One Safe Place (7 page)

Holding court at mid-day at Uncle's BBQ, Psalms sat at a table with Suzie Q and Tylowe. The two guys had sides of red beans and rice, greens, and yams with a beef hot link for lunch. Suzie Q, wiry but strong, and capable of delivering as much pain as any man, devoured her food like a hungry lioness after a kill. On her plate was a half-pound of beef brisket, and sides of mashed potatoes and gravy, baked beans, greens, yams, mac 'n' cheese, mixed veggies, green salad, and a cornbread muffin.

“Where does it all go, Q? A doctor may be in order to see if you don't have something inside of you eating you alive. It's a wonder you don't have the biggest ass anyone could have.” Tylowe shook his head.

“You black guys like women with large bottom ends, eh? Well, if that is the case, my little skinny, white bottom has a long way to go, eh?” After many years in the states, Suzie Q had not lost any of her Scottish-Canadian intonation. The former Royal Canadian
Mountie turned private investigator/security agent, had joined forces with Psalms Black. The two offered much sought-after services. Suzie Q had been a part of the ordeal that had put Elliot in prison.

A few years ago some friends of Tylowe utilized Suzie Q's services when she hunted down a man who had tried to kill them. Suzie Q shot the man, badly wounded, and somewhat tortured him. She needed the man to confess to some crimes, and when she was done with him, he did. She then helped that man take his own life after he realized what would happen to him in prison. Her girl-next-door, Drew-Barrymore-face hid her rough character.

Tylowe chewed on a hot link while staring at Suzie Q. “Q,” he said, “Black men love women with a sizable ass. Hell, white men love some ass, too, but many are scared, not knowing if they can handle it all. But lack of ass ain't your problem.”

Before he finished, the three of them were already laughing.

“Let's count the ways. You carry a gun bigger than most porn stars' erections. I think your boxing skills might make a few men run. And you're faster and stronger than the average fellow. Now your accent might be a turn-on to some men, so that is a plus.” Tylowe laughed at his own joke.

Psalms chimed in. “But that thing about you don't have sex with men, only with women, I'm sure that might keep a lot of black men from wanting your skinny, little, white ass.”

“Oh, I guess that might be a problem for me bottom, eh? Not offering any bun for the beef hot link, eh?” Suzie Q winked, pursed her thin lips, and then sucked on her hot link. Both men put the hot links down and gave her a look of,
“Not while we're eating, silly woman.”

She tore off a piece of meat with her teeth and chased it with dark beer. For some reason, she spoke louder. “I guess some of
the brothers don't care who I do because they be asking for a chance to bend my skinny, little ass over. They hit me up in public and on my Facebook page, when I clearly state in public and on my page that I have women who love me. So, I send their wife or the women posted on their page a song by my favorite artist, Meshell Ndegeocello, ‘If That's Your Boyfriend (He Wasn't Last Night).' ”

A man sitting behind Suzie Q spit up his soda. The brother had hit on Suzie Q when she had first walked in ahead of her tablemates. He wore a wedding ring. He regretted handing her his business card.

Tylowe smiled, but joking around didn't go too far with him as of late. Psalms changed the subject as he leaned in, and the others did, too. “I have gathered info on our Russian problem. The person running the show for the Russians is the daughter of a so-called mob-boss. Her name is Sasha Ivanov. She has been taking over for her dead father, the man who was married to Elliot's baby mama. Sasha's father, when he was living, apparently believed or acted as if the kids were his.

“These kids are in trouble because they each have bank accounts in the Cayman Islands worth millions, and they can draw them out when they turn twenty-one. The only people who can touch the money before they age out is their mother, who seems to have disappeared, and Sasha Ivanov, if the mother dies and the kids die before they turn twenty-one.

“Queen, the mother of the kids, could be in hiding or dead. But she has an aunt living in Vegas. This aunt was the sister of the former president of Martinique. The aunt had a different father, so her last name is not Frêche as the President's was. This may play in our favor if Sasha Ivanov is hunting down the kids as Elliot thinks she may be.

“I have a man at Homeland Security. Queen's passport shows
she went to Vegas often. Also, known ties to Sasha Ivanov have been tracked to Vegas as of late.” Psalms looked over to Suzie Q.

She took a swig of her brew.

Tylowe was amazed at the knowledge that could be had and known, and that he had friends with this kind of know-how.

Psalms pressed his lips tight before he spoke. “If Sasha Ivanov got to the kids' mother, all I can say is the Russians I've come across know how to torture like Q is ripping meat off that bone.”

Suzie Q, at that moment, put the bare rib bone down and took her time to suck each one of her fingers with full sound effects, removing the sticky sauce.

“So you can see the problem we have. I was able to call in some favs to trace some of this info and Gabby used some State Department intel available to her, yet all the information is suspected to be wrong. We need to assume so and plan accordingly. This is not going to be easy. Someone could get hurt. I'm gonna be honest, Tylowe, this kind of situation may not be for you. I don't doubt you can be a warrior, but getting in to a fray with these people can be pure violent.

“When we add the fact that this involves Elliot, and what is real or not real, there is no way we can trust his intent and information. Let's not be simple-minded when dealing with him. You know that. Something didn't sit right with me when we had our little visit with him. It is my nature to be distrusting, and it could be just that…but that MF.”

Psalms looked over to Tylowe. “You don't know, but I had a problem with him back in college and he doesn't know I know what he did. I wanted to get even, but he was your friend back then, and I was conflicted on a few things I had already done. But that MF is not to be trusted . . .ever.”

Tylowe nodded, and kept nodding to the beat of the Anthony Hamilton song that played, “The Truth.” There was anger in Psalms' voice that seemed displaced, but Tylowe kept his mind on everything he had heard.

The little bell over the entrance door dinged. In came two well-built, white men, ex-military—Psalms knew right away. The two men wore heavy material suit coats, tailored for extra room. Their dress jeans had wide legs. Psalms knew that guns and extra clips were tucked in the coats, and another gun in an ankle holster was hidden beneath the wide-leg jean. Suzie Q's hands moved smoothly to her weapon as her eyes pierced behind her dark sunglasses. The style of sunglasses she wore was reminiscent of the 1960s Black Panther militant shades.

The two men scanned the room. Both men locked eyes with Psalms. It was more like Psalms had chains on their eyes and he slowly twisted the chains tight with his golden eyes. Then as if he released them because he was done, they turned away. The two men turned to someone outside and both nodded. Psalms blinked his eyes toward Suzie Q, signaling her to stand down. She relaxed, but kept a hand on one gun in her coat. The two men separated and made a human corridor with their huge bodies like parting the Red Sea for royalty, and the former Secretary of State Gabrielle Papillon Brandywine walked in. A city official and a state official muckety-muck walked in with her.

Tylowe released a long exhale. He knew right at the moment what Psalms meant. He was not that kind of warrior anymore, if he ever was. Without knowing that those guys were bodyguards, he saw the alertness of a Doberman in Suzie Q, and Psalms turned in to a tuned precision machine like a heat-seeking missile, and sensed the potential violence that could erupt.

Those two were ready for action. To avoid trouble is to be aware of trouble before you're deep in it; act first instead of reacting. Tylowe's eyebrows moved inward, and wrinkles formed on his forehead. Reflecting on how people could find often on the daily news the aftermath of a bloodbath, not knowing they might be surrounded by men and women with guns anywhere, anytime, he laughed aloud.

“Something funny?” Psalms asked Tylowe with a smile.

Tylowe had a smirk on his face. “You knew damn well your girl was coming in here. You could have said so.”

“Would it have changed whatever you're feeling?”

“What makes you think I'm feeling any certain way?”

“Your comment says so. You're no different than we were in kindergarten at Van Asselt Elementary: always overanalyzing everything. Do you need to go write a poem or something?” Psalms smirked and tilted his back as if he was looking down on Tylowe, when in fact Tylowe had at least a good three-inch height advantage.

“Dude, I'm glad I went to Leschi Elementary so you didn't bully me the whole year.”

“Yet here you sit next to me wanting my help.” This time they both laughed.

“Can you two stop reliving playing Cowboys and Indians, and seeing who can swing higher on the swing while looking under each other's dress, comparing dick size?” Once Suzie Q's aggression radar went up, it was up. She was a bit pissed at Psalms for knowing other guns were going to be coming in the room, and he knew it.

“Q, we good?” he asked.

“For now.” She glanced over her shades at Psalms, and then the bodyguards, before she gave Gabrielle Brandywine a stiff smile that resembled someone injected with an overload of Botox.

Psalms and Suzie Q had forged a lucrative and successful security company. Complete trust in each other's abilities and laying down all their personal demons and what they'd done in the past made them closer than conjoined twins in some ways. They hid nothing from each other, helping them to recognize one would cover for the other no matter what. They knew about each other's dead bodies and where they were buried. Understanding everything was for the greater good, till death do they part, even taking all you know to the grave.

Suzie Q and Tylowe knew Psalms Black's lover. Psalms' trusted friends, including Tylowe and his wife, Sterlin, Lois Mae, Ayman, Vanessa, Velvet, and a few select others, socialized with him and Gabrielle at his condo or at their homes.

Right now they all acted like casual patrons. Psalms and Gabrielle made knowing eye contact as she ordered her food. Her bodyguards each took a table on each side of the door, but close to her. Two other bodyguards sat in the SUVs, observing the comings and goings. Other patrons smiled at her, but let her be. The bodyguards knew to cut off anyone who wanted to talk to her—as if she would want to talk about world affairs with strangers. She wanted to eat good barbecue, and talk with her hosts, and watch her man from a distance.

An oldie came on, The Jackson 5's “Lookin' Through the Windows.” Gabrielle smiled at Psalms.

Tylowe, Suzie Q, and Psalms finished their meals while debating about and finally agreeing on how to find and rescue the kids. Tylowe explained he could not let his stepdaughter have siblings living unprotected in a harsh world. He had saved Mia from Elliot, her biological father's evil, and he had to do the same for her brother and sister.

Tylowe said his goodbyes and started to leave, but stopped by Gabrielle's table and they spoke briefly. Psalms and Suzie Q put plans together for the security of the Paramount Theater's private concert video shoot. They also covered how to protect Tylowe. The family man was not a warrior like them. The job ahead: to protect Tylowe the best they could from what could be a high dose of potent ugliness—the bloodshed brought on by the forces of good and evil.

E
vita waited impatiently to make a left turn. The after-work traffic made her turn up the volume of her music with the hopes of it having a calming effect. She wanted to be inside Friday's happy hour at Jay's Lounge, a live and jumping place for good drinks and to mix cologne and perfume with the so-called known, hip folks. It was her every Friday, after-work pit stop.

She revved her engine as if that would signal to the oncoming traffic to let her through—no such luck. “Sweeeeeeeeeet, sweet sticky thing,” the Ohio Players sang crystal glass-breaking, high-pitched harmonies through the car stereo. Evita bopped her head as traffic kept her stuck in the turn lane. Sitting behind the wheel of a nice car like the Audi R8, a rare expensive sports car, the common people—normally with less—will act as if they don't see you. When you're unusually noticeable and possibly made so by high income, some will admire what you have, but most simply want out of the Northwest gridlock. A rare vehicle can be despised by the have-nots without any consideration given to how one might have achieved his or her gains. Cars may have full gas tanks, but the people were most likely running on empty, in need of a coffee refill.

If anyone knew the life and times of Evita Quinn Rivers, they would run and jump in the cold water off a Seattle pier, as if trying
to wake from a bad dream. Finally, a break in traffic allowed Evita to wheel her two-toned black and red car into the parking lot and stop at the valet. She revved the motor, loving the manly feeling of power it gave her.

The car was a gift from Psalms. She lived in his house. She had made her own money, but even that came with Psalms' help. Evita arose from the cold, cold world of a hard life some ten years ago, and Psalms always took care of her. Since their days as teenagers he had protected or saved her.

Evita wanted to give instead of taking, and chose to work with kids. While she lived the fast life on the streets, she encountered many troubled youth. They lived troubled lives after they had become emancipated from their parents or guardians and struggled. Evita wanted to help that segment of society.