by Randy Rawls
Tom steered Geda back across the parking lot to the end visitor space, the one farthest from the entrance. The van was nondescript, no markings of any kind and wearing the most common form of Florida plate selections. Tom wasn’t worried that Geda might memorize the plate number. First, he doubted he was smart enough and second, he didn’t expect Geda to have an opportunity to tell anyone.
When they reached the vehicle, Tom swung the rear door open. “Climb in.”
“I don’t see Johnny.”
“Of course not, you dumb-ass. You don’t think he’s gonna show himself, do you? Not with the gang that’s gunning for him. Hop in, and I’ll take you to him.”
Geda hesitated, then took a step backward. “Gang? I don’t know nothing about no gang.”
Tom flicked the knife upward, feeling it slice through Geda’s shirt. “One more move in the wrong direction, and I leave you here in the parking lot with your balls in your mouth. Now get in the van.” He nicked him with the blade.
Tom felt a quiver go through Geda’s body as he stumbled into the vehicle. Tom stepped in behind him. Once inside, he pulled the door closed and cracked Geda across the back of the head with the steel handle of the knife. Geda went down—unconscious.
Tom gagged him, then cuffed his hands and feet to side rails on opposite sides of the cargo area. “Well, Sis, here’s number two. Let’s visit Big Al.”
* * * *
Tom sipped from his beer bottle, then peered at Geda whose head lolled on his shoulder, still unconscious from the blow Tom gave him. “‘Sis, it’s amazing how much these slime balls look alike. Snoozing like that with his hands and feet cuffed to the fence, a person might think Johnny had come back to life.”
He yawned. “Okay, Geda. Sis and I are tired of waiting. You’re sleeping too good. A little smelling salts might make you appreciate your surroundings.” He cracked an ammonia ampoule, knelt, and held it under Geda’s nose.
Geda’s head snapped, and his eyes opened. “Damn. What the hell is that?” He looked around, his eyes stopping on Tom. “Where are we?”
Tom said nothing.
Geda attempted to raise a hand. “What? I’m— Who the shit are you? Where’s Johnny?”
“Listen to me, you piece of dung. My name is Jeffries. Mary Lou Smithson was my friend. Does that give you a clue?”
“I don’t know no bitch by that name. Who the hell is she?”
Tom scraped the tip of his knife across the back of Geda’s hand. Beads of blood oozed out. “I’m not surprised you don’t recognize her name. How about this? After you and the rest of your thugs finished raping her, you killed her and stuffed her in the trunk of a derelict car, the one Izzy knew about. Then you and the rest of your gang walked away without a care in the world—or so you thought.”
“Johnny’s girl?” Geda said, a tinge of panic in his voice. “That who you talking ’bout?”
“Yeah. Johnny’s girl. Nice to know you remember, although you probably failed to introduce yourself. Let me tell you about her. Her name was Mary Lou Smithson. She was seventeen years old, and if she had lived, would be a senior in high school this year. She was a smart girl, always brought home good grades, and looked forward to college.”
“But—”
Tom slapped him with the flat of the blade, leaving a gash across his cheek. “Hush. I’m not finished yet. Mary Lou had the usual teen growing pains. She rebelled against her parents, and probably did things they wouldn’t approve of. But on a scale of one to ten, she was no lower than a eight. Before Johnny came along, she was a ten.”
“But sir, I—”
Tom sliced his other cheek. “Didn’t I tell you to be quiet? In the little time you have left, you best learn to listen to your betters.” He glared at Geda, who cringed, blood dripping off his chin. “Good. That’s so much better. Mary Lou would have grown up to be whatever she wanted—a businesswoman, a wife, a mother. She had brains, beauty, and a wonderful personality. You and the scum you run with took that away from her.”
Geda’s fear-filled eyes searched Tom’s face. “Not me. I didn’t—”
“Yeah, I know. You want to tell me how you tried to save her. Now, here’s the deal. I have a tape recorder, and you’re going to tell me all about that night when your gang, Thorns on Roses, raped and murdered my friend.”
“But—”
“Shut up. Speak when I tell you to speak. And each time you lie, you will bleed. Understand?”
“I got nothing to say.”
“Oh, tough guy. Let me see. Your rose tattoo is on your right shoulder running over to your bicep. Right?”
“How you—”
“I know lots about you, Geda. But mostly, I know what a worthless piece of dung you are.” Tom put his blade under the sleeve of Geda’s T-shirt. “Sit still now. If I slip, I might cut your throat.” He moved the knife upward, the T-shirt parting up and over the shoulder to Geda’s neck where he gouged out a small cut. “Oops. Guess I got you anyway.”
“Ouch. That hurt.”
“Yeah. Probably did. Ready to talk yet?”
“Go to hell.”
“You’re making this more enjoyable every moment. Let’s see, where should I start? Bet I can split the stem.”
“No, please—”
Ignoring him, Tom ran the tip of the blade across Geda’s shoulder and down the arm. Blood poured through the stem of the tattoo from the bud down onto his bicep. “Maybe I should peel the rose off, one petal at a time. After all, it’s just hanging there without any support now.”
Geda broke into tears. “Stop, please stop. I can’t tell you nothing. Don’t you understand? They’ll kill me.”
With a flash of the blade, Tom cut a notch in Geda’s right ear. “Your loyalty is commendable—but stupid. I’ll make you the same deal I made Johnny. Dead or alive, you go into the swamp. Dead, you won’t feel a thing. Alive, you’ll meet my pet alligator, Big Al, up close and personal. Of course, it won’t be a long friendship. He’s not the type to wait until later for a good meal or to leave any leftovers. He moves fast because he has to—too much competition if he hesitates. And screams don’t bother him, so you can yell as loud as you please. What’s your call?”
If Geda said anything, it was covered by his blubbering.
“Okay, guess I’ll have to do some slicing.” Tom stood. “Don’t go away. I’m going to turn on the recorder.”
* * * *
An hour later, Tom watched the alligators under the overhead light. They were in a feeding frenzy, rolling and thrashing, turning the swamp into a muddy bog. Even in the muted light, the water showed its reddish-brown coloring. Big Al could claim bragging rights if there were such in the swamp. He’d grabbed the biggest chunks. “Thanks, guys. You’re efficient, but this will be your last meal on me for a while. Can’t take a chance on showing up too often. Someone might notice. The curious bystander foils more perfect crimes than all the cops.”
He picked up his tape recorder, the chairs, his folding table, and put everything in the van. With a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, he sanitized the area then drove away.
Once at home, he copied the tape onto his computer, cleaned it up, then burned CDs, one each for Detective Richards and Abby. They went into the envelopes with the first CD containing Johnny’s confession. When he finished, he popped a beer. “Sis, it’s amazing how the story changes, depending on who tells it. Poor ol’ Geda was innocent, never touched her. He even asked the others to let her go. If I’d given him time, he’d have probably claimed to be a virgin. Johnny said about the same thing. Just two hardworking young men who’d never flaunt the law. Any thoughts on that?”
* * * *
Tom woke on Saturday morning, his stomach rolling. It didn’t surprise him because his many missions had always left a feeling of sickness and hopelessness at what he’d done. This time, it was less, but still severe enough to cause him to race for the bathroom. The nausea overcame him as he squeezed through the door.
Af
ter hugging the commode through several attacks, he used mouthwash then showered. Toweling off, he realized the nausea had dissipated, leaving in its place a feeling of accomplishment, as if he’d finished the second leg of a long trip. Smiling, he made his way into the kitchen, and made a pot of coffee. Checking the time, he read nine o’clock—late for him. Then it dawned on him that ridding the planet of Geda had not affected him as other assassinations had. Guilt did not rip at him. He felt energized, ready to take on the rest of the gang.
Shrugging, he poured a cup of coffee, while tracking what had changed in his life, if anything. Perhaps it was the simple fact that he was doing the work the police would do, if allowed—ridding the planet of scum that should have been aborted before birth. He felt good.
“Well, Sis, what do you think I should do today? Izzy’s next on the list, but I’m not really in the mood. He’ll keep until Monday.” He stirred in a packet of sweetener. “Abby. Now there’s someone to think about. Wonder if she’s busy tonight.” He sipped from the cup. “Wonder if she’ll leave her shingle at home and go out with me.” He paused. “Only one way to find out.”
He dialed her cell line and waited as it rang. When she answered, he said, “Is this the Abby Archer who forgave Tom Jeffries?”
“Forgave? That’s not how I remember it. Seems to me you still have ground to make up.”
Tom heard the smile in her voice and his heart surged. “Well, today’s the day for it. Wanna take me to dinner?”
“Have you heard you have a really romantic way of approaching a woman?” She paused for a second, then went on, “No, I’m sure no one has said it. You may ask why.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Why?”
“Because that’s not how you invite a lady out for the evening.”
Tom chuckled. “Okay, learn me.”
There was silence on the line, then Abby mumbled, “Damn, why me?” In a louder voice, she said, “You say something like, ‘Hi, Abby. I’d really love to go out with you. Would you have dinner with me tonight? Do you have a special place you’d like to go? It would be a pleasure to spend the evening with you.’”
“Yeah, that sounds good,” Tom said. “And I’d love to have dinner with you. Thanks for asking. You can pick the restaurant though. Hank’s is about the only place I know, and I’m not in the mood for a burger. Maybe something that’ll put you in the mood.”
“What? You…” Abby’s voice faded away, replaced by a soft chortle. “As I’ve said before, you’re a weird one, Tom Jeffries.” She paused, but Tom stayed quiet. “Okay, dinner tonight.”
“Isn’t that where we started?” Tom said. “Seems like I said, ‘Wanna take me to dinner?’ Now, we’ve come full circle, and you’ve agreed. So, where?”
“I give up. But I agree. I’m in no mood for a greasy burger. I want a romantic ambiance that greets me as I walk in. A maitre d’ who’ll seat me, and a tall, dark, handsome waiter who’ll treat me like a princess and speak to me with a French accent. The tablecloths must be damask and the napkins linen.”
“Will this place have food? Or just a menu written in French with big prices down the right side? Be careful. I still harbor a few grudges against them.”
“You forget,” Abby said. “I was in Iraq, too. But the bistro I envision will serve a dozen escargots, then after we’ve had time for some intimate conversation, a scrumptious steak. There will be cheese, a light dessert, perhaps coffee to finish the evening. Of course, wine will accompany each course.”
Tom chuckled. “My military mind says you know an expensive restaurant that meets those criteria.”
“Yes, and I get to choose the place. This is our first real date, and I have a cute little black dress that’s begging to be worn.”
“Hey, we’ve been to Hank’s twice. Is your little black dress better than the outfit you wore the last time?”
“A hell of a lot cooler and less drafty. I damn near roasted on the bottom and froze on the top in that joint.” She paused. “Don’t panic. You don’t need a tux or even a suit. A blazer and tie will do. But please, something without gravy stains.”
“No wonder you had to become a lawyer. That kind of humor sank at Pearl Harbor.”
“So you say. Okay, it’s a date. I’ll call for reservations while you look for something to wear. That’ll probably take the rest of the day. At Mary Lou’s funeral, you shocked me with a suit. I expected jeans and a clean, but faded shirt. You do have a sports coat, don’t you?”
Tom grinned. “Seems like I bought one when I mustered out of the Army. Needed it for the job interview in Dallas. I’ll look around. Not sure if I moved it from Texas.”
“Then rent one. Pick me up at seven.”
Tom hung up the phone, chuckling. “Sis, I can’t figure out whether that’s the best woman I ever met, or a fruitcake. But if she says find a sports jacket, guess I better dig one out.”
TWENTY
Jim Richards had the day to himself, his first weekend off in three weeks. Plus, his wife and daughter left the evening before to spend time with his mother-in-law, who lived in Martin County. Jim had begged off, saying he needed a day to catch up on chores, not exactly the truth. He intended to work the Smithson case, work it as he’d done when he was a street cop looking for answers to a burglary. Then, he talked to people, and they responded to him. Today, he would do the same.
Phil Summers and uniforms had canvassed the tattoo parlors, but they did it as cops. He planned to do it as a civilian, a possible customer, a brother under the flesh. Somewhere out there was the person who inked Smithson and the rest of that gang. He wanted him, not because he’d done anything illegal, but because he had to stop the gang before they struck again. His only viable lead was the tattoo. He’d find it if he had to spend his whole weekend going from parlor to parlor.
He dressed in shorts, sneakers, and a worn T-shirt, then spent the morning doing lawn work. The sun beamed down, causing sweat to roll off him. He stopped the mower, wiped his brow and thought, I should be ripe by the time I hit the street. No better cover for the role I want to play than a good case of B.O. No cop would allow himself in public smelling like this.
His plan was simple. Walk in as a potential customer and ask to see examples of what they could do. Look through the book and, if he didn’t see the Thorns on Roses picture, move on. Spend minimum time at each location.
At one o’clock, he climbed into the car with a printout of the tattoo parlors within a twenty-mile radius. He had until about seven, Sunday evening. That’s when his wife and daughter would be home. If he hadn’t found the tattoo parlor and developed a real lead by then, he’d admit it was a dead case and let it be filed.
By ten that evening, his vision had blurred, and a soft throb bounced behind his temples. He’d visited nineteen parlors and looked at hundreds of pictures. None of them was the long stemmed red rose. There was one more joint in his immediate area, Miguel’s Personalized Tattoos. He’d hit it and, if there was nothing there, head for home, a beer, and bed—in that order.
Jim heard a tinkle as he opened the door and walked in. Looking up, he saw a small bell set to announce a customer’s arrival. There was no one in the outer area.
“May I help you?” a young man wearing his artwork asked, coming from behind a curtain.
“Not sure. Does getting a tattoo hurt?” Jim asked. “My woman says I oughta get one, but I’m not into pain. And from where I stand, needles mean pain.”
“Hey, man, no sweat. You never feel the pins. I’m the magician of the ink world.”
“Can you show me some pictures? I mean, the kind of stuff you do. You know, I don’t want nothing plain like them other bums got.”
“All my tattoos are special. I got to warn you though. They cost more, but that’s because I don’t do the shit them phonies do. Anybody can do a skull and crossbones. I do special stuff.” He reached under a counter and came up with a loose-leaf binder. “I promise what you want is in my book. Now, I got a customer in the back. You t
ake your time. I’ll be out in a few minutes. You’re next in line.” He walked behind the stained room divider.
Richards opened the notebook. Disappointment lined his face. Same images others had shown him—eagles in various poses, snakes, hearts with I Love and a blank line, bracelets, anklets, even a skull and crossbones. Nothing original and nothing resembling the Thorns on Roses logo.
As he closed the book after the last page, the owner and a young woman appeared from the back. She was buttoning skin-tight jeans.
“Don’t worry, Miss, your cheek will be fine by tomorrow. A little redness perhaps, but, when you back up to a mirror, you’ll like what you see.”
She grinned, paid him, and left the shop. Richards shook his head at the way she walked as if trying to keep her pants from pressing against her butt—impossible with her build and the way the jeans fit. He imagined he could see every dimple left by the tattoo pins.
“Okay,” the tattooist said, “which artwork can I do for you?”
“Nothing,” Richards said with a frown. “This is the same shit I see all the time. Even the homeless bums have it. I thought you said you were an artist.” He shifted as if ready to leave.
“Easy, man. If I hadn’t been so busy with that sweet thing’s ass, I woulda seen you was a man with special taste. I got another book. Better stuff. Ones I designed.” He knelt and, after a moment filled with the sound of things sliding around, came up holding a black binder. “This is my good drawings. Bet you find something you like here.”
“Yeah? Why didn’t you show it to me first if it’s so hot?”
“Humph. You didn’t see her ass. I was in a hurry to get back to it. Besides, these cost extra. You willing to pay?”
“What I like, I pay for.” Richards flashed a money clip filled with bills. The one on top was a hundred.
The owner stuck out his hand. “My name’s Miguel. I respect a person who knows what he wants. Mostly, I get kids looking for something to show their girlfriend or boyfriend. Like that last honey. Dropped her panties just so she can impress her guy.”