From GRACELAND ON WHEELS

Garland Humphries awoke with a bucket of composted cow manure in his mouth—or so he thought. When he raised his head, bolts of lightning flashed before his eyes, and a mule kicked him in the forehead.

Using the strength of three men to open his eyelids, Garland saw dried vomit on his white jumpsuit. Fearing what it would cost to clean the sequined leather garment, he began to shake his head and received another kick from that troublesome mule. The smell of his breath reminded him of the stench in a cesspool. He needed to wash the putrid taste from his mouth and gingerly attempted to sit up.

Swinging his legs off the wide mattress felt like he just cleared a high hurdle. But when he stood, an image of the Milky Way covered his field of vision and caused him to sit quickly. Garland sucked in a large volume of air, attempting to stop the spinning sensation, and after a few seconds, he again tried to stand. That time he made it. In a few moments, a flicker of confidence radiated from his head, through his body and down into his legs. He took a step, then another and felt the all too familiar sensation of his brain being too big for his skull.

He decided to look for a bottle of aspirin, but really wanted a glass of Jack Daniels to clear his head. When he reached the doorway of the bedroom in his big RV, he looked down the narrow hallway toward the little kitchen, the dining and sitting areas and finally the driver’s and passenger’s seats and the door. The hall between him and the wide-open spaces looked like a tunnel, with walls no farther apart than the width of his shoulders.

The kitchen was no more than fifteen feet away, but it seemed like a hundred yards, and he began to feel claustrophobic. The sides of the tunnel began to pulsate. Garland saw stars again. Bile collected in his mouth, and nausea overtook him. Garland Humphries needed a toilet or a bucket—fast.

He ricocheted off the walls and the first door he found opened into the combination toilet closet and shower. Garland dropped to his knees, hugged the commode and lost the contents of his stomach in two great heaves. Unable to move for what seemed like an eternity, he mustered the strength to push himself upright, turn and use the sink as a crutch. He scooped up hands full of water to rinse his mouth and splash on his cheeks. When he stood, Garland couldn’t focus on the pathetic drunk staring back at him from the small mirror and opened the medicine cabinet looking for a bottle of mouthwash. The childproof cap caused major problems, but finally he took a drink, rinsed and spat into the sink. That accomplished, he grabbed a bottle of aspirin, cursed the cap, opened it with his teeth and swallowed half a dozen.

Leaving the toilet and sink as they were, Garland moved toward the door of the RV and opened a portal to fresh air and the outside world. As most drunks would, he exaggerated a careful descent of the two steps and, without falling, found himself on solid ground. The noise of the slamming door erupted inside his head.

“Hello, Garland. Y’all don’t look so good.”

Humphries couldn’t see who had spoken, tried to look through the foggy darkness, but only saw a shadow approaching. It was the last thing he ever saw.

From FATE OF A FLOOZY

On a cloudy Thursday morning in late May, I stood in Helene Redpath’s bedroom looking down at her naked body lying next to a man more than twenty years her junior. They were dead, of course. Killed by two blasts from a horribly expensive double-barreled shotgun.

A pair of tall double-hung windows in the second floor bedroom over?looked an Italianate garden at the back of the house. An alabaster statue of Mercury stood at the intersection of six narrow brick walks. Short and neatly trimmed boxwoods bordered pie-shaped beds of topsoil that held hundreds of colorful annuals planted no more than two weeks ago. Beyond the floral garden, stone steps led to an expansive lawn sloping to the south, terminating at the banks of the Little River.

I knew the homeowner. Not intimately, but I’d seen her around for years. Helene Redpath had spent more than four decades portraying a floozy. She appeared in major motion pictures, TV movies, cable features and even on British television where they’ve never been squeamish about primetime sex or showing lots of skin. As a young actress, everyone remembered her face, but I’d be surprised if many people knew her name.

Helene worked steadily for years, but spent most of that time on the “B” list. Whenever a studio needed a beautiful girl with a figure to make Miss Universe jealous, they cast Helene as a cheating housewife, an oversexed career woman, a hooker with a heart of gold or a scrumptious drunk. Then, as she aged and the world watched her career declining, Ms. Redpath landed a part in the film Cover-up, playing the alcoholic mother of a soldier killed by friendly fire in Afghanistan. Suddenly the critics realized Helene could act, and she won an Oscar for best supporting role.

Jackie Shuman and David Sparks, crime scene investigators from the county Sheriff’s office, worked the bedroom with the efficiency of well trained automatons. The deputy medical examiner, Dr. Morris Rappaport, and his assistant, Earl W. Ogle, conducted field tests on the bodies and prepared them for their trip to the University of Tennessee’s forensics lab.

“Got a time of death, Mo?” I asked the pathologist.

“For once, Sam, I can give you a definite answer. This young man likes to make love wearing a watch. A shotgun pellet stopped his Tag Huerer at exactly 10:28 last night.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Hard to controvert that.”

“By this afternoon, I’ll be able to tell you if there are any factors beyond the obvious.”

“Thank you, Morris. You’re my favorite M.E.”

He shrugged. “Such an honor.”

I next spoke to the evidence technicians. “Talk to me, Jackie. What do you know so far?”

“Well, as y’all kin see fer yer own self, there weren’t no break. Either the door was open, or the shooter had him a key. The shotgun, it’s layin’ over yonder.” He pointed just beyond the foot of the bed. “It’s one sweet weapon. Musta cost more’n I make in a month. I believe it came from the cabinet downstairs in the den. Check it out. You’ll find the door open an’ only seven of the eight slots filled.”

“Dust it yet?”

“David did. Wiped clean. Cabinet, too.”

“Okay. When you finish and write all this up, stop at the PD.”

“You got it, Chief.”

The bedroom looked like a featured display from a museum of Early American furniture. Not the kind of things you’d buy in an antique mall, but rather what you’d acquire from a dealer who wore a double-breasted blazer and silk bow tie and paid fifty bucks for a short haircut every three weeks. A lot of thought went into decorating the room, but Helene would never enjoy it again.

Prospect, Tennessee had always been one of the vacation spots favored by some of the nine million people who visited the Great Smoky Mountains National Park annually. Those who desired a more tranquil atmosphere, a place without music halls, outlet malls or bumper car rides, visited my town. The travel brochures called us “the Peaceful side of the Smokies.” It is peaceful…if we’re not investigating double homicides.

When a small resort named Blackberry Farm, a place not far from where I lived, was named the number one holiday destination in North America by a famous travel magazine, the rich and famous began invading the hotel in force, totally oblivious to the nightly rates that topped off at $3,500.00. As Blackberry Farm gained popularity with people whose faces appeared regularly on shows like Entertainment Tonight and Access Hollywood, these celebrities decided they’d like a chunk of the Smokies for themselves and started purchasing their own private getaways.

Soon, the demand outweighed the supply, and farmers owning land with spectacular mountain views put the family homesteads on the market. Realtors began making commissions that allowed them to replace their four-door Chevys with top-of-the-line Range Rovers. Upper-crust subdivisions called Yorkshire Dales, Worthington Cove and The Cedars at Whispering Mountain overshadowed little communities within the Prospect postal district with traditional names like Gamble’s Woods, Cutter’s Gap or Keeble’s Chapel.

Helene Redpath, herself a country girl originally from North Carolina, was one of the glamorous west coast celebrities who had discovered our corner of east Tennessee. In the years following her Oscar Award, she landed several more parts that made her a multi-millionaire. Two years ago, I she and her husband paid a premium for the property I found myself now visiting, a 200-year-old farmhouse surrounded by 100 acres of choice land. Once she saw the house in which she eventually died, Helene became determined to buy it out from under a horde of hungry developers bent on carving up the land and creating another up-scale neighborhood in beautiful Prospect.

If I knew how to deal with women, I wouldn’t get involved with some of the things that cause me trouble.

I was minding my own business, trying to be just another small-town cop when the phone rang. Caller ID showed the number of my favorite TV reporter.

“Well, hello there.” She sounded very sexy.

“Hi, how’re you today?”

“I’m doing just fine, and I’m glad you’re in the office.”

“You sound like you’re in a good mood this morning,” I said.

“I am. I’m in the mood for love. Want to have phone-sex?”

I think I’m a pretty worldly guy, but that one threw me for a loop. “Rachel, sweetheart, you’re my best friend, but the last time I looked we were married—and not to each other. You know I try to be good where you’re concerned. So, how can you ask me that? You have no mercy.”

“You are so cute when you get flustered.”

“I am not flustered.”

“Are, too.”

“Jeez,” I said, “did you hear yourself? That was so jejune.”

“Jejune?”

“Yeah, it means…”

“I know what it means,” she interrupted. “No one on earth says jejune except you.”

“That’s not true. If I didn’t want to behave myself, I’d rent a movie, and we could watch an old Woody Allen film where they use the word more than once.”

“If you take me to that drive-in near Prospect, I’ll make out with you.”

“Will you cut that out?”

“Well, if you won’t take advantage of my invitations, I’d better get down to business.”

“You just want to stop this R-rated dialogue and talk business without skipping a beat? Is that any way to treat your buddy?”

“Oh, I love this. Little Rachel can turn her big tough-guy into an old softie.”

“Lady, you won’t get me to comment on that one. No ma’am, not me.”

“I think you just did, Sammy. Were you getting hot and bothered?”

“You’re a shameless hussy.”

“Oh, you’re so sweet. You’re the only man I’d ever leave home for.”

“Where have I heard that line before?”

“Well, it’s true. Now, if you won’t make love to me over the phone, we have to talk seriously. Will you do me a favor?”

“Of course I’ll do you a favor. Silly woman. You could have just asked instead of making me need a cold shower.”

“Do I have that effect on you?”

“Stop fishing. What do you want?”

“It’s really not for me. One of the assistant producers, Angie Valle—I think you’ve met her—is having a problem.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I need to ask something first. How do you feel about arresting another police officer?”

That’s the kind of thing a cop never likes to hear, but occasionally you do. “I’ve had to do that before when I worked in New York. Look, cops generally don’t like to lock up other cops, but if it’s necessary, I can deal with that.”

“Okay, good. Angie’s separated from her husband, a Knoxville policeman. He’s threatened her.” “He’s a Knoxville city cop?”

“Yes.”

“Where does Angie live?”

“In Fountain City.”

“That’s Knox County’s area. I can’t do something that far away. Police work is like the garbage collection business. The local wise guys dictate who picks up trash in designated areas. Cops have their own turf. We don’t go into other districts unless we connect it to a crime where we work.”

“I know all that, Sammy. I just thought since he lives in Prospect now, you could have a talk with him.”

“Aha!” I said.

“Aha?”

“Yes, aha. The plot thickens.”

“Don’t be melodramatic.”

“You want me to act as Angie’s hired muscle.”

“No, I don’t. Well, maybe, sort of. She doesn’t really want to have him arrested. I only thought that you could have a talk with him. You know, as one policeman to another.”

“Are you going to tell me the story, or is Angie?”

“She’s right here. I’ll put her on.”

“Wait a minute, woman. Has she been there all the time we’ve been talking?”

“Uh-huh.”

“She heard what you said to me?”

“Yes, she did.”

“Jeez. It’s like being filmed having sex.”

“Oh, don’t be such a prude.”

“My life was not this complicated until I met you.”

“I know, Lover. You’re so sweet. Here talk to Angie.”

At 9 p.m., Kate and I sat on a loveseat in the living room watching a PBS special on Yellowstone National Park. Just as a small herd of bison began trudging through a soggy meadow in the Lamar River Valley, the phone rang. A county detective named Bo Stallins requested my presence in the morgue at Blount Memorial Hospital.

Twenty minutes later, I parked my unmarked Crown Victoria in one of the police spots near the emergency room entrance. A chill November breeze blew down my neck and caused my open jacket to flutter. As I approached the building, double sliding doors parted like the Red Sea, and I found Stallins leaning against a wall next to the triage nurse’s station. The tall man flexed his shoulders and pushed off the tile.

“Hey, Sam, you doin’ aw right today?”

“You interrupted an important incident I was handling, but I’ll live.”

“Shoot, you’s probably jest watchin’ TV.”

“So smart. No wonder you’re a detective. What’s up?”

He handed me a wrinkled 3×5 card with Sam Jenkins Prospect Police and the office phone number written on the face.

“Hey, that’s me. What do I win?”

“A thank-you if ya can gimme a name for the dead guy who had this in his pants pocket. Let’s take a look.”

Not exactly the answer I wanted to hear.

We walked through institutional green hospital halls, took an elevator to the lowest level and adjourned to a dimly lit corner of the morgue. The unmistakable shape of a fairly large body lay on a stainless steel gurney under a sage green sheet.

Stallins and I stood by as a young attendant with a crew cut and long sideburns lifted the sheet to show me a face attached to the body.

“Know him?” Bo asked as he unzipped his black leather jacket. An oval Sheriff’s Department badge hung on his belt just forward of a Glock .40 caliber pistol.

I took a quick look and nodded. “I’ll be damned. Carly Nickels. He’s a long way from home. Hasn’t aged well.”

“Nichols, ya say?” Bo asked. “N-I-C-H-O-L-S?” He spelled it out.

“Not Nichols, Nickles. Like dimes and quarters.”

He looked confused. The morgue attendant was busy picking at a hangnail on his left thumb and paid no attention.

“His name’s Carlo DeCenzo. They called him Carly Nickels because his old man owned a vending machine company. Carly was the bag man. He collected coins from the machines and restocked them. And he probably did a few not so legitimate things.”

“Uh-huh,” Bo said. “How long ya known him?”

“I met him a long time ago. It’s been twenty-five, thirty years. He was just out of high school when a uniform cop collared him for assault. He almost killed another kid who tried to get fresh with his girlfriend.”

“When you worked in New York?”

“Sure. The DeCenzos lived in a community called Mastic Beach. I was the squad dick who handled the arrest.”

“He do time for the assault?”

“No, I thought Carlo was justified in using force to terminate the sexual abuse and cut him loose. I told the victim to take it to civil court if he thought the force was excessive. Carlo didn’t look like an angel, but the complainant was a shitbag.”

Bo raised his eyebrows.

“Witnesses confirmed the girl’s story and said Carlo did what he had to do.”

Bo still looked a little skeptical.

“It was that kind of neighborhood. And I doubted any witness would want to get on the wrong side of Carlo’s old man, Alphonse DeCenzo. He was a family man if you know what I’m saying.” I used my index finger to push my nose to the side.

Bo looked confused again. Stallins was in his mid-forties and a hair over six-foot. I’d known him for almost four years and had watched his hair turn gray from the job.

“Bent noses? Wise guys?” I said. “Organized crime family?”

He nodded. “Don’t get much o’ that here in Tennessee.”

“Yeah. Makes our jobs easier.” I took the end of the sheet and pulled it down to Carly’s waist. Just below the intersection of autopsy stitches that formed a Y and closed up Carlo’s chest cavity, someone had fired two shots into his ten-ring. They looked about nine-millimeter size.

“Ouch.” I said. “Now, I suppose you’d like to know who did that?”

“That is why we’re standin’ here.”

“Who found him?”

“Airport police at McGhee-Tyson. In the covered parking structure, second floor. I checked the airlines. He got in on a flight from Islip-MacArthur on Long Island and came in by way o’ Charlotte ‘round 5:45 tonight. Never picked up his rental car and never checked inta the Country Inn in Alcoa where he had a reservation.”

“Safe to assume someone he knew met him?”

“Be my guess. But mebbe a gun in his ribs would make him leave the terminal with a stranger. You think of anything better?”

I shrugged. “If no one witnessed a struggle, I haven’t got a clue.” I did a little quick math. “Haven’t thought about him, much less seen him in eighteen years. Why he’s here looking for me is as much a mystery as who kidnapped the Lindberg baby. I remember him, but knew his old man much better.”

Turning to the morgue attendant, Bo said, “Thanks, Virgil. We’re done here.”

The young man nodded, took a bite of cuticle and covered the body.

Bo and I rode the elevator up two floors and walked back to the hospital lobby.

“I got me a feelin’,” he said, “there’s one o’ them New York war stories under yer hat. How’s about we get us a cup o’ coffee and you tell me what ya know?”

“Sure, but I don’t wear a hat. And who drinks hospital coffee? Let’s go to Howell’s. I’ll buy you a beer, and we can talk like civilized gentlemen.”

“Works fer me.”

A Wednesday night in Prospect, Tennessee is about as busy as Christmas in Tel Aviv. We found only three cars in the parking lot at the pub and four patrons sitting at tables inside. I ordered a pint of black and tan and got Bo a Budweiser. We sat at a small round table near the dart board.

“Okay, young feller,” I said, “sit back, and listen to something that sounds like the plot of a Martin Scorsese movie.”

Bo took a big sip of his Bud, stretched out his long legs and got comfortable.

“Carlo’s father is Alphonse ‘The Torch’ DeCenzo, former contract arsonist and trusted soldier in the Musucci family of New York and New Jersey.”

That captured Bo’s attention.

“The Torch? Carly Nickels? People really get names like that?”

“Sure. Charlie the Waxer, Tony Big Ears, Louie the Fat Man—who, by the way, was only about a hundred and forty soaking wet. Yeah, everybody gets a nickname. It’s part of the culture.”

“And this arsonist was a friend o’ yours?”

“Not a friend—a cordial acquaintance. He was out of the arson business when we met. Alphonse became a made man in the Musucci organization and got a vending machine territory on Long Island for services rendered.” I shrugged. “A step in the right direction, you might say—unless he laundered money through the all-cash machine business.”

Bo shifted in his chair and took another long pull on the Bud. “Back to my original question. What’s this Carly Nickels got ta do with you?”

“I’m getting there. I doubt he has anything to do with me, but his father may.”

Bo drank more beer. Two customers picked up their check, called out a good-bye to Reggie, the barman and headed out into the dining room to the cash register.

I downed a bit of black and tan and continued.

“Two local idiots burglarized Alphonse’s home, and I caught the squeal. One of the things taken was a carved shell cameo that once belonged to his wife’s grandmother. Not a terribly expensive item, worth maybe three hundred and change, but one of the things you don’t do, is screw with a goombah’s family. Understand?”

“Not really, but I can see yer point.”

“Okay. So, I felt sorry for Marie, Al’s wife.”

Another one of the bar patrons picked up and left, and I looked at my watch.

“To get to the bottom of my investigation, I tossed an informant out the window and got a name. And I recovered the brooch, made two collars and after that, The Torch said he’d be eternally grateful.”

“Y’all threw somebody out a window ta get information?”

I nodded. “He was a sleazy little paid snitch who was lying to protect a friend. We had to correct a simple quality control problem. And besides, it was split-level, probably no more than ten or twelve feet off the ground. No big deal. He landed in a bush.”

“Lord have mercy.”

“Anyway, guys like Alphonse have this thing about debts and honor. He said he owed me one, and he knew money or something material was out of the question. Over the years, Alphonse has handed me a few tidbits of info on a few other mooks I should know about. I always thought he was just sticking it to the competition, but I didn’t look a gift-horse in the mouth. So, I’m guessing he sent Carly here to tell me something. And someone shot him before he could deliver.”

“Any idea what he wanted ta tell ya?”

“No, but I guess I’d better find out.”