The Gone Dead Train (8 page)

“A physical problem or a problem with your life?”

She cleared her throat. “Life.” She touched her bruised cheek. “Both I guess.” It was true. It was embarrassing; however, Ramos made a living by detecting the truth. He was more likely to respond to her if she was honest.

He picked up a small ceramic jar and held it flat on his palm for her to see. “Mystica mentioned the contusion. I took the liberty of making a plaster. I see the bone has been bruised. That is why the discoloration is taking so long to go away. The plaster will clear the discoloration and relieve the soreness. The
ewe
will work differently. It will dispel negative energies from your recent trauma. Boil the herbs in water and strain it. Soak in a tub of the mixture for three nights. Both remedies are meant to ease discomfort.”

His expression clouded as he put the herbs and the ceramic jar into a sack. Like Mystica, he must assume she had been a victim of abuse.

“You asked if I make
ebbos
for people other than my godchildren. I assume you want me to make them to help you.”

Ramos might be the only person in the city with the means and ability to make a death curse, but if she confronted him with what she knew, he would deny it. This wasn't an interview. It was more of a negotiation.

“I'm interested in the types of
ebbos
you make,” she said. “I have questions.”

“May I suggest a few sessions of therapy? Just talking. Then we can work with the
ebbos
if you feel it's necessary.”

Let a powerful
santero
pry into her life? No way, too risky. “How about a few questions now?”

He felt the face of his watch for the time. “My next client arrives very soon. I believe I have a card in my office. You may call if you wish to make an appointment.”

He ushered her into the hallway before going into his office. She waited, angry with herself for coming so close to getting the information and failing.

While he searched for the card, her gaze went to the series of photos she'd missed earlier, shots of people in groups, probably colleagues Ramos had met at conferences. It took a moment for one of the photos to register. It was an exterior shot of Robert House, the local center for homeless men and recovering addicts, a building she drove past every day. A group of about twenty men stood on the front steps. She spotted Sergio Ramos on the right. Little Man Lacy stood toward the back, towering over the rest. And there was Red Davis in the middle.

Adrenaline hit, followed by a chill. The conjure bag wasn't a guaranteed connection to Ramos, but this photo proved he had contact with the victims.

She'd come here expecting to find a
santero
and possibly a scam artist. Sergio Ramos was more than that. She'd been impressed, intrigued. Now she was seeing him with different eyes. He could be the source of the curse. He could also be the person who had delivered it.

Ramos appeared beside her with a card. “This will put you in touch with the person who books my appointments.”

She took the card. “Thank you. I believe I'll take you up on that offer.”

M
emphis sits on the Fourth Chickasaw Bluff, a ridge formed by buckling tectonic plates and the twisting course of the Mississippi River. The bluff is the highest point on the river's western bank between Natchez, Mississippi, and Cairo, Illinois. From the cobblestone landing in front of Billy's barge, the riverbank rises to Riverside Drive then ascends to Front Street.

Billy left the barge after sunset, the air thick with mosquitoes tracking him like tiny helicopters up the incline to the top of Monroe Avenue. He carried a copy of the
Memphis Flyer
, folded to protect the photos he'd discovered in Red's jacket. His plan was to go to Bardog, order Aldo's spicy four-meatball appetizer and a cold draft, and then work through the stack while watching a Cards game on TV.

Jesus Junior, or “J.J.,” as he was known to every beat cop, stood on the sidewalk between Bardog and the Little Tea Shop. He was tall and brawny, an imposing figure in white track pants, a white jersey with
HOLY GHOST
written in rhinestones across the back, and spotless white sneakers. He made a living hustling tourists and selling the
Flyer
to people who didn't realize every downtown doorway had a rack full of free copies. His big money came from preaching Jesus. For a few extra bucks he'd throw in eyewitness accounts of Elvis riding his motorcycle around Memphis in the middle of the night while eating jelly doughnuts.

J.J. was a hit with the tourists. The city attracts the kind of people who want their stories about Elvis and Jesus told right together.

“Detective Cool,” J.J. said, giving out his best glinty smile. “You been gone so long I thought the Rapture took you.”

Billy nodded and kept moving. He didn't want to talk tonight.

“I hear Red Davis passed this morning, and you and Officer Frankie checked out their trap house.” J.J. put his hand to his heart. “Sad day for us. A happy day for heaven.”

Downtown residents know each other like it's a small town. News of death moves especially fast.

Billy stopped. “There's another guy living at that house.”

“You mean Tyrese?”

“Yeah, Tyrese.”

“That boy's been staying at his auntie's house in Yazoo City. She carried him back this morning.”

“How do you know?”

“I seen 'em drive in.” J.J. swung his head from side to side. “Tyrese don't know nothing about Red and Little Man, I can tell you that. People wears him out, know what I'm saying?” J.J. nodded. “Now I got a favor to ax you. I'm facing incarceration for lifting a bag of Cheetos out of Jack's Food Store.”

J.J. was known for his high expectations and low accountability. His criminal sheet ran long with minor shoplifting charges.

“Just Cheetos?”

“Maybe a Colt 45. Maybe three. And some change off the counter. I got a court date. I'm axin' you to step up. Make it right.”

“You need to speak to your buddy Jesus about this one,” Billy said, reaching for the door. “I can't clean up your mess.”

Inside, the bouncer sat to the right of the door, drinking a Red Bull. Amanda the bartender saw Billy coming and cued up Steve Earle's “Regular Guy” on the jukebox, one of his favorites. A few customers sat at tables, and there was that guy who always sat at the end of the bar next to the kitchen pass-through. Billy happened to know his name was James Freeman, a powerfully built man in his fifties with a face like a closed book. An untouched draft sat next to Freeman's half-empty mug, which meant he had company. Billy had never met Freeman and didn't care to tonight. He wanted supper and to watch the ball game in peace. He grabbed a big man bucket-style stool at the end of the bar near the door.

The regulars know about the stools. Avoid the ones called recliners—you lean back and you'll wind up on your ass. The small man stools are two inches shorter than the big man stools. They make short men look shorter and tall men uncomfortable because they can't rest their elbows on the bar. The owner said he could afford to replace all the stools but thought competition for the big man stools gave the place a healthy edge.

Amanda brought over a draft. On the big screen, the Cards were playing at Atlanta, bottom of the eighth with the Braves at bat. With a 3–1 count, Rodriguez hit a towering pop-up in front of the plate. Brewer, the latest catcher for the Cards, lost the ball in the lights, fumbled, and fired it over the head of the first baseman covering home.

“That play has to be made,” the TV commentator groaned. “The Cards are in deep trouble. Augie Poston would never have made that kind of error.”

“You can't replace a man like Augie Poston,” his sidekick added.

Billy looked away from the screen. As bad as he felt about Augie losing his career, he could still have a decent life if he stayed on the meds, which he suspected Augie wasn't doing. Just like today, the possible consequences of that decision could be devastating.

Two years ago Augie had shown up late at Billy's apartment, paranoid as hell, claiming someone had rigged his car with a bomb. When Billy didn't buy it, Augie slammed out, hot-wired Billy's 1946 Chevy pickup, and crashed it through the front window of the former Welcome Wagon building at the corner of Court Avenue and North Second. Then he closed out the night by slugging a responding officer.

The incident had put Billy in a bind. Admit the pickup had been stolen, and Augie would be charged with a felony. Say he'd given Augie permission to take the truck while knowing he didn't have a license and Billy would have been responsible for damages.

As it turned out, the assistant DA had been a baseball fanatic. He reduced the charges to careless driving. Augie pled no contest to the charge of hitting the officer and was given a six-month suspended sentence. He paid for the damages, but the pickup, the only thing left to Billy in his uncle Kane's will, was totaled.

A week later, Augie showed up at his door and swore he'd never go off his meds again. Billy had taken a friend at his word.

Pushing Augie out of his mind, he ordered meatballs and another draft, then spread the stack of photos in front of him for inspection.

The time frame was definitely sixties or seventies in some southern city: Memphis, Jackson, Little Rock, Birmingham, Atlanta. The two men appeared to be FBI and the photos were surveillance shots. Even with the initials of the guy wearing the glasses, it would be hard to get a name.

Amanda delivered the meatballs and a side of kale she'd ordered for him. “Welcome back, Detective. Eat your greens.”

Quite suddenly he felt Mercy sitting on the stool beside him, lifting her wineglass and giving him that sly glance that always kept him wondering. She was a puzzle, a mystery.

No
, he told himself with a shake at his head.
Get the story straight
.

The relationship had been rocky for the last few months. He hadn't landed a job in law enforcement, and Mercy had begun keeping longer hours at the bakery. When they did get together, there was nothing to talk about. He'd thought it was a dry spell they could work out. Then yesterday, when he asked her to sit down and talk about their future, she'd sprung the new lease for the bakery on him.

He'd walked out. He'd heard the click of the lock behind him.

Someone yelled his name from across the bar and jerked him out of his thoughts.

“Hey, Able!” Augie strolled past the kitchen's pass-through window, drying his hands on a paper towel. He said a few words to Freeman, then reach for his draft and began sliding it down the bar.

Oh, for God's sake
, Billy thought as he dragged the
Flyer
over the photos to hide them.

“You saved my ass today,” Augie blared. “I was a damned idiot getting out there dancing.” He still wore the plaid shorts and was now limping.

Billy picked up his fork. “Glad I could help. I'm eating right now.”

Augie's green eyes glittered. “Freeman and I were discussing my book project. You and I talked about that, right?”

“Look. I'm sorry about your mom—”

Augie hauled a big man stool next to Billy. “The journalist got a copy of her file. He said the case was improperly handled. My mom was murdered.” Augie stared at him, his face overheated and expectant, waiting for a response.

He wasn't about to go away.

B
illy put down his fork. “Okay. Give me details on those threatening letters you found at your dad's place.”

“It's awful stuff. There was one postmarked three days after her death. The journalist said it wasn't on the file's documents list. It ended with a promise to pour gasoline on my head and light a match. I guess my dad believed it, because he never turned the letter over to the cops. If he had, maybe they would've taken her case more seriously.”

“Holding back the letter wasn't smart, but I understand where your father was coming from. You said there's a connection between your mother's death and this journalist's project.”

“
Our
project. Bad things happened in Memphis during the civil rights struggle. Law enforcement spied on black citizens, harassed them. The journalist says Calvin Carter is the key to proving that. You know about Carter the photographer?”

“He covered the ‘I Am A Man' sanitation workers' strike and worked the trial of the men who murdered that kid, Emmett Till, the one who whistled at a white woman. And the Matt Parker incident, a young black guy who was dragged from jail, beaten, and shot. Carter took a chance covering those stories—a black man carrying a camera. But I'm told he was a cop before he was a photographer, so he knew how to handle himself in a crowd.”

Augie gestured toward Freeman. “James's dad owned a bar on Beale Street in the sixties. James worked there as a kid. He has offices in that building now. He might be able to identify something in those photographs.”

“Why do you care? You weren't interested this afternoon.”

Augie picked at the skin on his arm. “You know I blank out sometimes, can't think straight. You were going through the stack when I came out of the can. Maybe I'll catch something this time.”

Sighing inwardly, Billy handed over the photos.

Augie immediately pulled out a shot of the guy with the glasses. “He's wearing the jacket from Red's place.”

“Yep. You think they were taken in Memphis?”

“James might know.”

Two guys sitting at a table behind them jumped to their feet and cheered the Braves for having beaten the Cards by four. Freeman stood and threw bills on the bar. Well over six feet, he had a craggy face, salt-and-pepper hair, and carried himself with the physicality of a younger man.

“James,” Augie called down the bar. “Able's got the pictures I told you about.”