want coffee? Soda?”

  “No, thanks. I’m kind of in a rush.”

  “Aw. Don’t rush off. I was hoping we could talk a while.” She turned and opened the door to what was apparently a spare bedroom. “Bonny . . . Connie’s stuff is in here.” We went into the room.

  “Maybe we could talk just a little, at that. So you said Connie Patrick stayed here with you for a while?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How long was she here?”

  “A couple of weeks.”

  “Why was it that she ended up staying with you?”

  “Mmmm . . . she had been living somewhere else . . . with a guy. She had a falling out with her boyfriend.”

  “Was his name Anthony Herron?”

  “What? Oh. It’s not like I knew him. I think she mentioned some guy named Tony, once.”

  “Just once? They weren’t seeing each other?”

  “I don’t know, Roland. I got the impression that she must have gone through quite a few guys in her time, but I don’t like to pry. She talked to some guy late at night on her cell phone a couple of times. I didn’t ask who. None of my business.” She was quiet for a second after that, as if intent on some task.

  Nookie stood on tiptoe, trying to lift down an office-style box from the top shelf in the closet. I reached over her and lifted the box down myself. In addition to her modest apparel, she was wearing some heady and intoxicating perfume. She turned to face me while both our hands still held the box.

  “She left her favorite CD in there. There was a song on it, “Lady Midnight” by Leonard Cohen. I couldn’t believe she left it behind; she used to listen to it all the time. We used to joke it was our theme song.”

  She said all of this, while still standing there, and stretched up to me, showing her lithe young body to best advantage. When she was sure that her charms had caught my eye, she said, “You know, Roland, you are one damned handsome man.” Her breath caressed my face. Our lips were very close. I slowly picked the box up over her head and turned, and put it down on the bed. I turned back and put my hands gently on her shoulders.

  She was pretty, delicately pretty, and her brown eyes sparkled with humor and intelligence, but the drugs she based her life around told me that she was just another pilgrim on her way to the necropolis, and I had had my fill of that.

  “And you are a very lovely young woman,” I said, and she smiled. “But like I said, I am busy at the moment.”

  Still smiling, Nookie brought her lips forward to kiss me. I turned and caught it on the cheek. “Promise you’ll call me later, then. For helping you out,” she said softly.

  I nodded, unable to hold back a smile. “Okay, okay. I’ll call you later,” which I knew I would probably have to do, for one reason or another.

  “Stop back by?” The big brown eyes made it awfully hard to say no.

  “Maybe. We’ll see. I have to go right now.”

  “Wish I was as important as whatever it is.”

  I smiled and picked up the box, and left her standing there.

  Chapter 11

  A man waited on the sidewalk outside of Nookie’s building. I was quite surprised to see him standing there, because I knew him well, although it had been a few years since I’d last seen him. His
name was Vince, and he had been a debt collector and muscleman for a man named Big Daddy, a heroin dealer in Birmingham’s North Side.

  Vince looked like one of those professional wrestlers you see on local television. He was thirty-odd, meaty with muscle. He was sweaty, despite the cold, and his thinning hair was long in the back, permed into a kinky curl. He wore his Hawaiian-print, satiny-looking shirt open at the collar to show off a thick gold chain. This also showed off his sparse, wiry chest hair. He was wearing enough cologne to kill mosquitoes. Everything about him spoke of brutal, animal crime. What he was doing here in Atlanta was beyond me, but it was too big a coincidence for me to take lightly.

  His eyes widened. “You—” he sputtered.

  Before he could finish that thought, I moved in to meet him. My uppercut caught him squarely under the chin, before he could react. The blow sent him staggering backward a few feet, before he lost his footing on the wet pavement, and he fell back hard on the sidewalk. I walked over and grabbed him by the collar, under the right ear. He struggled, his heels sliding on the wet concrete, his arms flailing to achieve balance. I sat him down, hard.

  Vince sat there, shaking his head. I backed off and stood over him, a pace away, waiting for his next move.

  He didn’t try to get to his feet. He sat on the pavement and rubbed his jaw. Then, his sweaty face broke into a slow smile.

  “Well, hello Longville, you big, black bastard.”

  “Maybe you’d better keep a civil tongue in your head, Vince. The way I figure it, I still owe you a lot worse than you just got.”

  Vince debated the wisdom of this advice for a moment, then rose shakily to his feet, his palms outward to show he meant no threat. “I’m a legitimate businessman now, Longville. I could have you arrested for what you just did.”

  “You’ll never be a legitimate anything, Vince. You’re an animal, and you belong in a cage with your pal, Big Daddy.”