Outcast (20 page)

“Where is she?” Kevin barked.

“She's still in surgery,” Anne replied. “I was going to go up to check on her, but I thought I should wait down here with Micah.”

Kevin passed Micah to Pat. “Where's Tirrell?”

“He's in with the doctor,” Marquis piped up. “The police are in there too.”

Kevin's public manner of poise and decorum gave way to ire as he stepped to the nurse's desk and raged on about being with the DA's office, demanding to know where to find Tirrell. He barged through the double doors and hurried past a bank of curtain-shrouded examining rooms.

“You son-of-a-bitch,” he yelled when he found Tirrell. He lunged at him and grabbed him by the collar. The police officer questioning Tirrell pulled him off.

“What the hell did you do this time, Tirrell?”

“Mr. Ellis, you need to calm down,” the officer cautioned.

“I don't have to do a damn thing. My grandmother and my son could have been killed, all because of this no-account muthafucka!”

“I didn't know,” Tirrell cried. “I didn't know Micah was in the house.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I didn't want Noonie to get hurt.”

Kevin lunged toward Tirrell and again the police officer moved between them.

“God help your sorry-ass if she dies,” Kevin spat.

 

 

It had been over an hour and no word had come regarding Betty's condition. Kevin paced anxiously while Micah slept in his mother's lap. Anne Crawl and Marquis also waited.

The surgery team emerged around one in the morning. The small-framed, bearded surgeon who had taken the lead on the operation found the family.

“Mr. Ellis?”

Kevin raised his head from Pat's shoulder and snapped to attention. “I'm Kevin Ellis.”

“I'm Dr. Stone. Your grandmother made it through surgery.”

“Is she going to be all right?”

“We're just waiting for the anesthesia to wear off before we can assess any further. She sustained a significant amount of damage. The cardio-vascular surgeon repaired the aortic valve, and we had to remove a lacerated spleen.”

“When can we see her?”

“She's in ICU. We're keeping an eye on her. It'll be a few more hours before she comes around. Why don't you and your family go on home, get some rest, and come back later. The nurse will call you if there's any change.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Kevin insisted.

The doctor tried to be conciliatory. “There's really not a whole lot you can do for her right now.”

Pat touched her husband's shoulder. “Kevin.”

He looked at her and sighed. “Fine.”

Pat thanked the doctor and Kevin scowled. They all sluggishly started to the elevator. Tirrell hobbled up the other end of the corridor. In spite of the blame and accusation in their eyes he continued toward them.

“How is she?”

Without saying a word Kevin charged at him and punched him in the mouth. Marquis shook his head and joined them on the elevator, leaving Tirrell standing alone.

Sensing that Alex was standing over him, Tirrell lurched from a restless sleep. He gingerly moved his bandaged leg from the chair that he'd positioned in front of another for a makeshift bed, and cringed. He stretched out from the uncomfortable position and slowly stood up. He then walked out into the hall to see if there were any nurses lurking who would keep him from sneaking into the ICU.

His heart ached looking into Betty's ashen expression. The beeping and hissing of the monitors and machines echoed off the sterile walls. Tirrell glanced over his shoulder before moving closer to her bed. Remorse spilled out of his eyes and down his face. He pulled up a chair, eased into it, and caressed her forearm. “I know who did this to you. I swear I'm gonna make 'em pay if it's the last thing I do.”

“What are you doing in here?”

Tirrell jumped as a nurse entered the room. He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt.

“You're not supposed to be in here.”

He clumsily got up and pushed past her.

 

 

The Eastland Avenue shooting was the lead story on the local news the entire day. The police were on the lookout for the black Mustang that Marquis described. Tirrell had no intention of waiting until they found it. He was obsessed with meting out his own justice.

Alex was glued to the news reports when her telephone rang. It was Bobby.

“Did you hear?”

“Yeah, I'm watching it right now.”

“Looks like somebody did us a favor,” Bobby callously responded. “T should be scared shitless right about now.”

“He's going to think we did this.”

“You think it could have been Rivera?”

“No. I didn't tell him anything.”

“I wonder who we have to thank,” Bobby said.

“I don't care,” Alex replied. “I just want that file back. I tried calling him but his cell phone's been cut off.”

“If this shooting doesn't bring him around, maybe paying a visit to the rest of his family will get his attention.”

Bobby ended the call with Alex and put his cell phone into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. He then checked his gun and secured it in the waistband of his pants. When he opened the door to leave he was struck in the face by a 2x4, causing him to stumble back into the apartment and flip over a chair. Tirrell stormed in, wielding the 2x4 like a baseball bat as Bobby went for his gun. Tirrell smacked the Glock away and it flew across the room. Bobby growled, charged, and rammed him into the wall. A plaster bust fell from a shelf, hitting Tirrell, and gave Bobby enough time to pick up the board. He swung—Tirrell ducked and leapt toward the gun. Bobby grabbed his legs and they both hit the floor, grappling like rabid dogs, trading bone-crushing blows. Tirrell butted Bobby in the head, rolled over to the gun, took aim, and fired, dropping Bobby like a massive tree.

Tirrell slowly stood heaving and coughing. “Well, will you look at that? It wasn't loaded with blanks that time, was it?” He wiped the perspiration and blood from his face with a handful of paper towels he pulled from a rack in the kitchen, and stuffed them in his pocket while simultaneously checking outside to see if anyone was around who had heard the shot. “You ain't gonna hurt nobody else in my family.” He moved as quickly as he could into Bobby's bedroom and searched through his closet, looking for his stash, frustrated that he only found a safe he couldn't open. He took a towel and frantically ran about the apartment, trying to wipe clean anything he remembered touching. Then he picked up the gun and tucked it into his blue jeans. Bobby's cell phone rang and startled him. Tirrell pulled off Bobby's leather jacket and slipped it on. Then he pulled the hoodie he was wearing over his head and bolted.

He discovered Bobby's wallet in one of the pockets and removed the cash once he made it to the MARTA platform. Just before the train arrived he tossed the cell phone and wallet on the tracks. He jumped into the last car and sat huddled in the back with the collar of the jacket pulled up around his face. A sharp pain shot through his leg and he looked to see that his stitches had opened during the skirmish. He took the towel he had in his pocket and pressed it against his leg. Adrenaline coursed through his body, making his head throb. He wanted to get high, and thanks to Scotty, he knew exactly where to find what he needed.

He made his way to an abandoned house in the seediest part of the West End area, and nested in the dank basement among a host of drug-addled strangers.

“Y'know dat coat looks mighty warm,” a toothless indigent said to him. “Why don't you let me wear it for a li'l while.”

“Get the hell away from me, dude.”

“C'mon, man. I'll give you somethin' for it.”

“Back up off me, Gumby.”

The man cursed and moved to the other side of the room, watching Tirrell as he eventually nodded off. His head bobbed—fighting sleep—chasing vice—facing apparitions.

When he woke up his jacket was gone, and so was the gun. “Shit,” he sighed. “I only closed my eyes for a few minutes.”

He moved off the soiled couch and recoiled. The anesthesia of crack had run its course and reminded him of the horrors that had taken place. There were a few people lying around on the floor, in the corners, but he couldn't find his things, or the vagrant he assumed had taken them.

Tirrell couldn't tell what time it was, but it was dark and cold when he limped from the building. He needed a hot shower, food, and medical attention. He reached down into his shoe and dug out twenty dollars left from the $200 he'd taken from Bobby. Pulling tight the dirty denim jacket he had on underneath the leather one, and bowing his head against the assault of the October wind, he made his way toward a corner diner for some food.

After scarfing down a cheeseburger and fries he found a payphone and called Scotty—he wasn't home. “What am I gonna do now?”

The unassuming man from The Mission crossed his mind. He pulled the card with the man's phone number from his back pocket.

“Hello.”

“C . . . Can I speak to Mr. Preston?”

“That's me. Who's this?”

“It's Tirrell Ellis. I came by to see you the other day.”

“What can I do for you?”

“You said if I wanted to talk I could call you. I'm in trouble, man.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“It's bad.”

“How bad? What did you do?”

“Can we meet somewhere?”

There was no immediate response from the other end of the line.

“Hello? Mr. Preston, are you there?”

“Yeah, I'm here. Where are you?”

Tirrell looked around for a street sign. “Lee Street in the West End—near the mall.”

“Is this the kind of trouble you need the police for?”

“No police. I just . . . I just need to talk.”

Mr. Preston sighed. “I'll be there in a few. Wait for me.”

“How will I know you?”

“I'll be drivin' a dark blue Silverado with a dented right fender.”

Tirrell shoved his hands in his pockets for warmth and loitered in the shadows, hoping not to attract any undue attention. Just as he'd promised, the man pulled up and found Tirrell standing on the corner.

“Hop in.”

They drove back to the diner where Tirrell had been earlier. Mr. Preston ordered coffee and invited Tirrell to get whatever he wanted. Having just eaten, Tirrell asked for coffee too.

“You live around here?” Tirrell asked.

“Why do you need to know that?”

“What? You think I'm gon' rob you, or somethin'?”

“I don't really know what you're capable of,” Mr. Preston responded.

“So, why'd you come?”

“I'm a sucker for lost causes. I was one myself once not so long ago.”

The server returned with coffee for them both.

“So, Mr. I Don't Have a Problem, why did you call me?”

“'Cause you said I could.”

“You said you were in trouble. What did you do?”

“When you hear those guys in that place tell you all their stories in those meetin's you ever tell anybody?”

“No.”

“Can I trust you?” Tirrell continued. “I'm sayin', are you like a priest or somethin'?”

Mr. Preston smirked. “Are you Catholic?”

Tirrell didn't respond.

“Are you ready to deal with some hard truth and get clean?”

Tirrell scoffed. “I could use a shower.”

“Don't bullshit me, boy.”

“I'm not an addict,” Tirrell defended himself.

Mr. Preston pushed his cup away and stood up.

“Where're you goin'?”

“Man, it's almost ten o'clock. Don't waste my damn time. I know an addict when I see one. You look like one and you stink like one.”

“Don't leave, a'ight?”

“Gimme a reason to stay.”

Tirrell's hands shook. “If I told you I killed a man today, what would you do?”

Mr. Preston guardedly eased back down, clasped his hands in front of him, and said nothing.

Tirrell wiped his hand over his mouth and cleared his throat. “I got involved with this woman who was slingin' dope. I got some evidence that could put her away. She said she'd hurt my family if I told anybody. Her crazy-ass cousin did a drive-by last night and shot my grandmother.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just know, a'ight?”

Mr. Preston scratched his temple. “So, why not let the police handle it?”

“'Cause I needed to take care of him myself.”

“Why? 'Cause it's some noble shit you done talked yourself into?”

“No. 'Cause I ain't no punk. I'm a man.”

“And that's what men do, right?”

Tirrell cut his eyes.

“Don't get me wrong. I understand the need to protect your own. I'm just wonderin' if you're sure you know what you're doin' messin' with these kinds of people. You could be openin' yourself up to a world of hurt you ain't ready for; I'm tell'ya now.”

Tirrell was agitated. “I didn't go there to kill him. I just went to make sure he knew I wasn't scared of him. I just wanted them to stay away from my family.”

“So you're so sure this woman and her cousin were involved in your grandmother's shooting.”

“I know they were.”

“People like you stir shit up and make enemies you don't even know you have.”

“What do you mean people like me?”

“Junkies—cokeheads—users. Drug deal gone bad—stealin' from somebody.”

They were interrupted by the waitress coming back to refresh their coffees.

Mr. Preston blew the heat from his cup and sat back. “So, what do you want me to do, boy?”

Tirrell shrugged. “Tell me I did the right thing.”

“The right thing would be to face what you did and turn yourself in.”

“He shot my grandmother, man. He could've killed her.”

“An eye for an eye, huh?”

“You gonna preach to me, or you gonna help me?”

“Help you do what, Tirrell?”

He shrugged again.

“Look, I'm an addict,” Mr. Preston confessed. “In recovery . . . but I'm an addict. I got six years' clean, but that didn't come without wadin' neck deep in a bunch of stinkin' shit, and that included denyin' what I was. I did some time for some petty bullshit. I even stole from the people I claimed to love just to suck on that glass dick. You didn't just wake up one day and decide that you was gonna start usin'. There's some shit you felt like you didn't wanna deal with. Stuff you were runnin' away from—seems to me like you're still runnin'. And until you're willin' to get buck-naked honest with yourself and with God there ain't a whole lot I can do for you. But, sooner or later you're gonna hit a brick wall. No matter what you do, you're never gonna get the feelin' of that first high again, I'm tell'ya now. I know what I'm talkin' 'bout.”

“Chasin' the rabbit,” Tirrell whispered.

“Exactly. So, do you want real help, or are you just blowin' smoke up my ass?”

Tirrell chuckled.

“You think this is funny?”

“Naw, you just remind me of this sergeant I had in the army.”

Mr. Preston smirked. “
You
were in the army?”

“Yeah, just long enough to know I didn't want to be.”