Chasing Luck

by Brinda Berry

“You didn’t have plans for afterward?”

  “Um … no. We didn’t. What does that have to do with it?”

  “Making sure we are clear on all the details.” Detective James jots down something and we wait for him to finish writing. Is he writing paragraphs in that little notebook?

  “You said you and your uncle were regulars at the restaurant before he died.” Every time he says ‘died’, I resist the urge to scream at him to be quiet. Am I imagining that he keeps saying it?

  “Yes.” I place my hands firmly in my lap and lace my fingers together, pressing them until I hear one knuckle pop.

  “And you had a guest for dinner. Ace was your guest.”

  I’m confused at his question. “Not really a guest. I told the officers who came to the hospital that I met him that night.”

  “He was your uncle’s guest?”

  “Yes. Or no. I mean, not for the meal. It was business. Ace brought something to him.”

  “How long have you known Ace?” The detective’s tone is casual and friendly but the question isn’t.

  “Not very long.”

  Detective Steve looks up from the notebook. “You hadn’t met him before the night of the shooting?”

  “I just said I met him that night.” I don’t understand why he’s asking this.

  Ace wanders to the fireplace mantel and stands away from me. He tucks both hands into his jeans pockets, a casual stance, but I know better.

  Detective Steve tilts forward with elbows on his knees like he might whisper a secret. “Phone records indicate that several calls were made between your home and Ace’s cell number.”

  “Okay. So?” I’m still not following.

  Ace clears his throat. “I discussed a job with Mr. Toombs before he died. Those calls weren’t with Malerie.”

  “Sure. Sure. That makes perfect sense.” The detective sits back and rubs his jaw. “What about the calls after John Toombs died?’

  I draw my shoulders up to my neckline and bite the flesh inside my mouth. Yes, I know my uncle is dead. He doesn’t have to keep saying it. Ace and I are both silent.

  “You talked afterward?” he asks. The detective maintains his conversational tone.

  “I think I called him once.” Did I call him more? I can’t remember. “Yes, I did call him.”

  “Okay. And what was the nature of the call?” Detective Steve crosses one ankle over his knee.

  “I don’t know … I think I just wanted to ask him some questions about the shooting,” I say.

  “About the shooting,” he repeats. Detective Steve looks to be considering this and nods again.

  “Yes, why?” I catch myself chewing my bottom lip. My hands are clammy and I want to rub them on my legs.

  “Are you aware that several calls have been made from this residence to Mr. Sloan?”

  “I don’t understand why this matters.” I glance at Ace and wish he’d come closer to me.

  “I talked with Billy Vandol a couple of times.” Ace’s speech is strained and suspicious. It’s obvious he’s as thrown off by this line of questioning as I am.

  “Hmm…” Detective Steve murmurs and writes further in his small, black notebook. “Billy Vandol says he spoke with you but he’s not sure of the number of times.”

  “Well, what did you do? Go hit up the old man for questioning while he’s in the hospital?” Ace shakes his head. “How many more questions do you have? We’re both tired.”

  The detective is no longer smiling. “It’s odd, don’t you think, that you left the restaurant and returned.”

  “No. Not odd at all.” Ace’s words come out stiff. “I told the police I lost my keys.”

  “A witness that night said she saw the gunman and you outside the restaurant before the shooting.”

  Ace’s face is flushed. I know he’s getting pissed. “I saw the guy.”

  “Were there any others in the parking lot when you went back to your vehicle?” Detective Steve isn’t looking at us but writing something in his notebook while he talks. Then he looks up. “And what was the gunman doing when you saw him in the parking lot?”

  “He was standing near the front, outside the door.” Ace’s voice and tone hold the dead, monotone quality of someone holding his temper in check.

  “And you didn’t think that odd?”

  Ace stares at him without answering for what seems like minutes. “Yes, I did.”

  “But you didn’t do anything about it,” the detective says.

  “No law against standing outside a building,” Ace answers.

  Detective Steve rises and tucks the notebook inside his jacket pocket. “I think that’s all I need for now.”

  Then he turns and smiles at me. “I’ll show myself out.”

  When he’s gone, Ace turns to me and mutters, “He either thinks I’m guilty or we both are. Guilty of … I don’t know what. But I don’t like those questions.”

  * * *

  “What the hell? What in the hell?” I fall against the wall of my bedroom and partially shut the door. As if Ace didn’t already want to get as far from me as possible. I’ve demanded he stay in the house. I’ve thrown myself at him and been rejected. Now, the police act like we might be in some conspiracy to what … hook up?

  And then the detective’s insinuations become crystal crime-show clear. He thinks it’s too coincidental that Ace was in the restaurant. He thinks we knew each other before.

  He thinks Ace—and I—might have something to do with the shooting and JT’s death. My stomach churns and I want to be sick. Instead, I take a couple of deep breaths. We aren’t guilty of anything. The detective has a job to do and that obviously involves harassing anyone at the scene of a crime.

  A sharp rap at my door induces another shot of adrenaline, spiking though me lightning-bolt style. I grab my chest.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I come in?” Ace asks.

  I reach up, open the door, and move back to my position of leaning against the wall. He’s carrying the crate of albums from his apartment. “Oh, thanks for bringing that up.” I study him while he walks to my desk and sets the crate on top. He looks tired.

  “They’re all yours for a while.” He glances around my room. “Where do you usually keep the boxes?” Ace asks, picking them up from the top of the dresser.

  “I’d hidden them in case Billy came in while we were gone.”

  “Oh,” he says. “You still don’t trust him.”

  I shrug.

  Neither of us says anything while the seconds tick by, and I hold my breath. Will he quit and say no amount of money is worth this trouble?

  “This podcast thing,” he says. “You were going to let me listen.”

  I can tell he’s avoiding a discussion about Detective James’s visit. I know I should call Teddy and see if he’s found anything new. But all I really want to do is be with this guy who sticks by me in spite of all the craziness. "Sure. Follow me.”

  I go downstairs and into JT’s study. JT’s desk, a massive cherry structure, sits in the middle of the room. Thankfully, Billy hasn’t moved anything and I walk straight to a side desk. When I first wanted to record the podcasts a couple of years ago, JT bought a professional grade mic and Apple’s top of the line system. It’s a setup most podcasters would sell their firstborn to have.

  I signal at a rolling chair behind JT’s desk. “Pull up a seat. It’ll take me a minute.”

  “So this is where the magic happens?” He looks around the room. “Nice computer.”

  “The processor’s an animal. I can run graphics and audio that will blow your mind. No crashing for this baby.”

  Ace just eyes me with an amused lift of his eyebrow. “Hmm… While you it fire up, I’m going to get something to drink. Be right back. Want anything in particular?”

  “Anything’s fine.”

  I sit and flip power switches, click to find my recording, and spy a chat window from Collin in the corner of my screen.

  Collin_RockMeiste
r: Long time no type.

  Malerie: Been busy. SORRY!

  Collin_RockMeister: I’ve scheduled next show. Our guests are epically misunderstood. Sometimes ridiculed. It’s a travesty that people don’t appreciate them more. Guesses?

  Malerie: Um—no guesses.

  Collin_RockMeister: Wait for it… It’s Naked Farmer Tan.

  Ace is back and standing behind me. I’m very aware that he’s not saying anything and that he’s more than likely reading my chat window.

  Malerie: Got to do something right now. Catch you later.

  “Don’t stop on my account,” Ace says.

  “We were finished,” I answer.

  A glass bottle thunks as he places it on the corner of my desk. Ace sets two sodas on the desk beside it.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “JT’s booze cabinet boasts some fairly interesting supplies. He wasn’t a beer drinker, was he? No, he was not. I thought it would be nice to have a beer. No beer is available, so we’ll have this.”

  “We can’t drink that liquor.” My hands are frozen on the keyboard.

  He drags JT’s leather rolling chair to sit beside me. “As ill-advised as this is for me, I need to relax and this will do it.”

  “We’re underage.”

  Ace gives me a withering look. “Do you always follow the rules?”

  He pulls the tabs on both sodas and hands one to me. “The doors are locked. I don’t have the equipment yet to set up the security system. I’m alone with you. The detective is probably outside in his car with binoculars.”

  “That’s not funny.” I adjust the speaker volume with a click. “Are we still doing this?” I wave at the computer monitor.

  Ace raises the soda can in a toast. “I’m ready.” He takes a drink, twists the cap from the whiskey bottle and takes a swig, and then brings the soda to his lips again. “Ready. Go.”

  I set the soda can down without drinking.

  He sighs. “I’ll put the liquor up if you’re upset.”

  “No.” I blink. “I’m fine. Go ahead.”

  The recording. It’s the Rock Universe podcast when we most recently hosted Jelly Bean Queen. Collin’s smooth, deep voice booms across with all his energy on display. I’m the less enthusiastic of the two voices and we’re having fun with the band members, joking around, and doing what I call the honeymoon period of the show. Then we get serious and talk about what’s going on with their music and the industry. I insert a sound clip from a song here and there for variety and it ends an hour later.

  Ace has taken more swigs of alcohol and I’ve taken none, but he’s not freaking out about it. He’s not swaying or drunk or stupid.

  He’s just quiet.

  “And that’s it,” I say as if I have to end the listening session.

  “You’re good. Really fantastic. You know that?” He tilts his head to one side and stares at me in silence.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. The show is amazing. You should do this for a living.”

  “Do what? Podcasts?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe journalism or something in the music industry. You could be on television. I mean, have you looked at yourself lately?”

  Heat floods my cheeks. I’m suddenly sad he’s talking about a future I can’t imagine. “That’s nice of you to say, but I could never do that.”

  “Why not, baby girl?” He picks up a pen and draws lazy circles on a piece of paper.

  His endearment sends a tantalizing tingle to my toes. “Don’t think I’ll really do something that involves lots of new places and things and people.”

  I should add that I’ll probably never make it until the end of the month.

  His head is bent as he gives me a sideways glance through his lashes. “Hmm … I don’t agree with that prediction. You went to San Francisco. New. Met Teddy and well, um … Teddy. New. Got on a plane, a ferry, an island. New, new, new.”

  I slump back and allow my knees to bob up and down, rocking my chair. “What about you, hotshot?”

  I love the way his eyebrow arches at ‘hotshot.’

  “Well,” he says, “I have a two-year, five-year, and ten-year plan. Which you want to hear?”

  I can’t help but smile at that. “That is unbelievable. How about the two-year plan. Tell me that one.”

  “I’ll be working my business, steady clients, and going to college at night.”

  “College? Why aren’t you in college now?” One of the Dobermans pads into the room and sits beside my chair. I lean over and rub the top of his head and wait for Ace to explain. I have a flashback of JT asking why Ace wasn’t in college.

  He shrugs. “We really getting into this?” He’s silent for a minute and stops drawing circles with the pen. The look he gives me is heartbreaking. It’s sad and wistful and … what?

  “I was in school last year. I let somebody stay with me and she cleaned me out. Took all my money. The money from my student loans for rent, books, all of it. Stole my car. She even took my fucking TV. She could’ve left the TV.”

  He smiles on the last statement and my heart compresses in my chest.

  “Why didn’t you go and get your things back?” My words come out in a huge exasperated exhale. How could some girl do this to him?

  “Mal, Mal, Mal,” he drawls. “It’s not that simple.”

  “Of course it is. You hunt her down and get your stuff back.”

  “The stuff doesn’t really matter. Back to the point. I didn’t have the money to pay rent and didn’t have a car. I dropped out of my classes and got a second job.”

  I’m stunned somebody like Ace would let this go. “Did you turn her into the cops?”

  A wry smile passes across his lips. “No.”

  “Why not? What does this girl have on you that you would let her pull this?” I’m angry and I don’t care if he thought he was going to marry this girl or something. Actually, I do care. The thought of him with a girl makes me want to throw myself on my bed to have a good cry and then beat the heck out of this despicable tramp.

  “She’s my mother.” He won’t look at me now. “Should put her ass in jail, but I can’t do it.”

  The silence is palpable as neither one of us moves or speaks. I don’t know what to say to make the acidic burning in my throat go away. Then he drops the pen, leans back with his eyes closed, and exhales.

  “You must love her a lot,” I finally whisper.

  He opens his eyes and sits up. “No. I don’t love her at all.”

  Ace rises from the chair, gathers his empty soda can and the whiskey bottle, and shakes his head. “Time to call it a night. I picked that room two doors down from yours. Night.”

  He strolls to the door and never looks back.

  20

  Ace

  “The weatherman’s predictin’ a hurricane of lust. Hold on baby, it’s a category five.” ~Jelly Bean Queen

  Of all the stupid things I’ve done lately, drinking those shots of whisky last night ranks high on the list. It was enough to loosen my tongue, but not enough to forget what I said. I told Malerie about my mother.

  My mother.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and see my mother’s tired face. She always looks so much older than her age. Meth has stolen her health. But I won’t feel sorry for her. The woman can die on the streets for all I care.

  She created a miserable life for Joe and she used up her last chance with me. That’s what I get for being fooled. Again. I need to quit thinking about my mother, but she’s been on my mind like jock itch. The more I try not to think about her, the more it burns.

  A knock at the bedroom door startles me and I push up on one elbow. “Yeah?”

  The door inches open and Malerie stands there holding some kind of bamboo tray. “I brought you breakfast.”

  Malerie wears an oversized T-shirt that hangs to mid-thigh, and I’m hoping she has on shorts somewhere under there. Her silken hair hangs loosely in a side ponytail down one shoulde
r. She’s a vision—a guy’s ultimate wake-up call.

  I transcend from being revolted by my mother’s drug addiction to hello-morning-horny in five seconds flat.

  Keeping my position on my side—because of the two of us, somebody’s going to be embarrassed and it won’t be me—I drop my head back to the pillow. Thankfully, the comforter acts as camouflage so I won’t risk Mal running from the room.

  “I brought coffee with sugar and milk. I made toast,” she adds shyly. Malerie sets the tray on the night table and then stands silently next to the bed. I’m eye level with the bottom of her T-shirt. Her skin is tan and smooth. Runner’s legs with lean muscle and a sweet indention down the side.

  I remember those legs from the night at the restaurant before JT died. She’d been half-sprawled on the floor and…

  “You can eat it in bed.” She waits, and I don’t move.

  “Ah, thanks. I’m not sure I’ve ever had breakfast in bed.” At least not this kind of breakfast.

  She still doesn’t move and I don’t either. Sunshine streams through the half-open slats of the wooden blinds. I slept late.

  I lean over and carefully grab the tray to transfer it to my lap as I sit up. “Thanks. I can take it from here.” I add a smile in case it’s what she’s waiting for to send her on her merry way.

  The tray holds a mug of coffee just the way I like it, a cloth napkin—people actually use these outside of a restaurant?—and a plate with a stack of toast. Two white, two wheat, and two that might be pumpernickel or something I never eat. I stare at the stack of perfectly toasted bread and can’t help the second smile of the morning.

  She exhales. “Whew! I thought for a minute there you wouldn’t like it. You know, the toast. I mean, I knew you would like the coffee because it’s made exactly, and I mean exactly like you told me, but I wasn’t sure if you like toast because—”

  “Mal?”

  She pauses and her brows pull together. “What?”

  “I like toast.” To prove this, I skip the coffee that I’m almost literally dying to chug and take a bite of the top slice. No butter, but there’s not a chance I’m bringing that up.