by Ben Muse
Two minutes later, my professed half-sister stepped off an elevator and met my eyes with a why did you say that, I guess we can patch things up after all, thank God, I’m so relieved kind of look.
“Come on, Hamp, let’s go discuss child support. Thanks, Lisa,” she said to the receptionist as she waited for me to join her.
Upstairs, she led me through her office to the outdoor terrace and lit a cigarette as we sat next to each other on a bench.
“First rule, Bailey, Hamptons don’t smoke,” I said as I blew smoke back at her.
“That’s good to know; you should tell Pops.”
“Listen, I took a walk last night to cool my heels and process everything from the last two days, and I just wanted to say that while I’m still pissed that you two treated me like a mushroom all these years, I hope you and I can get past this.”
“Just like that?” she said warily.
“No, not just like that. I’ll need a lot of groveling from you. A veritable shitload, but in some ways, you’re more of a victim in this than I am.” I exhaled. “So he’s really dying?”
“Nine months, tops. It’s an aggressive thyroid cancer.”
“Is that why his voice sounds so hoarse?”
She nodded.
“He said he had a cold.”
“He doesn’t want anyone to feel sorry for him. This cancer doesn’t respond well to treatment.” We sat quietly for a few minutes as she smoked her cigarette.
“So what happens here, to the company, all the employees?”
“You know Hank, always the planner. According to him, I’m on an advanced career path to CEO. We’ve got a solid team with smart people in place, but his vision is what sets us apart.”
“You should bring Pops back. Dad seems to think he’ll outlive all of us.”
“He’s offered his help, but he’s having a tough time coming to grips that he may have to bury his son.”
The truth is I didn’t want my dad to die, and I didn’t want to be seen as the son of a bitch who made his life miserable in the end. But I couldn’t let him off the hook so easily.
“Anna says you work too hard and that she’s never seen you smile.”
“Not entirely an inaccurate observation,” she said blankly, staring down her cigarette.
“How ’bout meeting me at Shooters tonight? We’ll grab a beer and shoot some pool. Maybe rent out the velvet-roped VIP booth and order an expensive bottle of Boones Farm,” I offered.
“I’m glad you’re home Chase, brother from another mother.”
“Been saving that one liner, have you? So, is that a yes?”
“That’s a ‘we’ll see.’ Pops told me you were going job hunting today.”
“Didn’t go so well.” Thank God. I would’ve turned myself back in if I had to make doughnuts for Bill Dougherty.
“What kind of skills do you have?”
“Well, let’s see, sis . . . I’m a highly skilled dishwasher, and I can repair a library book and recite the Dewey Decimal System simultaneously. A letter of recommendation from the North Carolina Bureau of Prisons can attest to this. I can also run fast for short distances and lift large amounts of weight.”
“You could come to work for us at Aquatic?”
“Me at the family business? Doing what?”
“We could put you in production and let you learn the business from the bottom up. Fast-track you to management, and you can take over for me in a few years.”
“I’ve never had a paying job in my entire life, Bailey. I had that golden spoon shoved so far down my throat.”
“Think it over, but don’t wait too long.”
“Do you think Hank would be on board with this?”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t already offered you a job.”
“I think he wanted me to enjoy my first days of freedom.”
“Well, looks like playtime is over, Chase.”
Playtime never started, Bailey.
Chapter 23
Shooters was a Foggy Harbor landmark, sitting just off the town square, located conveniently between a bail bondsman and the law firm of Tatters and Barnes. I’d played close to three thousand games of pool here during my high school years. Owned by a former teammate’s father, a drunk named Smitty Mathers, Shooters had thirty pool tables and a unique odor that was equal parts grease, cigarette smoke, unbridled testosterone, and stale Budweiser. I inhaled the heaviness as I stepped through the pockmarked wooden doors at seven forty-five and took in my old haunt. It had a dangerous vibe, an undercurrent of pissedoffness (my word) that said, “Enter at your own risk.” I’m sure there was no other business model in all of Foggy Harbor.
The same long, pine bar ran down the right side, with tattered, dark-green upholstered booths lining the front of the establishment. Smoke curled up from three booths, and I could see the tops of ball caps peeking over the top. Pool tables six deep and five across were illuminated by dim overhead lamps, and balls constantly clacked into each other. The whole place had a darkness and harshness to it—no hearty smiles or warm welcomes. It reminded me of prison, and I felt strangely at home. I had no idea why Jenna chose Shooters as our meeting place, but she called the shots. She could persuade Eskimos to buy ice.
I grabbed a booth and sat facing the door. My newest family member arrived first, five minutes later. Bailey slid into the booth, overdressed to the nth degree: gray slacks, white blouse, and a pair of expensive-looking black flats. Her hair was piled high atop her head. She hadn’t gotten the memo: Shooters was a shithole.
“You look nice. Did you not have a ratty t-shirt and a pair of faded jeans lying around that you could’ve put on? Please tell me you aren’t here looking for love.”
“I’m looking for a cold beer and a steak.”
“If by steak you mean unshelled salted peanuts and fried chicken wings, then we’re in business.”
Glenda, our uninspired, caught-in-a-deadjob server deposited two Sweetwater 420s and a complimentary basket of peanuts onto the table, and I caught Bailey staring at me.
“I never in a million years pictured the two of us sitting in this godforsaken hole in the wall talking over a beer.”
“I never pictured you as my sister either.”
“True,” she said, raising her beer. “To family.”
We clinked our bottles and I echoed her, “To family.”
She lit a cigarette, sucked in a lungful of smoke, scrunched her mouth to the side, and thankfully exhaled away from me.
“Are you sure about that job offer?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Then I accept. I don’t have many options here, and I’d rather not have to drive to Wilmington to look. I haven’t told Pops or had the opportunity to tell dad, but I’m getting my own place. All my life, I’ve been given everything. If I’m to become a functioning member of society, I have to start earning my keep.”
“Good for you; I have an idea.”
“Spill it,” I said.
“I have a five-bedroom house that I live in by myself. Move in with me, pay half the mortgage, and you can start earning your keep. We’ll have time to catch up.”
“And if we live together and hate it?”
“Then I’ll kick your ass to the curb and you’ll either find your own place or slum it with Pops or Hank.”
“Can we have pillow fights?
“A little creepy, don’t you think, Chase?”
This was almost too easy. My sister offers me a job and a place to live. Putting my real reasons to the side, I liked the idea of spending time with her.
“You’ll have your own master bedroom and bathroom. There’s plenty of space. Plus, I think it would make Hank happy.”
“Okay, sounds great.” Let me check with my FBI handler and soon-to-be girlfriend who’s just coming through the door.
Jenna appeared at the entrance wearing black jeans, a white tee, and a black leather jacket. She carried a motorcycle helmet in her right hand, and made a show of swishing
her magnificent head of blond hair around. She was with two other knockouts, both redheads and both wearing biker gear and carrying helmets. They made their way toward me and silently walked past, grabbing the booth behind ours.
“Foggy Harbor biker babes? I’ve been away too long,” I said to Bailey, who rolled her eyes.
“Typical male.”
“Forgive me, I’ve been locked away. Don’t fret; you are just as pretty as any of those three, but you are now unavailable—for me.” This seemed to appease her, and I excused myself to go to the restroom, which was located in the back corner of the building. I waited in the restroom hall, and Jenna appeared a minute later.
“Biker chic. You’re just full of surprises, Ms. Brighton. When do I get to see sexy librarian?”
“Not anytime soon. Time to play a little pool with Bailey and send us a complimentary pitcher of Bud Light to show some interest.”
“Why are we meeting in this shithole?”
“It’s a public place, and I’ve been dying for an excuse to ride my bike and wear intimidating clothing.”
“Works for me; enjoy your beer. Who are the redhead knockouts?”
“Just some friends, Chase.”
I walked in the bathroom, washed my hands, and waited a minute before coming back out. Two guys were hovering over our booth. One was wiry with long, black hair braided in a ponytail, the other was beefy, not overly fat, but not overly fit. On second glance though . . . yeah, he was mostly fat. Both wore stained jeans, dark colored t-shirts and thick-soled work boots. A working-man’s uniform.
“Gentlemen, excuse me,” I said, as I shimmied my way in between them and back into my seat.
“Chase, you remember Danny Sullivan,” she said flatly. It was the same Danny Sullivan who went for a surprise swim at the inlet behind Bailey’s trailer park almost twelve years ago. I wouldn’t have recognized him if Bailey hadn’t said his name. He’d put on about a hundred twenty pounds—and muscle wasn’t a large part of the equation. Danny looked like I did three years into my prison sentence, but he had a mad-at-the-world scowl etched on his jowly face as opposed to my lost-and-forlorn expression. I looked forward to getting reacquainted with Mr. Sullivan. I could have him in the shape of his life in twelve months, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t looking for fitness tips or a lifestyle change.
“Hello, Danny,” I said as cheerfully as I could muster, without it sounding too over the top. I offered my hand; he didn’t take it. Wanting to fill the awkward silence, I said, “I apologize for pushing you in the water all those years ago.”
“Heard you was out; guess it wouldn’t take much to get you put back in.”
“I’m not going back in.” I hoped Jenna was listening behind me. I’m not going back in.
He laughed a full-bodied man’s laugh, and he and his stick friend ambled off to a pool table near the back.
“Take it easy, Chase. He’s not worth going back to prison for.”
“I’m fine, Bailey.” I waved to Glenda as she walked by.
“A pitcher of Bud Light for the redheads behind me, and a plate of your best wings and another pitcher of Budweiser for the two gentlemen back there.” I pointed. I handed her a twenty and told her to keep the change.
With a confused look on her face, she said, “Sir, both redheads?”
“I like redheads.” She walked away shaking her head, and Bailey looked at me like I was crazy.
“Are you crazy?”
See?
“This is my coming-out party. Who better to share it with than three hot biker chicks, my beautiful half-sister, and two of Foggy Harbor’s most eligible bachelors? Let’s shoot some pool.”
We jumped on an empty table on the second row, and I watched out of the corner of my eye as Glenda delivered the pitcher to Jenna’s table. Jenna, to her credit, didn’t acknowledge my slight. She did walk over to introduce herself to us and to thank Bailey for the pitcher of beer. Touchè. I held her handshake a second longer than normal and asked her what kind of bike she had.
“Ninja 250. You up for a ride?” she challenged as she lit a cigarette.
“Momma said never take rides from strangers.”
“Sounds like good advice; she must be a smart woman.”
“She’s nuttier than a Claxton, Georgia, fruitcake.” Not original. You hear some crazy stuff in prison.
“Chase, let’s finish the game so I can head home. I’ve got work to do.”
“C’mon Bailey, stay.” I turned to Jenna. “The truth is, I just got out of prison, and we’re celebrating my newfound freedom.”
“Prison for what?”
“Protecting my sister here from an overly aggressive drunk.”
“And they sent you to prison for that?”
“My thoughts exactly,” I said.
“You look too soft for prison,” she jabbed. She took a drag and blew smoke toward the ceiling. Damn, she made it look so glamorous.
“Looks can be deceiving, Jenna,” I countered, staring her down. She looked away and I sensed that she was ready for this dialogue to keep moving.
“What do you do, Jenna?” asked Bailey.
“I’m a senior at UNC-Wilmington, and I’ll be graduating in two months. We’re just here to blow off some steam tonight.”
Bailey begged off after the game, as I hoped she would, and we made plans for me to move in tomorrow. Jenna invited me to the biker table and introduced me to Jessica and Ash. I wasn’t clear if they were clued in or unwitting tagalongs in our little drama.
We were sitting there shooting the breeze when Fat Danny walked up and made the ballsiest move of his life. He dumped a pitcher of something cheap and domestic on top of my head without saying a word. I sat there next to Ash and looked across to Jenna as the last of the ale dribbled off my nose. She subtly shook her head no. In the span of five seconds, I was emasculated. There was no other alternative. There are people . . . who would like nothing more than to see you sent back to prison . . .
A stopover at the Foggy Harbor Jail en route back to a state prison would seriously derail my attempts at saving the country. I had to suck it up and keep my temper in check. He stood there with a smug look on his face, and I began to plot my revenge immediately.
“I know what you are trying to do, Fat Danny, but it isn’t working. Waddle back to your table and enjoy your small, petty victory with Slim Jim,” I advised. I needed a sidebar with Jenna to delineate what lines were crossable. Next time I could be up against a tire iron, or worse.
“Thanks for the beer,” he said before walking away. All eyes were on our booth, and Jenna and her friends acted shocked. Jenna didn’t speak until Danny left.
“You showed remarkable restraint, Chase. How ’bout a nice hot shower at my place to get the beer smell out?”
Chapter 24
Jenna gave me the zipped lips signal as she got in the passenger seat, while her friends followed on the bikes. Her apartment was in a moderately priced development just off the Wilmington Highway, north of town. Avery Gardens. She had a one-bedroom, ground-floor corner apartment that I could only describe as war-room minimalist. A beige couch sat along a wall and a simple square wooden table with two chairs served as the dining area. Maps of Foggy Harbor and the East Coast were the only things on the wall. Atop a Silestone counter, which separated the kitchen from the living area, were three open laptops. A man and a woman in casual dress sat on tall barstools at the counter, monitoring the laptops. They had their backs to me and didn’t say a word as we entered. I never saw their faces. The redheads were no-shows.
“I love what you’ve done with the place. So homey,” I said as my eyes scanned the living room/kitchen area.
“Bathroom is this way,” Jenna said as she reached down and came back up with a small gun nestled in a black ankle holster.
I followed her to the back of the room. An opening to the right led us into a short hall. Straight ahead was the laundry room, and to the left and right were two more doors.
; “Bathroom to the right, my bedroom on the left. Are you hungry?”
“Starved.”
“I’ll make us some sandwiches while you shower, and then we’ll start the debrief. Sorry we couldn’t talk on the way over, but we’ll need to check your car for bugs.”
Or plant our own.
We entered the bathroom together, and it was awkward as I took off my shirt and she vigorously brushed her teeth for the dentist-recommended two minutes.
“I didn’t know you were a smoker,” I said, as she finished the teeth cleanse with a gargle of mouthwash.
“I’m not; it’s part of the cover. I can’t stand those damn things. If you noticed, I took maybe three drags tops. Have you always been in such good shape? I’ve seen people in good shape, but you have muscles where I’ve never seen them,” she asked through toothpaste-covered lips.
“Believe it or not, I ballooned up to nearly three hundred pounds my first three years of prison, before a friend righted my ship. I’ve been hardcore ever since.” Her gaze lingered on me as if she were trying to figure me out. I grabbed the small hand towel and dabbed toothpaste juice off her upper lip.
“I should probably get started with my shower, Jenna. I promise I won’t steal your soap,” I said, trying to politely tell her to leave the bathroom area.
“Good, because that would be a parole violation,” she said seriously. She maintained her steely glare.
“Are you serious?” I said, kind of believing her.
“No, Chase, I’m kidding. I can be funny, right?”
“Yeah, I’m still doubled over at the statistics on death joke from earlier today,” I said sarcastically.
I kept the shower short and dressed in some clothes I had packed for my sleepover. When I came out, she and I were alone, and she had changed into pink flannel pajamas.
