More Money for Good

by Franklin White

  “Mrs. Bullock, there is no doubt in my mind that Tavious didn’t kill her.”

  She exhaled. “I never thought he did, but hearing it from you puts my heart at ease,” she confided.

  “But I do think the police, just because they have an open murder case and no other leads, are trying to pin the murder on Tavious. He needs to find out who did kill his friend so that doesn’t happen.”

  “Well, I’ve seen them send men to prison with much less evidence than what they have on my grandson. Ex-cons are always the first choice whenever they can be connected to a crime.” She thinks. “You know, West . . . I’d have never imagined Tavious would have to live his life this way, even though his mother wasn’t there for him like I was raised to be there for my children. You see, she was always in and out of his life . . . searching for what was best for herself, very selfish. His grandfather and I tried to make sure he had the best of everything, which probably made his mother believe she didn’t have to do much. She had the leeway to not be as good a mother as she could have been. We could give him the best schools, best of care, but everything we put into him never seemed to come out. I think it was because he wanted his mother in his life; and to make matters worse, the poor boy never knew his father. No one did. But through all that madness I can see, even though he has been locked away in that godforsaken place, he still has some good left in him and a murderer he’s not.”

  I agreed with Mrs. Bullock. To me Tavious was the type of person who didn’t like confrontation. He was someone who just wanted to do his time, whether it be behind prison walls or free as a bird.

  Mrs. Bullock looked at me sternly. “Do I know everything that’s going on here? It seems on the surface that something else is brewing.”

  There was no way I could look Mrs. Bullock in the face and lie to her. I told her that weeks ago Tavious asked me to go over Amara’s house with him to look for his two million, and when we arrived she was dead. It wasn’t comfortable filling her in on all the details. I explained to her that we had information on some of the places Amara would hang out, but after checking them all out, there wasn’t a soul who didn’t seem to like Amara or who we thought would harm her.

  Mrs. Bullock looked down at her tea in thought while she moved her head back and forth, trying to decide what to say next. No doubt she was deep in thought.

  “Looks like you have yourself another case, West.” She kind of smiled at me.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Who would have thought we would be right back here again?” she said with a coy smile planted on her face.

  I was fully aware of what Mrs. Bullock’s smile was all about. She wanted me in 100 percent to help her grandson. It all brought back memories when Rossi and I helped her put those ruthless bastards in jail who worked for the Atlanta Police Department. She thought I had a knack for solving cases and never let me forget it.

  There was no uncertainty that I enjoyed solving problems. Maybe deep down inside, way deep, my motivation came from that smooth television character in the late eighties played by Avery Brooks in A Man They Call Hawk. He was the only black man I ever saw who was allowed to walk around strapped with that long-ass pistol and wave it around in everybody’s face. The aura of it all got to a point where I never missed an episode. But Tavious and his predicament were real. I could only pray that I could help him, because if I didn’t I think it would possibly kill Mrs. Bullock to see him go off to prison again.

  Chapter 30

  On every Sunday since he had been out of the pen Tavious made sure that he would have breakfast with Mrs. Bullock. It was one of the few family traditions he still remembered and missed dearly when he was locked up. His grandmother had a cook but never let her touch the sacred meal on Sunday morning since he had been released. Mrs. Shirley Bullock thought it was too precious of a day. Besides, Tavious loved her grits, fish, and eggs even when he was a little boy.

  The menu for the morning feast was already planned and prepared: waffles, omelets, some biscuits, and a gang of fresh fruit including Tavious’s favorite California seedless grapes.

  “Is everything the way you like it, Tavious?”

  “Grands, you still got it,” Tavious let her know.

  He noticed his grandmother smile. She was even proud.

  Tavious stood up and gave his grandmother his plate for this third round. “How do you do it? It’s just how I remembered.”

  “It’s all love, baby. When you put love into it, your love is bound to come out in the taste and it makes people feel good,” she said. “Big problem with these women today, too,” she said.

  Tavious took the plate after it was nice and full. “What’s that?”

  “Tavious, they can’t cook, baby,” she said. “Over the past twenty or so years, these young ladies haven’t been taught the difference between a pot and a pan.” That in fact was a huge topic of discussion with Mrs. Bullock and her friends at the senior center in downtown Atlanta.

  She was adamant about women and their craft of cooking. She believed that spending time in the kitchen preparing a meal was a way to a man’s heart. She had evidence because she’d kept her husband for over fifty years happy as can be every night.

  Tavious chuckled as he stuffed another homemade butter biscuit in his mouth then reached for his coffee mug. Mrs. Bullock placed a newspaper down on the table next to him. He looked down and started to read the headline staring him in the face: ALL ALONE AND MURDERED.

  “Looks like a reporter has taken interest into what happened with your friend,” his grandmother said.

  She had read the article twice hours before passing it to Tavious. Ever since her husband played such an important role in Atlanta city politics it had become her ritual to scour the paper to find out what was happening in the city. She had read many articles from this particular reporter, Saadia Eussit. She was a clever, seasoned reporter who had the knack for concentrating on the facts of situations and only offering opinions and commentary in her biweekly column.

  Tavious had not taken his eyes from the paper since seeing the headline. He did sip on his coffee a few times as he read without showing any reaction to what it said. When he finished he exhaled, then held out his coffee mug and his grandmother was already there ready to give him a refill.

  “So, it’s in the paper now,” he mentions.

  “Yes, a lady murdered for no apparent reason is the type of stories reporters in this town salivate for.”

  “She doesn’t seem to have much,” he said. “Seems to know as much as everybody else.”

  “She’ll find out more; she always does,” his grandma assured him. “The brass down at the AJC gives her full reign to do pretty much what she wants. She’s not an unethical woman by any stretch but she does get her stories at all cost. Thank God she didn’t use your name in the paper. But when she finds out you’ve been questioned, there will be no way to keep you out of it when people finally get interested and want to know what’s going on.”

  Tavious looked at the paper and slid it to the other side of the table. There was a moment of silence.

  “I think you should go see her.” Mrs. Bullock’s words were as blunt as the day she told him she believed he could ride his bike and the only thing he had to do was to actually do it.

  “You want me to go see the woman who could possibly tell the whole city I am a killer?”

  “That’s exactly the reason to go see her. Give her your side of the story before any innuendos or any false allegations are made by the police. Times have changed over the years, Tavious. You have to use the media as an advantage because if you ever—God forbid—ever have to go to trial, public opinion will play a part of the outcome.”

  Tavious was silent and all he wanted at the time was more coffee.

  Chapter 31

  Tavious remained in the kitchen after his conversation with his Grands. He wanted to relax and take in his grandmother’s thoughts while enjoying the light breeze wafting and bouncing through the windows. G
ospel music—inspirational to some—was blaring throughout the house. “No Weapon Formed Against Me Shall Prosper.” Tavious was at ease of sorts despite the revealing news article about Amara’s death written by this Saadia Eussit.

  Unannounced or planned his mother Joyce came into the kitchen. Seeing her was not on his agenda. Seeing her at the Waffle House and outside in the parking lot was cool enough. His plan today was to sit back, focus, and think of an idea to get his two million, then live comfortably without her in his life at all. That’s it.

  “It sure is good to see you, baby,” she said.

  Her voice was agitating. Tavious didn’t want to do this now. His group therapy sessions in prison with detailed ways to deal with negative distractions were going to help him with this stress. He turned them on. His old, bearded counselor’s voice appeared in his head. It reminded him to control himself. He remembered how to do just that. Breathe. It was going to be difficult though. He had years of built-up electrons bubbling inside his body. They were close to spilling over. He still couldn’t believe she didn’t come and see her own son in prison.

  Tavious suppressed everything running through his mind with silence. Not a word. Steady, deep breaths.

  “You barely said a word to me the other night,” his mother pushes.

  The second sound of her voice is even more irritating. It rattled his brain more than her words. He remained silent but pushed and tapped his foot under the table akin to stomping down on a kick drum pedal in a concert for a rapper where it needed to be loud as can be.

  “Tavious, I know you’re upset with me. And you have every right to be, but we have to talk sometime,” she pressed.

  Tavious doesn’t respond. He was still working on his breathing technique and still recoiling with his leg. But then she placed her hand on his shoulder while he sits. Tavious stood up quickly and his system was on fire.

  “Don’t . . .” Tavious requested. He wanted to say more. Much louder. But he mumbled that it was enough and that he wanted to be left alone.

  She moved back a few steps and was surprised that he didn’t say more. She expected that he would have had said more to her. She was ready to hear it all. She was more than ready to tell her side. She couldn’t wait to inform him that when he was eighteen she finally opened her eyes from the distance they shared and noticed that he was always with money. Had a car without a job. She was scared for him. She wanted to remind him that she promised God that if he was caught selling drugs she would have killed herself first before she would see him locked up like an animal in a cage. She wanted to remind him that she told him that. She wanted to enlighten him and thought he should know that Amara kept her informed of his well-being more than he would ever know during those twenty years behind bars.

  Another minute had passed by now. All silence. She was in tears thinking about the things she did wrong up to this point regarding her son. All the years she spent chasing men.

  Just every freakin’ thing she did wrong.

  “Are you just going to stand there?” she asked.

  Tavious felt a spike. The uncontrollable spike that was spoken about in his counseling sessions in prison. He smiles and suppresses it for a few more minutes but just has to let it go.

  “You think it’s that easy? I’m standing here pushing forty years old and haven’t laid eyes on you in twenty—and what? You want a kiss and a hug?”

  Tavious turned around slowly and for the first time he looked at his mom only because she didn’t respond. It was his first good look at her. No darkness. After all this time. He noticed the tears rolling down her face. She is twenty years older but her eyes hadn’t changed a bit. Tavious focused on the tear tumbling down her cheek. Her eyes looked exactly the same as the day she dropped him off at his grandmother’s to live a better life when he was seven.

  Mrs. Bullock had been just outside the kitchen in the dining room, listening to every word. The room still had the oak wood cabinet record player with the vintage Stevie Wonder albums and Jackson 5 forty-five discs on the bottom shelf that they would listen to back in the day.

  Tavious was exhausted by now. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing. He could see her pain but still he wanted to say everything. He couldn’t dismiss the words from his mouth of everything that was on his mind. It wouldn’t be productive. It was against the rules of staying cool, calm, and focused. His mother doesn’t move or speak. She was ready for his onslaught of words. She is tight, as though she had been sitting on death row for years. She wanted to hear it all. They stand eye to eye waiting for what was next.

  Suddenly there was a never-forgettable crackle, hiss, pop, and scratching sound that could have only come from the needle on a vinyl record on the old but functional oak wood record player. It was Mrs. Bullock’s favorite song, by James Cleveland, “Peace, Be Still.”

  Part 2

  Chapter 32

  I was surprised to see Tavious walk into the shop Monday morning with his mother and her husband Ely. They followed him over to his bay and from my office it looked as though he was giving them the royal tour. When they made it over to my office they were all smiles.

  His mother extended her hand out to me. “West, thanks for putting Tavious in charge of your lean program,” she said.

  I let her know it was my pleasure right after Tavious winked his eye at me.

  “You sure have a nice shop here,” Ely said. “If you’re ever in need of a guard dog I’m your man,” he let me know.

  Tavious said good-bye to them a few minutes later and when they were out the door he followed me into my office. I sat behind my desk and Tavious took the chair directly in front of my desk.

  “Sometimes you have to let some things go, West,” Tavious said. “All these years, man, and no matter how mad I thought I was . . . A moment can put you in a place where you can move on and live life.”

  I smiled at him and nodded my head in agreement. I knew exactly where Tavious’s head was because Mrs. Bullock had called me bright and early just to let me know that he was in a better place.

  “So, you talk to Grands?”

  I nodded again.

  “She thinks I need to go talk to this reporter named Saadia Eussit because she wrote an article about Amara’s death.”

  “Couldn’t hurt. But what do you think about it?”

  Tavious swiped at his face and exhaled. “I don’t know, man. I don’t know this woman. What if she is working with the police, trying to get some kind of statement out of me.”

  “Well, when you talk to her it’s almost going to be like a statement.”

  Tavious pointed toward me. “Exactly.”

  “What if you tell her you’ll speak with her off the record?” I told him. “That way, they can’t use anything you say.”

  Tavious kept his eyes on me and decided that he could do that, but very cautiously.

  I asked him, “When does she want to meet?”

  “Grands set it up for later today after work at Gladys Knight’s downtown. You’re going with me right?”

  Chapter 33

  Aa usual, the restaurant was packed. Mrs. Bullock and Saadia Eussit couldn’t have picked a better place to meet because I hadn’t had a bite of chicken and waffles and an ice-cold sweet tea in much too long. The restaurant was the type of establishment where you didn’t make reservations, but Mrs. Bullock told us to give the head waitress our name. With the quickness they led us back to a table where a lady was sitting, wearing a blue blouse and black pants, with a notebook sitting in front of her. We presumed her to be Ms. Eussit and we were right.

  After she introduced herself, Ms. Eussit let us know up front the “U” in her name was silent—“Esit”—and she was not there for any small talk by getting straight to business. We barely had a chance to sit down before she started in. By chance I noticed Tavious gawking at her iPad.

  “So, I understand”—she looked at me then Tavious—“that you wanted to see me,” she said. She was already in her notebook and we hadn
’t said a word.

  Tavious answered. “I’m Tavious and this is—”

  I cut him off. “My name is Pete,” I informed her. There was no way she was getting any information about me. I had never read my own name in the newspaper except on a small ad in the paper about my shop, and that’s the way I wanted to keep it.

  The light-skinned woman peered over her reading glasses at me. “Uh . . . okay, right.” She adjusted her glasses, then looked at Tavious still peering over her lenses. “You wanted to talk about the murder of Amara, I take it?”

  Tavious paused, then he cleared his throat. “Yeah, yeah, that’s it. I wanted to tell you . . . Wait a minute, this is off the record—right?”

  She confirmed with a nod, then Tavious looked at me before he continued.

  “Well, yeah, I knew her. I spoke to her while I was in prison. We were supposed to meet up when I got out but I never got a chance to talk to her.”

  The reporter had an oversized black leather carry bag with her and we watched as she dug into it deep. She finally brought out a folder. She looked at me for a brief second, then quickly at Tavious before reading something inside. “Do you have a phone number with the last four 6767?”

  Immediately that number stood out to me as being his cell.

  Tavious was close to answering. “Uhh . . .”

  I cut in. “Nope.” Tavious was so green to technology and knew absolutely nothing about how numbers could be traced. I just couldn’t let him put himself out there like that.

  Tavious looked at me and so did the reporter.

  “Okay . . .” she said.

  “Good,” I said back.

  She gave me a sharp look, then put her attention back on Tavious. “So, tell me about the relationship you had with Amara.”