Whit said, "That's... I don't know what to make of that."

  "Oh, yeah. That was my grandmother."

  "She sounds like a smart cookie," said Dwayne.

  "She was a little too smart."

  Billy turned and nodded. "You know, when we were looking at your security clearance info from the DIA, I found that the agent had pulled your grandmother's IRS file."

  "Wait, what?"

  He grinned. "She came really close to being indicted for tax evasion. But the case was put on hold when the Service realized there was nothing they could collect."

  I laughed. "Oh, I know all about that. I just didn't know she got caught."

  "But didn't she die in 1990?" asked Whit.

  I nodded. "Yeah, Billy. Does the Service retain files that long?"

  "You first applied for a security clearance in 1998. And remember, they were doing a Top Secret review even though you were only applying for Secret."

  "Oh, right. And that's only 8 years." I shook my head. "It's 2021 and 8 years ago was 2013." I looked at Whit and smiled. "Some things have changed in my life since 2013, but nothing like the difference between 1990 and 1998."

  Whit's eyes searched my face. "You met Mario and Bob in 2014, right?"

  "Yeah." I reached over and grabbed his hand. "I guess a whole helluva lot has changed since then."

  Billy looked at Whit. "What were you doing in 2013?"

  He scratched his neck. "Well, in April of 2013, I'd finished my second season with the Raiders and was spending a month or so in Longview."

  "Yikes," said Dwayne.

  Whit glared at the back of Dwayne's head, but didn't say anything.

  I asked, "What about you, Billy?"

  "I was doing blank on the blank case."

  We all laughed at that. Billy couldn't talk about most of the cases he'd worked on while he'd been with the FBI.

  "What about you, Dwayne?"

  "I don't remember much about that year," he replied.

  "You were working that drug case where it was two old ladies," said Billy. "After that, you worked the Murchison murder."

  "Drug case?" asked Whit. "Old ladies?"

  Dwayne chuckled. "Miss Margaret Philpott and Mrs. Agnes Reynolds."

  Billy looked at Whit. "They were drug kingpins."

  Shifting in his seat while keeping his eyes on the freeway, Dwayne said, "They were growing pot and selling it to their friends."

  Billy said, "I thought they should start a company called 'Philpott's Pot Emporium'."

  Whit and I laughed.

  "The Oakland County Prosecuting Attorney declined to go to court," said Dwayne with a trace of bitterness in his voice.

  "Why?" asked Whit.

  "Because they were little old white ladies."

  Billy nodded. "But the same guy prosecuted a 17-year-old Black kid from Pontiac for possession of 8 ounces as an adult around the same time. And he did time."

  "And these two ladies had 30 plants in a greenhouse. They were distributing."

  Right then, the music changed. It was Paul McCartney and Wings. "Let's talk about silly little love songs," said Dwayne. "I don't work in law enforcement anymore, thank God."

  I looked at Dwayne. "What did you just say?"

  "I don't work in law enforcement."

  I shook my head. "Before then. What did you call this song?"

  "'Silly Little Love Songs'."

  I burst out laughing.

  "What's so funny?" asked Whit.

  "That's not the name of the song. The word 'little' is nowhere to be found in the lyrics."

  "And?" asked Dwayne in a dangerous tone of voice.

  "And I thought I was the only one who did that. I've been calling this 'Silly Little Love Songs' since the first time I heard it on the radio."

  "Why is that funny?" asked Whit.

  I shrugged. "It's funny to me."

  Dwayne looked at me in the mirror. "I think it's high-larious."

  I grinned at him. "Did you just quote the first lady of the American stage?"

  "You know I did."

  Whit sighed. "What are we talking about now?"

  Dwayne and I both exclaimed, "Auntie Mame!"

  Billy put his hand on Dwayne's arm, turned in his seat, and said to Whit, "He doesn't look like he would know so much about show tunes, does he?"

  Whit shook his head. "He sure doesn't, Billy boy."

  "Auntie Mame is not a musical," said Dwayne icily.

  "That was Mame," I added.

  "Which was spectacular on Broadway. Or so I've heard." Dwayne looked at me in the mirror.

  I nodded. "That's what I hear. I love the cast album with Angela Lansbury and Bea Arthur."

  "But we shall not speak of Lucy's Mame."

  "No, we shan't," I confirmed.

  Whit sighed dramatically.

  "What?" I asked.

  "I happen to like the Lucy Mame."

  Dwayne said, "Don't make me stop this car and kick your ass, Whit Hall. Because I will if you don't take that back right now."

  14. An uncomfortable meeting

  Florida State Veterans Home

  751 S.E. Sycamore Terrace

  Lake City, FL 32025

  Wednesday, April 21, 2021

  9:05 a.m. EDT

  Jackson Farnsworth was waiting for us at a white wooden picnic table under a big live oak about halfway between the main building and a nearby lake.

  He was white, had wispy white hair that was floating around in the breeze, and was stooped over the table. His face was probably the craggiest I'd ever seen. He was wearing a pink Florida shirt covered in blue flamingoes. Apart from his appearance, the first thing I noticed about him was that he was radiating misery. There was nothing about the man that indicated he was or ever had been happy.

  He was sipping from a metal tumbler and, as Whit and I walked up, took one look at me and frowned but then turned his attention to Whit and broke into a bitter smile. "Well, Whit Hall, as I live and breathe."

  Whit reached across the table and offered his hand. "Hello, Mr. Farnsworth."

  "Call me Jack," replied the old man as he shook. He pointed to the bench on our side of the able. "Have a seat. Thank God y'all ain't wearin' masks. Can't stand 'em." We already knew he'd been vaccinated. That was why we weren't wearing ours.

  Whit sat as I reached over and said, "Hello, Jack."

  His expression soured. "Hello." He gave me a tepid shake and then turned his attention to Whit as I sat down. "So, what brings the most handsome football team owner all the way from that shithole beach town just to see hunchbacked ole me."

  Whit smiled as if he was on TV and said, "I wanted to ask you some questions about 1948."

  Jack nodded. "That's what the buck nurse told me."

  "Buck nurse?" asked Whit.

  "You know, the big colored nurse. Goes by the name of Darnell or Jermaine or somethin' like that. A real buck. Must be hung like a fuckin' racehorse." Jack chuckled to himself as he took a sip from his tumbler.

  As I sat there, feeling both appalled and fascinated, Whit took a deep breath. He then very calmly asked, "Do you remember the murder that happened at the motel you were managing that year?"

  "Of course, I do. And the Monterey Ocean Front wasn't a fuckin' motel, it was a goddam motor court."

  Unperturbed, Whit nodded. "Can you think of anything weird that happened that, maybe, you didn't tell the police?"

  Jack frowned at Whit. "Are you also a private dick?"

  "No, sir."

  "Then what the fuck are you doin' askin' me questions like that?" He took a sip and then banged his tumbler on the wood table.

  "It looks like the wrong man was executed back then." He glanced at me. "We're friends with Ronnie Grisham and—"

  Jack's eyes popped out of his head. "Get the fuck away from me!"

  "What?" asked Whit, looking as confused as I was.

  "I hate Ronnie Grisham."

  "Why?"

  "He knows why." He then glared at me. "Is he still alive?"

  I nodded but knew better than to say anything.

  He turned back to Whit. "Then do me a favor and use that money of yours and have someone take out the mother fucker."

  I noticed that, for all his screaming and yelling, Jack wasn't standing up and making any move that looked like he was going to leave. Arnold (that was the nurse's actual name) had told us that, although Jack was hunched over due to bone loss, he was agile and could move pretty fast.

  "Ronnie told us about what happened back then," replied Whit in a voice that was pure honey, "but he's not the reason we're lookin' into things. We just—" He glanced at me. "I just wanna make sure justice is served."

  One part of me hated what he was doing but another part admired and approved of his approach.

  Jack cackled. "There's no statute on murder, is there?"

  Whit glanced at me. I knew he had no idea what Jack had just said. I almost opened my mouth to explain what that meant, like reading from a dictionary. But then I had a better idea.

  "That's right. The state can fry anyone they want for murder. Doesn't matter when it happened." As soon as I heard myself say those words, I felt a cold dread fall over me.

  Jack stared at me for a moment. "My motto since 1972 has been 'no fats and no femmes'. Otherwise, I'll suck anyone's dick. I might make an exception for you, chubby boy."

  I didn't move or say anything.

  "So," said Whit, keeping his professional smile plastered on, "I'd consider it a personal favor if you could think of anything that, maybe, you didn't tell the cops about that night."

  Jack took a sip from his tumbler, smacked his lips, and nodded. "Yeah. I guess there is that one thing that I always wondered about."

  "What's that?" asked Whit.

  Looking Whit up and down, Jack asked, "It's gonna cost you."

  "What?" asked Whit. My mind was reeling at what the old man might ask Whit to do.

  Jack glanced over at the building and then replied, "I want outta this place. I ain't gonna live forever, but I want you to put me up somewhere by the ocean. But not that shithole Daytona Beach. I hate that place."

  Whit seemed relieved. I knew I was. "Sure, I can do that. Where?"

  "Ponte Vedra."

  "Where's that?"

  "On A1A between Jacksonville and Saint A."

  Whit nodded.

  "And I'm a broke-ass vet. I ain't got nothin' but what the government sends me. I never saved a penny since I figured I'd never make it past 40." He laughed bitterly. "So, I can't afford to pay for nuthin'."

  "I understand, Jack. I'll take care of everything. Now, what do you remember?"

  He cupped his hands around the tumbler and leaned forward a little. "There's actually a couple o' things. First off, no one ever asked me if I'd seen any of those goddam Ravens before, but I had."

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah. One of 'em had come by on the Thursday night before it all went down on the Saturday night. It was around 2 in the mornin' and I was awake, like used to happen a lot, and readin' my book in the lobby." He grinned. "I could sit in that lobby and read by the neon light that asswipe Walter Hovater had installed so folks would see the place when they were drivin' by." He looked at me. "Hovater was the owner. Lived in Orlando. Drove a big Lincoln like he was the King of Siam and had a bitch for a wife."

  I nodded.

  "Anyways," said Jack, turning back to Whit, "I saw him sneakin' in. He went to the cabin where that Buddy Kennedy was stayin'. The lights came on and the door opened and then the lights went out again. I bet they thought I didn't see them, but I did."

  "Do you know who it was?" asked Whit.

  "Of course, I do. It was the one that got shot the last day of the trial. Davy Nelson."

  "You have a great memory," said Whit.

  "I got a great tongue, too. I learned a lot when I was in the Navy."

  Ignoring that, Whit plowed on. "You said there were two things?"

  "It happened while I was in the office waitin' for that dunderhead, Vinnie Price, to come in and question me after he found Pete Rudd's body."

  I asked, "Is that the sheriff's deputy who arrested Buddy Kennedy?" I grabbed hold of the side of the table as the rush of images and thoughts ran through my head. Again.

  Keeping his eyes on Whit, Jack replied, "Sure. I tried to suck his dick for almost a year, but he was such an idiot, he had no idea what he was missing."

  "What'd you see?" asked Whit.

  "I saw someone moving a motorcycle down the sidewalk."

  "Who?"

  "I couldn't swear to it, but I think it was that Ernie Dunn. You know, once I got wind how all them Ravens was bein' put up at Bell's Rest Ranch over in South Daytona and the sheriff was payin' for it, I figured I'd pay them a visit one night." He grinned a little. "It was right after the grand jury came in with their indictment. I figured I should head over there and get the good stuff while the getting was good."

  "What happened?" asked Whit.

  "I parked my car at the service station Mr. Bell owned." Jack's eyes lit up right then. "Oh, you shoulda seen the number one gas jockey Mr. Bell had workin' for him there that year. Guy by the name of Buck Majors." Jack laughed. "And I'm not talkin' about that porn dude from San Francisco. He was from Port Orange. Anyway, Buck had one of the most beautiful dicks you ever did see. Not too thin, not too fat. Perfectly shaped." Jack licked his lips. "I wonder what ever happened to Buck." Looking at me, he added, "He'd been married when he was young and dumb and then ditched the bitch after the war. Don't think he was more than maybe a Kinsey 4 or 5, but he sure did like to have his nuts drained. Came out in the gallons."

  I nodded as if he'd been talking about a book he'd read.

  "What happened when you got there?" asked Whit, trying to get things back on track.

  "Well, like I said, I parked my car at the service station. Mr. Bell owned that whole big parcel. Anyway, I walked back through the grassy field, through the orange grove that backed up to the train tracks, and then came in through the back entrance, so to speak. I knew them Ravens was the only ones stayin' at the Rest Ranch, so I just knocked on doors 'til someone opened up. Turned out to be Ernie Dunn. And, boy, did we have some fun that night."

  "Did he ever talk to you about what happened?" asked Whit.

  "He talked, but not about that motorcycle."

  "What'd he say?"

  "He said a lotta things." Jack looked at me. "Some guys do, you know, when you're goin' down on 'em real good like I do." He glanced at Whit. "His must be huge. I know these Slavic types. Russian, Ukrainian, Polish, ya know. Some of the biggest dongs I've ever seen. Fat, usually." He shuddered as he took a sip from his tumbler. "But you gotta watch out because some of 'em don't clean up and I ain't into cheese."

  I just nodded and swallowed as I fought the urge to throw up my breakfast.

  Whit quietly asked, "But what did Ernest say?"

  "His name was Ernie," snapped the old man. "And, as he was about to gimme what I wanted, he started moaning about how he wanted to kill some dude."

  "Really?"

  "Oh, yeah. You never know what twisted fantasy some guy's gonna have." He looked at me. "I've been with guys who pretended like they was giants. You know? Fee-fi-fo-fum. Shit like that."

  I nodded, trying to keep my face as blank as possible.

  Whit cleared his throat. "Did he say a name?"

  "He did, but I didn't pay any attention because when a dude's in a state like that, they'll say all kinds of weird shit." He drained his tumbler.

  "Who was it?" pressed Whit.

  Jack blinked and frowned. "Oh, I figured I didn't need to say it. It was the dago wop guy, Sal. The one they sent to Raiford into the ever-lovin' arms of Ole Sparky so he could fry. Literally." He grinned at me. "The one you think didn't kill Pete Rudd, right?"

  I just nodded, feeling dirty and hollow inside.

  "How'd it go?" asked Billy as we piled into Whit's Escalade.

  "I think we learned a couple of new things," I said.

  "Like what?" asked Dwayne, pressing the button to start the engine.

  "Billy," barked Whit, causing all of us to look at him.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "I don't care if it's at a Motel 6 or a KOA campground, I'm not talking to anyone or going anywhere until I've had a long, hot shower."

  I laughed and nodded. "Good thinkin', cowboy." I didn't realize how much I felt the same way until right then.

  15. An attempt was made to rest

  284 NW Centurion Court

  Lake City, FL 32055

  Wednesday, April 21, 2021

  10:31 a.m. EDT

  Lake City had tons of hotels and motels because that was where I-75 intersected with I-10. Billy found us a first-floor suite at a Tru by Hilton. While we showered, Billy and Dwayne said they would be working in the car in front of the hotel.

  After getting out of the Escalade, we both put on our masks (Whit's had the Matadors logo on it while mine was plain gray). Whit led the way into the lobby and to the front desk. A Black woman, also wearing a mask, was at the front desk working on her computer. She looked up as Whit said, "Good morning."

  Her eyes lit up. "You must be Mr. Hall."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She handed him a key packet. "I put y'all in Room 108." She pointed. "It's down that hall and on the left." She stared up at him as she spoke with an expression on her face that I'd seen many times since I'd met Whit. She wanted to ask him for an autograph but didn't think she should.

  "Thank you, ma'am." Whit turned to leave.

  I said, "Hold up, cowboy."

  He turned around and looked at me and then at the woman behind the counter. "Do you need me to sign anything?"

  She shook her head. "No, sir. I received the billing info from your office in San Francisco already."

  I leaned against the counter and, under my mask, grinned at Whit. "What do we do when a fan..." I glanced at her and realized what was more likely the case. "Or the mother of a fan wants an autograph?" Talking like I was his father, I added, "We went over this before, Whitley David."

 

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