Blood Brothers (18 page)

But then a figure stepped closer. Mike, from
his position, couldn’t see too well, but Jerry and Bobby could and
he could see Bobby’s eyes grow wide and feel his grip grow a bit
weaker.

“Who the hell are you?” Bobby demanded. It
was easy to tell, though, that the stranger’s appearance had caught
him off-guard. If he had not been in such a mess, Michael would
have found Bobby’s faltering voice amusing. Under the
circumstances, he was in no condition to enjoy this brief chink in
his tormentor’s armor.

A young boy, no older than Michael, stepped
up into the light. Tall and slender, the dark haired boy carried a
wooden baseball bat in his hand. As Michael watched, he gripped it
like a pro ball player getting ready to knock one out of the
park.

“Leave him alone,” the newcomer said.

“Or what?” Bobby asked, a bit of his courage
returning.

“You know,” the boy said, “I’m glad you asked
that.” Then, in a flash, he was on them and the bat rose high and
swung down.

The sound of the wood connecting—that
splattt—was one Michael would remember for a very long time.

Now

It was fine house, rich furnishings, plenty
of space, and only the most modern of color schemes. At five years
old, there was no doubt the entire home had been through at least
one major remodel. And that was fine with him. While he was once
accustomed to lavish accommodations, in the more recent years he’d
learned to live in less than splendid surroundings. It was nice to
return to comfort.

With three stories plus a finished attic, the
house was big enough for a family of twenty, much too large for
only the two residents. But wasn’t that the American way? Excess to
the point of being ludicrous? He was once again reminded of how the
class structure in this once great country was changing. Only high
class and low class seemed to remain, the middle class was being
slowly but surely pushed to extinction like the creatures of the
Jurassic Period. Some people had so much while others had so
little.

After showering in the marble shower stall,
he dressed in borrowed clothes. Well, that wasn’t actually true.
They were more than borrowed; they were his, at least for as long
as he wanted them. After slipping in the last button of his
lightly-starched white Oxford and slipping on loafers with the
silly little tassels, he took a moment to admire his reflection
before heading downstairs.

Down in the kitchen, with the late evening
sun spilling through large windows, he scrounged up things for his
dinner. There were steaks in the freezer and the makings of a good
salad in the fridge. Deciding against using the gas grill out back,
he placed two especially large rib eyes in a pan, slid it into the
oven and set it to broil.

Opening the pantry, he leaned in and found a
nice bottle of wine that would compliment the red meat and greens
nicely. It took him a minute to find the corkscrew amidst the many
drawers, but only a second to find glasses. He filled two crystal
goblets to the rim.

He sat and began sipping on the exquisite
wine. Yes siree, it was sure nice to be comfortable again.

Less than five minutes later, Trista walked
into the kitchen and asked, “Cooking?”

“Yes. Hated for all this food to go to
waste.”

From behind, she wrapped her arms around him,
snuggling her face into his neck. He brushed her off with all the
tenderness of a rhinoceros stomping across egg shells.

“Not right now.”

“What’s the matter?”

He looked hard at her for a moment. “What the
fuck do you think is wrong with me? Michael Cole is proving to be a
harder nut to crack than I thought.”

“But he will crack. He’s not used to anyone
standing up to him.”

“Oh my how things change.” Jerry had told her
a little of his and Mike’s sorted past, but only as much as she
needed to know, not what she wanted to know. Trista had been with
him for some time now and while she kept her curiosity concerning
his fixation on Michael Cole well hidden, it was no less obvious.
However, she was obedient by nature and loyal to a fault and if
Jerry said he didn’t want to talk about it, well that was good
enough for her.

He, of course, didn’t want to alienate the
girl. Voluptuous and exotic, his little Dominican lover beat the
hell out of an electric blanket on cold nights.

Jerry had no illusions. She could be as
cold-blooded as they came when the mood struck her. Just as with
everyone else, Jerry would not dare drop his guard around her. And
conversely, he wouldn’t draw out her anger if it wasn’t an absolute
necessity.

“I’d love to stick it to that prim and proper
heffa’.”

“What? You’re not taken with the illustrious
Missus Cole? You haven’t even properly made her acquaintance.”

“I know enough to know that the world would
be a prettier place without her.”

“That’s a bit harsh. What has this wonderful
woman done to strike such contempt within you?” Though not in the
best of moods, Jerry enjoyed talking to Trista this way. She was
certainly a delectable treat, but sugar and spice she wasn’t.

“She’s had a golden spoon shoved up her ass
since she came into this world. Her dry cleaning bill is more than
my father makes in a year.”

“I believe the correct term is silver spoon,
but I’d have to agree. You remember I told you her father was in
the car industry, right? Well, I understated that just a bit. He
owns a chain of dealerships. Fourteen across the Southern United
States, and these aren’t Honda and Kia dealerships. Upscale stuff:
Jaguars, Lexus, Mercedes.”

“I’ve always liked BMW’s.”

“Oh, he’s got Beamers. And money, lots of it.
As a matter of fact, he’s got his eye on a senate seat this coming
fall. With the way he’s greasing the wheels, he’ll probably get it,
too. Unless, perchance, a family embarrassment turns the voters
away.”

“You care about this man’s
father-in-law?”

“The sensible response to that question would
be no. But, I owe old Mikey Cole too much, not to hope that some
degree of collateral damage could be attained.”

“I’d think it would serve him right, raising
such a spoiled child.”

“And when did you meet Stephanie?”

“I know her type. That’s all that matters. We
have white women in my country. They come from money and they treat
us like…trash. Noses in the air, looking down at us. In our own
country.”

Jerry considered for a moment. No, he wasn’t
a native of the Dominican Republic, but he knew from experience the
things she spoke of were true. Jerry, however, knew the situation
from both sides. His father, nowhere near as wealthy as Stephanie’s
father or to the degree that Michael Cole had achieved, was a
wealthy man. As such, Jerry had been a child of privilege; the best
clothes, the most fashionable shoes, a nice car when he turned
sixteen. His future shone as bright as any diamond. Back then in
his other life, as he often called it, he hadn’t thought himself
better than anyone else just because he had money. Money did not
make you smarter, stronger, more handsome, or even more likable.
Money did, however, make you popular and powerful—two things that
could ruin a good soul.

Still, Jerry had never looked down on anyone
who went without. His boyhood friendship with Michael Cole could
attest to that. But he rarely associated with ignorant people. He
was not a prejudiced person and his mind was not driven by anything
more than boyhood endeavors.

But, what was it they said? Bad things
happened to good people.

That hot, balmy night in late July so many
years ago had been the turning point. The day he went from a child
of prestige and stature, to life as a man on the fringe of society.
Perhaps tolerated, but never accepted.

And he had Michael Cole to thank for that.
Therein lay his problem. While Jerusalem Garrett lived a life
reserved mostly for vagrants and criminals, Michael Cole,
entrepreneur extraordinaire, lived high on the hog with sharp
creases in his finely cut suits, his polished shoes, his fancy
sports cars, a beautiful wife and mistress, and a bank account that
as deep as the sea.

Where was the fairness in that? Was there
any? Jerry sure as hell didn’t think so.

But he was doing something about that, wasn’t
he? Yes, he was. And he anticipated the taste of his revenge was
going to be sweet. His only regret was that it had taken all this
time. But years had sharpened his resolve, not eroded it. However,
Jerry had learned patience and wasn’t the saying, “Revenge is a
dish best served cold?”

He would soon find out.

Trista was dressed much differently than at
her arrival this morning. The dainty outfit had been exchanged for
a sophisticated cream-colored linen pantsuit, the matching top
remained unbuttoned, over a simple white tee-shirt. Trista was a
woman who looked good in anything and the linen, though loose
fitting, fell upon her curves and angles in a way that reminded
Jerry that he was, in fact, a red-blooded adult man. There were
times, more often than not, when he truly believed the only good
thing in his life was this woman, this young girl.

Her hair was pulled back in a band, the
ponytail falling just slightly over her collar. She had countless
wonderful features, but Jerry was hard pressed to choose his
favorite between her luscious, generous lips or her startling jade
green eyes. Trista’s was a beauty both exceptional and rare and her
heart, he knew beyond a doubt, belonged to him.

Knowing that, however, did not help him with
the fact that she had slept with Cole last night. Had done things
that he would rather not think about her doing with another living
soul, besides himself, of course. Necessary, but not enjoyable. He
asked very little about her night when she gave him the video from
the tiny micro camcorder she’d used to record the illicit deed.

A crafty woman, Trista was, yes sir’ee.
Another thing to remember: don’t trust her too much. That shouldn’t
prove a problem; there was only one person Jerry trusted beyond the
shadow of a doubt: himself, without exception.

“I like your outfit.”

Trista, settling in beside him, lifted the
wine to her lips and drank before responding. When she did, she did
so with a smile. “The lady of the house has quite a wardrobe. A
very sophisticated sense of style and fashion.”

“The man of the house knew his wine, as well.
Nothing subpar here.”

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful to call a place
like this home?”

Jerry paused. “We will. Very soon. Though it
will be a long way from here.”

“Tell me about it,” she said. Trista loved to
be regaled with stories of their future, a future in which money
was no object and luxury was an everyday situation. A far cry from
the cocoa fields where she’d slaved during the first years of her
life. Of Canela ancestry, her skin was a delectable cross between
cappuccino and cinnamon, and she’d quickly become a favorite of the
field bosses. Much too young, she’d been introduced to things that
children should not know. Being more intelligent than the average
impoverished Dominican her age, she used her natural good looks and
her ability to meld herself to whatever was desired, and she’d come
up from those sweaty, hard fields. First she’d moved to the
sugarcane farmers’ house and eventually to Miami, where Jerry had
found her, or rather the other way around.

“A villa, perhaps. Mexican tile roof. Green
grass in the yard. House staff. A maid with a feather duster. A
butler with a starched shirt. Flagstone paths through our garden of
flowers, fragrant and striking. A pool with water as blue as the
summer sky and as cool as the snows of the Swiss. A car, maybe a
Bentley, maybe a BMW.” He saw Trista smile at that suggestion.
“Meals prepared by a French chef. Wine with every meal. A cigar for
me, a brandy for you, afterwards.”

“Mmm, sounds so wonderful.”

“It will be. I assure you. We just have to
play our cards right for a bit longer.”

“But how long? I don’t have your
patience.”

“Patience, as they say, is a virtue. But it
doesn’t have much to do with the situation anymore. As a matter of
fact, things will be moving along quickly very soon. Very
soon.”

He drained the last of his wine, savoring the
flavor. Then, before anything else, he once again filled it to the
rim.

“Ah,” he said, “I believe supper is ready.”
He went to the stove and pulled out the pan with the broiled
steaks. Having marinated them in his very own concoction, the aroma
that wafted from the meat was enticing, to say the least. Setting
the steaks aside, he quickly tossed a salad, placed it into bowls
and drizzled a vinaigrette dressing over it. Then, using a cheese
grater, he piled parmesan cheese atop his little masterpieces.

Trista helped him set the table and they both
dug in. Both ate as if the food was the finest they’d ever had. But
it was good. The meat was an even better cut than it had appeared
and the vegetables were garden fresh.

“To think we could eat like this
everyday.”

“Yeah,” Jerry agreed. There’d been a time
when he’d taken food for granted. After having to go without to the
point of starvation taught you that its best to take nothing for
granted. The meal was relished by them both. Although Trista was so
slender, she certainly had a hearty appetite.

The sun began its downward slide toward the
horizon as they ate. Before they finished and cleared away the
dishes, night pressed against the windows, and silence fell like a
soft quilt of velvet.

They’d eaten mostly in silence. And that was
fine. Jerry and Trista had shared so much of their lives together
that silence was often comfortable and sometimes even welcomed
between them. This was such a time.