Dark End of the Street

“Detective Jenkins,” I said. “I’m looking into an old case of yours. It was a double murder in nineteen sixty-eight. Woman’s name was Mary James, she was pregnant at the time, and the man was a musician, name was Eddie Porter. Both were shot in the back of the head.”

I felt myself rambling, probably because Jenkins wasn’t showing any normal signs of listening. No nodding. No quizzical look. Didn’t even seem to be paying attention. He seemed more focused on a hole in the sock of his left foot.

“Do you remember?”

He pulled his foot to his body, examined the sock, and placed his foot back on the floor.

He shook his head, looked over at U, and grinned. He stayed silent. Somewhere down the street someone was mowing the yard. Jenkins’s face was covered in white whiskers and he’d spilled grape jelly across the front of his shirt.

“Would you look at the case file if we brought it by?”

“Y’all don’t have the right.”

“Excuse me?”

He grinned to himself again, full of self-important knowledge that someone still needed him after all these years.

“Y’all don’t work for the department. Why do you care?”

“One of the suspects is a friend.”

He nodded, then his face crossed with great aggravation with the growing sound of a lawn mower cutting too close to his yard. He stood, cranked open the window, and craned his old head outside. “Damn fudge packers. Taken over this whole street. Suppose to raise property values but all they do is leave little typed notes for me about my yard in my mailbox. I don’t know why those deviants don’t go back and hide like they should.”

I watched his face heat with anger as he sat back down on the bucket, his eyes flashed once again with a realization of what we were discussing.

He looked at the decaying walls covered in glue and loose bits of wallpaper and the sagging ceiling and sighed. “I’m sorry, don’t remember the case.”

“Can we bring by that case file? Maybe it’ll jar your memory, sir.”

“I don’t think it needs to be of your concern,” he said, and suddenly jumped up and hobbled from the room. “Good day.”

U crossed his arms over his chest and said, “Nice man. Think I’ll call him Grandpa.”

I followed Jenkins into a family room. White sofa. White coffee table. White walls. Even white carpet. But the crispness of the room had long since faded. All the white had become a little more yellowed. The carpet mostly a muddy brown.

Jenkins turned on a ‘sixties console television and began watching a Spanish soap opera.

“I need some help, sir,” I said. “I can be back in five minutes with that file. Maybe you can just remember a little piece.”

About ten seconds later, he turned and looked at me. Full attention now. His rat nose flaring. “Son, I kept every one of my case files. I know every one of ’em like I know my own name. Don’t talk to me like I’m some sad old man.”

“I need five minutes.”

“I need to be left alone.”

I didn’t move. I watched him slump into a well-worn seat surrounded by opened cans of cheap beer and packs of saltine crackers and Vienna sausages.

He didn’t look back. Only spoke: “You playin’ with some mighty powerful people, son. And I don’t think you’ve brought enough chips to the game.”

I opened my mouth to speak. But he was done. His eyes had glazed back over reflecting with the colorful lights playing on the screen before him and living with the decayed memories of a life he’d known a long time ago.

I planned on coming back with the file. Fuck him, I thought. I could break him down. Shit, probably only needed some decent food and a six-pack. But as U and I walked out the open door, I saw a basket hanging from the wall. A familiar logo stuffed among the bills caught my attention.

A Confederate flag. Three strong stamped letters: SOS.

Chapter 54

HIDDEN PLANS, SECRET AGENDAS. All kinds of things that Jon didn’t care squat about. He’d driven back to Tunica last night, kind of liked livin’ in that penthouse that Mr. Ransom set up. People even brought him some tinfoil to cover up the windows so he could sleep till noon. He’d prefer to sleep through the day, though. That way the sunlight wouldn’t taint his soul, he thought, stiffenin’ the jacket of his denim suit and loosenin’ the yellow scarf around his neck. Dang thing still smelled like magnolias. Ain’t that funny?

He danced a little ole move on the elevator he’d learned from Elvis: That’s the Way It Is, and ended the dance in a karate down-block. “Kiya,” he yelled as the door opened to the lobby and he almost near knocked an ole woman in her snout.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said. He hustled by her, slippin’ another Benzedrine onto his tongue, feelin’ the medicine dissolve. He rubbed his hands together like he was gonna be eatin’ a big feast as he stepped into the wide parking lot lookin’ for Ransom’s sweet ride.