by R. O. Barton
I found myself in a pool of blood and brain matter. Somewhere on the edge a pig was grunting, snorting as he ate from the blood pool.
I couldn’t find the phone. It wouldn’t stop ringing. I had to get off my hands and knees. Get out of the blood and brains. A distant memory told me I had been here before. I had to stand up. I stood . I woke up to the sun shining through the windows, onto the futon I’d been sleeping on.
I was in my office. The phone was still ringing, the machine must be off.
“Tucker,” I said, after finding the portable phone on the floor.
“It’s Spain.”
“What’s up?” I said, opening and closing my eyes. Letting the dream bleed from behind my eyes, so I wouldn’t see red.
“Pauly’s dead.”
That opened my eyes.
“That’s bad timing. I was going to leave town in a couple of days. What do I need to do? You want me down at Metro?”
“Naaw, I’m just fuckin’ with you, you hardass. He’s alive, barely. His chest is crushed, left lung was punctured from a broken rib, he’s going to need a new mouth and a new knee. What the fuck you hit him with?”
“Me,” I answered, thinking I could leave after all.
“Yeah, okay. Anyway, you can leave, no charges are being pressed. They say he fell down some stairs.”
“Could of happened like that,” I yawned.
“Right.”
“What time is it?”
“7:30.”
“Damn it, Spain, I told you not to call me before 9:00.”
“Just thought you’d want to know.”
Remembering the dream he woke me from, I said, “Thanks, Spain.”
“You want to get some breakfast?”
“Thanks, but I’ve got a lot to do before I leave. I’d better get on it.”
“You mean you’re going to make me eat doughnuts.”
“You don’t have to.”
“They’re Krispy Kremes.”
“Okay. So you have to. Eat one for me.”
“Tucker.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Come back.”
“Christ, Spain, I’m just going to check on a wreck.”
“Yeah, well, deep shit has a way of getting under your boots.”
“Spain.”
“What?”
“Go eat a doughnut.”
Chapter 46
I brewed some Hazelnut Cream Decaf and called Emmett. It was early enough that I was hoping to catch him in his dorm.
“Hello,” he said after the first ring.
“Hey, buddy, howya doin’”
“Hey, Dad,” he sounded happy to hear from me. “I’m good. You okay?
“Yeah, fine, how are your classes going?”
“Great! I really like my English Lit. professor. He’s very cool, doesn’t seem stuck on fundamentals.”
That’s right up Emmett’s alley.
“I know you like that.”
“Yeah.”
“How’s the job at the library?”
“I really like it. It’s quiet and no one bothers me. I got putting the books back on the shelves down,” he said laughing.
“Do you need anything? How’re you doin’ for money?”
“I’m okay,” he said, “but if you want to give me some, that’s cool.”
“I’m leaving town tomorrow or the next day. I’ll put some in your account before I go.”
“Where you going?’
“I’ve have to go to Houston.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. But if you do come down, I think it would be a good idea to stay at your mom’s.”
Emmett liked to stay at my place when I was out of town. He liked to bring his girl over and hang. So the silence I was experiencing on the phone was understandable.
“What’s going on, Dad?”
The shooting had shaken Emmett up. He’s a laid-back kind of guy, a real sweetheart, a gentle soul. But, I taught him to shoot anyway. He took to it like I did at his age. He really loved shooting the pistols at the range. He was a very good shot, and underneath that gentle exterior, was a Tucker. I could see it in his eyes as he observed people.
After it happened he was very quiet about the incident and didn’t seem to want to talk about it. I didn’t know how he took it, or what he thought about me, and I cared.
It was a couple weeks after it happened when he opened up. He told me it was okay, what I had done. He was glad it was them and not me, said they got what they deserved. Said he was proud of me. Go figure.
“What’s going on, Dad?” he asked again, a little louder.
“Had a prowler in the middle of the night, up on the upper end, by the columns.”
“What happened? You okay?”
“Oh, sure, I’m fine. Razor ran them off, but I think he got a piece of them.”
“Them?”
I never could lie worth a damn. There’s always too much to remember.
“Yeah, well, there may have been more than one. Anyway, they took a couple of shots at Razor and ran away.”
“Razor okay?”
“He’s got a nice round hole in one of his ears, and he’ll have a nice scar on his head.”
“Sounds a little random, Dad.”
This wasn’t going like I had planned. There I go again, making God laugh.
“Probably some poachers.”
“Yeah. Right.”
“Anyway if you come to town while I’m gone, you should think about staying at your mom’s.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Emmett and his mother were struggling with the proverbial apron strings. I didn’t want to think about Emmett being home alone. I would have to do something about that.
“Do what you want. But if you stay at the house, keep Razor close. I’ll be taking Tuesday with me.”
Emmett had his own shotgun under his bed, so I didn’t have to mention that. I didn’t want to mention that.
“I understand,” he said.
“All right then. I’ll call you from Houston when I know more about how long I’ll be gone.”
“Be careful, Dad.”
“I’ll be fine, Buddy, I’m just going to look into something for a friend.” I didn’t feel like I was lying, I liked George Carr.
“Okay. Gotta go Dad, I’ll be late for class. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
The connection was broken.
Emmett’s biscuits were done. I didn’t feel there was much more I could teach him. He was off on his own for the first time and loved it. He was making his own decisions and learning from their outcomes.
I worked out for an hour on the Bowflex. Donned some gloves, and hit the heavy bag for twenty minutes. When I worked out on the bag, there’re a lot of forearms, elbows, feet and knees working. The only reason I hit it with the gloves is for aerobics and timing. I aim for the throat a lot.
It took the rest of the morning for me to shower, eat breakfast, finish up the pistols I had been working on, ship them off, set the timers for the lights, and lock down the office.
I went downstairs and informed Pok I’d be gone for a few days and to watch the place for me. My place didn’t need watching, but it made Pok feel good.
Chapter 47
It was one o’clock and I was headed out to my place in the country.
I called George Carr.
“George, it’s Tucker,” I said.
“When are you leaving for Houston?” he asked curtly.
He may have been feeling his overindulgence of the night before, or it could just be his natural demeanor, or a product of grief. But, how would I know?
“I’m trying to get out of here by early in the morning, but I need some things from you.”
With a little more enthusiasm, he said, “All right, what do you need?”
“Fax me the address of your place in River Oaks, Harold Manske’s address, and a letter of introduction.”
“A
letter of introduction?”
“It may help to set people at ease when I start asking questions about your wife’s accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident, Tucker.”
“That’s what you’re paying me to find out. Until I find out differently, that’s the way I’m going to approach it.”
While he was mulling that, I added, “I would also like a list of her friends in Houston, anyone that may have talked to her in the week before it happened.”
“I’ll get Rachael on that right away. What’s your fax number?”
I gave him my fax number at home.
“Oh, and, Tucker there will be someone at the house when you arrive. I still keep a small staff on hand. And I’ve made arrangements for you to eat at the club and use their workout facilities whenever you’d like. They’ll have a card for you at the gate.”
“The club?”
“The River Oaks Country Club. The house is only a few blocks away.”
Wow, ‘The Club.’ I’m moving up in the world.
“Thanks, George, I’ll call you when I get there. Oh, yeah, just one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll need Robby Gray’s address and phone number.”
After a considerable pause, he sarcastically asked, “You going to have a little reunion with your old partner in crime?”
I didn’t answer him.
After a few seconds he said, “That was uncalled for. Tucker, I apologize.”
“Accepted. I’ll get in touch when I get there and keep you informed of any promising leads.”
I hung up. I hoped I sounded like a ‘Private Eye.’
Chapter 48
I stopped by my closest neighbor’s house, Aaron and Sandie McFeely, and negotiated a price for their son Brandon to come over and feed Razor. I’d decided to take Buck to my daughter’s, where he would be pampered by Max and Little Margie. I know one day soon, I’ll have to make a decision, but not today. As for Miso, like any good cat, he takes care of himself.
It took the better part of two hours to collect Buck, his food, medicine and bed, take him to Shannon’s and get back. Then I called my weekly cleaning lady, Sue. I told her I was leaving town and would call her when I got back.
I spent the rest of the afternoon thoroughly cleaning my house, so it would be that way when I returned. It didn’t really need it. Sue had just been there a few days before, but it gave me something to do while I thought about what to pack in the way of clothes, as well as hardware. Also it’s the best time for me to clean. It makes me feel like I’d accomplished something, it’s so clean when I’m done.
The faxes must have come through while I was vacuuming. I like vacuuming. There’s something very Zen about it.
I set the faxed pages on the coffee table, intending to look at them later, then decided to mop the great room.
With Buck at Shannon’s and Tuesday with me, there wouldn’t be any dogs tracking in and out of the house. Razor doesn’t like to come into the house, that’s for sissies.
It was after 5 o’clock when the house was pristine and since I’d decided to leave around 4:00 a.m., I fed Razor and Tuesday, then set about feeding me.
I’ve had this great hand-hammered wok for so long, it’s seasoned perfectly. I made ginger shrimp with asparagus, green onions, yellow bell pepper, and a few artichoke quarters. I use the best peanut oil. It smells like roasting peanuts when hot in the wok. When it was ready, I dumped it into a big bowl, grabbed some chop sticks and a bottle of water, sat on the brown leather couch, put my feet up, and ate looking into a cold fireplace.
After cleaning the kitchen, I sat back down and looked at the faxed pages. The ones I was most interested in were Mrs. Carr’s friends and Robby’s address.
There were eight names, all women, along with phone numbers for each. A notation read, ‘These would most likely be women she would have contact with.’ It was signed, ‘Rachael.’
She had a beautiful round cursive style, like someone else I knew. It’s strange how one woman’s handwriting can look so much like another’s. Men’s never do.
Robby Gray’s address was 4589 Cypress Cove, Lake Bistineau, no zip, but then I wasn’t going to send him anything. His phone number was also there.
Knowing Houston’s weather is about the same as New Orleans in the winter, and the fact that I may be talking to some River Oak belles, helped me decide my wardrobe.
On the bed, I laid out a raw silk, cream sport coat, a black sport coat, leather jacket, two pair of brown slacks, two pair of Diamond Gusset jeans, a rain parka, a couple of sweatshirts, one blue dress shirt, seven black and dark blue t- shirts, seven pairs of jockey shorts, seven pairs of black cotton socks, one pair of running shoes, my boots, a pair of leather Merrill clogs, and a pair of Trask buffalo hide, brown lace-up shoes.
After studying the layout on the bed, I didn’t see anything I could leave behind. I packed everything but what I was going to wear traveling, jeans, black coat, t-shirts, the Merrill’s, and of course socks and undies.
As soon as I started putting clothes on the bed, Tuesday remained close in sight, or should I say I remained in her sight. She was perched on the bed, attentive to my every move.
“Don’t worry little girl. You’re going for a ride,” the last three words causing her ears to perk and her tail to beat a para-diddle. I’m sure she smiled.
After packing my clothes in a soft duffel, I packed my dop kit, put it in the bathroom, then took the duffel to the truck.
Tuesday followed a half step behind. After putting the bag in the back seat and closing the door, she stood there with her ‘aren’t you forgetting something’ face.
“Not now, little girl. Come back inside,” I said, with what felt like a smile.
I wasn’t sleepy, so I poured a couple of fingers of Maker’s Mark over ice, sat down to watch the ten o’clock news, and think about hardware.
Tuesday was good about leaving me alone when I’m sitting on the couch eating, but drinking and watching TV was altogether another matter. She was curled up next to me with her head resting on my thigh, sound asleep. There was no way I could get up and leave without waking her. Life was good for her.
The news was typical Nashville news. A couple of shootings, a robbery at a convenience store where the video camera got some good pictures of the brilliant thief, sans mask. An ongoing investigation of a wife who’d disappeared over three years ago. The family of the wife were sure the husband had something to do with it. The husband was now living in Mexico with his two kids, where he couldn’t be harassed by the media. The family wanted him back here to answer questions concerning new evidence they’ve uncovered. ‘The police at this time have no comment.’ Sounds like Spain.
Now, hardware. There weren’t many situations I could think of where I would need more than my Colt and a few extra magazines, and those I could think of didn’t seem applicable for what I was going to do in Houston. Whatever that was. So, even though I knew better than to try and foresee what was going to happen in Houston, I felt comfortable traveling light.
By the time the news was over, so was the Maker’s and I was feeling relaxed enough to hit the hay. I don’t normally drink right before going to bed, it left me edgy in the morning. But since I would be on the road, that edge would keep me awake until the coffee I planned to pick up at a truck stop on I-40, kicked in.
I got up from the couch, alerting Tuesday, walked into the kitchen area, put the glass in the dishwasher and turned it on for the night wash.
Tuesday went to the door like she wanted to go out, but I knew better. She just didn’t want to be left behind.
“It’s time to go to bed now, little girl,” I said, in dog talk, Emmett says it’s baby talk.
She immediately wagged into the bedroom, where I heard her jump onto the bed. I’d bet she was on my side.
I took a walk around the house to make sure it was ready for me to leave, turned off the lights and went into the bedroom. I would’ve
won that bet.
After loudly brushing my teeth, this sometimes works in getting Tuesday to move before I come to bed, I walked back into the bedroom. She was conked out on my side, with her head on my pillow.
Before sitting down on the bed, I had to complete our bedtime ritual. I pulled back the comforter and tossed it over her, covering her completely.
She immediately started moaning with her Miss Piggy talk.
After stripping and tossing my clothes over onto the valet, I slipped under the covers, hipping Tuesday over with small repeated nudges.
After much Pig talk, we were both satisfyingly situated.
The only time I miss the days when I drank too much, was at bedtime. I used to fall asleep on the couch or climb into bed and be asleep so fast, that upon wakening, I wouldn’t even remember getting in bed.
These days I was subject to any number of mental ambushes as I waited for sleep. The most common waylay was dream fretting. I always dreamed, but what about was the issue.
Tonight was different. Laying in bed with Tuesday’s love by my side, I deliberated. When did I become the person that in my youth, I’d pretended to be out of fear?
Chapter 49
During my recidivistic dealing days, it was useful for people to perceive me as a bad-ass. It wasn’t a conscious effort, but a sequela of survival. I used to wonder how long it would take before I was exposed. I lived in fear of being seen for what I was. A coward.
Somehow I faked my way through it. My mantra was, ‘fake it ‘til you make it’.
As I survived highjackings, shootouts, undercover cops trying to bust me, knife attacks, and just plain ass whippings, my reputation grew.
No one was more astonished than me when I came out on top. I believe the fear adrenalized me, altered time, gave me strength and speed, and I survived. My peers mistook my calmness after these altercations as bravery. In actuality it was the elation of being alive, the wonders of living. Everything was always brighter, sharper, colors were deepened, and as I observed these wonders, others saw calmness.
