Nine Minutes (26 page)

Chapter Forty-Two

I stared at
Tommy. “That’s why she looked like she was recovering from an accident at the
execution?
Grizz
did that to her?”

     
“Yeah, he did it.”

     
“Oh, Tommy. He
knew. He knew before he died what happened between us.” I put my head in my
hands. “He must have been so hurt. Felt so betrayed by us.”

     
“He was, Gin.
That’s why he gave her one more phone interview before he died. He told her
something. Something she’s going to put in her article. Something you don’t
know. Something that will hurt.”

     
Before I could
ask him what it was, he added, “
Grizz
was sorry, you
know. I talked to him after he talked to Leslie. He said after the anger wore
off, he was sorry he told her. Hell, he was going to order a hit on her from
prison so it didn’t get printed. I talked him out of it. I didn’t want her to
die because of a secret coming out. The time for killing is over. I hope you
agree.”

     
“My heart hurts
knowing he died feeling betrayed.”

     
“He didn’t die
feeling betrayed. I spoke with him, and you saw him nod at me. He understood.”

     
Then something
occurred to me. “Oh no, don’t tell me he told her about Miriam being his
daughter. Please don’t tell me that’s it.”

     
I didn’t think
this would have been a hard one to figure out if someone took the time to
calculate Miriam’s birth date and my marriage to Tommy. Nobody really seemed
interested and, surprisingly, I was never asked. I just wouldn’t have wanted it
printed for Mimi to read.

     
“No, it’s—”

     
I cut him off. “Is
it the real story about the first time he saw me? Not in Guido’s driveway when
I was thirteen like we told everybody? I was only six. You know that story, don’t
you?
Grizz
told me he went ballistic when Delia and
Vince took me to Woodstock. That’s when he put Guido next door. That’s not too
big a deal. I don’t see how that could hurt anybody.” I was rambling.

     
“Yeah, I know
that story. It’s not that.”

     
Tommy took a deep
breath and started to tell me about
Grizz’s
childhood.
Grizz’s
real childhood.
Yes,
Grizz
had
told me the truth about his mother, but he didn’t go into specifics. I’m not
surprised. The details Tommy was providing were too horrific for me to even
imagine. It ended in his parents’ death by his own hand.
Both
of his parents.
It shed some serious light on why he was the way he was.
I don’t know how anybody could have made it through a childhood like his and
come out unscathed.

     
I interrupted
Tommy. “Well, it’s an awful story, but I don’t see how it could hurt me.”

     
“No, Kit, it’s
not that either,” Tommy snapped. “Let me finish.”

     
I was stunned.
Not only did Tommy never raise his voice to me,
but
he
hadn’t called me Kit in almost fifteen years.

     
 
“He just wanted you to know everything.
From the beginning.
It obviously started with his childhood,
but that’s not what he told Leslie.”

     
And then Tommy
told me.

     
Not just the
secret that
Grizz
told Leslie out of anger, but
another one, as well. He was right. It hurt.

     
I wished it
was
the story of
Grizz
being Mimi’s
biological father. I wished it
was
the story about
Grizz
first seeing me when I was just six years old in
front of the convenience store.
Grizz
told me that
story the day he married me.

     
No, it was much,
much worse.

     
Like a deer
caught in the headlights, I listened in stunned silence as my husband told me
of
Grizz’s
betrayal. Secrets Tommy knew from the
beginning. Secrets he’d kept from me. Secrets that made me feel my heart had
been removed from my chest and placed on my lap.

     
The first one
didn’t surprise me too much. It concerned Delia. It stung, but it actually made
some sense.

     
But the other
secret I was certain I would never fully recover from. It would be in Leslie’s
article.

     
And I would look
like a fool.

     
For the second
time in my life that I could remember, I used profanity.

     
“Grunt, you son
of a bitch.” I stared icily at him. “You shouldn’t have stopped him from
ordering a hit on Leslie.”

Epilogue

The two men
sat and gazed at each other over the unremarkable but rather large wooden desk.
They were in an office, though the owner of this particular office, located in
a maximum-security prison in northern Florida, was apparently a minimalist. No
trinkets or knickknacks adorned the only bookshelf. No awards or degrees were
displayed on the walls. The desk was sparsely furnished with the necessities. A
telephone.
A blotter, which also served as a desk calendar.
A container with pens and pencils.
No plants, no
family photos.

The only indication that this office was used regularly was
sitting on a small knee-high table that was up against a wall. A chess set made
of ivory. The pieces were elaborate and detailed in their design. It was
obvious there was a game in progress.
The small table that it
sat on was flanked by two cushioned chairs with wooden armrests
. A warm
light glowed over the table and its contents from a wall sconce. This small
setting was in such sharp contrast to the rest of the office décor that one
might have to blink to see if it was indeed reality.

     
The chair behind
the large desk, which the bigger of the two men occupied, was oversized and
comfortable. The chair of the person facing the desk was hard and uninviting,
probably on purpose. If someone
was
to look down on
this scene, they would never have known that one of the men, the larger man
behind the desk, was to be executed by lethal injection in less than a week. He
didn’t look like a prisoner. He didn’t look like someone who was scheduled for
execution. He wasn’t wearing prison-issue clothing. He was in jeans and a
T-shirt. He exuded power and confidence. He seemed to be in a position of
authority.

     
“Okay, what have
you got?”
Grizz
asked.

     
Blue looked at
him without answering. The expression on his face caught
Grizz
off guard. It was an expression
Grizz
didn‘t
recognize.
Blue looked uncertain, hesitant maybe.
They
locked eyes. Neither would look away.

     
Blue finally
said, “You’re not going to like it.”

     
“I’m not going to
like what?” Before Blue could reply, he snapped, “You know what, it doesn’t
matter.
First things first.
Has Leslie been handled?”

     
“Yes. She’ll need
more convincing, but I’ve got it handled.”

     
“The other
thing?”

     
“Done. Flawless.
Just like you said.”

     
“Okay, now what
is it I’m not
gonna
like?”

     
“I found her.”

     
“You found who?”

     
“Jan. I found my
boys.”

     
Grizz
leaned back in the chair. He’d been leaning forward,
his elbows on the desk. He cocked his head to one side, considering. “I knew
you were still looking for your boys. What is it I’m not going to like?”

     
“I talked to her.
I scared the shit out of her. She never thought she‘d be found. She said she
would tell me everything and let me work my way back into the boys’ lives if I
just left her alone.” Then he sneered, mostly to himself, “As if she has a
choice.”

     
Grizz
raised an eyebrow. “Tell you everything? What’s left
to tell?”

     
Blue tossed an
oversized envelope on the desk.

     
“These photos of
Jan and the boys were taken by the P.I. I hired to find them.”

     
Grizz
opened the envelope and flipped through the photos, scanning
each one quickly without paying much attention. He stopped when he got to a
certain one and asked without looking up, “Why is there an old picture of Grunt
in here?”

     
Blue didn’t
answer.
Grizz
looked up and asked again, “Why is
Grunt in this picture?”

     
“It’s not Grunt.”
Blue’s voice was toneless, but his eyes were hard. “It’s my youngest, Kevin.
Apparently, you aren’t the only one whose woman Grunt fucked.”

     
Grizz
recovered quickly from the surprise. He leaned
forward again, tossed the pictures on the desk and rested the weight of his
massive arms on his elbows. He motioned for Blue to continue.

     
“Jan
said—she said it was Grunt who orchestrated your arrest,
Grizz
.“

     
There. It was
out.

     
Grizz
sat there
a moment
,
let it sink in
. Did he believe what
Jan had told Blue? Possibly. Maybe. He already knew Grunt had manipulated him
the night he took Kit’s virginity. The
billy
-club
had been Grunt’s idea. Yes, looking back with perfect
clarity he could see it all. The muscle in his jaw clenched.

     
Blue‘s voice had
a dangerous edge. “That piss-ant little brother of yours has been the enemy all
along. Not that Jan was an angel. That slut must have slept with him when he
was just a kid. The whole time that bitch thought he was my little brother and
she still did it!”

     
Grizz
looked at Blue and sighed. He remembered how he’d
insisted, on Grunt’s very first night at the
motel, that
Blue pretend to be his older brother. It was an order, and Blue took on the
role willingly. Blue had always assumed
Grizz
was
Grunt’s brother. He never questioned it.

     
“Fuck, Blue.
There’s something I never told you. I guess you believed something and I let it
ride. I didn’t think it really mattered, and I thought I was protecting the
kid. It would‘ve come out in that bitch‘s article. Thanks to you, it won‘t, but
you should still know.”

     
Grizz
steeled himself. “Grunt is not my little brother.” A
pause.

     
“He’s my son.”

November,
1966

The young
biker had just pulled into the Mindy’s Market on Davie Boulevard. It was a
privately owned convenience store similar to a 7-Eleven, but with more of a
homey atmosphere. The kind of place you wouldn’t associate with a franchise,
but with a family-owned business.

     
He had just
turned off his Harley and put the kickstand down. He was studying the knuckles
on his right hand, which was still on the handlebar. His knuckles were scraped
raw, and large chunks of skin were missing. There was a lot of blood. After a
few seconds he took the last Lucky Strike from its crumpled packet, tossed the
empty packet to the ground and wondered whether it was too early for a beer. He
lit the cigarette, which dangled from his mouth as he closely examined his hand
again. It was possible that he broke it. He had just come from what would
eventually be a long list of fights too numerous to count. He would use the
convenience store bathroom to clean up and make a better assessment. But first,
he would finish his cigarette.

     
That’s when he
saw her. She had just come around the side of the store. There was no parking
on the side because it was right up next to a sidewalk that paralleled the
road. He didn’t see an adult. She must have walked there by herself. He thought
she looked small to be walking around alone, and he wondered how close by she
lived. She was a cute little thing. Long brown hair held up in a sloppy
ponytail. Bangs almost covering her oversized brown eyes. She wore a wrinkled pink
T-shirt and cut-off blue jean-shorts. Her knees were scraped but not bleeding,
and their whiteness was in stark contrast to her tanned, bony legs.

     
She had on white
sneakers with purple pom-poms tied to them.

     
Just then, a boy who
looked to be a little older than her came barreling around the store.
Good. She’s not alone. She has a big
brother.

     
Before the biker
could ponder why he would even care, the boy spoke. “Hey
Gwinny
,
your mom is a hippie-whore-pothead.”

     
No, this wasn’t
her brother. He was a bully. The biker wondered if he’d deliberately followed
her.

     
Without turning
around to the boy she replied, “And you,
Curtith
Armthrong
, will be begging her to
thell
you her pot when you’re a teenager.” The reply was delivered in a very calm and
even voice with a whopping lisp. The biker noticed then that she was missing
her two front teeth.

     
Curtis Armstrong
didn’t know what to say to that, so he just waved her off and turned and ran
back around the side of the store. She went inside.

     
The biker caught
himself smiling, something he rarely did.
Spunky little thing
.
He was
almost finished with his cigarette. He lifted his sunglasses and wiped his face
with his arm. He was sweaty and grimy from the fight.

     
He’d just put his
sunglasses back down when she came out. She walked straight toward him. She was
carrying a small brown bag. He threw the last of his cigarette on the ground
and stepped on it. He was still straddling his bike and crushing what was left
of the cigarette with his heavy boot when she appeared at his side.

     
She reached into
her brown bag and pulled out a box of bandages. She handed it to him and said, “Here,
thethe
are for you. Your hand
lookths
hurt real bad.”

     
He didn’t know
what to say or do, so he found himself taking the box from her tiny hand. He
was shocked by her observation. He’d been watching her when she first showed up
and couldn’t remember her looking back at him. How had she noticed his hand?

     
Before he could
reply, she bent down and picked up the discarded and crinkly cigarette packet
he had so carelessly thrown down earlier. She turned around and walked toward the
corner of the store where she’d first appeared. She tossed the litter into a
garbage can. Then she stopped and looked back at him.

     
“You
thouldn’t
thmoke
. You could get
lung
canther
.” Then after a brief pause, “And nobody
likeths
litterbugths
.”

     
And with that she
was gone.

     
He couldn’t help
himself. He smiled again. He got off the bike and walked around the corner of
the convenience store. He saw her walking, ponytail swaying with each step. He
didn’t see any sign of Curtis Armstrong so he turned around and went into the
store. He walked up to the clerk at the cash register. He wanted to ask about
the little girl, but he didn’t want the guy behind the counter to think he was
a pervert.

     
“Just saw some
bigger kid picking on that little girl that walked out of here. Looks like she
handled herself pretty good for such a small thing.” He waited to see if the
guy would say something. He did.

     
“Yeah, that was
Gwinny
. She walks here every day by herself to buy her mom
cigarettes. She’s a sweet little girl. Smart, too. It was probably Curtis, and
I’m sure she gave him a piece of her mind. He’s always picking on her.”

     
“I hope she lives
close by.” And then after thinking about how that sounded, he quickly added, “If
she has a long walk it’s more opportunity for the kid to bully her.”

     
“She lives down
the street right here,” he said pointing to the side of the store where
Gwinny
had first appeared. “But I’m not sure how far. Did
you want something?”

     
“Yeah, pack of
Lucky’s
.”

     
The clerk rang up
his purchase without taking notice of the biker’s hand. At least if he did
notice, he didn’t show it. The biker paid for his smokes and walked out the
door. He tossed his newly purchased cigarettes into the garbage can. He’d been
smoking since he was twelve. Maybe it was time to quit.

     
He’d forgotten
all about the pain in his hand. He got on his bike and started it up. He
rounded the store on the side where
Gwinny
went. He
looked up at the street sign. S.W. 23rd Avenue. He idled as he looked down the
street and noted it was a nice block with small houses on each side. He could
see her far off in the distance. She obviously hadn’t arrived at her house yet
or turned off any side streets.

     
When she turned a
slight curve and was no longer in his line of sight, he slowly drove the distance
to the curve. He cautiously rounded it. He didn’t want to scare her if she
heard the bike and thought she was being followed, which she was. But it didn’t
matter. She was no longer there. She must have gone into one of the houses.

     
He wasn’t real
familiar with this neighborhood and figured that instead of turning around he
would just follow the street and see where it came out.

     
 
Unfortunately, he came upon a dead end.
The houses at the end of
Gwinny’s
block were fancier.
A little more upscale.
He could see through some of
the backyards that these homes were on the water—hence, the reason for
the dead end. He turned the bike around in the small cul-de-sac and headed back
the way he came.

     
That’s when he
saw her. He caught a flash of color on his right. She was on the side of a
house trying to lift an oversized watering can to water some hanging plants.
She was struggling under the weight of it. If she noticed him, she didn’t show
it.

     
He found he
wanted to watch her, but couldn’t. It wouldn’t look right and might scare her,
or alert someone in the neighborhood to his presence.

     
He didn’t gun the
bike until he was past the curve and out of view from anyone who may have seen
him pass
Gwinny’s
house. He couldn’t help but wonder
if her hippie-whore-pothead mother took care of her. He couldn’t fathom why he
cared. Then it occurred to him.

     
The bandage
offering was the first time in his life that someone actually did something for
him. Never once had there ever been even a suggestion of someone who gave a
damn about him. No one. This little moppet was the first.

     
He knew then what
he was feeling was a brotherly protectiveness toward her.

     
He vowed then and
there to keep an eye on the little girl. He could go unnoticed in the
background and just keep tabs on her. Make sure she was okay. And that’s what
he did. For the next nine years.

     
He had no way of
knowing then that the brotherly care and concern for a child would turn into
love. That she would become his obsession and the one true love of his life. That
she would eventually be the reason for his death.

     
Even if he did
know it then, he wouldn’t have changed a thing.