Southern Gods Read online

  Corso brought a bottle out of his desk and poured whiskey into a crystal tumbler.

  “We’re done here. Send Mickey in on your way out.” He sipped his drink.

  Ingram stood and took his hat from the rack. He walked over to the three men playing cards.

  The dour one sniffed and looked up at Ingram, a cigarette dangling from his lower lip.

  “What? We got a game going here.”

  “Corso asked for you.”

  Mickey stood, cursing.

  “Goddamn, you’re a fucking big one, ain’tcha? They call you Bull cause you’re so big? Or did your mother fuck cattle?”

  Ingram put his hand on Mickey’s shoulder.

  “I wouldn’t.” The words were flat, inflectionless. Mickey coughed.

  “Yeah, well, the boss wants me.”

  Ingram walked out into the Memphis heat.

  His 1949 Plymouth Coupe sat sweltering at the curb. He threw his hat and jacket into the passenger seat. Sliding behind the wheel, he felt the sticky heat of the leather seats.

  Driving east, Ingram smoked and hung his arm out the window to dry the armpits of his shirt. He twisted the knob on the radio until he found Nat King Cole on WDIA, crooning about a buzzard and a monkey.

  The sun dipped in the west, casting long shadows across the street. Ingram turned off Union onto Gayoso, slowing, the coupe rumbling in low gear. He found the brothel on the corner of Pearl. No sign, just a line of cars parked down the street.

  No blue Packard in sight.

  He parked the coupe caddy-corner and watched as men wandered in and out of the large, frame house. Occasionally, a whore wandered out on the upper gallery to smoke. As the sun went down, the house brightened, the red curtains filtering bloody electric light onto the yard, the street. Ingram checked his watch. Drawing a pint from beneath his seat, he cracked the Federal Papers on the whiskey and sipped.

  At 7:30, Ingram started the coupe and drove past Pauline’s. He found a diner a few blocks away. After a porterhouse and fried potatoes, he drank coffee, chatting with the waitress. She had an ex-husband and a kid at Sewanee.

  “He’s a smart little kid, that Stephen. Always quoting stuff.” Bad teeth and breath that smelled like shrimp.

  Ingram nodded.

  “You single?”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh. Me too.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “You serve?”

  Ingram shook out a cigarette and tamped the loose tobacco on his wrist. She lit the tip with a match.

  “Thanks.”

  “You see some action?”

  “Pacific.”

  “My ex was a reporter.” She snorted and put her hands on her hips. “Instead of a gun, they gave him a camera. He stayed in Washington. You believe that? The cheap bastard.”

  “Can’t say I wouldn’t have traded places with him.”

  She scratched at her hair with one lacquered fingernail.

  “You want some more coffee?”

  He threw down a five, smiled, shaking his head, and ducked through the door.

  Back at Pauline’s, he drove around the block until he spotted the blue Packard. Someone had done a poor job on the white racing stripes. He stopped long enough to match license numbers, then continued down the block. Ingram turned around and found a spot to park within twenty feet of the Packard. He smoked and watched Pauline’s, taking an occasional sip from the whiskey.

  The street was empty by the time Meerchamp staggered out onto the porch and toward his car. Untucked suspenders dangling at his sides, he walked with the rubbery gait of a sailor on leave, drunk and recently vigorous. At the car door, he fumbled with his keys.

  I could do this now. But he might not have the dough on him.

  Meerchamp pulled onto Pearl and headed south.

  Bugs made tracers in Ingram’s headlights as he tailed the Packard. Meerchamp parked at a large apartment building. Ingram cruised the block before parking.

  From the glove-compartment, he took a snub-nosed .38 and slipped it to the small of his back, followed by a foot-long leather-bound rod that he flattened to his forearm.

  He entered the building, passed the elevator, and checked the mailboxes. Meerchamp 713A. He entered the stairwell and bounded up the steps by threes until he reached the seventh floor.

  At apartment 713A, he stopped, scanned the hallway. No one. He rapped on the door.

  The voice, when it came, was hesitant. “Who is it?”

  Ingram kicked in the door, splintering the locks. He heard a satisfying oof as the door banged open.

  Ingram moved into the apartment, ducking his head. Meerchamp lay on the floor in his shirt-sleeves and boxers, blinking.

  “No!” the man screeched. “Help!”

  Ingram clubbed Meerchamp’s head with the sap, toppling the smaller man forward. He caught him by the neck with one big hand. Meerchamp’s breath whooshed out as Ingram yanked him into his chest.

  Desperate, he clawed at Ingram’s eyes.

  Ingram jerked his head back, snarling, holding Meerchamp out at arm’s length. He tossed him through the door, into the kitchen. Meerchamp slammed into the cabinets, head-first, and slumped to the floor.

  In a flash, Ingram was on him again, and dragged him to the sink, shoving the man’s head under the spigot. He cranked the water on. Meerchamp spluttered and screamed, fighting Ingram’s grip.

  “Goddammit, you son of a whore! What do you want?”

  Ingram banged Meerchamp’s head in the sink. “Stop playing games. You know why I’m here. Where’s the money?”

  “What?” The man’s voice pitched up an octave. “What money, what—”

  Ingram pulled him from the sink and smashed his face with the sap. The nose went flat, and the blood started coming.

  “The money. Where is it? Last chance.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  A ceramic pitcher sat on the counter, filled with wooden spoons, spatulas, whisks, and a meat tenderizer. Ingram grabbed the tenderizer and forced Meerchamp’s hand onto the counter.

  “Where’s the fucking money? Last chance.”

  “You already said last chance, you sonofabi—”

  Ingram slammed down the pewter mallet. The first blow sank into Meerchamp’s flesh and flattened the hand against the counter. The second blow pulped the man’s little finger. Meerchamp’s screams became frantic. No neighbors in sight but the man was getting too loud.

  Ingram bashed his head against the counter to quiet him.

  Meerchamp slumped to the kitchenette floor, face a bloody mess, eyes unfocused, barely moving. Ingram grabbed one of the dinette chairs and sat down, straddling it backward.

  “You got whiskey?” Ingram said. “Left mine in the car.”

  Meerchamp glanced at the ice-box. Ingram found a fifth of vodka in the freezer. He twisted off the cap and placed the open bottle at his mouth. Meerchamp sucked greedily.

  “You’re gonna lose those fingers.” Pulling the bottle away, Ingram brought it to his own lips and took a drink. “I can’t understand why you don’t just cough up the dough.”

  Meerchamp closed his eyes, leaning forward. Ingram propped the man up and patted his cheek.

  “Goddamn. Why didn’t you just pony it up?” Ingram shook his head. “Fuck. Put out your hand.”

  The smaller man looked at Ingram blankly.

  Ingram stood up and grabbed a dish towel. “You can die from wounds like that, soldier. Put out your hand.”

  The man stuck out his paw, and Ingram poured vodka over the man’s hand. Meerchamp screamed, but weakly now.

  “Ssshhhh, hush.”

  He fished his cigarettes out of his pocket, shook two out of the pack. He lit them with a Zippo, the hard metal sound of it bright in the kitchenette.

  Ingram removed a cigarette from his mouth, reversed it, and placed it in Meerchamp’s bloody maw. Smoke drifted weakly from his nostrils.

  “Listen. Here’s how it is. You owe
Mr. Corso a grand. I don’t know how or why you borrowed it. I don’t care. All I know is that Mr. Corso sent me here to collect.”

  Ingram took a deep drag on his smoke. “Now, I’m not a torturer. There’s things I won’t do. But I’ve been told to either get the money, make you see some reason, or throw you out the window. So why don’t you smoke your cigarette and think about it. Here, have another drink.”

  Ingram put the vodka bottle again to the wounded man’s lips. Liquor and blood drooled from the corners of the man’s mouth. They smoked in silence until Ingram, taking one last drag, ground out his cigarette.

  “Okay, where’s the dough? If you don’t pony up, you’ll fly.”

  The man’s eyes grew wide and shifted left.

  “In there?” Ingram snatched him up like a doll, and pushed him into the living room.

  “Where is it?”

  “Ooovah deerah. Pest oo waresh.”

  “What? Chest of drawers?” He spotted a chest with a radio on top. “There?”

  The man nodded. Ingram sat him on the couch, and went to the bureau and rifled through it. He found a wad of money in a clip, a pint of cheap brandy and a military issue .45, and Meerchamp’s car keys. Ingram counted the money. Eight hundred dollars. He pocketed the cash and keys.

  The little man was unconscious. Ingram searched the apartment.

  In the bathroom, he found some Vaseline and rubbing alcohol. He poured rubbing alcohol over the man’s mangled hand, smeared it with Vaseline, then bound the mess as best he could with the shredded linens.

  Corso won’t be pleased at the short change. But that’s not my fault.

  I just collect.

  Chapter 2

  “Mr. Ingram! You gots a telephone call!”

  An insistent voice from the hall.

  “Telephone, Bull! Mr. Phelps from Helios Studios on the line!”

  A band of light stabbed into the darkness of the room from a dormer window.

  “Mr. Phelps is on the party line for you! You best get up and get it.” The voice was thick, feminine, familiar.

  He rose slowly, hair tousled and back hunched. He hobbled over to the wash basin atop his chest of drawers. Ingram’s scars shone silver in the half-light of the room. He splashed water on his face, grabbed a shirt and pulled it on.

  “Hold on, Maggie! Go tell him I’m coming, willya? That’s a girl.” He winced at the sound of his own voice.

  Downstairs, standing rumpled and bleary in the kitchen, Ingram took up the telephone receiver and said, “This is Ingram.”

  “Hold the line, sir. Mr. Phelps will be with you in a moment.” Female, young, and shapely if her voice was any indication.

  After a moment of rustling, a man came on the line.

  “This Bull Ingram?” The voice was bright and articulate.

  “Lewis, sir. And yes, that’s me.”

  “My name is Sam Phelps. I want you to come to my studio to discuss a little job.” It all came out quick but measured, each word popping easily, distinct and forceful, firing down the wire, through the receiver into Ingram’s ear.

  “Well, Sam—”

  “Mr. Phelps to you, son. I know something about you. I’m...friends...with Gene Corso, who you’ve been freelancing for. He recommended you to me.”

  “OK, Mr. Phelps. That’s aces with me. Where are you?”

  “We’re at 706 Union. I’ll expect you here at three.” He hung up.

  In the kitchen, Ingram looked around. Maggie bustled in the communal dining room, cleaning up the remains of breakfast.

  “There any way I can get something to eat? Some milk or bread or something?”

  Maggie looked at Ingram with lidded, amused eyes.

  “Bull, a man as big as you ought get up in time for breakfast. You know Mrs. Fahey’s rules; breakfast is served when breakfast is served. No sneakin’ and no favorites.”

  “I was out late.”

  “You always out late.” Maggie looked around theatrically, checking to see if an obviously absent Mrs. Fahey was about. “It don’t matter. You go get cleaned up, and I’ll put a plate in your room. There’s some ham and cornbread left.”

  For a moment Ingram just stood in the kitchen, helpless, his brain pounding, and marveled at the kindness of near strangers.

  “Thanks, Maggie. That’s real...well, thanks.”

  Maggie put her hands on her ample hips and looked at him, a little curious, a little sad. Her dark skin shone luminous in the light of the kitchen window.

  Voice softer, she said, “Bull, that’s all right. I know you a good boy. You was in the war over there. I’d be a bad person if I didn’t help you out, everything you done for us.”

  “I haven’t done anything,” he said.

  “Go on, Bull. Go get cleaned up, and I’ll bring you a little plate.”

  After a shower in the communal bathroom, Ingram took his time grooming, the white of the shaving cream contrasting starkly with the deep black circles under his eyes. From his closet he withdrew cuffed slacks and a crisp white shirt, open collared. Dressed, he pulled the shades and sat smoking in the dark, filling the small room with smoke, thinking.

  Strange man, that Phelps, brusque yet friendly, forceful yet jovial. Ingram remembered Captain Haptic from the USS Cleveland, a similar kind of man. Flinty hard, yet able to tell jokes so profane that men had trouble holding in their laughter doing pushups. Forty-five miles out of Borneo, the crew carrier came across that fucking Jap sub with escort, perforating the sides of the cruiser, making her as carious as some rotten tooth. The Marines—doing exercises on the deck—glistened in the sun, Cap Hap bellowing at their side, a continuous froth of good natured bile, vinegar for the soul of the Marine doomed to die. Then the world wrenched, and the gahn gahn gahn of 50 cals came, at first distant but growing. Men cursing and bellowing with fear and exaltation after months of boredom, the gahn gahn gahn growing louder until it filled all perception and men fell out, scattered in fear. Marines, mean sons of bitches, bailing and scattering, and people yelling, “Bull, get yer ass up!” But he was immobile, still frozen in the half-lunge of a pushup, head cocked and looking up at Cap Hap who, fully reg, still loomed over Ingram, finger pointed, making some profane point about the virtue of a Jakartan whore. The whole world wrenched horribly once more. Ingram looked back at the Cap. He’d been replaced by a mist, a billowing and intangible ghost, drifting up all crimson, rising up into the Pacific air, rising and dissipating into the yellow light, dispersing on the wind while the growl and scream of klaxons beat thinly at the air.

  A soft rap sounded at the door. Maggie entered, carrying a wax-paper-covered plate. She placed it on his chest of drawers and looked around the room. Clothes, ashtrays, and empty bottles littered the floor. Out of date newspapers covered the room’s single chair.

  She waved her hands in the air dramatically, clearing the smoke, and walked to the window. She drew back the curtains. Light flooded the room, bringing grimaces to both Ingram’s and Maggie’s faces.

  “Oooh-ee, you sure ain’t got no house training,” she said. “I’ve been here at Mrs. Fahey’s since before the war, seen many young men, just like you. But none as big. Or as messy.”

  She paused, putting her hand on her hip. “I was thinking, Bull.”

  “Congratulations.”

  She laughed, waving off his comment.

  “Bull, you know I got grandchildren.”

  He grunted.

  “I’d be happy to take care of this room for you, make sure you eat and sleep right, for just a little bit extra.”

  Ingram stubbed his cigarette out into an already overflowing ashtray.

  “What’re their names?”

  “What?”

  “Your grandchildren. Their names. What are they?”

  Maggie paused. “Fisk and Lenora.”

  “Lenora is a pretty name.”

  “She’s a pretty girl. So how ’bout it?”

  “What’re we talking about?”

  “Five dolla
rs. Every two weeks. I make sure your room is clean, even if you’re out late. You’ll have food in the morning, whenever you need it.” Maggie thought for a moment. “But I ain’t gonna cover up nothing for you, or get you no sauce. And I’ll make sure the house is safe. Lord, I do that already.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Whoo-ee. And this room sure looks it.”

  Ingram stood, paused for a moment.

  “Deal.”

  Ingram smiled as mischievously as his blunt face would allow. With a great flourish, he spat into his fist. “Shake on it.”

  Spitting into her palm, Maggie grinned back, showing empty teeth.

  Ingram laughed, and they shook. Maggie said, “A bargain, then. Five dollars in advance.”

  ***

  Later that day, Ingram pulled his coupe to the curb at Helios Studios, 706 Union, feeling quite underwhelmed. As Ingram approached, two Negroes with guitars exited the front door, shaded by a Bradford Pear. Both men looked upset and angry, faces pulled down in distaste.

  What pissed those fellas off?

  One of the black men made the sign of the cross, removed a necklace from his open collar, and kissed it.

  Out of the coupe, Ingram’s white shirt began to discolor. The thick summer air was oppressive, stifling. The haze felt almost palpable. The slow-moving Mississippi cast water into the air like some long brown moccasin sloughing off its skin as it crawled downstream.

  Inside, the air conditioning beaded the windows with condensation. A blonde woman with heavy eye shadow attended the phone, chewing gum. She looked up as he entered.

  “Bull Ingram?”

  “Yeah. Lewis Ingram, ma’am.”

  “Mr. Phelps is waiting for you in the control room. Right over there.” Her bracelets jangled as she pointed. “Please refer to Mr. Phelps as Mr. Phelps. That is his preference.”

  Ingram stopped. “OK, will do. Any other advice?”

  She laughed. “Hell yes, sugar. Tell the bastard to give me a raise. And if he asks you to do something, go ahead and do it. It’s easier that way, and nobody gets hurt.”

  Ingram smiled, then pulled his shoulders back, brushing his head against the ceiling.