by Gary Gusick
“Then there’s the fourth group, the other Elvis impersonators,” said Lulu. A confederation of eight Elvis impersonators, all in costume, were busy working the crowd, especially the old ladies. Handing out their business cards, they were hoping to get their share of Tommy’s customers.
Sitting in the front row of chairs, in front of Tommy’s urn, Cill was attired in her black cocktail dress, with black fishnet stockings, her hair poufed up to look like you know who. She was quietly accepting condolences with great dignity, but then abandoned that during the photo taking when she decided to get in the picture. Jumping up to the cutout of Tommy, she struck a pose, looking up adoringly at the cardboard image of her former sweetheart.
“I’ve never used drugs in my life, not even pot,” said Darla, “but sometimes in Mississippi I’d swear I must be tripping on LSD.”
“Down here,” said Lulu, “we regard funerals as more or less a form of performance art.”
A half dozen of the elderly women took their a cue from Cill and formed a line to take a selfie with the Elvis cutout, caressing his cardboard hair, kissing the cutout on the cheek, and leaving lipstick traces. A few even did a cardboard crotch grab, which Darla was guessing might end up on Facebook.
“This is Armageddon,” said Darla.
“I’m surprised you haven’t been over to interrogate me about the murder,” said Kendall, “considering my general disdain for the departed, that no-good mule. Bless his heart.”
Kendall and Tommy did have bad blood, going back to a high school date, wherein Kendall was said to have struck Tommy with his Gibson guitar after Tommy had tried to feel her up. Fast-forward a couple of decades and we have Tommy arresting Kendall for murder one. The arrest proved to be without foundation and Tommy was forced to apologize. Whereupon Kendall flipped him the bird in the lobby of the Hinds County Sheriff’s Department, with Darla and most of the detectives in the department present.
“I’m sure you have motive, Kendall,” said Darla, “but I doubt you have the requisite understanding of explosive devices.”
“I can pop popcorn in the microwave,” said Kendall. “I usually don’t scorch any, either. Except if I get distracted.”
It was time to get down to business. Darla needed information. “What do you girls know about a place called the Adonis Club?” she asked.
“Cunthound Conway’s place? Bless his heart,” said Kendall. “The one that was only open for a month?”
“I went to the Adonis Club opening night, girl.” Lulu fanned herself. “For a certain kind of woman, and I’d count myself as one of them, there’s nothing that can compare with getting yourself all worked up over a gorgeous man that you have absolutely no chance of attracting, no matter how hot you look or how unladylike you’re willing to be.” She looked at Darla, her nostrils flared. “I know you’re married to one of the sexier men in Jackson, but really, little sister, a gay man dancing sexy for other gay men, it’s a sight to behold.”
“And Conway was doing a brisk business?” asked Darla.
“Packed them in every night,” said Lulu.
“Then Tommy and a bunch of his holier-than-anybody friends at the First Self-Righteous caught a couple of state senators getting lap dances,” said Kendall.
“You know about this?” asked Darla.
“It may not have been on the Internet,” said Lulu, “but it was on the hairnet.”
“You’re thinking Conway could have lit the torch on that piece of shit Caddy Tommy drove around?” Kendall asked Darla. When Darla didn’t answer, she said, “I heard that Continental Conway has come into some money, the prick, bless his heart.”
“What kind of money?” asked Darla.
“Here’s the story, if you’re really interested,” said Lulu, eyes glowing. Then without waiting for them to respond she said: “You know Conway’s brother?”
“Which brother?” asked Kendall. “The younger or the older?”
“The half brother,” said Lulu. “The one everybody calls Brother.”
Darla thought about asking why everybody, not just Conway, called this particular brother Brother, especially since he was only a half brother, but she wasn’t about to interrupt the flow of the story. “I’m listening,” she said, taking out her recorder.
“Conway’s brother, the half brother, the one they call Brother, is married to Mary Lou Kittle, the one everybody calls June Bug,” said Lulu.
“The one with the uneven Botox that makes her look like she got beat up by her boyfriend?” asked Kendall.
“That’s all evened out,” said Lulu. “But yes, that June Bug. She and I aren’t really friends, as such, since she’s a devoted Bulldog and I’m Rebs all the way.” This meant June Bug went to Mississippi State and Lulu went to Ole Miss. “But we both go to Chez Randy’s to get our hair done. And sometimes we get to talking during colorings. So June Bug tells me how Conway has just lately come into some major capital.”
“This was the bribe Conway got from the church bunch for letting the Adonis Club go quietly into the night?” asked Kendall.
“I don’t think so,” said Lulu. “June Bug heard the tale from Chez Randy, who also does Loretta Bedso’s hair. Loretta is the head teller at the First Bank of Jackson, where Conway deposited the bribe money. Loretta told Chez Randy the bribe money was a onetime thing and it wasn’t all that much. But then, all of a sudden there’s more money, a lot more.”
“What’s a lot more?” said Darla.
“Here’s the latest,” said Lulu, positively glowing. “My sorority sister Colt—see, Colt’s daddy was fond of firearms—well, Colt was married to one of the Hardcastle brothers, I forget his first name but he’s a Realtor over in Hawaii now, Maui. And from what Colt heard from her husband’s brother—now, I’m not talking about Conway’s brother, the one they call Brother. You with me?”
“Of course,” said Kendall.
“I think so,” said Darla. “It would be easier if I had a scorecard with all the players’ names on it.”
“The report is that Conway has bought himself some oceanfront property, multiple building sites in South Maui,” said Lulu. “We’re talking a couple of million just for the sand and seashell part of it.”
As crazy-quilted and convoluted as all of this sounded, Darla found herself buying into Lulu’s story. Lulu was right about these matters more than she was wrong.
“So where’s all this big money coming from?” Darla asked.
“Well, according to Loretta,” said Lulu, “whom I may have mentioned is the teller Conway always goes to for all his deposits because Loretta’s really put together upstairs—actually she’s talking about a reduction operation—but that’s a different story. Anyway, she’s Conway’s favorite teller, and she says, even though Conway is putting a lot of money away, the deposits coming from Continental Conway’s are way off lately. That Conway is probably losing money on his one remaining strip club.”
“Probably just holding on to the place because of the free pussy he gets,” said Kendall. “Bless his heart.”
“Where’s the money coming from then?” asked Darla.
“A company nobody has ever heard of called Trace Enterprises,” said Lulu.
—
Over in the corner, Cill was dabbing at her eyes with a black silk handkerchief. One of the younger Elvis impersonators, tall and good-looking, knelt beside her. Taking the handkerchief, he wiped her tears.
“Kentucky trailer trash,” said Kendall, “with an emphasis on trash. Bless her pretty little heart.”
Let’s see what else I can learn, thought Darla. “Do either of you know anything about a J. B. Caulder?” she asked.
“Jerry Bob?” asked Kendall, eyebrows raised.
“Maybe,” said Darla. “But why would someone named Jerry use his initials instead of his name?”
“Don’t tell me he’s part of your investigation,” said Lulu.
“What do you know about him?” asked Darla.
“There’s a blast f
rom the Reylander past,” said Kendall, exchanging looks with Lulu.
“Jerry Bob and Tommy were bosom buddies,” said Lulu.
“Meaning they both had a thing for bosoms,” said Kendall.
“Well, it was bosoms that broke up their friendship, I can tell you that much,” said Lulu. “You want to tell it, Kendall?”
Kendall looked at Lulu. “You do it, girl,” she said. “You tell the story better.”
“It happened in high school,” said Lulu.
“Everything of real consequence in Mississippi has its origins in high school,” said Kendall. “Usually junior year. Sorry, Lulu, I had to get that in.”
Lulu continued. “Well now, Jerry Bob was gaga over this girl named Tammy.”
“There were three Tammys in that class,” said Kendall.
“This was the middle Tammy,” said Lulu.
The one everybody calls Tammy, thought Darla.
“A little majorette slut. Bless her sweet heart,” said Kendall, who couldn’t stop herself even if she tried, and she didn’t.
“Actually the first Tammy was a majorette, too.” said Lulu. “Anyway, the short of it is that middle Tammy was Jerry Bob’s girlfriend.”
“They went together for about two weeks, which was average for the time and place,” said Kendall.
Lulu took the story back. “Then Jerry Bob caught Tommy and Tammy, middle Tammy that is, in flagrante delicto in the backseat of…wait for it…Tommy’s Caddy.”
“Tommy had that shitmobile back in high school, the same damn one,” said Kendall.
“No blessing the heart?” asked Darla.
“Not for an inanimate object,” said Kendall.
“So as you might imagine,” said Lulu, “fisticuffs ensued and, well, I wasn’t present but, as Jerry Bob was a major badass, my understanding was that Tommy got himself—how should I put it?”
“Tommy got himself an old-fashioned Mississippi ass whipping,” said Kendall.
“Tommy never told you about stealing Jerry Bob’s girl?” asked Lulu. “I thought he bragged about that to everybody. It may have been the only time in his life he succeeded in stealing somebody’s girlfriend.”
“Of course, whenever Tommy told the story he always failed to mention the ass-whipping part,” said Kendall.
“Tommy and I weren’t exactly confidants,” said Darla. “Do you know any more about Jerry Bob?”
“After high school, the story was he moved to Alabama and took up with a bad crowd,” said Lulu.
“How bad?” asked Darla.
“Dixie Mafia bad,” said Kendall. “Word is, he was supposed to have become some low-level operator for them. Of course, it could be just a rumor Jerry Bob put out there to build himself up. He was always trying to pump up his ego, the dumb goober. Bless his heart.”
Darla thought about a Dixie Mafia connection to ETA International. It wasn’t that far-fetched. Over the decades, various crime organizations had involved themselves in the entertainment industry.
“I heard Jerry Bob is back in town,” said Lulu.
“What’s he doing with himself these days, the little toad?” asked Kendall.
“He’s a mover and shaker in the world of ETAs,” said Darla.
“You got me there, little sister,” said Lulu.
“He’s in the bobblehead business,” said Darla.
Meanwhile, the Elvis impersonators had formed a semicircle around Cill. Between shedding tears, she smiled and joked, first with one, then with the other, but especially the tall, good-looking one.
The three women observed the scene with a mixture of wonder and disgust.
“Reminds me of something out of Gone with the Wind,” said Darla.
“That’s the thing about the South,” said Kendall. “Every woman, no matter how low she is, thinks of herself as Scarlett O’Hara.”
“Yeah, well, bless her heart,” said Darla.
Chapter 10
Nooner
The following morning Darla placed a call to FBI Research Specialist Uther Pendragon Johnson. She’d known Uther from her days with the Hinds County Sheriff’s Department, where Uther had been an intern from Jackson State, doing IT work. Even then, if an investigator needed a database developed, or analyzed, or needed information about anyone or anything, Uther was the person they turned to. Darla and Tommy had each worked a couple of cases with Uther before the FBI recruited him. Now he was a major player at the FBI’s combined services information operation, but he might be willing to do a little pick-and-shovel work for an old colleague.
“Good morning, Detective, this is Uther Pendragon Johnson,” he said in a clipped Bahamian accent, sounding exactly like Sidney Poitier.
“I’m working the Reylander homicide, Uther,” Darla said, getting right to it.
“Yes. I understand Major Mitchell took the case in a moment of uncharacteristic sentimentality,” said Uther. Law enforcement people, like everybody else in Mississippi, were notorious gossips.
“I’m on a short leash on this one,” said Darla. “I need an information profile on a company called Trace Enterprises. What do they do? Who owns them? Who do they own? Where do they get their money? Any connections to organized crime? The whole nine yards, if you can spare the time.”
“How short a leash are you on?” asked Uther.
“Basically, I’ve got a day left before Shelby sends the case back to the county.”
“And you believe this firm, Trace Enterprises, to be of malicious intention?” asked Uther.
“My guess going in,” said Darla.
“Then I shan’t tarry,” said Uther. “Developing a comprehensive information profile on a firm that wishes to remain in the shadows can be a time-consuming process.”
“You’re the best, Uther,” said Darla.
“A subjective view, but one for which I am most appreciative,” said Uther.
They disconnected.
—
With not much more to go on in terms of leads, Darla spent the balance of the morning cranking out three overdue reports on cases she’d recently concluded.
Somewhere around eleven thirty, she had an idea and called her husband, Stephen, at the Jackson Women’s Health Clinic.
They’d crossed paths and hadn’t really seen each other the night before. Stephen had been called to the clinic for an emergency C-section before Darla got home from Tommy’s viewing. He didn’t return home until 3 a.m. and was asleep when Darla left for the office. This sort of thing happened all too often lately and neither of them liked it.
“Got time for a nooner?” Darla joked, when Stephen answered the phone. Only she wasn’t joking.
“A nooner?” her Italian husband asked.
Darla was constantly surprised at how few American slang expressions Stephen understood.
“You know,” said Darla, “hide the sausage, or whatever they called it in Italy.”
“Ah, an assignation,” he said.
“Right. A siesta with sex. How about it, Doc?”
“I’d be crazy to refuse,” he laughed. “But I’m afraid you must feed me first. It sounds like I will need all my strength.”
“I guess we could eat first,” said Darla, feigning disappointment. “That could make it more of a date kind of thing, but really I’m only interested in your body.”
“And I selected you for your mind,” Stephen said.
“Let’s go to someplace with fast service. I don’t want to waste a lot of time on the preliminaries,” said Darla, half seriously.
They chose Nitty Gritty, a northeast Jackson eatery famous for its gumbo, as well as its speedy service. Darla arrived first and sat in the rear of the restaurant so she could watch the other diners stare at her husband as he made his way back to her. Dr. Stephen Nicoletti attracted attention nearly everywhere he went. He was a tall man, nearly six feet four, with an olive complexion and Italian features, offset by steel-blue eyes and blond hair. He had a slender but well-muscled frame, and a way of walking that put Da
rla in mind of a predatory cat. After three years of marriage she remained smitten.
He slid into the booth across from her, reached over, and kissed her half on the cheek and half on the mouth. “A nooner,” he said with that certain look in his eye. “We should do this more often.”
“Especially if you plan on getting me pregnant,” said Darla. “It’s a matter of shots on goal.”
He looked puzzled for a second and then smiled like he’d got it. “Yes, like in football, or soccer, as you say. Yes, we need more shots on goal,” he said with a glint in his eyes.
They could joke about the lack of opportunity for intimacy, but she and Stephen were both concerned. Darla had lost a pregnancy once and they’d been trying to get pregnant again for the last six months. Their demanding careers and unpredictable schedules weren’t making things easy. Another reason why they were looking forward to their upcoming vacation to Italy. A month, just the two of them, with no outside emergencies.
The waitress arrived and they each ordered the blackened gumbo, with chicken and Andouille sausage. Jackson, only three hours from New Orleans, had adopted some of the Big Easy’s cuisine.
“How is your day going?” she asked after the waitress left.
“There were only four protesters outside the clinic this morning and only one of them called me a baby killer. That’s better than most days. At any rate, we are open still.”
Stephen Nicoletti had lived in the United States for nearly a decade, but still, at times, had an odd way for constructing sentences. Darla found it endearing and never corrected him.
“And what of the search for Officer Elvis’s killer?” he asked, tearing off a piece of the soft, crusty New Orleans–style French bread. “Have you—how did they say it in the movie—rounded up the usual suspects?”
Darla sighed. “No, but I’ve rounded up some unusual suspects.”
“Why does this not surprise me?” said Stephen.
“There’s Tommy’s girlfriend, who pretends she’s Priscilla Presley. She calls herself Cill, wore a black cocktail dress to the funeral home, and posed for pictures in front of a cardboard cutout of Tommy dressed as Elvis.”
