6 Porter Hayes

The address was along Belvedere out in Central Gardens, a big old English Tudor mansion, not two blocks away from where Porter's mother worked as a maid for more than thirty years. His momma had been so loyal to that family, the Vances, that sometimes he wondered if she loved them more than her own kids. Not until he was grown did he understand why she'd been absent every birthday, every Christmas and Thanksgiving, not coming home until dark, dead on her feet, to make a late supper for Porter and his little brother. But he'd always had nice clothes, mostly hand-me-downs from the boy his age. Jonathan Vance inked in the collars and old underwear, something he didn't think much of until he'd once run into the boy outside the house, the kid believing Porter had stolen his jacket and calling him a thieving little nigger. Little things like that a man didn't forget, not even twenty years later when that boy, now a man, came to him and asked Porter to peep into a window to see if his wife was doing the deed with his business partner. Porter laying the black-and-white photographs on his desk, some real fine 8x10 shots of the partner's bald white head between the thighs of young Mrs. Vance at the Holiday Inn. Damn. He'd never heard a man make a sound like that, wailing something horrible down deep.

Hayes parked his old black Mercedes sedan on the curb and headed up four different sets of concrete steps cut into the hill up to the mansion. The front door looked to have been taken off a castle, polished old wood adorned with heavy iron fixtures and a big square peephole. He knocked twice and took a step back, remembering that his mother never was allowed to enter the front door, only the back entrance by the garage and straight into the kitchen. He still could see his mother's thick winter coat set on a hook by the door, her back to him as she rustled through the refrigerator to make the Vance family breakfast, Porter left to sit at their kitchen table reading through the funny papers.

The door opened and a small, youngish white woman appeared. He figured her to be Addison McKellar, but she sure didn't look a thing like Sam the Sham. This woman was thin, blond, and pretty, missing big ole Sami's heft and hawkish nose. She wore a set of large blue silk pajamas, so big the sleeves covered her hands, and greeted him with a nice toothy smile, inviting him inside. Her hair was done up in a bun and she carried a lit cigarette in her right hand.

Hayes had to check his watch to make sure it was indeed ten o'clock in the morning.

"Jesus," she said. "Thank you so much, Mr. Hayes. My dad already told me so much about you and I can't believe you came over so quickly. It's a mess. A fucking mess. Oh god. Sorry to cuss. But it is, isn't it? My husband is missing and I can't find him and now I'm not so sure where my husband goes every day or if he's dead or alive or left me for some other woman. But Christ, I'm only thirty-nine, you'd think he'd wait until I got a little older to start sleeping around?"

"Good morning, Mrs. McKellar," Hayes said. "You have a beautiful home."

"Would you like some coffee?" she said, smiling as if the preamble had been a bit of a joke. "Please excuse the kitchen. It's a mess, too. The contractor has been working on it for two months now and still can't seem to finish the job. We had the cabinets put in three weeks ago, everything painted, but the countertop guy keeps on making excuses. Marble. I figured the white marble was the way to go. The old countertops had gotten so dull and dirty. I figured time for a change."

A curly-coated brown dog wandered up and smelled Porter's crotch and then tried to run its head and ears up under his hand. "Oh god," Addison said. "Don't mind him. So sorry. That's ChaCha. He's sweet but dumb as a box of rocks."

"Some dogs and many people are like that."

"Our previous dog was awesome," she said. "We called him King. A Malinois that would've taken a bullet for this whole family. God, I miss that guy. But at least ChaCha doesn't shed."

Hayes patted the dog's head and followed Addison McKellar into the kitchen that was, as promised, a complete goddamn mess. Most of the cabinets were covered in plastic sheeting while a Hispanic woman at a large sink ran dirty plates under the faucet. He thought about the Hispanic woman and his own momma, wondering just how much of her life she spent scraping plates and leaving the dishes up to dry.

"This is Josefina," Addison said. "Josefina, would you please bring some coffee into Mr. McKellar's study? None for me. Thank you. I've already had three cups this morning and feel like I've just finished a line of coke."

She stopped and then held up a hand, her face coloring. "Only a joke," she said. "I don't do cocaine. I'm only a little jumpy. I know that's what you do, look at the little things, the small details to look at a larger picture? And surely a wife who is a coke addict would be a clue. Right?"

"I'm not what you might call a literal person, Mrs. McKellar," he said. "I know that when things get tight, you better laugh or you might just start crying."

The woman hugged her arms around herself, the legs of her pajamas pooling thick around her ankles. The pajamas had the initials SH on a breast pocket, a dark blue piping around the cuffs and down the buttonholes. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't ask how you like your coffee."

"Plain is fine."

"Just black?"

Hayes smiled. The woman's face colored again. The old Memphis divide would never go out of style.

Addison McKellar was only four years younger than Nina. He hoped like hell that Nina's husband never up and did a boneheaded move like Dean McKellar. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred in these cases, the man has gone and pulled a damn Bobby Harris, although explaining the Bobby Harris case to a nice young woman like Mrs. McKellar might not be the best idea. Harris had just up and disappeared one day, gone to Cincinnati to find a new name, a new job, and new woman, and soon a new set of kids. Without any indication, the man simply picked up his coat and hat one morning, kissed his wife on the cheek, and moved on to the new version of himself that was all just a brand-new lie.

"No sugar?"

"Just plain," Hayes said. "Thank you."

She pulled back one side of two giant sliding doors and ushered him into a wood-paneled study. The whole house felt as austere and staged as a tour of the Pink Palace. Porter half expected to be blocked with a velvet rope before he was able to enter. Leatherbound books lined the walls around a big-ass desk with carved eagle talons for feet. A bar held whiskey in crystal decanters and a big glass-topped humidor. A framed American flag hung on the wall and some kind of bronze cowboy statue balanced on a pedestal.

Hayes sat down in a green leather chair with brass nailhead trim. He crossed his legs and prepared to hear Mrs. McKellar do a hell of a lot of talking. He'd let her just flow. He'd always found that letting a client get it all out, first and foremost, sometimes worked a hell of a lot better than him trying to come on too hard and ask a grocery list of questions.

"My daddy speaks very highly of you."

"Your daddy said he thought I was dead."

"Sounds about like Daddy," she said. "You know, he's not doing too well himself."

"Sorry to hear that," Hayes said. "He's a good man."

That was a big ole fat lie but that's what you said when you heard a daughter talk about her sick daddy. Hayes crossed his legs, resting his left ankle across right knee. A sharp pain shot up through his spine, reminding him that none of the old Memphis crew was getting any younger. Over these decades, they were just lucky to be hanging on. Addison sat at the edge of the desk, nervously playing with a letter opener in the shape of a sword—actually, a bayonet. "Okay," she said. "I got arrested yesterday. Just for showing up at my husband's office and asking where he'd gone. Only he wasn't there and it wasn't his office anymore and the police had to escort me out of the building."

"Happens sometimes."

"Have you ever been arrested?"

Hayes smiled, smoothing down his mustache with his thumb. "Oh, yes," he said. "Many times. Goes with the job."

"It sucks," she said. "It made me feel dirty. They stuck me in a cell and towed my car. When I talked to the sergeant in charge, she thought the whole thing was a joke."

"What was her name?"

"Lantana something or other."

"Lantana Jones?"

Addison nodded, still fiddling with the letter opener. A fidgety little thing. The maid slid open one of the partial doors and brought a small cup of coffee on a fancy tray. Porter helped himself and leaned back into the sofa, trying to get a feel for this man, Dean McKellar, who'd up and disappeared. He'd already done some digging. White male, forty-six, five foot eight, hundred and seventy pounds, blond hair and blue eyes. CEO of McKellar Construction.

"How long have y'all been married?" Hayes asked.

"Fifteen years."

"And has your husband ever been gone like this?"

Addison nodded and sat up straighter in the chair, pulling her legs up under her and leaning toward him in a conspiratorial way. "A year and a half ago," she said. "After my brother's big birthday party at the Overton Park Shell. He never told me he'd be leaving town but then showed up five days later as if nothing happened."

"And never did try and explain it?"

"Dean said he'd had an emergency in New York," she said. "And there were some issues with his cell phone."

"Does he know the old landlines still work?"

"Just what I said."

"And what did he say?"

"Same as always," she said. "Turned it all back on me. He found a way to make it my problem, said I never understood about his work. The deadlines, the people trying to screw him, the unions and the politicians, always having to watch everything on the construction site. He said he was buried with work and knew I'd be fine taking care of the kids."

The woman talked as if everyone in Memphis must've heard of the motherfucker but in truth, the name meant nothing to Porter. Besides what he'd dug up online with the help of Darlene.

"Do you have access to his credit cards?"

"No," she said. "Only my own. Although he pays the balance. Or did."

"You know where he gets his statements?"

"I assume his office," she said. "Wherever the hell that really is."

"Your father said you were worried for his safety," Hayes said.

"You mean, I think he might be dead?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Addison hopped up and began to pace the floor, old hardwoods overlain with some real rich-looking Orientals. Hayes studied the art on the wall. He was no critic but recognized some good oil work when he saw it. Scenes from the Old West, cowboys riding the open plains, bustling seaports and old-timey big sailboats. One scene looked particularly interesting, a big sprawling valley of pine trees at the golden glow in late afternoon, the hint of a blue stream meandering through it all. Addison stopped pacing.

"We got that one in Wyoming," she said. "Dean and I have another house there."

"Any chance that's where he's hiding out?"

"Wyoming, Rosemary Beach, New York, Hot Springs," she said. "You name it. We have places everywhere. It's disgusting, really. I sometimes can't keep track."

"This is a fine old home," Hayes said. "My momma used to work at a house right around the corner. Ever heard of the Vance family?"

The young woman shook her head. The Vances had probably sold out long ago, moved farther on out of Memphis, the old relic of a house now inhabited by a new family, new kinds of people to cook and clean, manage the upkeep of such a big property. It didn't appear much had changed around Central Gardens.

"I'll need a list of Dean's close friends and associates," he said. "Your father mentioned a secretary."

"Amanda," she said. "Did I give you that number?"

Hayes nodded. He already had Darlene running it. But chances are it was just a burner.

"What about other people who work there?"

"I almost never went to his office," she said. "I knew his old partner, Alec. But they split off about six years ago. Alec went back to work at his dad's company."

"What's Alec's last name?"

"Dawson."

"And do you think he's still in town?"

Addison nodded. "Dawson-Gray Construction. They had a place at the White Station Tower."

"Friends?"

"My brother, Branch," she said. "Some people at the Club."

"Memphis Country Club?"

"He served on the Ducks Unlimited Board, too," she said. "Dean had his drinking buddies and his own life away from the family. I didn't really care if he came home a little ripped, so long as he came home and spent time with the kids. He's a good father. He takes Preston hunting and fishing. Plays catch with him. And he's so proud of Sara Caroline and her lacrosse. I swear."

Addison nodded a few times to add some emphasis to it, Porter thinking this man kept a real tight circle of family and friends. If he was really a big swinging dick in the construction business, he should have contacts all over town, although this woman kept on mentioning places far from Memphis. New York. London. She talked about some stuff in the Middle East on the phone.

"Sounds like we need to find Amanda."

Addison nodded.

"This is Dean's office?"

"Yes, sir."

"You mind if I take a look around and through your husband's personal papers?"

Addison shook her head and Hayes made his way behind the desk, fiddling with two drawers to find them both locked. He looked up at Addison, who marched on over, grasped the letter opener and jammed it into the edge of the drawer, prying it open until there was a sharp crack. "Help yourself to anything, Mr. Hayes," she said. "You have my complete and total permission to make as big a goddamn mess as you like."

"Appreciate that, Mrs. McKellar."

She smiled. "Call me Addison."

They took the I-240 loop to I-55 and down to Southaven, Mississippi, to an interchangeable gathering of Walmart, Target, Home Depot, and a dozen or so car dealerships. There was a Cracker Barrel, a place that Porter Hayes had never wanted to visit based on the name alone, and a few Starbucks along the way. The address from Darlene was in a strip mall right off Goodman; "Turn at the Olive Garden," she'd said. Porter had done his damnedest to go it alone but Addison had come down dressed and ready to come along while he was still snooping through the study.

"Did Dean ever mention Southaven?"

"Nope," she said. "Only times I visited Dean's office, it was always downtown."

"At the Cotton Exchange Building?" Hayes said. "That lease expired two years ago. What do you know about this woman Amanda?"

"Besides that she's a fake and a liar?" Addison said, seated in the passenger seat of Porter's Mercedes. "I feel like a total fucking idiot. I've spoken to her a million times. I know this sounds stupid, but talking about Amanda was almost like talking about family. Dean talked about her all the time. Amanda this. Amanda that. Now to know she was just some lying bitch."

"Well," Hayes said. "I got to warn you, but it sure smells like some honey hooch situation."

"Honey hooch?"

"Pardon me," Hayes said. "Another woman living situation."

"That's what people call it?"

"It's what I call it," Hayes said. "Although I just may have coined the phrase myself."

"You think Dean might have another family?" she said. "Wow. He could barely keep ours going."

Hayes checked out the addresses as they drove west on Goodman, past a big movie theater and a Chevy dealership, before finally taking that turn at Olive Garden, a sign boasting unlimited breadsticks and pasta bowls. Redneck heaven.

"How exactly do you know my father?" she said. "If you don't mind me asking."

"He didn't tell you?"

"Nope."

"Then he might not want me to say."

"Oh," she said. "I've heard that before."

"Sure you have." Hayes grinned as he drove into an industrial park, passing a strip mall filled with a pizza joint, two accountants, a few massage therapists, and a chiropractor. The suite number they had looked for was wedged right between a Vietnamese restaurant and a Mexican ice cream shop.

"I used to own an ice cream shop," Addison said. "Everything went great for the first few months but then I couldn't give a cone away. It started costing Dean five thousand a month."

"Hard running a business," Hayes said. "My son's in music management. That seems to be even worse. But what do I know? I stopped listening to the radio when disco was on the way out."

"Who's he work with?"

"Ever heard of the Ying-Yang Twins, Gangsta Boo?"

Addison shook her head as Hayes turned in to park. Addison stared straight ahead at suite number 8, Book Endz. Used Books, Paperbacks, and Hardcovers. Buy, Sell, and Trade.

"Heard anything about this?"

"Probably just a waste of time," she said. "Like the Cotton Exchange."

"Maybe," Hayes said. "Only one way to find out. This is where this Amanda, or whatever her name is, gets her bills. You want to come in with me or wait in the car?"

"What if I told you I wanted to wring that bitch's neck?"

"I'd advise you that assault isn't a good conversation starter," Hayes said.

"But if you need me to assault her," Addison said, "on account of her being a woman and you don't want that on you, I'd be glad to."

"Damn," Hayes said. "You are Sam's daughter."

"Are you ever going to tell me how y'all met?"

Hayes reached for the door handle and turned to Addison, smiling. "Maybe," he said. "One day. Once we get to know each other a little better."

The door was unlocked but the shop seemed abandoned, rows and rows of homemade bookshelves painted a base white, signs marking the coves of Fiction, History, Self-Help, Mystery, and Gardening. The shop had that particular odor of musty old paper and mothballs. He and Addison moved through the stacks of books, bringing Porter to mind of the shabby old paperbacks that Genevieve used to ship to him in Vietnam along with bubble gum, cigarettes, and magazines. The Complete Works of Langston Hughes, The Maltese Falcon, The Strength to Love by Dr. King. Porter would never forget seeing Dr. King step off that tarmac in 1968 and coming face-to-face with him at the gate. He was assigned to protect King during his first visit for the sanitation workers' strike. In his black suit, starched white shirt, and tie, King had brought the word resplendent to Porter's mind. King called him Detective Hayes and Porter always called him Dr. King, although his people had taken to calling him "Doc." What happened to King at the Lorraine still tore Hayes up inside and haunted all of Memphis.

Hayes picked up the yellowed paperback on the dusty shelf, King's smiling profile in grainy black and white. Goddamn. More than forty years ago. Addison moved past him into the section of the store where the fluorescent lights flickered over countless cardboard boxes of unsorted books. He set down the King book and followed her into a narrow opening toward a rear fire exit. The hallway was long, with scuffed white walls and threadbare industrial carpet. Addison popped out of an office and raised her hands with exasperation. "Nothing."

Hayes passed her and walked into a small, simple office with a desk, computer, and walls lined with blue plastic bins. Several cell phones had been lined up on the desk and along a well-marked blotter. Each phone had been marked with a different color tape. Just as Hayes motioned to Addison to follow him inside, they both heard a toilet flush. After a few seconds, a heavyset white woman in a long maroon top and black slacks sauntered in drying her hands with a paper towel. Her body looked as round as a barrel, and a helmet of dyed brown hair framed her bulldog face and tiny eyes. She looked to Hayes and then back to Addison. "Store's closed," she said. "Didn't y'all see the sign?"

"I'm looking for a copy of Ben-Hur," Hayes said. "The one with the erratum on page 116."

"Are y'all fucking high?" the bulldog woman said.

"That's her," Addison said. "That's Amanda."

When the woman heard Addison's voice, her crinkled face folded in an oh-shit kind of expression. She glanced to Hayes and then back to Addison, before picking up one of the cell phones and saying, "Y'all have two seconds to get your dang asses out of here before I call the fucking cops."

Porter Hayes smiled. "You know what?" he said. "I was about to do the same."

"Who the fuck are you?" the woman asked. "Miss Daisy's driver?"

Hayes crossed his arms and glanced down at the dozen or so phones.

"You know my voice," Addison said. "But who are you? Really."

"I don't know you from bubble gum, little miss," she said. "This is a private goddamn business and the both of you have no right to be in here. If you think I'm bluffing, then y'all just stick around until Southaven's finest come to cart y'all out by your ear."

Hayes eyed a well-worn leather purse on a nearby table and walked over and turned it upside down. "Shit," the woman said. "Put that down. Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Aren't you gonna call the cops?" Hayes said. "Or is your big ass just whistling ‘Dixie'?"

Hayes found her wallet in the pile and flipped through until he found a Tennessee state driver's license with the name Maude Herron. Two Rs and one N and a picture of a face that only a momma bulldog could love. The woman's deadpan look reminded Porter of someone who was used to getting their picture made. He called Darlene and it didn't take but a minute for her to start to run down Maude Herron's previous charges and convictions, Darlene connecting her to a man named Lunatti who ran most of the strip clubs south of I-240.

Hayes slipped the wallet back into the purse and tossed it to Maude, who caught it like a tight end, clutching it to her chest. "How long have you worked for Dean McKellar?"

"I don't know what the fuck you two want or why you're threatening and intimidating a decent Christian woman," she said. "If you want my money, go on and take it, but leave me the hell alone."

"Miss Herron," Hayes said, "we don't give a good goddamn about the books you cook or the folks you do business with. We're looking for this woman's husband and know you've been manning the phones here."

Maude Herron gave him a hard look and then glanced back over at Addison. She shook her head and then shrugged. "Don't get your panties in a twist," Maude said. "It's just a damn job, Cinderella. Hope the kids are okay. Did Preston ever shake that cold?"

"He did."

"And Sara Caroline?" she said. "That boy still calling up y'all's house at all hours?"

Addison slowly nodded as Hayes heard the soft click of a door closing and the brushing sound of footsteps in the hall. He motioned for Addison to stand behind him and for Maude to sit her big ass down. He pulled out his .38 from his jacket and stood on the right side of the door. A white man entered with two sacks from Popeyes. Hayes stepped up, stuck the gun in his back, and told him to drop the chicken and raise his hands. The man did as he was told.

The man was thick, big bellied, and baldheaded, with a dark mustache and goatee. He had on wide-legged saggy blue jeans, orange Crocs, and a T-shirt that said salt life with a marlin flipping free from the ocean. Porter checked him and found a shiny new Glock slid up into his front pant pocket.

"Come on, man," the bald guy said. "Our chicken's gonna get cold."

"Your fat ass is gonna get a lot colder you don't do what I say."

"Go ahead," the man said. "Money's in the file cabinet. Shit, it ain't even locked."

Maude threw a slap at the fat man's face so quick and hard that Hayes barely saw it coming. It ended with a sharp thwack and the man dropped down to one knee, stroking the red cheek. "Goddamn it, Momma."

Addison stood up next to Hayes now, both of her hands over her mouth, watching Maude pick up one of the cells, one with a red band, and twirl it in her hands. "Baby," she said. "I don't know your husband. I ain't never met him. I get money wired into my account twice a month for answering calls from you and telling you just what you want to hear. I don't think I've spoken to your man more than a half-dozen times. I don't know what he's doing or his shuck and never even considered on asking."

"Bullshit," Hayes said.

"You think so?" she said. "You know who I am. And who I do the books for. Someone asked me if I'd like to make a little money on the side, and I'm not the kind of lady to turn down an offer like that. I got to feed Junior's stupid ass, and that kid eats a lot of chicken."

Hayes smiled. "That true, Junior?"

"I don't see why you got to bring fucking Popeyes into this shit."

"How does he contact you?"

"Through telepathy," Maude said. "How the fuck do you think?"

"Which number?"

"My own line."

"Which is?"

Maude closed her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nose and then picked up one of the cells without a color mark on it. She wiggled it at him like she was teasing a dog with a bone. She scrolled through some numbers and then showed him the one with the 212 area code. "Give me your palm and I'll write into your hand."

"Nope." Hayes snatched the phone away.

"Me and Junior got a lot of friends," she said. "You mess with me and they'll come for you."

"I hang my hat downtown at Madison and Second," he said. "Third floor. Porter Hayes Investigations. Y'all come anytime. Who introduced you to Dean McKellar?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," she said, setting her purse on the desk and then strutting over to pick up the fried chicken. She searched through the sack and then looked over at her son. "Goddamn it, Junior. You forgot my fucking biscuits."

"Who was it?" Hayes said. He could feel Addison creeping up on his right side. He could hear her breathing.

Maude shrugged and set about opening up the sack and pulling out the boxes of chicken and setting down what was left of the jumbo sweet teas. Her gaze moved off Porter and over to Addison. She smiled. "Honey," she said, "I always loved talking to you until you said that thing about me cleaning the damn toilets at Walmart. I know you're not the Walmart type, but I tell you that's a hell of a cruel statement to make to any human."

"Was any of what we talked about true?" Addison said.

"Some of it," she said. "I sometimes got y'all dinner reservations. Maybe a concert at the Pyramid. I think it was Prince. Lord, that wasn't easy."

"And you never met him," Hayes said.

"I wouldn't know Dean McKellar if he walked into this old bookshop buckass nekkid with an ID tag hanging from his pecker."

Maude reached for a hot chicken breast and took a big bite, her son still on the floor soothing his reddened cheek. Sipping on the jumbo tea, she smiled at Addison. "If you tell him I said it, I'll deny it. But you may want to ask ole Jimbo Hornsby a question or two. I'll tell you, whatever I get paid ain't worth goddamn Cinderella and Samuel L. Jackson coming in and fucking up a family supper."

"You really think I look like Sam Jackson?" Porter said.

"You favor him a bit," she said. "But you got hair on your head and a lot more miles."

"And who the hell is Jimbo Hornsby?" he said.

The woman slurped on her tea and then handed over a drumstick to her son, who'd gotten off the floor, hands still up and keeping a wide berth from Porter's gun. "Wouldn't be no fun if I gave y'all all the answers."

"Come on," Addison said, her hand shaking on Porter's elbow. "We've been friends with the Hornsbys ever since I moved back to Memphis. He lives in Chickasaw Gardens."

"Oh, yeah?"

"He's our lawyer and my son's godfather."