Steven Womack - Dead Folks Blues

The Harry James Denton Books
DEAD FOLKS BLUES
TORCH TOWN BOOGIE
WAY PAST DEAD
CHAIN OF FOOLS

The Jack Lynch Trilogy
MURPHYS FAULT
SMASH CUT
THE SOFTWARE BOMB

Published by Ballantine Books

Copyright 1992 by Steven Womack

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 92-97042

eISBN: 978-0-307-77592-4

v3.1

Im deeply indebted to a number of people who helped me out with advice, guidance, inspiration, and an insiders point of view of many things I was unfamiliar with. Here are just a few:

Roberta Rosser, C.M.A.,better known as Bertof Nashvilles T.E. Simpkins Forensic Science Centerbetter known as The Morguewas tremendously helpful in explaining how autopsies are done, how coroners work, and the unique perspective one cant help but gain in that line of work.

Lieutenant Tommy Jacobs, head of the Metropolitan Nashville-Davidson County Police Department Homicide Division, gave me great insights into a homicide investigators work, how witnesses are interrogated, and a sense of the unusual mindset that police work calls for. He also lent me a copy of Dr. LeMoyne Snyders Homicide Investigation, which Id advise against reading on a full stomach.

I know just enough about guns to get hurt by one. Thats why when I needed to know more about weapons, I went to Ed Mason, owner of Madison, Tennessees Gun Mart. Hes smart, helpful, and heavily armed. He knows his work. Im grateful to him.

Jeff and Amy Morland, of DB Locators, Inc., in Nashville (Ill let you guess what the DB stands for) gave me deep and wonderful insights into the business of skip tracing and the art of repoing. Writers make it up; these guys do it for real. In the midst of it all, Amy finds time to write. And well, at that.

As always, Jeris Bragan and Woody Eargle, two long-time attendees of my writing workshop at the Tennessee State Penitentiary, contributed more than I can explain here. Their support and friendship means a lot.

Carole Abel, my agent, mother-confessor, and confidante, has patiently and serenely seen me through the rough waters of publishing. In fact, shes kept me in this business the last few years. The jurys still out on whether this is a boon to humanity, but Im grateful as hell.

Joe Blades, whose editorial guidance and friendship is a wonderful gift, continues to amaze me. Its hard to get used to an editor who finds time to be a good friend as well as an inspired editor. Im having a great time making the adjustment, though.

Jean Yarbrough, my mother-in-law, a voracious reader and super copy editor, was understanding enough (or foolish enough, depending on ones perspective) to let her daughter marry a writer. She helped me a lot in preparing this manuscript. Youll hear no mother-in-law jokes in this house.

My wife, Dr. Cathryn Yarbrough, insisted on editing this manuscript while awaiting treatment for mugging injuries in the Vanderbilt Hospital emergency room. Talk about grit. See why I married this woman? At the risk of repeating myself, all writers should fall in love with a psychologist. After that, they should marry one.

Finally, Im grateful for all the things that make Nashville such a fascinating place to live. No kidding. Its a writers gold mine.

All right, Ill tell you. But you have to promise not to laugh, okay? Im a private investigator. In Nashville, Tennessee.

Stop snickering.

No, I do not wear a trench coat, or a double-breasted suit, or a homburg. I dont smoke cigarettes or drink straight Scotch out of the desk drawer in my office, and I dont smack women around.

These days, they hit back. Hard.

Neither do I sing country music, nor write country music, nor even listen to country music. My tastes run to jazz, and I did not just fall off the turnip truck. I was born here, but I went to school in Boston, spent my junior year abroad in France, and wear shoes almost every day. I can lay on a country accent as thick as molasses on a frosty morning, if I have to. But I can also throw in enough Newport, Rhode Island, to make Tom Wicker sound like a hick.

I can hear you now: But a private detective, in Nashville, Tennessee? Give me a break.

Well, let me tell you, friend, weve got a million people in this city now. And any city thatll elect as mayor a guy who plays harmonica on Donahue and explains how its okay for him to be engaged to his fourth wife while still married to his third, is a city thats got character. Ive been to some interesting and corrupt locales in my time: New Orleans, New York City, all of Texas. And believe me, theyve got nothing on this place.

After all, how many cities elect a sheriff named Fate, a man who winds up in a federal penitentiary for corruption and gets visits from his buddy Waylon Jennings? Speaking of sheriffs, I think this state holds the national record for the most ex-sheriffs now doing time behind bars.

Freaking Greek tragedy, thats what it is. I love this city. It cracks me up.

So Im a detective. I didnt say I was a competent detective. I didnt even say Id been doing it very long. In fact, I just opened my office about two months ago, a couple of weeks after I got fired from the paper.

I was a newspaper reporter, and I like to think I was a good one. In fact, I was too good. The publisher of the newspaper had a brother who was a lobbyist, and he got involved with this group of amusement operators; you know, guys who run video game parlors and stuff like that. These operatorsto coin a phrasehad a pretty strong lobby working to pass a law that allowed video poker machines to pay off. I mean, its not like pinball machines and video games hadnt been paying off for years anyway. Its just that these guys were trying to get it legal so they could stop paying protection money to the small-town cops.

Anyway, the publishers brother was handing out hundred dollar bills like business cards on Legislative Plaza. Most people knew that it was standard operating procedure on the Hill. But this guy started getting cocky, because his brother owned the local paper and they were all well-connected. Blatant as hell he was, so I wrote a story about his contributions that were papering the legislative halls in green.