Chapters (88)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

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ISBN-13: 9781542004268

ISBN-10: 1542004268

Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

DEDICATION

In memory of my friend Danny Ray Cobb

CONTENTS

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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.