Blood Remembered
By Douglas Pratt
Blood Remembered is a work of fiction. Any names, places, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Douglas Pratt
All rights reserved.
1
The ringing of the phone pounded its way through the leaden slumber that held me tight to the bed. The taste of bourbon and cigars lingered around me like an over anxious car salesman. The phone finally ceased its incessant, wailing attempts to rouse me from the warm soft bed.
Unfortunately, the peace did not last long, as the ringing began again a second after it stopped. Since even seeing the back of my eyelids was barely possible, my eyes certainly couldn't focus on the digits illuminating from the clock. However, the internal clock inside my head was certain it hadn't reached the godlier hour of nine. Finally, annoyed and awake, I dragged myself through the early morning haze till my feet touched the soft carpet of the hotel room.
Waking in a hotel room often puts me into unusual sorts. The unanchored feeling comes from crossing back from the surreal world of the subconscious to an equally unfamiliar locale. For the first six or seven seconds, I am lost. I have to remember where I am, and in some cases who I am.
After a few seconds, my jagged memory pieced together the evening, and I remembered where I had fallen asleep. My present domicile was in a suite at the Royal Sonesta Hotel in New Orleans. It was a suite with a king-sized bed, a large bathroom with a Jacuzzi, and a mini bar. The sunlight was gleaming through the double French doors that lead out to a balcony. The wrought iron balcony hung four stories above Bourbon Street so one could sit and have an excellent panorama of the depravity that ravaged the street below.
I would have normally enjoyed the large doors leading to the balcony, except that somehow some tremendously bright, retina-burning light was gleaming through the glass. I may have to talk to the management about this.
My hand fumbled around until it wrapped around the cell phone that was beginning to give me a minor seizure. Jerking it off the top of the table, I answered it before it could continue its horrendous wake-up call.
“Hello,” my voice was hoarse and sounded groggy from a night of debauchery in the French Quarter.
“Max?” I immediately recognized the voice of Tom Campbell. Tom had been my father’s lawyer, partner, and closest friend until my parents' death. Now he handles most of my legal affairs and my parent’s estate from his office in my hometown of Hellenston. In the last ten years, he has managed to take my inheritance and double it in various investments. He makes the decisions and then briefs me, and all I do is sign my name and cash the checks. (Actually I think he cashes the checks, so I guess I am left to spend the money.) Of course, the situation works for him as he gets some very healthy percentages from these investments.
“Tom, what’s up? Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Yeah, Max, I've been up for over four hours, I actually have some information I thought you might be interested in.”
“What?” My curiosity was peaked. Tom doesn’t make it a habit of calling unless it is important. Certainly, anything I would be interested in at this hour had to be life and death.
“Amanda Rawls was arrested last night for murder.”
The hangover that had threatened to ruin my day had suddenly vanished as a surge of adrenaline pumped through my body with hydraulic pressure. I don’t know whether it was the mention of a murder or the association of Mandy’s name with it.
“What? Who....who did she kill?”
“Mark Lofton.”
“Her fiancé?”
“Ex-fiancé, he got married to another woman a week ago.”
I had never met Mark; however, I had planned to go to the wedding that was scheduled for next month. I had not heard from Mandy in several months. I knew she was supposed to be getting married, and she had recently sent an invitation to the event.
“How long have he and Mandy been broken up?”
“I don’t know yet. I am sure I will find out soon.”
“Did she do it?” I was almost sure I knew the answer was no. However, a jilted lover is often capable of anything. But I have known Mandy for as long as I can remember.
Mandy and I met in high school. I was in tenth grade and she had been a year behind me. We got to know each other one day when she and I had been paired together for a theater project. We performed a scene from A Street Car Named Desire. That spawned a relationship. We dated until the summer before my senior year, and we have always been close friends. She was my first love, and like most first loves, she was hard to forget.
After my parents’ death, there was very little reason to stay in Hellenston, so I moved to Memphis. Mandy remained a good friend, and we continued to talk, just not as often. Like most people, our lives became more involved, and we let more time lapse between calls. Now we exchange an e-mail once in awhile.
“Well, she denies it," Tom said, " says she was out of town and came home to find him. But he was found in her living room, naked, with a hole in his chest. The .12 gauge was lying on the floor with her prints on it.”
If Tom could defend her, there would be some assurance of her fate. Unfortunately, that wouldn't be the case. Last year, Tom was elected as the local prosecuting attorney. In a small town like Hellenston, often the prosecutors will still keep some of their clientele, like me. After all, there is only so much crime to prosecute. This could be bad news for Mandy, though. Besides being a genius with investments, Tom is a spectacular trial lawyer.
“Tom, does she have an attorney? I will pay the expenses if she can't”
"Max, I don't know about that. It might get costly."
I sighed, "Just let me know."
"You'll have to talk to her about that."
"Fine," I said looking at the Tag Heuer that was lying on the bedside table. The watch’s hands indicated it was 7:46. “I’m in New Orleans right now, but I will be there tonight."
After a few minutes on the phone with Tom, I rang room service for some breakfast and something to quiet the gong reverberating inside my skull.
Standing in front of the mirror, I examined myself. The nicest thing one could say was that I was sporting a disheveled look. I rarely consider my physique overly attractive. I am not tall, only reaching the average height of 5’7 1/2”. Unfortunately, I have a stocky build so I look a bit like a short wall. Luckily, the only real fat I have is a small paunch that likes to extend past my belt. I am pretty sure it is genetic because I have tried numerous exercises to get rid of it.
Bloodshot cobalt blue eyes stared into the mirror. The eyes exhibited the appearance of being fairly exhausted. Despite their current façade, women in my life have often remarked that the color of my eyes was quite sexy. However, the last lady who commented on me merely mentioned that the goatee I sometimes sported made me look like Satan. Of course, she did wait to declare this after we had broken off our relationship.
The stale aura that wafted off me from the long night beckoned me to shower. A hot shower would help my mind work since the adrenaline rush that had cured my hangover awhile ago had vanished leaving me with a brick inside my head. Still, I had to gather my thoughts.
I recalled the last time I had seen Mandy. It had been almost four years ago, maybe longer. She had come to Memphis for a weekend. I couldn't even remember why she had been there. After a delicious dinner at Automatic Slims, I took her down to Beale Street to hear some blues. After several rounds, we were dancing and having a good time. Despite some heavy kissing, she had gone back home the next day without any consequen
ces. There was some talk about getting together again to see where things might lead, but nothing serious ever came about. Then she met Mark Lofton a month or so later. He was a forklift driver or something at Wal-Mart. I fell into a couple of other beds, and she never came back to Memphis. I hadn't really thought about it till now, but I now wondered, "What if?"
The steaming water coursed over me. My hair had been lathered with the complimentary shampoo provided by the hotel, and the soap mingled with the water as it flowed down the drain. With my hair full of suds, I found my razor. I needed to keep the stubble around my beard trimmed. I hated shaving cream, but I could never get a close enough shave with an electric razor. I started using a nice, simple razor in the shower.
Once out of the shower, I was on the phone to Nicole Powell. Nikki is, for lack of a better term, my secretary. She is in Memphis. Basically, she takes care of all my little details for a slight compensation. Not that her salary supports her. She is working her way through law school at the University of Memphis. Most of her time is spent studying. When her nose is not buried in a book, she does little things for me. She pays my bills, or forwards them to me. She takes any phone calls for me and relays the messages to me. She is the only person who knows exactly where I am at any point and time. I simply pay her about $300 a week to keep me organized.
Besides, there is a powerful cliché that behind every great man there is a woman keeping him straight. Now I may not be great, but she surely keeps me in line.
“Nikki, did I wake you?” I said into the phone.
“No, honey, I am always up waiting on your calls.” Her sarcastic and witty sense of humor has always appealed to me. She is a very attractive lady only a few years my junior. Her father, James Powell, was a professor that taught my History of Journalism class at U of M. He became something of a mentor to me. He invited me over several times for dinner, and he got me an internship at The Memphis Daily. A bond developed between me and his family. Sadly, he left his wife a few years back for a young student. They vanished to parts unknown. Nikki was the same age as the student that ran away with Dr. Powell. She never talks about it, but I could sense some disgust and possibly disdain.
“I am sorry to bother you, but I need to go to Hellenston.”
“Problem?” We are both sympathetic to our respective pasts.
“Small one, but not mine.”
“Are you going to share it with me?”
“Well, I am in a bit of a hurry. Could you find me a room?” I had already begun packing my clothes into my backpack. "Or maybe someplace secluded? Like a cabin."
“Sure, when are you going to be there.”
“I'll probably leave here after lunch. It'll take most of the day. I should be there by tonight”
“You got it; I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”
She hung up before I had much of a chance to agree with her.
A knock on the door indicated my breakfast had arrived, so I opened the door to a room service attendant, an African-American girl in her mid twenties, in with my small feast, an omelet with onions, red peppers, ham and cheese, coffee, a pint of orange juice, and a bottle of Advil. She presented me with the bill that explained to me that I spend way too little for eggs and ibuprofen at the store. I signed it to my room. I grabbed my wallet and gave the girl, whose name was also Nicole, a ten dollar bill. I was familiar with the way service charges worked. Out of the 17% service charge that the hotel tacked onto my $37 breakfast, Nicole would only see about $1.50, maybe $2.00. The rest was divided among the other room service attendants.
There have been accusations of my generosity being too pretentious. However, the peons in life are important, and they always remember the tippers. It was a truth I learned in Florida one Christmas. There was a doctor who came down only once a year to play some golf and snorkel. He believed in tipping everyone well, and the service he received amazed me. From the minute he walked into the hotel, everyone from the bellhop to the hotel manager treated him like royalty. Even though he was a doctor, he was no billionaire even though he was treated like he was. Since then I decided that he had the right idea, a little green entices everybody.
After breakfast, I decided to pack my gear before I step down the hall to Patrick’s room to tell him I was leaving. Patrick Labatt and Cynthia Williams were my drinking mates this weekend. Patrick and I met at the University of Memphis. We became fast friends, good drinking buddies, and lifetime compadres. He and his girlfriend, Cynthia, moved to New Orleans last year to obtain his doctorate in literature. Yesterday was Patrick’s birthday, and I had come to New Orleans to celebrate. Since we had intended to do some intense partying, I got a suite at the Royal Sonesta so we wouldn't have to stumble too far. We had certainly invested some of my retirement funds in almost every bar along the French Quarter. We were pretty snockered by the time we stumbled to our rooms early this morning.
If they felt anything like I did, they were not going to appreciate the early morning wakening. I finished packed my belongings. I thought I was moving quickly, but in retrospect, I think the room was the one moving quickly. I just tried to hang on to the bed so I wasn't thrown from the hotel.
I finally finished filling my suitcase. I glanced at my watch. It was only 8:30. I decided I needed to pop next door to let Patrick and Cynthia know that I had to leave. I didn't know if I would be able to wait until after lunch to leave.
I knocked for several minutes before I heard the stirring on the other side of the door.
Cynthia’s face appeared in the crack of the door. “Max, what are you doing up?”
She looked fairly hung over; an effect that was caused by all the Hurricanes and Mango Daiquiris that she had imbibed.
“I have an emergency. I have to leave soon.”
A worried look passed over her face, “What’s wrong honey?”
“An old friend of mine is in trouble. I have to go home.”
Patrick stumbled up behind her and opened the door wider. At this point, I could make out that they were both naked. Cynthia had covered herself with a sheet, but it left little to the imagination. Patrick didn’t bother covering himself for me.
“What’s wrong, Max? You have to go back to Memphis?”
“No, Hellenston.”
“What's wrong?” Cynthia chimed.
“One of my old friends has a little legal problem. The police seem to have found her fiancé on her living room floor with a hole in his chest. She was standing beside him with a .12 gauge shotgun lying on the floor.”
Cynthia’s eyes widened, “She killed him?”
“I don’t know yet. But she may need a lawyer. I am going to see if she needs anything. She may need some financial help. I just want to make sure everything is okay with her."
Patrick’s eyes narrowed a little, “Well, do you need any help?”
“No,” I answered, “you have school next week, don't you?"
Patrick nodded. I was sure that Patrick would have loved to join me.
"Are you staying in Hellenston?" he asked, and I could sense the underlying thoughts.
"I guess so. Nikki is working on getting me a place."
"Who is it?" Cynthia asked.
"Mandy Rawls. She was an old high school girlfriend."
I could see Patrick nodding with a familiar look.
“Don’t worry about the hotel; the bill is already taken care of. Just enjoy the rest of your stay. And happy birthday.”
"Thanks, man," he said, "but if you need anything, call me."
"Don't worry."
I gave Cynthia a quick kiss on the cheek and told them that I would see them soon. Patrick gave me a quick embrace and warned me to be careful. I assured him that I was always careful. He knew me well enough to know that I was never careful.
2
After I left Patrick and Cynthia’s room, I returned to my room. I picked up my bag and left a few dollars for the maid. I checked the room to make certain I had not left anything before I shut the door. The
elevator opened to the bright lobby. The Royal Sonesta had a beautiful lobby that was decorated in sunny colors and filled with fresh, colorful flowers. I walked from the elevator to the front desk. A large crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling
I checked out of my room with a tall man who offered to have the valet bring my car around while I reviewed the itemized bill. I gave him my credit card, and I paid for the rest of Patrick and Cynthia’s stay. I had the clerk, whose name was Simon, take care of dinner for Patrick and Cynthia in the restaurant.
It was still early, and valet traffic was slow. The valet arrived just a moment after I had walked out the entrance. He pulled up with my 1998 BMW Z3, and I expressed my gratefulness to him with a picture of Andrew Jackson to remember me.
I drove out of New Orleans along Interstate 10 toward Baton Rouge. Once I had gotten out of the city, I called Tom to let him know what I was doing. He was not in his office, but I left a message with his secretary, Mrs. McEwan. Mrs. McEwan is a wonderfully, crotchety old hag. Everyone has known one of those people who has made a life out of being miserable, and that person is only happy when they are nearing
death. Well, Mrs. McEwan is the mother of that person and the cause of his tribulation. She is the widow of an elder of the Church of Christ, and she feels it is her duty to rain on everybody’s parade. She began working for Tom and my father when I was a tiny thing. She has always been very good at her job, but she has always been an overbearing, rigid woman. I always dreaded her company. As anyone could tell, I love her as dearly as one loves a festering boil, and I think she reciprocates those feelings for me (and probably everybody else.) She loves to point out my lack of regular employment, and she regards me as blight.
“Mrs. McEwan, this is Max Sawyer. Is Tom in the office?”
“Mr. Campbell is meeting with Judge Hurt.” Her other pet peeve is the fact that I use Tom’s first name, despite the fact that he could be my father. She has the ideology that all young people are whipper-snappers and should know their place. Of course, her idea of a young person is someone not over 45.
Blood Remembered Page 1
