Ashes to Ashes (32 page)

He was conflicted.

The man had been a threat but he was
neutralized, barely. He couldn’t kill the guy, Scott realized, even
if the man
was
a typical bad guy and had most likely killed
people by
his
own hands. Scott was not like that, though. He
was not a bad guy. He did not kill for money or thrill but for his
own life, his own survival. That was, by all means, the way that he
saw it, even if not too many other people viewed it in the same
light.

Instead of pulling the Browning’s trigger,
Scott brought his right foot across the side of the man’s head. He
put in enough momentum that it nearly pulled the other foot out
from under him. But he stabilized himself and remained on his feet.
The hit seemed to put the man the rest of the way asleep.

Leaving the big man behind, Scott ran over to
the man at the yellow Porsche, who was on the ground by the
vehicle, still cradling his wounded leg. A little stream of red was
pooling at the man’s feet.

“Get up,” Scott ordered, with the barrel of
the handgun pointing at the man’s head.

The man glared up at Scott. A smirk seemed to
appear at the corner of his mouth. “You shot me in my good leg,” he
called out over the rain. “Are you going to shoot me again if I
decide to just sit here and bleed?”

“Get up!”

“Not going to happen, Mr. Walters,” the man
replied. “I know who you are. But I’m not sure how you know
me?”

Scott shook his head in frustration.

“Take off your tie,” Scott told him.

The man from the yellow Porsche had not been
wearing a fancy, flashy suit, but he was wearing a tie. A yellow
one. The man with the yellow tie nodded and undid his tie.

Pointing to the hurt leg, Scott made another
order. “Tie it around your leg. Get that bleeding under control.
And then get your ass off that ground. Do you understand me?”

The man with the yellow tie shrugged and
Scott was taken aback by the simple gesture. And then it dawned on
him. The man with the yellow tie knew that he wasn’t going to
die…not yet, which was why he never saw Scott coming. Scott had no
intention of killing the man, making him invisible on the man’s
radar.

“You didn’t know I was coming,” Scott said.
“Not used to that feeling are you?”

The man with the yellow tie laughed.

“What feeling?” the man asked.

“Dumbfounded,” Scott said. “Confusion. Shock.
Why am I here? What do I want? You don’t know.” The words almost
got caught in his still hurting lungs.

“Don’t I?”

“No,” Scott insisted. “Get that tie on your
leg and get up.”

“Sure thing, boss,” the man with the yellow
tie said, faking a Texas accent. “This is your rodeo. And I’m just
the wounded bull.”

Scott watched the tie get wrapped around the
man’s leg, just above the wound. He watched as the man pulled it
tight and cut off most of the blood flow. With a smirk still on his
face, the man rose to his feet and began to limp off.

“Let’s go,” the wounded bull said.

Scott pointed the direction and led the man
off through the woods, back to where he had parked Bam’s car. For a
brief moment he considered taking the Porsche. It would be faster.
But he would not leave behind Bam’s car. He would not leave it
behind to be evidence. Would there be the need for evidence? He
hoped that there wouldn’t be any crime report. The big guy was a
hired thug and there wasn’t any body. Anyway. How could anyone
explain the crime, without giving away the reason the secret
meeting was taking place in a park’s bathroom?

Scott wasn’t sure, though, and he wasn’t
taking any chances.

The trek back to the car was long and the
yellow man seemed to be taking his sweet time, perhaps due to his
hurt leg. The good news was that the rain seemed to be growing
lighter, possibly stopping at any minute. But there was bad news.
Scott saw the bad news when the parking area came into full view.
The rain didn’t seem to scare off many people, who must have
decided to wait it out in their vehicles.

Witnesses.

Damn.

Scott moved close behind the yellow man,
close enough to conceal the Browning. “Don’t even try,” he warned
the man. “I will put a hole in the middle of your back. If you
doubt that statement, feel free to yell for help.”

“I never doubt the man with the gun,” the man
replied.

“Good philosophy,” Scott said.

No one seemed to notice the two men as they
crossed the parking lot and they seemed to get to Bam’s car without
any problems. But then that changed. From behind, Scott heard large
footsteps stomping toward them. He turned around in time to see the
big man running, full sprint, toward Bam’s car. Red still covered
the man’s face. A large handgun was in his hand.

On instinct, Scott fired a shot at the big
man. The bullet went wild because it had been forced and seemingly
impacted near to the feet of the assailant. Instead of firing a
second shot, he pulled the yellow man in between the big guy and
himself. He would learn exactly how loyal the big guy was to his
boss. That loyalty could mean life or death for Scott.

The big guy at once failed the test. It
appeared that he was not coming at Scott to save his boss, at least
not anymore. He was coming at Scott for revenge, to put down the
young punk who had bit his nose.

Revenge often trumped loyalty.

Luckily, Scott pulled his human shield down
in time to dodge the bullet, which caused a cracking sound as it
hit Bam’s car. In a kneeling position, Scott took a calm moment,
aimed and fired. Somehow Scott had managed to hit the big man just
below his bulletproof vest, punching a whole into part of his lower
stomach and his hip. Scott could see the blood beginning to stream
as the big man dropped to his knees and then to his back.

There was shrieking in the background and it
seemed to have existed before Scott happened to notice. The sound
of the shouting onlookers caused him to at once panic. He quickly
jumped to his feet and forced the yellow man into the car. Once
inside, Scott drove away from the park, cursing as loud as he
could.

The big guy might die.

Fuck.

Another body.

Chapter 38

April’s Corner Café was one of the few
remaining old style diners in Youngstown, due to both the recession
and competition with the more mainstream food service outlets, like
McDonalds and Denny’s. It was the common battle between the big guy
and the little guy and the family owned businesses were not as
lucky as the bible claimed David had been against Goliath. In
reality, the little guy rarely wins against the big guy. Small
diners seem to be going by the wayside, to eventually wash upon the
shore next to the mom and pop bookstores, which have long been run
out of town by the internet and Amazon.com.

It was a shame.

Ashe didn’t consider himself to be old, being
only forty, but he was slightly old fashioned when it came to
eating. He didn’t care much for fast food franchises, where the
food felt plain and mundane, mass produced, as if it came off a
conveyor belt. There was no personality. It was boring. He
preferred places like April’s Corner Café, where the food was made
with pride and specialty, not where just any high school student
could get a job flipping hamburgers.

Minimum wage tended to pay for minimum
quality food.

He must have been early, because Ginger and
his mystery friend were not there yet. There were only two booths
occupied when Ashe arrived at the café and he took one that was in
the far back corner, away from the counter and the other eaters. He
had a feeling that he didn’t want any other ears to be able to hear
the upcoming conversation. But what could Ginger have for him? What
had he discovered about the powder that would give cause to a
covert meeting in a nearly empty dinner?

Ashe’s mind overflowed with possibilities.
His imagination went into overdrive. And as he waited, ordering
only a simple cup of black coffee, his patience immediately wore
thin, causing his foot to wiggle and twitch to a pretend, upbeat
rhythm. The rhythm was that of frustration and annoyance. How much
longer would he have to wait? Whatever Ginger had discovered, Ashe
needed to know. He needed some kind of news. He needed some kind of
answers. He just hoped that whatever Ginger had to tell him that it
did not only open up more questions. He was sick and tired of
questions.

He was also sick and tired of conflicted
emotions. Ashe sat there in the booth alone and tried his best to
occupy his mind with other things, but no other things seemed to
exist outside of Scott and Katherine.

Katherine.

He didn’t want to think about Katherine…at
all. It was nothing but a bridge he would have to burn, eventually.
Or was it? For some reason something was saving that particular
bridge from being kissed by flames. Was it loneliness? Was it
pleasure? Or did he actually have feelings for Katherine? Ashe
didn’t know. He was truly and utterly conflicted and he hated it.
Yet, he didn’t have the motivation to figure out his feeling for
Katherine. He simply wanted to avoid them.

Ashe finally decided to order some food,
hoping that if he filled his stomach it might dull his mind a
little. When he stuffed his gut full, his mind sometimes became
slow and sleepy. He could only hope.

“Let me get the hot meatloaf sandwich with
French fries. I want gravy on the fries, also,” he told the female
server. He considered ordering a Sam Adams, but asked her for some
more coffee, instead. The server jotted down his request and then
took the order over to the cook, before returning with a pot of
steaming black liquid.

It smelled like heaven.

Ashe took a sip of his coffee, breathing in
the fumes. He looked up to see Ginger entering the café. Ginger was
solo, his friend nowhere to be seen. Casually, Ginger glanced
around and noticed Ashe, who waved him over. With a wide grin of
his bearded face, Ginger strolled over and slid into the booth.

“Afternoon, my friend,” Ginger greeted.

The female server immediately returned when
she noticed Ginger, her order book back in hand. But the server was
quickly dismissed by Ginger with only an order for coffee. It took
a couple seconds for her to bring the Irishman a white mug filled
to the brim. Ashe watched as Ginger diluted the black liquid with
loads of sugar and creamer until it was nearly was a pale as the
powder at the bottom of the black and gold container.

Blasphemy.

There were two drinks that Ashe took
absolutely seriously, Sam Adams and coffee.

“When you’re done destroying that coffee,”
Ashe began, “we can get down to why I am here?”

“In time, Ashy boy,” Ginger replied. “Did you
order food?”

“A bite,” Ashe said. “You going to eat?”

“I might nibble a bit,” Ginger told him,
waiving the server back to the table. He asked for some appetizers,
mozzarella sticks, fried mushrooms, and pepper poppers, all deep
fried and greasy.

“I thought you were bringing someone,” Ashe
questioned. “Or were you blowing smoke up my ass, trying to throw
me off balance for some sick pleasure.” He smirked. “Wouldn’t be
the first time you messed with my head, Ginger.”

Ginger shook his head.

“Not this time,” he said. “He is just running
late. Busy guy. You can relate to that.”

“I’ve been kicked out of my prison,” Ashe
told him. “It might be the first time in history that someone was
asked to
leave
Wilson.”

“Or not.”

“Or not.”

Ashe smelled his gravy and turned to see his
plate approaching. His stomach gave a gurgle and then a growl. “Why
are we here?” he asked Ginger as he stuffed a bite of gravy fries
into his mouth. “And why so mysterious? You are usually not
so…KGB-like.”

“Or am I?” Ginger joked and then laughed.

“Quit it,” Ashe demanded. “You are stalling.
I don’t care if your friend is here or not. I want you to tell me
why I am here.”

Suddenly, as if appearing from the air, the
black and gold container was on the table. “That is why we are
here. That right there.”

“What is it?” Ashe inquired.

“Where did you get it?” Ginger asked,
ignoring Ashe’s question. “And don’t tell me any bull about it
belonging to a new girlyfriend. I know it to be a lie.”

“It is a lie,” Ashe acknowledged. “You are
right. I’m sorry that I told you that, but I didn’t want to involve
you any more than I needed to.”

“Another lie,” Ginger spat. “You didn’t trust
me.”

“I don’t know who to trust,” Ashe confessed.
“It is nothing personal, but I feel like I’m floating with no way
back to the ground. Oscar had sidelined me on my own son’s
investigation and I didn’t know where your loyalty sat. I thought
that I could trust him and…and I couldn’t ask you to decide between
me, someone you used to work with, and Oscar, one of the lead
detectives in your precinct.”

“I know, friend” Ginger said. “This is about
Scott. Right?”

Ashe nodded.

“Don’t forget what you done for my brother,”
Ginger said. “Because I won’t. You listened to his crazy ass when
no one else wanted to, not even his own family would, and you
decided to help him. You helped him more than he deserved, I tell
you. I owe you. I still will owe you after this.”

“You don’t owe me,” Ashe told him. “And I was
an asshole to hold that over your head. I did that for my own
personal, selfish reasons. That was wrong. I’m sorry.”

“Shut that up,” Ginger insisted. He pointed
to the container, which still sat, almost malevolently, on the café
table. “Where did you get that container?”

Ashe described gaining access into Scott’s
building and Scott’s apartment. He told Ginger about finding the
black and gold container, along with taking the dream journal. He
thought about leaving out the dream journal, but went with it
anyway. Ashe felt his head filling up with pressure. It had been
building up for the past couple of days, the secrets and
half-truths, telling one person one thing while keeping another
thing from that same person.