Sonny twisted open a miniature bottle of some panther-piss vodka. He poured it into a tall glass. George didn’t pay for premium. Why waste money on advertising? Sonny passed George a vodka and tonic. No fruit.
“It’s my business, George.” Sonny turned and headed to the other end of the bar. It was a big bar, too, the size of a football field. George turned his attention to the stage. He sure didn’t want to stare at Sonny’s big ass. He saw enough of that at home.
Edna…
Linda was performing at the moment. All the girls working the place were stacked. George whistled. He gave a holler. He wanted to let the girls know he was here. That he was coming. He’d bet one of his monthly social security checks that every last one of ‘em could go to New York City and dance on Broadway if they wanted to. If the right person were to come in and discover them. He took a slurp of his drink. The tonic tickled the straggly hairs in his nose. Sonny poured a good, strong one. That was important to George. It took the edge off.
“Hi, Georgie.” Sandra passed by. She brushed his crotch. She was wearing a pink thong that slid all the way up her naked ass.
“Whoa’ down there horsey.” He gave her a flick with his finger. Sometimes the girls got a bit too forward. George didn’t like that. He wanted to be the one in charge. In control. Let Georgie make the decisions for a change. At least for tonight. “All right, Sandra?” She paid him no mind. She went right on about her business, stopping every so often at a table to deposit a beer or sit on somebody’s lap.
George called out for Sonny and asked for some change. Leaving a fifty cent tip on the bar, George hightailed it toward the runway. “Thanks, Sonny.” He threw the change into an empty champagne bucket. It jingled a lonely death as George moved to his favorite spot, right up close to the stage. All the girls knew George, knew he was a good tipper. “Preferred customer,” they called him. They all possessed a sixth sense about those who carried the cash, the money, the green.
Linda was moving like water. Not one ripple of fat on her. So smooth the way she undulated in and out. Sweet motion. He took out a single bill and folded it neatly in half. Linda got a whiff. She played all seductive in front of him, pursing her lips, touching her pussy, rubbing her nipples. George’s pecker went petrified. Glad to know it still existed. No shit! Linda bent over backwards for that blasted one dollar bill. George passed her an extra buck for that move. She took the bill
and stuck it in her lacy garter, way up high on the inside of her leg. That beautiful tan thigh. Then, she pivoted on spiked heels and took off after another sniff of green.
George checked out the competition. Some jerk started smoking next to him. George hated smoke, the smell of it, the stench, the way it stunk up his clothes. He picked up his drink and ambled back to the bar. He could have one more cocktail. That was his limit. It was bad enough he had to brush his teeth, spray Chloraseptic into his mouth and eat a pack of Tic-Tacs before picking up the beloved Edna. It was worth it. George hid it under the front seat of the car. In all the years Edna and he had been married, Edna had not once caught on. Not once. Can you believe it?
By the time George reached the bar, Sonny had already poured him another. They exchanged a few more pleasantries. George passed over his empty glass, and this time, handed Sonny a dollar tip. Sonny smiled. Everybody here worked for the green. The booze was rushing fast to his head. He was feeling a little hot, so he loosened up his collar. He spotted Sandra making her way toward him. Now, he was ready.
“Ready, Freddie?”
Sandra knew his name was George. She slayed him the way she called him that, all cutesy and all. As always, he followed her. She walked down a tiny, dim hallway to the back of the Club. It got darker as they progressed. George took off his glasses. No night blindness here! He tagged along down some stairs, all the while watching Sandra’s ass shimmy. She had long red hair that fell down over her shoulders, all the way to her tiny butt. And for some damn reason, she always wore pink. Pink everything. Always. Never had George ever seen Sandra dressed in any other color. Pink, pink, pink.
Personally, George’s favorite color was blue.
Sandra opened a door. Inside was another entrance with a sign that read: DO NOT ENTER.
They entered into a cramped room with a single bed made up in cheap white sheets. A wooden bedside table sat next to it. It reminded George of Okinawa. When he was in the Army. The only light came from a red globe floating around in a lava lamp. It oozed up and down as George sat on the cot. The mattress squeaked with his weight. He knew the sounds of this bed. He’d memorized the sounds of Sandra.
She pulled a tiny embroidered square cushion out from under the mattress and positioned it between George’s legs. His woody was begging for a little “Sandra attention” about now. Unbuckling his belt she pulled at his zipper exposing George’s boxer shorts.
“I like your undies, Freddie,” she whimpered.
That was George’s cue. He leaned back. He watched the fan move in slow motion on the ceiling. He felt the warmth of Sandra’s mouth. He swallowed hard and stretched his arms back as far as they could go.
Oh, Dear Lord, forgive me my trespasses, as I forgive those…
“Relax, Georgie. You know I love giving you head.”
He fingered her soft hair. Thousands upon thousands of baby fine threads flowed down her naked back. Sweet, sweet movement. She shifted her mouth and allowed her hands to move in tandem, up and down. George got a little embarrassed. He’d like to think his pecker was hung as good as the next guy, but honestly, it wasn’t. Sandra made him feel like it was though. She sure must have one hell of an incredible imagination. That’s all George could think. Sometimes, George fell in love with Sandra. Really. And often, more times than he cared to admit, he fantasized Sandra actually fell in love with him.
“Good boy, Georgie.” She gurgled.
She felt George stiffen. Sandra knew the rules. She’d somehow created them.
Edna would never do this. Never. Never, never, never. Not in a million years! Edna didn’t do much of anything these days. She complained a lot about her weight. Daily. How she was gonna go on another diet. Hourly. How she needed to lose weight. She just never let up. How she wanted to get back into one of those old dresses hanging in the closet like dead memories. That wasn’t ever gonna happen. Ever.
What about me? George asked.
“I don’t worry about you, George.” That’s all she would say. What the heck was that supposed to mean?
George came. A wave of built up frustration released as Sandra swallowed. George didn’t quite believe it himself, but for as long as he’d been coming here (no pun intended), Sandra always finished the exact same way. Every damn time. Somehow, George felt safe with Sandra.
Afterwards, she would always say, “Yummy, Georgie. You’re better than a facial.”
Whatever that meant.
George would chuckle, pass her a twenty, usually with a five dollar tip. Sandra would slowly stand up, push the cushion back under the bed with her toe, and hurry to the door. Before leaving, she’d turn around and give that little girl smile, the one George loved so much.
“See ya next week, Sugar.”
Then, she’d quietly slip out the door.
George listened to the silence for a second. The groan of the bed. The whirl of the fan moving overhead. It brought him back, crashing to the floor like broken glass. Reality. Suddenly, there was Edna. Only Edna. Edna waiting outside the church. Edna standing next to the palm trees on Meeting Street. Edna eating an ice cream cone because he wasn’t there on time. Blaming everything on George. Edna saying to George in that “Edna” way, “Have a good time, George.”
George pulled up his pants, buckled his belt and left. Quietly.
He stumbled, sex-drunk and light headed through the narrow corridor, back up the stairs and into the smoke-filled, pink neon-lit room.
Yeah, I guess I did, Edna. I had a real nice time.
“See ya’ next week, George.” Sonn
y waved goodbye.
A lot of really nice people worked here. George smiled back. “You too, Sonny. You’ve got one hell of a memory.”
George had to be honest with himself. Each time he left “Silk Stockings” he felt a sense of loss, some loneliness. Like a big black cloud pissed on him or something. He didn’t quite understand why he felt that way, he just did. He thought it might have something to do with his life. The way things were right now. The way things had turned out for him. And Edna. For a few minutes inside, George got a chance to escape. Pretend. Be somebody else. Somebody different. Then George wondered, what’s so bad about your life? He could certainly have it a hell of a lot worse.
He opened the car door and retrieved his oral douche kit from under the seat. He went about the routine of cleaning and spraying and disinfecting his mouth. There. All better. He smiled at himself in the mirror. He put his glasses on, turned over the ignition and, before he knew it he was headed back to Meeting Street. Back to Charleston. Back to Edna.
As George was driving on Old Towne Road, all those sour thoughts swimming around in his head like pregnant tadpoles, he wasn’t really paying much attention to the fact it was pitch black out. The road in front of him was looking more like a long piece of spent charcoal than a lit up landing strip. A speeding car approached from behind without warning, right up on his ass, nearly blinding him. “Son of a bitch!” George honked his horn several times until the asshole swerved fast around him. George’s heart was racing. His thoughts were jumpy. He readjusted his glasses on his nose. He squinted into the windshield to get a notion of where the road was turning when he saw it.
On either side of him were large trees. Plantation oaks, Edna called them. He didn’t care what the hell they were called, the mere presence of them was making him nervous. Spanish moss dripped like cobwebs from their branches. It reminded George of witch’s fingers. Being out here, right now, was downright spooky. Gave him the creeps. All those darting shadows were beginning to play tricks with his head. He pulled off to the side of the road. There wasn’t much of a shoulder. The car sat parked on top of high grass and low growing weeds. A choir of crickets and frogs serenaded him out the window. Swamps were out there. He must have taken a wrong turn. “Dammit!” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked in the rearview mirror. Nothing. Just complete and utter blackness. Was it his imagination or was he feeling more drunk than usual tonight? Maybe it was his medications. He would have a talk with his doctor. Maybe he should just turn his ass around and call Edna from that gas station a ways back. Edna kept tabs on their only cell phone. There was a gas station wasn’t there? Yeah, right. What would he say to her? What would he tell her? Edna, honey, listen, I’m running a bit late…
Shit!
Then George caught sight of it again. The first time he tried to ignore it. But he couldn’t this time. A white thing kept darting in and out from behind the tree line. What in Sam hill? He tried to focus, cussing at his night blindness, straining to see more clearly. He wasn’t usually frightened, but this was making the hairs on the back of his neck sing “Dixie.” For a second, George thought it might be one of those alien abductions. Edna and him had watched repeats of that show every once and a while. What was it called? Strange Planet. He glanced at the blue-black sky. Stars and constellations and even more stars and constellations. From grade school, he located the Big Dipper.
He put his attention back to the woods. Pure black. He must have been seeing things. He wiped the sweat from off his forehead with a handkerchief. Thank you, Lord. Out there in the murky distance, the only thing he saw now were miles and miles of trees. And his overactive imagination. Then, it reappeared. Again. Like Tinker Bell from Disney. Instead of it flitting around, this sprite, or whatever the hell it was, would just fall down, only to get right back up and fall right back down again.
“Jesus, mother of God!” George screamed into the windshield, his face pressed into the glass. “It’s a person. Holy fuck. Somebody’s in trouble.”
He scrambled to grab the emergency flashlight from under the seat. In the process he upset his toothbrush and Thursday night paraphernalia kit. “Shit. Piss. Damn.”
He opened the car door, knelt down on the gravel road and rummaged through the under guts of the seat. There. Finally. He grabbed the flashlight, checked to make sure it was working and took off. He leaped over the ditch, filled with muddy water and briar weeds. He left the car door wide open. With the inside light on, he’d be able to find his way back.
George had never been one of those sporting kind of guys, but tonight, he did some mighty fancy footwork. He ran like a motherfucker until his sides ached and his heart was pounding. A cool mist had settled over the field. His boots were wet and soggy and heavy. George felt invigorated. Like he did during tactical maneuvers. When he was young and fit and back in the Army. When he had a job. A purpose. A mission. Something other than driving Edna around to a different restaurant every damn night.
The light from his flashlight cut through the low-hanging trees like a hacksaw. It poked and prodded at the black curtain of forest. He didn’t care. He wasn’t scared. He continued running, moving in the direction of that fallen white thing.
It was down when he got there, like a deer or a wounded animal. It was hard to tell if it was a boy or a girl until he flashed the light on it. Tiny little toes had red nail polish on them. She wore a bathrobe. Not terrycloth like a towel, but white, cottony and long. It covered most of her body. The bottom half, down by her feet, was purple-red in color. The moonlight overhead made it appear crimson. Like a rainbow. He turned and vomited. He excused himself, wiped off his mouth with his sleeve and bent over her. He touched her shoulder and waited for a response. Nothing. He turned her over. He wiped the mud from off her face. Lord, there was an emptiness there. A horrible, horrible emptiness. He shone his light into her eyes. Nothing. He remembered from the military to check to see if the pupils got bigger, or smaller. Dilated. But, they didn’t. Oh, God, give him strength. Her hair was hanging down over her face and shoulders, a tangled, sweaty mess. He could barely make out the face. He pushed her hair back. It was a girl all right, a young one too, no older than twelve, thirteen tops. What should he do? He felt for a pulse. He put his head down close to her chest and listened for breathing. She was, but just barely. Her pulse was weak, a fragile thread, sprinting at a hummingbird’s frantic pace. He needed to get this girl to a hospital, lickity split. He picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. She was light, not even a hundred pounds. He started running. He could feel the jolt of adrenaline kick his ass as he headed back toward the car. He could barely see the glow from the inside light. Thank God, he left it on.
Edna would be waiting. Edna was waiting. What was he to do about Edna? He fought his way across the field through the tall grass. Briars stuck to his pants, his ankles. They stabbed at his skin. He could smell blood. And stale urine. He wanted to throw up again. But he kept running, trying not to think about it. How would he feel if this was his baby girl?
When he arrived back to his car, he would drive like a banshee to the nearest hospital in Charleston. With or without his damn night blindness. He would deliver this little girl close to where Edna was. He would tell the doctors exactly what happened. Every last detail. Everything. How he found this poor girl in a field off Old Towne Road. He would explain it all. He would. He would tell them he was on his way back from…
Oh, hell…
Almost everything.
June 14, 2007
11:32 PM
Medical University of South Carolina
Charleston, South Carolina
3
Sleep had value.
Enormous, immense, larger-than-life value. And, as Chief Surgical Resident at one of the largest medical facilities in the south, to Dr. Sydia Garrison, sleep took on greater importance than money. Prestige. Even though she hated admitting it, food. Definitely sex. In fact, sex was something she hardly ever thought about any longer.
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Ah, yes, the benefits of sleep.
She had often wondered why she specialized in surgery. How did a young, tender, idealistic mind like hers accept the terms and conditions of such a time-consuming, not to mention, grueling profession? And the answer that came back to her was always the same. Because “they” said, she couldn’t do it. It didn’t have anything to do with her being a black female, although she had to admit, in some instances, it had helped. When she applied to medical school, minorities were “in.” Affirmative action. She was the shimmering example of what an African American woman could do with direction, unwavering focus, and let’s not forget, cash. Hey, use what you got. Right?
Everybody told her it would be rough. She figured, “it couldn’t be that bad.” After all, she was a survivor. She’d beat the odds most of her life. And won. Besides, she tended to believe most people exaggerated anyway. Well, she would be the first one to enlighten anybody about the wonderful world of medicine. It was that bad.
So many crucial, critical life and death decisions depended on the coherency of a walking, talking, and breathing coffee urn dressed up in a white lab coat. Fortunately, she made assessments quickly and efficiently. Decaf need not apply. She gave credit where credit was due. The six packs of sugar she habitually poured into the bitter brew percolating morning, noon and night on each of the floor’s ward kitchens, helped out immensely. She honestly believed Starbucks should franchise in hospitals. They would make a bloody fortune on residents, interns and medical students alone. Marathon days like today, running late into the night and continuing well after morning rounds tomorrow, felt more like sleepwalking than practicing her profession. Only those never ending cups of java and the consistent hum of the elevator, which she’d designated as her own personal lullaby, helped save her.
Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1) Page 2