by Gerald Duff
“Yeah? What’s that substitute, then?”
“We allow what we call zones of affiliation among our students. Officially sanctioned groupings of students are allowed to form and are furnished meeting facilities and modest refreshments in the last period of the day on Mondays and Wednesdays.”
“Uh huh,” J.W. said. “I reckon you’re going to tell me this McNeill kid has been taking part in one of these here zone deals.”
“That’s right, Sergeant,” Mr. Templeton said. “You’ve put your finger on it. Precisely. And that’s all to the good, except that unfortunately the zone of affiliation in which Randall Eugene has shown interest does contain some of our rowdier and less academically inclined students.”
“Oh, yeah?” J.W. said, looking down at his notepad. “Knuckleheads, huh? What’s the names of some of this bunch you talking about and what zone deal are they doing?”
“Antwan Harrell is the leader, and D’Allen Jefferson is prominent in their particular zone. I believe they call themselves the Bones Family.”
“Jesus Christ,” J.W. Ragsdale said. “They got a meeting room and refreshments two days of the week right here in Central High School? That’s what you’re telling me, Principal?”
“That’s right,” Mr. Templeton said. “That’s the term of that particular zone of affiliation, and that’s what we provide them.”
“That’s a hell of a zone you got there, Principal,” J.W. said. “A junior cell of the Bones Family. I can’t wait to tell my partner what an idea y’all have come up with here at Central.”
“I have no pride of ownership in the notion,” the principal said. “But I must confess this particular concept is my own.”
“I like that word confess,” J.W. said. “That’s one I can’t hear enough of. But let me tell you, you have sure helped me out today.”
“No problem,” Principal Templeton said. “No problem.”
“No problem at all,” J.W. said. “I reckon not.”
***
“Bullshit,” Tyrone Walker was saying to J.W. from across his desk in the Midtown station. “You got to do better than that, J.W., when you try to con me.”
“I shit you not,” J.W. said. “That zone of affiliation I’m talking about is right there in Memphis Central High, right in among all them chess trophies and debate awards they got on display there in the lobby of the schoolhouse, there in your old high school.”
“What you talking about? One of those glass cases full of old bowling statues and shit?”
“That, and cross country shoes and baseball bats and old pennants and all like of that kind of stuff.”
“I guess if the Bones Family ever gets an award, it’ll be crossed M-9’s sitting on a cake of crack,” Tyrone said.
“Yeah, or some crossbones and a real skull with an entry hole between the eyes and the whole occipital panel blowed out behind.”
“Occipital,” Tyrone said. “Who you been talking to, J.W.?”
“Oh, a M.E.,” J.W. said. “I’ve been consulting, see. We need to be talking to some other folks, J.W. The kind that don't consult worth a damn."
"You got it," J.W. said. "When we're able to arrange a convenient time to consult."
SIXTEEN
J.W. and Nova
“You can take it to the bank,” J.W. Ragsdale was saying to Major Dalbey, “what I just told you. I got it on the best authority.”
“And that’s Lo Lo Tedrick’s best intelligence,” Major Dalbey said, rearing back in his office chair and peering over the top of his reading glasses. J.W. could see that Dalbey had loosened his collar but kept his tie cinched all the way up to his Adam’s apple. It made him look on both the edge of relaxation and in imminent danger of an explosion of the carotid artery, and seeing that caused J.W. to consider the compromises a middle-aged man must constantly face in day to day existence. You want to look good, goddamn it, J.W. thought, but you got to be able to draw a breath while you’re wearing your work clothes. It is a quandary. And quandary is a damn good word I’m glad I just came up with, one I’ll use on Tyrone the first chance I get.
“Well, if you can say Lo Lo Tedrick’s name and intelligence in the same breath, yeah,” J.W. said. “That’s what Lo Lo’s turned up and called into me this morning and asked me to relay it to Sergeant Walker.”
“Why didn’t he tell Tyrone himself?” Dalbey said. “I been seeing him at his desk all morning doing paper work.”
“Lo Lo don’t want to talk to Tyrone, best way I can figure it, Major. That’s why. You got to understand this ain't the first time Tyrone has counseled Lo Lo Tedrick. He has earned the claimer's confidence. And stuff has been learned from both ends there. Lo Lo knows something that he understands that Detective Walker has need to know. And Lo Lo wants to tell it before he has to be persuaded, you see.”
“Uh huh, and why’s that, you think?” Major Dalbey said. “Has Tyrone been being rude to Lo Lo Tedrick?”
“Not exactly, no,” J.W. said. “Lo Lo just recognizes me to be of a more sympathetic and understanding nature than Tyrone, that’s all. But he wants Tyrone to know he did call up.”
“Yeah,” Dalbey said. “You known for that, J.W. Sympathetic is your middle name. So anyway, this here kid, this Randall Eugene McNeill, he ain’t in no real trouble, far as Lo Lo can tell us.”
“That’s right,” J.W. said. “Lo Lo’s informant, a young man of real substance there at Memphis Central High, Antwan Harrell his name is, wouldn’t tell Tedrick anything but the truth. See, he looks up to Lo Lo as a kind of role model. What they call a positive mentor in these workshops we’re always having the opportunity to attend here as officers of the law.”
“Bones claimer, huh?” Major Dalbey said. “Been broke yet? I guess not, since he’s still hanging around the schoolyard part of the time.”
“Naw, Antwan ain’t broke, but he’d love to be. He’s in training for it, and what he says is Do Run Run’s been acting funny the last few days.”
“Do Run Run?”
“Randall Eugene McNeill,” J.W. said. “That’s the street name he’s trying to live up to. Or down to. Do Run Run.”
“So what can I tell Ovetta Bichette to get her the fuck off my back for a day or two about this here Do Run Run? His mama is just dying to know where the little shit’s got off to, and Bitchhead is worrying that question like a dog with a bone.”
“Antwan Harrell says that Randall Eugene McNeill AKA Do Run Run has been heavy in his mind,” J.W. said, looking down at the notes he’d made on the call from Lo Lo Tedrick which had come well before nine o’clock that morning. “Says he’s been talking about Jesus and cowboys.”
“Jesus and cowboys?” Dalbey said, sitting up straight in his chair. “He’s nuts, huh? Is he fixing to off himself or something?”
“Now, Major,” J.W. said. “We don’t use terms like that no more in the helping professions. You not supposed to say nut or off himself, terms like that. What you mean, see, is self-destructive tendencies and emotionally challenged. You got to learn how to express yourself in a less aggressive manner.”
“J.W.,” Major Dalbey said. “They made me send y’all to that workshop. It wasn’t my idea, it was the chief’s and and the city council’s and the mayor’s, so you ought to quit throwing it up in my face all the time.”
“You got me wrong,” J.W. said. “I learned all kind of coping strategies in them workshops, and I appreciate what you’ve done for me, Major. I speak for all of Homicide.”
“Oh, fuck you, J.W.,” Dalbey said. “So I can tell Ovetta Bichette to let the worried mother know that Do Run Run is OK and will show up in a day or two here.”
“Yeah,” J.W. said. “That you can tell her, but don’t call him Do Run Run. That’ll run up what they call red flags for the concerned parent. You can tell her his Central High School buddies feel like Randall Eugene is just fine, trying to get a closer relationship with his savior, see, and that they will let him know it’s time to check in with mom.”
; “All right, J.W.,” Major Dalbey said. “I’ll try slinging some of that and see if any of it sticks. But I’d sure like to be able to say something encouraging too to the good councilwoman about that lady that got done there at Montgomery and Peach. You ain’t got nothing more on that yet at all? Beulahdene Jackson, I believe her name is. I hear it enough to remember it, by God.”
“I have consulted closely with the Medical Examiner,” J.W. said, pausing and looking toward the ceiling of Dalbey’s office as though attempting to call up a name. “Hebert. That’s it. And we are going over blood evidence and some other stuff. Hope to fill in some blanks here soon.”
“Well, all right. Keep me posted. I appreciate what you did with this Bones claimer kid, J.W. Good response. I know it wasn’t your business to tend to.”
“It wasn’t me,” J.W. said. “It was Tyrone that got that job of communication done. Him and Lo Lo Tedrick.”
“Tyrone carried the load, huh? That’s why Lo Lo’s afraid to talk to him on the phone.”
“Lo Lo Tedrick ain’t afraid, Major. He ain’t afraid of nothing. He be Bones Family.”
“Yeah,” Dalbey said. “So when are you leaving to go pick up Perry Lester down yonder in Batesville? And when you getting back? A couple of days?”
“Four days after I leave Memphis to go get him, Major. That’s what we said, wasn’t it?”
“Two,” Dalbey said.
“Three, wasn’t it? I mean I’m on police business and all, right? Hauling that dangerous white supremacist back up to Tennessee to face justice and all. Putting myself in jeopardy just to be in the same vehicle with him.”
“J.W.,” Dalbey said, “Perry Lester’s going to be about as dangerous as them ugly tattoos he has all over his face and neck. You got to do better than that.”
“Perry Lester and his Batboys have done declared war against the government of these United States. Why, he’s liable to bear a grudge against me for being a Mississippian that’s sold out like I have. He’s just going to radiate contempt for me from where he’ll be sitting in the back seat of my Buick.”
“Oh, hell, let’s say three, then, counting all parts of it. When you leave, what you do in Panola County, transporting him back and checking him in at the Moron’s Hotel, showing up back here at work.”
“All right,” J.W. said. “There ain’t no rush on getting him, is there? I mean I don’t have to leave Memphis until I think I’m able to.”
“Not as long as it’s in the next day or two. Perry Lester ain’t going nowhere. I expect Sheriff Seay has got him fastened to the floor there in Batesville with a log chain. Just don’t put it off until the boy starts growing mushrooms on his feet.”
“Let me know,” Major Dalbey went on, “when you’re going. Be sure to keep that cell phone close to you, turned on, too.”
“Quick as I can break loose,” J.W. said. “I can hear Mississippi calling.”
“I don’t think I’d admit that,” Major Dalbey said, but J.W. was out the door before he had finished the statement.
***
J.W. was supposed to be meeting Nova Hebert a little after six o’clock at some bar on South Main she said she liked and thought he might enjoy, too. He was suspicious, though, not only about the bar but a couple of other things. The drinking establishment had a name which was not only cute, but clever, and that, J.W. had learned over the years, was generally a bad sign.
There ought to be a necessary and logical link between what function a place was intended to serve and what it was called, he believed. When that connection was hazy or non-existent or too damn much of an insider’s game the rules of which could be understood only by people with college backgrounds in professions which required certifications and licenses, the establishment usually sucked big time.
The Owl on Central Avenue now, the bar where off-duty and retired cops and the random road-running woman or two gathered to get untwisted or twisted, whatever the need may be, was in J.W.’s opinion well and appropriately named. It hadn’t been labeled the Owl because anybody meant anything by the name, like wisdom as in wise old owl or late night because that’s when owls hunt down what they kill and eat.
No, somewhere early in the bar’s existence, the owner had stuck a cement statue of an owl up on the roof to scare off the pigeons which inhabited Midtown Memphis like flying rats, and the name of the bar became the Owl. It made sense to one and all, particularly to cops and ex-cops and the hangers-on, all needing to have their nerve centers hammered into or out of balance.
Over the years of his time in Memphis, J.W. had made it his practice not to know certain things or keep current with new cultural developments in the entertainment aspects of the city. It made life simpler for him, it allowed him to focus on what served him well during his time in the Bluff City, and it did not encourage elevation in his blood pressure level.
So when Nova Hebert had suggested they meet for drinks at the Metronome on South Main, J.W. had felt a twinge kick up just below his breastbone, a definite clinch in the stomach area. He made no external sign of the response, and said sure he knew where the Metronome was. He didn’t, but one of the young uniformed cops in the Midtown station would certainly be eager to tell him the bar’s location and brag about what he’d done among the women there.
Nova Hebert was a good ten or twelve years younger than he was, J.W. estimated, she probably had guys her age all over her all the time trying to get her pants off, and he would be a fool this early in the game to show her how he really felt about anything. Nova was not likely to be amused or attracted by the fact that trendy new places gave J.W. heartburn. What was a metronome anyway? Something like a pendulum in a grandfather’s clock? That name for a bar was probably real funny to a bunch of young lawyers and stock brokers and pharmaceutical executives, but it left J.W. cold.
It sounded French to him, and he imagined that the drinks favored by the clientele of the Metronome would come in oversized wine glasses with names not one graduate in a hundred of the Batesville, Mississippi High School would even attempt to pronounce, much less be in the habit of chugging down.
It was early in the first quarter for him and the female medical examiner, too, early enough that she had said she’d meet him at the bar on South Main. That meant, naturally, that she wanted her own car available for a graceful exit if she decided she ought to make one, and that precaution taken by Nova Hebert J.W. respected. He wanted the same out himself, if need be.
What if some Rhodes College graduate with an executive position at FedEx came bopping up to the table where J.W. and Nova sat, the woman sipping away at a half-filled glass of chardonnay or merlot or some such concoction and him knocking back a double tumbler of house gin, and said, “Why, hello, Nova. So good to see you again. How’s Terence or Cameron or Jennings blah blah blah?”
The Rhodes graduate would be named something like Randall Holaday, but he’d be called Ran by all his old fraternity brothers, and his eyes would be dancing because he’d be looking at Nova Hebert and thinking about how he’d already had her in bed in some high-dollar condo on the Bluff. Then, according to how many of the double house gins J.W. had taken on by that point, he would probably say something witty to Ran Holaday like “fuck off, dipshit” or worse, get up from his chair and put a violent hand on the paper-shuffling, white-toothing little junior executive asshole.
So all in all, at this point, separate cars for him and Nova Hebert, a white shirt on J.W. buttoned at the neck with one of his three wearable ties hanging from it, and his blue jacket worn tight and smooth over the Glock 9 in his shoulder holster, and J.W. set to be civilized, cool, and laid back.
As soon as J.W. stepped through the front door into the chilled air of the Metronome, he could see a long bar to the left, the gleam of polished metal fixtures bright against the deep mahogany expanse of wood before the shelves of bottles and glassware, and he instantly felt better at the sight. Do what they could to a drinking place to gussy up the look, there was no way they could hide it
s purpose and reason for being. To get that feeling going in the base of the neck, the pit of the stomach, and the big muscles of the back and thighs that only a couple of shots of alcohol can bring.
This place might not be exactly a home to your taste, but it is a home, by God, it says. Come on in.
J.W. took a deep breath of the air of the Metronome, looked deeper into the bar area, and caught the sight of Nova Hebert about two people down the way, her hair an announcement in its curl and its thrash as she leaned forward to say something to the bartender.
She’s here, it said, right here and now, no mistake. J.W. moved toward her, thinking act lively now, but don’t show you’re straining. Be cool.
Nova Hebert looked up just as J.W. arrived at the bar, then back at the bartender. “Hey,” she said to J.W. “I got this gentleman’s attention, so you better jump on in while he’s focused.”
The bartender nodded, white-toothing, looking from Nova to J.W. and then despite himself back at her. “What can I get you, sir?” he said. “Same as the lady?”
“What’re you drinking?” J.W. said. “Some kind of wine, I bet.”
“Yeah,” Nova Hebert said. “It’s not bad, but you probably wouldn’t like it much. It’s a tad too impudent for your taste, I imagine.”
“Give me a double gin on the rocks,” J.W. said to the bartender. “I done had my wine today. Whatever brand you’re pouring will do me fine.”
“House gin is Schenley’s,” the bartender said, then going into his pitch, “We’ve got two for one on the Bombay Sapphire this time of day, though. It is so smooth, let me tell you.”
“Naw,” J.W. said, not doing the arithmetic in his head, but knowing the numbers would be against him as always on special deals. “Just squeeze a couple of slices of lime in the Schenley’s. I’ll see can I worry it on down.”
Fifteen minutes later, J.W. was into the first drink of the second round, the world was looking more level, and he and Nova Hebert were sitting at a small table at the edge of the bar area of the Metronome, the roar of the crowd at the bar itself having now reached a sustained pitch which promised to last for a while. Young attorneys were beginning to throw caution to the wind and work more aggressively on administrative assistants, junior bankers were arguing points of contention about Allen Greenspan, and commercial real estate brokers were trying out new sets of lies about investment possibilities in the Memphis metropolitan area.
