by Alan Lee
Manny nodded approval.
“Were his goons with him?” she asked.
“One. Guy with a gun. Black. Shaved head.”
“That’s Dexter. Were you scared?”
“A little. But he can’t shoot me in the middle of the market.”
Stackhouse laid her hand onto Ronnie’s. “Baby, press charges. I can bring him in and ruin him.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
I answered for Ronnie. “There is more to the story that won’t be shared. But let me assure you, if Ronnie presses charges then her life is forfeit. She has a way to exert pressure on Darren but only as a last resort."
“So you’re not exaggerating about Darren’s involvement with the Kings?” asked Stackhouse.
“I wasn’t being hyperbolic. Darren works directly with some of the most powerful crime bosses in America. And right now he’s fixated on Ronnie.”
Fat Susie made an unhappy grunting sound. He’d already finished two burgers.
Timothy said, “Surely the police, the sheriff, and a federal marshal can do…something.”
“That would go poorly,” I said. “For everyone in this room. The Kings have judges and cops and lawyers in their pocket. Plus an army of thugs for hire. They’re not above killing us all.”
“Earlier today I was fretting about our library’s software update,” he grumbled. Although his tie was already loose, he tugged at it further. “Do you have a plan?”
Manny, who’d been eating unperturbed, said, “Big Mack always got a plan, señor.”
Let’s hear it, said Kix. Because I am stressed.
“The Kings don’t want drama. They don’t want to get tangled with Roanoke’s sheriff and a federal marshal. It’d be bad for business. And Darren doesn’t want to lose Ronnie. It’s in everyone’s best interest to be cool. So right now that’s what we’re doing. We’re buying time to figure this out,” I said.
“Except Darren told you that you’re a dead man,” said Ronnie. “And he doesn’t joke about that.”
“That only worries me because it endangers my family. Which is why I’ve asked Stackhouse to start leaving her car here. I doubt they’ll make a move on this house and they won’t go after my family outside of it. Again, that’d be bad for business. Darren has to be at least a little worried about repercussions. At some point they might decide a war is worth it, but that day is not today. The reward isn’t worth the risk. Yet.”
Manny said, “Why don’t I just go shoot Darren in his ass? We be done with it.”
“He’s got help and they’ll be ready for you. We need to try diplomacy first. Violence only as necessary,” I said.
“Diplomacy?” asked Timothy.
“I’m going to arrange a meeting of the local nefarious power players. All should remain quiet until then. But to be safe, Stackhouse will stay here every night and park out front. Fat Susie will remain with Ronnie during the day and she will move into our guest bedroom in the evenings.”
“If you insist,” said Ronnie.
I avoided eye contact with her.
Stay focused, Mackenzie.
“Manny and I can be anywhere at a moment’s notice,” I said. “We’ll regroup after the mafia meeting.”
“Remember,” said Ronnie. “If worse comes to worst, I have a way to humiliate and expose him. But at that point, any remaining shit would hit the fan.”
“Maybe as a very last resort. I’d rather you not be embarrassed in the public eye.”
“What about you?” Timothy asked me.
“Yes, I prefer you alive,” she said.
“To be honest, I’m hoping one of them comes calling. It would reduce their numbers.”
Timothy threw up his hands, a vexed motion. “Good grief, the hubris on you.”
Stackhouse gave a little shrug. “It’s kinda sexy.”
The screen door at the front opened. Timothy jumped. Stackhouse turned in her seat to get a look.
Carlos walked in wearing his usual tight t-shirt. His shaved head gleamed under our small chandelier.
Manny and Fat Susie threw him a wave.
Timothy looked on in alarm.
“Carlos,” I said. “Grab a hamburger. What brings you?”
“Manuel. He tells me about the trouble,” said Carlos. He laid a bag on the couch and went for food. “I asked señor Marcus Morgan what to do and he say to stay with you. Unofficially.”
“Could get rough, Carlos.”
“You gave me back my life,” he said. “It is the least I can do. My daughter and I, we are very happy.”
Manny said, “Maybe Carlos, he can stay with Ronnie too.”
“Probably,” I said. “Her peril is the most mortal.”
Ronnie placed her hand on my forearm. I remained calm. “Carlos should be with you. Darren’s threat worries me.”
“Don’t let it. The hero never dies.”
Ronnie pushed some blonde hair out of her face. “Manny, you’ll help him stay alive?”
“Simon,” he said. His salad was nearly gone. “Though Mack better at this than you know, I think.”
“So we’re all agreed?” I asked. “This is the plan?”
“Only in lieu of a better one,” said Timothy, watching Carlos in his periphery. “This is a nightmare.”
“Not for me,” said Ronnie Summers. “It’s like I have a family. And Mackenzie’s finally invited to sleep over.”
Kix said, Can the blonde sleep in my room?
17
We drank cocktails until midnight, our motley crew squished onto the living room leather couches.
Then the intricate bedtime routines began.
I made everyone brush their teeth—Fat Susie in the main floor’s half bath and Carlos in the kitchen sink. (They each bunked on a couch with a pillow and extra blankets.) Timothy August and Stackhouse used the master bath, of course. Leaving Ronnie, Manny, and me the other bathroom.
We all three fit, sharing the his-and-her sinks. Ronnie wore red pajamas, which Manny told her made her look like Santa’s elf. She looked elegant and attractive doing everything, even brushing her teeth, despite the purpled eyes and puffy lips.
She finished and said, “Even your bathroom is neat and clean. How does a household full of men maintain this level of cleanliness?”
“We’re fastidious and fragrant,” I said.
“I dunno what he say, senorita, but we are neat and we use aftershave and deodorant and cologne. At least I do.”
She said, “This sleepover is kinda fun.”
“Sí, baby, the funnest.”
“Do you believe all this is necessary?”
“Probably not,” I said. “Depends on how angry the Kings are and how desperate Darren is. I don’t think they’ll attack us in our home, in a residential neighborhood. They’d prefer to play it cool and for this drama to blow over without incident.”
“But it’s wise for us to be safe instead of sorry.”
“Right. If Darren gets lonely tonight and comes barging into your apartment, I’d rather you not be there,” I said. “That’s the real danger, one man’s jealousy.”
“Yours or his?”
“Good question,” I said.
“I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day,” said Ronnie. She stopped at the bathroom doorway, one hand on the frame. “Although I wouldn’t object to company for the next hour or three.”
Neither Manny nor I spoke. Or moved. Or breathed.
My longing for her caused corporeal pain.
“Actually,” she said. “Never mind. I just saw my reflection again. I’m not pretty enough yet. Good night.”
She left. We heard the spare bedroom door close.
Manny said, “How long you two been dancing around like this?”
I said, “Fourteen months.”
“And you two have not, ahh, hacer el amor?”
“We have not.”
“Hell is wrong with you?”
“So many things,” I said
. “I lie awake at night wondering the same question.”
“No, but let us be serious for uno momento. Educate an ignorant spaniard. What do you wait for?”
I turned on the cold water in the sink. Rinsed my tooth brush. Splashed some water onto my face and rubbed my eyes. Took a deep breath.
I said, “A bunch of stuff. She was engaged. She’s trying to offload baggage and I’d make it worse. The timing never works. I’m trying to follow a path that recommends a high degree of purity. We both have too much pride, probably. You name it. We’re a mess, amigo.”
“Okay. Bueno, I see. But Ronnie Summers probably be the prettiest girl in the state. And somehow, she likes you.”
“If we hacer el amor, it’d be over. I’d lose her.”
“Why? How do you know?”
“It’s anecdotal, but that’s how it’s always worked before. I’d rather not risk it.”
“You white people,” said Manny. “You overthink things. In Puerto Rico, we get married and yell at each other.”
“Tempting,” I said. “I’ll give that option some thought.”
Noises in the hallway.
According to my clock, it was three in the morning.
Manny sat up from his mattress on the floor, near the foot of my bed. His gun was already in his fist.
He listened and glared under the door at the light.
He said, “It’s Ronnie. Girl footsteps.”
I got out of bed and went into the hall.
Ronnie was in the bathroom. Sitting on the side of the bathtub, her head in her hands.
She looked up and smiled—a weary expression.
“Nightmare,” she said.
“Have those often?”
“Usually during the day.”
I rested my back against the wall and slid down until sitting on the floor, next to her. Our bare feet touched. Hers were prettier than mine.
“You probably have some PTSD,” I said.
“Cute girls with law degrees shouldn’t get that. We’re supposed to float above the fray, trouble free.”
I took her hand and squeezed.
“The most frustrating thing,” she said, “is not that I’m bothered by memories of things I’ve been forced to do, but by memories of some evil part of me enjoying it.”
“That’s above my pay grade. But I’m positive that only means you’re human.”
She sighed and returned the pressure with her fingers. “Maybe I need something stronger than a holistic psychotherapist and spa days.”
“Maybe in addition to. If anyone deserves spa days, it’s you.”
“Mackenzie.”
I yawned. “Yes Ronnie.”
“Thank you.”
We stayed that way a long time.
18
The next morning we blearily consumed copious amounts of coffee. Timothy and Stackhouse went to work. Carlos and Fat Susie escorted Ronnie to her office, under strict orders Darren got nowhere near her. If he showed, they’d call me immediately.
With all the excitement it was easy to forget one pressing matter—Grady Huff was gonna swing.
I took Kix to Roxanne’s.
Candice Hamilton was already there, inside meeting Roxanne and her daughter. She was dressed in black heels, a calf-length pencil skirt, and stylish white blouse, looking like a successful and trendy modern business woman.
Judging by Roxanne’s embarrassed smile, she wished she’d worn something other than plaid pajama pants and a t-shirt that said ‘Boss Mom.’
But I bet Candice would trade places with her some days.
Kix, Tyler, and Lucy hit it off at once, pointing, and shouting, and throwing toys with familial gusto. Sort of like grownups did, but we did it with class and alcohol.
Candice put Roxanne through a thorough cross-examination until I took her arm and pulled her out onto the sidewalk.
“Rest easy, counselor,” I said. “The defendant is great and has kept my son alive for over a year.”
“I know. It’s just…shit, I know. I worry.” Candice grabbed my hand with both of hers and we walked to our cars. That hand and arm still ached a little—I’d been shot in the forearm over the summer by Calvin Summers. “It’ll be fine. Right? Tyler will be fine.”
“Both Tyler and your mother will have good days today.”
“You’re right. Of course you’re right. I just need to let go.” Candice kissed my cheek suddenly. Then said, “Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not flirting with you. I’m just very grateful. And I wanted to kiss your face.”
“I can’t blame you,” I said. “I’ve been working on this face for years.”
“What are your plans?”
“I’m going to find Juanita Yates’s family.”
She asked, “What makes you confident you can locate them?”
“I’m so good it’s scary.”
“Do you want to get lunch?”
“If I get back in time,” I said. “Then sure.”
I hit Interstate 81 and took it south towards Radford and Claytor Lake.
I rang Marcus Morgan en route.
He answered in his deep voice, “Morning, August.”
“I hereby call for an assembly of the iniquitous and sinister head honchos in Roanoke, which includes Darren Robbins.”
“You want a meeting.”
“Correct,” I said.
“You hate meetings.”
“At the moment, I believe diplomacy behooves all our best interests.”
“Heard about your encounter with Darren,” said Marcus. “And that now he’s gotta put you in the ground.”
“I am affright and atwitter with dismay.”
“Believe it or not, August, I am a busy man. I run a big damn operation. Somehow despite you not being inside my enterprise, you use up a lot of my time and resources,” he said.
“Is Darren your boss?”
“He is not. Although his word carries more influence with the powers that be. More credit.”
I asked, “You’re not a power that be?”
“Darren and I, we both be minority share holders. So to speak. Along with many other share holders. And at the present time? Darren holds more stock than I do. But we both more or less answer to the majority owners. You follow?”
“Yes. That was beautifully phrased.”
“Good. I used small words,” he said.
“What am I?”
“If we’re Walmart, then you a shoplifter.”
“That’s…unkind. I think your metaphor fell apart,” I said. “What’s Duane? He the capo dei capi?”
“Most of us aren’t Sicilian. Duane, he’s a majority share holder. One of the lesser men sitting on the Board of Directors, so to speak.”
“If little Duane is on the board, then I’m way more important than a shoplifter,” I said.
“Maybe you the janitor that Walmart fired but he keep coming back,” said Marcus.
“I’m hanging up. You arrange the meeting. Soon.”
“Know what you are? You the weird guy at Walmart saying hello to everyone coming in,” said Marcus.
“But Ronnie digs me.”
“Maybe she get you promoted to delivery boy.”
I had planted a LandAirSea tracking device inside Brent Lowe’s Cherokee, hidden under the carpet in the back. An app on my phone kept record of his location, and today I sat at Claytor Lake examining his movements on my map.
Yesterday evening, Brent drove Old Blue to a house on the north side of the lake and stayed for thirty minutes. According to Zillow, the house was a small brick ranch set by itself, a half mile from expensive lake-front homes on Cedar Point.
“Who’d you go see, Brent Lowe?” I wondered.
The cosmos responded with silence.
Grady Huff didn’t have a lot of time before trial. And I had a hunch…
I dropped the Honda into drive and motored to the north part of the lake, to the small ranch Brent had visited. The driveway was gravel. An old Kia was parked out front
and there was an adjacent dry spot, meaning another car had been here until recently, shielding the gravel from the morning’s drizzle.
I zipped my black rain jacket against the chill and knocked on the front door. Somewhere inside, a large dog barked.
A woman looked at me from the peekaboo window beside the door. Her voice sounded muffled.
“Yes? I don’t need anything.”
I stepped backwards off the porch, giving her space.
“Yes ma’am,” I said. “I’m here on behalf of the Franklin County Sheriff.”
You liar, said the cosmos.
“Okay,” came the reply. She had what sounded like a Latin American accent. “I can listen.”
“The sheriff doesn’t want to cause you trouble,” I said, making up lies as fast as I could. “He only wanted to update you on the Grady Huff case.”
She didn’t respond.
“The car driven by Juanita Yates has been returned to the owner. No more questions will be asked. Mr. Brent Lowe isn’t in trouble and neither are you.”
There was silence. And then came noises of the door being unlocked.
A woman stepped onto the porch, hugging herself. She was the spitting image of Juanita Yates, but twenty years older.
“The man? Grady Huff?” she asked.
“He’s still in prison. And he’s going to be there a long time.”
She nodded to herself. “Good.”
I was putting together puzzle pieces.
This was Juanita Yates’s mother. Most likely friends with Brent Lowe. Or more than friends. Juanita had been using Brent’s car, and they lied about it being stolen. They’d been afraid to talk with the sheriff for some reason, possibly due to her being here illegally.
Pure conjecture. But it was all possible.
“Yes ma’am,” I said. “It is good.”
“That’s all?”
“Is there anyway I can help you? I know this has been hard.”
“The sheriff…I didn’t know…that he knew me,” she said.
“Juanita was your daughter.”
She paused. And looked down at her feet.
I said, “You’ll never have to go to court or talk with anyone. I’m not here to create problems for you.”
