Them Hustlers Page 17

  Flynt was letting slip that he had the goods on up to four affairs by Livingston, including one with a Republican lobbyist. Want a friend in Washington? Get a dog. Truman had hit it right. Livingston was vulnerable which meant that Tucker was no doubt itching for a fight.

  Hey, whispered a knowledgeable few, what about that boyfriend of Tanya’s…how much had Tanya Lyn shared?

  Other politicians in Flynt’s bull’s-eye included Bob Barr of Georgia, Henry Hyde of Illinois, even Newt Gingrich, all Republicans who had attacked the immorality of Bill Clinton while having had their own affairs - this was no longer a simple political witch hunt. It was now the witches against witches. And no one was going to allow themselves to be burnt at the stake without a fight.

  Herb threw himself into the hunt for Davis. He began closing the shop in the early afternoon at least two days a week. Afternoon was the slowest time as his regular clients were working, the tourists were in their conferences and the day trippers were out on the bay. He would then barrel down Route 2 in his twelve year old Saab into the heart of Prince George’s County, darting in and around the town of Upper Marlboro.

  Herb’s strategy for locating Davis was straightforward. He stopped off at each church. He explained to Tamay that the former postal worker, wherever he was, would be active in the local church. “Search all the churches with black congregations,” was her simple suggestion.

  How will I know the black churches? Herb had asked.

  By the singing was his wife's perfect answer. “You know our church can’t sing half as good as the First Lighthouse Baptist Church.”

  Tamay of course was right. On warm Sundays, when the church windows were wide open, the voices of the First Lighthouse Baptist choir were a joy to behold for the whole neighborhood. But the reality of finding black churches was to prove just a bit too difficult, and instead he employed a strategy far more methodical. As Herb drove through towns like Harwood, Lothian, Tracy’s Landing and Friendship, he would stop at each church. Some catered to the African-American community, some did not. But no one had heard of the Davis family.

  Herb racked up more miles that November in the old Saab than in the past five years. But he found the new routine refreshing. His life now, especially with his wife being ill, centered around the store on West Street and their home around the corner. Sometimes he used the car for grocery shopping. There just didn’t seem time for a leisurely getaway. A tarot reader can’t hire a high-school kid to handle the clients; so especially since his wife’s retirement the Tarot Tales had become his life.

  Acting on a premonition, Herb in the third week steered away from the coast and more inland towards Washington and Baltimore. His thought process was that Davis would have lifelong friends living in the small towns along the Bay, but his children might be drawn to looking for work in Washington. It was a long shot but something told him that he was following a trail that would lead soon enough to an answer.

  * * *

  Herb finally hit pay dirt. Outside of Upper Marlboro a church deacon said he knew the Davis family, once of Chesapeake Bay Beach and before that from Highland Beach.

  But the deacon wouldn’t reveal where the family lived or even provide a phone number. Instead, he suggested that Herb return in an hour. So the fortune teller went down VFW Road to a local family-owned lunch place, nothing more than a double trailer raised up on cinder blocks. Herb impatiently passed the hour over a cup of coffee, eavesdropping on the locals. A government bailout of the remaining tobacco fields was the talk that afternoon. In place of the farms were coming a dozen planned communities stratified by income, to be supported by mega shopping centers with national chains and huge box stores like Target and Walmart. The scent of profits of all sorts hung in the air of the diner. Tobacco might be an evil vice, but Herb recoiled at the thought of the huge stores being dropped onto pristine farmland.

  When he got back to the church, he found waiting for him the church minister and a woman he knew immediately to be Mrs. Davis. Somehow that was not a surprise. Events like this just played themselves out, first in his mind and then in the real world. He realized when he saw the two of them in the church vestibule that Mrs. Davis would be the key to the end of Phil's story.

  Mr. Davis had always visited the store alone. But no matter all the years that had passed, Herb could see immediately how well she paired with her husband. Mrs. Davis was smaller than him by a few inches, almost petite, but filled with a strength that radiated out with conviction, just like her husband.

  Mrs. Davis was wearing a dark blue dress; open toed light blue shoes and a black false leather handbag. Weariness filled her eyes and her ash white hair seemed a badge of honor for this grandmother. After some back and forth banter about the cool November weather and some old Annapolis gossip, Mrs. Davis hesitated before finally volunteering the expected news that her husband had passed away. Just two months ago.

  The conversation paused uneasily. The elderly woman was still grieving and now had to confront this white man from Annapolis, who was so intent on finding her husband that he had been stopping off at every church in Prince George’s County.

  “We had heard that a man was going about looking for Gregory,” Mrs. Davis admitted. Her voice was a soft whisper with traces of a southern lilt no longer common. So her admission came out as “We had heard that a man was going about looking…. All the words were perfectly pronounced. No dropped endings. She was from another time, surely.

  “My son and I sought to understand why. We have no debts. Made no enemies. Don’t believe we left a bank account open in Annapolis. Anyway,” she smiled here a very warm smile, “we believed no banker would be driving a 1986 Saab.”

  Herb agreed that would more than likely be the case.

  “But it was my son who remembered there was a man fitting your description who had meant much to my husband. And we realized you were more than likely the fortune teller of Annapolis.” Mrs. Bunker stopped in the recollection of her husband, as if the very mention brought back a flood of memories. She gathered herself.

  “You are the fortune teller of Annapolis, are you not sir?”

  Herb nodded.

  “He often spoke of you as the best tarot card reader he had ever known. That’s a fact. I suggested to my son Gregory that we contact you in Annapolis, but he said no.”

  Herb wondered why the son had been opposed. Mrs. Davis, right on cue, provided the answer.

  “My son believed that the fortune teller of Annapolis, as described by my husband, would find us on his own. So we should wait and let fate play her hand. That’s what Gregory said and that’s what we did. And,” she added with a brightness not really genuine, “here we are this afternoon.”

  Herb felt he needed to say something supportive. “Your son was right. I turned away from the Bay acting on a premonition. So maybe fate did play a hand." He concluded lamely.

  Mrs. Davis smiled. She too was unsure what more to say. The man before her was uncomfortable, which she took to be a good sign. He was not here selling. He had no well-rehearsed pitch. It couldn’t be money he was seeking. The old car suggested that the need to drive out of Annapolis was unusual. An urgent need of some sort was the driving force. She would give him the time to express himself, as her son had suggested.

  Gregory could be wise beyond his years, just like his father. Involuntarily she could see again the skinny boy who sixty-five years ago courted her by unexpectedly standing on the edge of their front lawn with a bunch of wild flowers clutched in one of his hands. Then patiently waiting to be invited onto the porch by her mama, bless both their souls. For two afternoons, so many springs ago, he had stood there, before her mother relented and allowed the young suitor into the house.

  Gregory knew even as a boy how to wait. He had stood on the dirt sidewalk, listening, he would later explain, to the unheard voices, cajoling them to help him win over the mind of the mother and the heart of the girl he had seen in church.

  “Can’t you see the win
d, can’t you see love and its twin sister hate? Look!” He demanded of her, surprised how no one else could see what he saw. Mrs. Davis shook away the memories. They were not unwelcome, but now was not the time.

  Looking into Mr. McDermott’s eyes she saw perfectly well what had propelled the fortune teller out of his shop to drive around southern Maryland looking for Gregory. But she hoped it wouldn’t take long for him to find the words. She had left her coat in the car and was feeling chilly inside the empty church.

  Herb didn’t know what else to do. He was stymied. He wanted to return the compliment she had made about his intuition. So he stammered about how much “the cards favored a man like your husband.” And how “I learned so much from your husband, Mrs. Davis.”

  Even though it was cold standing just inside the front doors, Herb was beginning to perspire. Look, it’s like this. You just don’t come out and say to a still-hurting elderly widow, while standing inside a church, with the pastor carefully listening in, that ‘I knew your husband to be a hell of a voodoo priest. And yes, I’ve been driving for the better part of several weeks up and down the major routes and the back roads because a friend of mine is in trouble. The sort of trouble that Greg would understand.' You just don’t say that. But you hint and suggest and hope the wife comes to understand.

  Surprise. That seemed to work.

  Soon enough Mrs. Davis was suggesting that perhaps Mr. McDermott would like to visit with her son?

  “When would be possible?” Trying not to sound like the seconds were ticking away.

  “He works in downtown Washington. Has a fine job. We are all so proud of Gregory. Why, this time of day shouldn’t take you no more than 45 minutes?” The question was not to the time of the commute, but rather would he be willing to meet with her son today. This unassuming woman was shrewdly calling the fortune teller's bluff. If as critical as you are hinting, show me.

  Opening her handbag she withdrew a pad of lightly pink paper.

  “Let me write down his work address. You can just drop in. He works far too late most days.” Mrs. Davis turned to the observing pastor. “Mr. Douglas, would you be kind enough to get me a pen, dear?”

  It was all very subtle but there was a confidence at the same time. This was not the first time she had sent a needing person to her son. As she had done for decades with those asking about her husband.

  Without question Gregory Davis Jr. was known in the Maryland black communities of the 1970s and 1980s as the strongest and wisest of the voodoo priests. He was a man whose skills were saved for the most serious occasions. A grieving child, a terribly ill mother, a good family suffering under a curse from a jealous neighbor. Whispered requests would be made. If accepted the drawn out rituals, dating back hundreds of years would be enacted.

  The appreciation of the local families was clear in the most pragmatic of ways. During the time the two men saw each other, Herb knew of at least half dozen children named either Greg or Davis in appreciation for Gregory's work. It’s hard to consider a greater sign of respect.

  The men had become close because of their mutual ability to tap into the unobserved world. Davis grew strength from the active unseen forces of voodoo. He saw the unseen just as we comfortably see the setting sun, though it is millions of miles away. And McDermott, people swore, could peer into the future. It was a professional closeness felt by both. More than once Davis had promised to be there should the fortune teller ever need his skills. Herb had laughed, not imagining there could ever be a need.

  As Mrs. Davis wrote down her son’s work address Herb lightly spoke of her husband’s promise. The woman answered with a sigh, handed over the address, and held out her hand signaling the meeting was over. A quick glance at the bold, strong handwriting on the paper showed Herb that the son worked for a law firm on the edge of downtown.

  Pocketing the note, Herb thanked Mrs. Davis. He suggested politely that maybe one day they would have a chance to speak longer.

  “Do you feel we will have that chance?” She asked.

  “No,” he answered immediately. His quick answer puzzled Herb. He had answered with such finality.

  “Then let us say goodbye here. And good luck to you, Mr. McDermott.”

  Herb stepped out into the fading November sunlight, gulping down the fresh air as if his lungs were oxygen starved. Herb realized he was drenched in sweat.

  He jogged over to the car, wanting to get out of the late afternoon chill before catching a cold. There was at least an hour’s drive to downtown Washington. Then a little more time to find the office, have the meeting with the son and then the drive home in rush hour. He didn’t know how long he needed; possibly it would be a short get-together if the son had not inherited his father’s abilities. But would Mrs. Davis send him to meet the son if he couldn’t help?

  Whatever the outcome, it was shaping up to be a far longer day than planned and he probably wouldn’t be home until late evening. Once in Washington he would call Tamay from the office. The son should be able to arrange that.

  Pulling out of the church’s parking lot Herb felt a tingling in his side. The sensation was very strong. The feeling came on suddenly and stopped equally quickly. Then the tingling sensation came again. And yet again. The further he drove from the shadow of the church the stronger he was overwhelmed by a sense of dread. Ahead was trouble.

  ~ ~ ~

  Chapter 23

  Three weary hours later Herb found himself twelve floors above 7th Street, in a bustling section of downtown Washington. All had not gone smoothly since leaving Mrs. Davis. He had elected to drive into Washington over the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, which meant going through Calvert County, "where eagles fly" as the welcoming sign had said. On this particular late afternoon there were no eagles. Dead possums, skunks and two deer carcasses fouled up the road. Even with the windows tightly closed and the heat on full blast the smell of the skunks had been overpowering.

  Something had happened on the drive that hung over Herb just like the skunk odor. Just before Route 210 connected to the Capital Beltway and the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, there had been a stoplight. When the Saab was fully at rest Herb opened the front passenger side window to clear the car of the stench. That's when he saw the doe. She was standing about thirty yards off, in front and to the right of the car. There was a thick line of trees, some evergreens but most good sized white ash, dogwoods and oaks, a few with leaves still clinging. The deer was standing just outside the refuge of the woods. It was quiet. Another world was right there, Herb thought. A world in which he lacked the skills to spend even the night.

  But that wasn't really nature. Not the nature that spawned the ancient beliefs of voodoo. It would be hard to picture today that world--sure, there were still forests and places the darkest of black when the sun went down and the moon was new--but our forests have well defined boundaries where civilization takes over. That alone reduces the fear, like knowing that even the worst nightmare ends with the sunrise. There was a time when it was different. Where forests filled with coyotes and bears and fox and wild dogs and the skies would be blackened by flocks of geese and eagles and hawks. And the sounds there must have been--of bullfrogs and cicadas by the millions, of owls and dying animals that howled all night and who knew what else. Nature wasn't the earth's spa--a place to go and rest like we know it now. It was a place to kill or be killed.

  The doe looked scrawny and worse for wear. It was staring directly at him, which gave Herb a creepy feeling. Herb dimmed his lights. In the twilight he could catch the outline of the animal, its skin lighter than the gray line of trees beyond.

  Hollywood has done us a vast injustice, Herb ruminated for no apparent reason. Spending millions to make sure clothes and buildings in the movies are historically accurate but never thinking about the lakes, rivers and forests. When the Titanic went down in the movie, Herb bet the ocean was filed with far more than one or two icebergs. There must have been hundreds of whales and hundreds of otters and miles of schools of fish. Tha
t's what we've forgotten...a world teeming with living and dying.

  Herb waited for the light to change while trying not to look at the doe.

  His new friend Phil was a believer in the strength of the unseen world. He had a term he liked to spout on during breakfast, what Phil called the 'periphery'. This amateur spiritualist had spent one entire breakfast trying to watch the 'periphery' at Chick and Ruth’s. And failed. No other-world forces were apparently in the deli that morning.

  Realizing the stoplight had finally changed, Herb stepped hard on the gas.

  Within minutes the Saab was sweeping over the Woodrow Wilson and into Old Town, Alexandria. That's why he had elected this route, so that he could see first-hand where Tanya and Phil had lived. Herb drove slowly through the small streets, lined with one hundred years old homes. Phil was right. The town was pretty like a movie set.

  On the north side of the town he rejoined Route 1 and rode into Washington over the 14th Street Bridge. Within minutes he found 7th Street and turning left, drove north with the Capitol, the Air and Space Museum, and other national landmarks on the right. First he crossed Independence Avenue Southwest, then the great Mall, then Constitution Avenue Northwest, before reaching Pennsylvania Avenue.

  The area north of Pennsylvania Avenue was a bold experiment to bring about what the District of Columbia politicians and urbanologists referred to as a living downtown, which meant a neighborhood that would stay humming after the federal agencies and office buildings shut at 5 o'clock and the workers began the long drive home. The area under development began at Pennsylvania Avenue, not too far from the old post office building and ended in Chinatown.

  The experiment was working. Bars were packed long into the night. The Shakespeare Theater provided the sort of buzz necessary for those moving into the converted apartment lofts up and down the street. Closer to Chinatown, a sports complex known as the MCI Center had opened to house the Washington Capitals hockey team and basketball's Washington Wizards. As such the street was far from homogeneous--beggars, sport fans and ticket hawkers competed for sidewalk space alongside the urban pioneers. Even Secretary of Defense Cohen and his stylish wife occupied one of the pseudo-urban grit apartments off of 7th Street. The area was, by all accounts, a rare urban success.