The Prodigal Girl

by Evan Ronan

  And if he doesn’t?

  We won’t have pretzels tonight at the pool hall.

  Not the end of the world.

  I jump online. I scroll through emails, not really reading them. I wonder when Tarika is coming back and what she and Shannon could possibly be talking about right now. The foolish idealist in me hopes they are finding common ground to reconcile, and that Shannon has seen the error of her romantic ways. But the older, perhaps wiser cynic in me doubts this very much.

  I don’t know what to do with myself. Actually log onto Facebook. I’ve got thirty new friend requests since I last checked in, most of them coming from scantily-clad women of Eastern European descent.

  I’m quite a catch, but even I have to doubt the motives of these women.

  I’m ready to close the page down when I see Jonas, the surfer down in Mexico, actually wrote me back a couple days ago.

  Happy to speak with you. Give me a call.

  He even left his international number down in Mexico.

  I figure it can’t hurt, and I’m about to do something that might no longer exist—make a long-distance phone call—when Tarika comes back into the room.

  “Shannon apologized,” Tarika says.

  “She did?”

  Tarika nods. Her movements and words have an almost dream-like quality to them. “She was lying there, not saying anything, and then she started crying. She said she was lost and she was so, so sorry about everything that’s happened … and …”

  I get up and give her a hug. Tarika clings to me, crying into my shoulder. We stay like that for a while.

  She’s the first to let go. “Shannon is going to be here overnight, so she asked me to get some things for her. Greg, I’ve asked you for so much, but can you stick around while I’m gone? I’ll just feel better knowing that you’re here.”

  “I’ll do you one better,” I say. “I’ll get whatever she needs from your place. Just tell me where to look.”

  “Oh, Greg. That’s so nice of you,” Tarika says. “It’s just clothes, her charger, and some makeup. She says her kit is on her bureau. It’s a little black bag.”

  “I’ve got early onset senioritis. Can you write all this down for me?”

  “Sure.” She smiles, embarrassed. “And while you’re there, can you get my bag? I left it—”

  “By the front door,” I say, remembering that conversation we had the first time we met, that now seems like years ago. I recall her saying she had grown absent-minded, leaving things she needed right by the front door on the table. “I’ll get that too.”

  She hurries to the nurse’s station, comes back with a sticky note. She’s written a not short list of things for me to pick up.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I thought of some more things.”

  “You’re a mom. That’s what you do.” I smile. “I’ll be back soon. Now you go on back to that daughter of yours.”

  “Shannon just shut her eyes. I’m headed to the cafeteria. If that’s not open, I’ll try the gift shop or find a vending machine.”

  “Alright. I’ll be back.”

  Tarika takes the house key off her key ring and hands it to me. I head out. Picking up some things for Shannon isn’t really doing much, but at least it’s something. I hate feeling useless.

  Tarika’s place is only ten minutes away, but I decide to make the most of my time. I try to reach Jonas down in Mexico. It rings a few times, then dumps me into voicemail.

  “Hey, Jonas, this is Greg Owen,” I say. “Thanks for sending me your number. Listen, if you get a chance tonight, could you give me a call back? I really need to talk to you.”

  I hang up and drive on. It’s almost midnight when I park across the street from Tarika’s house. All the lights are out, even the exterior one hanging next to the front door. As I step out of the car, my phone starts ringing. It’s Jonas.

  “This is Greg Owen.”

  “Greg, this is Jonas down in Mexico, brah. How are you?”

  He has that surfer voice, carefree and almost lackadaisical. “Doing well. Thank you for calling me back.”

  “Sorry, man, but I didn’t see your message on Facebook till this week. I don’t get on there that much, thinking about shutting my page down, man.”

  Jonas has smoked his fair share of blunts. Fair play to him. The world would probably be a better place if people smoked pot as opposed to drank booze.

  “Yeah, I hear you.” I cross the street. The rain starts again. “So I was calling to talk to you about Shannon.”

  “Yeah, Shannon, I gotta be honest, man, I don’t remember her.”

  Shit. “A private eye came down there, a few years ago, his name was Myron Stromell. You remember him?”

  “Myron … Stromell … Myron Stromell … hmmmm.”

  This guy has no idea who I’m talking about.

  I try to jog his memory. “He asked you about a black woman living with a white guy. The black woman—really a girl—would have been seventeen, maybe eighteen, at the time he spoke with you. The guy was older. He would have been mid-twenties.”

  “Gotta be honest, brah, I’m having trouble remembering this.”

  I reach Tarika’s front door. Put the key in and turn. The door, though, is already unlocked. After getting the call about Shannon being attacked, Tarika must have left in a hurry and forgot to lock the door.

  I’m ready to give up on Jonas. But I try one more thing: “When you talked to Myron about this couple, you said she wore the pants. Or something to that effect.”

  “Ohhhhhh shit, man, you just triggered a flashback.”

  I wonder if he’s being literal or figurative.

  I step into the dark house. “You remember them now?”

  “Hell yeah, man, but her name wasn’t Shannon. She went by something else. I remember them. Oh shit do I remember them now.”

  I shut the door. I’m about to turn a light on, but the way Jonas just said that last thing has got me intrigued.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was younger, man, everybody knew that. Everybody knew she ran away from home, and you’d think Marcus was in charge, but he wasn’t, man. She was. She led him around. He did whatever she wanted. This one time, I remember, there’s this little bar right by the beach. Used to stay open all the time, till there was a shooting, anyway, it used to be open all night.”

  I struggle to follow along.

  “Everybody used to go there, especially after hours. Shannon, or whatever her name was, worked there for a month or so. But then she quit. She told everybody she found something else. Anyway, man, this girl knew how to drive a guy nuts. When her dude—what did you say his name was?”

  “Marcus,” I say.

  The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, even though Jonas hasn’t really said anything to provoke such a reaction.

  “Yeah, Marcus. He went by something else, but I know who you’re talking about, man. They were into all kinds of bad shit. I mean, they never said, but everybody knew.”

  “Drugs?”

  “At least. I heard them talking one night about bringing somebody in. I knew exactly what they were talking about but played dumb, man. I didn’t want any part of that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They wanted to bring a girl in. You know.”

  “I don’t know,” I lie. “What do you mean?”

  “Look, man, a lot of shit goes on down here. If you’re smart and old like me, you look the other effing way, brah. Still, you hear about shit. Like girls being lured into the country and then sold off to rich businessmen or the cartel.”

  My heart is thundering in my chest. “Why didn’t you tell the detective this?”

  “This was after, man. I mean, Shannon and Marcus came through here twice. The detective probably gave me a card, but shit, man, I can’t even find my own wallet half the time.”

  I say nothing.

  “Anyway, Shannon, you wanted to know about Shannon. Yeah, she wore the pants. This one ti
me, Marcus was acting up and she started hitting on this grunt in the cartel. Just to make Marcus jealous, you know?”

  I get a chill.

  “It was a bad scene, man. You don’t fuck with the cartel, no matter how low-level the employee is, you savvy? Anyway, that guy turned up dead a week or so later. And Shannon and Marcus were long, long gone.”

  Holy Mary, mother of God.

  “Did they have a child with them?” I ask, trying desperately to confirm in some small way that we’re talking about the same people. “A little girl? She would have been real little.”

  “Oh yeah, man. That was the running joke, I mean, the second time they came through. Aaliyah or something.”

  “Aisha?”

  “Maybe. They brought her everywhere. Half the time she’d be up late with them at the bar. It was crazy. I’m not one to judge, I don’t live my life by the rules either, but still, if you’ve got a little girl, you gotta have some semblance of a normal existence, you know what I mean?”

  “I do.”

  “Anyway, man, they were a bad scene. But I don’t stick my nose in other people’s business. Life’s too short. I’m here to surf, drink, smoke, and, you know, screw. Live and let live, you know?”

  “Is there anything else you can think of?”

  “Nah, man. That’s it. And I don’t really want to get any more involved, if you catch my drift.”

  “You might have to,” I say, still having no idea where this is all going. “Can I reach out to you again if I have more questions?”

  Jonas hesitates. “I’d rather you not, man. I’m sixty years old and not looking for trouble.”

  “Jonas, there’s—”

  “I gotta go, brah.”

  And he ends the call.

  I think about calling him back but put the phone away. My eyes are still adjusting to the darkness. I reach for the light on the end table by the front door, but my hand knocks into something and a bag thuds against the floor. Smiling to myself, I bend to pick up the bag that Tarika absently left on the table because she was hurrying to get to the hospital.

  BANG

  Twenty-Three

  I shouldn’t freeze, but I do. People think we have a fight or flight response, but there’s always a pause before we pick one or the other.

  The lamp shatters, and I stay in that weird crouched position, and then the fight or flight kicks in. Only, I’m not sure exactly which one I’m picking. All I know is that I’m going to move fast and see what happens.

  I crash into somebody.

  BANG.

  I wait for the inevitable crippling pain of a gunshot, but there is none. I luck into tying the shooter up. Our arms are tangled and in the darkness I can’t make my would-be killer out, but I know he’s got a gun, so I’m not letting go. If he gets away, he’ll shoot me. He won’t miss for a third time this close.

  Then he bonks me on the head with the butt of the gun. My eyes cross and my legs go slack, but there’s enough awareness left in my dim brain to hold onto the guy. I’ve got my arms on him and I tie him up just long enough to get my wits about me. He tries to bang my dome again, but I see it coming, my eyes finally adjusting to the darkness of the house. Holding on to his arm, I swing him around and get behind him. He staggers back, trying to get me off balance. I hold onto him, keeping the gun aimed away from me, and drive my leg up as hard as I can between his splayed legs.

  He grunts.

  I get my legs behind me and drive him forward. His head rams into the front door. It’s almost enough to knock him out.

  I hear the gun hit the floor.

  I leave it for the time being and drive him forward again. This time I score a direct hit. His forehead hits the door and he loses his legs and slumps to the floor. I get on hands and knees and snatch the gun and jump away, just in case he’s come to.

  But he’s still out for the count.

  The adrenaline is pumping and I get the shakes. Less than fifteen seconds ago, I was almost shot to death. That reality is beginning to catch up on me. Holding the gun as steady as I can, I keep my distance and find the nearest light switch. I flick it.

  Nothing.

  Now’s not the time for cosmic irony.

  The guy begins to stir. I cross the room and find another lamp. Pull the chain to turn it on.

  “Fuck,” the guy says.

  It’s not much light, but it’s enough.

  “Marcus,” I say in a shaky voice. “It’s not nice to meet you.”

  His eyes finally open the whole way and there’s this moment where he’s still not fully with me. Then he realizes I’m holding the gun and his eyes pop.

  “FUCK.”

  “Yeah.” I nod, trying to keep that gun hand steady. “Fuck is right.”

  He starts to reach into a pocket, but I straighten my arm.

  “DON’T FUCKING MOVE!”

  He jumps, realizing I nearly shot him, and displays two empty hands. “Alright, alright, alright! Don’t shoot me! Don’t shoot!”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” Rage fills me. “You were trying to kill me!”

  I step forward, bringing the gun up to aim at his head.

  “I ought to fucking shoot you, for trying to kill me, and for what you did to Shannon!”

  He starts crying. “Hold on, hold on, I freaked, I wasn’t supposed to shoot you! Just hold on!”

  I count backwards from ten, trying to walk myself back from a very dangerous, very dark brink.

  “DO. NOT. MOVE.”

  “Okay, okay, okay!”

  He’s crying uncontrollably now.

  I find another light, turn that on. I can’t stay still. My hands won’t stop shaking. It’d be embarrassing, if I cared about what this asshole thought of me.

  Then what he just said really hits me. “Hold on. Who were you supposed to shoot?”

  He looks up at me miserably, still crying. “What?”

  “You said you weren’t supposed to shoot me. That means you were supposed to shoot somebody else, doesn’t it?”

  He starts shaking his head. “No, man, no, I didn’t say that. Nah, you’re twisting my words.”

  “You don’t want to start lying to me now, Marcus.” I give him the half-mean, half-crazy stare. “I’m not the cops. It’s just you and me in here. I can kill you right now and make up a story. It’d be just my word against your corpse.”

  “Okay, okay, hold on, just …” He looks away, pressing the side of his face against the door. “Just hold on.”

  My mind is racing a million miles per hour. With a shaky hand, I keep the gun aimed at Marcus.

  “You were supposed to kill Tarika, weren’t you?” I ask, almost dreading the answer.

  “It was her idea!” he screams. “Fucking Shannon! It was her crazy motherfucking idea!”

  I think back to what little I know about Shannon’s conversations with her mother. Everything comes down to money, everything comes down to money—

  “You were here to kill Tarika so Shannon could collect on the life insurance policy.”

  Marcus doesn’t answer.

  “For the insurance money, right?”

  “Yes! It was Shannon’s idea! You gotta believe me!”

  “I don’t gotta do anything, asshole. I’m the one holding the gun.” I wave it back and forth a few inches to underscore the point. “Besides, it doesn’t much matter whose idea it was since you were the one here trying to kill me.”

  “No, no, man, you gotta listen! Shannon’s crazy. She’s fucking crazy! This was all her fault to begin with. Everything … oh shit.”

  He starts to sob again.

  I’m trying to piece it all together. But it’s not my rational brain that makes the connection. The subconscious spits out a thought:

  “Rasheed didn’t lay on hand on Shannon. Did he?”

  “Listen, man, she gave me no choice,” Marcus says.

  Finally, my hand stops shaking. “Answer me.”

  Marcus pleads. “She made me beat her. It was part of her
insane plan.”

  “So, what?” I’m trying to put the puzzle together. “Shannon makes friends with Rasheed, who already has a criminal history for beating people up, including women. She pretends to fall in love with the asshole, then introduces him to mom, then mom gets in the way of their love. Shannon makes up a story about Rasheed being jealous, wailing on her, and then coming here to kill Tarika so she doesn’t come between him and the girl he loves?”

  “Exactly.”

  It’s utterly ridiculous.

  So ridiculous, that it has to be the truth. Or at least, close enough.

  I say, “And everybody can buy Shannon falling for Rasheed, because she fell for you. Am I right?”

  “Shannon said it would look like Rasheed killed her mother, because Tarika wouldn’t let them be together. Exactly.”

  It’s idiotic.

  But it’s also brazen. Sometimes, brazen outweighs idiotic. I’ve seen it happen a lot in my life, usually around the card table.

  “And nobody thinks you killed Tarika, because Rasheed is your smokescreen.”

  “Look, man, you gotta believe me,” Marcus says. “Shannon left me no choice.”

  “The fuck you didn’t have a choice, Marcus.”

  “You don’t understand,” he says. “She got us in trouble down in Mexico. I had to kill a guy, and then she spun it right back around on me, threatening to tell the cartel what had really happened. Ever since then she’s had me by the balls. That’s why I got stuck with the fucking—”

  “If you say with the fucking kid I will shoot you.”

  “That’s why Aisha is with me. I mean, I love her and all, but I’m no father. And Shannon didn’t want to deal.”

  I could shoot this man.

  And I could shoot Shannon.

  Marcus is crying again. “You gotta understand.”

  “I don’t understand, Marcus.” I shake my head. “And I don’t want to.”

  All along, I’ve wanted to know why. But maybe the why isn’t important here. The best thing I can do is protect Tarika, not Shannon. Like I said to Detective Neeson less than an hour ago, Tarika is my client.