about the fringes of local wealth. The fact McCorkle met people at the Crescent Club—three, four times a week, the bartender told me—said a lot. If you were old money, if you had pedigree, you’d more likely meet at the University Club in Midtown, where you’d still hear, straight-faced, the term
respectability
, in accents that harkened back to an imagined Old South. The kind of respectability, incidentally, that meant the only black people on the premises were “servants.” And called that.
The Crescent Club, though, perched atop the building that lent its name, an elegantly anonymous late-eighties edifice that defined the east end of the Poplar-240 split. A building of vaguely styled “consultants,” a building of new-money brokers who’d made it on new-money clients and therefore could sport golf shirts and sockless, open-toed sandals in the office—the grown-up, monied equivalent of Memphis State frat boys sporting backwards ball caps and thinking themselves original, defiant, their own men. The Crescent Club took anyone who could write the cheque—more modest than the term
private club
might make you think—and didn’t actually smell. They’d even taken MacDonald, whose card I used at the door, my thumb over his picture.
Three times that week, I’d sat near Clayton McCorkle and his buddies—a breakfast and two lunches. No need for disguises or subterfuge—in a club, you’d expect to see the same people. I heard laughter. A couple of dirty crony-jokes. And a guy deeply into construction, construction people, and not much else. One day, he came in brushing dust off his khakis, which bore another, darker stain. “Guy on a site,” he said to the trio who’d been waiting too long and decided they’d best get on with lunch. “Not mine—a subcontractor’s guy. Half cut his thumb off with a skill-saw. I hadda take him to Collierville Baptist. Poor bastard got no insurance, so we’re gonna take care of him.” He sat, wrote the name out three times on his own business cards, handed them around. “Put this old boy in your prayers, y’all. Grace a God, nerves in his hand won’t be all fucked up.”
The Crescent Club was one thing. Clean. Air-conditioned. Safe. Out here at the house…I moved along the wall…
20.
27 July, afternoon
Teatime
“You buying?” MacDonald said through the phone.
“Yep,” I said. “I’m expecting some money, so I thought I’d splurge. Big cheque from the Memphis PD for all that camera equipment.”
“Sarcastic bastard,” he said. “It’s what? Four o’clock. Perfect for tea. Does Bucks have crumpets?”
“Kind of,” I said. “Still British, Mac?”
“There’ll always be an England.”
“Shut up and get here,” I said. “We’re going to have a little chat.”
“You and me, Jack?”
“We’re two of the three,” I said, and all I got back was “Oh.”
MacDonald arrived, sat. “Nikki,” I said. “Get someone else to take the counter and come over here.”
“Jack, I can’t just—”
“Do it,” I said. The old platoon commander in me was talking again. And it worked. She sat, moved her chair oddly close to MacDonald’s.
“Now, old buddy,” MacDonald said. “Before we get into—”
“We are into it, Mac.”
He looked at me, looked away. Nikki looked at Mac, got nothing back.
“Nikki, that was Mac you called the morning you were…”
She breathed, looked me in the eye. “I figured you knew.”
“I’m slow on the uptake,” I said. “But I get it sooner or later.”
MacDonald sighed, exchanged a glance with Nikki. “We’ve been…
seeing
one another.”
“‘Seeing’?” I said. “Is
that
what they’re calling it now—”
Mac shook his head. “We’re…”
“We’re just friends,” Nikki said, and there wasn’t a hint of defensiveness.
“Fact is, Jack, I never had a girl—”
“Woman,” Nikki corrected, and he smiled. “I’m trying to convince this Neanderthal that some women possess grey matter
respectability
, in accents that harkened back to an imagined Old South. The kind of respectability, incidentally, that meant the only black people on the premises were “servants.” And called that.
The Crescent Club, though, perched atop the building that lent its name, an elegantly anonymous late-eighties edifice that defined the east end of the Poplar-240 split. A building of vaguely styled “consultants,” a building of new-money brokers who’d made it on new-money clients and therefore could sport golf shirts and sockless, open-toed sandals in the office—the grown-up, monied equivalent of Memphis State frat boys sporting backwards ball caps and thinking themselves original, defiant, their own men. The Crescent Club took anyone who could write the cheque—more modest than the term
private club
might make you think—and didn’t actually smell. They’d even taken MacDonald, whose card I used at the door, my thumb over his picture.
Three times that week, I’d sat near Clayton McCorkle and his buddies—a breakfast and two lunches. No need for disguises or subterfuge—in a club, you’d expect to see the same people. I heard laughter. A couple of dirty crony-jokes. And a guy deeply into construction, construction people, and not much else. One day, he came in brushing dust off his khakis, which bore another, darker stain. “Guy on a site,” he said to the trio who’d been waiting too long and decided they’d best get on with lunch. “Not mine—a subcontractor’s guy. Half cut his thumb off with a skill-saw. I hadda take him to Collierville Baptist. Poor bastard got no insurance, so we’re gonna take care of him.” He sat, wrote the name out three times on his own business cards, handed them around. “Put this old boy in your prayers, y’all. Grace a God, nerves in his hand won’t be all fucked up.”
The Crescent Club was one thing. Clean. Air-conditioned. Safe. Out here at the house…I moved along the wall…
20.
27 July, afternoon
Teatime
“You buying?” MacDonald said through the phone.
“Yep,” I said. “I’m expecting some money, so I thought I’d splurge. Big cheque from the Memphis PD for all that camera equipment.”
“Sarcastic bastard,” he said. “It’s what? Four o’clock. Perfect for tea. Does Bucks have crumpets?”
“Kind of,” I said. “Still British, Mac?”
“There’ll always be an England.”
“Shut up and get here,” I said. “We’re going to have a little chat.”
“You and me, Jack?”
“We’re two of the three,” I said, and all I got back was “Oh.”
MacDonald arrived, sat. “Nikki,” I said. “Get someone else to take the counter and come over here.”
“Jack, I can’t just—”
“Do it,” I said. The old platoon commander in me was talking again. And it worked. She sat, moved her chair oddly close to MacDonald’s.
“Now, old buddy,” MacDonald said. “Before we get into—”
“We are into it, Mac.”
He looked at me, looked away. Nikki looked at Mac, got nothing back.
“Nikki, that was Mac you called the morning you were…”
She breathed, looked me in the eye. “I figured you knew.”
“I’m slow on the uptake,” I said. “But I get it sooner or later.”
MacDonald sighed, exchanged a glance with Nikki. “We’ve been…
seeing
one another.”
“‘Seeing’?” I said. “Is
that
what they’re calling it now—”
Mac shook his head. “We’re…”
“We’re just friends,” Nikki said, and there wasn’t a hint of defensiveness.
“Fact is, Jack, I never had a girl—”
“Woman,” Nikki corrected, and he smiled. “I’m trying to convince this Neanderthal that some women possess grey matter
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