17
The Citadel, respected as one of the outstanding
institutions of higher learning in America, was located
only a few blocks from the Shady Rest
Lounge. Beyond their proximity, the bar and the military
academy were worlds apart in every respect.
Unlike the renowned academy with its guarded
gate and pristine grounds, the Shady Rest didn't boast
an impressive facade. It had no windows, only cinderblock
patches where windows had once been. The
entrance was a metal door on which a vandal had
carved an obscenity. After the infraction, a slapdash
attempt had been made to cover the word with a thin,
low-grade paint which, unfortunately, didn't quite
match the original color or fill in the scratch. As a result,
the expletive now drew more attention than if it
had been left alone. The only thing that indicated the
nature of the establishment was a neon sign above the
door that spelled out the name. The sign buzzed noisily
and worked only sporadically.
In spite of its lofty neighbor and all its own shortcomings,
the Shady Rest Lounge was perfectly at
home in its environment, a neighborhood of poverty
and crime-ridden streets where windows were barred
and visible signs of prosperity made one a target.
With self-protection in mind, Hammond had replaced
his business suit with blue jeans and T-shirt, a
baseball cap and sneakers. All had seen better days
... better decades. But a change of clothing alone
wasn't sufficient. In this section of the city, one
needed to adopt an attitude in order to survive.
When he pulled open the defaced door to go into
the lounge, he didn't politely stand aside for the pair
of guys on their way out. Instead he shouldered his
way between them, acting tough enough to make a
statement but hopefully not being so aggressive as to
spark a confrontation he would most certainly lose.
He escaped with only a muttered slur directed toward
him and his mother.
Once inside the lounge, it took several moments
for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Shady deals
were transacted in the Shady Rest. He had never been
in this particular bar before, but he knew instantly the
kind of place it was. Every city had them, Charleston
being no exception. He was also uneasily aware that
he wouldn't last long if any of the other patrons discovered
that he represented the County Solicitor's
Office.
Once his eyes had adjusted and he got his bearings,
he spotted whom he sought. She was sitting
alone at the end of the bar, morosely staring into a
highball glass. Affecting disregard for the wary, hostile
stares sizing him up, Hammond made his way
over to her.
Loretta Boothe's hair was grayer than the last time
he had seen her, and it looked like it had been a while
since her last shampoo. She had made an attempt to
apply makeup, but either she had done an inept job or
this application was several days old. Mascara had
flaked onto her cheeks, and her eyebrow pencil had
been smudged. Lipstick had bled into the fine lines
radiating from her mouth, though none of the color
remained on her lips. One cheek was rosy with rouge,
the other sallow and colorless. It was a pathetic face.
"Hey, Loretta."
She turned and focused bleary eyes on him. Despite
the baseball cap, she recognized him immediately,
and her delight to see him was plain. Eyelids
that were saggy and webbed beyond their years crinkled
as she grinned, revealing a lower front tooth in
bad need of a dentist's attention.
"Lord have mercy, Hammond." She looked beyond
him, as though expecting an entourage. "You're
the last person in the world I'd expect to see in a dive
like this. You slumming tonight?"
"I came to see you."
"Same as," she said, snorting a humorless laugh.
"I didn't think you were speaking to me."
"I wasn't."
"You had every right to be pissed."
"I still am."
"So what put you in a forgiving mood?"
"An emergency." He glanced down at her nearly
empty glass. "Buy you a drink?"
"Ever know me to turn one down?"
Wishing the privacy of a booth, Hammond gallantly
helped her off the barstool. If he hadn't lent a
supporting hand, her knees might have buckled when
she stood up. The drink she left on the bar hadn't
been her first, or even her second.
As she teetered along beside him, he acknowledged
to himself that there was a very good chance
he was going to sorely regret doing this. But as he
had told her, it was an emergency.
He ensconced her in a booth, then returned to the
bar and ordered two Jack Daniel's black, one straight,
one with water over rocks. He passed the former to
Loretta as he slid into the booth.
"Cheers." She raised her glass to him before taking
a hefty swallow. Fortified by the drink, she turned
her attention to Hammond. "You're looking good."
"Thanks."
"I mean it. You always did look good, of course,
but you're just now coming into your own. Growing
into your bones. Whatever it is that you men do that
makes you get better-looking with age while we
women rapidly go to pot."
He smiled, wishing he could exchange compliments
with her. She was barely fifty, but looked much
older.
"You're better-looking than your daddy," she observed.
"And I always thought Preston Cross was a
right handsome man."
"Thanks again."
"Part of your problem with him--"
"I don't have a problem with him."
She frowned, squelching his denial. "Part of your
problem with him is that he's jealous of you."
Hammond scoffed.
"It's true," Loretta pronounced with the superior
air of drunks and sages. "Your daddy's afraid that you
might surpass him. You might achieve more than he
has. You might become more powerful than he is.
Earn more respect. He couldn't stand that."
Hammond looked down into his own drink, which
he didn't want. The one he'd had a couple hours ago
with Smilow and Steffi had left him slightly queasy.
Or maybe it had been the subject matter that had
turned his stomach. In any case, he wasn't thirsty for
Tennessee sipping whiskey. "I didn't come here to
talk about my father, Loretta."
"Right, right. An emergency." She took another
drink. "How'd you find me?"
"I called the last number I had."
"My daughter lives there now."
"It's your apartment."
"But Bev is paying the rent, and has been for
months. She told me if I didn't pull myself together,
she was going to kick me out." She raised her shoulders.
"Here I am."
Suddenly he realized why she looked so disheveled
and unwashed, and the realization increased
his queasiness. "Where are you living now, Loretta?"
"Don't worry about me, hotshot. I can take care of
myself."
He allowed her a remnant of pride by not coming
right out and asking if she was living on the streets or
in a homeless shelter. "When I spoke to Bev, she told
me this had become one of your favorite hangouts."
"Bev's an ICU nurse," she boasted.
"That's great. She's done well."
"In spite of me."
There was no argument for that, so Hammond said
nothing. Feeling self-conscious and awkward for her,
he studied the handwritten out of order sign taped
to the record selector on their table. The sign had
been there a long time. Both the paper and the Scotch
tape had yellowed with age. The jukebox in the distant
corner stood dark and silent, as though it had succumbed
to the pervasive despondency inside the
Shady Rest.
"I'm proud of her," Loretta said, still on the subject
of her daughter.
"As you should be."
"She can't stand the sight of me, though."
"I doubt that."
"No, she hates me, and I can't say that I blame her.
I let her down, Hammond." Her eyes were watery
with remorse and hopelessness. "I let everybody
down. You especially."
"We finally got the guy, Loretta. Three months
after--"
"After I fucked up."
Again, the truth was unarguable. Loretta Boothe
had served on the Charleston Police Department until
her alcohol abuse got so bad she was fired. Her increasing
dependency had been blamed on her husband's
death. He had died instantly and bloodily
when his Harley crashed into a bridge abutment. His
death had been ruled accidental, but in a boozy, confidential
conversation with Hammond, Loretta had
confessed her misgivings. Had her husband chosen
suicide over living with her? The question haunted
her.
About that same time, she became increasingly
disenchanted with the CPD. Or possibly her disenchantment
was a result of her deteriorating personal
life. Either way, she created problems for herself at
work and eventually found herself unemployed.
She got licensed as a private investigator and for a
time worked regularly. Hammond had always liked
her; when he joined the prestigious firm fresh out of
law school, she was the first person to address him as
"solicitor." It was a small thing, but he had never forgotten
her thoughtful boost to his self-confidence.
When he moved to the County Solicitor's Office,
he frequently retained her to investigate on its behalf
even though they had investigators on staff. Even
when her reliability became chancy, he continued to
use her out of a sense of loyalty and pity. Then she
had screwed up royally, and the fallout had been disastrous.
The accused in the case was an angry, incorrigible
young man who had almost beaten his mother to
death with a tire tool. He was a threat to society, and
would continue to be until he was put in prison for a
long time.
To win a conviction, Hammond desperately
needed the eyewitness testimony of the accused's second cousin, who was not only reluctant to testify
against a family member, but was also scared of the
guy and feared retaliation. Despite the subpoena, he
hightailed it out of town. It was rumored he'd gone to
hide with other relatives in Memphis. Because the
staff investigators were already committed to other
cases, Hammond brought Loretta in. He advanced
her money to cover her expenses, and dispatched her
to Memphis to track down the cousin.
Not only did his witness drop out of sight, so did
Loretta.
He learned later that she had used the expense
money to binge. The trial judge, who was unsympathetic
with Hammond's plight, refused his request for
a postponement and ordered him to proceed with
what he had, which was the testimony of the battered
mother. Also fearing retribution from her violent son,
she changed her story on the witness stand, testifying
that she had suffered her injuries when she fell off the
back porch.
The jury brought in an acquittal. Three months
later, the same guy attacked his neighbor in a similar
fashion. The victim didn't die, but he sustained severe
and irreparable brain damage. This time the
criminal was convicted and sentenced to years behind
bars. But Steffi Mundell had prosecuted that
case.
All these months later, Hammond still hadn't forgiven
Loretta for betraying the trust he had placed in
her, especially when no one else would hire her. She
had abandoned him when he needed her most and
had made him look like a fool in the courtroom.
Worst of all, her dereliction had caused a man to suffer
a brutal beating that had left him mentally and
physically impaired for the rest of his life.
When sober, Loretta Boothe was the best at what
she did. She had the instincts of a bloodhound and an
uncanny ability to ferret out information. She seemed
to possess a sixth sense about where to go and whom
to question. Her own human frailties were so obvious,
that people found her disarming and confidence-inspiring.
They relaxed their guard and they talked
candidly to her. She was also savvy enough to distinguish
between what information was significant and
what wasn't.
Despite her talent, seeing her in the reduced state
she was in tonight made Hammond question the advisability
of retaining her again. Only a desperate
person would seek help from a chronic drunk who
had already proved her unreliability.
But then he thought about Alex Ladd, and realized
that he was just that desperate.
"I have some work for you, Loretta."
"What is this, April Fool's Day?"
"No, but I'm probably a damn fool for entrusting
you with anything."
Her features contorted with emotion. "You'd do
well to leave right now, Hammond. I would jump at
the chance to make up for what I did last time, but
you'd be crazy to depend on me again."