Cry Me A River (19 page)

At the club, he stepped from the truck, and as he passed underneath the large, billowing oak tree, he felt the slight breeze of the warm afternoon wind gently sweep his hot, sweaty face. Directly in front of him, he saw two men carrying wine bottles emerge from behind the building, mount the porch, and stagger through the open door. Yes, their miserable world was still carrying on in spite of his plight, in lieu of his pain. It maddened him to think that to these depraved men, his son’s existence was so meaningless as not to cast even the slightest ripple of discontent in this lurid sea of debauchery they all called life. Oh, if he could, he would blot them all out with the stroke of a hand. Yes, he would blot them out with the same temerity with which one would stamp a bug or squash a fly.

Feeling more and more incensed, he pushed through the men toward the opened door, his roving eyes scanning the room, seeking out his friend Beggar Man.

“Guess you found her?” Beggar Man called from behind him. He wheeled and stood eye to eye with his friend.

“Yeah, I found her,” he said.

Beggar Man nodded, then scanned the room with cold, piercing eyes. His penetrating gaze locked in on a man who had eased behind the unattended bar and was looking underneath the counter, searching for
something. The man looked up suspiciously, his right hand locked tightly around a bottle of whiskey. His non-suspecting eyes fell on Beggar Man. Beggar Man scowled angrily and shook his head slowly. Caught, the man smiled wryly, set the bottle back in place, then nervously backed away.

“Crazy son-of-bitch, “ Beggar Man mumbled angrily to himself. “Gotta watch ‘em every minute or else they’ll steal you blind.” He turned to Tyrone.

“Find out anything, Ty?”

“Found out she was running ‘round with some nigger named P. K.”

“P. K.,” Beggar Man repeated the name.

“Yeah,” Tyrone said eagerly. “You know ‘im?”

Beggar Man shook his head. “Never heard of ‘im.”

“Damn,” Tyrone said, disappointed. “I was hoping you knew him.” He looked at Beggar Man with wide, pleading eyes. “I think he the one, man. I think he the one that killed her.”

“P. K.,” Beggar Man whispered the name again, his stark, pensive eyes probing Tyrone’s face as if seeking some obscure clue that would help unlock the identity of this mystery man. “What he look like?” Beggar Man asked. He tried to nudge Tyrone and dislodge any fact that might trigger his blank mind or stimulate his failing memory.

“Don’t know,” Tyrone confessed, then quickly added, “Ain’t nobody never seen ‘im. Nobody but the girl.”

Beggar Man opened his mouth to reply, but when Tyrone’s words registered, he paused abruptly and looked at him, bewildered.

“Ty.” He called Tyrone’s name the way one person calls to another when he or she is confused.

“Yeah,” Tyrone mumbled his acknowledgment.

“If ain’t nobody seen ‘im,” he said, “how you know he black?”

Tyrone paused, staring contemplatively. “Must be. Why else would she keep him a secret?”

“P. K.” Beggar Man shook his head slowly. “Sorry, home, I don’t know ‘im.” He stared blankly ahead as if hoping for some last-minute revelation, but when none came, he focused his cloudy eyes as his lips parted and he spoke apologetically. “I just don’t know ‘im, man.”

Inside Tyrone, reality set in. He was at a dead end. Suddenly, he felt the muscles in his stomach tighten. A strange feeling engulfed him and he could sense the strong, steady hand of fear gripping his pounding heart, squeezing away hope, choking away optimism. He was in a vise, constricted by time, bound by fear. He waited for his whirling mind to tell him what to do next. He felt confused; he couldn’t think. Behind him, he heard the screen door squeak open, then slam shut.

“Tyrone, what you doing in here?”

He wheeled and looked. His sister René was standing near the door, wearing her work uniform, leering at him with angry, hate-filled eyes.

“Nothing,” he dismissed her.

“Nothing,” she sneered. “Look like something to me.” She stood stone still, staring at him with her large, gangly hands pressed hard against her wide, full hips.

“I’m busy, René.”

She walked close to him, then paused and sniffed his breath.

“You been drinking?”

“René, what you want?” he snapped. His voice was filled with exasperation. He didn’t have time for this. He just didn’t.

“Yeah, you been drinking, Mr. I done changed. I can
smell it on your breath.” She inched closer as if to confirm what she had already proclaimed.

“René, I done told you, I’m busy.”

“So much for rehab, hunh?”

“Why don’t you shut your mouth and leave me alone, René,” he said, perturbed. “‘Cause you sho’ don’t know what you talking about.”

“I know you need to git home, right now.”

“And you need to git out my face.”

“Mama say come home,” she snapped.

“Come home for what?” he asked angrily.

“Them parole folks looking for you, that’s what.”

Suddenly his eyes narrowed with disbelief.

“What!” he exclaimed. His whole world was falling apart.

“I
said
“—she intentionally exaggerated the word
said
—”them parole folks looking for you, fool. And Mama say, they said, if you ain’t at that parole office before it close this evening, they gone lock your butt back up first thing in the morning. That’s what.”

“I don’t care,” he said defiantly, quickly pulling himself back together.

“What you mean you don’t care?” René said, incensed. “You don’t care.” She repeated his words again. “Mama done called me off my job and got me out here looking for you. And you talking ‘bout you don’t care. Mister, I ain’t got time for this. You going home.”

“I ain’t going nowhere, René.”

“I ain’t got time for this,” she repeated, turning toward the door as if she expected him to follow her. “Yeah, you going home, mister.” She paused and looked back. “Like it or not, you going home.”

An awkward moment passed; then Beggar Man spoke and broke the silence.

“Go on, man, and take care of your business. I’ll get
some of the fellows together. We’ll shake some trees and see what fall out.”

“And who you supposed to be?” René wheeled back around.

“Folks call me Beggar Man. Me and Ty go way back.”

She looked at Beggar Man, then at Tyrone.

“Lord, if this boy done changed, my name ain’t René Thompson.”

“I don’t know, man,” Tyrone said. “I got to find P. K.”

“You ain’t got that to worry about,” Beggar Man said. “I’m on it.”

Tyrone looked at him with uncertain eyes. He did not know what to do. There was that old feeling he always got just before something bad happened.

“Man, you sure you can find ‘im?” he asked, seeking assurance.

“If he live around here, I’ll find him,” Beggar Man said. “Count on it.”

Tyrone looked at Beggar Man, then at his watch. In his heart, he knew that Beggar Man was more than capable, and he wanted to believe in him. But under the circumstances, he just did not know if he could relinquish the reins and allow someone else to drive on a trip that more than likely could mean life or death for his only son.

“Come on, here.” René raised her voice. “I ain’t got all day to fool ‘round with you, Tyrone.”

Tyrone looked at his watch again. The portion of his brain that measured time cautioned that he was squandering away time, at a time when every second was precious. He looked at Beggar Man again. Yes, Beggar Man was capable. Yet, there was in Tyrone a lingering feeling that there was one other person he should see before leaving town to deal with his parole officer.

“Go ahead on, René,” Tyrone said. “I got one more stop to make.”

“Go ahead on!” René squinched up her face. “Tyrone—”

“René,” Tyrone interrupted her. “I got one more stop to make. I’m gone go by the parole office soon as I finish my business, okay? Now leave me alone.”

“Hope you know it’s four o’clock,” she said.

“René, I can tell time.”

“Fool around and be late if you want to,” she issued a warning underneath her breath. “And see if they don’t lock your butt back up, crazy nigger.”

Shortly after she had left, he went out onto the porch. Outside, he paused briefly underneath the canopy, then looked back toward the door. Should he go back and reconsider his decision, or should he go on and hope for the best? All of his life, he felt as if he had had to make difficult choices, and all of his life, he felt as if he had made the wrong ones. What was he to do? Oh, how he felt the heavy weight of time bearing down hard against his troubled soul. No, he couldn’t go back. There was no time. He leaped from the porch and made his way to the truck, ever aware of the ominous tint cast by the dull red sun as it slowly passed behind a cluster of clouds on its final descent from its watchful perch high above the now dimming sky.
Death
, the thought crashed against his skull with reckless abandonment. He had always heard the old folks say that a red sky meant impending death. Could it be a sign? Was it all for naught? Was Marcus’s fate sealed? Were foreboding signs telling him that which he cared not to hear? No, he would not entertain such horrific thoughts. No, not for a minute, he would not. He could not. Oh, why was his life a never-ending string of misdeeds and miscalculations strung together in a
perpetual cycle of torment and pain? When would he catch a break? When would the undying love of the omnipresent one cast its everlasting light on him?

At Cardinal Street, he turned onto Magellan and then onto the highway leading into town. No, he wouldn’t leave until he had seen Captain Jack. He needed to question him about P. K. Maybe he knew him, or had heard of him, or had access to some information that would lead Tyrone to him. And if he hadn’t heard of him, he should have heard of him. He should have found him and talked to him before time had gotten short, before the trail had gotten cold, before the situation had become critical. What black person had he spoken to? What black person, from his son’s world, had the attorney questioned about what might have happened that night?

Outside the building that housed Captain Jack’s office, he parked his truck and bound forward, feeling the effects of living under the constant strain of this most stressful situation on his taut, anxious body. Why hadn’t this man done more? He had been on this case for years. Why hadn’t he done more?

He pressed through the door and entered the small reception area. To his surprise, unlike previous times, Janell was not there. For what seemed an eternity, he stood uncertainly in the center of the room, staring at Captain Jack’s partially closed door. Though he could not see him, he knew that Captain Jack was with a client, for he could hear their muffled voices. They were speaking in low, but serious tones. He looked about, pondering whether he should knock and interrupt their session or wait. Why wasn’t someone here to help him? No, he couldn’t wait. This was ridiculous. He strode to the door, but before he could knock, Captain Jack appeared. His gray eyes fell on Tyrone.

“Be with you in a second,” he said.

Tyrone looked at his watch. “I don’t have much time, Mr. Johnson.”

Captain Jack cringed, then looked at him strangely, and Tyrone knew that Captain Jack did not like the way he had spoken to him. Yes, he had gotten out of his place. His tone had been too direct, the implication of his words too bold. He was to accommodate Captain Jack; Captain Jack was not to accommodate him.

“Have a seat, Mr. Stokes,” Captain Jack spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “I won’t be long.”

Tyrone looked at him bitterly, then crossed the room and sat lightly on the edge of the sofa, watching helplessly as Captain Jack backed away from the door and disappeared into his office. Several anxious minutes passed, then Captain Jack emerged from his office and followed the slim, well-dressed white man who had been meeting with him to the door. They exchanged pleasantries, the man departed, and then Captain Jack turned his attention to Tyrone.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Stokes?” He waxed formal.

Tyrone rose to his feet. Festering inside of him was a righteous rage that was becoming increasingly more and more difficult to conceal.

“Why didn’t you investigate the girl?” he asked.

Captain Jack looked at him in surprise.

“Amy!” he said, his irritated voice slightly raised.

“Yeah,” Tyrone said. “Amy.”

“I couldn’t put her on trial,” Captain Jack said, the tone of his voice indicating he thought the question ridiculous.

“Why not?” Tyrone pressed him.

“This town wouldn’t have stood for that,” he said, his
eyes wide, astonished. “It wouldn’t have stood for that at all.”

“But it would stand for executing an innocent man?” Tyrone said, challenging the absurdity he heard in the statement made by the one designated to fight the battle his son could not wage for himself. He looked at Captain Jack with wild, suspicious eyes. Who was this man? Was he friend or was he foe?

Captain Jack looked at him but chose not to speak.

“Did you know she was dating some guy named P. K.?” Tyrone decided to redirect the conversation. He didn’t have time for useless banter. Time was short. He needed answers.

“No,” Captain Jack said. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

“Well, she was.”

“I wasn’t aware of it,” he repeated, and Tyrone sensed that his repetition reflected that he did not know what else to say.

“I’m not surprised.” Tyrone let him off the hook. “She kept him a secret.”

Captain Jack did not respond.

“Don’t you think that’s strange?” Tyrone asked.

“What?”

“The secrecy.”

“Not particularly,” Captain Jack said. He paused, then offered a possible explanation. “Kids that age often hide things. Especially from their parents.”

“Why?” Tyrone asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Why would she hide him?”

“I have no idea,” Captain Jack said.

“I do,” Tyrone snapped.

“By all means, tell me,” Captain Jack persuaded him to continue.

“He was black.” Tyrone offered an explanation. “She kept him a secret because he was a black man.”