Bad Beat

by Carolina Mac

The staff photographer took a plethora of pictures and asked us to choose which poses we wanted. “We’ll take them all,” I said, giving him our new address.

  The minister wished us well in our new life together and then formally announced us. “I wish to present to you, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson Traynor.

  Jackson beamed. I smiled. Billy looked like he might throw up and Rusty laughed.

  As the four of us exited through the front door of the chapel onto the sidewalk, the afternoon sun in the west blinded me for a moment. I shaded my eyes with my hand as I looked down the block and saw three police cruisers parked in front of the jail. Multiple officers were taking a prisoner out of the back seat of one of the cars. My heart pounded and I my mouth went dry. I tugged on Jackson to get him around the corner of the building towards the Hummer.

  “One minute, baby.” He had spotted the cruisers and was intent on watching. “I think that’s Stan they’re taking into the building.” He put on his shades. “May he rot in jail.”

  Billy and Rusty stood by Jackson’s side at the corner of the chapel, shading their eyes from the sun and squinting to get a better look at the proceedings down the street.

  “Let’s go,” I said, wanting to get Jackson far away from his father. As I grabbed his hand to get him moving, the sound of a shot made me turn my head. The guard on Stan’s right fell to the pavement and in a blur, I saw Stan pull the gun from the holster of the officer on his left. In a split second, he shot the guard with his own gun and was off and running in our direction. He was running with a limp, bent slightly forward and holding the gun in his cuffed hands.

  Why were his hands cuffed in front of him? Why wasn’t he shackled?

  I opened my purse, trying to catch a breath and sort my gun out from make-up and other useless items. My fingers grasped the butt and I flicked the safety off.

  “Jackson,” I screamed, “get in the Hummer. Billy, are you ready?”

  “Ready.” Billy was quicker than me and he had his gun at eye level and was drawing a bead on Stan as he dodged between cars and zigzagged across the busy street. I fired once as he rolled in front of a car onto the sidewalk on our side of the street. Jackson stood frozen in time.

  “Rusty, get Jackson to the truck,” I yelled and gave Jackson a push in Rusty’s direction.

  “I’m not leaving you, Annie. Not this time.”

  Pedestrians screamed and ran for cover as they realized a prisoner had escaped and shots were being fired.

  Stan’s limping increased in severity as he ran up the street towards us. The closer he came, the more his wounded leg dragged. An army of law enforcement was gaining on him and closing the gap. Stan turned and fired three wild shots into the band of officers chasing him. Wolinski grabbed his gut and fell to the sidewalk writhing and rolling. Where was his vest? Two officers stopped to help Wolinski and the other four kept coming. Billy got another round off, but with so many cops behind Stan, he couldn’t get a clear shot.

  “Rusty, make him go,” I shouted.

  Rusty grabbed Jackson by the arm and tried to drag him in the direction of the Hummer, but Jackson was bigger and stronger than Rusty, and he shook him off.

  Jackson pushed Rusty away with color rising in his neck. “Get your hands off me. I’m staying with Annie,” he hollered.

  As Stan came closer, I jumped in front of Jackson and drew a bead on his father. My breathing was ragged and my hands shook as I aimed. Stan raised his gun to fire at me and I was sure I had him. My shot was lined up and my finger was squeezing the trigger as Jackson pushed me to the ground and my 9mm ricocheted off a dumpster in the parking lot. Stan’s shot that was meant for me hit his son in the throat and Jackson landed with a thud in the dirt beside me. Most of Jackson’s weight was on my right arm. I hoisted the Beretta with my left hand and fired a kill shot at Stan’s head. He hit the sidewalk with a thud right at Billy’s feet.

  Blood gushed from Jackson’s throat as I tore my jacket off and pressed it over the wound. “Help him,” I screamed, “somebody help him.” I knew the boys would be getting help for their leader as fast as they could, but could anyone get Jackson to the hospital in time? Sirens wailed in the distance and I hoped for a miracle.

  I cradled my husband in my arms and rocked him as I sobbed. “I love you, Jackson. I’ll love you forever. My tears spilled down making a patch of his worn black leather jacket look shiny and new.

  The boys hovered around me as I sat on the ground with my husband, protecting me from the prying eyes of onlookers and media hounds. When the paramedics arrived, I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t give him up. We’d only been married for ten minutes. An officer pried my Beretta out of my hand and bagged it for evidence. The medical examiner knelt down beside Jackson and asked me to give him room. I didn’t want to leave him. If I let the medical examiner have him that would mean my Jackson was dead.

  I sat on the ground in the parking lot and thought of the day George had died, and how Jackson had taken care of me ever since. Blackness rolled in and filled my head. I welcomed it.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  WHEN I WOKE screaming in my darkened bedroom, the events of my wedding day tumbled through my head like the trailer for a horror movie. Realization of the truth brought me to the brink of insanity. Jackson was gone.

  Billy grabbed my convulsing body, held me close to his own and tried to calm me. He stroked my hair as I shivered and wailed like a wounded animal.

  I stumbled off the bed, made my way to the bathroom and vomited. The cold tile floor soothed my quivering body as I lay there hoping for an immediate divine response to my request for termination.

  Hours later, disappointed that my heart still beat rhythmically inside my chest, I stood up and stripped off my dress. Reeking of death, the silk had stiffened under the layer of Jackson’s encrusted blood. I rolled it into a ball for the garbage, added my underwear to the pile and stepped into the shower. Hot water ran over my skin for what felt like an eternity and gave me no relief. I dried myself, wrapped up in a clean towel and went to find some clothes.

  Billy waited on the side of the bed. “I was worried about you, Portia,” he said. “You were in there for a long time.”

  “I was sick,” I mumbled.

  “I heard you. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Nothing. There’s nothing,” I whispered.

  “I’ll go take a shower,” he said.

  “Thanks, honey,” I said, as he left the room.

  I pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and braved my way into the kitchen. Rusty sat perched on a stool at the counter. He turned, held his arms out for me and pulled me close. I sobbed until his shirt was soaked with my tears.

  “I made coffee,” he said when I released him. “It’s a bit strong.”

  “Today, strong is what we need.”

  “I’ll get you a cup.”

  Nobody was in the mood for conversation. What was there to say? I slumped on a stool, leaned my elbows on the counter and managed a smile as Rusty set the cream in front of me.

  Billy emerged from his shower looking clean and damp. He said nothing as he took the stool next to me.

  “Rusty made coffee,” I mumbled.

  “Thanks, bro,” said Billy, “I hope it’s strong.”

  Rusty set our mugs on the counter. I added cream and passed it to Billy.

  “Anybody need sugar?” asked Rusty without thinking.

  I laid my head on the counter and sobbed.

  When I forced myself out of the crying jag I found the boys on the patio smoking. I took a deep breath, picked up my mug and joined them. Angel ran over to greet me with her red ball in her mouth. I patted her head and ruffled up the fur around her neck. Rusty and Billy didn’t know what to say to offer me comfort. I was content with silence.

  Rusty butted out his smoke and stood up. “I’m going to make breakfast,” he mumbled, walking through the patio door.

  Billy patted his knee and pulled me close to him while I cried. A few minutes lat
er, Rusty hollered that breakfast was ready, and Billy and I went inside. Rusty had fried up a pan of eggs and bacon and produced a tower of toast.

  “Smells good,” I said. I wasn’t hungry. “I’ll have more coffee.”

  “I made a fresh pot,” Rusty said. “I don’t think it’s as strong as the batch this morning.”

  You’re fuckin amazing, man,” said Billy. “You can paint and cook.”

  “You can sing, Billy and that takes talent,” Rusty said with a sad sigh. “Never heard you sing before. You’re damn good. You know that, right?”

  Billy smiled and I patted his hand. He helped himself to another piece of toast. The doorbell rang. I looked at Billy and he shook his head. “No fuckin cops today,” he said as he strode to the front of the house.

  “I’m Special Agent Gloria Conner,” I heard her say. “Could I speak with Mrs. Traynor?”

  Before Billy responded, I made my way to the door. “Agent Conner. Something you need?” The ice in my tone cut the air.

  “I stopped by to offer my condolences, and to see if you had made any arrangements.” “No, I haven’t given it much thought.”

  “I can offer a couple of recommendations if you’re interested.”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  Agent Connor wrote the names and numbers down of two funeral homes in the area and handed me the paper. “My partner is in ICU,” she said. “I’ll have to get further statements from all of you, but I can put that off until tomorrow.”

  Wolinski has no right to live.

  “Mr. Coulter is leaving. What time is your flight tonight, Rusty?”

  “I think it’s at six,” he said, checking his watch.

  “Could you take his statement now?” I asked.

  She nodded. Rusty poured us fresh coffee and we took our mugs outside while he had his interview with Connor.

  Billy lit up a smoke and sat silently. I tried to focus on the names on the paper. “I guess I should call one of these numbers.”

  “I’ll call and get an appointment for tomorrow,” Billy said, taking the paper from my hand. “What do you want for Jackson?”

  “I’m going to have him cremated. Next week, you and I will ride to the Grand Canyon with his ashes.” Tears streamed down my face.

  Billy nodded, his eyes brimming as he went inside.

  Rusty joined me on the patio after Agent Conner left. “I really don’t want to go back to Toronto and leave you like this, Portia.”

  “I have Billy. He’ll help me through the worst parts. He can be silly, but he can also be sweet and supportive.”

  Rusty nodded. “In the club, he’s all business. He never dicked around when the boss gave him an order.”

  “He and Jackson were so close, he’s taking this hard.”

  “I’ve got to face the club, tell them the news and take the boys in hand. It won’t be easy. They were used to Jackson and he was a tough, strong leader.”

  Billy came back outside. “Eleven tomorrow at this address.” He pointed to the one he had circled.

  I nodded. “I think I’ll lie down for a while.”

  The new duvet on our bed was splotched with crimson where I had rolled in my sleep. I ripped it off and threw it in a pile on the floor. Billy came in quietly a few minutes later and covered me with a blanket.

  Sleep came in waves with me jolting myself awake remembering Jackson was gone. After a couple of hours of this, I gave up, washed my face and went into the kitchen. “I’m having a beer. Anybody else?”

  Rusty called from the garage, “We’re ahead of you, Portia.”

  I went out to the garage, sat on my bike and watched the guys tinkering around. They fiddled with the bikes, and the trailer, and then the jukebox. “You know what else we need out here, Billy?”

  “What?”

  “A beer fridge.”

  Billy nodded but he didn’t comment.

  At four o’clock we drove Rusty to the airport and walked him to the check-in. “Thanks for coming, Rusty. I’ll be in touch,” I gave him a big hug.

  “You guys need anything, call me and I’ll be on the next plane.”

  “Thanks,” Billy said.

  Rusty went through the gate. Billy took my hand and we walked back to the truck like a pair of zombies.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  WHEN I WOKE, I was lying on Jackson’s side of our bed covered by a blanket. Billy was sleeping in a chair beside the bed. I pressed my face into Jackson’s pillow and breathed him in. The anguish was suffocating. My brain was filled with a cold numbness and I wondered how I would live through the day.

  “You’re awake,” Billy mumbled.

  I tried to sit up. Was I awake? Or was this one long nightmare that I’d never wake up from?

  After my shower, I dressed in plain black pants and a pale green blousy top. My eyes were circled in red from crying and I didn’t bother to disguise the signs of my anguish. Funeral directors must face that look every day of the week. Sadness and despair are their bread and butter.

  Billy stood staring at the coffee maker when I entered the kitchen, the tin of coffee on the counter and the brown scoop in his hand. “How many scoops do you put in this fucker?”

  “Four,” I said, pulling two mugs down from the cupboard. “Then fill the water up to the line in the pot, pour the water in the back, close the lid and press go.”

  He pushed the button on the machine and heaved a huge sigh. “I’m a chef now. Do you want me to make you some toast?”

  The lump in my throat tightened and I swallowed. “Sure. Toast would be good. I like raspberry jam on it.”

  “Coming up,” he popped bread into the toaster peering down into the slots like he’d never done it before.

  “Are you coming with me to the funeral home?”

  Billy nodded. “I am. You might need me.”

  “Of course, I need you. You’re all I have left in the world.” My eyes welled up.

  He sprinted around the counter and held me while I wiped the tears away. “Don’t you have any family at all?”

  I shook my head. “I never knew my mother. I have her old high school yearbook and that’s the only picture I have of her. She got pregnant in her graduating year and gave me up. I always imagined how my life would have been if she had raised me. I grew up in foster care.”

  “I never knew that,” he said as he stepped back and handed me a tissue.

  I felt another meltdown coming on. I was missing Jackson so badly. I stepped over to the counter and focused more than I needed to on filling my mug.

  Billy followed on my heels. “Well looks like we only have each other.”

  I looked at his sad smile over the rim of my mug and blinked back the next round of tears. “How long will the club leave you here with me?”

  “I’m not sure. Rusty checks in with me every day, but hasn’t mentioned me coming back to Toronto yet.” He set his mug back on the counter. “Let’s not worry about that now. We’ve got enough ahead of us to deal with today.”

  THE FUNERAL HOME was a blur of consolatory words and men in muted shades of gray. Somehow, I had managed to nod when asked questions and signed the necessary papers. No service. Jackson’s cremation would be held on Wednesday and I could attend the cremation or not, depending on how I felt.

  Two hours later, Billy parked the Hummer in the garage. He opened the back door for me and held out his hand. “You look pale, Portia

  When I stepped out of the truck, my legs wouldn’t hold me. Billy scooped me up and carried me through the kitchen door, placing me gently on the leather sofa. “Stay there. I’m getting us a beer.”

  Angel bounded over and licked my face. “Hey, girl, do you want to go out?” I ruffed up her fur and tried to stand. I was wobbly.

  “I’ve got the dog. You relax.”

  Billy let Angel out and returned to sit beside me. He uncapped one for himself, chugged it and opened another. “That was the first fuckin time I’ve been in one of those funeral things.” He blew
out a big breath.

  I held his hand and leaned on his shoulder. “You were great, honey,” I whispered.

  My cell rang in my purse and I jumped and I fished it out. The screen read LVPD.

  “Mrs. Traynor? Officer Rodriguez here, we’d like to come over sometime this afternoon and get your statements.”

  I sighed, wishing the whole world would go away. “Three o’clock okay?”

  “See you at three.”

  “Cops make me fuckin’ sweat,” said Billy.

  “They’re doing their job,” I mumbled.

  Billy finished his second beer. “I’m starving,” he said. “Would you show me how to grill us a couple of burgers?”

  Would I ever be hungry again? I doubted it.

  “Sure.” We took all the fixings outside, and I showed him how to start the barbecue, gave him a quick lesson on cooking burgers and turned him loose. “I’ll get the buns.”

  In the kitchen, I poured a fresh beer into my glass and took a couple of deep breaths.

  What was I doing? Oh, yeah, buns.

  I knew from dealing with George’s death that over the next few weeks I’d have to keep myself extremely busy or I’d go insane. How could I live without Jackson? He was my life after George died and I had depended on him for everything.

  After lunch was cleaned up, I lay on the sofa watching Criminal Minds while Billy played poker online on the iPad. At three o’clock the cops rang the doorbell and our day went from bad to worse. Billy and I gave our statements, but what was the point? It didn’t have to happen. If Wolinski had listened to me, Jackson would still be alive. I told him he’d lose Stan if he didn’t take things more seriously and he laughed at me. He fuckin’ laughed on the phone.

  I hope the bastard dies. A life for a life.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  I WOKE WITH a start the next morning, a gentle hand squeezing my shoulder. Since Jackson’s death, I’d been edgy.

  Billy gave me a sad smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. It’s getting late. Do you want to go to the cremation?”

  I tightened my fingers into Jackson’s pillow and pulled the fabric closer to my face. God, please let me die today. Let today be the day. I can’t live without Jackson.