Bones of the Lost(31)
Rodent was the first word to coalesce in my mind.
An Observer photo taken four months before Story’s death showed a short, wiry guy with thinning hair, gaunt cheeks, and dark, beady eyes.
Rattus rattus.
Another shot caught Story at a Panthers game. In another he was outside a Consigliore’s pizzeria, waving at the camera.
I contemplated doing a full search on Story, opted to complete my doggie report.
Slidell finally called at noon.
I briefed him on what I’d learned from Dew.
“Deep dish went deep shit.”
I ignored that.
“The hit-and-run vic had Story’s card in her purse. Rockett was a minor partner in Story’s company, S&S.”
“Where’s a two-bit smuggler get cash for an investment like that?”
“Alleged smuggler. What I want to know is, what’s the link between Story and Rockett? And does one or both of them connect to my Jane Doe?”
“Soon’s I get this MP—”
“We need to check out John-Henry’s Tavern, see if Rockett’s been there with Story. Or if either was ever there with my Jane Doe.”
“Why doesn’t Dew haul Rockett in and sweat him?”
“Other than the mummy bundles, he’s got dick at this point. Dew’s convinced the dogs are just the tip of something big, and doesn’t want to spook Rockett into lawyering up.”
I heard a phone ring in the background. Voices. A deep sigh.
“I told you, doc. The chief’s on my ass to find this—”
“You saying he doesn’t care about the kid in my cooler?”
“I’m not saying that. Look, I been working the body shops. No one’s seen a vehicle fits our bumper-height estimate with front-end damage.”
“What about St. Vincent de Paul?”
“No one at the church ever heard of this kid.”
“Clinics?”
“Ditto.”
“Clothing? Boots?”
Silence hummed across the line.
“It’s been two days, Slidell.” He knew as well as I the importance of the first forty-eight.
“I’m not sure I see the upside of visiting this joint.”
“At least we’ll be doing something.”
“Scratching my ass is doing something.”
“Do you know John-Henry’s Tavern?”
“Yeah. A real slice of heaven.”
“We need to check it out.”
“For what?”
“For whatever is there.” Slidell’s attitude was cracking my resolve to stay cordial.
“I’ll hang up now unless you got something else to say.”
“Never mind,” I snapped. “I’ll go myself.”
“No you won’t.”
“Okay. I won’t.”
“Goddammit.”
For a full ten seconds, I listened to air whistle in and out of Slidell’s nose.
“Give me half an hour.”
SOUTH END, JUST BELOW UPTOWN Charlotte, is a mixed hunk of turf with serious ambitions up the social ladder. And climbing fast.
The neighborhood dates to the 1850s when the construction of a railroad line connected the Queen City to Columbia and Charleston, South Carolina. Over the decades a manufacturing community sprang up along the tracks, fired largely by a booming textile industry.
Fast-forward to the waning years of the twentieth century. Largely ignored by a town viewing itself as the face of the New South, South End had little to offer beyond abandoned mills, warehouses, and a minor league baseball park. But come the nineties, cagey developers saw dollar signs.
Today, South End is a mélange of condos, lofts, and renovated industrial leftovers housing restaurants, shops, studios, and a broad spectrum of design-related industries. Want a plumbing fixture, fabric, or upscale lamp? South End is the answer to your needs.
But traces of the hood’s past remain. The Design Center of the Carolinas, the headquarters for Concentric Marketing, and the Chalmers Memorial Associate Reformed Presbyterian Church breathe the same yuppie air as seedy garages, abandoned factories, weed-covered acreage, and a strip club.
John-Henry’s Tavern was located not far from the intersection of Winifred and Bland. Flanking it on both sides were lots with entire eco zones thriving in the cracked concrete.
Opposite was a windowless bunker covered with graffiti and enclosed in chain-link fencing. A sign warned NO TRESPASSING. Nothing indicated the structure’s name or explained the purpose of its existence. Junk covered a raised platform that might once have been a loading dock. Rusty beer kegs. A table made of slapped-together boards. An old piano with a black skull spray-painted on a silver moon on its upright portion.
Slidell swung a left into the tavern’s small parking area, which may have been paved. Or not. A coating of dirt and gravel rendered the issue moot.