He rinsed his mouth again. This time he swallowed a little water, learned he could keep it down. Okay, that worked. He stripped off his sodden top and tossed it in the corner. I need a drink. Where the hell did I put Dad’s bathrobe? He scanned the bathroom, then walked into the bedroom. He spotted the bathrobe on the bench at the foot of the bed and shrugged it on, working it over the bulky cast.
He eased open the bedroom door and tiptoed to the kitchen. Closing the door softly behind him, he turned on the light. Where does Momma keep her booze? It’s been so long since I lived here that I don’t remember. He began with the pantry and searched each shelf, pushing aside the canned goods, bottles, packages, and sacks of chips. Nothing. He left the pantry door open and turned to the cabinets. He opened the cabinet doors one by one and searched each shelf. Still nothing.
He moved to the dining room. A serving tray and six crystal sherry glasses sat on top of the sideboard. God, I hate sherry, but right now, anything alcoholic is better than nothing. He opened the sideboard doors, knelt, and scoured every shelf. Why does Momma keep the tray and glasses on the sideboard and not keep the sherry near them? He opened the bottom doors of the China cabinet. Nothing but more dishes. This makes no sense.
In a flash it hit him. Frantic, he ran to the kitchen and jerked open the doors beneath the sink. As he pulled out the heavy trash bin, he heard an ominous clank of glass. In panic, he peered into the bin at the empty liquor bottles. “Goddamn that Tank. He emptied them all down the sink.” He threw the bin across the kitchen. Empty bottles flew out and smashed on the floor, their glass shards skittering across the floor.
A deep voice startled him from behind. “You’re up early, aren’t you, Al?” Tank stood inside the doorway in a tee-shirt and pajama pants, hands on hips. He did not look happy.
Rice’s mother stood in the doorway in fuzzy pink house shoes, unconsciously tying the sash of an embroidered Chinese housecoat as she searched his face. Her eyes were wide with fear.
Rice knew she was not afraid of him, but afraid for him. He wrenched his gaze from hers and gazed around the kitchen from one side to the other. His mind absorbed the tableau of his own destructive wretchedness: cabinet doors left open in his frantic search, cans and bottles in the pantry shoved aside, broken glass shattered and scattered near the far wall, the trash bin thrown without thinking against the same wall.
He fell to his knees, hands over his eyes. “No, no, no…”
Chapter 27
Rice dropped his hands from his face and watched his mother.
Doraleen skirted the broken glass and took a dustpan and broom from the broom closet. “I’d better clean this up before somebody cuts their feet.” She moved closer to Tank and began to sweep the floor around him.
Tank motioned her to stop. “I think it’s time for Al to clean up after himself, don’t you, Momma Dora?” Gently, he took the broom and dustpan from the old woman. In a soft voice, he said. “On your feet, Al. It’s time to man up.” He waited until Rice struggled to his feet. He extended the broom and dustpan toward his friend. “Come over here, bro. I can’t walk in there barefooted until you clean up the broken glass.”
Rice stared at the cleaning tools a few feet from him.
Doraleen stood there. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Tank smiled at him. “I believe you know how to use these.”
Rice wiped his tears with the bathrobe sleeve. “I believe I do.” He grabbed the broom and dustpan. “You and Momma wait in the living room while I sweep up.”
When Tank and his mother left, Rice began to sweep the glass shards to the middle of the floor. The routine, repetitive motions calmed him. Clean up my own mess, he thought. At least that was a goal, any goal, for a man with no goals.
He righted the trash bin and set it next to the pile of glass shards. He bent over with the dustpan and fought off the nausea. Sweep, dump, sweep, dump, sweep, dump. Any small goal is better for a man than no goals at all. Hadn’t he heard his father say that one time? He put the trash bin under the sink and closed the cabinet doors.
He closed the cabinet doors, closed the drawers, and put the coffee maker back in its place on the kitchen counter. He pulled the vacuum cleaner from the broom closet, turned the knob to bare floor, and vacuumed up the glass specks. He straightened the food items in the pantry and closed the door. A goal, any goal, for a man with no goals.
He washed his hands in the sink and surveyed the kitchen. Everything was in order. For the first time in a long time, he had accomplished something. Al felt pretty good. If only the other parts of his life were that easy.
Doraleen smiled from the kitchen door. “Would you like breakfast, honey? How about scrambled eggs and bacon?”
###
Rice finished his milk, set the glass beside his empty plate, and pushed back from the dining room table. “Thanks, Momma. I feel a little better.”
“Did you get enough to eat, honey? There’s more bacon and eggs.” She pushed a plate of toast his direction. “You want more toast?”
“Better not push him, Momma Dora,” said Tank. “Al hasn’t been eating regularly. His stomach may take a while to adapt to real food. I, on the other hand, have no problem with real food. I’d love a couple more eggs and some toast.”
Doraleen stood. “Scrambled well-done again?”
Rice sat straight. “Something’s bothered me since I arrived last night, but I couldn’t put my finger on it until now.” He glanced around the room. “Where’s Race Car, Momma? I haven’t seen her since I got home.”
Neither Doraleen nor Tank spoke.
“Is something wrong with Race Car? Did something happen to her?”
Tank looked down at the table. “Race Car’s not here, Al. She’s at the vet’s.”
“Did she get sick? I know she’s old, older than most cats ever get, but she’s all we have left of Dad. What’s wrong with her?”
“One of Moffett’s men…” Tank lapsed into silence.
Rice stood. “What happened? Did Moffett send one of his thugs over here after I told him to stay away from Momma?” He pounded the table with his fist. “For God’s sake, tell me what happened.”
“Sit down, Al,” said Tank, “and I’ll tell you. Sunday afternoon Moffett’s thug came by here—”
“Who came by?” He looked at Doraleen. “Did you get a name, Momma?”
“No, honey. I only assumed he was Moffett until Chuck told me Moffett was white.”
“So he was black?”
“Yes, with scars on his face and long dreadlocks. He spoke precise English, like it wasn’t his first language.”
Al hit the table with a fist. “Teddy Ngombo. I know the bastard. He’s obsessed with knives. Fancies himself an African warrior.” He turned back to his mother. “What happened? What did he say?”
“I heard the doorbell. When I went to the door, this—what did you say his name was?”
“Teddy.”
“This Teddy was holding Race Car. He handed her to me and… and he asked me who would take care of her if I weren’t there.”
Al’s heart turned into a hot rock and fell into his gut. It burned like acid all the way down. “What else did he say, Momma?”
“He said you swore on my life that you would pay your debt to Moffett and that he took that oath seriously. He said you should take it seriously too.”
“Oh my God, Momma. It was only a figure of speech when he smashed my hand with that hammer. I never meant that. You know I didn’t.”
“I know you didn’t mean it, honey.” Doraleen moved toward Rice and put a hand on his shoulder. “But sometimes…” She drew her hand back.
“Sometimes what?”
Doraleen dropped her eyes, blinking back tears. “Sometimes you speak without thinking, and your actions have unintended consequences. Remember: The quality of our decisions determines the course of our lives.” She plucked a handkerchief from her pocket and entwined it in her hands. “That Teddy person said I should make su
re you pay the money you owe or I would regret it for the rest of my very short life. That’s what he said, ‘your very short life.’"
Rice narrowed his eyes. “I told Monster I’d kill him if he came near you.”
She put her palm on the side of her son’s face. “Again you spoke without thinking, honey. You may have created a blood feud with a ruthless monster who has thugs with guns and knives at his beck and call.” She dropped her hand. “Who do you have? An old woman and a retired football player. You’re no match for Moffett. Do you even know where to find him? He knows where I live.”
Rice dropped his head. “What have I done? What have I done?”
“Al, whatever you’ve done, it’s in the past,” Tank said. “Nobody can change the past. We can plan for the future. I hate to call Chuck this early, but that’s what I pay him for.” He sent Chuck a text.
“What did Teddy do to Race Car? Why is she at the vet?”
“I’ll get to that,” she said. “After that awful Teddy left, I didn’t know what to do, so I called Tank. He rushed out here that afternoon and installed extra door locks on both my doors. Then he called Chuck McCrary. The next day—Monday evening—he and Chuck came here to discuss your situation at some length. I let Race Car outside to do her business before Tank and Chuck arrived. While Chuck and I were talking, I realized Race Car hadn’t come back and meowed at the door to be let in. You know how she does that.”
Rice smiled. “She has the loudest meow in the neighborhood when she wants in or out.”
Doraleen echoed his smile faintly. “Chuck volunteered to look for her, but I wanted to come along. You know how nervous Race Car sometimes gets around strangers. When we opened the front door…” She pushed the kitchen door open. “I can’t relive that anymore; you tell him, Tank. I’ll make your eggs and toast.” She left.
Rice turned to Tank. “So what happened to Race Car?”
“She was lying in a puddle of blood on the front porch. Someone had cut off her ears and tail. She managed to drag herself up the steps and onto the porch. We took her to vet. She’s still there.”
Rice was stunned. Without thinking, he grabbed a piece of toast and began to mop his empty plate with it. He continued to mop the plate long after it had any effect.
Tank sipped his coffee while the silence grew.
Rice held the toast and stared at it as if it held the key to the universe. He placed it in the center of his plate and stared at it. “It’s one thing when I get into trouble on my own. But when those bastards involve Momma… and even Race Car…” He looked over at Tank. “This shit has to stop.”
“And what shit is that, bro?” Tank jumped to his feet, knocked his chair over. He paced around the dining room. “Is it the shit where you gamble money you don’t have? Is it the shit where you shoot or snort or swallow any goddamn drug you can get your hands on? Is it the shit where you borrow from loan sharks for a half-assed scheme that could never work in a million years? Or is it the shit where Monster Moffett puts a hit on an innocent cat? What shit you talking about? Tell me how the hell you’re gonna stop anything. You’re $200,000 in debt. You have no job, no money, and no prospects. You’re a drug addict and an alcoholic to boot. How the hell you gonna stop any of that shit, huh? Hell, you have one good hand and you can barely feed yourself.” He stopped pacing, eyes on fire, hands balled into fists at his sides.
Doraleen carried a plate of eggs through the swinging door. “What are you shouting about, Tank?”
Tank righted his chair. “Al said that when Monster Moffett touched you that this, uh, situation had to stop. I asked him how the hell he thought he could stop it.” He stared at Al as he talked. “I knew this would happen sooner or later. I knew Al would get in deeper and deeper. I knew the wheels would come off on his life and he would suck you into his own personal swamp.” He smacked his fist into his palm. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.
“You don’t deserve this, Momma Dora. You don’t deserve this.” Tank pulled out a chair on the other side of the table. “God help me. I don’t know how to fix this.”
Tank’s phone chirped. “It’s Chuck. He’ll be here in a half-hour.”
Chapter 28
Ngombo slumped down in his seat when the headlights appeared in his mirror. As the vehicle passed, he sat up. It was the white minivan. Something must have happened in the house when those lights came on. He finished his coffee and tossed the cup into the back seat.
The minivan parked and the same white man who was in the house earlier got out and trotted to the porch. In seconds, the porch light came on, the door opened, and the man disappeared inside.
###
“You three are up early.” I sat in a chair across from Al and his mother on the living room couch. Tank filled the other easy chair to its capacity. “Your text interrupted my beauty sleep.”
“You could sleep twelve hours a night and you wouldn’t look any better, Chuck.”
“So why the early rising?”
Tank gestured at Al. “You tell him.”
Al clutched his hands in his lap. “I woke up with the shakes and I went looking for a drink. Momma and Tank caught me in the kitchen searching for booze.”
I nodded. “Tank poured out all the alcohol in the house before I left last night. Or, I better say ‘earlier this morning.’ I’m glad he did, but I’m not glad that he was right to do it.”
Al met my gaze. “I’m not proud of it either, and I’m determined to do better.”
“And what brought on this determination?” I asked.
Al told me the rest of the conversation they’d had in the dining room. “When my, my, uh, irresponsibility gets Momma involved—and even Race Car—that’s too much.”
“That’s good to hear. What exactly do you intend to do better?”
“I’m gonna stop drinking and doing drugs for one thing.”
Doraleen and Tank glanced at each other. Neither said a word, but their faces spoke volumes. I figured Al had made this promise before. Maybe lots of times.
###
More headlights flashed in the mirror and Ngombo slumped down again. A silver Toyota. At first, he thought it was Rice’s Toyota, but this was a much newer model, shiny clean. The Toyota parked across the street. Ngombo wrote down the license plate before the headlights went out. A different white man, this one wearing a suit, got out of the car. The man glanced both ways and crossed the street. He took the front steps two at a time and stood on the porch. The light came on and Ngombo got a fair look at the man from fifty yards away. A middle-aged white man in a suit. Could he be a doctor? Perhaps Al Rice was injured or sick. Assuming Rice was there. The door opened and the man went inside.
Ngombo called the license plate in to Bones. He checked the phone tracker app for Rice’s phone again. When would that stupid bastard, Rice, charge his phone like a normal human?
The porch light went out. Was something about to happen? The door opened and the silhouettes of three men crossed the sliver of light from inside the house. In the streetlight’s glow, Ngombo saw two black men and one white. The two black men got into the Porsche, the white man into the minivan. The middle-aged man stayed inside.
When the two vehicles reached the freeway, they turned opposite directions. Ngombo followed the Porsche. He could find the minivan later with its GPS tracker. He hadn’t had an extra tracker to place on the sports car.
A half-hour later, the Porsche turned off the North Bay Causeway onto a bridge that led to Pink Coral Island, a gated community. Ngombo pulled to the narrow shoulder and slammed the steering wheel with his fist as the Porsche drove through the guarded gate and the barrier dropped behind it. The elusive Rice was hiding in Tyler’s mansion on his private island. Moffett needed to know that. Ngombo couldn’t stake out the entire island from the shoulder of the causeway. That would attract attention Moffett didn’t want.
Chapter 29
I made my way to my condo association’s security office. A thirtyish man sat at the desk,
sipping from a Starbucks mug. He wore a familiar blue uniform and watched an array of monitors. I knew the face, but I couldn’t recall his name. I cheated and read his nametag. “Jake, I’m Chuck McCrary. I live in 1423.”
“Yes, Mr. McCrary, I recognize you. How can I help you?”
“When I drove into the garage at 2:15 this morning, someone followed me. A vehicle stopped in the street behind me when I turned into the driveway. I’d like to review the security video of the street at that time. Can you help me out?”
“Sure thing, Mr. McCrary. Pull a chair up to that table, and I’ll play it on the large monitor.” Jake tapped his keyboard and a twenty-four-inch monitor on a nearby table came to life. “I’ll fast-forward to your arrival… Is that your minivan there?”
“Yeah. Scroll back one minute and let’s watch me drive into the frame.”
Jake ran the video backward. “There you are. I’ll put it in slow motion.” The picture advanced and the white minivan inched its way down the street. It dipped through the shallow gutter, crept into the driveway, and scaled the parking ramp out of the frame.
“Okay, Jake, let it run in slow motion until I say stop.” For a few seconds, the only movement in the picture was the languid sway of palm fronds. Then: “Stop there.” Another vehicle eased its way into the frame. “Advance one frame at a time… Stop it. Can you zoom in? Great. Make a screen grab and crop it down to an eight-by-ten of that vehicle… Is that a Jeep? Yeah, it’s a Grand Cherokee. Okay, run it and see if we get a shot of his license plate… Nope. He drove further down the street to turn around. Yeah, there he is coming back… Can’t see his plate. Good job, Jake. Thanks.” I grabbed the photo from the printer.
Day of the Tiger (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 5) Page 11
