Ashes to Ashes (17 page)

“What brings you by?” Watkins asked.

“I was in the neighborhood,” Ashe fibbed.
“Scott always talked about this place. Felt like a cold beer. Long
day. You know how that goes. Right?”

“I sure do. Scott coming by to meet you?”

Ashe inhaled the question. Regime obviously
had no idea what was presently going on with Scott. Exactly how
close were him and his son, exactly? He wondered. “I haven’t talked
to my son in a little while,” he stated. “What is your name?”

“Regime.”

“Are you and my son close? You guys hang out
a lot?”

“Most days,” the young athlete answered.
“Hold up a minute,” he added before rushing away when he noticed
that another customer had pushed an empty Bud Light bottle across
the bar and into the area sometime called the Trench or the Hole,
instructing the bartender that another drink was being requested
without actually speaking aloud. Ashe took the moment alone to sip
from his own bottle of beer. After replacing the customer’s empty
bottle with a full cold one, Regime returned to Ashe, greeted a
familiar female customer along the way.

Ashe chugged another gulp of his tasty
beer.

“You hang out at Scott’s a lot?”

“Sometimes…I guess,” Regime replied. “Not too
much. We usually see each other at practice. Or we might just hang
out…and do…whatever….wherever. We don’t have a lot of free time to
just hang out, you know. Busy. Busy. Busy.”

“You ever meet Scott’s roommate? Owen?” he
asked. “I’m not too sure about him. I get weird vibes. You
know.”

“A few times,” Regime said. “Don’t exactly
care for the guy, to be honest. Always doped up on something or
another. Not my type of people.”

“Get high?” Ashe asked, his voice rising in
false surprise. He then looked around as if he had spoken the
scandalous secret too loudly.

“And low…and over and under,” Regime replied,
jokingly.

“Does Scott do it with him?” The eyebrows of
the concerned parent lowered down nearly to Ashe’s eyelids.

“Hell no!” the young man exclaimed, smacking
the top of the bar. His eyes then darting around, as well,
seemingly self-conscious about his vibrant expression, as Ashe had
pretended to be. “Scott doesn’t even drink. I don’t drink either,
which is probably surprising, since I work in a bar. Irony. I
know.”

It was common knowledge that the psychologist
loved irony.

“Scott is like me…wants to be as healthy as
he can be…so he can be the best player that he can be,” Regime
continued, pounding his strong fist against his chest. “I don’t
even know why he ever moved in with that dude Owen.”

“How did they become roommates, then?” Asked
inquired. “Scott told me once but I don’t remember. It seems like
such an odd fit.”

“I totally agree with you there,” the young
man agreed. “Scott had this one roommate the first semester. Randy
Pride. Smart dude. Like genius quality. Quiet. Barely knew he was
in the apartment, when he was actually at home instead of at the
library. Scott had found him through an ad in Craig’s List. He had
struck gold with Randy. After that first year, though, Randy
transferred to another school, some high collar place in another
state. I don’t know why the dude had gone to YSU for even one
semester, instead of a place like Yale or Harvard. Mystery to me.”
Regime rushed off and then returned to continued. “Scott was really
bummed. He had to get another roommate and fast. He couldn’t afford
the place on his own. Scholarships don’t pay much in the way of
room and board and food. Just like Randy Pride had done, Scott put
an ad on Craig’s List. Owen Roberts was the only reply. And your
son was desperate. You know how that goes.”

“I do. Why didn’t you guys room
together?”

“I don’t think friends should live together,”
the young man informed Ashe. Smart answer, Ashe thought to himself.
“Things can get weird and sensitive and tense, even over the little
stuff. It could end good friendships. I’ve seen it happen. Didn’t
want that to happen to us. Scott’s my dude.”

“Owen rubbed you wrong,” Ashe thought out
loud.

“Very much,” Regime replied, taking the
statement for a question. “I remember this one time that Scott had
told me about. Owen freaked out...more than usual. Scott said that
he was on some kind of acid trip. Owen came into the apartment
yelling and screaming and cussing at Scott. Scott said that he
tried to calm him down. Scott said that Owen was so far gone that
he didn’t even recognize Scott. Owen thought that Scott had broken
into the apartment to rob them…or something like that.”

“Crazy.” It
was
crazy. Scott had felt
threatened by Owen. Had it been self-defense after all? But then
why had Scott shot Owen while he was sleeping? There was no
confrontation going on at the exact moment. And why did he then
run? “What did Scott do?”

“Got Owen under control.”

“How?”

“By being the stronger man.”

“Did they fight?”

“A little. Pushing and shoving, mostly.”

“They
did
have it out again, though,
not too long after that,” Regime said, grabbing Ashe’s full
attention.

“About what?”

The young man seemed to search his memory.
“He never said or at least I don’t remember if he did,” the
bartender replied. “Same stuff, probably. If it would have been me,
I would have hit that dude a long time ago. Psycho…drug addict. But
Scott has always had more patience than me, I’m damn nearly a monk
when it comes to patience.” He was summoned away again by the clang
of an empty bottle, but swiftly returned.

The young bartender continued, obviously
caught up in the conversation.

“Scott had once told me that he had
discovered that Owen has some kind mental health history,” he
informed Ashe. “I guess that Owen had admitted to being in the
loony
bin
, no offense, Mr. Psychologist, somewhere in
Cleveland. It was called Cleveland Mental…something. I’m not
sure.”

“The Cleveland Mental Health Hospital?”

“That is the place,” Regime told him,
pointing his finger at Ashe. “Owen never said what he was in there
for. I don’t know if Scott ever found out for sure. According to
Scott, Owen only babbled something about being a loser and whacko.
If I had to guess, I would say that he was in for rehab.”

“Possibly,” Ashe lied. But the Cleveland
Mental Health Hospital didn’t provide any inpatient rehab or detox
services, as far as he knew. It was a serious place for serious
psychological issues, which was why he had chosen it for Grub’s
transfer. But why would a college student need a bed there? It was
an interesting question and another location to move on to.

“Is my guy okay?” the young man asked,
suddenly growing concerned, as if finally taking in the whole of
their exchange. “You are playing twenty questions with me, man, and
I know an interrogation when it is directed my way. Come clean with
me. Did something happen? You didn’t just happen to be in the
neighborhood, did you? I made be a jock but I’m not blind or
stupid.”

Ashe took a long chug and finished his beer.
He didn’t put the bottle in the Trench. It would be his one and
only drink.

“Hold that thought,” Regime forcefully
ordered and bustled off. That time he had a line of customers to
tend to. It gave the psychologist a couple of minutes to consider
and determine how much he could safely tell to the young man
without making matters for Scott worse. His thoughts were stiff and
he was unsure how to proceed.

“When was last time that you saw my son?” the
psychologist continued to pry once the young bartender was back in
front of him.

“It’s been a few days,” Regime explained. “He
came to that morning’s drills and then he dropped me off for my
shift after we were done.”

“Here?”

“Of course.”

“Was he acting…normal?”

Regime thought.

“Distant. On edge. Cranky. I just figured he
was having problems with Bam,” he replied.

“Bam?”

“His girlfriend.”

“Right,” Ashe replied, as if it weren’t the
first time hearing the name. Another lead. Perhaps the most
important one. He had to find his son’s girlfriend. There was even
a chance that Scott was with somewhere with his girlfriend that
very second. She might not have any idea that Scott is on the run.
The chance was slim but it existed.

The psychologist then wondered why Coach
Barker hadn’t know about Scott having a girlfriend. Had Scott
hidden it from his coach? Did Scott chose to keep the girlfriend a
secret from others too, only telling his best friend?

“Scott is rarely in a bad mood,” Regime
clarified. “And Scott rarely complains about Bam or talks about
them fighting, but it did happen from time to time. I didn’t think
too much of it…at the time. Woman troubles can make the happiest
person grouchy.” He laughed.

“Scott has been on edge for a while?”

“A little bit. I guess. I don’t know.”

“What is Bam like?”

“I really can’t say,” the young man replied.
“I never met her. Which was weird…now that I think about it…but oh
well. He has always made time for his friends, whenever he could.
Scott was good for that. I’m sure that I will meet Bam when Scott
is ready to introduce us. Scott has been a private person for as
long as I’ve known him and I’ve learned not to push the issue.
Sometimes, though, he can be an open book but sometimes that book
is sealed tighter than a Swiss bank. He does talk about her, to me.
I’m sure that I will meet here eventually.”

“Yea. I have to get back to work. Hope they
don’t smell the beer on my breath. I have gum in the car.” He went
to move away from the bar but never made it an inch.

“Stop, man,” Regime demanded. “You still
haven’t told me anything about what is going on with Scott. And now
you are going skip out on me? I’m insulted. You are my dude’s pops
and all, but that doesn’t mean that you can piss me off. You hear
me?” The young man fought to keep his tone from escalating, but his
composure was barely in his grasp. The psychologist respected the
passion of his son’s friend. Regime Watkins cared. No doubt about
it.

Ashe tried to rub the stress from his eyes
with his fingertips. He failed. He merely made the sensitive orbs
hurt even more. He inhaled, but before he could begin his
explanation, the psychologist made a brief, unplanned glance to the
left side of the bar and out that side’s window. Through the glass
he saw something that made his heart stop but his pulse quicken. A
brown car was pulling into a parking spot.

Frozen in surprise, he watched Oscar’s broad
form climb out of the vehicle. Ashe could tell that his old
friend’s face was reddened, darker than its usual tint, in spite of
the distance between them. The psychologist would swear that he
heard his old friend groan and grunt with disgust before spitting
onto the cement of the parking lot.

Slamming the car door, Oscar wandered around
to the back of the vehicle, stopping by its trunk. He looked to
Ashe like a grizzly bear stomping grumpily through the trees,
hoping to stumble upon some fresh food. The psychologist had a
dilemma. He could either wait to be spotted, to be attacked and
eaten, or he could flee before the large, clawed animal took
notice.

Ashe could not wait to be spotted, he
insisted to himself. Even though Oscar and he were close and have
been for most of their lives, ever since early childhood, the
psychologist knew that the detective separated the duties of his
job from his personal ties, meaning that he wouldn’t hesitate to
charge his own friend with interfering with an ongoing
investigation, along with obstructing justice. Ashe may end up
temporarily in a jail cell and any chance of helping his son would
be taken completely from him.

He considered the exit on the opposite side
from where Oscar would soon be entering. But large windows lined
most of that wall. It would be bad choice for escape, because he
would remain in full view of the windows and potentially Oscar
right up until he climbed into his car. The homicide detective
needed only a glimpse. “Where is your bathroom?” Ashe blurted to
Regime.

“What?”

“Where is your bathroom?” he repeated. “Is it
in the back?”

Regime pointed to a back corner, past a
jukebox, another flat screen television, and the expanse of
windows. “Back there,” he said with suspicion. “What the hell is
going? Are you going to bail on me, after all?”

Ashe’s hastened even faster as he again
regarded Oscar Harrison, who continued to admire the sun while he
waited for another figure to immerge from the car.

“Damn it!” Ashe cried out.

The other, slower detective opened his car
door and exited the brown car. Roger Geiring. Detective Geiring was
a middle aged cop, a hard ass with an old school state of mind when
it came to police work. He didn’t agree with the use of outside
consultation and never had. He didn’t like psychology as a whole.
It was on even tilt with voodoo and astrology. Only cops should be
allowed to do cop work. An investigation didn’t need what Geiring
often described as guessers and liars. He had never cared for Ashe
and always claimed that psychologist got in the way of the real
detectives. It never mattered how invested Ashe often became in the
case or the results he may have brought forth. In Geiring’s eyes,
he had never been nothing more than an imposition and a
liability.

Can’t teach an old cop new tricks, Ashe often
told himself, because it used to help ease the stress pains he
received from the gray haired detective. It was either repeat the
saying until he was calmed…or punch the egotistical cop in the
jaw.

There was more behind the words and action of
Geiring, Ashe was certain, but the psychologist never took the time
to dig deeper into the son of a bitch’s psyche. If he ever did, he
bet he would find a long line of lawmen, possibly going to back to
the old west and six-shooters, when cops drank whiskey while on
duty and had shoot-outs in front of the local tavern/brothel. It
would explain his outdated views and old-fashioned arrogance.