All The Junkies Were Valiant-Crying Out For Repentance And God Save Us Sinners-The Junkies Have Always Been With Us-The Fixer Man Too- Let Me Count The Ways

By Fritz Taylor

I have calmed down a little, come off my high horse a little about the subject of a piece I did a couple of articles back. The article supposedly about famed crime novel (and friend of young Rav Wilson who has caught on at this publication recently) Lem Kane’s switch over to police procedurals from the previous slam bang of private detection he had built his solid no non-sense but also take no prisoners reputation on but really about the hard reality of what the public coppers in places like Fort Point Estates down in Fulton County Georgia did, or did  not do about crime and criminals. Fort Point Estates being not some arbitrary example but the place where me and my kin going back a couple of generations grew up and lived. A place where northerners like Seth Garth and Ralph Morris who grew up in the same kind of places maybe more properly call “the projects.” Not the fucking pretty picture by-the numbers- squeeze a clue a page out police procedural where the coppers actually don’t grab every freebie coffee and cruller not nailed down if you can believe that but follow the leads to their logical conclusions providing some closure to the case, and maybe to some desperate redemption seeking family. And not the pretty boy and girl television bull either where in something like forty-two minutes they are calling whatever the case is “a wrap.”

The reality. The Fort Point Estates reality was basically nothing but the public coppers from top to bottom as I found out much too late in the case of Captain Dorian who ran the police substation on site before he wound up being run into the state pen not for the high crimes he let get by, let his men get by with but for stealing some city materials like copper tubing and selling the stuff on the black market except maybe hold their grubby little hands out for whatever pocket change they can scoop up from the fixer man, grifters, and pimps. In the priority of things copper the fixer man was king, followed by the pimps and then the grifters with their ten-percent dreams and discount prices.  

I mentioned in the previous two pieces in what appears seems to be a short series brewing that the public coppers worked hand in hand with the local owner of the only variety store, the only place in the area to get provisions especially if like lots of residents including my family at times you had no automobile to get to other places. That guy, Jimmy Bob Carter (and his wife always called Lady Vivian but I am not sure why) not only sold milk and bread but ran the local “book,” ran the whores out of his upstairs space and was the fixer man for the junkies and hopeless who needed a little something for the head, a little something to get through the day, days really. (As far as I know the stuff was mainly opiums, morphines, maybe cocaine although that seemed a stretch for the time since a lot of the fathers in the Estates had been veterans from World War II and had grievous injuries for which they had been doped up with say morphine before they had been discharged ready or not and needed a little something besides corn liquor to clear their heads, to ease the fucking pain.) In any case sitting there with hands at the ready and not accepting cheapjack crap like free coffee and crullers were the local public coppers who freely placed their bets in the “book” left right out on the open counter,  grabbed a whore or two and fled upstairs and looked the other way when Jimmy Bob did up his bindles, eight balls, and grams.        

Those remembrances, seemingly forgotten memories from a time when I, and all the kids I grew up with down there, learned way too early about the hard side of life how some stuff comes up to the surface. Like the time I was standing at Carter’s Variety, at Jimmy Bob’s front really for all the overpriced provisions he actually had in the store, trying to decide on what kind of cheapjack candy I wanted when a couple of coppers came in straight from their patrol car, in uniform picked up Jimmy Bob’s “book” and put down their bets and nobody said nothing. Or the time that Captain Dorian grabbed Jimmy Bob’s lead whore, Lula, and ran her up the stairs to do what of course then I didn’t know but it wasn’t to pray to the Lord like the Captain did on Sunday morning with his wife and five children at 7^th Street Baptist. Here’s a last example, a couple of coppers sitting in their squad car when a couple of known local junkies (they were notorious even among us kids who didn’t know squat about drugs or the seamy side of life for going “on the nod” at the little beach front about fifty yards down from Carter’s) walked into Jimmy Bob’s  looking like hell and coming out like they had just found Jesus (and maybe they had). Got “well” in any case.

Once you start dredging though who knows. I have had plenty of reasons not to trust, and at times to hate the public coppers no matter how nice and pretty they make them appear to be on cop television shows (although usually not on the daily news where they get the old see-saw). As mentioned in the last piece I had almost forgotten about the most notorious case that came out of the Fort Point Estates no good copper racket, the case of Tara Lee Parker. The murder most foul of Tara Lee Parker, which was never solved, maybe they never wanted solved. Tara Lee had been a classmate of my oldest brother, Lester, so he knew more about what happened than I did as a twelve-year old boy hardly up to date on sex and sexual depravity and sheer craziness. Tara Lee was maybe sixteen when she dropped out of school, according to Lester who had her in some of his classes.

I guess Tara Lee, was never much of a student, was known to the older crowd as a girl who liked to walk on the wild side, who ran away from home who knows how many times. Got a reputation for all kinds of depraved doings but that stuff I learned later for the word around the Estates when her name came up was slut, whore, pig and cocksucker, stuff like that. Eventually she got into Jimmy Bob’s stable, his good time girls, his girls who would go to the “game room” which is what he called his upstairs operation to do whatever. It was well-known to be frequently by richer guys from the Cherokee Hills section of town, the old money cotton and textile mills money that kept that section afloat. You would see cars, American cars, expensive American cars like Cadillacs and Lincolns, definitely not Estate cars like a Nash Rambler, in front of Carter’s Variety day and night. And young stuff like Tara Lee was there to service their needs.                

Now I didn’t know, still don’t, know all the arrangements that Jimmy Bob had had with his clients, but I guess for an extra price guys could take their whores elsewhere to do what they were going to do. That turned to be the downfall for one Tara Lee Parker. One morning some early morning fisherman found her body against a sullen tree truck along the swollen Dam River cut up bad I heard, cut up in a very sexually depraved way when I understood such things better later. The last guy seen with her was Gary Lyons, the son of the major mill operator in town in those days who employed a number of Estate fathers in his works for cheap pay, who had a serious reputation as a wild boy with the women.   

Here is where I will rant, here is where even over fifty years later I cry out for some closure for Tara Lee Parker. The coppers, Captain Dorian in the lead knew that she had a few off-kilter clients, including Gary, from the Cherokee Hills. Knew she had been out with some guy from there that night of her death because she had taken off with him in a Lincoln, the Lyons favorite car. Did they ever do anything to check Gary out, to check where he had been, who he had been with. Do anything but close down the investigation after about two days. No, and I would hear from a shaken Lester once he heard what had happened to Tara Lee that some two-bit copper said that more than two days was too much time to spent on the murder of a bent whore, that she was doomed anyway so forget about it. Yeah, run that remark on cop television shows why don’t you.

On top of the indecent way that the public coppers handled the case which is worth its own rant I have been informed by a reliable source that Gary Lyons, who would take over the family mill operations before sending them off-shore to Mexico and living the life of some kind of playboy passed away a couple of years ago. According to my source among the effects found in his mansion when they cleared things out was a pair of very old, very soiled women’ underwear with the initials TLP on them, other pairs as well in various conditions and apparently from later times. Too late for some serious justice but at least my brother Lester who really was broken up about her horrible death now has an idea of what happened and who did the foul deed.