Authors: J. A. Kerley
“How’s about you folks git through looking at this place so’s I can rent it,” Shelton whined after the key-flip bit again.
“How’s about you get your sorry ass back in your office and continue your jack-off session?” I replied. Screw public relations, sometimes it’s just not worth it.
It was a steam room inside. I hit the misnamed High button on the wheezing window AC and looked for fresh ground to plow. The contents of the aluminum box hadn’t magically returned, so I turned to Nelson’s junk drawer, where all the orphan crap goes to die. For Nelson it was matchbooks, broken combs and brushes, bent tweezers, a couple of screwdrivers, pliers, cracked candles, matchbooks, a half roll of duct tape, and a stack of menus.
I crouched in the tepid wind of the AC and flipped through the menus. Pizza. Sandwich shops. Gumbo joints. Rib shacks. More pizza. Lots of delivery menus. Made sense; judging by the paucity of gear in the kitchen, Nelson hadn’t apprenticed at Spago. I was set to move on when I noticed a room-service menu from the Oaks Hotel in Biloxi, part of the sprawling High Point gambling complex.
A woman friend and I had stayed at the Oaks a few months before, though we’d started at the Day’s Inn. After an afternoon of cheddar on Triscuits and experiments in fluid dynamics, we’d sashayed to High Point’s casino to try the blackjack tables. A well-timed jack had left me staring at over a thousand dollars. We’d shifted our experiments to the Oaks and left the cheese and crackers for some lucky housekeeper.
Two nights at the Oaks turned my windfall to vapor. Or, more romantically, to memories. I remember a bed large enough to confound a surveyor, a spa with gold-plated fixtures, and an honest-to-gosh bidet, which continues to perplex me. Though the experience was a kick, I was relieved when we left, like I’d reached some sort of limit.
So the question was, what was a sidewalk-level hustler with a small wallet and big dreams doing at the Oaks, if he indeed really had been there? I flicked the menu with my thumbnail and remembered back to the casino, how the one-eyed jack winked when I lifted the edge of the card.
Maybe it was time for a little more luck.
“I’m busy here, bubba,” the flat voice growled over the phone. “You get one minute.”
Ted Friedman was assistant director of security at the Oaks Hotel, an unhappy guy with a flat midwestern accent, Detroit maybe, or the hard side of Chicago. He spoke around a cigar. I laid out a sketch of what I hoped for and heard keystrokes in the background.
“If your boy was a hotel guest in the past year I can tell you. Lessee … Nalen, Naughton, Navis, Naylor …”
While Friedman talked I pictured a scowling, boiler-chested guy in a fog of stogie smoke, scrolling through a screen of guest names, the walls of his surrounding room filled with security monitors peeking down hallways and into elevators.
“.. . Nebner, Neddies, Neeland, Neeler, Neffington, Nekler, Nelson. Three Nelsons in the past year. Linda Nelson from Opeleika, Russell and Patricia Nelson from Green Bay, and John and Barbara Nelson from Texarkana. That’s it, bubba. Any help?”
“Not what I wanted.”
“Nice talking to you, bye.”
I recalled Nelson’s affinity for aliases. “Wait a minute, Mr. Friedman, my man’s got a thing for reshaping his name.” Time s up.
“Two minutes, Mr. Friedman. Five at the max.”
“Hanging up now, bubba. I just went on break.” I heard the phone leave his ear.
“You ever a cop, lard ass I yelled.
I swear I heard Friedman’s phone rise back up; his air must have been scratchy with cigar smoke. “BATF. Twenty years with real law enforcement.”
“Always hated working with the locals?” I asked.
A satisfied snort. “Especially bubba locals.”
“I’d never have guessed. Fun to dish it out?”
I heard his smile through the wires. “Turnabout’s fair play,” he crooned around the stogie. “Ain’t too bad.”
“What’d I do to you?” I asked.
“The runaround. The tickets. The general small-town-cop horse shit.”
I said, “I guess I don’t remember you.”
“Musta been one of your brothers.”
“Why don’t you slap that boulder off your shoulder, Friedman?”
“Why don’t you ride the bone, bubba. I gave you what you asked for.”
“That Nelson I’m interested in? He’s on the cold coast over here. No head. Got another just like him one drawer over. I’m expecting triplets any day. When it gets out some fat ass at the Oaks could have made a difference, it’ll hit the papers big time. Especially when it turns out he’s an ex-fed. You might want to consult your PR director on this. Thanks for the help, Friedman.”
There was a five-beat pause before Friedman spoke. “You bought yourself two more minutes, bubba,” he said thickly; I wondered if he’d bitten off the ass end of the cigar. “What the hell is it you want?”
I heard Hembree’s voice in my head: “Jerrold Elton Nelson, aka L’il Jerry, aka Jerry Elton, aka Nelson Gerald aka Elton Jerson.” I remember this stuff perfectly until a case is closed, then ka-whosh, my mind flushes it.
“Try Gerald. Can you do first-and last-name searches?”
Friedman sighed. I heard the cigar snuff out in a metal ashtray, followed by keystrokes. “I’ve got no last names “Gerald’ but two firsts: Gerald Staunton from Montreal and Gerald Boyette from Memphis.”
“Nope.”
For five minutes we tried every combination of names I recalled. Then Friedman cleared his throat and spoke up. “You know, I just noticed that the name “Elton’ anagrams into “Nolte,” like the actor.”
“Run with it.”
Another series of keystrokes followed by a pause. “Well, well … I’ve got an E. J. Nolte of Mobile.”
Nelson’s initials and anagrammed middle name. My heart took a five-beat time-out. Friedman said, “He was here for four nights in May.” He gave me the dates.
“How’d he pay, cash or card?”
“Cash upon checkout.”
“That unusual?” I knew what Friedman would say.
“Huh-uhn. Yokel comes in, hits, decides to stay here instead of the Piddle Inn. We take a credit card imprint. If the bill’s paid in cash the imprint’s torn up. We won’t have an imprint anymore, just the basic sign-in. Got a space for home address and company name on the form. Elton lists Bayside Consulting, Three twenty-one Water Street, Mobile. That’s all.”
I wrote them down. “Anything else, Mr. Friedman?”
“Judging by the charges, Nelson had a fine time. Heavy room service, looks like every meal. A lot of bar tabs, also in-room. They racked up over three grand in four days.”
“They?”
“First night I got a single entree and salad going to the room; next three nights we’re eating for two. Unless your boy’s got a split personality down to his appetite … “
“Gotcha.”
“Anyway, looks like we got two folks ordering from room five nineteen suite, by the way, four seventy a night.”
“Your professional take on the situation, then, is …”
“To me, Detective Bubba, this looks like two people taking a room, hanging out the do not disturb sign, and having a rock ‘n’ rolling good time without coming up for air.”
A check of the phone directory showed no listing for Bayside Consulting. The operator came up empty too. The address was a dummy. I drew blanks with the Chamber of Commerce and Better Business Bureau. If the company was incorporated there’d be records somewhere. I didn’t expect to find anything.
Chances were Nelson’s trip to Biloxi had zero ties to the murders. The switch-hitting hustler probably had boy-toy usage at hotels and motels across the region. But right before his death he’d bragged about finding the mother lode, a sugar daddy or mama who might spend a few grand on a long weekend’s private partying.
I called my house, no answer. It was after 8:00 p.m. I’d gotten Ava at 6:30, worn voice straight from sleep, said I’d soon be home. She went back to sleep, I told myself; didn’t hear the phone, or felt too rotten to talk. I left Harry a note detailing my day, and headed for Dauphin Island. My next chore was telling Ava I’d ratted her out to her boss.
“I trust you … “
Where the hell was that zuithre?
I
entered just after eight with my hands full of groceries to feed my starving shelves, plus sports drink to help flush Ava’s system and keep her hydrated. I’d also bought thiamine and other vitamins. The drink and vites were on the recommendation of my former partner, Bear. I called him on my drive home and asked what to expect from Ava. He predicted a spaghetti western: Good, Bad, and Ugly. Problem was, Bear said, you went through a shitload of the last two before the first one kicked in.
The bedroom door was closed and I pictured Ava sleeping it off. Kitchen cabinets were ajar and I suspected she’d been searching for hooch. I was glad the Listerine was in the trunk. Figuring she’d returned to bed, I tapped at the door and, hearing nothing, entered. Not there. I checked other rooms, closets. She wasn’t anywhere in the house. Something else was missing sixty bucks from my bureau drawer. She’d left a barely legible IOU scrawled on a napkin.
The phone rang. My mind flashed to a scenario of the Dauphin Island cops calling they’d found Ava wandering the streets and were checking her story. Even if she’d gotten hooted I could likely get her released into my care. I grabbed the phone.
“Carson Ryder.”
“Hello, brother. Can you believe those stupid fucking attendants lost another cell phone? I’ve been hiding this one. They’re so small all it takes is some plastic wrap and a little bit of “
“I’ll call you back, Jeremy. I got an emergency here “
“NO, YOU DO NOT! Every time I call you try to HANG UP ON ME!”
“I’m not kidding, Jeremy. A friend’s in trouble.”
“Oh?” His voice dropped to a hiss. “Is it a womb-man?”
“What’s it matter?”
“She’ll keep. They’re SURVIVORS, Carson. She’ll be here long after the cockroaches have gone belly-up. Just don’t ask them for help and you’ll be fine.”
“I’m hanging up now, Jeremy.” I started to put the phone down.
“NELSON AND DES CHAMPS CARSON!” He shrieked. “WHERE’S THE PASSION, BROTHER?”
I lifted the phone back to my ear.
“Hi, Carson, welcome back. I read the papers. They were covering the headless twins until the preacher’s daughter’s soap opera took center stage. All I gleaned was the heads had been severed. No mention of gunshots to the body meat, no axes, no thumpity-thump of the ball bat. Was it nice and clean, brother?”
“Dammit, why have you fixated on these cases, Jer “
“FIXATED, HE SAYS? I’m not FIXATED, brother. I’m not FACT SATED, either, since you won’t TELL ME ANYTHING!” He adopted a matter-of-fact tone, a college lecturer. “What happens when you tell me things, dear brother, is that it allows me to travel from my current confines, vicariously, of course, seeing the pathways of the world through your brown eyes. It’s nice to be out and about again, just like the old Joel Adrian days. And I thought I might again be helpful with some map reading. Was I not helpful in the past, brother? I’ll take your silence as an affirmative.” He shifted to the quivering voice of an old woman. “Tell a weary old traveler about the bodies, Carson. Pretty please?”
I took a deep breath and looked at my watch. One minute, that’s what I’d give him. I said, “There was no … expression in the killings….”
“Ah, lad, you’re an amazin’ fella you are. But it’s not expression. It’s passion. BLOOD! FEAR! SEX! FIRE! There MUST be passion, Carson. Bites. Or cuts. Or leetle-teensy pieces chopped out and taken away to dry. SOUVENIRS! Were words cut into the body? Messages? Was a finger missing? A dick tip? Smoke signals squirting from torn assholes?
WHERE’S THE PASSION, CARSON? Perfect hate or perfect love, perfect anger or perfect joy. Either or both, but NO MIDDLE DISTANCE!”
I watched the second hand arc around again. “We were thinking the express the passion might have been demonstrated elsewhere. On the heads.”
“Ahahaha,” Jeremy said. “Swr la tete. The ol’ cabeza. Take the canvas, leave the easel.”
“There were some attempts at communication, seeming non sequiturs.”
“Oh, ho in dribs and drabs my brother tells his tale. Words?”
In the distance I heard a siren. Ambulance. Pictures of Ava drunkenly walking down the middle of the street invaded my mind. “Yes, dammit, words on the body. I have to go, Jeremy.”
“Tell me the words, Carson. QUICKLY!”
I recited them and he started laughing. “Sounds to me like our boyo isn’t finished with his head-challenged friends. I’ll bet he wants more from them, brother. Promise you’ll come see me. Promise, promise, promise.”
“I promise. Soon.”
“We’ll discuss the words. Already they’re making me tingle. Promise again.”
“I promise?
“Don’t fib to me, Carson. I know phones: the tongue gets in front of the mouthpiece and just lies there.”
“I said I’d come see you, Jeremy. I goddamn well meant it!”
“Ahh,” he cooed. “A spike of emotion. Yes. I believe I’ll see you. Almost on the anniversary of our last little escapade. You’ll have to talk to Madamoiselle Prussy. Tell her to reserve you lots and lots of time alone with your brother.” He cupped his hand over the phone. “Oh, this is so exciting, Mama, our boy’s coming ho “
I hung up and almost bolted out the door but stopped. First dictate of fishing: Fish where the fish are. Second dictate: If you don’t know where the fish are, get a guide.
I called Bear again.
Ava stumbling across Bienville Boulevard, a car full of partying teens racing down the street, distracted …
“Yo, Cars, what can I do for you, brother? How’s that problem with “
“She rabbi ted before I got home, Bear. Probably not long ago. What kind of place would she look for to go drinking? She’s white collar professional … “
“The first place she finds. She’s not looking for conversation among her social equals, Carson, she’s looking to stop the pain. She know the neighborhood?” No.
Ava taking a drunken walk on the beach, deciding to swim, a rip current sucking her far past the breakers …
“Did she pass any bars or package shops on her way in last night?”
“A couple. But she was sozzled.”