But when he pulled into Perry’s driveway, his tongue flopped out, like a dog in a meat packing plant.
“Damn!” he said, admiring the colorful house.
And when Perry appeared at the front door wearing a short, red silk dress, the fluorescent glow of the porch light offering an inside view of her curvaceous figure, he started talking like Scooby Doo.
“Aarg…arrk…”
“Come on in,” Perry said.
“Arrgh!”
“Excuse me?”
“O-o-okay,” he managed.
Perry gave him the grand tour, showing him the parlor, highlighted with a grand piano. The patio. The pool. Two full bathrooms, three spare bedrooms. The master bedroom. And the two-car garage, where she insisted he sit inside a black Cadillac Escalade.
Then she led him to the dining room, where she’d laid out fine silver, several bottles of wine, a large cauldron filled with fresh salad and enough jumbo shrimp, fries and hush puppies to feed a platoon.
Perry said, “I wasn’t sure which wine you prefer, so I bought a variety.”
He picked up a bottle and read the label. “Chateau Ste. Michelle. My favorite.”
Perry watched as he ate and drank, smiling each time he looked up at her. “You like my house?” she asked.
Chewing: “It’s…it’s breathtaking.”
Perry sighed. “Yes, it is. All this, however, does not make a happy home. You see, there’s one thing I don’t have, and without it my life is meaningless, empty.”
A mouthful of jumbo shrimp, he said, “A maid?”
Perry laughed. “No, silly. A man.”
He felt embarrassed.
Damn! Chill. She’s hungry. Yeah, but hungry for what? Something about her that he couldn’t quite put a finger on. Something below the surface. An ulterior design of some sort, or was it the wine? He felt lightheaded, and horny.
While she conversed on and on in that imperious manner of hers, he mentally undressed her…undo the strap with my teeth, nibble her shoulder, neck, lips, and go for the poonanie.
Emboldened by the wine, he stood abruptly and accidentally knocked over his glass. Red wine ran down the white tablecloth, leaving a crimson streak, and dripped to the pearl-white shag carpet. He couldn’t contend with that now; he was on a mission.
He crossed to her, staggering a bit, leaned in to kiss her neck, missed, and almost fell. He played it off by kissing her arm and steadying himself. To his surprise she did not resist. He kissed his way up to her neck…her chin…her lips…She allowed him there, though he couldn’t sense a longing on her part; no heat whatsoever. This struck him as odd. Maybe she needed more priming. He kissed his way back down; at the shoulder he bit the silk strap and tried to pull it loose. No go.
If she hadn’t tied it in a knot…
Perry sighed and pushed him back. “Let’s go into the parlor.”
He followed her. Perry sat down on a black leather couch, her expression blank, hands on her lap, as if she were waiting for a sermon to begin.
Unfazed by her demeanor, he immediately resumed biting on the strap. He bit and pulled, pulled and bit, not thinking to simply undo the knot with his hands.
Finally he gave up and went straight for her breast.
“Uh-uh,” Perry protested.
“I want you.” He tried to think of something witty or romantic to say, but nothing came to mind. “I want you,” he repeated.
“Wait,” she said, pushing him away. She stood and pressed the wet, wrinkled spot on her dress. “Let me change into something more comfortable. Please.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
When she left, he pulled out his wallet and extracted a condom, an old one but it would have to do. He kissed it and put it in his front pocket, for easy access.
He sensed someone watching, turned and saw her standing in the doorway in a red bathrobe, untied, wide open. Perry just stood there, posing, allowing him to feast his eyes on her body. He focused on one area: her pubic hair, dyed. Red? Or bronze? He couldn’t tell.
His erection told him to get up and do something. He stepped to her, almost in a run, and hugged her.
“Arrrgh,” unable to speak again.
“Excuse me?”
“I want you!”
“I know.”
Hungrily, he nibbled her neck. “I want you!” he panted, backing her against the wall, his hand groping for the dyed area between her legs. “I want you so much!”
Once his hand was there, she screamed, “Noooooo!”
He immediately released her and stepped back. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s too soon. We just met.”
Huh? Why the hell did you go get naked?
Reading his mind she said, “It’s the wine. I’m sorry, it’s too soon.” She closed the robe and double-knotted the sash. “Way too soon!”
“No problem. No problem at all.” Only my nuts are going to swell up like grapefruits and explode. “It’s no big deal, really.”
“Maybe we should try this again. Without the wine next time. A real date.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Next time I’ll know to slam my nuts in a door before coming over.
At the door she kissed him, a quick peck on the cheek. “Call me tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” he said flatly.
She waved bye-bye. He didn’t; he had something calling his name, something he couldn’t put off much longer. Thirty minutes later, inside his pad, he rifled through an old suitcase, where he just knew he’d seen a small jar of Vaseline. Finding no lubricant whatsoever, he opened a small can of Crisco and relieved himself.
* * * * *
Perry closed the door and locked it. She sat down, smiling. He took the bait, bit into it hard and fast. Set the drag and let him run with the line a bit, let him tucker himself out, get all tired and frustrated. Give him a little jerk, just enough to set the hook, and then reel him in. And then…She grinned, chuckled, and moments later she was on the floor, laughing hysterically.
Chapter 13
Tasha was preparing sack lunches when her cell phone rang. She recognized the number. Craps! It’s my day off!
“We got one,” Bob said.
“Craps, Bob! Derrick and I were just on our way out to the park.”
“Sorry, kiddo. Grant and Steve went upstate to serve a warrant, we got bumped up in rotation.”
Tasha groaned. “Where?”
“Valmar, eighteen hundred block. In the alley.”
“I’ll meet you there in fifteen, twenty minutes.”
Derrick didn’t appear upset when she broke the news. “Guess I’ll hafta go over to Daddy’s,” was all he said.
“I’m sorry, Derrick. I was looking forward to us spending the day together.”
Derrick picked up both sacks and headed for the door.
“Why are you taking two sacks?”
“Daddy might want one.”
* * * * *
It depressed Tasha going to Neal’s place, as he called it, a garage located in the back of his aunt’s Mabel’s house. She steered her car into the rear of the driveway and tapped the horn.
After a few minutes she said, “Come on, Derrick. I’m in a hurry.”
At the aluminum garage door, Tasha banged on it with her fist. “Neal? Neal?”
The door creaked, slid open slowly. Sunlight rushed inside, illuminating an old dresser, a space heater that doubled as a cook stove; an antique stool, a small black-and-white television and a single mattress on the floor, upon which lay Neal, a pink sheet wrapped around his feet.
“What time is it?” he said.
“Put your clothes on!” Tasha said.
Neal pulled the sheet up. “You’re in my place now. Take the bass out your voice.”
Near the mattress was a small can of Crisco, opened, without a plastic lid. Tasha picked it up, grimaced, and threw it at Neal. He ducked.
“The hell wrong with you?” he shouted.
“You’re disgusting!”
“And
you’re in my place. Whatever goes on here is my business. If you don’t like it…” He stopped, noticing Derrick.
Tasha said, “Neal, you can pretend decency regarding your son.”
“I didn’t know y’all were coming. You should call first.”
“You don’t have a phone, Neal.”
“Call Auntie, she relays all my phone messages.”
“Whatever. I’m gone.”
“Wait,” getting up and wrapping the sheet around himself toga-style.
“I haven’t the time, Neal.”
“Derrick,” Neal said, “go see what Auntie is cooking for breakfast.”
Derrick said, “Okay, Daddy,” and disappeared.
“What is it, Neal?” Tasha said, exasperated.
Neal started to speak, stopped.
“What?” Tasha said.
“Maybe I should talk to someone else.”
“Maybe you should.” Louder: “A therapist!”
“I wanted to ask you about…about…”
“Write it down. Okay?” going to her car. “I’ll read it when I get back.”
An hour after talking to Bob, Tasha parked her Honda at the intersection of Seventeenth and Valmar and walked down the alley to the crime scene.
A small area in the middle of the alley was cordoned off by yellow tape, a cluster of onlookers beyond it, gawking and squawking.
Six uniforms stood near a cruiser parked in a backyard, holding a rap session. Tasha mingled in the mix for a minute, then, after hearing nothing useful, ducked underneath the tape.
“Not good,” Bob said as soon as he saw her.
“How’s that?” Tasha said, staring at the victim, on his back, his chest pulverized. Shotgun.
“No ID. No witness. No weapon,” Bob said. “Just this guy here and he hasn’t said a word.”
“You’re spoiled. Who found him?”
“Two kids. The smart one claims he has Ben Matlock on retainer.”
Tasha knelt to view the victim, and felt the onset of a headache.
He looked thirty to thirty-five. Emaciated; red boxers above too large baggy jeans almost below his knees. Blue tennis shoes. Shreds of a bloody wife-beater T-shirt covered what was once his pectoralis major.
His face exhibited shock--mouth and eyes agape--and the look of substance abuse--sunk-in cheeks, oily skin and missing teeth.
Tasha noticed dual tears in his jeans, both disappearing underneath his right thigh. “What’s this?” pointing with a pen.
“What?” Bob said.
“Y’all wrong!” yelled a heavyset woman in the crowd. On her hip sat a toddler attired only in a diaper. Tasha considered the woman briefly and returned her attention to the victim.
“Bob, we need to flip him.”
“LRPD ain’t shit!” the woman yelled. “Y’all could at least cover him up. He ain’t no damn dog! If he was white y’all wouldn’t treat him like that!”
Tasha stood and started toward the woman. “You can at least take that baby home and put some clothes on him.” A few feet closer: “And change his diaper.”
“I know she didn’t!” someone said.
“Oh, yes I did!”
“She’s not a he,” the woman said, switching the infant to her opposite hip. “She’s a she!”
“Excuse me,” Tasha said. Within inches of the woman’s face: “Take her home, give her a bath and change her diaper!”
“Fuck you!” the woman said, and sulked off, patting her expansive behind, the toddler staring curiously at Tasha over the woman’s shoulder.
“And comb her hair!” Tasha called after her. Several of the onlookers glared at Tasha. “Any other unsolicited suggestions?” she asked.
No one spoke.
“Well then, let us do our jobs.” She went back to Bob. “You ready to flip him?”
Bob shot an uneasy glance at the onlookers. “Yup.” He pulled out two pairs of latex gloves and handed a pair to Tasha. “I’m ready.”
They turned the body over. The onlookers groaned in unison.
“Hey!” Tasha shouted at the uniforms. “If you guys don’t mind, could we disperse these people!”
The officers moved quickly, urging the onlookers to move along.
“He ripped his pants,” Bob said.
“Pre-mortem?”
“Yes. Look here.” He pointed at two deep lacerations in the gluteus minimus.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Tasha said.
Bob nodded. “He jumped a fence.”
“Why don’t I canvass the neighborhood?”
Bob tossed her a walkie-talkie. “Call me.”
Walking slowly down the alley, Tasha scrutinized every fence. The alley ended at Brown Street. She crossed the street and perused the fences east of Valmar. Four houses down she discovered a bloody patch below a chain-link fence. The top rung also bloody.
“Bingo!”
After much contemplation, Tasha, wearing a white Polo shirt, jeans and loafers, climbed the fence. At the top she hesitated, looking for a dog or any sign of a dog: doghouse, dog chain, dog doo doo.
This is crap, Tasha thought. Call for backup and go round front. I’m up here now. If Christy Love can do it, then I can do it. She jumped down, her eyes and ears hyper alert.
She walked through tall grass to the rear of the house. Beer cans, disposable diapers, and several rusty auto parts littered the yard, but--thank goodness!--no dog. The dilapidated house, missing several yellow aluminum siding planks, looked deserted.
Tasha ascended the stairs leading to the back door, the rotted wood creaking with each step. Halfway up she could see through the screen door that the back door was open. Blood droplets spotted the top three steps. A flathead screwdriver lay on the landing.
“Police!” Tasha announced.
No response.
She said it again, louder. She opened the screen door. “Police!” Her heart thumped in her eardrums. Can’t turn back now. The lock on the back door had been gutted. She stepped inside. “Police!” Hearing trepidation in her voice, she shouted again, adding more punch: “Police!”
She saw only the shotgun; her mind blocked out the elderly man in the wheelchair holding it.
“Freeze, butthead!” instinctively reaching for a weapon, forgetting she’d stopped carrying one two years ago.
“Put the gun down!” aiming the walkie-talkie. “Now!”
The man didn’t move. He just sat there, staring at nothing, his wrinkled face void of emotion, belying the fact that a double-barrel shotgun rested in his lap.
He’s dead.
She relieved him of the shotgun. “You won’t be needing this.” He blinked. “What? Sir, are you all right?” He blinked again. Stroke. “Sir, you’re going to be all right. Okay? Just hold on.” She keyed up the walkie-talkie. “Bob?”
“What’s up, Tash?”
“Bob, looks like I’ve found the perp. An elderly guy, in a wheelchair…looks like he’s had a stroke. Better send up EMT, pronto.”
“Okay. Where are you?”
“Yellow house…about nine houses east of you. We’re in the back, the kitchen area.”
“Okay, I’ll call up the troops.”
Tasha signed off.
A roach crawled across a small kitchen table, and Tasha noticed the squalor of the man’s living quarters. The kitchen appliances were ancient and filthy.
“It’s rough living alone, isn’t it?” Tasha asked, not expecting an answer.
His attention seemed fixed on something behind her. Tasha followed his gaze. The wall left of the door peppered with pellets. Not good.
“He never set foot inside, did he? The second he opened the door you popped him, didn’t you?”
The man blinked.
“The prosecutor might make a fuss of that.” Shaking her head: “Craps!” She stepped outside, picked up the screwdriver by the tip, brought it inside and dropped it on the floor. She could hear sirens now.
“Look here,” kneeling, staring into th
e man’s brown, rheumy eyes. “You tell, and it’s both our butts, do you understand?”
To Tasha’s astonishment, he blinked twice…and the right side of his mouth trembled into a smile.
Chapter 14
Neal was surprised when the black Mercedes drove into his aunt’s driveway.
How she know where I live?
Perry, crying hysterically, jumped out, ran to him and buried her head in his chest.
“What’s wrong?” Neal asked, wondering where was Derrick, hoping he was eating with Auntie, or watching TV, or sleeping, or doing anything except looking out the window and seeing him holding a woman not his mother.
“I’m scared!” Perry sobbed.
“Scared? Scared of what?”
Perry stopped crying. “This creep keeps calling me, breathing in the phone. Soon as you left he called and said he was coming to hurt me.” Sobbing again: “I’m scared, Neal!”
“Let’s go inside,” Neal said. Perry started toward the main house. “This way,” heading for the garage.
He hadn’t planned showing her his place anytime soon, if ever, but he didn’t want Derrick to see her and him intimate. He led her inside the garage, pulled the door down and locked it.
“Excuse the place,” he said, pulling on a shoestring connected to the lone light bulb. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
“No problem. You’re a bachelor. I understand.”
Neal started straightening up, leaning the mattress against the wall and picking up trash, including the Crisco can. He considered making a move toward the lone window where an extension cord snaked inside, but figured it would be too obvious.
Neal caught her looking at the cord. “Power outages,” he said.
Perry buried her face in her hands. “I need a gun. For protection. I don’t feel safe. Oh God, Neal, I’m so scared! Do you know where I can get one?”
“You might be overreacting, don’t you think? Why not call the police? A gun? You might accidentally shoot yourself.”
She dropped her hands. “The police show up when everything is over, when someone is hurt…or dead.”
“You got caller ID, don’t you?”
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