Southern Haunts (17 page)

Max glanced at the table and saw the cup. This was one reason Max needed Drummond. The dead detective saw the things that Max’s untrained eyes often missed.

“Well, we’re here and we need to get something out of this guy. We’ll just have to try to make it as fast and direct as possible.”

Drummond chuckled. “Good luck.”

Max’s interrogation techniques, his observation skills, all the things he needed to be a good detective, had improved much since he had met Drummond, but he had hoped the ghost would offer more than
Good luck
when the time came.

Robertson returned, sat, and sipped his coffee a moment. Then before Max could launch his first question, Robertson smiled and said, “So, tell me Mr. Porter, you married?”

“Yes.”

“Any children?”

Max knew he paused before saying
No
and he wondered if Drummond or Robertson had noticed.

“Well, if you ever do have children, you make sure to raise them right. Make sure that they’re not going to abandon you when you get old. I can tell you, I never thought it to be true. Never bothered much to check out my old man when he was in his last years. Here I am and my kids don’t want to have anything to do with me. I feel sad about it. I’m not mad at them. I caused it. But there you have it. Be good to your kids, give them love and support, all that kind of crap.”

Max saw an opening and took it. “It’s actually your father that we wanted talk with you about.”

Robertson’s scalp wrinkled as he raised his eyes. “What’s my old man got to do with anything?”

“I’m writing an article about a house in Winston-Salem and your father’s name came up. Not many people are still alive from that time period, and I thought you might remember something, might be able to help me out.”

“Is this about that brothel?”

“How’d you know that?”

Drummond moved in. “Careful, Max. Don’t tip your hand.”

Robertson sipped his coffee and said, “There ain’t that much else that my father’s name would’ve shown up on. He was a good cop, but he never really got involved in any big cases that made the newspapers — except that one.”

“I see. Well, yes, I am interested in that house and that story. Not trying to cause any trouble for anybody, mind you.”

Robertson’s mouth broadened into a smile. “Why would it be any trouble? Unless you think my father was guilty of something.”

Max could not read Robertson’s tone. It seemed pleasant enough, but the words had a bite that troubled him. For Drummond’s part, the ghost stared hard at Robertson but offered no solutions.

Inspiration struck. “I’m sorry, Mr. Robertson, clearly this was the wrong subject to bring up. I’ll be on my way.”

As Max stood, Drummond snickered. “Smart move. You keep learning more and more from me.”

Sure enough, before Max had fully risen, Robertson’s said, “No, no, stay. It’s no problem. I’d be happy to share the stories.”

Max settled back. “What do you remember of that time? Anything about your father?”

“Oh, I didn’t see my father much. I was a little kid, and in those days, my father had no time for little kids. He walked his beat, got his paycheck, took care of his family — I’m pretty sure he got plastered every weeknight. But he never hit me. Least not unless I’d done something to deserve it. But I was a pretty good kid, so he didn’t have cause to wallop me. He didn’t beat my mother, either. So, we did pretty good for that time.”

“Did your father ever talk about the incident when you were older?”

“I told you, I never spent much time with the old man. That kind of stuff never really came up.”

Max hesitated, flummoxed by Robertson’s inability to provide useful information.

“He knows something,” Drummond said. “Listen to the way he’s answering your questions. He’s giving very specific answers, very narrow, and not expounding. He’s trying to avoid lying but he’s omitting things.”

Max reviewed the conversation so far. Robertson seemed content to sit in silence and sip his coffee. Finally, Max said, “You said you had stories to share. If you don’t know anything about your father, then what would those stories be about?”

Robertson set down his coffee. “Did I say that?”

“You did. Perhaps they’re about your mother. Did she work at the brothel?”

“Do not go insulting a man’s mother.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean
that
kind of work. Maybe she was a maid and cleaned the rooms.”

“My mother was an angel and would never set foot in such a place.”

Drummond nodded. “I’ve seen many a Southern man defend his mother, and I can tell you that this man is speaking the truth.”

“Then what?” Max asked. “I can’t sit here all day.”

Robertson watched his twiddling thumbs as he spoke. “Well now, hold on. I do have something that might be of interest to you.”

When Robertson failed to talk further, Max prodded, “I’m listening.”

The elderly man continued to focus his interest on his fingers. However, Max could see that this time, Robertson wasn’t stalling. Rather, his memories flooded over him, and he searched for a way to express whatever caused his mouth to tremble.

At length, he said, “First thing you should understand — back then things were tight for us. The Great Depression hadn’t happened yet, but we struggled. Every kid did his or her part to help the family. So, even though I was just a tyke, I had my responsibilities. I joined a group of older boys who mowed lawns, trimmed hedges, stuff like that.”

“I take it you did the landscaping for this brothel?”

Robertson scowled. “No, I did not. You need to have some patience, young man. Let me tell the story.” To emphasize his point, he took a leisurely sip of his coffee. He set it back down with a soft clink.

Drummond slid in close to Robertson. “Give him time. You can see it on his face. He really wants to tell this story.”

Max did as instructed. He exuded serenity as he waited. Drummond was right. Robertson was eager to tell his story.

“Now, there I was, a little kid, mowing lawns, weeding, and such. And it comes that our group got hired to do some homes that were on Elizabeth — same road as this brothel. As boys are wont to do, we got a lot of talking going on. One of the boys, his name was Nico — big Italian fellow — he ran the whole business. There was a home about two doors down from the brothel. The missus, she clearly had an eye for Nico, and whenever we mowed that lawn, she always found reasons to call him inside.”

“Sorry to interrupt, but that house — was it a blue house?”

A flicker of something shot across Robertson’s face, but it vanished before he spoke again. “Yup. The blue house. Anyway, this woman, she’d take Nico in and do their thing. I was too young, of course, to know what was going on, but he would come out and tell stories and we all learned about the birds and the bees from those tales.

“Here’s where the story’s going to take a turn that you might be interested in. You see, Nico bragged that this woman, while her husband was away, would take him down into the basement and they’d have their fun in a tunnel. He called it the Tunnel of Love.”

“A tunnel?”

“Yup. He said we wouldn’t believe what we’d see there because the tunnel led to the brothel.”

“Why is there a tunnel from a stranger’s house to the brothel?”

Robertson shook his head and shoulders at the same time. “You ain’t too smart.”

Drummond nodded. “I’ve got to second that one.”

“You see, young man, Prohibition was going on at the time. If you’re going to run an illegal operation like a brothel — a place full of music, dancing, and parties going on — then that means lots of alcohol. And you’ve got to get the alcohol in. Even if there were a bunch of police on the take, you can’t just be hauling bathtubs of hooch through the front door. A corrupt cop can only turn a blind eye to so much. Not to mention that, considering all the high-level members of society that were rumored to frequent this particular establishment, those people would need a way to get in and out without being seen. I don’t know if you’ve been around that area, but the houses are awful close together.”

Max smirked. “So, they had a deal with the people in the blue house. With all the booze coming in and the people who had to protect their image sneaking through the tunnel, presumably, the owners of the blue house got a payoff. Is that about right?”

“Now you’re understanding. Anyway, Nico really wanted to show off all that was going on. Especially after some of the boys started ribbing him and doubting him. So he said next time the lady of the house called him in, he would take her upstairs to the bedroom. Then we would be able to sneak on in, go downstairs to the basement, and check out the Tunnel of Love for ourselves. Who knows? Maybe we’d even get to see what goes on in that brothel. Well, for a bunch of young boys, there was no question we were going. Next week came around, she called Nico in, and we gave him about five minutes before we all tiptoed down to the basement.

“There it was. This low tunnel leading off into the dark with stairs running down. One of the fellows with us, Jimmy, he got cold feet. So, we posted him on the stairs to warn us if Nico and the lady got finished before we were ready. Then me, Felix, and Coco all went down the tunnel. It was a dank place, not well lit, and all brick. On one side, there were shelves full of liquor. All different kinds. I’d never seen so much booze in my life. When we got to the end, we saw a big, metal door with a sliding peephole up top. We had no doubt that on the other side of that door, we’d find a guard. If we didn’t know the password, we’d not be getting any further. Had to be careful back in those days when it came to such things.

“Before you ask, we didn’t knock, we didn’t know any secret word, and I ain’t ever been in that brothel. But even with those walls and doors being thick, we could hear enough. We sat there and listened to somebody partaking in the brothel’s services.” Robertson gazed at the ceiling, his wrinkled mouth twisting as if he had tasted a foul meal. “I had never heard sex before. Based on the performance that woman gave, I had a misconception about what to expect when my first time came around quite a few years later. We did swipe a taste of all the booze. Nasty stuff, but we had a hell of great time getting drunk. Lots of fun. Until Jimmy yelled for us to get out. We ran back outside and tried our best to mow the lawn without throwing up.

“That’s really all I go to tell you. Hope that helps you out, answers your questions, and gives you whatever you’re looking for. Now, if you’ll excuse me, a friend of mine is coming out here to meet me in a few minutes so that we can play some Magic and talk over happier times.” He put out his hand and waited for Max to shake it.

As Max rode along the highway back towards Winston-Salem, Drummond floated above the passenger seat and stared. “Something on my face?” Max said. “What do you want?”

“You don’t seem satisfied by what we learned.”

“You’re the big detective. You didn’t really buy that whole thing. Didn’t it seem like some made-up, little fantasy?”

“In my experience, never underestimate the will of a man trying to get whores and alcohol. Especially a young man.”

“Maybe. But something didn’t feel right. Besides, Robertson couldn’t have been more than eight at the time. Hardly an age to be seeking out whores.”

“Depends. Some of us are more masculine than others. I had urges from when I was six.”

“Stop right there. I don’t want to know about your urges.”

“Look, I told you Robertson might be holding back something. But as far as I could tell, he seemed like a nice, old man. I didn’t get a sense that he killed anybody or anything like that.”

“I’m not saying anything that extreme. I just think there’s more to the story.”

“There always is. But if you think he’s lying, I can go out to this brothel and pass right through the ground. If there’s a tunnel, I’ll find it.”

“No. I’m pretty sure it does exist. Your confirmation of it is important, but we’ve got something more important to do right now. Your friend Floyd Johnson’s waiting for us. We need to talk with him. Maybe what he says will clear things up, save us all a lot of trouble. And I can’t have you checking out this tunnel when I need you in order to talk to Floyd Johnson.”

“Your wife can talk to Floyd Johnson for you.”

Max struggled to keep his face stoic. “Sandra has a few things to take care of today. She’ll be with us later, but right now, I need you. You’re the experienced detective.”

Drummond made no attempt to hide his smile. “That I am. Glad you’re finally learning to appreciate me. Let’s go.”

Chapter 20

Drummond directed Max
to the Skinner Warehousing Company — an old brick and steel complex situated on the northern side of Winston-Salem. It sat on a hill with a concrete drive wide enough to handle three trucks. Aside from the main building, two more were connected by a rusting, tin overhead walkway. Weeds poked through cracks in the concrete. Bits of the brick walls had been chipped off. Yet fresh paint covered several docking bay doors as well as doors on the fire escape — all painted a garish purple.