McMurtrie and Drake: Between Black and White Part 11

Ray Ray shrugged. "If you did, nothing would make me happier than seeing you walk."

"I didn't," Bo said.

"Well . . . good," Ray Ray said. "I'd hate to have that eating at my conscience."

After a two-second pause, Bo managed a weak smile and sat down at the table. "All right then," he said. "Where are we?" He looked at Rick, who in turn nodded at Ray Ray to begin.

"The night Tommy was attacked, I went out to the Sundowners Club to interview anybody that had any contact with Andy on the night of the murder." He squinted at Bo. "What you told Tommy was right, Bo. Andy did have a favorite."

"And?" Bo asked, placing his elbows on the table.

"She's gone."

26.

Larry Tucker was worried. It had been two weeks since Andy Walton's murder, and Darla Ford had not reported back to work. Darla had always been one of his most reliable dancers, so this wasn't like her. Plus it was beginning to hurt the bottom line. Not only was Darla reliable, Nikita-Darla's stage name-was probably his most popular dancer. Several regulars had stopped coming in after Darla's third day gone, and more would probably follow.

"Any ideas?" Larry asked, gazing bleary-eyed across the bar at Peter Burns. It was 10:45 p.m. on Thursday night-prime time for business-but the club was almost empty.

"Nope," Peter said, drying off a beer mug with a towel. "Ain't like Darla to do this. She's pretty conscious about money, and I just don't see her walking away from this job. She did well here."

"d.a.m.n straight," Larry said. "And so did we. It's killing the bottom line to have her gone." Larry drank the rest of his bottle of Bud. "She have any family in the area?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Peter said, cracking the top on another Bud and putting it in front of Larry.

"s.h.i.t," Larry said, shaking his head and then taking a long swig of beer.

"You think Mr. Walton may have left her a chunk of change when he died?" Peter asked.

Larry shrugged. "Andy wasn't thinking all that clearly in his last few months, so nothing would surprise me."

"Well, that's all I can think of," Peter said.

"Me too," Larry said. Then under his breath, "s.h.i.t."

Almost three hours later, at just past 1:30 a.m. on what was now Friday morning, Peter Burns sat in the driver's side of his 1997 Ford Ranger truck and sipped on a cold Miller High Life. The other five beers that comprised the six-pack lay in the pa.s.senger-side seat, and the radio blared a favorite from Kenny Chesney. "No Shoes, No Shirt, No Problems."

Peter was still dressed in his work clothes, which consisted of a pair of khaki shorts, an untucked navy-blue golf shirt, and flip-flops A faded Atlanta Braves hat was perched on his head, which covered his long but thinning dirty-blond hair. He had two days of stubble on his face, and he scratched it before taking another sip of beer.

Then he peered up at the second-floor apartment. No lights on inside, though that wasn't unusual. Darla was religiously frugal and wouldn't allow a light on in her place unless it was being used to read. So she could be in there, but Peter doubted it. He had tried to call her several times in the last two weeks with no answer, and like Larry he was worried. But-and he would never tell Larry this-he was also excited.

Peter finished the rest of the beer and grabbed the carton from the pa.s.senger seat. Then he opened the door to the truck and trudged his way to Darla's apartment, his heart racing.

His relationship with Darla was not something he had publicized. He didn't want Larry to know, because he knew Larry wouldn't like it. Larry could have all the girls at the Sundowners he wanted, but he didn't want any of the other male help touching them. The bouncer, big Steve, was gay, so it didn't make much difference to him. But Saint Peter, as the dancers called him, liked the opposite s.e.x, and it was a little much to ask him not to be interested in the women whom he watched dance naked all day long.

So he had gotten with a few over the years, including Darla Ford, a.k.a. Nikita. But Peter quickly figured out that Darla was different than the other girls. Darla was smart. Not book smart, mind you. She didn't quote Shakespeare or read the cla.s.sics every night. But she was smart in the ways of the street. She knew how to make money and she knew how to save it. And Peter had always felt that she wasn't long for the Sundowners.

It seemed like every dancer that became employed by the Sundowners had a story of some kind. Studying up to be a doctor, a nurse, a hairdresser, an actress, screenwriter, and on and on. You name it, Peter had heard it. And though the stories all sounded good, Peter had never seen any of these girls ever follow through with their dream. To Peter's mind, dancing nude for money had a way of killing the soul. A girl might start working toward her goal-sign up for school, start taking cla.s.ses during the day or take a job in that field-but the nightly grind of dancing the pole would wear them down. As would the cocaine, the meth, the liquor, or whatever else a girl put in her system to allow her to take her clothes off and rub her t.i.ts into the faces of men twice her age who reeked of body odor and whose breath smelled like castor oil.

Darla Ford was different. She did no drugs and limited her alcohol intake to one Seven and Seven, which she'd sip on all night and which Peter would refill with just 7 Up. Every night Darla's goal was always the same. To take home as much money as humanly possible. To do that she had to give the best show, and no one at the club had ever danced like Nikita. She was the most requested dancer for lap dances, and, outside of Tammie Gentry, a.k.a. Sweet & Nasty, and Wilma Newton, a.k.a. Smokey, the only other dancer asked to go up to the VIP room and make the big bucks.

In the VIP room Peter knew that Darla had s.e.x for money. She had so much as told him. "But only a small minority get to sample the merchandise," she had said. "Only the really deep pockets who I think might come back for more."

Andy Walton had fit the bill to a tee. A lonely seventysomething-year-old billionaire looking for a good time because his wife had gone cold between the sheets.

Peter wasn't sure how much money Darla had stored away, but one night, after a romp on the mattress in her apartment, she'd volunteered that she was just about ten grand short of being able to place a down payment on her dream.

"I'm going to have the best oyster bar on the Gulf Coast, you just wait," she had said.

By the time Peter reached the door to Darla's apartment, he had already popped the top on beer number two. He knocked, because it was the polite thing to do, but he knew there would be no answer. Then, taking out the key that Darla had given him two years ago, he opened the door.

No lights, no sounds . . . no Darla.

She's gone, Peter knew, involuntarily smiling. He remembered that scene at the end of the movie Good Will Hunting when Ben Affleck goes to Matt Damon's house and doesn't find him there. Affleck smiles, knowing that his friend has finally moved on.

Walking back into the kitchen, Peter noticed the note on the table. It was handwritten on a three-and-a-half by five-inch index card. The message was short and to the point.

"Saint Peter, I'm out of here. You know where to find me. I hope you will come. If not, you are welcome to whatever's left in the apartment."

Peter Burns closed his eyes, the smile still playing on his lips. Her ship had come in.

The arrangement with Andy Walton had finally paid off.

Peter decided to spend one last night in Darla's apartment. He drank the rest of the six-pack and watched old Seinfeld episodes on one of the three channels Darla had on her TV. Then, not quite drunk, he lay on the mattress in her bedroom and thought through his options.

He had lived in Giles County all his life. He hadn't gone to college, and, outside of the occasional trip to Nashville, he had barely left town. He had only been to the beach once in his life. A spring break trip to Gulf Sh.o.r.es, Alabama in high school.

I can pour whiskey anywhere, he knew, imagining the emerald-green waters of the Gulf.

By the time he closed his eyes, he could almost smell the salt water . . .

He woke up hungover but motivated. Though not as frugal as Darla, he had saved a few bucks here and there. Enough to make the trek to the coast and put a down payment on a new apartment. And that's all I'll need, he thought, smiling with excitement. I'm really going to do it, he told himself. I'm going to get the h.e.l.l out of here.

He pulled into his apartment and literally jumped out of the seat. No looking back now, he thought. He didn't want to lose his gumption. He'd call his landlord, pack a bag, and stop at the Sundowners on the way out of town.

I can be eating oysters on the coast by sundown.

As he began fiddling for the key to his apartment, which was a ground-level unit in a complex popular with the Martin College kids, he was startled by a voice from behind him.

"Mr. Burns?"

Peter turned and saw a young man wearing a shirt and tie walking his way. The top b.u.t.ton on the man's shirt was unb.u.t.toned, and his tie was loose and wrinkled. College kid? Peter initially thought, but then he changed his mind when the man got closer and Peter saw his bloodshot eyes and the yellow pad he was holding.

"Who wants to know?" Peter asked, crossing his arms, annoyed that his momentum had been interrupted.

"Rick Drake," the man said. "I'm a lawyer for Bo Haynes. Do you have a minute to talk?"

"I'm busy right now, kid," Peter said. "I'm actually about to leave town for a while."

"I've been waiting in the parking lot all night," Rick said. "I tried to reach you at the Sundowners, but each time I called they said you were 'busy.'"

"I couldn't talk there anyway," Peter said. "Too loud." He smiled. "And too many distractions."

Rick smiled back. "I'm sorry to just show up here. My client had apparently met you here before, so he gave me the address."

"So you just been waiting this whole time?" Peter asked.

"Since midnight," Rick said. "I figured you'd get off work around then and come home."

"I usually do," Peter said. "But I got lucky last night." He smiled, knowing that it wasn't entirely a lie. He had gotten lucky. Just not the kind of lucky he was implying.

Rick chuckled. "I figured as much, but I was afraid to leave for fear of missing you. And if you're about to go out of town-"

"Well, I don't know how I can be of help," Peter started, putting the key into the lock. "But I can at least fix you a cup of coffee for your trouble."

"Thank you," Rick said, sighing with relief. "That would be great."

27.

"I knew Andy a long time," Peter said, handing Rick a cup of scalding black coffee. Rick took it and blinked his eyes to get his bearings. After seven hours cooped up in the Saturn, his mind drifting in and out of consciousness, Rick was glad to be anywhere but the front seat of his car. He felt sluggish and tired, but he knew he had to snap out of it. Burns was an important witness. "And I've known Bo my whole life," Peter continued.

"Bo said he represented you a few years ago."

Peter chuckled. "Yeah. Possession of marijuana and a DUI. Since it was my second DUI charge, I could have gone to jail. But Bo tried the case and won."

"I thought Helen Lewis hadn't lost a case as DA," Rick said, feeling a pang of hope in his heart.

"Wasn't Helen," Peter said. "It was one of her a.s.sistants. Though I was stoned out of my mind that night, I had only blown a .09, which is just barely drunk. I did the field sobriety tests better than the officer, which really wasn't fair because I work all day about half-c.o.c.ked. I walk straighter after a few joints and a couple beers than I do stone sober." He laughed and sipped from his coffee. Rick did the same, beginning to feel the caffeine kicking in. "Bo said we had a chance, and sure enough he won it." Peter shook his head. "Bo's a good lawyer now, I'm goin' tell you."

"Bo said in lieu of payment for his work, you agreed to give him information."

Peter nodded. "And I have. I gave him some information on a stripper last year that was involved in one of his cases in Alabama."

"Wilma Newton," Rick said.

"That's right."

"That was actually my case," Rick said. "Bo was lending a hand because Wilma was a key witness and she lived and worked here in Pulaski." He paused. "Whatever happened to Wilma?" Rick asked. "I haven't seen her since-"

"Wilma's . . . not with us anymore," Peter said. "Look, I'd rather not talk about that. Everyone at the club liked Wilma. It . . . was a sad situation."

Jesus, Rick thought. He wanted to press Peter for more information, but he stopped himself. Stay focused. That's not why we're here.

"Did you see Andy Walton on the night he died?"

Peter nodded. "I did. Andy was a regular at the club, so I saw him a good bit."

"And he also saw a dancer named Darla Ford the night of the murder. Is that correct?"

"Yeah, Darla. Her stage name was Nikita."

"Was?" Rick asked. "What . . . ?"

"s.h.i.t," Peter said, standing up and refilling his cup. "Is, I mean. Her stage name is Nikita."

"Is she not there anymore?" Rick asked, and Peter closed his eyes.

"Ask me something else, OK, kid?" Peter said, his agitation evident.

"How long had Andy been seeing Darla?"

Peter sat back down and sighed, shrugging his shoulders. "A year maybe. Ten months?" He shrugged. "A while I guess."

"What happened the night of the murder?"

"Just what I said in my statement to the police. Andy came to the club around eleven that night. Had a beer with me and then went upstairs with Darla to the VIP room."

"How long did Mr. Walton stay in the VIP room with Ms. Ford?"

"Hour or so," Peter said. "Give or take fifteen either way."

Rick sipped his coffee. Despite his fatigue, he was alert now, hanging on every word. "What would . . . go on up in that room? Would . . . ?"

"You want to know if he was f.u.c.king her?" Peter said, his lips curving into a grin. Rick noticed a small gap in the man's teeth.

Rick also smiled, playing along. "Well . . . was he?"

"The on-the-record answer to that is, of course, no."

"And off the record?"

"Her brains out. Every time he came in." He fiddled with the handle of his coffee cup. "You have to understand. Andy Walton was a self-confessed 'man of the flesh.' He wasn't getting any at home, so . . ."

"How often did he come in?"

"Two . . . maybe three times a week."