The coffee shop was run by a man who had a criminal record going back forty years. Almost his entire immediate family had criminal records, from dealing in drugs to prostitution, illegal wine and liquor sales, and gambling. The whole family was known to the police, but somewhat tolerated, and the owner, who had grown up in that environment, had political connections, both locally and at the state level. The owner’s name was Herbie Williams, and the shop was listed on its license as Williams Restaurant, although very few cooked meals were served there.
Burton nodded to a balding, heavyset man behind the counter and took a seat in the far left corner. The windows of the restaurant were tinted, so anyone standing outside couldn’t see in, although the patrons on the inside could see out.
Burton was in the midst of checking his cell phone for messages when the heavyset man appeared at his table and placed a piece of notepaper, folded in two, on top of it. Burton looked up, and the two made eye contact, and then the heavyset man walked away quickly, turning to look at the door as someone else came in.
Burton unfolded the note and read it quickly. It was from the person he was supposed to be meeting with, a highway contractor who was interested in a contract for a portion of a road being constructed north of Nashville, toward the Kentucky border. The two had met often at locations around town over the past ten years. Burton’s job with the Tennessee Department of Transportation took him to every corner of the city, and even the state, to many places that were not on the department’s official list of approved restaurants, lodgings, and other types of establishments. He looked up, and summoned the heavyset man back over to his table, trying to be as discreet as possible.
“Did he say anything else?” Burton asked the man when he came near. As he spoke, Burton watched the other man who had come into the restaurant, who had taken a seat across the room. He didn’t appear to be listening, but that was the type that got you into trouble, Burton thought.
The heavyset man said nothing, just shook his head, and started to walk away. He turned and looked back, started to retrace his steps, then gave a half-shake of his head and strode back behind the counter.
Burton stood up and stepped outside. He gripped his cell phone in his hand and looked at it for a few long seconds. An old pay phone stood at the corner of the restaurant. It still had a phone set on it, although it looked as if it had been damaged through the years through wear and tear, and simple abuse. It worked, though. Burton knew that well enough; he had used it often. The owner of the coffee shop made sure the phone stayed repaired.
Burton went to the pay phone, dialed a number, and waited for an answer. When a male voice answered at the other end, he asked simply, “Yes?”
The voice on the other end said, “How are you?A little warmer today than I thought.” The phone slammed down.
The meeting of the Fresh Start Art Society was called to order. The monthly meeting was generally held, as this one was, in the office of a local attorney, a sole practitioner. He was a member of the board that formed the not-for-profit corporation, although he usually didn’t attend the board meetings, rather leaving the group alone in his office for such affairs.
The president, Beth Sharleston, addressed the group of five people who sat opposite her at a long slender table. “Our receipts have risen dramatically, due to some new contributors Jason has recruited. Some of you have been wondering if we’ll have a salary increase any time this year. It’s possible, but we need to make sure the income is coming in steadily, and shows no prospect of dropping off. We can analyze that as time goes by.”
“It’s kind of hard to get by on what you’re paying us now,” one young woman said. “I’m already working two part-time jobs just to get by.”
“It does seem like the salaries are kind of out of balance,” a man in his 30s toward the end of the opposite side of the table said. “They’re a little top-heavy now.”
The purpose of the group was to introduce young people, especially those in either middle school, or just into high school, to various types of art. Local artists were recruited to show their work at public displays, and contributors were sought among members of the business community. The organization was less than two years old, but had gotten several favorable articles in the local newspapers, and even a television segment on the late news.
“Listen, I realize all the hard work you’ve all put in since we got going,” Beth said, looking from one end of the table slowly across to the other. “But the success of a non-profit is driven by the energy and integrity and beliefs of all of its members, and employees, and we can’t think of personal gain first. And I know you haven’t done that. But things will get better over time, and we’ll all be happy with the results of what we’re doing, and by the amount of money we’re making.”
Beth knew she had to tread carefully. Recently, there had been a few articles, mainly in the national media, and stories on national television networks, which had raised questions about the purpose of various not-for-profit organizations—the amount of money they raised, the manner in which that money was used, and the salaries paid to employees. Organizations formed to supposedly help veterans had gotten much critical attention, but a few articles had gotten into other types of not-for-profit groups, including those that aided the disabled and the disadvantaged. Beth knew that some of the employees and volunteers had seen those articles and reports, and had openly discussed them, but no one had yet compared the organizations portrayed in those stories to the Fresh Start Art Society.
“Well, let’s talk about our new upcoming summer program,” Beth said softly, looking down from the right side of the table slowly to the left. “We have our contributions in place, and the artists committed to us, and recently we found a location at Helga’s Gallery on the west side. Helga has graciously allowed us to take over her place for the evening of June 10th. It’s an opportunity for us that we’re lucky to have. Let’s make the most of it.”
In a shabby set of condominiums located on the extreme western edge of Nashville, a small elderly bald-headed man had lived for almost a decade. His neighbors knew him well enough, and found him polite, but somebody who never volunteered much. Over the years, a story about him had formed, with a few details here and there. He was a New Yorker by birth, having lived in New York City, and according to him, his father had been a furrier. He had mentioned on more than one occasion that his father had catered to clients from Russia, and had even dropped that the FBI had used his father as a source of information as far back as the late 1930s.
The man, Charles Leventhal, was Jewish, but not religious. He rarely moved from his unit, except to go out for groceries or other basic needs. When asked, he told people that his work was in accounting, mainly preparing tax returns, but that he hadn’t worked in a while, and was looking for work at the moment; that had been his story for the entire time he had been in the condominium. About a year before, the first of the visitors had appeared to see Leventhal. Reggie Terrell, a next-door neighbor, had noticed a much younger man, dressed in affluent casual clothing, had knocked on Leventhal’s door, and had been quietly admitted entrance. For the next few hours, Terrell could hear voices in the unit next to his. That wouldn’t have been so strange ordinarily, but it was the first time he had ever noticed it in Leventhal’s apartment. He couldn’t even remember overhearing Leventhal having a telephone conversation, much less a conversation with another person in his unit.
The same young man had appeared a few months later, then a few months after that, and then again just a couple of months ago; each time, he had stayed at least two hours. Shortly after his last appearance, a different young man, and a young woman, had visited with Leventhal, staying for several hours. Soon after that, a group had appeared, two of them in business suits and the others dressed neatly, and that meeting had gone all morning, and at lunch the group had left with Leventhal, only to drop him off about two hours later.
Terrell made sure he mentioned this to a number of people aroun
d the complex. He had mentioned the initial visit, a year or so ago, because it was so noticeable, and so unusual. He had probably mentioned, as well, each individual visit by the first man, and then each visit by the pair or the group that followed. It was that type of place, where gossip helped to kill time and make life interesting. And this all had an air of mystery about it, especially since Leventhal was so different than anyone else who had lived in the complex. Most of them were poor, southerners by birth, a mixture of minorities and poor white people. Leventhal seemed to be less than prosperous financially as well, and yet there was something about him that suggested perhaps he wasn’t really as poor as the rest of the individuals in the place. He just had a look about him that gave off the impression that he might be conservative financially, but he wasn’t really dirt poor, scraping from week to week, and that he was there partly by choice, hard as that was for the rest of them to believe.
One day, a group appeared and knocked on Leventhal’s door; Terrell was standing at his own door, watching. He didn’t recognize any of the people in the small group, except for one. It was a young woman who worked as a court reporter, a stenographer, who sat in on depositions taken during lawsuits. Terrell recognized her because one of his jobs was cleaning a building that housed a law firm, and he had seen her, even to speak to, in some of the offices. She caught his eye, and nodded to him in slight recognition, before she joined the rest of the group in entering Leventhal’s unit.
Terrell noted the group departing later in the day, a long visit this time. A couple of weeks passed, and one day a young man who looked vaguely familiar knocked on Leventhal’s door. Not getting any answer, he continued to knock, persisting for almost ten minutes. Then he dialed a number on his cell phone, and stood pacing outside the door, apparently waiting on Leventhal to answer. When that failed, he turned to Terrell, having taken notice of him. “Is Mr. Leventhal in, or have you seen him go out?”
“He should be there. I thought I heard something in there a couple of hours ago, somebody moving around or something.”
“I’m a little worried about him,” the young man said. “I spoke with him on the phone late last night, and he didn’t sound good. He didn’t sound good physically, but he was also worried about something.”
“We can get the building superintendent to let us in if you think we need to.”
“Let me try the door.” The man walked back to the door, placed his hand on the knob, and turned it. To the surprise of both men, the knob turned and the door gave way. The man entered slowly, and Terrell, hesitantly, made his way to the door, one slow step at a time.
“Come here—quick!”
Terrell didn’t really want to enter the unit, feeling that something bad had happened. But his curiosity got the better of him, and he pushed the door open further and walked down the hallway deeper into the unit. Off to the right, he saw Leventhal’s body stretched across the floor, the young man bending over him, but being careful not to disturb anything.
The man looked up at Terrell. “Well, it looks like they finally caught up with him—after all these years.”
Joseph Melancon parked his car and unbuckled his seatbelt. He surveyed the scene in front of him, a small office park in the midst of other office parks on a side street in Donelson, on the east side of Nashville. Donelson was a self-contained area that housed residential sections, business areas, and a park or two for recreation. It was not a wealthy area, but had a mixture of incomes, and overall was a pleasant place to live. Melancon had been there for the three years he had been in Nashville. He had lived in an apartment complex for two years, then a year ago had bought a house about a mile from where he worked, also in the Donelson area.
He was from southwest Louisiana originally, a city called Abbeville, in the heart of Cajun country. He spoke with a distinctive Cajun accent that had been modified somewhat by years of living in New York City, suburban Los Angeles, and Chicago. Although his family still lived in south Louisiana, Melancon hadn’t lived there for more than twenty years, and he had no thought of going back anytime soon. His job as an internal planner with a defense contractor had taken him around the country, and to portions of the world, and now he was in Nashville for the foreseeable future.
Melancon came to the office park after work, every afternoon that he possibly could, in order to walk on a track around a small pond in the complex. The pond was about fifty yards across and close to one hundred yards long, but the walking trail crossed well past the halfway point where a small combination pedestrian and automobile bridge intersected it. The park was less than half a mile from the main Nashville airport, and one could often hear planes taking off and landing, especially during the late afternoon.
The park had long been a gathering place during the summer time for Canada geese. They were constantly around the pond, walking back and forth across the walking path and picking up stray items of food off the grass and at water’s edge. Many of them floated lazily across the water, joined by groups of small brown ducks here and there. One of the highlights of walking there was to be present when the geese decided to do a test take-off in preparation for some future event. Occasionally, walkers would hear an ungodly noise that began as an isolated sound, and then began to grow in richness and complexity, foretelling the eventual take-off of the entire gaggle. The group took off from the far end of the pond, away from the bridge, and it was always a suspenseful effect whether it would clear the bridge at the far end.
The mix of people walking around the track changed every afternoon. There were some regulars whom Melancon would see from time to time, but even they varied their hours, so he didn’t see them every day, and often missed seeing them for weeks at a time. Generally, it was a crowded group, with a sea of new faces every day, at least fifty people or more. Not all of them were walking; some of them sat at picnic tables around the pond and watched someone they had come with walk. Many of them were walking for exercise, as a daily ritual, trying to achieve a certain number of laps, and their concentration was entirely on completing the task in the shortest time possible. Melancon fell into that category.
As one might expect, attendance at the pathway picked up considerably as the weather warmed up and the trees began to leaf out, hit a plateau that lasted during the summer, then gradually began to fall off with shorter days and cooler weather. Cooler weather wasn’t a terrible problem in Nashville, except perhaps in the dead of winter, but being on the eastern edge of Central time, the daylight ended earlier than Melancon was used to, especially once fall set in.
On this particular day, however, in the middle of spring, there was enough daylight and warm weather to enjoy the walks, except for on those unpredictable dips that occurred sometimes during this period. The place was crowded when Melancon arrived, and he scanned the crowd for any familiar faces. Seeing none, he commenced his own walking, setting out with his own sense of purpose. He always tried to walk for an hour, walking at least twelve laps, and rarely went beyond that point, mainly for time’s sake.
During the middle of his walk, Melancon slowly became aware of a presence of some sort. At first, he couldn’t identify it. He looked ahead of him, scanning up the trail, and across the pond where the trail circled back, then he tried to look over his shoulder to see who was immediately behind him, and then at a certain point where the trail turned and retraced direction, he turned to his left to look at the other side of the semi-circle he had just walked, scanning it back and forth. Finally, he caught the face of a man about twelve people behind him, perhaps an eighth of the track behind him. The man was a few years younger than him, dark with a trim mustache, about five feet eight or nine in height, and wearing a bland pair of shorts and a light blue golf shirt. Instantly, Melancon realized that his own bright red shirt made him easy to spot, even in a crowd that had several men wearing red shirts.
He tried to think where he had seen the man before. He thought that he had noticed him first—at least first on this day—at the edge of the track
during an early lap, as if the man had just gotten out of his car and was getting ready to begin his own walk, perhaps purposely falling in behind Melancon.
If it had only been that, of course, it wouldn’t have meant anything. But Melancon was certain he knew him from some other context—somewhere from some years back, nothing very recent at all. He thought about it some more. It would be helpful to get into a conversation with the man, if that was possible, and hear his speech pattern and watch his gestures a bit. But for now, he had to try to remember, based on a vague sighting. He associated him with a park somewhereSomewherePerhaps out West?
A cool snap hit as the first of May approached, sending low temperatures down just below fifty. Highs reached into the mid-sixties, and were very pleasant, but there was still a chill hanging over the city. When it started to rain again, it compounded the feeling. People began to get gloomy as their sense of the emergence of spring was rudely interrupted. Plans that had been made for boating, swimming, picnicking, baseball, and other warm-weather, longer-day activities had to be put on hold for what promised to be a span of coolness, however brief.
Tucked away in a leafy neighborhood in the center of the city, Lurleen Heymouth loaded a pistol. It was a revolver, kind of old and used-looking, and anyone who happened to have seen it in her home might have thought she had inherited it from her late husband. Not that anyone had ever seen him with a pistol, but he was a country boy sort, and just might have had a weapon or two around. But that wasn’t the case; she had purchased the pistol herself only a few days before.
It all had to do with a caregiver her daughter had hired about a year before. The woman—middle aged, not very attractive, never looking her in the eye—had come with some references, but Lurleen did not know if her daughter had thoroughly checked them out. When she had asked her daughter, the answer was that she had indeed checked on them. But how thoroughly? How much did she get to the bottom of this woman’s past? Not very well, from what Lurleen had discovered. Within the last month, it had become clear to her that the woman had stolen some amount of money from her; the unanswered question was: How much?
Nashville: The Mood (Part 1) Page 8
