by Betsy Ashton
“Wonderful! I love the Mexican tiles on the backsplash behind the stove.” They picked up the colors of the kitchen and carried forward the warm tans and ochre of the living room.
“You’d better. Hand painted to order. They cost you a small fortune.”
I’d all but given Corey a blank check to redo the apartment like Reggie had done after we married. I knew what each item cost because I had itemized invoices. Corey was right. The tiles cost more than all the new appliances combined.
The rest of the tour lasted a few seconds. Corey had removed the wall between the old kitchen and the dining room, opening up the space, while separating it with floor cabinets and a marble worktop. The backside of the worktop was a bar with a built-in wine chiller. I could cook while I chatted with friends. The dining room was two shades darker than the living room walls but otherwise employed the same color scheme.
The apartment had a way to go, but I was more than satisfied. “It’s getting there. You translated my ideas better than I could have imagined.”
“I’m glad you like it. I haven’t started on the den yet, but I have some exciting ideas. I don’t think we need to do much to your bedroom other than strip the wallpaper, paint the walls and put different linens on the bed. Guess we’re almost in the home stretch.”
We spent another hour talking about what to hang on the walls and put on shelves to decorate the living and dining rooms. Over half a bottle of wine, Corey showed me paintings he liked. He wanted to reframe a couple of the modern pieces and had hung an unusual oval mirror on one wall between new built-in bookcases.
“Where’s Blue Dog #3 going to go?” I’d been adamant about hanging the kitschy oil Reggie despised.
“I’m not sure, but it will have a place of honor. By the way, you need to go shopping. Be impulsive and buy what appeals. Don’t worry about where to put stuff. We’ll figure it out.”
Carte blanche to shop until I dropped. I was in heaven. Of course, it was my money, but still. Corey refused to stay for dinner. I rang Raney. We agreed to meet at a little Italian trattoria halfway between her apartment and mine.
####
Over cards and martinis at Eleanor’s brownstone on Saturday afternoon, I brought Raney, Eleanor, Rose, and Grace, my Great Dames, up to date on life in the disaster zone. I regaled them with stories about shopping at Walmart. Grace was horrified.
“I still can’t understand how you can look so happy.” Rose patted her white curls and bid two diamonds.
“It’s simple.” I passed. “I’m needed.”
“We need you. Couldn’t you get the same satisfaction writing a check for this park of yours?” Grace held her cards close to her face. She had forgotten her reading glasses again. “Why do you have to get physically involved?”
“Writing a check isn’t enough. When Emilie and I are painting, side by side, with a woman who is about to move into the first house she’s ever owned, well, I can’t tell you how good it makes us feel.” I laid down my cards. “We have eight families in their first homes.”
Eleanor headed off an argument by asking if I had run into any more mysteries. I couldn’t tell the Great Dames about the feral teens. To put the fear of God in them, Eleanor would send down our private investigator, Tony Ferraiolli, or Joe the PI, who proved Merry was having an affair and later protected Emilie. Rose would demand I come home to Manhattan where life was safe. Grace would say, “I told you so.”
“I’ve had all the mysteries I need, thank you very much.”
Since I’d kept Raney informed about the ominous threats from the gang, she knew I wasn’t telling the whole truth, but she let me get away with it. Soon we were gossiping about a new tenant at the Dakota, Yoko Ono’s latest failed effort to have the building renamed after her husband, what that runty little mayor was doing and how the garbage union threatened yet another strike. Ah yes, home again.
I missed New York when I was in the war zone. After being back for three days, I missed my grandchildren, Whip, and Charlie. And I sorely missed Johnny.
####
I headed to Teterboro for our return flight to Gulfport. Hank was staying on another week. Ducks arrived with what looked like a huge book bag. I’d already stashed cases of wine and several large bags of food. I hit a toy store for new things to relieve the tedium of no movie theaters or forms of entertainment outside of our compound. I even found a small espresso machine. If Emilie couldn’t go to Starbucks, I could turn the dorm into a coffeehouse.
“I figured we could stow this somewhere.”
“No problem.”
“I could get used to this lifestyle.” He settled back in his seat and buckled the belt.
“As long as we’re in a disaster zone, this is the most sensible way to get back and forth.”
“Indeed.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Mississippi, week of November 7
On Saturday after my return, Whip and I had barely finished an early breakfast when a couple I knew from Hope Village called. They’d passed an ATM on their way into Gulfport and witnessed several young men dragging a man from his truck.
“They beat the crap out of him.” Traffic noises came across a static-filled phone connection. “I called nine one one while my wife took a bunch of photos with her cell. The victim fell after a huge black guy hit him in the head with a bat. Then, four or five other guys kicked him while he was down. We have clear images of three—two black men and one white boy who looked like he was wearing black makeup.”
“We know them,” I told the Habitat volunteer.
Whip leaped to his feet, prepared to race to his truck to go…Where? We didn’t have enough information.
“Whip, wait.” I pointed to the table. Wonder of wonders, Whip sat.
“The sheriff arrived ten minutes later. By then, the gang was gone. The victim lay on the ground bleeding and semi-conscious. We told the sheriff what we witnessed and that we had photos of the attack.”
“What did he do?”
“Not a damned thing. He said he’d handle it his way. Then he got back in his cruiser and drove off.”
“He didn’t call an ambulance?” I pointed toward Whip’s truck. He ran. I followed, cell stuck to my ear.
“No. Guess his way is to let a man die.”
“Is he dead?” Did we have another soon-to-be murder on our hands?
“No, but he’s bad. He’s in our car. We’re taking him to the hospital in Gulfport. Can you meet us?”
“On our way.”
Charlie came up beside the driver’s door. Once she had the lowdown on the attack, she scrambled into the backseat. I called Johnny and filled him in on what we knew. He promised to feed the kids when they woke up, since Ducks had left the night before for New Orleans.
“Why’d they call you?” Charlie buckled her seat belt. Samson swung the gate open and locked it behind us.
“I keep the volunteers up to date on the danger. They don’t know anyone else from the camps.”
“Gotcha.”
####
The emergency room was boiling over with men and women in a state of panic. The nurse in charge stopped us when we asked for information. We wanted to check on our injured friend.
“Are you his relatives?”
“He works with us. We came to help.” Whip ran his hand along the back of his neck.
“You can’t go in if you’re not family.” The nurse waved us toward the raucous waiting room.
“Can you at least give us his name? We’d like to call his family.” I stepped sideways and blocked her escape.
“Victor Hernandez.” She checked a list of patients.
“Thank you.”
Whip and Charlie huddled in the waiting room where I caught up with them. The room throbbed with the chaos of too many people in too small an area, all shouting at each other in excited Spanish. Antiseptic and alcohol mixed with dirt, sweat and blood. I sneezed.
Victor, one of Charlie’s men, came in two days after she did
. “He’s from out Midland way. I’ll call his wife.”
Whip pulled out his cell and called the general contractor. “We don’t know much. Got his name…
“Eyewitnesses said he’s hurt pretty bad…
“Yeah, same gang...
“Sheriff drove off without even calling an ambulance.”
Pneumatic doors whooshed open, permitting two more gurneys to enter. EMTs shouted for a doctor and recited vital signs.
Whip hung up after a few more words. “Prick.”
Charlie stared at him.
“What?” Whip scratched a mosquito bite on his forearm. “Oh, not the contractor. The sheriff.”
“Oh.”
I pestered the nurse into letting us go back to Victor’s area. The nurse, harried and not in the mood to argue, pointed us toward a curtained space at the back of the emergency room.
Victor had tubes and monitors plugged into his arms, head, and chest. We sat beside his bed for well over an hour until a different nurse came in to check his vital signs. He was unconscious with a severe concussion.
“The doctor’s reading his X-rays. He’ll be in soon.”
I’d been through this when Merry was injured. I had nothing but bad feelings this time as well.
After a long time, a weary-looking doctor arrived wearing a stained surgical tunic and jeans. “You his friends?”
“Yeah.” Whip held out his hand. He introduced us.
The doctor looked dead on his feet.
“Thanks for letting us stay with him. I understand regulations…”
“Screw HIPAA. I don’t have time for that shit right now.”
“Busy day?” I asked.
“You can say that again. Big pile-up over on the highway. Six people in critical condition—and we’re only a level two trauma center. Their friends are in the waiting room. I’m the only doctor around. And this real stupid beating. Terrible.”
Victor had a fractured skull, broken ribs, a broken arm and a bruised kidney. A catheter released a steady drip of blood-tinged urine.
“Aren’t all beatings stupid?” I asked.
“Some are worse than others. Looks like he was attacked with a baseball bat and heavy shoes. Got stomped sumpin’ fierce.”
“The couple who brought him in took pictures of the attack. More important, they have pictures of the attackers.” I wanted this documented. “Did you call the highway patrol?”
“I did, but Sheriff Asshole got here first. I gave him the details, showed him the X-rays and photos we snapped of the bruises.”
“The attack was in Gulfport jurisdiction. Why did the sheriff butt in?” I didn’t like the way Sheriff dumber-than-a-box-of-rocks Hardy kept materializing wherever a worker was attacked or killed.
“Said he’d caught the original call and wanted to see if the guy was alive.”
“Well, he is.” Whip ground his teeth. “No thanks to him.”
“Mildew has a higher IQ than that sheriff.” The doctor expended little energy on our Dodge Boy. “I’ll do everything I can to keep this guy alive.”
“Please do,” Charlie said.
“No promises.” The doctor walked through a pair of doors.
“Holy shit. What next?” Whip rubbed the back of his neck again.
I sent Whip and Charlie back to the compound, promising to stay until they picked me up at the end of the day. Maybe Victor would regain consciousness. Maybe not, but at least he wouldn’t be alone.
####
Late afternoon, a loud argument broke out at the reception desk. I poked my head through a gap in the curtains in time to see two women demanding immediate treatment. One held the other up.
“She was raped by several men alongside Gulfport Pike.”
Gulfport Pike? Our main artery into Gulfport. I drove it every week for supplies. I eavesdropped. From what I could gather, the younger woman went to retrieve some tools she’d left behind at the work site and was close to her camp when a truck forced her off the road. Fragments of sentences and single words came through: battered truck, beaten, raped, spic.
The younger woman followed a nurse into another examination area. I touched Victor’s shoulder and whispered I’d be right back. Zero response. I slipped away and approached the older woman who had taken a seat in the waiting room.
“My name is Max Davies.” I held out my hand.
“Caren Reynolds.”
We shook hands.
I fitted my body into another unyielding molded chair. “I’m here with a worker who was attacked and beaten by two black men and two white boys.”
“I brought my friend Olivia in.” She tugged at a scrunchy holding back her graying ponytail. “She got gang raped.”
“Did you see the attack?”
Caren shook her head. “Olivia came back late and wouldn’t talk about it. I caught her crying in our tent, figured out from her clothes what had happened and forced her to come here before she could shower.”
“You did the right thing.”
“I want to kill those guys.” Caren bit off her words, her face tight with anger.
“Get in line.”
Since the attack happened in Gulfport jurisdiction, two highway patrol officers arrived to take a report. From outside the curtained-off area, we overheard Olivia described her attackers and the attack itself.
“The assholes didn’t even bother to wear masks.” Olivia’s voice shook with humiliation. “Like they thought they’d get away with it.”
“They have so far.” I whispered to Caren, as angry as the woman in the exam area.
“They won’t this time,” Caren promised.
“I raked the black bald guy across the face.” She held up her hands. “See, traces of skin.”
A patrolman told the nurse to scrape her nails and put the evidence in a baggie.
“Did they wear condoms, miss?” The older patrolman took notes.
When Olivia said no, he ordered a rape kit workup. At least they would have DNA if the men were ever caught. Not if. When. These guys were toast.
I stopped the patrolmen when they emerged from behind Olivia’s curtain. I all but dragged them to the Victor’s bed.
“I know who beat him. We have eye witnesses and photos of the attack. The eyewitness called nine one one, but the sheriff didn’t do anything. Left Victor bleeding on the ground.”
“Idiot. He wouldn’t arrest someone if a murder was committed under his very nose. This guy was attacked at the ATM?”
“Yes.”
“Only one out your way is working. It’s in our jurisdiction. Shoulda called us.”
“You’re right. I would have, but the Habitat volunteers automatically called nine one one. Can you come out to our compound? I’ll get pictures of Victor’s assault.” Maybe this would be stopped once and for all.
“Better you come into the station. Talk with Lieutenant Ellsworth.”
I promised to do so, shook hands with each patrolman, and watched them settle their flat-brimmed campaign hats snuggly on high-and-tight haircuts.
Johnny and Charlie arrived around six. I gave them an update on Victor and told them about the rape victim. With nothing much more we could do, we went back to the compound. This time, the attackers and the sheriff made huge mistakes. This time we had a witness. Or rather, witnesses. This time, we weren’t going to be blown off.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Mississippi, week of November 7
The nurse called Whip at three thirty in the morning to say Victor had thrown a pulmonary embolism. Even though the emergency room doctor tried to resuscitate him, death was instantaneous. Whip woke Charlie and me for a strategy session. We met in the Silver Slug, since it was out of earshot of two curious children. Johnny joined us with a pot of coffee. We were unshowered but done with sleep for the night.
“I have to call Victor’s wife again.” Charlie’s thumbs worked her cell.
Johnny reached out before she could punch the dial button. “Let her sleep. No use giving
her bad news that can’t wait a few hours. She can’t change anything.”
Ducks returned very early in the morning. “Not much happening in the Quarter.” He covered the Jag and joined us in the Slug. “Besides, I’m needed here.”
Whip brought him up to speed. While Ducks lacked specific details, he knew the situation had grown worse since he left.
Charlie made the call to the new widow later in the morning. No one from the hospital or the police had told Victor’s wife he was dead. Charlie tried to console her as she sobbed. She let the newly minted widow talk about their life together, their two children, and their plans for the future, now changed forever. She hung up and sat with her arms folded in her lap for a few moments. She shook herself.
“No matter how many times you give someone the bad news, you never get used to it.” Ducks reached out to take her hand. A brief flash of warmth told me Emilie was awake and tuned into her secret place.
“Odd, how easy it is to fall into television clichés—‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ ‘I know how you feel.’ I am sorry for her loss. I do know how she feels, but as the words left my lips, though, I realized how inane they sounded.” Charlie raised her half-empty cup to her lips, hands trembling.
“Indeed. When Leslie died, I said the same thing.” Ducks rubbed his hand across his eyes.
“Leslie’s father lost a son, which you couldn’t understand. But you lost your wife, which I doubt his father could understand either.” I didn’t blink when Ducks stared at me. I kept a neutral expression, but I didn’t look away. The feather touched my cheek.
“You know.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“That’s what Em said.”
“When we flew to New York, I got bored and Googled your name, like I did before you joined our family. I found Leslie’s obituary.”
“Old man Ross hated me from the day he met me.” Ducks blinked before looking past me.
“Ass. Will you tell me how Leslie died?”