My face started feeling a bit flushed, but it was obvious Yulia was attempting to drive home a point. I just couldn’t determine if it was completely personal, or if she was making a statement for all women to unite against the dark side. Was she looking for me to provide a formal retort on behalf of the male species?
“I’m not sure what I should say. I’m sorry you’re going through a difficult time.”
I bailed myself out. Sort of.
Extending her hand on the table, she began to shake her head. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to share all of my personal business. And I don’t have a vendetta against all men.”
She brought a hand to her face and released a light giggle. “I just was trying to share why I seem different around my friends and colleagues, openly and honestly.”
Yulia cracked a grin.
Replaying her statement, I wondered if I’d just heard her use sarcasm and, more importantly, if that changed my perception of what she was all about.
7
Threading fifty-year-old, eight-millimeter film through a miniature projector took the same concentration and dexterity as other tasks that he’d mastered over the years. But it was far less dangerous, that much was certain.
A single dog barked in the distance somewhere, woofs reverberating through the two-story apartment complex that was covered in Spanish graffiti, mostly blue and black. The four-legged animal often had these barking sprees. The man wasn’t sure if it signified a hungry pet or that it was caught in the middle of a gang fight. Given the abject poverty, drug deals, and assaults he’d witnessed in the last week, pets were probably last on the list of priorities in this complex.
Years ago, he might have fallen prey to the magnetic pull of illicit drugs so close in proximity. He’d snorted and injected so much money into his system, it was a wonder he was still upright, not a vegetable attached to a breathing machine.
His vision not what it once was, he tilted back his head and used padded tweezers to align the projector threads into the tiny roll of film. He laughed at the sad irony of his personal situation. With unabashed attitude, he’d abused his body like it wasn’t worth two cents since he was eight years old. He could easily recall thinking nothing could take him down, strutting around South Florida with an arrogance of invincibility. Now, with his principles finally aligning with a renewed sense of purpose, his body was wilting. And there was nothing he could do about it, outside of another pointless surgery. And he wasn’t about to flush away what little inheritance he intended to pass along to his two children.
Orange sun spears shot through tattered blinds across the ceiling, revealing a web of cracks. He flipped on the projector and watched images from another time, before the world flipped upside down. Grainy, colored footage of John and his wife Jacqueline boarding Air Force One, then departing Fort Worth, only to fly about thirty miles before landing at Dallas Love Field Airport. Smiles all around, cheers, a positive feeling for those who’d gathered on the tarmac to greet the thirty-fifth president, young and promising, but also unrelenting in his beliefs. The home movies filmed by George Reid captured the sentiments of the country and much of the world: hope.
Changing out reels, the man sat on a stiff chair, arms leaning on his knees. He rubbed his hands together as he took in a different perspective of the motorcade gliding through downtown Dallas. Elsie Dorman’s home movie had a few seconds of footage, just before and after the shooting, from the Texas School Book Depository building—supposedly the only imagery from that angle. She and her husband had an office on the fourth floor, just two floors below where Oswald had fired the kill shots, as some believed.
Taking in a slow breath, the man released a violent cough, a surge of pain pinging his skull. He closed his eyes for a moment, turning his mouth toward his bare arm, willing his body to fight off another inexorable attack. A minute passed, and he decided he needed another reminder of the moment history altered its path, impacting millions of people worldwide. He swapped out films, then flicked the metal lever to watch the movie that made Abraham Zapruder famous.
Almost immediately, he could feel his palms sweat, anticipating the shot. No matter how many scrapes he’d been in, how many times he’d seen people die, nothing engulfed his emotions more than watching the skull of the president of the United States explode. He rewound the film seven times, each run-through creating a swell of anger greater than the previous. A jittery hand rubbed his face, then he scratched his head, and nails dug into nothing but tanned skin.
Breathing heavily, he padded over to the vanity and with every fiber of energy he balled up a fist and slammed it to the counter, leaving a satisfying tremor in its wake. Within seconds, he heard someone pounding a shoe or broom against the wall.
“Cállate la boca, gilipollas!”
He picked up a dirty towel and tossed it back at the wall. “You shut the fuck up! Mind your own business!”
Dipping his head toward the sink, he cupped water in his hands and doused his leathery face and neck, over and over again. Nothing would wash away the guilt of being such a lousy father, a pathetic role model for his kids.
Two scars drew his attention in the mirror. He reached up and touched a three-inch line arcing over the left side of his skull, still a bit of pink at the edges. When surgeons split him open like a pumpkin to remove a cancerous tumor, they found an endless hairball of disease. After a double shot of chemotherapy and radiation, little had changed, other than a quicker deterioration of his immune system.
Flipping his head, he focused on the deeper scar, a jagged cluster of raised skin running about six inches from the middle of his head down to his ear. Looked more like a mountain range on a topographic map, he thought. Once a source of pride for surviving a shank mugging during a stint in prison, it now only represented a lost soul.
Through the mirror’s reflection of the drawn shades, he could tell the sun was setting behind the building on the west side of the complex. Flipping on a light switch, he shuffled to a makeshift closet, his clothes already picked out. He took a blue and cream silk shirt off a hanger, then turned back to the mirror as he slipped one arm through the sleeve.
A quick flash. His eyes caught the edge of the tattoo on his triceps. Turning slightly, he flexed the muscle, showing stripes of powder blue and white extending from a red triangle with a white star in the middle. A pole anchored the Cuban flag, but it was the arched dagger in the middle of the flag that made his heart pump a little faster.
He could feel his teeth grinding as he pushed his second arm through and buttoned the front. A fly buzzed by his face, but he ignored the pest and walked to his bed, eyeing his options. Tan with black ribbon or white with black ribbon. He picked up the tan fedora and set the hat on his head, angled it slightly, and moved back to the mirror to take in the essence of his outfit. Classy was the first word that came to mind.
Straightening the flat collar against his torso, he could feel the fine silk slide between his fingers, the most precious tools he possessed. He’d gone without luxuries his entire life, but on his way out of Florida, he’d taken one last liberty—donations to his cause, he termed it.
He waltzed to his side table, lifted the lid of his Montecristo cigar box, and plucked the one farthest to the left. Holding it up like a trophy, a smile crossed his lips, his mouth already watering at the anticipation of lighting it up.
“Better enjoy this one. Only three remain after tonight.”
He pulled out his father’s lighter, lit the cigar, and puffed three times, then strode to the exit.
“Don’t want to be late. I’ve got a date tonight.”
The door slammed shut, leaving nothing more than a lingering smell of the world’s finest cigar.
8
Justin’s ponytail fluttered behind him as he swooped behind my barstool, carrying three mugs of beer in each hand. If he wasn’t careful I might have to change his nickname from One Nut to White Lightning.
Nah. Given his football accident while re
turning a kickoff in junior college, and our long, sometimes immature history while being running buddies, One Nut was the only nickname that truly fit Justin Grabowski. Simply because it annoyed him the most. Isn’t that what friends are for?
I slurped a straw full of Sprite—I had a rule about not drinking the hard stuff until I was finished interacting with clients—then popped in a couple of cashews. The Jewel was buzzing early on Friday evening, a gentle roar accentuated by an occasional laugh or shout across the bar as another patron walked in. The crowd tonight was mostly young, urban, and professional, what Momma called Yuppies back in the day.
“Coming through!”
Creases stretched across Justin’s forehead as he squeezed between two blondes that he never noticed, his feet moving at a quick clip.
“Hey, Alisa.” I called down the bar, but she held up a finger while using a rag to wipe up remnants from a couple giggling at each other after one had knocked over a drink. Alisa asked if they needed a refill, then she headed my way.
“Hey, Booker, I know we need to talk, but it’s crazy busy.” She cleaned three glasses, then restocked the ice barrel with bottled beers.
“When’s my meeting with Darla Yates?”
“Eight o’clock. She had an event to attend in honor of Albert, put on by Evergreen Energy over at the Belo Mansion.”
“Speaking of Ever—”
“Hold that thought,” she said, then tossed a couple of drink napkins on the bar next to me and asked two customers what they wanted to drink. Faster than I could say, “Where the hell is Justin Grabowski,” she snatched two wine glasses off the bar, poured one red and one white, and placed the drinks in front of the two ladies with the grace of a swan.
She turned in my direction and forced out a breath. “If you throw in a twenty-dollar tip, I’ll spin plates too.”
“Nice.” I clapped my hands twice. “I don’t have twenty bucks on me. What will you do for a dollar?”
“You looking for a table dance, Booker?” Justin came out of nowhere, his mouth leading the way.
Alisa’s face turned fire engine red, nearly matching her lips. “You can take that table dance and cram it up your—”
“Hold on, Alisa. I think Justin spoke before thinking. Right, Justin?” I was trying to save my buddy, Alisa’s other boss.
“You say something?” Justin’s eyes never glanced at Alisa or me. He was too busy running numbers on the ten-key, spitting out paper, and studying it.
“This is what I get from Justin these days.” Alisa spoke loud enough for Justin to hear, but he hadn’t heard a word. “He’s so damn busy with that food truck, Fajita Rita’s, I’m left running the whole place myself.”
Justin sidled up to the bar.
“Hey, Alisa, I gotta take off. I’m running the evening shift on the food truck. Should be a big night. Great weather. Gonna park that sucker next to Klyde Warren Park and let the smells pull in hungry customers.”
Another sigh. “You said you weren’t working the food truck tonight. You do remember saying that earlier, right?”
“What? I’m sorry.” He’d already grabbed a pen out of Alisa’s apron, his mind leaping to another topic, and started jotting down notes…for the food truck business, undoubtedly.
“You see?” Alisa stuck out a hip, holding up an annoyed hand. “It’s difficult to put in the time and focus for Booker & Associates when I’ve got to hold down the entire bar and babysit Justin too.”
“Did you say something?” he asked.
She opened her mouth, but he didn’t let her say a word. He leaned in and gave her a peck on the cheek. “You’re the best, Alisa.” He turned and scooted toward the front door, discarding a bar towel on the way. “Remind me to tell the owner that you deserve a raise.” He waved and flew out the door.
Alisa’s glare turned from the door to me. Shrugging my shoulders, I offered a bit of good news. “At least we know that our first client is finally receiving the money that David stole from her.”
“Another member of the Grabowski family.” Alisa sighed, surveying the bar. Then, like a shooting star, her face came alive, displaying a wry grin.
“Booker, you’re a man of many talents. Have I told you that?”
“Uh, never. I’ll play the game. What’s up?”
Her amber eyes shifted across the bar’s landscape. “You need to be at the Yates house in less than an hour. Help me help you. Sound familiar?”
“Jerry Maguire. I think I’m getting the picture. What do you need?”
She tossed a bar apron at my chest. “Don’t want to mess up your cool vibe. You work the bar, and I’ll feed you the orders. We’ll catch up here in a few minutes and then I can share my research with you. Believe me, it’s good stuff.”
Tying off the stained apron, I pulled around to other side of the bar, and my perspective instantly changed. All I saw were faces, some puzzled by my presence, others just glaring in my direction while speaking at the same time, presumably to a friend. Many waggled half-empty drinks. Justin would see opportunity. I felt like I was center stage performing a one-act play under a heated spotlight. The role of bartender, a job in which I had no experience. My audience consisted of half-drunk professionals who weren’t in the mood for experiments.
Part of me wondered if I’d magically swapped places with Justin, looking at the world through his eyes. Who was I fooling? I didn’t see dollar signs, so I couldn’t have shape-shifted into Justin’s skinny little body.
“Two beers, bottled. Heinekens.” Alisa smacked the end of the bar while carrying a tray of empties to the back.
I paused for a split second, then realized she was talking to me. I hopped a step, my eyes searching for the chest full of beer and ice. Next to the fountain drinks. I scooted in that direction, lifted a couple of bottles, but came up empty. I heard two more slaps on the bar and jerked my head right to find Alisa playing the drums against the surface, her eyes scanning the room. Just as I turned back to my Heineken search, a higher-pitched clinging sound got my attention.
“Hey, can we get a refill?” A man wearing an orange-colored scarf—it was April in Dallas—held up an empty mug and clinked the glass with his ring finger as if he expected me to bolt out of the gate like a horse at the Kentucky Derby.
“What’re you drinking tonight?” I tried to play the part, act like I’d been there before.
“He’s having a Michelob Light. I’ve got a Silver Bullet.”
I must have had an empty look on my face. What the hell was a Silver Bullet?
“You know, Coors Light? Ah, I guess you’re too young to remember.”
I ignored the age dig and tried to remind myself I was doing this for Alisa. And because of Justin.
“Right, Mich Light and Coors Light, coming right up!” I said with a flair that was the polar opposite of my confidence at this stage.
“Booker. Two Heinekens?”
“I’m on it.” Plowing through cubes of ices, I started to lose feeling in my fingers. Loads of ice swooped over the side onto the floor, but my club hands kept up the search, my pulse clocking at a pace that would normally be associated with jogging a six-minute mile.
“Check the fridge.” Alisa shouted instructions, all too logical for my overtaxed brain.
Flipping around on my heels, the fridge was right in front of me. I opened the door, spotted two green bottles. Holding one under my armpit, I attempted to twist off the cap in my hand. It wouldn’t budge. I widened my stance and made a second noble attempt.
“Fuck!” I wondered if anyone heard that.
“Try the bottle opener.” Alisa again with another logical instruction.
I held up a hand, as if I was saying I know that, and searched the back bar. Just to my left I saw the bottle opener, and I moved in that direction. One step, and I tripped over the still-open fridge door, something sharp clipping my leg.
“Booker, watch out!” I heard Alisa yell.
Glancing down, a bowl of cherries slithered onto th
e grimy floor. I dropped to my knees and tried to use my hands to contain the oil spill. Caging those little suckers was like trying to tackle fifty greased pigs. It wasn’t happening. I’m sure someone was catching all of this on a cell phone and would be posting it to Facebook and Instagram in minutes: “PI can’t find cherry with both hands.”
I shoveled as many cherries as I could capture back into the bowl, shut the fridge door, and took two steps, crushing a dozen of those suckers along the way. I stopped in my tracks, my teeth clenched. I had just put dirty cherries back into the same bowl as the clean ones. Looking around the bar at my audience, all eyes stared at me, not a single one blinking.
“Sorry about that,” I said for some unknown reason.
I removed the cherry bowl from the fridge, setting it off to the side, then grabbed the bottle opener and popped off one top while sliding across the floor toward Alisa with my cherry-soled boots.
Snatching the other Heineken from my armpit, she placed it at the edge of the bar and dropped the heel of an open palm. The top jumped off and fell to the stained concrete.
“It’s really just that easy.”
I felt like a sixteen-year-old kid working my first-ever job, a very odd position for a South Dallas guy who’d always had plenty of street smarts and more than enough confidence to tackle any task head-on. Right now, I think my audience viewed me as a prepubescent freshman placed on the varsity team.
“Don’t worry, it gets easier.” Alisa winked. “Finish up with the backlog here at the bar, then we should have a couple of minutes to catch up.”
Inspired that I’d soon be free from bartending jail, I felt a burst of energy.
“Okay, Mich Light and Coors Light, draft. I got you.” I clapped my hands once, then pulled the keg levers, ensuring I kept the mugs tilted so foam wouldn’t fill the glass—an added benefit from a University of Texas degree.
The pair nodded as I placed mugs of beer in front of them. Two happy customers anyway. Determined to double the happy pool, I shifted left.
BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense) Page 51
