The cup was still warm and felt fairly full. I set it aside for the time being, my focus squarely on the sheet of paper. My heart was beating a couple of beats faster than normal. Receiving notes and packages was becoming a routine for me lately, and not one that I welcomed.
This time the note was shorter, but still written with the same black, handwritten letters…
WARM CUP OF JO. MY TREAT.
There were only two baristas working the counter when I approached. The young African-American woman with the independently artistic flair, and the guy with the blond, surfer-length hair pulled back into a ponytail. The young woman had made my cup of coffee perfectly, just the way I liked it. But now she looked less than confident about the cup she was currently making. It could have had something to do with the way Surfer boy was looking over her shoulder, practically hoping she screwed it up. I could see it in his face. He just had that look of arrogance that told me he took his coffee, and his training of newbies, entirely too seriously. If my mind wasn’t otherwise preoccupied, I would have felt sorry for the girl.
“Hey,” I said, setting the warm paper cup on the counter. But that was as far as I got. I was momentarily rendered speechless by the look the guy gave me. Like I was interrupting a quasi-religious experience.
“Yeah?” the guy asked, as if what I was about to say had better be important.
“Either of you set this cup on my table?”
It was a dumb question, I know. That’s why I changed gears and didn’t spend much time waiting for an answer. I was sure any response from the guy would have come with a double shot of sarcasm, which I normally would have given right back, but didn’t feel like listening to in my present mindset.
As I rushed to the door, neither the guy on his laptop nor the lady with the book bothered to look up. Still, I asked if either had seen someone enter the coffee shop in the last few minutes.
“Young girl,” the lady said, her eyes never leaving the page. “Blonde, I think. Kinda dirty.”
Busting through the door, I looked down the sidewalk, first to my left, then to my right. And that’s where I found her. A blonde. Kinda dirty. She looked homeless, in fact, yet there she was, leaning against the building, counting out a thin handful of cash.
“Hey!” I said, heading in her direction.
She looked up and met my glare, but if she was startled, she didn’t show it. Like someone with nothing to hide, she simply slid the money into the pocket of her oversized blue jacket and waited for me to approach.
“What?” she asked as nonchalantly as if she was used to angry people approaching her. Her eyes showed no fear, no alert even. In fact, the only expression on her face other than indifference, was a slight touch of arrogance. Defiance, maybe. She just stood there, waiting for whatever was about to come out of my mouth.
“Was it you?” I asked. “Did you set the paper cup on my table? With a note?”
“Sure did,” she said, no expression on her face. No hesitation. “Easiest twenty bucks I ever made. Didn’t even have to stick my finger down my throat afterward.”
Her bluntness surprised me, but her answer wasn’t unexpected. Walking up to her, I’d already determined that if she was the one who put the cup there, it wasn’t her idea. In fact, she looked all too eager to do someone a “favor” in exchange for a couple of fives.
“Who paid you to do it?” I asked. “Older, bald guy? Hideously ugly?”
She shook her head, pursed her lips.
“Young guy. Actually kinda cute in a greasy Johnny Depp, Jack Sparrow kinda way. I woulda done him for…”
Her profession of lust was cut short by a high-pitched scream, a bone-rattling, female wail from inside the coffee shop.
Turning on my heels, I rushed to the front door of the coffee shop, leaving the blonde still leaning against the building. What I saw as I entered stopped me in my tracks. The baristas stood facing each other behind the counter. Both of the girl’s hands were covering her mouth, and it was obvious where the scream had come from. It was when I looked at the countertop that I saw why.
A red liquid, most likely blood, covered the countertop. It dripped off the front edge, creating a puddle on the tile floor. I say most likely blood, because well, what else would it be at this point in Barnes’ game?
“The cup,” the girl behind the counter kept saying, the horror of its contents fresh in her eyes.
The cup itself was laying on the countertop in the middle of the crimson slick, the lid sitting beside it. It hit me why the cup had felt warm, and I struggled to keep from transferring the coffee from my stomach to the growing puddle on the floor.
“Holy shit,” the fifty-something guy said, his laptop and whatever he was doing on it all but forgotten.
Suddenly, the sound of convulsive vomiting could be heard coming from just behind me. I turned to see the dirty blonde bent over just inside the doorway. Her hands were on her knees, and she was in the process of emptying her stomach of whatever she’d last eaten. The realization of what was in that cup she’d brought in had hit her as well.
It looked to be, quite literally, a cup of some girl named Jo.
Chapter 21
I gathered my things without saying a word, and left the coffee shop like I was late for an appointment. Except for the male barista, who was busy ruining a white towel by wiping specks of red splatter off his arm, all eyes were on me as I made my way to the door. I tossed my own nearly empty cup of coffee in the trashcan beside the door. When the barista finally noticed I was leaving, he yelled at me to stop. But I didn’t. Not until I’d gone around the side of the building to the parking lot and my waiting truck.
Everyone inside the Starbucks either must have been in shock, or flat out scared, because nobody followed. And I was glad. If they had come looking for an explanation, I would have been at a loss. How could I possibly have explained what had just happened? Or my part in it?
It took a few seconds of fumbling around to finally find the right key and unlock the door. Tossing the laptop onto the bench seat, I slid in beside it, closed the door behind me, and tried to breath. Two seconds later, I reached up and locked it. After another moment spent trying to slow my breathing, I pulled down the overhead sun visor and looked into the mirror that was secured there with two rubber bands.
The first question that came to mind was whether my eyes were always that wide. I didn’t think so, but damn, did I look alert! And I didn’t think it was the coffee. The second question was, who the hell paid that girl to bring me a cup full of blood? Greasy Johnny Depp type? That wasn’t Barnes at all. Not even close. In fact, it was almost the complete opposite. Johnny Depp was short and wiry, whereas Corwin Barnes was tall and muscular. And bald. When Depp played Jack Sparrow, his hair had been long, brown and wavy. It didn’t make any sense, especially when it seemed like the girl had gotten a pretty good look at the guy.
So, what the hell was going on?
I flipped the sun visor back up and looked around. None of the handful of other cars in the parking lot had a driver or any occupants at all. Nor did I see anyone slinking around looking like they were lost or out of place. Whoever had given the girl the cup hadn’t stuck around to see what happened. They weren’t like the arsonist who can’t help but hang back and watch his handiwork literally go up in flames.
I sat there a few more minutes, slouched in the seat, trying to make sense of what had just happened. I started compiling a mental list of who may have been responsible. But then, I would have needed actual names or possible leads in order for it to be an actual list. I had neither.
It wasn’t until a police cruiser pulled into the lot and parked in a spot up front that I sat up straight behind the wheel. With my blood pressure rising, I patiently waited until the officer had gotten out of the car, pulled on his dark blue hat and disappeared around the corner to the front of the building before turning the key in the ignition. When the V-8 engine roared to life, I half expected to see the officer come running ar
ound the corner of the building, but he never did. Thankfully. I was all about informing Detective Morgenstern about this incident, but the last thing I wanted to do was get quizzed by an officer with no prior knowledge of my situation. That could make for a very long, very frustrating day.
As I put the truck in gear, a strange sense came over me that made me just shake my head. To the people in the coffee shop, I had become the one to fear. I was the one who posed the threat. It was absurd, and I have to say, it wasn’t a feeling I liked. I couldn’t fathom how some individuals sought it out.
I needed to distance myself from the events of the morning. Cleanse my pallet, so to speak. I knew exactly where to go and who I would find there. After looking both ways down Regent Blvd., I pulled out of the Starbuck’s parking lot and headed east.
Chapter 22
Dallas’s Jeep was parked next to the beat up green dumpster like always. Dallas wasn’t necessarily a creature of habit. He simply didn’t have many options in the limited alley space behind the garage. Even though I wasn’t allowed to work today, I knew Dallas would be. And if he wasn’t working on customer’s vehicles, he would at least be working on his own. After all, cars weren’t just his business, they were his passion, and Dallas spent much of his free time at the shop. When I saw the empty Pabst Blue Ribbon carton sitting on top of the trash in the dumpster, I knew it was his Chevy C10 that was getting some love.
Entering the storage room in the back, I could hear the psychedelic sounds of 60s rock coming from the shop. Dallas kept a small radio on a shelf, and judging by the way it greeted me all the way at the back door, I was willing to bet the volume knob was turned about as far as it would go. When it came to the radio, I could always count on two things: Dallas trying to live up to the saying, “if it’s too loud, you’re too old,” and doing so with WSWO, Dayton’s oldies station. I didn’t recognize the song or the band, but I knew the 60’s sound.
When I opened the door to the shop, I found Dallas’ ass crack staring up at me from the top of his cutoff jeans shorts. A can of PBR sat balanced on the C10’s fender as he bent over with his head and both arms in the truck’s engine compartment. With the music blasting, I knew he wouldn’t hear me coming, so I waited until I was almost directly behind him.
“Knew I’d find you here,” I shouted. It wasn’t like in the movies or television. He didn’t raise up and hit his head on the hood or anything. But he did jump quite a bit.
“Jesus H!”
Above the blaring music, I heard the familiar sound of a dropped wrench inside an engine compartment. It clanked against everything on its way down like a pinball, before finally clattering onto the concrete floor. Since I drop my share of wrenches, I knew the sound well. I don’t know why making someone jump is so much fun, but it brought a smile to my face, nonetheless. A much needed smile.
“There goes about three months off my life,” Dallas said, grabbing a red rag and wiping his greasy hands on it.
“Sorry,” I said, but he wasn’t fooled by it. It might have had something to do with me having trouble concealing my smile.
“Bullshit,” Dallas said, snatching up his can of beer. Before taking a drink, however, he jerked the top of the can toward me, splashing a small amount of beer on my shorts. “Aw, look at that. Now you’re gonna go home to mommy smelling like beer. Might as well make it worthwhile. Cooler’s over there.”
He nodded in the direction of one of the rear overhead doors, and sitting there on the floor was his filthy white cooler with the red lid.
“After the morning I’ve had, don’t mind if I do,” I said.
I grabbed my own beer and turned down the volume on the radio more than a couple notches, and returned to find Dallas under the Chevy retrieving his wrench. I popped the tab, sucked in the foam and took a long drink of cold goodness while I waited for him to reemerge. As soon as he did, the questions started.
“What do you mean, ‘after the morning I’ve had’? And what the hell you doing here on your day off?”
I grabbed a seat on top of a short, grey toolbox and contemplated whether I wanted to bring it up. But who was I kidding? No matter what delusional excuse I came up with, Dallas would see right through it. Besides, telling him about what happened at the coffee shop was the reason I’d come over.
So I told him everything.
When I was done, Dallas just leaned against his truck, taking occasional draws from his beer. With his free hand, he stroked the length of his beard. It took a minute or two for him to say anything, and when he did, it wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.
Dallas busted out laughing.
Caught slightly off guard by his response, all I could do was sit and take a drink from my beer and wait for him to be done. It took the last two choruses of The Hollies’ “Bus Stop” and a commercial for an assisted living facility before he would speak again.
“Damn, son,” Dallas finally said. “I’m sorry, but what the fuck?”
Still unsure how to respond, I just sat there and waited for more. Was this the moment when Dallas finally started to question me? Had it all become too much for him? Was this the point where Dallas concluded that I’d finally lost it? Thankfully, that wasn’t the direction he went. In fact, it wasn’t my sanity that he was starting to question.
“This guy is grade-A, certified nuts. Wanting to kill you after everything you’ve told me, I could see. But the extent to which this guy is playing with you, fuckin’ with your head, goes beyond anything I can comprehend. But maybe I’m just used to the school of thought that when a job needs done, you just do it, without delay. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe it’s my military background talkin’, who knows?”
Getting down onto one knee, Dallas slid out the yellow plastic tub that we used to collect the waste when changing a car’s oil. A little of the glossy black liquid slopped onto the floor, but it was literally a drop in the bucket compared to all the other oil and grease stains that had already blackened the concrete.
“Have you asked yourself why he isn’t just comin’ after you?” Dallas asked, walking the yellow tube over to a 55-gallon barrel where we keep used oil until we could have someone haul it away. “I mean, do you think there’s a specific reason? Something other than simply gettin’ his rocks off?”
I thought about it for a moment, then shrugged my shoulders.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Could it be that he’s not sure how to come after me?”
After Dallas slowly poured the oil into the barrel so it didn’t slop, he clamped the plastic lid back on. When he turned back, an idea shone in his eyes and his eyebrows pointed downward in the middle. A valley carved itself down the middle of his forehead, and he looked at me for a moment before speaking.
“Could it be,” he asked, “that he’s plannin’ somethin’ big for you, and he’s just not ready yet?”
Chapter 23
Could it be that he’s planning something big?
Dallas’ words played over and over in my mind, and had played ever since I left the shop. I spent the afternoon helping him tune up the C10. Then we took it for a drive, stopping for a late lunch before heading out to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Park. I walked most of the circle with Dallas, listening to him share stories when we’d come to a name he knew, before heading back to the truck and leaving him alone with his thoughts. Sitting on the tailgate, I let the sun warm my face and burn away the events of the morning. I was feeling really good by the time Dallas returned to the truck.
But the good vibes lasted only as long as the sun.
What could Barnes be planning? The question wouldn’t leave me as I drove the city streets on my way to the hotel. What could possibly be worse than ending me? Eventually I decided that an answer to either of these questions would only mean bad things, so I tried to force them out of my mind. I had the windows down, sharing the new Of Mice & Men CD with the people of Dayton, hoping to regain some of the good vibes I’d felt only hours ago. But no matter how hard I tried, I was soon
reminded that not everything was right with the world.
The headlights in the rearview mirror mimicked my every move. About a half block behind me, they were there every time I looked up. When I made a left, they turned left. When I sped up, so did they. Changing lanes didn’t faze them at all, and even when I tried blending in with traffic, the same headlights were always in the background. If the driver wasn’t following me, it would have been the mother of all coincidences.
I sat up higher in my seat and tried to determine how to best handle the situation. Not surprisingly, everything I came up with was something I’d seen in a movie. I decided to simply start at the top of the list and see what worked.
As the song “You’re Not Alone” was hitting its high point, I jerked the wheel at the last possible moment and took a hard right down Siebenthaler Avenue. Seconds later, my eyes were on the mirror when the headlights followed suit, also making the turn just in time while still keeping their distance. At least the bright lights of an LED billboard on the corner allowed for a better look at the vehicle this time. It was a plain white cargo van that didn’t seem to have anything written on its sides. Very inconspicuous.
I managed to drive down Sullivan for another half mile before checking my mirror again. I tried to find that balance between keeping an eye on the van, and keeping my eyes on the road. There weren’t a lot of cars out, but enough. It would only take one to ruin my evening.
No matter whether I sped up or slowed down, the distance between us rarely changed. It was as if there was a length of rope connecting the back of my truck to the van. If the driver was trying to hide the fact that he was trailing me, he wasn’t doing a very good job, whoever it was. And I had a pretty good idea who.
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