by Gerald Duff
If the man on the stage dressed in cowboy clothes kept talking and said a thing which Randall Eugene knew he had to hear, though he couldn’t say what that thing had to be until he would hear it put into words, then the heat could prosper and become stronger, it would be able to announce itself to the chunk of ice, and the ice would have to notice and acknowledge it, and Randall Eugene would be allowed to come along, too, with the heat and be a part of what it was doing as it worked against the ice. Ice is water in a pattern. If it melts, it flows, and it escapes the pattern.
“Shut up, Antwan,” Randall Eugene said under his breath so as not to miss the next thing the man in the cowboy suit might say. “Hush.”
“What?” Antwan said. “What you telling me, dog?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Randall Eugene said. “Shut the fuck up, and don’t call me dog.”
ELEVEN
J.W.
J.W. Ragsdale spent most of the morning at his desk in the Midtown station with his head down in the files, going over what little there was on the homicide on Montgomery Street. Some blood evidence, unanalyzed, that probably wouldn’t amount to anything once it was, the report from the neighbor who’d first noticed the broken-out door panel, a claim from a lady up the street, a Mrs. Deedee Sawyer, that she’d seen a man dressed all in red from head to foot including hat and shoes, “casing the place,” as she put it, for the last week leading up to the time Beulahdene Jackson was murdered, a statement from an ice cream van driver to the effect that a middle-eastern looking man, or as he put it, a raghead, must have done it because Mrs. Beulahdene was known to be such a strong Christian.
It must be the same song playing over and over again at a high volume that drives ice cream van drivers nuts, J.W. considered as he flipped through the thin sheaf of papers in the file. You listen to the same minute’s worth of Pop Goes the Weasel, repeatedly coming at your head at a high velocity for six or eight hours, and you’d be bound to start seeing all kinds of strange characters roaming the streets of Memphis, especially in those parts of town populated by folks willing to buy something to eat out of a truck with a hole cut in the side of it.
I wonder if the ice cream van guy actually saw an Arab-looking dude in the neighborhood, J.W. thought, and I wonder why the uniform cop who wrote up this report would’ve even taken a statement from him, much less have stuck it in this file for me to have to read. It is a lost ball in the high grass, education is these days. Nobody has to learn anything anymore. Criminal justice studies they call it. Lord have mercy.
“Hey,” J.W. called across the space between his desk and a row of others. “Hal, do you know this street cop name of Brian Allen?”
“No,” Hal Meechum said, not looking up from the computer before him. “J.W., I don’t. I don’t know none of them damn kids anymore, and I’m glad I don’t.”
“He’s got curly black hair,” J.W. said, “and he messes with it all the time like a woman does. You bound to’ve seen him in here. He’s always following Pencil Neck around real eager and asking for advice all the time.”
“I bet Pencil Neck gives it to him, too,” Hal Meechum said. “Now you mention that part, I know him when I see him. Not to talk to, though, don’t get me wrong. Why you interested in Brian Allen, J.W.?”
“Because he’s a fucking idiot, that’s why.”
“Well, hell, J.W., if you’re looking for idiots among our uniformed officers, you don’t have to settle on the one in particular. They’re like starlings around here, idiots are.”
“Yeah, but this bird is the one who’s deposited all this shit in my file,” J.W. said. “And I want to counsel with the young professional.”
“I’ll tell him you’re looking for him if I see him,” Hal Meechum said and lifted a finger to poke at his keyboard. “What does it mean when the computer says it’s a fatal error, J.W., and why’s it all the time saying that?”
“If it ain’t an International Harvester cotton-picker manufactured before 1975, don’t ask me nothing about a machine,” J.W. said. “Besides, I got to get out of here and let some air get to me. Don’t be scared to touch and mash them keys, Hal. Stand right up to the sons of bitches. Show them who’s boss.”
Outside as J.W. pulled out of the Midtown station on his way toward the nearest Corky’s Barbecue, he almost had his Buick sideswiped by an SUV gleaming like a chariot in the July sun. Standing on his brakes, J.W. briefly contemplated the satisfaction to be gained by chasing the visiting Ohioan down, flashing his badge, and kindling the latent and deepest fear of every Yankee tourist in the South. Being pulled over by a hulking officer of the law looking to be just on the edge of exploding into redneck wrath and vengeance. What would I say to him, J.W. considered as he eased his underpowered sedan into the traffic of Union Avenue just before noon on a blistering first of July, something calculated to cause an instant bowel twinge in the Ohioan, something like “Hey, friend, you in a hurry to get somewhere? You got a destination you just dying to get to? You need some help getting there?”
But no, J.W. told himself, moving into the flow of traffic headed toward the river, I’d probably get the accent wrong, forget to shift my weight from one side to the other like all these sheriffs do in the movies when they’re fixing to terrorize some innocent victim from north of the Mason-Dixon Line, and then I’d likely get myself sued for bad acting. Besides, I couldn’t catch that SUV in this buggy if I chased it all the way to Little Rock.
And it wouldn’t be neighborly, middle of the week leading into the fiftieth anniversary of the birth of rock and roll right here in Memphis, Tennessee. That’s what they’d all been calling it anyway, the Chamber of Commerce and the talking heads on local TV and the visiting reporters and news teams, and all the rest of the menagerie, particularly the collection of Elvis freaks from parts north, south, east and west and from every damn place else on the globe where the music of the King has reached and touched and swelled up like a summer gourd in season.
On July fifth, fifty years ago, in 1954, Elvis had parked his truck in front of Sun Recording right here on Union Avenue, a little further on toward the Mississippi River from where J.W.’s Buick was currently cruising, and he had walked into the front door, talked to the lady at the desk and to Sam Phillips and the two other guitar bangers in attendance, and then put it onto acetate for eternity to have to deal with. That’s All Right, Mama the first one, the big one, the bird that brung him, and now it’s fifty years later, and there is still money to be made in Memphis from what that redneck boy from Mississippi had caused to happen on that hot day.
Hotels and motels and restaurants and bars and hookers and folks eating their lunch in the University Club and executives sitting high up in ice cold offices in East Memphis and players selling crack and meth in small plastic bags all owed a debt to what happened in 1954 on the fifth of July on Union Avenue in Memphis. They could forevermore live with it.
“Thank you, Elvis,” J.W. said out loud as he maneuvered the Buick into the parking lot of the barbecue restaurant he sought. “The rest of the sorry bastards won’t say it, but I will. Thank you. You going to keep me busier, too, in the next few days, I do realize and acknowledge. They’s bound to be some extra killings coming up here during all this celebrating in the birthplace of rock and roll, and they’ll all owe That’s All Right, Mama a debt of gratitude.”
Rock and roll do stir things up. It does, and it always has. In Thy name, we gather in Memphis.
TWELVE
Tonto, Coy, Earl, and Bob
“Damn, it is hot in this old ription of a house,” Coy Bridges said. “It feels like it ain’t never had the first cupful of air conditioning blow through it.”
All four of them were sitting in what used to be the drawing room of the rent house across the street from the Nathan Bedford Forrest Estates. It was late afternoon, just past five o’clock, and the sun stood fixed in the sky west toward Arkansas as though it had been nailed there by a master carpenter intent on having his work last forever. Heat
had burned any shade of blue from the atmosphere, leaving the sky as blankly white as the sheet covering an unidentified body in a morgue.
Bob Ferry had bought four plastic-webbed folding chairs at a Dollar Store in South Memphis, arranged them in a circle, and all four men were now looking into the empty space they surrounded. Bob had also purchased a large ceramic ashtray mounted on a wrought-iron stand, and he was pulling matches one by one from a matchbook and flipping them toward the bowl of the tray. Only one so far had landed where he aimed.
“There wouldn’t have been any air conditioning back when this place was built, Coy,” Bob Ferry said. “So naturally there couldn’t have been any cool air blowing out vents anytime in the history of the house.”
“History,” Coy said. “History. What you talking about? They could’ve stuck window air units in every hole punched into this building, every damn window.”
“They did,” Tonto Batiste said, “at points along the way. You can see the brackets where they’ve rusted on the bricks.”
“They not there now, though,” Coy Bridges said. “I can flat guarantee you that.”
“I don’t mind the heat that much,” Earl Winston said. “That’s not what gets me.”
“Let me guess what it is, then,” Tonto said. “The humidity, right?”
“Yeah,” Earl Winston said, “the way the air kind of sticks to you, you know, like a wet dishrag.”
“That’s what I figured,” Tonto Batiste said. “I judged you to be a man sensitive to humidity, Earl. I thought you’d come up with that.”
“Leave Earl alone, Tonto,” Bob Ferry said. “You don’t want to get him cranked up now, do you?”
“I don’t give a good goddamn one way or the other, Bob,” Tonto said. “I’m just damn sick of sitting here waiting and listening to new slants on humidity.”
“It’s not long now,” Bob Ferry said. “It’s coming like a loaded freight train, gentlemen.”
“Why not tonight then?” Tonto said. “Go in there, do it, get out, and get gone.”
“Because it’s not time yet, that’s why. We don’t want to grab the eggs until the chicken’s laid all of them, every last one.”
“Does everybody go to church every day around here?” Coy Bridges said. “I know I wouldn’t.”
“You wouldn’t go to church on Judgment Day, Coy,” Tonto said. “You’d be too busy getting your head full of dope and humping some ugly whore in a crackhouse.”
“Tonto,” Coy said. “You better be glad I just tell myself you’re trying to joke when you say something like that about me. And you don’t know how to tell it right so it’s funny.”
“I know how to do everything I do,” Tonto Batiste said. “Just hold that thought in your head.”
“Now, now, gentlemen,” Bob Ferry said. “It’s just hot and everybody’s nerves are on edge. Just a couple of days longer to wait now, and we’ll be dividing up all that money and going our separate ways before you know it.
“And yes, these folks will be in church on Sunday, and that’s particularly because of what Reverend Jimbo Reynolds has been advertising for the last three months. And they’ll be ponying up the donations big time, and we don’t want to miss letting them do that.”
“What’s he calling that again?” Coy Bridges said. “That July the Fourth deal?”
“The Reverend Jimbo Reynolds is calling it what it is, Coy,” Bob Ferry said. “If you haven’t heard about it on the radio, you haven’t tuned in to a single station in Memphis in a long time. Sunday, July the Fourth, in Reverend Jimbo’s church is going to the Sun-Rise Ministry of the Big Corral’s salute to America.”
“Howdy, partner, come palaver with Jesus, the Biggest Cowboy of All,” Tonto Bastiste said, moving his hand in short jerks from left to right as though reading words on a banner hung in the air before him.
“You see,” Bob Ferry said. “Tonto’s been doing his research. He’s been paying due and accurate attention to what’s going on spiritually in Memphis. He’s modeling good behavior for all of us.”
“He’s the top hand, Jesus is,” Tonto Batiste said, “according to what the Reverend’s been advertising. Never was a man that couldn’t be throwed. Never was a horse that couldn’t be rode.”
“So Don Condon is behind all this noise, huh?” Coy Bridges said. “He’s into everything, ain’t he?”
“Donny Boy has always had an eye for the next chance,” Tonto said. “First time I saw him in Huntsville, he was figuring a new way to put a saddle on Jesus and ride the boy home.”
“I’m getting sick of hearing about Jesus all the time,” Earl Winston said. “Especially when it sounds to me like you throwing off on him, Tonto.”
“What do you care about Jesus, Earl?” Tonto said. “That’s the first time I heard you say a thing religious. What, you turned Jesus freak?”
“I ain’t religious, no,” Earl said. “But I like to hedge my bets whenever I can on things. What if some of the shit they say about Him is true? You ever think about that, Tonto?”
“No,” Tonto said. “Not being a lunatic, I haven’t.”
“You calling me a lunatic?” Earl said, banging the front leg of his folding chair down against the floor and pushing it back with a scraping sound on the scarred hardwood of the drawing room.
“You two cool off now,” Bob Ferry said. “Never discuss religion or politics while you’re on a job. You know that. Now shut up about Jesus and talk about something else.”
“Yeah,” Coy Bridges said. “Let’s talk about pussy.”
“No, you’re right, Bob,” Earl Winston said. “There ain’t no reason to bring up touchy subjects when you’re getting ready to do a home invasion. There’s a lot of planning goes into home invasion, and you liable to lose your focus. Forget something you need to remember, or leave something out. You know, shit like that.”
Earl looked around him for confirmation, pushing back into his chair so that the front legs rose again into a more comfortable position and lifting both hands before him in a calming gesture. OK, OK, they said.
“Let’s talk about pussy,” Coy Bridges said, looking directly at Earl and then shifting his gaze to Bob Ferry who was flipping another paper match toward the ash tray.
“We heard you the first time you said that,” Tonto Batiste said. “You don’t need to tell us the same thing again, over and over. Jesus Christ.”
“Well,” Coy said. “What you got to say about pussy, anybody? Let’s get started.”
“What about this for something to talk about while we sit here sweating our asses off,” Earl Winston said. “Did I tell y’all my daddy, that sorry old son of a bitch, gave away my dog without telling me about it?”
“No,” Bob Ferry said. “Really? When you were a kid over in Arkansas?”
“Naw,” Earl Winston said. “Back in April, that’s when.”
“Jesus Christ,” Tonto Batiste said and got up from his folding chair. “That does it for me. I’m going to the Green Frog and drink whiskey until I fall off the fucking stool.”
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Bob Ferry said. “Tonto, think about it. It’s too close to countdown to be getting messed up.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Tonto said. “I need some relief. I don’t want to hear another goddamn word about Earl’s sorry old daddy giving his dog away. Jesus Christ.”
Tonto banged the door behind him as he left the room and headed outside, and the three still in the room watched Bob Ferry’s last paper match sail through the air and miss its target.
“Tonto said Jesus Christ again the last thing he said as he was going out the door,” Earl Winston said. “Did y’all notice that?”
“Yeah, Earl,” Bob Ferry said. “Jesus Christ.”
THIRTEEN
Jimbo Reynolds and Randall Eugene McNeill
It was a Friday prayer meeting service, and Jimbo Reynolds didn’t know why he even bothered to do it, outdated as the concept was. The parking lot was not one-third full, if that,
and the walk-ups for any church function would be negligible, as always. So why did he feel like he ought to keep rolling out for display something so old fashioned and decrepit as midweek prayer meeting? Don Condon had smiled like a possum when Jimbo first told him he still ran Wednesday night prayer meetings out of the Big Corral.
It didn’t make economic or demographic sense, Condon said, and Jimbo agreed silently with his PR director as he leaned on his hay bale and watched the slow trickle of old women, the odd old codger or two, and the assorted other prayer meeting attendees move into the steel-sided cathedral of the Big Corral. Not a bit of sense, he knew for certain, not a lick.
But, of course, he admitted within in that part of himself he kept to himself and never let anybody else see – other than the stray woman or two he now and then accorded what they considered a privileged and personal and unique glimpse into the inner workings of his heart and mind as he angled to bed them – Jimbo actually did know why he still included the off-weekend night prayer meeting in his repertoire. He was catering to a weakness in himself, something left over from childhood, like looking at a black and white snapshot of himself as a kid on the front porch of one of the rent houses he’d grown up in back in those dead days in East Texas, the skinny little self-doubting loser he’d been.
Put it another way, Jimbo told himself as he observed the last few supplicants totter in through the open doors of the Big Corral, put it like this.
You have a bad tooth, and it’s sore and you’re conscious of it all the time, but it’s not really actively paining you. So do you leave it alone and hope for the best? No, not hardly. You poke it with your tongue to make it fire up and send a message to your brain to make the hurt come. You go even further sometimes, depending on your mood. Not only do you poke with the tip of your tongue at what’s betrayed you. You take a good hard suck at it until it roars in your head like a siren.
So, there’s not a dime to be made by holding night prayer meetings, there’s not a man or woman showing up who’s worth getting to know for the purposes of love, money, or networking, and there’s not even a dab of ego satisfaction to be gained from putting on a show good enough to wow the audience.
