I’m a lot happier now that I’ve seen Angel and I know that she’s okay. But I feel so much anger towards Carlene that I actually bristle with it.
It’s all her fault for allowing all these losers into our home. I want her to lose the money. I don’t care where I live – I just want to hurt her. All along I thought of her as someone who needs my help and I made excuses for her for all her shortcomings. But it cost me dearly and I’m raging.
When I get home, she, Matt and Lanie are sitting around the table, eating and drinking.
Oh no, here comes Miss depressing herself.
Matt sits really close to Lanie and looks deep into her eyes as she speaks. None of them ask about Angel. None of them cares that we are separated.
I mumble a greeting and get into bed, where I lie and listen to music till I fall asleep.
I awake at 4 AM. Since Angel was taken away, I wake up every day at around 4 AM and I don’t sleep after that. It’s been a couple of weeks so I’m sort of used to it.
At around 8 AM, I think about getting out of bed. I hear Lanie getting ready for work, her heels clattering hurriedly on the wooden floors. The front door opens and shuts. I hear her start the car, wait for it to warm up before she speeds off, obviously late.
Daisy’s not home. She spent the night at her new boyfriend’s.
Minutes later, I hear footsteps. Then I hear whisperings. I sit upright and listen. Matt’s in Carlene’s room. I can’t believe it!
Before long, I hear moans and sighs and the motion of a moving bed. I grab my iPhone and go outside the house, where I grab a chair, push it up to Carlene’s bedroom window and stand on it. Through a slit in the drapes, I manage to take about twenty shots of them. With all their groaning they don’t hear me.
Quickly, I lose the chair and get back into bed. A short while later Carlene creeps into my room. I fake a soft snore. She quietly leaves.
I email those photos to Sultana with the words, “You know what to do.”
****
For the first time in weeks, I wake up feeling happy. I don’t even mind that Erro rustles the pages of a magazine while I’m in bed.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Her head jerks to look at me. “You talking to me?”
It’s the first time I’ve spoken to her since Angel was removed from my care. “Yes, Erro, I’m talking to you.”
“Hallelujah, you’re talking to me again! Let’s sacrifice a chicken, shall we? Or maybe for convenience sakes, a bucket of KFC? Huh?”
I roll my eyes. “What are you reading?”
“I’m looking for a tattoo.”
“You serious about that shit?”
“I sure am.”
I smile and dial Trojan.
“Hey, baby,” he croaks in a sleepy voice.
A warm sense of well-being fills me when I hear those words. Much as I fight it, I like it when he calls me “baby.” It makes me feel good – warm and fuzzy.
“Wanna have breakfast at Porgies? It’s on me.”
“It’s so early,” he complains.
“Oh, come on. I will pick you up …”
“Oh?”
“Well, I’ll ask the bus driver to stop at your house so you can get in – my version of “‘picking you up’.”
I hear him chuckle.
“I’ll buy two return tickets so I can drop you off. Or you can meet me there.”
“Okay, fine, I’ll meet you at 11 not 10, at Porgies.”
“See ya,” I say. Just as he hangs up, I hear a cough. A woman’s cough.
I stare at the phone, stunned.
“What?” Erro asks pausing with her page-turning.
“I heard a woman in the background!”
“Can’t be.”
“It was. I know that for sure.”
“That’s impossible. He would never do that to you, Burn. After all, you’re his … his …” She cocks her head to one side. “What are you to him?”
I lift and drop my shoulders.
“Well, he’s a negro, a music producer these days, with tons of fine looking, ambitious women in bathing suits, who believe that by sleeping with him, he will help further their career, he’s not committed to anyone at the moment … not even to you. What do you expect, Burn?”
“But … but … why’s he with me, then? I don’t understand.”
“You’re needy. Like a pot-plant. Like a puppy. Like a …”
“I get it!” I say in an icy voice.
“Seriously, you’re too young for him, Burn. He’s way too experienced for someone like you. You need to let him go.”
“But, he’s here because he wants to be. I’m not asking him to help. Today is the first day I asked to take him out. And he’s only five years older than me.”
“Make it easy for him to leave.”
“I still owe him something. We have a deal going.”
“That’s in two months. You can see him then. But you’re getting too reliant on him.”
She’s right – I’m way too reliant on him. “Okay, but …I’m not sure how to handle it. I mean, I can’t confront him about it, ’cause I don’t have the right to, but ... “
“Then don’t. Just enjoy your breakfast with him.”
“Mff.”
Feeling that I have some competition, I take great pains with my looks today. I do my hair, apply my make-up, wear a push-up bra and heels. When I look in the mirror, I nod. Not too shabby.
I arrive before him and take a seat at our table. Two hot guys nearby check me out. They take turns to look at me. Since they remind me of Brody and Nick, I eventually smile at them. They smile back but their smiles die on their lips when Trojan arrives, looks at their smiling faces, my smiling face, and plants a territorial kiss on my lips.
“Morning!”
“Morning,” I say. “Sleep well?”
“No.”
“How come?”
“’Cause someone called me this morning and got me out of bed for breakfast and threatened to bring a bus to my house.”
“What a cheapskate! Dump the bitch.”
He chuckles.
We enjoy a lovely breakfast then walk along the pier, hand-in-hand. As we walk, he puts his arm around my waist and we soon fall into step. I like it, so I nestle into him. When we stops, he draws me to him and kisses me long and deep.
Our first real kiss.
It’s a pleasant, warm kiss and I find myself kissing him back. When we surface for air, he smooths my hair down and smiles. “You look pretty,” he whispers and kisses me again.
His kisses become intense and even though I like them, I pull away before things get heated.
“Sorry,” he says. “You’re hard to resist. Two more months, right?”
I want to say, “Oh yeah? This is after you spent the night with another woman? After you wine me and dine me and buy me ice cream and …. well, maybe not wine me, but still. What’s wrong – she didn’t satisfy you? Huh? Huh?” But I don’t. I just smile.
“Well, I have to go see Angel,” I say.
“I’ll drop you off.”
I protest, but he insists.
After he drops me off, I keep thinking about the woman in the background. I really don’t know how to handle it, what to think, but I’m disturbed. Mental note to myself: don’t get too close to Trojan.
****
I’m back at Porgies, enjoying a mocha and a blueberry muffin with the sun on my shoulders. Now that I don’t have to take care of Angel, I have money to enjoy a few comforts in life, and I do.
I spot a few people I know. One of them is Mrs. Douglas – she campaigns tirelessly to end gangs in our community. Seated with her is Pastor Johannes, who also is heavily involved in the anti-gang campaign.
“You behaving, Burn?” she shouts when she sees me.
“When I remember,” I say cheekily. “And I do suffer from amnesia, so remembering to be good is hard.”
She laughs, then resumes her conversation with Pastor Johannes.
An opposition gang? Yeah right! I’m the one you should be looking for, you dumb fucks.
I look around and try to match the thought to the person responsible. All I see is a man of about forty-five with a hideous salt and pepper goatee. He closes the newspaper he was reading and stands up.
Thirteen executions and you still don’t have a clue. How fucked up is that?!
I reach over for the newspaper the old man discarded open it and quickly scan the headlines. Body of teen gang member discovered …
That man! I grab my phone and hurry after the man. I find myself in a parking lot. But it’s too late – he’s already in his car pulling out.
I whip out my iPhone and photograph the license plate. Then pretending I’m trying to get a signal, I hold my phone up and film him through the windshield. He brakes and rolls down his window. “Get the hell out of the way!”
“Oh, sorry,” I say and continue filming as I move out of his way.
He drives off and I hurry back to my blueberry muffin.
Suburban housewife … no, vigilante housewife … no, unsuspecting …
To my surprise the voices continue. I look behind me in case the man returned, but he hasn’t.
I scan the room again.
Dumb asses. Barking up the wrong tree.
But that … that’s Mrs. Douglas’s voice! My head swivels to look at her. I take in her smug smile, her cocky attitude and I suddenly get it – it wasn’t the angry man after all, it was her. She’s the fucking killer! Holy cow! What the fuck now?
Who can I tell? Who’s gonna believe me? She’s a respected member of society, for crying out loud.
Officer Farrell! He believed me the last time; maybe I can talk to him about it.
Ignoring my blueberry muffin and my almost cold mocha, I dial the cops. “I need to speak to Detective Farrell, please.”
“Detective Farrell’s not available today, how can I help you?” another officer says.
“I need to speak to him and him only. I have information about …I have some information that I think he will be interested in.”
The fucker refuses to connect me.
“Erro!” I call.
She doesn’t answer.
“Hawk!”
Hawk appears before me. “Long time no see, Burn.”
“Yes, you were noticeably absent in my time of need,” I say in an accusing voice.
“Sorry, but I don’t remember you calling me.”
“I didn’t.”
“There you go, Burn.”
“Mff.” I sniff and assume an injured demeanor.
“How can I help you today, Burn?”
“You know how all these gangsters have been dropping like drunk flies around us?”
“Yes, but would you mind losing the word ‘drunk’. Just flies will suffice.’
“Fine. Whatever! They won’t let me speak to Farrell.”
“Okay. And …?”
“Can you check your little Blackberry for his address and give it to me. Please?” I expect him to kick up a fuss but he doesn’t. He gives it to me.
Within half an hour I’m at Farrell’s house. “This is highly irregular, Burn. You being here in my house and all,” Detective Farrell says.
“Detective Farrell, the info I gave you the last time …”
“Yeah …?”
I throw out my palms. “It led to an arrest, so what the hell? I mean, check her out. Please! She’s probably doing one tonight.”
“Burn …” he shakes his head. “She’s an upstanding member of society. Imagine me accusing her…”
“Okay, fine. I’ll stake her out myself.”
“Eh, you don’t drive. You don’t have a car. May I remind you of that?”
“I’ll hide in the bushes and watch her.”
“And if she moves? Drives off?”
His question frustrates and stumps me. “I, eh …”
He sighs. “Okay, okay, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Great.”
“Don’t you go anywhere near that woman!” he warns as he starts dialing.
“Who me?”
He rolls his eyes.
Within fifteen minutes two police detectives are sitting in front of me. Detective Conan and Detective Fartmoor. And, guess what? Detective Fartmoor, surprisingly, is still twelve months pregnant. The Rogaine hasn’t helped either – his hair is down to just a few strands and he ain’t no Vin Diesel right now.
As for Detective Conan – his breath can still kill the entire cast of Twilight and every vampire within miles around us.
“Burn Ballantyne, is it?” Fartmoor’s voice a sneer.
“Yes, sir.”
“And …” he looks at my file in front of him, then pushes it away from him as if it’s contaminated with scabies or something, “…you’ve been arrested, what … three times for being under the influence, assault, and assaulting a police officer … your sister had been removed from your care because …?”
“Sir, that shouldn’t matter,’ I snap. ‘I just wanna help.”
“You’re also a druggie – we’d be nuts to believe someone like you.” His voice drips contempt.
I pull out the big guns. “What did you have for breakfast this morning?”
“What?” Fartmoor suddenly sucks in his gut. (As if it would help.)
“Don’t answer, just think about it,” I say.
He folds his arms across his man boobs and leans back. Actually, his stomach is so big that when he folds his arms, it crosses under his chins. All three of them.
Bacon, sausage, hash brown, coffee, antacid, Coke.
I shake my head. “Coffee, antacid and coke?” You fat, greedy bastard. “For breakfast? Sir?”
His beady, black eyes dart all over the place. “Hey, it was brunch, I’ll have you know and I was hungry. Anyway,” He unfolds his arms and sneers, ‘lucky guess, that’s all.”
“Okay … lunch.” I hold up my hand. “Don’t answer.”
Again he sits back and looks at me, one eyebrow now lost behind the fringe of his comb-over.
“You didn’t have lunch as such,” I say. “You had …” My eyes bulge, “Krispy Kreme and Coke! Then another Coke. Sir,” I sit forward and look at him with concern in my eyes, ‘you really have to cut down on sugar, soft drinks. Diabetes …”
“Awww shaddup!” he waves. “You sound like my old lady.”
Conan giggles like a girl.
“You just want the ten thousand dollar reward, right?”
My ears prick up. “Reward? T… ten thousand d … dollars? Did you just say …?”
“Look,” Farrell says, “Let’s just wrap up and we’ll put some detectives on Mrs. Douglas tonight.”
They kick me out shortly after that.
As I make my way home, I’m spending the ten thousand – an apartment (to rent, not buy), a luxury car (How much is a car? How much is a luxury car? What exactly is a luxury car?), a fridge full of groceries with all the jelly beans Angel can eat, lots of clothes for Angel, lots of clothes for me, movies … maybe I’ll give some to the poor. You know, charity. I will buy Trojan the biggest gold chain I can find. (How much is a gold chain?) I really need to shop around. I’ll check Ebay. Mac make-up, Mac make-up brushes … Gucci purses like Tia, the bitch. Acrylics … pedicures … I’ll spring for medical marijuana for all my friends …Emily and Michael, I’ll send them on a cruise...
Wow, ten grand!
My smile is big enough to fit in a coat hanger.