Cypress Grove E-Book

James Sallis

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Turner Trilogy
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 293

Beschreibung

James Sallis is one of our great stylists and storytellers, whose deep interest in human nature is expressed in the powerful stories of men too often at odds with themselves as well as with the world around them. Where Turner moved is one of America's lost places, halfway between Memphis and forever. A place where you can bury the past and escape the pain of human contact, where you are left alone unless you want company, where conversation happens only when there's something to say, where you can sit and watch an owl fly silently across the face of the moon. Where Turner hoped to forget that he was a cop, a psychotherapist, and an ex-con. There was no major crime to speak of until Sheriff Lonnie Bates arrived on Turner's porch with a bottle of bourbon and a problem: A drifter's body has been found brutally and ritualistically murdered, and Bates needs Turner's help. Thrust back into the middle of what he left behind, Turner slowly becomes reacquainted not only with the darkness he had fled, but with the unsuspected kindness of others. Cypress Grove is lyrical, moving, and filled with the sense of place and character that only our finest writers can achieve. It is proof positive that the acclaim James Sallis has enjoyed for years is richly deserved.

Leseprobe

The first part of James Sallis’ sequence of Turner Novels

The small town where Turner moved is one of America’s lost places, halfway between Memphis and forever. That makes it a perfect hide-away: A place where you can bury the past and escape the pain of human contact, where you are left alone unless you want company, where conversation happens only when there’s something to say, where you can sit and watch an owl fly silently across the face of the moon. And where Turner hoped to forget that he was a cop, a psychotherapist, and always an ex-con.

There was no major crime to speak of until Sheriff Lonnie Bates arrived on Turner’s porch with a bottle of Wild Turkey and a problem: The body of a drifter has been found—brutally and ritualistically murdered—and Bates and his deputy need help from someone with big-city experience who appreciates the delicacy of investigating people in a small town. Thrust back into the middle of what he left behind, Turner slowly becomes reacquainted not only with the darkness he had fled, but with the unsuspected kindness of others.

James Sallis has published fourteen novels, multiple collections of short stories, essays, and poems, books of musicology, a biography of Chester Himes, and a translation of Raymond Queneau’s novel Saint Glinglin. He has written about books for the L.A. Times, New York Times, and Washington Post, and for some years served as a books columnist for the Boston Globe. In 2007 he received a lifetime achievement award from Bouchercon. In addition to Drive, the six Lew Griffin books are now in development as feature films. Jim teaches novel writing at Phoenix College and plays regularly with his string band, Three-Legged Dog. He stays busy.

SELECTED WORKS BY JAMES SALLIS

Novels Published by No Exit Press

The Long-Legged Fly – Lew Griffin Book One, 1992

Moth – Lew Griffin Book Two, 1993

Black Hornet – Lew Griffin Book Three, 1994

Death Will Have Your Eyes, 1997

Eye of the Cricket – Lew Griffin Book Four, 1997

Bluebottle – Lew Griffin Book Five, 1998

Ghost of a Flea – Lew Griffin Book Six, 2001

Cypress Grove – Turner Trilogy Book One, 2003

Drive, 2005

Cripple Creek – Turner Trilogy Book Two, 2006

Salt River – Turner Trilogy Book Three, 2007

The Killer Is Dying, 2011

Driven, 2012

Other Novels

Renderings

What You Have Left: The Turner Trilogy

Stories

A Few Last Words

Limits of the Sensible World

Time’s Hammers: Collected Stories

A City Equal to my Desire

Poems

Sorrow’s Kitchen

My Tongue In Other Cheeks: Selected Translations

As Editor

Ash of Stars: On the Writing of Samuel R. Delany

Jazz Guitars

The Guitar In Jazz

Other

The Guitar Players

Difficult Lives

Saint Glinglin by Raymond Queneau (translator)

Chester Himes: A Life

A James Sallis Reader

Praise forCypress Grove

‘Sallis’s deceptively easy style disguises the skill with which he has produced a satisfyingly complete portrait of a man’s life’

– Telegraph

‘As Turner’s memories are unlocked, so are his feelings — and his language…Although he went out to find a killer, Turner earns his redemption by finding his own lost voice.’

– New York Times

‘features another complex protagonist and a story brimming with Southern atmosphere…Cypress Grove should attract an even broader audience for [Sallis’] visually tantalizing, astute observations on crime and the human condition’

– Los Angeles Times

‘Sallis is a fastidious man, intelligent and widely read. There’s nothing slapdash or merely strategic about his work … peculiar and visionary’

– London Review of Books

‘As Turner’s memories are unlocked, so are his feelings — and his language… Although he went out to find a killer, Turner earns his redemption by finding his own lost voice’

– New York Times

‘This compelling book is beautifully written. It flows naturally off the pages like a lazy Southern river on a hot, steamy summer’s night … Its style, story-telling, psychological elements, are all masterful… a book to be savoured’

– Mystery Review

‘Sallis, a poet in private eye’s clothing, has found in Turner a rich new character to hang around with. Let’s hope this isn’t the last we see of him’

– Boston Globe

Praise for James Sallis

‘Sallis is an unsung genius of crime writing’

– Independent on Sunday

‘James Sallis is a superb writer’

– Times

‘James Sallis – he’s right up there, one of the best of the best… Sallis, also a poet, is capable of smart phrasing and moments of elegiac energy’

– Ian Rankin, Guardian

‘[A] master of America noir…Sallis creates vivid images in very few words and his taut, pared down prose is distinctive and powerful’

– Sunday Telegraph

‘Sallis’s spare, concrete prose achieves the level of poetry’

– Telegraph

‘Sallis is a wonderful writer, dark, lyrical and compelling’

– Spectator

‘Sallis is a fastidious man, intelligent and widely read. There’s nothing slapdash or merely strategic about his work’

– London Review of Books

‘Unlike those pretenders who play in dark alleys and think they’re tough, James Sallis writes from an authentic noir sensibility, a state of mind that hovers between amoral indifference and profound existential despair’

– New York Times

‘Carefully crafted, restrained and eloquent’

– Times Literary Supplement

‘James Sallis is without doubt the most underrated novelist currently working in America’

– Catholic Herald

‘Sallis writes crime novels that read like literature’

– Los Angeles Times

www.noexit.co.uk

To the memory of

DAMON KNIGHT

Great man,

great friend,

greatly missed

My thanks to George Gibson and Michael Seidman for their patience and persistent support;

to Vicky, as always;

and to Major Mark Collins of the Memphis Police Department.

If your kneebone achin’

and your body cold …

You just gettin’ ready, honey,

for the cypress grove.

—Skip James, “Cypress Grove Blues”

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

James Sallis Collection

Chapter One

IHEARDTHEJEEPAHALFMILEOFF. It came up around the lake, and when it hit the bend, birds took flight. They boiled up out of the trees, straight up, then, as though heavy wind had caught them, veered abruptly, all at once, sharp right. Most of those trees had been standing forty or fifty years. Most of the birds had been around less than a year and wouldn’t be around much longer. I was somewhere in between.

I watched the Jeep as it emerged from trees and the driver dropped into third for the glide down that long incline to the cabin. Afternoon light on the lake turned it to tinfoil. Not much sound. High-in-the-throat hum of the well-maintained engine. From time to time the rustle of dry leaves as wind struck them and they tried to ring like bells there on the trees.

He pulled up a few yards distant, under the pecan tree. Shells on its yield so hard you had to stomp them to get to half a spoonful of meat. I swore that squirrels left them lined up under tires for cracking and sat alongside waiting. He got out of the Jeep and stood beside it. Wearing gray work clothes from Sears, old-fashioned wide-top Wellingtons and what looked to be an expensive hat, though one that would have been more at home further south and west. He stood leaning back against the driver’s door with arms crossed, looking around. Folks around here don’t move fast. They grow up respecting other folks’ homes, their land and privacy, whatever lines have been drawn, some of them invisible. Respecting the history of the place, too. They sidle up, as they say; ease into things. Maybe that’s why I was here.

“Good afternoon,” he said, final syllable turned up slightly in such a way that his utterance might be taken as observation, greeting, query.

“They all are.”

He nodded. “There is that. Even the worst of them, here in God’s country… Not interrupting anything, I hope.”

I shook my head.

“Good. That’s good.” He pushed himself off the door, turned to reach inside, came out with a paper sack. “Looks to be room for the both of us up there on that porch.”

I waved him aboard. Settling into the other chair, like my own a straightback kitchen chair gone rickety and braced with crisscrosses of sisal twine, he passed across the sack.

“Brought this.”

I skinned paper back to a bottle of Wild Turkey.

“Talk to Nathan, by some chance?”

My visitor nodded. “He said, as the two of us hadn’t met before, it might be a good idea to bring along a little something. Grease the wheels.”

Nathan’d lived in a cabin up here for sixty years or more. Step on his land, whoever you were, you’d get greeted with a volley of buckshot; that’s what everyone said. But not long after I moved in, Nathan started turning up with a bottle every few weeks and we’d sit out here on the porch or, coolish days, inside by the fire, passing the bottle wordlessly back and forth till it was gone.

I went in to get glasses. Poured us both tall soldiers and handed his across. He held it up to the light, sipped, sighed.

“Been meaning to get up this way and say hello,” he said. “Things keep shouldering in, though. I figured it could wait. Not like either of us was going anywhere.”

That was it for some time. We sat watching squirrels climb trees and leap between them. I’d nailed an old rusted pan onto the pecan tree and kept it filled with pecans for them. From time to time one or the other of us reached out to pour a freshener. Nothing much else moved. Up here you’re never far away from knowing that time’s an illusion, a lie.

We were into the last couple of inches of the bottle when he spoke again.

“Hunt?”

I shook my head. “Did my share of it as a boy. I think that may have been the only thing my old man loved. Game on the table most days. Deer, rabbit, squirrel, quail and dove, be begging people to take some. He never used anything but a .22.”

“Gone now?”

“When I was twelve.”

“Mine too.”

I went in and made coffee, heated up stew from a couple of days back. When I returned to the porch with two bowls, dark’d gone halfway up the trees and the sounds around us had changed. Insects throbbed and thrummed. Frogs down by the lake sang out with that hollow, aching sound they have.

“Coffee to follow,” I told him. “Unless you want it now.”

“After’s fine.”

We sat over our stew. I’d balanced a thick slab of bread on each bowl, for dunking. Since I’d baked the bread almost a week before and it was going hard on stale, that worked just fine. So for a time we spooned, slurped, dunked and licked. Dribbles ran down shirtfronts and chins. I took in the bowls, brought out coffee.

“Never been much inclined to pry into a man’s business.”

Steam from the cups rose about our faces.

“Why you’re here, where you’re from, all that. Folks do pay me to keep track of what’s going on in these parts, though. Like a lot of things in life, striking a balance’s the secret to it.”

Frogs had given up. Paired by now. Shut out by darkness. Resigned to spending their evening or life alone. Time for mosquitoes to take over, and they swarmed about us. I went in to replenish our coffee and, returning, told him, “No great secret to it. I was a cop. Spent eleven years in prison. Spent a few more years as a productive citizen. Then retired and came here. No reason things have to get more complicated than that.”

He nodded. “Always do, though. It’s in our nature.”

I watched as a mosquito lit on the back of my hand, squatted a moment and flew away. A machine, really. Uncomplicated. Designed and set in motion to perform its single function perfectly.

“Can I do something for you, Sheriff?”

He held up his cup. “Great coffee.”

“Bring a pot of water to boil, take it off the fire and throw in coffee. Cover and let sit.”

“That simple.”

I nodded.

He took another sip and looked about. “Peaceful out here, isn’t it?”

“Not really.”

An owl flew by, feet and tail of its prey, a rodent of some sort, dangling.

“Tell the truth, I kind of hoped I might be able to persuade you to help me. With a murder.”

Chapter Two

LIFE,SOMEONESAID,ISWHATHAPPENS while we’re waiting around for other things to happen that never do.

Amen! as Brother Douglas would have said, hoisting his Bible like a sword and brandishing it there framed by stained-glass windows depicting the Parable of the Talents, Mary Magdalene at the tomb, the Assumption.

Back then and back home, there among kudzu in the westward cup of Crowley’s Ridge and eastward levees built to keep the river out, I’d been a golden child, headed for greatness—greatness meaning only escape from that town and its mean horizons. I’d ridden the cockhorse of a scholarship down the river to New Orleans, then back up it to Chicago (following the course of jazz) where, once I had secured a fellowship, head and future pointed like twin bullets towards professordom. Then our President went surreptitiously to war and took me with him. Walking on elbows through green even greener than that I’d grown up among, I recited Chaucer, recalled Euclid, enumerated, as a means of staying awake and alert, principles of economy—and left them there behind me on the trail: spore, droppings.

No difficulty for this boy, rejoining society. I got off the plane on a Friday, in Memphis, stood outside the bus station for an hour or so without going inside, then left. Never made it home. Found a cheap hotel. Monday I walked halfway across the city to the PD and filled out an application. Why the PD? After all these years, I can’t remember any particular train of thought that led me there. I’d spent two and a half years getting shot at. Maybe I figured that was qualification enough.

Weeks later, instead of walking on elbows, I was sitting in a Ford that swayed and bucked like a son of a bitch, cylinders banging the whole time. Still making my way through the wilderness, though. If anything, the city was a stranger, more alien place to me than the jungle had been. Officer Billy Nabors was driving. He had breath that would peel paint and paper off walls and singe the pinfeathers off chickens.

“What I need you to do,” he said, “is just shut the fuck up and sit there and keep your eyes open. Till I tell you to do something else, that’s all I need you to do.”

He hauled the beast down Jefferson towards Washington Bottoms, over a spectacular collection of potholes and into what appeared to be either a long-abandoned warehouse district or the set for some postwar science fiction epic. We pulled up alongside the only visible life-forms hereabouts, all of them hovering about a Spur station advertising “Best Barbecue.” A four-floor apartment house across the street had fallen into itself and a young woman sat on the curb outside staring at her shoes, strings of saliva snailing slowly down a black T-shirt reading ATEFULDED. A huge rotting wooden tooth hung outside the onetime dentist’s office to the right. The empty lot to the left had grown a fine crop of treadbare auto tires, bags of garbage, bits and pieces of shopping carts, bicycles and plastic coolers, jagged chunks of brick and cinder block.

Nabors had the special on a kaiser roll, Fritos and a 20-ounce coffee. I copied the coffee, passed on the rest. Hell, I could live for a week off what he spilled down his shirtfront. But that day his shirt was destined to stay clean a while longer, because, once we’d settled back in the squad and he started unwrapping, we got a call. Disturbance of the peace, Magnolia Arms, apartment 24.

He drove us twelve blocks to a place that looked pretty much like the one we’d left.

“Gotta be your first DP, right?”

I nodded.

“Shit.” He looked down at his wrapped barbeque. Grease crept out slowly onto the dash. “You sit here. Anything looks out of whack, you hear anything, you call in Officer Needs Assistance. Don’t think about it, don’t try to figure it out, just hit the fuckin’ button. You got that?”

“Gee, I’m not sure, Cap’n. You know how I is.”

Nabors rolled his eyes. “What the fuck’d I do? Just what the fuck’d I do?”

Opening the door, he pulled himself out and struggled up plank-and-pipe stairs. I watched him make his way along the second tier. Intent, focused. I reached over and got his fucking sandwich and threw it out the window. He knocked at 24. Stood there a moment talking, then went in. The door closed.

The door closed, and nothing else happened. There were lights on inside. Nothing else happened for a long time. I got out of the squad, went around to the back. Following some revisionist ordinance, a cheap, ill-fitting fire escape had been tacked on. I pulled at the rung, saw landings go swaying above, bolts about to let go. Started up, thinking about all those movies with suspension bridges.

I’d made it to the window of 24 and was reaching to try it when a gunshot brought me around. I kicked the window in and went after it.

Through the bathroom door I saw Nabors on the floor. No idea how badly he might have been hurt. Gun dangling, a young Hispanic stood over him. He looked up at me, nose running, eyes blank as two halves of a pecan shell. Like guys too long in a country that had just shut down, because that was the only way they could make it.

I shot him.

It all happened in maybe twenty seconds, and for years afterward, in memory, I’d count it out, one thousand, two thousand… At the time, it seemed to go on forever, especially that last moment, with him sitting there slumped against the wall and me standing with my S&W .38 still extended. Right hand only, not the officially taught and approved grip, never sighting but firing by instinct, how I’d learned to shoot back home and the only way that ever worked for me.

I’d hit him an inch or so off the center of his chest. For a moment as I bent above him, there was a whistling sound and frothy blood bubbling up out of the amazingly small wound, before everything stopped. He had three crucifixes looped around his neck, a tattoo of barbed wire beneath.

Nabors lay there lamenting the loss of his barbeque. Man like him, that’s the note he should go out on. But he wasn’t going out, not this time. I picked up the phone and called in Officer Down and location. Only then did it occur to me that I hadn’t cleared the rest of the apartment.

Not much rest to clear, as it happened. A reeking bathroom, a hallway with indoor-outdoor carpeting frayed like buckskin at the edges. Boxes sat everywhere, most of them unpacked, others torn open and dug through, contents spilling half out. The girl was in the back bedroom, in a closet, arms lashed to the crossbar, feet looped about with clothesline threaded into stacked cinder blocks. Her breasts hung sadly, blood trickled down her thighs, and her eyes were bright. She was fourteen.

Chapter Three

“I’MINOVERMYHEAD,” Sheriff Bates said. “You came up around here, right?”

“Close enough.”

“Then you know how it is.”

We were in his Jeep, heading back towards town. Dirt roads pitted as a teenager’s face. Now we turned out of the trees onto worn blacktop. The radio mounted beneath his dash crackled.

“Weekends, we break up bar fights, haul in drunk drivers. Maybe kids pay someone to buy them a case of beer and party till they get to be a nuisance, or some guy down on his luck climbs in a window and comes back out with a pillowcase full of flatware, prescription drugs, a laptop or TV. Not like there’s much anywhere he can go with it. Once in a blue moon a husband slaps his wife down once too often, gets a butcher knife planted in his shoulder or a frypan laid up alongside his head.”

The radio crackled again. Didn’t sound to me any different from previous crackles, but Bates picked up the mike. “I’m on my way in.”

“Ten-four.” Guy at the other end loved those vowels, rolled them around in his mouth like marbles.

Bates hung the mike back on its stirrup.

“Don Lee. You’ll be meeting him here shortly. Eager to get home to his six-pack and his new wife, most likely in that order. What time’s it got to be, anyway?”

“Little after eight.”

“My month to cover nights. Natural order of things, Don Lee’d be gone hours ago. Lisa’d have had his meat and potatoes on the table, he’d be on the couch and his second beer while she washed up. But long as I’m out of pocket, he’s stuck there.”

Bates hauled the Jeep hard right and we skidded out onto what passes for a highway around here, picking up speed. Almost immediately, though, he geared down, braked.

“You need help there, Ida?”

A saddle-oxford Buick, cream over blue, vintage circa ’48, sat steaming in the right lane. An elderly woman all in white, vintage a couple of decades prior, stood alongside. She wore a hat that made you want to hide Easter eggs in it.

“Course not. Just have to let it cool down, same as always.”

“I figured. You say hi to Karl for me, now.”

“I’ll say it. What he hears …”

A mile or so further along, the sheriff said, “Back in Memphis you had the highest clearance rate on homicides of anyone on the force.”

“You’ve done your homework.”

“I’m not in a habit of drafting help. Tend to be cautious about it.”

“Then you know it wasn’t me, it was us. What part wasn’t plain luck owes mostly to my partner. I’d be jumping hoops of intuition, flying high. Meanwhile he was back down there on the ground thinking things methodically through.”

“That would be Randy—right?”

I nodded.

“Like I said, I’m in over my head. Expertise, luck, intuition—we’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

We came in from the north, onto deserted streets. Pop. 1280, a sign said. Passed Jay’s Diner with its scatter of cars and trucks outside, drugstore and hardware store gone dark, A&P, Dollar $tore, Baptist church, Gulf station. Pulled in behind city hall. One-story prefab painted gray. Probably took them all of a week to put it up, and it’d be there forever, long as the glue held. The paint job was recent and hurried, with a light frosting of gray on bushes alongside. A single black-and-white sat nosed in close outside. Inside, a rangy man in polyester doing its best to look like khaki sat nosed close to the desk. On it were a radio, a ten-year-old Apple computer and a stack of magazines, one of which he was paging through. He looked up as we came in. Wet brown eyes that reminded me of spaniels, ruddy face narrow and shallow like a shovel, thin hair. Something electric about him, though. Sparks and small connections jumping around in there unremarked.

“Anything going on?” Bates said.

“’Bout what you’d expect. Couple of minor accidents at getting-off time. Old Lady Siler reported her purse stolen, then remembered she’d locked it in the trunk of her car. I ran the spare key out, as usual. Jimmy Allen showed up at his wife’s house around dark and started pounding on the door. Then he tried to steal the car. When I got there, he had two wires pulled down out of the radio, trying to hotwire them.”

“Been at it for an hour or more, if I know Jimmy.”

“Prob’ly so.”

“He in back?”

“Out flat.”

“This goes on, Jimmy might as well just start having his mail delivered here.”

Bates walked over and closed three of the four light switches on the panel by the door. Much of the room fell gray, leaving us and desk in a pool of dim light outside which shadows jumped and slid.

“Don Lee, this’s Mr. Turner.”

The deputy held out a hard, lean hand and I took it. A good handshake, no show to it, just what it was. Like the man, I suspected.

“Pleased to have you, Detective.”

“Just Turner. I haven’t been a detective for a long time.”

“Hope you’re not telling us you forget how,” Bates said.

“No. What happens is, you stop believing it matters.”

“And does it?” This from Don Lee.

“Does it matter, or does it stop?”

“There’s a difference?”

In that instant I knew I liked him. Liked them both. All I’d wanted was to be left alone, and I’d taken giant steps to ensure that. Rarely strayed far from the cabin, had goods delivered monthly. The last thing I’d wanted was ever again to be part of an investigation, to have to go rummaging through other people’s lives, messes and misdemeanors, other people’s madnesses, other people’s minds.

“Why don’t you fill me in?” I said.

“You’n go on home,” Bates told his deputy. “Appreciate your holding down the fort. Dinner must be getting colder by the minute.”

“All the same to you, I’d as soon stay,” Don Lee said.

Chapter Four

NABORSMADEIT,SURVIVEDTHESHOOTING that is, but he never came back on active duty. Mondays, my day off, I visited him at the rehab facility out in Whitehaven. Sculptured, impossibly green lawns with sprinklers that went off like miniature Old Faithfuls, squat ugly buildings. Never did figure what those were made of, but they put me in mind of Legos. Soft-handed young doctors and platoons of coiffured, elegantly eyelashed young nurses manning the pressure locks, all of them with mouthfuls of comfort like mush for both visitors and patients, couldn’t spit out those lumps of good advice fast enough.

Suddenly around the station house everyone knew who I was. Older cops who’d pointedly ignored me before, smelling as they often did of sweat socks, stale bourbon or beer, aftershave and last night’s whore, now nodded to me in the locker room. Two shifts in a row I got put in a squad that didn’t haul hard left or need new tires and assigned uptown. Really knew I was some kind of made man the day Fishbelly Joe, the blind albino who’d run a hot dog stand outside the station house as long as anyone could remember, refused my money.

Then one Monday afternoon as I reported for the 3–11, word surfaced from the Captain. Come see him.

“I think it’s a mistake, Turner,” he said. “You’re not ready for it. But you’re bumped to detective.”

I’d been a cop, what, two or three months at that point? Most of the men I worked with were ten, twenty years older, and most of them had packed their lives into the work. Little wonder they’d been reluctant to accept me, and only began to do so, haltingly, now.

Did I for even a moment recognize this as a repeat of what happened in the service? No. (But how could I not have?) There I’d passed from basic training to special forces in a matter of weeks, as in one of those TV shows where events stumble over one another trying to get past. I’m a quick study, have a quirky mind that gets on to things instantly. While others are still floundering and doing belly flops, I’m walking around, looking good—but my understanding never extends far beneath the surface.

At that time, remember, I had little enough training to speak of, and almost no experience. And the fact that Nabors and I had violated procedure was something I just couldn’t get my head around. That went on every moment of every shift of every day, sure. No one did things by the book. You cut corners, jury-rigged, improvised, faked it, got by. But few of those shortcuts ended up with a fatal shooting and a seasoned officer going down. I kept ticking off the mistakes in my head.

We were supposed to stay together at all times. We should both have responded.

When I began to suspect that something had gone badly south, I’d started in without calling for backup.

I’d failed to follow my senior partner’s orders.

Then, failing also to identify myself or fire a warning shot (which back then, before Garner v. Tennessee, remained policy), I’d shot a man dead.

Interestingly enough, few questions got asked outside my own head, and none of this ever came up for any sort of review. But right after gypsies and sailors, cops are the most superstitious folk alive, and while I was newly on the list of good guys, looked up to in some weird, abstract fashion, the whole thing stayed weird: no one wanted to partner with me.

So for a time, in direct violation of department policy, I rode by myself in the best cars the department had to offer. Ranked detective, I still spent most of my shift on routine calls.

What happened next I’m still not clear on, but somewhere (arbitrarily, I assume, from my experience with bureaucracies pre and post) a decision was made, and I started finding myself beside guys no one else would put up with. Likes attracting? Or maybe they were there as department brass’s last, desperate effort to shake them out of the tree. We’re talking rookies too dumb for Gilligan’s island here, lawmen Andy wouldn’t let have one bullet, bullies fresh off the schoolyard, lumbering southern gentlemen who stood when ladies and elders entered the room but had screenings of Shane and The Ox-Bow Incident playing continuously in their heads.

Then one morning I looked to the right, or so it seemed, and Gardner was sitting there. We’d just come off an unwarranted noise call, I’d let him handle it, and the boy’d done good.

What you got to do is put on their lives, way you do a robe or an old shirt, he told me. You stand outside looking, no way you can see in, no way they’re gonna trust you.

That what they teach you these days?

Right after the choke hold, he said.

We’d been riding together three or four months by then. Why was he any different from the others? I’m not sure he was. Could have been me: maybe I’d just come around to the point where I was ready to start forging connections again. Or maybe it was just that the son of a bitch wouldn’t give up. I’d done everything I could do to ignore him, frustrate him, demean him, and he just sat there sipping coffee and smiling, asking what I wanted for lunch. While I was busily turning into Nabors.

Like myself, Gardner came up from the backlands. But whereas I loved cities and needed them, or thought I did, he’d never caught on to city ways. Part of him would always be walking down some dirt road along train tracks, stopping by the bait shop for a cold drink. He was a good, simple man.

One morning over coffee Gardner told me he was quitting. His girl back home had written to tell him she was pregnant. He went, found out soon enough that she wasn’t pregnant at all, only lonely, and shortly after turned up in Memphis again. Teamed with someone else now, but we kept in touch. After that, his heart never quite let him get back into the job. Riding alone one night, he answered a disturbance call at a motel, an altercation between a prostitute name L’il Sal and her client. All of us knew L’il Sal. She’d turn black to white and charm the sun down if it gave her points. Either Gardner had forgotten L’il Sal or didn’t care. He was listening to her story when the john came up behind and slit his throat with a buck knife.

Chapter Five

“ORDINARILY,THEWAYWE’DWORK this is, State would send someone over. Highway Patrol. But they’re too shorthanded, couple of guys out on short-term disability, another off in Virginia for training. Not to mention the backup in their own cases. Someone’ll be there, the barracks commander told me, but when he’ll be there …” Bates grunted. “I also got the notion he might not be the barrack’s best.”

“That had to make you feel better.”

“You bet it did. We still get breakfast, Thelma?” he said to the waitress who’d dropped off coffees, gone about her business and now ambled back around to us. She wore badly pilled gray polyester slacks, a black sweater hanging down almost to her knees in front and hiked over her butt behind. Hair pinned up in a loose swirl from which strands had escaped and hung out like insect legs.

“You see there on the menu where it says breakfast twenty-four hours a day, Lonnie?”

“You’re not open twenty-four hours a day, Thelma.”

“Not much gets by you, does it? Must be what keeps down the criminal element hereabouts, why the good people of this town keep reelecting you.”

“What’s good?”

“Nothing. But you can eat most of it.”

I found myself wondering how many times they’d been through this routine.

“What are you doing asking me anyway? We both know what you’re gonna have. Three eggs over easy, grits, ham. You’re done, some of these other folk might appreciate getting the chance to order.”

“Got it by yourself, huh?”

“Yeah. You want anything besides coffee, Don Lee?”

“Coffee’ll do me,” he said.

“New girl supposed to be here, worked half a shift yesterday. Guess she decided maybe this wasn’t what she wanted to do with her life after all. Her loss. God knows there’s rewards. Toast?”

Sheriff Bates nodded.

“You know what, I’ll have an order of toast, too,” Don Lee said.

“Been most of an hour since the boy ate,” Bates said.

“And what can I get you, sir?”