Just a House?
I’ll Scratch Yours, If You Scratch Mine
“Why do I have to be in a damn cage?” Memphis waved his arms through the dirt and rust covered bars. “It’s not like I have anywhere else to go!”
“Pipe down!” The desk clerk yelled. Memphis flipped the small man off.
“Go to hell, man! Let me outta here.”
“I said, shut up back there.” The cop barked.
“Kiss my ass, Blue Boy!” Memphis snarled through the bars, “ Don’t I get a phone call? Give me my shit and a phone, now.”
“Or what,” the cop laughed, “you’re going to get a big shot lawyer to sue me.”
“I might!”
Memphis could hear the mumbling, but he couldn’t understand it. He knew the word lawyer made police squirm. A court appointed clerk once chewed the police up and spit them out before lunch in the small town where he was raised. Myra Culpeper. Her long dark hair situated in a tight bun atop her head, and her long legs tapped that pointed shoe like it was going out of style. Memphis remembered her well; she was his first crush, and his first let down. He saw her for three days while she got him off the hook for a robbery he committed when he was 15, nearly 20 years ago. She gave him her business card and said, “If you ever need anything give me a ring, alright?” When he called, the number was disconnected and she was gone.
“Here, Jailbird,” the registration clerk stated as he held a black receiver through the bars toward Memphis. “I hope you know a good lawyer.”
“I don’t know a…” He remembered the man with the offer leaving his card on the easel. That must’ve been card he found on the floor earlier. His fingers delved into his pocket searching for the thick squared paper.
“Come on, I don’t have all day,” the receptionist rolled his eyes and stamped his foot.
“I wanna call this guy,” Memphis grabbed the card between two fingers and held it out to the cop.
“Mr. Miller?” The cop nodded. “He seems like a pretty fancy guy; you better hope he remembers you.”
“Yeah, he’ll remember me.”
Two hours later Mr. Miller waltzed into the station with his chin held high. He wiped his hands obsessively on a white handkerchief he kept in his jacket pocket. His nose scrunched as he approached the front desk of the police station and swatted a fly away from his nose. “Excuse me?” He called as he rang the bell once. There was no answer, so he repeated the action twice.
“Yeah, yeah,” the dark haired man in a blue uniform barked while running to his post. “What can I do for you?”
“Clean a little for starters,” Mr. Miller slapped at another insect swarming around his head.
“What?”
“I’m sorry.” Mr. Miller smiled. “I am here for Memphis Dupree.”
“So you are Mr. Fancy.” The cop shook his head. “Good luck dealing with him.” He motioned for Mr. Miller to follow.
Mumbling echoed at the end of the corridor. A jacket covered arm hung out of the cell. The closer Mr. Miller got to the cage the more of Memphis he could see. The artist leaned his forehead against the metal bars as he continued to repeat, “I don’t know why I have to be here.”
“Dupree.” The cop tapped the bars he leaned against. “You got company.”
Memphis lifted his eyes to Mr. Miller. Sadness filled his eyes which were already accentuated with dark circles. “Hey.”
“Hello, again.” Mr. Miller nodded.
“Can you help me?” Memphis grasped the bars around his face as he pleaded for his freedom.
“I will on two conditions.” He smiled.
“I don’t have any moment or anything else to offer,” Memphis stated as he shook his head.
“I want the finished train painting I saw this morning,” Mr. Miller explained, “and you have to agree to my offer about the house.”
“That’s it?”
Mr. Miller nodded as he held out his hand. “That’s all I want.”
Memphis shook his hand graciously. “Alright.”
Twenty minutes later, Memphis walked out of his cell with completed paperwork. The detective decided not to press charges after Mr. Miller wagged his silver tongue. There were a few fines to pay, and his money was more than enough to cover them. Memphis rubbed his wrists as Mr. Miller signed and initialed the last papers. The ‘Blue Boy’ cop smiled the most insincere grin that Memphis had ever seen—he’d seen a lot of insincerity in his bitter life—before he said, “You’ll be back Dupree.”
Memphis shook his head, “you’ll miss me while I’m gone.” He laughed and winked at the receptionist cop. Mr. Miller chuckled.
The cop rolled his eyes and stamped the stack of signed papers. “You’re free to go for now, Jailbird.”
“Pipe down!” The desk clerk yelled. Memphis flipped the small man off.
“Go to hell, man! Let me outta here.”
“I said, shut up back there.” The cop barked.
“Kiss my ass, Blue Boy!” Memphis snarled through the bars, “ Don’t I get a phone call? Give me my shit and a phone, now.”
“Or what,” the cop laughed, “you’re going to get a big shot lawyer to sue me.”
“I might!”
Memphis could hear the mumbling, but he couldn’t understand it. He knew the word lawyer made police squirm. A court appointed clerk once chewed the police up and spit them out before lunch in the small town where he was raised. Myra Culpeper. Her long dark hair situated in a tight bun atop her head, and her long legs tapped that pointed shoe like it was going out of style. Memphis remembered her well; she was his first crush, and his first let down. He saw her for three days while she got him off the hook for a robbery he committed when he was 15, nearly 20 years ago. She gave him her business card and said, “If you ever need anything give me a ring, alright?” When he called, the number was disconnected and she was gone.
“Here, Jailbird,” the registration clerk stated as he held a black receiver through the bars toward Memphis. “I hope you know a good lawyer.”
“I don’t know a…” He remembered the man with the offer leaving his card on the easel. That must’ve been card he found on the floor earlier. His fingers delved into his pocket searching for the thick squared paper.
“Come on, I don’t have all day,” the receptionist rolled his eyes and stamped his foot.
“I wanna call this guy,” Memphis grabbed the card between two fingers and held it out to the cop.
“Mr. Miller?” The cop nodded. “He seems like a pretty fancy guy; you better hope he remembers you.”
“Yeah, he’ll remember me.”
Two hours later Mr. Miller waltzed into the station with his chin held high. He wiped his hands obsessively on a white handkerchief he kept in his jacket pocket. His nose scrunched as he approached the front desk of the police station and swatted a fly away from his nose. “Excuse me?” He called as he rang the bell once. There was no answer, so he repeated the action twice.
“Yeah, yeah,” the dark haired man in a blue uniform barked while running to his post. “What can I do for you?”
“Clean a little for starters,” Mr. Miller slapped at another insect swarming around his head.
“What?”
“I’m sorry.” Mr. Miller smiled. “I am here for Memphis Dupree.”
“So you are Mr. Fancy.” The cop shook his head. “Good luck dealing with him.” He motioned for Mr. Miller to follow.
Mumbling echoed at the end of the corridor. A jacket covered arm hung out of the cell. The closer Mr. Miller got to the cage the more of Memphis he could see. The artist leaned his forehead against the metal bars as he continued to repeat, “I don’t know why I have to be here.”
“Dupree.” The cop tapped the bars he leaned against. “You got company.”
Memphis lifted his eyes to Mr. Miller. Sadness filled his eyes which were already accentuated with dark circles. “Hey.”
“Hello, again.” Mr. Miller nodded.
“Can you help me?” Memphis grasped the bars around his face as he pleaded for his freedom.
“I will on two conditions.” He smiled.
“I don’t have any moment or anything else to offer,” Memphis stated as he shook his head.
“I want the finished train painting I saw this morning,” Mr. Miller explained, “and you have to agree to my offer about the house.”
“That’s it?”
Mr. Miller nodded as he held out his hand. “That’s all I want.”
Memphis shook his hand graciously. “Alright.”
Twenty minutes later, Memphis walked out of his cell with completed paperwork. The detective decided not to press charges after Mr. Miller wagged his silver tongue. There were a few fines to pay, and his money was more than enough to cover them. Memphis rubbed his wrists as Mr. Miller signed and initialed the last papers. The ‘Blue Boy’ cop smiled the most insincere grin that Memphis had ever seen—he’d seen a lot of insincerity in his bitter life—before he said, “You’ll be back Dupree.”
Memphis shook his head, “you’ll miss me while I’m gone.” He laughed and winked at the receptionist cop. Mr. Miller chuckled.
The cop rolled his eyes and stamped the stack of signed papers. “You’re free to go for now, Jailbird.”