Southern Fried (17 page)

go to jail, and Beau disappears into the countryside.”

He laughed and tousled my hair. “Well, yeah, that’s the worst

southeRn FRied
103

worse case. But glass half-full, Trip. Glass half-full.” I held up my

empty Coke bottle in response; he held up the bag. “Okay, bag

half-full, Trip. Bag half-full.”

And he was gone. Longest ten minutes of my life. It ticked

by like it was covered in molasses. When the last second faded

away, I breathed in and crept up the stairs. Zeb had planned to sit

out back with Port on a small balcony overlooking a pond. He’d

then excuse himself to use the restroom, leave the front door

unlocked, and stall for ten more minutes while I snooped around.

If caught, I had the video, while, before, all we had was the story

of Beau, the illegitimate grandson of a powerful senator. All in

all, the video was so much more convincing.

Not that we’d need it, as it turned out.

At least not yet.

In any case, I snuck in. That much of the plan went off

without a hitch. I saw them on the balcony, their backs to me,

the bag in Port’s lap. I veered right, out of sight. Zeb had told me

where the bedroom was. It was a small apartment, serving but

one need, more than likely. I walked into said bedroom, my heart

thumping away, like someone was playing the bongos inside my

chest.

And there, on his bed, sat his laptop. I gulped, praying it was

already on and beyond the password. I peeked over, saw the blue

screen, the icons, and knew we were home free. I clicked the

Outlook icon first. His email filled up the screen. Port, it seemed,

was a popular fellow. Now I had just under ten minutes to find

the one we were looking for. Thankfully, it only took me about

three.

Port had mentioned to Roy that a few men were looking

for Beau. One, it seemed, had found him. A private detective.

Barely a greeting, followed by an address. I snapped a picture of

it and got ready to hightail it out of there. Sneaking out of the

bedroom, I made it to the front door, turning just for a moment

toward the balcony. But fuck, fuck, fuck! Port was flat on his

back, with Zeb directly over him, pumping his chest. He looked

up at me and shrieked, “Call 911!”

104 Rob Rosen

I ran back to the bedroom, that bongo in my chest now an

entire rhythm section. I dialed 911. “Man down!” I hollered.

“What seems to be the problem, sir?” said the woman on the

other end of the line.

“Uh, there’s a man, I think he’s unconscious, and another

man’s over him, I think pumping his chest.”

“And where are you, sir?”

“I’m in the bedroom.”

“Then why do you think there’s an unconscious man and

another man apparently applying CPR? Don’t you know? Can’t

you go find out?”

“No!” I screeched. “I mean, no, I’m, uh, incapacitated.”

“So you need an ambulance as well, sir?”

“No!” I yelled. “I mean, I’ve always been incapacitated. So I

can’t get to the balcony where they’re at.”

“Okay,” she said, sounding a bit world-weary. “Where are you

located?”

I honestly hadn’t a clue. The address was written on a piece

of paper in the car. It’s not like I memorized it. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” She paused, probably counting to ten.

Or five, since this was an emergency. “You’re incapacitated, you

don’t know where you are, and you
think
there’s someone who

needs help.”

I nodded. “That about covers it. Help.”

“Okay, sir. Just stay on the line; we’re tracing the call now.”

In fact, I heard the sirens before I could even say thank you

and beat a hasty retreat. I heard the sound of running footsteps

next, all while I hid beneath the bed, cowering. Then I heard a

bunch of talking, then a lot of foot pounding, then the sirens

disappearing into the distance. I waited in the silence and then

came out from my hiding place.

“Hello?” I whispered, back inside the living room. “Anybody

home? Zeb?”

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105

I waited and breathed, but I was in fact alone. Alone in my

half-brother’s half-brother’s apartment, which he used strictly to

have gay sex in, away from the prying eye’s of his Republican

senator grandfather. Talk about your one in a billion odds. Make

that trillion. Heck, this might be the only time in all of human

history that such a claim could be made. Not that I had the time

to do the exact calculations because I was too busy snooping.

There were few personal belongings in the place, which

wasn’t surprising since this really wasn’t his home. Which also

explained the inordinate amount of gay porn. Still, this wasn’t

what I was after. Not that I didn’t find something else, though. In

fact, besides Beau’s address, I’d also found the Holy Grail in our

search. See, even though he didn’t have many personal effects

there, his briefcase was just where he’d left it.

Inside were mostly work folders. Port had just graduated

from law school and was working in his father’s firm; the folders

were cases they were working on. All, that is, but one. And that

one momentarily stopped my heart when I came across it.
Beau

Collingsworth
, it read, in bright red letters. Which meant I now had

the name Beau really went by.

I sat on the floor and opened the folder up. Inside was a

sort of dossier. There were lists of jobs, addresses, friends who

he associated with, his hangouts, when he usually woke up in

the morning and when he usually went to bed. Years and years

worth of information. Seems like they’d been keeping tabs on my

brother since he was a baby. And speaking of which, that’s when

I pulled out the last item in the folder.

“Proof positive,” I said, holding the picture in my hands. It

was an old black and white. Just a small picture, maybe three

inches by four inches. A baby sat asleep in his mother’s arms, the

father with his hand on her shoulder, a distant look in his eyes.

But the mom was smiling, eyes glued to her prized possession.

“Such a happy family.” However temporary that happiness was

to last.

Yes, the mom in the picture was my mom, but the dad wasn’t

my father; it was a much younger Robert E. Pellingham. And the

106 Rob Rosen

baby was Beau, of course. I’m guessing it was the last time they

were ever together, or near about. Soon thereafter, she was back

at the mansion with my father in tow. “But who took care of you,

Beau? And how did you make it back home?”

My reverie, however, was short-lived. The front door swung

open a moment later. I froze and stared, wide-eyed, heart

apumpin’. “Well, that went well,” commented Zeb, with a heavy

sigh, closing the door behind him.

“What the hell happened?” I asked, hopping up to give him

a hug.

He laughed and shook his head. “Fucker choked on a pork

rind. Took forever to Heimlich it out. Guess he lost too much

oxygen and passed out.”

“Waste of a perfectly good pork rind,” I couldn’t help but

add, offering him the picture and the dossier.

“Well, that proves it then,” he said, with a kiss and a hug in

return. “Now what?”

I smiled. “Now we go find Beau. I go the address from Port’s

email, which Port’ll have as soon as he returns. We have a head

start, but not much of one.”

“One day, in fact,” Zeb informed. “They want to keep him in

the hospital overnight. Just to be on the safe side.”

“Meaning, the hospital probably knew who he was and it was

their
safe side they were worried about.”

He nodded. “Goody for us.” His head turned from side to

side, eyes scanning the apartment. “Find anything else?”

I took his hand and led him to the bedroom. “Lots of gay

porn.” I pointed to the stack of DVDs, dozens of them. “Guy

likes to jack off a lot, apparently.”

Zeb crouched down and rifled through them, then slid the

door to the media center open. I whistled at the stash. Easily a

hundred more. Only, most of these weren’t store-bought, just

black cases. He took a few out, opened them up. “Jack, Steve,

Ron,” he read off the DVDs themselves. “You thinking what

southeRn FRied
107

I’m thinking?”

I grinned and nodded. “Pop one in.”

He did just that, Port’s hefty schlong filling the giant screen,

saliva cascading down the shaft. Then a mouth. Down it went,

almost to the hilt. Port moaned, shooting his load, come dripping

out of that same opened mouth. “Guess that’s Jack,” I rasped.

Zeb popped another DVD in. Port was on all fours now, his

ass getting pummeled, all while he squealed like a hog in heat.

“Steve,” I said. The next one was Port on the bed, a guy crouched

over his face, asshole getting an eager licking while Port jacked

away. “Lucky Ron.” I turned around, scanning the dresser across

from the bed. “Bingo,” said I, walking toward the teddy bear.

“Fucker has a cam inside,” I quickly added, finger pointing at a

hole where an eye should’ve been.

Zeb put the DVDs back in and then found the one marked

with his name. “Fucker indeed.” Then he took that one and a

half dozen more. “Two can play at this game,” he said to me.

“That closet of his is coming down.”

I smiled and grabbed his hand. “Easy now, boy,” I told him.

“We still have work to do.” I showed him the picture I’d taken of

Beau’s address. “Know where this is?”

He nodded. “Not too far, maybe twenty minutes.” Then he

frowned. “Not the best neighborhood, either. Mostly trailers and

dense woods.”

My frown echoed his. “Then let’s hurry. The sooner we find

him, the sooner he can move from there.” And the sooner I’d

maybe find out why Granny allowed him to live there in the first

place. That still didn’t make any sense. None of it did. Why wait

until she was dead to rescue him from all that? And why not tell

me, at least?

Just to be safe, we wiped down everything we touched with a

healthy dose of Windex. Then we skedaddled. The sun was high

overhead now, broiling as it pushed its way through the clouds.

We drove in silence, his hand in mine, both of us nervous and

eager. A few more minutes and I’d be meeting my big brother

108 Rob Rosen

for the first time. My heart throbbed at the thought of it, nearly

ready to burst.

The road turned rocky soon enough, half dirt, half gravel.

The ramshackle houses on either side dwindled, turning to

trailers, old and worn, spotted with rust and circled with debris.

“Told you so,” Zeb said. “This here’s the sub part of the burb.”

I shuddered, guilt washing over me like a flood. Never again

would I complain about my five story walk-up in the city. Then, a

minute later, we were at Beau’s. It was one of those trailers from

the fifties, space-age looking, rounded edges, silver, way small.

We parked on the side of the road and walked up. “No cars in the

driveway,” I said, stomach sinking, head now pounding.

“Doesn’t mean he’s not here,” said Zeb, walking up to the

door and knocking.

We waited, and waited some more, knocking again, louder.

“That’s exactly what it means,” I finally replied. “Any suggestions?”

He shrugged and grabbed for the knob. It turned. “Uh, go in

and wait?”

The door swung in, creaking as it did so. “Think we should?”

He was already inside before he answered. “Well, he squats in

your room; might as well return the favor.”

I followed him inside. “Good point.”

Place was clean, at least. And teeny-tiny. Small bed at one end,

kitchenette at the other, living room dead center, just big enough

for a couch that could hold two super thin people, a short, square

coffee table in front of that, a box on top of that.”

“That your granny’s jewelry box?” Zeb asked, sucking in his

breath at the sight of it.

I walked the two feet it took to get to it and held it up. “So he

did take it.” I opened it up. “Empty.” I turned to Zeb. “Well, at

least now he must know everything. Know she’s his grandmother,

if his birth certificate was in here. Knows I’m his half-brother,

too, then.” I forced a smile. “At least that’s something.”

Zeb patted my back. “And with those jewels, he can afford

southeRn FRied
109

a double-wide now.” He laughed, then covered his mouth with

his hand. “Sorry, just trying to make lemonade out of these here

lemons.”

I grinned. “It’s okay. I’m glad he took them. Now we just have

to find him so he can get everything else that’s owed to him.” I

looked around and found a pad and a pen. I paused, unsure of

what to say. This wasn’t, after all, how I wanted to make first

contact. Well, second, if you counted the funeral, which I wasn’t

counting. “Wait,” I said. “He had to have stolen this before the

funeral. It went missing before then.”

“And?”

“And that means he knew about himself and me and Granny

and my mom, about all of it, before that scene at the funeral.