Hound Dog Blues (25 page)

Kicking back in a folding chair at a long table covered with butcher’s paper, she chowed down on a huge sandwich dripping with sweet, tangy sauce, pulled pork that was juicy, tender, and crisp on the edges, and topped with a generous mound of fresh coleslaw between two buns the size of dinner plates. Just the way she liked it. Messy.

“Ever had better?” Butch wanted to know when she’d wedged the last bite into her mouth and she shook her head.

“Never,” she said when she could talk again. “It’s the sauce.”

“And the slow cooking. We’ve been at it since Wednesday. Judging’s tomorrow. I think we have a good shot at it this year. Came close last year. What you been up to, Harley girl?”

“Working. I brought some tourists down to sample beer and barbecue.”

“Not a bad job. Guess you aren’t with that banking company anymore, huh. The one you worked at last time I saw you.”

“Nope. Stress got to me. Now I just deal with drunks and old ladies. It has its moments.”

A fat man in Spandex shorts and no shirt jiggled into the booth; he was bald, wore a pink plastic pig snout held on with elastic bands over his ears, and had a cup of beer in each hand.

“Hey, cutie,” he said, leering at Harley, “wanna come dance?”

Music blasted from all the booths, country, rock and roll, and bluegrass, CD players vying for air space. The Porky Pigs had opted for country, and Travis Tritt belted out a song about love gone wrong. Like that was a new theme.

“No,” she said politely, “but thanks for asking.”

“C’mon, baby, it’s time to par-tay.” He bounced around, rolls of fat jiggling so hard it was a wonder he didn’t start a seismic episode. Maybe he didn’t realize Memphis was on the New Madrid fault line and earthquakes were predicted for some time in the next century.

“She’s not interested, Junior,” Butch said, and gave the fat man a shove that sent him back toward the gate in the white picket fence erected around their booth. “Drunks,” he observed genially as Junior ambled away, then poured a cup of beer down his throat and belched. “You ought to come work for me, Harley-hoo. It’d give you a chance to Mace guys like Junior.”

She grinned. “Thanks, but I’m already packing.”

He squinted at her pepper spray on her belt. “Damn if you ain’t. You always were the most dangerous girl in the neighborhood.”

That gave her an idea. He’d grown up on Carnes, right around the corner from Mrs. Trumble. Not really expecting success, she asked if he’d known Mrs. Trumble’s nephews.

“The weasels? Yeah. A little. They were a couple of years older than me, about seven or eight years older than you, I guess. They didn’t hang around much when they came down for their summer vacation. Not that I blamed ’em since they had to deal with Trumble. Crazy old bat. I heard she recently got killed in a home invasion.”

“Yeah, that’s the story.” How tactful of him not to mention Yogi and Diva.

“Wouldn’t put it past Archie and Neil to go in like vultures now. They moved down here a while back, heard that they visited her every blue moon. Probably couldn’t stand each other’s company too much. Not that that’d stop ’em from wanting anything they could get.”

“Neil?” She frowned. Why did that name ring a bell? “Archie’s brother?”

“Yeah. The two of ’em had different last names. Half-brothers. Archie’s daddy came from up in Michigan somewhere, I think. Why you askin’ about those screw-ups?”

He looked a little drunk, but it was hard to tell with Butch. He always had such a happy expression anyway.

“Well, Mrs. Trumble’s dead now. Makes you wonder about her family, y’know? She used to give us all such a hard time. I never really thought about her having her family visit, especially kids. Maybe that’s why I never met them. And, of course, she hated us.”

“Hell, Harley, I’d have hated us, too. We used to hang out on my corner and get into all kinds of shit.”

“It was fun.”

“Oh yeah.”

Reminiscing was always fun, sometimes helpful. Like now. It had popped into her head why the name Neil rang a bell. The manager at Jernigan’s Jewelers was named Neil Campbell. It was one more link. Bobby really shouldn’t underestimate her. Neither should Morgan.

It was hot and muggy, even with a fan blowing pork fumes across the plywood and canvas booth built to look like a farmhouse. Plaster and concrete barnyard animals had been set on lurid green outdoor carpet, and bales of hay were strategically planted all around the fifteen square foot area. Wooden blocks spelled out
The Porky Pigs
on a weathered plank hung above the gate. The booth directly across the wide stretch of avenue crowded with people had a Hawaiian theme. Hula dancers swayed provocatively in grass skirts, but the effect was somewhat diluted by pink plastic snouts. Miss Piggy goes Hawaiian was painted on a piece of driftwood stuck into mounds of sand scattered over their allotted space. A couple of fake palm trees with real coconuts swayed in the rising wind. It was nice just sitting and enjoying the crowd and warm weather. She could almost forget everything but the moment.

Still, she kept an eye on the darkening clouds over Arkansas. If it rained, she’d rather be in the lobby of The Peabody than trudging through mud. Besides, she had a couple of calls to make, and it wasn’t exactly quiet here. Bands were cranking up near the huge metal scaffold erected at the other end of the park. She sat back and enjoyed the day while she could.

She hadn’t run into any members of the group she’d brought to the barbecue, but she doubted they’d care about the rain. It was nearly five now, and she hadn’t heard from them. Two more hours and she’d be free, but the approaching storm apparently had other ideas.

Clouds moved in fast, and the wind picked up. Butch gave her another hug and insisted she take some barbecue with her. It had begun to rain by the time she reached the gates at the foot of Beale Street. Slow at first, then faster, it came quickly across the river like storms so often did. Only this one looked pretty bad. Officials using bullhorns ordered everyone in the park to leave, even those participating in the cook-off. People vacated Tom Lee Park in droves, funneling like lemmings through the gates. Fierce winds blew canvas tents and trash all over the bluffs, whipping rain against people and cars. The smell of rain diluted exhaust fumes and made streets slippery. Cars switched on headlights and horns brayed warnings. At the first sign of any inclement weather, Memphis drivers turned into complete idiots with homicidal tendencies. Tempers flared, metal bent, and police handed out tickets like Mardi Gras beads. The drive back to the Marriott ought to be really fun.

By the time she reached the hotel she was drenched. Even her tennis shoes squelched with each step. Her tee shirt stuck to her like a second skin and the hem of her jeans flapped against her bare ankles. It was uncomfortable, and worse—cold. Her sports bra did little to hide the fact her own headlights were on, nipples beaded up and very visible under thin white cotton.

Teeth chattering, she crossed her arms over her chest and stood in the lobby while she tried to figure out what to do. A trip to the bathroom might help assess the damage. It was just off the lobby past the pay phones, and a line curled out into the hallway. She wasn’t the only one to take refuge. She looked longingly at the lobby bar. Irish coffee sure would taste good right now.

Wedging her way into the crowded Ladies room finally, she let out an “
Eek!”
when she saw her reflection. Mascara streaked her cheeks, her hair stuck out in wiry spikes, and she had barbecue sauce on her chin. Not her best look.

It didn’t take too long or much effort to scrub her face, but the hair took ingenuity. Gel had clumped into a gooey mess not even her comb could separate, and ignoring the horrified look from the restroom attendant, she stuck her head in the sink. It was the only way. When she came up dripping, the attendant handed her a small terry cloth towel. It was worth a five dollar tip when she left.

She went outside to the covered walkway and sat on a bench away from lobby music and conversation, and dialed Tootsie. He hadn’t heard from Harley’s group yet and declined her suggestion they go out to Jackson Avenue later on. He didn’t even sound too sorry about it.

“Can’t make it. Did you call Baroni?”

“You’re turning into a nag, Tootsie. That’s not an attractive quality in a man wearing chiffon.”

“Bitch,” he said affectionately. “Now answer my question.”

“Bobby’s not interested. He thinks I’m crazy and making stuff up. And I’m about halfway convinced Bruno’s a lost cause. He may be working for the dark side.”

“It’s always possible. Take my advice—and I know you won’t—go to a movie tonight. Stay away from Jackson Avenue. Let the cops handle it, baby.”

“That’s just it. They aren’t handling it. They’re after Yogi and not paying any attention to the guilty guys. All I need is some solid proof to get Bobby to listen.”

“Just what kind of proof do you expect to get?”

“I don’t know.” That was, unfortunately, true. She hadn’t the least idea what would turn the light bulb on for Bobby. “Photos, maybe.”

“Of—?”

“Pictures of thieves in action, or maybe stolen jewelry. Christ, Tootsie, offer suggestions instead of questions.”

“You aren’t listening to my suggestions.”

“I hate it when you’re right. Okay. I’ll stay away from Jackson. Maybe Cami will help me clean up my apartment instead. It looks like hell.”

“Come by and see my show if you’re out later. I go on at ten.”

“I’ll bring that dress to you Monday, I swear. I oughta be able to find it by then.”

“No sweat, baby. I’m feeling more Marilyn than Liza tonight anyway. Storms always make me feel blond instead of brunette.”

“You’re so crazy.”

He laughed in a throaty, Marilyn Monroe kinda way and hung up.

She called Cami, but there was no answer. Probably feeding the zoo. She’d just get rid of the Marriott guys, then clean up the van and head that way. Good thing the storm had put an end to a long evening baby-sitting drunks.

This time, Bailey sat in the rear of the van, reeling and singing all the way to the Marriott in East Memphis. It took nearly an hour due to the wet streets, traffic lights out, and the usual crazy drivers. By eight o’clock, she’d cleaned the van and let herself into the office to log herself out and leave the keys. Old Mr. Grinder greeted her in the lobby on her way out, and he spent fifteen minutes giving her a replay of the break-in the night before.

“I might’a got ’em if I’d seen ’em,” he vowed, “but they got clean away. Guess they knew better than to mess with me.” He looked like a dried apple doll, all wizened and shrunken, with tufts of white hair sprouting randomly atop his head, but he obviously had an exaggerated sense of his own power.

“You’re fearsome, Mr. Grinder. I wouldn’t want to mess with you.”

That was very true. He’d probably end up shooting her by mistake.

The last shreds of light were fading when she reached Cami’s house. No lights were on. It had rained here, too, though it didn’t look like it had stormed as badly. It was weird that Cami’s house was the only one without lights. Streetlights put off a fuzzy glow and neighbors had lights.

Even stranger, the front door was unlocked so that all she had to do was walk inside. The dogs met her barking frantically, but there wasn’t a cat to be seen. “Curiouser and curiouser,” she muttered, feeling a lot like Alice in Wonderland. She flicked on the den light but nothing was out of place that she could see. Of course, it might be hard to tell, with cat toys littering the floor and doggy doodles here and there.

“Hey Cami?” No answer. There was no sign of her in the house, and she wasn’t outside on the wooden deck or in the backyard. The Saturn still sat in the garage. Hair prickled on the back of Harley’s neck as she walked back through the house. It was just as odd that there were no cats as it was that there was no Cami. A dozen cats would be hard to miss.

Going back to the kitchen, she flipped on an overhead light. A white sheet of paper stirred under a magnet on the refrigerator. It was short and to the point: