Free The Gone Dead Train by Lisa Turner Page A

rack full of free copies. His big money came from preaching Jesus. For a few extra bucks he’d throw in eyewitness accounts of Elvis riding his motorcycle around Memphis in the middle of the night while eating jelly doughnuts.
    J.J. was a hit with the tourists. The city attracts the kind of people who want their stories about Elvis and Jesus told right together.
    â€œDetective Cool,” J.J. said, giving out his best glinty smile. “You been gone so long I thought the Rapture took you.”
    Billy nodded and kept moving. He didn’t want to talk tonight.
    â€œI hear Red Davis passed this morning, and you and Officer Frankie checked out their trap house.” J.J. put his hand to his heart. “Sad day for us. A happy day for heaven.”
    Downtown residents know each other like it’s a small town. News of death moves especially fast.
    Billy stopped. “There’s another guy living at that house.”
    â€œYou mean Tyrese?”
    â€œYeah, Tyrese.”
    â€œThat boy’s been staying at his auntie’s house in Yazoo City. She carried him back this morning.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œI seen ’em drive in.” J.J. swung his head from side to side. “Tyrese don’t know nothing about Red and Little Man, I can tell you that. People wears him out, know what I’m saying?” J.J. nodded. “Now I got a favor to ax you. I’m facing incarceration for lifting a bag of Cheetos out of Jack’s Food Store.”
    J.J. was known for his high expectations and low accountability. His criminal sheet ran long with minor shoplifting charges.
    â€œJust Cheetos?”
    â€œMaybe a Colt 45. Maybe three. And some change off the counter. I got a court date. I’m axin’ you to step up. Make it right.”
    â€œYou need to speak to your buddy Jesus about this one,” Billy said, reaching for the door. “I can’t clean up your mess.”
    Inside, the bouncer sat to the right of the door, drinking a Red Bull. Amanda the bartender saw Billy coming and cued up Steve Earle’s “Regular Guy” on the jukebox, one of his favorites. A few customers sat at tables, and there was that guy who always sat at the end of the bar next to the kitchen pass-through. Billy happened to know his name was James Freeman, a powerfully built man in his fifties with a face like a closed book. An untouched draft sat next to Freeman’s half-empty mug, which meant he had company. Billy had never met Freeman and didn’t care to tonight. He wanted supper and to watch the ball game in peace. He grabbed a big man bucket-style stool at the end of the bar near the door.
    The regulars know about the stools. Avoid the ones called recliners—you lean back and you’ll wind up on your ass. The small man stools are two inches shorter than the big man stools. They make short men look shorter and tall men uncomfortable because they can’t rest their elbows on the bar. The owner said he could afford to replace all the stools but thought competition for the big man stools gave the place a healthy edge.
    Amanda brought over a draft. On the big screen, the Cards were playing at Atlanta, bottom of the eighth with the Braves at bat. With a 3–1 count, Rodriguez hit a towering pop-up in front of the plate. Brewer, the latest catcher for the Cards, lost the ball in the lights, fumbled, and fired it over the head of the first baseman covering home.
    â€œThat play has to be made,” the TV commentator groaned. “The Cards are in deep trouble. Augie Poston would never have made that kind of error.”
    â€œYou can’t replace a man like Augie Poston,” his sidekick added.
    Billy looked away from the screen. As bad as he felt about Augie losing his career, he could still have a decent life if he stayed on the meds, which he suspected Augie wasn’t doing. Just like today, the possible consequences of that decision could be