Southern Gods Read Free

plate number. Ronald Meerchamp.
    “He drives a blue Packard, white trim, they tell me. Got his license from the DMV. Just called up and asked for it, pretty as you please.” Corso drew on his cigar. He looked at the tip and blew on the cherry. “This guy’s a pussy hound. He likes the dark meat. And that means Pauline’s.”
    Ingram knew the place. Off Gayoso and Pearl.
    “You gonna be able to recognize him?”
    “Yeah. He sat in on Wilson’s poker game last week. Got took for a bundle.”
    “That was my fucking money. Tellya what, Bull. I’ll give you ten percent of what you get back. And another job in a coupla days. Got a guy needing someone found in Arkansas. Weird job but it pays.”
    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