Vigilante Angels Trilogy

by Billy DeCarlo

  20 Blues Jam

  Tommy watched as Lucius and two other men moved around the far side of the dance floor at Wyla’s Bar, rolling equipment out from a back room and running lengths of cable between microphones, amplifiers, and a mixing board.

  Lucius came back behind the bar to give him a refill.

  “What’s going on? You having a band in here tonight or somethin’?” Tommy asked.

  “Blues jam night,” Lucius responded. “You play? Sing? There’s a clipboard; put your name on the list, and the host will call you up for a set after we get started.”

  “I can belt out a little Springsteen.”

  “Nah. Nope. That white-boy rock star stuff ain’t gonna work. Blues only, my man. Stevie Ray Vaughn might be okay.”

  Tommy checked his watch, glanced toward the door for his son, then continued watching the men set up. He wasn’t looking forward to the hard conversation he and Bobby were going to have to have. In a way, he hoped his son wouldn’t show, but he knew he’d have to confront the situation eventually. Now is as good a time as ever.

  Bobby entered soon after, looking surprised and lost in the dive-bar atmosphere. He saw his father at the bar and joined him. “Damn, so this is where you spend your time. Is someone here, or is that for me?” he asked, motioning to the shot glass of whiskey on the bar in front of the empty spot.

  “That’s for Moses. You remember him, right? It’s sort of a little tribute I do for him. I just leave it there. That was the stuff he liked. I miss that guy quite a bit.”

  A few musicians started to straggle in with their gear, and some milled around the impromptu stage and began warming up. The bar was filling with excited patrons taking seats at the tables.

  Lucius came over and took Bobby’s order after Tommy introduced them, pouring and delivering a tall beer. “So, what’s up, Pop?”

  Tommy hesitated and ran through his rehearsed talk once more in his mind before he began. “Listen, Bobby. There’s something I have to tell you. Your mother and I...”

  Bobby cut him off. “Oh, Jesus. That’s it? Thank God. I was afraid you were going to give me bad news about your cancer.”

  “No, well, listen,” Tommy tried to start again.

  “Dad. I kind of knew. I mean, not for sure, but when things are going on in a house, the kids know, no matter what age they are. The parents may not want to admit it to themselves, but the kids always know. Even big kids like me.”

  Tommy remained silent, reflecting on Bobby’s words, wondering how much he knew.

  Bobby answered the silent question, at least in part. “I had a feeling that Mom had something going on. Little things, you know? Is that it, Dad?”

  “Yeah,” Tommy answered. “I guess so.”

  “I know it sucks, Dad. Especially with all you have going on right now. I love you both very much. I’m okay with whatever you guys are going to do about it. Just please, no fighting. If it’s done, it’s done. Mom told me she’s sorry and she wants to work it out. Will you come back home? Have you talked to her?”

  Tommy was relieved that he didn’t have to spell it all out the way he’d planned. He’d been worried about his son’s reaction. “I haven’t talked to her. I just grabbed some stuff quick and left. I’m holed up in a shitty motel.

  “To answer your question, Bobby, I just can’t. I just don’t feel it anymore. Obviously, your mom doesn’t either. Relationships have a lifespan, and this one is done. I always believed that once one person crosses that bridge, is with someone else, there’s no going back. I’ve never seen it work with others. It’s been over for longer than I realized, I guess.

  “We should’ve broke it off after the first time,” he went on quickly. “We both made mistakes, you know that now. When it’s done, it’s done. I want to deal with this cancer now, and do my own thing with the time I have left. Your mother has a right to be happy, too. I’m gonna look around for a small place of my own, I think.”

  Bobby put his hand on his father’s shoulder. “It’s okay. Just please get along with her and support her. Actually, I’m looking around for a place too, but I’ll have to hold off. I don’t want her to be alone.”

  Tommy tried not to break down. “I guess the whole thing, that we were still the same little family living in that little house, was really just an illusion over these past years. It’s all gone, what we had.” He felt his son’s hand squeeze his shoulder and realized that for the first time, their roles had reversed and his son was supporting him.

  “It wasn’t an illusion, Dad. It was love, and it’s still there. It’ll be there long after the house is gone. We love each other, that won’t change. We had it, and we’ll always have it.”

  “I love you, son,” Tommy said, embracing him sideways from his stool. He was grateful that it had gone that well. “You think Mom will be okay there by herself eventually?”

  Bobby laughed. “She ran the place anyways. We were just more work for her, and a pain in her ass. And you wonder why she drinks?”

  Tommy laughed as well. The first set of musicians had been called up to the stage and were playing some upbeat blues. “I like this music.”

  “I always loved the blues,” Bobby said. “It’s the root and foundation of rock and roll and hip-hop. It gets a bad rap for being sad, but it’s really a celebration of life, the good and the bad that comes along.” He signaled to Lucius for another beer.

  “Anything else you want to talk about, Dad?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, well...the priest thing, any of that.”

  Tommy’s demeanor changed. “Listen. Don’t ever ask me about that. Ever. Okay?”

  “Got it. Understood. I have more some good news, anyway, Dad.”

  “Go for it,” Tommy said. “I could use some of that right now.”

  “I’m going on a detail with Carson tomorrow. There’s a surveillance and takedown operation on some druggies on the south side at the old Turner warehouse.”

  Tommy became alarmed, recalling the conversation with Carson during his recent interview. “Bobby, please don’t do it. Something sounds wrong there. It’s not like Carson. I don’t trust that motherfucker.”

  Bobby didn’t mention the leverage that Carson had over him. “I think he just wants me to toughen up and be a ‘real’ cop. Maybe it’s a peace offering, and this will get him off my back. He can be pretty brutal. You always said to get in some time on the street; that it was good for promotions on the admin side.”

  “Listen. You don’t need that. You’re good at what you do. You aren’t used to this, Bobby. It’s dangerous. We don’t need more bad news.”

  “You don’t think I can handle it?” Bobby’s voice rose. “I’m trained. I do the training every year, just like every cop.”

  “Okay, settle down. If this is important to you, go for it. I’m just saying that you don’t need to do anything to impress me, despite all the stupid stuff I said to you all those years. I’m proud of you just the way you are, son. You don’t even need to be a cop if you don’t like it. You had something else in mind, you told me once.”

  Bobby laughed. “Yeah, the dream I always dreamed. I’d like to be one of those guys by the beach who does the spray-can art for tourists. Maybe open an art studio by the beach.”

  “That sounds good, son. Keep me in mind if you need a partner. I can’t paint for shit, but I’ll run security and marketing, pass the tip jar. Life’s too short. We all spend it busting our ass in jobs we hate, working for people we hate. We all gotta do what makes us happy.” He took note of Bobby’s empty mug and signaled to Lucius again.

  Lucius brought the refill and asked, “You fellas want to sign up? You play at all, Bobby?”

  “I can sing a few of the standards,” he replied.

  Tommy cocked his head back in surprise as Bobby put his name on the clipboard. “I never knew you could sing.”

  “It’s something I do sometimes at the place I hang out. They have karaoke night. Plus, all my life, I
’ve sung in the shower when you guys weren’t home. I guess this is like karaoke, but with real music.”

  Lucius raised an eyebrow at him, a skeptical look on his face.

  “I guess we’ll see,” Tommy said.

  They talked for a while, Tommy enjoying what his guilt told him was something he should’ve started doing a long time ago—having man-to-man father and son time. Accepting his son for who he was had lifted a huge weight from him. It made him feel better, and optimistic about the time he had remaining. It was something he looked forward to doing a lot more. He found himself happier about the news that his son was finally going to find his own place than the other news, about him going on the street. A long time ago, for so long, it would’ve been the other way around.

  They heard the jam leader call Bobby’s name, and he rose from his barstool and went to the stage. “Break a leg, kid,” Lucius called after him. Tommy swiveled on his barstool to watch.

  Bobby and the musicians huddled for a moment, discussing the song and key, then took their positions. Bobby stood center stage, under a single red spotlight, as the opening notes of “Stormy Monday” filled the bar.

  Tommy turned to Lucius, who stood watching from behind the bar with his arms folded. “Yeah, Allman Brothers,” Tommy said to him.

  “Shit, you mean Bobby Bland, white boy.”

  Tommy turned as his son began to sing the classic. He was amazed at what he was hearing. He wondered if it was just a father’s bias until he saw the others seated at their tables with their mouths open, and the musicians on the stage smiling at each other and nodding their heads.

  Bobby finished a stanza and nodded to the harp player, who stepped into the spotlight and executed a mournful but electrifying solo.

  Tommy listened in rapt attention as his son belted out the song’s lyrics, which covered the sadness and struggle of life, work, lost love, and faith. As Bobby finished and the room rose to a standing ovation, Tommy was filled with a pride he had sought his entire life—a pride he could never find in pushing his son to tackle sports and pursuits he was never suited for.

  As Bobby made his way back to the bar, being congratulated by all he passed, Tommy embraced him in a bear hug. “Let’s get outta here, kid. I’ll give you a ride home. We’ll get your car tomorrow.”

  They left and enjoyed the silence of the trip together. Occasionally, Tommy broke in to again describe how amazing the performance was, and how proud it made him. “You should take it up. You got something there,” he repeatedly implored. “You could supplement the spray-paint art income.”

  As they pulled up to the house, Bobby asked, “You sure you don’t want to come in?”

  “I can’t, Bobby. Besides, if she’s home, she’s probably drunk. Go on in and spend some time with her.”

  “One more question, Dad.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What the hell happened to Uncle Jack? He’s all banged up. You have anything to do with that?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tommy answered. “And don’t ask me again, please.”

  21 Moving In

  The realtor looked at Tommy suspiciously. “You sure?” she asked. “I don’t like going over there for showings.”

  “You don’t need to,” Tommy answered. “I know the neighborhood. I’m good with it.”

  “Oh. Okay then,” she said, sounding surprised. “Let’s wrap up the paperwork so you can focus on the move-in. I’ll have a company I work with get in there, get the previous occupant’s junk out and clean it up.”

  “I want it as-is. A friend lived there. The family is okay with it. Let’s just sign the papers so I can get out of here.”

  Tommy sensed the woman’s discomfort with him and was grateful for it, because it made her rush through the rest of the paperwork.

  “So, Mr. Borata, will this be a one-year or two-year lease?”

  “Just the one. I don’t expect to be around much longer than that.”

  The statement only increased her speed, to Tommy’s pleasure. They wrapped things up, and he departed, feeling the woman’s stare as he left the office. A deadbolt clicked behind him.

  When he reached the car, he looked at his image in the rearview mirror. The stubble he’d grown for the purse-snatcher operation was filling in to a short, full beard. He liked it, and felt it matched the transformation he felt himself undergoing. Never had a beard before. Not regulation.

  He left the radio volume low on the way to his new dwelling. His mind tried to parse everything that had happened to him in the course of a short year. His comfortable prior life and body were fading away, and the treatment was slowly grinding his physical capabilities to a halt, despite the B-12 shots and drugs the doctor was trying and the various concoctions from the Korean pharmacy.

  His thoughts drifted to Moses as he closed the distance to his late friend’s old apartment. He reflected on their time together, good and bad. The laughs and struggles they had shared inside the decrepit old apartment. Now that old cave will be my last stop, too. Maybe.

  His regret for involving Moses in his scheme returned to him. He pushed it away. It’s what he wanted, to go out big; to make a difference. He thought about Molletier and asked himself if he was being fair to the man. He didn’t want another friend to become a casualty. He seems to enjoy it more than I do, though. Maybe a little too much.

  The Black Eagles were loitering around their bikes and sitting on the stoop as he pulled up to his new home. As he exited the Buick, they gave him a round of applause, and it brought his spirits up for the first time that day.

  “There goes the neighborhood, brothers and sisters!” Lukas exclaimed. “Better sell now. Before you know it the block will be full of white people, bringing our property values down!”

  They laughed, and he made the rounds, exchanging hugs, fist bumps, and soul handshakes with the group. “I guess I should get that Harley I’ve been thinking about,” Tommy joked. “I used to ride, you know.” He noted that Lukas still had deep bruises in several places on his face and head. “How’re you healing up, kid?”

  “I’m doing alright, almost good as new.”

  The Eagles got quiet and focused their attention on Lukas, their leader. “We have a little something for you, Tommy. In honor of your service to the ’hood; in honor of your friendship to Uncle Moses and us. Tass?”

  The sole woman biker in the group opened up a saddlebag on her bike and extracted a black leather vest. She did a dramatic model pose and turned it to display the front and back. On the back, in arched yellow letters, it said “Black Eagles MC.” On the front, above the left breast, a yellow nametag was sewn in. It said ’Tommy.'

  Tommy rushed over to it as fast as his impaired legs would carry him, a smile burned onto his face. “Oh, damn,” he said in genuine glee, trying it on. He looked at the group, then back down at the vest. “Are you sure? It’s not a joke on the white guy?”

  “Damn straight,” Lukas responded. “Wear it well. Respect the code.”

  “First ever white member of the Black Eagles,” Tass added.

  “And hopefully the last,” Gary said. Tommy wasn’t sure if he was joking, picking up the only negative vibe in the group.

  They gave him one more round of applause as he headed up the steps to his new apartment. “You want company?” Lukas asked.

  Tommy turned. “Not quite yet. I got to settle in a bit and get my head around this. It’s going to be tough. I don’t even want to bring the bags up out of my trunk yet. I got to go up and commune with the spirit of Mos for a bit. I’m gonna smoke one and channel him into the room with me.”

  “Suit yourself,” Lukas said. “I left a couple things up there for you, to help with the channeling and reminiscing.”

  Tommy went in and climbed the rickety staircase, then used his key, the one Moses had given him what seemed like so long ago, to open the door. He flipped on the light and stood in the doorway to take it in. The same ragged posters of Moses’ musical
heroes hung on the walls. His worn furniture was all in place. To the right was the bathroom, where he’d suffered in sickness as the disease had taken its toll on him.

  There were pieces of paper on the coffee table, marking the evidence that had been seized by the police search after the priest had been executed. Tommy took those and threw them in the trash, leaving everything else in place. He seated himself on the old soft couch and closed his eyes.

  He was startled by a sound and opened his eyes just in time to catch a small white dog that had run into the room and leaped into his lap. “Whitey!” Tommy said. Moses’ beloved dog. “How are you, buddy? You miss your master as much as I do?” The dog licked Tommy’s hands and nestled itself into his lap. He enjoyed the warmth and comfortable feeling of the dog resting there, and the feeling of being loved by the animal.

  While the dog slept, he closed his eyes again and allowed himself to second-guess his choices. A part of him wanted to go back to his own home, to his wife and son. But that seemed like a part of another life, and the idea didn’t sit well with him, like the thought of eating after a big meal. It was empty. She let me down twice, and that’s two times too many.

  He opened his eyes again, and something else caught his eye that shouldn’t have been there—an old tin, sitting on the lower shelf of the coffee table, where it always had when Moses held court. Damn. He reached for it and popped it open. Inside were neatly rolled cellophane bags of marijuana, a few pre-rolled joints, and a lighter. Moses’ stash.

  He went to Moses’ outdated stereo system and put on the Santana album they’d always enjoyed together, then came back to the couch and lit up, again closing his eyes to reminisce and reflect on the past, and consider his moves for the future.

  After he’d finished the joint, he lay down on the couch and allowed himself to drift off to sleep. Whitey adjusted position to curl up against him.

  22 Dysfunction

  Throughout the following day, Tommy tidied up the apartment in anticipation of the visitor he was expecting that evening. With each small improvement, he weighed whether he was compromising the essence of his departed friend. Dusting was fine, he decided; removing the tattered posters was not.