by Bobby Cole
He seemed to be getting worse. Unfortunately, Brooke couldn’t prove it, and with his high-priced team of lawyers, he was winning battles. Brooke’s guts knotted every time she was forced to allow visitation with Grayson. She smiled at the thought that she was mentally prepared to kill him if she had to, and then looking around, she wondered how many of these other women were thinking about killing their exes. Probably most.
Brooke had met “Mr. Wrong” while home from college over Christmas break. She was attending the University of Montevallo, pursuing a fine arts degree. He was handsome and affable… back then. It was at a Montgomery popular college bar that they were introduced. They ended up talking for a couple of hours about politics and world issues. Brooke wasn’t, however, instantly attracted to him. He was a little too arrogant for her tastes. But after she returned to school, he would call and even sent yellow roses, which surprised her because they were her favorite and she hadn’t told him. He was relentless but subtle in his pursuit and eventually charmed his way into her heart.
She now knew the truth. Her ex-husband had preyed on her from day one. The prospects of being married to her and her certain inheritable fortune were too much for him to resist. So she didn’t stand a chance against his keen psychological manipulations. While very vulnerable, struggling with the death of her mother, he intensified his efforts to worm his way into her life. His devious plan worked. And then by cutting slits into the reservoirs of his condoms, he impregnated Brooke. Finally, against the advice of friends and family, she agreed to marry him.
When Brooke thought back on it all, she could see how it happened. He found out she was real-estate developer G. James Layton’s daughter and instantly saw dollar signs; in fact, he had admitted as much. Brooke didn’t know anyone who knew him at the time and ended up falling for every one of his lies and stories. The reality was that the long-distance romance prevented them from spending enough time together for her to really get to know him at all. He was simply one of life’s pitfalls that every girl is warned about as she starts dating.
When he found out Brooke’s father was near bankruptcy and, therefore, he hadn’t married into an actual fortune, he began to chase every young thing in a tight skirt that crossed his path. He also oftentimes became violent. When she finally summoned the courage to mention divorce, he went ballistic. Brooke feared for her and Grayson’s safety. She began to wonder if she would ever be free again.
Brooke wanted a good man in her life, although she had proven to herself that she was self-reliant. Still, she desperately sought someone to take care of her; someone financially sound, who could be a positive role model for Grayson. Someone like Cooper Dixon, she thought.
She’d been infatuated with Cooper for some time. But since he was married and didn’t seem to notice her sly advances, she’d begun to reconsider her plans. Sitting on her beach towel, she glanced at her watch, which read 5:30 p.m. That meant Cooper was probably on his way home. Home to his wife.
In frustration, she folded her arms across her knees and closed her eyes to daydream of better times ahead. The good ones are always taken. But is he REALLY happy?
Brooke opened her eyes to see her eight-year-old son walking up. He sat down and then stared up at an airplane pulling a banner that advertised “All You Can Eat Crabs.” She had followed his gaze and thought just how adorable he was. All boy, and by far the best thing that had ever happened to her.
“Mom… I’m bored,” he said, with a deep exhaling breath while kicking sand.
“Whaddaya wanna do?” she asked, pulling down her black sunglasses so that she could clearly see him.
“I wanna go fishin’, like those people,” Grayson said, pointing at a father and son casting into the surf.
Always one for adventure, Brooke said, “Let’s go,” as she jumped up and began gathering her beach accoutrements.
“But, Mom… I don’t have a fishin’ pole,” he whined, turning out the palms of his hands.
“Well, we’ll go buy one. Actually, we’ll buy two, so I can fish as well,” Brooke replied enthusiastically, while hiding her concern over her credit cards’ balances.
“But you can’t bait your hook, and I’m really not that good with shrimp yet,” Grayson replied with an honest smile. “But Grampa’s teachin’ me,” he quickly added.
“Okay, then. Looks like we’ll just have to help each other. Go on inside and get ready. I’ll be right there.” Brooke believed that she could find someone to help them if necessary; and if not, she’d figure it out. She had fished with her father growing up and remembered the basics.
“Thanks, Mom!” Grayson exclaimed as he took off running across the warm white sand.
Brooke slowly stuffed her suntan lotion, towel, and Kindle into her beach bag while she watched Grayson racing toward the condo. Sliding her feet into her flip-flops, she hoped that he would continue for years to listen and trust her. She knew that was his best protection from his father’s influence.
As she picked up her cell phone, she thought of Cooper and tried to come up with an excuse to call this late on a Friday afternoon. Finally, she said aloud, “What the hell,” and punched in his cell number from memory.
She listened to it ring several times and almost broke the connection when he answered, “Hello?”
“Hey, Cooper. It’s Brooke. I just wanted to let you know that I finished those art boards. I’ll have them ready to view Monday,” she explained happily.
“Great! I’ve made some progress on the project myself. Is that a seagull? Are you at the beach?”
“Yep. Took the day off, but I finished your boards first… of course. Gulf Shores is so beautiful,” she said, and then took a sip of bottled water.
“I wish I were there. I mean… I need a break,” he clumsily replied.
“You should get away; life’s too short not to enjoy each day. At any rate, I just called to say the boards look really good. After I go fishin’ with my son, and then eat, and probably play a round or two of miniature golf, I’ll finish the whole presentation. You’ll love it,” she continued, twisting the cap onto the bottle and placing it inside her bag.
“That sounds like fun. More fun than I had at the office all day.”
“You really need to take some time off… maybe you could go fishin’ for a few days. That would be relaxin’, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah, sure it would. But I’ve got too much going on at the office,” he replied, intrigued by her suggestion.
“Go catch some fish. The office and everything you’ve got goin’ on will be there when you get back, but you’ll be recharged and feel better when you do.”
“I know. I should. You’re right. But I can’t,” Cooper acknowledged, wondering if he meant that he couldn’t go fishing or that he shouldn’t be thinking about her the way that he was.
“Okay, well, look, I gotta go. I’ll bring the boards Monday. Call if you need me.” Brooke hung up quickly, strategically cutting short the conversation, hoping to leave him wanting just a little more. He made her feel sixteen again.
Into dead space, Cooper said, “Great. Thanks, Brooke.”
He stared at the phone for a moment, not believing that the woman of his daydream had just called. That alone would make his evening bearable. He sighed as he drove to the local grocery store in search of clear plastic forks while only a three hours’ drive away was a woman who seemed very interested in having a relationship with him. She looked at him in a manner that he hadn’t experienced in a long time. And he was experiencing emotions and thoughts that he had never considered possible. On top of everything, she was about to go fishing. He lived to fish.
Brooke stared at the crystal clear Gulf and yearned for things to be different. After several minutes she gracefully gathered her belongings, slipped on a beach robe that matched her bag, and walked toward the condominium, totally unaware that she was being watched.
CHAPTER 3
He was having a rough day. Sitting at his desk, Gates was overw
helmed by all the work that he needed to finish. Gates loathed any details and particularly paperwork. He decided to delegate this pile of mind-numbing documents to Cooper: let him deal with it.
Realizing that his hand was shaking, he went over to his door to check that it was locked, and then quickly opened a small wooden humidor to pull out a metallic cigar tube. He opened it carefully. Inside was a small baggie of coke. I just need a little bump before this phone call, he thought.
Gates poured a small amount onto his credenza and used a credit card to break up the clumps and then define the line. He rolled up a dollar bill and snorted the powder. The worried man closed his reddened eyes and pinched his nostrils as his body reacted to the sudden rush. He didn’t think he was addicted. He only needed it to help get through the pressure of selling the business. There was much more at stake, however, and the stress was taking its toll on him.
Gates Albert Ballenger, III, almost always had everything he ever wanted and usually got it with little or no effort—the best schools, the best clothes, the best cars… and sometimes the best-looking women. His college days, of course, were a monument to mediocrity. And then later in life controlling a successful business didn’t offer much satisfaction either since it never occurred to him that his lack of contentment was proportional to the amount of energy he didn’t put into it. The company was successful in spite of Gates and was attributable to the efforts of others, namely Cooper, whom Gates was slowly beginning to despise.
Gates’s second wife had recently left him and with alimony for two and the child-support payments for one, he was being eaten alive, financially. Either I’m attracted to the wrong women or they’re attracted to me. I’m not sure, he thought.
One thing was abundantly clear: women paid very close attention to his money, or what they thought was his money.
As a kid, his father had allowed him to drink bourbon with him. His dad had thought it was cool to introduce Gates to his world this way, having no idea that Gates had been drinking since he was twelve. Shortly after his father’s introduction to whiskey and “outside women,” the no-longer deniable troubles with Gates began. By seventeen, he had experienced more than most twenty-five-year-olds, and he searched hard for anything that would give him a thrill.
Gates found nirvana in gambling. It first started at the dog track just east of Montgomery. Gates loved the thrill of betting and a custom-made false ID allowed the high schooler to walk right in. One week Gates would be up five grand, and the next he would be down ten. Soon he befriended a local greyhound trainer and tried to fix races to help his percentages. After a bad misunderstanding and a loss of over $20,000 in one weekend, the trainer’s dogs mysteriously died and Gates barely missed an extended stay in juvenile detention. If the judge hadn’t been his father’s hunting buddy, Gates wouldn’t have graduated with his class, he would have been pressing license plates.
Gates’s father began to wonder if he had really helped his son when getting him out of a number of embarrassing situations. He couldn’t shake the fact that his son coldly killed the dogs and then beat the trainer so badly that he ended up in a body cast. For whatever reason—a father’s unconditional love or his desire to avoid societal humiliation—he always kept his son from behind bars.
The gambling bug never left Gates. He bet on everything. Horses, basketball, baseball, but his favorite was football. He was addicted to point spreads, the over/under, and he searched far and wide for his next tip. He listened to sports talk radio and did research online, all to not much avail, and the last three years found him paying more and more juice to his bookie. Gates was a loser. He lacked discipline, which coupled with a gambling problem was a recipe for disaster. The last tally showed him owing just over $1 million, with interest compounding daily. Nobody knew, but everyone had his or her suspicions. Gates’s father had to cut him off. The ex-wives’ relentlessly pursued their cut of his net worth. All of this was making Gates’s extravagant lifestyle almost impossible to maintain.
He was a genius at showing the bankers that he was making money, the Internal Revenue Service that he was not, and his equally curious ex-wives that there wasn’t any more blood in the turnip. What he could not do was manage his bookie. The guy was hot-tempered, hungry for payment, and growing anxious. Gates was constantly begging for more time. Now it appeared that he had only one option. If he could sell the business, he could satisfy most of his debts; and if he could doctor the books, he could get even more money away from Cooper. He had to. Gates was terrified of his bookie; he knew he had pushed the limit with him. Gates was scared and backed into a corner.
He sat down at his desk and stared at the phone. He quickly dialed the number from memory and listened with trepidation as it rang.
“Hey, man. It’s Gates… uh, how you doin’?”
“When you gonna pay me?” a gruff voice responded.
“That’s why I’m callin’… to let you know… I got a meetin’ with the bank next week, and I should have a firm sale date then.”
Gates waited for a reply. He heard a cigarette lighter close and Mitchell blowing out a deep breath of smoke.
“That’s good. I’m gettin’ tired of waitin’. This is draggin’ on way too freakin’ long. You know I got a business to run. I got expenses.”
“I understand, but I should know exactly what we’ll get and a target date to close, I swear,” explained Gates, trying not to sound terrified.
Mitchell Holmes ran a multistate booking outfit. To appear legitimate, he controlled several businesses through which he laundered money. On any given weekend during football season, he had hundreds of thousands of dollars crossing his books. Because several high-profile law enforcement officers placed bets with him regularly and watched his back at the local level, he felt very well insulated—nearly bulletproof.
“We? You’ve never said we before. Who exactly is we?”
“My partner, Cooper, gets a cut,” Gates replied, wishing not to explain every detail.
“You gonna get enough to pay me, Gates? You never said anything before about havin’ to pay out to a partner.”
“I’ll know soon. It should be enough. It’ll be close.”
“What’s his name again?”
“Cooper. Cooper Dixon.”
“Get rid of him,” Mitchell said as he exhaled a lung full of smoke.
“I can’t do that… how can I do that?”
Gates had every intention of cooking up some general administrative expenses to inflate his take of the sale, but never dreamed of killing Cooper, although he had planned to screw him out of a sizable chunk of his share of the sale. Gates nervously rubbed his nostrils.
“Listen, you little shit, I want all my money, and I don’t care how you get it. You got that? Do I need to help you? Because I think I do. I can make things happen real fast, you know,” Mitchell Holmes said coldly, implying everything that Gates feared.
“I hear what you’re sayin’. Just give me a few more days. I swear I’ll call as soon as I know the details.”
“I want all of it. All of it. Ya hear me?” Mitchell instructed and then hung up.
“I know. I know,” Gates said into dead air; then he returned the handset to the cradle and thought about Mitchell’s comments. Cooper’s share is the answer to all my problems.
Wearily, Gates leaned back in his chair and stared out the window at the State Capitol. The giant domed building was built in 1851. Many significant events had occurred there including the formation of the Confederate States of America and the end of Dr. Martin Luther King’s historic Selma to Montgomery march. Gates wondered what gave the building the strength to endure over 150 years. I know that I don’t have that kinda strength, but maybe if I do somethin’ dramatic, I can turn the tables.
CHAPTER 4
After finishing off a dozen hot chicken wings, the waitress brought a third beer. He ogled her chest and drummed the table with his hands as she cleaned up his mess. She was accustomed to guys staring at her oran
ge shorts and tight white top, but this freak really made her uncomfortable. There was something peculiar and very unnerving about the way he leered.
“Are those beauties real?” he asked, gawking at her chest.
She didn’t respond.
“Hey, don’t ignore me! I’m a payin’ customer.”
“What do you think?” she fired back angrily.
“Let me feel ’em, so I’ll have a better idea.”
“Look me in the eye.”
He did, expectantly.
She said, “Not in this lifetime, asshole!” and then she turned and quickly walked away to alert the manager.
He chuckled and took a long pull of the cold beer. Setting the bottle on the table, he glanced at his watch and realized it was time to leave. He had a very important business appointment at ten o’clock. He checked the tab that the manager brought to the table. He dropped bills on the table, leaving a $1.37 tip.
As he walked across the street to his BMW, he pressed the unlock button and the lights flashed. Sitting in the car, he ran his fingers through his hair and thought about the chaos he was about to set in motion. He looked at himself in the rearview mirror and smiled. This is some serious shit, and I’ve planned every detail. It’s flawless. It’s freakin’ brilliant!
He cranked the car and then adjusted the radio, stopping on an old Eagle’s song. He pulled onto Highway 182, headed east to the infamous Flora-Bama—a beach bar sitting atop the state lines of Florida and Alabama. As he drove, he recalled the instructions he had been given. He was to sit at the end of the bar at exactly ten o’clock and light one match every minute until he was approached. Checking his pockets, he felt the book of matches and an envelope with $10,000 in one hundred dollar bills. Reaching under his seat, he pulled out his hammerless Smith & Wesson .38 revolver.
When he parked his car in the crowded parking lot, he untucked his navy blue golf shirt to hide the bulges in his pockets. His khaki shorts and boat shoes matched what half the crowd would be wearing. The other half would be bikers or wannabes. Although preppy, he appeared average, and he hoped very forgettable. Smiling boldly at himself in the rearview mirror, he brimmed with excitement.