Dark End Of The Street

Chapter 58

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.

I never 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.

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.”