Bluff Walk. Charles R. Crawford
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“Under the statute of frauds, there has to be some writing to prove a transfer of real estate, but the buyer could testify that there had been one and that the seller had taken it back. Besides, all deeds are notarized, so the notary could testify that there had been a deed.”
“Let’s just say that the notary is a real good friend of the seller and not worry about what she’ll say.”
“Tommy, what are we talking about here, man?” I asked. “If you went ahead and did the deal with this guy, we can file a petition to set aside the deed for fraud. The other things you’re talking about are illegal. You’re a cop, you know that.”
“John, I’m just talking hypothetically here, you know,” Tommy said. “Don’t get all excited.”
“Tommy, I can’t give you advice on how to break the law,” I said.
“John, let me just ask you one more hypothetical question. Okay? For old time’s sake?”
“Okay, Tommy.”
“If this fellow who had been ripped off filed a petition, like you said, but this other fellow, the crooked one, was in a whole lot of other shit, probably going to file bankruptcy, maybe go to jail, how long would it be before he got his property back?”
“I won’t lie to you, Tommy, it could be a long time. The bankruptcy trustee would probably try to keep all of the assets intact to pay off all the other creditors, so he would fight tooth and nail to keep the property.”
“Hey, John, I appreciate your advice. Like I said, send me a bill.”
I never heard anything about the developer claiming that he owned Tommy’s property. Maybe he decided that it would just get him into more of the same kind of trouble he was already in, or maybe Tommy persuaded him that it was not in his best interest to swindle a cop.
In any event, Tommy decided that I was a great lawyer, even though all I had done was give him some inside information. He sold his property a few months later for over two million dollars, and our firm handled the closing for him. He promptly quit the sheriff’s department and went into business for himself, but he was always vague about what that business was. He only told me that he had figured out some ways to make money if you had money while he was working for the sheriff. My firm didn’t do any legal work on his new ventures.
By now, Tommy and Mary had finished off the platter of battered meat and vegetables, and Tommy was starting in on the hushpuppies. Through a mouth of cornmeal, he gestured at me and said to Mary, “Did you know that this fellow here you’re with tonight used to be one of the best lawyers in Memphis?”
Mary only smiled, first at him and then at me.
“It’s the truth,” Tommy said. “And now he’s one of the best private investigators around. Why, hell, just last month he got the goods on some rich faggot, nobody knows how.”
“Hey, come on, Tommy,” I winced, “that’s supposed to be confidential. How did you know about that? And don’t say faggot.”
“Confidential?” he asked loudly. “Hell, son, something that good ain’t gonna stay confidential for long. And don’t go correcting my grammar. I just called him a name, you’re the one who took the movies of him engaged in unnatural acts.”
“You may have a point, Tommy,” I said.
“Course I have a point,” he said. “The man was a faggot, so I call him a faggot. Besides, you don’t try to get me to quit saying nigger anymore.”
“I gave up on that one after about the hundredth try,” I said.
Mary reached out and put her hand on Tommy’s arm. “Tommy,” she said, “I don’t like those words either. You are too nice a man to use them.”
Tommy looked at her for a minute, and then said, “Mary, if you don’t like them words, I won’t use them in front of you, and I’ll try not to use them at all.” Tommy turned to me and said “See, John, you just need to learn how to ask.”
“I don’t think I could ever ask like that,” I said.
Jessie brought my catfish surrounded by hushpuppies, French fries and slaw. While I ate, I told Tommy about Thomas Tuggle. Tommy hadn’t heard of Tuggle by his real name or his street name. He had been out of the sheriff’s department for several years, and figured Thomas’s troubles had probably been with the MPD. Mary listened to my story intently, her eyes darting back and forth between Tommy and me.
“John,” Tommy said when I had finished, “this is kind of a funny sounding case, don’t you think? I mean, whoever heard of hiring a PI to track down a, uh, black crack dealer?”
“He’s not a crack dealer, Tommy. His bondsman admits he’s a crook, but says he’s not that kind of crook.”
“Some of the guys on the MPD may think their shit don’t stink, but I never heard of ‘em arresting a dealer who wasn’t a dealer.”
“Whether he’s a dealer or not, his mother wants me to find him,” I said.
“Are you sure you’re going to get paid for this?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m getting paid.”
“Well, I’ll make a couple of calls, see if any of my old buddies know anything that might help you.” I knew from past experience that Tommy’s old buddies weren’t just from the sheriff’s department, but were also people he knew in his current businesses.
Just then Tommy’s bodyguard walked up to the table and bent over and whispered in Tommy’s ear as he pointed over to the rope where two men stood. “Okay, tell em I’ll be with ‘em in a minute,” Tommy said.
The man straightened up, looked at me, and then walked back toward the rope.
“Tommy, I got to ask you,” I said. “Where does he keep his gun?”
“Promise not to tell?” he asked.
“Promise,” I said. “It’s just professional curiosity.”
“He keeps a small frame Glock nine millimeter in the front of his jeans. He hides the handle behind that big belt buckle and the barrel sticks straight down.”
“That sounds slow to me,” I said. “He’d have to flip the buckle back with his left hand before he could pull the pistol out with his right.”
“Believe it,” Tommy said, “it’s not slow.”
“I hope he doesn’t get in too much of a hurry. You know a Glock doesn’t have a safety, don’t you?” I asked.
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