10 Porter Hayes

Sometimes Vietnam came back so clear it was as if only a year or two had passed since he'd been on patrol with his unit, deep in the boonies, skin stained red from the dirt and his feet eaten up with jungle rot. This morning, Porter was back on his proper routine, around the corner from his office at the Bon Ton café, a Commercial Appeal in his hands, sitting in his favorite booth and drinking coffee when he heard Joe Tex singing, "I Believe I'm Gonna Make It." And right then, Porter Hayes was back in it, a foot solider up on a mountain near Dalat. He could hear his platoon sergeant, a good man, a big fella named Ellis, leading the way through the vines and monkey piss, only two days out from flying home and whistling Joe Tex nearly every minute. And you can believe, I'll be home before you can say, Jackie Robinson. They were coming down the mountain to the fire base, the whole unit dragging ass, when one of the newbies hit a trip wire. The mine spared the kid but sure took out Ellis, blowing his goddamn intestines outside his body. It looked as if the sergeant had been turned inside out, dead before he hit the ground. Porter always thought he'd go to North Carolina and meet Ellis's family one day and explain what the man had meant to him. Without his sergeant, he could've been dead long ago.

"Damn, you early," Deacon Malone said, having difficulty with his increasing girth as he slid into the booth. He picked up the menu out of habit, although he and Porter had been eating at the Bon Ton for more than twenty years. "Biscuits and gravy," he said to the waitress, the woman pouring out his coffee. Porter could've told her that without even asking. Deacon rarely ordered anything different.

"Lady Hightower got a message for you," Deacon said.

"Oh, yeah," Porter said. "Hand it over."

"For your ears only," he said. "See, I'm the royal-ass messenger. She says that you'd promised to let her work off those indiscretions you may have heard about."

"Say what?"

"She says she'll give up some booty in return for you not tying her to her thieving-ass husband."

"I never said that."

"But I know you," Deacon said. "And maybe you said something that might have caused her to believe something like that?"

"I told her I'd think long and hard about coming over when the pastor was away."

"Long and hard," Deacon said. "Shit, man. You see what I'm saying?"

Porter shook his head, folded the newspaper, and leaned back into the booth while the waitress brought his ham and eggs with buttered wheat toast. Malone asked for some prune juice after she'd told him his biscuits and gravy would be up shortly.

"You need to keep on the Hightowers," Porter said. "This business with Sami's daughter might take a while. I'll need you to document more of the good rev's lifestyle. That big-ass house on South Parkway. The clothes, the jewelry. What kind of car the preacher driving these days?"

"Brand-new pearl-white Escalade."

"See?" Porter said. "The preacher and the good lady aren't even trying."

"And what do I tell her?" Deacon asked.

"About what?"

"About you making that booty trade."

"It's too late, baby," Porter said, singing.

"Carole King?"

"By way of the Isleys."

The Bon Ton wasn't the best in town, but it was close and convenient. The blue-and-white checkerboard floors and old dark wood booths had gone through a lot of owners over the years, and most of the café's clientele had moved on or died. Sam Phillips used to sit in that very booth, telling folks about his days making records with Elvis and Jerry Lee. Porter had done some work for Jerry Lee and his people a few years back but didn't feel really good about it. One of those cases where nobody, absolutely nobody, got out looking clean.

"So what's up with Sami Hassan's daughter?" Deacon asked.

Porter told Deacon about his day yesterday and the break-in last night. Deacon didn't say a word until that plate of biscuits and gravy came and then made a few grunts of affirmation.

"Was the break-in connected?" Deacon said. "Or just Memphis?"

"Connected," Porter said. "A one-armed man was asking her questions about her husband or a man named Peter Collinson."

"Which one was it?"

"She didn't find out," Porter said. "Motherfucker threatened her and then made his ass a turkey sandwich before the police showed up."

"A turkey sandwich?"

"On a French baguette," Porter said. "Or at least that's what I've been told."

"Devil lives in them details."

Dean McKellar's old business partner, Alec Dawson, kept an office in East Memphis on the fourteenth floor of the White Station Tower. The building was blocky and ugly, with a big cylindrical top that used to be one of those revolving restaurants back in the seventies. Porter wanted to say it was called the Embers, but then the name Top of the Tower came to mind. The tower was a long, lasting monument to the city's eastward white flight.

Alec Dawson ran a company called Dawson-Gray Construction, which according to Darlene, had been around about forty years. Dawson took over the business from his father after a few years of going out on his own with Dean McKellar and then splitting up. She was able to find a lawsuit from six years ago when Dawson had sued Dean for two million bucks for improper distribution of assets and corporate waste. Darlene printed out the suit for him and Porter read it in his car before heading east. Looked like Dean had created a backdoor account for his personal finances, including purchasing land in Florida, a few vehicles, and repairs to the house in Central Gardens. All this while the company was showing annual losses.

Dawson didn't hesitate when Hayes had called him up. Old business partners and jilted wives sure loved to talk.

It wasn't nine o'clock yet and Hayes was kicking back in Alec Dawson's huge office with comfortable leather chairs and antique bookshelves filled with stuffed ducks and vintage shotguns. The plate glass window behind his desk commanded a view of commuters fighting around I-240 and down along Poplar into Germantown. "On a clear day, I bet you can see all the way to Nashville," Hayes said.

"Or at least Collierville," Dawson said.

Alec Dawson was a tall, skinny but fit white man in his early forties. He had dark brown hair and blue eyes and a shadow of a beard, although he appeared to be clean-shaven. He wore a white button-down dress shirt without a tie and gray flannel pants with immaculate leather lace-up shoes. Hayes hadn't been in the office but two minutes when he asked, "Okay, then. What exactly did Dean do now?"

Hayes nodded. "I'm not real sure," he said. "But he hasn't been in touch with his family for more than a week. His wife is pretty worried."

"Poor Addison," Dawson said. "I don't know how she puts up with his shit."

"If you don't mind me asking, Mr. Dawson," he said, "just what kind of shit are you talking about?"

"Dean was a horrible business partner but an even worse husband," he said, leaning back in a brown leather and chrome office chair. "He cheated on her their entire marriage. But he always finds a way to lie right out of it."

"Do you think she knew?"

"Of course, she knew," Dawson said. "Everybody knew."

"But never mentioned it."

"Maybe she prefers to keep that private," he said. "If she doesn't think about it or talk about it, then it never happened. But I can't imagine she'd be surprised if Dean just up and left her and the kids one day. You know he's pulled this crap before?"

Hayes nodded. "He always comes up with a good excuse."

"Always," Dawson said, spinning right to left in his chair. "Dean is the most confident son of a bitch I ever met in my life. He could steal, lie, and cheat you and then try and convince you that it was all your fault."

"Is that what he did to you?"

"Unfortunately," Dawson said, standing up and then walking over to the window. "I bought into the bullshit and trusted him like a damn brother." It was cloudy and slick outside, the cars backed up all along the interstate and onto Poplar. Rain ran down the glass as Dawson frowned and shook his head, looking disappointed not with Dean but with himself.

"Did you ever settle up with him?"

"Yep," he said. "But it took a while. For a few months after we filed, I kept on having heavy equipment sabotaged. Hydraulic lines cut. Sand in the gas tank. That sort of thing. I got the cops involved. And then, I get a call from my attorney that Dean wanted to settle for one point five million. How's that for timing?"

"He didn't like questions."

"Nope." Dawson laughed. "He paid and we never spoke again."

The office was spacious, but felt a little like a high-end hunt club with all the dead ducks and photos of Delta hunt camps on the wall, recent images of old white men in waders with shotguns and an older photo of a fluffy white-and-brown dog sitting proudly beside a pile of dead birds. One photo featured an older man who resembled Alec Dawson in the middle of a cleared construction site holding up a blueprint.

"Mrs. McKellar didn't know Dean had quit the construction business."

"Who told you he'd quit?"

"His company was dissolved," Hayes said. "When Mrs. McKellar visited their offices downtown, she found they hadn't been there for two years."

"Well, it may not be called McKellar, but Dean is definitely still in the game and into some big-time projects," Dawson said. "I've been keeping tabs on him after all the trouble he caused. I heard he got into some overseas work for the government. This was some post-9/11 money, to rebuild roads and hospitals over in Iraq and Afghanistan. We're talking about big, big bucks. I think because he'd been in the military, he was able to jump through the hoops faster than most of us. DOD clearance and all that. I applied for a lot of the same things but got nowhere."

"Makes you wonder why he wouldn't explain all this to his wife?"

"Because Dean McKellar never has and never will be able to keep his pecker in his pants," he said. "Wherever he has an office, he has a girlfriend. Even with me, a guy who was his partner and supposedly a trusted friend, he was very secretive. Within just a few years, he was able to swindle me out of almost everything. It nearly ruined my name and my career. For Dean it's all about ego. He can't help but be a liar, be deceitful. I mean, look at Addison. She's one of the most beautiful, sweet, and genuinely funny women I've ever met. They have two great kids. But I guarantee Dean has found a way to royally fuck that up while giving pep talks to the Jaycees about his family values. He is a dishonest and deceitful piece of shit."

"Well," Hayes said, rubbing his jawline and smiling. "No need to dip it in sugar. If you were me, where would you start looking for him?"

"Where does Addison think he is?"

"London, but I'd rather keep my investigation to the 901," Hayes said. "Do you know some folks here who may have worked with him recently? Someone who's more acquainted with his business with the government?"

Dawson shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "I try to stay as far away from that man as possible. But there are a few workers who might have stayed on with him. Might give you a place to start. Give me a second."

Dawson disappeared and Hayes stood up and walked over to the big window to get a closer look at the slick streets and backed-up taillights. Dawson seemed all right and to be shooting straight, but Porter had learned long ago to watch his ass in white Memphis. Although Porter didn't have a problem working with white people. A few years back, he'd gone down deep in the rabbit hole with a white reporter for the Commercial Appeal named Sawyer. What they'd uncovered together was a conspiracy that few people knew about or would ever believe. Sawyer had ended up at the Washington Post and Hayes made a mental note to give him a call. Maybe he'd have some insight into these government contracts Alec Dawson was talking about.

"Here you go," Dawson said, handing Hayes a page of printed names and contacts. "Hope this helps. And please give my best to Addison and the kids. How old is Preston now?"

"I believe she said ten."

"He's a good kid," Dawson said. "Too bad his father is an asshole."

"Last night, someone broke into the McKellar home," Hayes said. "Preston was the one who tripped the alarm and scared the man off. The intruder was a big man with a beard. Only had one arm. Ever hear of anyone like that?"

"Big man with one arm?" Dawson said. "No. Jesus. Is she okay?"

"Yeah," Hayes said. "I think so. But this man seemed intent on doing Dean McKellar some harm."

"He'll have to get in the line," Dawson said. "I don't have names, but I guarantee I'm not the only person Dean has fucked over. He just can't help himself. It's in his nature."

Hayes stopped by 201 Poplar on the way back to the office, finding an open parking space behind Liberty Bail Bonds. 201 was the epicenter of law enforcement for Shelby County. The sheriff, the police, the county jail, and the criminal courts all resided in the twelve-story building with mirrored windows—one-stop shopping for lawyers, reporters, and bondsmen. Porter went through security and took the elevator up to the third floor to find Sergeant Lantana Jones. Jones was the daughter of his former partner Eddie Lamont, who'd proudly served MPD for more than forty years before retiring to a farm out in Paris, Tennessee.

Her glass office door was open but Hayes knocked anyway.

Lantana looked sharp in her blue uniform, sergeant stripes on her left arm and gold shield pinned on her chest. He remembered when she was just a little girl in pigtails out in Bartlett, running around backyard barbecues while he and Eddie smoked and burned ribs, swapped war stories, and drank cheap beer. She hung up the phone and turned to him. "Mr. Hayes," she said. "I haven't seen you in a week. Last time, you were complaining about parking tickets. And before that, you were telling me about one of my officers hanging up on your old girlfriend. The esteemed former Councilwoman Frank. You do realize I have more work than just tending to your personal business? No disrespect."

"None taken," Hayes said. "How's Eddie?"

"Oh, you know," she said. "Complains about every damn thing. If it's not his back, it's my momma. And if it ain't my momma, he's trying to explain to me how to do my damn job."

"Looks like you're doing just fine for yourself," Hayes said, walking on into the small office. There was a huge stack of blue files on her desk and full bin of overnight reports. It never stopped raining in District 1.

"Desk sergeant beats checking meters," she said. "Again, no disrespect. But Mr. Hayes, what brings you to darken my door this rainy morning?"

"Addison McKellar," he said. "Rich white lady from Central Gardens looking for her missing husband."

Lantana Jones nodded and smiled. "Yeah, I thought that woman was crazy at first, her running around saying that folks had taken over her husband's office and didn't have a right to be there. She told two of my officers that she wasn't going anywhere until she got answers. You know, demanding some fine customer service like we were Shoney's or some shit. What's that got to do with you?"

"Addison McKellar is my client."

"Oh, no."

"But the good news is that she's not crazy," he said. "And her husband is really missing."

"Said he was missing in London," Lantana said. "I told her that I didn't have Sherlock Holmes's ass on speed dial. But if I knew she was working with you, I might not have made that joke. You being the Black Sherlock Holmes and everything."

"Your daddy used to say that," Hayes said. "More of an insult than anything after I went private."

"That sounds like Daddy," she said. "So you came by to see if we have anything for you? Right? Before you ask, I'll have to stop you right there. Last night, we had two murders, eight car jackings, and seventeen robberies. Not that I don't shed a tear for some nice white lady and her poor rich husband over in swinging ole London. But you've been a cop, Mr. Hayes. I don't have time for all this mess."

"Did you know a man broke into her house last night?" Hayes asked. "And threatened her with a knife?"

"Excuse me if I haven't gotten halfway through the overnights," she said. "You want me to send out a unit?"

"Y'all already did," he said. "I just wanted you to be aware that something really funky is going on with this man Dean McKellar. The man with the knife said he was looking for her husband, but that her husband was actually someone named Peter Collinson, which I think is another identity for Dean McKellar. You know I'm good. Real good. Memphis's own Sherlock Holmes and all. But I don't have access to the NCIS. Figured you might want to take a crack."

"I said the Black Sherlock, not Memphis's own," she said. "There's a difference."

"Oh, yeah?" Hayes said, grinning. "Who else does what I do in the city?"

Lantana smiled back and leaned over her desk, shuffling through the overnight reports. She asked the address in Central Gardens and Porter told her. After a few minutes, she found the report she was looking for and went through two sheets, nodding along.

"One-armed man?" she said. "What the fuck is this, Mr. Hayes? The goddamn circus come to town?"

"Figured he'd be easy to spot," he said. "But in the meantime, you might want to cross-reference those McKellar files and add that name I told you about."

"Okay, okay," she said. "How about some coffee?"

"Already had some," he said. "And I don't ever, ever drink coffee at the 201. It's part of my personal code."

"Yeah," she said. "Can't say I blame you. But I got to tell you something, Mr. Hayes. Not because you're Daddy's best buddy and all that. Just one professional to another."

Hayes smoothed down his mustache and widened his eyes. The cubicles in the next room bustled with energy and chirping phones. Things looked a lot different from when he was one of the only Black cops working out of the cold basement of the original station over on Adams.

"And?" Hayes said.

"I just happened to meet a fine Black man early this morning," she said. "Dressed way better than you. Sharp suit and spit-shined shoes, flashing me his badge. You see, the feds are interested in Mr. Dean McKellar or Peter Whosis or whatever the hell that man's name is. Seems like he did something really wrong and really bad, and this man who came to me—" Lantana looked down at her notebook and back to Hayes. "Carson Wells. Mr. Wells said folks better pray to the good Lord that the government gets to this McKellar before some other folks do."

"Did he say why?" Hayes said. "Or who?"

"Did you miss the part where I said he was a goddamn fed?" she said. "Those boys wouldn't say shit if their mouths were full of it."

"Ain't that the truth."

"Better stick close to your client," Lantana Jones said, picking up a ringing phone but not saying hello. "Looks like she's about to earn every bit of those diamonds she had on her."