Under Abnormal Conditions (27 page)

I flipped through the rest of the paper
before folding it back up and tossing it on my backseat. I
struggled through a yawn, as I thought about what else the young
day held for me. In a few hours, I would need to open the small
cafe I owned in the neighboring town of Dunham Heights. Through an
interesting set of circumstances I came into enough money to
purchase the former Club Cool Breeze a few months after Michelle
disappeared. I became a detective so I could investigate her
disappearance myself, but from time to time, when funds were low, I
had to accept outside jobs. Thankfully, even though this one was
for a friend, it was about to end.

Just as I was about to start my car, I saw a
small female in the grip of a much larger man walking out of the
motel parking lot. The sun was barely up, but the yellow glow of
the streetlight gave me an excellent view. Dressed in a plum
colored suit with matching derby, the man looked as if he was about
to walk over to the Foundation, when he suddenly stopped and
slapped the young girl. Before he could hit her again, I exited my
car and rushed over to try and help. As he lifted his hand, I
yelled, “Don’t touch her again!”

The broad man turned slightly toward my
insignificant voice and again brought his hand down against her
heavily painted face. She fell to the ground like a broken baby
doll. It didn’t matter who she was, what she had done, or what she
was, she didn’t deserve that. She couldn’t have been more than
fifteen. She was someone’s child. For that matter, she could have
been my own child, Regina.

Before he could make a move on me, I hit him
with two quick punches to his meaty midsection. As with most
bullies, he didn’t have much fight to him and immediately dropped
to his knees. One more shot across his fat face, and he was out. I
looked over at the young girl. Her unblinking eyes remained fixed
on me, as she tried to stand. I took a step towards her, and by
reflex, she covered her face. “Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt
me,” she cried with the voice of a child.

With her back against the motel wall, she
slid back down to the ground. I reached in my pocket and pulled out
my wallet. I tossed it on the ground in front of her and said,
“Check my ID. I just want to help you.”

With caution, she reached down and picked the
wallet up. In the background, I began to hear the chatter from the
area dregs about the man I had put down. Apparently, his name was
Tulow, and he was not someone to be crossed. “If you want my help,
you need to come with me now,” I told her, as Tulow was still lying
motionless on the pavement.

She flipped it open and took out my ID. I
didn’t worry about her taking any money because I was flat broke. I
had spent my last two dollars on the newspaper and coffee.

“Michael Drake? You a detective?” she
asked.

“I’m a private detective. I was working
security for the building next door when I saw what happened."

“So what you want now?” she said, as she
tossed my wallet back to me.

“Nothing. I just wanted to make sure you were
all right. We have to go now!”

She returned my offer with a look of
suspicion. “I don’t want to be around when he wakes up, do you?” I
said, pointing to her attacker.

She looked at his fallen body and asked,
“where your car at?” I gestured behind me and held out my hand for
her to take. She took my hand and stood to her feet. She spit on
the fat man as she walked over him. A small crowd had gathered
around my car as we approached. I was ready for another fight.

“Where you going? You set trippin'? Fools out
here can get a grip for bringin’ you in. You can’t come in our hood
like that. This is the park, fool,” said a tall, gaunt young man
who couldn’t have been more than eighteen. He wore faded jeans and
an old white t-shirt. His chin was long and covered by a patchy
goatee.

I flashed my ID quickly, shoved it back into
my pocket, and said, “Do you think I’m stupid enough to be out here
by myself. There are five undercover cops watching this whole
thing. I can run you in right now if you don’t get away from my
car. Move!”

Even though I’m good with my hands, six feet
tall. and a fairly well conditioned two hundred thirty pounds, I
was not in a position to fight with what seemed like the entire
neighborhood. The tall youth backed away, along with the others
that had gathered. They mumbled and whispered about police
brutality and lawsuits. We were in the car before I realized how
young the girl actually was. Her body was that of a twelve or
thirteen year old girl, but her face was different. Her overly made
up face told a story of a young woman who had to grow up entirely
too fast. Eyes that should have sung the sweet song of innocence
only rang with the hollow refrain of an old blues song.

“I thought you said you wasn’t a cop?” she
asked.

“I’m not, but I don’t carry a gun, and from
what they were saying, your friend would be ready to pay a high
price for the man that brought me to him.”

“He ain’t my friend,” she said. as I drove
west onto North Street.

“Yeah, I know. Where do you live?”

“Just down on Odell. I can walk if-”

“No. That’s no problem.”

The ride was five minutes of terribly
uncomfortable silence. I had many questions running through my
mind, but I knew I didn’t need the answer to any of them. I
couldn’t imagine a situation so desperate as to have a girl so
young selling her body. As I turned on Odell, she broke the
silence, “It’s right up here on the right.”

The warm glow of the sunrise bathed the
inside of my car as I pulled into the driveway. She practically
jumped out of the car as soon as it stopped. Before she closed the
door, she asked, “Why did you help me?”

Her voice was so young, so fragile. I asked
in return, “Don’t you know about the women being murdered out
here?”

At that moment, she actually looked like the
little girl I knew she was, as she simply shrugged her shoulders
and said, “I guess so.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“LaTrina,” she answered and lowered her
head.

“I don’t want to see you back out there.” I
took out a twenty-dollar bill I had hidden in my ashtray for gas
money and gave it to her. “Stay out of trouble.”

“Thank you,” she said as she closed the door
and walked up the three steps that lead to the small shotgun house.
The screen door creaked loudly enough to wake the entire
neighborhood, and she went inside. As the door slammed behind her,
I figured many more doors would slam in her face if she didn’t get
help. If she wasn’t alone in the world, she certainly felt like it.
In helping her, I couldn’t help thinking I was protecting my own
daughter. That feeling passed quickly as I glanced at my watch. It
was approaching eight o’clock, and I had a meeting I couldn’t
miss.

Chapter 2

The sun and my outlook were bright for a
Monday, even after the morning I’d already had. I agreed to meet
with Alex at eight thirty that morning and tell him if anything
happened at the Foundation. I usually arrived at the cafe at about
ten o’clock, but a few hours early didn’t hurt when your best
friend needed help. Being a good friend didn’t have the best hours,
and, of course, the pay was terrible. With Alex, money was not a
problem. He was the star running back for the New Orleans Gamblers
of the North American Football League.

My café was in a two-story, brownish yellow,
stucco building with a balcony that faced the heavily trafficked
Summer Street. It was only a few blocks away from my home so the
location was convenient. When I took over, I changed the name from
Club Cool Breeze to Drakes. We were a small homey café until five
p.m., then we turned into the hottest spot for jazz and blues west
of New Orleans. Even though there was no sign on the door that read
Drake Detective Agency, somehow people always knew to come to me
for help. I walked into the rustic old building and one of my early
morning regulars, Jesse, greeted me. He was an old shade tree
mechanic who always seemed to spend more time talking than actually
working on cars. Some would say they were men that time had passed,
but the men of that generation had to fight for the freedom that
was rightfully theirs and that my generation fails to
appreciate.

“Alright now. The boss is here so ya’ll got
to start paying for your coffee,” my uncle said from behind the
bar. That, of course, was my favorite uncle, James, who we
affectionately called Uncle Hustler. He acquired his name early in
life due to the fact he always walked around with anywhere from
five hundred to a thousand dollars in his pocket without ever
actually holding a real job, though I had my suspicions he may have
worked for the government. He was a tall lean man who resembled a
dark skinned Harry Bellefonte. He was wearing a blue linen suit
with thin gold strips and a white shirt unbuttoned down to his
chest revealing a gleaming gold chain outshone only by his
perfectly straight, white teeth.

“Ya’ll keep an eye on him,” I said as I
pointed at my uncle. “I am still trying to run a business
here.”

“All right then, I’m gonna ask him,” Jesse
said as he swiveled his bar stool in my direction. “The government
uses sports to manipulate the morale of this country, right or
wrong?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“This fool is trying to say the Miracle on
Ice in 1980 was fixed,” my uncle answered.

“You the fool for believing. Look here,” he
said as he removed his glasses and pointed at me. “First of all,
you got U.S. citizens being held captive in Iran. Next, you got the
Russians invading Afghanistan.  And, by the way, we are the
ones that gave them the weapons they ended up using on us-”

“Now you jumping to something else, man,”
Uncle Hustler interrupted.

“It all goes back to the same thing. There
you have, what, fifteen or twenty men who changed the world
forever. Nobody is ever going to forget those buildings coming
down, but that following January, who won the Super Bowl?”

“The Patriots,” I answered.

“Right. This country needed a reason to
cheer. In 1980, some college kids gave everybody the ‘Miracle on
Ice’, and in 2001, it was the Patriots.  After Katrina, it was
the Saints. It's as simple as that. Think about it.”

Dismissing their conversation, Uncle Huslter
asked, “Who you got playin’ tonight?” He was just trying to change
the topic because by the time the first act took the stage that
night, Jesse would be well into a good night’s sleep.

“My sax man is going on at ten o’clock. I’ll
save you a table close to the stage,” I said with a wink.

As I waited for my friend, Alex, I shared
light small talk with the guys while going through the usual
motions of refilling the bar and running the dust mop over the
floor. I propped the front door open to release the lingering musty
cigarette smell and to let in some fresh air. After glancing at my
watch, I prepared another pot of coffee. Since he had never been
one to be punctual, it didn’t surprise me that Alex was running
late. My mind couldn’t help but wander back to our days in college.
We were both on our way to fame and fortune in professional
football. A bad car accident started a chain reaction in my life,
from which I was just recovering.

Before getting too far down on myself, I
heard a car drive up outside. A quick glance at my watch told me
that Joey, the young lady who helps me manage this place, probably
hasn’t even rolled over in her bed yet. It had to be Alex.

I poured two cups of coffee and greeted my
old friend with a handshake. His hands were big, strong, and worth
millions. Though I definitely let myself go a bit when my playing
days ended, he remained in phenomenal shape. He stood almost six
feet tall and weighed a muscular two hundred twenty pounds.

His caramel colored skin was just a few
shades brighter than his suit. Never one to be out dressed, he wore
a crisp white shirt with a brilliantly colored floral tie. If not
for the dark shades covering his hazel eyes and gold hoop earring,
he would have looked like any enterprising young black executive.
Just like in college, he wore his hair short, almost bald. He had a
thin mustache under his full nose and a slight cleft in his
chin.

After shaking hands with everyone and
revisiting Jesse’s sports conspiracy theory, we walked upstairs to
my office.

“Have a seat,” I told my good friend. I could
almost feel his uneasiness as he sat down in front of my desk. I
pushed the cup of coffee in front of him and said, “Well, Alex,
there is not much to tell. It was a just a normal weekend in
Parktown.”

“Uh hmmm. Normal,” he mumbled.

“There was a small problem with a young
hooker and her pimp, but that was it. I don’t think it will cause
you any problems, but I may need to stay away for a while.” I
waited for him to say something, but he just sat there, biting his
lip the way he did when he had a something on his mind. He made no
effort to speak, so I continued, “The people in the neighborhood
seem to respect what you are doing there, trying to help the
kids.”

He remained silent.

“So do you want to tell me why I’ve only
gotten about six hours of sleep the entire weekend?”

After nodding his head up and down for a few
moments, he asked in his heavy New Orleans accent, “So the building
is okay then, huh?”

One thing about Alex was he had no concept of
a poker face. Whatever emotion he had was always obvious. He needed
something.

“Come on, Alex. What’s going on?”

“I got another job for you.”

“Man, I appreciate you trying to throw some
business my way, but this isn’t necessary.”

“Nah, it ain’t even like that. It’s about
Allison,” he answered through clenched teeth. “I think she’s
cheating on me.”