3 A Brewski for the Old Man

by Phyllis Smallman

  “It’s you,” I said, meaning, “it’s you, Anita, and not the bride of Chucky.”

  Anita Charters leaned in towards me and asked, “You okay?”

  “Almost,” I said and tried to smile, glad to see someone who didn’t want to kill me. She might look like a walking garbage bag but at least she was harmless.

  “You have a distinctive license plate,” she said. What in hell was she talking about?

  “You really don’t look well.” She moved back from the truck and opened the door. “Come with me, you need a drink.”

  She said the magic words — a drink. I’d follow her anywhere for a drink. I turned off the overhead to save my battery and grabbed the keys and my bag.

  At first I couldn’t understand where she was going; she didn’t go out of the parking lot or walk around the clubhouse to the path along the lake but headed for the barrier wall around the compound. The wall was faced with cedars. Anita trotted for them at a suicidal speed, determined to smash herself against the concrete, but at the last second slipping between two column-like cedars in the row that fronted the barrier. She disappeared behind the greenery. It was a crazy place to find booze but the promise of a drink was all I needed to follow her.

  Between the stucco wall blocking off the street and the thick hedge of cedars was a four-foot-wide grass path. The lights from the back of the recreation center hardly penetrated here, but from what I could see in the dim light it looked as if it was a corridor for utilities. Unconcerned about the lack of illumination, Anita was off, a marathoner in clogs. I figured she must need a drink even more than I did.

  We only went about a hundred yards before the path ended in a six-foot wooden gate set in the hedge. Anita opened the gate and went in.

  Like an errant child sent for a time-out, the backyard of the house hunkered down in a corner, a triangle up against the eight-foot-high stucco wall in the corner of the compound. Diffused light glowed through a curtained window from the golden stucco house. Totally separate from the other houses, heavy foliage planted up the sides dwarfed the house, and a strange secret garden surrounded an algae-dark kidney-shaped pool built for little people.

  The need for alcohol had led me to many a strange place but this one was the strangest of all, eerie even. Anita sped around the flagged edged of the pool towards the back door with me on her heels. She wasn’t getting away from me — I so wanted that drink. A motion detector light came on as we approached the back of the house.

  The back door was unlocked. “Come in,” Anita ordered. She marched into the dim interior without waiting to see if I would follow; not even civility was going to stand between her and the booze. I glanced around the backyard, suddenly wary and trying to decide if I would follow her or go back. What was freaking me out? Maybe it was just the leftover fear from Sheila and her pal. But they couldn’t find me here — here I was safe.

  The overhead light switched off, plunging the backyard into blackness. Could I find the path back in the dark? How easy would it be to find the gap between the two cedars? It was then I realized what a mistake I’d made stopping at the rec hall. If I went back now who was going to be waiting for me? I shivered and went in.

  Tiny wall sconces lit the hall, throwing tall eerie shadows onto the ceilings and casting barely enough light to see. Anita had disappeared but I could hear her. I went down the dark corridor to the front of the house. The room I entered smelt musty and disused, like a load of wet laundry forgotten in a washing machine for days, but what the hell, it came with a drink.

  The twilight had already slipped into full night when I had left Sheila’s. Although the street lights were on, the plantings seemed to have grown up over the windows of Anita’s house, barring any light from the outside. Or maybe no light standards were placed in front of this forgotten house. Either way, no light shone in the windows. Anita switched on a table lamp. Its glow was swallowed by the heavy dark furniture that sat on nearly black hardwood floors. My eyes settled on a silver bar cart. That was all I was interested in.

  “Sit,” she ordered.

  I sat. I would have sworn Anita Charters was a silly ineffectual woman incapable of giving anyone orders but she was doing a pretty good job of sorting me out.

  She went to the bar cart, opened the ice bucket and frowned. “I’ll get ice.” She clumped out, not an ounce of grace in her. Watching her go I realized for the first time that she was bowlegged. I sank back on the cut-velvet sofa and closed my eyes, grateful to be safe. From an adrenalin high, I was sinking into an exhausted funk. A drink was just what I needed and within minutes I had a very hearty Scotch in my hand. “The police came to see me,” Anita told me. I sipped my Scotch so not interested in her problems.

  “Someone told them I had a gun.”

  “You did, you told them you had a gun.”

  “What? I did not.”

  “Well, you pretty much announced it in the Sunset. There’re no secrets in bars.”

  She worked that one around for a while as I made inroads on my Scotch.

  “Why were you at Sheila’s?” she asked. She waved a hand.

  “Oh, don’t waste time trying to deny it. I was playing bridge. Janie’s husband came in and said he saw you at Sheila Dressal’s.”

  “Who is Janie?” One of us wasn’t making sense. I took a nice bracing glug of the Scotch. Who the shit cared what the crazy woman was talking about as long as the ice didn’t melt in my drink? I hate watered-down Scotch.

  Anita had also lost interest in this Janie person. “R.J. Leenders was a pig. He deserved to die.”

  “Oh yeah, we can all agree on that. Is this Glenlivet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thought so,” I said, proud of my palate, but then the smoky taste of ten-year-old Scotch is pretty distinctive. “He deserved it,” Anita said again.

  Hadn’t I already agreed with her on this point? I rolled the glass between my hands and tried to decide if I was going to call the police and have Sheila charged with threatening me. It was going to be my word against hers, but should she be allowed to get away with it? She might kill someone the next time. But the cops couldn’t arrest you for what you might do, or we’d all be in jail.

  I rubbed my forehead. I was starting to feel a little wasted but then it had been that kind of a night. “Where’s Thia now?” I don’t know why I asked this question but it seemed important.

  Anita’s head shot up and her jaw jutted out. She said, “Never mind. You forget about Thia. She’s going to New York. She’s going to have a career, going to be famous. Thia has it all.” And Anita didn’t, a duck giving birth to a swan. “When’s she going to New York?”

  “As fast as I can get her there.” Anita was trying to protect her daughter, wanted to get her out of Florida before some nasty truths came out. How much did Anita know about Thia and Ray John? Or did she have another reason for wanting Thia away? Would she cover for her daughter if she knew she was a murderer?

  If I committed a murder, would Ruth Ann cover for me? I already knew Tully would. Maybe that was just how things were with parents. And if Anita was trying so hard to protect Thia, did that mean she knew Thia had killed Ray John? Shit, I didn’t want to know. Miguel was right, I should just mind my own business and let the rest of the world do the same. Look where it had almost gotten me with Sheila.

  She pointed at me with her highball. “I bet that Sheila was the one mouthing off about me having a gun. She was in the Sunset last night.”

  “Look, all the cops had to do was run your name through the gun registration. They could find out for themselves if you had a gun. They’re probably running a check on everyone in the Preserves.”

  She thought about it and then drank about half her drink, “Maybe, but Sheila has always been jealous of me.” I managed to keep my thoughts on that to myself. “Or that Mark Cummings told them. He likely killed RJ. He drove in right after that girl left,” Anita said and emptied her glass.

  C H A P T E R 5 3

 
That alarm bell, which had started ringing earlier, far off and distant, now was clanging like I’d stuck my head in the belfry. “You seem to know a lot about it.”

  She got to her feet and headed to the bar cart. “Everyone does, that’s all they talk about out here. The Preserves,” she snorted, “more like purgatory.” “People are scared.”

  She threw ice cubes at her glass. “You bet they are.” Her tone was angry and aggressive, not frightened. At least one person in the compound had it together.

  “Are people scared about what’s going to come out or are they scared because they’ve got a murderer in their midst?”

  “Who the shit cares?” she replied. The weepy woman from the Royal Palms had evaporated.

  I tried a new gambit. “Ray John had a hold over a lot of people.”

  “Not me.” She plopped back against the overstuffed cushions, knees spread and heading in opposite directions, clogs dropping off her feet to the floor. “No way I’d let that piece of shit beat me.”

  “Ray John,” I looked for tactful words, “well, he was playing a big part in Thia’s life.”

  “Ray John is dead. Things will get back to normal. People will forget. Ray John Leenders can’t hurt anyone now. He was a bastard. Do you know where he was shot?” She made a gun of her hand and pointed to three places as she said, “He was shot in the head, the heart and the crotch, but on him they were all the same organ.” She laughed, a nasty depraved sound.

  And I laughed. Don’t know why it seemed funny but it did. Control seemed to be slipping away. The room was strangely out of kilter. After yeoman amounts of practice, and at great expense to my liver, it seemed I was losing my ability to handle alcohol. I was so sleepy I could barely keep my eyes open. Perhaps it was the combination of near death and the joy of escape, mixed with the adrenalin rush and booze, but a heavy blanket of tiredness was swamping me. I stretched out my arm to put the glass on the table. I misjudged where the table was and it tilted dangerously before I shoved it further onto the ebony surface using both hands. I wasn’t well. “Have to go.” I struggled out of the depths of the couch, almost made it to my feet and fell back.

  “You haven’t finished your drink yet, barely touched it.” Anita’s voice wasn’t friendly.

  “Air…need to go.” I made it to my feet this time.

  “You don’t look so well. Just stretch out where you are until you feel better.”

  “Saturday…busiest day.” I was walking slowly, dragging my feet through molasses. What was wrong with me? “Short-staffed.” I headed for the front door and not back out the way I came in.

  From behind me I felt a hand clamp on my shoulder, fingers digging in, Anita holding me back with her cruel and painful claws.

  “You know, don’t you?”

  “Don’t know.” The head shake to go with the words threw me off balance. “Don’t know.”

  “You were there that night. I thought it was a young girl but it was you. I saw your license plate as you were leaving, RIF RAF, and you saw me coming through the hedge, didn’t you?”

  “No, no, wasn’t there.”

  “I made a mistake at the Sunset when I told you RJ was shot three times.”

  Bingo, the thing I’d forgotten and wanted to ask Styles — how many times was Ray John shot?

  “The cops haven’t told anyone that piece of news, have they? And I shouldn’t have told you about my gun.”

  “Did you use it to shoot Ray John?” Stupid question. Wrong, wrong, wrong thing to say. Why did I want to know?

  “Didn’t have to, RJ’s was right there on the desk, just waiting for me.” She smiled at me. “Good of him to provide the weapon. No one will ever connect it with me.” She smiled again. “And I went out to shoot my own gun so any powder residue could be explained. Smart of me, wasn’t it?”

  I backed away from her, my hand scrambling for the door, hunting for the knob, but she grabbed me by the front of my blouse.

  “You aren’t going anywhere,” she said and shook me. What was wrong with me? I couldn’t defend myself, couldn’t make my arms work enough to push her away.

  “He called me an ugly old skank. He shouldn’t have done that.”

  “What did you give me?” was what I tried to say but my tongue was too large and it came out all garbled. My body, growing heavy and no longer obeying, slumped. Only Anita’s grip on my shirt held me up.

  “You are such a nosey bitch,” Anita told me. A noise came from outside the front door…she stopped and looked at the door, her eyes widening as she heard the key.

  The front door opened and I heard footsteps. I couldn’t make my body cooperate enough to turn my head and see what was happening. Thia walked around us.

  “What are you doing home?” Anita demanded, still gripping my shirt.

  Thia looked from me to her mother and said, “What’s up?” “Why are you here? You weren’t supposed to come home,” Anita screamed. “Go away, you can’t be here.”

  I thrust my weight backwards towards the open door. The force of my momentum ripped my shirt from Anita’s grip and threw her off balance. Thia caught my arm as I stumbled. She held me upright.

  Anita recovered quickly, reaching out for me but Thia used her right arm to hold her mother off.

  “You don’t look too good, Sherri. How much did you drink?” Thia asked me.

  “Few sips, don’t understand.” I had to get out of there. I twisted my body, pushing forward with my weight, intent on getting out the door.

  “What did you give her, Mom?” It was hard to tell if Thia’s hand on my arm was helping or holding me back. “Have you been in my room?”

  I threw myself forward and bumped up hard against the edge of the open door, rolled off it and out onto the step.

  I could hear them arguing behind me. I didn’t look back. I tried to run but it was more of a stagger.

  C H A P T E R 5 4

  I wobbled down the flagstone path, not running as much as I was trying to keep going forward and stay on my feet. The uneven walkway curved left to the drive where the small sports car sat, still running with the door open. Could I beat them to the car, close the door and drive away?

  Momentum and a misstep sent me stumbling across the flagstones and onto the grass away from the car. Control was gone. I couldn’t go back to the vehicle. I hurtled forward across the front lawn. Escape was all.

  Somewhere in the night I heard laughter and a voice calling goodnight. Safe, a haven, that’s what I needed. I stumbled towards the voices, over the curb and onto the street. Arms windmilling, I fought to stay upright. “Wait, wait,” Anita called behind me.

  Across the street a man and a woman were getting into a Jaguar.

  “Help,” I croaked, stumbling towards them. “Help.” My arms flapped.

  The man turned. “Sherri?” He started towards me. I focused on staying upright, intent on the man in front of me and I fell into his arms as the world went dark.

  My eyes opened to see beautiful brown eyes in an equally beautiful brown face. “How are you feeling?” the nurse asked. “Bad.” I closed my eyes and left the world again. The next time I opened my eyes, Dr. Travis said, “Welcome back.”

  “You were there,” I said.

  “Yes,” he answered. “I was there.”

  “Thank you.”

  He smiled. “You’re welcome.” I looked down. He was holding my hand. How strange was that? In the nearly ten years I’d been married to Jimmy he had never been more than polite. I’d practically done cartwheels to get Jimmy’s parents to like me but it had never happened. Now he was holding my hand and as I watched he covered both of our hands with his other one as if I might escape. Very strange. I closed my eyes. Styles’ voice called me back. “What the hell happened?” I ignored him and slid my head to my right on the pillow and looked at Dr. Travis. “What was in that drink?” My mouth was thick and wooly.

  “We think it was Rohypnol.” He saw my confusion and tried again, “Flunitrazepam.” “A ro
ofie,” Styles put in.

  “Good god,” I wailed. “Date-raped by the bride of Chucky.”

  “What?” Styles said. “Try and make sense.” He was annoyed with me. Well, he better get used to it because there was a whole lot more to come. His annoyance would soon know no bounds.

  “How?” I asked.

  This question Styles seemed to understand. “The mother and daughter are denying any knowledge of what happened to you. The mother said she found you in the parking lot, said you were sick so she brought you home. Said you’d been at some other woman’s house and it must have been put in a drink there.”

  “I didn’t have anything to drink there. Anita slipped it into the Scotch she gave me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she made a mistake when she told me Ray John had been shot three times.” Carefully, I turned my head to face him. “I forgot to tell you.”

  His jaw clenched. “The gun registered to her wasn’t a twenty-five. She didn’t use her own gun to shoot Leenders.”

  “Well, it was Anita that gave me the roofie. She probably got the drug from Thia, who got it from Ray John. That would be my guess. Lots of weird stuff was going on out there. I don’t think I’d ever have gotten out of that house alive if Thia hadn’t come home.”

  “I need details,” Styles said.

  “Need to sleep.”

  “No, Sherri,” Dr. Travis said, shaking my shoulder gently.

  “You must try and stay awake. It will be better. Talk to the detective, it will help you stay awake.”

  “Okay.” I licked my lips with a tongue like a slab of liver.