She’d left the driver window halfway down. Fifty million in art, and she left the window down. Which was where the lovely shrimp aroma was wafting from.
The art, the original art, the art everyone had been chasing and Robin Sandoval lost her life for, was ruined. There’d be no separating it from the shrimp. The good news was it was safe. Bea’s car could be stuffed to the headliner with solid gold bars and there wasn’t a thief in the world who’d have the stomach to steal it. Or even reach in for a bar. Or even come within fifty feet of it.
I turned to make my way to the other side of the garage where Fantasy was bent over the waist-high concrete railing sucking in fresh air. I wove between cars. I was so sick of my rain boots. I was mentally going through my telephone options. The pre-charged phone was already approaching not-charged status. I didn’t want to call the Bellissimo and have Bradley paged. I didn’t have my parents’ numbers, and I wasn’t about to call the police. The stars were fading as Saturday prepared to make itself known when I thought of who to call. I leaned over the concrete railing with Fantasy. With my last sliver of battery, I dialed 1-800-WIN-JOLIE. When the operator answered, I asked to speak to No Hair. “Jeremy,” I corrected myself. “Jeremy Covey.”
“It’s four in the morning, Davis. You woke me up. This had better be good.”
Fantasy and I had the phone between our tipped heads.
“It’s five in the morning, No Hair.”
“I’m on Central Time.”
I always forgot that.
“Are you calling about the Falcons? Brad knows. He’s on top of it.”
“I’m calling about a million things, No Hair, and the Falcons aren’t one of them. What about them? What’s Bradley on top of?”
“The feds seized the planes when they landed at Million Air, Davis.”
“Why?”
“I hear they were looking for art.”
Fantasy and I exchanged a glance.
“What about my players?” I asked.
“Limos to the Bellissimo,” No Hair said. “But most of them have already found their way to Blitz, because they like your game.”
Fantasy said, “This just gets better and better.”
There was a moment of silence. I thought it best to not interrupt.
“How are you, Fantasy?” No Hair asked.
“I’m fine, other than I need sleep and a shower.”
“And a job,” No Hair said.
“I’m thinking about retirement,” she told him.
I wiped Cutlass soot off my hands and onto my Mama t-shirt. Which didn’t help a bit.
“What do you two need?” No Hair asked. “Did you call to chitchat at four in the morning?”
I said, “For one, we need a ride to the Bellissimo.”
“Why are you calling me for a ride? I’m in Tunica.”
Fantasy said, “We don’t have a phone.”
“What are you calling me on, Fantasy? Your shoe?”
“I don’t have shoes either.”
I could hear No Hair shaking his head.
“Where’s Bradley?” I asked. “Do you know? Do you know where anyone is?”
“Brad went to Million Air to break the news to the pilot about his wife. In the middle of that, the feds pulled up and seized the planes and the hangar.”
“Why?” Fantasy asked.
“Looking for the damn art everyone’s chasing,” No Hair said.
“Where’s Bradley now?” I asked. “Where’s everyone else?”
“Your husband is still with the pilot,” No Hair said. “And your family is camping out in the only safe place they could find.”
“Where’s that?”
“The empty gallery. It’s the only room under the roof without a frame on the wall.”
“What about Bea?” I asked.
“As far as I know they’re still holding her,” No Hair said. “She won’t give up the art. Where the hell is the art, Davis?”
Fantasy fanned her face at the thought of the art.
“We’ve got it,” I said.
“Of course you do. Why wouldn’t you? Half of Mississippi looking for the art and you two are sitting on it. How did I not know that? Tell me where,” he said. “I’ll have Brad send someone to pick up you and the art.”
“Give me his number, No Hair,” I said. “I’ll call him.” I looked at Fantasy. “Do you have a pen?”
“Are you kidding me, Davis? No. I don’t have a pen.”
“Bust into one of these cars,” I said. “Find a pen.”
“If we’re going to bust into a car, let’s hotwire it and get the hell out of here.”
“Good idea,” I said. “Gotta scoot, No Hair.”
Easier said than done.
First, we decided hotwiring a car was a thing of the past—electric locks, electric ignitions, electric anti-theft devices. While we were trying to come up with an alternate plan, I called the Bellissimo switchboard with the last juice the pre-paid phone had left and asked to be connected to the gallery.
My sleepy mother answered the phone. “Hellooooo?”
“Mother, it’s me. Are the girls okay?”
“Davis? Where in the wide world are you? These babies are going to wake up any minute and be starving for their mama. Where are you?”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can, Mother. The girls are the best sleepers in the world. Just keep quiet and they’ll sleep until at least eight o’clock. If they do wake up, find July. She’ll fix them oatmeal with bananas and apple juice bottles.”
“July’s right here, honey. July and Baylor. Bradley told him if he let your girls out of his sight, he’d let you kill him.”
In a million years, I couldn’t have married a better man than Bradley.
“The bad news is Eddie Crawford’s here too.”
In a million years, I couldn’t have married a worse man than Eddie Crawford.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“I’m not. He’s come to spring his mother out of the pokey.”
How much worse was this going to get?
“Is Bradley back from the airport?”
“Let me take a look.”
“What’s she doing?” Fantasy asked.
“She’s looking for Bradley.”
“If the planes were seized when they landed—” She looked at her watch. “My watch is broken. My foot and my watch. Lord help us, this is the longest night.”
“Davis?” I gave my attention back to Mother. “He’s not here, honey.”
Bradley was having as long a night as Fantasy and I were, maybe even longer. There was only one death notification harder than spousal, and Bradley must still be easing Denver Sandoval through it.
“Your daddy and Bradley have been gone all night. Your daddy missed taking his blood pressure medicine.”
“Call one of them for me, Mother.” I waited for her to interrupt, fuss, or say something that had nothing to do with anything. She didn’t, so I kept going. “Tell them to pick us up in front of Blitz. Tell them to hurry.” I waited. “Tell Bradley to send Crisp. Or a cab.” I waited. “Mother?” I waited. “Mother?”
The pre-charged burner phone was dead.
Back to our first idea—hotwiring a car.
We could have walked the three miles to the Bellissimo in the time we spent looking for a car old enough to hotwire. I pressed my face against driver’s windows, leaving soot on every one, trying to determine if it was unlocked or not, because the only way to keep from setting off an alarm was to find one already unlocked.
“Doesn’t anyone drive old cars anymore?” I asked.
Ten more minutes and ten thousand more cars. We were on the fourth row, edging closer and closer to Bea’s Big Green Shrimp Gallery, when Fantasy said. “Forget it. I can’t go one inch
closer to Bea’s car.”
“Let’s rest a minute.”
We slid down to the concrete between a silver BMW4 and a red Kia Soul. Both brand spankin’ new.
“No one knows where we are,” Fantasy said.
“Knowing that I’ve lived nine months of my life with someone watching me brush my teeth, it feels good for no one to know where I am.”
“I’m thirsty. Are you thirsty?”
“I could use a drink.”
“A drink drink?” she asked. “At this time of the morning? Have we ever done that?”
“Probably.”
She tried to knock dirt off her Waffle House mini dress. It was a futile endeavor.
If someone could’ve told me my husband was home with our daughters and everyone would be fine for a few hours, I would’ve curled up and gone to sleep on the concrete. Instead, I said, “I get that Robin was a curator and loved art, but how could she love art enough to put her life on the line?”
“Maybe she had no idea someone would kill her over a few pictures, Davis.”
“She was too close to it not to know,” I said. “Doesn’t it feel like there should be more to this story than art? Like money? Or revenge? Or unrequited love? Her motivation wasn’t strong enough, and Hyatt Johnson’s reaction was too strong. The whole thing is out of proportion and there has to be more of a connection than art between Robin Sandoval and the Johnsons.”
“Like what?”
“Like she was about to blow the lid on the Patterson Store scam.”
“She didn’t know about that, Davis, or she’d be long dead.”
“You knew,” I said, “and you’re not dead.”
“Because I’m not a curator. I know how to stay alive.”
We froze when we heard a car approach. We resumed respiratory and cardiac functions when it passed.
“Maybe she wasn’t the connection,” Fantasy said. “Maybe it was her husband.”
“No,” I said. “He’s Air Force through and through. He’s clean.”
“Don’t be so sure,” she said. “One of the Johnson cousins is an Air Force man, flew several tours in Afghanistan, and he’s in the family business up to his eyeballs.”
The back of my head hit the Kia Soul. And not gently. “Her husband.”
“What?”
“She didn’t turn Blitz over to the feds for counterfeit art, Fantasy. She flipped her husband. Which means she flipped the whole Johnson family. Her husband is Denver J. Sandoval. J is for Johnson! Hyatt didn’t have Robin killed, her own husband did. And he’s with my husband.”
Twenty-Six
The only way to get to my husband was via Bea’s car, and there was no driving it until I got the shrimp out. Fantasy could strap herself to the hood and she’d still die of anaphylactic shock unless I got the shrimp out.
“Get a garbage can before you dive in there, Davis. Look for one around the pumps.”
We had no money, we had no phone, we had nothing but Bea’s shrimpmobile, and I had to unshrimp it.
“What pumps?” I asked. “Those green things? What are they?”
“The casino walls are eight-story fountains. Those pumps run the fountains. They aerate the water and blow bubbles through the casino. Which is why you can’t park there.”
I knew all about those bubblewallers.
“Stay here.” I stood.
“What are you going to do, Davis?”
“I’m going to get the shrimp out of Bea’s car so we can hotwire it and get to Bradley. Just stay here and wait on me.”
Only for my husband.
Only.
I took the first few steps slowly. Twice I changed my mind, but both times I kept going. The closer I got to Bea’s car, the thicker I bunched my Mama shirt over my nose and mouth. I circled the big green tank, then took a look at the water pumps. They were cast iron and self-priming, with an input hose on the top connected to a water source somewhere under the concrete floor. I spotted a metal garbage can behind a concrete barrier. I helped myself to the domed metal lid.
My sense of smell was numbing, on its way to gone.
Now, the car.
For my husband and only for my husband.
I reached in the cracked driver window and pulled up the twenty-year-old knob lock, opened the driver door, and was almost knocked down by the rush of decayed shrimp that hit me like a wall. Blindly, because my eyes were pouring, I climbed in and unlocked the back door. I got out and rushed to the concrete railing to gulp unshrimped air. When I had two lungs full, I opened the back door and slammed around millions of dollars of art until I located the white Styrofoam square of what used to be five pounds of shrimp. I dragged it out, then went for more air. I used the metal garbage can lid to knock the input hose off the fountain pump and water snaked everywhere, including all over me, at a velocity close to fire hydrant. I peeled the lid off the Styrofoam cooler, and with my head just about swiveled all the way around, tipped the cooler contents into the fountain feed.
I thought it best to sit down.
I thought I might pass out.
I thought I heard a car engine.
Fantasy had stripped out of her Waffle House uniform and was wearing it around her head like a turban. All I could see were her eyes. While I’d been shrimping up the Blitz casino fountain feed, she’d hotwired Bea’s car. She’d already backed it out and was gunning the engine beside me. She tugged at her turban enough to get her lips and two words out: “GET IN!”
I dove, practically landing in her lap, and we got out of the Blitz parking lot the same way we’d gotten in—scraping the concrete walls going ninety-to-nothing.
We’d arrived in a clunker with hundreds of dollars of marijuana.
We left in a shrimp tank with millions of dollars of art.
And we had to find my husband.
As we tore out of Blitz, we heard sirens. Staccato, fire drill whoops.
“What is that?” I climbed over the front seat art to hang my head out the passenger window. I pulled my head back in the car long enough to ask.
She pulled hers back in long enough to answer. “They’re evacuating the casino.”
“Go the back way,” I said. “Lamey Bridge Road.”
“Should we stop at Sal and Mookie’s and get our phones?”
“Our phones are in the dumpster, Fantasy.”
“Like we’re going to get dirty?”
She had a point.
“We need to pull over anyway,” I said. “You need to put your uniform back on.”
We pulled behind Sal and Mookie’s. We left the car running with the headlights aimed on the dumpster. Then we went dumpster diving.
I didn’t know if either of us would eat pizza again. I knew for a fact we were through with shrimp. And I was pretty sure, climbing back into the car and catching a glimpse of myself in the side mirror, that there would be no saving my hair. I was going to have to shave my head and start over.
I had my left Burberry rain boot out the window, banging out dumpster violations. When I finished, I did the same with my right rain boot. I cleaned my phone with my Mama shirt, which didn’t have a spot of pink or a rhinestone left. We were on Beach Boulevard again, and Fantasy’s phone was stuck to her head with mozzarella cheese, because she hadn’t wiped hers down before she called her husband Reggie. I would’ve liked to have called my husband, but I couldn’t, because his pepperoni phone was in my lap.
“Lock the doors, Reggie, and bad news, you’re unemployed.”
Everything he told her, she relayed to me.
“They had to close the casino. The fountain was contaminated.”
She listened.
“The website says they’ll reopen tonight, high stakes only.”
“With my game in it.”
She listened.
�
��They won’t know when the main casino will reopen until the hazmat people clear out.” Then to Reggie she said, “Shrimp. It was shrimp.” She listened. “Well, it was old shrimp.”
“Stop talking about the shrimp, Fantasy.”
Before she hung up, she said, “Keep the boys away from the front windows, because if I ever get home, I’m coming in naked. Lay down some tarp from the front door to the shower.” She listened. “You don’t want to know.”
When she hung up, I called my father.
“Daddy!”
“Sweet Pea! Where are you?”
“I’m with Fantasy.”
That stumped him.
“Daddy, where’s Bradley?”
“I don’t know, honey. He picked me up at the jail and dropped me back with your mother and the girls an hour ago.”
“Do you have his burner phone number?”
He didn’t.
“Is he alone?”
“He has the one pilot still with him. Feel bad for the guy, losing his wife.”
The worst news, the news I didn’t want, and I didn’t feel a bit bad for the guy. He had his wife killed for turning his family over to the feds. I dropped the phone to my chin and a flat mushroom dropped to my zebra pants, then told Fantasy, “Bradley is still with Sandoval.”
She said, “Bradley has my gun.”
“Davis?”
Back to Daddy. “Your place has been cleaned up and all the computer wiring and speakers have been stripped out. Your mother and I will be there with the girls.”
“Have the girls eaten, Daddy?”
“They haven’t even woken up yet.”
Good. Good baby girls. They were safe and had slept through it all.
“One question,” Daddy said. “What are all these crates?”
“I don’t know anything about any crates, Daddy. What crates? Where?”
“Don’t worry about it, Davis. Just stay safe and get back here in one piece.”
“One last thing,” I said. “What about Bea?”
“I haven’t seen her, honey. Someone named Juan posted bail for her. I don’t know where she is.”
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