Tylowe’s head turned from looking at another casino site along the highway and looked at the side of Psalms’ face. “Man, tell me why Elliot nauseates you so much, as it is obvious he does. Anyone can tell. I have my reasons, but is it because he has messed with my life that you hate his ass as you do? I appreciate your help in all this. Don’t think I don’t. It does sound like Elliot has set his BS to affect many people if he has a connection with Evita’s disappearance. But you didn’t even like him before all this.”
“I’m going to pull over before we cross the border and get some coffee, and I have a story to tell. I, too, have a history with Elliot that goes back to college.” Psalms drove a little longer. The stereo blasted Curtis Mayfield’s “Kung Fu” as he pulled up to a coffee shop. He let the song finish before going in.
Just after they crossed the border, Psalms took the time to tell his story. “Back in college, I heard about Elliot, and that he slept with a few of the girls our friends had gone out with, or had dated. You weren’t the only person to confront him about it. I know Malik Coop did, and Mayland Howard told him it was a punk move, but we were also boys and didn’t put a lot weight in to what other people did.
“You were running track and playing football. Mayland and Coop were on the basketball court. I was in the weight room working out, or I was on the wrestling mat. We all thought if he had a thing for sleeping with women we had slept with, he was just a twisted freak. Maybe in a strange way, it served us right to be going through girls like jelly beans. We all had egos out of control.
“I was seeing a Hispanic girl who lived off campus near Old Town Albuquerque. I was in to her. I liked her. I believe…no, I know I loved her, so I kept her away from the college scene because as you said, crabs in the barrel. If people see others happy, they want to pull you down if they don’t have a good thing. I spent a lot time at her home with her family.
“One day, she was in a sad mood, all emotional. I was holding her and trying to make her feel better about whatever was bothering her. We were at a park at night in my car and it went from sadness to being all over each other. We made a mistake there. We got too hot, and we didn’t have condoms. We always had plenty, and just like some teenage idiots, we had sex without a condom, and she came up pregnant.”
“Dude, I remember seeing a Hispanic girl you were dating, or at least I thought you were dating. She was always at your wrestling matches, and she always came over, and hugged you. Folks knew or thought she was someone significant.”
Psalms and Tylowe talked on and off along the trip to the prison. Tylowe sensed Psalms was troubled and didn’t press him. They made it to the prison and parked.
“Mina was her name. She committed suicide.” Psalms turned the stereo volume up for a while, listening to the Latin soul of the band War’s song, “The World is a Ghetto.”
Psalms stared at the wall of the prison, burning a vision all the way to Elliot’s cell. “She left a note, and she wrote that Elliot had raped her, and she was not sure who the father of the baby was. She took her…she took my baby’s life. It had to be my child—my child. My child came from love. That had to dominate over an evil seed, right?”
Tylowe knew Psalms was not asking.
“Elliot acted as though I didn’t know, and maybe he didn’t realize that I knew that he raped my girl. This went on for a week with him smiling in my face. I don’t know if he knew Mina had taken her life. I doubt if he even knows right now. He did pay a small price, but not the price he should have paid. I knew where he practiced his motorcycle riding, on a back road, out in back of the mountain area near the Tram. I shot him with a BB gun while he was riding. He hit the ground like a sack of rocks.”
Tylowe looked at him weird.
“Hey, I didn’t have guns back in college. Anyway, he came off his motorcycle at about 45 miles per hour. Elliot was hurt, not serious enough, but he was dazed. He didn’t see me as I beat him to within inches of his life. The only thing that stopped me was my grandfather had killed a man before and that it involved Evita. I wasn’t ready for blood on my hands…yet.”
Tylowe stared at the prison gate, and then out of the corner of his eye at Psalms, knowing that, in Psalms’ life, he had taken a life or lives. The man was a trained Navy SEAL, and Tylowe knew that Suzy Q had, and would again if need be, as she’d helped a man take his own life a few years ago.
“I do remember Elliot being in the hospital from a motorcycle accident. He left school after that, and went back to France. He made a name as a celebrated Grand Prix motorcycle racer, as we all know. We all thought that was where he made his money. Later, I found out he was trafficking drugs with the Russians and using the motorcycle dealerships as front, using Meeah and her family.”
“Yeah, that’s our boy, and he’s still at it after all this time.” Psalms sounded tired; he was living with a memory he had shared rarely, if at all.
“So, do you think after all this time Elliot has not known all that you know? Your girl Mina becomes pregnant, and she committed suicide, and then you beat Elliot’s ass. I have to think he knows something. I know you’re a mastermind, and you can handle most situations, but if you are wrong, it can hurt more than you and me. Why is he targeting you? I know why he’s messing with my life, and he may want his kids, but most likely he only wants their money. He may have enemies, but we seem to be his prime targets for revenge.
“Psalms, I know you don’t like anyone to stand up to you, so I have to ask, are you letting your emotions or your ego cloud your thinking?”
“If my thinking is clouded, so is his, and trust me, a man with an ego like his, he may plot, but he doesn’t know when to stop. I’m clearer than he is as of right now. I beat his ass silly before, and now…well, you don’t want to know what I will do, and it won’t be because he’s running on stupid. This is not about whose dick is bigger, and this is not about which man can lift his leg up higher, and win a pissing contest. This is life and death.”
“I hear all that, man, but keep in mind we have people back in Seattle. I have a wife and two grown daughters out there, and now two more children. You have Gabrielle, who has been through hell herself as of late; you need to find Evita, and you have all your other friends. They are counting on you and me. We can’t bring harm to them just because we seek revenge against this dude. He may have the same idea.”
“Tylowe, trust me, I have everybody in mind.” Psalms handed Tylowe a piece of paper. “Don’t read this until after we come back outside and get into the car.”
Tylowe looked at Psalms with a blank look. They exited the car and went inside.
• • •
At the sign-in desk, Psalms showed his high-level U.S. government papers and ID. Tylowe also had Canadian ID because he and Meeah owned property there, and his motorcycle dealership franchise was still in Vancouver, although it had been downsized.
A guard entered their information in a computer, and said, “I see you visited an Elliot Piste last time you were here.” The guard’s eyebrows arched.
“Yes, we’d like to see him again,” said Tylowe.
“That won’t be possible; he is no longer an inmate here.” The guard looked up from the computer with a look that said, You should know that if you came all this way.
Tylowe’s head jerked toward Psalms with his eyes wide open. Psalms acted indifferent and unfazed. He asked the guard a question.
“We met a very helpful guard last time we were here. A Sergeant Royce.”
“Oh yeah, she’s been on vacation since last week,” the guard said while handing back their paperwork.
“Thank you for your time,” Psalms said.
The two Americans had not said a word as they walked back to their car. In the car, Tylowe opened the piece of paper. The information on the paper read that Inmate Elliot Piste, a French citizen, filed a grievance with the French Consulate that he had received cruel and unusual punishment. His jaw was slightly fractured, and a few teeth were knocked out. He had received w
ounds that brought about minor internal bleeding from an attack from visitors in the visitors’ room.
The French and Canadian governments had an agreement to protect each other’s citizens in war, or convicted criminals imprisoned on each other’s soil. A settlement was agreed upon due to the grievance. The prisoner was due for parole in two years, so they had given him an immediate release as of one week ago.
“So why are we here?” Tylowe asked.
“Because he might be watching us or has people watching us. If we didn’t come, he’d be a step ahead of us in knowing we know what we know. Yep, he played us from the start. Chess. I got caught off-guard because he was in prison and he’d been out of circulation, but I can assure you he’s been working his ass off from the day you put him in prison. Give that MF credit though; he played us.
“When we came up here the first time at his request, he had to know you and I hang together. At least he had to be hoping I’d be a part of helping you. Once we were in front of him, he gave us more attitude than all of the forks full of nasty food he has eaten inside those walls. He would have called your mother every name in the book for you to hit him. You popped him in the mouth, and I took another beat-down swing at him some thirty years later, after the last one I gave him.”
“Damn, that asshole was a good chess player. So, since I see you know more than I could have imagined, what’s next?”
“I can play chess, too, and don’t like to lose. I had Velvet rent two motorcycles from your dealership up here, and they delivered them to the Hilton parking garage on Robinson Street. We’ll check in, and leave the station wagon. We have somewhere to go on the bikes.”
They drove back from North Vancouver crossing the Lion’s Gate Bridge. The beautiful city of Vancouver could be a pageant contestant. The city had more high-rise condos and apartments than New York City, and a city park much larger than Central Park.
In the city of Vancouver, every nationality on the earth seemed to converge and blend as one people. A half-hour away from America, and the color line of ignorance almost disappeared.
Checked in and back out on their motorcycles, Psalms and Tylowe headed to Harrison Hot Springs. Tylowe knew the Vancouver area well, and chose a lot of winding, twisting roads to make the motorcycle ride enjoyable. Once they were close, Psalms set the address by GPS, which took them to a duplex. They drove by and parked at a coffee shop and walked to the duplex. They slipped into the backyard by way of an alley.
Tylowe asked no questions, even when they drove into the parking garage in the station wagon, and even after Psalms turned the old radio dial to 99.45, the radio face flipped down, and a tray slid out. On the tray sat two nine-millimeter pistols. Psalms took one and gave the other one to Tylowe.
Psalms and Tylowe kept low and peeked in windows; they saw nothing. Psalms sniffed the air and checked to see which way the wind was blowing, and shook his head while pressing his lips tight. The neighboring fence stood tall enough to conceal their presence. They went down some steps to a daylight basement door. With Psalms’ broad shoulders, he leaned firmly against the door until it gave in. The door opened as the door frame cracked, but made little noise. Psalms headed up to the first floor, but told Tylowe to stay. Twenty seconds later, Psalms called for Tylowe.
On the floor, Sergeant Royce, Phoenix Royce’s aunt, lay dead. Psalms evaluated quickly, and determined someone had snapped her neck. His military training had taught him she had most likely been dead almost a week. Psalms searched the house and the computer. Tylowe went outside and walked back to the motorcycles. The smell of death was too much to stomach.
Five hours later, Psalms, Mintfurd, Suzy Q, El’vis, and Zelda were all meeting in the condo office.
CHAPTER 46
My Own Worst Enemy
Evita
I’ve been able to sit in this room with the hood off when no one is here to use my body. It’s on now, though. I hear The Voice, my kidnapper, Pretty Boy. He is talking with a woman and man. They are talking openly about me, and I hear of my possible end or continued torture.
The other voices in the room are a woman with an Eastern European accent. The other voice sounds black. That black voice is different from the average black male voice. His voice has a tad Caribbean, maybe French, accent. It’s almost like Pretty Boy’s, but blacker and rougher.
“We need to keep her alive as a safety net. They’ll be getting our little request later today,” the black male’s voice says.
“Are you sure we need her? I don’t want any trace of us tied to anything that could hold us back, or cause me problems later. All I want is my money. What you do is not my concern—unless you bring me unwanted attention.” The female’s Eastern European accent sounds like she is the master of the other two.
The Voice pierces me with his valued opinion of my worth. “Well, she’s brought in a lot of money for me. My customers love her boy- girl appeal. Shit, we had an ex-Fox Network commentator come in here, and lick and suck on everything she had. Come to find out he’s originally from Mt. Vernon, Washington where that interstate bridge fell in the river. So I’m not so interested in getting rid of her yet.
“I had to rid myself of the two who guarded her. They played with her when they were warned to keep their hands off. I have a video camera in the light above the bed. I’ve taped everyone who has touched her. It will give us a poker chip if we need to get out of a jam. We have a police chief and a judge, a pastor of a megachurch, and the Republican party boss and more, all on video.”
“Please don’t kill me,” I cry out.
“Shut it,” the Voice that kidnapped me yells, but I can’t help but weep aloud. This hood is so wet around my neck.
“Well, I have not had the pleasure of something strange since I’ve been in prison. I need you to turn that camera off so I can play with her, but that hood gonna have to come off, if I’m gonna get off. Plus, her boyfriend, I owe him one!”
The black man sounds foul and gruff, like a pain. Is he speaking of Psalms? Does he know Psalms? What is he talking about he owes my boyfriend? I hope he don’t touch me.
The female screams. “Let me be clear, your black ass can go back and rot in a Canadian jail, and your partner here with his puny little French ass, he can go pimp horse shit. I want my money soon. I financed this so-called perfect plan. It looked good at first, but now the man I sent to Las Vegas is missing, and I assume he’s dead. The kids have not been found. Where the hell are they? Before my man came up missing, he told me he found that bitch, Queen. Why would my old-ass father be so in love with her, despite the fact she was fucking you, I’ll never know. I want those kids found, and I want them dead! I want my money! Get my money!”
She’s the boss for sure, and she doesn’t give a damn about my life.
“Sah—”
“Shut the fuck up, you stupid, black no-account good-for-nothing! Don’t say my name around her. I want her dead now!”
“Whatever you want to call me, we can’t kill her yet. Be patient. And don’t think you own me?” the black male says, with some push-back in his voice.
I’ve been my own worst enemy. I put myself under this hood. I got myself tied to this bed. I put myself in this hell. My need for attention has made me cry wolf one too many times. With the madness that I have lived, I assume Psalms has had enough of me. He would have found me by now. He would have found me. He would have.
But I set myself up. I asked to be kidnapped. I asked for help from someone from my past life on the streets when I was pimping human toys myself. I asked her to help me set up my own kidnapping, and not know when exactly it would take place.
We set it up to happen within a two-month period, and I wouldn’t be harmed. I was supposed to have water and food and be left in a room. A fake ransom note would make it to Psalms. Because he is who he is, he’d find me easily.
I wanted Psalms to come rescue me, as he had done before again and again. As the years have come and gone, I have felt Psalms getting closer to Gab
rielle. She’s a good woman. I don’t have anything against her. It’s me. It’s me knowing I can’t be the woman. I understand, but I need to stay relevant in his soul.
The last night he spent the night with me, I twisted like a wet dish rag thinking I needed to call off the kidnapping. I thought I had time to call it off. I guess it played right in to me being here. The woman from my past life must have made a little money selling my ass to these people. She only wants money.
Psalms always told me about hiring the right person for a job. Never hire someone who needs the money; always hire someone who makes money. The person in need will bring you drama; the one who makes money will do the job right.
Who are these kids they are looking for, and who is this woman, and the black man? Please don’t let him touch me. I’ve had nasty people all over me for weeks, but he sounds horrendous.
Something awful has ripped into my soul. To have made the decision that I did to get attention…a part of my soul has died and will never come back. My life has known hell since my birth. Born with a woman’s soul, but with a part of a man between my legs. I know I have gone through and fought demons. I can identify with not always being myself, but being what, I don’t know.
If I live, if I live on, I’ll get right. I’ll make it all right. I have to learn to love myself. The hardest part is finding my way. I’ll have to learn to trust God, after He has done His work with me here.
Am I thinking like a child who prays they don’t get a whooping declaring, Dear God, if you don’t let me get a whooping this time, I’ll never be bad again. Is that me now? Is that what I’m doing? Dear God, look into my heart.
I need some mental and emotional growth. I need to find out what being a woman is really about, because I do have love to give. Please God, set me free from this pain in my heart and soul; I’ve spent enough time in a mental jail of all the sins of man, and all my immoralities.
I treated some people real bad, very bad, being two different people at times, living in self-indulgence, doing what I wanted regardless of how it would affect others. Now my egotistical self wants to live. The bad person in me has me crying under a black hood tied to a bed, and the bad in me has my body being used as a human sexual toy. I do not want to let the good person in me die with the bad seed my father polluted me with.
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