“Jonah, you need to understand something. We’re pals and all, but you’ve screwed with my money. That’s how I feed my kids.” He let go of my hair and stood. Stevie and Ray both grabbed an arm and hauled me up to my knees, wrenching my bad leg in a way that was about as far from pleasant as humanly possible. Waylon had my cane in one hand, slapping it against his palm in a slow, threatening rhythm.
“A lot of money, Jonah,” Waylon explained. “That’s what you owe me.”
“I’m aware,” I said.
“Oh? You’re aware? Well shit, Jonah,” Waylon said, his voice loud, mocking. “You’re aware that you owe me a lot of money, and I’m assuming that you’re aware that every week you don’t pay, the interest gets tacked onto the principal.”
Waylon turned to stare at me, his eyes going cold.
“I’m sure you’re also aware,” he said, punctuating his point with an open-handed slap to the side of my head, “that you are in a fucking world of hurt right now.”
Waylon nodded and in unison both Stevie and Ray threw me backwards, hard, into the stone wall that bordered the parking lot. My head bounced against it, and everything got distant and far away, the ringing in my ears picking up what felt like a few hundred extra decibels. I wasn’t exactly sure who it was that hit me next, but whoever it was landed a shot that left my mouth filled with the taste of my own blood.
I went down and the next few minutes consisted of a lot of pain. I tried to do the best I could to protect my head and ribs, but I was pretty sure one of them even landed a few shots on me with my cane. When it finally ended, I was bleeding from a cut on my lip and both nostrils. My sides, my stomach, and my arms all felt like one massive bruise, but as far as I could tell, I was mostly intact. I hurt like hell, but I was intact.
“Get him up,” Waylon said.
Stevie and Ray pulled me up onto my knees for a second time. Waylon stood in front of me, casually leaning on my cane.
“So, Jonah, here’s the situation. I’m guessing a busy guy like you, what with the ripping folks off and making a very valiant attempt at drinking your liver into a coma, just forgot about me. Which, while it hurts my feelings, happens. I get that. So, to make sure it doesn’t happen again, Cash’s going to leave you with a reminder about the importance of remembering who your friends are,” Waylon said, explaining this to me in the same tone of voice one uses with a difficult child. “See, this way, we don’t have to worry about another tragic misunderstanding. That’s what I’m chalking this up to, by the way, a big misunderstanding. I don’t want to believe that you’d just forget all about me like that, what with us being friends and all.”
My right eye had swollen shut, so I couldn’t see Cash. I did, however, hear the demented little freak all but panting in anticipation, which made me more than just a little nervous. I struggled, trying to break away from the toughs that were holding me. I succeeded in provoking Waylon into slapping me again, and for a moment the world threatened to go dark. I was fighting to hang onto consciousness as it was, but at this point I wasn’t sure if it would make much of a difference. I heard the clicking of a box cutter’s blade sliding out of its handle a second before Cash pressed it just below my temple. A line of warmth slid its way down the side of my face, following the blade as he pulled it down over my cheek, all the way to my jawline. I could feel blood, hot against the chill air, coursing down my face and over my neck.
“Now Jonah, because I’m a nice guy, I’m going to give you twenty-four hours to pay me something. At least the interest, can you do that for me?” Waylon said.
I nodded.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear that.”
“Yeah,” I choked out, “Yeah, I can do that.”
“I hope so,” Waylon said reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a photograph. He held it up in front of my eyes. It was a shot of my father walking from his car to his front door, taken from a distance. He was wearing his work clothes. I could see the engine grease that stained the front of his jeans. He had a bad habit of wiping his hands on his pants while he was working. “See, we have this policy that if the Lendee can’t pay the Lender, then we have to collect from their next available kin. In this case, well, are we clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Good. So I’ll see you tomorrow then. I look forward to it.”
Stevie and Ray dropped me to the ground. A moment later, I heard the Cadillac start up and drive off. I laid on the pavement for a good long time, hurting all over. The nap I’d been contemplating earlier didn’t sound like such a bad idea now and I let myself drift off into the darkness that had been clawing at the edge of my senses.
Chapter 3
I woke up in the back of an ambulance. Once I’d come to that stellar conclusion, other smaller details started falling into place. There was a bandage taped down over my right eye. I was wearing an oxygen mask. I was strapped to a backboard and wearing a cervical collar. I wiggled my fingers and toes, just to be sure, and found them all in working order. Even though I hurt all over, it was a pain that stayed far away and distant. I mostly felt like someone had wrapped me in a big, fluffy blanket, which I presumed was probably due to a healthy dose of pain medication. God bless each and every one of those beautiful bastards.
A face appeared in my field of vision, though I couldn’t make out much in the way of details since the proprietor of said face was shining one of those little penlights into my one open eye. Whatever he saw seemed to pacify him, and the light vanished.
“Mister Heywood, you’re in an ambulance.”
“I gathered,” I croaked. My throat didn’t hurt per se, but my mouth was horribly dry. My tongue felt too thick, too heavy to really form words.
“Do you remember what happened to you?” the face, which I assumed belonged to a paramedic, asked.
I tried to nod and remembered I couldn’t really move my head.
“Yeah.”
“Can you tell me?”
“I got my ass kicked, right and proper.”
“That’s one way to put it. We’re taking you to the hospital now. You’re pretty beat up.”
“Ya don’t say.”
“Well, you’re in good hands. Nothing life threatening, but it’s going to take a while to get you patched up. The police are probably going to want to talk to you as well.”
“Can’t wait,” I said and closed my eyes. I didn’t sleep, but I was perfectly content to let myself slip down into the comfortable delirium of the pain meds.
The next few hours at the hospital were, to put it mildly, a test of my patience. The pain medication was starting to wear thin and a barrage of aches and pains began assaulting my body, starting at my head and working their way over what I was sure was every last nerve ending and molecule that made up yours truly. Once they’d cleaned me up, put twelve stitches into my face and another three into the cut over my other eye, a doctor came in and asked me a battery of questions. Said questions included who I was, who the president was and what year it was. After that came the CT scan, a lot more waiting, and finally a diagnosis of a concussion and the suggestion that I stay overnight for observation. I refused, signed some forms, got a prescription for some more pharmaceutical magic, and was starting to get dressed when the detective came in.
Detective Thaddeus Watkins is the kind of guy who is probably still to this day reminding people about the game-winning touchdown he scored some twenty odd years ago. Forget the fact that he probably scored said touchdown playing peewee football when he was six. He was a stout guy, a few inches taller than me, with black hair that was giving way to steely gray around the temples. His suit, an off the rack gray number, only made him look tired and rumpled, as opposed to professional.
Watkins was also an insufferable dick. As such, it was my moral obligation to respond in kind at absolutely every given opportunity.
“You know, Heywood. I was thinking about you last night,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Hey, to each his own,
but I don’t swing that way, chief,” I said.
His eyes narrowed.
“You’ve been running game around here for a long time, Heywood. It’s only a matter of time, I’ll catch ya,” he said, turning his nose up towards the ceiling.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I provide a legitimate service. It’s not my fault you’re not as open minded as the rest of us.”
Watkins laughed.
“Séances and exorcisms?” he asked.
I shrugged and pulled my shirt on.
“There are more things on heaven and earth, than dreamt of in your philosophy, Watkins.”
“The hell does that even mean?”
I shook my head.
“For Christ’s sake, man, read a book,” I said.
“What?”
“Nevermind.”
“That’s what I thought,” he said, tempering the words with the kind of self-righteous smugness that only the terminally stupid can muster.
“Aren’t you supposed to be asking me who kicked the shit out of me?” I asked, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull my shoes on.
“Oh. Yeah,” he said, lacing his words with a heavy dose of false concern. “Mister Heywood, can you tell me anything about the individual who assaulted you?”
For a fraction of a second, I actually considered telling him the truth. I debated spelling out the whos and the whys in explicit detail. Then I remembered the picture of my old man that Waylon had waved in front of my face.
My Pop had had it rough enough over the past few months. I didn’t need to make it any worse by getting him involved in my mess. If I ratted out the Carvers they’d involve him in a manner that suggested a few of Waylon’s friends would pay him a visit. While I had no doubt that my old man could handle a few dime store thugs, he deserved better than that.
“No,” I said.
“That’s about what I figured,” Watkins said.
I finished putting my shoes on and stood, which turned out to be a lot harder than I expected. The room started to tilt. I put a hand against the wall and took a few deep breaths, steadying myself. When I opened my eyes, Watkins was still blocking the doorway.
“You know, one day I’m gonna see you arrested, Heywood. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s someone running something on some hard-working folks, bilking them out of money they earned,” he said. “You’ll screw up, and I’ll catch you. Bet on that, Buster.”
Watkins grinned, letting me stew on that for a moment. Don’t get me wrong: I wasn’t intimidated. Not really. Mostly I just figured I was too damn pretty to go to jail. It didn’t help that he was right, either. Lately, I’d been making it a habit to lift whatever valuables I could while I was performing my services. It was mostly little things, jewelry and the like, stuff that wouldn’t be missed for a while. Still, it was a step up in the risk department, and one I probably shouldn’t be taking.
“Are we done?” I asked, shrugging into my jacket. It was an old black leather biker jacket that had belonged to my father back when he used to ride. It was meant to be body armor against road rash and as such, it weighed probably a good ten pounds. Given my current state, the damn thing almost pulled me down to the floor. Still, it was comforting.
“For the moment,” Watkins said. He gave me a wide grin, winked, and I kid you not, did the finger gun thing. The depths of his douchebaggery were boundless. “See you soon, Heywood.”
“God, I hope not,” I said, watching him saunter out the door.
I sat down on the bed and started going through my pockets. I was patched up and in one piece. My head hurt, my ears were ringing, I ached in places I didn’t know were acheable, and I wanted a drink so bad it was bordering on obsession, but I was in one piece. After a minute, I found my phone and the business card the woman from the bar had given me earlier. I dialed the number and slipped the card back into my pocket. I got up, limped over to the door, and shut it. The phone hadn’t even rung before she answered it, her voice all condescension and weird accent.
“Mister Heywood,” she said.
“Well, that’s more than a little creepy,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“Nevermind. That offer you asked me about, is it still on the table?”
“It could be. Would you be willing to meet with me tomorrow morning?”
“Yeah, same place as earlier work for you?”
“Actually, no. I would prefer you sober. Are you familiar with World Coffee?”
“I am,” I said.
“Good. Shall we say, eight o’clock tomorrow morning?”
“Can we say closer to noon?” I asked.
Silence answered me. I sighed.
“Fine. Eight it is,” I said.
“Excellent,” she said and hung up.
I made one more call on my way out of the hospital. Thankfully, some kind soul had thought to leave my cane in my room, or else I’d have been hard pressed to stay upright and mobile for the walk out of the emergency room. As it was, even with the cane, it was still a bit treacherous trying to dodge doctors, nurses, patients, and janitors with a head clouded with pain medication. My brain still felt a bit like jelly and I wasn’t entirely steady on my feet. Thankfully, the temperature outside had dropped and the cold air was like a slap in the face, bringing some clarity back to my senses.
Sam pulled up a few minutes later and got out of the car, jogging over to help me. I figured that probably said everything I needed to know about what kind of shape I was in, and more than that what kind of a person Sam was. He wore his standard fare, jeans and a plain gray hooded sweatshirt. In a lot of ways he still reminded me of the homeless street kid I’d met five years ago. Since then he’d completely turned his life around. He’d pulled himself up from sleeping under bridges and in back alleys to owning a sort of rec-center-slash-boxing-gym-slash-outreach-slash-community-center for homeless LGBT teens. He put them up when they needed a place to crash, had programs to help them find jobs, places to live, kick drugs, and he taught them how to defend themselves. He regarded the kids that came through his doors as his own and for what it was worth, I was pretty sure he remembered the name of each and every last one of them.
I understood why he did it. A few years ago, he’d been one of those kids he was helping now, put out on the street after his own father had discovered he was gay.
“What the hell happened to you?” Sam asked, helping me into the passenger seat of a little Japanese sedan.
I explained what had happened after I left Jack in the Wood, but left out the part about the woman and her job offer. Sam didn’t exactly approve of how I made a living. He didn’t judge me for it or hold it against me, but he wasn’t exactly a fan. As such, I didn’t see a need to purvey that little tidbit of information.
“Jesus, what the hell were you thinking, borrowing money from them?”
I shrugged.
“I needed it.”
“More than you need, I don’t know, your life?”
I gave him a flat stare. He didn’t flinch. After a moment, I turned my attention back to the road. Sam drove for a few minutes in silence.
“So, where am I taking you?” Sam asked.
“About that. Is there any way you could crash at my place tonight? I’m not supposed to sleep or something,” I said. “Concussion and all.”
“Nope,” Sam said. “You can rest on the couch at the gym, though. I have a shit ton of paper work to do for this new grant I’m trying to land. Besides, I’m pretty sure Andy would kill me if I brought you back to my house. He’s still pretty pissed with you.”
“Right,” I said.
“Besides, your place smells like sweat and stale beer,” Sam added. “Couch or nothing.”
“I appreciate it,” I said. It wasn’t my own bed, but it was better than not waking up due to coma or some such nonsense. “What’s Andy got against me, any way?”
Sam pulled to a stop at a red light and turned towards me.
“Seriously? Need I r
emind you about the weekend his sister came to visit? The tequila? The video camera?”
“Oh,” I said. “Yeah. Forgot about that.”
“Yeah, he hasn’t.”
Chapter 4
I didn’t get much rest at Sam’s place. It’s not that the couch wasn’t comfortable, it’s just hard to sleep somewhere that isn’t my own bed.
Truth be told, I also felt a little guilty, laying there, riding out my morphine and wishing I had a drink while anti-drug and safe sex posters stared at me from every wall. Sam took my bad attitude in stride. He popped out of his office to check on me every hour or so, made sure I had a cold bottle of water within easy reach, and all in all acted like the kind of friend that I probably didn’t deserve.
Sam dropped me off at my truck at roughly half past seven the next morning. It warmed my heart to see my truck still sitting there, that some asshole hadn’t had her towed, or worse, vandalized her.
“It’s okay sweetheart, daddy’s here,” I said, running my hand along the hood.
I unlocked the door, climbed in, leaned over the bench seat, and fished my flask out from its hiding place in the glove box, underneath the stacks of napkins, ketchup packets, and the little fake leather folder that held my registration. It took me a minute to get the flask open, given that my hands were shaking from the cold air and complete lack of sleep. I started the engine, clicked the heat over to full, took a long swig from the flask, and then settled back into the seat while the interior got nice and toasty. Not that the drive to World Coffee was far, but I needed a little comfort after the night I’d had. I figured I’d earned it. I took another pull off the flask, then twisted the cap back on and slipped it into my coat. I had to admit, I was already starting to feel better, more centered, maybe even a little, dare I say it, Zen.
Along with World Coffee, the Flatiron Building also housed everything from therapists to “sustainability engineers,” whatever the hell that was. To me, the entire structure looked like it would’ve been more at home in New York with its cousin, maybe in Hell’s Kitchen or the Bronx. It just always felt out of place in Asheville.
The Ledberg Runestone Page 2
