come back to earth.
“Oh, sorry.” I scooted out of her way and pulled my notebook off the table.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said. “Here. You need anything else?”
I looked down at the plate. It was all there and looked great. “Everything’s fine. Thanks.”
She broke what appeared to be a human smile, “Good. Knock ya’self out,” she instructed.
The food was exquisite, like dinner at home back when my mother still cooked. Meat-and-three, it’s called down South, and there’s nothing like it for finding a little bit of comfort in a lousy, grown-up world.
The sun had long since set even on this late summer evening when I turned left off 21st Avenue onto Division and headed toward Music Row. Way before I got there, though, I found a parking space on the street beneath an enormous umbrella of maple whose branches hung drooping and heavy out over the near lane of traffic. This part of Division was quiet at night, far from the packs of tourists that crowded the Country Music Hall of Fame, Barbara Mandrell Country, and the line of tacky souvenir shops that lined the streets all the way down to I-40. I swear, it seems that the first thing every truck driver from Tupelo who comes to Nashville and gets a recording contract does is buy himself a gift shop. Go figure. It gave new meaning and depth to the word
And they call L.A. La-la land.
Two punkers with safety pins through their cheeks walked past in the darkness. This town was joining the twentieth century fast, but we were still sufficiently out of it to find safety pins through cheeks shocking. I watched them walk far enough up the sidewalk to where I was sure they weren’t going to turn around and mug me, then I crossed the street. Ahead of me a block or so was the bright neon sign in the small parking lot of Bubba’s market.
BUBBA’S! YOUR 24-HOUR CONVENIENCE MART, the sign flashed, its blue and red blazing like a visual Islamic call to prayer for those bereft of cigarettes, beer, disposable diapers, and munchie relief. Below that, in bright, steady white, the guarantee: WE NEVER CLOSE!
I stepped through the heavy metal and glass doors onto the dirty linoleum floor of Bubba’s. The place was your basic redneck all-night market. Disposable lighter displays carried photos of half-nude women, Confederate flags, and my personal favorite: the broken down old Rebel soldier with a drink in one hand and the Stars and Bars in the other with the caption, “Forget, Hell!” Beer coolers lined the entire length of the wall opposite the entrance. Wire cage displays held every kind of gooey snack cake, processed cracker morsel, and potato chip variation imaginable. The place was a cathedral of cholesterol: potted meat product, deviled ham, beef stick, beef jerky, pickled pig’s feet, Vienna sausages, on and on and on, ad-quite literally-nauseam.
A skinny white dude with greasy hair, wearing a dirty T-shirt that exposed tattooed arms, stood behind the counter. He was barely visible below an overhead rack full of cigarettes, but I got a good enough look at him to guess that he was probably a recent graduate of the Tennessee Department of Corrections. I moseyed up to him and tried to look casual.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“Bubba around?”
He looked at me, suspicious that somebody actually wearing a necktie would want to see the boss. Maybe I should have left it in the car. Maybe I should have gone home and changed into overalls.
“Who wants to know?”
“My name’s Harry. Harry Denton. Bubba doesn’t know me, but I think he’ll want to talk to me.”
The clerk’s eyes wandered to the tip of my chin. Seemed this guy had trouble looking people in the face. “I don’t know about that.”
“Why don’t you call Mr. Kennedy and ask him if it’s okay.” My one trump card had been played. If I knew who Mr. Kennedy was, I had to be an insider. At least, that’s what I hoped he’d think.
He stared right through me for a second. Behind me, the front door opened and two teenage kids with thin, scraggly beards and bad skin walked in, a couple of Jeff Spiccoli types by way of Birmingham. I turned back to the clerk.
“How about it? Can I talk to him?”
“Well, I-”
“At least call him,” I said. “He can always say no. But what if it turns out he really does want to see me and you don’t call him?”
He stared at me, like screw you, smart guy. But then he turned his back to me and picked up a black receiver from the shelf behind him. He whispered something into the phone, listened for a second, then hung up.
“Mr. Kennedy’ll be out in a minute,” he said, turning immediately to the two guys behind me.
I took a step or two back, looked around the store. Good spot for a holdup, I thought. Wonder how many times this place has been hit? Then again, if Bubba really does have some stroke around here, maybe the local crackheads have figured out this establishment isn’t a viable target.
I noticed a metal door nestled in a corner of the store, to the left of the beer cooler and facing the checkout counter. I hadn’t seen it before, and then I realized the overhead cigarette display rack camouflaged it, probably deliberately. In the center of the door was a small dot framed in a ring of metal: an eyepiece.
In a moment, the door opened, and the godawful biggest black guy I’ve ever seen in my life stepped through. Come to think of it, this guy could have stepped through without opening the door. This hunk had to be 250, 270, all muscle, wearing a knit pullover shirt that was clean, expensive, fashionable, and a pair of stone- washed jeans that fit him like a glove. His hair was cut short, conservative, and he wore a surprisingly tasteful gold chain around his neck. What’s a good-looking guy like that doing in a place like this?
He stepped toward me. I fought the urge to run like hell, figuring an ex-pro-football player could probably still outrun me in the forty-yard dash. “You looking for me?” he demanded, his voice low, serious. He was not a man to be messed with. I picked that up pretty quick; I’m a detective.
“Actually,” I squeaked, my throat suddenly dry. “I’m looking for Bubba Hayes.” God, I wish I’d been born with a deeper voice.
“Mr. Hayes is busy right now. Perhaps if you explained your business to me, I could set up an appointment at a later date.”
“I’m a detective,” I said, trying to force my voice an octave lower without sounding like a complete twit. “I’m investigating the death of Dr. Conrad Fletcher. I understand that Dr. Fletcher and Mr. Hayes may have had some business dealings.”
This man had the most expressionless face I’d ever seen in my life. His face was a stone carving with a thin veneer of ebony. I could no more see what he was thinking than I could see through the metal door he’d walked out of. He stared at me a moment longer, then spoke.
“This way.”
He turned, smooth and quick, and walked back toward the door. I dodged a Twinkie display and followed him. The metal door swung in hard and popped me on the shoulder. We entered a narrow hallway leading into the back of the building. It was dark, musty, with mildewed wood skids stacked against the wall and beer cases everywhere. The stale smell of beer, trash, and what was perhaps soured milk filled my nostrils. I imagined I heard rats scurrying around, although it may have been more than my imagination.
Four steps ahead of me, the imposing man moved forward silently. At the end of the hall, shrouded in shadow, was a closed door. Mr. Kennedy got to the door, stopped, then turned. I almost walked into him, but his arms were outstretched and waiting for me.
“You work homicide?” he asked. “Where’s your partner?”
“No, I-”
“D.A.’s office?”
“Actually, Mr. Kennedy, I’m a private detective.”
“Hey, wait a minute-” He grabbed my arms and planted them palm into the wall, then kicked my legs apart.
