The Hermitage Cafe was one of Nashville’s last surviving greasy spoon’s. Perched on a hill overlooking a power plant, an industrial dump and, almost as an afterthought, the Cumberland River, The Hermitage served up such Southern staples as biscuits n’ gravy, steak n’ eggs and, on occasion, and when the customer provided the necessary ingredients, a Vegemite omelette.
“I love this place,” said Stan, as our waitress slid a plate bearing the stinking omelette in front of him. “Thanks, Sweetie.” The waitress glared at him as she moved to the next table. He rose from his haunches, put his snout to the plate and began devouring the omelette in noisy gulps.
“OK, here’s how it breaks down,” I began. “Our principal is a Caucasian male, mid-thirties, name John Deaderick. Lives on the East Side.”
“Ah, the East Side.” Stan chewed his eggs and looked out the window towards the river. Terrified of water, he had never been able to bring himself to cross the Cumberland despite the glowing reports of debauchery to be found in the city’s perennial bohemian enclave. “Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection.”
“Deaderick claims to have been assaulted by a woman, Rachel Heusenstamm...”
“Goddamn Kraut,” said Stan.
“... at a wedding... what did you say?”
He finished his omelette with one last slurp and nestled into the Formica bench. “I’m just saying, you should never trust a German.” He gave his ear a few tentative scratches with his hind paw. He was obviously still drunk.
“What is this, 1944? You don’t even know if she’s German.”
“Well, I think we can safely assume that she’s not Irish.” He grabbed a fresh cigarillo from the table with his teeth. “Light, please.”
I touched the flame of my lighter to the tip of his cigarillo and pressed on. “As I was saying. Deaderick claims Heusenstamm, totally unprovoked, slapped him at the wedding of,” I checked my notebook, “Daniel Tashian and Lillie Fish.”
“Fish, now that’s a good Irish name.”
“She hit him hard, apparently. He’s got a sore jaw and a bruised ego to show for it.”
“’A sore jaw and a bruised ego to show for it’,” Stan mocked. “Someone has been hitting the Law and Order re-runs a little hard in my absence.”
Well, maybe I had. “Just trying to give you the whole picture. I went to Deaderick’s house this morning.” I gave a brief but detailed summarization of the visit. “Something’s not quite right over there.”
“I’ll say,” said Stan, dropping the butt of his cigarillo to the floor. “Anyone with that much vintage Danish porn should definitely not have a Doberman in the house. So you’re thinking that Deaderick isn’t giving you the full story?”
“He’s definitely hiding something.”
“What does he want us to do, anyway?”
I told him.
“Sweet Christ.” He stuck his snout into his coffee cup and finished the last of the crappy brew in four dunks of his tongue. “We’ll need more information, then. You have to talk to everyone that was at that table.”
“I know.”
“And the Kraut. Music Stand.”
“Heusenstamm.”
“Whatever. So who’s first?”
I checked my notes again. “Two musicians. Jonathan Trebing and Peter Bradley Adams.”
Stan farted loudly against the formica, turning the heads of several diners in our direction. “I wonder,” he mused, “if it will ever be possible to get to the bottom of any questionable circumstance in this town without having to consult,” his tone hardened, “musicians.”
“Probably not,” I surmised.
“Music City, U.S.A.” He hopped down from the bench and stretched his shoulders, then popped up, tail wagging. “Alright, then. Duty calls.” He walked toward the door.
Two guys in mesh trucker’s hats sitting at the counter clocked as we passed. “You better git that dawg outa here ‘fore I shoot it,” one of them cackled.
“We were just leaving,” I said.
“Go fuck yourself,” added Stan.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
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