by Diane Kelly
Dub felt fresh anger well up in him, but then he remembered the spare set of van keys in his front pocket. He let loose a laugh. Andro might have taken the van from Dub, but Dub was going to take it right back. That would teach Andro. His days of fucking up Dub’s life were over.
Dub set the bags on the ground, pulled out the keys, and opened the van. The smell of alcohol greeted him. Sure enough, a half-empty bottle of whiskey lay under the driver’s seat.
Dub wriggled the bottle out from under the seat, carried it to the garbage Dumpster, and hurled it in. He smiled at the sound of the glass breaking and the liquid running down the side of the metal bin. Returning to the van, he tossed the grocery bags inside and climbed in after them. He glanced into the back of the van. The rake, pruners, and hedge clippers were gone. Andro had probably thrown them out somewhere. Dammit! He could’ve used them as weapons against Andro.
He reached behind the passenger seat and stuck his hand through the seam.
Please be there. Please be there!
Aha! The remaining cash from the lottery tickets was still hidden inside the seatback. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
He turned back to the front of the van. It took him seven tries to get the van started and it gave off a burning smell, but the engine finally caught. Dub would have loved to drive off and never come back. But he couldn’t leave his mother alone in the apartment with Andro, especially when he knew Andro had been drinking. So Dub drove the van a few blocks over and parked it down a dark side street. With the streetlight broken, Andro would have a hell of a time finding the van here.
God, it felt good to give the bastard a little payback.
Dub grabbed the grocery sacks and jogged back to the apartment, his jeans and hoodie soaked with cold drizzle. He shifted the bags to his left hand as he stuck the apartment key in the door lock. As he jiggled the key, he heard Andro’s voice from inside.
“Don’t you talk back to me, bitch!” The words were followed by a slap and a bam.
Dub dropped the groceries on the walkway and used both hands to get the door open. He ran inside to find his mother cowering on the recliner, her arms held up to block her face. Her eyes were glassy from meth and fear. Blood oozed from both her nose and her bottom lip. Andro stood over her, his face red with rage, his fist cocked for another blow. At least he wasn’t wearing his brass knuckles.
“Stop it!” Dub launched himself at Andro. A sick thrill surged through him when he felt Andro go down beneath him. He’d kill him. He would. He’d beat him until his head cracked open and his brains spilled out on the floor. And it would be too good for the man.
Andro looked up at Dub, his eyes bloodshot and shocked. He hadn’t thought Dub had it in him to put up a fight. He’d been wrong. His days of pushing Dub around were over.
The element of surprise gave Dub an advantage. He wailed on Andro, beating him with his fists, each punch a small victory. “Don’t you ever touch my mother again!”
Andro turned under him, trying to cover his head. God, it felt good to see his father scared for a change.
As Andro squirmed, his work ID card fell out of his back pocket. For the first time, Dub learned his father’s last name. Silva.
Dub’s mother jumped up from the recliner. “Stop! Stop it!”
She grabbed Dub by the shoulders. She wasn’t strong enough to pull Dub off Andro, but she threw Dub off balance. Taking the opening, Andro shoved Dub’s shoulders. Dub and his mother fell back to the carpet. Andro put a hand on the recliner and pulled himself to his feet.
He looked down at Dub with eyes so full of rage Dub was sure he’d lived his last day. “Boy, I’m going to make you sorry you ever touched me.” Hauling his foot back, he kicked Dub in the stomach with his steel-toed boot.
Dub felt as if he’d been gored by a bull. He bent in half, turned onto his side, and rocked back and forth.
“You gonna cry, boy? Huh? You gonna cry?” His father grabbed at him and yanked the damp hoodie off Dub, taking away what little protection the fabric provided. His father pulled his foot back again. This time he aimed for Dub’s head.
Woo-woo-woo! Before Andro could kick him again, police sirens sounded through the open front door. The sound seemed to be the soundtrack of Dub’s life lately.
Andro put his foot down and pointed down at Dub. “This isn’t over.” He ran out the door with Dub’s hoodie in his hand, his footsteps thud-thud-thudding down the stairs.
Tires screeched in the parking lot as the police arrived. Dub was in no shape to run, but he couldn’t risk being caught in the apartment and returned to juvenile detention. He wouldn’t be able to protect his mother if he were returned to the lockup.
He crawled to the sliding door that led out to the balcony. “I’ll be … out here,” he told his mother, barely able to get the words out. “Close the curtains.”
Arms over his bruised belly, Dub hunkered down in a dark, cold corner of the balcony. Through the glass, he heard a male officer holler, “Fort Worth police! Everyone on your knees!”
Dub’s mother was the only one left in the apartment, but the police had no way of knowing that.
“It’s just me!” he heard his mom cry. “I’m the only one here.”
“Check the bedroom,” the cop said, speaking to his partner over the sound of Katrina sobbing.
A moment later another male voice replied, “All clear.”
“How bad are you hurt?” the first officer asked. “Do you need an ambulance?”
“No,” Dub’s mother said. “I’ll be okay.”
“Are you sure?”
Dub heard no response, but he guessed she must have nodded because the officer didn’t ask again.
When the cop spoke again, his voice was softer. “Who did this to you, ma’am?”
She didn’t answer. She just continued to sob.
The cop tried again. “I know you’re upset, ma’am. You have every right to be. But we need to know who did this to you.”
Leandro Silva, Dub willed his mother to say. LEANDRO SILVA! Say it! Say his name!
Her sobbing slowed, and Dub heard her sniffle.
“Please, ma’am,” the cop persisted. “We can’t help you if you won’t tell us who hurt you.”
When she finally spoke, her voice was so soft Dub could hardly hear it. “It was my…”
What did she plan to say? She couldn’t refer to Andro as her husband. He’d refused to marry her. Did she consider him her boyfriend?
His mother paused for a long moment before completing her sentence. “My son. It was my son. He’s hiding on the balcony.”
Splash!
Dub was over the railing and in the pool in an instant, instinct telling him to flee. Utterly confused and totally terrified, he hardly noticed the near-freezing temperature of the water. He swam to the side, climbed out, and took off running as fast as he could. He was a block away when he realized his wet clothing was leaving a trail that would lead the cops right to him. He hopped over a curb and ran into a yard, hoping the water drops would be harder to see in the dead leaves and grass.
After what seemed like years, he reached the van. He struggled to pull the keys from his pocket. The wetness had sealed the fabric shut and made it hard for him to get his fingers into the pocket. Finally, he got the keys free. With shaking arms, he pulled himself into the van. He tried the engine three times. Each time it died. Come on, come on, COME ON! On the fourth try, the engine roared. Dub put his foot to the gas and took off.
Four miles later, when he was sure the police weren’t on his tail, his mind calmed enough for him to think.
How? How could his mother have betrayed him like this?
And why?
Dub had done his best to be a good son, to take care of his mother, to be a help instead of a burden. Yet she’d thrown Dub under the bus for Leandro Silva, the man who’d gotten her hooked on meth, the man who’d knocked her up then knocked her down, the man who refused to support her or the child he’d fathered
.
Dub had never felt so alone and so helpless in all his life.
And—God!—he’d never felt so cold either.
The heater in the van was cranked full blast but the air coming from the vents was barely warm. Dub spotted the Walmart ahead and turned in, pulling his stash of cash from the seat. He went inside and headed straight to the men’s department. Though it was warmer inside the store, his damp clothes kept the heat from getting to him. His entire body was shaking as he grabbed a pair of fleece sweats and a sweatshirt, along with more underwear and socks. He rang up his purchases at the self-checkout line and all but ran to the men’s room, where he changed out of his wet jeans and tee and into the sweats.
He’d forgotten all about his cell phone until it slid out of the pocket of his pants and onto the floor. He picked it up, jabbed a button, and looked at the screen. It was still working. Thank God.
His basketball shoes were soaked. He held them under the electric hand dryer for a full fifteen minutes. The warm air helped to dry his shoes and warm him up, too.
With his wet clothes in the plastic bags now, he went back into the store. His shoes were noisy, skluck-sklucking as he walked. The hand dryer hadn’t been able to get all of the water out of the padding. He yanked a shopping cart from the line of nested carts and sklucked his way to the shoe department, where he picked out an inexpensive pair of sneakers. In the sporting goods department, he looked over the sleeping bags. He found a shiny black nylon one that was rated for outdoor temps as low as twenty degrees. He’d forego a pillow. He could make do without one. He needed his meager cash to last as long as possible.
In the home improvement department, he grabbed a can of black spray paint, another in a glittery silver shade, and a package of lettering stencils. He also picked up a bottle of cleaner guaranteed to remove even the most stubborn sticky substances, including tape residue.
In the health and beauty section, he grabbed the cheapest toothbrush and toothpaste the store offered. He could go without deodorant and shaving cream and shampoo for a while, but he’d feel nasty if he couldn’t at least brush his teeth.
He rolled through the grocery department next, filling his cart once again with a jar of peanut butter, wheat bread, bananas, cereal bars, and a can of alphabet soup with a pull-top lid. He also picked up a box of assorted plastic eating utensils, a roll of paper towels, and a jug of drinking water.
This time through, he used a regular checkout.
The cashier was a girl of about eighteen. She was cute and flirty as she rang up his purchases. “Going camping? You forgot the marshmallows.”
Her happy smile was almost more than he could take. He forced a smile back at her when all he really wanted to do was break down and cry.
He left, down $119. He had only $31 to his name now, but at least he had warm bedding and enough food to last him for a few days.
He opened the back doors of his van, put his bags inside, and climbed in after them. The parking space was near the edge of the lot, away from the lights. Dub supposed it was as good a place as any to stay for the night. The store was open twenty-four hours. It was probably safer here than on the streets, and less likely the police would stumble upon him.
He removed his shoes, put on a dry pair of socks, and spread his sleeping bag in the cargo bay. Then he zipped himself into the bag and wondered what the hell he was going to do.
FORTY-SIX
OUTDATED
Megan
Lucky me.
It was my weekend to work the night shift. I always had a hard time adjusting to the change in schedule. I’d managed to force myself to take a nap Friday afternoon by downing a dose of the ZzzQuil Frankie offered me, but, despite the nap, I’d still had trouble staying awake all night, especially with the heater running in the cruiser and the hypnotic sound of the wipers swishing back and forth as they wiped away the drizzle. Today, napping had been a little easier, tired as I was from the previous night’s shift. But spending a Saturday night cruising the streets of Fort Worth was hardly my idea of the perfect weekend, especially when the Big Dick was also working the night shift.
Brigit didn’t seem much bothered by the late-night schedule. No wonder. She slept through most of the shift, curled up on her platform in the back, Duckie lying next to her. It didn’t make much difference to the dog whether she was on our bed at home or in the back of the patrol car. In fact, the white noise and vibrations of the patrol car seemed to lull her to sleep, as if she were a human baby.
On the bright side, Brigit and I had our K-9 cruiser back, the Barf-mobile returned to the fleet. And, while it was just as cold as it had been the night before, at least the drizzle had stopped.
Several times on Friday night I’d driven through the parking lot at the apartments where Gallegos and Duong lived, looking for the as yet unidentified muscly black guy and/or the curly-haired young man who’d been with the others at the looting. I’d had no luck. Here I was again tonight, cruising the lot. Still no luck. Nobody was crazy enough to be out in this cold.
The dispatcher came over the radio. “We’ve got a report of gunshots in Park Hill.” She rattled off an address on Winton Terrace West. “Who can respond?”
Before I could get to my mic, Mackey’s voice came over the line. “Officer Mackey responding.”
It was no surprise he’d jumped on the call. Mackey thrived on risk, volunteering for the most dangerous calls, always trying to prove how macho and manly he could be. Of course chances were good that the reported noise wasn’t actually gunfire. More often than not, such reports turned out to be fireworks or merely a car backfiring. I’d once taken a call regarding an alleged machine gun and found only a ten-year-old practicing a tap dance routine in a garage. I’d suggested she close the door next time so as not to alarm the neighbors.
A few minutes later, as I was heading south on Henderson, a northbound SUV passed me, its headlights off despite the late hour. I hooked a U-turn and trailed after him as he merged onto Interstate 30. I followed the car for three miles with my lights and siren on. The driver drove at a speed of only twenty miles an hour, probably thinking he was being very careful. In reality, a car moving at such a sluggish rate on a freeway could be dangerous, too. Other drivers wouldn’t expect someone to be going so slow and could easily crash into him before they realized how slowly he was going. Hence, the posted minimum speeds.
Finally, the guy seemed to notice me behind him, his brake lights illuminating. He pulled his SUV over as he went under an overpass, the right side of his car scraping against the concrete wall as he rolled to a stop.
I turned off my siren and spoke to the man on my public address system. “Turn your car off.”
There was a craaaaagh sound as the car’s engine protested the man’s attempt to start the already running motor.
I sighed and spoke through my mic again. “Turn the key toward you.”
He had better luck this time.
I requested backup from dispatch, knowing this guy would be going to jail. The only question now was whether he’d be one of those goofy drunks or a belligerent one.
I checked my side mirror for oncoming traffic before getting out of the cruiser. When the road was clear, I stepped out and walked up to the car.
A thirtyish man looked out at me from the driver’s seat, his expression dopey, his movements slow. “Why’d you pull me over?” he asked through the glass.
“It would be easier to have this conversation,” I rapped a knuckle on the closed window, “if you rolled this down.”
With unintentionally exaggerated movements, he raised his index finger, placed it on the control, and pushed the button. The window slid down.
“Why’d you…” He trailed off, as if he’d lost his train of thought for a moment, but then he found it again. “Why’d you pull me over?”
“I’ll give you three guesses.” Hey, if I had to work the crappy night shift, I might as well have some fun at it, right?
His brows lifted. �
��If I guess right do I get to make a wish?”
Goofy it is.
“I’m a cop, not a genie. Where are you headed?”
“Home.” He circled his arms in an outdated dance move. “I’ve been at a par-tay!”
This guy was much too old to talk like a frat boy. “Must’ve been some ‘par-tay’.”
“You know it!”
“I need to see your driver’s license and registration, please.”
He reached behind him, nearly giving himself an atomic wedgie before managing to get his fingers around his wallet and pulling it out of his pocket. He held the entire thing out to me.
“I only want to see your license.”
“Oh. Okay.” He opened his wallet and began to thumb through it. “Hey, here’s a picture of my girlfriend.” He held up a photo of a busty brown-haired woman wearing approximately two inches of clothing and ten pounds of makeup. He ran his eyes over my face and down my chest. “She’s prettier than you.” He made a pinching motion with his index finger and thumb. “But only by a little bit. ’bout this much.”
“Gee,” I said. “Thanks.” The woman might be prettier than me, but if she was dating this idiot she was certainly not smarter.
He pulled a condom from his wallet next. “This is in case I … in case I meet a girl and get lucky.”
“I thought you had a girlfriend.”
He waved a floppy hand. “Only sometimes.” The condom slipped out of his hand and fell to the floorboard. He bent down to pick it up and banged his head on the steering wheel. “Ow!”
“Leave the condom on the floor,” I ordered. I wanted this guy’s hands where I could see them. For all I knew, he could have a gun under his seat.
“Okay, okay!” he cried. “No need to … no need to yell. Jeez, you sound just like … just like my mother.”
“Do I now?”
“She was a great mom,” he said. “She used to … used to cut the crusts off my sandwiches.”
“When she wasn’t yelling, you mean.”
“Right.”
He continued to riffle through his wallet, pulled out a white plastic card, and held it out to me. “Here you go.”