2018: an Uncivil War

2018:

An Uncivil War

Phil Sanderson

AuthorHouse™ LLC

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Phone: 1-800-839-8640

© 2014 Phil Sanderson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/10/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4918-4388-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-4386-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-4387-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013922694

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Part 1: 2016: Uncivil Behavior

Chapter 1   Old Warriors, New Beginnings

Chapter 2   The Stalker and the Girl Who Got Away

Chapter 3   The Uninvited Guest

Chapter 4   The Media

Chapter 5   The Second Amendment

Chapter 6   Unwelcome Intrusions

Chapter 7   The Blood Tells the Story

Chapter 8   Loose Ends to a Tight Bind

Chapter 9   The Morality of Righteousness

Part 2: 2017: Uncivil Betrayal

Chapter 10   Bitter Deception

Chapter 11   Preparation for a Nightmare

Chapter 12   The Rise of the Serpent

Chapter 13   The Stink of War and Death

Chapter 14   The Worried Wife

Chapter 15   Rectumfication

Part 3: 2018: Uncivil Law

Chapter 16   Declaration of War

Chapter 17   Dobermans, Ducks, and Drinks

Chapter 18   Dinner Interrupted

Chapter 19   The News Station

Chapter 20   Tears of a Leader

Chapter 21   The Whole Beehive

Chapter 22   The Reapers Await

Part 4: 2018: An Uncivil War

Chapter 23   Music and Mayhem

Chapter 24   Don’t Ask; Don’t Tell

Chapter 25   Nothing Beats a Hummer

Chapter 26   The Trojan Horse

Chapter 27   The First Grave

Chapter 28   The Second Grave

Epilogue

About the Author

To all military, law enforcement, and firefighters who have selflessly put their lives on the line or at least were willing to do so. This book is for you!

Your bravery and honor always precedes you no matter where you go.

In Memory of my father,

George Quezon Sanderson

(born: June 12, 1930; died: Dec. 14, 2012)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

If I learned anything from writing my very first novel, perhaps it is that such a task is not easy and not only requires great patience from the writer, but those who are closest to him in his life. New acquaintances and friendships are made, due to a need for accurate information or a reflection of what it is like to work day in and day out in a particular job that is sometimes totally strange to most people. And these individuals also make the important sacrifice of time and productivity. To all of these individuals, I cannot thank you enough.

First of all, I give my deceased father—George Quezon Sanderson—his due thanks. He drove me hard, seemingly too hard at times, perhaps not utilizing the best and most tactful language and motivational methods. But Dad tried to help me in the best way he knew how by urging me to take to the field and stop being a spectator. For this, Dad, I love and miss you tremendously. My stepmother, Celeste Sanderson, has also been a great source of morality in my life, leading me to make decisions that I know I will not regret down the line. And even though my father is gone, she still remains close to me and the family, shining a light of love and helping to keep my father’s spirit as alive as ever.

I am also abundantly blessed for my wife, Abigail, and my daughter, Isabella, who had to content themselves with seeing the back of my head for the better part of 2013. This new labor of love (it’s no wonder that Labor Day ended up being the best day to release 2018: An Uncivil War) preoccupied my time and became a sort of strange mistress in my life. Thank you, Darling Abby, for taking the time to listen as I read you many parts of my story. And thank you for helping me to polish the prose so that it read more eloquently. I also owe Isabella a huge debt of thanks for the fine photography she contributed to my book. I thank and love you both so very much and am truly honored and grateful for your belief in me and my ability to write intriguing stories.

To my mother, Mary Kaye Sanderson, thank you so much for urging me to reach my dreams ever since I was old enough to form coherent sentences into a sensible story. Without you, I never would have known where to begin in forming my dream.

Also, a huge debt of thanks is owed to my aunt, Brenda Morgan, who selflessly volunteered to read and edit my story. Thank you for investing the time and energy in becoming such a huge part of this project. Without you, my story would not be nearly as crisp and concise as it is in its present form.

I also wish to thank my father-in-law, Mr. A.W. Till for his time, patiently answering my questions about the trucking industry. The information he shared will hopefully make me appear less the greenhorn when it comes to telling a very action-filled tale involving big rigs.

My brother Steve Sanderson, too, assisted me in giving information to help me more effectively craft the concert scenes, as he used to be a drummer in many different bands over the years. He was also one of the key people who helped get the word out about my novel. Similarly, my sister, Teri Clark, was helpful in telling all of her friends, on and off Facebook about this new breakout novel by her little brother.

Furthermore, there are many other friends and family members who have accepted the shared burden of spreading the word of my novel’s release. You know who you are. Thank you so kindly for helping to promote my first book. I am just as thankful to you for helping me to enjoy any success that happens to result from the release of my breakout thriller.

In this second part of my acknowledgements, I wish to thank non-family members who made themselves indispensable to my story.

To Corporal Stephen Z. Smith, a crime scene technician for the Montgomery Sheriff’s Department in Alabama, thank you for sharing your experience not only in forensics, but as a former police officer. Thank you for having put the lives of others before your own life prior to assisting in the anti-crime effort from the cool and sterile interior of a laboratory. Steve is also writing a couple of novels and pursuing a similar dream to my own. And I send him my best wishes. I hope he will stay in close contact and not hesitate to call if I am ever able to help.

I also owe a huge debt to Travis Perdue, a paramedic with Care Ambulance in Tuskegee, Alabama. Thank you for the two interviews it took to garner information critical for the parts of my novel taking place in and around an ambulance. Our first interview was interrupted when Travis got called out for immediate assistance. Thank you for not only what you contributed to my book, but more importantly what you contribute to the lives of complete strangers. I also wish to thank Jim Taylor, Director of Technology and Support Services at Care Ambulance, for arranging the introduction. Jim expressed an interest in writing his own novel, and I am here for him as well, to share any information and knowledge from the experience whenever it is needed. I also give you my best wishes as you embark on your adventures in writing excellent fiction.

To Charles Mitchell, president of the Central Alabama Gun Club, thank you for taking the time to interview with me while serving as a Board Member of the organization and for freely giving the information and insight as to what it would be like if the government crossed that line. And thank you for the invitation to come out and fire on some targets. Had I not been so preoccupied between assisting the Veterans Affairs hospitals in Montgomery and Tuskegee, Alabama and juggling other interviews and writing my novel, I would have gladly taken you up on it.

Also, on a trip back to Greenville from Memphis, Tennessee, I talked to a very kind and flexible motor carrier sergeant named Phil Brown. Thank you for taking the time to help me tighten up my scenes in the novel that took place at a weigh station. The fact that you took me in with no prior notice whatsoever demonstrates your kind and generous nature. And the Department of Transportation is very fortunate to have you.

Furthermore, I wish to thank two school teachers who were instrumental in my future in writing. They both taught me during my senior year when I attended Woodham High School in Pensacola, Florida in 1985 and 1986. Mrs. Mary DeCosta was my Creative Writing teacher who helped me iron out more than just a few wrinkles in my writing style. And Mrs. Sandy Young also helped me learn the finer points of grammar and English, while helping me to nurture a necessary enjoyment of literature. The education that I received under them really motivated me to continue pursuing a career and hobby in writing that has grown and matured vastly over the years.

Alas, I wish to thank some helpful former American soldiers who were very kind with their time. At the Veterans Hospital in Tuskegee, Alabama, two such veterans were quite helpful at giving me inspirational and helpful information regarding the criminal underworld and the political structure of the American government respectively. Big Rob, a retired veteran of the U.S. Army and a former flight engineer shared his knowledge of how the criminal underworld worked, having known individuals who lived such treacherous lives. And Mike Hogan, also a U.S. Army veteran and former Department of Defense civil servant who worked in the Defense Finance and Accounting Service, helped me wade through the murk that is our organization of government in Washington, D.C. You guys were critical in helping me lend an authenticity that is necessary for such a tale to be told in a way that is believable.

Most importantly, this book is dedicated to any and all who wears or has worn a military, law enforcement, or fire fighter uniform and / or carried such a badge. The fact that you did demonstrates your selfless, brave, and giving nature. For those who paid the ultimate price, God bless and honor your memory and the heroism committed to your great cause. This book was written in your honor.

Unforgettably, I wish to thank our God, Jehovah, from whom all blessings flow. This is the real source of my talent. Without God’s blessing, none of this would have ever been possible. 2018: An Uncivil War never would have seen the light of day if I had not prayed for His strength, His guidance, and the excellent ideas that streamed freely from my mind, successfully breaking the dam of writer’s block, which many writers tend to get stuck in from time to time. Thank you, Lord, not just for making this book possible, but also making the ultimate sacrifice for all our sins.

Finally, I wish to thank you, the reader. Without you, I have no chance of achieving this lifelong dream of mine. Whether you are reading just a sample of my book, or even the entire book, you have expressed an interest in this story that I have held so close to my heart for the better part of this year. And I am truly thankful that you are honoring me with your time.

God bless all of you on this hopefully fine day.

Sincerely:

Phil Sanderson

August 4, 2013

Greenville, Alabama

PART 1

2016: Uncivil Behavior

CHAPTER 1

Old Warriors, New Beginnings

FRIDAY, JULY 22, 2016

Lakeland, Tennessee, a Memphis suburb, yawned helplessly under a wave of summer heat that easily pushed 100 degrees Fahrenheit with no breeze available to conveniently comfort the majority of its citizens. Some were fortunate enough to work indoors. Others had the misfortune of working in the blue-collar sector. Few construction companies cared enough about their workers to postpone their projects until the weather cooled down. For in the economy of the day, money dictated the hours of employment more so than the wellbeing of employees in spite of laws claiming to protect them. In such an economy, many Memphians were unemployed amongst many others across the nation. But in this humidity even a few blue-collar workers secretly avoided such work.

Human beings weren’t the only ones trying to survive within these sweltering conditions that Friday afternoon. In an oak tree next to a small, white two-story home on Vandenberg Court, a weather-weary crow landed upon a branch near the trunk. It spied a nest a few branches below and dropped down next to it giving a curious croak. Lying in the nest were five songbird eggs. The crow cocked its black head and stared menacingly at the eggs with its void, black eyes. Next, it began to peck at them. Nearby, the mother of the nest heard the noise and landed upon a branch about ten feet above. The black and yellowish-orange bird began to chirp a very loud oscine song to announce trouble to all other nearby songbirds.

After only a matter of seconds, the crow finally managed to crack one of the eggs with its beak just as three other songbirds joined the first, plopping down on nearby twigs and branches, keenly observing the sable-feathered intruder. The mother continued singing its song of warning. Now the crow had a taste of the nest’s delicious spoils. It now wanted more, and it began pecking away once more at the already cracked eggshell. Within three seconds, four more songbirds joined the call.

Now the mother glided in to attack the crow, quickly followed by four of the other birds that flanked the crow from the sides and rear. The crow assaulted the mother managing to tear out two feathers next to its beautiful, fluffy neck. But it suddenly became aware of its own feathers being plucked out from behind and to the side. The large black bird eventually screeched in pain as the rest of the songbirds descended mercilessly upon it! No longer concerned about its meal in progress, it now only struggled to survive the encounter. Its wings fluttered unsuccessfully with small, yet feisty attackers obstructing such progress; but now nearly a dozen of these enemies attempted to devour the crow as part of its own hearty feast.

The mother attacked most viciously, its black beak now coated in the blood of its enemy. Within only a couple more minutes, the crow fell hard from the tree upon a large root beneath it. But it was not alone for more than a fraction of a second. The other birds fatefully followed it, finally managing to snip the neck of their victim causing the larger bird to finally lose consciousness as the mother bird broke away from the engagement to see to the helpless eggs in its nest.

A car pulled up along the curve about twenty feet away, and the birds flew away from the crow’s carcass just as soon as the occupant got out. A large, black-haired Caucasian man scanned the neighborhood around him. Content that no one was watching, he walked up to the mail box in front of the house, opened it, and removed the contents. First, he confirmed the address of the letter at the top of the stack: 1986 Vandenberg Court. Secondly, he was mainly interested in the names at the top of each postal address, Stuart Milligan, the first one read. He rifled through the other mail and finally saw the name he had been hoping to see: Alessa C. Milligan.

The visitor knew this occupant as Alessa Compton, that special one that got away. Since no cars were present at the house, the time was not yet right for him to see her again. But being that he now knew where she lived, he would certainly be back after dark.

Stuart Milligan watched intently as Memphis mayor, Jack McCallister, fired his Bersa Thunder .380 model handgun downrange in the basement of the Memphis City Gun Club. The mayor correctly wielded the gun with his firing hand steadying it with his other hand. Both men wore Sperian Impact Sport electronic earmuffs to dampen the noise. As per the rules of the club, the mayor also wore Edge Eyewear Delano safety glasses. During the first several shots, Stuart observed his superb stability and recoil control. He also noted that Jack consistently fired each round in a double-tap sequence. But he thought he observed a slight bit of extra pull in the fourth shot. So he lifted the binoculars to his eyes and confirmed that one of the four shots missed the Zombie’s head by about an inch to the left, though it very well could have been one of the previous shots. The fifth shot landed even further left from the Zombie’s head. Now he dropped the glasses to observe the mayor’s hands and found a potential flaw in the grip that hadn’t been there when he first started firing.

Stuart really loved the new Zombie targets just as much as the majority of members in his three-year-old business, the Memphis City Gun Club. He often gloated to close friends that the mayor, with complete access to city ranges, preferred to pay the membership fee to fire regularly on his ranges instead.

The mayor finished firing the remaining shots of his magazine, though not with flying colors in Stuart’s book. He may not have been the greatest shooter in Memphis, but he was certainly the best mayor anyone could ever hope to have running the city. The African American civic leader ran Memphis very equitably and fairly, and had won his last election with more white votes than even the previous mayor, also a black man.

Man, you started off so strong, Mayor! Stuart placed his hand reassuringly on his patron’s shoulder as the mayor placed the weapon on safety and ejected the magazine from the well of the weapon. I think you must have started pulling your shots around the fourth shot or so.

I tried to hold everything steady as possible, Mayor McCallister innocently countered. Where do you think I went wrong? He now replaced the magazine with a full one and looked at his instructor with a quizzical, raised eyebrow.

I noticed your grip when you fired your first few shots. It was spot on! But somewhere around the fourth or fifth shot, you must have somehow moved the index finger of your non-shooting hand down from where it needed to be. Stuart held his hand out offering to demonstrate the correct grip. Jack politely handed the weapon over, keeping it pointed downrange.

For safety reasons, Stuart went ahead and removed the magazine and cleared it to ensure no rounds were chambered in the weapon. Next, he performed the correct grip for his student. "Make sure that you keep the index finger of your left hand between the knuckle of your right hand’s middle finger and the trigger guard. And don’t forget that the other index finger’s fold of that first knuckle needs to rest gently on the trigger of your Bersa. Finally, pull back ever so slightly to avoid jerking the shot off to the left. He replaced the magazine, and handed the man back his gun. Let’s try again."

His patron started out with the proper grip just as he had done before, but concentrated more on maintaining it diligently during this next round of shots. Stuart watched all of them with his binoculars. After the seventh and final shot was fired, he pushed the button to bring the target forward. Excellent!

Stuart removed a pen from his pocket and circled the first set of seven shots, including the four shots off target toward the left. Then he started putting a check mark next to each of the shots just fired. The Zombie’s face now looked like shredded paper as all the shots were in a grouping within a four-inch diameter. Stuart smiled down at the mayor who now sported a large grin.

Thanks for the pointers, Stu.

You are more than welcome, Mayor… so same time next week? The mayor, quite a humble gentleman, had asked his instructor to call him Jack". But Stuart had too much respect for his mayor to do so.

Getting all of his gear together, Mayor McCallister nodded. I wouldn’t miss it for the world! If you ever have time and need more income, I would be honored to have you teach some of our police officers this good technique.

Stuart bashfully straightened his tie and remarked, Running my business barely gives my lovely wife time to see me. But the honor would be mine if you referred them here. He smiled modestly, and the mayor interrupted his gear stowage to appreciatively pat him on his arm.

Consider it done! He now smiled very broadly, as if he were campaigning for his next term of office. I may even show off some of these new skills to the police chief. So don’t be surprised if he enrolls.

With this lesson being completed, Stuart bid the mayor farewell and proceeded to the business office where he sat down at his well-organized desk. He hadn’t been exaggerating to the mayor about how well business had prospered in the gun club. If it got any better, he felt he may have to consider hiring a partner. But he knew that would probably prove disastrous, as he was very particular about the way he ran his business. Stuart even referred to the gun club as his baby.

The owner and instructor of the Memphis City Gun Club hadn’t done half bad for himself after high school. He majored in Business Management at the University of Memphis having graduated at the top of his class in 2005. He joined the Marine Corps and attended the Officer Candidates School in Quantico, Virginia immediately after graduation. Once again, he received top marks on the Officer Candidate Test, which made him a First Lieutenant out of the box and literally gave him his personal choice of almost any job in the Marine Corps. But he freely chose Special Operations due to his intense hatred of terrorists and the challenging, yet exciting nature of SpecOps. He smiled remembering his best friend at the time, Terrance Crawley, who had surprised him by attending his graduation. Terrance was a Marine Sergeant at that time and had actually worn his Dress Blue uniform to his best friend’s military graduation ceremony. He looked every bit as impressive as Stuart did in his uniform. The two Marines caught up a bit, but it had all been very awkward for Stuart, since Marine officers were not officially allowed to fraternize with enlisted Marines. Terrance must have felt the awkwardness too, as both of them unfortunately had not really been close after that. Stuart frowned upon realization of this, as he had always thought the two of them would forever be best friends.

Next, he was deployed to Afghanistan where he commanded a platoon of Marines during several attacks by Taliban. He even rescued one of his Marines who fell in battle before a machine gun nest. He managed to get close enough on the flank to land a fragmentation grenade right next to the gunner and ordered one of his Marines to take control of the nest. Then he promptly retrieved the injured Leatherneck and carried him to safety. He received a Silver Cross and a promotion to Captain for his bold leadership under fire. No men were killed under his watch. Strangely enough, this had been his main reason for leaving the Marines. He did not want to ever have that on his conscience. After all, there had been times that he wasn’t so sure all of his guys would make it back to their families stateside. He also had frequent nightmares of himself facing the wives and children of Marines who could have fallen under his watch. He awakened often from these bad dreams with tears in his eyes, thankful that none of them had died under his command. He felt that if he had stayed in the Marines, it would mean his death eventually. Because he knew that if it ever came down to the choice of his life or those of his men, he would gladly go instead. And gladly is what truly scared the hell out of him.

He was thankful for all he had learned in the Marines. If it had not been for his service time in the Corps, he probably never would have rekindled the romance with his soon-to-be wife, Alessa. The two of them had met as pre-teens and dated. At one point they were going together. But they ended up breaking up. Her parents were still close friends with his parents, and they suggested that she should send him a care package. She found herself really excited after receiving his e-mail letting her know that he and his troops enjoyed the treats she sent. That thoughtful gift turned into a deep friendship between pen pals. They maintained contact until he had gotten out of the Marine Corps and were married a few months later. He also managed to save a considerable amount of money while overseas… money that served as capital for him to open and run his own business.

So life was sweet for Stuart and Alessa Milligan. He already owned his own business at the youthful age of 32. Very few people his age could say the same. Sometimes he wondered if he should have remained in the Marines; but if he had, someone else probably would have beaten him to the punch of offering an excellent indoor gun club in Memphis, Tennessee.

Now he flipped through his appointment book and noticed that he was clear until 9 p.m. Normally, his work day was finished at 6 p.m. But he’d promised Thomas Donavan, one of his regulars, that he would stay late for him since he was working a new job and only had the evenings off after 8 p.m. It would only be one night a week for the remaining few weeks of that patron’s membership that Stuart would have to sacrifice his family time. But Stuart needed to call Alessa to let her know he would be home late. He picked up the phone and dialed her work number.

The phone at Whirly Wave Travel Agency rang just as Jenny Rutledge slid five Carnival Cruise boarding passes across her desk to Sandra Tully so that she and her family could enjoy one week together without having to worry about the cares of the world. Her face beamed very brightly as she accepted the passes. Jenny currently enjoyed her first month of employment at the travel agency, which had previously been run solely by Alessa Milligan.

Is there anything else I can do for you and your family today, Mrs. Tully? Jenny smiled, and Mrs. Tully shook her head.

I think you have done enough. Thank you for taking so much time to get us the best rates possible.

It was my sincere pleasure, Ma’am. If you need anything at all, please let me know. The phone continued ringing, as Jenny bid farewell to her customer. As Mrs. Tully got up from her seat, Jenny added: "Please remember Whirly Wave when you plan your next vacation."

Most certainly! Then the middle-aged woman sauntered to the door, and Jenny finally had a moment to answer the phone.

"Thank you for calling Whirly Wave Travel Agency, she said with a brief pause. Let us give you our proven customized service, which you are unable to find anywhere else. How may I assist you today?"

That was quite a mouthful, Stuart said quite surprised on the other end of the call.

It always annoyed Jenny whenever people made such comments about her phone greeting. But her professionalism always kept it from showing. Oh yes, but we always strive for the extra mile it takes to keep you well informed of all our benefits. How may I help you today, sir?

This is Stuart, he said. I’m just calling to speak to my lovely wife.

Jenny suddenly realized she needed to make sure to memorize his voice, since this was the boss’s husband. She looked over to Alessa, who had interrupted her own lunch to assist a couple at her desk. Mr. Milligan, she is with some customers at the moment. Would you like for me to interrupt her?

Please call me, Stu, he requested. He paused to decide whether or not to bug Alessa. It won’t be necessary to interrupt her. Please let her know that I will be running late tonight and will be home around ten or so?

Yes, sir. I will be more than happy to do so.

Thank you, Jenny. Take care. They both hung up. Jenny made a quick note and respectfully set it next to Alessa on her desk as she was speaking to her customers. The owner of the agency gave her a passing glance accommodating it with a smile of gratitude.

In spite of the threat posed by well-established online travel providers, Alessa Milligan opened the travel agency a year ago. Having been a travel agent since graduating Christian Brothers University in 2005, she really enjoyed the industry and being able to help people get the best deals while building a loyal clientele. Most people would look at her and say that she was competing hopelessly against technology, but she saw her agency as a niche for people who preferred the best face-to-face and personal service that could not be obtained anywhere else in Memphis, Tennessee. She was also able to reliably warn people who were thinking about traveling to unsafe destinations. With the threat of terrorism and other anti-American threats in the world, someone needed to advise travelers of these dangers. So she decided to take up that safety mantle and be the travelers’ shield of sorts.

Alessa was most thankful for her parents, Earl and Henrietta Compton, for providing her the collateral to break into the business. Earl warned her about the online competition before she got involved, but she put together a very thorough and impressive business plan, which convinced him she was capable of successfully competing.

Things were very difficult at first. She started running the business by herself, unable to afford to hire any help for lack of a payroll budget, but instead focused on self-advertising and suddenly turned a wonderful corner around the third quarter. All the post cards she had designed and mailed out, the business cards she put into the hands of potential customers, and the brochures she created on her office computer finally brought consistency of business through her front doors. And word of mouth did all the rest. Before long, she had more business than she could comfortably handle. Lucky for her, most of her customers had been patient enough to wait whenever she had others seated before her desk. Her striking appearance and southern hospitality made it difficult for anyone to be impatient with her.

In a bold move that she logically risked should pay off, she hired Jenny to work with her. The greatest risk lay in the fact that she had never worked in the travel industry before. But she saw it as an opportunity to mold this bright young lady into a success story not just for her agency, but for Jenny herself. She learned quickly and managed to develop her own group of loyal customers. Lately Alessa dreamed of acquiring enough business to hire on a third travel agent. But looking at past financial reports, it didn’t appear that she would be able to afford the payroll to do so. After all, the many online competitors still possessed too much of her market. But she was still content with what profit her business was able to make with only two people on staff. It helped keep her and her husband, Stuart, living comfortably and being able to travel to some of the nicest places in the world at the best possible rates and sometimes even free. In short, she had successfully achieved her dreams!

A breeze blew through Memphis from the north by the time the evening had arrived. Many thankful Memphians decided to run errands they had put off due to the very humid conditions that had literally oppressed everyone into a spirit of laziness. Meanwhile, a very well-dressed Terrance Crawley decided to stop off at the Hole in the Wall, a very seedy alternative bar downtown on Beale Street.

Beale Street was lined with many bars and restaurants assuming a blues motif. The city had a rich history as far as the blues musical movement was concerned. Beale Street successfully drew in countless tourism dollars annually, allowing the city to be able to continue renovations on the famous street’s late nineteenth and early twentieth century architecture. The city certainly had come a long way since an entrepreneur named Robertson Topp developed and named the avenue after a forgotten military hero in the early 1840s.

Ships along the Mississippi River would trade with shops on this street back in the old days. But the street did not become famous until young, black musicians started performing there in the 1860s. The Young Man’s Brass Band, formed by Sam Thomas in 1867 was perhaps the first to call Beale Street home.

In 1879, Robert Church purchased land around Beale Street, which led him to become the first black millionaire in the entire southern region. He paid the city to create Church Park toward the end of the nineteenth century. And it was here that many blues musicians would come to perform. Well famed personalities like Woodrow Wilson, Booker T. Washington, and Franklin D. Roosevelt spoke at the Church Park Auditorium.

Many African Americans eventually owned restaurants, clubs, and shops in the beginning of the twentieth century. But it was not until 1903 that Beale Avenue met its most famous personality, W.C. Handy, a trumpet player from Clarksdale, Mississippi. As a matter of fact, it was Handy who wrote the song responsible for the changing of the name Beale Avenue to Beale Street. The song Beale Street Blues, written in 1916 created a new movement not just for the city, but for the entire nation. From here until the mid-1960s, the street thrived. But these years saw many buildings becoming run-down and businesses starting to close. In 1966, the city declared this area a national historic landmark. Starting in the early 1970s up until the 1980s the Beale Street Development Corporation was formed and tasked with renovating all the buildings of this truly famous landmark. It was this corporation that breathed a new life into this famous street of old. It was not until late in 1977 that Congress declared Beale Street as the Home of the Blues. And the rest is pretty much history.

After parking his silver metallic-colored 2013 Mazda MX-5 Miata convertible next to the loading dock of a furniture store that was closed for the evening, Terrance headed down the sidewalk to the intersection crosswalk and crossed the street. After crossing it and turning down the sidewalk leading to the club, a group of four young adult guys, two black and two white, seemed to sum him up as they approached him. Various muggings had occurred at night on Beale, so Terrance let his right hand dangle loosely near his hip, ready to go for his Glock-22 holstered in the small of his back if he needed. But one of the white guys whispered something to the others, and they looked away from him and decided to mind their own business. He considered following them, but decided that he was off duty and that he really just wanted to enjoy the evening and maybe meet an interesting companion with whom to spend it.

Around him, the famous streets were lit by various sources. Old, arched, and washed-out green streetlamps—underneath which various insects danced and flittered—bathed the fronts of different shaped awnings within its antiqued yellowish light rays. Some of the awnings were circular, others triangular. But they all added a historical feel for which this small part of the large southern city had become known. Also, neon signs advertised the various clubs, bars, and restaurants along the street—some famous, few others fairly new. No cars were parked along the street… only a service van from an air conditioning repair company.

The crime in Memphis depreciated the city’s national attraction rather quickly, which—for him—was a good thing. He was a fairly new homicide detective for the Memphis City Police Department. Terrance had become a police officer after leaving the Marine Corps as a military policeman a little more than six years ago. After seeing plenty of action in Iraq, he realized that Memphis continued to wither away before his eyes. Thus, he decided to assist in bringing justice to blatantly bold criminals in his hometown. He sort of looked at himself as a keeper of the city.

His main interest and career focus had been homicide. As a uniformed police officer, in the very beginning, he promptly utilized his G.I. Bill to pursue a degree in criminal justice. And while doing so, he offered to assist at any and all homicide crime scenes and managed to successfully make a good name for himself with every detective he met there. Unfortunately, he felt that for every criminal he put away, there was always two or three that would seemingly replace him. That was the downside of his duty—facing the reality that Memphis was fast becoming the toilet bowl of Tennessee, no matter how hard he tried to stop it. But he still loved his home in spite of all the crime.

He had managed to make his parents very proud of him, all though they were very concerned as well. For as long as he and his family could remember, Memphis had always been in the Top 5 of the most dangerous places to live in the United States of America. But since he had been on the force crime had not been as prevalent as it had been in the beginning. He didn’t know exactly how his efforts figured into the mix, but he still proudly took credit from time to time.

He finally got to the old wooden door that would take him into the Hole in the Wall. As he opened it, the sound of Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana filtered out of the club. He was glad to get inside from all the evening humidity, though he had been very thankful for the cool breeze blowing through the street off the waterfront.

The Hole in the Wall seemingly begged for more space, thus being well-deserved of the name. It basically occupied a long, rectangular area that, in his good humor, pressed everyone together in all the right or wrong places. He grinned as this thought occurred to him.

After all, less space could be a good thing or a bad thing depending on one’s perspective. Being that this was a typical busy Friday night, from his perspective it allowed him to brush up against some of the finest women in Memphis. But on the same token, sometimes he would bump into other guys or accidentally brush against an ugly old hen.

The Hole consisted of a front area with a pool table. Next, one would pass by a couple of electronic dart machines to the right as they came upon the bar to the left. There was barely enough room for pool players and dart throwers to maneuver requiring both to be good sports and accommodate one another. The problem, in Terrance’s eyes, was that there often was not a good sport around when you needed one. At the back of the bar was a six by six foot section where live bands played every Saturday night to the drunken howl of club mongers. And just beyond that were the filthiest and most dank restroom facilities one could ever hope to have avoided.

Terrance saw a spot at the bar to the left of a lovely young brunette wearing short cut-offs topping off just below her hips. She currently sat with her back to the bartender. The shorts revealed just enough of her smooth, tan belly to give him a small ping of excitement in his loins. She also wore a black t-shirt boasting the logo of The Cure on the front. He glanced over at her, and she smiled at him. So he joined her, facing the bar, while regarding her with deep interest.

The off-duty detective found himself extremely intrigued by her deep green eyes, which reminded him of the deepest jungle. Top of the evening to you, he remarked in a smooth and careful voice.

Many women actually found Terrance to be quite attractive. His averaged-sized head supposedly possessed more than average looks, though Terrance would humbly disagree. He had a nice square jawline with what many of them had described as hunky facial features. Muscular, high cheekbones sloped downward into a full, meaty mouth. He had rather a plain bridge that led down to a long, hard-looking nose. His light brown eyes usually displayed confidence without crossing the line of smugness. Tonight, he wore his dark black hair short, neat, and slightly parted to the left. He had no grey in his hair, and his hairline was still safe from inherited recession. Most in his family remained thusly safe into their 40s.

She turned in her stool, now facing the bar, and grinned as she took a pull of her beer. Would you like to buy me a drink?

It looks like someone else has already beaten me to the punch. She placed her left hand near his right one and told him: Actually I bought this one.

Terrance decided to have some fun with this gorgeous babe. "Would you care to buy me one?" He put his right hand next to hers careful not to break eye contact.

She grinned widely and looked away thinking about how to respond. Then she finally regarded him once again. Wanting to break with tradition, huh… I like that. But I don’t even know your name.

You can call me Terry. He smiled widely, leaning in toward her. She gently pat his hand with her right one and then raised it to catch the bartender’s attention. The bartender came over to take her order. She looked at Terrance quizzically followed by the bartender’s similar look.

I’ll have a Bud Light Lime, he specified. The bartender looked at him like he was an idiot before ducking under the bar to grab a longneck bottle. But the look didn’t discourage Terrance one bit. He once again appreciated this lovely woman sitting before him. So who are you? He smiled warmly while the bartender opened the bottle for him.

Rebecca, she said taking a pull of her beer just as the bartender placed Terrance’s in front of him.

He took a quick sip while studying her devilishly angelic face. Her eyes held a fire in them that seemed to pull him in. Her pixie-like features reminded him so much of Emma Stone, a famous actress of the day. Child-like rounded cheeks complimented her nice long mouth, complimented by full, red lips. Her stunning eyes studied his intently, wondering about the game he may have been playing with her.

If he had been able to read her thoughts, he wouldn’t have been sure what game he was playing with her himself. Her beauty mystified him in a way that broke his concentration. It was all he could do just to sip his beer without fumbling it all over him. He knew that most guys probably would have loved to have a girl as gorgeous as Rebecca. He once did, but his ex-wife violated his trust making it impossible for him to ever trust another woman period. That served as one pain that he would never again want to revisit.

So, Terry. I bought you the beer you requested. Are you gonna tell me about yourself, or should I just make it up as we go along? She chuckled under her breath.

He grinned once again. Sure. What would you like to know?

What do you do for a living?

He decided to have more fun with her. I’m a professional panhandler. He grinned jokingly.

Is that so? She looked at him with a look that told him he was full of it.

He nodded. Why do you think I asked you to buy me a drink?

Now she regarded him sullenly while shaking her head. "You have got to be joking."

He sat there with the same grin on his face, fully enjoying her confusion. She brought her left hand up when crossing her arms looking at him in total disbelief.

Okay, panhandler. How did you get here tonight? Did you stow away in someone’s trunk?

Now he chuckled. Nah. I rode my bicycle.

She burst into laughter. Do you live in a cardboard box?

Have you been spying on me? he asked humorously.

Now they both laughed together and she placed her left hand on his leaning in closer to him. What if I told you that I think you are full of shit?

He grinned once again. Then I would invite you to step outside and see for yourself.

Now she straightened up in her seat removing her hand once again from his. She knew that being picked up by a stranger, no matter how funny he happened to be, was still unsafe… especially in a city like Memphis. She said sarcastically. Well aren’t you certainly sure of yourself? Now she was no longer smiling at all.

This took the grin away from Terrance’s face. Okay. You win. I am a detective for the Memphis Police Department.

Now she grinned unbelievably. Sure you are. And I really thought you were Channing Tatum. It was clear to Terrance that she still did not believe him. Can I see your badge?

He discreetly removed his wallet from his back pocket and discreetly showed it to her.

Oh my God! Her eyes suddenly went wide. You really are!

He nodded quite seriously.

Have you ever killed anyone? she asked curiously.

He shook his head. Not on the police force. Not yet anyway. Hopefully, it will never come to that.

She smiled at him, impressed with him suddenly. "I’m glad I bought you that beer. You truly