by Alan Lee
She laughed, that magical sound I’d been hearing in my sleep.
“Much better. I got the shirt at Punch. You know it?”
“I do not,” I said.
“Good. I prefer men with zero knowledge of posh boutiques. Your house is unbelievable. I’m so impressed. You do the edging? Do you know the names of these flowers?”
“Yes and yes. It’s almost fall, so we’ve missed the highlights.”
She pulled me to the side of the house so she could see the yard, her heels aerating my lawn.
“Mackenzie, this house is far too big for you.”
“I’m a big guy. I’m not even flexing.”
“Still. This is, what, four bedrooms? Five?”
“Not just me here.”
As if on cue, my father came through the front door, adjusting his cuffs.
“Mack, I gotta run. Kix is in his chair. Wow, hello sun goddess, you must be Ronnie.”
“I am.” She shook his hand. “You two have the same eyes. Mackenzie’s father?”
“Indeed. I’m Timothy, and very pleased to meet you. Stay as long as you like, the rest of your life even.”
She laughed, and Dad was charmed. “I should have packed more.”
“Shoo, Father. Shoo,” I said. “You’ll scare the pretty lady.”
He got into his Lexus and winked. His tires crunched gravel as he left.
“He told me I should stay as long as I like,” Ronnie said. “Does he…does he live here?”
“He does. Weird, I know. He insisted. That’s why the house is so big.”
I got to the front porch. She was still on the lawn, inspecting the house. She appeared befuddled.
“You want to live with your father?” Ronnie asked.
“I’ve spooked you. I can tell, I’m a detective.”
“No no. It’s not that. I’m unaccustomed to functional families. Or at least, families choosing to live together. I’d never live with my father volitionally.”
“Don’t get along?”
“No, we do. For the most part. Still.” She half grinned. “It’s complicated.”
“Speaking of, come meet the cutest one.”
Ronnie ooh’ed and aah’ed over the front porch and came inside. I knew she didn’t glow. Or I was pretty sure she didn’t. But every room she entered got brighter.
She saw Kix and gasped. “Holy fuck, Mackenzie. That’s your son?”
“This is Kix.”
His blue eyes were trained on her. In quiet approval.
She descended and scooped him up. No protest from the boy. I knew the feeling.
“Ohmygosh. I’m in love. At first sight. Head over heels. I’ve never seen such a gorgeous baby.”
I had chicken thighs tenderizing, with an array of spices. I wrapped asparagus with lemon in aluminum foil, and squeezed the rest of the lemon into a pitcher of strawberry mojitos. I poured a glass and set it beside her, but she was busy letting Kix touch her face and vice versa. She was so happy she wiped tears from her eyes.
The Big Green Egg hit peak temperature, so I laid on the chicken, asparagus boat, and skewers of pineapple.
Ronnie came onto the back porch with me, Kix in her arms.
“So this is Casa d’August? The three of you beautiful men living together. In harmony. I swear, Mackenzie, this could be a show on HGTV and I’d watch ever second.”
“Yikes, you need to get a social life.”
“I have no social life. You know what I’d call your HGTV show? Testosterone in August. Or maybe, Muscles and Pretty Eyes. Girls would eat this stuff up.”
“Timothy August is quite the socialite. He’d be the star.”
“He’s a handsome guy, for sure. For his age? I’d fool around with that grandpa.”
“You have already overstayed your welcome, you hussy.”
She laughed. Again.
“This house even smells masculine. Polished wood. Leather couches. Cooking chicken. You’re wearing cologne, and so was Timothy. And this little guy.” She closed her eyes and smelled the top of Kix’s head. “Perfect. Just like a little guy should. Baby power and lotion and that indefinable quality.”
“You like manly aromas, then you’ll love our untidy bathroom.”
“I’m serious, Mackenzie. Bring all your dates here. This is great. If I wasn’t in complete possession of myself, I’d be aroused.”
Manny came down the kitchen steps and stuck his head out the rear door. He was fresh from the shower. Thick black hair slightly wavy and damp.
“Adiós Mackenzie. I’m going to play pool. At some place called Awful Arthurs.” He smiled at Ronnie. “Hi. You two have a good evening.” And he left.
Ronnie waited until she heard his car start.
“That guy lives here too,” she said flatly. “Doesn’t he.”
“I’m afraid so. Is this going to further upset your equilibrium?”
“Are you kidding me, Mackenzie? What is this, a house of male strippers? This is a joke. Has to be.”
“His name’s Manny. My friend from Los Angeles. Took a job at the local marshal’s office.”
“That guy is so pretty he’s almost a woman.”
“He’ll be delighted to hear it. Shall we eat?”
* * *
Two hours later Kix was in his crib, singing. Ronnie and I sat on the front porch, his monitor cradled in her hands. Her chair almost touched mine and her feet rested in my lap. Citronella candles burned.
The night was warm but not sticky.
“Where is his mother?” Ronnie asked.
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve had two mojitos, which were excellent by the way and I’m a professional drink mixer, and your food was delicious, and you smell divine and your arms look good in that shirt. I’ll listen to anything you have to say.”
“His mother is dead.”
“That’s awfully sad. But not a very long story. Were you married?” she asked.
“She was married to my partner, Richard. We worked homicide together.”
“In Los Angeles. Is Kix your biological son?”
“They couldn’t conceive, so I donated,” I said.
“Smart girl. Those are some upper echelon genes.”
“Richard died right before Kix was due. Murdered on duty. Crushed us all. Then there were complications during delivery, and Kix’s mother never recovered.”
“That’s awful,” Ronnie said.
“I ended up with Kix. Easy case, especially with the blood work evidence. No one else requested custody.”
“And you left LA soon after.”
I nodded.
“Got the hell out of Dodge.”
Time wound on until nearly nine with a dreamlike quality. Kix’s song was replaced by heavy breathing.
A kid rode past on a bicycle. Too late for that, but we had effective street lamps.
“All good, Stevie?” I called.
“Yeah, Mr. August, we good.” Stevie chimed the bell on his handlebars and disappeared down the block.
“Who is that?”
“Neighborhood kid. Bad home situation. I’m keeping an eye on him.”
“Of course you are.”
“I’m basically the Pope.”
She retracted her feet from my lap, stood, and she stretched. It was quite a sight and worth the price of admission, which had been dinner. She lowered to sit on the porch steps and patted the wooden slats beside her.
“Counsel requests the defendant for a private conference,” she said.
“What?”
“Get closer to me.”
I obeyed. We sat on the porch together, shoulders touching.
She smiled, and I kissed her. We met in the middle. It’d been a while and I’d forgotten the sudden rush, the intense frissons radiating from contact.
She backed away long enough to ask, “When are the other handsome members of this house of ill repute getting home?”
“If they show up now, I’ll shoot them in the ass. But I’m not sure when t
hey’re coming back.”
“You better kiss me until they do.”
Which I did.
* * *
Timothy August returned at ten. Far too soon. Against my better judgement, I did not shoot him.
I walked Ronnie to her car.
“Brunch tomorrow?” she asked. “You can bring Kix.”
“We’re going to church tomorrow morning.”
“You go to church?”
“Not usually,” I said. “Trying to start.”
“Why?”
“I believe it.”
“Believe it,” she repeated. “Believe what?”
“God. Genesis, a higher power, Jesus, Peter, the church. All that stuff.”
“Me too. So?”
“If it’s true then it’s important. For me, at least.”
“Does this mean you’re never inviting me to spend the night?” Ronnie asked. She tilted her head up at me, and her eyes were wide and inviting.
“You want to have a sleepover? Sure, you don’t mind the couch.”
“Who said anything about sleeping, Mackenzie.”
“You lawyers have such potty mouths.”
“I’m not usually into romance, but tonight was romantic as hell.”
“I noticed. Nothing escapes me, I have a degree in law enforcement.”
“You’re a romantic, aren’t you,” she said.
“I think so.”
“I can tell. That’s the only reason I’m not pushing you into my car to give you a goodnight present. I’d hate to sully the hopeless romantic.”
“I’m not that romantic. Push away.”
“I will allow you to retain your virtue,” she said, through a dazzling provocative smile, “for one night more. But after tonight, I’m fair game.”
I made a show of checking my watch.
“Only one more hour until tomorrow. Stick around. Virtue is for wimps.”
“Goodnight, Mackenzie.” She kissed me again.
“Another date. Soon.”
“You can cook other dishes? Yes please. But I’ll be out of town for a while. I’ll call you when I return.”
“Call? Ugh. Text me.”
“Would you like those texts to include pictures?”
“You’d be crazy not to.”
* * *
I brushed my teeth and walked into the hallway. Timothy waited there, still in khakis. His dress shirt was untucked. He yawned.
“That girl is a knockout.”
“As a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear.”
“It’s too late for poetry.”
“She’s a knockout, yes, but with a great laugh.”
“I asked around about Ronnie,” he said. “Tonight at the gala. Everyone knows her. She attended William & Mary Law School, tough litigator, comes from money. Perhaps Roanoke’s most eligible bachelorette.”
“Try not to get your hopes up, old man. The stress could kill you.”
“Why isn’t she spending the night?”
“Virtue, maybe? At the time it seemed the right thing to do.”
“I’m dubious,” he said.
“All these women you sleep with, Dad? You know why they’re single?”
“I’m not crazy about the phrase, ‘all these women,’” he said.
“They’re single because they married the wrong guy. Or chased after the wrong happiness. The woman I marry, I don’t want her to be single again in ten years. And that means I do things my way. Not yours.”
“You believe you’ll marry her?” Timothy asked.
“Doubt it. I believe I’ll marry someone. Hard to predict who.”
“What do you think of Sue?”
“I like her better than Karen,” I said.
“Me too. I think.”
I crawled into bed a minute later. My phone chimed. A text from Ronnie. She was in bed too. Wishing me goodnight. Wearing a red nightie.
“Yowza.”
Chapter Sixteen
I took a half day Monday and drove to Cave Spring High School, a blocky brick building from the 60’s. The campus looked exhausted and was wisely next up on Roanoke’s refurbishment list.
“Eddie drives a gold Nissan Sentra,” Manny had told me. “Parks on Morning Dove Road.”
I cruised the streets of Penn Forest, a large neighborhood of well-maintained houses built in the ’70’s and ’80’s. Could be Every Town America, complete with tricycles on the front lawns.
Eddie Backpack’s car was exactly where Manny described, at the end of the cul-de-sac, a short walk from Cave Spring’s football field. Eddie’s business model impressed me. He banked on the sheer volume of student population for camouflage. Cave Spring had a thousand students, and Patrick Henry had almost two. He arrived unnoticed through the woods, blended in, surreptitiously distributed his wares through predetermined channels, and then vanished through the forested egress. Not only that, he diversified. One school in Roanoke City, and one in Roanoke County. Enterprising young man.
I waited for an hour in the baking car. We were now in September, and temperatures had fallen five degrees from August, but I didn’t notice the change. It was hot.
Eddie Backpack appeared from the forest at one, and he got into his gold Nissan, which coughed smoke from the tail. He drove north and I followed at a distance. Interstate 581 neatly cut Roanoke in half, running north to south. He drove north to Hershberger Road, as Manny had predicted, but didn’t go to Valley View Mall. He turned onto Cove Road and proceeded into the Melrose Area, near Villa Heights.
Roanoke was a deeply segregated city. This part of town, had you asked white people in southern Roanoke, would be called the scary part. And by scary, they meant black. In defense of the scared white people, everyone I saw here was black. They didn’t appear especially scary, though.
This part of Shenandoah Avenue consisted of long, vacant industrial parks and active salvage yards and abandoned cars. Eddie Backpack drove into a fenced gravel lot and disappeared behind a collection of derelict brick buildings that may or may not have belonged to the adjacent car parts yard. Thus far I’d escaped his notice, but tailing him inside the fenced lot didn’t strike me as wise. And I’m super wise. Instead I parked on a bisecting street and waited. Across the street was an active railway yard.
Sometimes gathering intelligence is unspeakably boring. So I listened to Colin Cowherd and yelled at the radio.
Eddie was into something bigger than himself. Obviously. He wasn’t manufacturing cocaine all by his lonesome. His supply had to originate somewhere, and he wouldn’t be allowed to work two entire schools by himself without permission or a support system. I’d bet this collection of brick warehouses wasn’t an innocent hangout.
Or perhaps he worked here, like a legitimate job. Who knew. Not me. I was just a teacher.
Sheriff Stackhouse stated that Roanoke was the halfway point between Atlanta and New York. Ergo, a good place to transfer illegal cargo. If drugs came to Roanoke and subsequently were dispersed east to Richmond, north to New York and Baltimore, west to Charleston, and south to the tri-cities, then Stackhouse had a major operation under her nose with millions worth of narcotics changing hands. Maybe billions. The FBI would get involved, because the trade crossed state lines.
A big campaign such as that would require heavy oversight. Like the General. And teeny-tiny itty-bitty Eddie Backpack may or may not work for this vast network, as a simple distributor. And teeny-tiny itty-bitty Mack August sat in his Honda, hoping to get proof.
Mack against the Machine.
That was good. I’d tell Ronnie that, for her HGTV show.
An hour later, the gold Nissan appeared. I pursued. Eddie drove far too quickly through the neighborhood off Hanover; I was forced to speed also, or else lose him. He parked at a dilapidated house off Mercer and went inside, screen door slamming. I wrote down the address and Eddie’s license plate. And the address for the brick warehouse complex.
Put together enough puzzle pieces and perhaps the picture would
become clear. And perhaps not.
On my way out, I passed a big black Toyota Tacoma. Driven by Nate Silva. The Nate Silva, Master of Villainy. A kid was in the passenger seat but I didn’t get a look. Nate did a double-take at my car. Crud. I averted my face and sped away. What awful timing. A brutal coincidence.
Or was it?
Once past, I glanced in the rearview. Master Silva had twisted in his seat to inspect my receding car.
Busted.
* * *
Manny and I watched the Dodgers game that evening after Kix fell asleep. Manny crossed his sneakers at the ankles and worked on a scotch. Time after time, his cell phone vibrated with incoming texts.
“You’re popular,” I noted, intelligently so.
“Sí.”
“Who keeps messaging?”
“Local Roanoke señoritas,” Manny said.
“Ever answer?”
“Nah. I don’t know why I give them my number when they ask. Muy estúpido. Playing pool at Awful Arthurs, a girl ask. I tell her, but her friends write it down too.”
“Your life is hard.”
“Yes, I know. Maybe I’ll use less product in my hair. Right?”
“Do you tell people what you do? For a living?” I said.
“Absolutely. I’m Wyatt Earp, amigo. Would you not tell people?”
“I rely on my charm and good looks. Not my title.”
“I use my title. You want to be Doc Holliday? I’ll deputize you. Wyatt deputized Doc, in that movie. Tombstone,” Manny said.
“You’re Wyatt Earp and I’m sidekick Holliday?”
“Sí.”
“You sleep on my floor. I think I’m Wyatt Earp,” I said.
“Was Wyatt white?”
“I don’t think he was Hispanic.”
“Yessir. Want me to shoot someone for you, Wyatt?” he asked.
“Not at this very moment, no.”
“Just you let me know. Like at the shootout corral,” he said.
“You mean the OK Corral. Famous shootout between Wyatt, Virgil, Doc, and the Cowboy gang.”
“Whatever. You think you’re smart.”
“That’s why I’m Wyatt, and you’re not.”
