by Debbie Burke
The second guy let go of the groceries. Both ran, dodging between parked cars, and disappeared into an apartment complex.
Tawny jumped out of the car and hurried toward the woman and child.
The boy, Caleb was pulling on the woman’s t-shirt. “Grammy, did he hurt you?”
“Help me pick up the stuff, Caleb.” The woman was breathing hard, face perspiring, as Tawny drew near. Behind coke-bottle glasses, her eyes focused in recognition. “Thanks,” she said.
“You OK?” Tawny asked.
The woman gingerly touched the back of her head. “Damn punks. We waited an hour in the sun for the store to open ’cause I heard the truck was bringing food. Got the last half gallon of milk.” She jerked her chin in the direction the muggers had fled. “Then they try to steal it.” She hugged the precious bag to her breast.
Tawny became aware of how hard her heart was thumping. She tucked the pistol in her waistband under her t-shirt, relieved that showing it had been enough to scare off the thieves. She stooped to pick up the dropped bag of ice and a can of Vienna sausages that had rolled away.
The other plastic bag had ripped in the fight. A can of Spaghetti-Os, a box of mac and cheese, dog treats, and a package of Oreos had fallen to the sidewalk. Caleb retrieved them and approached his grandmother, juggling to keep from dropping the food.
Both looked wrung out and exhausted from walking in the heat, not to mention fighting off the thugs. Tawny scanned the area to see if they still lurked between the apartments. If she drove away, they might come back and take another run at the vulnerable pair.
“Let me give you a ride home,” she said.
The woman studied Tawny, squinted at the car, then looked down at her grandson. The boy’s face lit with hope at Tawny’s offer.
“Please, Grammy, I’m tired,” he pleaded.
The woman stared at Tawny once more. “Yeah, OK. It’s about two miles from here.”
Tawny helped them carry the groceries to the T-bird and opened the trunk. “My name’s Tawny.”
The woman set the milk in the trunk and placed the ice beside it. “Melba. And this is my grandson, Caleb.”
“Glad to meet you, Caleb.” Tawny took the cans and boxes from the kid and put them with the rest of the groceries.
He ran a hand over the fender. “When I get older, I want a nice ride just like this.”
“OK, Caleb, let’s go for a test drive.” Tawny checked once more but didn’t see the thieves.
With only two seats, Caleb perched on Melba’s lap. The woman groaned as she shifted her grandson’s position. “Boy, you’re gettin’ too big to be sittin’ on your grammy.”
He leaned sideways to study the dashboard. “Does it have the three-point-nine liter V-eight? What’s zero to sixty in this? I like those portholes.”
“Hush, Caleb.” Melba rolled her eyes at Tawny. “Can’t wait ’til he gets his driver’s license.” She gestured. “Turn right at the next corner.”
Tawny followed her directions, veering around tree branches, a sodden mattress, and broken hunks of plastic pipe. With the fan on high, the car cooled quickly.
Melba heaved a deep sigh. “Jesus is my lord and savior but right now this air conditioning comes a close second.”
Tawny answered, “If we could get enough gas, I’d sleep in the car with the AC.”
A small amused grunt came from the woman. “My son and his wife, Caleb’s folks, work for the road department. They been swamped with hurricane preparations and now this mess afterward.”
Caleb chimed in: “Mama and Daddy ain’t been home since Friday.”
Melba scolded, “Don’t say ‘ain’t.’” To Tawny, she added, “Food all spoiled when the refrigerator quit. Caleb didn’t have milk.”
“My dog’s hungry, too,” the boy piped up. “And we have to go to the bathroom in a bucket because the toilet’s broke.”
“Caleb!” The grandmother gave a warning shake to her grandson. To Tawny, she said, “Flood tore the plumbing out from under the house.” She pointed. “Turn left here.”
Tawny drove into a long driveway where an aging mobile home sat high on concrete blocks. The door was a good four feet above the ground but no stairs led to it. Instead, a rickety aluminum stepladder stood beside the entrance. Blue plastic tarps covered parts of the roof, secured with crisscrossed ropes and bungee cords.
After Tawny parked, Caleb clambered off Melba’s lap and ran across the muddy yard. A smiling tan pit bull trotted to him. The pair romped, happy to be reunited.
While they unloaded the trunk, Melba said, “My son doesn’t know how bad the roof’s leaking. My cousins covered the worst places with those tarps. But inside, everything’s soaked, all my furniture, my cross-stitch, my grandpa’s photo albums.” She jerked her head toward a wooded area behind the mobile home. “Creek over there flooded. For a spell, it looked like the Mississippi River was rushing under the trailer. Used to have concrete stairs up to the door. Flood carried them right off, like they were made of cardboard. Lord only knows where they wound up. But we couldn’t go to a shelter because Caleb wouldn’t leave his dog behind.”
“He’s a loyal friend.”
Melba clucked her tongue. “Boys and their dogs. And their cars.”
Tawny helped carry packages as they walked to the stepladder entrance. The ladder teetered under Melba’s weight. Tawny steadied it as the woman climbed. At the top, she unlocked the door then leaned down to take the groceries Tawny handed up to her. She set them on the floor in the entry. When they finished, she called, “Caleb, come here and tell this nice lady thank you.”
The kid skipped across the yard, fresh mud specks spattered on his legs, trailed by the smiling dog whose tail never stopped wagging. “Thank you, Miss Tawny, for letting me ride in your T-bird. If you wanna sell it, you call me.” He started to scamper away but an afterthought made him turn back. “Thank you for saving us from those assholes.”
A sharp intake of breath sounded from Melba. “Caleb, your mouth!”
Tawny swallowed a chuckle.
She traded glances with Melba, who also suppressed a smile and muttered, “Gets that from his daddy.” To Caleb, she said, “Go play now.”
The boy and dog galloped through the yard, kicking up mud.
Melba grasped the package of Oreos and thrust them toward Tawny. “Thanks for saving us from those assholes.”
Now Tawny had to laugh but shook her head. “No, I couldn’t. Caleb must love Oreos.”
“His teeth don’t need that sugar.” Melba patted her round rump. “And my booty sure don’t need it either. Here.” She pushed the cookies into Tawny’s hands.
Tawny couldn’t rebuff the woman’s generous gesture and reluctantly accepted them. “Good luck.”
She returned to the car, touched that, in time of crisis, Melba wanted to share the little she had.
Chapter 7 – Oreos
When Tawny pulled into Smoky’s driveway, the fallen oak was gone, the trunk cut up, branches limbed and stacked in the back yard. The brush pile reached as high as the roof of the house. Only a stump remained.
With the crown of the tree gone, she could now see the damage to the broken supports of the carport, the metal roof folded like a sheet of paper, part still upright but much of it bent to the ground. She drove under the intact part, dodging the barbecue.
Tillman came out the back door as she popped the trunk.
A surge of gratitude lifted her spirits that they were safely together again. “I scavenged some ice, a little food, and ten gallons of gas.”
Tillman evidently felt the same relief as he hugged her tight to his naked chest. He grabbed the bag of ice and the case of water. “You earned your pay today.”
She gestured at the cut-up oak. “So did you.” She pushed the door open for him. “Also, the landlady is coming later to look at the carport damage. She said she doesn’t know where Smoky is but, maybe, when we’re face to face, you can dig out more information than she would giv
e me on the phone.”
Tillman stowed the perishable food and ice in the chest freezer. Without electricity, the appliance served only as an oversized picnic cooler but its thick insulation retained cold better than the non-operating refrigerator.
He pulled the package of Oreos out of the grocery sack and gave her a down-the-nose look, as if he’d caught an alcoholic hiding a bottle. The month before, he’d given up all sugar and she’d been missing sweet treats.
“It was a gift,” she said.
“A gift?”
She explained about meeting Melba and Caleb and their fight with the muggers. His expression hardened when she described the confrontation. “Damn glad you had the pistol. They’re lucky you helped them. But this.” Mischief crinkled the corners of his eyes as he held up the cookies. “This is not a healthy reward.”
“Who appointed you the sugar police?” She reached for the Oreos but he lifted them high over his head, out of her reach. She tickled his exposed armpit. He laughed. She loved that deep, throaty sound because it happened so rarely.
He twisted away and they jostled back and forth, grabbing and tickling. At last, she slid her hand down the front of his shorts and grasped him where he was guaranteed to forget about sugar and most everything else.
He hooked his arm around her, low voice husky. “You must be feeling better.”
“Mm-hmm.” She kissed him. Then again, deeper, not caring that his whiskers scratched her face.
Then they both forgot about Oreos.
***
Sharp knocks on the front door startled them out of drowsy afterglow. Tillman rose from the bed, pulled his shorts on, and strode to the living room, bare feet slapping the tile. Tawny slipped on his t-shirt and followed.
He opened the door to a tall, stately, black woman about fifty, standing on the porch. She looked cool and immaculate in a form-fitting pink sheath and matching strappy sandals, better dressed and groomed than any other person Tawny had seen since the hurricane. The contrast made her realize how grubby and bedraggled she and Tillman looked, how badly they needed a shower and clean clothes.
The woman stared past Tillman toward her. “Are you Tawny?”
Tawny stepped forward. “You must be Nyala.”
She scrutinized Tillman up and down. “You’re Tillman Rosenbaum. Smoky said you were a giant. For once, he wasn’t exaggerating. He also said you were part Ethiopian.”
Tillman slipped into his formal courtroom manners that made his unshaven, shirtless appearance fade into the background. “Ms. Nyala, thank you for coming. My paternal grandmother was an Ethiopian Jew. Please come in and have a seat. We need to talk about Smoky.”
Tawny recognized a model’s or dancer’s training in Nyala’s walk, posture, and the way she crossed her legs when she sat in Smoky’s chair. “My great-great-grandparents were coffee growers from Ethiopia.”
Tillman said, “One day, I plan to take my children there to research our family history. My younger daughter is especially interested.” He sat beside Tawny on the couch and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Ms. Nyala, how did you and Smoky meet?”
She smiled, lovely and professional, as if she did it for a living. “He said you were all business. An attorney, and quite a famous one, correct?”
“I practice in Montana. You met Smoky when?”
“Oh, dear, I didn’t prepare for cross-examination, counselor.”
“Ms. Nyala, Smoky was my coach in high school. We’ve remained friends all these years since then. I’m concerned about him and I will do anything—anything—to find him. You understand, of course.”
Green eyes appraised him, measuring. “Good friends are rare, Mr. Rosenbaum.”
“They are, Ms. Nyala.” His dark stare bored through her.
She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs. “I’m a flight attendant. Smoky and I met when he was on his way back from Panama shortly after his accident. He was in a wheelchair and his leg needed to be elevated. I’m also an RN so the responsibility for his wellbeing fell to me. It was a long trip, seven hours, if I recall, because of a layover in Atlanta. I accompanied him on both legs of the flight.”
She laid one manicured hand atop the other on her knee. “I’m used to being hit on—goes with the job—but Smoky was a complete gentleman. He didn’t use his injury to gain sympathy, he didn’t demand extra attention even though I could tell he was in terrible pain. If I brought him an ice pack or a drink, he thanked me. Little things like that you notice when you deal with the public every day.”
Tawny sneaked a glance at Tillman, remembering his abrasive rudeness when they’d first met. He also would have impressed Nyala—not in a good way.
The woman pressed her palms together, like a prayer. Her fingernails matched her dress. “He said he’d been a coach. I used to work in a sports medicine practice and we got talking physiology, slow-twitch and fast-twitch muscles, the use of ultrasound on soft tissue injuries. You know, esoteric shop talk that bores the average person to tears. But we enjoyed chatting. It made the time pass quickly.
“He needed a place to live. I own a number of vacation rental properties in this area. I was tired of weekenders trashing the place. He seemed like he’d be a good, responsible tenant who’d take care of the house. We came to an agreement and he’s been here ever since.”
That echoed the explanation Smoky had given to Tawny about the rental, except Nyala didn’t mention he paid cash and hid under the radar by keeping the utilities in her name.
Nyala went on: “We became friends with benefits. Neither of us was looking for a long-term domestic arrangement. We see other people. And that, counselor, is the summation of our relationship.”
Tillman inclined his head. “Very nicely done, concise, without extraneous details. Thank you.”
Tawny had the strange sense, watching them stare at each other, that a different, unspoken conversation went on beneath the surface. A negotiation, a test.
Like two tigers circling each other, deciding if the fight was worth the risk.
Nyala broke eye contact first, her delicate nostrils flaring as she surveyed the room. “My, Smoky has been lax with his housekeeping since the last time I was here.”
Although Tillman had up-righted the toppled furniture and cleaned up the kitchen, disarray from the three thugs still remained, along with their own dirty footprints on the tile.
“Some unwelcome visitors broke in.” Tillman waited for her reaction but Nyala gave none.
Instead, she continued, “I told Tawny on the phone that I haven’t seen Smoky since before Irma hit.”
“Do you know his business associates?”
A little smile. “You mean, his bookies? No, I stay out of that. I’m a business woman. I prefer to invest my money in more tangible assets than Sunday’s point spread.”
“Do you know who he owes money to?”
“As long as it’s not me, I don’t concern myself. He’s always paid his rent on time.”
Tillman switched gears. “Where does Smoky hang out? A particular watering hole?”
“There’s a bar down in Tarpon Springs on the Anclote River. Exiles. A real Florida bubba dive, not for tourists. Sometimes we’d take a boat out for the day then come back and have drinks and listen to the band.”
“Whose boat?”
“When I worked at the orthopedic clinic, I met football and baseball players from the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and the Rays. Several have boats in Tarpon or Palm Harbor. They let me use them.” A dainty shrug.
In exchange for benefits? Tawny wondered.
Tillman kept pressing. “Names?”
“They are my friends, not Smoky’s. I’m hesitant to mention them over something that’s really not their concern.”
“A missing man wouldn’t concern them?”
“I’m merely saying, they barely know Smoky so there’d be no way they could help you.”
“How about the other ladies Smoky was seeing? Do you know any of them?”
; “Really?” She arched her brows with an are-you-kidding grimace. “No strings but we’re not so coarse as to flaunt friends in each other’s faces.” She rose and smoothed her tight pink dress. “Now, I’d like to see the carport damage.” She moved gracefully on her high-heeled sandals through the living room, kitchen, and out the back door.
Tawny and Tillman exchanged glances. His raised eyebrow told her she’d been right about the strange undercurrent. They followed Nyala outside.
She walked around the carport, snapping photos from different angles with her phone. She noticed the cut-up wood. “You did that?”
Tillman strode closer. “Raul, the neighbor, and I did.”
Her smile was gracious, practiced. “Thank you.”
“Ms. Nyala.” He loomed tall above her. “I am going to find Smoky.”
Her neck craned up and she met his eyes, steady, unblinking. “I have no doubt, Mr. Rosenbaum.” She took a business card from her pink clutch and handed it to him. “Well, I’m off to inspect my other properties. Do call if you have any problems with the house. How long are you staying?”
Tillman took the card and folded long arms across his bare chest. “Until we find Smoky.”
She dipped her head slightly with another professional smile. She neatly avoided puddles and debris as she walked around to the front of the house then slid into a pearl-colored Lexus and drove away.
Tawny slouched back on one hip. “What was that all about?”
He held the business card at arm’s length to read it without his glasses. “She’s lying. What I can’t figure out is if she wants to convince me she doesn’t know anything or convince me she does.”
Chapter 8 – High Water Mark
The internet and phones started working at four-thirty that afternoon but still no electricity.
While Tawny made turkey, cheese, and pickle sandwiches for dinner, Tillman called the other women listed in Smoky’s address book. After careful questioning, he decided they were telling the truth when they claimed they hadn’t heard from the missing man in months.
“Look at this.” With readers perched on his nose, he carried his laptop to the counter where Tawny was cutting sandwiches in half. “This is video taken at that bar Nyala mentioned where Smoky hangs out.” He tapped the screen.
