Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [68]
He shook off the frustration Janet’s call had created, picked up the phone, called the Savannah Morning News, and asked for Willis Sayers, a veteran reporter with whom Brixton had become friendly while a cop.
“Hello, my man,” Sayers said. “Long time no talk, or is that a cliché?”
“It’s a cliché. I need to pick your brain, Will.”
“About?”
“About a family here in Savannah. The Cardell family, more precisely a daughter named Mitzi.”
Sayers, a bear of a man, laughed like one. “Washington’s leading social light. What about her?”
“Buy you a drink?”
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
“Pinkie Master’s on Drayton? In an hour?”
“Don’t be late.”
CHAPTER 23
It hadn’t been necessary for Will Sayers to tell Brixton that Pinkie Master’s Lounge was on Drayton Street. Brixton had been to the dive bar across from the Hilton Hotel, in Savannah’s historic district, many times over the years. It had been around as long as Savannah had been, or so it seemed.
Brixton took a seat at the small, circular bar, which was sticky to the touch, and ordered what everyone else seemed to be ordering, a “tall boy PBR,” a sixteen-ounce glass of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. He was tempted to have a martini served in a plastic cup (Savannah is one of the few cities in which it’s legal to carry drinks outside and consume them there) but decided to hold off. No telling how long an evening it would be. Willis Sayers had the reputation of being able to outdrink most men of normal size, which included Brixton.
He glanced down and realized that he was seated where a brass marker was inlaid into the bar commemorating the spot where in 1974 Jimmy Carter allegedly had announced his intention to run for president. Al Gore had made a similar proclamation there in 1999.
Pinkie Master’s was a rock-solid Democratic hangout frequented by a variety of types, students from SCAD, bikers, businessmen in suits, lots of media folks, and on this evening a private detective named Brixton, who looked up at the large Confederate flag, and a sign that read TIPPING IS NOT A CITY IN CHINA, proudly displayed behind the bar. He smiled.
Sayers arrived a few minutes later. He wore what he usually wore, baggy chino pants, a striped button-down shirt obviously purchased from a big man’s catalog, wide red suspenders, and a red-and-white railroad handkerchief protruding from his rear pocket. He wedged his sizable girth past other customers, slapped Brixton on the back, and took the empty stool next to him. “Bourbon and a tall boy,” he barked at the female bartender.
“A martini,” Brixton told her. He’d almost finished his beer.
“How are you, Will?” she asked.
“Pretty damn good, hon. You?”
“Holdin’ up.”
Sayers turned to Brixton. “So, good buddy, you’re looking to become a D.C. society type?”
Brixton laughed. “Hardly,” he said.
“What’s your interest in Miss Mitzi Cardell?”
Sayers’s voice was as loud as his size and Brixton second-guessed meeting him at Pinkie’s. “Maybe we can leave here and find someplace quieter,” he suggested as the jukebox, which seemed never to be still, spewed out another obscure hit from the eighties and a group of customers started singing along.
“Sensitive?”
“Yeah, it is, Will, sort of sensitive.”
“Have dinner plans?”
“No.” He did, but he knew that Flo would understand if he canceled.
“Another round,” Sayers told the barmaid. To Brixton: “We’ll get some steam up here and head out. You buying?”
“Dinner? Sure.”
They downed the fresh drinks and Sayers put it on the tab he ran at Pinkie’s. Brixton called Flo on his cell and told her he was tied up