2 Porter Hayes

More than half of Porter Hayes's business involved preachers fucking when they should've been praying. He'd been employed by preachers' wives, jilted husbands, deacons, and assistant pastors wondering just why the hell was Head Pastor So-and-So charging a thousand bucks at the Peabody for the ultimate duck experience that included dinner at Chez Philippe and a complimentary bottle of Korbel. It was a goddamn cliché, a story as old as Methuselah's great-grandmomma. But it was a core part of Hayes Investigations, a business he'd been running out of a downtown office since early 1971. He'd developed such a talent for it that he could walk right down the middle of the big COGIC convention and the sanctified congregation would part as if he was Moses strutting down the Soul Train line.

Nobody wanted Porter Hayes on their tail.

But this case was a little different. Both a pastor and his wife, Reverend Frank J. Hightower and the Lady Hightower, were thieving the identity of two elders in their Orange Mound church and running up credit cards. One of the women's granddaughters had hired him, and it only took two days to connect the cards back to Lady Hightower, the woman with no shame, using one of the cards at her favorite hairdresser and for several purchases at Oak Court Mall. Hayes was back at Oak Court that morning, sitting on a bench by a fountain, next to a tarnished copper statue of white kids playing leapfrog, and sipping on a coffee from Starbucks.

Lady Hightower's arms were heavy with shopping bags from Macy's and Dillard's while she sauntered into some fancy shoe shop near the glass elevators, picking through high heels that probably cost more than Hayes's daily rate.

Not that he always earned it. A case like this, working for a nice young lady on a fixed income trying to do right by her grandmother, probably would just be an expenses-only kind of thing. The reverend and his lady were too damn thick to even try and cover their tracks. Hayes could match the credit card purchases from the last few days with clear and detailed photographs he'd been taking with one of those little Japanese cameras slipped neatly inside his leather jacket. Goddamn. It was insulting that neither of them even tried that hard.

Hayes had just gotten out his brown leather trench coat that crisp morning, slipping it over his pair of black pants and a black silk shirt. He had both the camera and a pack of Winstons—Real, Rich Cool—in the pocket, wishing he could light up in the mall like the old days and make himself comfortable while Lady Hightower ran herself deeper into the hole. He already had enough to serve them both up to the district attorney, a case so solid even that dumb SOB Fortune Jackson couldn't screw it up.

Porter pulled out the camera and thumbed through the images, shaking his head. He was no Ernest Withers, but he had some pretty clear shots of the woman trying on several items she'd ended up charging. Her husband might be a little trickier, making online ticket purchases for his own events like Men's Empowerment 2010 and Old School: Biblical Living in a New Age. But still. He had their asses.

"Can I help you?" a woman asked.

Damn if it wasn't Lady Hightower herself, slipped out from the shoe store and sliding up right in front of him. Hayes tucked the camera back inside his jacket and smiled at her. "Perhaps," Hayes said, grinning. "You taking up a collection?"

She may have been a thief, but she was a good-looking woman, somewhere in her mid to late forties, wearing a formfitting purple dress knotted on a slim waist, with strong athletic legs and a full and firm backside that had caused several passing men to nearly break their goddamn necks. She wore shiny rings on her fingers and a big gold chain around her neck with a gold cross inlaid with diamonds. Like the good reverend said on the big sign outside his church: "You Got to Name It to Claim It."

"I know who you are, Mr. Hayes," Lady Hightower said. "I saw you sitting right here, in this same place, yesterday. And I saw you this morning at the Picadilly down on EP while my husband was hosting his weekly prayer breakfast."

"Mighty fine sermon, too," Hayes said. "Cast your bread upon the waters. For thou shall find it after many days. Your man sure can preach."

Lady set down her bags and placed her hands on her hips. "You don't quit following me around and I'm gonna call security. They know me here."

"Is that right?"

"You too old to be sniffing around a woman no older than your daughter. Yeah, I know your daughter. Nina. Teaches English at Melrose? Just what would she think of her daddy being such a dirty old man?"

Hayes couldn't contain his smile and smoothed down the ends of his graying mustache. He took a sip of coffee. "All right now," he said. "You caught me. I guess sometimes I forget my age. But can you blame me? You sure got a lot going on, Lady Hightower."

Lady Hightower tried her best not to smile back, arms moving up off her hips and crossing her large breasts barely covered by the dress. Damn, she did smell good. Reminded Porter some of his late wife and that lilac perfume from Paris. René Lalique? He still had it. He'd kept most of Genevieve's things in her bedroom closet, where they'd remain until he was gone, too. Shirts and pants that Nina called out of style piled high on top of the boxes, years and years gone. Damn, how he loved that woman.

"Figured you weren't there for the pancakes."

"No, ma'am."

"And you ain't here at the mall for Sunday shoes."

Hayes shook his head and looked down at his classic Italian boots that zipped neatly at the ankle. Some things never go out of style. Lady Highsmith dropped her bags, sat down next to him, and let out a long sigh.

Hayes drank some coffee and watched the early traffic inside the old mall. Moneyed Black women checking out the latest styles. Punk kids skipping school. Old men like him in tracksuits walking around the food court, killing time at the Starbucks. The mall had been here since the eighties, but back then, it had been a strictly white clientele. Now, most of the shoppers were Black. Shopping downtown was long gone. No more buying your Easter suit on Beale at Lansky's or the huge old Goldsmith's on Main Street. In a few years, the mall would probably be gone, too, everything seeming to be moving farther east away from downtown where Porter still kept an office. That white flight wouldn't stop until every building downtown turned out the lights.

Lady Hightower rested her long hand with polished red nails on his good knee. She whispered a hot voice in his ear. "If you know where I shop, then you damn sure know where I live. Frankie's dumb ass gonna be gone all weekend. And I sure love to stay up late, Mr. Hayes, watching those old-timey movies."

"Old-timey movies?"

"You know, Bogart, Spencer Tracy, damn Billy Dee Williams," she said. "Real men. Like you."

"Is that what keeps you up at night?"

"I'm hell on sleep, Mr. Hayes."

Porter Hayes's mouth felt a little dry. But he had to admit it felt good to be desired as a man in his early seventies. Either that or she and the good reverend were on to him, setting some kind of trap. Porter kept lean, at six foot two and one-ninety, hit that iron from time to time, ran a few miles on the track at Booker T. Maybe more salt than pepper in his hair and his mustache, but sure, he could see a woman showing some interest.

"You'll think about it?"

Porter Hayes straightened the lapels on his leather trench. Lady Hightower used his knee to push herself up onto her six-inch heels.

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "I sure will. Long and hard."

"Mmm," she said. "I knew it."

"Man," Deacon Malone said. "That sounds like some real bullshit to me."

"Come on, now," Hayes said. "Don't be jealous. We been friends too long."

"Jealous some thieving preacher's wife trying to trick your ass with whiskey and pussy?"

"Woman didn't say anything about whiskey."

Malone stroked his goatee. "She mention Rémy and you'd be over there right now singing her some old Johnnie Taylor songs."

"‘Jody Got Your Girl and Gone.'"

"What was that B side?"

"‘A Fool Like Me.'"

"Sounds about right, Porter Hayes."

The men laughed, sitting at their back booth of the Gay Hawk diner off Danny Thomas Boulevard. It was Wednesday, rib tip day on the buffet, and Henry had laid out quite a spread under the heat lamps: collard greens, cornbread, mac and cheese, peach cobbler, and candied yams. Man could get diabetes just smelling it. The diner was old and worn-out, paneled wood buckling off the walls, ceiling tiles water-stained, busted, or missing altogether. The walls were decorated with faded ads, one with Fred Williamson shilling for King Cobra, a good-looking woman with her arm around Fred and holding up her index finger. Don't let the smooth taste fool you.

"That woman must not know who we are," Malone said. "And what we do."

"Maybe not."

"But she knew Nina?" Deacon asked, forking up some slow-cooked greens.

"Says she did," Porter Hayes said. "Probably met me at some of those things at Stax when they honor the Tonettes. Knows me for being married to Genevieve, not from being a detective."

"You don't exactly keep a low profile, man," he said. "You on Live at 9last week with Alex and Mary Beth, talking about school safety for the kids. Memphis's Favorite Private Eye."

The last part had Deacon doing his best to mimic the deep baritones of the anchor, Alex Coleman. Hayes shrugged and took a bite of the rib tips. Nice and smoky, cooked low and slow in the alley off a steel-drum pit.

"So," Malone said. "What's she look like?"

Hayes pulled out the little camera and slid it across to Deacon. Deacon was twice Porter's size, carrying a lot of weight that had once been muscle but now was situated mainly around his waist. But there still wasn't a hell of a lot of folks, young or old, who would fuck with Deacon Malone. He looked like a great smiling Buddha with a mean secret behind the eyes.

Deacon turned the camera around in his hands—tech wasn't his expertise. Hayes snatched it from him and turned it on, pointing to the screen on the back. Deacon pressed a button, scrolling through some of the last pictures from Oak Court this morning. "Now I know you're lying to me."

"Hey," Hayes said. "What can I say? There may be snow on the roof—"

"Hate to break it to you, man. But it's been snowing all over your ass for twenty goddamn years."

"Just saying, if I weren't an honest man..."

"If you weren't so honest, that woman would break you in half," he said. "The Hightowers are onto you, Porter. You come into that house and that old preacher is gonna be waiting in the closet with more than his dick in his hand."

"A hymnbook?"

"His .44 Magnum, man."

Hayes swiveled his chair around, staring out the big bank of windows overlooking Second and Madison, the stenciled letters for HAYES INVESTIGATIONS appearing a little worse for wear against the cracked-open window. He poured Rémy into an old Memphis Showboats coffee mug and looked up at the wall and all the newspaper clippings, dusty civic awards, and sun-faded black-and-white photos. Lots of cases and lots of memories up on that wall: Porter Hayes and Elvis at a karate demonstration at Kang Rhee's dojo; a clipping from the Commercial Appeal after he'd saved game show host Wink Martindale from a kidnapping; Porter and Marlo Thomas raising money for St. Jude; Porter and Jerry "the King" Lawler after his stripper ex-girlfriend hired that hitman. Porter as a rookie detective at MPD. Damn, when was that, 1967?

Now people were whispering about his retirement, putting him on the prayer list at church after heart surgery, word getting out in the community that he was on the verge of hanging it all up, even though that was a damn lie. If Porter retired, what the hell would he do with himself? Move down to Florida? Start donating his time at the Boys Girls Club? Hell, he already put in two days a week helping out the Booker T. High track team, where he'd run first place in the 440- and the 100-yard dash, hoping to make it to college or the Olympics if Uncle Sam hadn't called his number up to Vietnam. Three long years into the jungle, Long Range Ranger Patrol, hunting down Charlie for reasons he didn't understand and never would. The Soul Patrol working deep in Cu Chi.

"Little early?" Darlene asked. "Ain't it?"

Darlene had been his assistant, secretary, and all-around girl Friday for more than twenty-five years. She was a wiry little white woman from somewhere around Coldwater, Mississippi, with a country accent so thick that even locals would ask her to repeat herself. Cain't you hear me? I'm talking with my mouth. He'd heard that so many times. Her voice thick and hoarse from years of chain-smoking. Tiny lines around her lips.

"Wrapping up the Hightower case," Hayes said. He set the little camera at the edge of his desk and looked up. "I'm writing the report. But you'll need to develop those pictures."

"Develop?" she said. "You know you can email all that stuff now, Porter. You really want hard copies?"

He nodded.

"You're not gonna charge that woman's granddaughter," she said. "Are you?"

"Not much to it," Porter said. "Only took a few days. Expenses only. I was just stretching my legs."

"You do know your generosity is about to bankrupt us."

"You've been saying that for twenty-five years."

"How long since we had a good one," Darlene said, leaning against the doorframe. "A really good case to offset those freebies?"

"I'm not charging that lady," Porter said. "Wouldn't be right."

Darlene shook her head and picked up the camera, leaving his office but keeping the door open. He turned around and reached for an old brick to prop the window open and walked over to close the door.

He sat back down and lit a cigarette and finished the last of the Rémy. Down on the street, an idling truck knocked into first and labored forward, the shocks and suspension squeaking. He was thinking about his kids, wondering if Nina really knew Lady Hightower, and then thinking on the hard words he'd had the last time he talked with his son, Randy. His son was a grown man with a family of his own but still trying to hustle it as a music promoter, working with Three 6 Mafia and Gangsta Boo. The last time they had dinner, Randy refused to take off his hat in the restaurant. Just where had Porter failed?

The old tan landline on his desk rang, and Porter picked it up. Been so long since he caught a call on the thing he could feel the thick dust on his fingers. He wondered why it hadn't gone to Darlene's desk first.

"Remember Sami Hassan?" Deacon Malone asked.

"Sam the Sham?" Hayes said. "Sure, man. Hadn't heard that name in a long while. Thought he went straight when he started slinging barbecue out in Germantown?"

"Man was crazy," Malone said. "Only one I know to ever tell Dago Tiller to go fuck himself. And live."

"Why're you asking?"

"'Cause he called me asking about you," Malone said. "Sam was under the impression you might be dead. Ha ha."

"That's funny," Hayes said. "Real funny."

"He seemed pretty damn hot to see you, man. Says he's got some family trouble that needs attention."

"That barbecue any good?"

"Fourth best in Memphis."

"But can he pay?"

"Sam the Sham?" Malone said. "Shit. He might not keep book at the Domino Club anymore, but the man's done well for himself. If the family trouble's bad enough, this just might be the case you've been looking for."

Hayes looked up to see his office door open again, Darlene at her little desk listening in on her end.

"You getting all this, Darlene?"

"What do you think?" Darlene asked, phone pressed to her ear. "And it's about goddamn time."