I gave Tully a thin cautious smile and said, “That’s good, glad to hear you’re doing fine.” I turned back to the clerk, holding out my hand for the change and grabbing my bottle of water, anxious to get away from Tully. I shoved the change in the pocket of my jeans as Tully reached out and picked up the beer.
“Well, see ya,” I said and walked.
Tully beat me to the door. “Sherri, how’s ’bout we get a little bite?”
I looked at him, trying to guess what he wanted, to judge if he was about to tell me some real bad news or if it was just a friendly offer. Yeah, right — as if. I knew it wasn’t going to be the last option. I could only hope for a moderately bad crisis, if such a thing existed.
“Okay,” I agreed cautiously, looking for the open pit about to swallow me.
“I’ll drive.” He pointed to the edge of the lot. “Park Jimmy’s truck over there.”
“It’s my truck,” I snapped. It had been Jimmy’s until he died but it was mine now. Silly, but Clay always called it Jimmy’s truck, making a big deal of it and always wanting me to get something different. Another little sliver of annoyance in our splintery lives together, and I’d grown stubborn about getting rid of it, not that I had any deep attachment to it and certainly not to Jimmy, like Marley keeps insisting. I just don’t like being told what to do. Giving in just isn’t my style. Tully raised an eyebrow and said, “Fine, your truck.”
I parked the truck and walked over to where he stood waiting for me, watching to make sure I really was coming and wasn’t going to slip away at the last second — such a close and trusting family.
Tully also drove a pickup but it wasn’t a pretty little red one like Jimmy’s. Tully’s was held together by rust and dirt. The back bumper was wired to the body to keep it off the pavement and there was a big dent in the tailgate.
The back of the truck was full of diving gear. People or jobs — sticking to things was not a talent Tully ever had. Only the Gulf of Mexico held his imagination and his faithfulness. A Peter Pan sort of person, the old coot still followed his holy grail, his dream of finding buried treasure. When he wasn’t driving long-haul trucks or working shrimpers he was out diving to wrecks off the west coast of Florida, searching the aquamarine waters for Spanish bullion or Confederate ships that had sunk while loaded with money to buy arms in Europe. He had a hundred stories to justify his hope, plausible and exciting. I’d believed them all when he’d first told them to me, his eyes shining and his voice full of conviction.
I squawked the door of the truck open. The ripped upholstery, spewing stuffing, was covered with the rubbish; empty food containers, beer cans, tools and papers. He used his fore-arm to sweep it all to the floor. “Get in,” he ordered, dropping the beer on top of the mess on the floor.
I set my bag on the seat and looked for a safe place to put my feet. Sticking out of the chaos under the Coors was one of those pamphlets you see in doctor’s offices. This one was on angina. That’s serious stuff, right? I looked at Tully. Was this what I was about to hear?
Ruth Ann had moved up to Carolina to be with my two half-sisters and their children. Tully was the only relative I had left. Suddenly I didn’t want to be left alone. Even this old fart, who I avoided like a communicable disease, was better than nothing.
He had the truck started, coughing and shaking, and was fiddling with the radio. “Get in,” he repeated.
I got in.
Tully drove east, past Tamiami Trail, past the I-75, towards farm country where palms and manicured lawns gave way to slash pines and palmettos. “You didn’t tell me I’d need to pack a lunch just to get to the food.”
He stayed silent, didn’t seem in the mood to fight, which took away a lot of the fun of being with him. Fighting was generally what passed for quality time between Tully and me. He drove with the window rolled down and a hand resting out on the side mirror, heading towards where the sun rose, while the Dixie Chicks kept us company. A mile past Hobo Joe’s Fireworks I was about to protest about the odyssey when he pulled in to the shell parking lot of an old roadhouse called The Dog Trot, or rather, The Dog rot. The T was long gone and rot better described what was happening to the place. Long and low, with a door in the middle and three narrow windows on either side filled with neon beer signs, decay was eating the ramshackle structure from the ground up. It was visibly gnawing away at the bottom of the grungy, grey-board siding to reveal black tarpaper beneath.
“They should change the name,” I said staring out the window at the ruin of a building. “No way would the humane society let a dog in there.”
“We just came to eat, not to do a house beautiful tour.” His door screeched open so I made mine make that nice sound as well.
Inside things did not get better. The smell — stale beer, sweat and last week’s fries — suited a room so dark you couldn’t move from the door until your eyes adjusted to the gloom. It was silent, except for the scrape of a barstool on a plywood floor, as if the place were taking our measure, waiting to see if we might be dangerous.
The return of vision didn’t change my first impression. Across from the door, a narrow bar ran most of the length of the back wall. Along the wall where we stood was a line of small scarred tables.
Business seemed slow. The only customer was a man at the bar studying the bottom of his beer glass. He didn’t look up.
“Hi, Tully,” the bartender called out. A big man, he leaned on the bar with both tattooed arms, looking like he was hoping someone would come along and try to give him lip. I couldn’t imagine anyone crazy enough, or drunk enough, to do it, but the big guy would sure enjoy it if they did.
Dad grunted in reply and turned right, going to the last table and sat with his back to the end wall. I followed his lead and pulled out the chair against the side wall. With our backs protected from whatever might come, I was still regretting leaving my Beretta in the glove compartment. It seemed likely I’d have a use for it in a place like this.
“I’m not the delicate sort, really,” I informed Tully, “but my stomach is saying don’t even think of eating here.”
“Hasn’t killed me, has it?”
I kept any further opinions to myself and picked up the greasy card with the menu printed on it. “Going on the theory that it’s always good to order something hot enough to kill germs and too hot to be touched by human hands, I’ll have a grilled cheese.”
“You’ll be missing some of the best pulled pork you ever tasted.”
“Sad, but then life is full of tough choices.” He grinned at me. I don’t know why but he suddenly looked as delighted as I’d ever seen him. Maybe he knew something evil about the cheese in the place. He got up and went to the bar, putting in our orders and returning with two long necks.
Our past history was a battle zone of broken promises, wrecked intentions and shattered dreams, so we concentrated on our beers, trying to find conversation that was safe and not leading to war. I worked on the label while I tried to put words together. Finally I asked outright. “So, how sick are you?”
“What?”
“There was a pamphlet in the truck on angina.”
“Naw, just indigestion.”
“Don’t shit a shitter, Daddy.”
“I’m telling you it was nothing. Have to stop eating raw onions and chili, that’s all.” He winked at me and said, “It’ll still take three good men to lick me.”
I nodded. “Yeah, but it won’t take ’em long.” A strip of label came off in one satisfying full width.
I looked up at Tully. “I have to tell you something.” He had the bottle halfway to his mouth and he paused there, waiting. Just like me, Daddy could hear bad news coming miles away.
C H A P T E R 1 5
“Now, don’t blow your top until I’ve said it all.” Yeah, right, as if that was ever going to happen.
He took a deep pull at the bottle. Lowering it, he said, “Okay.”
I told him about Ray John.
Somehow he kept quie
t through my long confession and in the end he said, “You should have shot the bastard. Better still,” he stuck a forefinger in my face, “you should have told me and let me kill him.”
This was going well. He was mad but not crazy. Not yet. “Which is exactly why I didn’t tell you.” He glared at me.
“I’m only telling you now so you won’t be blindsided when it hits the papers.” Not that Tully ever wasted time with the news, treating it with equal parts of disgust and scorn, but surely he had to have one friend or acquaintance who could read.
A man came through the door, looked around, saw us and said, “Hey, Tully.” He started towards us. “Bugger off,” Daddy snarled.
It was fun to watch. The guy’s eyes got wide, he leaned away from us at the same time as he executed a perfect pirouette, one leg bending up behind the other, and with his arms out for balance before both feet hit the floor, headed for the opposite end of the room.
Tully didn’t seem to be impressed. Guess he was just used to people buggering off when he told them to, a trick I was seriously envious of.
“This guy Leenders going to give you any problem, I mean is he stalking you or something?”
“No. Anyway I live in the most secure building in the world and Clay’s there. Well, normally he’s there. He and another couple of guys have entered their sloop in a yacht race. He’ll be back next week.”
It occurred to me that I hadn’t told my father I was living with Clay, and had never introduced them, but Tully was focused on the bad news.
“You want me to stay with you ’til he gets back?” The shock must have shown on my face because he added, “I’ll do it if you want me to. Or you can come out and stay with me.” Now, the inside of Tully’s house looked like he was getting ready for a giant jumble sale, with diving gear, fishing tackle and tools piled on the chairs and the tables or on the floor, left just where he’d dropped them after last using them. But still he’d asked.
“No need for that,” I assured him.
“Still you need someone there. You don’t want to be alone while this is going on.” What comes after shock?
Tully nodded, deciding his idea was a good one. “I better come over.” “Why?”
“Hey, I’m your dad.
“Yeah, I remember.” I smiled at him. “Marley’s staying with me. And Lacey, Ray John’s stepdaughter, a houseful, but thanks anyway.”
He still wasn’t convinced. “Seems some muscle might be needed.”
“I’ll call if I need you.”
“Or call if you change your mind and want me to just shoot the son of a bitch. Save you all that court time.”
“Naw, I’ll give that a pass.”
He nodded, slowly, watching me. “You really made something of yourself, a restaurant and all.”
“Yeah, it’s a real glamorous life. This morning my cleaner didn’t show up so I ended up cleaning the toilets and running the vacuum around myself. Then the chicken supplier, I’m supposed to be there now by the way, refused to deliver any more chicken ’cause his bill is past sixty days. I’m on my way out there now to deliver a check that may even clear the bank, given a good night, and pick up about a hundred pounds of chicken. Meanwhile, the chef is trying to kill the sous-chef because he used the wrong marinade. Yup, I’m all about glamour.”
He was smiling. Hot dog, the man was actually finding me amusing.
“By the way, do you think Ruth Ann is ever coming back?” I asked, pushing my luck now that I had him in a good mood.
“Nope.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“Seems all right. It’s just you and me now, kid.” All rightie then, that took care of that subject.
His smile was making me feel reckless and I was about to ask if there was anyone special in his life when the food arrived and saved me from that gross stupidity.
Halfway through the grilled cheese, the door opened and six raucous bikers flowed in, and then someone started up the music and Toby Keith started singing about how he loved this bar.
“This place isn’t much different from the first bar I worked in,” I told Tully. “When Jimmy went off to college on that golf scholarship and I followed him, he started doing some really heavy stuff. I had to get a job to support us. It was a bar pretty much like this, only in those days it was full of smoke.”
“We still smoke in here.”
“How does the Florida health department feel about that?”
“They don’t have much pull at the Dog Trot.”
“I’m thinking they’ve never even been through the door.”
I tried Rena at the store twice on the way back to town. Still no answer. I tried her house. Nothing.
“Shit.”
I didn’t want to go back to Blossom Avenue, but lots of horrific scenarios were running through my mind and I knew no matter what went wrong, Rena didn’t close the store. What had I started? And what was I going to find in that neat little white house?
C H A P T E R 1 6
Outside the white bungalow everything looked quiet and normal, no police cars, ambulances or yellow crime-scene tape. Only one vehicle stood in the drive, Rena’s sedan. I had a good look at the house — nothing that shouldn’t be there, no broken windows, nothing out of place. No one was screaming for help.
Should I take my gun? I felt exposed and vulnerable without it but how likely was Ray John to be here if his SUV wasn’t? And I had nothing to fear from Rena, right? I took a deep breath and let it out and then I left the safety of the pick-up, the ping, ping, ping of the open door calling me back.
I pressed the bell and had another good look around. Down the street a guy was pushing a lawn mower around a square of already perfect grass. If I yelled for help, would he hear me? Not likely over the racket he was making. The grass smelled nice though, nice and normal. I was growing real fond of normal.
I waited for Rena to open the door, going from apprehensive to bored and then, when I’d pushed the doorbell three times, I went back to worried. Finally I decided she’d gone somewhere with Ray John. But why? And would she have left Lacey behind? Ray John sure as hell wouldn’t. And Rena wouldn’t close the store for anything. Like me she was swimming too close to the mouth of the shark not to pay attention. Something was wrong here.
A new possibility occurred to me. How did I know Lacey was still at school? I decided to go back to the truck and call Rena’s cell one more time before I called the police. If Rena and Ray John had taken off with Lacey, I was sending the cops after them and let the shit fly where it may.
I turned for the truck just as the door cracked. No words were spoken and I couldn’t see who was there in the dark. “Rena?” I asked. The door opened a little more.
I started to make a joke then I saw her face. “I was worried about you,” I told Rena through the four-inch opening.
I took in her condition. She looked like she’d crawled out of a concrete mixer. Her whirlwind hair had been combed by a blender, matted in places and sticking out from her head in others. An angry bruise was forming on her left cheek; a trickle of blood crept from her cracked lip. One eye was already closed and blood stained her satin top.
Through stiff lips she lisped, “Don’t worry about us, stop thinking about us, get out of our lives.” She started to close the door but I stuck my foot in the wedge.
I put my face closer to the crack. “Why aren’t you at the store? What happened?”
“None of your business.”
“I want to help.”
“Go away.” She was pushing hard on the door now, squeezing my foot. “I don’t need your help.”
“All right, all right but open the door a little. I have to get my foot out.”
As she opened the door a crack I pushed hard, sending her flying backwards into the hall. She recovered fast and flew at me, pushing and shoving me and slapping at me. “Get out, get out. I don’t want you here.”
My hands went up to fend off her blows while I was screaming back
at her, “Ray John beat the crap out of you, I didn’t. Why are you taking it out on me?”
Slowly her rage ran away and she went perfectly still. Tears ran down her face.
“Are you satisfied?” she sobbed. She put her fingers up to her face. “You did this.”
“No I didn’t. I didn’t hit you. Ray John did and he’s been doing a lot worse to Lacey.”
She swung at me, first with her right and then with her left hand, more to shut me up, to stop me from blurting out the horrible truth she didn’t want to know than to really injure me, but it hurt anyway, battered my arms I’d put up to protect my head.
“Get out,” she screamed. “I don’t want to hear any more of your filth.” She was a whirlwind of blows and then she pushed me and I stumbled backwards out through the open door, slamming into the black wrought-iron railing. The door banged shut before I regained my balance.
I was left with a dilemma. Should I call the police and report Ray John for spousal abuse? Would that make the situation better or worse? And there was another question digging its way out of my brain. School would be out in twenty minutes — who, besides me, would be there waiting for Lacey when she came through the door?
I headed for the high school. I wasn’t equipped for this shit and I didn’t want to be responsible. But who else was there? Styles was the one who’d signed on for this when he’d picked up his badge. This was his problem, not mine. I dialed his number.
3 A Brewski for the Old Man Page 7
