Тимоти Уилльямз - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 126, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 769 & 770, September/October 2005

“There’s caramel coffeecake if you’d like some.” She frowned and shook her head. “I think there is, anyway. Eric’s seventeen now and eats like a couple of full-grown elephants. But I can check.”

“That’s all right,” I said.

“Willie loved peaches, so I always tried to keep a couple of cans cold for when he came in late and wanted a snack. Three-quarters of the time, though, Eric would beat him to them.” She smiled. “Willie never complained. Not once. My dad would have hit the roof.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, thinking that it was the most inadequate phrase in the English language. “I did what I could, but it wasn’t enough.”

She stared into her coffee for a second. “We all did what we could for Willie and it was never enough. He couldn’t help himself. He wanted to. You don’t have any idea how bad he wanted to stop. Nights he’d come home and sit at the table and weep.” She shook her head sadly. “He hated himself, Charlie. He never realized how good a man he was.”

“And you did?”

“It wasn’t easy sometimes. God, you have no idea what it’s like to cringe every time the phone rings or someone knocks on the door. I’ve been too ashamed to look my mailman in the eye for the last ten years.”

“Your mailman?”

“He knows how many final notices we’ve gotten, how many credit bureaus are chasing us. We’ve had three cars repossessed in the last five years.” She smiled. “Willie even pawned my vacuum cleaner. He got twenty-five bucks and hit the quarter slot machines in Tunica. He won that night, came home with three hundred and eighty dollars, and swore it was a sign that his luck was changing. But of course it never did.”

I asked how much Willie had told her about what was going on. Linda shrugged, traced the rim of her mug with a long red fingernail.

“Not a lot. He said that someone was threatening him and that he’d gone to you for help. Yesterday morning, he came in, packed an overnight bag, said he wanted to stay away from the house for a couple of days until you handled his problem. He said he didn’t think Eric and I were in danger, but he didn’t want to take the chance.” This time her smile was wan and bitter. “He told me not to worry, everything would work out fine.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

“So what happened, Charlie? What was going on?”

I told her what I knew. A few days ago Willie had come to my office to ask a favor. He’d been on a hot streak, had left the dog track with close to five grand and then talked his way into a high-stakes craps game run by Ray Brady. The next thing Willie knew, it was six in the morning and he was seventy-five thousand dollars in the hole. Linda shuddered — at the size of the debt or the mention of Ray Brady or, most likely, at both. I didn’t tell her that Razor Ray Brady was the biggest and meanest of Memphis’s non-Sicilian bookies, pimps, and extortionists, or that he’d earned his nickname during his days as an enforcer for the Dixie Mafia, or that there were at least two dozen men walking around Memphis who resembled the title character in I Was a Teenage Frankenstein thanks to Ray’s fondness for straight razors. I could tell from the look on her face that I didn’t have to. Ray had been one grade ahead of us at Southaven High. He’d been a tall, husky kid with chronic acne and shifty eyes, and he’d been dangerous even back then. Ray sold pot and speed, pulled smash-and-grab jobs on the weekends, beat younger boys for their lunch money and the sheer pleasure of the act.

“I stopped by one of Ray’s clubs to talk with him, but he had me thrown out as soon as I mentioned Willie’s name. Then Willie suggested that he wear a wire so we could get Ray on tape threatening him. He called it an insurance policy. Afterwards, I called Ray, warned him that I had the tape and if anything happened to Willie it was going to the police. Evidently he didn’t listen.”

She closed her eyes. “Did you turn the tape over to the police?”

“A West Memphis homicide detective has it.” I glanced at my watch. “I’d say they were picking up Ray for questioning about now.”

“Thank God,” she said.

“If you need anything...” I said.

She shook her head. “We’ll survive,” she said. “Eric and I will get by. Willie knew that.” Then she stood and dumped the remains of her coffee down the drain. “I’ve got to get on with the business of doing that, Charlie. I’ve got phone calls to make and Eric will be home from school soon. There are a million things to do.”

I stood and kissed her cheek. On my way out of the kitchen, I turned to look back at her. Linda had sat down at the table, her head in her hands. She looked as if she might never move again.

By the time I made it to my office on Union, the rain was coming down harder and the wind gusting. The forecast called for temperatures to drop into the thirties, with freezing rain possible before morning. I killed the engine, stepped out into the rain, pulled my coat tighter against the wind, trying to shrug off the nagging feeling that something about Willie’s murder didn’t make sense. I was still trying when a black Lincoln pulled to a stop at the curb and splashed my ankles with water. The passenger’s door opened and a large blockheaded guy with a broad and grinning face stepped out.

“You want to take a ride with us, Mr. Raines?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so, Mickey. It’s been a long day.”

“Hey, Charlie,” Mickey Neal said. “That wasn’t a question, okay. Ray wants to talk with you.”

“He knows where my office is.”

Mickey shook his big head. “Please, Charlie. Let’s make this easy, okay? Just come talk with Ray.”

Thirty minutes later, we pulled off Brooks Road and into the parking lot of the Bottom’s Up Gentleman’s Club, a barnlike building with darkened windows and a flashing neon sign that promised the prettiest girls in Memphis. Razor Ray Brady ran a quarter of the illegal book in town, owned a half-dozen bars, a few bowling alleys, and a dry-cleaning franchise, but he spent three-quarters of his time in the strip bar, perched on a stool with a half-dozen G-string-wearing dancers on his arm. Ray claimed he liked the ambiance. I figured it had more to do with the fact that back in school, Ray had been a pimple-ridden freak who couldn’t even convince his own sister to be his date at the senior prom.

Mickey Neal led me past the bouncers, the half-dressed waitresses, and glass-eyed patrons into a roped-off private room. Ray Brady sat at a small, round table with a bottle of bourbon, a cigarette burning in an ashtray, and a thin, semi-nude brunette by his side. Time had cured his acne, but Ray was still an odd-looking guy — tall and gangly and hard-boned. Looking at him, I thought of a six foot six inch spider.

“You want a drink?” Ray asked as I sat down.

“No thanks,” I said. “What’s shaking, Ray?”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You know what’s shaking, Charlie. I spent two hours of my afternoon in a West Memphis police station that smelled like B.O. and Old Spice, thanks to you and your freak pal, Willie Boyd.”

“I warned you that if anything happened to Willie the tape would go to the cops. You never struck me as a dumb guy before, Ray. But maybe I was wrong.”

He poured two fingers of bourbon into his glass, downed it, and then poured himself a double this time. “Listen to me, Raines. I don’t know what you think was going on, but your pal Willie was a nut. He came here a couple of days ago babbling about seventy-five grand. I tell him to get out of my face, okay? I tell him he’s freaking crazy. All right, maybe I have a bouncer pitch him out and warn him not to come back. That’s the last I hear of Bad Luck Boyd until that fat detective picks me up today on suspicion.” He held up his hands. “I swear to God.”