Southern Fried (18 page)

Knew I was his half-brother.”

Zeb shook his head. “Only if his birth certificate was in this.”

He pointed to the box. “Otherwise, he’s just an opportunistic

thief, stealing from a dead woman.”

I frowned. Suddenly, I felt sick. The box was empty, so

I hadn’t a clue what he had discovered inside. Meaning, we

snooped around just a bit more, finding nothing. No jewels, no

documents, not one single thing to indicate that he knew about

his background or me or us. “Now what do I say in this note I’m

going to leave for him?” I asked.

“Just tell him you need to talk and leave him your cell phone

number. If he calls, then great. If not, we know how to find him

now.”

“But Port’s going to be looking for him, too, remember. And

it didn’t sound like he’s looking out for Beau’s better interests.

For all we know, he’s in real danger.”

Zeb sighed. “Okay, tell him he’s in danger, then. Tell him it’s

not safe here. Tell him he can call or just come directly to the

mansion.”

I nodded as he spoke, writing it all down on the pad. Then I

set the piece of paper on the coffee table, right next to Granny’s

empty jewelry box, which seemed completely out of place in that

110 Rob Rosen

miserable trailer of his. Then we walked out of there and back

to the car. In truth, I felt almost as bad as when we’d arrived. So

close and yet so far. One step forward, two giant steps backward.

“What if he already sold the jewels and skipped town? Lord

only knows what they were worth. A small fortune, I’d imagine,”

I lamented.

Zeb nodded and scratched his chin. Then he turned to me

and grinned. “I may have an idea,” he said. “You told me that

back at the mansion, inside the payroll files was just the name

Beau and what he got paid each month, right?”

I’d told him that before we left for Roy’s house. “Yes. And?”

“And you said you looked up Beau Pellingham on the

computer, right?”

“Again, yes. And?”

“But that’s not the name he went by. We already discussed

that,” he told me, excited now, eyes blazing. “You were looking

under the wrong name.”

I snapped my finger. “You’re right! What if Granny has

an online card for him by the name he actually went by, Beau

Collingsworth? She must’ve had a phone number for him

somewhere, for when she had work for him.” I turned and kissed

him on the cheek. “You’re a genius!”

A flush of red spread across his cheeks. “Yeah, I kind of

knew that already. Still, nice to hear you say it.”

“And cute, too.”

The flush grew. “Yup, that too, I reckon. And?”

“And, uh, you have a big dick.”

He nodded. “Three for three, boss. Three for three.”

Then we sped home, raced inside, and tore up to the study.

I flicked on the computer and typed in the password. Once

again, I went to her address book, only this time I searched for

Collingsworth instead of Pellingham. “There he is! There he is!”

I shouted, jumping up and down. “Beau Collingsworth.” I clicked

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111

his name and the card appeared. “That’s his trailer address, and

look there, a cell phone number! We’ve got him! We’ve got him!”

Oh, I wish I could say that was true. With all my heart, I wish

I could say that. But that wish and fifty cents would only get me a

Coke. Meaning, it fell on some mighty deaf ears, and that phone

call I was about to make didn’t get us any closer to Beau.

In fact, it got us in a whole mess of trouble.

I held the phone up, my fingers hovering just above the

numbers. Again, I was about to speak with my brother, and again

my stomach got all twisted up, pretzel-tight. Like I just drank sour

milk and had nowhere to spit it out. This wasn’t how I wanted to

do it, to meet him, but I had little choice in the matter; he was in

trouble by all accounts, and I had to do something. So I dialed. It

rang. It picked up. My heart stopped.

Only, no one was there.

Sort of.

“What?” whispered Zeb. “Why aren’t you talking to him?”

I held the phone to his ear. “Someone picked up, but didn’t

say hello or anything. Sounds like a conversation’s happening on

the other end.”

We both held our ears up close now, our heads side by side.

This is what we heard, muffled as it might have been:

“Does he know?”

“Who? Does who know?”

There was a pause.
“You know who I mean. Does he know?”

“Like I told you, I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking

about.”

Another pause, the sound of shoes walking back and forth.

“So, you don’t know who I am? Don’t know what you’re doing here? Don’t

know your connection to me? Don’t know your connection to him? That

about right?”

“Right.”

The walking stopped. Then we heard what sounded like

a smack, then a grunt, then another smack. I could feel both

114 Rob Rosen

wallops through the receiver as flesh met flesh, my cheeks

somehow stinging in response.
“She told you. I know she told you. So

you might as well tell me what you know. Then I can let you go. Otherwise…

wait, what the fuck you got behind your back.”
Pause. Struggle. Then,

c
lick
. And the phone went dead.

I dropped my cell to the desk and looked at Zeb. His face

was white as a sheet, eyes wide. “That was Beau.” I squeaked out.

“I know that was Beau. But who was the other man? Not Port.

Port’s in the hospital.”

Zeb shook his head. “Sounded like Port, though, sort of.” His

jaw dropped open and he turned back around to the computer.

I watched him type something in just before YouTube popped

up on the screen, then a video started. I read the description of

the clip: Georgia State Bar Association, Annual Meeting. I waited

until the voice on the other end of my cell phone matched the

one on the screen. “Robert E.” I groaned. “But how’d you know

about this video?”

“It was on the news last week. Stands to reason that the father

would sound something like the son. And I sure as hell know

what the son sounds like.”

I gulped. “Robert E. told Beau to tell him or otherwise.

Otherwise what? He couldn’t kill him, right? He’s a lawyer. His

father’s a senator, for Christ sake.” But even as I said it I knew

how ridiculous it sounded. Those were exactly the kind of people

who could kill someone. Plus, Beau had no family to go looking

for him. He was just an itinerant peach picker that nobody would

be looking for. Again I gulped. “They’re going to kill him, Zeb.”

“Doubtful,” he replied. “You’re forgetting something.”

“What’s that?”

“That’s his father you’re talking about. He wouldn’t kill his

own son.”

I had forgotten. Still, he’d never known his son. Might as

well have been a total stranger. Plus, as far as Robert E. was

concerned, Beau didn’t even know he was his father. He just

suspected it, judging by the conversation I’d just heard. “He

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deserted my mother and his son before, Zeb. What’s one more

desertion, or a quicky murder, in the greater scheme of things?”

I held his hand and looked him deep into his eyes. “I have to go

find him, Zeb. I have to. Now. Right now.” I let go of his hand.

“But, but you don’t have to come along. I mean, it’s dangerous.

And he’s not your family.”

He giggled. “Pretty butch, boss. For someone in a pink Izod,

I mean.”

“It’s my preppy look.”

“Sounds like an eighties movie:
Preppy in Pink
. Very Molly

Ringwald.” He grabbed my hand again. “Now, if you’re done

being melodramatic, I’m going. And we’re recruiting help for

this leg of the journey. Because, yes, this shit is dangerous.” He

paused and looked at me sheepishly. “Robert E. is running for a

house seat next year, by the way.”

“State or Federal?” I asked.

“Federal.” He frowned.

“And an illegitimate peach picking son doesn’t look too good

with the voters. Not when you already got yourself a closeted gay

son, to boot. Doesn’t exactly make you the ideal candidate down

here, does it?”

“Nope. Not unless you’re planning on going on Maury Povich

first.”

I tilted my head, realizing what he had said previously. “Wait,

who exactly are we recruiting?”

Again he giggled, which suited him. “Stella.”

My tilt went all Leaning Tower. “The handyman? I mean,

woman? I don’t get it.”

“Ex-army. Special Ops. And bi.” He smiled. “Don’t ask, don’t

tell, Trip. And guess what?”

I guessed. “She told.”

He nodded. “And guess which senator was big time for the

policy?”

116 Rob Rosen

I echoed his smile. “Does it start with a P and end with an

ellingham?”

He was already leading me out of the study. “Exactly, boss.

And she’s worked here forever. Roy might’ve been a plant, but no

way is Stella. Hates anything to do with the good senator from

South Carolina or his Georgian son. Plus, she loved your granny.

And, and this is the biggest
and
of all, no way are two sissy boys

going to Savannah all alone. We got the brains, but now we need

some brawn.”

I hated to say it, but he had a point. Zeb and I were cute as all

get out, but that’d only get us in the club without a cover charge.

And Robert E.’s office wasn’t no club. “Is she working today?”

He was rushing me down the stairs now, then out the back

door. Stella was bent over a workhorse, saw ripping through

a thick slab of wood. We ran over. She stopped and lifted her

goggles. “’sup?”

So we quickly
‘supped
her. She nodded throughout. Then she

smiled when the whole Pellingham thing got introduced into the

story. “Fucker,” she spat. Literarily, I mean. With chew. Redman,

I was soon to find out. Better than a cigarette, I supposed. Mostly.

“So, we’re heading to Savannah?” she asked. “To that fucker’s law

firm?”

I nodded. “Well, um, yeah. We are. But I couldn’t ask you to

come. Too dangerous.”

She set the saw down. “Uh, you just asked me. Why do you

think you just told me that whole friggin’ story? Besides, you’re

the boss; something happens to you, I’m out of work.”

Team spirit. Yippy. “Thanks, I think.”

She laughed, huskily, boobs bouncing beneath a way too

revealing tank top. I doubted that Stella paid for cover charges

either. She was hot, in a roller derby sort of way. “Don’t thank

me just yet. Anyway, I’m glad to help. Anything to screw over

those Pellinghams, I’m all for it. Now wait right here.” We did

just that, whistling while we waited, inhaling the sawdust fumes.

She returned a few minutes later, pistol in her grip. “I keep one

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in the car. Lucky for you, I’m a crack shot. Trained by the best

of them.”

“Lucky for us,” I groaned.

Then we ran back to Zeb’s car. It was now late afternoon and

we were all starving, so we stopped at a Popeye’s along the way

for a super quick lunch, just to get our juices flowing. No rescuing

on an empty stomach. Anyway, I was shocked when we pulled

up. On either side was a KFC and a Church’s. Grease triplified.

“What gives?” I asked, pointing at all three establishments.

“Fried chicken, Trip,” Zeb replied. “Staple food around these

parts.”

“What’s the difference?” I asked, eyeing the trio.

Stella laughed. “KFC is southern-rooted; Popeye’s is Cajun-

style; and Church’s is Texan, with jalapenos thrown in for good

measure. Me, I like Popeye’s best. Spicier and crispier.”

“Same here,” chimed in Zeb. “Plus, they have better sides.”

To which I couldn’t help but ask, “But what if you don’t like

fried chicken?”

They both sucked in their breath. “Sacrilege.” Then Zeb

pointed a short ways down the block. “If you don’t like fried

chicken you can always go to Long John Silvers.”

“For?”

“Fried fish,” he replied, with a smile. “Duh.”

I dropped it. In New York, I tended to frequent the hot dog

stands. Or went for knishes. Or pizza if I was carelessly sucking

down calories and fat. You rarely spotted a KFC, and when you

did, it was usually next to a McDonald’s. Or a sub shop, where I

could at least get a healthy salad stuffed between the bread.

Anyway, they were right; Popeye’s was awesome. Pearl did

it better, of course, but Pearl was back home. And the spicy

coleslaw was out of this world. The Colonel might’ve had finger-

lickin’, but I was licking my whole fucking hand in greasy ecstasy.

That is until Stella thought to ask, “So, what’s the plan? We barge

in, guns up high, and steal him back?”

118 Rob Rosen

I set my drumstick back inside the box. “Uh, yeah. Maybe

no guns just yet, though. Besides, we’re only guessing he’s in

Savannah.”

She stared at us, eyes squinted tight, scowling like Scrooge.