The Roundhouse: A Crime of Passion, Part II

Dickerson Pike was one of the last streets in Nashville to officially qualify as ‘no man’s land.’ By 2009, you could drive into just about any beat-up neighborhood in the greater metropolitan area and find a few young upwardly mobile couples renovating an old Victorian, planting a new bed of chrysanthemums and establishing a Neighborhood Watch program. A string of surprisingly progressive mayors had extended enough corporate tax credits to free up discretionary funding for improving the decaying urban infrastructure. It was all very pretty on the surface, but the bike lanes, greenways and multiple Whole Foods locations had not yet covered up the city’s dirty underbelly. A few hidden pockets of serious deviance could still be sniffed out, most of them in the vicinity of Dickerson Pike. And my dog Stan, quite literally, could smell a fresh pile of shit from miles away.

“He’s in the back,” said Carmen, the afternoon bartender at Stinky’s. I nodded my appreciation and began picking my way through the alcoholic obstacle course of sagging chairs, wobbly Formica tables and random drunks passed out on the floor. Stinky’s was an agglomeration of three gutted mobile homes yoked together in the shape of a horse shoe, lit exclusively by decrepit beer signs and a few fluorescent black lights with flickering bulbs. The air was heavy, humid with the swell of cigarette butts floating in cheap beer.

I found Stan in his usual booth, comatose on his back, his pink tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth. An Albanian hooker named Svetlana was tenderly stroking the length of his furry white belly.

“How long has he been here?” I asked.

“He write za zong to make za young girl cry,” Svetlana sang, blissfully out of tune, “Schtan write za zong, Schtan write za zong.”

I slid into the booth across from her, right next to Stan’s head. “That’s nice, Svetlana.” I placed my hand next to his mouth. He was still breathing. I pinched his nose between my fingers and gave his snout a firm but gentle shake.

“Stan. Stan, wake up.”

His eyes opened halfway, blood-shot and crusty. “Svetlana, Svetlana,” he murmured, “ ‘we loved with a love that was more than love.’ “

“Oh, my schveet bootiful bebbeh,” said Svetlana, moving her hand from his belly to the white folds of skin around his collar.

“OK, that’s enough,” I pushed her hand away. “Stan, get up.” I gave him a light slap on his jaw. “We got a job.”

He opened his eyes a bit wider and twitched his nose back and forth a few times. “Ah,” he yawned, the toxic fumes of his breath making my eyes water, “the drought has ended.” He rolled over and fell from the booth to the dirty carpet, landing with an impressive thud.

“Oh, Schtanny,” cooed Svetlana, peering under the table.

“He’s alright,” I assured her.

“Oh what a beautiful morning,” sang Stan, padding out from beneath the table, “oh what a beautiful day.”

“OK, buddy,” I encouraged, “let’s go to the Hermitage and get some coffee in you. This one is important.”

“Aye Aye, Cap’n,” he said, raising his leg to urinate on a wall of fake pine paneling. “One more for the road, then we’re off. Svetlana? Another chardonnay?”

“Ooooh, you dirta dawg.”

“Stan.” I pulled a red leather leash out of my jacket pocket and held it out towards him. “You’re leaving me no choice.”

He lowered his head and stared at the floor. “You bastard. How dare you,” he whispered.

“Svetlana,” I said, reaching for my wallet, “how much does he owe you?”

“Oh, eetz OK,” she smiled. “Ee buy za drinks. Dee rest eez eazy,” she confided, blowing a kiss toward Stan as he waddled towards the back door. “Eee ash no ballz.”