Ace Atkins - Dark End of the Street

Down another turn, I found another woman, this one much more attractive with brownish hair and lots of freckles, standing at a hostess table. I looked around for Stewart.

The room held all women. I noticed most of them wore a hell of a lot of makeup and really uncomfortable, loud outfits. It was as if they were trying to outdo each other on who had worse taste. The far wall was a long plate glass window protecting diners from the eighteenth green.

The women watched me as I looked around. I smiled at a couple. They quickly turned their heads back to their martinis.

The woman asked me if she could help. She looked to be in her early twenties. Tan, with a lot of jewelry.

I told her who I was looking for and she was really nice about it. She walked me down a hall. We were talking about all the wonderful things that the club offered when she abruptly stopped talking and stood at the beginning of a long corridor. It reminded me of those invisible fences that kept barking dogs from me while I jogged Audubon Park.

Down the hall, I saw a bunch of men talking and playing cards in a large paneled room. Cigar smoke trailed out to us.

I looked at her.

“That’s as far as you go?”

“House rules. Men only.”

“Take one step,” I said, looking down at the line where the carpet turned green.

“Might get me fired.”

“Really?”

She nodded.

I whistled low, thanked her, and followed the hall. This one was completely lined with glass cases with more insignificant awards in silver and gold. Mostly golf. A few tennis. I looked for Miss Congeniality, but didn’t see one.

The room at the end of the walk of fame was more impressive than where the women had been herded. A twenty-foot concave ceiling made the men talking seem more obnoxious, the guffawing in full stereo. Green plaid and long oak tables. The chandeliers were brass.

Paddle fans blew away cigar smoke.

A couple of men turned. Most ignored me and kept drinking beer, absolutely delighted they didn’t actually have to work.

A bartender offered me a beer. I declined but asked for some untouched coffee that sat on a nearby burner. He said he’d pour me a cup.

I found Stewart sitting with another man near a large window looking out onto a fairway. Fewer than five miles away were crammed projects, rows of pawnshops, and check-cashing businesses.

“Mr. Stewart,” I said.

He looked up at me but resumed talking. He was truly an old gambler, knew by applying any significance upon me that he’d already lost. Apparently, there was some type of fund-raiser later in the evening and he was upset about the P.A. system they planned to use.

I said: “We need to talk.”

He continued his conversation. But Stewart’s companion, a little fellow who seemed so eager he was actually shaking, was having a hard time listening with me standing there.

The bartender came over with my coffee and I ordered a club sandwich. I loved club sandwiches.

“Does that come with fries?”

“Chips.”

“That will do.”

Stewart finally turned, looked up at the bartender, and said, “No. That won’t do. This man isn’t with me and is not a member of the club. Cancel that order.”

“Now you’ve made the bartender uncomfortable, Royal. And this kid, too. You’re uncomfortable, aren’t you?”

“No,” the man said. “I’m fine. Really.”

I said: “Well, I am.”

Stewart, long gray hair and bleak blue eyes, leaned close to me and said, “You have about twenty seconds to get your ass out of here or I’ll have you arrested.”

The bartender hadn’t moved. The twenty-year-old P.A. master crossed his arms over his Polo shirt.

I smiled and leaned back over the table to Royal. “Has Jude ever told you about ‘sixty-eight in Memphis? Sounds like it was a wild ride.”

Stewart bit the inside of his cheek and ran his fingers around the brim of a hat that lay by his elbow. He nodded, a man who’d been played out and knew how to walk from the game.

“My apologies,” he said in that weathered Memphis accent. “I didn’t realize my guest was staying for lunch.”

“I’LL GIVE YOU twenty-four hours,” I said, taking a sip of the warm coffee. Felt good to be out of the cold. There was a fireplace near my back and I could feel the heat through my flannel shirt.

“For what?” Stewart asked. The boy had left our discussion group.

“It goes like this. I won’t bullshit you or waste your time or play any fucking games. I want Jude Russell out of this election. I have three things. I have a witness, a very credible one,” I said, lying, “that puts Jude Russell at the scene of a double homicide in December of ‘sixty eight.”

He laughed by making absurd breathing noises out of his nose.

“Second, I have another witness that places Russell as a business associate of a known member of the Dixie Mafia. A man named Levi Ransom who I believe has contributed to Jude’s campaign fund.”

Stewart folded his arms across his chest, perpetually shook his head and swallowed a lot. His blue eyes never left mine. Not for one second would he miss a word I said. He was making mental notes the whole way through.

“You want him to drop from this race? Just because you say you have people who’ve made up the most outrageous lie I’ve ever heard?”

“Oh, you mean I would need some hard facts? Shit,” I said, scratching my head. “Didn’t think about that.” I pushed forward a copy of the homicide file U had pulled with a couple pages I’d creatively added. “I guess a police file will have to do. Just mentions his role in the shooting and leaves a lot of unanswered questions about why the investigation wasn’t followed. The victims were black. I bet that’ll get him tons of votes in south Memphis. You didn’t even have to fix up that run-down supermarket down there as a P.R. stunt.”

Stewart fiddled with his hands and nodded a few times to himself.

“You’re crazy,” he said. “Out of your mind nuts.”

“No doubt.”

The waiter laid down the club sandwich on the table. Toasted white bread. Lots of mayo on the cold cuts. I expected something a little better here, but suddenly knew I shouldn’t have.

“I believe you have some phone calls to make,” I said, leaving the sandwich and sliding back into my coat. Outside, two men in yellow sweaters watched each other pivoting their hips in a practiced swing.

He said: “It won’t work.”

“You don’t think I’ll do it?” I pushed away from the table with my hands and watched his face, his teeth grinding, the blood dripping into his neck. “You don’t think I’m clever enough to go to Kinko’s and print off about twenty copies of the file, transcribed interviews with contact names and numbers of my sources, and then have a buddy mail them out to every major media outlet in Tennessee and Mississippi? Yeah, I couldn’t do that. That would be too much trouble.”

His face had been completely drained of color.

I stood. “You have twenty-four hours to find a replacement,” I said. “Russell’s wife is sick. He has personal issues. His cat died. I don’t give a fuck. I’m only giving you this option because the only thing worse than having a killer running this state is having that gun-toting moron and his fools from Jackson win. I don’t think we want that. Do we?”

I didn’t listen for an answer. I left the copied file and pushed my way through a bar of men with faces flushed with alcohol and sun. They didn’t seem to notice me or the conversation. They were too busy talking about themselves. Pushing ahead without ever looking back.

Jon Burrows was tired of circlin’ that bail bonds business over on Poplar. He knew the layout real good – hell, you could see most of it through them dang big windows – now he just had to wait till night and sneak into that back door that was unlocked. Make sure all three of ’em were there.