by Rhett DeVane
“I’ve been busy.”
Choo-choo swallowed past the lump of hurt squeezing her chest. “Where are my party manners? You girls come on in the kitchen and I’ll find something for you to eat and drink. You must be hungry after such a long trip. I can’t imagine what time you had to get up, to fly all the way across the country from Oregon.” Choo-choo turned and walked toward the kitchen. Was Jackie still a vegan or a vagan, or whatever they called themselves?
“I have some cheese and crackers.” Choo-choo winced. “But you don’t eat dairy, or do you? Oh dear. I haven’t had much time to go to the store. A couple of my dearest friends are in the hospital. I’ve eaten out the past few days.”
“Cheese and crackers will be fine.” Jackie sat down at the kitchen table. “What’d you do with the other chairs, Mother?”
“They’re stored. Took up so much room, and after your father . . . ” Choo-choo pulled a plastic-wrapped hunk of aged cheddar from the refrigerator. No family to sit in them, but why would her daughter concern herself with that? “You two sit. I can bring in another from the dining room.”
Tee eased onto the chair opposite Jackie.
“I have sweet tea or coffee,” Choo-choo said. “I think the milk is good. It’s two percent.”
Tee offered a meek smile. “I’d love some coffee.”
“Water for me,” Jackie said.
Choo-choo slid a plate filled with slices of cheese and Ritz crackers onto the table. She tried for a light tone. “What brings you two to this side of the country?”
“Seriously.” Her daughter’s eyes narrowed. “Are you kidding me?”
Tee reached over and rested her hand over Jackie’s. “Jack . . . please.”
Jackie breathed in and out. “We’re here because of your letter.”
Choo-choo blinked. Letter? She closed her eyes for a moment. “I had forgotten about that.”
Jackie’s eyebrows shot up. “For-got-ten? You write me this five-page epistle, and you forget? What, do you have dementia now?”
“Don’t be fresh, Jackie. I may be a little rattled at times. I have a lot on my mind at the moment.” She set a glass of iced water in front of her daughter, then turned to bring two coffee mugs to the table. “Cream is in the little pitcher. Sugar’s in the one with the lid. I have artificial sweeteners if you prefer.”
“Thank you, this is fine. I drink mine black,” Tee said.
Tee looked a little scrawny, but at least she had manners. Her blue eyes were kind. Choo-choo took an instant liking to the young woman who was the polar opposite of her daughter.
“Back to the letter.” Jackie snatched a cracker from the plate and bit down.
“Have some cheese. ‘Everything goes better on a Ritz’. ” Choo-choo chuckled at her own quip.
Tee smiled. Jackie did not.
Choo-choo took a deep breath. Her heart stuttered. “I wrote that letter to try to clear the stale air between us, Jackie. I wanted to go to my grave knowing my daughter didn’t despise the very ground I walk upon.”
Jackie’s eyes flicked toward Tee. “Tee was the one who talked me into coming here. She said we should talk.”
“I have you to thank then.” Choo-choo brushed the young woman’s shoulder.
Tee wrapped her hands around her cup. “I’m glad we’re here. I’ve never visited the South.”
“I’ll make it a point to show you around our corner of it, then.”
Tee stood. “I’m a little tired. Would you mind if I rested for a bit?”
“Of course not. The guest bedroom is the first door on the left as you go down the hall. Make yourself to home. The bathroom is directly across the way.”
“She’ll be sleeping in my room,” Jackie stated.
“Well, okay. If you’d like. You take the guest room then, Jackie. Both have good mattresses. Suppose it doesn’t really matter much—”
“No, Mother. Tee and I will both sleep in my old room. She’s my wife.”
Elvina Houston often felt sorry for God, when she wasn’t aggravated at Him.
What would it feel like, being there at the top with no one to talk to and no one to complain to but yourself? Not to mention that every living soul on the planet—regardless of what religion he or she attested to—was busy either pleading for your help or cussing you. After Piddie died, Elvina chatted with God on occasion, but she had lost the one person who had shared her innermost secrets, the one friend who understood the blue spells that could send her to bed for several days in a row.
The Oldsmobile practically steered itself onto Wire Road. When she spied the little Morningside A.M.E. church, Elvina smiled. Just knowing Lucille Jackson was somewhere close-by made her instantly feel better.
Elvina talked to Piddie’s spirit every day when she visited Piddie’s memorial garden, and that one-sided conversation offered a smidgeon of solace. But a hole still gaped in her spirit, large enough to drive a tractor-trailer through. Lucille Jackson provided a balm.
Elvina edged the Delta 88 into a parking slot next to the parsonage and killed the engine. When she didn’t receive an answer to the knock on the Jackson’s front door, she walked the short distance to the Morningside A.M.E. sanctuary and entered through the unlocked wooden doors. She spotted Lucille sitting at the piano, a pad and pen next to her on the bench.
“Am I interrupting?” Elvina called out.
Lucille glanced up and her face lit with a smile. “Oh, not at all. Come on in.”
“You plinking away on that piano, are you?” Elvina set her purse down on the front pew.
“Join me.” Lucille gathered some papers and patted a spot next to her on the bench. “Chiquetta’s going to sing this Sunday, and I’m choosing the hymns to go along with the Reverend’s sermon.”
“You know I’ll be polishing my usual spot on the front pew. Still don’t know how that woman’s voice doesn’t crack the stained glass. She’s got an amazing set of pipes on her.”
Lucille uh-huhed agreement. “Glad you stopped by. I planned to call you later on to check on Abby and Sheila. Thurston and I are visiting the Tallahassee hospitals later in the week.”
“I just left from over there. Sheila might be able to come home soon. Abby’s a different story. It’ll be a few more days for her. Though the way she’s been coming along, her doctor could let her out early.”
Lucille clasped her hands together. “Praise be! Prayers are answered!”
Elvina took a deep breath. The simple, old sanctuary’s aura of peace settled around her. “You ever think that sometimes things get stirred up and trip all over each other trying to happen at once?”
“Like death coming in threes?”
Elvina nodded.
“It’s a nice morning with a touch of the promise of fall.” Lucille closed the hymnal. “I just put on a pot of coffee down in the community room. Why don’t we grab a couple of cups and sit in the peace garden?”
Perfect, coffee and Lucille Jackson’s take on things.
A few minutes later, the two descended the concrete steps leading from the rear of the community room, to a small enclave of camellia bushes and flowering perennials. A rock fountain bubbled beside a cluster of wrought iron chairs.
“I’m glad y’all put in this little sitting area.” Elvina took a cushion from Lucille, positioned it on one chair, and settled in.
“When the weather permits, Thurston offers private counsel out here. People tend to open up when they’re not confined inside a building.” Lucille patted her cushion into place. “The benches are hard as a rock, though. I always have to bring along a pillow and make sure to take it back inside afterwards. This heat and humidity mildews everything. But summer will pass. Bad and good seasons come and they go.” She took a sip of coffee. “Now, where were we?”
“Life happening at once.”
“Ah . . .”
Elvina held up a hand, counting with her fingers as she spoke. “First there was Abby, then Sheila. Though those two things happened so clo
se, it’s hard to say which came first. Then Loiscell’s daughter Lisa shows up from Atlanta, and they’ve been busy talking and so-on. Turns out, Loiscell has cancer again, bless her heart. Now I hear from Choo-choo that her long-lost daughter and her friend have flown in from across the country, and they’re having a big—if you’ll excuse my reference—come-to-Jesus meeting.”
Lucille chuckled.
“And there’s Glenn Bruner in the Leon County Jailhouse.” Elvina slipped in a breath. “Plus someone sent these mysterious flowers to Abby and Sheila.”
“Still having that unsettled feeling you told me about?”
When Elvina bobbed her head, the sprayed-stiff mound of curls on top trembled. “It’s even stronger now. Thought maybe it would fade after what all happened in Tallahassee.”
“I do believe God taps us on the shoulder from time to time, sends messages to us. We’re wise to heed them.”
Elvina frowned. “Cold as the feeling I’ve been having on the back of my neck, I’m not so sure the Almighty’s the editor of this newsletter.”
Hours passed and the fog in Glenn Bruner’s brain cleared to a few murky pools of low-lying mist. The things he would miss if he had to stay locked behind bars waded through his mind. Fishing on Saturdays. Home fries at Bill’s Homeplace Restaurant. The start of NASCAR season, chased with a couple of ice-cold brewskies. Hunting season. Damn, he was going to miss hunting season! The crisp early mornings with the scent of the woods, a flask of Jack Daniels Black keeping him warm. The solitude of a deer stand: the other place besides a fishing boat where he felt a sense of peace.
“If I have to spend weeks, months, years, with these four walls closing in around me, I’ll go freakin’ nuts,” he mumbled. His hands shook with the lingering effects of alcohol withdrawal. Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip.
The guard paused in front of his cell. What now? Suddenly, he was Mr. Popularity. Even the officers noted how often he had been called to one of the cement-block meeting rooms.
The wormy attorney had been by twice, each time reinforcing less-than-subtle threats: all the nasty little things Glenn would encounter if he cooperated with the State. The Feds had been sniffing around too.
Something bigger than one hired gun and Glenn’s get-rich plans was behind it all. Had to be. No one would put out this much full-on effort for one man. Not since high school football days—before the play that had busted his leg and his future—had Glenn felt so powerful.
He had something they all wanted. If he could just get one of them to show his cards, Glenn would know whether to fold or raise the ante. If he could trap them all in a room and watch them try to out-bid each other, that would be helpful. Let’s Make a Jailbird Deal, the new reality TV game show.
“C’mon, Bruner. Your prom dates are here.” The guard offered a crooked half-smile.
“Good thing I got on my tux,” Glenn said.
The guard chuckled. Clearly, the man knew Glenn wasn’t one of the usual redneck deadbeats. Got to show those real inmates who’s boss, don’t give them any slack. This guy probably got in a good punch or two when he could. Way it should be. All that sensitivity training was a load of crap.
The guard escorted Glenn to the bare walls room, the one without the sheet of one-way glass. Great. The slimy attorney again. The Feds favored the arena with the viewing gallery. Watchers on the other side probably made popcorn and settled in like they were tuned into the Super Bowl.
The correctional officer motioned for Glenn to be seated and left the room, closing the heavy door behind him. In a few minutes, Agents Wickler and Hurst swept in. Glenn twitched. This couldn’t be good. “Time for another round of Good Cop/ Bad Cop?” he asked before he had a chance to consider the consequences.
Hurst—the younger one, the firebrand—took a step forward. His nostrils flared.
The senior agent held up one hand and stopped him. “Why don’t you go get us a cup of coffee?” Wickler pulled out his wallet and threw a twenty to his partner. “Go down to that little coffee shop on Tennessee. I can’t take the swill they make here.” Then to Glenn, “Or would you prefer a soft drink?”
Glenn leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Room service? This was getting more interesting by the moment. “Coffee’s fine. I like it white and sweet, like my women.”
Agent Hurst’s eyes skewered a hole through him. No doubt, the young rooster disliked being a go-fer when he’d rather stay in the close room and intimidate Glenn. Or better yet, pummel him to a bloody mush. He snarled and snatched up the cash.
When the door closed behind Agent Hurst, Agent Wickler pulled out a chair and sat down. He loosened his tie. “You all right, son?”
Glenn started to offer a smart-ass reply, then reconsidered. “Getting by.”
“I asked the other agent to leave on purpose,” he said, “so you and I could speak in private.”
Glenn arched one eyebrow.
“I’ll get straight to it, since he’ll be back shortly. It’s not only the man you know as Clay that we’re interested in.”
Glenn waited.
“Julius Herndon—Clay to you—does use his recruits to make easy money. True. We’d be interested in finding him for the wake of death he’s left behind. He’s ruined a lot of lives, and not just the ones whose contracts were successfully fulfilled.” Agent Wickler tapped his finger on the table. “These local boys would like to strangle him on account of having to deal with his last lady friend. Julius took off in her Blazer and cleaned out every bit of her spare cash before he left. Found the vehicle in Georgia, wiped clean of prints. Think that woman would take care of him for us if she could lay her hands on him. But hey, he cut her some slack. She’s still breathing.”
The agent settled back in his chair, all comfortable like he was talking football with a good buddy. “Julius has offered quite a challenge to us over the past few years. I’d like to see him brought in for the amount of aggravation he’s caused me.” He took a deep breath and blew it out. “But he isn’t working alone. And he’s more than a hired assassin. Much, much more. He’s one of many in an international network, operating out of Central America. The group’s implicated in just about everything. You name it—political assassinations, guns, drugs, human slave trade, laundering money for international terrorists. Many are ex-military, like your friend.”
“He’s not my friend.”
“I stand corrected. Former business associate, if you will . . .”
Glenn dipped his head.
“We’ve managed to place a few undercover agents inside the operation, but we’d like to get someone like you—someone they see as owing them allegiance—into position.”
Glenn took his time answering, glancing around the room, tapping a staccato rhythm with one foot. “What’s in it for me?”
“Not being dead, for one thing.” Agent Wickler leaned forward on his elbows. “You’re not a criminal. You let the idea of all that money override your good sense. I’d like to believe you didn’t plan to murder your wife, only to provide a service for a good fee. All of us have something we work for. Me, I like rare coins.”
Where the hell was this going? “Coins?”
“Everyone has a hobby.” The agent paused. “I gather, by the way that little boat of yours is kept up, one of yours is bass fishing. I do a little saltwater fishing myself.”
“I prefer fresh.”
“You hunt too. So do I. Mostly ducks.”
In spite of himself, Glenn warmed to the older man. Did Wickler have a son? What would it be like, to have a father who might choose his boy over a bottle?
Agent Wickler continued, “You may not have made the smartest move by hooking up with the likes of Julius Herndon, but you didn’t really think things through.”
The agent leaned back in his chair again. “Let’s reason this thing out, shall we? If you take a dive for this man, you end up serving time. You piss off the Attorney General. Lots of years will be stolen from your life. When
you get out, you start over. By then, I’m sure that fancy truck of yours will be long gone back to the creditors. Same with your house. Your wife, if she’s alive, since you did try to kill her, will divorce you. You won’t be able to get any kind of job that makes diddlysquat.
“Or you decide to work with the State. You get a reduced sentence. Julius’s—Clay’s—people see to it that you never make it out, except in a body bag.” The agent pulled a quarter from his coat pocket, flipped it into the air, then slammed his hand across it as soon as it hit the table. “Either way, you’re seven shades of screwed.”
“And the Federal government is all concerned about my welfare.” Glenn stared at the hand with its captive coin. Heads or tails? “Touching.”
“I’d hate to see you end up in the place you’re heading.” Without revealing the tossed coin, Agent Wickler slid it into his hand and back into his pocket.
Glenn fought to swallow around the lump forming in his throat. He’d give it to the man, he was good at playing the strum-the-heart-strings game. And he’d make one hell of a poker player.
Wickler continued, “Here’s my proposal. We allow Julius’s people to grab you from our custody. We have plants within their organization. We can iron out the details.
“You work for them. Keep your eyes and ears open. Learn as much as you can. Then at the right moment, we’ll extract you. Give you a new identity, a new home. Somewhere nice, with good fishing. You can start a new life.”
Glenn stared, incredulous. “I’m no trained agent. What makes you think I can do this? And what makes you think these people will buy it?”
“They will buy it because they understand one age-old, simple fact: the most dangerous man is one with nothing left to lose. If they think they’re rescuing you, you will be in their debt. They will own you. Why would they doubt your loyalty when, in their view, you have no other choice?”
Agent Wickler glanced at the wall clock, then at the door. “Of course, you could play me and turn coat as soon as your feet hit foreign soil. I’m taking a risk here. But I’m banking on the fact that underneath it all, you’re a patriotic American boy who will step up to the plate. For your sake, son, I hope I’m not wrong.”
