The Gone Dead Train (2 page)

Red looked around, rheumy-eyed and unsteady on his feet, patting his jacket pocket with his hand as if reassuring himself. Before leaving for Atlanta, Billy heard Davis and Lacy had checked into Robert House to dry out. Judging by the pint in Red's pocket, that was over. He'd like to get the old guy off the bench before security came along and booted him out of the terminal. Not what he'd had in mind for the evening, but it needed to be done.

“Nice night,” he said, walking over and picking up the street odors clinging to Red's suit.

“You can kiss my ass too, Officer. I'm going to Chicago.”

No surprise Red had made him for a cop. The man must have spent a lifetime being hassled by rednecks carrying badges. He might be drunk, but his instincts weren't far off.

“I'm Billy Able. We met the night you and Little Man showcased on Riddle Street. We talked about Blues Alley, the old club on South Front. Remember?”

Red studied him, still suspicious. “I remember. Maybe.”

“The jukebox at Earnestine and Hazel's played ‘You Ain't Enough for Me' tonight. The crowd loved it.”

Red met his gaze, coming out of himself at the compliment. “That song's about men making fools a theirselves over women. I had me a lot of women. Beautiful women. Now I'm just an old fool. Ain't nothing so strong as old fool love.” He waved a finger at Billy. “Get old. You'll know.”

“Ruby Wilson had a stroke a couple of years ago, and she still sings at Itta Bena. You and Little Man could play club dates any night of the week to keep your hand in. It'd be like picking up money off the ground.” He tried to soften the tone of his criticism, but it didn't work.

Red reared back. “Ain't none a yo' damned business what I do. Me and Little Man worked twelve-hour days alongside grown men when we was kids. We got our reasons for not working now. And we ain't worried about the music. Every time we put it down, it comes back.” He coughed and dragged his hand over his mouth. “It always comes back.”

Billy pictured Little Man Lacy, tall and agile, a man without the power of speech but who could say all that needed to be said when he had a sax in his hand. Come to think of it, where was Little Man? The two men were always together.

“Where's your partner?”

Red coughed again and cut his eyes away.

Somewhere below the terminal, a door slammed. Red's body jerked, and a shadow overtook his face. Fishing out the bottle, he collapsed on the bench, his fingers shaking as he struggled with the cap. He took a long pull.

How had a man like Red Davis ended up creeping around a train station at midnight, looking spooked out of his mind?

Red lowered the bottle and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “That damned kid over there. He's got no right playing that song. Shit. That song's about dying. Heaven and hell. I know which direction I'm going. It's not too late for me.” He peered up at Billy. “You know which way you going, son? Is Jesus gonna save your soul?”

P
atrol Officer Frankie Malone began walking her shift at the south end of the downtown precinct. She looked in on the P. Wee Saloon, dead except for eight conventioneers who'd drifted down from Beale Street in search of a grittier scene. They were sitting with their backs to the bar, so tanked they needed to be strapped to their stools. A musician sat on the stage under a blue spot with his steel guitar laying across his thighs. He slid a bottle neck across the strings, his lips moving as he talked to himself, almost like he was playing at home alone. When the song ended, the out-of-towners whistled and stomped, breaking him out of his dream.

Frankie signaled the bartender. He nodded that he would call a couple of cabs rather than let the drunk tourists ride the trolley back to their hotel.

Two blocks up South Main she crossed the street to make a pass through Central Station, which closed in an hour. She would finish her foot patrol then pick up a cruiser and make her rounds in the rest of the ward.

Approaching the station, a metal door slammed open and a scowling teenager carrying a guitar case and amp stalked across the street to the Arcade Restaurant. He didn't look like trouble, so she let him go and took the stairs up to the main terminal. At the top of the steps, her hands went cold despite the warm night. She stopped to check the crescents of her thumbnails. They were blue. Been that way all day. Been that way since the accident.

The terminal was empty except for an elderly man sitting on the bench and a younger white guy who was talking to him. She recognized the older man as the musician, Red Davis, but she'd never had a reason to speak to him. The other man, maybe in his early thirties, was standing in front of Davis, staring down with a look of concern. At the sound of her steps, the younger man's hand brushed the small of his back, the reflexive move of a cop feeling for his weapon. He turned in her direction. She saw it was Detective Billy Able, looking thinner than she remembered, and tired. His hair was too long for her taste, but he was still attractive in that bad-boy way.

“Evening, Detective,” she called across the terminal.

“Evening, Officer,” Able responded.

She remembered his voice, smooth and disarming, God's gift in an interview room. That's where Able had made his reputation. She heard he could charm the panties off a nun. Seemed like he'd been gone for months, then she remembered his partner had died under questionable circumstances, followed by that nasty case involving Judge Overton and a little girl. The case had dominated the local news for weeks. She heard Able had taken a leave of absence after that and left town.

Giving her hands a quick rub, she walked up. “Frankie Malone. Good to see you back in Memphis.” They clasped hands. He blinked, most likely at the chill in her grip, and his gaze brushed her bruised cheek.

“This is Red Davis,” he said. “We were discussing heaven and hell.”

“And women,” Davis added. “We're talking about women.”

“Sorry for your loss, Mr. Davis.” She noticed Able's puzzlement and realized he might not have heard the news. “Little Man Lacy fell into a construction dig by the Blue Monkey Thursday night. The crew found him the next morning. Cause of death hasn't been determined.”

Able glanced at the old man, then back at her.

She'd been on the scene when the body came out of the hole. She left out the part about the whiskey bottle found beneath him. No reason to insult Davis by saying his friend got drunk, fell in a hole, and broke his neck.

She bent down to Red, seated on the bench, and spoke louder than she meant to. “I heard you checked into the ER on Thursday with chest pains. Are you feeling better?”

“I'm not deaf,” Red shouted back, then swigged from the pint he was holding.

She straightened. He was drunk and grieving, probably broke. Able was staring at Red in silence.

“You're here mighty late, Mr. Davis,” Able said.

“I was catching the train to Chicago, but the lady in the office said my New Orleans ticket wouldn't carry me all the way. I been sitting here cogitating on the situation. I got to get out of town.”

“So catch the morning train to New Orleans,” Frankie offered.

Red scratched his neck. “I got people in the burbs outside a Chicago. Don't want to go there and live down no rabbit trails, but I ain't got a choice.”

“You lost your partner. Time with family is a good idea,” Able said.

Red wiped his nose in a smooth motion of disdain. “You know about losing a partner. Lou Nevers talked to us regular when we was on the streets. I know what your partner did, and I know the reason he died. I'm gonna keep Lou and Little Man in my prayers every day.” He sniffed. “It was that shit jacket. Snakebit,
ebbo
, voodoo. Hell.”

Frankie heard “
ebbo
” and caught the reference. She could tell from Able's expression that the word meant nothing to him.

“What jacket?” he asked.

“Bought it at the Goodwill. It's cursed. I brought bad luck down on our heads. I should've been the one to pay, not Little Man.”

Frankie glanced around. “You got this jacket in a suitcase somewhere?”

Red drew himself up. “You don't carry a cursed thing around with you. You don't talk about
mbua
. Evil draws its power from words.”

A crackling sound spread across the ceiling. An echo boomed like artillery fire from the freight tunnels below. Red leaped to his feet, eyes bulging, and the bottle shattered on the floor. Weird sounds in the terminal didn't bother Frankie, but she understood why they bothered Red. The old man believed in Santería. He thought the Evils were after him. She glanced at Able, who had a mystified look on his face. He didn't understand Red's reaction, but he held out his hand anyway.

“Let me see your ticket,” he said.

Red fumbled in his pocket, the alcohol already working through his brain. Able took the ticket and strode up the steps to where the cashier was closing out the register.

Frankie disapproved of what Able was about to do. Her first year on the street she'd learned that handing out money didn't make a dent in people's desperation. Able was a veteran cop. His willingness to ante up for Red Davis surprised her.

He returned with a yellow ticket. “Next train for Chicago leaves at ten forty tomorrow night.” He pulled five twenties out of his wallet. “This is for food and a cab when you get to Chicago. Not for booze.”

Red's voice jumped to a higher register. “You ain't
hearing
me, son. I got responsibilities. I got to leave town
tonight
.” He stared helplessly at the bills and the ticket in Able's hand.

“The terminal closes in twenty minutes,” Frankie said. “I'll drive you over to Robert House. You can come back tomorrow.”

Red shook his head, resigned. “Thank you, ma'am. I got a place to stay.” He pocketed the money and the ticket. The side of his mouth twitched, and he eyed Able. “Lou Nevers told me about you. He said you're a smart cop, but you're too softhearted. Don't go believing every story you hear.” He waved them away. “Go on now. I'll get myself outta here. I got some thinking to do.”

They walked toward the stairs that led to the street-level entrance. She felt comfortable leaving Red. He had a pocket full of cash and a ticket to Chicago. Apparently, Able didn't see it that way. He paused at the steps and looked back at the old man now seated on the bench, his elbows resting on his knees and his long hands dangling. After a minute, Able followed her down the steps and out the door.

“See you around, Officer Malone,” he said with a half smile.

He couldn't know that a month ago she'd aced the promotions exam. A position was opening up on the homicide squad. His squad. She desperately wanted the job.

“I hope so,” she said under her breath, and waved.

They walked into the sultry night and went their separate ways.

A
persistent beeping jarred Billy out of a sound sleep. Opening one eye, he focused on the cheap paneled wall and the sunlight coming through the porthole, illuminating his unpacked suitcase. His shirt from the night before hung over the back of the chair. Somewhere on the slack water an outboard motor cranked until it caught.

He slapped the alarm's off button. It read 7:00
A.M.
The damned thing must have been going off every morning for the last nine months. He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, still able to feel Mercy as if she were curled against him while they slept.

He drifted off. The beeping started again. This time his feet hit the linoleum. Some jackass was honking his horn outside on the landing. He stomped through the barge to the front window and lifted the blind to see Frankie Malone standing beside her cruiser with her right arm stuck through the rolled-down window and her hand on the horn. She saw him at the window and stopped honking. He could tell she was agitated.

“Aw, hell, lady. What do you want now?” he mumbled and dropped the blind.

He wasn't about to get dragged into the personal drama of a woman he barely knew, but from the determined look on Officer Frankie's face, he was on her list. He went back for a shirt and to zip into his Levi's. He walked out on the deck, and let the door slam behind him, a signal that he wasn't at all happy with the situation.

He noticed she was inspecting his car with a slight smile, like she might know more about cars than most women and thought it was cool but couldn't quite place it. No wonder. Most 1986 Plymouth Turismos had been off the road for a while. This one had been stored in a barn down in Mississippi for seventeen years when he first saw it. He'd bought it on the spot and spent his summers between university semesters making it worth his ride.

He gave it a black matte finish and dropped in a rebuilt engine to replace the gutless four-banger that came standard. After that, he could outrun most street cars, surprising the hell out of them, especially on tight turns.

The Plymouth was the only car he'd ever fallen in love with. Maybe it was because it had no onboard computer and nothing on it ever broke. Or maybe it was because the damned car never let him down.

Frankie looked back across the barge's gangplank at him. Her cropped hair framed her classic good looks that contradicted the masculine cut of her uniform. A woman that attractive would be more effective working undercover or on plainclothes duty, which was probably where she was headed.

The bruise on her cheek he'd noticed the night before was even more visible now in the daylight.

“Good morning,” she said. “We've got a problem.”

“Maybe you do. I don't. I'm on vacation. You know what time it is?”

“Seven.”

“Are you nuts, honking like that?”

“I couldn't knock.” She pointed to the locked gate he'd installed at the foot of the ramp to keep tourists from boarding the barge.