Read Online What You Have Left: The Turner Trilogy by James Sallis - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Sallis
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choose to be.”
Turning back to Don Lee, she went on.
“I’m looking for my brother. He . . . dropped out, I suppose is the right word—disappeared—almost a year ago.”
“From St. Louis.”
“Fort Smith. He lives . . . lived . . . at home, with our father. And this isn’t the first time he managed to go missing, by any means. But always, before, he’d turn up again in a week or two. We’d get a call from an ER in Clarksdale or West Memphis, or from the police down in Vicksburg, and go fetch him.”
“And now you think he’s here?” Me again.
Again, those eyes level with my own: “You are . . . ?”
Don Lee introduced us, explaining my function as consultant. That word just kind of hung there in midair, letters malformed, dripping paint.
“We’ve reason to believe he may be.”
Don Lee had poured his own and was adding in sugar before it occurred to him. “Like some coffee, Miss Hazel-wood?”
“No, but thank you.”
“And your reason is?” I said. “For believing he’s here, I mean.”
“I work as a paralegal, for the firm of Scott and Waldrop. We handle estates, trust funds, endowments. That sort of thing.”
“Good work if you can get it,” I said, with little idea why I was baiting this woman.
“The firm has nine attorneys, Mr. Turner. Two by choice work full-time at immigration, wrongful termination, civil-rights issues. Mostly pro bono.”
“I apologize. Sometimes I get up in the morning and find I’ve gone to bed with this absolute jerk.”
“How does the jerk feel about it?” After a moment she added: “I accept your apology.”
Don Lee cleared his throat. “You’ve come all the way from St. Louis?”
“I flew into Memphis yesterday afternoon. We drove up from Fort Smith this morning.”
“We?”
A black woman wearing a full-length dress slit on both sides to the upper thigh stepped through the door and stood there blinking. Earth colors, print, vaguely African. “Sorry to interrupt, but Dad’s not doing so well out here.” Clipped short, her hair directed attention to the long, graceful curve of her neck, high cheekbones, shapely head. The dress was sleeveless, showing well-developed shoulders and biceps.
Moments later, the second woman—Adrienne, as I was soon to learn—pushed a wheelchair through the door Miss Hazelwood held open. In it sat a man with what looked to be a military brush cut. Ever seen a porch whose supports on one side have been kicked out? That’s what he reminded me of. Everything on the right side, from forehead down through mouth to foot, sagged. That much closer to the earth we all wind up in.
“Daddy, this is Deputy Sheriff Don Lee. And Mr. Turner. Memphis police, I think.”
Adrienne rolled the chair into a corner away from the heat of morning light.
“This okay, Mr. H?”
He turned his head to nod and smile at her. The right side of his face gave the impression of trying to stay in place, moving half a beat behind, even as the left side turned. Same with the smile. Left side voted yes, right side abstained.
Adrienne and Sarah Hazelwood exchanged gazes filled with wordless information.
“In St. Louis,” Miss Hazelwood said, “at Scott and Wal-drop, we handle a lot of legal work for the county. Mostly it’s clerical, routine. Getting papers filed on time, filling in forms. But we also represented Sheriff Lansdale in a wrongful-death suit last year when a sixteen-year-old died of asthma while being held in his jail.”
“Black?” I glanced at Adrienne. No reaction.
Miss Hazelwood nodded. “We’ve maintained something of a special relationship since then. Dave Strong heads up Information Services. Created and pretty much runs the computer system and database single-handed. He’s my contact there.”
“You hitched a ride on the information superhighway,” I said.
This time she almost smiled.
“Two days ago, according to parameters he’d set, his computer flagged a bulletin. An unidentified murder victim whose
Turning back to Don Lee, she went on.
“I’m looking for my brother. He . . . dropped out, I suppose is the right word—disappeared—almost a year ago.”
“From St. Louis.”
“Fort Smith. He lives . . . lived . . . at home, with our father. And this isn’t the first time he managed to go missing, by any means. But always, before, he’d turn up again in a week or two. We’d get a call from an ER in Clarksdale or West Memphis, or from the police down in Vicksburg, and go fetch him.”
“And now you think he’s here?” Me again.
Again, those eyes level with my own: “You are . . . ?”
Don Lee introduced us, explaining my function as consultant. That word just kind of hung there in midair, letters malformed, dripping paint.
“We’ve reason to believe he may be.”
Don Lee had poured his own and was adding in sugar before it occurred to him. “Like some coffee, Miss Hazel-wood?”
“No, but thank you.”
“And your reason is?” I said. “For believing he’s here, I mean.”
“I work as a paralegal, for the firm of Scott and Waldrop. We handle estates, trust funds, endowments. That sort of thing.”
“Good work if you can get it,” I said, with little idea why I was baiting this woman.
“The firm has nine attorneys, Mr. Turner. Two by choice work full-time at immigration, wrongful termination, civil-rights issues. Mostly pro bono.”
“I apologize. Sometimes I get up in the morning and find I’ve gone to bed with this absolute jerk.”
“How does the jerk feel about it?” After a moment she added: “I accept your apology.”
Don Lee cleared his throat. “You’ve come all the way from St. Louis?”
“I flew into Memphis yesterday afternoon. We drove up from Fort Smith this morning.”
“We?”
A black woman wearing a full-length dress slit on both sides to the upper thigh stepped through the door and stood there blinking. Earth colors, print, vaguely African. “Sorry to interrupt, but Dad’s not doing so well out here.” Clipped short, her hair directed attention to the long, graceful curve of her neck, high cheekbones, shapely head. The dress was sleeveless, showing well-developed shoulders and biceps.
Moments later, the second woman—Adrienne, as I was soon to learn—pushed a wheelchair through the door Miss Hazelwood held open. In it sat a man with what looked to be a military brush cut. Ever seen a porch whose supports on one side have been kicked out? That’s what he reminded me of. Everything on the right side, from forehead down through mouth to foot, sagged. That much closer to the earth we all wind up in.
“Daddy, this is Deputy Sheriff Don Lee. And Mr. Turner. Memphis police, I think.”
Adrienne rolled the chair into a corner away from the heat of morning light.
“This okay, Mr. H?”
He turned his head to nod and smile at her. The right side of his face gave the impression of trying to stay in place, moving half a beat behind, even as the left side turned. Same with the smile. Left side voted yes, right side abstained.
Adrienne and Sarah Hazelwood exchanged gazes filled with wordless information.
“In St. Louis,” Miss Hazelwood said, “at Scott and Wal-drop, we handle a lot of legal work for the county. Mostly it’s clerical, routine. Getting papers filed on time, filling in forms. But we also represented Sheriff Lansdale in a wrongful-death suit last year when a sixteen-year-old died of asthma while being held in his jail.”
“Black?” I glanced at Adrienne. No reaction.
Miss Hazelwood nodded. “We’ve maintained something of a special relationship since then. Dave Strong heads up Information Services. Created and pretty much runs the computer system and database single-handed. He’s my contact there.”
“You hitched a ride on the information superhighway,” I said.
This time she almost smiled.
“Two days ago, according to parameters he’d set, his computer flagged a bulletin. An unidentified murder victim whose
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