The Prodigal Son Read online

  CHAPTER 3

  Monday came all too soon, and as planned, he was westbound on Interstate 10. He glanced at the clock on the dash of the Camaro: 11:30. It was much later than he had planned to leave. He had not slept well last night; the demons paid him another one of their visits, and as usual had left at sunrise. He wrestled with them most of the night, through the deep darkness of the early morning, dozing now and again, waiting for them to depart. He had gone back to sleep after they had left, and now he regretted oversleeping. But hey, it’ still Monday morning, he reasoned. He was just now crossing the bridge over the Perdido River that formed the western boundary between Florida and Alabama, and he knew he could be in New Orleans by midafternoon if he didn’t stop. If he did stop for lunch and a couple of breaks, then certainly no later than dusk.

  It dawned on him that he really didn’t have to rush to get there. He had not planned to make the hit until tomorrow. Today was for the drive to New Orleans. And for other personal matters: secure the rental car, check into the hotel downtown, get a nice dinner, have a few drinks. And try like hell to get a good night’s sleep. Enough anyway to take care of business tomorrow and have the rest of the evening for some fun in the Quarter. Might even stay a couple more days, he thought. So he eased back in his seat and relaxed, determined to enjoy the ride and have some time to listen to some music and think and plan.

  He glanced down at the speedometer. It read just under sixty. Watch your speed, he thought. Keep it right there. He knew he’d have to be cautious on this stretch of the interstate, more so than his latest venture into the state, as the Alabama Highway Patrol strictly enforced the mandated fifty-five miles per hour speed limit. Their enforcement bordered on an almost religious fervor. He had no encounters with them yet, nor did he plan to. It was much easier dealing with the small-time county deputies who worked far lonelier roads than this. A pull over by a state trooper on this busy stretch of interstate might prove to be a major hassle for him, and he wasn’t willing to risk that. Though the Camaro’s V8 and all those horses were tempting him to floor it, he held the speed just above the legal fifty-five and figured he’d be better off doing so. So he popped in his ZZ Top Tres Hombres cassette, rewound it back to “La Grange,” cranked up the volume, and figured it was best to act like just another law-abiding, average citizen driving to Mobile. Ease on down the road, big guy, he thought. You’ll get there when you get there. Ain’t like you have some nine-to-fiver you just gotta get to. The soundtrack with “La Grange” started to play. And watch the horses, Jack added in thought. Keep them reigned in today.

  He comforted himself in the knowledge there’d be other times, other days, between contracts, when he could find some lonely stretch of highway out in the countryside north of Pensacola where he could open it up and let them loose again. For now he was content to fall in tune with the beat and the lyrics blasting from the cassette player. “Rumor spreadin’ ’round. In that Texas town. About that shack outside La Grange. And you know what I’m talkin’ about. Just let me know, if you wanna go, to that home on the range. . .”

  * * *

  Pastures, farms, creeks, and thick forests of pine flew by him, and occasionally an exit to some small town broke off the interstate. The land rose higher now as hills began to appear as he neared the Spanish Fort exit. He knew from past travels there were some fast-food places at this exit and he momentarily thought about pulling off the interstate and going through one of the drive-thrus there for some late breakfast and coffee, but he decided to keep going and wait until he had gone farther. Make it a lunch stop instead. His bladder was holding out for now, and he figured he’d wait to find one of the other fast-food places west of Mobile. A Hardee’s or Burger King or a McDonald’s would do just fine for a quick lunch to hold him over until he could delight his senses at one of the many wonderful full-service restaurants to choose from in New Orleans.

  He came to the crest of the hill and saw Mobile Bay up ahead, with the interstate spanning its smooth grey waters. A cloudless blue sky sat above the bay and the city skyline to the west, and the Camaro rolled down the hill toward the bay and the long span of highway that crossed it.

  Traffic began to thicken as he drove across the causeway; he flowed with it and was glad when he saw the sign TRACTOR TRAILERS EXIT HERE, where the big rigs were forced onto the two-lane causeway to use the old Bankhead Tunnel under the river. He and the other smaller vehicles were allowed to remain on the interstate, and then Jack saw the twin tunnels up ahead that moved traffic east and west under the Mobile River. The Camaro quickly entered the westbound tunnel. The highway dropped slightly and then rose again, and it entered back into the bright sunlight as the road twisted and curved through the downtown area toward the western suburbs and towns of Tillman’s Corner, Theodore, and Irvington.

  The traffic began to thin out gradually as more and more of the vehicles alongside and ahead of him took various exits into downtown Mobile. Jack continued in the right-hand westbound lane and noticed there were a number of post-Frederic blue roof tarps still on the houses that stood. He also took notice of the many empty slabs where there once had been houses. It was when he hit the Grand Bay interchange and then the Mississippi state line that he noted the real devastation that hurricane did a year and a half ago. He remembered watching the news broadcasts out of Mobile showing how Frederic had slammed into Dauphin Island in the early evening darkness that September and pushed its way inland. He observed many of the tall and slender pines, with their green tops shorn off, standing like matchsticks; many of them remained leaning northward from the fury of the wind that came so quickly from the south. It would be months, perhaps years, before the area fully recovered from the effects of this storm, but the people along the Gulf Coast were resilient and moved on with their lives. Good for them, he thought. He applauded their “what’s done is done” attitude and admired their tenacity and willingness to rebuild.

  * * *

  Jack approached the Moss Point-Pascagoula exit and decided to find a fast-food place now. A sign beckoned him with its message: BURGER KING JUST AHEAD. He pulled off the interstate, decelerated, and slowed to a stop. He turned left onto Highway 63 and crossed under the interstate and saw the HOME OF THE WHOPPER sign a quarter of a mile on his left. Bladder full and stomach empty, Jack quickly pulled into the parking lot, found an empty space just across from the entrance to the building, and shut off the engine. He checked the glove compartment. He knew it was locked, but he checked it anyway. Better to err on the side of caution, he thought. He opened the door, hit the AUTOMATIC LOCK button on the door’s trim panel, closed the door, and checked the door handle to reassure himself it, too, was locked and secure. He crossed the lot, entered the building, and quickly located the sign for the men’s room. He walked down the narrow corridor and pushed open the door, only to find both urinals occupied. At one of them he saw a little boy aiming carefully into it with a tall, heavyset man hovering over him. He noted the toilet stall’s door was closed and locked. Gotta pee like a racehorse and I have to wait, he thought.

  “Come on, Joshua, hurry up and finish,” the big man urged the little boy.

  “Okay, Daddy,” the boy replied. “I’m hurry-in.”

  The big man turned toward Jack and commented, “Sorry, pal. It takes him a little while to get it done. Hope you ain’t in too big a hurry.”

  “I am, but there’s no sense in getting upset over it,” Jack replied. “He’ll be finished soon enough.”

  “Okay, Daddy, all done,” Joshua said. “You gotta go, too, Daddy?” the little boy asked as he was fumbling with his pant zipper.

  “Nah, son, I’m good. But this man here sure looks like he needs to,” the man replied. “It’s all yours, mister.”

  “Yeah, it’s all yours, mister,” Joshua repeated as he continued trying to pull up the zipper on his pants.

  Jack smiled at the little boy and watched as the big man tenderly reached down to help his son finish zipping up. When the boy stepped
aside Jack took his place, and as he stood in front of the urinal he heard the two of them open the door. As they started out the door he heard the little boy say, “Daddy, Daddy. Can I have a choc-lit shake after I eat my hamburger?”

  Jack finished up in the bathroom and went down the little hallway that led to the lobby of the restaurant. He waited in line as a young couple ahead of him placed and paid for their order. He scanned the small crowd of diners while he waited. He quickly spotted Joshua and his dad, and smiled again as he watched the little boy with the paper crown on his head. He saw the boy take the last bite of the hamburger, watched as he chewed it while eyeing the small cup in front of him as he did so. Probably the chocolate shake, Jack thought. Joshua finished chewing, swallowed, and turned to his father. Even over the din of the lunchtime crowd Jack could hear the boy clearly.

  “OK, Daddy. I’m through with my hamburger now. Can I have my choc-lit shake?”

  “All right, son. Go ahead,” his father replied.

  Jack smiled as he watched Joshua reach for the paper cup and pull it toward him. The little boy placed his lips around the straw and took a long drink of the shake, and Jack watched as the little boy again turned to his father.

  “Want some of my choc-lit shake, Daddy?” the boy asked. “It’s real good.”

  “That’s okay, son,” his father replied. “You finish it. It’s all yours. You been a good boy for your mama this week, and—”

  Jack heard a female voice from behind him say, “May I take your order, sir?” He turned to see a blonde teenage girl at the counter. She looked past Jack, at the long line behind him, and sighed.

  “Excuse me,” Jack said. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Are you ready to place your order, sir?” she impatiently asked.

  “Uh, yeah,” Jack said. “I need mine made to order, a certain way. Your guy back there can do that, right?”

  The girl at the counter looked at Jack again. She sighed again. Then she seemed to see Jack for the first time, noticing the handsome, clean-cut, well-built man standing in front of her. Her prior impatience and attitude changed dramatically. “You can have it any way you want it here, sir,” she added in a slow Mississippi drawl.

  Jack knew a flirt when he saw one. He figured he could really have it his way if he wanted it to go that far. But he was here for the food. After all, that’s what they were known for: “Have It Your Way.” But she apparently had something else in mind. She’s laying it on kinda thick, he thought. Jack noticed her pale-blue, piercing eyes, eyes that were framed by long lashes. He noticed the perfect white teeth. Eyes and hair and teeth that screamed, “I’m looking for a husband to get me outta here! And you might just do it for me.” He had seen so many of them like her, and he imagined her to be one of those girls who had few options available to them, girls who went out and got a job at a place like this, to earn some money but really to flirt and giggle with customers like him as they tried to nab a husband as soon the high school graduation ceremony was over, only to have her first baby at nineteen and be divorced at twenty-one or twenty-two and find herself back behind the same counter, or one just like it at McDonald’s or Hardee’s. She would end up working wherever she could for whoever would give her the most hours on her schedule so she could feed her babies and go to the local junior college for a second life after having failed the first so miserably. It saddened him to think of her and her future, but it was really none of his business. So he ignored her feeble attempts at flirting, glanced up at the menu to avoid looking into those eyes, and called out his order to her.

  “Make it a Whopper. No mayo. Just lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, some mustard. Medium fries, medium Coke,” Jack stated. He kept his eyes on the menu board above Pretty Blue Eyes’ head. He knew if he looked into those eyes she’d have him. Hook, line, and sinker. Would it matter to her if she knew he was thirty years old to her seventeen, maybe eighteen? Jeez, he thought. She’s still in high school. It may not matter to her, but it certainly mattered to him. Jack wasn’t about to get too personal with this one—it was way too dangerous.

  “Oh, and add a small chocolate shake,” he added. “In honor of Joshua being such a good boy for his mama this week.”

  Miss Pretty Blue Eyes heard the order for the shake, but the honorarium for little Joshua went straight over her blonde head. That didn’t matter. She wasn’t expected to catch it, much less know what it was about. He left it at that.

  “Will that order be for here or to go?” she asked.

  Her tone was more serious now. Having lost interest, the flirting ceased and she turned very businesslike in any further interaction with Jack. She told him the cost of his order. He reached into his left front pocket, extracted a ten-dollar bill, and gave it to her. Miss Blue Eyes handed him his change, and Jack stepped aside to let the teenage boy behind him move forward to place his order. He watched Miss Pretty Blue Eyes’ countenance change dramatically as she spoke to the customer who now stood in front of her. Unlike Jack, the teenager wasn’t looking up at the menu board. He was staring straight into those piercing blue eyes.

  “Hey there, Jimmy,” she said. Honey dripped off her tongue as she spoke. “I saw you playin’ in the game Friday afternoon. You were awesome. Hittin’ those two homeruns. Beatin’ Biloxi like ya’ll did. That was somethin’ to see.”

  Jimmy blushed, and continued to gaze into her eyes. Prospective husband Jimmy. Whew! Jack thought, observing this very un-businesslike transaction taking place at the counter. Be careful, young stud. She’s out to get you. Hook, line, and sinker.

  * * *

  Clutching two carry-out bags in his left hand—one with his burger and fries, the other with his coke and shake—Jack politely held the door for an elderly couple as they were leaving at the same time.

  “Thank you, young man,” the lady said.

  “That’s mighty nice of you, son,” the man added. “Mighty nice, indeed,” he repeated.

  They reminded Jack a little of his own mother and father, the way they walked so closely together. The old man held his wife’s hand.

  “My pleasure,” Jack said as he let them pass. He let go of the door and reached into his pocket to extract his set of keys. He watched the elderly couple a moment longer as they walked down the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, hand in hand, heading toward their car. He then turned away from watching them and started toward his own car. He saw two baseball-capped, T-shirted young white men, probably early to mid-twenties, standing beside the Camaro. T-shirt number one, his head covered by a New Orleans Saints ball cap, was bent over, looking through the driver’s side window; number two, wearing a Dallas Cowboys cap, stood watch on the opposite side of the vehicle. Cowboy Cap spotted Jack approaching the car.

  “Oh, man! Here he comes,” he said to Saints Cap.

  Saints Cap looked up quickly and spotted Jack approaching the Camaro. “This here ride yours, mister?” he asked. “Shore is a nice one—1978, ’79? I bet she’s got a V8 with a four-barrel quad-carburetor—350 cubic inch, right, mister?”

  “I didn’t know looking through the window could tell you so much about the engine,” Jack said.

  “Yeah, well, we was just checkin’ out the color of the interior,” Saints Cap replied. “I see it’s all black inside. Shoot man, it must git awful hot come summertime.”

  “Just move away from the car,” Jack commanded.

  He waited for them to make their move, and wasn’t surprised when they did. Nor was he disappointed. Saints Cap began walking toward him first. Cowboy Cap headed toward him, as well, but a little more reluctance showed in his step. Jack’s eyes missed nothing. Cowboy Cap was solid and stocky, but it was Saints Cap who concerned Jack the most. Saints Cap’s rapid approach and wiry frame alerted Jack he’d have to be dealt with first. Cowboy Cap began to falter and he held back momentarily, but soon quickened his pace as he watched Saints Cap move steadily and rapidly toward Jack.

  Jack placed his bags on the pavement, a foot or so a
way from his left foot, and readied himself for their approach. He set his stance: left leg slightly forward, right slightly back. Perfectly balanced. Ready. He closed his fists and held them in front of his chest, ready to strike.

  “Hey, Randy,” Cowboy Cap suddenly blurted out. “I don’t think we need to be messin’ with this one. He looks like he knows what he’s doin’.”

  Randy halted his approach, and without turning he spoke to Cowboy Cap. “Shoot, Billy. I ain’t afraid of this guy,” he replied. “Just ’cause he stands there lookin’ like Kwai Chang Caine don’t mean nothin’. I done beat one of these tae kwon do heads before and I can prob-ly take this one, too.”

  Jack smiled. Come and get me, you idiot.

  “Randy, I think you better listen to me this time,” Billy said. “He don’t look like that other fella. He looks like he knows what he’s doin’. What style karate is that, mister?”

  Jack never took his eyes off Randy as he replied, “That’s for you and your buddy to find out, isn’t it?”

  Billy walked up to Randy and grabbed him with both hands. “Randy, let’s go,” he said. “This ain’t worth it.”

  Randy shrugged Billy away. He glared at Jack, but something must have clicked in his brain; his aggressiveness slowly subsided. Jack kept his gaze fixed on him, nonetheless.

  “Shoot, mister,” Randy said, finally breaking the silence. “We was just admirin’ your wheels. No real harm in that, is there?”

  When Jack said nothing in reply, Randy and Billy turned and walked toward the entrance. Jack watched them until they entered the restaurant. He picked up his bags and backed toward his car, keeping his eyes on the entrance. He knew the type, and figured the wiry one—the one named Randy—might just change his mind and come back out and head toward him again. He put the key in the door lock and continued to watch, and through the window he could see the other—Billy—talking to Randy, who was staring back through the glass at Jack. Billy’s actions were quite animated, and Jack figured Billy was trying to talk some sense into the younger Randy. Jack got in his car, placed the two bags on the front floorboard on the passenger side, reached over, unlocked the glove compartment, and pulled out the .45 and placed it on his lap. He started the engine, shifted into reverse, and backed out of the parking space. He smiled when he spotted Randy coming out the front door of the Burger King, heading straight toward him. You idiot, he thought as he shifted into park, rolled the window down, pulled the slide back on the .45, and aimed the barrel at Randy’s chest. Randy came to an abrupt stop when he saw the gun in Jack’s right hand.