Madison Mosby and the Moonmilk Wars

by Jason Winn

  “It’s July, why on Earth are you making that this time of year?”

  “Working on the recipe for fall,” said Madison, praying that would placate her scary, FBI agent sister. “Grandma’s old notes say to make sure you have everything ready a season ahead of time. Be prepared, you know?”

  Dana pushed the cake box across the counter and lowered her voice. “So was that phone call a case? You catching some terrorists?”

  “Yeah, something like that,” said Shelby. “I’m glad you two are here. I need to talk to both of you, but I’ve got to get over to a friend’s house for dinner. When are you both around, next?”

  “Talk about what?” asked Madison. She hoped it wasn’t something stupid, like a party for their mother. Or, maybe it was another reminder that she and Dana needed to work on getting married and having kids so they can get their trust funds.

  “It’s something about…” said Shelby now absently, fishing in her purse for her wallet. “I’ll just explain it later. Jeez, where is my card?”

  Madison shoved the box up to the edge of the counter. “Don’t worry about it, just go to your party.”

  “Thanks. Damn it, I left it at the office. Ugh, what is wrong with me? I’ve got to go. Thanks, Maddy.” She turned and rushed out the door, pounding out a message on her phone.

  “Bye,” Dana said, as the door closed behind Shelby.

  “She meant to say bye to you too, she’s just...preoccupied, I guess,” said Madison.

  “I don’t know if getting married is worth the trust fund,” said Dana. “Look at her, married life and the kids have fried her brain. Is all that worth six million dollars?”

  Madison rolled her eyes. She knew Dana was joking. The Mosby trust fund had been setup to encourage the girls to start a family, without the financial burden, paid out in installments – marriage, the first kid and the first kid’s eighteenth birthday. Her little sister had tried to get her share of the trust fund Nancy Mosby set up for them, but all of her attempts at a normal relationship ended poorly. She had an issue with self-sabotage. And Dana wasn’t exactly mother material. She couldn’t even keep her room in the mansion tidy. How was she going to deal with midnight feedings and doctor’s appointments?

  “So, we cool?” Madison tapped the Nats tickets.

  “I guess. But you’re not totally off the hook. I still want to be doing more.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  The door chimed. Madison turned, expecting to see Shelby blowing in again. Instead it was a young man in a suit.

  “Madison Mosby?” asked the man with a thick beard.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “My name is Brice Wishart. I’m with Blue Petal, International.”

  “Did you come to take back the tickets?” asked Dana, clutching the ticket envelope to her chest.

  Brice regarded her and looked back to Madison. “Are you Madison Mosby?”

  “Yes.” She slouched against the counter, radiating a “who the fuck are you?” vibe.

  Brice produced a stack of folded paper from the breast pocket of his powder blue suit and handed it to Madison. “You’ve just been served. I’m with the legal team. We’ve sent you several cease and desist orders for the selling of your peach turnovers and yet today, we were able to purchase one at your Clarendon location.”

  Madison felt a dull pain at the base of her skull. Who is this asshole? “That’s my grandmother’s recipe. Go fuck yourself.”

  Brice smiled through his beard. “Be that as it may, the recipe seems to be identical to one owned by your father’s company, Blue Petal International Foods. It is exactly the same as the Peach Delight, served at the Wellington’s line of restaurants, in mouth-feel, flavor, and aroma. Your continued use of the recipe represents a violation of our trade secret use of the recipe.”

  Our?

  “Get the fuck out of here and start packing your desk, beard boy. My father wouldn’t allow you to come after me like this.”

  Brice tittered. “Your father knows about the company’s legal rights in protecting the Blue Petal brand. And while your last name is Mosby, this bakery is not a sanctioned subsidiary of the Blue Petal Foods International Corporation.”

  Madison handed the legal notice to Dana. “Sis, throw this in the oven. Set the temp to 500 degrees,” she turned back to Brice, “even though it only takes 451 to burn. Go make a name for yourself with someone else’s shop, asshole.” She stepped in close. “And if I see you in here again, you follow that paper into the fucking oven, headfirst.”

  Brice straightened his back, cocked his head like a curious parrot and smiled. “You threatening me, Miss Mosby?”

  Madison snatched Brice by his beard and pulled down as hard as she could. He squealed. His little hands slapped at her clinched fist. She heaved him toward the door, opened it and threw him through it. “That answer your fucking question?” she yelled after him.

  Brice tripped and fell to the sidewalk. Madison slammed the door and locked it, before flipping the open sign to closed.

  “We don’t close for another two hours,” said Dana.

  Jesus, she could be dense sometimes. “Go get ready for the game. I’ll lock up.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, sure, go, go. Have fun. I think there’s a team party at Solomon’s afterwards. Just tell them you’re with Peter Mosby and they’ll let you in.”

  Dana didn’t even bother to say good-bye as she gathered up her things and scurried out the back door to her car. As the back door slammed shut, Madison started toward the kitchen and stopped when she heard crying. The cooks should have had left around two p.m., like they always did. There was no reason to keep cooks in a bakery, after the day’s selections had been made. Madison opened the kitchen door.

  Chapter 21

  The kitchen was packed with spotless chrome counters, giant ovens, freezers, and several large mixers. As Madison stepped deeper into the dark room, the muffled cries mixed with mumbled swear words. It almost sounded like a homeless person had snuck into the kitchen, talking crazy, looking for something to eat. That was not uncommon back in the Sky Garden days. Her muscles tensed, Madison peeked around the side of the dishwasher.

  Hunched over in a chair, with her back to Madison, was Rey, one of the bakery’s cooks.

  “Rey?” asked Madison. “What’s wrong?”

  Rey, a thin black woman with arms covered with tattoos, waved a hand and wiped her eyes. “Nothing.” She still wore her apron, streaked with blue frosting. Her cell phone lay next to her on the freshly wiped prep table.

  Madison got a wad of paper towels and handed it to her.

  “Thanks,” said Rey as she took them and blew her nose.

  “Now,” Madison started in a friendly voice, relieved that she wasn’t throwing another unwanted person from the shop right now, “you may as well tell me, cuz I’m gonna find out eventually.”

  She cared about everyone who worked in the bakeries. They were mainly friends from Sky Garden who had been laid off, when the restaurant abruptly closed. They were good people, who just needed a place to make a little money, while they found a real job. In a small way, Madison felt responsible for them. Blue Petal had abandoned them with closing Sky Garden. She was pretty sure Nancy Mosby would have taken care of her people.

  Rey wiped at her eyes and took a few deep breaths. Madison decided to wait a minute for her to gather herself. She fetched a cup of water and placed it next to the wet paper towels. Rey nodded in gratitude and took a sip.

  Finally, Rey spoke. “It’s my husband, Dwayne. He’s not answering his phone. He’s my ride and nobody can come get me.”

  Jesus, how bad are things, when you can’t buy a bus ticket to go home?

  But Madison did know. She’d been that broke. So broke the couch cushions were your only source of food money. Her life of scraping by was long gone, thankfully, but that didn’t mean others weren’t struggling. Seeing Rey, a solid worker, there crying because she couldn’t find h
er way home punched Madison in the gut. She was paying Rey at least twenty-five dollars an hour, which while it wasn’t middle-class money in Northern Virginia, was enough to live on. What else was going on in this woman’s life? Maybe she was just having a hard time.

  “You know you can always ask me or Dana for a ride home. We don’t mind.”

  “I don’t want to bother y’all with my problems. I like it here.”

  “We like you, too. But don’t think that because I’m the owner, I don’t care about my people. This place doesn’t run without you and everyone else.”

  “Thank you, Miss Mosby. I just need to get home and check on my mom.”

  “Madison. I’m Madison. Come on, we’re closing early today.”

  “I need to finish cleaning up, first.” Rey sniffed and wiped the rest of her tears away. “Look at me, crying in front of the boss like a schoolgirl.”

  “Rey, it’s okay. Dana and I will take care of it later. Let’s get you home.”

  ***

  “You always drive this fast?” asked Rey. Her knuckles turned the same color as the flour that still dusted the creases in her hands.

  Madison swerved around the corner, barreling down the street, toward the Francis Scott Key bridge. It was early afternoon and navigating the DC metro area was about to turn into a quagmire Madison wanted to avoid. Getting Rey home prior to rush hour was paramount to keeping with her schedule. However, keeping Rey mentally intact seemed like a good idea, so she backed off the accelerator just a bit.

  “Sorry. This thing gets away from me sometimes.”

  A few minutes later, they entered what could only be described as “the hood.” This part of Southeast DC didn’t worry Madison. It was a lot better than back in the 90s when the city was recovering from the prior decade’s drug wars and choking poverty, but it still had its rough edges.

  “Up here on the left,” said Rey, before letting out a gasp and covering her mouth. “Oh, lord.”

  Police cars lined the street in front of her house. Madison pulled over to the curb.

  “What’s this?”

  “I don’t know.” Rey’s demeanor had gone from frightened passenger, to angry and concerned. A scowl creased her lips and she jumped out of the car, jogging over to the phalanx of cop cars. This wasn’t the pitiful woman in the kitchen from half an hour ago. She’d morphed into an animal, rushing toward a fire to save her young.

  Did she know these folks, friends, neighbors, god forbid, family?

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Rey shouted, throwing her purse over her shoulder, “get away from her.”

  Madison’s fight or flight senses kicked in. What was the right play here? Drive off, or let the curiosity of the situation drag her toward the scene? Neighbors were standing around, talking and pointing or holding up their phones to get a video. She decided she couldn’t just drive away.

  Cautiously, Madison got out of her car, locked it and walked down the sidewalk after Rey. Ahead of her, a mob of people shouted and argued with several police officers. One woman pointed her cell phone at an officer, who was pinning down a large man in biker leathers. The officer snatched the phone and shoved the woman backwards. This was greeted with more shouts about rights, and someone said something about the Supreme Court.

  Loud rap music blared from cars. Madison could see more men on the ground, pinned by cops. Some were already in handcuffs. Their faces looked like battered meat. Blood dripped from their mouths, noses, and cuts. Their eyes, those that weren’t swollen shut, were filled with a combination of rage and terror. If the police presence was to be believed, these men were arch criminals.

  And in Rey’s neighborhood.

  The woman’s life was worse than Madison thought.

  Drug dealers?

  She was a drug dealer of sorts. Was this her fate?

  Fuck no.

  “Let him go!” It was Rey, now in complete hysterics.

  She broke free from raucous mob, arms flailing. One officer stepped over to her, stabbed a finger at her and commanded her to get back, unless she wanted to go to jail.

  Madison inched closer. “Shut up, Rey. Get back,” she muttered.

  Rey shouted, “That’s my husband. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “This is your last warning, ma’am,” roared the cop.

  Other cops were talking into their radios. Backup was being called in. Escalation.

  Riots start like this.

  “Rey,” Madison shouted. “Rey, chill!”

  A few of the neighbors looked over at Madison, wondering why this outsider and her fancy sports car wanted to get involved with police brutality.

  But Rey didn’t stop. The scene of her man on the ground, bloodied by the cops, had flipped a switch to naked rage. Madison felt the same fury burning in her. She wished she had a huge assault rifle she could shoot up in the air, like in the movies, and make everyone look at her. She’d tell everyone, cops and neighbors, to all take a breath. This didn’t need to spiral out of control.

  Rey fell to her knees and tried to cup her husband’s face, wiping the blood away. Madison realized she needed to get Rey out of here. Whatever was happening to her husband, it wasn’t going to get better with her interfering with his arrest. She pushed her way through the crowd and grabbed Rey by the elbow, trying to lift her up.

  A cop shouted at Madison, “You, get back.”

  Madison responded with daggers shooting from her eyes, “I’m getting her out of here, just like you asked.”

  A police van, sirens blaring, rolled up the street and came to a stop at the edge of the scene. More cops flew out of it. The back doors opened, and the six men in handcuffs were lifted up and violently thrown in the back.

  Rey was yanked away from Madison and slammed against the side of the van.

  “What the fuck?” shouted Madison.

  “You want to follow her to jail?” a cop asked.

  “What the hell did she do?”

  “Disobeying a lawful order from a police officer.” He was thick with a bucket head topped with a perfect red crew cut.

  She was trying to calm her husband.

  Unable to do anything else, Madison took out her phone and started filming. This was bullshit.

  The redheaded officer responded by slapping the phone out of the Madison’s hand. It flew into the air and landed on a lawn. His name plate said “Crate.”

  The crowd erupted.

  A vice-like hand snatched Madison’s forearm, and the next thing she felt was the hot metal of the police van slamming into her face. She turned to see Rey thrown into the back of a police car.

  You’re so fucking done, Crate, was the last thought that went through her head, before metal cuffs tightened against her wrists.

  Behind her, the crowd screamed and wailed as the other cops hosed them down with pepper spray. Madison’s eyes watered, but it wasn’t from the pepper spray.

  ***

  Twelve hours later, Madison waited on the street for Rey and her husband in front of the police station. The night air washed away the imprint of ammonia cleaner and vomit from her nostrils. Cars and city buses sped past, but that was like being in a library compared to the lunatic asylum that passed for a jail. Her next stop was a “got out of jail drink” and then a shower, a long shower.

  The booking cop was a little too touchy-feely. She almost got slapped. The sense of injustice burned as much as her cheek and shoulder, where they’d slammed her against a wall. That one had probably been her fault though—she wasn’t exactly polite to the jailer. But fuck her, she shouldn’t have been arrested in the first place.

  Madison’s lawyers, the Outfit—worked fast, getting the police to “forget” the charges. She didn’t know how they did that, probably had blackmail on the top cops, that or they all belonged to the same country club. It didn’t matter, she was free and clear. And she’d done Rey and her husband a solid.

  Wonder what he did.

  Rey burst through the police station doors and rushed
down the steps. She was yelling on her phone. Her eyes went wide when she saw Madison.

  “Hold on,” Rey said. “Baby, what did they do to you?” She reached up to touch Madison’s cheek. Her fingertips stung.

  Shit.

  Madison rummaged through her purse and fetched an empty lipstick case. The tiny mirror inside revealed a sizable bruise on her right cheek. It wasn’t as bad as when the junkie had knocked her out in front of the steak house last year, but it wasn’t going to go away with a touch of foundation.

  “Fuckers,” said Madison. “Where’s your husband? My people said they would take care of his charges.”

  “I’m waiting to find out.”

  Madison’s phone buzzed. It was the Outfit calling her back.

  “Well where the hell is he?” asked Rey, back on her phone.

  “Yeah,” said Madison.

  “Miss Mosby,” said the old lawyer on the other end. “The police have no other arrest records for the street you were on yesterday afternoon.”

  “I watched them throw six black men into the back of a police van, right when I was cuffed.”

  “If we find something, I will call you back.”

  “Fine.” She hung up and turned back to Rey, who was looking confused. Her hand wiped back and forth on her forehead. “Okay, Chester. I’ll call you back.” She hung up.

  “Well?” asked Madison.

  “They took them to some place in Annandale.”

  “That’s Virginia. Why would they take them out of the city?”

  “I don’t know. I got an address. I wish someone would tell me what is going on.”

  “Yeah, this is weird,” said Madison. “Rey, listen to me. I might know how to get to the bottom of this, but you need to be straight with me.”

  “What?”

  “Was Dwayne into anything illegal? I don’t care, but my friends that are going to help might want to know that.”

  “I mean, a little hustling here and there, but he ain’t a murderer or anything like that. Sometimes he carried a gun, but that’s just for protection from the other bike clubs.”

  “Bike clubs,” Madison thought. Those don’t carry guns. Bike gangs did, however. A little voice in Madison’s head told her to leave this alone. That there wasn’t anything she could or more importantly should do about this, but Rey was a solid worker and the first person she’d hired for Blue Dreamz. She had been almost homeless, with so many places closing down or wanting to hire pretty young people for their restaurants and shops. But that was Hipster Town, USA for you.