Angel Crawford #2: Even White Trash Zombies Get the Blues (7 page)

I shrugged. “Five. Maybe six.”

He lifted his beer after a second’s hesitation, took a defiant gulp. “So what now. You drag me back home like a fucking kid?”

“I’m not your enemy. And I’m not your jailer. I can’t make you come home, and I can’t make you stop drinking.” I shrugged. “I just want you to know I’m in your life no matter what.”

He set the beer down, scowled at me. “Where’d you learn to fight so dirty?”

I grinned, then nodded to the bartender. “Coke, please.”

Dad scowled, rolled his eyes, pushed the beer away. “Larry, give me the same.”

We sat in silence for a while, drinking our respective non-alcoholic drinks. It wasn’t exactly a companionable silence, but it wasn’t quite hostile either.

“I dunno what to do, baby,” he said after a while. “I didn’t wake up this morning and decide to go cash in the cans and then go get a drink.” He muttered a curse. “Damn it, I went to cash in the cans, and I was gonna buy a new damn lawnmower, surprise you.”

I had to smile. I believed him. “Those fuckers are expensive now.”

“More than I expected. I mean they had some cheap ones, but I’m too old and tired to be pushing a lawnmower around, and I was hoping to get a self-propelled one.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “So I left the store and instead of just going home and thinking about it, I decide I’m pissed and I need a drink.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know what that’s like.” I didn’t bring up the possibility of rehab. We’d talked about it. He’d even agreed to do it, but we couldn’t afford it. That was it, plain and simple. Rehab was expensive, and Dad didn’t have health insurance. And don’t get me started on the state-run facilities. The only other option was AA. I wasn’t a big fan of the preachiness of Alcoholics Anonymous, but at least it was affordable. Not that he’d gone to a meeting yet.

“I’m sorry I’m such a piece of shit, Angelkins,” he
mumbled, gazing with hound dog eyes at the bubbles in his Coke.

“What do you want me to say to that, Dad?” I said, showing a bit of my anger for the first time. “That’s such a bullshit statement. You want me to feel sorry for you? I feel sorry for you the same way I feel sorry for me. We both got fucked in a lot of ways, but at the same time we fucked ourselves. Or do you just want forgiveness? ’Cause, to be honest, if all you want is forgiveness you gotta know that I sure as shit wouldn’t be here right now if you didn’t have it.”

My dad blinked at me. “I ain’t near drunk enough to handle how much you’ve changed.”

“Me neither,” I said fervently. “C’mon, I’ll take you home. You can call one of your buddies to bring you back for the truck in the morning.”

To my relief he didn’t protest, though I’d been prepared to give him the speech about how he’d been arrested not long ago for domestic violence, and he didn’t need a drunk driving arrest on top of that. He silently paid his tab and then followed me out to my car, and as soon as he was in, he tipped back the seat and closed his eyes. I was pretty sure he wasn’t really asleep, but I didn’t mind. In fact it made for an easy way out of any need to come up with conversation. The domestic violence arrest had been for him beating the crap out of me, and even though we were both working hard to put things back together, there were still plenty of raw spots.

He opened his eyes as I stopped the car in front of the house, confirming my suspicion that he’d simply been avoiding the need to talk to me. I followed him up the steps and inside. We’d come a long way toward getting
the house fixed up and cleaned up, but we still had a long way to go. The broken window in the front was still held together by duct tape, the furniture looked like yard sale rejects, and the carpet held numerous stains from who the hell knew what. But there was a lot less clutter, and I was trying my best to not let the dirty dishes go for more than a couple of days.

“I’m going to bed,” my dad mumbled, heading for his bedroom. I simply nodded and headed to my own, wishing the wounds between us could be healed as easily as the cuts on my wrists.

My dad was still asleep when I got up the next morning—not surprising since I popped awake at eight frickin’ a.m. despite my intense desire to sleep as much of the day away as possible. Or at least until eleven since I wasn’t back on call again until noon.

I stared at the ceiling for a while, hoping to fall back asleep, but instead my mind decided to go racing around the whole business about me needing to pass my GED, and I eventually gave up and got out of bed. After taking a quick shower and pulling on cargo pants and a coroner’s office shirt, I crept out of the house, closing the door quietly behind me as I tugged on a jacket. Things were a lot better between my dad and me, but old habits of tiptoeing around him died hard.

The closest bookstore was in Tucker Point, and the only reason I knew how to find it was because about a month ago an elderly patron had been found dead in one of their reading chairs; and apparently had been dead for a few hours before employees realized that he hadn’t turned a page in the book in his lap in quite some time.

The woman behind the counter had pitch-black hair with a bright blue streak in it along with pierced lip, eyebrow, and nose. But the greeting she gave me was warm and friendly. I managed a smile in response, feeling absurdly like an utter imposter. When had I last been in a bookstore with the intent of actually buying a book? Had I ever?
Now that’s pathetic
, I thought with a sigh.

“Can I help you find anything?” she asked with a bright smile.

“Um, no, just looking,” I mumbled, then hurried toward the back of the store. Almost immediately I began to regret dismissing her help, since I didn’t have the faintest idea where GED study guides would be. And if I went back and asked now, I’d look like a double dumbass, since not only could I have asked when I came in, but also because I needed to take the GED in the first place. Yeah, I knew I was being a moron, but hey, I wasn’t famous for being rational.

It took close to ten minutes of wandering, but I finally found a section that had guides for all sorts of tests—most of which I’d never even heard of. MCAT, LSAT, GMAT…? I finally spied the GED guides near the bottom. But, good grief, there were so damn
many
. I stared in dismay at the two full shelves.

“This series is a good one,” the clerk said from beside me, startling me thoroughly. She gave me a nice smile as I recovered my composure, then reached to tap the spine of a blue and white volume. “It has good explanations of the procedures, the instructional sections are clearly written, and it’s reasonably priced.”

“Um. Thanks,” I said, trying not to flush in embarrassment.

“You getting it for a relative or a friend?” she asked.

I realized suddenly that she could tell I was ashamed of my need to take the GED and was trying to give me an “out.” To my surprise I relaxed and found myself smiling.

“No, it’s for me,” I said. Screw it. It was stupid for me to be embarrassed or ashamed. Okay, so I’d dropped out of high school. At least I was trying to do something about it now.

Her smile widened. “That’s awesome. I took it about eight years ago.” She chuckled. “That’s how I know that one’s a good study guide.”

“You were a dropout?” I blurted, then grimaced and shook my head. “Sorry, that’s none of my business.”

“It’s cool,” she reassured me. “But yeah, I was a weird kid. Was bored with school so I dropped out halfway through my senior year.” She rolled her eyes. “Dumb move since there are a lot of universities that won’t take the GED and make you go to a junior college for a year or two before you can apply to transfer.” Then she shrugged. “Not the end of the world, though. Just took me a little extra time to get my degree.”

I managed a weak smile. University? Hell, I just wanted to avoid going back to jail.

“You ready to check out?” she asked. “Or do you want to browse some more?”

“I think this is enough for now,” I said. Cripes, when was the last time I’d read a book? I was such a painfully slow reader that it felt like it took me forever to get through a novel. By the time I got to the end I’d damn near forgotten what happened in the beginning.

She didn’t seem at all fazed by my response and simply
headed back to the register with me trailing along in her wake. As she rang up my purchase my gaze wandered over the displays, then paused on the stack of newspapers as the headline caught my eye. “This too, please,” I said, snagging a paper and setting it on the counter.

She added it to my total, and in short order I was heading out to my car. As soon as I was in and had the door closed, I pulled the newspaper out and read the lead story as quickly as I could, all the while feeling as if I’d swallowed a rock.

My hands were shaking by the time I made it to the end of the article. Could they have possibly made me
sound any worse? The coroner had made a neutral statement about the incident still being under investigation and how grateful he was that no one had been hurt, blah blah blah…but nothing about believing my side of the story. Betrayal curdled my gut. I also had a pretty dark suspicion that I knew who the “unnamed source at the coroner’s office” was. Allen Fucking Prejean. Not that it mattered.
And even if I do pass the GED and get off probation, I’ll still always be a felon, and I’ll still always be a high school dropout.

I did not—did NOT—want to go in to work and face anyone with a pulse, and it took every fucking ounce of carefully scrounged discipline to actually turn the car in the proper direction and head to the coroner’s office. But I also didn’t plan on budging from the morgue itself.
If I even have a job still
, I thought miserably.

I’d hoped to slip in the back unnoticed, but my heart sank at the sight of Derrel leaning against the hood of his Durango by the back door. It was clear he was waiting for me.
He’s going to break the news to me that I’m fired, or suspended, or some shit like that. Hell, maybe I’ll even be arrested for filing a false police report, and my probation will get revoked.
Oh yeah, there were all sorts of shitty things that could happen now.

I parked my car on the other side of the lot and masochistically made myself walk to him. He wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t look angry or upset, which I kinda thought—or at least hoped—he might look if I’d been fired.

“You saw the newspaper?” I said as soon as I was close.

“I did.” He pushed off the truck and suddenly enveloped
me a hug that made my ribs creak before releasing me. “Angel, you’re not going to lose your job.”

“You don’t know that,” I replied, doing my absolute best to keep my voice from shaking. I thought I was successful, but Derrel was more than perceptive enough to know how upset I was.

He let out a soft sigh. “Look, I know what you’re thinking. You just got your life back on track, and now everything’s about to be yanked away. But you have something now you didn’t have before.”

“Jeans that don’t have a rip across the ass?”

A smile twitched across his mouth. “Well, yes. But you also have a cadre of people who have your back. If—and it’s a big ‘if’—you lose your job here, we’ll find you a job. Maybe even one that doesn’t require you to dig through dead bodies.”

But that’s the part of the job I need
, I silently wailed, but I put on a brave face and the smile that Derrel was expecting. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

He leaned back against the truck again and lowered his head to peer at me. “Not to be too nosy, but that was your first offense, wasn’t it?”

I heaved a sigh. “Yep. I guess that’s why I managed to slide by on just probation.”

A frown creased Derrel’s broad forehead. “Why didn’t you plead eight-nine-three or eight-eight-one-point-one?”

I gave him the blankest look I possessed. “Dude, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The frown progressed to his mouth. “Your attorney should have pled you eight-nine-three, which, in Louisiana, for certain offenses, allows you to expunge it so it
doesn’t show on your record, as long as you keep your nose clean afterwards.”

I snorted. “My attorney was a public defender who was so hungover he couldn’t even remember my name. And I’m pretty damn sure he didn’t even read my file until about five minutes before I went before the judge.” I grimaced and tugged a hand through my hair. “I wonder if I can go back and get it changed.”

Derrel shook his head slowly. “Doesn’t work that way. Only way for you to get your record cleared now is a pardon. Sorry.”

“What, you mean like from the governor?” I gave a low bark of laughter. “I doubt the governor will give a crap about a skank who got caught with a stolen car.” Then I yelped as Derrel smacked me on the side of the head. “Ow! Hey!”

“Stop calling yourself names,” he said with an accompanying dark glower. “There are plenty of people in this world who are willing to do that for you. Don’t make it easy for them.”

I rubbed my head, scowling. “Okay, okay.”

He grimaced. “I feel responsible that all of this happened. I should have come back to the morgue with you.” He looked truly upset, and I was reminded for the zillionth time that this man, who looked like he could still play linebacker without breathing hard, had the gentlest soul I’d ever encountered. No wonder he was so damn good at dealing with the bereaved.