When Andrew Drummond left this world, his eyes were open. He didn’t convulse or fight the cold or the stillness of his heart. He only went. He was alone.
Fitting. He’d been alone for years.
Drayton’s pitch-black face was the last he saw. The young man’s eyes were liquid. Calming. He didn’t feel his hand touch his sternum, only saw the flutter of his lips, the muttering of two words. It was the last Andrew Drummond experienced before his life concluded.
“Thank you,” he heard.
III
He woke to ringing. Inside his head, it was ringing.
The sound a metal pole makes when smacked with a hammer. The reverberations sung numbly inside his skull, trapped and doomed to echo for eternity.
The man slid his hand across silky sheets that were cool and slithery. His fingers crawled across the bed, finding the empty space next to him. He couldn’t remember his name, but he wondered where the body was his hand automatically sought. In fact, who was he searching?
Wife.
The thought emerged from the ringing fog that obscured everything else in his aching head. Where’s my wife?
The man cracked an eyelid. The crimson sheet was blurry. Even after a couple blinks, nothing made sense. He smacked his gummy lips, rubbed the eye-boogers from his eyes. Rolled on his back. Took a hot breath. Stared at a slow moving ceiling fan.
Where am I?
Blackouts did that. Not only had the previous night obliterated his whereabouts, it wiped out his name.
He lugged his body upright. His brain splashed like runny oatmeal.
His image stared back. A mirror, anchored on the dresser across the room. A dresser covered with perfumes and pictures and the detritus of life. His hair was black, matted on one side from the pillow and spiked on the other from… whatever. Parker. My name is Parker Samson.
It’s not everyday you have to make a conscious effort to remember your name. But whatever it takes, you do what you got to do. A hodgepodge of tattoos littered his chest. His arms. His stomach. Things like knives and skulls and snakes. Macabre scenes. A naked woman with the name Sandy below.
Sandy. Sandy. My wife, Sandy.
Wife. It tasted like a dirty sock. Or was that the ghost of the Marlboro Man in his mouth? Of course, my wife.
He rubbed his face, his lips flapping like rubber. Nights like that were sandstorms, leaving an inch of gritty dust over the memories of his life. He just needed a moment to blow things off, uncover his thoughts and get the day kicking.
First, water.
He went to the bathroom, rinsed his mouth, spit in the sink.
Splashed his face.
He stared in the mirror. His eyes pools of blood. Eyes of the devil.
He moved into the steam shower where he sat down, let the hot water draw the poison. The pieces of his life clicked into place. Parker Samson lived in downtown Charleston. He owned a successful security company that specialized in VIP protection and, sometimes, special investigation. Owned was the operative word. He wasn’t in the trenches anymore. He was floating on top like cream. And where there’s cream, there is the richness of life.
He stepped out of the shower a new man. The ringing had stopped.
“No more.” He said it in the mirror. “No more of these for awhile.”
It wasn’t right, spending the morning remembering your life.
He opened the wooden blinds next to the bed. Wentworth Avenue was a story below, partially obscured by a live oak trapped in the small square of land between the street and the buckled sidewalk. A man sat on the stoop across the street, elbows propped on his knees and hands folded.
Parker found a pack of Newports in his jacket. And a lighter.
His blew smoke between the blinds.
He hit the cigarette three times and looked around for an ashtray. He settled for the wastebasket next to the dresser. A picture looked back at him. He punched the butt between his lips and picked up the large frame with both hands. The faces were fuzzy. He looked around for glasses, found none, then held the photo further away to focus.
Sandy. A blonde-haired beauty.
Two girls, too. Both blond.
And Parker. There he was. Although his face looked fuzzier than the others, there he was with his family. Pride and joy.
He looked over his shoulder at the empty space on the bed.
Now where the hell is she?
He pulled another drag out of the cigarette and the smoke streamed through his nostrils. Another drag. Ashes in the trashcan.
A moment later and the dust blew off another memory. Sandy was a public attorney. She was up before dawn and taking on the day before Parker finished dreaming. Parker won the lottery with her. Jesus god, she was chiseled from the face of heaven.
He dropped the butt in the trash.
The girls’ room was yellowy mustard beneath Jonas Brothers and Bieber Fever posters that were punching it out for their affection. Bieber was winning. Their beds messed up. The drawers open. Shelly. Yeah, Shelly and… Jessie. He muttered to himself, pushing his hand through his damp shag. This bender damn near erased his memory.
Can that happen? Can you forget everything?
He didn’t want to think about that.
He decided to talk to the girls about cleaning up their room when he picked them up after school. He picked them up at… 4:00.
Might want to call his wife to make sure he had that memory dusted off correctly.
Maybe it was 3:00.
First thing’s first. Coffee.
Along the way, he twisted the wedding band on his finger. It felt heavy.
IV
The man on the stoop didn’t see Parker open the blinds. He felt him.
He felt him fumble through the bedroom. Felt him when he sat in the shower, sorting through his thoughts. Finding his way.
Drayton stood.
No one would notice him cross the street. No one would notice him until he desired.
He walked to the market. Where he’d wait, let Parker sort out the rest. Where he’d greet the morning the way he had for nearly three centuries. Or so.
V
Parker stepped out the front door.
The door was red with a mail slot. He flipped the brass doorknocker. The name above it was a bit fuzzy. Samson. He took a sip of coffee and shook his head. Crazy morning. Like he’d been pushing his way through cobwebs. Maybe he cooked a few too many cells last night. He remembered dinner at Magnolias to celebrate Mickey’s birthday. Then drinks on the Rooftop. There was a party in a backroom somewhere. After that, he wasn’t sure.
Things were good, now. Just took a little java to get the synapses snapping. Five cups.
He wore a pair of gray slacks with a tight black t-shirt and a houndstooth jacket. He smoothed the shirt over his chest, sipped again. Let the coffee fumes steam his face.
Now. Where’s the car? He was looking for a… a BMW. Silver one. He sipped the coffee, remembered he’d left it in the downtown parking garage. Not like he needed a car to get to work. At least not until he picked the girls up.
A door clicked.
An old woman stepped out, next door.
“Morning.” Parker lifted the cup.
The old woman stared. She looked confused as she picked up the paper.
Old age. It’s a bitch.
Parker left the cup on the top step.
He walked to work.
VI
Cynthia Birkenstalk walked outside.
Her neighbor startled her. It wasn’t like no one ever said good morning. This was Charleston, friendliest city on the East coast. It was just, she hadn’t seen her neighbor in quite some time. Thought, for a while, something happened to him.
She retrieved the newspaper and locked the door behind her. She’d say good morning next time. She’d be ready.
VII
Downtown Charleston was business as usual. Cars, horses, and tourists filled the streets.
Drayton sat outside a café overlooking t
he long market where locals set up tables of perfumes, t-shirts, carvings, pictures and whatever else the tourists would buy. It’s why they came to Charleston. To get a taste of old America.
He sat at a small black table that wobbled. In a metal chair that wobbled. Somehow, he made both seem elegant the way he crossed his legs with the saucer and cup resting on his thigh. An unusual posture for a young man dressed in loose pants and boots. A white shirt. An unassuming man that appeared to be proper English. Royalty, if one didn’t know better.
He was neither.
Drayton steeped the bag of Earl Gray, squeezed it against the spoon. Let it rest in the saucer. He let the fragrance waft under his nose a moment. Sipped. Not the tastiest tea he’d ever experienced. But it would do. It was how he greeted the morning.
Horses clopped down the road, sandwiched between creeping cars, with hordes of travelers. The carriage stalled in front of the café and in between witty bits of repartee streaming from the well-rehearsed guide, the horse dropped a steaming load into the sack hanging below his tail. Business, as usual.
Drayton sipped.
He had planned to leave the Lowcountry a long time ago. But it felt cozy. Homey. The country and the wetlands. The Southern comfort. He decided to stay a bit longer. And now, of course, there was the business of Andrew Drummond. He died in a car accident six months earlier. Drayton had time to consider the request. Time to put things in place.
Now Andrew’s business was near at hand.
People walked along the sidewalk in bunches, sometimes in strings. Occasionally, there were gaps to reveal the cracked bluestone. A man wearing a tattered military jacket, too hot for the weather, limped along and asked passing tourists for extra cash to help a veteran in need. He said God Bless You whether they gave him money or not. Half the time, they did. The gimpy leg was an act, but not the military jacket. He served his country, once upon a time. A marine for almost eight years. But now he served a lower calling of wine, whiskey and, when he could get his hands on it, crack cocaine. Because crack is where it’s at.
Following a cluster of tourists was a man in gray slacks and a houndstooth jacket. He gathered strange looks from a family of four that passed him in the other direction because Parker Samson had his hand to his ear. Talking into his palm.
Parker had a dollar bill out to the military vagrant that smiled a gummy smile. But then Parker suddenly palmed the money and backed off the man like he was swarming with bedbugs. Parker shuffled along, keeping his money. Talking into his hand.
The ex-marine watched him go, a little confused.
“Sir?” A young lady was next to Drayton. “More tea?”
“No, thank you, kindly,” he said, handing her a one hundred dollar bill. “Please keep the remainder.”
The girl didn’t seem to notice the ridiculous tip pointed at her. She was swimming somewhere in the depths of Drayton’s eyes. He looked away, felt her blink off the warm spell and return to the present moment.
Drayton took a moment to enjoy the Earl Gray fragrance before following Parker Samson.
VIII
Samson’s an asshole. Thought a smelly ex-marine.
IX
Beautiful morning.
Parker couldn’t remember the last time he felt so peppy. Maybe he needed to get his drunk on more often. It felt like he’d been shot full of B12. Or oxycontin. Or something. I mean, the morning air was crisp and clean like he was sucking life out of the ass-end of Lady Luck. He didn’t want to spoil it with a cigarette. When’s the last time that happened?
He said good morning to everyone he passed. And they said it back. It was contagious. A smile had stamped his face. He felt like Mary Poppins. Where’s the umbrella? I feel like singing.
He got to the market some twenty minutes later, suppressing the urge to dance. He had a thought.
He found his phone in the inside pocket of his jacket and scrolled through the contacts, not recognizing half the names. He knew a lot of people. No reason to remember them all. He found Sandy, punched it. Crossed the street with it cradled against his face.
Please enjoy the music… he heard… while your party is reached.
Black-eyed Peas sang in his ear. He didn’t seem to mind. Not this morning.
He waited for his wife to pick up, spotted a bum up ahead. What the hell. This morning was as good as any to help out a man down on his luck. Even though the begging gig was a charade, he knew. The limp. The pathetic look. The God Bless You. It was a hell of an act if you never saw it before. But Parker didn’t mind, not this morning. He’d give the man some cash for a bottle of Mad Dog.
You’ve reached the voicemail of Sandy Samson. Please leave a message.
“Hey, babe. I was just wondering if you wanted to go have lunch at school with the girls today. Just do a quick drop in, they’d love it. We can take some Chic-fil-A, you know. Why don’t you pick me up—”
The bum smiled at Parker. Panic clenched his chest. He wasn’t scared of the man. The decrepit bum couldn’t push over a wet roll of toilet paper. But there was something… his face appeared a little blurry around the edges. And his toothless grin seemed more than happy to see him.
“Parker, you shitbag. Where you been?”
Parker sidestepped him. His stink was raw sewage.
The bum appeared confused at the reaction. Did he not know he smelled like rotten asshole?
“Um… sorry, babe,” Parker said into the phone, moving along. “If you can’t make it, I’ll go it alone and see you at dinner tonight. Love you.”
He glanced back. GI Joe still standing. Still staring.
Bastard’s hallucinating.
Parker was still holding the phone, noticed a young man sitting at a café. He was staring, too, sitting a little weird. Legs crossed with a China cup to his lips like he was expecting the Queen of England. He suddenly had the feeling he’d crossed into Wonderland. His name wasn’t Alice.
But it’s a beautiful day.
He was still holding the phone to his face. Put it down.
He whistled as he walked, tipping an imaginary hat to those that passed. The unofficial ambassador to Charleston.
X
Down East Bay, another couple blocks, wedged between an attorney’s office and an art dealer was a frosty glass door. Samson Protective and Investigative Services. Yeah, that was Parker Samson. His company. He built it up from a one-man operation over twenty years ago. There’s a lot of vindictive sonofabitches out there, trying to catch their spouses dorking someone else. Parker spent many o’ nights in the back of his Suburban with a camera waiting for the right second for the right picture.
He and Sandy got by living in a one-bedroom house in Monck’s Corner. She was making scraps working through law school until Parker got the right client. He busted the man’s wife in the changing room at Folly Beach. Apparently, he needed help getting out of his Speedos and she accidentally ended up servicing his tool. That winning photo saved her husband a shitload of money.
He liked Parker, after that. He believed in him. And he backed it up by investing in his little operation.
As they say… BOOM.
Fifteen years later, Parker had three investigators and a team of legal thugs to provide protective and investigative services. He hadn’t had to spend a single night in the back of the Suburban since. People did it for him.
Parker opened the glass door, then a heavier security door just a few feet inside. The tiny reception area smelled like an evergreen car freshener had been completely vaporized. A plastic fig tree was in the corner. A counter next to that had a nameplate. Marlene. Marlene wasn’t at her post.
“Be right there.” Came from somewhere in back.
Parker punched the code onto the number pad next to the door, next to Marlene’s station. 2-0-4. Door buzzed. Parker moved into the inner sanctum.
He went down the short hallway. Marlene was behind the door on the left that was mostly shut. Someone with a deep voice was answering her. That was Butchie, Par
ker’s number one investigator and, in a pinch, one hell of a thug. Butchie was the first guy he hired when the business took off.
The door at the end was Parker’s.
Another keypad. You can’t be too safe.
2-0-4.
For a business that specialized in protective services, using the same number for both doors was stupid. But it was Parker’s lucky number. So far, luck was with him. Why tell Lady Luck how to do her job?
The office smelled like the inside of an old shoe. Not the stinky kind, more the old leather and beaten sole sitting at the back of the closet. Out of sight. Forgotten.
He closed the door behind him. Thought maybe he’d talk to the cleaning services that kept things picked up. They were doing one hell of a job cleaning, the office looked like a museum. The desk was spotless. Not a single eraser bit. The books on the shelf to the right were square. On any given day, the smell wouldn’t bother him. Today, though, he got spoiled with fresh air. And now the office felt like a box.
He pulled the blinds and pushed the window open to a wonderful view of a brick wall.
He opened all the drawers, looking for a wayward air freshener. There were pens and calculator and staplers. No little green Christmas tree.
He dropped in the chair, propped his feet on the window ledge and fired up a cigarette. Blew the smoke through the screen. He rolled the Newport between his finger and thumb, studied the burning tip, listened to it crackle when he pulled a drag. He flicked the ashes in the trash can.
He watched the screen saver tick off pictures. Grand Canyon. Carowinds. Jessie when she turned five. Shelly’s sixth birthday party. Vacations. Christmas. Sandy on their wedding day.
He took another cigarette out.
He started to reach for the mouse but couldn’t bring himself to wipe out the photos. The second he did meant work. Right now, without his calendar, he didn’t know what lay ahead. He was lost without a calendar. He couldn’t remember one damn thing on his schedule. He just couldn’t get himself to lean over and do it. He just didn’t want to be there.
The Drayton Chronicles Page 6
