More Money for Good (2 page)

A little over an hour later Tavious thanked his cabby for rolling at a smooth, steady speed to his destination. He smashed twenty dollars into the cab driver's hand, stepped out of the ride, and made his way up the driveway toward Amara's residence. He scanned her place.

She lived on Beecher Street in southwest Atlanta. For Tavious, it barely looked like the same house as twenty years ago, the same neighborhood even. His mind wanders back to the time when he was younger. He can't place what his eyes were seeing; back in the day he didn't pay much attention to the aesthetics of his surroundings because he was always on the move, never stopping to smell the roses or enjoying anything longer than a moment. But he is sure what he was seeing had drastically changed and he didn't want to focus on that fact because it was like a downer. He'd already had enough of those.

A rust-colored Camry that appeared to be well taken care of sat parked close to the walkway to the door with the front end pointing toward the street. He smiled, remembering they always used to park that way in case they needed a quick getaway.

Tavious looked over his shoulders a few times before he reached the door, then once again before he knocked. Close to fifteen seconds elapsed before he tapped on it again and then he waited another fifteen to knock so as not to appear too anxious. Still waiting at the door after knocking, then ringing the bell, he looked around at the homes on each side next door to make sure he was at the right house. There was absolutely no movement inside. Tavious smashed his face on the windowed doorframe to look inside, even opened his little black book to make sure he was at the right address. He could barely see inside the curtained window on the frame of the door. He called out for Amara before knocking again. He pulled out his phone and called her. He could hear the phone ringing from inside. Tavious put his phone in his pocket, then put his hand on the doorknob, then pushed, and it opened.

He stood still for a moment, looking around and calling out for Amara. She doesn't answer and he stepped into the small foyer of the house, shutting the door behind him. With widened eyes, Tavious scanned the inside while he wondered where Amara was. Memories of being in the three-bedroom house were becoming surreal. With a smile he called out for her, remembering all too well how she liked to surprise him back in the day.
This is probably one of those times.

After searching the downstairs of the house, through the kitchen, and taking a look-see into the family room and even the garage, Tavious was hesitant about going upstairs. He didn't think long about going up but his survival skills of being inside kicked in. He felt like he had to make a vital decision of venturing to the unguarded stalls out on the yard to urinate or holding himself until back inside his cell. Despite his wavering he ventured upstairs cautiously, noticing the squeaky third and fourth steps. When he reached the top of the staircase he could see Amara wearing blue jeans, a fitted black T-shirt without any shoes, lying on her back completely still in a pool of blood that was inches from running down the steps.

Tavious can't get to her fast enough. After calling her name over and over he reached down to see if she was alive. She looked exactly the same as he remembered. He cried out her name this time and could feel his heart begin to beat faster at a panic pace. At the touch of his hand Amara's body doesn't move or react. Tavious never learned any medical procedures on the inside other than to see if someone was breathing, and he put his ear close to her mouth.

She was dead. Her body was still warm and eyes wide open as though she wanted to tell someone what had happened. Tavious only wished she could. But there was one word that blasted over and over in his head:
leave!

He dare not stay any longer to try to figure out what happened; he couldn't, he was fresh out of prison. But he knew she had been murdered. There was no denying that. The pool of blood came from the hole in the back of her head. Tavious closed Amara's eyes and finally his own tears began to roll down his face. He hadn't planned to see her this way. Panic was soon to control his every move and he didn't like that feeling. In a hurry, he scanned the hallway while leaning over Amara's body to see if his money was anywhere around, but the hallway was clear.

Tavious can't take the shock and panic that was beginning to take over his body but still he knew that he needed to find his money. All the years inside Amara never told him where she hid it other than hinting in the house with her. His distress barely let him stand, his legs were heavy, but when he did, he ran through every room looking for the two million. After a few minutes he realized and reached the reality of the moment. Amara was dead and his money gone.

That morning my watch read nine thirty-two. I was expecting Mrs. Shirley Bullock any minute for our meeting. Actually I'd been waiting since nine but there was no way I would ever put a time limit on the woman responsible for helping me get out of the catastrophe of a jam I'd found myself in during jury duty back in 2004. I was at my wit's end: no money, repairing cars on the street in front of where I lived, and on jury duty. Then I made the mistake and put my nose where it didn't belong in a case sent to the jury. The Atlanta Police Department and district attorney were hot on my ass. I had become connected with my now good friend, Pete Rossi—someone they wanted very much to put in jail—and of course there was the money.

My cup of coffee was exactly what I'd expected from my favorite diner on Moreland Avenue. The day I had planned required that I be full of caffeine to help me get through it. Payroll, check repair sheets, then more payroll. I'd brought along my books that Lauren had prepared for me for final review before I paid the guys at the shop. Right along with it were the receipts for the past two weeks. I was praying it would be enough to cover the payroll and send everyone home to feed their families.

There was no hiding that the economy was biting everyone hard, even my repair shop; it seemed as though people were driving their cars longer with problems they knew they had and not caring one damn bit that it would cost them more in the long run. Even worse was all the chatter customers would bombard me with into giving them a deal, discount, or the all-time-favorite “hookup” on repairs.

Mrs. Bullock had a driver now. She had finally taken my advice of getting someone to accompany her back and forth from the many business meetings and community forums she attended. Besides that, it wasn't safe in the streets anymore. The way these young bucks were jumping into cars and holding drivers at gunpoint had even made me go get my permit to carry. If someone thought they were going to ever jump in my ride and take my business income before I could deposit it in the bank, they were in for a hot surprise of lead.

Mrs. Bullock's driver opened the door for her as she strolled in the diner with each careful step, and saying hello to a few people who recognized her along the way. I stood up and walked down to receive her, and led her to our table. I assisted with her coat, then waited until she sat down before I took my seat. She was definitely still royalty in Atlanta. In my eyes she was in the sphere of Coretta Scott King, and all the other strong women who played a role in the Civil Rights era.

She smiled like she always does.

“I have a pot of hot water right here for you, Mrs. Bullock,” I let her know.

“Oh, thank you, dear,” she said back. Then she said, “I'm going to get you to hold some classes, West, for some of these youngsters on how to treat a lady.” She smiled.

I just smiled back at her and enjoyed her comment. She turned over her cup. I began to slightly pour her water. As the steam appeared, she picked up her tea bag and opened it. When I was finished, she placed it inside the cup and it began to steep.

“So, how are you, West? I see you're going over paperwork for the shop no doubt?”

“I'm fine . . . just making sure the money keeps flowing and matches up with what's going out later today.”

“Payday?”

“Absolutely, the reason we all work,” I let her know. I will never forget she helped with all the startup money for making my dream of owning a shop a reality.

She said, “I've always said, you remind me of my late husband. Such a stickler for making sure . . . Checks and balances . . . checks and balances.”

Mrs. Bullock making reference to her husband about me was cool. One of the most powerful men to ever walk the streets of Atlanta, and to be compared to him was an honor. It was her idea that we actually meet at the diner but I wasn't going to rush her as to the reason why. So, I waited until she was ready to talk to me.

Mrs. Bullock ordered a slice of toast with grape jam. I drank another cup of coffee while we visited.

“So, how's my grandson making out at the shop?” she wanted to know.

Mrs. Bullock was referring to Tavious. I'd hired him out of respect for her after his stretch in prison. He'd been working in the shop about two months. I assured her that he was doing a great job. His job training on the inside had not gone wasted. Matter of fact he was the only worker in the shop who wasn't busting my balls and giving me any back talk about the new lean workforce habits I wanted my shop workers to follow.

“Just thought I'd ask,” Mrs. Bullock relayed. “To me . . . he seems a little on edge. Like a man who is greatly disappointed.”

I was putting down my coffee cup, but she was good at reading my thoughts because I really didn't understand where she was coming from.

“I don't know how to explain it. He's not the same boy I used to know and could read so well. Well . . . he's a man, now, but my instincts tell me something is bothering him. Something on his mind real heavy-like.”

“I haven't noticed it,” I told her. “No one else has for that matter . . . at least they haven't mentioned it to me. Maybe it's part of getting acclimated again from being locked up. I ain't never been inside, but I hear it's not an easy thing to do.”

“Twenty years he spent. Got caught up in those brand new laws for first-time offenders with drugs. Not even his grandfather with all the power he had could spring him loose. Even though he's finally out of that place I am still going to keep writing my letters to Congress and everyone else who will listen, explaining mandatory sentencing for drug offenses is wrong.”

I could see the worry on her face. “So, what kind of changes have you seen in him?”

“He's very quiet. He takes my car at night, drives around for hours like he's searching for something, then back in the house without a word.”

“How do you know he's drivin' around all night?”

“I keep records too, West. Every time he gets in and out of the car I write the mileage down . . . Don't know where he's going to and fro—but he's going.”

I was careful with my judgment but I just had to add my two cents. “Well, Mrs. Bullock, he has been locked up for twenty years; maybe he's just going out for company.”

Her eyes brighten.

“If you know what I mean,” I said right before taking in more coffee with the quickness.

“I know what you mean, West, and that type of company should put you sound asleep when you get back home.”

She had my complete attention with her truthful wisdom.

“If you know what I . . . mean,” she said before she sipped her tea.

I thought about her observations and let Mrs. Bullock know I would keep an eye out for her grandson. It was the least I could do.

I arrived back at the shop close to lunchtime. The atmosphere was just the way I like it as I walked past the car bays back to my office—busy. All the work being done eased my mind going into the next pay period that I would not have to go into my emergency fund to pay my mechanics. I wasn't purposely seeking out Tavious but I noticed him sitting in his work bay, eating a sandwich and going over paperwork for his next car up, a blue Impala. I didn't want to seem too obvious by going directly over to him and hammering him with his grandmother's concerns, so I decided to speak with him later.

I unlocked the door to my office and Lauren was sitting at my desk, watching the television mounted on my wall. She didn't look my way. It was almost like she was trying to avoid me altogether as I walked in. When I stepped behind my desk to get her out of my seat so I could get to work, I was shocked but pleasantly surprised.

“Baby, are you sitting behind my desk with nothing on?”

“I don't know,” she said. Lauren was still looking at the television.

“You don't know? How can you not know?”

She smiled back. Then she placed her hand on the desk, and pushed off so the chair would spin around and reveal her to me entirely. “What's it look like?”

“It looks like you're in here trying to get into some trouble.”

“Maybe I am,” she said.

I bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “Um, baby, ordinarily I would, but not right now . . . I have to get these checks ready. It's payday.”

The sound she made assured me she wasn't happy with my answer, and she pulled me down to her for a hug and a kiss, another hug, and a few more kisses.

“But I promise, baby, I'll make it up to you later.”

“You sure?”

“Have I ever let you down?”

Lauren smiled and stood up and grabbed her skirt, wrapped it around her bottom half of her body, and closed it.

I took my chair and placed my papers on my desk and she stood behind me running her fingers down my neck making it very hard for me to concentrate. “Let me ask you something.”

“What is it, babe?”

“Tavious.”

“The new guy?”

“Yeah.”

“What about him?”

“You noticed anything going on with him?”

“Other than he looks a little like that guy Idris Elba, no. Baby, can you imagine someone looking so much like a movie star? I mean it's crazy. I once knew a girl in school named Kelly Kelly and for the life of me I couldn't figure out what the hell was going on with that, but, hey, such is life.”

I needed to keep Lauren focused, before she started going off on one of her tangents about any- and everything that comes to her mind. “No, babe, I'm talking about anything strange. Other than his looks,” I cleared up.

“Oh his looks ain't strange, believe me when I tell you that.”

“Lauren?” I repeated.

“Um, um strange like what?”

“Anything?”

“No, only that he comes in, does his work, and leaves without saying much. Why you ask?”

“I spoke with Mrs. Bullock today and she seems to think her grandson is having some problems with something.”

“Problems?”

“Yeah, but she doesn't have any idea of what it could be and she asked me to check into it.”

“Well, maybe you should. Maybe he needs someone to talk to . . . Maybe being out is stressing him out.”

“Yeah, maybe I will.”

With just that little bit of advice from Lauren I was reminded of how good things had been between us. We had been steady like a ship in the ocean, which made our relationship very good to me. She was always there for me without having anyone influence what we had going on, and I tried my best to always be there for her and I was working on getting better.

I finished with payroll, signed the checks for all four of my mechanics, then prepared a deposit for Lauren's bank run. I noticed Tavious walk out of the working bay of the garage but still looking at the car he had up. Most of my mechanics would go outside for a smoke break, use the cell or shoot the shit. So I went out with his paycheck in hand.

As I walked toward Tavious he noticed me and threw his smoke on the ground, smashed it into the ground with his leather work boot, then acknowledged me, sounding as though I were a prison guard ready to take him back to lockup.

“What's good, boss?”

“Not much,” I had to yell as we were overtaken in a matter of seconds by the screams of two young boys on motorcycles with straight-open pipes zooming down the street. We watched them as far as our eyes could see.

“Fuckin' crazy-ass fools,” Tavious says. “Man, these young boys out here in these streets today are straight crazy, man,” he testified.

I smiled and handed him his check. “No doubt. It's going to take you some time to get used to it. Just wait until those fools roll up on you on the freeway roaring with those cut-off pipes.”

Tavious swiped his face, pulled out another smoke, and lit it. “You know when I was locked up, you hear a lot about what's going on in these streets from the fresh fish coming in and out—but until you finally see it for yourself it's all just speculation. Shit, the way things are out here, they could have probably embellished a bit more.”

I was still looking in the direction of the bikers. “Yeah, those boys probably getting ready to get on I-285 and scare the patience outta some people.”

Tavious nodded his head in amazement then looked at his check.

“It's all there right?” I made sure.

“Yeah, it's all good . . . thanks.” He looked up from his check. “So, my Grands talked to you about me . . . right?”

His accusation made me think it was painted on my face.

“Yeah, I knew she would.”

There was no better segue. “Well, yeah, she did. She's worried about you . . . wondered if I noticed any change in you.”

“What'd you say?”

“Told her I haven't, but everything's cool, right?”

Tavious didn't answer right back. He just puffed on his smoke. “My Grands told me that you really helped her out a few years back with some real gangster-like situation.”

“Is that right?”

“She didn't tell me the details, but she told me enough to know you got some skills to get things done.”

I was glad to hear that. I'd tried to forget about the whole ordeal myself because I almost got Lauren killed behind it all. But I was sure Mrs. Bullock didn't give out any real details.

“She told me that you have the knack for finding things out. Sort of like a private detective without any credentials.”

“Geez, I wouldn't go that far.” I had to chuckle at her assessment. “I just own a car repair shop . . . That's what I do.”

“I hear you, West,” he said. “But one thing I've learned in prison is to trust your instincts . . . those guts, man. If you don't, you'll find yourself laid out somewhere with no one to help. But you trust that feeling inside and it will keep you alive until the man upstairs has your place ready for you.”

“No doubt about it,” I said back.

We were at a quick pause. I was coming close to letting Tavious know that if he had anything on his mind to not hesitate to come see me. Tavious in the meantime was in the middle of a hard, long draw on a fresh smoke. He threw it to the ground, exhaled, then said, “I lost two million dollars, West, and I need you to help me find it.”