by R. O. Barton
The
Other Side
Of
Bad
By R.O. Barton
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by R.O. Barton
Cover design by Emmett Barton
For Margie, I miss you everyday. I will always love you.
And
For Emmett, the best son a man could have.
Without their very existence, I might not still be alive today.
Thank you both for saving me from myself.
Book One
“ELEVEN”
Prologue
The full moon peered down like the jaundiced Cyclopean eye of God, coldly observing me as I struggled to inch up through the hot fetid fog to escape the red horror below. I was covered with blood. It dripped mournfully from my body, with pain and sorrow in every drop.
My arms and legs were laden with fatigue. My lungs unbearably steamed with each breath. My eyes were welded shut. The exertion of trying to open them was ripping my head apart. If I could free my hands, I could pry my eyes open. But my hands were getting me away from the crimson hell below. I was screaming; I could feel it in my throat. I was crying; I could feel it my heart. There was no sound. Just silence that shrieked with grief and pain. I had to get away. I had to wake up. I must wake up. My mouth was full of blood; I was drowning in it. Wake up! Please God, let me wake up. Let me wake up or let me die in this sea of blood. Now! Please . . please . . . please . . .
When I awoke, I was on the floor. I must’ve fallen off the bed.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking down at me with concern. She was naked. My beautiful wife, my childhood sweetheart, my lover, my best friend.
“What’s wrong sweetie, are you all right?” she asked sleepily.
I looked around, still not fully awake. The dream’s mired gravity was physically pulling on me.
I was so happy to see her and the familiar surroundings. Our bedroom and all its furnishings were recognizable, but in some way chimerical. I was having difficulty climbing out of the nightmare.
“I must have fallen off the bed,” I said, as I crawled on hands and knees towards her, struggling with the dream’s quicksand sucking at me, trying to drag me back down.
On my knees, I anchored my arms around her hips and buried my face in her lap, her small feet between my legs. I could feel the tears coming and could do nothing to stop them.
“I had a horrible dream,” I sobbed. “I dreamed you were dead. It was awful.”
I couldn’t stop shaking, so I hugged her hips harder and breathed in her sweet fragrance. The smell of her so reassuring, my heart wept with relief.
“There, there,” she said. “I’m right here. It’s okay honey, its okay. Sshhshh . . . I’m right here. I’m not dead. Feel me. Touch me.” She was rubbing the back of my head.
With my face still buried in her lap, I completely inhaled her, just to make certain I was awake.
Squeezing her harder, I said, “It was terrible, you were dead and had been for a long time.”
I was beginning to settle down. The calm that only she could bring was starting to course through me.
“It was so strange,” I said. “I was this middle-aged guy and you had been gone for a long time, like twenty years. I’d had relationships with different women, it was so real, like memories. Shannon had found Patricia but you never got to see your grandchildren. I had a son who was from another woman. I loved him so much, but I missed you terribly. The pain was killing me. I longed for you.”
I was starting to cry again. In a deep, cloudy carrel of my brain, was a fleeting query over my lachrymose behavior. I felt something was slightly askew, like a library book that’s on the correct shelf but in the wrong space.
“Hey . . . hey, look at me,” she said, as she put her hands under my chin, lifting my face from the security of her lap.
“I’m right here. I’m fine. I’m not going anywhere, you know that. You know you’re never going to get rid of me,” she consoled me, with that little throaty laugh I loved.
I looked up and through the long auburn hair framing her face, I could see her clear blue eyes, like two azure gemstones flecked with gold.
“It was so real, the memories. I had memories of killing.”
“Everything’s all right, you aren’t in that business now. You don’t even carry a gun anymore. Remember?”
Then, she said, “You’re an artist now.”
She pulled me up to her face and kissed me with her sweet mouth. It was so extraordinarily powerful, like coming home after being lost for decades.
I slipped from her lips and buried my face in her neck.
“What a trip. Must have been something I ate,” I said with a teary eyed chuckle, trying my best to lighten up.
I felt her hands on the back of my head, soothing away the nightmare. I started to drift off. I tried to wake up, so I could lie down beside her and hold her, spoon with her. I became a weightless mist ascending on a soft confectionous cloud of euphoria.
I awakened, opened my eyes to the dark and patted the bed next to me, searching for her, the nightmare an unfading memory that required expunging by her touch. I had to reach further than usual, as she always slept close. She wasn’t there: she must be in the bathroom.
As my eyes grew accustomed to the shadows, I became disoriented. Where was I? This was not our room. No! No! God, don’t do this to me. . . please.
The red digital numbers on the clock to my left said it was 2:44 in the morning. I sat up on the edge of the bed and through the blue nightfall could see a door to my right. I stood, walked over to the door, entered and touched the light switch on the wall. I was in a bathroom, my bathroom.
I looked in the mirror and saw a middle-aged man, as tears from despondent eyes traversed his face to pool a deep crescent scar in his left cheek, that would forever mar his
soul.
Chapter 1
Nashville, TN-two months ago, to the day
It looked like three against one, to me. Me, being the one. Even though the one in the middle was the man who’d hired me this morning over the phone, Samuel Bench—real-estate tycoon.
I read in the Tennessean that he had an intuitive genius for finding cities that had let their downtown riverfront properties go to seed, buying it for next to nothing, then planting new ones. These new seeds were the ideas and plans for the revitalization of the properties, including a riverfront park complete with floating stage that would draw crowds of fat-walleted people. Not just tourists, but locals as well. He had breathed new life into many major cities throughout the United States and in the late eighties, Nashville was no exception. After the makeover, which for the most part he persuaded the city and small groups of investors to pay, the real-estate was worth ten times what he’d paid for it. These properties leased and sold like hot cakes at the I-Hop on seniors Sunday.
When the limo pulled into the designated pickup, the Kroger parking lot on Harding, and the door opened, the only available seat was the one that put my back to oncoming traffic and the driver, separated by tinted glass. It wasn’t a stretch, but one of those sleek black Lincolns you saw politicians in, with just the two wide seats that faced each other. The interior smelled faintly of expensive cigar smoke and fine whiskey. For one I’d developed a taste, but wouldn’t be indulging tonight. The only expression that looked more stressed than the soft gray Corinthian leather was Mr. Bench’s.
Not one of the three faces looked happy
to see me. Their expressions differed: The man to my left looked at me like I was an interesting pimple; Mr. Bench looked me up and down in mild shock; and the man to my right looked out-and-out hostile. The men to either side of Bench were his personal body guards, clearly discontented he employed me.
“Do you own a suit Mr. Tucker?” Samuel Bench asked between his tight thin lips.
I looked down at my cowboy boots and jeans with a black t-shirt tucked into them. I wore a very nice black on black herringbone silk sport coat and fairly new Diamond Gusset jeans. The sport coat was one of my favorites, it also made it easier and quicker to get to my .45.
They all wore dark suits with ties. Mr. Bench had gold cuff links.
“You said to dress casual,” I said.
“I meant that it wasn’t black tie,” he said, with heavy condescension.
I really don’t like it when people talk to me in that manner, and to compound it, I’d been having a bad feeling about this job since taking it. It was October 11th.
I once dated a woman who was heavily into psychics, astrology and numerology, phenomena of that nature. One day she dragged me to a numerologist and had my number calculated.
When all the pertinent information was in and the numerologist punched the last button, finishing her calculations, she said, “Uh-oh, you’re an 11.”
I asked, “What’s that mean?”
She answered with, “It’s a tough road. Eleven means constant spiritual awakenings.”
At which point I said, “Yeah, tell me about it.”
Things tended to happen to me on the 11th; not all of them good. One of them was being born. I sometimes wonder if that was a good thing or a bad thing. The verdict fluctuates.
I looked over at Mr. Bench and said, “Your tie is black.”
He was a small man, maybe five-seven or eight, a hundred and thirty pounds, around 40, very trim and right now, a skosh irate.
“I don’t believe I care for your tone, Mr. Tucker,” he said, visibly swelling and stirring his two bodyguards.
It had been a long time since I felt the need to win a popularity contest. Furthermore, I was not well-known for my obsequious nature.
I reached over the seat with my left hand and knocked on the window behind the drivers head. The dark brown window slowly receded, and as soon as I could see the driver I said, “Would you please pull over? I’m getting out.”
In the rearview mirror, the driver, a very large black man with a bald head that resembled a 15 pound bowling ball, glanced past me to Bench.
“Keep driving James,” Bench said, with a minute speculative laugh. Then to me, “Captain Spain said you were somewhat of a hardass.”
As the window was going up, I tapped on it again; it lowered and when I could see the driver’s eyes in the mirror, I said, “Is your name really James?”
He laughed loudly, showing large white even teeth and with a wink that told me his Uncle Tom accent was assuredly exaggerated, said, “Yes sah, Meesta Tucker. It shorely is.”
I nodded with crinkled eyes and as I turned to look at Bench, I heard the whirring of the window going up, partitioning me from my only ally.
We sat like that, studying each other, for a full minute.
He gestured to his right and said, “This is Mike Powell.”
Powell looked to be about five-ten, mid-forties, a little portly and I’d bet was either retired or booted early FBI. Mike Powell didn’t offer his hand, which was fine with me. It was a long way over there, and by the look on the other bodyguard’s face, I didn’t want anyone holding my right hand.
“You’ve got a reputation of never losing a fight,” Powell said with the pride of a man who has done his research.
Yep, a feebee.
I looked out the window on my left, saw we were headed downtown, and said, “I don’t.”
“You don’t what?” Powell asked.
“Fight.”
“In our line of work it’s hard to avoid physical confrontations,” he said.
Bench’s stare was intense.
“I’m very good at that,” I said.
Powell laughed and said, “What’s your secret?”
Prior to 1982 my coveted secret was fear. Fear of being hurt and not just physically. Paramount was the fear I would be seen as the coward I was. Whenever I felt violence was imminent, the fear induced chemicals coursing through my veins altered me. For the last twenty years my only fear was going to sleep and . . . waking up. But, old habits do die hard.
I wasn’t looking at Bench, but could feel his eyes.
Still looking out the window, I said, “If I get even the faintest inkling that things may get physical I do an ‘U-F-F-F’ move.”
Powell said, “What’s that?”
I turned and caught his eyes as they darted from the scar on my face, and attempting to smile, said, “Unexpected, fast, first, and final. That way there’s no real fight and whoever I am working for doesn’t get hurt . . . nor do I. I’ve found action is always faster than reaction.”
I could tell he considered himself a jovial chap, but he swallowed the laugh that was about to emerge.
I surmised my effort at smiling was futile; I hadn’t done jovial for 20 years.
“Yeah? Where’d you learn that?” the other bodyguard sneered.
Nothing jovial about this one.
“This is Trent,” Bench said, with an ‘I’m sure you’ve heard of him’ tone.
I looked at him. I could physically feel the air between us snap with current. There wasn’t a pleasant molecule in it. He was at least six-two, also mid-forties, clean shaven, angular, sharp, with a squared away crew cut. He appeared very fit, an almost military bearing, but not quite.
“I asked you where you learned that so called move,” he reiterated, his voice followed his gaze, coming from his nose with a mild West Virginia accent.
Flashing sorely behind my eyes were the years of surviving the humidity induced short tempered mean men of Louisiana, the arid racist vigilante border violence of Texas and the cold envious hatred of desperado Mexicans who suffered the flagrant and blatant injustice of their own country.
“No one particular place or time,” I said, returning his stare, minus the dislike. At least I tried. I looked out the window on his side and said, “It was a slow learning curve.”
“Yeah, well I checked you out after Mr. Bench told us you were coming in tonight. I don’t think we need anyone coming in to help us in the 11th hour, but he’s the boss.”
Upon hearing the number 11, the skin on the backs of my arms started to crawl. I continued to look out the windows. I was apparently the only one in the vehicle doing so. I perceived the two bodyguards apathy as being on the job for too long without any action. I’ve felt it myself and used it as a barometer to leave the employ of whomever I was working for. Besides it scared the hell out of me. Not just for myself, but for the person who’d employed me.
Maybe I didn’t have all the information.
Still looking out the window, I said, “Is this vehicle bulletproof?”
“No,” they said in unison.
Bench looked as if it just occurred to him.
Powell smiled and started looking out his window.
But Trent was unfazed, as he continued, “As far as I can tell you’re a very good gunsmith who’s also good at shooting holes in paper targets.”
Before I could thank him for the encomium, he added, “I also found out you travel around and actually teach tactics to police departments. What qualifies you to do that?” His tone held more disdain than Bench’s had earlier.
I really don’t like it when people talk to me that way.
“Something you evidently don’t have,” I said, looking at him, and the aversion just tiptoed out all by itself.
“Yeah, what’s that?”
This man had perfected the act of sneering into an art form.
“Common sense,” I said. I found the last two fingers of my right hand hooked around the edge of
my coat. I wasn’t conscious of it, it was a reflex. For some reason this man saw me as a threat, and he didn’t seem the insecure type.
It became very quiet and thick inside the limousine. He looked down at my hand and placed both of his hands on his knees. His sneer faded as the data was computed.
Okay, so he has some common sense.
To show good faith, I placed my hands on my knees. We sat like reprimanded school children.
He clearly felt more at ease, because he just had to ask, “Have you ever had to shoot anyone? Ever been in a real fire fight?”
It’s also been a long time since I’ve felt the need to answer every question I’m asked, especially rude ones.
It was Mr. Bench who broke the long silence that followed with, “What have you to say to that Mr. Tucker? I would like to hear it.”
I held his gaze as I answered, “You’re not paying me to talk.”
“That may be true, but I am used to being answered by my employees when I ask them a question.”
He was beginning to resemble something I’d wipe off my sleeve with a tissue.
“Mr. Bench, please have James pull over so I can get out. I won’t charge you for the joy ride.”
As if James heard me, the limo started to slow. Over a speaker James said, “We’re here Mr. Bench.”
Earlier that morning Samuel Bench had told me he was throwing a dinner party for ten of his top sales people at Pete’s, one of Nashville’s finer restaurants. He bought out the whole restaurant for the night, and Chef Pete was cooking just for them: men and women with their spouses or significant others . . . wow. He also said he’d had a bad feeling about tonight and talked me into helping out his two full-time bodyguards.
He actually had to talk me into it and pay me twice my normal fee. I mean, after all he said about having a bad feeling and the fact that it was the 11th, I wasn’t chomping at the bit.
We both must have been thinking the same thing. He suddenly didn’t seem too keen on me leaving his employ. He looked as small as he was.
