“I’m not just talkin’ ‘bout the nigg…”
“Mama,” James interrupted with a sigh, his eyes imploring her to do better. He popped the tab on the can and handed her the drink.
She took a big swig of Dr. Pepper and rolled her eyes, “Well whatever, I’m not just talkin’ ‘bout the African American man who caught on fire, and the guy under the bridge.” She repositioned herself in the chair. “I’m talkin’ about all them and that guy that was shot in his house the other day. Guess what was parked in his driveway?” She slapped her knee with her flat palm, “That’s right, a goddamn van.”
“Where was that?”
“Over off Plum, you know down by that wetback church.”
“Mama, seriously.”
“James Porter, I did not live no fifty-eight damn years just so my own child could tell me how to talk. You got more important things to figure out than how me, your grown ass mama, talks about – hey, what happened to your arm? You okay?”
He looked down at the scratches on his arm where the concrete and rocks from the alley had scraped a good two-inch gap open. The blood had long since dried and had come off in the shower. Only red angry skin around an ugly scab remained.
“Yeah, just fell down earlier, the sidewalk was all wet from the rain. It’s fine.” He needed to change the subject. “What do you want me to do, mama, sell my van?”
She raised her voice, “If you have to sell it, James, then sell it. I’m not tryin’ to be on TV cryin’ over my dead son. Now you’re all I got left in this world and I aim to make sure you’re safe.”
He walked back to the kitchen to grab himself a beer and froze holding the door of the fridge open, staring blankly inside. Dead son... dead son. He grabbed a Bud and slammed the door so hard the expired ketchup and mustard rattled on their shelf. Caught by a draft of air, a flutter of movement on top of the fridge caught his eye. He had almost forgotten about the pile of pictures and shit from that guy’s wallet he had tossed up there weeks ago. That first guy he killed, under the bridge. He had a kid, a kid he and Tommy had sent off floating down the Intracoastal canal, and the kid had a mama who was on TV crying about her dead son.
“What you doin’ in there?”
He set the beer on the counter and reached up to grab a handful of credit cards and pictures, sending a cloud of dust into the dark space above the fridge. “I’ll be right there.”
He sifted through them until he found the one he remembered. There, looking up at him, was the smoking hot wife, the fat ass soccer dad, and the dead kid posing in front of a Christmas tree. Their clothes all matched like the fucking uppity family they were. The man wore jeans with a red button-up shirt, the woman had on a white dress with a red belt, and the kid was wearing red suspenders over a white shirt. They were picture perfect. He looked closer at the wife, leaning in to try to see further into her big green eyes.
Maybe someone saw his van under the bridge, or maybe the husband said something to someone on the phone. James closed his eyes, trying to remember that night. When he and Tommy first pulled up behind the blue Chevy, he couldn’t recall if the man had a phone in his hand or not. He shook his head, he just didn’t know. But even then, even if someone said or saw something, and it was known that a white van was involved, there’s no way that woman was on some vigilante streak, she looked like a member of the goddamn PTA. There was just no way she was involved in anything like that. It was just a coincidence, the vans.
“James Porter, what in the hell is you doing in there?”
He stuck the picture in his back pocket and grabbed the Bud off the counter, “I’m coming.”
It was a good hour before he was able to convince his mama that he wasn’t going to be killed by some van-obsessed serial-killer. He closed the door behind her and pulled the picture from his pocket. Leaning against the back of the chair, he stared at the face of the woman. There was just no way that bitch could be out there killing people. It just seemed like a reach. He went back to the pile and fished out a driver’s license. Jon Crow. He made note of the address and put everything but the picture back on the top of the fridge. If a detective did come knocking, he didn’t want to make it easy on them and just have shit out for them to see. He was smarter than that.
***
James woke up at eight in the morning to Tommy’s alarm clock blaring rock music through the thin wall that separated their bedrooms. Fucking Tommy and his goddamn alarm. He threw the covers off and walked, naked, over to Tommy’s room. Another benefit of having a dead roomie, James could let it swing. He used to sleep naked all the time, but he didn’t like how Tommy kept staring at his junk anytime he got up to use the bathroom, so he had taken to wearing boxers at night. He yanked the alarm clock’s cord out of the socket it was plugged into and threw it against the wall before shuffling back to his own room.
No matter how long he laid in bed trying to go back to sleep, it just wasn’t happening. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that woman’s face. It wasn’t until he was up, showered, and eating leftover pizza, that he knew he needed to do something. He was still pretty sure she wasn’t the one going around killing people, but curiosity was getting the better of him. He needed to know more about her. Besides having a dead husband and kid, of course.
He drove his van slowly down Palmer Street, taking in the manicured lawns and upper middle-class homes. He knew he’d never live in a neighborhood like that, no matter how many people he robbed. James was a realist, he didn’t give a shit if his glass was half full or half empty, as long as it had a shot of whiskey in it. That was his philosophy. There wasn’t nothing a shot of whiskey couldn’t fix.
He glanced down at the driver’s license in his hand again, checking the house number. That was it, 1418. He scanned the homes as he drove past, looking for the numbers. He wished they would all agree on one fucking place to put house numbers. There was 1412, then a house he couldn’t tell, then he thought the next one should be 1416, but there was goddamn ivy growing on the front of the number plate. Which brought him to the next house, 1418. There was a black Ford Escort in the driveway, and what looked like an older model Mercury Cougar. The Cougar screamed police, from its long antennae stretching out of the top, to the searchlight mounted on the side.
Maybe the bitch was responsible for the killings, and she was finally getting what was coming to her. As he cruised past the house, he was able to glimpse inside the open curtains. There was the woman, it had to be her, sitting on a couch next to that nosy ass detective.
He stepped on the gas and took off before they could look up and see him. So maybe he wasn’t going to go knock on her door, but at least he knew where she lived. He would be back, and he’d make damn sure no detective was there when he did.
28
“Hey baby,” Rebecca’s dad held his keys in one hand and a suitcase in the other. He was smiling, but his eyes betrayed the sadness within. “Is this a bad time?”
“No, I just... I’m surprised to see you is all.” She led him into the house and locked the door behind him.
“Well I know you said you were fine, but I called your office yesterday and they said you were still out. So, I figured I needed to come down.” He set his suitcase down in the front hall and dropped his keys on the small table against the wall. “Can I use your bathroom? It’s been a long drive.”
“Yeah of course, I’ll put some coffee on.”
“That sounds perfect,” he said, as he limped down the hallway. His knees were getting worse and the drive hadn’t helped them any. The doctor said he’d need a knee replacement in the next year, but he was fighting it pretty hard. Rebecca hadn’t realized he was getting so bad. He wasn’t limping like that when they were down for the funeral.
The coffee was already dripping when he returned, glistening hands held out in front of him, looking around for a hand towel. She pointed to a dry dish rag and poured them both a cup of coffee.
He closed his eyes and inhaled, “Aah, I’ve always loved t
hat smell. Do you know they make a coffee scented candle now? Isn’t that crazy? Paula bought me one for the study a few months ago.” His voice caught on her name, still not used to the new way of thinking of her. “Eh, guess she wasn’t all bad.” He set the rag down on the counter.
Rebecca handed him his mug, “Dad, she banged your realtor, she was pretty much all bad.”
The corners of his mouth turned up in a reluctant smile, “Yeah I guess you’re right there.”
She leaned against the counter and crossed her arms over her chest, “So, what’s going on? What’s the real reason you’re here?”
He sighed and set his cup down, looking at her. “I had to get out of that house, it’s so... empty – I mean... I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, dad. My house is empty, your house is empty. We’re all empty.” Rebecca picked up her coffee cup, peered in it for a second, and twirled it to mix the contents.
“Yeah, but…I shouldn’t complain. You’ve been through so much.”
“It’s okay, really. It gets my mind off things, you know?”
“Yeah I get that.” He paused to take a long swig of his coffee before setting it back down and wiping his chin. “Well, I just couldn’t be there anymore. She took almost all the furniture, except for that couch your mom and I had. She never liked it, said it looked like something her parents would own.” He stopped to chuckle. “That’s kind of ironic, now. I guess I was old enough to be her dad.”
He cleared his throat and met her eyes. “So why aren’t you back at work yet?”
“They told me to take more time, that it was too soon to be back. It’s frustrating, really. Work is the one thing I could do right now.” She knew the truth, that her co-workers weren’t quite ready to be around her. The ‘Hello’s’ and ‘How are you’s’ would come with a tilt of the head and a pitiful look in their eyes, if they knew what happened. If it was someone who didn’t know, would she return their cheerfulness like nothing was wrong to avoid any questions? Did she tell them, causing an awkward silence when they didn’t know what to say back? It was all too exhausting, navigating a world where she was no longer Rebecca Crow: wife, mother, and accountant. The new Rebecca was a victim, someone to be held at a distance, because while they liked to think it couldn’t possibly happen to them, they would still walk a wide circle around it. And her. People liked to go about their days in blissful ignorance of the violent world around them and when it edged in too close, they didn’t know what to do but keep far away lest it be contagious.
“I get it bug, but don’t wait too long, you know? You don’t want to forget how to be a part of things.”
He hadn’t called her ‘bug’ since she was a child, she hated it then, but now... she didn’t mind it so much. “I won’t, I’ll probably go back in a week or so. They can’t make me take more time than I already have.”
“What are you doing to stay busy? It’s not good to be cooped up in the house all day.”
“Not a whole lot.” She glanced at his suitcase in the front hall. “How long are you staying?”
“Eh, just the weekend. Some of us do have to work, you know.” He winked at her.
“They won’t let me! I keep telling them I want to go back…need to go back.” Rebecca’s voice rose until she cut off with a huff. It wasn’t a battle she was going to win, and her dad wasn’t the problem, anyway. “Want a refill?”
“I’m good on coffee, but I am starving. I haven’t eaten all day. Did you have lunch yet?”
At the mention of food, her stomach grumbled. She often forgot to eat, and her clothes showed it, hanging loosely on her already small frame. “Food sounds great. How about I call us in some Chinese?” She opened the junk drawer and leafed through it, looking for the take-out menu.
“Chinese is perfect. You call it in, I’ll go pick it up. Do they have Orange Chicken?”
“They have everything. You still like extra egg rolls and that nasty mustard sauce?” She pulled the menu out of the drawer.
“Yep.” He grinned.
He got up from the table and headed for the door, calling over his shoulder, “Want me to get us drinks also, or do you have stuff here?”
“Drinks would be…” A sharp rapping sounded from the front door.
Her dad was only a step away so he opened it, to a surprised Detective Barnes standing there with his knocking fist still raised. He lowered it and reached out to shake her dad’s hand.
“Hi, I’m Detective Barnes with the Galveston County Sheriff’s Office. Is Mrs. Crow home?”
“Hey there, I’m her dad, Thomas Boling.” The two men shook hands and came into the living room where they could see Rebecca standing in the kitchen with the phone in her hand. At the sight of the detective, she finished the call and rushed towards them.
Rebecca avoided looking the detective in the eye and gestured towards the couch. “Have a seat. Want some coffee? There’s a fresh pot.” She walked to the kitchen without waiting for a reply.
Barnes leaned forward and raised his voice so she could hear him from the other room. “I’ve already had about two pots today. I better not, but thank you.”
Rebecca returned to the living room, held her hands together in front of her, and looked around for something to focus on before sitting down across from the detective. She sat on the edge of the couch, tense and uncomfortable.
“Honey, want me to stay with you?”
“No, thanks dad. I’m fine.” She met the detective’s eyes, “Better go get the food before it gets cold.”
“Okay, call me if you think of anything else you need.” He grabbed his keys and paused at the front door, looking at the two of them sitting in silence.
“Go dad. And I will, thanks.”
Rebecca watched the door close, staring at it long after she felt the detective looking at her, neither saying a word. She turned towards the large window and watched as her dad pulled out of the driveway and headed down the road.
Rebecca was the first to break the silence. “So, did you get him yet?” She returned to her spot on the couch and folded her trembling hands in her lap.
“No ma’am, I’m sorry. There is…”
“I saw you on the news the other day…,” she interrupted. “A man was killed in a fire?” Her voice broke on the last word and she reached out for her coffee cup. She needed to know if anyone suspected her.
“We’re still trying to connect all the pieces. We have another missing man...” He glanced down at his notes. “... Mario Perez.” He looked up at her, “Do you know him?”
“No, the name doesn’t ring a bell.” She shifted on the couch.
Detective Barnes pulled a notebook out of his breast pocket and held out a small picture. It was a formal head shot of a man in a business suit and tie. His head wasn’t bald at all, but full of thick salt and pepper hair. Intense hazel eyes stared out from an olive toned face. He was definitely not the man Rebecca had killed the day before.
She shook her head, refusing to touch the picture, “I don’t know him, what happened?” At least she could be honest about that much.
“His wife reported him missing. Says he went fishing down on the jetties and never came back home. It wasn’t very far from where Jon was, so we thought maybe there was a connection.” He tucked the picture back into his notebook.
“That’s awful, I hope he’s okay.”
The detective nodded in agreement. “What happened there?” He gestured towards the bandage on Rebecca’s left arm.
She covered it with her right hand, “Oh it’s nothing, just a burn. From cooking. I’m so clumsy.”
“A burn, huh?” his head tilted to the side and his eyes narrowed.
“Yeah, but its fine. It’s almost all healed up. Was there anything else I can do for you?” She lifted her coffee mug to steady her shaking hands.
Detective Barnes cleared his throat and lowered his eyes. “There is one more thing...”
Her arms froze, holding the cup inches from her mouth. S
he didn’t dare look at him.
“It’s about Jon.”
Rebecca held her breath.
“We found…” Barnes looked down at the floor, unsure how to say the next part.
Rebecca knew what he was trying to say. “No,” she mumbled.
“I’m so sorry.”
Rebecca slammed her cup down on the coffee table and glared at the detective, her eyes threatening to spill over with tears. “Say it. You have to say it.”
“We found his body.”
29
Tommy’s death was all anyone in the Third Ward would talk about. James had thought he was an annoying little shit, but apparently some people really liked annoying little shits. James’ mama had worked herself up so much about it, he had to make her sit down and take a break from regurgitating the local gossip of how and why. She was barely breathing in between yelling at him to be careful, and being mad at the world for letting it happen to ‘such a sweet boy’.
“Tommy was good people! Good people, James!” She wrung her hands until they were red.
“I know mama, I know.” He continued to pat her on the arm.
He almost regretted killing Tommy. He wouldn’t have done it if he had known it was going to be such a big damn deal. You would have thought it was her own son, and not just some guy she happened to know of and be around a few times. But it seemed to have been the blood that broke the camel’s back. Or straw. Whatever. People were tired of being scared all the time about where they were going, if it was safe or not. He couldn’t tell his mama that she really didn’t have anything to worry about, that he was the bad guy. Shit, she’d have a damn heart attack. No, it was better to let her worry. It would all blow over in a few days.
He finally got her settled in the big comfy chair in the living room, TV tuned to whatever reality show she was into at the time. She continued to sniffle into a pile of tissues while a large woman on the screen was yelling at a much smaller man, that he had to be her baby’s daddy. James shook his head as he sat down on the couch. Too much damn drama. That’s why he never kept bitches around very long, they started wanting to talk about futures and houses and babies and shit. Alone, he didn’t have to worry about that stuff, he was too busy out there getting it. Making shit happen, without a woman or a big fancy job. It was going to be tight, but he could probably make rent just fine without Tommy, and even maybe buy a new TV to replace that cracked piece of shit. But, that would have to wait. He needed to lay low for a bit, let that van business die down and get some space between him and Tommy’s death. Maybe he didn’t need to leave town.
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