Ace Atkins - Dark End of the Street

Ransom started cackling and pulled his loose gray hair into a ponytail, knotting the wet mass at the back of his head. His gray hair was receding. His eyes were black.

He smiled at Jude and put his arm around him. Russell felt dirty just smelling the man’s rancid breath and pushed him away.

“All right, Jude,” he said with that same loose, rotten grin. “That’s fair. We’ll call it even. You keep those casinos out of Memphis like we agreed and I’ll call it square on that couple I killed in Oxford. For you.” Ransom spoke a little louder when he said that, like the killings were his present. “I think that’s a good old trade. Filled that couple full of holes myself. That fat country boy squirmed on the floor in his own piss talking shit about the South rising again.”

“I never asked you.”

“No, you never asked. But I’m sure you wanted to be questioned about killing some niggers back in ‘sixty-eight. During the election? Didn’t you? Would’ve kind of gotten away from them issues you love so much.”

“I didn’t even know that lawyer.”

“Why’d you send me that file then, like it was a burnin’ sack of dogshit left on your porch?”

“That night involved you. Thought you’d want to know.”

“Yeah, we are all dirty in this.”

Ransom got closer and stuck two fingers under Russell’s nose. “We share it all.”

The gesture sickened Russell and he felt like he might vomit. The trail grew rockier and suddenly ended in a stretch of high weeds. The wind was cold as hell and made his face feel tight. “How do we know there isn’t another copy of that file?”

Ransom shrugged. “We don’t.”

Russell spit on the ground and kept walking away, back to his house.

“Oh, one more thing,” Ransom said. “Seems that someone saw you killin’ them niggers that night. Right there in that report. Since you’re done with me, I guess I’ll leave him.”

Russell stopped and turned. “We talked about this. That man is legally insane.”

Ransom nodded and stroked his salt-and-pepper beard, taking a wider stance on his land. He was wearing all black with crocodile boots. Silver rings and a turquoise bracelet.

“Seems like he’s getting better,” Ransom said. “And he’s gettin’ some help from some man named Travers. Guess you know about him already. Don’t you? Hard when they come and knock on your door.”

“Why is he doing this?”

“Some nigger woman is his friend. Her brother is Clyde James. But don’t worry, Jude. We’re takin’ good care of you, son.”

Jude Russell opened his mouth to speak and felt for the gun in his pocket. His fingers couldn’t grip it. He couldn’t grip the damned gun even though Ransom was right there on his ground. But if he killed him, what would come of that? Shooting any man wouldn’t win any votes. And Ransom was just an arm of the Dixie Mafia, others would follow. More powerful men than him in Biloxi.

He pulled his hand from his pocket.

Ransom laughed. “You gonna say something, Jude?”

SINCE I LEFT New Orleans, I’d been trying to reach JoJo. I’d let the phone ring a million times at his house and then, almost in a masochistic way, I’d listen to Loretta greet me on the bar’s voicemail. At home, I’d left him a message with U’s number telling him that I was thinking of him. I felt that was all I could do. But that morning, I finally got in touch with Loretta at the hospital. She answered the phone in her room like she owned the whole damned place and didn’t have time for small talk.

“You shouldn’t be answering the phone.”

“Why not?”

“You’re sick.”

“They got that bullet out, boy.”

I asked how she’d been feeling and she told me they got her out of bed last night and that she was finally walking again. She gave me some pretty gruesome particulars on the surgery and how the Lord had kept the bullet away from the important stuff. She said a quarter of an inch either way would’ve killed her. She told me the story like a testimonial on faith, but it only made me madder and more determined.

“How’s JoJo?”

She was quiet for a second. “He ain’t happy.”

“I’ll be back soon,” I said. “I’ll rebuild that bar with my teeth if I have to.”

“Give him a while,” she said. “He ain’t so sure he wants it back. Insurance made him a decent offer and we thinkin’ about headin’ up to Clarksdale for a while.”

“The farm?” I asked, knowing all about JoJo’s dream to clear out land that his family had owned since Reconstruction and renovate the old farmhouse where he grew up. He talked about it all the time. But that’s what I always thought he was doing, talking. A few beers always led to discussion about that old farm in Clarksdale. Sometimes I swore he was about to run for the back door with his toolbox.

“You tell me what y’all need,” I said.

She paused for a second. Again. “Nick, come home. It’s over.”

“Not quite.”

I told her that I loved her and hung up the pay phone. I sat there for a moment watching a business across the street. Still didn’t see what I wanted.

Then I made a call to U. I told him what I’d been doing and asked him to make a few calls. I finished a bottle of Coke and continued to watch the front entrance of a defunct grocery store. A place that Jude Russell had been using for his campaign headquarters.

It was about 11:00 and I hadn’t slept since leaving Cook’s place last night. Eventually U had turned off the light at his apartment while I watched flickering images from Support Your Local Sheriff. Sometime around 2:00 A.M. ole James Garner gave me an idea while Abby slept on a nearby futon.

I had watched the early gray light leak through the curtains and made coffee before driving down Poplar for some hot biscuits from a Krystal. There, at a greasy table, I’d worked out my ideas on a notebook that contained interviews on the life of Guitar Slim.

At the south Memphis grocery, now teeming with Russell supporters, I saw political wrangler Royal Stewart get into an old Audi and drive east.

I smiled.

I had a plan.

By God, I had a plan.

Inever gave a shit for country clubs. First off, I hated golf more than cocktail parties of any type, Cajun food served at chain restaurants, the work of Tom Clancy, New Age music, those annoying posters about success and priorities and all that shit (do you really need a poster to remind you?), and men who compete in X-treme sports.

Maybe I was generalizing, but judging from a few fellas I saw grab-assing on a nearby green, I had the feeling that the Memphis Country Club boiled with such high-minded individuals.

The club was pretty much what I expected as I hopped a side fence, watching some security guard, and waded through the Land Rovers and BMWs and other jackass vehicles.

Nearby, Royal Stewart’s dirty Audi stood out like a turd on a wedding cake.

Huge oaks and magnolias with wide branches filled the grounds near the main building. I buttoned up my suede coat, stood a little straighter with a manila envelope stuffed with papers, and walked right through the glass doors with purpose. It was about the same way I acted when I walked through the projects; I made myself look like I had somewhere to be.

Inside, the walls were painted green and pink with lots of stained wood. Several glass trophy cases where people stored insignificant awards.

As I rounded a turn, a white-headed woman with impossibly high eyebrows stopped and asked if she could help me. I told her I had plans to meet Mr. Stewart for lunch. With a grunt, she said she didn’t recognize the name.

I told her that I guess she couldn’t help me after all and kept walking.