Sleep Don't Come Easy

by McGlothin, Victor

  Nelson broke down crying. “I loved her. And yeah, man,” he broke down and sobbed. “I did it. I killed her.”

  Fatema took a deep breath and held it and then left the precinct without saying a word to anybody.

  I Will Love You Anyway

  The coffee tasted unusually good this morning. Fatema stood on the balcony of her apartment looking out in to the city, thankful that for the first time in a long time, she could look ahead of her instead of at the past.

  Drew came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled the side of her neck. “How’s the coffee?” he asked, knowing the answer already.

  She rolled her eyes. “You know it’s good.” Fatema took another sip.

  The night Nelson was arrested was the night she called him to come over. That had been a week ago, and this time, he’d never left.

  “Some things are just right,” he told her that next day. “You and me, Fatty, we’re right, and no matter how hard you fight it, there’s nothing you can do to change it.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she retorted. “And what about what’s-her-name?”

  “Who?”

  She hit him on the arm. “Your girl, Drew. The woman you live with?”

  Drew laughed out loud, then winked. “I ain’t lived with that woman in three months, Fatema.”

  “Quit lying!”

  “I’m serious,” he said, sincerely. “Do you honestly think I could live with a woman and be on call for you every hour of the day the way I am?”

  “I don’t call you like that, Drew.”

  “Think about it, baby. In the middle of the night, ‘Drew,’ ” he mocked her voice. “ ‘Can you come over?’ Early in the morning, afternoon, Saturdays, Sundays, holidays.”

  “That’s so not true!”

  “Oh, it’s true, girl. And like a magnet to metal, my dick drags me over here whether I want to come or not, and ain’t shit I can do about it. If I was still living with whats-her-name, don’t you think she’d have cut my ass by now?”

  Fatema couldn’t help but laugh. “I would’ve.”

  “Damn right you would’ve, and so would any woman.”

  “Well, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “What? And let you know I was available? I liked having you think I was with somebody. You look cute jealous.”

  “I have never been jealous.”

  “Quit playing, Fatema. We’re talking serious here, and keeping it real.”

  “I’m being real, Drew. I have never been jealous of that woman.”

  “Yes, you have.”

  “Have not.”

  “Have too.”

  “Have not.”

  The argument went on like that for several minutes before Drew shut her up with a kiss.

  He felt good being here, and he was right, though she’d go to her grave first before she’d ever admit it. But the two of them belonged together.

  Toni’s death was a wake up call. Fatema had spent too much time letting other things get in the way of what was really important in life. Maybe if she’d been a better friend, she could’ve seen the trouble Toni was headed in and could’ve stopped it from happening. The two of them had always been able to talk about anything, and Fatema would always feel a sadness in her heart for not being there for her friend when she needed her most. But from Toni and Lazarus, and even Ivy, Fatema learned not to take one second of life for granted. And to pay attention to that small voice inside telling her that Drew was the best thing ever to happen to her.

  “I got the laptop all powered up for you, girl,” he said softly in her ear.

  Fatema laughed. “You really think I should do it?”

  “I do. And from what you said about Todd, I’m sure he’d agree.”

  “Todd’s just hating because he’s not as good at creative writing as I am.”

  “Well, the sooner you get started on writing this novel, the sooner you can show him just how good you really are. Got a title yet?”

  She hesitated in answering, quietly reflecting on the title of her first book. “Yeah. Lazarus Rising.”

  Tomorrow’s Edge

  Victor McGlothin

  Also by Victor McGlothin

  Down on My Knees

  Sinful

  Ms. Etta’s Fast House

  Borrow Trouble (with Mary Monroe)

  Published by Dafina Books

  One

  The night before lightning struck, Vera Miles witnessed one thing she never thought possible. When she came up empty after trailing a client’s husband over a week, it appeared out of nowhere like a flash. It had to be the first time in history a black woman became fighting mad because her man was not sneaking around. Most of them, still in the market for a good man, would never have considered the thought of dismissing a good man, so Vera knew right off that something about Sylvia Everhart didn’t fit. The hired snoop stood in her client’s plush office, which was excessively decorated with fine furniture and extravagant original artwork, wondering why the woman glared at her with clenched teeth after hearing that her husband Devin had not cheated nor displayed any evidence to suggest he was the philandering type. Even after Devin Everhart babysat a few drinks at an upscale, happy hour mix-and-mingle joint, he kept to himself, despite several women offering a menu of after-hours innuendo they assumed he was there to get.

  For seven days, Vera followed Devin from his office building to a residential hotel a few blocks away, where he rented a room on the first floor. During that week, he ordered fast food and stepped out for quick bites, then returned to his single room with double beds, but always alone. Having been a private investigator for more than three years, Vera found it easy to make rational assumptions when shadowing a person for any length of time. She rarely had to guess whether there was a weakness for gambling, a predilection for sexual deviance or struggles with the bottle, because habits, especially bad ones, always had a way of showing themselves, like a stubborn pimple dabbled over with several layers of makeup. Before too long, it was bound to rear its ugly head.

  During the previous week, Vera grew to appreciate the kind of man Mrs. Everhart’s husband was, probably more than she’d care to admit. Not only was he nice to look at, he had proven to be a conscientious worker who believed in being on time for the nine-to-five grind and back on the clock after lunch at exactly an hour on the dot, with no deviations. Most women would have been smart enough to admire his dependable and responsible work ethic. While contemplating the drastic measures other women would have gone through to snag a quality mate like Devin, Vera found herself staring at a family of college degrees on her client’s wall. Coincidentally, she tried to figure out how a woman with so much book sense suffered miserably when it came down to the good old fashion common sense necessary to cherish a fine man like hers.

  Maybe Vera had tipped her hand by allowing myriad unprofessional thoughts to slow dance around that notion in her head too long. Perhaps Mrs. Everhart read those thoughts clearly enough to recognize Vera’s lustful deliberations with her husband in mind. Whichever the case, Mrs. Everhart was mad as hell and didn’t have any qualms about letting Vera know it when she finally switched her gaze from the client’s accomplishments to the client’s strained expression. That was the first time the private eye noticed how the woman’s head seemed too big for her frail body. It had a lot to do with her outdated Mary-Tyler-Moore-flipped-up hairdo nesting above her shoulders and the fact that Sylvia Everhart was swelling with a rising tide of contempt. Seeing as how being hit with contemptible behavior from clients typically came with the territory, Vera shrugged off Mrs. Everhart’s evil eye like water down a duck’s back. After all, her client wasn’t necessarily a bad person despite her soured disposition. Actually, under other circumstances, she might have even been tolerable. The woman’s complexion was a shade lighter than Vera’s, more of a toffee-brown hue. However, her spindly legs and slight build packaged into a perfect size four was enough to make Vera dislike her from the beginning. In fact, Vera cons
idered all skinny women to be evil until proven otherwise. So far, not a single one of them had been given the benefit of the doubt. Not one.

  After another long bout of silence, which was attached to that lingering glare Mrs. Everhart had propped up with a healthy dose of attitude, she decided to work her strategy from another angle. “I see,” she said, looking Vera over as if she wasn’t close to being satisfied with her abilities as a PI and just as displeased with the snug fit of the navy colored corduroy slacks hugging her curvy hips. Vera, whose figure floated between sizes ten and twelve depending on the cut, was partly to blame. At the time, she was an everyday twelve, hoping to get by with half a wardrobe that should have been given up, let out or traded in. And Vera should have given it a great deal more thought before leaving the house with that particular pair of dress slacks wrangled over all her womanly goodness. True, it was an error in judgment to think that no one would have noticed, but that was beside the point. Mrs. Everhart’s disapproving sneer overshadowed Vera’s first mistake of the day. She’d graded Vera with her narrowed, condescending eyes, which pushed Vera farther away from observing professional courtesy and much closer to opening her mouth with something she had been dying to say.

  “Perhaps,” Mrs. Everhart continued, after a pinch of silence skirted by, “perhaps you didn’t adequately apply yourself on my behalf, Ms. Miles.”

  “Vera,” the PI whispered uncomfortably, after having been chastised.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said Vera. Call me Vera.”

  “Like I was saying, Ms. Miles, I’ve paid you good money and I expect good results.” That inflated head of hers begun to bobble slightly from side to side as she pressed hard with an ink pen against her checkbook. “Why don’t I sweeten the pot? Some people need more inspiration than others to try harder.” Mrs. Sylvia Everhart reached out her hand, accessorized with a host of diamond trinkets. “Here is a check for two thousand dollars. Perhaps doubling your weekly fee will entice you to get out there and bring me something I can use,” she spat irritably.

  A prideful disposition kept Vera from taking the check which dangled from the tips of the rich woman’s skinny fingers like a doggie treat offered from a doting master. The only thing missing was the customary pat on the head that generally followed such an gift. Pride that Vera’s grandparents instilled during her upbringing wouldn’t allow her to bow and shuffle. It made her feel like a pooch presented with scraps from the eccentric woman’s table, one with far more money than couth. That’s when Vera sized her up for another reason. She figured Sylvia to be about five-five, a few inches shorter than herself, and guessed that she was at least thirty pounds lighter. Before Vera realized it, she’d imagined how silly Mrs. Everhart would look face down on the mean streets of Dallas after tossing insults then immediately being introduced to the concrete on the heels of it. But, they weren’t on the mean streets and there was no real reason for Vera to get all worked up behind some stuck-up rich chick, black woman or not. Besides, no one would have known about the stack of situational ethics Vera kept tucked deep down in the bottom corner of her purse had she taken the money, added two-thousand digits to her bank register and then sat at home on her butt watching Tru TV for a week. There were a number of ways to get even with the stick figure of a woman whom she couldn’t stand but violence was the first one that came to mind. No one would have been the wiser, except Vera and that stubborn pride of hers. The same pride that made her strong some times played her like a fool. This was one of those foolish times.

  “On second thought, Mrs. Everhart,” Vera said, declining the money, “why don’t you keep that money to buy yourself a clue? And if you happened to smarten up, you’d use it on a gang of marriage counselors to help you keep that good man of yours. I’ve had the pleasure of watching him for a solid week and he was a model husband, even when presented with some pretty nice can’t-miss opportunities, if you know what I mean. Now here’s something else you probably didn’t know. Most men are generally as honest as their options but not Devin—he appeared to be a man who was missing his wife and wishing he was home.” Sylvia put Vera in the mind of a toy poodle when she marched her child-like frame toward her in an angered rant.

  “That shows just how little you do know, Ms. Miles. Mr. Everhart left home on his own accord, so I know he’s out there running behind some tramp willing to degrade herself by doing the things men fascinate themselves with. I’m not into greasing his ego or anything else for that matter. I don’t have to and I won’t.”

  Vera couldn’t believe her ears or her reaction. “Well, maybe you should have. Then your man might’ve stayed home.” Those eleven little dirty words just slipped right out of her mouth before she could tell them to go sit down and mind their own business.

  “How dare you!” Mrs. Everhart yelled, from somewhere above the top of her lungs. “Get out!”

  Vera swore that all three of the wall mirrors in that office were going to shatter against the woman’s loud screeching pitch. Laughing in her client’s face behind a teenaged-style tantrum was Vera’s next thought commingled with one that served the situation a tad bit better, so she went with the latter. “OK, I’ll leave, but not before I tell you what I think the problem with you really is. Uh-huh, it seems to me that you were hoping your breakup was brought on by what some other woman was doing, but then you looked at me like I had on two different colored shoes when I showed up and informed you that Devin had not taken up with anyone else. That’s disturbing, because it forces you to look at yourself and open to other folks’ questions as to why your man ran off. I might be wrong but I doubt it. The way I see it, Sylvia, this is a big mess you’ve gotten yourself into and there isn’t anyone else around to blame it on.”

  Suddenly, Mrs. Everhart’s top lip began to quiver. She was so mad that Vera nearly giggled at the mere thought of that swollen head of Sylvia’s popping off at the neck.

  “Are . . . you . . . finished now or should I call the police to have you removed from my building?” Sylvia threatened.

  “Yeah, I’m through but don’t think about stopping payment on the check for the work I’ve already put in, or I’ll be back and not as pleasant as I’ve been today.”

  Vera was well aware that people didn’t like paying for bad news, unless it was wrapped around some want ads and grocery store coupons, so she raced to the nearest Wells Fargo branch to tender the check that was burning a hole in her pocket. She might have played a fool for the occasion, but she’d never once been mistaken for stupid.

  It was just Vera’s luck that the windows at the in-store branch were closed, so she cussed the bank’s employees under her breath for closing down on time as she headed up the aisles to shop for a few female necessities. Getting over her last client’s upsetting idea of what a marriage was supposed to be still troubled Vera, so she cussed Sylvia Everhart’s silly ideologies altogether. Several shoppers threw strange glances her way and each of them was extremely close to getting cussed out too. That’s what usually happened when CRUMBS (Clients, Reasonably Upset and Meaning to Bust Somebody) didn’t get what they wanted via Vera’s investigation services. They’d smart off to her face and she’d cuss them out later, behind their backs.

  That night, Vera applied all five of her bedtime beauty secrets then slid beneath the covers to rest her troubled mind. She closed her eyes, repeating her personal PI Anthem while trying to feel good about the money she had made, until the sandman climbed into bed right along with her. Once the case is closed and the money is made, don’t matter win or lose. Some bills have been paid.

  Two

  Tuesday morning found Vera hiding beneath the covers and dreading the cool air hawking from the other side of her handmade quilt. Whispers of fall had just rolled in and cast their mesmerizing spell over the city after another long blistering hot Texas summer. That crisp morning air reminded Vera of the first time she nestled herself in 450-count linens, on sale from Neiman’s, when 270-count standard hotel type sheets had been g
ood enough before then. She had grown accustomed to the way quality bedding made her feel pleasantly pampered, so she wasn’t ready to give up her hiding place just yet. Instead, she lay there with the covers pulled up to her neck, while frowning back at the slender rays of sun peeking through the slits of the Venetian blinds. They didn’t mean any harm and generally didn’t cause any, so Vera said her hellos to the early coolness of the day and the sunshine’s grandeur. Then, she smiled and gave thanks to the Almighty for providing her an avenue to keep the lights on the little extras of life, like 450-count linen sheets.

  Vera made some money doing what she loved, some money, although it wasn’t enough to multiply on its own. She spent most of her time figuring out ways to catch up on overdue notices while trying to keep her small investigation company afloat. Other than uncovering other people’s dirty deeds, Vera came across an occasional insurance fraud case to make the ends meet. Before she hung her own shingle, it was a ten-year hitch as a parole officer for the state. It was safe, too safe. What she truly missed was a job she’d signed on to do with a crew of bounty hunters. Albeit a very brief stint tracking dangerous bail jumpers, it almost got her killed, more than once.

  With a few regrets and a lot of bad boys to fret, Vera decided to try her luck at becoming a first rate snoop. Being a private eye put food on the table and presented her with a slice of life that most folks could have only imagined. Because danger and uncertainty often traveled the same paths she walked along, Vera trained herself to be Everywoman in order to survive. She’d learned to play the cold-fish and the queen-bitch, wearing attitude on her sleeve like it was part of a uniform. Mastering her piercing stare coupled with a certain amount of gruffness in her voice, Vera managed to maneuver her way into some very important back rooms, when batting her big brown eyes didn’t get her past the front door.