"Tracy Caulding, Deputy Sheriff Turner. Believe it or not, this man used to be one of ours. The two of us came on the job together, in fact."
"Wow. Now there's a recommendation."
"Back home, his sheriff got taken down by some of our local hardcases. Turner would like to meet them."
"Taken down?"
"He's alive. Badge is gonna spend some time in the drawer, though."
"That really blows."
"No argument from me. City rats gone country, Tracy. It's not their territory, what the fuck? They're in, they're out, they're gone."
"Where am I in this, Sam?"
"You ever said 'sir' or 'boss' your whole life?"
"Not as I recall. My mother-"
"Was a hardcore feminist, six books, whistle-blower on the evils of society. I do read personnel files, Tracy."
She smiled, quite possibly in that moment adding to global warming.
"Thing is, Turner here's been away a while. We don't want him getting lost. Show him around, help facilitate his reentry."
"Ride shotgun is what you mean," Tracy Caulding said.
"I don't need protection, Sam."
"I know you don't, old friend. What I'm thinking is, with you back, maybe we do."
CHAPTER SIX
Had a wonderful barbeque dinner that night, Tracy Caulding and I, at Sonny Boy's #2 out on Lamar: indoor picnic benches, sweaty plastic pitchers of iced tea, roll of paper towels at each table. There was no Sonny Boy's #1, Tracy told me-not that, after a bite or two, anyone was likely to care. Amazing, blazing pork, creamy cool cole slaw, butterbeans and pinto beans baked together, biscuits. "Biscuits fresh ever hour," according to a hand-lettered sign.
For all its cultural razing, Memphis remains one of the great barbeque towns.
Tracy lowered a stand of ribs she'd sucked dry onto her plate and, tearing off a panel of paper towel, wiped her mouth as lustily as she'd taken to the barbeque. She picked up another segment of ribs, held it poised for launch, told me: "Stan Dimitri and I had coffee together this afternoon. From organized crime? He filled me in on the Aleche network."
"That what they're calling them now? Networks? To us they were just gangs."
"Then for a while it went to crews. Now it's networks. This one's responsible for much of the money that gets dry-cleaned through Semper Fi Investments. Run by, if you can believe it, a Native American who passes himself off as some sort of Mediterranean. Born Jimmy McCallum, been going by Jorge Aleche for years now."
"He the one with the nephew?"
"Stan thinks so."
"Stan thinks-that's the best you have?"
Shrugging. "What can I say?"
"Well… What I think is, it's time for a massive rattling of the cage."
The second portion of ribs dropped onto her plate. A third or fourth paper towel wiped away sins of the immediate past. Older sins took a bit longer.
"And here Sam thinks you're out of touch." She held up her beer, tipping its neck towards me. "I know who you are, Turner."
"I'd be surprised if you didn't. However big the city, the job's always a small town."
"I started hearing stories about you the day I first hit the streets."
"And I remember the first time I looked in a car's rearview mirror and saw the legend 'Objects May Be Closer Than They Appear.'"
"What the fuck's that mean?"
"That you can't trust stories."
"Yeah, but how many of us ever get to have stories told about us?" She drained her beer. "You notice how these bottles keep getting smaller?"
From the breast pocket of her blazer she took a narrow reporter's notebook. Found a free page, scribbled addresses and phone numbers, tore the page off and passed it me.
"Consider it part of your orientation package."
"You memorized all this?"
"Some people have trick joints, like their thumbs bend back to their forearms? I have a trick memory. I hear something, see something, I've got it forever."
"Buy you another beer before the bottles get too small? Alcohol kills brain cells, you know-could help wean you off that memory thing."
"Worth a try."
I got the waiter's attention, ordered another beer for Tracy, bourbon straight up for myself. He brought them and began clearing plates.
"Speaking of stories, I remember one I read years ago," Tracy said. "I was into science fiction then, and new to reading. Every book I opened was a marvel. One of the older writers-Kuttner, Kornbluth, those guys. People lived almost forever. But every hundred years or so they had to come back to this center where they'd plunge into this pool and swim across it. To rejuvenate them, I'm sure the story pointed out. Symbol of rebirth. But what I got from it was how the water of that miraculous pool would take away their memories, wipe them clean, let them go on."
I took a fond, measured sip of my bourbon. There was a time in my life when measured sips hadn't been called for. That whole measurement thing creeps up on us. Start off counting hairs in the bathtub drain, before we know it we're telling people we're only allowed a cup and a half of coffee a day, reading labels for saturated-fat content, trying to portion out our losses, like a double-entry accountant, to history and failing memory.
"I'm not sure I know how to respond," I told Tracy.
"Yeah. Me either. Exactly what I mean. Four hundred killed when the roof of a substandard apartment building collapses in Pakistan. A fifteen-year-old goes into his high school with an assault weapon and kills three teachers, the principal, twelve fellow students. Half the citizens of some country you never heard of go after the other half, kill or butcher them and bulldoze them into mass graves. There's a proper response to something like that? You get to wishing you could go for a swim, wipe it all away. But you can't."
We tossed off the remainder of our drinks in silence and called it a night. Enough of the world's eternal problems and our own.
"Check in tomorrow?" Tracy said.
"First thing."
"Where are you staying?"
Since I was here on my own dime, I'd taken the cheapest room I could find, at Nu-Way Motel on the city's outer rings. Each unit was painted a different pastel shade, mine what I could only think of as Pepto-Bismol pink. A stack of fifties magazines inside would not have surprised.
Walking Tracy Caulding to her blue Honda Civic, I gave her my location, room and phone number. "No need to write them down for you's my guess," I said, getting another glimpse of the smile that had lit up Sam's office back at the station. From habit I looked in to clear the car, saw a ziggurat of textbooks on the back seat.
"What's this? Not a dedicated law officer?"
She held up her hands, palm out, in mock surrender. "Got me dead to rights."
"Graduate school, from the look of it."
"I confess. M.A. in social work, six credits to go."
She leaned back against the rear door, tugging at the silver-cuffed ear.
"Cop was the last thing I thought I'd be. From the time I was eleven, twelve years old, I was going to be a teacher. Nose forever in a book and all that. But I grew up in a trailer park, no way my parents could afford even local colleges. I had grand ambitions, though, applied all over the mid-South, even places like Tulane and Duke. Memphis State came through with a full scholarship. I had a job teaching sixth grade promised before I'd even graduated. Five weeks in, I walked away from it."
She put her hand on my arm.
"Everything I'd taken for granted all those years was gone. I had no idea who I was, what I could do, and I had to work. Of a Sunday morning I was reading want ads when one at the very corner of the page caught my eye. Police badge to the left. Have a degree? it said. Want to make a difference?-or something equally lame. Another of the department's periodic thrusts to improve its image. Wanted people with degrees, offered an accelerated training program for those who qualified. So here I am. Telling you way more than you wanted to know. Sorry."