"We're here to give blood."

"Blood Services is just down the hall," she said, pointing.

"Are they open?"

"I doubt it. Who you giving blood for?"

"Uh, Bailey," Aggie said as he looked blankly at Calvin.

"First name?" She began to peck at a keyboard and look at a monitor.

Aggie and Calvin frowned at each other, clueless. "I thought Bailey was his first name," Calvin said.

"I thought it was his last name. They used to call him Buck, didn't they?"

"Sure, but his momma's last name is Caldwell."

"How many times has she been married?"

The girl watched this back-and-forth with her mouth open. Aggie looked at her and said, "Got anybody with the last name of Bailey?"

She pecked, waited, then said, "A Mr. Jerome Bailey, aged forty-eight, black, gunshot wound."

"Anybody else?"

"No."

"Anybody with the first name of Bailey?"

"We don't enter them by first names."

"Why not?"

The shooting was a gang skirmish that had begun an hour earlier at a north Memphis housing project. For some reason it resumed in the parking lot of Mercy Hospital. Roger, dead to the world, was jolted from his blackout by a burst of gunfire close by. It took a second or two for his brain to react, but before long he knew d.a.m.ned well that, again, someone was shooting at him. He eased his head up, peeked low through the pa.s.senger's window, and was struck by the realization that he had no idea where he was. There were rows of cars parked all around, a tall parking garage nearby, buildings everywhere, and in the distance flashing red and blue lights.

More gunfire, and Roger ducked low, lost his equilibrium, and was on the floorboard, where he frantically searched under the seat for a weapon of some sort. Aggie, like every other boy from Ford County, wouldn't travel anywhere without protection, and Roger knew a gun was close by. He found one under the driver's seat, a 9-millimeter Husk automatic with a twelve-shot clip. Fully loaded. He clutched it, fondled it, kissed the barrel, then quickly rolled down the pa.s.senger's window. He heard angry voices, then saw what was most certainly a gangster car easing suspiciously through the parking lot.

Roger fired twice, hit nothing, but succeeded in changing the strategy of the gang shooting. Aggie's Dodge was immediately sprayed with bullets from an a.s.sault rifle. The rear window exploded, sending gla.s.s throughout the cab and into the long hair of Roger, who hit the floor again and began scrambling to safety. He slid out of the driver's door, ducked low, and began zigzagging through the unlit rows of parked cars. Behind him were more angry voices, then another gunshot. He kept going, his thighs and calves screaming as he kept his head at tire level. He failed to complete a turn between two cars and crashed into the front fender of an old Cadillac. He sat for a moment on the asphalt, listening, breathing, sweating, cursing, but not bleeding. Slowly, he raised his head, saw no one chasing him, but decided to take no chances. He pressed on, cutting between parked cars until he came to a street. A car was approaching, so he stuck the pistol in a front pants pocket.

It was apparent, even to Roger, that this part of town was a war zone. The buildings had thick bars over the windows. The chain-link fences were crowned with razor wire. The alleys were dark and forbidding, and Roger, in a lucid moment, asked himself, What the h.e.l.l am I doin' here? Only the gun kept him from total panic. He eased along the sidewalk, pondering strategy, and decided it was best to get back to the truck and wait on his friends. The shooting had stopped. Perhaps the police were on the scene and things were secure. There were voices behind him, on the sidewalk, and a quick glance revealed a group of young black men, on his side of the street and gaining. Roger picked up the pace. A rock landed nearby and bounced for twenty feet. They were hollering back there. He eased the gun out of his pocket, put his finger on the trigger, and walked even faster. There were lights ahead, and when he turned a corner, he stepped into a small parking lot outside an all-night convenience store.

There was one car parked directly in front of the store, and beside the car a white man and a white woman were yelling at each other. As Roger stepped onto the scene, the man threw a right hook and clobbered the woman in the face. The sound of her flesh getting smacked was sickening. Roger froze as the scene began to register in his muddled mind.

But the woman took the shot well and counterpunched with an unbelievable combination. She threw a right cross that busted the man's lips, then went low with a left uppercut that crushed his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es. He squealed like a burned animal and fell in a heap just as Roger took a step closer. The woman looked at Roger, looked at his gun, then saw the gang approaching from the dark street. If there was another conscious white person within four blocks, he or she was not outdoors.

"You in trouble?" she asked.

"I think so. You?"

"I've felt safer. You got a driver's license?"

"Sure," Roger said as he almost reached again for his wallet.

"Let's go." She jumped in the car with Roger behind the wheel and his new friend riding shotgun. Roger squealed tires, and they were soon racing west on Poplar Avenue.

"Who was that guy back there?" Roger asked, his eyes darting back and forth between the street and the rearview mirror.

"My dealer."

"Your dealer!"

"Yep."

"Are we gonna just leave him?"

"Why don't you put that gun down?" she said, and Roger looked at his left hand and realized he was still holding the pistol. He placed it on the seat between them. She immediately grabbed it, pointed it at him, and said, "Just shut up and drive."

The police were gone when Aggie and Calvin returned to the truck. They gawked at the damage, then cursed profusely when they realized Roger had vanished. "He took my Husk," Aggie said, as he searched under the seat.

"Stupid sonofab.i.t.c.h," Calvin kept saying. "I hope he's dead."

They swept gla.s.s off the seat and drove away, anxious to get out of downtown Memphis. There was a quick conversation about looking for Roger, but they were fed up with him. The Mexican girl at the information desk had given them directions to Central Hospital, the most likely place to find Bailey.

The lady at the desk at Central explained that the blood unit was closed for the night, would reopen at 8:00 a.m., and had a rigid policy against accepting donations from those who were obviously intoxicated. The hospital did not currently have a patient with either the first or the last name of Bailey. As she was dismissing them, a uniformed security guard appeared from nowhere and asked them to leave. They cooperated, and he walked them out of the front door. As they were saying good night, Calvin asked him, "Say, you know where we might be able to sell a pint of blood?"

"There's a blood bank on Watkins, not too far."

"You think it's open?"

"Yes, it's open all night."

"How do you get there?" Aggie asked.

He pointed this way and that, then said, "Be careful, though. It's where all the addicts go when they need cash. Rough place."

The blood bank was the only destination Aggie found on the first attempt, and by the time they stopped on the street beside it, they were hoping it would be closed. It was not. The reception area was a grungy little room with a row of plastic chairs and magazines scattered everywhere. An addict of some variety was in one corner, on the floor, under a coffee table, curled into the fetal position, and obviously dying. A grim-faced man in surgical scrubs worked the desk, and he greeted them with a nasty "What do you want?"

Aggie cleared his throat, took another glance at the addict in the corner, and managed to spit out, "Ya'll buy blood around here?"

"We will pay for it, and we will accept it for free."

"How much?"

"Fifty bucks a pint."

To Calvin, with $6.25 in his pocket, the price meant a cover charge, three watered-down beers, and another memorable lap dance with Amber. To Aggie, with $18 in his pocket and no credit cards, the deal meant another quick visit to the strip club and enough gas to get home. Both had forgotten about poor Bailey.

Clipboards were handed over. As they filled in the blanks, the attendant asked, "What type of blood?"

The question drew two blank faces.

"What type of blood?" he repeated.

"Red," Aggie said, and Calvin laughed loudly. The attendant did not crack a smile.

"You boys been drinking?" he asked.

"We've had a few," Aggie said.

"But we won't charge you extra for the alcohol," Calvin added quickly, then both roared with laughter.

"What size needle you want?" the man asked, and all humor vanished.

They swore in writing that they had no known allergies or diseases. "Who's first?"

Neither budged. "Mr. Agnor," the man said, "follow me." Aggie followed him through a door and into a large square room with two beds on the right side and three on the left. Lying on the first bed on the right was a thick-chested white woman in gym sweats and hiking boots. A tube ran from her left arm down to a clear plastic bag that was half-filled with a dark red liquid. Aggie glanced at the tube, the bag, the arm, then realized that there was a needle stuck through the skin. He fainted headfirst and landed with a loud thud on the tiled floor.

Calvin, in a plastic chair near the front door nervously flipping through a magazine with one eye on the dying addict, heard a loud noise in the back but thought nothing of it.

Cold water and ammonia brought Aggie around, and he eventually managed to crawl onto one of the beds where a tiny Asian lady with her mouth covered by white gauze began explaining, in a thick accent, that he was going to be fine and there was nothing to worry about. "Keep your eyes closed," she said repeatedly.

"I really don't need fifty bucks," Aggie said, his head spinning. She did not understand. When she placed a tray filled with accessories next to him, he took one look and felt faint again.

"Close eyes, please," she said as she scrubbed his left forearm with alcohol, the odor of which made him nauseous.

"You can have the money," he said. She produced a large black blindfold, stuck it to his face, and suddenly Aggie's world was completely dark.

The attendant returned to the front and Calvin jumped from his chair. "Follow me," the man said, and Calvin did so. When he entered the square room, and when he saw the woman in the hiking boots on one side and Aggie wearing a strange blindfold on the other side, he, too, collapsed and fell hard near the spot where his friend had landed just minutes earlier.

"Who are these bozos?" asked the woman in the hiking boots.

"Mississippi," the attendant said as he patiently hovered over Calvin and waited for him to come around. Cold water and ammonia helped again. Aggie listened to it all from behind his shroud.

Two pints were eventually extracted. A hundred dollars changed hands. At ten minutes after 2:00 a.m., the battle-scarred Dodge slid into the parking lot of the Desperado, and the two wild bucks arrived for the final hour of the party. Lighter on blood but heavier on testosterone, they paid the cover charge while looking for the lying bouncer who'd sent them off to Lutheran Hospital. He was not there. Inside, the crowd had thinned and the girls were exhausted. An aging stripper went through the motions onstage.

They were led to a table near their first one, and, sure enough, within seconds Amber appeared and said, "What'll it be, boys? Three-drink minimum."

"We're back," Calvin said proudly.

"Wonderful. What'll it be?"

"Beer."

"You got it," she said and vanished.

"I don't think she remembers us," Calvin said, wounded.

"Plop down twenty bucks and she'll remember you," Aggie said. "You ain't wastin' money on a lap dance, are you?"

"Maybe."

"You're as stupid as Roger."

"No one's that stupid. Reckon where he is."

"Floatin' downriver with his throat cut."

"What's his daddy gonna say?"

"He should say, 'That boy was always stupid.' How the h.e.l.l do I know what he's gonna say? Do you really care?"

Across the room, some corporate types in dark suits were getting plastered. One put his arm around the waist of a waitress, and she quickly jerked away. A bouncer appeared, pointed at the man, and said harshly, "Don't touch the girls!" The suits roared with laughter. Everything was funny.

As soon as Amber delivered their six gla.s.ses of beer, Calvin couldn't wait to blurt out, "How 'bout a lap dance?"

She frowned, then said, "Maybe later. I'm pretty tired." Then she was gone.

"She's tryin' to save your money for you," Aggie said. Calvin was crushed. For hours he had relived the brief moment when Amber had straddled his enormous loins and gyrated happily to the music. He could feel her, touch her, even smell her cheap perfume.

A rather large and flabby young lady appeared onstage and began dancing badly. She was soon unclothed but drew little attention. "Must be the graveyard shift," Aggie said. Calvin hardly noticed. He was watching Amber as she sashayed through the club. She was definitely moving slower. It was almost time to go home.

Much to Calvin's dismay, one of the corporate suits enticed Amber into a lap dance. She found the enthusiasm and was soon grinding away as his friends offered all manner of commentary. She was surrounded by gawking drunks. The one upon whom she was dancing evidently lost control of himself. Against club policy and also in violation of a Memphis city ordinance, he reached forward with both hands and grabbed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. It was an enormous mistake.

In a split second, several things happened at once. There was the flash of a camera, and someone yelled, "Vice, you're under arrest!" While this was taking place, Amber jumped from the man's lap and yelled something about his filthy hands. Since the bouncers had been watching the suits closely, they, the bouncers, were at the table instantly. Two cops in plain clothes rushed forward. One was holding a camera, and the other kept saying, "Memphis vice, Memphis vice."

Someone yelled, "Cops!" There was pushing and shoving and lots of profanity. The music stopped cold. The crowd backed away. Things were under control during the first few seconds, until Amber somehow stumbled and fell over a chair. This caused her to wail in an affected, dramatic manner, and it also caused Calvin to rush into the melee and throw the first punch. He swung at the suit who'd groped his girl, and he hit him very hard in the mouth. At that moment, at least eleven grown men, half of them drunk, began throwing punches in every direction and at every target. Calvin was. .h.i.t hard by a bouncer, and this brought Aggie into the brawl. The suits were swinging wildly at the bouncers, the cops, and the rednecks. Someone threw a gla.s.s of beer that landed across the room near a table of middle-aged bikers, who, until that moment, had done nothing more than shout encouragement to everyone throwing punches. However, the breaking gla.s.s upset the bikers. They charged. Outside the Desperado, two uniformed cops had been waiting patiently to help carry away victims of the vice squad, and when they were alerted to the excitement inside, they quickly entered the club. When they realized the fight was more like a full-blown riot, they instinctively pulled out their nightsticks and began looking for a skull or two to crack. Aggie's was first, and while he was on the floor, a cop beat him senseless. Gla.s.s was shattered. The cheap tables and chairs were splintered. Two of the bikers picked up wooden chair legs and attacked the bouncers. The melee roared on with loyalties shifting rapidly and bodies falling to the floor. Casualties mounted until the cops and the bouncers gained the upper hand and eventually subdued the corporate suits, the bikers, the boys from Ford County, and a few others who'd joined the fun. Blood was everywhere-on the floor, on shirts and jackets, and especially on faces and arms.

More police arrived, then the ambulances. Aggie was unconscious and rapidly losing blood from his already diminished supply. The medics were alarmed at his condition and rushed him into the first ambulance. He was taken to Mercy Hospital. One of the suits had also received a number of blows from a cop's nightstick, and he, too, was unresponsive. He was placed in a second ambulance. Calvin was handcuffed and manhandled into the rear seat of a police car, where he was joined by an angry man in a gray suit and a white shirt soaked with blood.

Calvin's right eye was swollen shut, and through his left he caught a glimpse of Aggie's Dodge pickup sitting forlornly in the parking lot.

Five hours later, from a pay phone in the Shelby County jail, Calvin was finally allowed to make a collect phone call to his mother in Box Hill. Without dwelling on the facts, he explained that he was in jail, that he was charged with felony a.s.sault on a police officer, which, according to one of his cell mates, carried up to ten years in prison, and that Aggie was in Mercy Hospital with a busted skull. He had no idea where Roger was. There was no mention of Bailey.

The phone call rippled through the community, and within an hour a carload of friends was headed to Memphis to a.s.sess the damage. They learned that Aggie had survived a surgical procedure to remove a blood clot in the brain, and that he, too, was charged with felony a.s.sault on a police officer. A doctor told the family that he would be in the hospital for at least a week. The family had no insurance. His truck had been seized by the police, and the procedures required to retrieve it appeared impenetrable.

Calvin's family learned that his bond was $50,000, an unrealistic sum for them to consider. He would be represented by a public defender unless they could raise enough cash to hire a Memphis lawyer. Late Friday afternoon, an uncle was finally allowed to talk to Calvin in the visitors' room of the jail. Calvin wore an orange jumpsuit and orange rubber shower shoes and looked awful. His face was bruised and swollen, his right eye still closed. He was scared and depressed and offered few details.

Still no word from Roger.

After two days in the hospital, Bailey's progress was remarkable. His right leg was broken, not crushed, and his other injuries were minor cuts, bruises, and a very sore chest. His employer arranged for an ambulance, and at noon Sat.u.r.day Bailey left Methodist Hospital and was driven straight to his mother's house in Box Hill, where he was welcomed home like a prisoner of war. Hours pa.s.sed before he was told of the efforts by his friends to donate their blood.

Eight days later, Aggie came home to recuperate. His doctor expected a full recovery, but it would take time. His lawyer had managed to reduce the charges to a simple a.s.sault. In light of the damage inflicted by the cops, it seemed fair to give Aggie a break. His girlfriend stopped by, but only to end the romance. The legend of the road trip and the brawl in the Memphis strip club would haunt them forever, and she wanted no part of it. Plus, there were significant rumors that perhaps Aggie was a bit brain damaged, and she already had her eye on another boy.

Three months later, Calvin returned to Ford County. His lawyer negotiated a plea to reduce the a.s.sault from a felony to a misdemeanor, but the deal required three months in the Shelby County Penal Farm. Calvin didn't like the deal, but the prospect of going to trial in a Memphis courtroom and facing the Memphis police was not appealing. If found guilty on the felony, he would spend years in prison.

In the days following the melee, to the surprise of everyone, the b.l.o.o.d.y corpse of Roger Tucker was not found in some back alley in downtown Memphis. He wasn't found at all; not that anyone was actively searching for him. A month after the road trip, he called his father from a pay phone near Denver. He claimed to be hitchhiking around the country, alone, and having a grand time. Two months later he was arrested for shoplifting in Spokane, and served sixty days in a city jail.