Dying for Revenge (9 page)

I read a few pages of
Batman.
This Batman was different; gritty, unshaven, much darker, unhinged, and on the verge of being a psychopath. Hurting people in ways the television Batman and movie Batman never did. The Dark Knight was obsessive and had deep psychological problems. Like the Joker. This version was more realistic than any comic I had read when I was a kid in Montreal, this Batman a loose cannon and ready for men in white suits to put him in a psychiatric ward.

In the kid’s eyes I was a demon. A demon he had befriended, a demon he admired.

 

I opened the third DNA kit, ran swabs inside my cheeks, collected my own deoxyribonucleic acid, my genetic instructions, my information, my blueprints, my truth.

I labeled each kit. Catherine was X. The kid’s was Y. Mine was Z. Each on swabs that cost thirty U.S. dollars, another one-twenty U.S. to process each one. Four hundred and fifty American dollars to put values to X, Y, and Z and solve the unknown values in an algebraic equation.

I was an unknown. It felt as if I had always been an unknown.

Some days not knowing who I was bothered me. Some days it didn’t.

When I was the kid’s age it didn’t bother me, never thought about it, never cared.

At some point the kid would care. The kid would want to ask his own questions.

When I had asked him if he had ever shot anyone, his answer had left me shaken.

 

Buckhead.

An area that had Atlanta’s most important business districts and wealthiest neighborhood, the Beverly Hills of the South. An area that got its name from a story about a man who killed a large buck deer and placed the severed head inside a local tavern.

The same area where Sir Elton John lived part-time, somewhere off the famous Peachtree Road.

The DNA kits I had, I took them to FedEx, stared at them, hesitated before I dropped them in.

Soon that mystery would be answered via DNA Solutions, Incorporated.

It weighed on me but I kept telling myself it was the right thing to do.

If someone had done that for me when I was a kid my world would’ve been different.

I wanted to talk to somebody about it. Maybe reach out to an old lover, maybe call Konstantin, but I wasn’t the type of man who called up others just because the weight of the world was on his shoulders. I stopped on Piedmont Road and valet-parked at Sambuca, a place with good-natured doormen who ushered me inside the lush, Moroccan-influenced décor, a place with dim lighting and lots of animal prints, art for sale on the walls by the bathrooms. Lights so dim a man could go blind trying to read a menu. A good place for a man who didn’t want to be seen to become a shadow. I didn’t come to eat, wanted to sit and think while the jazz band added a soundtrack to my thoughts. I wanted to be alone but I didn’t want to be by myself, not this early. I needed to be alone in a crowd of people and music.

As alone as I could be with a loaded gun tucked in the small of my back.

Detroit was still out there.

This hot spot was the cousin of the place I had hung out in on a date down in Dallas, Texas. That had been two years ago. Right before that life-changing fiasco in Detroit.

A beautiful woman who had auburn locks that hung down to her tailbone went onstage and joined the band. The featured saxophonist. She began playing David Sanborn’s “The Dream.” She wore a black dress, a fitted number that showed her slender frame had dangerous curves. A brown-skinned woman with cinnamon freckles on her face. I wanted her. I wanted to fuck that pretty woman and leave my problems inside of her. Just because I wanted it didn’t mean it would happen.

I went to the open bar, found a seat where I could watch the door at all times. I had been conditioned the same way soldiers who had gone off to battle had been conditioned, those who had a hard time leaving the battlefield and fitting into the regular world. When I ordered I watched the person making my drink, knowing that a drop of poison could be put in my beverage on Detroit’s behalf, and while jazz filled the air, I’d find myself dying a slow death, like the Russian spy did not long ago, his death slow and painful, his dying worse than death itself. For the past six months, since the Cayman Islands, I had stopped drinking at bars—didn’t matter if I saw the bartender making my drink; I knew the poison could already be spread in the glass he had chosen to serve me. Anyone could be on the enemy’s payroll.

But tonight I needed a drink. I needed a Jack and Coke without the Coke.

A beautiful woman came in and sat next to me. A beautiful woman with long blond hair, hair that was full and wavy and styled in a Veronica Lake peekaboo-bang number
,
that World War II hairstyle that covered one eye and almost half of the face, leaving half of her beauty hidden behind a falling curl of hair. She had on black calfskin boots with about a five-inch stiletto heel, tall fuck-me boots with sexy stitching.

I sipped my liquor and complimented her on her boots, asked her who designed those.

She gave me a half grin, said, “Christian Louboutin.”

“Nice style.”

She smiled. “Bought them at Phipps today.”

To go with her boots she wore black jeans, those, too, designer, jeans that fit her as tight as a grandmother’s hug, and a black blouse that was fitted and open enough to expose the swell of her breasts. Big hoop earrings revealed themselves inside her wavy mane. I don’t know who said something to whom next, but we ended up sitting elbow to elbow, talking while the band played.

The smell of cordite was in my flesh; I smelled it despite the shower I’d had.

I was wearing gunpowder like it was my favorite cologne.

The woman next to me asked, “You from Atlanta?”

I shook my head. “Montreal.”

“Never been there. How is it?”

“Cold. Two seasons. Winter and almost-winter.”

“Sounds like Minnesota.”

“Minnesota’s two seasons are winter and still-winter.”

She laughed.

I was once again a hired gun struggling to fit into the regular world. Her voice and the way she articulated her words told me she was a professional woman; her wide smile told me she was in the mood for chitchatting with the opposite sex. Since our moods were similar, I obliged. The wine she was sipping gave her manner a sexiness that reminded me of a beautiful attorney I had met on a flight to London.

She motioned at the band, at the beautiful woman playing the sax.

She said, “She used to be in the news business. Think she’s from North Carolina.”

We fell into general conversation and an hour passed like seconds. Obama’s speech on racism, she thought it was one of the most important speeches of the millennium and wanted to know what I thought about it. Guess she wanted my perspective. We talked about how Canada controlled American oil so the politicians talking about being tough on NAFTA was nothing more than a joke.

Conversation evolved from politics to travel. Talked about London. Other countries. She hadn’t been to Amsterdam but wanted to go. She had gone to Barcelona and loved it there, had stayed at a wonderful hotel near La Rambla, the Apsis Splendid, a small hotel with big rooms, situated in the central area, a very safe area. We talked about a few other places. She told me she had roots in Jamaica but was brought up in a small town in Georgia. She didn’t question me or my past so I didn’t have to lie. She did most of the talking and sipped red wine while I nursed my dark liquor and listened. She had a wedding ring on her left hand, a nice number that sparkled in dim light, but the way she leaned in and touched my hand over and over as she chatted didn’t make it seem as if that diamond ring mattered.

She said, “You’re well-traveled.”

“I’ve seen a few places. More than some, less than others.”

She sipped her wine, bounced her leg, her flirtatious smile telling me she was feeling restless.

I hadn’t had a nice conversation in months. I hadn’t been this relaxed in just as long. Had been a while since I didn’t feel as if Death was tiptoeing behind me, trying to tap on my shoulder.

I hadn’t come there for chitchat, but part of me needed this. A man always needed a woman.

Her aroma was magnetic, held me where I was, made me want to inhale her.

She asked, “Do you know who I am?”

“You’re that newscaster on all the billboards.”

“That’s me.”

“Jewell Stewart?”

“Jewell
Stewark.
Not
Stewart.
”

“You don’t wear your hair like that on the air.”

“I’m forced to be a conservative lady on the air.”

We shared a small laugh.

We drank and listened to the sax player. Alcohol was amazing. Magnified every need, every emotion. Made people feel invincible. Made people not care that Death was stalking them. Made people attractive. Made people want to connect with strangers. Jewell Stewark touched me, smiled as I smiled at her. She bit the corner of her lip, paused, contemplating her next question.

She asked, “How long are you in town?”

“One night.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Ritz-Carlton.”

She hummed. “Maybe we should leave when she finishes this song.”

She rubbed her finger on my hand, smiled an anxious smile, all of her professionalism giving way to desires magnified by alcohol. I put my hand on her upper thigh, ran my finger up and down her leg.

Five minutes later she was inside her convertible Jaguar, following me toward Peachtree Road.

 

Jewell Stewark moaned.

She was upside down, in my arms, her blond hair hanging to my feet, her thighs on both sides of my neck, squeezing my neck as my hands held and squeezed her soft ass. I savored her while she took me inside her mouth, sucked me and made it a vertical and simultaneous exchange of pleasure.

She weighed between nine and ten stone, weight that felt light in my arms.

I eased the Jewell of the South onto the soft bed, pulled her shivering body and moans toward me, did what I wanted to the woman who made love with her five-inch-heel black leather boots on and her black fitted shirt wide open: twisted her, sucked her, pulled her hair, moved her around the suite, from chair to dresser to wall to window, fucked her with her sweaty face against the tinted glass. My double suite looked down at Lenox Mall and the office lights creating stars in the darkened city. She wanted it from behind, told me she loved being taken that way, to take her and fuck her like I wanted to come. Her Veronica Lake mane bounced, sometimes covering her face until she pulled her hair out of the way.

I stared beyond our reflection in the darkened window just in time to see her smiling face on the side of a bus as it went by down below. That bus created a strange moment, because the Jewell of the South’s smiling face was in a news advert on its side while Jewell’s orgasmic expression was in the window’s reflection. She remained ambitious with me and I remained rough with her.

Jewell Stewark loved it all. Loved it so much she wouldn’t let it end. Told me to take her back to the bed. Her wish, my command. When I was on top she had her hips thrusting up to meet every stroke. When I was behind her she pushed back into me. I moved her blouse and grabbed her soft breasts, fucked her as hard as I could, felt sweat gathering on her neck and back, fucked her the way she kept telling me to fuck her, and when she told me she wanted me to come down her throat, I did that too.

She swallowed and panted, looked up at me, my erection filling her mouth until it slipped away. Then she wiped her mouth and hid her face in her hands, turned her back to me, and cried.

She said, “I make love to
him
like that . . . I please
him
like that . . . and it’s
never
been enough.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, everything turning cold, not knowing what to say, so I said nothing.

Right then that part of me that wanted to fix all things almost rose to the top, almost made me ask the local celebrity if she wanted me to fix her problems, like I had fixed so many problems for so many people. Those words stayed on the inside of my lips, rested on my tongue until I swallowed them all.

She ran her hands through her tousled mane and said she had to get home.

I gave her a brief nod that said I understood, that her wedding ring spoke volumes.

Black boots still on, she hurried inside the bathroom, heels clicking on tile, closed the door.

The Jewell of the South washed up, did her makeup, gathered her clothing from where it was scattered all across the suite, stayed in the sitting area as she dressed. I left her alone, remained in the window.

Back to her, I waited for her to leave. Waited to hear the door open and close without a farewell.

I stood there until I was interrupted by the sound of a slightly inebriated woman standing at my door. I faced her. She was a gorgeous woman, the kind you looked at and wanted to keep for your own. The kind of woman some men would kill to get and kill to keep.

She said, “Didn’t mean to become so emotional and break down like that.”

With every woman I came in contact with I think I understood women a little less.

She asked, “Would you mind if I stayed here a little longer?”

Stay or leave, at this point I didn’t care one way or the other. Still, I remained cool with it, my voice kind, told her she could have the bed and I’d take the couch in the other room. I grabbed one of the extra pillows and made myself comfortable, gave her some space.

I was in the mood to be alone until the next sun; my thoughts were enough to keep me company.

A few minutes later she came in the front room, her steps slow, stopped about three feet away, leaned against the wall, her head slightly tilted downward and her wavy mane falling across her left eye. I sat up, looked at her silhouette. She was naked except for the high-heeled boots. I wasn’t surprised.