by D. A. Young
“Yes, please do give her my best! We must get together soon for dinner, Sherman. Take care!”
After exchanging hugs and air kisses, Sherman was finally able to excuse himself from the retirement party. It was about damn time. He’d been schmoozing it up for three hours with the large group as the liquor and appetizers passed freely. Sherman was now ready to go home and deal with the problems at hand. Correction, his main problem from where all his other problems stemmed. His wife, Hilda.
He’d spent the evening making excuses for her absence after she failed to arrive at six on the dot as promised. Hilda knew how important punctuality was to Sherman, and yet she’d chosen to ignore his calls. It had briefly occurred to him that she might be lying injured somewhere unable to reach out, but Sherman didn’t give a damn. When he called her, Hilda knew to drop whatever else she had going on to be one hundred percent accessible for him. She’d greatly embarrassed him tonight and such an act of defiance would not be tolerated nor go unaddressed. Clearly, a trip to their basement was needed to bring things back into perspective for his dumbass wife.
Sherman didn’t even know why he bothered trying to teach her anything after twenty years of marriage. Hilda was a pathetic loser and as useful as a two-legged mule. Same as the first day he’d met her. She’d never done anything worthy enough to win his approval and had made a mockery of his manhood by cursing him with daughters as worthless as herself. Sherman needed strapping boys to carry on his family’s legacy, not fat simpletons who cowered at the sound of his voice.
His phone rang and he fished it out of his suit jacket pocket. Sherman grimaced at the number he didn’t recognize because he knew exactly who the caller would be. Reluctantly, he answered the call. “What do you want, Davis? Did you finally find a place to stay? If so, I want all your shit out of my spare bedroom tonight. You’re wanted for questioning in Baymoor, and it wouldn’t be a good look for me to be caught harboring a fugitive.”
“Your house is on fire!”
Sherman stopped mid-stride. “What the hell do you mean my house is on fire?”
“As in that bitch looks like the neighborhood decided to throw a bonfire party! What do you think I mean?! I left when the cops and fire department arrived. I’m calling from a payphone down the street from your neighborhood.”
“Where are my wife and kids?” Sherman silently prayed they were inside and trapped in the fire. Then he would start all over again. At forty-five, he could still get another wife. A younger one that would bare him plenty of sons. The role of a grieving widower would appeal to some bleeding-heart broad.
“Bad luck for you, Sherm,” Davis cackled. “They weren’t at home.”
Of course not, Sherman thought dismally. Because if it wasn’t for bad luck, he’d sure as hell have no luck with the women.
“Don’t you think it’s odd that Jessie died, then my pops, and now your house is on fire?” Davis asked abruptly. “Too many coincidences, cuz.”
It was a theory that had crossed Sherman’s mind but hadn’t wanted to express to his volatile cousin’s face. Davis had gone off the deep end, and no one in their family now wanted anything to do with him.
“Yeah, but they didn’t start until you went mental!” Sherman countered angrily. “Letting your ego get the best of you with that farmer! I spoke to both Jessie and your father before they died. Jessie put you out because he was an officer of the law, and he’d already helped you out of another precarious situation once before. Then he died from a home invasion. Uncle B cut you off until you could get yourself straight and suddenly, he’s dead? Your mother is gone and I’ve wondered if you had anything to do with her disappearance?” Sherman derided. “I refuse to let you stay and now my house has caught fire? And you just happened to be down the street?! Yes, I do see coincidences and I’m afraid this is where we will have to part ways, cousin.”
“I didn’t have shit to do with any of those things! Don’t turn your back on me, Sherman!” Davis’s voice was rife with angry desperation. “Please! I’ve got nothing left! Everyone I know is dead or disappearing! Are you listening to me, Sherman? Sherman!”
If he gave Davis money, then he’d only be back and begging for more, Sherman thought with disgust. Fowler men were supposed to be strong and uplifting. His cousin was just as stupid and pathetic as Hilda. Sherman disconnected the call and continued to his car. His thoughts were preoccupied with his family’s location, calling his insurance adjuster, and punishing Hilda. Sherman didn’t even hear the second set of footsteps behind him until it was too late.
***
He was drowning in the agonizing pain crashing over his body in violent waves. It was blinding Sherman, and he was choking on it with every breath he tried to draw through clenched teeth as sweat dripped from his forehead. The crunch of footsteps made him shut his eyes and shrink as if to make himself invisible as the big man returned to squat above him. Sherman flinched when he rapped him on his forehead with his gloved hand.
Patiently, he waited for Sherman to open his eyes. Sherman knew he had no choice but to obey or suffer the consequences. Finally, he did and was once more assailed with terror at the face smiling down at him.
“I’m disappointed that our time together is coming to an end, Sherman.” It was said with such regret that Sherman actually believed him. “I guess you were better at dishing out beatings than taking them. Your bitch-ass broke with my first punch.”
Sherman’s body was being flayed alive with agony. He no longer cared about saving face and his righteous Fowler pride. The man pulled a phone out of his back pants pocket and scrolled through the contacts before pressing one. He listened to it ring before someone answered. He held the phone close to Sherman’s ear. “Someone wants to talk to you…”
***
Graham was settled on the bed of his hotel room with the menu for room service. He was contemplating between fish and chips or surf and turf when his phone rang. He glanced at the screen and answered with, “What do you need? Want me to find out exactly how many bodies your wife has buried?”
A whoop of laughter filled Graham’s ear before his good friend Casey Sullivan’s thick southern drawl filled his ear. The two men had become great friends through Nero Santos, an infamous lawyer retained by Graham’s now deceased brother-in-law, David Rossini to represent Graham in Arthur Watts’s death. Nero, now also deceased, was not only Casey’s mentor in law school, but turned out to be Sidra’s, Casey’s wife, father as well.
“Careful, brother. If you manage to find that out, and she knows, you could be next. What’s that sayin’? Dead men tell no tales?”
“Depends on how they died,” Graham replied enigmatically. “How’s everything going?”
“Can’t complain. Hell, you’ve met my wife! Why would I complain?” Casey bragged.
“Yeah, I gotta say. Sid is a good look for you and you balance each other very well. The two of y’all almost manage to make crazy look sane, man,” Graham kidded. “Almost being the operative word.”
Casey snorted. “Mark my words; your time will come. I’m thinkin’ you’re way overdue. It’s time for you to settle down with a nice lady and have some babies. Give my baby girl another cousin to play with.”
“Have you been gossiping with your brothers, Max, Zay, or Wade about me?” Graham asked suspiciously. It wouldn’t surprise him if that was the case. His circle was tight, a close-knit family formed not by blood, but a common bond of how much blood you’d spill or lengths you’d go to protect your loved ones. “I’ve already told all of y’all that married life isn’t for me. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t begrudge any of you for your choice of happiness, fam. I just know that commitment isn’t in my cards.”
“Well then, you hold onto them cards real tight and make sure you’re ready to lay ‘em down when the right woman comes along. I’d hate for you to miss out on somethin’ wonderful,” Casey said seriously. “You know I like shootin’ the shit with you, but the reason I was callin’ is because I just
saw on the news that Sherman Fowler, a prestigious judge in the ninth circuit of Maryland, was found dead with a gunshot wound in an alley two days ago. His body was discovered buried underneath some debris in a dumpster.”
“Almost as if the trash had taken itself out,” Graham drawled as he perused the beer menu.
“It looked like he’d been worked over pretty thoroughly. The stab wound to his abdomen wasn’t a clean one, so he didn’t die right away. Apparently, his larynx was crushed and fingers and limbs were broken, so there was no way he could have crawled out or called out for help. It’s being ruled as a violent robbery-homicide as his wallet was emptied of cash and credit cards. He’s survived by his wife, Hilda and their two teenage daughters.”
Casey paused to see if Graham would respond, but his friend remained silent. “As if that wasn’t hard enough on the ladies, the Fowler’s house caught fire while the women were out shopping together at the time the judge was shot. They say the fire started as a result of faulty wires in the basement, which is a damn shame. The room couldn’t even be accessed because Fowler kept it locked at all times and only he had the code for it.”
“Is that right? My heart goes out to the ladies.” Which was true, but Casey was wrong. Hilda Fowler had known the code. Graham could vividly recall racks of wooden paddles and belts in that room of torture that was padded for silence when she unlocked the door for him. Hilda had confessed that sometimes, she and her daughters were locked in there for days at a time for ‘disobeying’. She could never know the strength it took Graham not to react to her words. All he could do was promise her justice and revenge, which she got when Graham held the phone up to Sherman’s ear.
“Who’s the bitch now, Sherman?” Hilda taunted. “My friend is an honorable man, and he promised me that you would suffer slowly. I’m glad because I want you to die knowing that me and my daughters will go on to live happy lives while you rot in hell. Your fucked-up legacy will die with you, Sherman. You. Lose. I. Win.”
“Hey, which sounds better? Fish and chips or surf and turf?” Graham was uninterested in the details. After all, he’d been there and didn’t need a rehashing.
Before Casey could answer, his wife Sidra screeched in Graham’s ear. “Get them both, Graham! Don’t forget to ask for extra tartar sauce for the fish! No wait! Salt and vinegar. Mmmmm! That sounds so good right now. Take pics! Or better yet, I’ll just stay on the phone and you can describe how it tastes! I like my steak medium well!”
“For the love of God, woman!” Casey bellowed in outrage as he came back on the line. “You just ate lunch - yours and mine! Why don’t you go and lay down?! All that damn jumpin’ around can’t be good for my little girl!”
Graham listened to the stomping on the other end of the phone followed by a door slamming.
“I think that’s my cue to ghost,” he chuckled as Casey cursed under his breath. “You’ve got your hands full over there, and unless I misinterpreted that slamming door, you’re gonna be sleeping on the sofa with both eyes open.”
“Man, please! Right now, I’m her body pillow, and she can’t even get to sleep without laying on me,” Casey said in a voice so tender, that once again, Graham was left marveling at the changes in his brothers’ lives. Like him, they worked hard, reaped the rewards of success, and never lacked for female companionship. Marriage and commitment had been the furthest things from their minds. Then like a set of dominoes, they’d fallen one by one for extraordinary women. From Casey, his brothers - Jack and Darby, Isaiah Davies, Max, to soon-to-be Wade, all were members of the ‘Happily Married Club’.
Casey’s voice turned serious, drawing Graham’s attention back to their conversation. “Before I go though, I just want to remind you that if you need any assistance in accomplishin’ your mission, we’re here for you. As many times as you’ve come through for all of us, from obtainin’ the information on Noelle’s ex, to the bastard that put his hands on my wife, to the dirt on our clients and adversaries, it’s the least we could do, brother. Say the word and it’s done.”
Graham put the menu down to pick up the worn dossier that traveled with him everywhere he went before dropping it back on the nightstand. He didn’t need the picture of Annabelle. They’d be coming face-to-face soon enough. “I appreciate that, Case. Thanks.”
“Not a problem. Later, G.”
After they hung up, Graham swung his legs off the bed and stared at his phone, debating if he should make the next call. Graham had a thing about loose ends. They tended to unravel even more if left unattended to. He placed the call, this time to his Uncle Nate, who picked up on the first ring. “Hey, son! Everything okay?”
“I’m good, Unc. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Nope, I’ve been up for awhile. Couldn’t sleep so I decided to have a nightcap and go over the details for my new menu. What’s on your mind, young buck?” Nate asked affectionately. “You always have my undivided attention.”
The relationship between uncle and nephew resembled one more of a father and son. Graham’s biological father had been Nate’s archrival in college, but as far as Graham was concerned, his uncle had no competition. Ingrid had kept her children away and cut herself of from her brother and his wife, but when Eliza reached out to Nate and he found out what was happening with them, Nate had been on the first flight to Las Vegas to be there for him. At the time, Graham was too full of anger and resentment over everything that he and his sisters had endured to be as opening and receptive to his uncle as the girls had been.
***
“Look, man, I appreciate you comin’ all this way, but I ain’t goin’ back with you,” Graham stated matter-of-factly as he stepped over the broken furniture in the living room of the apartment. Nate had driven him there under the understanding that Graham had personal items he wanted to pick up before he, Nate, and Georgie returned to Baymoor. Graham smiled with pride as he looked at the white wall decorated in dark brownish-red stains that ranged in size from flecks to large, red splatters. The cops had deemed this the scene of a homicide, but Graham called it a motherfucking masterpiece. It was his greatest accomplishment, and he’d do it all over again without hesitation if he had to.
Nate stepped over to the wall and assessed the damage before gazing at the large matching blot on the carpet. The evidence of Graham’s rampage and the viciousness of it distressed Nate and made him deeply ashamed that he hadn’t done more than taken Ingrid’s word that everything was fine.
“I hear what you’re saying, Graham, but you’re still a minor,” Nate replied evenly as he took in the worn furniture and carpet. He walked into the kitchen and wasn’t surprised to find it empty of food and held only the barest essentials such as silverware, cups, and plates. Nate opened the cabinets and found cereal, but not much else except a couple of canned goods. The fridge held nothing but liquor, milk, and a pitcher of juice. Georgie’s artwork was taped to the fridge, and it was the only bright spot Nate had encountered in the dreary apartment. “How many bedrooms are there?”
Graham grunted and pointed at two closed doors. “That bedroom was Watts’s and Ingrid’s, and the other one was her ‘office’.”
The word ‘office’ was spat in such a bitter, corrosively acidic way that Nate comprehended it was the room where Ingrid received her customers. His heart broke all over again that Ingrid had spiraled so out of control and she’d pulled her children into this nightmare. “And the last bedroom?”
Graham turned around and Nate followed him down a short hallway to the door on the right. Inside of the small room were two full-sized beds, a closet, overflowing with clothes for the siblings, and a dresser with a television on top of it. There was a small window at the top of the far wall, but hardly any light shone through. It was claustrophobic, but Nate could see they tried to keep it as neat and orderly as possible.
“This is our bedroom,” Graham spoke dispassionately. “When we’re here, this is where we eat and hang out. The girls share a bed, and I got the one closest to the
door. With Ingrid’s revolving door of company, I didn’t want the girls sharing a room away from me, making them easy targets for those sorry motherfuckers. The girls don’t come home unless I’m here as well. Georgie has a babysitter downstairs, and either Eliza or I would pick her up. We stuck together at all times.” He pointed to a stack of weights on the side of his bed. “At night, I jam my weights under the door, so no one can get in, and if Eliza or Georgie needed to use the bathroom, I’d escort them.”
Graham picked up a black Cabbage Patch Kid doll and a medium-sized, clear plastic box filled with pastel colored Legos and handed them to Nate. Then he walked over the bed closest to the window and pulled it away from the wall. Nate approached to observe his nephew who bent down and lifted a small, discreetly cut flap on the side of the box spring. Graham withdrew a small tin can and opened it up and pulled out a small wad of money. “This is the money that I’ve been saving from my job. I tried to give it to Eliza, but she refused to take it.”
“Here.” He thrust the money at Nate. “Now, I can put it to good use. Georgie gets a fresh start. I don’t want her to want for anything. I’ve decided to get myself emancipated and go to work full time. I’ll keep my job at the gym, and my boy said he could hook me up with a job at the construction site he works at.”
Nate eyed the crinkled bills but did not take them. “What about your education, Graham?”
His nephew rolled his eyes and shrugged his big shoulders carelessly. “So, I’ll just go to night school! It ain’t a big deal. As soon as my check starts rollin’ in regularly, I promise I’ll send money every month. Don’t…don’t bother Eliza with any of this.” Graham pressed his lips together tightly as his eyes dropped to his shoes. With a furrowed brow, he studied them as if completely fascinated by them. He cleared his throat noisily before continuing, “We’ve burdened her long enough.”
