3 A Brewski for the Old Man

by Phyllis Smallman

  Something registered in his eyes. He stood straighter, pulling himself away from me. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Sherri Travis now. I’m the one Lacey is staying with. I know about you, know what you did to her and if you touch her again I’ll have the police on you.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “Am I? Just try coming near her again and I’ll lay charges against you for what you did to me when I was a kid.”

  “Whose going to pay any attention to you?” he sneered, looking me up and down. “A slut like your mother.”

  “Stay away from Lacey or I’ll see you in jail. I bet there’s lots of others who’d come forward if this hits the papers.” There was a darkening of his eyes, a wariness that told me it was true. I hadn’t been the first one or the last one he’d abused. This knowledge weakened my legs and had me sagging down against the railing with the horror of it.

  Wariness took over but the violence didn’t leave him. He was still angry, still wanting to use his fists on me but he was more cautious now, another confirmation of his crimes.

  I pressed my advantage. “Can you afford to get your name in the papers?” Another weird memory about Ray John came back, his overwhelming desire for respect. “And I’ll make sure every one of your neighbors knows about it, make sure they all know what a pervert you are.” His eyes flicked sideways.

  “I’ll make sure they put Lacey somewhere safe where you’ll never see her again.” I slid sideways along the rail, slipping past him. “So you tell Rena you think Lacey should stay with me for now.” I ran down the concrete steps.

  I didn’t look back, didn’t even look in the rearview as I drove away. Trembling, every muscle in my body overloaded with adrenalin and fear, I could barely hold it together enough to drive — to get away from him. Two blocks down Blossom Avenue, I pulled over to the curb, opened the door and threw up.

  I pulled a handful of tissues from the box under the dash and was still wiping my mouth when he hit me from behind.

  C H A P T E R 8

  The impact threw me forward against the wheel and then jerked me back. No seatbelt, I’d just wanted to get away. I scrambled for it now.

  Another hit but not as hard this time. In the rearview, I saw him getting out of his truck. I grabbed the door and slammed it shut, hitting the lock.

  The pickup squealed forward as Ray John’s hand reached for the door handle. “Oh god, oh god,” I wailed, hanging on to the wheel and watching in the mirror as Ray John ran back to his SUV.

  That’s why I didn’t see the guy backing out on the street in front of me. The old fool was just there, taking up two-thirds of the road, but then who expects a madwoman to be doing fifty in a subdivision. I only missed the Nissan by jolting over the curb, churning up someone’s lawn and then rocketing back onto the road.

  Ray John followed my path.

  There was a stop sign ahead, one I had to obey at a four-lane street full of traffic. “Oh god, oh god,” I wailed again. If I stopped for traffic would Ray John smash out a window and drag me out of the truck? But I had to stop. There was no way I could shoot into the traffic without stopping and waiting for a break in traffic. Both moves seemed equally dangerous.

  I stopped. Watching to my left and watching for danger behind me in equal measure.

  Ray John got out of the SUV. I slipped out the Beretta, clutching it in both hands like my daddy taught me and turned to the back window, holding the gun up nice and high so Ray John could see it.

  Ray John saw my friend. He raised his head like a bull that scents something strange. Big but not stupid, his forward charge stopped. This wasn’t supposed to happen to him. He was supposed to be in charge. I smiled in triumph before I turned away and slipped out into traffic, cutting off a van and pissing off yet another person.

  I felt victorious for about a nanosecond. A normal guy would’ve backed off right there but Ray John wasn’t done yet. He zigged and zagged through traffic and was on my tail again within a block. He stayed there all the way down Tamiami Trail, dangerously close, changing lanes when I did, running a red light to shadow me while horns blared and curses were shouted out windows.

  Surely someone would call the cops.

  Then I made a near fatal mistake. I headed over the south bridge and back onto Cypress Island and home…to safety. But not this time. There was no safe harbor for me.

  C H A P T E R 9

  Warning alarms sounded as we approached the bridge. I watched the slowly descending arm, trying to judge. Could I beat it? I pressed the gas, hoping to slip under at the last possible second.

  I was too far away — I hadn’t a chance. I jolted to a stop as the candy-striped arm of the bridge shuttered into place three feet beyond my front bumper. And then the swing bridge began to open at an infuriating creep. That’s where things went really wrong.

  Ray John was right behind me. In front of me only the wooden barrier and twenty feet of pavement stood between me and a forty-foot drop into dark waters. I was trapped. I felt his bumper butt up against Jimmy’s little pickup. “No, no.” I straightlegged the brake, trying to keep the truck in place but even with the brakes locked the light pick-up was no match for the massive hunk of steel pushing it forward. Sweat rolled down my face, stinging my eyes, but no way was I going to take my hand off the wheel to wipe it away. Ray John backed away and then hit me again.

  The pickup jerked forward into the barrier.

  “You son of a bitch, you aren’t going to do this.” I slammed the gearshift into park. I grabbed the Beretta and swung around to face him. “I am not going to die.”

  He saw the gun and ducked beneath the dash.

  I waited. Sweat slid down my face, itched under my tee-shirt and trickled down my spine. Slowly his head came back up.

  “Bastard,” I mouthed at him.

  He grinned at me, daring me to shoot him. The pickup rocked forward as he gunned the SUV.

  I saw the attendant coming out of his kiosk to tear a strip off two reckless people he thought were playing games.

  I took the safety off the gun and took aim on Ray John’s chest. I thought I’d convinced him when he backed off. But it was only so he could take another run at me. The force of the hit drove the pickup forward and broke the barrier.

  Behind the SUV the attendant saw my gun. The shock registered on his face before he fled back to the safety of his kiosk.

  “God, let him call the cops,” I prayed. For once in my misspent life I would be glad to see them.

  Ray John’s grin told me he was becoming more confident, less convinced I’d shoot him.

  “I’ll do it, I’ll do it,” I screamed even though he couldn’t hear me. “I won’t die alone.”

  Still up against the bumper, he revved his motor but he didn’t slam into me again. Even this crazy bastard knew how far he could go. Even he could see the determination in me, the conviction that he would be killing two people. We stared at each other, waiting for the next move. Time slowed down and my pulse speeded up. Sweat dripped and my mouth grew dry. My hands began to shake. How could I make this right?

  When the water traffic cleared, the wise attendant decided his own personal safety lay in getting rid of the problem instead of keeping us trapped there waiting for the cops. The siren sounded the all clear, signaling that the bridge had swung closed.

  I put my foot on the brake, trying to still keep Ray John covered with the gun, while I jammed the transmission into drive and then I shot forward, driving for my life.

  The narrow twisting beach road wasn’t meant for speed. Driving like maniacs, taking the sharp turns too fast, with palm fronds raking against the sides of our vehicles, we raced towards Jac. God help anyone coming south towards us.

  There was no safe place to pass, not that that wouldn’t have mattered to Ray John, but I stayed well over the middle line, forcing him to keep behind me. If he wanted to overtake me and cut me off he had to drive through the edge of palmetto and risk slamming into a palm t
ree, never mind oncoming traffic.

  Twice our bumpers clashed on the four-mile race to Cypress. Once, an oncoming car was forced into the palmettos to avoid a head-on collision. I didn’t look back.

  Still going too fast, I pulled up into the parking lot of the town plaza with the cop shop. The black monster pulled in behind me but kept on going through the parking lot when I shot into a slot in front of the police office.

  I couldn’t go on, couldn’t even get out of the truck and go for help. Shaking and trembling, I leaned forward, putting my head on the steering wheel, limp beyond bearing and asking unanswerable questions. Why had I let myself get involved? How had I let this happen? What had I unleashed and how could I end it? I knew our dance of fear had just begun. It wouldn’t end until one of us was dead or in prison. I had to stop the terror.

  With hands still trembling with fear, I called Detective Styles on my cell. I met Styles when Jimmy was murdered and Styles thought I was the most likely candidate for the electric chair. Go figure. But he was a good guy to have on your side and I needed him there now.

  “Sherri, what’s happening?” No hello. The man never changed. Small talk just wasn’t the way he operated.

  “I need to talk. Got any time?”

  “For you, yes. Want to meet for coffee?”

  “This needs privacy.”

  “I’ll come to you at the Sunset.”

  “Perfect. I’m on my way there now.” That turned out not to be true. It took time to get the courage to leave the safety of my spot in front of the police station, while checking the mirror and waiting for Ray John to come back.

  At the Sunset I fended off the staff with their lists of shift changes and complaints and went to the restaurant’s ladies room. Sweat glued the drenched tee to my body, limp hair stuck to my face. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the fact I was alive. But how long could I stay alive? I leaned over a sink and sobbed.

  Gwen Morrison, our glamorous blonde hostess who had been at the Sunset as long as I had, came through the door. I hid my face from her but she wasn’t fooled. “What’s up?” she said, full of concern.

  The problem with confusing staff with family is they start thinking they own you, think they have a right to all of your life. “I just need a moment, Gwen. Can’t you just leave me alone?”

  “Well, excuse me,” she said and left.

  “Shit,” I swore into the mirror.

  The good thing about Gwen, her annoyance wouldn’t last to the front desk and she always forgave my bitchiness.

  I pulled off my tee before I splashed cold water on my face.

  I used paper towels to wash and dry my upper body. The shaking was easing as I pulled my hair back into a ponytail. There was a clean blouse in my office but I hadn’t thought to bring it with me. I didn’t care. I walked out of the washroom in my bra and unlocked my office door, the only place on the planet which was truly my own.

  When I’d rebuilt the Sunset after Hurricane Myrna, I’d indulged myself. What did a few thousand more dollars’ worth of debt matter with the shitload I was carrying? Now two walls of the office were covered in a cream-colored paper that looked like nubby raw linen while the other two were covered, floor to ceiling, with bookshelves that held every book I’d ever owned or Jimmy had ever stolen. Jimmy had played on the pro golf circuit all over the South and had this really bad habit of stopping at every library he came across and walking out with a few books for me, often very big glossy coffee-table books. Those were the presents he brought home from the tour. I think the thefts gave him a rush and Jimmy was all about putting a little excitement into his life with risky behavior, only one of the many reasons I’d left him.

  No matter how I yelled at him about robbing libraries, he never stopped and I’d never gotten rid of the books. So now my shelves held books with the stamps from a multitude of libraries all over the South, my secret reward for another’s crime.

  Books give me comfort; like old friends they make me feel calm. When the bookshelves were first built, they were neat and tidy, but the contents seemed to migrate on their own. Here and there books had been slipped in on top of the stacks. In some spots books had gone missing while in others they now lay piled on their sides. Today I didn’t even look at them.

  My desk sat in front of the bookshelves, facing into the room. There was a second desk shoved against the opposite wall where Mary Harley sat a few hours a week inputting data and doing bookwork. She came in early and our days only overlapped for about a half-hour where we caught up on details. The desk chairs were both brown leather wingbacks. When Mary wasn’t there, her chair was used by visitors and slid easily over the dark walnut floors to face my desk.

  With trembling hands I pulled on the white blouse. A knock came at the door. Couldn’t they get by for ten minutes without me? “What?” I yelled.

  “It’s me, Styles.”

  I threw open the door, so glad to see him I could have kissed him but that would have crossed a line we’d never even tip-toed close to.

  I thought of Styles as the beige man and as usual he was wearing a beige suit and tie. Even his green eyes were pale, weird and slightly hypnotic. Only the white shirt and highly polished brown brogues relieved the eye. Everything about Styles said safety and dependability, two things I had great need of at the moment.

  Words tumbled out of my mouth. He already knew the beginnings of the story, how I’d once held a shotgun on Ray John and threatened to kill him. It was a story the sheriff had never forgotten, so when Styles investigated Jimmy’s death Sheriff Disson was quick to bring him up to scratch on the back story and, given my history of violence, Styles had thought I just might be capable of blowing up Jimmy’s boat with Jimmy on it.

  Now he followed me into the room, listening to my disjointed account of Ray John’s return, pulling Mary’s chair around as I sank into the chair behind my desk while I told him that Lacey and Rena were now living with the man who had tried to rape me.

  “Do you want to charge him?” Styles asked. “If you charge him with sex abuse, I can arrest him.”

  And it would all be out in the open, the ugly facts of my life and my mother’s, exposed for everyone to see. I looked away. “Not yet.” “Is he abusing Lacey?”

  Lacey had sworn me to secrecy but I needed to help her. I did up my remaining buttons and muttered. “Probably.”

  “You should have come right into the office and filed a report when you found out he was abusing his stepdaughter.”

  “I don’t think they’re married.”

  He raised his voice. “It doesn’t matter.” He was angry with me, which made two of us. “You have to stop it.” “How did this get to be my responsibility?”

  “If you don’t do something he’ll go on molesting that girl.”

  “You think I don’t know that? Lacey refuses to file a complaint. If you approach her about being sexually abused by Ray John she’ll deny it, her word against mine. And I don’t think Rena will help; something tells me Rena will deny it too. To be fair she might not even know.”

  “How old are you?” Styles asked “None of your business,” I shot back.

  He grinned. “No, it’s just that if you are seven years over the age of consent, if you are twenty-five and haven’t charged him, Florida law says the statute of limitations has run out.” “So it’s no longer a crime? Isn’t that a kick in the head?”

  “You can still charge him in civil court for what he did to you, but we can’t bring him up on criminal charges.”

  “That would be great, wouldn’t it? People are just starting to accept I’m not a complete wacko involved in every crime on the island, finally comfortable coming to the restaurant, and not afraid someone’s going to burst in with a machine gun and blast away.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “And you don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground about dealing with the public. The point is, I can’t afford the scandal. I’m drowning in debt, mired in a quicksand of bil
ls — the restaurant is barely making it. I need people to come through the door, any drop-off in customers will finish me. I’ve got to hold on ’til tourist season. Two more months, that’s all I need.” Bring on the tourists was my new mantra. “That will save me. No, I can’t do this right now. I need people to forget my past, not rake it all up again. More scandal will keep them away.” I was talking, talking, talking to convince both of us. “You can’t expect me to destroy myself by charging Ray John.”

  “And maybe there’s something else stopping you. Maybe you need Clay to forget your past as well.” I jerked up straight. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He lifted a shoulder. “You tell me. Seems to me you’re always worrying about what he thinks. Like you’re not good enough for him just the way you are.”

  “Clay has a lot of money in the Sunset. I don’t want to lose his money.” I rapped my knuckles on the desk to emphasize my words. “If I don’t make it, if the Sunset can’t turn a profit the way it is, Clay will have the building knocked down and then he will put up more condos. That was the condition he came into it with me. He’s already told me this isn’t a charity.” I rubbed a tiny ache beginning to nibble away at my brain. “It’s a sore point between Clay and me, me wanting to keep everything the way it is and Clay wanting to make several more fortunes. The two aren’t compatible.” Some days I didn’t think we were either.

  “Have you told Clay what Ray John did to you?”

  “Shit, no.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  Now there was a question. The big one.

  “Tell him,” Styles urged.

  “He doesn’t need to know.”

  “You can’t charge Ray John and not tell Clay. That’s why you aren’t charging Leenders, isn’t it?”

  Clay knew most of the baggage I carried around but just when he thought he’d heard it all, and he’d come to terms with it, there’s one more secret to tell, one more ghost to exorcize, one more confession. How much could I tell him before he’d heard enough? My life before him, my ragtag upbringing, was chaotic and nothing like his clean, well-organized, controlled life. I was embarrassed by my past, ashamed of my family and of my own mistakes. There was already enough stuff driving us apart, leaving our relationship teetering on the edge of oblivion, without adding to the pile. How much more shit would it take to push it over? I didn’t want him to walk out on me, didn’t want to lose him, never mind that if he left so would my investment and even my home. But most of all I didn’t want to lose Clay.