Tommy visits the Holly Tree – an excerpt from the book

      A little while into Mississippi, I pass over a creek and slow down. I see the Holly Tree on the left side of the road. It’s an old clapboard house. The yard is full of trash and weeds. Tar paper peels up from the roof as if the building suffers from psoriasis. A corrugated awning sags over the front porch. Some beer and RC Cola signs are nailed to the wall.
      I pull across the road and park in the dirt next to two old trucks. It’s early. The place will be packed by sundown. I step onto the porch. An old yellow dog lies on its side. Its muzzle is thin and gray. The dog opens and closes a film-covered eye as I pass. I pull the screen door open and step inside.
      Four colored men play cards. They look at me and shake their heads. I ignore them and walk to the bar. I ask the man behind it for a beer. A cigarette dangles off his lower lip. He stares at me with his hands on the bar, the left of which is scarred from a burn.
      “A beer,” I repeat.
I put down a quarter. He fetches up a bottle, opens it, and sets it before me. The coin remains untouched.
      “Now you didn’t come all this way for a beer,” he says.
      I take a swig. It’s cool and it gives me time to think of what to say.
      “No. This beer’s just a bonus. Someone called me. Said if I ask you, I’ll find out about a missing white girl named, Helen.”
      The man’s eyes open wide, his mouth opens wider.
      “A missing white girl? Here? Damn. You came a long way for a beer.”
      “I’ve traveled further.”
      He laughs and takes the coin and drops it into a box before joining a couple at the other end of the bar. I drink my beer as I listen to the jukebox. Some men make jokes. They laugh at me, but I don’t want any trouble.
      The door opens a little later and an old colored man walks in. He wears a worn out pair of overalls. His brogans are in worse shape; the leather is cracked and scuffed from years of use. He takes off his left shoe, looks inside, and sets it on the floor. I get up and walk toward him. His cloudy eyes are rheumy and his earlobes hang long. Several days’ grizzle coats his cheeks.
      “Dan? Dan Turner?”
      The man looks up as he takes a piece of cardboard from his pocket.
      “Who?” he says.
      “Are you Dan Turner?”
      “My name’s George Owens.”
      “Sorry. I got you confused with someone else. Can I buy you a beer?”
      “Sheeit. How ’bout you buy me a whiskey.”
      I get the drinks while George opens a knife and cuts the cardboard to fit his shoe. I come back and set them on the table. I sit across from him. He gestures with his glass, tilts his head, and empties the cup before I so much as taste mine.
      “Damn—that goes down better than ’splo. You come around here anytime, kid.”
      I work on my whisky while George cuts the cardboard for the other shoe.
      “So kid, you got a name?”
      “Tommy Rhodeen.”
      The cardboard’s too big. He takes it out and says, “So, Mr. Tommy Rhodeen, you come here expectin’ to find this Dan Turner?”
      “No. I was told I could find a girl I’m looking for. A missing white girl named, Helen.”
      George sets down the knife. The men playing poker stop betting; their heads turn our way. George scratches his chin and says, “Now, I don’t mean to make light of anyone’s misfortune. Especially someone who bought me a drink. But that is the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time. You comin’ in here to find a missin’ white girl. Sheeit.”
      The men chuckle and go back to their game. George trims the cardboard; he puts it in his shoe. I need to go home. But then a woman whispers, “Helen,” into my ear and walks away.
      George and I watch her. She’s tall and wears her hair cut short with spit curls. She sits at a table in the corner and checks her makeup. Her face glows like honey. I nod at George. I get up and approach the woman.
      “What do you know about Helen?” I ask as I sit down.

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Tommy gets more than bite to eat – an excerpt from the book

      Just outside Memphis, I stop at a diner. There’s a gravel lot to the side of the place. I drive past the rigs and park. I walk in and take a seat at the counter one spot over from where Jim Gantry sits holding a cup of coffee. We ignore each other. I study the menu. He reads the paper.
      The waitress sets down a plate with a single large pancake in front of Jim; it comes with a big pat of butter. She refills his coffee and pours me mine. Jim tilts the bottle of syrup. He pours it until the pancake can’t absorb another drop. He cuts a piece from the center of the plate and forks it into his mouth.
      I look up. The waitress taps a pencil on her pad; I order breakfast. She walks away, tears off the paper, and clips it into the order wheel hanging in the pass through. A cook sets down a plate of eggs, rings the bell, and pulls my order.
      Alone, I swivel in my seat and say, “Hey Jim,” to the tall man in blue dungarees, plaid shirt, and cowboy boots. Jim raises his cup. He holds it there and stares over it as if he’s reading the specials on the wall. A second or two passes. He says, “Tommy,” takes a sip, and sets the cup down. I swivel back in my seat and mutter, “Heading to Nashville,” between my teeth.
      “That so? Business or pleasure?”
      “Business.”
      Jim cuts another bite.
      “You need another loan?”
      “No, but can you fix me up?” I say out the corner of my mouth.
      “You got cash?”
      “Yes.”
      “Can do.”
      Jim eats his pancake. He works his way out from the center—forming an atoll in a sea of buttery syrup—until the only thing left on his plate is a maple slick.
      The waitress says, “Here you go honey,” and sets down a plate in front of me. I spread jelly on my toast and stab my eggs with a fork. Jim goes back to reading the paper. Two truckers nod at him as they leave the diner. The waitress refills our coffee. She leans over me; her breast rubs against my shoulder. I finish eating and pay for my meal.
      I go into the men’s room and clean my hands. The door swings open as I pull the loop of towel from the box on the wall. Jim checks if anyone’s in the stall. I set my money on the edge of the sink. Jim picks up the cash. He takes a small plastic bag full of pills from his jacket and places it where the money had been. I pick up the bennies. No words are spoken. I leave and get back in my car.

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