by S. A. Austin
And shiny gold wedding bands, she thought with disdain.
“You are so right,” said the man in the middle. He flattened a hand on his chest, bowed his head in shame. “I apologize. Let’s start over, shall we? I’m Mason.” He pointed to his companions with his thumbs. “My partners in crime, so to speak, are Bryon and Juan. We’re here on business from California. We sell exercise equipment. How about you, babe? You got a name?”
Mason sucked his drink through the straw. Like a toddler. “Doesn’t matter,” she said, “you won’t remember it in the morning.”
Bryon and Juan burst out laughing.
Barnaby hung up the phone. “Please accept my humble apology for making you wait, BJ. What do you want to drink? The first one’s on the house.”
Bryon the redhead spoke up. “I bet she’s a wine drinker, spelt w-h-i-n-e.”
“Nah, I say she’s the screwdriver type,” Juan chortled, elbowing Mason in the ribs.
Before Mason had a chance to add his own smartass comment, the bartender splashed two shots of tequila over little square ice cubes.
“Big deal,” mumbled Mason.
Bryon and Juan laughed at him.
Mason, coming out of the funk she’d put him in, joined in the laughter.
Barnaby placed her glass on a plain white cocktail napkin. “Don’t pay no mind to those fools, BJ. They’re just showing off.”
“I know how to deal with their kind, but thanks.”
“Hey, congrats on your novel. How cool is it that I know a published author?” Barnaby reached under the bar, brought up a copy of her book. “Will you autograph it for me? Y’know, I’ve thought about writing a novel. Someday, when I find the time. Maybe you can give me some insider tips and whatnot? Mention my name to your publisher over drinks?”
He placed a ballpoint pen on top of the book, shoved it forward.
She opened the book to find he had taped down the dust jacket flap with one end of an adhesive vinyl bandage.
“I don’t want the flap to flap,” he told her, sounding every bit as stupid as he looked at the moment. He didn’t seem to care he had hidden part of the synopsis.
She scrawled her name across the title page, the signature almost impossible to read. Had no incentive to add a personal message, even though it was possible he had attended her book signing before coming to work. She slammed the book shut. Winced. Put the pen on the bar.
“Ta,” he said.
“You’re welcome.” She picked up her shoulder bag. Found the way to the restroom.
Jacob came forth with his empty mug. Glared at the trio whispering amongst themselves. The barmen fetched a glass out of the cooler and held it under the tap. Jacob paid for his beer, made it back to his table just before she came in.
BJ took her place at the bar.
“So, tell us,” Mason continued with his assholedness, “do you do it as good as you look?”
Juan broke in. “I doubt they call her BJ for nothing. Get it? BJ. Blow job.” He threw back his head and laughed too loud, drawing attention from other patrons seated at tables.
She stared at the men. All she had done was come into a bar to have a drink. To unwind. Same as any man was allowed to do. Also noticed none of the men in the room were manly enough to come to her rescue. She stuck her hand in her black bucket bag. Moving aside the book, a votive candle, and a few dried chicken bones she withdrew her wallet.
“Hmph. Screw her,” Mason mumbled.
“Not tonight, apparently,” Juan quipped.
Bryon grunted, finished his drink.
Barnaby approached the men. “Hey, guys, the women around here aren’t interested in being manhandled. Specially our BJ. You’re not going to get anywhere talking to her that way. Mind you, you’re not going to get anywhere with her, period. She’s married. She’s also the type that likes to keep herself to herself.”
BJ counted out enough cash to cover the drink and a tip, preferring not to feel obligated to the bartender. Departed through a side door.
Leaning over the trio, Barnaby deliberately blocked their view of her.
“So you know her personally, or are you just speaking in general? You two seemed pretty cozy,” said Mason.
Barnaby furrowed his brow as if thinking so what? “Yeah, I know her,” he said with care. Suddenly became aware he had serious bragging rights. He puffed out his chest. “Yep, we’re old friends. Good friends. She’s somewhat of a celebrity around here. She’s a published author. Not only that, she said she’s going to help me write a novel, and get it published, too.”
Jacob Wentzel shook his head in disbelief.
“No shit,” said Mason.
“No shit. I have her novel right here. It’s called Suite Sue.” Barnaby held up the hardcover book. “See, it’s autographed and everything. I think it’s a mystery. Or a thriller.” He examined the artwork on the jacket. “I’m not sure. I haven’t read it yet.”
Mason reached for the book. Barnaby lurched back, stowed it under the bar. “This one’s mine. You’ll have to get your own.”
Mason turned his attention to new arrivals to the lounge. A woman with yellowish bleached hair with black roots chose a seat at the bar. She smiled at him, revealing nicotine stained teeth. “Let’s get the hell out of here, guys. We can find a better place than this one.” He slid a credit card from his wallet. Settled their bar tab.
“Just as well,” said Barnaby, handing Mason the card and a receipt. “I had already cut you off. I think the lot of you have had enough to drink. Two of you, most definitely.”
Mason staggered to his feet. Dug his car keys out of his pocket, brushed aside Juan’s attempts to take them. “Leave me alone, damn you, I can drive.”
“He’s okay, Juan. C’mon, let’s go and find us some pretty women or naked dancers,” said Bryon, clutching the bar in an effort to remain upright.
“Perhaps it’d be better if your friend Juan drives,” Barnaby strongly suggested.
* * *
Two patrolmen waited near the wreckage of a black minivan. Paramedics dragged out the mangled dead bodies of three men in business attire.
Sitting a little ways back of the intersection where the minivan had run a red light, Jacob swallowed the chewed remains of two breath mints. He slid the gear shift to Drive. His eyes swept across the California license plate once more before he pulled away from the curb.
CHAPTER 21
BJ read the note Frank had scribbled on the scrap of paper attached to the refrigerator with a plastic banana magnet, one of several worthless gifts her mother-in-law had foisted on her. The same mother-in-law who introduced BJ to people as “Frank’s old standby”. Thank goodness she lived in another state. She’d hate it if she had to see the bitch on a regular basis.
She read the note again.
Gone two weeks. Miami. Will call.
She balled up the paper, threw it in the trash. He couldn’t wait around until she got home from work? Of course not. He’d have seen the look of suspicion in her eyes.
A quick inspection of the contents in the refrigerator, she settled for leftovers of yesterday’s home-cooked dinner. Covered the dish with a plastic cloche, and set it in the microwave.
“I have got to work on the new novel.”
The spaghetti already forgotten, BJ poured coffee in her writers mug, a tall black and red cup depicting a silver chalk outline of a dead body.
Facing the computer in the shuttered room, she re-read the last few lines she’d written the day before. Unable to think up a clever cliffhanger to finish the chapter, she typed random and meaningless sentences, hoping to find inspiration.
The quick brown fox did the lazy dog.
The cow ate the moon.
Little boy blue tied his shoe.
Come diddle my fiddle.
Frank.
BJ sat back in her chair, had a small drink of coffee. Cooking was the only skill she’d gleaned from her mama, who tried hard to prep her for a life of servitude.
She met Franklin Donovan when she was a cook-in-training and a waitress at a restaurant serving Italian cuisine. The same restaurant she now owned.
One week later, Frank asked her out. Eager to try the hottest new restaurant in town, at someone else’s expense, she accepted his invitation.
Their first year together was nothing worth talking about. Near the end of the second year, Frank participated in some sort of fraudulent scheme, which ultimately led to his arrest and conviction. He was sentenced to three years. The year he got out of prison she got pregnant. Lost the baby soon after. Lacking any and all maternal instincts it was easy for her not to feel any remorse. She couldn’t give what she never had.
Two years later, Frank obtained an adequate amount of financial backing to function as a database administrator in his own company. Word on the street was, his old boss had fronted the new business as payment for Frank taking the fall on the fraudulent scheme.
Frank Donovan had visions of grandeur. He worked an eighteen-hour day, every day, while also traveling extensively, in order to add new names to a growing list of clientele.
Making money was his prime objective in life. Spending money on something big and flashy was his secondary goal. He was also consumed with the desire to make enough money to retire at an early age.
Frank wanted a bigger house, too, just not the big family to fill it. The house was a phallic symbol, he told her, something to shove up the collective asses of the many naysayers in his life. Whenever they were out and about in the car and he spied the kind of house he wanted, he’d always say “This is what I’m getting when I get rich. Who knows? Maybe I’ll win the lottery.”
But it was taking longer than he planned.
And he wasn’t getting any younger.
As time went by, Frank mistreated her worse than ever.
He took his frustrations out on her when things went wrong at work. And, somehow, it was her fault he’d never been able to have his big fancy mansion or boat or private jet or some other toy his little boy heart desired.
Eventually, he neglected her more and more. BJ spent many nights alone in the house with nothing but her imagination to keep her company.
He never lost the need to possess and control her, though. He’d grown adept at manipulation. He knew how to blackmail her emotionally to make her live her life his way. He constantly told her how to think and what to accept as true. The main reason, she believed, for why she stayed with him while he was in prison. He needed her to hang on to what he had.
To his way of thinking, Frank had bought himself a little marionette. She was quite sure the little speech he had given her about cheating on him was nothing more than a psychological defense mechanism of projection to avoid being held accountable for his own shit.
BJ scoffed at him behind his back. He didn’t want her, but he didn’t want anyone else to have her. Got it. Making money and becoming independent of him was her main objective. Writing books assured her of an income in the event her restaurant went belly up. Or vice versa. She refused to believe both businesses might end in failure.
Frank told her more than once, “You are the weirdest person I’ve ever known.”
“No, I’m not. I’m just different from other women,” had always been her go-to response, even though her thoughts were all over the place. There were too many thoughts going through her mind... too many. BJ agonized over every decision until there was none to make.
Has Frank succeeded in making me crazy?
Roger and Jacob came unbidden to her thoughts.
And there it was.
“Inspiration, found.”
She typed the chapter ending surprisingly fast. Saved the text, shut off the computer and the lamp. “I’m ravenous.”
CHAPTER 22
BJ entered the Wild Capers restaurant as a customer, not as the boss. Even so, she was pleased to see almost every seat was occupied.
Amos, the maître d’, was nowhere to be seen.
She chose a two-top table, a deuce, closest to the kitchen. Spread a white cloth napkin with WC embroidered in red on a corner edge across her lap. Wracked her brain for an idea for the next chapter.
Idly scanning the room for the maître d’ she spotted a customer waiting to be seated.
Where the hell’s Amos?
She hurried to the entrance. “Bonswa! Welcome to Wild Capers. How many in your party, sir?” She craned her neck, had a quick look around him.
“Just me.”
When the man placed a hand on his hip, pushing his jacket aside, a gold shield clipped to his belt was uncovered. “You’re a... detective?”
The man smiled warmly. “I’m Gary Northcutt. And you must be BJ Donovan.”
She instinctively stepped back, glanced around for the nearest escape route. “What…?”
“I’m a member of Lieu du Crime. I was supposed to be the guest speaker back when a storm knocked out the power here. It’s nice to finally meet you.” He extended a hand. “Really nice.”
“Nice to meet you, too.” Her handshake was limper than a wet noodle. “It just so happens that I’m dining alone, as well. I’d like it if you’d share a table with me. Perhaps you can help me gain a better understanding of law enforcement terminology and procedures, for my novels.”
“Certainly. I’d enjoy the company. And I’d be interested in picking up a few writing tips and suggestions from you.”
BJ lifted a menu off the black wooden stand of the missing maître d’.
CHAPTER 23
Gary motioned for the waiter to fill his coffee cup. Thoroughly enjoying himself, he was reluctant to leave. “Tell me about your current work-in-progress.” He held up his hand, smiled. “I’m a cop. I swear I won’t steal your story idea.”
BJ stared at him. His play on words with the cop and thief lines failed to amuse her.
Gary grew visibly uncomfortable.
She looked him in the eye. “Have you read my novel?”
“No, sorry. I haven’t had a chance.” He ran a hand down his black striped necktie.
“I only asked because this story is part two. If you had read Suite Sue, you’d already know what the book is about. There’d be no need to spend a lot of time bringing you up-to-date on the background information.”
“Am I keeping you from something more urgent?”
“Huh?” BJ lowered her eyelids. “No, not at all. It’s just that, no one’s ever expressed an int.…” She had a couple of sips of coffee, thus allowing herself enough time to change her frame of mind. “It’s a story of murder, mystery, and magic.”
Gary nodded. “A lot of potential there. Tell me about it.”
Her jaw muscles tightened. She fidgeted with a corner of her napkin, unaccustomed to anyone wanting to hear anything she had to say, much less spend so much time with her.
“My main character, Alma LeVeaux, had an unspeakably horrific past. Born to an alcoholic papa and a mama that wasn’t there for her, she had seen and heard things, bad things, no child should ever have been made to know. Her mama died when Alma was little. Her papa couldn’t wait to send her to live with his older brother. Her uncle declared she must be evil. To drive Satan from her soul, he bound her wrists together above a tree branch that extended out over a swamp. With her legs bent at the knees to keep her feet out of reach, she dangled unsteadily above the gaping jaws of an alligator that had crawled up onto the bank. A bug landed on her cheek. Alma thinks it might be a spider. If she struggles the rope will come loose and drop her. If she screams the bug might get in her throat and cut off her airway. She would’ve peed in her panties, only she didn’t have anything to drink when she was locked in the firewood bin for several days. A steady flow of tears washed the bug away. The gator lost interest, disappeared below the dark water. Her uncle backed up his truck again. He loosened the rope enough for her to fall into the truck bed. Rolled her over to cut the nylon rope, er, zip tie, off her wrists. Stretched out beside her, he told her to be a good girl. When he slid he
r cotton dress up—”
“Damn,” said Gary.
Thrown out of the story, she instantly felt a flash of anger. BJ drank coffee that had grown cold. Made a great effort to get back in character.
“Ah jeez, I’m sorry,” he said. “Please, continue.”
“It’s okay. When Alma was nineteen she met a boy named Rex who showed an interest in her. He told her he loved her. She’d waited her whole life to hear those three little words, and that’s all it took for her to run away with him. All she really did, though, was to go from one bad situation to another. Rex treated her worse than her parents or aunt and uncle ever did. So, s-she tries to change her life in a big way. She loves the architecture of New Orleans so much she went and got her GED in order to qualify for a drafting course being offered by the local community college. Rex scoffed at her efforts. Planted seeds of doubt in her mind. He pointed out, gleefully I might add, if her dimensions were off by just a hair the building would collapse. People would die. Alma searched for something less demanding. She’s the creative type, so she signed up for an art course. Learned she’s quite good. Happy with her pictures, she proudly displayed them on the wall in the stairwell of their townhouse.”
BJ glanced around the dining area for Amos.
“One day Rex brought a friend home for lunch. When he noticed him looking at the artwork Rex said, see the shit I have to put up with? She could’ve sworn the man admired her work, until he laughed along with her husband. As soon as they left she tore down the sketches, wadded them up, and threw them out with the trash. She finally came up with a career choice Rex might actually appreciate. She went to real estate school. When the time came for her to take the final exam, she’d been so beaten down by her husband and the others, she failed the test five times before passing it on the sixth try. She managed to find a real estate broker who wanted her to work at his realty company, but from day one, he only wanted her in his bed. He didn’t care how many sales or listings she might bring in. That wasn’t why he’d given her a desk. She gave up. All Rex ever did was bitch and moan that she’s only hunting for a job just to keep from tending to her wifely duties. He ignored every suggestion she made, believing his own ideas were better. Never took her seriously. Never treated her like a woman. Never even asked why she didn’t want to tend to her wifely duties. In the end, there was nothing but bitterness and hatred toward all things male. Repressed rage, as the result of horrible acts....”
