“Tracy,” I said. I took her bloody hand in mine, but she had no strength to grip. I heard the yowl of a police siren and looked up. Oscar had heard it, too. Frank was still on Oscar’s back. Oscar elbowed him in the face hard, once, twice, and Frank fell. Oscar scrambled on his hands and knees, holding the gun and practically falling out the front door.
“Tracy,” I said, turning back to her. But she was gone.
Frank’s broken nose was broken again. The paramedics packed it to stop the bleeding and gave him and ice pack to hold on it. They couldn’t set it, they said, until the swelling went down. His eyes were already turning blue then black.
Ruby stood next to me, behind the bar. She held her arm around me, rested her head on my shoulder, as they put Tracy on a stretcher and covered her with a blanket.
Allen was off duty, but came in when Mitchell called him. They sat together at the end of the bar, drinking coffee that Mitchell had made.
Mitchell had called 911. He ran to his car and sat in the dark and waited for the police. When Oscar ran out, just before the squad car arrived, he slouched down and hid in the shadows. Oscar had jumped into a blue Jeep Grand Cherokee that was parked right next to Tracy’s Dodge.
Tim Cole sat by himself at the bar. After the police took his statement, he started to cry. Mitchell got him a cup of coffee and Tim moved to the booth to sit by himself.
There were several cops, a TABC officer, a photographer. The photographer took pictures of everything, over and over again. The front door, the back door. He went outside to take pictures of the barricaded door.
“Do you know what he was doing here?” a detective asked me. He had a metal clipboard, like Allen’s. He was a tall guy with a round chest and a small head.
“No,” I said.
Something grew in me, right then, while they were asking questions and taking pictures and picking Tracy up off the floor. Something sunk deep inside my chest. This was my fault, of course. There was no escaping that. That thought pulled through my mind, pulled itself into a deep spot inside me, I shut down and shut down. The more they asked, the more I fell into this idea.
“Did he ask for anything? Did he say why he came in?”
“No,” I said. The feeling that was growing in me was hate. Not just hate for Oscar, not just hate for myself, but also hate for the cop with his clipboard, for the photographer, for Allen. And the hate gave me something. I could do something. I could act.
“He said he had your phone number, your ex-wife’s phone number. Do you know of any reason why he would want that information?”
“No,” I said. The cop was getting frustrated. He turned to look at Allen. Allen just shook his head. I didn’t give a shit.
“Do you have any other information that might help us catch the man who just murdered your friend?” he asked, tapping his pen on the edge of his clipboard.
“No,” I said.
He scratched some notes on his report, then stuck his pen in his shirt pocket.
“Thanks very much,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful.” He moved to the bar and put his hand on Allen’s shoulder. Then Allen stood up and shook hands with Mitchell. The photographer packed his equipment bag and then he and the cop and Allen left without a word to me. The TABC officer approached me. You could tell he was TABC – he was wearing a shirt and tie instead of a uniform, his handgun in a holster on his belt. He had a lopsided mustache and square glasses that he squinted through.
“Mr. Ayers?” he said. “I’m Officer Curtis with the TABC.” He held out his bulky hand and I shook it. “Could I speak to you for a minute?”
We took a seat at the cocktail table near the pool table. Curtis set a small spiral notebook between us, rested a pen on top of it.
“Mr. Ayers,” he said. “I just wanted to let you know where things stand, as far as the TABC is concerned.”
“Okay.”
He tapped a finger on the spiral notebook. The muscles of his face moved, not a tic, exactly, but a little pull at the corner of his mouth.
“Other than the incident with serving a minor last spring, your record here is very good,” he said. “Allen told me your father ran a pretty tight ship.”
“I guess he did,” I said. “Yeah.”
He folded his hands in front of his mouth for a moment, then put them down on the table. The corner of his mouth curled again and his eyelid pressed down, just a little.
“We have some discretion in cases like this,” he said. “We can cancel or suspend your liquor license if we feel like you contributed to the situation. But if we think you did what you could to stop it from happening, we can recommend that you stay open.”
“Okay,” I said again.
“I don’t see any immediate risk to letting you open back up, so right now I’m not going to recommend that your license be suspended or canceled,” he said. “Since Allen seems to know a lot about you and the bar, I’m gonna get together with him in the next couple days and get his take on everything. See what he says before I make any final decisions.”
Then he may have given me a little wink.
“Maybe you ought to talk to Allen,” he said. He may have given me a little grin. He held his bulky hand out for me and I shook it again.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said. “We’ll be in touch.”
When the front door closed behind him, Mitchell stood up and loped over to the table where I was sitting.
“Allen gave me the number of a clean-up service,” he said, looking at the floor between us. “They’ll be here in about an hour. I can let them in.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Go home, Little John,” he said.
“I will.”
As I walked past the booth, Tim Cole grabbed my arm. He looked up at me. His eyes were rimmed red, his skin was gray. He held on tight to my arm.
“It’s my fault,” he said. “It’s all my fault.”
“What are you talking about?” I said.
He stared at me, with his mouth open.
“It’s my fault,” he said again. He put his face in his hands and began to sob, sobs that shook his whole body. “I took Pancho. I took Pancho.” I looked over at Mitchell, but he was talking to Frank and hadn’t heard. I sat down across from Tim.
“It’s okay,” I said.
“I took him, I took him,” he said. He took a sip of his coffee, sucked it in through his teeth. “Everything was going to shit for me. I just thought I could use some luck.” He started crying again, tears pouring in constant streams over his cheeks. “I took him and then everything went to shit here, too,” he said. “It’s my fault.”
I rested my eyes on my palms. I felt an anger for Tim that I was too tired to carry.
“Look,” I said wearily. “Your life was going to shit because you drink too much. It’s not about luck.”
“I know, I know,” he said. “I know. But I wanted to change something. I was trying to change something and I didn’t know what to do. So I took the mask and now Tracy’s dead.” I rubbed my palm across my face.
“It’s not your fault, Tim,” I said, pushing myself up from the table. “It’s just a mask.”
“I’ll bring it back,” he said. “I’ll bring it back.”
I left him there, crying by himself.
There was a light rain as Ruby, Frank and I walked out to my truck, just a mist, really, that covered everything. The pavement, the hood of my truck. My arms were covered in dew by the time I swiveled into the driver’s seat. As I turned out of the parking lot, a police cruiser and tow truck pulled in. They had come to tow Tracy’s car away.
MONDAY
EIGHTEEN
At dawn, Frank, Ruby and I got back to the house. Frank went into his bedroom and fell asleep without a word. I poured Ruby a whiskey and she carried it into my room and shut the door. I knew I should follow her in and explain things, everything, but I couldn’t. Not yet. I told myself it would be best for her if she managed to get a couple hours of
sleep first.
I made a pot of coffee and sat on the couch. I tried to close my eyes, not to sleep, just to focus, but I had hornets in my veins and my eyes kept popping open. So I just sat, staring at the wall.
Then I starting thinking. One part of a plan came into my head, a small part. I turned it over and over until another part started to form. I worked the two together, thinking over them, back and forth, just staring at the wall and thinking. After about an hour, I had the whole thing thought out, beginning to end.
At eight o’clock, I called Curator Jack.
“What time is the hurricane supposed to hit?” I asked him.
“Probably five this afternoon,” he said. He didn’t sound as though I had woken him.
“Are you evacuating?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I’ve got everything boarded up. I went to the store and bought a bunch of food and liquor. We’re gonna have a hurricane party at my house. You can come if you want.” I took a sip of my coffee and leaned back on the couch.
“Thanks,” I said. “I have plans.”
“Well,” he said. “If you need anything.”
“You’re a lawyer, right?” I asked.
“I was,” he said.
“I’ll sell you the bar if you can write up the papers today,” I said.
Jack didn’t hesitate.
“How much?” he asked. I hadn’t thought of a number, but one came to me.
“Forty-two thousand,” I said. “In a trust fund for Jacob. And I want you to make Mitchell a partner. Fifty percent.”
“Hold on a second,” Jack said. “Let me get a pen.” There was a rustling on his end, the sound of papers shifting. “Okay. Forty-two thousand. Mitchell as partner.”
“You need him anyway,” I said. “He knows everything about the place.”
“I’m thrilled to get him,” Jack said.
“Keep Boyd, too,” I said. “I can’t make you, but I’d appreciate it if you would.”
“No problem,” he said.
“That’s it,” I said.
Jack repeated back the terms. He asked me a few more details, Jacob’s middle name, what bank I wanted to use for him. How I wanted things distributed.
“That’s it?” he said when he’d asked me everything he could think of.
“That’s it,” I said again.
Jack paused.
“Okay,” he said. “It has to be today?”
“I want out,” I said. I told him about Tracy. If the fact that a woman had been murdered in the bar he was buying fazed him, he didn’t let on.
“I can have something written up in an hour,” he said.
“Bring it by my house.”
NINTEEN
I quietly went into my room. Ruby was asleep, fully clothed, on top of the bedspread.
There was a framed picture of me and Jacob on the dresser, a shot of us at an Astros game. I took it out of the frame, folded it carefully and put it in my wallet. Then I filled my coffee cup in the kitchen and went out on to the front porch and waited.
The front porch was smaller than the back. The azaleas bent over the railing, making it feel even smaller. There were two metal patio chairs. I sat in one. From the street, I would be completely hidden, but I could see a block in either direction. The neighborhood was quiet and still. Black birds cackled noisily in a tree across the street. I could hear trucks down shifting on the highway.
Forty-five minutes later, Curator Jack pulled up in his shiny gray F-150. He was wearing a sort of Hawaiian shirt of muted colors and khaki pants. He had a large manila envelope under his arm. I rose to shake his hand. He sat in the open patio chair. I lit a cigarette and handed him the pack.
“Here you go,” he said, handing me the envelope. “There are a couple of pages for you to sign. I’ll need your tax I.D. numbers and copies of your licenses to make it all official.”
I pulled the pages out. Jack handed me a pen.
“Mitchell can get all that stuff for you,” I said, looking over the pages. “He takes care of more of that stuff than I do, anyway.” Jack had highlighted the spots where he wanted me to sign. I put the paper on my knee and signed. I handed them back to Jack and he went through them, one by one, making sure every thing was done. From the house behind mine, I could hear the sound of a saw, someone boarding up there windows. Jack put the papers back in the envelope.
“I couldn’t help but notice,” Jack said, helping himself to another cigarette. “There’s nothing in this deal for you.”
I shrugged. “I have some money,” I said. The wind was starting to pick up, nothing dramatic yet. Jack gave me a long look.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“What are you gonna do?” he asked.
I took a drag of my cigarette.
“I have a couple things I have to take care of today,” I said. “Then I’m just gonna get out for a while.” Jack leaned back in his chair and nodded.
“Well,” Curator Jack said. “If you need anything, just let me know.” I turned and looked at him. His big face was tight with concern.
“Thanks, Jack,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”
Jack looked at his watch
“Jesus,” he said, jumping up. “I gotta get going.” I stood and we shook hands. Jack tucked the envelope under his arm and ran to his truck. I watched him drive away.
TWENTY
The rain was a light but steady drizzle now and the street was coated and slick. An early arm of the storm passing overhead. I smoked another cigarette and thought about nothing. Or tried.
A man in black jeans and a red rain slicker came around the corner, talking on his phone and leading a large poodle on a leash. As he passed in front of my house, his dog did a half-turn and half-squat and started to shit. The guy, still on the phone, turned his back and held the leash down at his side. The dog finished, scratched enthusiastically at the grass, and loped to the end of the leash. The guy turned and started up the sidewalk without so much as looking at the pile his dog left on my lawn.
“Hey,” I said. I stood and stubbed out my cigarette. He kept walking.
“Hey,” I said louder, coming down the front steps. He looked at my over his shoulder and gave me a nod. He still had the phone pressed to his ear and he turned away from me.
“Hey, fucker,” I was yelling now. “Pick up after your dog.”
“Oh, my God,” he said into his phone.
I trotted to catch up.
“Dude,” I said when I was right behind him.
He started to walk faster, so I grabbed his arm.
“Oh, my God,” he yelled this time.
“Hey, asshole,” I said and tried to turn him.
He had the phone pressed to his left ear. His right hand, still holding the leash, came around and shoved me hard in the chest. My right foot slipped on the slick grass and I fell on my ass.
“Jesus,” he screeched into the phone. “Oh, my God.” He was running, his big dog trotting happily beside him.
I sat there, my left leg under me. Dampness soaked though my jeans. The rain dripped off my face and down my neck. Then big hands were under my arms and Archer was lifting me to my feet.
“Nice one, Little John,” he said. “I gotta admit, you’ve got a way with people.”
He led me around the side of my house and through the gate to his garage. There were two metal chairs next to a work bench and I sat in one. Archer had a refrigerator in his garage, of course. He opened it and pulled out two light beers, twisted the cap off one and handed it to me.
“Hurricane rules,” he said. “Beer at seven a.m. is perfectly acceptable.”
My eyeballs ached and my knee was sore from twisting under me. I held the cold bottle against my forehead. From Archer’s garage, I could see my house. My father’s house. The house I brought my son to when he was born. Blue and gray and square and solid.
“I really don’t know what happened, Archer,” I said.
A
rcher tapped his class ring against the side of his bottle.
“Well,” he said. “Some yuppie let his labradoodle take a poop in your yard and when you tried to stop him, he knocked you on your ass.”
I rubbed my eyes and smiled.
“Jackass,” I said and drank my beer. Archer pulled the other chair next to mine and sat. I looked around the garage. Tools on peg boards. Ladders hanging from hooks. Bicycles and free weights and soccer balls. Everything organized and neat. I drank my beer and Archer drank his.
Leaning against the back wall was a stack of particle board. I took in a long breath, then asked, “Do we still have time to board up my house?”
Archer lifted his bottle to his lips, tilted his head back, and finished the beer in one long swallow.
“I thought you’d never ask,” he said, standing.
We dragged the wood and a folding ladder across our lawns to my house. Archer went back for a circular saw and a drill.
I went inside. I pulled the door to my bedroom shut so we wouldn’t wake Ruby. The door to the bedroom where Frank was sleeping was open. I knocked on the wall. Frank rolled and rubbed his eyes and sat up. His eyes were ringed in purple.
“Could you come outside?” I asked. “I could use your help.”
I went back out while Frank pulled on his shoes. Archer was unfolding the ladder under the window. Frank pulled open the door and stepped onto the porch.
“Archer, this is Frank. He’s gonna stay here for a while,” I said. “And I thought he could help us board these windows.”
Archer leaned over the railing and shook Frank’s hand.
“You grab that drill,” he said to Frank. “I’ve seen Little John try to use one before and I don’t think I wanna see it again.”
Archer grabbed a rain poncho from his garage for Frank, then he and I pushed the first board up in front of the window. Frank climbed the ladder and screwed the board to the window frame. We moved from window to window. Archer gabbed and whistled through his teeth. The rain started to fall, thick, fat drops, just as we finished the last window. Frank grabbed the drill and the circular saw and I grabbed the ladder and we ran to Archer’s garage. Archer put the tools away, hung the ladder, and got us three beers.
Last Call Lounge Page 16
