Detective Justice raised an eyebrow. "You've got yourself a deal."
I smiled back. He's a pleasant man.
Fifi walked him to the front door while I slid forward on the stool. How could one day turn so bad in the time it took to open a box?
Fifi sauntered back to the coffee bar, grinning. "Now, there's a man that your momma would approve of you dating."
"You are incorrigible." I shook my head. "Besides, a man like that doesn't need me."
"Need you? I'm sorry, sugah, but from what I've seen, all the men that you hook up with use you. And since when is usin' the same thing as needin'?"
I opened my mouth then clamped my jaw shut in a frown. I wasn't quite sure how to answer that. It was more of a feeling inside than something I could vocalize.
"I know how Mom felt, but do you think I'm wrong for going out with a white guy?"
Fifi wrapped her arm around my shoulder. "Oh, sugah, she didn't care that you were dating a white man. She didn't raise you to see color in people."
"I know. That's what flipped me out. She definitely didn't like Andreas."
Fifi hugged me. "She always said the eyes are the window to a soul, and she told me that Andreas's soul was black as coal."
"I just don't understand why."
"Well, neither did I, sugah."
"He was never anything but nice to her."
Fifi shook her head. "She never told me her reasons. But know this, sugah. She didn't like Trey, either."
My eyes rolled so far back in my head that I could see hair roots. "She was right on that one."
"I'll tell you what. I'm sure that no-account had something to do with this mess, especially after this morning." Fifi sat onto the stool beside me.
I bit down on my lip again. It was getting raw from all this chewing. Though glad to change the subject from death, I was not particularly fond of talking about Trey. "The more I think about it, it just isn't his style. He'd rather get his kicks beating on me rather than killing a rat." Or was I doing a really good job of persuasion on myself?
"Y'know, sugah, me and your momma used to pray real hard to break this affliction over the women in your family."
I sat up straight, letting my hands drop into my lap. "What affliction?"
Fifi sat down beside me and rested her hand on top of mine. "The women in your family have always picked men that abuse them. Your grandma did, and your momma did. It broke her heart that you were falling into the same pit of despair."
I lowered my head. A shiver engulfed me. My hand slid up to my throat. For a split second, it felt like I was being choked. But the moment passed. "I knew Daddy was no prize and he and Mom did fight a lot, but she used to hold her own. I don't know that I'd call that abuse." I shook my head, not wanting the image of my father as an abuser to solidify in my brain. "I didn't know about Gram, and Grandpa died when I was nine. Neither Gram nor Mom ever talked about it."
Fifi's hand tensed in mine.
"Let's just say your grandma used to take your grandfather's abuse for the sake of his income from the railroad. Back in them days, there was a stigma attached to single women raising kids alone." Fifi's cheeks flushed, and her brow wrinkled as though there were a thousand pounds resting on her shoulders.
I sighed. "Gram died when I was a teen. All I remembered about her was she used to say 'Pennies make dollars. Pennies make dollars.' Did you know when she died there were two trunk loads of pennies that amounted to more than eleven hundred dollars?"
Fifi smiled softly and patted my hand. "That's a good memory to have, sugah. Remember the good stuffand let go of the bad."
Let go of the bad? I remember that saying from a childhood long gone. It soothed me. I shut my eyes and lay my head on my arms. Trey would go ballistic having police chase him down for questioning. I hoped Detective Justice didn't send a patrol car or catch him doing something illegal. I'd never hear the end of it. How was I going to explain this when he came to confront me? Lord, help me, please.
My stomach clenched.
Let go of the bad.
It was inevitable.
Let go of the bad.
He would come.
22
WITH A WIDE SWEEP OF MY ARM, I SPRAYED A THICK FOG OF AIR FRESHENER high over the counter area. The cloud of droplets floated down, misting the surfaces. Sweet fragrance overpowered the stench but didn't eliminate it. I glanced at the label on the aerosol container . . . Spring Breeze, a mixture of hyacinth and orange. Great! My top lip turned up in a grimace and I sighed. Now the store smelled like hyacinth, orange, and a dash of dead rat.
"I will not be afraid." Yeah right . . . and I'm praying out loud to myself. Good going.
We had closed up shop for the day because of the putrid occasion, so Fifi helped clean up and went home an hour early. I was alone. Fear settled over me like an extension of the mist. My finger trembled on the nozzle.
"This is not my fault." I shot another frenzied plume of spray, as though it would scrub the words from the air.
There would be a price to pay for this betrayal. Trey was going to be hot, and not in a good way.
"I didn't say your name." I sprayed another fragrant arch. "Fifi told on you."
The thick mist caught in my throat. I gagged, and collapsed into my chair, holding my hand over my nose to block the sharp offense.
It was stupid to rationalize. Counting on one hand, only two people comprised my short list of Those Capable of Perpetuating Such Violence: Trey and my former husband. The aforementioned Mr. Templeton was apparently a moneygrubber, but he hadn't contacted me personally, and I really didn't believe that he'd be hacking rodents.
Car tires screeched a long, rubber scream.
I jumped.
"Get a grip, girlfriend. It was just a car." I shook my head. Mom always said if you were talking to yourself, you must have money in the bank. I still had no clue what that meant, but for some reason it stuck in my head now.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
My eyes stretched wide as I turned in my chair to face the storefront.
"Sloane. Open this door!"
My mouth became a desert and my knees began to give. I looked directly into the wild-eyed expression of Trey.
Bang! Bang!
I flinched.
His pounding would break the glass in the door.
My chest heaved like a jackhammer. The extra oxygen made me dizzy. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. Saliva had disappeared with the fear and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.
My eyes darted between his anger-distorted face and the phone. If I tried to call for help, he'd break the glass in the door and snatch me before anyone could respond. Been there, done that.
"I see you, Sloane! Open this door or I'll kick it in!"
The gun. I had Mom's gun. My gun. Staring into his eyes, I rose and approached the counter.
Trey stopped banging on the door as he watched me move. His fists clenched and unclenched as he short-paced outside.
Even in the dead heat of summer, my fingers had turned icy cold. I reached into my pocket and wrapped my hand around the small handle of the gun. The metal, warmed from my body heat, soothed my cold fingers. I slid the weapon from my pants pocket. Just feeling the extra weight made me feel safer, not so alone. Maybe I was feeling Mom's presence, or better yet Jesus was standing beside me. Help me, Lord Jesus.
"Don't just stand there looking at me, woman. Open this door, now!" Trey drove his fist into the solid wood.
I slid the gun back into my pocket and released it.
The frame cracked. It wouldn't take much more before it splintered and he broke in. I gripped the counter for support, trying to steady my breathing. He's going to break it down. My head buzzed. Right about now, I could use a paper bag to get carbon dioxide into my blood. Yeah, sure. Hey, Trey, just hang out a second until I get my breath back.
A madman was about to break down my door and I was making a joke. Nerves had the better of me. I wasn't thinki
ng clearly.
"You're making me madder."
Slowly, a single step at a time, I approached the door. Think. Beads of sweat gathered at the base of my skull and rolled in a tickling rivulet down the center of my back. No longer smelling the putrid rodent, I stank from the sweat of my own fear. I reached for the door. My trembling fingers turned the deadbolt while my other hand unlocked the knob. Think. My brain screamed for help, but no one could hear.
The door flew open and slammed against the front edge of the counter. Trey roared through the opening like a speeding train. The door bounced shut behind him. I jumped back.
"What do you think you're doing to me?" He lunged for me.
I sidestepped him and spun out of his reach. He grabbed my top and whipped me to him like a yo-yo on a string.
"Trey," I pushed off from him, breaking his grip. "It wasn't me."
He snatched my braids. I screamed. He turned my face. We were nose to nose. His breath smelled like beer and pot. He was high. No reasoning with him. All I could hope for was to get away somehow.
He cracked me across the face with the back of his hand. Stars burst in front of my eyes. I screamed and fell sprawled in the counter opening. I clutched my jaw.
He stood over me and straddled my waist. "I know you sent those cops. Cops! You sent cops to question me and my homeboys. I oughta jack you up."
He balled a meaty fist.
"Trey, I swear, it was—" I stopped short. If I said Fifi's name, he'd hurt her too.
"Was what?" Spittle showered down on me and frothed in the corners of his mouth.
I started to cry. "It was a mistake. A stupid mistake." There had to be a way . . .
"No!" He stabbed a finger at me. "Going out with that Greek guy is a stupid mistake. This one is gonna cost you."
He snatched me by the hair and pulled me to my feet.
Think. There was no getting to the front door. My eyes focused on the door behind the counter. It opened onto the stairwell leading up to my and Mom's apartments. Panic. I hadn't been up those stairs since the night they brought Mom's body down on the gurney.
Breathe. Shaking fingers reached in my pocket. I whipped out the gun and held it out in front of me with both hands.
"Get away from me!" Tears streamed down my cheeks. My hands shook like a paint shaker.
Trey stared at me as though he couldn't quite understand what I was doing.
I took that moment of stoned confusion to back away from him. I retreated behind the counter.
He charged.
"Stay back or I'll shoot." But could I really pull the trigger?
Trey skidded to a stop at the edge of the counter. "You don't have the guts."
He advanced, wild-eyed, his face distorted by rage.
"I mean it, Trey. Another step and I'll shoot." I reached for the knob, pulled the door open. I could lock it from the other side, and maybe have enough time to get upstairs before he broke it down.
He ignored my plea and kept coming.
I closed my eyes, gripped the gun tight, and squeezed the trigger.
The air exploded. Trey howled. He lunged and slapped the gun from my hand.
The acrid smell of cordite stung my air freshener–assaulted nostrils.
I whirled to my left and sprinted through the doorway. Which way? Straight ahead to the locked outside door or up the stairs to my apartment? I sprinted up the stairs without closing the door. Third step up, my foot slipped off the edge of a tread. I slammed face first into the wood. Using hands and feet, I scrambled upward.
The vise-like grip of his hand claimed my right ankle. He yanked me down the steps. I screamed, twisting myself over. I kicked at the hand with my free foot. My flailing arms tried to stop my descent.
"Let go! Let me go!"
"You shot me. I'm gonna kill you!" He dragged me down the stairs calling me every name he could think of and then some.
The back of my head whacked on the treads. Sharp, stabbing pains shot through my hips as I slapped onto each descending step. "Please, Trey," I wailed. "Let me go. I won't tell. I won't."
I thumped down the last two stairs. He pulled me out the door and back into the store. In the bright fluorescent light, I could see a stream of blood oozing from the left arm of his white T-shirt where my shot had connected with flesh.
He pulled me by the foot. "I've had about as much of you as I can stand. You're done." He turned his back to me and continued dragging.
As he pulled me toward the storeroom, I knew I was going to die. My hands clawed the floor, trying to get a grip on anything. Under the edge of the desk, my fingers connected with the gun. A split-second decision seemed like it took five minutes. I had to shoot him or I was going to meet my mom.
I took aim at his other arm. This time I didn't shut my eyes. A veil of calm slid over me. My hands steadied and I slowly squeezed the trigger. As though every frame were in slow motion, the percussion slapped my ears. A slight wisp of smoke curled out of the barrel. The round thunked into his shoulder. A small spray of blood shot out from the entrance wound. The red puddle expanded around the new hole in the other arm of his shirt.
Trey bellowed like a gored bull and let go, turning to face me.
I scrambled to my feet, planted them in a shooter's stance, and glared at him with the gun pointed in his direction. Calm.
"Get out of my store. Don't ever come back and I won't call the police on you."
"You shot me. Twice!" he screamed, barely able to raise the newly shot arm to the wound in the other shoulder.
Slowly my shoulders rolled back. I straightened my posture and stared at him. I took sight down the end of the short barrel as I raised my aim.
"If you come at me again, I will shoot you in the head. Get out of my store, and don't come back."
For what seemed like an eternity, we stared at each other. Please, Lord, don't let him force me to shoot him again.
Trey seemed to have a moment of clarity in his drug-and liquor–induced fog. He turned and stumbled out the door, leaving it open.
I scrambled to the door, set the locks, and ran back behind the counter. My bottom lip quivered as I backed myself into the corner beside my desk and slid to the floor. I covered my face with my hands and wailed.
Overwhelming dread pounded in my ribcage.
This wasn't over.
23
RADIATING SUNSHINE AND HUMID AIR FOLLOWED FIFI INSIDE BECKHAM'S Books & Brew. Humming, she removed her key from the lock and reached to turn off the alarm panel. At that moment, she noticed the alarm was off and the store lights were already turned on.
"Hey, sugah, you're in early today. That's a new record," yelled Fifi over her shoulder as she flipped the window sign to OPEN. Her PhotoGray glasses cleared as they adjusted to the fluorescent light.
She turned toward the room. Two chairs at the front table were overturned. Her brow furrowed.
Fifi removed her glasses and set them, her purse, and keys on the counter. "Sugah, what's this mess all about? You get mad at the furniture or something?" Her voice echoed in the empty store. No one answered.
She put her hands on her hips and huffed. "Sloane! Okay, you're starting to worry an old lady now. This ain't a nice thing to do to my ticker." The silence felt deafening.
She scanned the rest of the room. A trail of dark droplets on the polished hardwood floor caught her attention.
She reached down with trembling fingers, hesitated, then touched one of the spots. Her fingers came away clean. The circle, the size of a dime was dried. Fifi lifted her gaze and followed the trail until it disappeared behind the counter.
Fifi's legs seemed shaky as she rose and slowly reached for the counter. She peered over the surface.
Sloane was sitting on her haunches wedged between the desk and wall. Her head was down with arms resting on her knees.
Fifi hurried around the counter and dropped to her knees. "Sloane? What happened?"
No response.
Fifi put her hand on Sloa
ne's arm and shook gently. "Sloane, sugah?"
No response. Fifi checked for a pulse. It was slow but steady. She shook Sloane again and still no response. Was this a coma, or was Sloane just unconscious?
Her gaze moved over Sloane's arms and she pulled back so fast that she toppled offher knees and onto her bottom.
Camille's gun rested in Sloane's right hand, hanging limply over the edge of her knees.
Fifi's hands went to her mouth. "Sugah, sugah, what have you done?"
Somewhere in the muddy haze of my brain, I watched Fifi through the wall of braids covering my swollen eyelids. Every muscle in my face throbbed.
Just the touch of her fingers radiated pain up my arm. But I couldn't coordinate my functions to speak. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. Was my nose broken?
In a controlled quiver, Fifi spoke. "Sugah . . . Please, tell me what happened. Talk to me."
I mumbled something that even I didn't understand what I meant.
"Honey, I can't understand you . . . Speak up."
Slowly, I lifted my head a few inches. The cascade of braids parted in the middle and fell back to expose my nose and part of my eyes. I cleared my throat, pried my tongue loose, and rolled it around in my mouth to spread what little saliva I could muster.
"I said . . . someone besides Trey is trying to kill me." My words came out monotone. I saw without seeing. I felt dead. But I was breathing and Fifi was talking to me, so I knew that I must still be alive, or doing one great imitation.
Fifi pulled back her chin. "What in the world are you talking about? Why are—"
I flicked up my right hand signaling for silence. I grimaced. The pain of moving a body part was over the top. I leaned forward to rest my head against the hand. My forehead came in contact with the warm metal of the gun. I needed a moment to process the new ache.
Without looking up, my other hand searched the floor. My fingers came to rest on the plug for the monitor sitting on the desk. I inserted it back into the power strip beside me.
With eyes still downcast, my hand pointed up in the direction of the monitor. "Look."
Cooking the Books: A Sloane Templeton Novel (2012) Page 15
