PART ONE
1
Pulaski, Tennessee, April 1, 2015
Frederick Alan “Butch” Renfroe began the day of his murder in a familiar but unlikely place. Before it closed in 2011, the Sundowners Club on Highway 64 was where Butch had liked to end his evening, not kick off the morning. Back then, after closing up his law office on the square at around five or six, he’d walk to Kathy’s Tavern and drink enough George Dickel to catch a nice buzz. Then he’d drive out to the Sundowners, where he’d have a couple of more shots of George chased with several cold beers. After donating a handful of one-dollar bills to the stripper on the main stage, he’d round up one of his favorite girls for a lap dance or two. Every so often, on his birthday or some other special occasion, he’d splurge for a half hour in the VIP room upstairs.
Of course, his own enjoyment had never been the ultimate goal of his regular visits to the Sundowners. No, Butch had something else in mind as he’d gotten to know the dancers, the bartenders, the waitresses, the owner, and—most importantly—the customers during thirty-some-odd years of patronage.
Pimp was a dirty word in Butch’s vernacular, and he didn’t like to refer to himself or his partners in that way. Running whores was likewise distasteful, nor could Butch abide the terms whorehouse, brothel, or bordello.
Instead, Butch and his cohorts labeled their operation a ring or, to be more specific, “the ring.” And for three decades, it produced a gravy train of money that lined their pockets.
But in October 2011, the owner of the Sundowners, Larry Tucker, was killed. All hell had broken loose. Part of the fallout was the condemnation of, for Butch’s money, the best little strip club in southern Tennessee . . .
. . . and, with it, the end of the ring.
But sixteen months ago, in December 2013, a developer named Michael Zannick moved to Pulaski and began buying up land, buildings, and businesses. Everything started to change—and for the better.
Life was good, especially for Butch Renfroe, Zannick’s handpicked corporate attorney. Butch had made nice commissions on each of his client’s purchases. He had become the president of Zannick’s start-up bank. And, as if all that weren’t enough, his side hustle was back in business.
The Sundowners had reopened its doors, and “the ring 2.0,” as one of his partners called it, was producing cash flow again.
Life was very good . . . until it wasn’t. And it doesn’t get any worse than this, Butch thought.
At this time of the morning, the Sundowners had none of the creature comforts that existed at night. No music. No booze. No scantily clad waitresses. And, finally, no exotic dancers. Indeed, illuminated by the stark glare of the sunlight peeking through the half-closed curtain that guarded the one window in the club, the pole on the main stage looked ridiculously out of place.
Butch was seated at a round table in the back of the building looking into the harsh hazel eyes of the club’s manager, Finnegan Pusser. Finn, as he liked to be called, was no relation to Buford Pusser, the late sheriff of McNairy County, Tennessee, but he had something in common with the famous lawman. He liked to carry a two-by-four piece of lumber with him around the club to keep the patrons who were a bit too handsy at bay. Finn gripped the beating stick now with his right hand and glared across the table at Butch.
“Big day for you, Counselor.” With his other hand, Finn fingered the handle on a cup of coffee but made no move to drink it. Butch gazed at the smoke coming off the hot mug and then, feeling sweat rings forming under his armpits, glanced around the renovated structure.
The layout was almost identical to how it had been when Larry ran things. The bar remained up front toward the entrance. Beyond that were three stages, each of which had a metal pole in the middle. Along one wall was a series of benches where men could get lap dances, and beyond the exit sign in back was a stairwell that would take patrons up to the VIP room. Adjacent to the opposite wall and sprinkled around all three stages were a number of tables with four chairs each.
Butch sucked in a quick breath and focused on the clock that hung above the bar next to a row of whiskey bottles. It was 7:30 a.m., and the club was vacant except for Butch and Finn.
“Did you hear what I said?” Finn asked.
Butch returned his gaze to the manager, who was now holding the stick up with the end pointed at the ceiling. “Yes . . . ,” Butch began, “. . . but I don’t think I’m going to be needed.” The words sounded hollow even to him.
“You’re wrong,” Finn said. “And you know it.”
“There’s still a chance that Lou can change her mind. Lou—”
“—doesn’t believe the General will budge, and neither does Mr. Zannick.” Finn paused. “Lou is also cracking up. He drinks too much, and he’s been beaten too many times by the prosecutor. He’s become a liability.”
“He’s the best criminal defense attorney in town.”
“So you say.”
“No one has had more success defending cases in Giles County than Lou.”
“You’re wrong. There’s a black man named Haynes that most of the town folks think is the best lawyer around.”
Butch smirked. “Well, he ain’t around anymore and hasn’t been in years. And even if he was, there’s no way that he would have represented Michael Zannick.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because Booker T. Rowe is Haynes’s cousin.” Butch licked his chapped lips and peered across the table at Finn. “You remember what we’ve done to Rowe, don’t you?”
Finn didn’t say anything, but his eyes flickered with recognition.
Butch took a deep breath. Though the floors, tables, and stages had been scrubbed clean this morning by a crew, he could still make out the faint smell of cheap beer and stripper perfume that was ever present during business hours. “Lou Horn was and is our best option. Besides . . .” He sighed and glanced at the sawdust floor. “. . . Lou has skin in the game just like me. He knows what’s at stake.”
For several seconds, the dark club was quiet. Butch could literally hear his heart beating as he gazed at the two-by-four, which Finn still held in an upright position.
“Assuming Lou fails, are you ready to do what you have to do?” Finn asked, smiling. His eyes held not a trace of humor.
“Yes,” Butch said.
“You better,” Finn said, standing from his chair and poking the end of the stick into Butch’s stomach. “Unless you want to finish this day in the morgue.” He gave the piece of lumber a firm jab, and Butch felt the wind go out of him. He sprawled forward and clutched his abdomen as his chin brushed against the rough wooden table.
As Finn walked away, Butch struggled to regain his breath and thought of what he must do if and when Lou failed. Then another realization hit him even harder than Finn Pusser’s lumber stick.
“We’re all going to fail,” Butch whispered, closing his eyes and cursing his own stupidity as the inevitability of what was about to happen sank in.
I’m a dead man . . .
2
Lou Horn stuffed his hands in the pockets of his trousers and leaned his ample backside against the edge of the table. His stomach was queasy, so he dug out a pack of Tums and flipped one in his mouth. As he chewed the chalky antacid, he said a silent prayer that today’s docket would be handled by the assistant prosecutor. Subconsciously, he glanced down at his watch. It was 8:25 a.m., and the docket call wasn’t supposed to start until 9:00. Despite how early it was, the courtroom was crawling with defense lawyers, all vying for one last opportunity to be heard by the prosecutor before the judge took the bench. The gallery was a cacophony of nervous laughter, loud whispers, and the occasional sneeze or cough. The noise reminded Lou of the way a church congregation sounded before the music began and the preacher ascended the pulpit.