The Other Side of Bad (The Tucker Novels) (37 page)

Chapter 47

It was one o’clock and I was headed out to my place in the country.

I called George Carr.

“George, it’s Tucker,” I said.

“When are you leaving for Houston?” he asked curtly.

He may have been feeling his overindulgence of the night before, or it could just be his natural demeanor, or a product of grief. But, how would I know?

“I’m trying to get out of here by early in the morning, but I need some things from you.”

With a little more enthusiasm, he said, “All right, what do you need?”

“Fax me the address of your place in River Oaks, Harold Manske’s address, and a letter of introduction.”

“A letter of introduction?”

“It may help to set people at ease when I start asking questions about your wife’s accident.”

“It wasn’t an accident, Tucker.”

“That’s what you’re paying me to find out. Until I find out differently, that’s the way I’m going to approach it.”

While he was mulling that, I added, “I would also like a list of her friends in Houston, anyone that may have talked to her in the week before it happened.”

“I’ll get Rachael on that right away. What’s your fax number?”

I gave him my fax number at home.

“Oh, and, Tucker there will be someone at the house when you arrive. I still keep a small staff on hand. And I’ve made arrangements for you to eat at the club and use their workout facilities whenever you’d like. They’ll have a card for you at the gate.”

“The club?”

“The River Oaks Country Club. The house is only a few blocks away.”

Wow, ‘
The Club
.’
I’m moving up in the world.

“Thanks, George, I’ll call you when I get there. Oh, yeah, just one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ll need Robby Gray’s address and phone number.”

After a considerable pause, he sarcastically asked, “You going to have a little reunion with your old partner in crime?”

I didn’t answer him.

After a few seconds he said, “That was uncalled for. Tucker, I apologize.”

“Accepted. I’ll get in touch when I get there and keep you informed of any promising leads.”

I hung up. I hoped I sounded like a ‘Private Eye.’

Chapter 48

I stopped by my closest neighbor’s house, Aaron and Sandie McFeely, and negotiated a price for their son Brandon to come over and feed Razor. I’d decided to take Buck to my daughter’s, where he would be pampered by Max and Little Margie. I know one day soon, I’ll have to make a decision, but not today. As for Miso, like any good cat, he takes care of himself.

It took the better part of two hours to collect Buck, his food, medicine and bed, take him to Shannon’s and get back. Then I called my weekly cleaning lady, Sue. I told her I was leaving town and would call her when I got back.

I spent the rest of the afternoon thoroughly cleaning my house, so it would be that way when I returned. It didn’t really need it. Sue had just been there a few days before, but it gave me something to do while I thought about what to pack in the way of clothes, as well as hardware. Also it’s the best time for me to clean. It makes me feel like I’d accomplished something, it’s so clean when I’m done.

The faxes must have come through while I was vacuuming. I like vacuuming. There’s something very Zen about it.

I set the faxed pages on the coffee table, intending to look at them later, then decided to mop the great room.

With Buck at Shannon’s and Tuesday with me, there wouldn’t be any dogs tracking in and out of the house. Razor doesn’t like to come into the house, that’s for sissies.

It was after 5 o’clock when the house was pristine and since I’d decided to leave around 4:00 a.m., I fed Razor and Tuesday, then set about feeding me.

I’ve had this great hand-hammered wok for so long, it’s seasoned perfectly. I made ginger shrimp with asparagus, green onions, yellow bell pepper, and a few artichoke quarters. I use the best peanut oil. It smells like roasting peanuts when hot in the wok. When it was ready, I dumped it into a big bowl, grabbed some chop sticks and a bottle of water, sat on the brown leather couch, put my feet up, and ate looking into a cold fireplace.

After cleaning the kitchen, I sat back down and looked at the faxed pages. The ones I was most interested in were Mrs. Carr’s friends and Robby’s address.

There were eight names, all women, along with phone numbers for each. A notation read, ‘These would most likely be women she would have contact with.’ It was signed, ‘Rachael.’

She had a beautiful round cursive style, like someone else I knew. It’s strange how one woman’s handwriting can look so much like another’s. Men’s never do.

Robby Gray’s address was 4589 Cypress Cove, Lake Bistineau, no zip, but then I wasn’t going to send him anything. His phone number was also there.

Knowing Houston’s weather is about the same as New Orleans in the winter, and the fact that I may be talking to some River Oak belles, helped me decide my wardrobe.

On the bed, I laid out a raw silk, cream sport coat, a black sport coat, leather jacket, two pair of brown slacks, two pair of Diamond Gusset jeans, a rain parka, a couple of sweatshirts, one blue dress shirt, seven black and dark blue t- shirts, seven pairs of jockey shorts, seven pairs of black cotton socks, one pair of running shoes, my boots,
 a pair of leather Merrill clogs, and a pair of Trask buffalo hide, brown lace-up shoes.

After studying the layout on the bed, I didn’t see anything I could leave behind. I packed everything but what I was going to wear traveling, jeans, black coat, t-shirts, the Merrill’s, and of course socks and undies.

As soon as I started putting clothes on the bed, Tuesday remained close in sight, or should I say I remained in her sight. She was perched on the bed, attentive to my every move.

“Don’t worry little girl. You’re going for a ride,” the last three words causing her ears to perk and her tail to beat a para-diddle. I’m sure she smiled.

After packing my clothes in a soft duffel, I packed my dop kit, put it in the bathroom, then took the duffel to the truck.

Tuesday followed a half step behind. After putting the bag in the back seat and closing the door, she stood there with her ‘aren’t you forgetting something’ face.

“Not now, little girl. Come back inside,” I said, with what felt like a smile.

I wasn’t sleepy, so I poured a couple of fingers of Maker’s Mark over ice, sat down to watch the ten o’clock news, and think about hardware.

Tuesday was good about leaving me alone when I’m sitting on the couch eating, but drinking and watching TV was altogether another matter. She was curled up next to me with her head resting on my thigh, sound asleep. There was no way I could get up and leave without waking her. Life was good for her.

The news was typical Nashville news. A couple of shootings, a robbery at a convenience store where the video camera got some good pictures of the brilliant thief, sans mask. An ongoing investigation of a wife who’d disappeared over three years ago. The family of the wife were sure the husband had something to do with it. The husband was now living in Mexico with his two kids, where he couldn’t be harassed by the media. The family wanted him back here to answer questions concerning new evidence they’ve uncovered. ‘The police at this time have no comment.’ Sounds like Spain.

Now, hardware. There weren’t many situations I could think of where I would need more than my Colt and a few extra magazines, and those I could think of didn’t seem applicable for what I was going to do in Houston. Whatever
that
was. So, even though I knew better than to try and foresee what was going to happen in Houston, I felt comfortable traveling light.

By the time the news was over, so was the Maker’s and I was feeling relaxed enough to hit the hay. I don’t normally drink right before going to bed, it left me edgy in the
 morning. But since I would be on the road, that edge would keep me awake until the coffee I planned to pick up at a truck stop on I-40, kicked in.

I got up from the couch, alerting Tuesday, walked into the kitchen area, put the glass in the dishwasher and turned it on for the night wash.

Tuesday went to the door like she wanted to go out, but I knew better. She just didn’t want to be left behind.

“It’s time to go to bed now, little girl,” I said, in dog talk, Emmett says it’s baby talk.

She immediately wagged into the bedroom, where I heard her jump onto the bed. I’d bet she was on my side.

I took a walk around the house to make sure it was ready for me to leave, turned off the lights and went into the bedroom. I would’ve won that bet.

After loudly brushing my teeth, this sometimes works in getting Tuesday to move before I come to bed, I walked back into the bedroom. She was conked out on my side, with her head on my pillow.

Before sitting down on the bed, I had to complete our bedtime ritual. I pulled back the comforter and tossed it over her, covering her completely.

She immediately started moaning with her Miss Piggy talk.

After stripping and tossing my clothes over onto the valet, I slipped under the covers, hipping Tuesday over with small repeated nudges.

After much Pig talk, we were both satisfyingly situated.

The only time I miss the days when I drank too much, was at bedtime. I used to fall asleep on the couch or climb into bed and be asleep so fast, that upon wakening, I wouldn’t even remember getting in bed.

These days I was subject to any number of mental ambushes as I waited for sleep. The most common waylay was dream fretting. I always dreamed, but what about was the issue.

Tonight was different. Laying in bed with Tuesday’s love by my side, I deliberated. When did I become the person that in my youth, I’d pretended to be out of fear?

Chapter 49

During my recidivistic dealing days, it was useful for people to perceive me as a bad-ass. It wasn’t a conscious effort, but a sequela of survival. I used to wonder how long it would take before I was exposed. I lived in fear of being seen for what I was. A coward.

Somehow I faked my way through it. My mantra was, ‘fake it ‘til you make it’.

As I survived highjackings, shootouts, undercover cops trying to bust me, knife attacks, and just plain ass whippings, my reputation grew.

No one was more astonished than me when I came out on top. I believe the fear adrenalized me, altered time, gave me strength and speed, and I survived. My peers mistook my calmness after these altercations as bravery. In actuality it was the elation of being alive, the wonders of living. Everything was always brighter, sharper, colors were deepened, and as I observed these wonders, others saw calmness.

So, when did I become so hardened, allowing me to do the things I did last night and over the past few months.

I had to go back quite a few years.

I got out of the drug business intact. For the next seven years I was an artist (Margie liked to call me that). After her death, I got into cocaine, a drug that carries a lot of bad karma. To do as much as I was doing you either have to be rich or deal. I wasn’t rich. But since my customers were my friends in the music business, there was no reason for guns. It was a passive affair.

For me, drugs and alcohol were just a slow suicide. I once tried the faster approach, but was stopped by the amnesiac effect of Halcyon and alcohol. I woke up in the morning with a cocked 38 Special snub nose in my mouth.

Then Emmett was born and I decided to live. I left the drugs behind and never had the urge to do them again. Emmett assuredly saved my life in that regard.

Even after I started Tucker Security, nothing truly dangerous ever came up. Was that perception also a derivative of my hardening?

Then a couple of months ago, I was in a shootout. I killed two men. I stood in front of Bench and was almost killed myself. Was I being brave? Or was it, that I just didn’t care?

I can’t fool myself. I’m still pretending. I’m still a coward. A coward of the worst ilk. I’m not afraid of being hurt or killed, because I really don’t give a shit about that. It’s pride. I’m afraid to lose, at anything. My loss of pride would slowly consume me.

I’ve always known that killing myself wouldn’t work. If I did, the powers that be wouldn’t let me see her. But if I died protecting someone, then for sure we would be together up there, over there, wherever there is.

I’m really not needed by my family anymore. I have enough insurance that Emmett would be okay, and like I said before, his biscuits are done. I know they’d grieve my passing. But if that happened, then that’s their life’s process, they’d get over it. It’s not like losing your best friend, lover and wife.

Was I being selfish?

I remembered how after the wreck, I could cry over a Hallmark commercial. My empathy and sympathy would meld with compassion and often left me a wretch.

After years of reading and therapy, I came to view the tragedies of human life as each person’s Divine process. Everything is as it’s supposed to be. I had to come to this conclusion. It was the only way I could deal the hands I’ve been delt.

With every murder, rape or tragic accident, a debt is being paid and hopefully a lesson learned, not to be repeated.

The events of 9/11 affected me more than I would have thought. My brain was telling me one thing, my heart another.

My rationale was, that the grief all the survivors of the victims were going through, was strong in the collective consciousness. It bled out onto those who could feel it. I wasn’t alone.

In short time, I came to view the survivor’s grief process in the same way as I viewed the deaths of their loved ones . . .
 EIDO. Everything Is In Divine Order.

Hopefully, anyone surviving me would one day come to that same conclusion.

I never saw it coming. This twenty year commemoration of Margie’s death has been the most retrospective and arduous of all. I literally had memories hurled at me at light speed. Memories of violence, shame, guilt, and pain. And memories of love. Some I’ve tried my best to let go of. Some I may never be able to let go of. And others I shouldn’t let go of. I’ve never felt this lost. Even in the swamp.

All my post relationships had failed. Was I afraid to love like that again? Afraid it would be taken away and I would have go through it all over again? Did I really want to know the answers?

As I laid with my hand on Tuesday, I thought, where does that leave me? I’m middle-aged, alone, and not at all sure the process of life has much appeal for me.

Then I remembered how much I liked to travel. I like the weightlessness of a road trip. And…money’s good.

Tomorrow I’m driving to Houston, and hopefully I will be able to help a man get on with his process of grieving, so he can heal. I hope he’s better at it than I was.

What if I did find out his wife was murdered and who murdered her? What would I do? What am I doing? I knew better than to make plans. I try not to be the constant source of God’s amusement.

But I couldn’t help feeling like a warrior about to take his first step on a spiritual journey.

Me, a spiritual warrior, I found that somewhat humorous and somehow . . .
 appealing.

EIDO.