Outcast (8 page)

Tirrell ignored the man and turned to Tasha. “What the hell is goin' on?”

“Sorry, man. I didn't mean to interrupt—”

Tirrell turned sharply toward him and snapped, “I wasn't talkin' to you!”

“Fine. Tasha, baby, I'll call you later.”

“Baby?” Tirrell sneered. “What the fuck do you mean you'll call her later?”

Tasha eased from her chair as Tirrell blocked the man from moving away from the table. She reached out to touch his arm. “Tirrell—”

“What do you mean you'll call her later?”

“Take it easy, dude,” the man insisted. “I get it. It was just a one-time thing.”

“A one-time . . . What the hell?”

In a fit of rage Tirrell grabbed the man by the collar and shoved him into a neighboring table. Drinks and plates of food flew up in the air as the couple seated jumped and ran for cover. Rickey Hicks stumbled to his feet as a male server rushed to his aid. Tasha tried to pull Tirrell away. He snatched his arm from her grasp.

“Get up, you son-of-a-bitch!”

Rickey stood, wiping bits of lettuce and pasta from his brow. Humiliated, he took a swing at Tirrell and hit him in the face. Tirrell's head snapped backward and he stepped back into the man, punching him in the stomach, causing him to double over and fall to his knees.

Chaos erupted. The restaurant manager hung up the phone after placing a call to the police and hurried to break up the fight. Tasha grabbed her purse and bolted for the door. Tirrell spun around and chased after her. The manager followed them out.

Once outside, Tasha handed her parking ticket to the valet and waited uneasily for her car.

Tirrell caught up to her. “You fucked him?”

“Get away from me, Tirrell.”

The manager was dead on his heels. “Sir, you can't just leave like this.”

Tirrell pushed the man away and grabbed Tasha just as the valet pulled up with her car. The manager took hold of Tirrell again, giving Tasha the opening she needed to jump in her car and speed off.

Tirrell knocked the man into some customers who were passing into the restaurant and took off running up the street.

It was after nine o'clock by the time Tirrell made it back to his grandmother's house. The repeated calls to Tasha rang directly to voice mail, which infuriated him all the more. He wanted answers.

Betty was asleep when he slipped into the house, found her car keys on the dining room table, and headed back out to Tasha's.

The security gate at her complex was down. He waited for someone to drive up and followed them in. The gate came down with a hard thud on the roof of the Grand Am—he kept going. Tasha's car was parked in front of her building. He parked on the other side of the lot and looked up to the second story and saw lights on in the apartment. He tried calling her again—voice mail. “Shit,” he spat and pounded the steering wheel.

He jumped out of the car and started into the building as a car careened around the corner, the headlights blinded him.

It was Darnell. He'd rushed home after receiving Tasha's hysterical phone call. “What are you doin' here?” he yelled, pulling up alongside Tirrell.

“Mind your damn business, bitch!”

“Bitch? Tasha is my business, bitch!”

Tirrell stormed the building. Darnell threw his car into park and ran to block him before he could take to the stairs.

“You get the hell out of here right now before I call the police!”

The two stood and stared each other down. Sensing that Darnell wasn't relenting, Tirrell backed away. Darnell waited for Tirrell to get back into his car before continuing into the building to check on Tasha. As he turned the key in the lock, Tirrell snuck up behind him and pushed his way into the apartment. Tasha came running from her bedroom.

“Tasha, call the police,” Darnell screamed.

“Tirrell, go home,” Tasha demanded.

“Dammit, I'll call 'em myself.”

Darnell reached for the phone. Tirrell yanked it from his hand and threw it against the wall.

“You crazy-ass bastard,” Darnell spat. “See, Tasha, I knew you should have tossed this sorry muthafucka a long time ago.”

Tasha intervened before the two could come to blows. “Get the hell out of here, Tirrell.”

Tirrell pressed on. “Did you screw that guy at the restaurant or not?”

“Does it matter?”

“Hell yeah, it matters. You're the one always talkin' about how you love me all the time. What the hell, Tasha! I can't believe this.”

“Why are you tryin' to act all innocent and wounded?” Tasha screamed. “It's a two-way street. You can have sex with whoever the hell you want to, but I can't.”

Tirrell lunged at Tasha and grabbed her arms. Darnell attempted to jump between them and Tirrell elbowed him in the mouth.

“Get your hands off me, Tirrell. You don't own me. And you obviously don't wanna love me either!”

“Is that what this is about? 'Cause I can't tell you that I love you? I thought you understood. I thought we were makin' progress.”

“What I finally understand is I deserve more. I've given up enough for you already. I'm not givin' up anything else.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Tasha jerked away and went to tend to Darnell.

“What do you mean you're not givin' up anything else?”

Darnell and Tasha exchanged looks.

“Time,” Tasha insisted. “I thought I could wait, but I can't put up with your shit anymore. Just go home, Tirrell.”

“So, how many other guys you been layin' up in here with behind my back?”

“You're such an asshole.”

Tirrell started toward Tasha again and she ran to the kitchen and grabbed a frying pan from the stove.

“Get out of here. I mean it.”

“I'll be damned,” Tirrell spat, and left the apartment.

 

 

Darnell got up off the floor and secured the dead bolt on the door and then hurried to the window to make sure Tirrell was gone. Tasha sat shaking on the sofa, rocking back and forth, with her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands.

“I was gonna blurt it out.” She sighed. “I almost told him, but I stopped myself.”

Darnell picked up the discarded telephone and discovered the jack was broken. “Where's your cell phone?”

Tasha looked up. “In my purse. Why? What are you doin'?”

“I'm gonna call the police.”

“No . . . don't. Just let it go.”

Darnell snapped, “Are you shittin' me? After the way he busted up in here?”

Darnell looked at the pleading in Tasha's expression, rolled his eyes, and shook his head before proceeding into the kitchen. He took two glasses from the cupboard and filled them with ice and Jack Daniels.

“Here. Drink this.”

“You didn't put any Coke in it.”

“Honey, after what just went down you don't need no mixer. Drink it. Take it straight to the head.”

Tasha put the glass to her lips and sipped slowly, grimacing at the taste.

Darnell noticed the glitter around her wrist. “Oooh, look at the bling.”

“This is what he gave me.”

“Who'd he steal it from?”

Tasha shot him a look and took another sip of her drink. The bitter taste waned.

“Not tellin' him was the right thing, cousin. No tellin' what that crazy bastard would've done. It wouldn't have helped anyway—especially now.”

Tears streamed down Tasha's cheeks.

“If you tell me you love him I'm gonna take that fryin' pan and bust you in your damn head.” He chuckled. “Ain't that much love in the world.” Darnell wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He turned up his glass. “Tirrell never deserved you, cousin.”

Tasha lifted her glass. “Helluva birthday.”

Tasha knew that she needed to take a long hard look at herself, her lies, and the dishonesty that festered between them—deceit that she was as much a party to as he was. The truth was a knife that would cut both ways and she needed some redemption of her own.

Tirrell ended up in a bar not far from Tasha's complex. One after the other, he tossed back shots of tequila and chased them with beer.

“Yo, Bobby . . . it's Tirrell. I need some dust, man. I'm all out. Call me when you get this.” Tirrell flipped his cell phone closed and slipped it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Give me another one,” he demanded of the bartender and slid his glass across the bar.

“I think you've had enough,” the man shot back.

Tirrell looked up at the man's brawn and decided it best not to challenge him. “Fuck,” he spat and lit another cigarette before climbing off the barstool. He steadied himself, but his inebriation was evident as he staggered to the exit.

The bartender called after him. “Hey, man, why don't you let me call you a cab?”

“I don't need a cab. I'm fine,” Tirrell slurred and continued.

He fumbled with the car keys, dropping them a couple of times before unlocking the door and getting behind the wheel. He sat there for several minutes with the car running and the music blasting, and rolled down the windows. The sultry August air was stifling. He wrestled out of his jacket and tossed it on the seat next to him.

He flipped the cigarette to the pavement and peeled out of the parking lot. The car weaved between the lines on the street as he accelerated through a red light and merged on to the interstate. He didn't get far before the flash of sobering blue lights reflected off the car's back window. He glanced up into the rearview mirror. “Shit.”

Waiting for an opening he eased off onto the shoulder. Already knowing what to expect, he reached for his wallet. A DeKalb County officer ambled up to the driver's-side window and a blinding burst of white light met Tirrell's gaze; he raised his hand against its harshness.

“License, registration, and proof of insurance,” the officer barked.

Tirrell passed the officer his driver's license and leaned over to the glove compartment as he spied another patrol car approach.

“Don't shoot me. I'm just gettin' the registration,” he said with his left hand raised in the air.

The officer shined his flashlight in the direction of the glove compartment, while another officer, who sidled up to the passenger side, flashed his light in a sweeping motion to examine the rest of the car.

The first officer looked at Tirrell's license and then shined the light back in his face. “North Carolina.” He then read the registration. “Who's Betty Ellis?”

“My grandmother,” Tirrell responded, looking away from the light.

“Does your grandmother know that you have her car?”

“Yeah, she knows.”

“Have you been drinking tonight, sir?”

“I had a couple of beers.”

“A couple of beers, huh?”

The officer then made a motion toward his holster, but didn't remove his weapon. “You want to step out of the car?”

Tirrell scoffed but remained compliant. A field sobriety test proved that he had more than just a few beers. He blew a .18 into the breathalyzer.

The second officer rounded the car and asked Tirrell to put his hands on the hood of the car as the first officer made a cursory inspection inside.

“C'mon, man,” Tirrell implored while he was patted down. “I didn't do nothin'.”

A few minutes later Tirrell found himself handcuffed and sitting in the back of a squad car, grateful that he at least didn't have cocaine in his possession.

While the second officer waited for the tow truck, the first officer radioed in the arrest.

“Ellis? There's an ADA down at the Fulton County Courthouse named Ellis. Kevin, I think it is. You any kin to him?”

Tirrell had a fleeting hope the association would curry favor with the officer. “He's my brother.”

“No shit,” the officer responded. “You older or younger than him?”

“Younger.”

“I got a younger brother doin' time for armed robbery. Yours must be as proud of you as I am of mine, huh?”

Tirrell wanted to throw up and shut down the officer's cynicism, but then he'd just have to sit in it and he was already in enough mess.

“Hello . . . Tirrell . . . What?” Betty sluggishly sat up and threw her legs over the side of the bed, trying to focus. Her heart raced. She glanced at the clock on her bedside table—it was nearly four in the morning. She called Kevin immediately after ending the call with Tirrell.

Pat was startled awake by the ringing telephone. She poked Kevin and he barely budged, waving her away. She stretched across him to answer. Betty's fretful tone alarmed her more. She shoved Kevin and handed him the receiver.

Kevin barely opened his eyes. “Hello.”

“Tirrell's been arrested.”

He pulled himself up. “Noonie?”

“He just called. He was picked up by the DeKalb County police for driving drunk.”

Kevin rubbed the sleep from his eyes and said nothing.

“Are you there, Kevin?”

“I'm here. What do you want me to do?”

“You have to go down there. You have to do somethin' to get him out.”

“If he was stupid enough to drink and get caught driving maybe he should stay locked up.”

“Kevin, that's your brother.”

“He's not . . .” Kevin stopped before completing the protest that he knew Betty never wanted to hear him articulate.

“Kevin, you're an assistant DA. There ought to be somethin' you can do. Would you please go down there?”

He could hear the worry in his grandmother's voice, anguish that he'd come to expect when it came to her constantly coming to Tirrell's defense. It vexed him. Poor, misguided Tirrell.

“Kevin?”

“All right . . . all right. I'll see what I can do.”

He hung up the telephone and sat with his legs drawn up to his bare chest, rubbing his face. Pat sat beside him with a look of consternation. She knew that there wasn't anything she could say that would help.

Seconds later he forced himself out of bed and lazily walked to the bathroom, pulling at his boxers. When he came back into the bedroom he was dressed in a pair of loose-fitting blue jeans and a button-down, cotton white shirt. He grabbed his sneakers and walked out of the room. As he drew closer to the landing at the top of the stairs he could hear Pat moving around in the kitchen.

She'd started a pot of coffee and looked up at him when he entered. He shook his head; his expression was all too readable. Tirrell was in trouble and it was up to her husband to fix it, no matter how much she knew he resented it. He was the eldest—the responsible one. He had an obligation.

He wrapped her in his arms and nuzzled her neck. “Thank you,” he whispered.

She didn't have to ask why. She'd come to know him as well as anyone. All he needed was a little quiet understanding and support; that was her obligation.

 

 

After paying a visit to the nearest bail bondsman, Kevin arrived at the DeKalb Law Enforcement Center just after six in the morning. Tirrell was brought up from a holding cell while his paperwork was being signed off on. Buzzing releases and the clanking of steel doors echoed off the walls. Kevin walked up the corridor toward him, looking as if he could have pummeled him right then and there. Tirrell swallowed back shame and scratched the stubble on his face as he shifted nervously from side to side. Still reeling from the aftereffects of the alcohol in his system, he inhaled and exhaled slowly, preparing for the worst.

“He's all yours,” the officer sneered.

Kevin shook his head and seethed. “Let's go.”

Tirrell apprehensively followed Kevin out of the building to the parking lot. He rightly suspected that Kevin was in no mood to hear anything he had to say, and a half-assed apology wasn't going to cut it.

The anticipated verbal assault didn't come. Kevin just sat fuming behind the wheel of his Explorer. Tirrell didn't even dare breathe in his direction. Before pulling out of the parking lot of the DLEC, Kevin turned sharply toward Tirrell and clocked him in the eye. Tirrell's head smacked up against the passenger-side window.

“That's for all your shit!” Kevin barked.

Tirrell put his arm up to guard against another punch. His eyes watered as he delicately ran his fingers across what was sure to become one hell of a shiner.

“You feel better now?”

“Not by a long shot.”

“You wanna hit me again?”

Kevin glared at him and kept driving. “Truthfully, I want to beat the hell out of you. I'm taking you back to Noonie's. Maybe you can come up with a viable explanation as to why you're such a colossal fuckup by the time we get there.”

Tirrell lay back on the headrest, keeping a watchful eye on Kevin just in case his fist decided to fly his way again.

Betty was standing in the door waiting when they pulled up outside the house.

“Get out,” Kevin demanded as he turned off the ignition.

Tirrell did as he was told. Kevin got out too. Betty threw open the door and held it for them. There it was; Tirrell could see the disappointment in her face. It made him feel just as bad as he did whenever he'd let her down before. The words “I'm sorry” dissolved further into triviality before they could even pass his lips.

“What happened, Tirrell?”

He couldn't look at her. He sank down on the sofa, propped his elbows on his knees, and planted his face in his hands. Moments of noisy silence passed before he whispered, “I messed up. Me and Tasha were at the restaurant and some dude she'd been messin' around with stepped to her and I lost it.”

Kevin stood, leaning on the wall near the door with his hands in his pockets, eagerly waiting to hear the rest of Tirrell's justification.

Betty eased down in a wing-back chair facing him. “What does that mean? Did you do somethin' to her?”

“No. I didn't hurt her . . . physically anyway. I came home and you were asleep, so I took the car and went to her place. We got into it. I said some stuff I probably shouldn't have said, and then I went to this bar and had a few too many drinks.”

Betty reached out and touched his face. “What happened to your eye?”

Tirrell glanced up at Kevin and turned away. “Got it from a fight.”

“Oh, baby.”

“See, that's the problem,” Kevin interjected. “He's not a baby and you need to stop treating him like one.”

Betty looked at Kevin. “What's gonna happen to him now?”

“He's got thirty days before he has to go to court. He could have his license suspended. If he gets into anything else between now and then he could go to jail.”

She turned back to Tirrell. “How is this gonna affect you goin' back to Fort Bragg?”

Tirrell swallowed nervously. “I guess I'm gonna have to call my sergeant and tell him what happened.”

Kevin scoffed and pushed away from the wall. “I'm going to go and see about getting your car out of impound.”

“You're probably going to need me to go with you.”

“No, Noonie. I'll take care of it.”

“You won't be able to drive two cars, Kevin. If you wait a few minutes I can put some clothes on and go with you.”

“Fine. I'll be outside.”

“Why don't you wait in here where it's cool? I won't be long.”

“I need to call Pat and tell her what's happened.”

“Can't you call her from in here?”

Kevin cut his eyes at Tirrell. “No.”

Betty got up and went over to where he was standing. “Kevin, thank you for what you did.”

“We're family, right? We got to look out for each other.”

The sentiment hung in the air like the heat of the arid summer day. Even as Kevin said the words Tirrell could hear the loathing.

“I'll get dressed and I'll be right out.”

When Kevin left, Betty went back over to Tirrell and gently rested her hand on his shoulder. “Lord, have mercy, boy. What am I gonna do with you?”