Edward Winterhalder
&
James Richard Larson
THE MIRROR
A BIKER’S STORY
BOOK 2 OF THE SERIES
BLOCKHEAD CITY PRESS
Owasso, Oklahoma
Published by BLOCKHEAD CITY PRESS, PO Box 1654, Owasso, OK 74055.
Copyright © 2010 by Edward Winterhalder and James Richard Larson. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner or form whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. For information about this subject, please contact Blockhead City Press, PO Box 1654, Owasso, OK 74055 (918-274-8260 ).
This book is a work of fiction. References to any person, event, establishment, organization or locale are only intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used in a fictitious manner. All characters, motorcycle clubs, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be considered as real.
Book dust jacket cover concept by Edward Winterhalder; book dust jacket front cover artwork by Jon Larson and James Pellowski.
Manufactured in the United States of America.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Winterhalder, Edward, 1955 -
The mirror: A biker’s story
Larson, James Richard, 1951 -
The mirror: A biker’s story
p. cm.
1: Motorcycle clubs—Fiction. 2. Motorcycle gangs—Fiction.
3. Motorcyclists—Fiction. 4. Bikers—Fiction. 5. Oklahoma—Fiction.
6. Wisconsin—Fiction. 7. Winterhalder, Edward. 8. Larson, James Richard
I. Title: The mirror: A biker’s story.
LCCN: 2009937050
13-digit ISBN: 9781617923364
For more information: http://www.blockheadcity.com/
Digital Edition: July 2010
Acknowledgements
For all of our fans, friends, relatives and family all over the world, this book is for you.
To Jon Larson, thank you for giving us access to your talented team of graphic artists and supporting this project.
OTHER BOOKS BY EDWARD WINTERHALDER
& JAMES RICHARD LARSON:
ALL ROADS LEAD TO STURGIS
A BIKER’S STORY (Book 1 of the Series)
OTHER BOOKS BY EDWARD WINTERHALDER:
OUT IN BAD STANDINGS
INSIDE THE BANDIDOS MOTORCYCLE CLUB - THE MAKING OF A WORLDWIDE DYNASTY
THE ASSIMILATION
ROCK MACHINE BECOME BANDIDOS - BIKERS UNITED AGAINST
THE HELLS ANGELS (with Wil De Clercq)
BIKER CHICKS
THE MAGNETIC ATTRACTION OF WOMEN TO BAD BOYS AND MOTORIKES (with Arthur Veno & Wil De Clercq)
BIKER CHICZ OF NORTH AMERICA
(with Wil De Clercq – coming Fall of 2010)
DVDs BY EDWARD WINTERHALDER:
LIVING ON THE EDGE
RIDING WITH THE VIETNAM VETS MOTORCYCLE CLUB IN PENNSYLVANIA
OTHER BOOKS BY JAMES RICHARD LARSON:
THE EYE OF ODIN
WOLFGAR
THE STORY OF A VIKING
THE RIGHT THING
All of the aforementioned products are available through most book stores or can be purchased online at Amazon.com or Blockheadcity.com
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
“I hate you.”
Michael looked up. At the edge of the kitchen table, Tiffany stood in her housecoat, glaring an accusation, wringing her hands, defiant.
Ignoring her, he reached for his coffee, took a sip, and set the cup down. He ruffled the newspaper, raising it so she could not see his face.
She said, “Did you hear me? I said I hate you! How could you talk to me like that last night? How could you? Do you think I don’t have feelings? You’re so damn drunk all the time.”
Tiffany Beckman waited for an answer.
His breath smelled of alcohol and coffee. As if speaking to the wall, Michael murmured, “So now you hate me. Yeah, well—we’ll see how long that lasts. Until you need money, most likely. I don’t know what your problem is but no matter what I do it isn’t good enough.”
Tiffany buttoned the top button of her housecoat. Although she’d reached the age of forty on her last birthday, she could still pass for a much younger woman.
“Maybe if you’d start acting decent and lay off the drinking things would be like they used to be,” Tiffany said. “Why do you have to stop at that shitty Mad Mike’s every single night—making believe you’re some kind of bad ass biker? I still don’t understand what that’s all about.”
“Jesus Christ, don’t start with me on that again! All of the club guys stop at the bar—and what’s the big deal? Like you don’t know I ain’t a hangaround anymore? You know damned well I’m a prospect now! Seems to me once upon a time you were all for it.”
“Club guy?” she said. “You aren’t a club guy. That isn’t for you and you know it.”
“Better them than you,” Beckman said.
“So are you coming home tonight or not?” she said. “Cause maybe when you get here I’ll be gone.”
“What’s there to come home to? Piles of clothes on the floor? Dirty dishes? You at the computer? Wasting your time all day long on those stupid chat rooms? I never should have bought the damn thing. Worst thing I ever did. Did you ever think of using it maybe to find a job?”
“Mike I’m so tired of all of this. What’s happened to us?”
“Us? Nothing happened to us! It’s not me that changed. It’s you.”
“What do you mean, I’ve changed? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Well here’s a news flash,” Michael said. “You look pretty rough this morning. I can remember when you used to care about how you looked.”
“You bastard!” Tiffany pulled her fist back as if to strike him.
Patient, he waited. He knew she didn’t have the nerve.
In the kitchen of the tiny single-family rented bungalow on 47th Street in West Milwaukee, she stood with her arm cocked, and then slowly let it drop to her side.
She said, “It isn’t worth it.”
Michael glanced at the clock. It was time to leave for work. Starting time at the truck frame plant was 7AM and he liked to get to work at least half an hour before the whistle. He sighed, got up, went to the counter and reached for his lunch box. The clear plastic pocket on the end of the box held his work badge and picture ID. Hefting the red plastic handle of the black, banged up aluminum container, he thought at least she had enough ambition this morning to pack a lunch.
At the back door, Michael turned and said, “Maybe some time today you can check out the want ads and look for a job. Paper’s right there. Do you think you could do that, huh? Take your ass to an employment agency, maybe? Find some work to do?”
Tiffany hissed, “I’m going to divorce you, you just wait and see! You got that, Michael? Divorce. Then I’ll find me a good man!”
“I should be so lucky.”
“Mike! How can you . . .?”
Her words were lost when the icy wind filled the room from the open door.
At the foot of the wooden stairs, Michael pulled his coat collar tighter around his neck. It was a brisk, early December morning. The weather was turning now, getting colder each day. Michael walked down the cracked concrete service walk to the gravel driveway, got into his fourteen year old Chevy and tried to crank over the engine. It caught on the third click of the solenoid.
Michael let the car warm up a few minutes and thought the damn starter’s going. I knew it. Gonna have to stop at Midwest Auto and pick one up. Today. No way I can take the motorcycle, either, even if it was running. I’d freeze my ass off. Can’t afford to miss any more work, and I’m not ready to take the damn bus. Especially through the ghetto. Shit!
Tiffany Beckman went to the kitchen window, pulled the curtain over and watched her husband pull out of the driveway. Feeling as if she might vomit, she went to the bathroom until the discomfort passed. When she finished washing her hands, she stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror mounted on the back of the bathroom door. Tiffany removed her housecoat. Naked, she assessed herself, lifting her breasts, turning her rear to the mirror.
Rough, he says? I don’t think so. Tummy’s nice and flat—son of a bitch never could get me pregnant. I’m not bad at all for forty. At least Maurice thinks so. Maybe I should just take him up on it and call him. I know what he wants. Why should I feel so guilty about letting him kiss me? God, I felt like a high school kid.
CHAPTER 2
In the predominantly African-American neighborhood, the immense truck frame plant stood as a fading beacon of the rust belt. The layoffs hadn’t yet reached Michael, but he knew his union seniority would not last forever. One day, maybe this day, the boss would hand him the pink slip; it was just a matter of time.
The plant parking lot showed plenty of empty spaces, and few of the vehicles were new. Since the housing and mortgage industries had gone bust back in 2008, unemployment had hit hard and many were out of work. Michael grabbed his lunch pail, opened the driver’s door, hit the power locks and stepped out of the car. The wind gust slammed the door shut for him. By the lot entrance, three black men stood, huddled against the cold.
As Michael walked past, a tall, thin black man asked, “Hey man, you got a solid quarter?”
“Ain’t got no money.”
“Cigarette, then?” The second black said.
“Don’t smoke. Can’t afford it.”
“You’s workin’,” the third black said. “Gimme a dollar, now. I know you got a dollar.”
Michael moved quicker and maneuvered past the three men. The last one gave him a shoulder as he walked by, nearly knocking him off his feet. Michael continued on.
One of the blacks said, “Gots trouble walkin’, you smart assed honky motha fucka?”
Michael exhaled in relief when another said, “Forget it, Roy. Look what he drivin’. Some piece of shit. Heh! Peckerwood ain’t got nuthin’.”
Watching the honky pick up his stride, Roy said, “Nigga what da fuck you sayin? Shit he got mo’ den you got! Least he got a job!”
Inside the barbed wire fence, the uniformed man in the guard shack waved Michael through the gate. He trudged past the garage door entrance to the gray stone building. The once cream-colored brick had turned to a dirty filth, the industrial years painted in layers of mold and soot. Michael shifted his lunchbox to his left hand and gripped the doorknob. The access door, loose in its jamb, hugged the asphalt when it scraped open.
Inside, the place stank of old oil and exhaust fumes. The high bay windows, angled to the south, allowed scant light from the winter sun. The pounding from the giant presses resonated through the cavern-like building.
Garbage lay strewn about the locker room, regular sanitation being a thing of the past. The unmistakable odor of stale urine permeated the thick air. Michael spun his combination lock, flipped the door open and donned his coveralls.
At the coffee machine, the man said, “Mornin’, Mike.”
“Hey Louie,” Mike said. “Friggin’ cold one today”.
“That it is. Hey—I heard Eddie got a pinky this morning.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah. Carini met him at the door before he even got a chance to change.”
“Damn. We’re next.”
“I know,” Louie said. “Me and then you. It’s comin’.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Shit is right. What ya gonna do?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Look for another job, I guess. How ‘bout you?”
“Think I’ll ride out the unemployment for a while.”
“Unemployment don’t pay shit.”
“I know,” Louie said. “But it’s better than nothin’.”
Waiting for the 7 o’clock whistle, three men sat at the wooden picnic table in the lunch area. Michael and Louie sat down opposite them. The men grunted their greetings.
The man seated at the end said, “Eddie got it this morning.”
“Yeah Frank, we heard,” Louie said.
Frank rearranged the few wisps of hair he kept combed over the bald spot and said; “Guess we gotta blame the Jews for this one too, hey Mike? Ain’t that right?”
Frank grinned and looked at the others, who watched for Michael’s reaction.
Ignoring Frank, Michael didn’t rise to the bait.
For Frank, this wasn’t good enough.
“Yeah,” Frank said. “Mike’ll tell you that it’s the goddam Jews that are taking this country right down the shitter! They already stole all our money! Hell, there wasn’t any Holocaust either, was there Mike? It was all done with smoke and mirrors, right? C’mon Mike, tell us about it.”
Michael stood and said, “I don’t have to listen to this shit.”
He stepped away from the picnic table, turned and began walking up the aisle.
Frank called after him, “C’mon, H.D. Let’s hear about the Jews.”
Michael spun around and looked at the grinning faces. Even Louie had a smirk on his face. Michael turned and walked away.
“Hell, couldn’t even get a rise out of him today,” Frank said. “He’s always railing on the Jews, if it ain’t the Blacks or the Mexicans. What’s the matter with him all the sudden?”
“He knows we’re gonna get the axe,” Louie said. “You might have hit a nerve. I bet he does blame the Jews. He has some weird kind of hate for ‘em for some reason. I don’t know which he hates more, the Jews or the Blacks. Or the Mexicans. Or the immigrants. Take your pick.”
The men grunted their assent. Naturally, they all paid lip service to racial talk—the stereotypical bullshit—everyone did. To deny it was hypocrisy. But when it came to Beckman, it wasn’t to fit in. He meant it with every fiber of his being. Beckman was as racist as they came, and they’d all heard his rants.
“And what the hell is H.D. supposed to mean?” Louie said. “That’s one I ain’t heard yet.”
“Danny thought of it,” Frank said. “It means Holocaust Denier. Mike hates it when we call him that. At first Mike didn’t mind it ‘cause he thought we were talking about his motorcycle. You know, ever since he started braggin’ about being connected with the Skuldmen motorcycle club, like he’s some big biker.”
“I wouldn’t mess with him too much, Frank. Fun is fun, but he is prospecting with the Skuldmen. You know what that means?”
“Is that for real?” Frank said. “I thought it was bullshit. You know Beckman.”
“Yeah, it’s for real. How would you like to have those boys knocking at your door at 3 in the morning?”
“Not me, Louie,” Frank said. “I think you made your point.”
Michael finished his coffee just as the whistle blew. He tossed the empty cup in the overfilled garbage can and walked across the aisle to his machine. The loud boom-booming stopped abruptly when the whistle sounded. After about thirty seconds, the noise began again. The automatic loader slid the heavy fifteen-foot long piece of steel down the ways, until it came to the stops at the end of the die. Michael pressed the two buttons, and when the man on the opposite side of the machine did likewise, the huge ram descended into the part with a loud ka-boom. Michael adjusted his earplugs. The mechanical unloader hand grabbed the formed piece and moved it out of the machine, and the next piece entered.
A few minutes after the lunchtime whistle sounded, a man with a white hardhat on approached the men at the picnic table.
“Hey, Louie?” Joe Carini said.
“Yeah Joe?”
“Afraid I got some bad news for you. A couple more layoffs came down. I thought it was only going to be Eddie but Shuster said we have to let two more go.”
“’Shuster say how long it’s gonna be for?” Louie asked.
“Hell, I don’t know, Louie. Could be a month, could be six. Ain’t no way of knowing right now. I hate to be the one to tell you.”
Joe Carini handed Louie the layoff notice.
“Turn your keys and tools back in to the crib,” Carini said. “We’ll pay you to the end of the day.”
“But I can leave now?” Louie said.
“Yeah, I’ll cover it. You seen Beckman?”
“Not since this morning,” Louie said. “Frank pissed him off. Try over by his machine.”
“All right. Sorry about this shit, Louie—good luck to ya.”
Carini offered his hand and Louie shook it.
Louie said, “Ain’t your fault Joe. Well, I’m outta here.”
The others at the table said their good-byes.
At a folding chair by his machine, Michael was about to open his second sandwich when he spotted Joe Carini approaching. He put the sandwich back in the box when he noticed that Carini had a pinky in his hand.
“Hey Mike, I hate to be the one to tell you this.”
Michael said, “Yeah, well I seen it coming, I guess. Didn’t think they’d get to me, though—not with twenty years seniority.”
“I didn’t either,” Carini said. “It don’t make it any easier. They’re talking about cutting supervision. Hell, I’m probably next. They’re talking about moving the whole shootin’ match down to Mexico.”
“You mean it?” Michael asked.
“Yeah. That’s what I’m hearing, anyway.”
“It figures, losing our work to the goddam beaners. Damn. Any chance for a call-back?”
“Hell, Mike, I don’t know. Between you and me, I wouldn’t count on it. Probably the best thing to do is find another job and forget about this place.”
“That’s a hell of a lot easier said than done. The economy ain’t for shit. Where the hell am I supposed to find another job?”
“I wish I could tell you,” Carini said.
There’s a hell of a lot of people who got a lot of years in here,” Michael said.
“Yeah. Makes it worse, I think,” Carini said. “Anyway, turn your keys and tools in to the crib and I’ll cover you for the rest of the day. Good luck to you, Mike. You always were a good man.”
The men shook hands.
“Thanks, Joe. Good luck to you, too.”
Dazed and in a state of shock, Michael closed his lunch box and walked past Frank and the others at the table. Seeing the look on Michael’s face, no one spoke. The handwriting was on the wall, and they knew they were next.
“God Dammit!” Michael cursed. “Son of a bitch!”
He turned the key again and the solenoid clicked, but the car still would not start. Remembering that he’d just put his personal toolbox in the trunk, he got out of the car, went in back, opened the trunk and retrieved a hammer. Scurrying under the car, he tapped the starter motor with the ball peen.
Climbing out from under the car, Michael noticed that a group of young blacks had entered the parking lot. One of them swung what appeared to be a long sock with something heavy in the end of it, and as Michael watched, the young man swung the thing into the windshield of a parked car. With a pop, the window exploded in a shower of glass.
Another one in the group noticed Michael watching them. He then pointed at Michael and said something to the others. All looked in his direction. A second later, they were running toward him.
Michael got into the car in record time. He fumbled with the key, dropping it on the floor. He retrieved the key just as his back window shattered. Heart pounding now, he slammed the key into the ignition and turned. Another window shattered when the starter spun and caught. The engine raced; unaware, Michael had the accelerator floored.
The screeching sound of grinding metal filled Michael’s senses when he jammed the gearshift back and the car lurched forward. Through the broken windows he heard the young man scream, and Michael felt the car bump as if he were driving over railroad tracks, first with the front wheels and then with the rear. Chancing a look in the rearview mirror as he skidded out of the lot, Michael saw the group scatter leaving one of their own behind lying motionless on the pavement.
Michael navigated his car to the expressway and pulled onto the ramp. By the time he reached his exit, it didn’t matter that the heater was on high. He shivered with the freezing wind and cold. Deciding that he didn’t want to face his wife with the bad news, he changed his mind about going home. Instead, he found himself parking in front of Mad Mike’s Bar.
CHAPTER 3
On Lincoln Avenue on the south side of Milwaukee, Mad Mike’s Tavern boasted a huge oval bar that ran the length of the room from south to north. On the east end of the taproom, three steps led down to another larger area. Pool tables dominated the foreground, with a band stage at the far end for when Mad Mike, a patch holder with the Skuldmen motorcycle club, decided he wanted live music.
The big-breasted blonde with the bangs cut just over her eyes pushed the last glass into the washing head, dunked it in the first rinse, and then the second. The front door of the tavern opened as she placed the glass with the rest of the clean ones. She looked up from her work.
“Hey Mike, you’re in early today,” Rhonda said.
When he didn’t answer, she peered closer. The look on his face wasn’t pretty. There were three empty stools in a row. Beckman took the center one, ignoring the people on either side of him.
“Make it a shot and a beer,” Beckman said. “Double on the shot.”
“Same poison?”
“Yeah.”
In the blink of an eye, the two ounce whiskey and the twelve ounce beer appeared on the bar top.
Beckman reached for his wallet, and then thought better of it.
“Put it on my tab, will ya?”
“Sure thing,” Rhonda said. “Hey Mike, what’s wrong?”
“Ah, shit, I just lost my goddam job,” he said.
“What? They fired you?”
“Might as well have,” he said. “Permanent layoff—means the same damn thing.”
“Sorry to hear that,” she said. “What you gonna do?”
“Get drunk, I guess.”
“You came to the right place,” Rhonda said. “Hey, your hand is bleeding.”
Beckman raised his arm and peered at the back of his wrist. A drop of blood fell to the bar top.
“Damn jigs!” he said. “Busted a couple of my windows, too. I got glass all over the inside of my car.”
“Here,” she said. “Use some of these napkins.”
“Thanks. And keep the drinks coming.”
“Sure thing.”
A cold wind invaded when a biker entered the front door. He frowned, his hawk like eyes sunken over high cheekbones. With his back to the wall, he scanned the bar room. Satisfied, he took the next stool over from Beckman. The tall man’s brown hair hung nearly to his shoulders, the blue and silver bandana tied behind his head Indian fashion. The top rocker of his club colors read Skuldmen, with the letters MC beneath. The center patch showed a fiery-eyed wolf with flames bursting from its nostrils. The word Milwaukee was on his bottom rocker, which curved across the lower part of his vest. The biker made a point of leaning over and checking out Beckman’s back.
“You’re supposed to be wearing your cut when you come in here, Prospect. You got a problem?”
“Yeah, I got a problem,” Beckman said, his voice slurring from the alcohol. “I got a big fucking problem.”
Loner didn’t like the answer. Moreover, he didn’t like the tone. Months before, he’d sponsored Beckman. If the truth were known, these days he was having second thoughts. For one thing, it was becoming ever more apparent that the man couldn’t hold his liquor.
“You stay put,” Loner said. “I’ll be right back.”
Loner got off his bar stool and headed for the men’s room. On the way, he greeted two of his club brothers who’d just come in the back entrance.
“Hey T Bone, Zip,” Loner said. “You guys lost?”
“Got a little time to kill. Zipper here says he’ll beat me three out of five,” the big Hispanic biker said. “If he’s so eager to give me money I can’t say no.”
The thin biker with shoulder length hair combed straight back said, “Don’t believe him—you know he doesn’t shoot worth a shit. He’s here for his lessons.”
“I’ll be down in a little bit,” Loner said, his grin evaporating. “I got a prospect to straighten out.”
Both bikers nodded. Neither one of them particularly cared for Beckman. They didn’t envy Loner for sponsoring him.
In the beginning, Beckman had hung around long enough for the club to take notice. At the time, it seemed that he might make a good prospect. Bossman Phil, the president of the club, had noticed this and given the nod. Yet, when no one stepped forward to sponsor him, Loner took the job. After all, this was what prospecting was about—keeping the righteous, and weeding out the ones who couldn’t cut the life as a one percenter.
As soon as Loner returned to the stool beside him, Beckman called to the barmaid. “Hey Rhonda, same way, will you?”
“If you say so. How about you, Loner? Something I can get you?”
“Tap beer is fine,” Loner said.
As soon as she filled Beckman’s shot glass, he reached for it and tossed it back. He chased it with the beer. Staring at his glass, he murmured, “Damn wetbacks!”
“If you don’t want a bigger problem you better start talking, and I better hear it right or you’re in for a thumping,” Loner said. “This is our place. You know the rules. Why ain’t you wearing your cut?”
To Beckman, the menace was suddenly as apparent as the blood smear on his injured hand.
“Sorry, Loner. I ain’t thinking straight. I’m on my way home from work.” Beckman’s voice raised a notch when he added, “I don’t have to worry about going back, thanks to the greasy spicks. I’m done there. They’re shipping all the jobs to Mexico. So on top of that, I get out to my car in the parking lot and the damn jigs busted out a couple of my windows. I ain’t having the best of days.”
Down in the poolroom, the big Hispanic biker wearing the Skuldmen 1%er patch turned his head when he heard the word. He knew the voice that went with it.
“Oh oh, you have that look in your eye,” Scott “Zipper” Conlon said, eyeing his next shot. “I’ll take the nine ball
corner pocket.”
Ramon “T Bone” Lopez leaned his pool stick against the rack.
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
From the corner of his eye, Loner saw T Bone coming up the stairs, backed by Zipper. Loner spun from his stool and met them half way.
Oblivious to the threat, Beckman rocked to and fro. He hung his head, twisting his neck to the left. The patrons at either side of him got up from their stools and headed for the entrance, sensing the coming shit storm.
“I’m going to take his fucking head off,” T Bone said. “Get out of my way.”
“Let me talk to you a minute first,” Loner said. “Just give me a minute.”
T Bone glared at Beckman but held his temper. “A minute,” he said.
They went back down to the poolroom. Loner said, “Look, T, I ain’t making excuses for him, but he just lost his job. Then some nigs busted up his car. He’s drunk. Beat him when he’s sober. After he heals up. He’s got a thumping coming from me, first.”
“Get him the hell out of here before I change my mind,” T Bone said. “Drunk or not, I ever hear him talking shit again I’ll bury him. He’ll dig his own goddam grave.”
“He’s out of here,” Loner said. “I’ll take care of it right now.”
Freezing, Beckman awoke to the sound of a siren. Pulling two old blankets off of him, his hand went to his belt loop where he kept his keys. They weren’t there. He leaned forward, pulling with his arms to come to a sitting position, his head pounding like a kettledrum. Reaching down to the passenger’s seat lever, he pulled it, and leaned back to the raised seat.
Glancing back at the entrance to Mad Mike’s, he realized that the bar was closed, meaning it was after 2AM. There, on the rubber mat on the driver’s side floor, he found the keys. Stiff and hurting, he leaned over and reached for them, nearly passing out, the retching bile threatening to blast from his mouth and nostrils.
With supreme effort, Beckman navigated his way to the driver’s side. When he turned the key, the starter growled as if it would surely die. After the second try, the engine sputtered to life, and he dropped the tranny into drive and switched the heater on to high. He pulled away from the curb as the wind blew fresh snow through the broken windows.
When he arrived home, he shut the car off in the driveway and assessed the damage. The back seat glistened with thousands of pieces of safety glass.
Michael slammed the house door closed. Still shaking with the cold, when he entered the kitchen he spied the note on the table.
Mike,
I waited for you last night and you never came home. I finally realized that after what you said to me in the morning and the way you treated me, I’ve had enough. You have a serious drinking problem and I think you need help. I can’t deal with this. I asked myself if I still loved you and I really don’t know how to answer that question anymore. I called my Mom and she’s coming to pick me up. I’m taking some of my things with me and I’ll be coming back for the rest when you’re at work. I think its best that we separate for a while. I was going to ask you to go but then I decided that it’s better if I go. I just can’t go on like this. I’d say I’m sorry but I have nothing to apologize for. Goodbye.
Tiffany
CHAPTER 4
At the kitchen table in the morning, Michael gazed at the whiskey bottle. He brought the glass up to his lips and finished the drink. The raw liquor burned down to his stomach, the ice in the glass barely melted. He filled the glass again. Picking up the cordless phone, he tried for the fourth time. Instead of a busy signal, this time the phone rang on the other end.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Lacy?”
Tiffany’s mother said, “Yeah, this is Lacy.”
“Is Tiffany there?”
“She was but she left.”
“With your car?”
“Michael, what do you want? You sound like you’re drunk.”
“I want to talk to her. I know she’s there. C’mon, Lace, let me talk to her. You know what’s going on. We had an argument. I want to tell her I’m sorry.”
“Honest, Mike. She’s not here.”
“When she gets back can you tell her to call me?”
“I’ll tell her. I gotta go now, Mike.”
“All right.”
“Okay, goodbye then.”
Before Michael could continue his plea, he heard the phone go dead.
Michael finished his drink, and poured another. Five minutes later, the doorbell rang. From the kitchen, Michael could see out the living room window. A black and white police squad car was parked out front. The doorbell rang again.
Panic stricken, Michael thought this has got to be about that black kid. What the hell do I do? Show the cops the broken windows? Yeah, like that’s going to matter to them. Shit what do I do? Run? The car won’t start anyway. I can’t run. Where the hell am I gonna go?
As if sleepwalking, Michael went to the front door. Two uniformed cops stood on the porch. Michael opened the door and waited.
The tall cop said, “I’d like to speak to Mr. Michael Beckman.”
Not answering, Michael thought what do I say?
The tall cop glanced over at his partner. Before the partner could ask, Michael blurted, “I’m Mike Beckman. What do you guys want?”
“Mr. Beckman, are you related to a woman named Esther Malek?”
“Yeah. She’s my aunt—my mom’s sister.”
“Sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, Mr. Beckman. You were listed as Mrs. Malek’s emergency contact person—next of kin. I’m afraid your aunt passed away this morning. When Dispatch couldn’t get a response from her after she had dialed 911, they sent us out to investigate. When we arrived at her residence, she was lying on the living room floor. We immediately performed CPR and called for EMS assistance. The Paramedics determined your aunt had suffered a heart attack. They stabilized her and we thought she would make it, but in route to St. Luke’s Hospital, she had another heart attack and your aunt was pronounced D.O.A. at the Emergency room. I thought I’d stop by and let you know.”
“I’m her only relative,” Michael said. “Everyone else is gone.”
“Well, I’m sorry, sir.”
“Yeah. Thanks for letting me know.” Michael nodded to his partner. “You guys didn’t have to do that. I appreciate it. Thanks.”
At the foot of the steps, the tall cop turned.
“The coroner will be calling you, probably some time this afternoon.”
Michael nodded. He went back inside. There was no one to call, except Tiffany. When he tried to reach her at her mother’s again, there was no answer.
Michael turned on the television and switched to the news. There was nothing mentioned about a hit and run. After watching the local news on all three network stations, none reported the incident at the factory parking lot.
With the remote, Michael switched off the TV. His thoughts turned to Aunt Esther, his only relative.
Aunt Esther. When was the last time I saw her? New Years Day—her birthday. Yeah, that’s when it was. Damn, was it that long ago, almost a whole year? Why didn’t I go to see her? I remember I brought her some chocolate candy for her birthday gift. She always liked chocolate. I remember she didn’t have any food in the house. I gave her fifty bucks and she was so grateful. She gave me a beer and potato chips and dip. She was good to me. Why didn’t I go and see her? Except for Tiffany, she was all I really had. Tiffany. Oh God, Tiffany.
Michael first felt it in his stomach. The feeling ascended to his diaphragm, and then to his shoulders. Desperate, he tried to hold back, but the feeling expanded in his chest like the big bang and his ears rang fuzzy from the stress. The shriek might have been from some kind of exotic bird, had anyone been there to hear it. Covering his face with his hands, Michael rocked forward and back, as his sobs echoed from the living room walls.
Later that evening, after speaking to the coroner, Michael hung up the phone. Aunt Esther’s body lay at the county morgue. With everything else going through his mind, Michael realized that he must make burial arrangements.
The first thing I have to do is get the damn car working so I have transportation. Got to get a starter—then get the damn windows fixed.
Michael walked back to the kitchen. The whiskey bottle greeted him, half full. He sat back down and finished it.
Stirring awake, Beckman’s head throbbed and his arm had no feeling. The chair was on its back and Michael lay beside it on the kitchen floor. Moaning, he managed to get to his feet. He glanced up at the clock. Eleven-thirty PM. After a glass of water, he staggered into the bedroom and fell across the double bed, passing out in less than a minute.
The following morning, after a pot of black coffee, Michael dressed warm and forced himself outside. The day was colder than the one previous, and removing the starter motor resulted in a smashed hand and a few bloody knuckles. After warming up in the house, he wrapped the motor in newspaper, put it in a garbage bag, and walked the four blocks to the bus stop on 43rd Street.
At noon, with the starter motor now installed, Michael turned the key and was rewarded with the sound of the engine running. After a call to the auto glass outfit on 16th Street and learning they could do the job that day, Michael took the car in and had the windows replaced, pleased that they cleaned the broken glass up as part of the service. After having used his last cash on the starter, he thanked himself again for getting the charge card back in April. Without it, he would have been unable to pay for the windows. Had Tiffany found out about the card, she would have had it maxed out by now.
Late that afternoon, after several phone calls, Michael made the arrangements to have Aunt Esther cremated. There would be no funeral or service, nor would there be an announcement. While visiting Aunt Esther the subject had came up, and she’d informed Michael that was the way she wanted it. Thank goodness the funeral home would take the card, too. However, no more credit would be extended on the card once the undertaker was paid, seeing the limit was reached. With the rent for next month due in two weeks, it dawned on Michael that Aunt Esther’s house was probably now his. Would Tiffany change her mind if she knew? Would she come back?
Michael tried calling Tiffany’s mom’s house again, and again there was no answer. Later that night when Michael drove by Lacy’s house, the lights were out and her mother’s car was gone.
CHAPTER 5
As the well groomed African American man gazed out the floor to ceiling windows of his exclusive hi rise lakefront apartment, the massive ore carrier Edwin Gott navigated its way into the Milwaukee harbor.
Shipping on Lake Michigan was rare for the winter months, but due to the earlier mild weather the lake had remained unfrozen. When the Lakeshore Apartments manager had shown him the place, it was the spectacular view of the waterfront that made the dwelling irresistible.
When the phone rang, Maurice Pitts turned from the window and checked out the LED readout. The number on the caller ID wasn’t familiar.
Maurice was a partner in the successful accounting firm Leonard and Pitts, and although he dated with regularity, he remained unmarried.
His mother continued to chide him good-naturedly about this fact, although in private she worried that at age forty her son might never tie the knot again. It had been eighteen years since his divorce, and Maurice vowed never to marry again unless the woman was perfect for him. Then, just a week ago, he’d rediscovered Tiffany Olson, a classmate of his from Custer High School.
As Maurice Pitts had pushed his shopping cart down the aisle, the attractive blonde woman reaching for the cereal box had looked familiar to him. In the next aisle, Maurice spoke to her.
“Excuse me. Do I know you? Is your name Tiffany?”
“I thought you looked familiar,” she said. “Aren’t you Maurice? Maurice Pitts?”
Maurice said, “Custer High School?”
“Oh gee. Maurice! Oh yeah I remember you. Wow—it’s been a long time. So how are you?”
“Doing fine. How ‘bout you?”
“Okay. Do you live around here?”
“No. I live on the East Side. My folks live nearby—just off of 55th and North, so I shop here once in a while.”
“No kidding? My mom lives just three blocks from here. Myself—I live on the south side. Hey, it’s nice to see you again.”
“You too.”
Tiffany said, “Well, I better keep moving.”
“Me too.”
Tiffany pushed her cart past.
As he continued up the aisle, something made him turn around. Tiffany had done the same. They both smiled when their eyes met. Maurice left his cart and walked back.
“Say, Tiffany, are you in a hurry?”
“Not really.”
“How would you like to stop for a drink or something—talk about old times? There’s a little corner bar right near my folk’s place—just a couple blocks away.”
“I suppose that’d be all right,” she said. “I can’t stay too long though ‘cause I have my mom’s car. My husband’s going to pick me up at her house when he gets off work.”
Maurice said, “I’ll wait for you outside then. You can follow me over there. I’m ready to check out.”
Tiffany smiled. “Okay. I’ll just be five minutes.”
It was a nice, friendly neighborhood taproom. After reminiscing over a drink, and then another, Tiffany begged off. She had to get back to her mom’s before Michael arrived. Although she said no, Maurice gave her his card with his business and home phone numbers.
Outside the bar, Tiffany said, “That was fun. It was really nice to see you again.”
“Same here. Say. Maybe we can do it again some time. You know, like when you’re shopping again. I usually take a break and see my folks on Thursdays. What do you say?”
“I think I’d like that. Yeah, why not?”
Awkward, they stood together. On impulse, not knowing why she did it, Tiffany raised her lips and kissed him. Caught unaware at first, unbelieving, Maurice returned the kiss. It lasted longer than either one expected. Tiffany felt his arm tighten around her waist. She didn’t resist. Instead, she gripped his arm and pulled it toward her.
When they stopped, his heart beat like a jackhammer.
Maurice said, “Will you call me?”
“Yes. I’ll call you. But I better go now.”
“See you next week?”
“We’ll see.”
Watching the big ship move into the harbor, Maurice again thought about Tiffany Olson—now Mrs. Tiffany Beckman, deciding he’d probably seen the last of her. After all, she was married—she’d mentioned her husband enough times. But the kiss haunted him. He decided he wanted to see her again. Engrossed with thoughts of her embrace, and the underlying passion of the kiss, he realized the phone was ringing.
“Hello?”
“Hello . . . Maurice, is that you?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“This is Tiffany.”
Maurice thought I didn’t think I’d ever hear from her again.
“Hi! This is a pleasant surprise.”
“Yeah, well, I just thought I’d call,” Tiffany said.
“You sound different . . . is something wrong?”
“I was wondering if you could do me a favor,” she said. “I need to get some things from home and I don’t have a way to get there. I wondered if you weren’t too busy, you might want to . . .”
“You’re not staying at home?”
“No. I . . . ah . . . I’m staying at my mom’s. I decided . . . I mean . . . . oh, hell. My husband and I separated. I don’t have a way to get there ‘cause my mom needs the—I mean—I just need . . .”
Maurice could tell she was crying.
“Tiffany, are you all right?”
“Yeah . . . it’s just that . . . I don’t know what to do. But I need to get some of my stuff. I want to go over there while Michael is at work.”
“Are you sure he’s at work? I don’t want to start any trouble. That’s the kind of drama I’d rather do without.”
“There won’t be trouble. It’ll be all right. He never misses work. Never.”
“Are you at your mom’s right now?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s the address?”
When Tiffany gave him the address, he promised to pick her up in a half an hour.
Tiffany waited at the door of her mother’s house, watching for the maroon Escalade. A few minutes later, Maurice pulled up, double-parked.
When the power lock jumped up, he waved her to get in.
“Gee thanks, Maurice. I really appreciate this.”
“Hey, no problem. What are friends for? Do you have a lot of stuff to move?”
“No. I just need to get my clothes—maybe a couple of suitcases is all.”
Maurice turned to her and smiled.
“No appliances then? Refrigerators, freezers?”
She reached over and touched his arm. When their eyes met, she smiled.
“Thanks for coming. No, nothing like that. Just some personal stuff. I’ll be in and out.”
“Okay. Just tell me when to turn.”
Michael lay in bed and thought, Christ I’m starving—probably from not eating anything yesterday. No appetite with Tiffany gone. She’s got to talk to me. She’ll be coming over today—that’s what the note said. I’ll just run out and grab a bite and wait for her to come home then.
Ten minutes after Michael departed for the local George Webb’s Restaurant, a maroon Cadillac Escalade drove through the back alley, coming to a stop at Michael’s driveway and pausing just long enough for Tiffany to get out. The big SUV then continued around the block and parked in front of the house.
At the restaurant counter stool, Michael finished his breakfast and paid the bill and tip. The waitress noticed the tip and smiled.
“Thanks, hon. Come again soon now, y’hear?”
Michael returned the smile.
“Damn good breakfast. Thanks.”
Feeling better now, he walked out to his car. When he arrived at home, he parked in back and entered the house through the back door. Again, there was a note on the kitchen table.
Mike,
I stopped by to get some of my things. Please do not call my mom’s house. I’m not ready to talk to you.
Tiffany
Michael rushed to the front of the house and looked out the window. Not seeing Tiffany’s mother’s car, he noticed instead the big maroon Caddy SUV parked directly in front of the house. He saw Tiffany in the passenger’s seat, laughing and talking to the driver. Just as he rushed outside, the Caddy was pulling away. Michael stopped dead in his tracks, mouth open, incredulous.
What the . . . who is she . . . oh my God what the hell is she doing with a black son of a bitch?
Sensing motion, Michael darted his eyes across the street. The nosey neighbor woman had opened up her drapes to have a better look. When she met Michael’s eye, she quickly closed the curtains.
What in the hell is going on? I don’t believe it! No wonder she’s been acting like this. She left me for a goddam coon? And she doesn’t want me to call her mom’s house? She needs to think? Bitch!
Committing the license plate number to memory, Michael stormed back into the house. After writing the plate number down on the pad by the phone, he paced. Thoughts in turmoil, frantic now, he grabbed the phone and keyed in Lacy’s number.
“Hello?”
“Lacy, you want to fill me in? Let me in on the big secret? What the hell is Tiffany doing with a black prick? Jesus Christ why didn’t you tell me this shit was going on?”
“Mike, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. That’s ridiculous!”
“Ridiculous my ass! I just saw her leave with the son of a bitch. In a big Caddy. Don’t tell me you didn’t know about this! I’m coming over right now!”
“Mike I don’t know what’s going on, but if you come over here I’m calling the police. I think I’m going to call them anyway. You’re talking crazy.”
“When she gets there you better have her call me or I will come over. I mean it! Jesus Christ I can’t believe it! If I don’t hear from her in a half-hour I’m coming over to have a little talk with her. The goddam whore!”
Lacy said, “I don’t have to listen to this shit!”
She slammed the receiver down in the cradle.
The phone rang twenty-five minutes later.
Livid, nearly out of control, Michael grabbed the receiver and screamed, “You better tell me what’s going on. How could you do this to me?”
After a moment when no one replied, Michael said, “If you don’t answer me right now I’m coming over and you’d better be there. You got some goddam explaining to do.”
The person on the other end cleared his throat. A man’s voice said, “Mr. Beckman? I’m sorry but this isn’t who you think it is.”
“What? Who is this?”
Michael finally looked at caller ID and realized that the call wasn’t from Lacy’s.
Michael murmured, “Oh Jesus Christ I’m sorry. I thought . . .”
After a slight delay, the man’s voice said, “Mr. Beckman, my name is William Samster. I was your Aunt Esther’s attorney. Mr. Beckman may I extend to you my condolences for the death of your aunt?”
Michael thought Samster? Isn’t Samster a Jew name? I didn’t know she had a Jew lawyer. Jesus Christ, what next?
“Oh man, I’m sorry Mr. Samster. As you might have guessed I’m having a bit of a personal problem here. I apologize.”
“No need for that, Mr. Beckman. The reason I’m calling is to discuss information regarding the disposition of your aunt’s assets. Are you aware that your aunt had a will?”
“No, I didn’t know that—but as far as I know, I think we were the only ones left. I mean, I think I’m Aunt Esther’s only living relative.”
“That’s correct, sir. Your aunt did have a will, and you are named as sole beneficiary. Would it be possible for you to make an appointment with me at my office, so we can go over the details?”
“I can do that, yes.”
“When would be a convenient time for you, Mr. Beckman?”
“Anytime. I just got laid off from my job so I’m free during the day. For the time being, anyway.”
“Will you be free tomorrow after lunch? Say 1:30 in the afternoon? My office is on 62nd and Lincoln Avenue. Right on the southeast corner. You can’t miss it.”
“I’ll be there, Mr. Samster.”
After hanging up, still furious at what he’d seen, Michael went out to the car. He started it up, and sat for several minutes, thinking. Putting the transmission in reverse, he backed into the alley and stopped. A minute later, he pulled back into the driveway.
To hell with her. She wants to be with a nappy headed jig that’s fine with me. I’ll never touch the bitch again.
CHAPTER 6
Lacy waited by the front window.
Tiffany never mentioned anything about seeing a black man. Why would Mike even say something like that? What in the world is the matter with him? He’s losing it!
When the maroon SUV stopped in front of the house, Lacy looked carefully to see who was in the driver’s seat. Mike was right. It was a black man. As Lacy watched, she was astounded to see Tiffany lean over and kiss the man. The man got out of the SUV and came around to the curbside. He opened the back door. By this time Tiffany had gotten out and the black man handed her two suitcases. She chatted with him for a minute. As he got in to the SUV, Tiffany made her way to the house.
Lacy held the door open for her daughter.
“Who was that?”
“Oh, that was just Maurice. He gave me a ride over to the house to get some of my stuff. I would have asked you for your car but you were still at Wal-Mart.”
“Maurice? Where do you know him from? You never said anything about a . . .”
“He’s a friend from high school. Didn’t I tell you? No, I guess I didn’t. I ran into him when I was food shopping last week—when I was here, remember? When I went to Pick ‘n Save? Anyway—I ran into him, and we talked for a while, that’s all. He offered to give me a ride over to the house today. He’s really a nice guy, mom. We knew a lot of the same people in school. It was fun talking to him again—you know, talking about old friends.”
“He offered? When? Did you call him?”
“Yeah, he gave me his number.”
“You didn’t give him my number, did you? Tiffany you know I don’t like my number handed out.”
“Geez, don’t worry about it, Mom. I didn’t give him your number.”
“But if you called him from here, he probably knows it already! Everybody has caller ID now. I don’t want you making any more calls to him from here. You know I don’t like those people!”
“Don’t like those people? Since when? I never thought you were a bigot!”
“I’m not!”
“Yes you are! What did you just say? Jesus Christ, when are people going to realize that those people as you call them are no different than we are?”
“I don’t want you seeing a black man.”
“I’ll see who I want to see!”
“I was watching you! It looked like you . . . like you kissed him!”
“So what if I did? He’s an old friend!”
“But you kissed him. I saw it!”
“So what if I did? What’s the big deal? And you want to know something else, Ma? I liked it! And you want to know something else? I’m going to see him again! So get over it!”
“But Tiffany! You’re married! You can’t . . .”
“You call what I have with Mike a marriage? Jesus Christ Ma, he shits all over me! I can’t take it any more! I told him that I was going to divorce him. He’s just going to have to deal with it!
Lacy said, “He called.”
“Mike called? Dammit, Ma! I told you not to answer the phone if it was him!
“Tiffany I didn’t know where you were. You were gone. How was I supposed to know that you went over there?”
“I told you I had to go over and get the rest of my stuff!”
“I know, but I thought . . . oh it doesn’t matter. Mike was really mad. I think he’s coming over here. I told him if he does I’m calling the police.”
“”