I fought hard in that passenger seat not to swing at him at that moment. I clenched my fists, but tried to tame the beast inside. I cracked the window, hoping it would help. If I messed up now, everything would have been a waste of time.
He laughed again. “Liz is not the kind of girl that takes that shit. Came back swinging. I locked her arms up. Thought about playing the famous actress card, telling her it was Tela who I’d slept with. As if that might make some kind of difference. I never did tell her, though. Let her go and watched her walk out of my life.
“She had all her paintings taken out of my shop the next day. Ruined me. Really hurt the gallery. Hurt my reputation. I didn’t see her for a long time. Until I ran into her on King Street a couple weeks back. She still wasn’t happy with me.” He shook his head. “It really pisses me off that she’s with someone else. Soon as I find out who, I’ll kill him. Or have him killed. Seriously.” He reached for his bag of poison again.
“How’d you leave it the last time?”
“She’s done. Wouldn’t even really look me in the eyes. Doesn’t give a shit about me anymore. Fuck her, you know. Just another drop in the bucket.”
I’d never hated someone so much in my life. Not even the man who’d murdered my father. No matter what he said, though, I still needed to see her again. I had to believe she’d never really loved him. After all, I’d learned the hard way. We can all be fooled. One word: Stephanie.
I knew I’d see Liz again. But would she care?
Would Liz ever forgive me?
25
Jack’s cabin stood in the woods, about five miles from the ocean and down a half-mile long driveway. If something went wrong, I was on my own.
A huge raised deck with rocking chairs and two grills looked out over his property. Inside, deer and elk heads hung on the walls, staring back at you, and a bearskin rug covered the living room floor. After tearing into some Melvin’s barbecue sandwiches that Ronnie had brought, we cut the cocaine, mixing it with a concoction of Vitamin C powder and some local anesthetic. Then we bagged it. Powder covered the table and our clothes.
A newscaster on television spoke about a Hugoesque hurricane season, something about high temperatures and low pressure. There was already one called Henrietta working its way north.
I was sitting next to Kado. We’d worked out our problems, and I’d forgiven him. Not that I had a choice. As he weighed out an ounce, he said to Jack, “Hope you’ve got some good insurance, Riles, ‘cause between your boat and the condo, you’d lose your ass. You know we’re due for one. It’s been more than fifteen years since Hugo.”
“Bring it on. I’ve got plenty. It’s costing me, though.”
“Costing your dad,” Ronnie challenged, trying to draw a laugh.
Jack stopped what he was doing and glared at Ronnie. “Not true. The old man’s cut me off. The prick’s gonna make me wait until he dies before I see another dime.” He reached over the table to grab a baggie, and a drop of blood fell from his nose onto the powder below him.
Ronnie pointed. “Shit, Riles, you just Jap-flagged a kilo!”
He wiped his nose and looked at the blood. “It’s been happening lately.”
“That could be a sign of a problem, no? Maybe you should take a few weeks off.”
“I’m fine.” He stood and took a paper towel off the roll and cleaned himself up. He sat back down and scooped the tainted powder into the trash can, saying, “You guys need to get off my back.”
“C’mon,” Ronnie said, “don’t let that hag ride ya.” This was something Jack and his crew always said, and one of the guys back at the office had told me what it meant. Gullahs are a group of African-Americans in South Carolina that have deep African roots and a nearly Creole culture. According to Gullah legend, Boo Hags are creatures similar to vampires, but instead of sucking your blood, they suck your breath. The Gullahs call it ridin.’ Don’t let the hag ride ya. Jack and his crew had taken on the phrase and used it in their own way.
We finished our business and then sat in rocking chairs on the porch passing around a pitcher of margaritas and an elk rifle. The tin roof shielded us from the blistering sun, but I was still sweating. Kado had set up metal squares down the driveway at increments beyond 250 yards, and Jack and I put down money on who was a better shot. We were shooting his Weatherby .300 Win. Mag., something he used for big game in Africa. He had skills. We both passed 350 yards before he finally missed. With confidence, I took the gun from him and hit the target.
“You’re good,” he said to me, eyeing my damage with binoculars. Fury cooked his being.
I shucked the shell and smiled.
Jack let me stay the night in one of the guest rooms back at his condo. He left early the next morning to get some work done at his gallery, telling me I could stick around his place for a while. I couldn’t turn that down. I invited Baroni over, thinking it was an opportune time to wire the place.
While I waited, I took in the last of the sunrise from a chair on the balcony. It was the kind of vision that makes your eyes water. Downtown Charleston stood across the water and, down below, a group of thirty or forty Lasers sailed in a tight swarm near the Yorktown. A harbor pilot led a container ship under the bridge and out to sea.
Much like my love for a woman, my love for the place I live usually dwindles after a while. It had happened in D.C. and Charlottesville and Miami, but it had not happened with Charleston. I thought about all the ghosts who hid in the daylight and danced around at night, spirits who had seen their city rise and burn and rise again. People who had loved Charleston so much so that they couldn’t leave even after they died. I wondered if my great-grandfather was among them. Would I be? Though I hadn’t grown up in this city, somehow I knew I would leave my bones in the dirt there, if nothing else.
Baroni and a rook named Spock showed up in civilian clothes wearing backpacks. Spock was only a couple years out of school and had just gotten married that April with a baby on the way. He had that rookie strut in his step, the one you have for a few years before realizing that fighting the drug war isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be. He kept his blonde hair shaved short, and his ears stuck out more than usual. That’s where he got his name. Spock was the tallest guy in our office but couldn’t have weighed more than 170.
Taking off his backpack, he said, “Stay away from Baroni this morning. I wouldn’t stop at Starbucks, and he’s like a little girl when he doesn’t get his way. It’s bad enough I gotta put up with him sucking down Merits all day.”
Baroni shook his head. “You wanna get to work, rookie? Don’t forget I’m your boss. Don’t get too comfortable with that little mouth of yours.”
“What happened with Atlanta?” I interrupted.
Baroni shook his head in disgust at Spock, then said to me, “Not bad work, Reddick. Maybe your shit don’t stink.” He gave me the details on the thugs Jack and I had met. The Atlanta DEA would take it from there and see if they could climb a little further up the tree. No matter how far they got, those men would most likely be arrested the same day as Jack and Ronnie in a nationwide roundup.
They moved from the kitchen to the living room, installing the audio equipment. As they finished each mic, they would call down to an agent across the street with their Motorola push-to-talks to confirm that they were functional.
Baroni climbed onto a chair and began to put a mic in the vent over the living room. Chester’s voice came over the Motorola. “Boys, Ronnie’s on his way up. Came in the back way. He just pushed the button.”
Baroni pulled the phone off his belt and said into it, “Today’s not a good day to kid around, Chester.”
“No joke. It looks like he parked up the road. I didn’t see him.”
As Baroni put the phone back in its holster, the vent cover fell onto the hardwood floor with a clash. I grabbed it and handed it to him. He pushed it back in and began to twist one of the screws.
“Get the first one in,” I said. “That will hold it. I�
��ll finish it later. Y’all need to get in that bedroom.” I shook my head. “I can’t believe this.”
Baroni tightened the one screw and hopped off the chair. “We’re going off the balcony…into the pool. I’m not taking any risks.” He handed me the screwdriver and nails.
Spock was not into Baroni’s idea and said, “Risks? I’m not jumping off the balcony! You crazy?”
“You bet your ass we are, boy. We’re not blowing this investigation now. We can make it. I’m not gonna hide under a mattress all day.”
Chester’s voice came back over the phone. “He’s in the elevator.”
Baroni hopped off the couch and stuck a finger at Spock. “You’re jumping with me. Don’t give me any lip.”
“Somebody’s going to see us.”
“What did I just say?” Spock and I followed him out onto the balcony. No one was down there. It was a little early for the frozen drink crowd.
I had an idea. “Let me tell ‘em you are friends of mine. We can pull it off.”
“Not going to happen.” I liked how Baroni had taken control of the situation, and I decided to go with it. We had no time for arguments. Baroni dropped his backpack off the side of the balcony, and I peeked over and watched it fall four stories and hit the grass. It was a long way down. Spock dropped his on top of it. Baroni climbed over the railing. “Piece of cake.”
“You’re not going to make it,” I said, suddenly panicking. “You need to go hide under the bed.”
I think I could have made it, but Baroni was older and with that spare tire around his waist, it worried me. But Baroni wasn’t listening.
He bent his knees and pushed off the railing. I held my breath. I’m sure Spock did, too. I could barely watch. Baroni needed to make it about ten yards away from the building, or he would land right on the pool deck and break bones. He drew his legs in toward his chest and splashed into the water, clearing by a foot.
Spock climbed over and I said, “You don’t have to do this. It’s absurd.”
“If he can do it, I can do it.”
I wasn’t sure that was true. “Then get on with it. Let’s see what you got.” I saw Ronnie come around the corner. I looked back at Spock. “There he is. You gotta go.”
He looked at me; his eyes were watering. Poor guy wasn’t going to make it. He bent his legs and pushed off. Oh, God, it was going to be painful. I heard the balcony door slide open behind me and turned around. I can’t imagine what my face looked like as I said hello to Ronnie. Probably the opposite of what it would look like if I had won the lottery. I waited for Spock’s scream as he hit the deck. I didn’t hear a splash. I thought I heard a grunt and a thud.
“Where’s Jack?” Ronnie asked, stepping out onto the balcony.
“Good to see you, too. He’s working. I’m trying to get the motivation to drive back to Georgia. What you doin’?”
“I’m getting ready to run the bridge. Came by to see if he wanted to.”
“He headed into work. Can I join you?”
“That’s fine.” This guy needed to relax. I put out my hand. “Look, I’m sorry about Savannah. I really am.”
“That’s all right.” We shook. He approached the rail. I waited for him to say, “Hey, there’s a dead Vulcan splattered on the deck below,” but he didn’t say anything. I took a peek over the edge. I couldn’t believe it. No blood. No body.
Everything was under control. For now.
26
I decided to stay in Chucktown another night. When Steve called and asked how things were going, I said, “Real good. I think Ronnie’s warming up to me.”
“Good, good. I want you back in Savannah for the next few, all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
The last thing I wanted to do was drive to Georgia. Since when did I do what I was supposed to do, anyway? Steve just says stuff; he doesn’t really mean it.
A few minutes into relaxing in a chair and chasing Nirvana, my friend from Nashville called. “Reddick, Simontacchi here.” He’s the one who found me the backstage tickets. “How goes it?”
“Man, you wouldn’t believe half of it.”
“That’s what you always say.”
“It’s always true.”
“I bet. You got time for a beer?”
“Sure.” I walked to the fridge. Every few weeks, Scott Simontacchi and I drank a beer together while we spoke on the phone. An odd yet fitting ritual, one that kept our souls and songwriting spirits strumming the same rhythms. I cracked into a Sol and plopped down on the rocking chair out back. The wind that pushed through was as comforting as a woman’s arms. I lay back and let the rocker put me in a good place.
“So how’s Nashville treating you?”
“Nashvegas is treating you and me like kings. RCA bought ‘Smokin.’ ”
“What!” I popped up to my feet. Occasionally, our creative muses would lead us into the realm of writing catchy country tunes, and when we did, they weren’t half bad. I’d catch myself singing them even months later:
She left me smokin’ in the rain,
With nothin’ but my hat and boots on
Now all I feel is pain
The only one I love is long gone
That January, I had written the first couple lines of the verse and sent it to Scott by way of e-mail. He returned an MP3 with his ideas for the chords and a few more lines. We went back and forth like that for two days, and when we were done, we knew it was a special tune. That didn’t always guarantee a deal, though.
“No lie. RCA bought it. Don’t even know who is going to sing it yet.”
“Papers signed?”
“Not yet, but it’s a done deal. Trust me.” Scott went on to tell me the details. We reveled in glory for a while, and then I let him go.
A little phrase and melody popped into my head. Many miles, many women, and many moons. What did that mean? No, not a testimony to the many conquests I’ve had along the way. Sure, I’ve been accused of being a pompous ass, but it’s not really something that I’m known for.
So what did these words mean to me? Many miles, many women, and many moons. They were what it took for me to get over the women who’d broken my heart. It’s not just time that heals all wounds. It’s time and distance and women. The three components to healing. My recipe.
Many miles, many women, and many moons later,
I’m still thinking about you, baby, like it was yesterday.
Ah, my tragic love life. Though it was tragic, it fed my writing muse, and without all these mostly wonderful women in my life, my instruments would be lonely and silent pieces of wood. I went back into the living room and took my guitar off its stand. I sang a little of my tune and settled on G minor. I don’t have the range of Sting, so the old Martin has to work with my voice.
She and I worked together until the last word had been written, late into the night. The Sol had somehow turned to wine and then to rum, and the next thing I knew, the clock had nearly ticked off the wall, and I was seeing elephants. I left the Martin on the couch and made my way to bed, this little tune stuck in my head.
I took my phone and found Liz’s number. Nearly called her but somehow found enough logic to change my mind.
Songwriting is cathartic for me, but it also digs up some bad memories. They wouldn’t let me sleep.
For years after my father was murdered, I was angry. Depressed, enraged, hateful. Despite the support of my friends and family, I couldn’t see past what had happened. I couldn’t shake the memory. I became something uncontrollable. I would lose my temper—great episodes where I just snapped, whether it would be at my mother or brother or my first serious girlfriend, Julia. That was ultimately what had done us in, two high school lovebirds trying to pretend that death hadn’t destroyed our path together.
I remember the night she left me. She’d finally had enough. I was a third year at UVA and despite the rest of my life being in shambles, I was still playing some good soccer. My father, I knew, continued to watch over me. We
were in Maryland at Byrd stadium playing the Terrapins, and they had fallen behind us by one in the ACC standings; it promised to be one hell of a game. I remember Julia and my mom wrapped up in blankets in the second row of the visitor’s seats.
We were a few minutes into the second half and tied with two each. Both teams were on edge, and there was a good bit of talking, cheap shots, and jersey pulling going on. They had a corner kick and knocked the ball into the air. Our keeper, Nate, my roommate at the time, went up for it. He got his hands around the ball, but their striker clipped him in the back of the legs and flipped him upside down. Nate landed on his head and went unconscious. It was a cheap hit, and I lost it. Way beyond what I’d ever felt before.
I swung the striker into the goal post, and started pummeling him on the ground. In minutes, both teams were going at it, and then the fans joined the fray. I put one guy in the hospital. It was the last game of my life. I was kicked off the team that night.
I found Julia in the parking lot after the fight, and I remember the look of horror on her face. She told me I had something wrong with me and that it was over, and she got back in her car and drove home. She’d had enough. I’d been a selfish, insensitive bastard for way too long and that night had been the breaking point. Now, years later, we still haven’t spoken.
And now I’d lost Liz, and it was nobody’s fault but mine.
I sat up to reach for some water. That’s when I noticed the picture of Stephanie and me on my bedside table. I blinked my eyes. Was I really that drunk? I was one hundred percent sure I didn’t own a picture of the two of us.
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