Catching Water in a Net

by J. L. Abramo

  Jamal meant well and had no more knowledge of equity than he had of nuclear fission. He looked as if he might ask until the weight of Abernathy’s and Rodney’s eyes pushed him back into himself. Lewis patted the younger man on the thigh.

  “Rodney,” Love said. “Speak up, son. What do you say?”

  Rodney Simpson didn’t need to be asked twice to express an opinion. “I don’t know ’bout y’all, Rodney going down with the ship. I’m here till the end, the very end. People wants to run—” made no effort to disguise the contempt in his look at Jamal—“they can go. I’m staying. Don’t make no difference to me.”

  “We all respect you willing to stand your ground, son,” Lewis said. “You got to realize some of us have a lot more at stake than you do. You a young man. No offense, but the most you can lose is some time. A man your age got plenty of that. Dr. Love here, he got a whole church to worry about. People depend on him. There’s only so much of a loss he can afford to take.”

  “Maybe he ain’t weak as some people.” Rodney stole a glance at Abernathy, who ignored him. “Rodney all in. I’ll carry it for all y’all, it come to it.”

  “Son, you got no call to talk to me like that,” Lewis said.

  “He’s right, Rodney,” Love said. “Those are hurtful words. I know you don’t feel that in your heart. It’s your grief talking, your grandma gone only a few weeks. We all know how close you were. You might need a little more time.”

  “No, Rev—Dr. Love. I’m cool. I’m—I’m shouldn’t a spoke to Mr. Lewis that way. It ain’t right. I’m sorry, Deacon.”

  Love nodded, looked to Lewis. “Apology accepted, son,” Lewis said. “I know she was all you had. I feel for you.”

  Love nodded with a half-smile. “Amen to both of you. Brother Sylvester worked harder than anyone on this, even me. If I was to be honest with myself—and I try to be—I have too many irons in the fire. Brother Cassius been doing his best to raise the money, but raising money is my job. It’s his job to manage what I bring in. It’s me not carrying my weight here.

  “I owe people in this room. All of you. And I give you my word—today—things will change. Brother Sylvester, do what you can to keep work moving. Tell those we owe their time is coming, and we’ll remember those who did us a service when we needed it. Brother Cassius, do what you can to spread what money we have a little thinner. Take half of my salary.” Lewis and Jamal rose to protest. “No, it’s what’s right. My name in the papers, people talking about ‘Christian Love’s Resurrection Mall.’ Well, the bad’s on me, too. I’ll tell Miss Eleanor to clear my schedule the rest of the week so I can get off my righteous ass and shake the tree. For everybody.”

  4.

  Rodney Simpson had no interest in the Rev’s position relative to his righteous ass; all Rodney cared about was making some money.

  His Grandma sent him for the job at Resurrection Mall. Raised him since his mother split one day while Rodney was at school. Never asked nothing from him till this. Saw it as more than a job. A chance to get him on the right track, work with people who knew the meaning of both work and God. Teach him to be a man while keeping him away from the friends she thought of as “aphids on a pea plant.”

  Rodney knew the road to improvement was paved with education; that didn’t mean school. The best education—to Rodney “best” and “most practical” were the same—came from people who did what you wanted to do. What benefit to him who wrote some fucking book or fought a battle a hundred-fifty years ago? His friends knew how to make money. A scam here, shoplifting there, all cool so long as they were juveniles. Rodney older now, time to step up, and the drug business owned the only ladder in town.

  Drugs were a sucker’s game. The hoppers on the bottom took all the risks. Those what made real money never touched the drugs. That was the level Rodney wanted to occupy, but they had this whole working your way through the ranks thing, might as well make you join a fucking union. Plus, drug boys caught more beatings than Rodney cared for—more than none—and the occasional bullet. Not part of Rodney’s plan at all.

  Hands stuffed way down inside his coat pocket when he stepped out. Gloves at home someplace; no idea where. Still living in the little house where Grandma’s landlord let him crib as a courtesy, give the boy time to find something for himself. What she bought the insurance policy for: a start when she was gone. The few dollars she’d put aside with the church every week got her buried. The ten grand was Rodney’s future.

  Walked to Eazor’s Deli, wind in his face, fingers freezing even in the coat pockets. Could have eaten in the Res Mall food court with everyone else. No good way there to avoid that little bitch Jamal, sure to be running his mouth about what the Rev said, the changes coming. Rodney didn’t need to talk; he needed to think. No way a man could do both at once. Listen and think, sure. What could he learn listening to a Gump like Jamal?

  Ate his meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and corn alone. Eazor’s didn’t serve okra, what he liked best with Grandma’s meatloaf. Asked once and the white man behind the counter stared like he’d asked for sheep dick or some other exotic shit. Eazor’s meatloaf was good for a restaurant. Fake mashed potatoes better than most, not as good as real; the gravy almost made up for it. Corn no substitute for okra. Never would be.

  Picked out Cassius Abernathy as the man to hang with right away. Maneuvered around Jamal so Rodney got to work with Abernathy instead of Lewis, the Rev’s original plan. Rodney recognized a man who knew what he wanted and how to get it without breaking any specific laws Rodney could see. Grandma sent him here for his own good, and to do good; no reason he couldn’t do well at the same time.

  Abernathy scared Rodney a little, not that he’d tell anyone. Why he kept his distance, watching, noticing anytime money changed hands it moved in Abernathy’s direction. Contractors, tradesmen, roach coach vendors who came around before the food court opened. You did business with or at Res Mall, Cassius Abernathy got paid.

  Rodney saw his niche there, laying in the cut. Not taking so much anyone would notice. Spread the sources around, a nickel here and a dime there and pretty soon you’re talking folding money. Abernathy had it going on the way Rodney imagined it would work.

  Rodney’s problem, he got there late. Abernathy’s operation already set up. Every day a lesson on how to maintain. Rodney still had to learn the start-up end. Opportunities would present when the needs of the mall changed as things progressed. The new sprinklers, for example. Different contractor needed for that work. Someone new for Abernathy to touch. Rodney would be ready, watching.

  Piss Rodney off if Res Mall went tits up and left him with nothing except this minimum-wage-plus-a-quarter punk-ass job to put on his resume, like he’d ever need a resume, the things he wanted to do. Res Mall his ticket out of this shithole town, and that shithole little house he’d have to leave soon, anyway. The mall had to hold together for him to learn his craft. Learn it quicker if he could get Abernathy to bring him in as a partner—no matter how junior—if Rodney ever got up the balls to ask.

  Rodney Simpson needed Resurrection Mall. Resurrection Mall needed money. Rodney Simpson had money. His ten thousand, thrown into the general fund, would disappear like sugar in ice tea. Might be he could use it some way to show Abernathy some skills; thinking outside the box and shit. Could be a man with the vision of Cassius Abernathy had use for a man with the skills of Rodney Simpson, once he’d seen those skills first hand.

  Click here to learn more about Resurrection Mall by Dana King.

  Back to TOC

  Here is a preview from the second Tommy & Shayna crime caper, Crossed Bones by S.W. Lauden…

  ADRIFT

  It was a rundown, two-story clapboard house several miles off the guidebook maps. Empty kegs were stacked three-high on either side of the screen door like dented tin soldiers. A mangy dog slept on a shabby couch under the cracked window out front. It definitely wasn’t the kind of place tourists would ever visit—unless they were lost or unlucky. Shayna Billup
s was feeling a little of both these days.

  She threw her red convertible into park and pushed the car door open, swinging her long legs out into the street. It felt good to stand up after so many hours on the road. She stretched and yawned, shifting the hem of her tight skirt back down with a practiced wiggle.

  The cracked wooden porch wobbled under her high heels, like an uneven pile of firewood. Zydeco music wafted out of the bar to greet her, along with the smell of fried shrimp and stale beer. The Keel Hall might pass for quaint if it didn’t look like it was about to collapse. She was reaching for the door when somebody racked the slide on a shotgun behind her.

  “I wouldn’t go in there if I was you.”

  His voice was slow and deep. Shayna brought her hands up, calmly turning around.

  He had menacing eyes and spiky blond hair that glistened in the afternoon sun. His tattooed arms were bursting from the sleeves of his too-tight T-shirt. It took Shayna a beat to realize that there were also two women, one on either side of him. They both wore too much make-up and ear-to-ear smiles. It was obvious to Shayna that running a bar in New Orleans had taken a nasty toll on her high school friends.

  The man brought his gun down, flashing a mischievous grin.

  “These two put me up to it, I swear.”

  Shayna lowered her hands, bringing one to rest on a strategically cocked hip.

  “I almost had a heart attack, you asshole.”

  His eyes traced her curves, from her high heels to her pouting lips. He looked like a rescue dog setting eyes on its first steak.

  “You passing through or planning to stay a while, sugar?”

  “Well,” Shayna said, twisting her blonde hair with an index finger. “That all depends…”

  The man took a step forward, as if in a trance. The woman standing on his left smacked him hard across the head, snapping him out of it. He spun around to give her a piece of his mind and caught an open hand across the cheek.

  He gave Shayna one more glance and wandered around the side of the building shaking his head, the shotgun on his shoulder. The two women rushed up onto the porch. Georgia had been the head cheerleader back in high school, but looked more like a linebacker now. She was tall and thick, with broad shoulders and wide hips. Her greasy, yellow hair was the color of stale French fries. She threw an arm around Shayna, squeezing the air right out of her.

  Ida was a fireplug by comparison. She was short and stocky, with limp brown curls framing a pockmarked face. It didn’t look to Shayna like either of them went very long between drinks or meals.

  Ida gave Shayna’s ass a firm squeeze.

  “Damn, girl. I see you packed your trunk.”

  “Thanks. I had a little work done last year.”

  Ida glanced up at Shayna’s chest, screwing her lips into a smirk.

  “And that ain’t all. What brings you down to the Big Easy?”

  Shayna chose her words carefully. She’d found out a little too late that killing your husband doesn’t pay, at least not right away. The bitchy lady handling the insurance claim told her a payout could take up to a month. That left Shayna without anywhere to be.

  “Heading to Los Angeles eventually, but there’s no big rush. Thought I’d stop by here to see what kind of trouble the three of us could get into.”

  Georgia and Ida exchanged a look that told Shayna she had them on the hook. She had to be patient while reeling them in.

  “I hope I’m not imposing. You two must have your hands full running a fine establishment like this.”

  Shayna motioned to a faded sign by the front door. It swung in a slight breeze that delivered the muddy smell of the Mississippi River mingled with the scent of olive trees and piss. The Keel Hall’s website made it sound like a swanky Las Vegas resort, but it was nothing more than a pirate-themed dive bar that the locals called Keely’s.

  Georgia stepped forward with a broad smile on her frying pan face.

  “Glad you like it. We’re actually looking for a new bartender, if you feel like staying a while.”

  “You’ll make a killing in tips,” Ida quickly added. “We’ll even throw in room and board.”

  Shayna felt conflicted, despite the fact that everything was going exactly like she wanted it to. She didn’t regret killing her husband, but really missed planning it. All of the plotting and scheming, the complicated lies and manipulations, had given her a sense of purpose that felt like a missing limb these days. She hadn’t just gotten revenge on that abusive, pill-popping son-of-a-bitch; she’d fooled everybody in Seatown, Florida—my hometown—including the police. And now all of that hard work was reduced to a check she was waiting to get in the mail.

  The whole thing had been about the cash, but now it didn’t seem like it was enough. She craved a new adventure, something to lose herself in completely. Unfortunately, the person she most wanted to share it with was back in Seatown. And he probably hated her for everything she’d put him through.

  I’ve already ruined Tommy Ruzzo’s life twice before, she thought. A third time might finally kill him.

  Shayna shook her head, chasing those thoughts away. She needed a stiff drink, and maybe something a little stiffer than that. Anything to obliterate the unwanted memories she was trying to outrun.

  “Aren’t you two sweet? Buy me a drink and I’ll think it over.”

  “Hell, yeah,” Georgia said. “We should get you inside before the neighborhood dogs come sniffing around anyway.”

  Shayna waved the compliment away with the flick of her wrist.

  “Speaking of dogs. Who was your friend with the gun? He’s cute, in a scummy sort of way.”

  Ida dug her press-on nails into Shayna’s arm until she almost drew blood. Her voice was a smoky growl.

  “That’s our bouncer, Adam, but keep your paws off of him—he’s mine, all mine.”

  Shayna made a mental note to avoid the bouncer while she was there. She wasn’t afraid of Ida, but she definitely didn’t need another murder on her hands. At least not right away.

  Georgia made a sweeping gesture with her arm as they entered. The interior was even more run down than the outside, but the soft blue lights gave it a pleasant underwater glow. The two large fish tanks behind the short wooden bar looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in months. A faded Jolly Roger hung from the ceiling overhead, dancing like a ghost in the breeze of a circular fan. Anchors and helms adorned the walls at odd intervals, mostly to cover up water stains. In between were thrift store paintings with vaguely nautical themes, mixed in with framed pirate maps of every shape and size.

  A few of the scattered tables were full, but almost nobody spoke. Ida jumped behind the bar to grab a shaker. Georgia and Shayna climbed up onto stools near a stooped, older man. He wore a black stocking cap and had a thick white beard that hung down to his prominent potbelly. A half empty beer mug sat still on the bar in front of him, as forgotten and lonely-looking as its owner. All he needed was an eyepatch or a pegleg and he could be the centerpiece of the bar’s worn-out decor.

  Shayna couldn’t take her eyes off of him. She leaned over to whisper in Georgia’s ear.

  “Please tell me he’s an actor that you hire to sit there.”

  Georgia snuck a peek around her.

  “Lafitte? Hell, he used to own this place.”

  Ida set two coconut-shaped mugs in front of them. Shayna watched thick foam bubble over the lip of hers, oozing like spit down to her wrinkled cocktail napkin. A green toothpick floated on top, buoyed by a dried out wedge of pineapple and a shriveled maraschino cherry.

  “What the hell kind of drink is that?”

  Georgia hoisted hers up in a toast.

  “The kind that gets you drunk.”

  Shayna finished hers off in a couple of gulps. The sugary rum burned going down, but left her feeling warm all over. She licked the foam from her upper lip, slamming the empty coconut to the bar.

  “What’s a woman have to do to get laid around here?”

  AND A B
OTTLE OF RUM

  Tommy Ruzzo was soaking wet. The Florida rain still took him by surprise, especially when he was drunk. That was most of the time these days, and working as a bouncer at The Rusty Pelican didn’t help. Mikey couldn’t pay much, but he let Ruzzo live on his fishing boat for free. And Ruzzo always had an open tab at the bar—a perk that he took full advantage of, even on his days off.

  He pushed through the front door, shaking his head like a dog. Water flung from his thick black hair, dotting a couple of nearby tables and chairs. They were worn and empty, like the rest of the place. Monday used to be “Comedy Open Mic Night,” but Mikey canceled it after his old friend, Jesse Lee Cavanaugh, went on a killing spree that almost cost Ruzzo his life.

  “3 AM” by Matchbox Twenty blared from the jukebox as Ruzzo climbed up onto his usual stool. He knew better than to complain about Mikey’s terrible taste in music, so he focused on the volume instead.

  “Does it have to be so freakin’ loud?”

  “What? Oh…”

  Mikey lifted a remote, bringing the volume down from intolerable to merely deafening. His long hair was cropped short now, and spiky on top. It made his bloated red face look like a giant puffer fish.

  “New usual?”

  Ruzzo nodded. He used to be a whisky man, but these days he drank rum. It went well with his baggy Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts and flip-flops. His compact frame had gotten paunchy around the middle, and his cheeks and chin were more rounded. He’d come to town a rock-hard New Yorker, but now he was soft like the white sand beaches that lined the Gulf Coast. His surrender to Florida was complete. There are worse places to die.

  It didn’t help that Ruzzo was broke and out of options. Mikey set two shot glasses down, filling them to the lip with Bacardi 151. He lifted one up in a shaky toast.