The Gone Dead Train (6 page)

He checked the left breast pocket. It was empty.

“May I see those?” Augie ran through the pictures slowly, frowning, and handed them back.

“Recognize anything?”

“Nope.” Augie got to his feet, scratching his crotch. “I'm late.”

“You're not late. What could you be late for? What did you see?”

“Got to go, my friend.” Augie shot the crumpled Mr. Peanut bag into the can and took off walking across the trolley tracks.

Billy picked up the stack and flipped through them. This time he caught it. The tall guy, the one with the glasses, was wearing the Goodwill jacket.

T
he tiny salon was tucked between a Speedy Cash store and an Exxon station on Summer Avenue, a formerly thriving thoroughfare whose remaining businesses were struggling to keep their doors open. The salon's sign read
EL CORAZÓN DE FUEGO PELUQUERÍA,
or Heart of Fire Hairdresser.

After dropping Billy off at Court Square, Frankie had driven there hoping to get a lead on the conjure bag and possibly the person who had made the spell.

A few months ago she'd noticed the word “
Botánica
” hand-lettered at the bottom of the salon's sign, a
botánica
being an herb shop that specializes in folk medicine and Santerían magical remedies. Curious, she'd stopped to see if the version of the religion she'd known in Key West had drifted up to Memphis.

In a small room at the back she'd found spiritual candles, packaged herbs, and potions that believers use regularly. The shop owner, a curvy young blonde named Mystica Arnaz, had explained that she was a new initiate and not qualified to make up complex
ebbos
, but that customers came in for the candles and remedies. It was a good business.

Frankie parked out front and made a list of fresh plants, known by the Yoruba word “
ewe
,” that were needed to make a purifying bath. Santería is an earth religion. Its power to heal and defend against evil comes from plants that can be found in the tropical forests of the Antilles. She was pretty sure Mystica wouldn't stock the exotic plants, but a Santerían priest, a
santero
, would. A
santero
would also have the knowledge and means to make a death curse. Mystica might know such a person; however, getting the name from her wouldn't be easy. Every aspect of Santería is rooted in carefully guarded secrecy.

Frankie tweaked her short bangs in the mirror and checked her cheek. If she did manage to find the ingredients for a
ewe
, she would take a long soak tonight, something she hadn't done in years. The bath might calm her anxiety and help her get some sleep.

Inside, trance dance music pulsed and fluorescent lights shone on the emerald-green trim and glossy walls. Packets of herbs on a rack advertised the power to make “Your Husband Leave His Mistress” or to “Chase Bill Collectors from Your Door.” Neon prints of
The Last Supper
hung above shelves stacked with candles, statues of the Virgin of Guadalupe, and miniature skeletons draped in monks' robes.

The three stylists, all busy with clients, wore jewel-toned skirts, dramatic makeup, and their dark hair flowing down their backs, the opposite of Frankie's cropped style and preppy clothes. She could girl it up with the best of them, but as she walked past these women, she felt like a eunuch in a harem.

The exception was a stooped old woman at the back of the shop, who was wiping down a chair with a rag, her sharp nose and chin giving her head the flattened shape of a hatchet blade. She wore her gray hair knotted on top of her head and her apron tied with twine over her shapeless dress. Frankie got a whiff of cigar smoke as she walked by. The woman made a hissing sound as she dipped her rag in a bucket.

Mystica stood behind the counter, her heavy-lidded eyes focused on Frankie as she approached. Her last time in, the young woman had suggested hair extensions, making the assumption that Frankie's short cut had been a hairdresser's disaster.

“I'm so glad you've returned,” Mystica said. “A beautiful lady should have long hair.” She ran her fingers through her own blond mane, and her gaze passed lightly over Frankie's bruised cheek.

Frankie held up her list and started to speak, but Mystica was already hustling from behind the counter.

“Come have a seat,” she said, attempting to herd Frankie toward a chair. “I will show you samples of extensions. Blond for you, I think, and below the shoulders like mine. Long hair is a woman's power. Men prefer it.”

Frankie felt her cheeks flush. Brad McDaniel had made a similar comment about her hair the first time they'd met for lunch. It took a while for her to realize how well he'd mastered the off-handed comment meant to undermine a person's confidence. With any other man, she would have picked up on it, but for some reason Brad's slick routine had flown under her radar.

She stood her ground with Mystica and handed over the list. “I need these herbs for a
ewe
, not extensions.”

Mystica instantly backed off the hard sales pitch. “You wish a purifying bath, yes? I understand.”

She disappeared through a beaded curtain and returned minutes later with several items in a basket. “I do not have the
pata de gallina
,
romerillo
, and
salvadera
. Those herbs must be fresh. They will ship from Puerto Rico in three days.”

“Maybe someone else in the city has them.” Frankie pulled the conjure bag out of her purse. “Do you know anyone who carries this bag? They might stock fresh herbs.”

Mystica turned the bag over and frowned. “It's possible Señor Sergio—”

At the name, the old woman erupted in Spanish and rushed over to Mystica, shaking her rag. Mystica fired back in rapid Spanish, both of them shouting over each other. Frankie caught “stranger,” and she heard the woman call Mystica
una tonta
, a fool. The old woman wagged her finger at Frankie and stalked back to her bucket.

Mystica fumed and handed the bag back to Frankie. “I'm sorry. I cannot help you.”

The conversation might have ended there, but Frankie picked up on Mystica's embarrassment at the reprimand. She leaned in and whispered, “I need this
ewe
today. It's important.” She added a knowing nod, a silent communication between women.

“I understand,” the young woman said, and flipped her hair in defiance as she went to the back room and returned with a cloth pouch. She touched her own cheek. “I see what your man has done. I've had the same. This spell is powerful. Your man will think twice before he hurts you again.”

“That's not what I had in mind,” Frankie said, stalling.

Mystica raised her voice for the shop full of women to hear, a surefire sales pitch. “We will teach a wife beater a lesson. His manhood will be limp as a flag on a calm day.

“Mix lemon juice, salt water, and cooking oil,” she whispered to Frankie. “Fry a live scorpion in the oil until it disintegrates. Add what's in this bag. I will write instructions.” She wrote quickly, glancing at the old woman, who was still throwing nasty looks in their direction.

“This isn't necessary,” Frankie said, embarrassed by Mystica's pronouncement that she'd been beaten by her man.

Mystica folded the paper with a tight crease and shoved it in the bag. “Thank you for coming in. You will be pleased; I promise.” She winked.

Frankie paid and waited until she was outside the salon to look at the instructions. On the paper, Mystica had written a name and an address: Señor Sergio Ramos.
Santero
.

W
alking from Court Square to the barge, Billy remembered there wasn't so much as a can of beans in the kitchen. He stopped at Jack's Food for staples along with some sourdough bread, lettuce and tomatoes, and a package of Wright's bacon—breakfast, lunch, and dinner in a bag.

Tomorrow he had a meeting at the Criminal Justice Complex, the CJC, with Deputy Chief of Investigative Services Bud Middlebrook. They were to discuss his return to duty. On the drive to Memphis, he'd decided to take a few days off before signing back on the force, give himself a chance to adjust to his sudden change in circumstances after the breakup.

He loved Mercy. He assumed she'd felt the same, but she'd lied to him. He was used to lies. People lie all the time to protect themselves or to get what they want. He should be able to forgive Mercy for that, but yesterday, when the truth came out, he'd found himself leaving so abruptly, so thoroughly, it made him wonder if she'd done them both a favor. Maybe leaving Atlanta had been in the back of his mind all along. Maybe he was the kind of guy who likes the concept of a relationship more than he likes being in one.

Some decisions you can't come back from. He was in the process of making one of those now. Or maybe the decision had already been made. He wasn't sure.

He put away the groceries and glanced around the living area of the barge. Whatever happened with Mercy, at least he was happy to see his place again.

The self-propelled barge had been bought by a speculator at auction and converted into the Old Man River Bar and Grill. Its new owner had tied up at the cobblestone landing next to the river tour paddle wheeler, the
Memphis Queen II
, a great location, but the bar had run into trouble from the start. The owner had put his son in charge and then left town. His son, who had a raging crank habit, cleaned out the cash drawer nightly. The owner returned to find the business sinking under debt and his son in the office, blacked out from a near overdose.

Disgusted, the owner closed the bar, added a shower, turned the small office into a bedroom, and put the place up for rent. The commercial kitchen with its stainless-steel counters stayed. The aft deck had a great view of the sunset. Billy had walked through and signed a two-year lease.

He thought about last August when Mercy had knocked on his door with a sack in her hand that contained potential evidence in her sister's disappearance. During the two-week investigation of her sister's case, their uneasy alliance had developed into trust, then love or at least the possibility of it. Her sister's case took a difficult turn. At the end, especially after Lou's death, he had wanted a fresh start.

Mercy owned a successful bakery in Atlanta. He moved there, hoping to find work in law enforcement and make a go of it with her. They had agreed that, if he didn't find a cop job before his nine-month leave was up, she would consider relocating her bakery to Memphis. When the time came, they would make the decision together.

That hadn't happened. Yesterday she'd come home early from the morning shift to tell him she had signed a contract a month ago that expanded the bakery and tied her to Atlanta indefinitely. She admitted she didn't want to live in Memphis and had never intended to move. She wanted him to stay in Atlanta to help her run her business.

He now took a six-pack from under the sink and shoved it into the refrigerator. He was a cop, damn it. Did she expect him to spend his life working in a cream-puff factory? He was getting angry all over again. Best thing to do was check out the barge and get his mind on something else.

The Internet connection worked, but his TV screen was blue. The Cards played the Braves at seven
P.M.
He would walk to Bardog, have a couple of beers and a plate of meatballs, and catch the game. Until then, he had plenty of work to do setting up a case file on Red.

First thing, he pulled out the staff paper and the photo of the girl that looked to him like a promo shot someone had cut down to fit the frame. The camera loved her. The profile shot revealed a hint of full lips and pronounced cheekbones. Judging by the slenderness of her back and the sheen of her long hair, she was in her mid- to late teens.

The back of the frame popped off easily. He expected to find the name of a club or a photographer's logo stamped on the back. It was blank. She could be a model, Red's daughter, or possibly a musician from a club where Red and Little Man ahd played. Or the photo could have no meaning, a shot of a fantasy girl Davis and Lacy had kept to remind themselves of better days.

He searched around and found a large mailing envelope to slip the staff paper and photo inside for protection.

Next he spread the jacket on the table, a beautiful piece of goods with carved-bone buttons and a silk lining still in immaculate condition. Slipping the three-by-five photographs from the inner breast pocket, he noticed something he'd missed before—tiny curls of thread along the pocket's edge. Someone had stitched the pocket closed and then clipped it open. The pocket on the opposite side had been treated the same. Had there been a second batch of photos that were now missing, or had something else been hidden in the pocket?

Putting the pictures aside, he flipped up the jacket's collar. Monogrammed in gold thread were the initials L.G. He leafed through the photos to one of the man in the jacket. Bernard, who made the jacket, might recall the client if he were shown the photo and given the initials.

In a search of the
Commercial Appeal
's archives, an article about the tailor's colorful career surfaced, but there was an obituary, too. Bernard had developed Alzheimer's disease and passed away recently.

He scanned his notes about the loan Augie had made to Red. Red used to be a big star. Was there a recording contract in the works and Red had planned to pay Augie back with the advance? He and Little man were living on canned ravioli. Red had been flat broke at the train depot. What had he done with the money? They'd fought poverty and racism and pretty much won that battle when Katrina hit. He understood that alcohol was a factor, but Red and Little Man could have recovered their sense of self-worth and some financial stability just by playing club dates. How had they ended up living in a condemned building, frightened to death by curses?