"He mentioned it. Ray doesn't say much. You know that."
"He's a helluva guy. I owe him my life, literally. They almost killed me in prison when they found out I was a cop. He stepped in and even the blacks backed down. He can hurt people when he wants to."
"He's all the family I have."
"Yeah, I know. You bunk with a guy for years in an eight-by-twelve cell and you learn all about him. He's talked about you for hours. When I was paroled you were thinking about law school."
"I finished in June of this year and went to work for Bendini, Lambert & Locke."
"Never heard of them."
"It's a tax and corporate firm on Front Street."
"I do a lot of sleazy divorce work for lawyers. Surveillance, taking pictures, like those, and gathering filth for court." He spoke quickly, with short, clipped words and sentences. The cowboy boots were placed gingerly on the desk for display. "Plus, I've got some lawyers I run cases for. If I dig up a good car wreck or personal-injury suit, I'll shop around to see who'll give me the best cut. That's how I bought this building. That's where, the money is - personal injury. These lawyers take forty percent of the recovery. Forty percent!" He shook his head in disgust as if he couldn't believe greedy lawyers actually lived and breathed in this city.
"You work by the hour?" Mitch asked.
"Thirty bucks, plus expenses. Last night I spent six hours in my van outside a Holiday Inn waiting for my client's husband to leave his room with his whore so I could take more pictures. Six hours. That's a hundred eighty bucks for sitting on my ass looking at dirty magazines and waiting. I also charged her for dinner."
Mitch listened intently, as if he wished he could do it.
Tammy stuck her head in the door and said she was leaving. A stale cloud followed her and Mitch looked at the windows. She slammed the door.
"She's a great gal," Eddie said. "She's got trouble with her husband. He's a truck driver who thinks he's Elvis. Got the jet-black hair, ducktail, lamb-chop sideburns. Wears those thick gold sunglasses Elvis wore. When he's not on the road he sits around the trailer listening to Elvis albums and watching those terrible movies. They moved here from Ohio just so this clown can be near the King's grave. Guess what his name is."
"I have no idea."
"Elvis. Elvis Aaron Hemphill. Had his name legally changed after the King died. He does an impersonation routine in dark nightclubs around the city. I saw him one night. He wore a white skintight jumpsuit unbuttoned to his navel, which would've been okay except he's got this gut that hangs out and looks like a bleached watermelon. It was pretty sad. His voice is hilarious, sounds like one of those old Indian chiefs chanting around the campfire."
"So what's the problem?"
"Women. You would not believe the Elvis nuts who visit this city. They flock to watch this buffoon act like the King. They throw panties at him, big panties, panties made for heavy, wide lardasses, and he wipes his forehead and throws them back. They give him their room numbers, and we suspect he sneaks around and tries to play the big stud, just like Elvis. I haven't caught him yet."
Mitch could not think of any response to all this. He grinned like an idiot, like this was truly an incredible story. Lomax read him well.
"You got trouble with your wife?"
"No. Nothing like that. I need some information about four people. Three are dead, one is alive."
"Sounds interesting. I'm listening."
Mitch pulled the notes from a pocket. "I assume this is strictly confidential."
"Of course it is. As confidential as you are with your client."
Mitch nodded in agreement, but thought of Tammy and Elvis and wondered why Lomax told him that story.
"It must be confidential."
"I said it would be. You can trust me."
"Thirty bucks an hour?"
"Twenty for you. Ray sent you, remember?"
"I appreciate that."
"Who are these people?"
"The three dead ones were once lawyers in our firm. Robert Lamm was killed in a hunting accident somewhere in Arkansas. Somewhere in the mountains. He was missing for about two weeks and they found him with a bullet in the head. There was an autopsy. That's all I know. Alice Knauss died in 1977 in a car wreck here in Memphis. Supposedly a drunk driver hit her. John Mickel committed suicide in 1984. His body was found in his office. There was a gun and a note."
"That's all you know?"
"That's it."
"What're you looking for?"
"I want to know as much as I can about how these people died. What were the circumstances surrounding each death? Who investigated each death? Any unanswered questions or suspicions."
"What do you suspect?"
"At this point, nothing. I'm just curious."
"You're more than curious."
"Okay, I'm more than curious. But for now, let's leave it at that."
"Fair enough. Who's the fourth guy?"
"A man named Wayne Tarrance. He's an FBI agent here in Memphis."
"FBI!"
"Does that bother you?"
"Yes, it bothers me. I get forty an hour for cops."
"No problem."
"What do you want to know?"
"Check him out. How long has he been here? How long has he been an agent? What's his reputation?"
"That's easy enough."
Mitch folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket. "How long will this take?"
"About a month."
"That's fine."
"Say, what was the name of your firm?"
"Bendini, Lambert & Locke."
"Those two guys who got killed last summer - "
"They were members."
"Any suspicions?"
"No."
"Just thought I'd ask."
"Listen, Eddie. You must be very careful with this. Don't call me at home or the office. I'll call you in about a month. I suspect I'm being watched very closely."
"By whom?"
"I wish I knew."
Chapter 13
Avery smiled at the computer printout. "For the month of October you billed an average of sixty-one hours per week."
"I thought it was sixty-four," Mitch said.
"Sixty-one is good enough. In fact, we've never had a first-year man average so high in one month. Is it legitimate?"
"No padding. In fact, I could've pushed it higher."
"How many hours are you working a week?"
"Between eighty-five and ninety. I could bill seventy-five if I wanted to."
"I wouldn't suggest it, at least not now. It could cause a little jealousy around here. The younger associates are watching you very closely."
"You want me to slow down?"
"Of course not. You and I are a month behind right now. I'm just worried about the long hours. A little worried, that's all. Most associates start like wildfire - eighty - and ninety-hour weeks - but they burn out after a couple of months. Sixty-five to seventy is about average. But you seem to have unusual stamina."
"I don't require much sleep."
"What does your wife think about it?"
"Why is that important?"
"Does she mind the long hours?"
Mitch glared at Avery, and for a second thought of the argument the previous night when he arrived home for dinner at three minutes before midnight. It was a controlled fight, but the worst one yet, and it promised to be followed by others. No ground was surrendered. Abby said she felt closer to Mr. Rice next door than to her husband.