Two for Flinching (8 page)

I sighed. Some things were inevitable. Like
death and taxes. And cheating spouses. “Come on then.”

We went up the metal stairs. The sky was blue
and the wind was singing in the piney woods next to and behind the
factory. I unlocked the heavy outer door and pointed to my office
door. I went in behind him, turning on lights and checking the
answering machine. Nothing. I walked around the desk and sat.
Melvin chose to pace.

“I need your help.”

“I can’t help you,” I tried to explain. “I
work for the other side.”

“Yeah, I talked to that fucking lawyer,”
Melvin spat. “A regular shark, that boy.”

“What he gets paid for.”

“I can’t believe a man like you works for a
man like that.”

I held out my hands.
What are you going to
do?

“You’re on his team.”

“Right.”

“See, that’s what I’m trying to say.” He put
both hands on my desk, leaning forward. Dark circles were under his
eyes, fatigue and worry stretched across his face. I knew the
hollow feeling he was going through. “I don’t want teams here. I
only want us working for the same thing.”

“Your divorce?”

He violently shook his head. “I don’t want a
divorce.”

“Out of my hands.”

“You’re going to help me.”

“How, Melvin? How could I possibly help
you?”

“You’re going to help me get her back.”

“What?”

“Have you ever been divorced?”

“No,” I answered honestly.

“See, you know how to keep a marriage
together.”

“Actually, I’m the last person you
should—“

“I don’t know where else to go,” he cut me
off, not listening and I let him run with it. “I realized this
morning that I don’t have any friends. I’ve got business associates
and social contacts, but I don’t have anyone I can talk to. All of
the people I call friends, I got because of Cynthia. Everybody
likes her—loves her—and it’s not like I can go to them for
help.”

“So you came to me.”

“Cynthia is the best friend I ever had.”
Jenks was on the verge of tears. “The only friend I ever had.”

Another sigh. “What does she say?”

“She won’t talk to me. She wasn’t home when I
got there last night and she ain’t answering her phone. I don’t
know where she is. Or the kids.”

“Kids are probably in school.”

“How can I get her back if she won’t even
hear what I have to say?”

“This is a big change.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You need to give her some space.”

“Space?”

“Yeah. Let her settle down a bit. Maybe with
a little time, she’ll talk to you.”

“I can’t do that. I have to do
something.
”

“Just wait.”

He resumed pacing, before suddenly stopping.
“Can I send her flowers?”

I shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

“How about a letter?” he pleaded. “A love
letter like I used to write her. Not an email.”

“Sure. One letter. Tell her you love her and
you’ll do anything—especially giving her a little time.”

He nodded enthusiastically. “It’s gonna be
hell.”

“Yes, Melvin,” I agreed. “It will be.”

I missed the car doors slamming but heard the
stairs creak. Heavy footsteps, more than one pair. The outer door
banged open, then the office door. I was almost relieved to see my
two new friends.

“Hello, Clarence.”

The big one frowned. “Nobody calls me
that.”

His tag number had led to his driver’s
license and then to his credit rating. The score was not good.
And you thought the internet was only for porn.
“Your momma
did.”

He had on a long coat and his pale partner
was in a blue parka. Both men kept their hands in their pockets.
“Have you found the girl yet?”

“We are all looking for that special
someone.”

Jenks said, “Not me.”

Starling jerked a thumb at the bank
president. “Who’s he?”

“A…friend.”
What else could I say?

“You need to find the girl.”

The .45 was still in the holster at the small
of my back. “What girl?”

He jabbed a meaty finger at my chest. “You
know,” he said. “Find her and find her fast. Or you’ll answer to
us.” He gave me his best hard stare and walked out. His partner
gave me a nod. There was a lot in that nod, in that look.
What
are you going to do?
He backed out the door.

Alone, Jenks said, “What was that all
about?”

“Beats hell out of me.”

Chapter Twelve

It wasn’t much of a car lot. Three twenty
year old cars slowly returning to earth—one sitting on a rim—the
makes and models only to be determined by close inspection. A
gleaming white Bronco, a la O.J. Simpson, with huge mud tires sat
next to a dilapidated trailer.

I climbed the cinder block steps and pushed
through the door. Andy Chen was one hundred percent Mandarin
Chinese, his parents fleeing Hong Kong ahead of the communist
takeover and somehow ending up in north Alabama. He had graduated
with my brother and was the biggest redneck I had ever met. Andy,
phone in one ear, smiled at my entrance and held up a finger.

“You want the odds that New England will beat
Indianapolis in the Super Bowl?” The widescreen television was
tuned to ESPN, flanked by four other smaller sets, two on each
side. ESPN News, ESPN Two, ESPNU, and ESPN T or Y or X or whatever
was left in the ESPN family. “I’ll give you fifteen to one.”

Pause.

“You got it,” he said. “I’ll put you down for
two bills.” Andy hung up, flipped through a yellow notebook and
scribbled something down. He spat tobacco juice into a Dixie cup
and said, “Beasily. Long time, no see.”

“How you been, Andy?”

“Can’t complain. Or find anybody who gives a
shit.”

“The way of the world.”

“You?”

“About the same.”

“How’s Gus?”

“He’s good. Building roads for the
state.”

“He still married to Tonya?”

“Yeah. They’ve got a couple of kids now.”

Andy leaned back, put his hands behind his
head and his boots on the table. Not hiking boots like mine, but
rattlesnake cowboy boots. “Man, that was the hottest girl in our
school.”

“Still is,” I said, “but don’t tell her I
think so.”

“She knows. How a man like your brother ended
up with a tasty treat like that is beyond me.”

“The Camp men have been well endowed through
the ages.”

He laughed, reaching desperately for the cup,
barely getting to it in time. He spat. “Don’t forget I had PE with
him for four years.”

“I must have gotten his.”

Andy shook his head. “You detecting?”

“Yep.”

“Private?”

“Yep.”

“You come here looking for work? I could
probably hook you up,” he said. “I’ve gotta couple of dead beats
you could scare the hell out of for me.”

“No. Thanks. How do you know I didn’t come in
to trade in my Jeep?”

Flat eyes.

“Any of those cars even run?”

“They did when I parked them there.”

“How long ago was that?”

He shrugged. “Five years? What do you need,
Bees?”

“Information.”

Andy arched an eyebrow. “I’ll do what I
can.”

“Clarence Starling, out of Shreveport.”

“Big Bird.”

“Big Bird?” I laughed. “And he got pissed
when I called him Clarence.”

“I bet. Nobody calls him Big Bird to his face
either. His younger brother is Little Bird and so…” He held out his
hands. “You got trouble with Bird.”

“I’m not sure.”

“I’m telling you, if he’s in your life,” he
told me, “you’ve got trouble.”

“What’s his story?”

“Big player in the mafia. Drugs, women,
guns.”

The Dixie Mafia wasn’t your typical criminal
organization. It was more of a loose collaboration. No godfather,
no omerta, no rules. But if you were plugged in (like Andy was) and
needed something on the wrong side of the law, the Dixie Mafia
could deliver.

“He’s been hanging around. Maybe Little Bird,
too.”

Andy spat. “What’s this other guy look
like?”

“Little fellow. Real pale. Hard.”

Andy shook his head. “Definitely not Little
Bird. This boy talk funny?”

“I don’t know. He never says anything.”

Andy went serious.

“Who is he?”

“Not sure. I need to make some calls. What do
they want?”

“At first, they just kept showing up. Now
they want me to find a girl I’m already looking for.”

“Then you need to find the girl.”

Interesting.
Andrew Chen had known me
since childhood. He knew firsthand what I was capable of, the road
I had traveled. “Trouble, huh?”

“Yep. The bad kind.”

“What other kind is there?”

“Not like this.”

“Once I find the woman,” I said, “if she
doesn’t want to be found, she gets to stay lost.”

Andy took a deep breath. “Call me.”

I stood to leave. “You took a bet that the
Patriots would beat the Colts in the Super Bowl?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s impossible,” I said. “They play in
the same conference.”

“Most bets are impossible. That’s how I make
money.”

“Then why didn’t you give better odds? Like a
hundred to one?”

Andy grinned. “If I give them unbelievable
odds, they won’t believe it. You have to show them what they
want.”

Chapter Thirteen

An electrician’s van was on the street in
front of my house. I parked in the garage next to Erin’s Volkswagen
and went through the kitchen. Neither child nor dog came running at
my entrance. I was not surprised. An important looking letter from
the bank was waiting for me on the counter. I ripped it in half and
dropped it in the garbage.

An old man was on the floor of the den, his
back against the couch. With one hand he held Sarah, with the other
he tried to push Blondie (who was furiously licking his face) away.
Dressed in work clothes, a pencil behind his ear, his unruly grey
hair poked out of a baseball cap. “Hey, dad.”

Okay, maybe he wasn’t that old. The older he
got, I had to admit, the
older
I got. “Hello, son. I just
stopped by to see my two girls.”

Sarah was beaming, Erin sat smiling in the
easy chair. Sarah said, “Three girls.”

Dad said, “What?”

“Sarah. Erin. And Blondie. Three girls and
one boy live in this house.”

“That’s right, baby. I almost forgot about
you.” He goosed her ribs and she giggled. That giggle always did
something to me.

“You could’ve called.”

“I gotta call now?”

“No.” I smiled. “You have a key. Just to
check if we were home.”

“Who said I was coming to see you?”

I laughed. “You going to stay for
supper?”

He shook his head. “I can’t stay long.”

“There’s plenty,” I said. “You can save the
TV dinner for another night.”

“You talked me into it.”

I went back into the kitchen, turning the
oven on. I took four potatoes and put them on the rack before going
outside and firing up the gas grill. I know purists say charcoal is
the only way to go, but when you grill as much as I do, who has the
time? Blondie did not bound after me. Inside I put the chicken
wings on a plate and shook out Butt Rub over them.
Because
everybody loves a good butt rub.
I took the chicken and dropped
them on the grill. I put a pot of water on the stovetop and chopped
the heads off the broccoli and dropped them into the pot. I melted
butter and mixed it with two cups of barbeque sauce, spicy for dad
and I, honey for the girls. Every ten minutes or so, I flipped the
wings. This was the perfect opportunity for a beer, but my father
didn’t drink. I knew he wouldn’t object, yet I still couldn’t stand
to disappoint him. I heard Sarah singing
I’m a little Teapot
followed by laughter and raucous applause. Twenty minutes out, I
filled a cookie sheet with frozen biscuits, topped them with more
melted butter and shoved them in the oven alongside the potatoes.
Jesus loves the little Children
and more applause. Ten
minutes to go, I lathered the wings with sauce.
Jesus loves me,
this I know.
A regular concert.

I put all the food on the plates and then the
plates on the table, sprinkling the broccoli with shredded cheese.
I announced that dinner was ready and Sarah and Blondie came
running, Erin trailing and dad struggling to catch up. Sarah said,
“Broccoli. Yuck.”

“It’s good for you.” I scooped a tiny helping
on her plate.

“Can I put cheese on the tator?”

“Sure, baby.” I cut her potato and she dumped
a handful of cheese on each half.

“Honey for me.”

I took two wings and ripped them apart for
her. We sat and ate and talked. Or rather Sarah talked, regaling us
with tales from preschool. Dalton wants to “date” Anne, but Anne
already has a cousin for a boyfriend. Jack got timeout today for
getting out of his seat. And on and on.

Dad asked, “Do you get many timeouts?”

“No, sir.” She fiercely shook her head. “I
don’t like timeouts.”

“Me either.”

“Silly G-Pop.” She rolled her eyes. So much
like her mother. “Grownups don’t get timeouts.”

G-Pop.
If I had ever called him
something like that, he would’ve slapped me halfway to Jesus. “I
ran into Andy Chen today.”

“Yeah? I always liked that boy. He still
making book?”

“You have friend who makes books, daddy?”

“More of your Uncle Gus’s friend than
mine.”

“What kind of books does he make?”

“You need to ask Uncle Gus about that,” I
said. “I also saw Luther the other day.”

Dad frowned. “How was he?”

Drunk, down in the dumps because his wife
left him.
“About the same.”