Fortune and Pride

by Stephen John

  I walked inside, which turned out to be worse looking than the outside, if that were possible. The badly yellowed tile floor looked as though it had not seen a mop since Pearl Jam released its first album. Wooden shelves lined the walls displaying random wares. Glass cases lined the shelves on each side. This is where Sally stored the jewelry, if you could legitimately call the products inside the cases such.

  The first case I came upon held bracelets and necklaces starting at five bucks. That was the sale price. The next case proudly displayed wristwatches, at least thirty choices, all under twenty-dollars each.

  The only employee I could see in the place was a young woman with blonde hair, streaked in pink and purple, and wearing a tiara. She was short and a little on the chubby side. There were at least ten silver studs adorning each ear, and if you looked closely, you might find a sliver of skin on her arms that was not covered in a tattoo making a reference to the band, Queensryche.

  The employee seemed to tidy up one of the many bulk bins that were randomly placed in the store's center. She seemed to take no notice of me. I did a visual survey of the place, which was one big open box. There was a small door leading to the back. I decided I would “browse” my way in that general direction, hoping to slip through the door unnoticed by Princess Queensryche.

  I got to within ten feet of the rear doorway when Queensryche chick seemed to take notice of me. I quickly picked up two clutch bags and pretended to be comparing them.

  “I prefer the lemon one myself,” she said. “My name is Britney.”

  “Lemon?” I asked.

  “Yes, the one in your right hand.”

  I looked down and noticed I was holding a clutch bag than was not only lemon-colored, but shaped and decorated like a slice of lemon. The one I had picked up in my left hand was shaped like a slice of orange. For cheap crap, they were kind of cute.

  “Those are both on sale for $19.99,” she said. “Each. But if you buy one you get five bucks off the second one.”

  “Such a fantastic deal,” I replied, wondering if lightning would strike. “Do you have any other... citrus fruit models? Perhaps in the back?”

  “No, this is it,” she smiled. It was the plastic, painted on smile, standard for a retail salesperson.

  “You know, I was here a few days ago and spoke to another young woman,” I inquired.

  “Sally?” she replied.

  “Yes, that’s her. Is she here?”

  “She is. She’s in the back. She isn’t working. She’s just here waiting for a friend.”

  I sat down the clutch bags and headed to the back.

  “You can’t go back there,” Britney said.

  I ignored her and walked through the door. Sally was sitting at a small desk, smoking a cigarette.

  “You know in the State of Washington it’s against the law to smoke anywhere inside a public building.”

  Sally was already nervous and my sudden appearance startled her. She nearly jumped out of her skin. I saw an oversized blue and white gym bag at her feet. My guess is there was a lot of cocaine in it.

  “Who the hell are you?” she asked.

  “I’m Fortune,” I said. “I’m a friend of Carter Le Blanc, who is a friend of Paul Pride.”

  She scowled, “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to keep you from being killed,” I replied. “Not that I expect much in the way of gratitude from you.”

  “Look, I’m selling this stuff myself,” she said. “Paul promised me money to help me buy this place. Now, he’s going to the cops. I will not stand by while he pisses it all away. Go mind your own business.”

  “Montoya will not pay you, you idiot!” I spouted. “He will kill you.”

  A look of horror appeared on her face, “No! No! We have a deal. I settled for half the money in cash. Then, I’m out of here.”

  “You made a deal with a drug dealer, Sally. It’s not exactly a legally binding agreement.”

  “Paul got me into this,” she said, crying. “Now drug dealers and the DEA on my back. I’ve got to get my money and get out of here.”

  “You can’t run,” I said.

  “Mr. Montoya told me he’d pay me cash and let me go.”

  “I can’t believe you fell for that. How do you even know Montoya?”

  “I don’t,” she said. “I heard Paul talking about him all the time. Paul had his phone number on a sticky note on the fridge. So, I thought I’d—.”

  “Get yourself killed?” I finished. “Who are you supposed to meet here?”

  “A guy named Ricki,” she said.

  “That’s his paid assassin, stupid woman!” I barked. “When are you supposed to meet him?”

  She looked at her watch, “He’s five minutes late,” she said.

  “Grab your stuff,” I said. “We’re leaving—now!”

  I reached for my phone and dialed Carter.

  “Stop what you’re doing, Miss,” I heard a male voice say. It was a husky male voice with a Hispanic accent. I looked up to see Ricki Garcia, all three-hundred-pounds of muscle. He had a Sturm-Ruger 9mm pistol aimed at the center of my forehead. I raised my hands.

  “The DEA is already on the way, Ricki,” I said.

  He looked at me, confused. He took my phone from me. He turned the power off and put it in his pocket.

  “How do you know my name?” he asked.

  “I know everything, Mr. Garcia,” I replied. “It’s over. Put down the gun.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t believe you. Keep your hands in the air.”

  “Where’s Britney?” I asked.

  “Is that the chick with all the tats?” he responded. “I hit her on the head good. She’ll be okay but will wake up with a hell of a headache.”

  Without moving my head, I subtly scanned my surroundings for anything that might make a weapon. I noted a box filled with clutch bags, shaped and decorated like a slice of grapefruit, wondering if Miss Queensryche was incompetent or didn’t realize that a grapefruit was a citrus fruit.

  “Do you have my money?” Sally said. “You pay me and let me go. I don’t want to be involved.”

  He looked at the gym bag, “Is that the product?”

  The clutch bags were too light to use as a weapon. There was a heavy-duty metal stapler on the corner of the desk which I estimated could be retrieved by taking one long step.

  “Yes,” she said. “Do you have my money?”

  “Mr. Montoya has your money,” he said. “I came to get the product and to bring you to him.”

  “That’s not what we agreed to,” Sally protested.

  “The agreement has changed,” Garcia said.

  “That’s right,” I interjected. “Just like I told you, Sally. Here is the new agreement: they take back the drugs; they torture you until you tell them where Paul Pride is and then they kill you.”

  I looked at Garcia, “Is that pretty close?”

  He smiled at me, “Sally, you should listen to your friend. You’re coming with us, too, mystery lady. Mr. Montoya will want to know your story.”

  “This is bull!” Sally bellowed. “Just give me my money and let me go.”

  Sally moved toward Garcia. He turned his weapon away from me and pointed it at her. As soon as I saw the gun pull away from me, I stepped forward and in motion I retrieved the stapler and hurled it with all my strength at Garcia’s face.

  The heavy stapler landed squarely on the big man’s nose. He howled in pain and used his free hand to hold his nose as it bled. I took two steps toward him and kicked at his gun hand, knocking the pistol free with my foot. He was dazed by the blow to the face but tried to reach for his pistol. I kicked it hard out of the way but left myself exposed.

  Sally sat down in the corner, frozen in fear.

  Garcia pulled himself up and caught me under the chin with a right uppercut. It had been a long time since a well-muscled man hit me flush on the chin, but I quickly remembered how unpleasant an experience it was. The force of t
he punch literally lifted me off my feet and propelled me backward into a metal rack holding boxes of plastic Wonder Woman cups. My head, already spinning from the punch, smashed into one of the metal shelves. I groaned as I slumped to the floor in a state of semi-consciousness as the cups rained down all around me.

  I looked at Garcia with glazed-over eyes. He glared at me. I saw that the stapler broke his nose; it was bright red, swelling and now gushing from the nostrils with blood. He appeared to be none too pleased about it. He lunged toward me. All I could think of at that moment was to reach down and remove my right John Fluevog shoe, which had a hard, flat wooden heel. The giant Mexican man reached down with his right hand and grabbed me by the material of my shirt at the center of my chest and lifted me to my feet with little effort.

  He then bellowed something in Spanish and literally threw me across the desk. My body slid across the top crashing into the monitor and desktop computer sitting on top. The monitor and computer crashed to the floor. My momentum propelled me off the desk and onto the floor on top of the computer components. I moaned loudly as the sharp corner of a desktop computer dug into my side.

  I was in severe pain and my brain was foggy but somewhere in that space between consciousness and unconsciousness; I heard Garcia approaching me. Still clutching my shoe, I struggled to my feet. As Garcia lunged toward me once again I raised my arm and used my remaining strength to bring the hard-wooden heel down on his face, using the shoe as a hammer, smashing it into his already broken and swollen nose. He shrieked in agony and fell onto the desk, face first.

  I produced a blood-curdling war hoop as I raised the shoe and brought it down again, this time on the back of the big man’s head. Garcia rolled onto his side and fell off the desk and onto the floor. I hit him again before I realized his body was motionless. He was dead or unconscious. At that given moment, I didn’t care which. I fell onto the floor, nearly passed out.

  “Fortune!” I heard a familiar voice say. It was Carter. With him were Tim Young and a steady stream of DEA Agents flooding into the building.

  I raised my head and blinked. I was groggy and disoriented. Carter stooped and took me in his arms, raising me to a sitting position.

  “Carter. My sweet Carter. You came,” I said, in what I could only imagine was barely discernible gibberish.

  I tried to smile. I touched his face. Such a nice face.

  “Of course, I came. Fortune, are you okay?”

  “I saw the cutest little lemon clutch bag,” I said before blacking out completely.

  Chapter 17

  “I’m thirsty,” I said.

  “She’s awake,” I heard Ida Belle say.

  “I’ll get the nurse,” Gertie said.

  “Fortune, can you hear me?” Ida Belle asked.

  I blinked. My head was pounding. I was lightheaded and confused.

  “Ida Belle?” I said. It’s bright in here. Ida Belle was standing over me but she was out of focus.

  “Yes, it’s me,” she replied. “Do you know where you are?”

  “Well, look who’s awake?” a nurse said, walking through the door with a huge smile on her face. She was a pleasant woman with a Jamaican accent.

  “Can I sit up?” I asked, still disoriented and hazy.

  “Sure, you can but take it easy,” she replied. She used the foot pedal to raise the head of the bed. “Is that good?” she asked.

  I nodded, yes. Gertie handed me a cup of water, “You had us scared for a little while.”

  “Do you remember what happened?” the nurse asked.

  “Yes. I went to Carter’s house without my pajamas,” I said, smiling. “We had a great time, didn’t we baby? Has anyone seen my toothbrush? I must have left it in Gertie’s purse.”

  Ida Belle and Gertie looked at each other. Ida Belle shrugged and said something about my brains being scrambled.

  The nurse looked at Ida Belle, “A little confusion and disorientation after a concussion is normal.” She looked down at me, “But she will be just fine, won’t you sweetheart?”

  I grabbed the nurse by the sleeve and pulled her close so I could whisper.

  “Did you know we put cow poop in Celia’s backyard and set it on fire,” I said to the nurse.

  “You did? Why?”

  “Celia told the ATF we were selling moonshine. What a bitch.”

  Gertie laughed out loud and slapped her knee. Ida Belle followed with a nervous clearing of her throat, “Maybe you should just rest, Fortune.”

  “Where am I?” I asked.

  “You’re in Harborview Hospital in Seattle,” Ida Belle said. “They brought you in two days ago with a concussion.”

  “A concussion?” I repeated. “Two days ago?”

  “Don’t you remember?” Gertie asked.

  “No, not really. What happened?”

  Ida Belle smiled, “What happened is, you took down the two biggest drug lords in the Pacific Northwest, that’s what happened.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes, you did,” Carter said, walking through the door. He carried a giant vase filled with beautiful flowers. He also had the lemon clutch bag I saw at Queen Anne Collectibles.

  “My dear, sweet beautiful Carter, you brought me flowers and a clutch bag? How sweet of you. Thank you.”

  He smiled, recognizing that my brain was not charged to capacity.

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

  “That Britney girl didn’t know a grapefruit was a citrus,” I said. “Or was it an orange? Did you see her Queensryche tattoos? I love lemons. It’s a little yellow and a little green, you know.”

  “You’ll be happy to know, Britney’s was and released,” Carter said. “She’s fine.”

  “Treatment for bad taste in music? That girl needs a lobotomy.”

  “Huh? What is she talking about?” Carter asked.

  “Who knows?” Ida Belle said. “Just go with it.”

  “How is Sally?” I asked.

  “She’s safe, thanks to you,” Carter said.

  I looked at the nurse, “She is way over a hundred and forty pounds, you know.”

  “Maybe you should rest,” Carter said.

  “My best friend and lover, Carter,” I repeated. “You brought me flowers. I love them, dear sweet beautiful Carter.”

  Carter blushed when I used the word ‘lover.’

  “She’s still loopy,” Gertie said.

  “Yeah, that’s obvious,” Ida Belle agreed.

  “I’ll see if I can get the doctor,” the nurse said.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “You had your bell rung good,” Carter said. “Do you remember getting into a tussle with Manny Montoya’s muscle man?”

  “Ricki Garcia?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that’s him.”

  “No, I don’t remember.”

  Carter shot Ida Belle a concerned glance, “Well, you and he got into it good. You took him down—hard, but not before he got in a lick or two.”

  “Lick? That’s nice,” I said. “Do we have ice cream? I’d like a Klondike Bar.”

  “What?” Carter asked.

  “Hi, I’m Dr. Johnson,” a tall, bald man said, walking into the room. “I’m one of the emergency doctors here.” He walked over and lifted my eyelids and shined a light in them. I giggled and rubbed his bald head, which he seemed to take in stride.

  He held up his finger, “Fortune, can you follow my finger?”

  “Follow it where? Am I dressed ok? Where’s my bra and new shoes? They’re here somewhere.”

  “She’s not quite herself, doctor,” Gertie said.

  “Well, that’s normal,” he said. “She took quite a shot to the head. Fortune, do you know who these people are?”

  “I do,” I said, pointing. “That’s Ida Belle. That’s Gertie, and that’s my dear sweet, beautiful Carter. Come here and give me a big wet kiss, baby!” I snickered.

  “I’m worried,” Ida Belle said. “You were in a fight, Fortun
e, do you remember that?”

  “Yeah, but that was only because I flew all the way here without my pajamas and Carter hasn’t even seen my room. He had a beautiful girl in his room. I think he kept my toothbrush,” I pouted.

  Carter’s face turned red.

  “No, Fortune,” Dr. Johnson continued. “She means you got into a physical altercation with a terrible criminal. Do you remember that?”

  “Ricki Garcia?” I asked.

  “Yes, you remember?” he asked.

  “No.” I replied.

  “Okay, we’ll move on,” he said, standing back up. “Tell me this, Fortune—is Carter your husband?”

  “Maybe tomorrow,” I said. “Not today.”

  The red in Carter’s face deepened. I tugged on the doctor’s white coat sleeve. I motioned for him to bend down so I could whisper in his ear. He did so.

  “That awful Celia Arceneaux thinks I’m a slut. Did you know? Everyone in town has seen her underwear. She’s such a bitch.”

  “Uh, huh. Is it okay if I talk to Carter and these two ladies about your records?” the doctor asked.

  They expunged my records when I turned eighteen,” I replied. “And I’m sure they’ve repaired the fountain at the school by now.”

  Everyone paused.

  “I’ll just take that as a yes,” the Doctor said, turning to Carter. “Please don’t be too alarmed. Fortune took a real solid blow to the head, giving her a good concussion. She’s had swelling in the brain but it’s short-term. Her MRI and test results are positive and I expect a full recovery but she needs rest. Even though she is not making much sense, the fact she is talking and responding to questions is a fantastic sign. I’ll give her a light sedative so she can sleep.”

  I tugged on the doctor’s coat again, “We call The new cough syrup Black Widow. It will knock you on your ass, Doc. You need to lighten up. Gertie, get this man cough syrup.”

  Gertie chuckled. Ida Belle glared at her.

  “So, her brains are a little scrambled...” Gertie began. “She’s funny, don’t you think?”

  “We prefer to call it confusion or disorientation, but yes, it should clear up soon,” the doctor said. “I expect after a good night’s sleep, she will be much more herself.”

  “Okay,” Ida Belle said. She patted my arm, “You get some rest and we’ll be back in the morning.”