Paper son, p.5
Paper Son, page 5
“We don’t want to have to set around here all day trying to convince a gaggle of uniformed fools—bless their hearts—that Jefferson’s not under my bed. So, you big-city detectives, let’s hit the road. What do we do now?”
“Well, I’d love to be able to find Jefferson before the police do,” I said. “You have no light to shed? Nothing you didn’t tell the deputies?”
Pete shook his head.
“How about people he’s close to?” Bill asked. “Friends in town? Does he have a girlfriend?”
“If he does, I don’t know about it, but generally speaking, I’m not in on the details of his love life. If there is someone, I’d suppose she’d be up in Oxford. Same about his friends—mostly up there, I bet.”
“Do you know who he works for?”
“Works freelance. Computer geek stuff, whoever needs him. The Chinese tech wiz, what a cliché, huh? I think he’s a little embarrassed about it, tell you the truth.”
“Well, he’s not the only one in the family.”
“Really? You do that stuff, too?”
“Me? Oh, no, no.” I gave Bill points for not laughing out loud. “One of the cousins on my mother’s side, Linus Wong. He has a computer security company. Their slogan is ‘Protecting People Like You from People Like Us.’”
“Hah! But I’ll tell you, Cousin Lydia, that computer’s done well by Jefferson. He’s been able to write his own ticket, work his own hours, make decent money. Not a fortune,” he added quickly. “No—what do you call that?—bling. Just a good, steady living.”
“So you’re saying whatever he exactly does, it’s legit work, not anything lucrative because it’s illegal.”
“I got no reason to think otherwise,” Pete replied, with less conviction than I might have hoped.
“Okay,” I said, changing the subject to keep Pete from sagging again. “I guess the next thing would be to talk to Jefferson’s lawyer. Normally before that I’d want to check out the crime scene, but I can’t see Detective Lucknell lifting the yellow tape for us.”
“Hah! Don’t need him to. I have the keys.”
“It’s still a crime scene.”
“Been processed and released already, as of last night. In case I wanted to open today.”
“You?”
“Like I said, I did my duty by the store. I used to spell Leland sometimes, like say if he wanted to go to California, see his sisters and their kids. A couple of weeks running the place was a nice vacation for me.” He sighed. “Haven’t had the heart to go over there yet, but probably it’s a good idea, before every lowlife in the county finds out Leland’s gone. Leland kept the store tighter than Fort Knox, but these no-goods, they could figure a way in.”
“But Pete, they released the crime scene, really? It’s just over forty-eight hours since the murder.”
“Right. Like Bert Lucknell said, they investigated six ways from Sunday.”
As we locked up and got into the Malibu, I found myself muttering about blind squirrels.
I turned to face Pete as Bill drove. “I think I’d like to see the house, too.”
“What house would that be?”
“Where Leland lived.”
“Easy-peasy. Leland lived behind the store. We all did. Mama and Daddy raised Paul, Jonas, and me there. Jonas brought up Leland and his sisters there, and Leland and Lucie raised Jefferson there, too.”
That’s the Chinese village tradition: shop in the front, family in the back. Kids doing homework on the store counters, playing tag in the aisles, stocking the shelves before dinner. Your whole life, right there. If that was how Jefferson had grown up and what he’d seen coming, I could understand the itchy feet.
Pete’s cell phone rang. “You got Pete Tam.” He listened, had a brief conversation in a tone of surprise, said, “All right, then,” and clicked off. “Well.” He pocketed the phone. “I guess it’s true, if you live long enough, you could see everything. That was the office of the candidate.”
“Reynold Tam?”
“Wasn’t the man himself, of course. His chief aide. Reynold wants to pay a condolence call later today.”
“I thought he didn’t come down here.”
“He doesn’t. Must be, oh, fifteen years since I even saw him, and that was over in Jackson. I happened to be in town, heard he was having a rally. Well, Reynold was right welcoming, but afterwards his people whisked him away to the next place he had to be. He said he’d call, we’d get together, but he never did. Truth is I didn’t call him, either. I knew what was going on.”
Knew, and went along with it. I was beginning to get a sense of what both Bill and Pete meant when they said, This is Mississippi. “But now he’s coming here?”
Pete shrugged again. Bill said, “Well, when you lose family, it’s the right thing to do.”
“But if his people are so concerned about his image, wouldn’t you think they might be worried about this kind of—well, scandal?”
“Maybe he ran them off,” Pete said. “Maybe he said, never you mind, I’m going. Or on the other side, could be some image consultant told him you don’t lose your cousin to murder and not pay a call.”
“Even when the accused is also your cousin?”
“Especially then,” Bill said. “You start by showing solidarity. Everyone’s had family troubles, so everyone can relate. If it turns out the kid did it, you move on to what a troubled youth he always was and what a tragedy this is for the family, but it won’t stop you from doing your duty, bringing to the people of this great state the leadership they deserve—”
“Hey, you’re pretty good at that,” Pete said. “Might be you ought to run.”
“Talk to my people.”
We drove past houses similar to Pete’s, ranch or two-story structures square in the middle of their lots. Trees weren’t numerous, and they were bare, although every now and then we rolled under one whose thick trunk and spreading branches suggested it had somehow avoided the ax when the subdivisions came along. Along with wreaths, more Santas, and the occasional crèche, Tam and Mallory signs appeared on lawns in what looked like even numbers.
I’m no expert on the architectural aesthetics of Southern towns, but it was obvious when Pete told Bill to pull over that we’d gone from middle-class, though down-at-heel, Clarksdale to what used to be called the wrong side of the tracks. In fact, during our drive, we’d slid under the tracks, which crossed overhead on a concrete bridge.
We parked at a storefront that had seen better days, and lots of them. Green paint cracked off fractured stucco. Heavy-gauge mesh covered the windows; the steel door had been riveted and reinforced. A faded red sign read H. TAM AND SONS GROCERY. Crime scene tape drooped across the doorway.
“H. Tam, that’s Hong-Bo,” said Captain Pete. “Harry, folks called him. Me, Jonas, and Paul’s daddy.”
Tam Hong-Bo, born Chin Song-Zhao, I thought. My great-grandfather’s brother.
Three black men sat in the weak sun in front of the store, two on a bench and the third on the stoop. The other storefronts in the area all seemed boarded up or broken down, except for a Sudsarama and a liquor store in the middle of the next block. Across the street, a mannequin’s head lay forlornly in the window of a long-abandoned dress shop. Next to the shop, the wind creaked a faded sign reading DOWN HOME CLUB. Thick grime on the windows led me to believe the club was left over from the same era as the mannequin. I was surprised, then, when the dented door swung open.
Two middle-aged black men spilled onto the sidewalk, one thick and muscular, the other wiry and tall. The thick one spat words like nails. “I told you, I ain’t having none of that shit in my place, Tremaine. You welcome to drink here, but that’s all, and you not gonna be welcome to do that much longer, you keep this up.”
Gold teeth glinted as the tall one smiled. “Just trying to keep your customers happy, Pelton. Be a shame they start drinking somewheres else.”
“They want what you selling, they can drink in hell, for all I care. You been warned, Tremaine, and you ain’t gonna be warned again. I see you in here with anything besides a beer in your hand, it better be your dick, or you gonna be lying out on the street before you can say ‘shotgun.’”
With that, the thick man turned and slammed back into the Down Home Club.
The other man stood smiling after him. He shook his head, strode to a pickup truck parked a few doors down, climbed in the cab, and roared away. Neither man acknowledged us at all.
“Whew,” I said as the truck’s taillights swerved around the corner. “What was that?”
“That,” Pete said, “was Pelton Dawes. Down Home Club’s his. The fellow just left was Tremaine McAdoo, and that’s enough said about him.” Pete turned back to H. Tam and Sons and addressed the three men now standing on the porch. “So, you reprobates. I see you’re still wearing out the furniture. My furniture now, so you’d best watch yourselves.”
They variously shrugged, grinned, and nodded. “Hey, there, Captain Pete,” said the grinning one, a bald, jowly guy. “You gonna open?”
“Nah. Leastways, not today, Sam.”
“Ah, come on. Where I’m gonna get my malt at, store stays closed?”
The broad-shouldered man scowled. “Sam, shut it. That how your mama raised you?” Stiffly, he faced Captain Pete. “Pete, all of us, we’re very sorry for your loss.” At his pointed glare, the other two also mumbled condolences.
“Thank you, Henry. And you two worthless derelicts, I appreciate your sympathy, too. Gentlemen—if you don’t mind that little falsehood—this here’s my cousin, Lydia Chin, and this’s Bill Smith.” He gestured to the broad-shouldered man. “Henry Watson.”
Bill and I shook hands with Henry Watson while Pete pointed his thumb at the bald man. “This here’s Sam Shoemaker, who never made a pair of shoes in his life nor hardly wore any.” The bald man’s smile came back and he stuck out his hand. “And Bobby Lee Smith,” Pete finished. “Hey, Bobby Lee, maybe you and Bill are related.”
Bobby Lee Smith was smaller, darker, and older than the others, in his sixties maybe, with mahogany skin and close-cut white hair. He surveyed Bill up and down. “Yeah, he look like my big brother. The rich one, always give me nice presents.”
Bill nodded. “Wouldn’t be surprised if you were my long-lost little brother. The grifter.”
Solemnly, the Smiths shook hands.
“When’s the funeral, Pete?” Henry Watson asked. “I’d like to pay my respects.”
“Not sure yet. I’m hoping to get this trouble about Jefferson cleared up first.”
“I hear that. Be too bad if the kid couldn’t come to his daddy’s funeral for being in jail. Just so’s you know, Pete, ain’t none of us think Jefferson’s a killer.”
“Amen,” said Bobby Lee Smith.
“Thanks for that,” Pete said. “But didn’t you hear the news? Jail’s not so much the problem. Jefferson broke himself out this morning.”
Three pairs of eyes widened. Sam Shoemaker grinned. “Out from under Montel’s nose? Bet that put pepper in that boy’s soup.”
“Haven’t spoken to Montel, but Bert Lucknell’s not so happy about it.”
“Bert Lucknell.” Bobby Lee Smith spat on the splintered sidewalk. “Every breath that boy takes is a waste of air.”
“No argument.” Pete turned to me and Bill. “Sorry to say it, but when Montel Bradley made Bert a detective, he proved how little talent we got to choose from here in Coahoma County.”
“Let me ask you gentlemen something,” I said.
“Gentlemen!” Sam Shoemaker exclaimed. “Step aside, you two, this lady can see class when it’s standing in front of her.” He moved to face me foursquare.
“Not if she’s looking at you, she can’t,” Henry grumbled.
“You know Jefferson?” They all gave me yeahs and nods. “Does his jailbreak change your minds about him being guilty?”
Henry and Sam exchanged glances. “No offense, ma’am,” Henry said, “but that ain’t how it works in Mississippi. Most prob’ly it makes him look more guilty to Montel and them, but they was holding that view anyhow. All I can say’s, what they call justice around here is even harder on a innocent man than a guilty one.” He eyed me. “Ain’t you kin to him, though?”
“He’s my cousin, but I’ve never met him,” I said. “I’m just trying to get a picture.”
“Henry, move out the way,” Pete said. He stepped forward and jiggled a key in the lock. “Y’all want to come in, I’ll see if the cooler’s still on. Maybe it’s got malts in there.” He creaked the door open. “Lydia and Bill, this here’s—hey!” Pete stopped in the doorway. “Oh, my good Lord. Oh, oh, oh, crap! What the hell—?”
I peered inside over Pete’s shoulder; over mine, Bill did the same. Henry, Sam, and Bobby Lee crowded behind us.
Sam said, “Holy cats.”
We all stepped inside.
Light struggling through grime-choked windows gave up a few inches in, but even before Pete picked his way behind the counter and flicked on the fluorescents, the situation was clear.
Henry whistled and said, “Look like the Devil had a fit in here.”
He was right. What had been a run-down grocery store was now an unholy mess.
Pete started to come out from behind the counter, but Bill put up a hand. “Give it a minute.”
Everyone stopped. Bill moved his gaze slowly around the room. I did the same, something I learned from him: stand and take stock, before you impose yourself on a place.
Rows of shoulder-high shelves started a few feet from the counter and ran toward the back. Without much merchandise, though: most of that lay in jumbled wreckage on the floor. Jelly jars and cans of yams, bottles of cooking oil and bright red hot sauce, chip bags and flour sacks huddled together, some intact, some leaking their contents in a crumbly, gummy mess. Faded photographs of sampans and mountains, pagodas and temples, had been ripped from their spiderwebbed glass frames and sat on the rubble like leaves on trash piles. An unpleasant, thick smell clogged the air. I picked out vinegar (broken pickle jars) and coffee (from the shattered pot off the fallen self-serve station). I listened; nothing but the buzz of the lights and the breathing of the men around me.
And Henry asking, “What’re they doing?”
“Detective things.” Pete waved Henry quiet. “They’re detectives.”
“Say what?” Henry took a step back.
Bill turned quickly. “Not cops. Private. Lydia and I are investigators from New York, come down to help her cousin.”
Henry’s glare didn’t fade right away, but Sam’s smile lit up the gloom. “Now don’t tell me. That why you was asking about Jefferson looking guilty? Pete, you got a sweet girl cousin that’s a private eye?”
“I got a lot of things you fools don’t know nothing about, that’s for damn sure,” Captain Pete retorted. “Tell me, what the hell use are you altogether, settin’ outside this place all day and this goes on in here?”
“This much use, maybe,” said Bobby Lee. “Can say for sure, this here didn’t happen anytime today.”
Pete shook his head angrily, but Bill asked, “You sure? You guys have been here all day?”
“Ain’t got no place else to be. Leland, he never did mind us settin’ out there, nor inside neither when the weather was bad. Have him some stools, right next the counter there. Man made a fine Kool-Aid pickle.” Bobby Lee gestured at a jar that had somehow hit the floor intact. Inside it, aged cucumbers floated in a sea of neon blue.
“Look to me like this was some of them gangbangers,” Henry said. “Must’ve come last night, hoping the register ain’t been emptied.” The ancient machine sat in tarnished metal splendor on the front counter.
I would have answered him, but Bobby Lee surprised me. “You got that wrong, Henry. Them kids would’ve carried off all these chips and Slim Jims. And what they gonna make a mess like this for? Only two things I can see would account for this. One, someone got a real hate on for Leland, or for Chinese folks in general.” He pointed to the photos torn from their frames. “Or other, someone was looking for something up in here.”
9
We stood—Bill, me, and Captain Pete, with Henry Watson, Sam Shoemaker, and Bobby Lee Smith—amid the debris inside H. Tam and Sons. Pete started to sag, as he had in the house. I put a hand on his shoulder.
“Whoever killed Leland,” he said, “if it was a robbery, if they fought, couldn’t that . . .” He trailed off, seeming to know the answer.
“Not all the shelves, Pete,” I said. “Not up the walls to where the pictures were.”
Bill turned back to the mess. “If it wasn’t today, it must have been last night.”
Pete nodded, looking dazed.
I considered. Both of Bobby Lee’s theories sounded plausible to me, though the second made a lot more sense.
“Tell me,” I asked him, to eliminate the first, “is it likely someone here hated Leland, or Chinese people in general, enough to do all this?”
“Well, ma’am,” said Bobby Lee, “there’s always somebody hatin’ on everybody.”
“Yeah,” said Sam. “Like old Miz McAdoo, rest in peace, lived out to Oldman’s Brake? That her son Tremaine out on the sidewalk just now, with Pelton. Always cussing out Chinese, Miz McAdoo. Just last month, right before she die, I be telling her, Miz McAdoo, you sound like some of them white folks talking about black. She say, ‘No, it’s different.’ Don’t everybody always think their hate is different?” He shook his head.
Henry leaned on the counter. “And see how bitter repay bitter. Two boys she raised, Trevor’s down on Parchman—guards brought him to his momma’s funeral in chains—and Tremaine, wasn’t never no good in him at all and now there’s less. That boy’s lower than the belly on a beat-down rattlesnake.”
I got the feeling some of this talk was to give Captain Pete time to absorb what had happened. That was fine with me. I’d heard of Parchman Farm, more formally known as the Mississippi State Penitentiary. So much for Trevor McAdoo. But I wasn’t sure how low the belly was on a beat-down rattlesnake, so I asked.
