Next call was to barracks commander Bailey, who pledged to send down a couple of retired state troopers to rotate shifts as deputies. "Believe me, they'll appreciate the chance to get out of the house."
Then Val.
"Let me guess. You're going to be away for a while." She laughed. "Commander Bailey told me." She was counsel for the barracks, after all. "Have to admit it came as no surprise. Any idea when you'll be back?"
"I'll call, let you know."
"You better."
"I'll miss you."
Another rapid burst of the laughter I had come so to treasure. "It's pitiful," she said, "how much I hoped you might say something like that."
Forty minutes later I was heading up Highway 51 in the Chariot, Lonnie's Jeep, with an overnight bag of underwear and socks, two shirts, spare khaki pants just in case, basic toiletries. The gun I never carried, a. 38 Police Special Don Lee insisted on providing me when I started working with him, lay swaddled in a hand towel, in a quart Glad bag, under the passenger seat. I imagined that I could feel it pulling at me from there, a gravity I was loath to give in to or admit.
I hadn't been back to Memphis in, what, close to two years? At some essential level it never seems to change much. More fast-food franchises and big-box stores pop up, the streets continue to crumble from center to sides, there are ever-longer sc entire office buildings. When the economy goes bad, the first leaks spring at the weakest segments. The Delta's been hard hit for decades. You cruise the main street in small towns like Helena, just down the river a piece, or over by Rosedale, half the stores are empty as old shoes. The river's still impressive, but it ceased offering much by way of economic advantage long ago.
Just inside the city limits, I stopped at Momma's Cafe for coffee and a burger. Place was all but hidden behind a thicket of service trucks and hard-ridden pickups. Even here in the South, central cities become ever more homogeneous, one long stuttering chain of McDonald's and KFC and Denny's, while local cafes and restaurants cling to the outskirts as though thrown there by centrifugal force. Nowadays I find I have to lower myself into the city environment, any city environment, by degrees, like a diver with bends coming up-but I'm going down. And Momma's was just right for it. From there I drove on in and dragged for a couple of hours the streets I used to run as a cop, feeling the city slowly fall into place around me. Drove north on Poplar where East High School once stood, now a nest of cozy aluminum-sided single-family dwellings with tiny manicured lawns front and back. Drove by Overton Square. Cruised down Walnut, took the left at Vance and crossed Orleans. Hit Able and proceeded north past Beale and Union. Swung by 102-A Birch Street where I'd shot my partner Randy.
When I worked out of it, Central Precinct was on South Flicker, second floor of the old Armor Station. Now it was housed at 426 Tillman in the Binghamton section, for many years a hard and hard-bitten part of the city that looked to be, especially with the recent completion of Sam Cooper Boulevard just north, on its way back.
I pulled into a visitor space, went in and gave my name and credentials to a sergeant at the front desk, who said someone would be with me directly. Directly, I surmised, here meant something on the order of any day now back home. Eventually Sergeant Collins came out from behind his desk and escorted me through a reef of battered metal desks to an office at the rear.
Sam Hamill had been a rookie along with me. Now, heaven help him, he was Major Hamill, the watch commander. Forty pounds heavier than back in the day, a lot less hair, deltas of fat deposits around the eyes. Wearing a navy gabardine suit and a charcoal knit tie that would have been the bee's knees circa 1970.
"Turner. Good Lord."
"Never know who or what's likely to walk into a police station, do you?"
He came up from behind the desk to shake my hand. Took some effort. Definitely the coming up from behind the desk.
Probably, too, in another way, shaking my hand.
"So how the hell've you been?"
"Away."
He eased himself back into his chair in a manner that brought hemorrhoids or getting shot in the butt to mind. "So I heard. Guys that told me, it was like, 'Hey, he's gone. Let's celebrate.'"
"Don't doubt it for a minute."
We sat regarding one another across the archipelago of his desk.
"You fucked up bad on the job, Turner."
"Not just on the job."
"What I heard." He stared, smiled and wheezed a bit before saying, "So where've you been?"
"Home, more or less."
"And now you're back."
"Briefly. Touching down. Here and gone before you know it."
"I was just on the phone with Lonnie Bates."
"Guess that explains why Sergeant Collins at the desk had me cooling my heels."
"Sheriff Bates speaks well of you. Seems a good man."
"He is. Would have made a great con artist. People tend to see him as just this hicktown officer, and he plays up to it, when the truth is, he's as smart and as capable as anyone I've ever worked with. Same goes for his deputy."
"Other deputy, you mean."
"Other deputy, right."
Sam nodded. When he did, cords of loose skin on his neck writhed. "Bates told me what happened."
He fiddled with a Webster cup. Clutch of ballpoint pens, letter opener, scissors, six-inch plastic ruler, couple of paper-sheathed soda straws, a cheap cigar in its wrapper.
"Deputy sheriff from another county won't hold much water here in Memphis."
"I know that. On the other hand, I do have a fugitive warrant."
"So Sheriff Bates informed me. So after I hung up from talking to him, I called over to our own sheriff's office and spoke with the fugitive squad there, people you'd ordinarily be expected to coordinate with. We help them out sometimes. Game of 'Mother May I?' is mostly what it is. You know how it works."
I nodded. "They give you permission to take one giant step?"
"So happens they did."
"Your town, Sam, and your call. Just I'd appreciate being there."
"Course, first we have to figure out where there is."
"Judd Kurtz doesn't ring any bells?"
"Not with me. Nino's we know. Also Semper Fi Investments. We keep an eye out. Hang on a minute."
He punched in an interoffice number, waited a couple of rings.
"Hamill. Any word on the street about a missing quarter-mill or so?… I see… Say I was to whisper the name Judd Kurtz in your ear, would it get me a kiss?… Thanks, Stan."
He hung up.
"Stan heads up our task force on organized crime. Says a week or two back, a minor leaguer made his rounds-passed the collection plate, as Stan put it-then went missing. Rumor has it he's a nephew to one of the bosses. Stan also says someone's tried his best to put a lid on it."
"But even the best lids leak."
Sam nodded.
"Stan have any idea where we can find this supposed nephew?"
"You really been away that long, Turner? You think we're gonna find this guy? What, he ripped off one of the bosses, then got himself arrested in the boondocks, made them send in the thick-necks? Those sound like career moves to you? Nephew or not, he's under Mud Island by now."
"In which case I need to find the thick-necks."
"How did I know?" Eyes went to the window looking out into the squad room. All the good stuff happened out there. He used to be out there himself. "You know your warrant doesn't cover them."
"I'm not asking you to help me, Sam. Just hoping you and your people won't get in my way."
"Oh, I think we can do a little better than that."
Again he punched in a number. "Tracy, you got a minute?" Ten, twelve beats and the door opened.
Thirtyish, button jeans, dark T-shirt with a blazer over, upturned nose, silver cuffs climbing the rim of one ear.