Strange Brew Part 3

"You been making me worry since you were in my womb," she said, keeping one hand each on Rufus and Maybelline's collars. The dogs were whining, pawing at the front door as we tried to back them away and close it.

"They've been like this since the wind picked up again," Edna said. "Not Maybelline so much, but Rufus has been whimpering and pacing till I think he'll wear a track in the floor."

I leaned down and took Rufus's muzzle between my hands. "You don't like storms, do you, boy?" His whole body was trembling.

For once, he didn't wag his tail in pleasure at being petted.

"I made some coffee and a pot of soup," Edna said, heading toward the kitchen. "Locked the garage up as good as I could. And there's water and lanterns and stuff down in the bas.e.m.e.nt, just in case."

The mention of the bas.e.m.e.nt made me shudder. Ours is unfinished, with earthen walls and floors. My private idea of h.e.l.l has nothing to do with fire and brimstone and everything to do with mildew and spiders and the kind of damp cold that invades your bones and never goes away.

When I'd gotten out of my Cher outfit and into some jeans and a sweatshirt, I joined my mother in the kitchen. She had the television on the Weather Channel, and the radar was showing a wall of showers and high winds headed like an arrow straight at the heart of Atlanta.

"So much for Swannelle's skysc.r.a.per theory," I said, sipping the coffee Edna handed me.

"Listen to that," Edna said.

The wind worried at our little wood-frame bungalow like a loose tooth. The gla.s.s in the windowpanes rattled, and we could hear the m.u.f.fled plink-plink of sticks and pine cones. .h.i.tting the side of the house.

Lightning cracked once, twice, very close, maybe a block away. Rufus whined and tried to burrow under the kitchen table.

BOOM! The kitchen was flooded with a dazzling silver light. The lights flickered off. Outside, we heard a slow, sickening splitting, then a terrific crash. The whole house shook. Then it was quiet again.

Edna's voice was shaky. "That was the oak tree out front. Had to be."

"Give me the lantern and I'll go see," I said.

"We'll both go see."

The living room was shrouded in dark. The streetlights were out. I pressed my face to the gla.s.s and saw nothing. Edna held the lantern up to the rain-spattered window. Leaves pressed against the gla.s.s. I ran to the front door and opened it and a shower of leaves blew right into my face. I could make out more branches, and the debris from the porch roof, and a dark solid ma.s.s that had to be the trunk of the old oak, laying smack across the porch.

"Holy s.h.i.t," I said.

Edna came and stood beside me. A yellow light glimmered and sparked near the edge of the yard.

"Power line's down," she said, closing the door. "And if it's down, the phone line is, too."

She picked up the lantern and sighed the sigh of a born martyr. "All right. Let's go. I put Kevin's old transistor radio and a stack of blankets down in the bas.e.m.e.nt. We can listen to the weather report down there."

"You go right ahead," I told her. "Take the dogs down there with you. I'll ride it out up here."

"What if another tree falls on the house?" she demanded. "It's out of the question. I'm your mother and I forbid it. You can't stay up here alone during a tornado."

"I won't be alone," I said, opening the door of the small mahogany cabinet beside the sofa. "It'll be me and my friend Jack."

"Jack who?" she said suspiciously.

I held the bottle aloft. It still had a shiny gold Christmas ribbon wrapped around the neck. Present from a satisfied client. "Jack Daniel's."

Hunkered down in the den in a pile of blankets and pillows, we played double solitaire and drank bourbon until the hearts and spades and diamonds and clubs all began to look alike. We turned the transistor radio up loud, to drown out the whine of the wind, and sometime after midnight we both drifted off to sleep.

I felt the thud in my sleep, thought at first that I was still dreaming about the storm. But Rufus wasn't dreaming. He went into a frenzy, tearing around the room, knocking into furniture, barking and whining.

Edna's eyelids fluttered. "What?"

"Another tree, maybe. From the back of the house."

"That's what I was afraid of." Edna sank back down into the sofa cushions. "We'll check it in the morning." She was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillows.

I turned the radio off and went to the window and stared out at nothingness. The wind and rain seemed to have slacked off. So what was the thump?

I grabbed the lantern and went to the kitchen door with Rufus right on my heels. I opened the back door and a blast of frigid air slapped me right in the kisser. When had it gotten so cold? I could see my breath coming in little white puffs. I turned to the coat rack beside the door to get a jacket, and in that moment, Rufus shot past me out into the dark.

"Rufus!" I hollered, shoving my arms into the sleeves of the black leather bomber jacket. I could hear him barking at something in the front yard.

"Stupid dog."

The backyard looked like it had been clear-cut. At least four pine trees lay on their sides, along with too many dogwoods, c.r.a.pe myrtles, and smaller shrubs to count. I held the lantern in front of my face and saw that the thud had come from the old apple tree on the side of the garage. Its new resting place was on the garage roof.

There was no time to survey the rest of the damage. Rufus was still barking, but the barking was growing distant. He was off and running.

And so was I. The black Lab was Mac's oldest and best friend. Live power lines and broken gla.s.s were everywhere, and Rufus was bad spooked.

My first thought was to take the van to look for him. But it had a new hood ornament: a three-foot-thick tree branch draped across it. The Mousemobile windshield was shattered, the hood crumpled like a cigarette pack. Edna's big Buick was blanketed in pine needles and leaves but was otherwise unharmed. Unfortunately, I had her blocked in in the driveway.

"Stupid dog." I trotted past the van into the street, gingerly dodging the sparking power line. With relief, I saw that Mr. Byerly had managed to dodge the bullet. His collard patch had probably been blown all to h.e.l.l, but even in the inky darkness I could see that the silhouette of his house appeared to be untouched by the storm.

I stood in the tree-strewn street and cupped my hands to my mouth. "Rufus! Come back!"

His barks were growing more distant, and now other dogs were joining in. Rufus could have been hot on the scent of a terrified possum or a stray cat or a chihuahua in heat. It didn't matter. Whatever that hound from h.e.l.l was chasing was headed up the street toward McClendon. And I was right behind him.

My arm ached from holding the lantern out in front of me, my hands and arms and legs were scratched and bleeding from climbing over what seemed like an eternal Black Forest of downed trees, and I was hoa.r.s.e from calling for Rufus.

Still, I trudged onward. Before I knew it, I'd walked to Little Five Points. The lights were off there, too, but the going was easier, since there weren't that many trees to begin with in the business district. The sky was clearer now, but it was the new moon, and only the distant glimmer of a handful of stars dimpled the deep purple horizon.

I made the turn onto Euclid Avenue, still holding the lantern as a navigational guide. Maybe Hap or Miranda had stayed to look after the Yacht Club. Maybe they'd give me a Diet c.o.ke or just some ice cubes to soothe my blistered throat. Maybe they'd drive me home.

Something wet brushed against my cheek. I swallowed a scream, dropped the lantern, and struck out at it with both hands. I heard the thing bounce against the sidewalk. I knelt down and picked it up and dropped it just as quickly, wiping my hands on the seat of my jeans. It was a filthy black hightop sneaker. I glanced up. The power lines crossing Euclid sagged deeply, only six or seven feet above the street. Dozens and dozens of pairs of sneakers dangled from the thick black lines, dripping rainwater like a busted gutter. It was some kind of L5P tradition, flinging old sneakers over the power lines.

I wiped rain off my face and kept walking toward the Yacht Club.

Orange and black cardboard cutouts of witches and black cats and pumpkins had been taped all across the front windows of the bar, and sodden crepe paper streamers hung limply from the roof overhang. Halloween seemed like something that had happened a long time ago. Trick or treat, y'all.

I pulled hard on the door, but it didn't budge. Locked. I banged on the door. "Hap? Miranda? Anybody?"

I pressed my face to the door. The only light came from the glowing red EXIT sign at the back of the room. Maybe Hap was in the office and couldn't hear me. The back door was worth a try.

The mercury was still dropping. I pulled up the collar of my jacket and shoved my hands in my pockets to keep them warm. Not even gale-force winds and torrential rains could wash away the stench that lingered in the alleys behind the bars and shops of L5P. The bouquet was unmistakable: rancid grease, stale beer, urine, and rot.

The cleaning lady in me wondered how many gallons of full-strength Clorox it would take to flush the place out, the ex-cop hoped n.o.body was lurking in that evil heart of darkness.

I had to step over drifts of garbage from blown-over trash cans and around the cans themselves, willing myself not to look too closely at what I was walking on.

The rear entrance to the Yacht Club was a battered fire door with an impressive-looking lock. Stenciled on the door were the words EAYC. NO SOLICITATIONS. NO DELIVERIES AFTER 5 P.M. RING FOR ENTRY.

I leaned on the plastic doorbell, then remembered the power was off. "Come on," I muttered. "Open up. It's me. Callahan Garrity. Tracer of lost dogs."

It was no good. Rufus was gone, I was alone. I wasn't wearing a watch because I don't wear watches, but by my estimate it must have been around two A.M. The alley wasn't getting any lighter or any prettier.

YoYos' rear door was a flimsy wooden affair that had been crudely patched in a couple of places with bits of sc.r.a.p lumber and silver duct tape. A pushover for anybody who wanted in bad enough. No wonder Wuvvy had been the target of so many burglaries. The door didn't even close properly. Cardboard boxes were thrown all around the alley near the back door.

I held the lantern close to one. It was splitting at the seams from the rain and it was full of old record alb.u.ms. The one on top was a cla.s.sic: Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention's immortal Weasels Rip My Flesh. The other boxes held clothes, mostly T-shirts and jeans, and some papers.

Wuvvy's stuff. All her earthly belongings, probably, left out in the rain. Had she been so stoned she'd abandoned everything? Even Frank Zappa?

"Wuvvy?"

I pulled at the door to YoYos and it swung open effortlessly.

"Wuvvy?"

Maybe she was inside, too wrecked from the booze and pot to seek shelter from the storm. Maybe she'd been oblivious to the storm.

My voice echoed off the concrete floors. I pulled my jacket closer. It was colder inside than out. I swung the lantern around in an arc.

I was in a small walled-off back room. A dropped ceiling of water-stained acoustical tiles, a dingy pedestal sink and toilet in one corner, a homemade plywood platform for a deflated water bed in the other corner; this must have been Wuvvy's living quarters. Except for the bed, the place had been swept clean.

A curtain of red, yellow, and purple plastic beads hung in the doorway that led out of the apartment and into the store. Love beads. I'd had a curtain like that in my college dorm room. The beads clicked noisily against each other as I parted the curtain.

Now I really was time-traveling. A sweet ashy smell hung in the air. Incense and dope.

"Wuvvy?"

The room was packed with huge wooden crates, stacks of stainless steel vats and tubs, and lengths of rubber and steel pipes. No more toys. This was now the serious home of serious adults who planned to turn a profit from their efforts.

Just then I heard the click of a doork.n.o.b, then the silvery jingle of bells and the sound of the door closing. I swung the lantern that way, but the brewing equipment completely blocked my view of the front door. I tripped over something. It gave a hollow metal clang and rolled away, and I would have gone sprawling onto the floor if I hadn't grabbed hold of one of the packing crates.

After I'd steadied myself, I panned the lantern over the floor to see what I'd tripped over. It was a long piece of galvanized pipe. And it had come to rest against the only soft surface in the room.

"Christ!" I could see my own breath forming in the cold gray darkness. Which is more than you could say for the body of the man sprawled facedown on the floor. Even from where I stood I could tell this guy had breathed his last. Under his suit jacket, the collar of his starched white dress shirt was stained crimson. You don't see a lot of serious business suits in L5P. I'd seen this one only a few hours ago, right next door at the Euclid Avenue Yacht Club. Jackson Poole.

5.

By the time I got out the door of YoYos and onto Euclid Avenue, n.o.body was in sight. The street was slick with standing rain, but the only thing reflected in the puddles were the dim stars overhead. I got that old eerie Twilight Zone sensation-like I was the last person left on earth after a nuclear holocaust.

I hiked over to the PitStop, the all-night convenience store across the street on Moreland. It was shuttered tight, the first time I'd ever seen the place closed. In addition to serving as a convenient community clearinghouse for beer, wine, junk food, and change for MARTA tokens, the PitStop has two pay phones out in the parking lot. Pay phones are a rare commodity in Little Five Points-Southern Bell takes it personally when their equipment is repeatedly ripped off.

I crossed my fingers when I picked up the receiver, and was rewarded for a sincere belief system by the comforting purr of a dial tone.

"Who ya gonna call?" I wondered aloud. Jackson Poole was, as the Munchkins said, really most sincerely dead. I hadn't gotten any closer to the body than I had to, but it didn't take a coroner to tell that the back of his skull had been bashed in. The right thing to do was to call 911 and report that a man had been killed. The cops would swarm the place, I'd be stuck for hours answering questions, Rufus would be left to wander the streets, and Edna, when she eventually slept off the bourbon, would think I'd been swallowed whole by the tornado.

I decided to call Bucky Deavers. What else are friends for?

"What?" Bucky sounded like he was speaking from his tomb.

"It's Callahan," I said. "You made it home okay?"

"You're calling me at three A.M. to see if I made curfew? Lose this number, Garrity."

"I wish I could," I said. "Bucky, listen. I'm at Little Five Points. I just found the body of Jackson Poole. His skull's been bashed in, and the body's at Wuvvy's store."

"Jackson Browne?" he groaned. "What the h.e.l.l is he doing at Little Five Points? How does he know Wuvvy?"

"Not the rock 'n' roll guy, Jackson Browne. Jackson Poole. The guy who kicked Wuvvy out. He was at the Yacht Club last night, remember? The guy who's opening the microbrewery where YoYos used to be?"

"You're serious," he said finally. "You think it's murder?"

"That's why I'm calling you," I said.

"Unbelievable," Bucky said. "I've got the king-h.e.l.l of all hangovers. Couldn't you call 911 like a normal person? You know I don't go on until two o'clock tomorrow."

"Tomorrow is today," I said impatiently. "Besides, it's Wuvvy's store. Her stuff is scattered all around the place. You saw the big stink she made at the Yacht Club. What are the cops gonna think when they find Poole's body?"

"They'll think she killed the guy. All right. I'm on my way. Where'd you say you are?"

"I'm at the phone booth in the parking lot at the PitStop, over on Moreland," I said. "But it's closed. Everything's closed. There's a million trees down all over Candler Park and Inman Park, probably up on Ponce, too. The power's off and it's freezing cold out here. I want to go home."

"If you're cold, go back over to YoYos to wait for me. But don't touch anything. I'm leaving right now."

He hung up before I could tell him I didn't keep company with corpses.

I hate waiting under the best of circ.u.mstances. Perched on the frame of a water bed in a dark unheated hovel with a dead man only a few feet away was the worst of circ.u.mstances. I didn't dare touch anything for fear of fouling up the crime scene more than I already had. So I sat and contemplated how hungry and thirsty and chilly I was.

Along with wishing for a Diet c.o.ke and a cheeseburger and another pair of dry socks and maybe a blanket or two, I was also pining away for the comforting heft of my nine-millimeter Smith & Wesson. Time was when I kept it in the oatmeal box at home in my pantry. But that was before I found out the hard way how mean Atlanta's streets could really be. Now my gun is like my Visa card. I rarely leave home without it. Except this once.

Crime scenes be d.a.m.ned. I walked gingerly around the body of the late Jackson Poole, deliberately averting my eyes. I may be a former cop, but that doesn't make me any less twitchy about being alone with a corpse. I finally found a big ugly pipe wrench in the bottom of a toolbox in the front of the store, and propped it across my knees. If anybody except Bucky came in the store while I was there, I intended to become very handy.

Bucky brought some friends along. Two homicide detectives, the crime scene van, and three APD cruisers full of beat cops. Being Bucky, he also brought two dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts and some coffee. I sat in the front seat of his big city-issue sedan scarfing donuts and swilling coffee with the heater turned up as high as it would go. Still, I could not get warm, and even after six cream-filled, chocolate-frosted fat grenades, I couldn't get full.

Bucky watched sympathetically. He knows how I get.

"You have no idea who was in the store when you got there?"