“You’d still be forty years too old.” Henry raised his hands in a defensive posture.
This time Wanda’s purse struck against the anchor entwined in rope tattoo, a souvenir from Henry’s merchant marine days inked on his forearm.
“Christ, you crazy old bat, that hurt.” Henry rubbed his arm, feigning injury.
“You deserved it. I know you’re jealous Gabriel’s getting all my attention.” Wanda turned up her nose.
“Jealous hell, thankful more like.”
Gabriel smiled at their playful bickering. When he had first met the pair, their antics had left him confused and disturbed. They both had a good laugh at his expense when he objected to some playful insult Henry had hurled at her. He soon learned they shared a deep affection and this repartee was their way of expressing it.
The three meeting at Henry’s store had become a Thursday ritual. Gabriel arrived and assisted with any needed tasks, such as stowing supplies in the back or stocking the coolers. Around five p.m., Wanda came in for her weekly groceries, and after she and Henry finished badgering each other, Gabriel carried the supplies home for her.
“Are you waiting on me, Gabriel?” Wanda asked each week.
“But of course. I would not miss an opportunity to assist a lovely lady with her burden.” His customary reply, to which she blushed and giggled like a schoolgirl.
They said their goodbyes to Henry and left. On the two-block stroll to Wanda’s apartment, she said, “You know, I saw you this morning at the bus stop. That bum pestered everyone in line for money and not a one would give him a cent. He gave up before reaching you, but you chased him down and handed him a few dollars.”
“I could spare a small amount.”
“You have a big heart, Gabriel, but you need to be careful. These people are pests, like insects, nothing but nuisances. Don’t go thinking they have any gratitude for what you give them. They’ve forgotten you the moment they walk away. At least until they see you again and remember you’re an easy mark.”
Gabriel frowned, looking thoughtful. “Everyone has a story. Perhaps some made mistakes, leaving them in a hole from which they cannot find their way out. Maybe some terrible event in their lives brought them so low. Should they suffer forever for past mistakes?”
Wanda seemed to toss the thought back and forth in her head. “I guess not, but most are plain lazy or no good.”
“I admit my intent is not altogether altruistic. To see them hungry and destitute, knowing I can do some small thing to alleviate a modicum of their suffering yet doing nothing, distresses me greatly. I do it to avoid my own ill feelings as much as to help them.”
“A big heart, yes sir. Well, you go on doing what you’re doing if it makes you feel good. Don’t listen to me. I’m old and cranky. I remember what this neighborhood used to be like, and I resent what it’s become.”
Wanda and Henry were among a few dozen holdovers—those unable or unwilling to move on once the area began to devolve into a haven for crime and poverty. Block by block, they watched their neighborhood become unrecognizable. Like a portentous black cloud, degenerates and homeless flowed into the area. Property values fell as crime rose.
Most of Westside’s previous residents pulled up stakes and sought greener pastures. A few, however, thought they could ride it out, hoping the influx of destitute creatures merely a temporary situation. Not until ten blocks in every direction had fallen to drug dealers, prostitutes, and criminals did they realize the undeniable truth. For many, the drop in their property’s value precluded selling without losing everything. Others refused to budge and stood their ground, ignoring the sad fact no victory would come from their defiance.
“You should have seen it. This neighborhood was so nice—full of families and quaint little stores, flowers grew in the medians, and dogwoods bloomed every spring. Kids would ride their bikes on the sidewalks and play in the hydrants in the summer. Now look at it. Nothing but obscene bookstores and strip clubs. Makes me sick.” Wanda turned a little green at the mere thought. She glanced across the street at two men shouting obscenities at one another and shook her head. “You should get out of here while you can. Believe me, it sneaks up on you. Wake up one day, it’s twenty years later and you’re still stuck in this sewer. You need to get to college, a better area, find a nice girl.”
“I possessed so little money when I came here and remained very naïve about how the world worked. I suppose I thought I would arrive in the city, become someone important, and live in luxury. A child’s dream,” said Gabriel. One of the men shoved the other and stormed off.
“Can happen, too, but it doesn’t come from simple hard work anymore. You’ve got to know the right things, meet the right people. You won’t get those things here.”
Gabriel rubbed the day-old stubble dotting his chin. “I will most certainly think on your wise counsel, milady. As for a wooing a pretty girl, no need, I have you.”
Again, she giggled and playfully rapped him on the arm. “You flirt, you.”
He assisted Wanda with putting away her groceries, each item in its proper place. Gabriel considered himself neat and orderly, but Wanda kept an immaculate home. Not a speck of dust or hint of clutter existed throughout the entire apartment. Heirlooms and knick-knacks from a bygone age sat lined in prim rows along shelves and tabletops, arranged like a pristine antique shop.
Once they completed the chore, Wanda said, “I know you won’t let me pay you, so on Sunday you’re coming over for pot roast. The carrots and potatoes cooked right in the pot, just the way you like ’em. No arguments.”
“No arguments forthcoming. You are well aware I cannot refuse your delightful company. With the additional allure of your delicious cooking, I am powerless to resist.”
“A flirt and a flatterer, you’ll charm the world if you set your mind to it.”
Gabriel stepped outside to the dark. He hated the city at night. Days were bad enough, the sun spotlighting horrid conditions of squalor and filth. At night, every creeping crawling thing felt the rule of shadows granted reign over darkened alleys and dim streets.
Rats scurried underfoot, indifferent to the steps of humans. They feared nothing but the legion of feral cats that roamed the backstreets. The scrawny felines perched along window ledges and trash bin lids, yellow eyes scanning the dark, tails swishing against cracked brick walls the color of dried blood.
Every city housed its vermin, this one no different. Men, women, boys, and girls sold their bodies and their dignity beneath flashing neon signs. Junkies bought death by the vial next to boarded-up storefronts. Homeless vagrants huddled underneath tattered awnings, clutching tight the last drops of whatever liquor they were able to hoard—their only shelter against the bitter cold.
They might have been happy and safe in a better world, in a different world. Now they measured success by surviving another day. Lost and degraded, they devolved into vicious or lame animals.
His heart broke as he watched their daily struggle with a crippling empathy. What little he might do for them was never enough—never enough to satiate their hunger, never enough to quench his need to help them.
Each time he walked down the street, it brought more reminders of how far this city remained from his childhood dreams. Oh, there were those sections where mansions rose, limousines traveled, and the residents knew no want, but for the forgotten masses of Westside, such places seemed mythical.
Gabriel had envisioned living in one of those affluent areas. Places full of lights illuminating cheerful faces, glamorous fashions, and sleek cars. He came here hoping his past might fade into dim memory and a new adventurous life might begin. Instead, he witnessed only decadence and despair. Hands tugged at his clothes, begging for a morsel or a dollar. Despondent voices propositioned a myriad of pleasures to mitigate the pervasive misery.
As he sauntered toward home, Gabriel tried to banish such thoughts. He tried to ignore the rotten smells of trash heaped along the sidewalk, the foul odors emanating
from fetid waters pooled in the gutters. His mind drifted, giving little notice to his surroundings.
His attention struck on a girl up ahead, sitting back on her heels with a half-eaten Big Mac clutched to her face. She reminded him of the squirrels back on the farm, the way they would guard a found nut with twitching, bushy tails and furtive glances, nibbling away, yet ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.
The girl appeared young, but her eyes were old. He could tell experience had taught her to be wary. Skinny, with stringy, dirty-blonde hair, more dirty than blonde, the last few crumbs slipping through her fingers as she finished off her meal. When she sensed his stare, she stiffened. Gabriel moved to skirt her position, trying not to frighten her, but she stood and approached him.
Obviously deciding he did not present a threat, she came close, tossed back unkempt hair, and slid open the top of a faded, red blouse. In a sad effort at sexual enticement, she exposed part of one small breast tattooed with a yellow butterfly.
“Hey mister, wanna have a good time?” she asked in a voice devoid of seduction.
Gabriel harbored every intention of refusing the offer, giving her a couple of dollars—which was all she really wanted—and being on his way. As he reached for his wallet, a shock lanced down his spine. His hands felt as if they’d been thrust into a bed of angry ants, his head pounded with the thunder of discordant timpani drums, and his stomach clamped tight, doubling him over.
“Jesus, mister, you okay?” the girl asked, one delicate hand reaching out to steady him.
When he raised his face, she stepped back in alarm. His visage had changed. Gone now the placid demeanor of a benevolent stranger, replaced with cold scrutiny. A thin smile, lacking any humor or warmth, lined his mouth.
“Yes, I would very much like to have a good time,” he said in a dead voice.
She seemed unsettled and relapsed into timidity. After gathering herself, her need overwhelming apprehension, she said, “Oh yeah…just down here.”
The girl took his hand and led him into the adjacent alley. “My ol’ man keeps a place down here. You got a cigarette?” She peered up at him expectantly.
“I do not smoke.”
“Hmm, I could use a smoke. Think I’ve seen you around. You live near here?” She constantly rubbed her arms as they walked while casting anxious glances into the alley’s shadows.
Gabriel nodded and remained silent, allowing the girl to rattle on, her voice sinking to background noise in his head. Her nervous conversation confirmed a lack of experience with this particular occupation. Yellowed bruises dotted her inner arms and discolored teeth peeked out of fleeting, false smiles. Perhaps eighteen, she appeared no stranger to desperation. A junkie turning tricks when necessity demanded it.
A few hundred feet into the alley, she hopped onto a fire escape leading up the back of an apartment building, a slum teetering on the verge of collapse. Rusting metal squeaked and wobbled as they climbed to a fourth-floor window and ducked through. The smell of mildew, dust, and a variety of filth pervaded the confines. A thick layer of grime covered the walls, paper wrappers lay strewn upon a floor discolored by stains, and drug paraphernalia littered a small wooden table: used syringes, a bent spoon, and a cigarette lighter.
The girl sat on the bed. A long crack showed in the headboard, running diagonally from one end to the other. The sheets, which may have been white once upon a time, had become a sullied yellow. One leg, the front right, was broken, causing the bed to tilt to one side. Gabriel gazed at the girl as she reclined on an elbow and thought it a fitting metaphor.
He looked into her eyes, dead like the button eyes on a doll, but beneath swam a torrent of emotions—fear, pain, disappointment—all piling layer upon layer over so few years. What tragedy or misjudgment brought her here? Gabriel felt a wave of compassion wash over him. He would not accept what she offered, but offer her a gift instead…mercy.
“It’s twent—uh, fifty bucks. You don’t get the goodies ’til I get paid. House rules.” She tried to sound playful and portray herself as a savvy veteran of the streets.
Gabriel stood at the kitchen counter. Noticing a long meat fork, he picked it up and rubbed it clean on his jeans. Polished now to a meticulous shine, he stared at his disfigured reflection in the gleaming metal. The feeling remained, but had left him numb. It would not dissipate, he knew, until released.
A single bedside lamp cast a feeble light over a third of the room. Shadows crept along walls hued by a flashing vacancy sign outside the window. One side of the girl’s face hid in darkness, the other glowed in scarlet neon.
“I don’t have all night, you know. We gonna do business or not?”
With bright, white knuckles, he gripped the fork and turned to the girl. His eyes shone with deep sympathy. Her longing…her resignation was clear. He walked toward her, the sharp implement raised beside his face.
“Yes…to business.”
CHAPTER
2
That goddamned noise. A swarm of hornets buzzed through his skull—chitinous legs scratched to get out. Marlowe Gentry slung one arm across the nightstand, knocking the alarm clock to the floor. The noise continued unabated.
The phone…shit.
He felt blindly along the table’s surface until his fingers touched his cell. Taking it in hand, he placed it to his ear.
“Yeah, Gentry. Where? Got it…be there in thirty,” he said in a sleepy, haggard voice.
Kicking a leg outward, he sent an empty bottle of Jim Beam rocketing into space. Ol’ Jim. His best friend…and his worst enemy. They must have tied on one hell of a drunk last night, like most nights. The little drummer boy beat out a dum-dum-dum rhythm in his head.
Marlowe lay on his back, one arm rested against his forehead. He felt Katy’s warmth, the soft outline of her body pressed to him. Sitting up slowly, he waited for the vertigo to subside and prayed for the pounding in his head to take a break. He glanced back at Katy’s side of the bed—empty—for a long time now.
It seemed like yesterday they were all together and happy. Marlowe and Katy made truth of the old cliché, love at first sight. After a whirlwind romance, they married in short order. Abandoning previous dreams and ambitions, they decided to settle somewhere scenic and safe. They would raise a dozen children and live in domestic bliss.
But that’s the thing with dreams, they usually only come true in fairy tales.
Marlowe’s legs wobbled unsteadily as he stumbled to the bathroom. He felt like shit, and judging by the guy in the mirror, looked even worse. He sorely needed a shave, but lacked the motivation. Splashing handfuls of cold water onto his face opened his eyes a smidgeon wider. He ran wet fingers through thick, wavy brown hair suffering from a bad case of bedhead.
After a quick shower, piping hot, Marlowe bemoaned the realization he might actually be alive after all. He picked his suit off the floor, dark navy wool, half of a two-for-one special at Men’s Warehouse. The thing showed more wear than he did, which said a lot. He hand-pressed it, knocking out a few wrinkles, and dressed, draping a solid burgundy tie around his neck.
He peeked into Paige’s room. Sound asleep, although sometimes it could be hard to tell. She had not spoken in almost two years, and moved zombie-like, arms and legs stiff, eyes glassy. The last time he’d heard her voice—a terrified scream—replayed in his dreams every night. Two dozen shrinks and a medicine cabinet full of pills had failed to snap her out of it. He missed the days when her rumbling footfalls would storm down the hall before she burst through the bedroom door, flew onto the bed, and demanded he make her pancakes.
Mable, their live-in nanny, apparently slept in as well, or simply avoided him. He did regret cussing her out last night in a drunken stupor. In Marlowe’s defense, he had warned her not to mess around in Katy’s closet. She insisted the clothes were turning musty. Marlowe informed her, not so gently, if she washed or cleaned away a hint of Katy’s scent he would skin her alive.
After a moment of watching his daughter
lie still, he hung his head and trudged to the kitchen.
Instant coffee. He hated the shit, tasted like an oil slick, but no time to brew the good stuff. Too bad, he could go for some Dunkin’ Donuts Dark. Marlowe shrugged on his black, wool topcoat, took his mug in hand, and grabbed a stale bagel on his way out the door.
Shutting the door of his Ford Explorer hit him like the sound of a gunshot. The radio he’d neglected to turn off blared as he turned the key in the ignition. The evil bastard in his head heard it all and started to bang on those infernal drums again. This was not shaping up to be the best of days.
When did I last have a good one?
He drove down Highway 79 and hit I-59 at Tarrant, driving toward Mountain Brook, passing the Birmingham Zoo on his left. He, Katy, and Paige had often visited the zoo. Paige could stare at the monkeys for hours. Katy had mixed emotions; she loved to watch the animals, but hated the fact they were caged. Marlowe took a sip of coffee, burning his lip and swerving into the emergency lane.
Damn it. Stay in the here and now, Marlowe.
1099 Meadowview Lane sat in a pricey suburb filled with mammoth houses and ritzy cars. The Haves certainly enjoyed their opulence. Three families could live comfortably in any one of these homes. These people believed their wealth provided security from crimes of this nature, or any crime for that matter. They were wrong.
When he arrived at the scene, his day went from shit to a big, heaping pile of shit. Dozens of EMTs and uniformed cops scurried about the grounds like ants seeking the asshole who’d kicked their mound. Neighbors meandered in their yards, trying to get a glimpse of whatever horror had occurred next door. Every print, TV, and radio media outlet appeared to have half a dozen reporters on scene.
What a cluster fuck. How’d they get here so soon?
He hoped the uniforms had sealed the area before the vultures arrived. Every scrap of information that got out made his job more difficult. He had no idea what had happened here; a murder obviously, the only reason to call him in. Still, with the pandemonium, it did not appear a normal break-in/homicide or domestic violence matter. He could have checked the news on the drive, but his head still recoiled from the possibility of sound.
A Coin for Charon Page 2