Authors: G L Rockey
I held her. “What?”
“Give me a little more
time, not long, okay, I need to tie up a few loose ends.”
“Is that an ‘I do’?”
“But one thing.”
“Ah oh.”
“You can't say
anything about us, tonight, now, to anybody, not even Sago.”
How’d she know Sago?
Only time she saw him was that night at The Cat, his tutorial on smiles … let
it go.
* * *
Sunday a day of bliss,
Sunday night bliss 2, Monday morning, after a lingering kiss before I left for
work, I asked Gillian to reconsider Felix The Cat, just call in and tell
Snakebite she quit. She couldn’t just yet.
“Why?”
She said “later” and I
promise to keep my big mouth shut
* * *
After a quick pit stop
at my apartment to ready for work, the trip to TV12 a cloud—nine plus classic,
Joy couldn’t believe the look on my face, sitting in my office, things looking
up, up, up, Sago popped his head in the door, took a look and wanted to know
how much the lottery jackpot was I had won.
“Whaddaya mean?”
“The smile.”
“Say Sago, I know we
talked about her, you saw her that night at The Cat, the smile tutorial of
yours … but have you ever met Gillian?”
“Don’t think so, why?”
“Nothing.”
He then told me he was
close on the S-Stuff, rumor was, raid coming down sooner than expected. Then he
said, “Are you okay?”
“Super, couldn't be
better.”
CHAPTER 6
Real Time
2:45:30 A.M. CDT
Monday evening slow at
Felix The Cat, past midnight even slower, Gillian overheard Snakebite mumbling
to Stella that he was going down to the ranch. He had an order for the
chinchilla and he wanted to give her a final squirt. He wanted to know how long
the chinchilla had been off her medication. Stella said since a week after she
arrived. He said, “Good, 'em prick quacks is getting picky.” He then told her
Chuck would be delivering a new chinchilla in a week. Stella should be ready to
meet him, pick up the delivery. He'd let her know the exact time. Then he
mumbled something about taking the chinchilla to the airport.
Changing to her street
clothes in the dressing room, Gillian asked Neon about the ranch Snakebite was
always talking about, was she ever there.
“Nope, sometin’ for
kids.”
“Where is this Disneyland?”
“Don't know,
somewheres south of here, I think.”
* * *
Dressed in Levis, tank
top, twin buckle black boots, Gillian circled the block on her bike and came
back to watch for Snakebite's Rolls Royce to exit the spot where he always
parked.
Shortly before 3:00
A.M., she saw Snakebite get in his Rolls, start up and pull away. Gillian, far
enough back to keep the Rolls taillights in sight, followed south on Interstate
24. Speeding at near 80 MPH, after twenty minutes, off at Epps Mill exit, she
turned off her bike’s lights. Keeping the Rolls taillights in sight, a short
distance, turned back a single lane road, she followed. A few miles later the
Rolls turned into a gated entrance.
Gillian parked her
bike and made her way past outbuildings, through thick growth. At a clearing
she saw a large house, lights on. She eased up to a window and saw Snakebite
inside going toward a door that looked like it led to a basement. She waited
then went inside and eased her way down the same steps. Noting a decomposing
flesh smell, she saw it, a gray steel door with a tiny window near the top.
She looked inside.
Wild eyed, Snakebite sodomized a young girl.
* * *
Tuesday morning, up at
8:00 A.M., Stella, a sleepless night stewing about that house in the sticks
with the G. P. Heinz #26 mail box, Carr’s Jaguar parked outside, Gillian's bike
parked next to it, no lights on, called Bernard at The Berry. Sick, she
wouldn’t be in. She then poured herself a cup of coffee, lit a Pall Mall and,
at the kitchen table of her one bedroom mobile home, turned on her computer.
Working Google, she found:
Register of Deeds, property, Ridgetop, Tennessee,
Robertson County, 26 Miller Road.
She clicked on the hit
and read:
Parcel ID:
10603A04002
Legal Description:
latitude, 36.30 n; longitude, 86.82 w
Property Class:
Farm
Acres: 15
House Number: Rural
Box #26
Street: Miller Road
City: Robertson
County
Owner Name: XXX
She looked up …
thought, what’s that last XXX, porn or something. She printed a copy, drank
coffee and looked over the newfound information.
Then she called a
friend, Real Estate agent Charlene Dancing about property deeds. Charlene said
she should try to get a look at an abstract, it had a history of the property
owners.
Stella went to the
County Court House. In the Hall of Records, she discovered that the former
owners of the property at #26 Miller Road were Ancel and Maria Kensington. The
title had transferred to a Guy Pickle.
She looked up. Images
of that mail box … G.P. Heinz … Heinz … pickles …. “Guy Pickle!” She stared at
the name. “He's a fucking cop, some shit about workers comp, me falsifying
records, busted the bejesus out o’ me while back, son of a bitch.”
She then checked the Hall
of Records for Kensington last names. She found an open adoption, papers
available. She read that Ancel and Maria Kensington had adopted a girl, Joyce
Ann Kensington. Adoption origin, Baptist Children's Home.
She made a copy and
drove to Nashville's main library.
She went to The
Tennessean morgue files. She typed Kensington into the computer and skimmed a
twelve-year-old story:
…Ancel and Maria Kensington, killed in a car
bombing … Ancel worked as a special agent for the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.
Maria taught music at Springfield High … survived by only daughter, Joyce
Kensington, a freshman at Springfield High School….
“Who the hell is Joyce
Kensington?” Stella scratched her chest.
Outside, Stella lit a
Pall Mall, walked around the block, then drove the twenty eight miles north to
Springfield High School and asked if she could search the library's year book.
She was writing a family tree genealogy book. In the library she found the year
book for the year of the Kensington accident. She flipped pages until she found
the school pictures for the freshman. She turned a page and there she was,
younger, but no doubt about it, Joyce Kensington.
“Son’ bitch. Gillian
Phoenix,” Stella whispered as she stealthily ripped the picture from the
yearbook.
Back at her trailer,
piecing the puzzle together, Stella opened a bottle of Rolling Rock and, at her
kitchen table, took out a sheet of The Berry Inn stationery and started a list:
1. yearbook picture
2. shack in country deeded to Guy Pickle,
FORMER OWNERS KENSINGTON, DAUGHTER JOYCE
3. Carr’s piece of junk parked in front yard of
shack
4. Jackson and Gillian makin it
5. Ancil Kensington, TBI agent
6. adoption papers
7.Gillian (AKA JOYCE) not playing with full
deck, gets sick at last minute, customer bitches to snakebite that shes rigid,
cold, backs out for some shit reason….
Stella lit a Pall Mall
and propped her feet up on a kitchen chair.
After a minute, her
face brightened. She called the Baptist Children's home and asked for the
person in charge. Connected to the Executive Director, Stella said she was a
reporter for The Tennessean, was doing a feature story for the newspaper,
“Successful Adopted Children”. The theme was how some adopted kids had achieved
fulfilling lives, made a contribution to society. She said she had some
incomplete information on a Joyce Kensington, daughter of Ancel, the T.B.I.
agent killed, several years ago, in a car bombing.
“Yes, isn't it
wonderful that Joyce was able to follow in her father's footsteps, her being
with the T.B.I. and all.”
Stella hung up. “Son’
bitch times two.”
She accessed her
computer search engine and typed in:
Tennessee Bureau of Investigation
.
Clicked on
Criminal Investigation Division
, and at a underlined link:
Tennessee
Human Sex Trafficking and its Impact on Children and Youth
; she clicked and
a PDF file loaded. She scrolled down, down, down the file to:
Middle
Tennessee Focus Group Attendees.
Under that she read a
list:
Tennessee Bureau of
Investigation
Special Agent Tom
Kelly
Assistant Special
Agent in Charge Dick Allen
Special Agent Jim
Aldendorf
Special Agent Joyce
Kensington
She almost fell off
the chair, “Bingo.”
She copied the page
and drove to Peggy's house. Grinning like she’d been dealt a royal flush, she
told Peggy the news. She was going to take everything straight to Snakebite.
Peggy had a smarter idea. “Take it to fat ass Berry Frazer. He’s in debt to
Snakebite up to his eyeballs, he’d pay a ton for this bombshell, have Snakebite
by the short hairs.”
* * *
Tuesday night business
looking up, Snakebite, dressed in a white western suit, white western hat
snugged on his head, wraparound sunglasses pressed tight to the bridge of his
nose, sat at Felix The Cat's bar. Between drags on his Malboro 100, he drank
rum and Coke and watched Angelo talking with Gillian at the service bar.
From the Wurlitzer,
Neal McCoy's recording of “Every Man For Himself” blared.
A reflection in
Snakebite's sunglasses, he saw Berry ambling down the red carpeted stairway
from The Haute Cuisine.
He whispered under his
breath, “Lucky me.”
Berry signaled
Snakebite to join him in a booth in the back corner. He winked at Gillian, then
smiled at Angelo. “I'll have a Manhattan South, put it on Snakebite's tab.”
Taking his drink,
mumbling, Snakebite joined Berry, said, “Whaddaya smilin’ for, fat boy? You eat
the canary?”
Gillian arrived with
Berry's drink. Berry stroked her back, “Hi there, picnic girl.”
Gillian smiled, winked
at Snakebite, turned and walked back toward the service bar.
Berry watched her walk
away then peered into Snakebite's sunglasses, said, “You got a problem, my
man.”
“I don't get some
cash, you’s the guy with the problem.”
“I'll make you a deal,
if what I know keeps you out of jail, off death row, we're even.”
Snakebite smirked,
“Get the fuck outta here.”
“If not, I'll owe you
double.” Berry offered his right hand for a shake.
Snakebite paused, then said, “I'll let you
know after I hear the melody.”
Berry leaned close and
lowered his voice, “Remember that Ancel guy, way back when, investigating you,
had an accident….”
“Prick cop.”
Berry looked toward
the service bar where Gillian stood. “Guess what I found out about the Tall One
over there?”
“She's six four in
heels.” Snakebite chuckled.
“Wrong, shit face.”
Hisss, “Watch it.”
“Guess whose
stepdaughter she is?”
Snakebite waited to
hear.
“Ancel's”
The tip of Snakebite's
tongue peeking out then retracted. He said, “Get the fuck outta here.”
Berry, shaking his
head, smiled, “And guess what else?”
Snakebite hissed.
“She's a special
agent, T.B.I.”
“Are you fucking on
something, man?”
“And her name ain't
Gillian.”
Snakebite started to
stand, “You lost it, man, go get me some cash.”
From his inside coat
pocket, Berry took a copy of the documents that Stella had copied and threw
them on the table top. He trumped it with the torn out yearbook picture of
Gillian, name caption, Joyce Kensington. “Take a look at Joyce Kensington.”
Snakebite took off his
sunglasses and sat. His pink eyes, slits of red, twitched. He looked to the
service bar where Gillian stood. He looked at Berry, “Where you get this shit?”
“What's it matter, I
got it.”
“This is phony, fixed
up.”