Bravado's House of Blues (8 page)

“Thanks,” she said, turning back towards her coffee.

Uly turned back around and sighed. He wrapped both hands around his steaming coffee cup and brought it to his lips. He inhaled deeply before taking a tentative sip. The rich mocha taste surprised him. He’d definitely ordered a tall-thin cappuccino. The mistake jolted him. Even though it had only been a few weeks since his transformation, he’d grown accustomed to having things go right. Now, with this obvious blunder, he felt a stab of doubt pierce the shroud that delicately surrounded his new view of the world. Maybe he was pushing himself too hard.

He toyed with his coffee for several more moments and decided to finish it, despite its obvious inexplicable wrongness.

As he stood to go, he glanced down at Heather Gray and her wondrous display of milky white cleavage. What a sight, he thought to himself.

“Excuse me?” Heather had obviously noticed his gaze.

He shook his head slightly, focusing his mind back to the moment at hand. Heather looked up from her magazine and stared directly into Uly’s face.

“See anything you like?” she asked with a grin.

“I . . . I’m sorry, miss,” he stammered. He felt the hot rush of blood flood his cheeks.

“Oh, it’s okay,” she said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Uly considered that question very carefully. If he were going to make a significant change in his life, he would have to take extraordinary chances. Push the boundaries of his sad little existence. “I was just wondering if you’d like to get a bite to eat or something.”

She looked up at him, seemed to be studying him, for several seconds.

“Why not?” she said with a shrug. “I don’t fly out for a few days. It might be nice to talk to one of the locals.” With that she closed her magazine and stood, holding out her hand.

“Heather Gray.”

Uly accepted her hand into his own. “Ulysses J. Lambert,” he said. She had a very strong grip.

“Well, Mr. Lambert. It’s nice to meet you.” She began to gather her things.

“Here, let me get that for you,” he said when she reached for her luggage carrier.

“Oh, yes. Nice to be around a real southern gentleman,” Heather said with a grin. “Okay, Mr. Lambert. You may carry my bags. Where to?”

“Um . . . well, do you like Italian?”

“Sure, sounds fine to me.”

“Great,” Uly said, offering his arm to her. She accepted his arm with a laugh and they walked out of the coffee shop.

“I can drive,” Uly began.

“Fine with me. They just flew to Denver in what I drove here,” she said with a laugh.

Uly found her warm laugh contagious and joined in her mirth. Her laughter reminded him of the sweet sound of water dancing over sun-dappled stones.

*

The concierge eyed them balefully when they staggered into the hotel around midnight. The fact that she had reservations didn’t change the sour look they received as they stumbled to the elevator.

Once they entered Heather’s room, Uly sat in one plush armchair, which occupied the
living
portion of her suite. Heather excused herself to “freshen up.” He lay back in the chair, staring at the patterns the stucco formed in the ceiling. He must have dozed, because the next thing he knew, Heather was tugging at his zipper. Large quantities of alcohol most definitely caused a disconnect between thought and action. He knew he told his body to react with shock at her brazen behavior, but by the time his mind accepted the order, it was overwhelmed by other conflicting input.

Heather sat between his legs completely naked. He wanted to shout in amazement as his eyes traveled the contour of her body down her smooth back and over the achingly precise curve of her bottom as she leaned forward and . . .

He let out a gasp. Finally, the mind managed to force an action. His protests burst forth from his lips in a whimper.

Later, as they lay across the hotel bed, two bodies intertwined in spent bliss, he began to understand. She had done things to him he’d never imagined. They had performed acts he felt sure were illegal in Kentucky, and he reveled in it.

*

The next few days flew by. He worked in a fog of her memory. Even young Patricia couldn’t get a rise out of him. Once, the day Heather was to return from her overseas flight, Mr. Bloocher commented on Uly whistling, “like he was off to work with those damn dwarves.”

Uly’s life became a roller coaster of abstinence and consumption. When Heather was away, he worked long days, closing up shop every night, and spending time shooting pool or reading books he thought would make him interesting to Heather. When she came into town he abandoned work and new friends opting to spend every minute with her, morning, noon and night—especially night.

At the end of the third week, Granny called to inform Uly that instead of returning right away, she was going to stay a bit longer and consider moving her residence to the condo complex her sister recommended in Coral Gables, Florida. Uly couldn’t speak.

“I am not saying that I’ll do this, Uly,” she informed him. “Don’t get your hopes up about that house. If the time comes for me to relocate here, I’ll contact a realtor to sell the place. I don’t see any reason why you couldn’t buy the old homestead, but I won’t be giving you anymore than I’ve already done. You’re a good boy, but a bit prone to sloth and over-indulgence. I’ll call you next week with more news.”

And with that she stepped out of his life. He didn’t care anything about the old house. As a matter of fact, it was the catalyst he needed to make the final break into true independence. With the approval of Mr. Bloocher, Uly took over the single apartment above the funeral home’s garage. He didn’t even have to use his luck.

“About time you got a place of your own,” Sam said, shaking his head.

Heather, Mr. Bloocher, and a couple of the boys Uly had been shooting pool with regularly helped Uly move his meager possessions into the apartment that next Saturday. Uly strutted around the place like a prize gamecock. After the boys left, he and Heather christened “his new pad” by making love in all three rooms.

*

The sound of squealing tires and drunken revelry woke Uly around three in the morning. He stood in front of his only window and watched dumbfounded as Stuart Johnson and some of his rowdies did doughnuts in the grass between the funeral home and the flower shop. Uly knew the bigoted Stuart hated the Vietnamese family who ran the flower shop. He also expressed his particular brand of disapproval toward Mr. Bloocher for passing them business from the funeral home.

“Damnit,” Uly swore under his breath.

“What is it honey?” Heather said from the bed.

“Just some assholes harassing the Nguyen family again.”

“Should we call the police?” she asked, sitting up.

He looked back at her as the halogen streetlight painted her in streaks of black and white. God she was beautiful. He didn’t know why she chose to be with him, but here he finally felt he had an opportunity to prove himself.

“Yes, call the police,” he said as he slipped on his slacks.

“What are you doing?” she asked as she dialed.

“I’m going out there. Someone has to put a stop to this nonsense.”

“But Uly, you’ll get your ass kicked.”

He glanced back as he pulled a T-shirt over his head. “Sometimes a man has to stand for something,” he said.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” she said, eyeing him with understanding.

“Just call the police. I’ll be careful.” And with that, he slipped on his loafers and stole out into the night.

He glanced up to see if she watched him from the window, but he couldn’t see past the reflection. He screwed up his courage and walked over to the flower shop. The boys had dismounted from their vehicles and stood around drinking beer. Uly could see little San Nguyen in the upper story window, watching as the rednecks terrorized his world.

I know just how you feel, Uly thought as he stepped out into the light.

“Excuse me,” he said to the crowd of drunken men and boys.

One of them looked over and began to laugh. The news spread fast from car to truck until all eight or so thugs pointed and laughed at Uly. It took him a moment before he realized he’d zipped his shirttail out through the fly of his pants. He quickly turned around and furtively stuffed the white cotton back inside.

“Why don’t you boys head on home now?” he asked, his voice calmer than he felt.

Sniggers and guffaws broke out among the men. Jimmy Woodsen climbed out of his truck and walked over to Uly, whipped down his zipper, and began to urinate in Uly’s general direction.

Uly jumped out of the way, but not before urine splattered his canvas shoes.

“You bastard,” Uly said. The crowd grew silent.

“What did you call me, faggot?” Woodsen growled.

“Are you some sort of animal, prowling the night, marking your territory from the other dogs?”

Woodsen took a step forward, beefy hands clenched into fists, when Stuart Johnson placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Get in the truck, Jimmy. The prick’s probably called the police. Not to worry, I think we’ve made our point to the rice bowls.” He eyed Uly as Jimmy moved back grumbling. In the distance, sirens began to wail.

Several of the vehicles took off in a spray of gravel and dust.

Uly stood his ground as Stuart loomed over him.

“Bobbie may come and see you, Ulysses,” he said, spraying spittle onto Uly’s shirt. “But that piss-ant deputy can’t keep me from kicking your ass first.”

“Step off, fucker,” Heather shouted. Both men wheeled around to see her standing in the middle of the parking lot in nothing but one of Uly’s shirts. She stood with her legs slightly apart, and a .357 in her raised hands.

“Give me reason to pop a cap in your ass,” she said dramatically. Uly could hardly suppress a chuckle. That’s what the gang-banger had said on that police procedural she liked so much.

“Got your fucking whore protecting you, Uly sweetie?” Stuart said.

Uly turned on him, took a step forward, and stabbing a finger in the larger man’s chest began, “You watch what you say about that fine woman.” At least that is what he had planned to say. Instead he said “You . . .” and he ended up spitting out blood and dirt after Stuart’s blow knocked him into the churned sod.

Stuart turned to Heather, pointed a dirty hand in her direction, and said, “Call me when you want a real man, sweetheart. I’m sure needle dick here can’t possibly satisfy a fine piece of ass like yourself.”

He took a step away from Uly, hands in the air. “Don’t shoot,” he said with a chuckle. He turned, wiped one hand across his open mouth, and kicked Uly in the stomach. “Stay the fuck outta my business.”

Uly coughed and hacked, clutching his abdomen as he curled into a ball.

“Leave him alone,” Heather said.

Stuart moved toward his pickup, picked up a can of beer from the dashboard and drained it. He flipped the can at Uly who moaned on the ground.

“Too bad you called the cops, Uly. Next time, you won’t be so lucky.” He slipped behind the wheel of his big Ford, cranked the key, and stomped the gas. Dirt and grass flew over Uly’s prostrate form as the pickup fishtailed across the ripped up yard.

Vacuum,
Uly saw her mouth say as the sirens screamed into the parking lot.

*

Uly took a couple of extra days off after the incident. Mr. Bloocher wanted to give the community time to calm down. Uly and Heather spent little time in public, avoiding any chance to run into one of Stuart’s boys. Mr. Nguyen sent a flowered wreath to Uly with a note thanking him for sticking his neck out. Seems that very few in the community wanted to get involved.

Heather only had one more day off before she had to return to work, and they wanted to make the best of it. She was scheduled to fly to Seattle, three days on and two days off. Uly wouldn’t see her again for a while.

He went for take-out and rented a couple of movies while Heather packed. She would be flying out at three the next afternoon.

They barely watched the movies, choosing to spend their time making love and talking. Between them they ate cooling Kung Pao chicken, hot and sour soup, and crab won tons. Uly began to heal physically from the encounter, but something deep inside him emotionally had broken open. Whether it was the humiliation in front of the woman he loved, or the community’s stunned silence concerning the whole affair, his anger formed a red-hot ember in his belly.

Late Thursday morning they lay together, spent and glorious. Heather lay kitty-cornered across the bed, blonde hair tousled and limbs akimbo where she had fallen into a satisfied sleep. Uly eased out of the bed and sat in the chair across from her, watching her sleep. He loved her so much.

He watched her chest rise and fall as she breathed deep in her slumber. Watched as she glowed with the vibrancy of life. Watched as he thought of his recent transformation. Watched and plotted.

The maelstrom grew at his core. Fear that had lain dormant for twenty years had finally burst forth from his psychic internment and fed voraciously on the fire of his anger.

He knew what he would do. He would make them pay. He would return kind for kind. But to do it, he would need to step over the line.

His luck talisman lay in his top dresser drawer where it had lain for many weeks. His luck had finally turned and he felt he could handle things as they came. Stuart Johnson, however, would require all his effort, all his attention, and more luck than he had in him.

He stooped over Heather as she slept and performed his ritual. The sun reflected off her alabaster skin. She glowed white-hot as he moved over her, talisman weaving in and around her curves—her bends and crevices. He worked his magic slowly and carefully. Mr. Bloocher’s warnings to never siphon from the living echoed in his head, but for his revenge, he would need a powerful force, and he was only going to take a little. The living had huge reserves. Just as he completed his mantra, a surge of energy erupted from Heather and connected with the talisman. He fell off the bed with a yelp as the talisman vanished in a flash of heat and smoke. Heather moaned deeply as Uly pulled himself up off the floor and sat back on the edge of the bed. He sucked his fingers where he had been scorched. Heather moaned again and he lay his wounded hand across her stomach.