Layla's Score

by Andy Rausch

  “That's terrific,” said Lefty. “Did you get to meet the man?”

  “No, I didn't. I wish I could tell you otherwise, but I can't. That'll forever be one of my biggest regrets.”

  Layla spoke up. “I wanna hear 'Having a Party.'”

  “Is that your favorite Sam Cooke song?” asked Brooks.

  “Yeah,” said Layla. “That and 'Chain Gang.'”

  “You don't like this one?”

  “It's okay, I guess,” said Layla. As smart as she was, she was still only seven, and the significance of the song was over her head.

  “I'll turn it to that after this song is over,” said Lefty.

  The three of them drove for a few minutes, listening to Sam Cooke and staring out the window before Layla said, “I'm thirsty, Daddy.”

  “What do you wanna drink, Tator Tot?”

  “I want a soda.”

  “What kind of soda do you want?”

  The little girl considered this for a moment. After all, this was an extremely important decision. “Grape,” she said. “I want Grape. How about you? What kind of soda do you want, Daddy?”

  “I think I'm in the mood for strawberry.”

  “Not me, I want grape.” She paused for a moment before asking, “What kind of grape soda do you think is the best, Daddy?”

  “I don't know. I like them all.”

  “Grape soda all tastes the same,” said Brooks. “Like Kool-Aid.”

  Lefty, driving, turned to look at him. “The hell you say.”

  “What?”

  “I'll give you that most grape sodas taste about the same, but you think Kool-Aid tastes the same as grape soda?”

  “Yeah,” said Brooks. “Everything grape tastes the same. It tastes like grape.”

  “They taste like the generic grape flavor to some degree, yeah, but there's a lot of wiggle room in there. They might have similar qualities, but they don't all taste the same.”

  “That's nonsense,” said Brooks.

  Lefty was becoming irritated for no good reason. “Does grape juice taste the same as grape soda?”

  Brooks nodded. “Yeah, they're the same.”

  “No, they're not,” said Lefty, irritation in his voice. “They absolutely are not the same. Have you ever had grape cough syrup?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you think that tastes the same as grape soda, too?”

  “Yeah,” said Brooks. “It tastes like grape.”

  Lefty shook his head, staring at the highway ahead of them. “There's no talking sense to you. No wonder Dixie left you. I'll bet you were a huge pain in the ass to live with.”

  “I'm sure she wouldn't disagree.”

  “So why did she leave you anyway?” asked Lefty.

  “Who said she left? How do you know it wasn't mutual?”

  “Was it mutual?” asked Lefty, looking at him skeptically.

  “Sure,” said Brooks. “We mutually agreed that she didn't want to be married to me anymore.”

  Lefty laughed. “I can't wait to meet this woman.”

  “You'll probably get along great.”

  “Does she like black people?” asked Lefty.

  “Of course,” said Brooks. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, you said she didn't like Spook.”

  “That had nothing to do with his skin color. That was because he was an asshole.”

  Lefty nodded. “Yeah, he was an asshole for sure. So that still doesn't answer my question. Why did she leave?”

  “She had her reasons.”

  “But you don't know what they were?”

  “I have a few ideas.”

  “So, what are they?”

  Brooks looked at him. “Can we just listen to Sam Cooke and ride along for a bit without talking?”

  “Sure,” said Lefty, and that's what they did.

  Six

  The Road To Oklahoma City

  They were somewhere between Tulsa and Oklahoma City when Lefty stopped at a tiny little gas station called Gas-N-Snaks to take a leak. After parking next to the building, he went in and pissed. When he walked out of the restroom, he was in the back of the gas station, getting his and Layla's bottles of soda, when he heard a ruckus in the front of the store. He turned and looked down the aisle. There was a middle-aged Hispanic man behind the counter, and there were a couple of ski-mask-wearing white guys aiming shotguns at him.

  “Where's the goddamn surveilance camera?” one of the men screamed.

  The clerk pointed up at a corner of the store above the soda fountain, where there was a camera mounted. “Up there,” the clerk said nonchalantly. “But it doesn't work. It's been broken for a couple of years now. The boss keeps talking about getting it fixed, but he never does.”

  “You're lying!” said one of the robbers. “What kind of gas station doesn't have a surveillance camera?”

  “A shitty one,” said the clerk. “You don't know my boss. He operates this place so poorly it's like he don't even give a shit. It's almost like this place was a front for the mob.”

  One of the robbers shoved his shotgun towards the clerk. “You'd better not be lying, Hector.”

  “That supposed to be a racial slur?” asked the clerk. “Pretty fuckin' weak, man. Hector? Your mama's name is Hector.”

  One of the robbers stepped towards the counter. “Just open the goddamn register and shut the fuck up.”

  The clerk looked at him. “You want the money?”

  The two robbers looked at each other, and then the one who was doing all the talking said, “What the fuck else would we want, you dumb fucking beaner?”

  The clerk didn't budge. “I'm not allowed to give you that money.”

  “What?” screamed the robber, infuriated. “What kind of bullshit is that?”

  “My boss said if someone came in and stuck the place up, I wasn't supposed to give them the money.”

  The two robbers looked at each other again as if they were trying to figure out what to do next. One of them racked his shotgun.

  “That's bullshit!” said the robber, flustered. “You'd better give me the goddamn money! Do it now!”

  The clerk didn't move. “Really, I can't. If I give you the money, my boss'll fire me, and I need this job. I got child support to pay.”

  “Look, man, I'm not fucking around here,” said the robber, almost pleading. “If you don't give me the money, I'll kill you. Simple as that. Would you rather be unemployed or dead?”

  The clerk just stared at him, unimpressed. “I don't know what to tell you. I'm not giving you the money.”

  The robber moved forward. He tried to leap over the counter, but stumbled and fell behind it, hitting his head. “Jesus Christ!” he yelled in a whiny voice.

  The clerk stood over him, laughing.

  “You alright, Jerry?” asked the second robber.

  Lefty couldn't see the fallen robber, still down behind the counter, but heard him say, “Don't say my fucking name, man. Now this guy knows me, you asshole.” The robber stood up, raising his shotgun up under the clerk's chin. “Now I'm gonna have to waste him.”

  “Don't do that,” said the other robber. “I don't wanna go back to the joint.”

  The robber just stood there staring at the clerk, only the shotgun between them. “I gotta do it, man. He'll tell the cops. You will, won't you, Hector?”

  The clerk just stood there silently, not even arguing.

  “Come on, man, we gotta go,” said the second robber. “We're gonna get caught if we stick around here.”

  “We're not leaving without that money,” said the first robber.

  That was when Lefty came up behind the other robber, the .38 from his ankle up and out now. He put its barrel flush against the robber's head. “Don't move,” he said. “It's too early in the day for me to have to kill you.”

  This caught the other robber's attention. He still had the shotgun up to the clerk's chin. Caught offguard he said, “Where the hell did you come from?”

  Lefty
grinned. “Don't do anything stupid, Jerry.”

  This made the robber angry. “I told you you shouldn't have said my name, Mark.”

  This made the clerk chuckle, despite the shotgun under his chin.

  The robber looked at him angrily, readjusting the shotgun.

  Lefty, still standing there with his .38 trained on the other robber, said, “Do you want me to shoot this guy for you?”

  The clerk looked at him. “Are you talking to me?”

  “Yeah.”

  The clerk looked at the guy holding the shotgun to his chin. “Sure, that would be great.”

  Lefty swiveled the .38 and fired on the robber, striking him in the cheek. The robber fell back hard against a rack of cigarettes and fell from sight. Lefty turned the .38 back to the other robber. “Your turn, pal.”

  “Please don't kill me,” begged the robber.

  Lefty fired a round into the back of his head, and the robber dropped. Lefty looked at the clerk, still standing there nonchalantly.

  “Is the camera really broken?” asked Lefty.

  The clerk nodded. “It is.”

  “You gonna tell the cops about this?”

  “I didn't see the guy who shot these punks,” said the clerk. “I think it was a skinny ginger-headed fuck on a motorcycle. He was wearing leather, like Freddie Mercury, and had sunglasses on.” He thought for a moment. “And tattoos. Lots and lots of tattoos. One of 'em was a dragon that wrapped around his arm.”

  Lefty stuck the .38 into his pocket. “That's the guy I saw, too. I hope they catch him soon.” He turned to leave, but stopped, grabbing a snack-sized bag of Cheetos from a rack. He looked around as he was leaving, but saw no one in the parking lot. He walked around the building to where the Caddy was parked. He climbed in and tossed the Cheetos back to Layla.

  “Thanks, Daddy!” she chirped.

  “No problem, Tator Tot.”

  “But what about my grape soda?”

  “Sorry,” said Lefty. “They didn't have any soda.”

  “No soda at all?” asked Layla.

  “Surprisingly, no,” lied Lefty.

  Brooks gave him a skeptical look, trying to figure out what had happened. “Did I hear gunshots?”

  “I don't think so.”

  “You were gone a long time, and you didn't get any soda. What gives?”

  “The credit card machine was down. It took a minute.”

  Brooks knew there was more to the story but let it go. Lefty put the car into drive, and they were once again on their way to Oklahoma City to talk to Dixie.

  Once they were in the city, they went to the address Brooks had written down. Lefty was surprised to discover that it was a church. It was was a quaint little white building with a sign out in front that announced it to be the First Church of the Holy Spirit. Lefty pulled the Caddy up in front of the place.

  “Dixie lives in a church?” asked Lefty.

  “No,” said Brooks. “She's a minister.”

  “What the fuck? She's a minister?”

  “That's exactly what I said when I found out about it. I guess she got some sort of license to be a minister online or something. I don't know how any of it works. She was always good at conning people. She's real smart, and she can talk her way in and out of just about any situation. I'm sure she's got these people believing she's the greatest thing since Moses parted the Red Sea.”

  “She's religious?”

  “I've never known her to be,” said Brooks. “The woman could curse and drink with the best of them. She said motherfucker more often than most sailors do. And she could drink just about any man under the table, myself included. And in bed…” Brooks stared off at nothing, imagining for a moment. He realized what he was doing and looked at Lefty. “She wasn't all that godly when I knew her. But things change. I haven't seen her in almost a decade.”

  “You didn't keep in touch?”

  “Like I said, she's my ex-wife,” said Brooks. “There's a reason for that.”

  Lefty nodded.

  “Anyway, I'm sure she's had time to study up on the Bible or whatever. I guarantee you she knows her shit. Dixie's a woman who doesn't mess around. If she does something, she does it all the way. There's no half-assing with her.”

  “I've never heard of a hitter becoming a preacher before.”

  “Me neither,” said Brooks. “But you know, I'm not surprised. This woman, she can do anything she wants. She's a total pain in the ass, but she can do just about anything she sets her mind to do.”

  Lefty grinned. Brooks saw this and asked, “What's so funny?”

  “Between Dixie and my dad, you seem to be a magnet for people who are pains in the ass.”

  “While you're laughing,” said Brooks, “let's not forget about you.”

  Lefty feigned offense. “Are you saying I'm a pain in the ass?”

  “The rotten apple didn't fall far from the tree.”

  Lefty chuckled.

  “I'll be right back,” said Brooks.

  “Do you have a plan? Or are you just gonna walk into the church and tell her to come with us? Are you even sure she's gonna wanna do this?”

  Brooks smiled. “I know this woman. Trust me, she'll come to Detroit.”

  Brooks climbed out of the car and walked into the church. It being a weekday, middle of the day, the lobby was as empty as Al Capone's vault. He looked around. He saw an open office door. He peered in and saw a fat black man sitting in there staring at a computer screen.

  “Excuse me,” said Brooks.

  The man looked up. “Can I help you?”

  “I'm looking for Dixie Jackson. Do you know where I might find her?”

  The man sat up a bit. “She called a little while ago. She's downtown. There's a guy out on a ledge, threatening to jump. He wanted to talk to someone about God, so they called Dixie.” The man thought about it for a moment. “You're a cop, aren't you? You probably already knew about that.”

  Brooks didn't hesitate. “Yeah, I'm a cop. You got me. I guess it's kind of obvious, huh?”

  The man grinned. “I can usually tell.”

  “Right,” said Brooks.

  “What's your name, officer?”

  “Uh, Detective…” Brooks looked around, desperately searching for a name. His eyes fell upon a painting of the crucifixion. “My name is Christ.”

  The man cocked his head and made a funny face. “Your name is Detective Christ?”

  “I know,” said Brooks. “Trust me, I know. You try growing up with a name like that and see how you get along.”

  “I'll bet the kids made fun of you in school.”

  “All the time,” said Brooks. “Every single day. The neighborhood kids, they'd try to crucify me. They made a cross, tried to nail me to it.”

  “How'd that go?”

  “I learned how to fight,” said Brooks. “I beat the living shit out of every one of those little fuckers.”

  The man looked shocked and offended. He cleared his throat, making a show out of not saying anything.

  “So yeah, I'm a cop. Detective Christ.”

  The man sat there for a moment, staring at him, thinking about it. “Hold up. If you're a cop, why are you here? You already know where she's at, right?”

  “Must have been a mix-up down at the station. I thought I was supposed to come and get her, take her up there. I didn't realize she was already there…at…the, uh, building.” Brooks stared at the man. “What's the name of that building again?”

  The man looked suspicious, but said, “Chase Tower.”

  “Right,” said Brooks. He turned to leave, but stopped and turned back to the man. “And where's that located again?”

  Brooks was surprised how easily he'd gained access to the 12th floor, where Dixie and the would-be jumper were. All he'd said was that he was from the church (luckily they didn't ask the name of the church, because he couldn't have remembered it to save his life) and had come to assist her. Easy peezy, they let him walk right in. There were some
cops congregated by the office door (and there were a ton of cops and firemen down on the street in case the man jumped). The office itself was empty. Brooks found Dixie standing just outside the open window, talking to a man who was standing out there on the ledge a few steps down. As he approached the window, Brooks could hear Dixie's familiar voice telling the man about Christ's infinite love.

  Brooks stuck his head outside the window. Dixie didn't see him at first. Brooks waited until she was done talking before saying, “Hello, Dixie.” She turned and looked at him, more than a little stunned.

  “Well, hell, I guess we got us a party here,” she said. “What in God's name are you doing here?”

  Brooks smirked. “I came to join this guy. I'm gonna jump, too.”

  Brooks looked around Dixie at the confused man, who was trying to figure out what was going on.

  “You should do it then,” said Dixie. “I won't stop you. You'd be doing us all a favor, Brooks.”

  “I see you're still pissed at me, but then you usually were.”

  “Don't give me that shit, Brooks Barker. You're not innocent. You were never innocent. I gave you hell, but you deserved every bit of it. Truth be told, you probably deserved more than I ever gave you.”

  The would-be jumper watched all this.

  Brooks looked over at him and offered a half-hearted wave. “I'm Brooks.”

  The man looked unsure. He kind of stuttered out, “Dave.”

  “Good to meet you, Dave.”

  Dixie looked at him. “This worthless sonofabitch is my ex-husband. He's a lying, no good piece of shit. Isn't that right, Brooks?”

  Dave gave Brooks a look as if to say he was sorry for what he was enduring.

  “I wasn't always the best husband,” said Brooks.

  “You think?” asked Dixie. “You slept with my daughter!” She was really pissed now. “My daughter, asshole!”

  Brooks felt bad, knowing he'd done a bad thing. “Do you guys talk?” asked Brooks.

  “Who?” asked Dixie.

  “You and your daughter.”

  “As a matter of fact, Brooks, yes, we do talk. But that's none of your business.”