STATE OF BETRAYAL: A Virgil Jones Mystery (Detective Virgil Jones Mystery Series Book 2) (6 page)

BOOK: STATE OF BETRAYAL: A Virgil Jones Mystery (Detective Virgil Jones Mystery Series Book 2)
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7

__________

 

S
hortly
after his father passed, Virgil’s family attorney called and informed him his
father’s will stipulated that if his mother preceded him in death—which
she did—most all of his possessions were to be bequeathed solely to
Virgil, save two. He left the majority of his half of the bar in certain
percentages to three people. Of them, two were employees; Delroy, their bar manager,
and Robert, their chef. Delroy and Robert were Jamaicans who had been working
for Virgil and Mason almost as long as they had been in business. Virgil met
them both by chance a number of years ago while on vacation in their hometown
of Lucea, a small town about halfway between the tourist destinations of
Montego Bay and Negril. They ran a roadside stand that served Red Stripe beer
and homemade Jerk chicken to tourists just like Virgil. He’d picked up a nail
in the road and the tire went flat almost immediately. When he pulled into
their lot to change it out for the spare, Delroy and Robert fixed it for him
while he ate their chicken and drank their beer. A friendship developed and when
they came to the states to work for Virgil and Mason they transformed what
would have been just another downtown bar into a one-of-a-kind Jamaican
experience for anyone who walked through the door. Mason’s will stipulated that
Delroy and Robert were to each receive fifteen percent ownership in the bar,
while nineteen percent went to Murton, who had been a part of Virgil’s family
since childhood. The remaining one percent went to Virgil.

When Virgil walked through the back
door of the bar and into the kitchen, Robert handed him a plate of chicken
pulled from the bone and covered with his homemade Jerk sauce. “Hey, look who
here. It part-time. Good to see you, you. Eat dat chicken. Heal you right up,
mon.”

Virgil carried his plate from the
kitchen and sat down at the end of the bar. Delroy was doing what had become
known as the Jamaican shuffle. He was mixing two different types of drinks in
separate blenders, pulling a pitcher of Red Stripe from the tap as he washed
dirty glasses in the sink, all as he flirted with two female customers who hung
on his every word.

Delroy finished the blended drinks
for the women then insisted he receive a kiss on the cheek from them both
before he would allow them to return to their table. The ladies obliged him as
if the idea were their own. Then he reached into the cooler, opened a bottle of
Mountain Dew—the kind in the glass bottles you don’t see much
anymore—and slid it across the length of the bar where it stopped right
next to Virgil’s plate. When he walked over, they bumped fists. “Good to see
you,” he said. “How dat leg, mon?”

Before Virgil could answer, a man
walked over and began tapping his empty pitcher on the bar top. “Little service
be nice.” He was overweight, dressed like a biker wannabe and spoke louder than
necessary. “When you’re ready, that is. I wouldn’t want to interrupt a
management meeting or anything like that.”

Delroy turned, the smile never
leaving his face and said, “Be right there. Just two Jamaican minutes, mon.”
The man grumbled something unintelligible and leaned on his elbows, his back
against the bar. Delroy turned his attention back to Virgil and raised his
eyebrows into a question.

“I’m doing okay. Still hurts quite
a bit. The pills knock it down though.”

“Yeah, mon, I bet day do,” he said.
Virgil felt the probe of Delroy’s eyes into his own. “When you coming back?

“Pretty soon, I hope. Have you seen
Murton?”

“Yeah, mon, he upstairs on the
phone.”

Murton had converted the upstairs
storage room of the bar into a workspace for his private investigations office.
Virgil was getting ready to tell Delroy he’d be right back when the biker
wannabe got tired of waiting for their conversation to conclude. He slid his
pitcher down the bar and Delroy reached out and grabbed it without ever turning
his head. He picked it off the bar and set it underneath the counter.

“Just how long is two Jamaican
minutes anyway,” the man said.

Delroy turned and smiled at him. “A
week from next Tuesday. Maybe we see you then, mon.”

The man turned and faced the bar,
his cheeks and neck flush with color. “Now wait just a fucking minute,” he
said, his finger pointed at Delroy. “Where’s that respect you’re always talking
about?”

“Ha. You get what you give, mon. See
you next time. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

The man pushed himself off the bar
and started to approach, but Murton caught him from behind and clamped his hand
on top of the man’s shoulder. “Time to boogie on down the avenue, bub.”

“Who the fuck are you, dickweed?”
the man said.

Murton had a merry look on his
face. “I, along with these two gentlemen here, are three of the four owners of
this fine establishment. And if you were paying attention, any attention at all
really, you might notice about half the people in here are off-duty cops.”
Murton spun the man around. “See, you can tell who they are because they’re the
ones watching us right now. I can spot them a mile away, but maybe that’s
because I used to be one. So what’s it going to be bubba? You want to walk out
of here on your own, or do you want us to carry you out?”

The wannabe tried to pull free from
Murton’s grasp, but when he was unable to do so Virgil finally saw his body
relax. “That’s what I thought,” Murton said. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.” Murton
let go and walked with him to the door.

Delroy looked at Virgil and said,
“Eat dat chicken, you. Heal you right up, mon.” Then he laughed his big
Jamaican laugh and went back to work.

 

__________

 

 

Murton wore a pair of
desert army fatigues
cut off at the knees, a multi-colored Hawaiian shirt and a battered Panama Jack
hat set jauntily to one side. He pulled out a chair, winked at Delroy and waved
Virgil over. “What’s shakin’ bacon?  Sandy give you the old heave ho?”

“Not yet,” Virgil said. “But it’s
early. You never know.”

“You never really do. Hey, love
your shirt, man.”  Virgil was wearing one of his classics, a cream colored,
short sleeved Underdog T-shirt from the old Saturday morning cartoons.

“Simpler times, huh?”

Murton picked up a piece of chicken
from Virgil’s plate and popped it into his mouth. “You think?”

The question gave Virgil pause. His
childhood had been one of normalcy. There was food to eat, clean clothes to
wear, a solid roof over his head, parents who loved him and a grandfather who
was the center of his young life. Murton, on the other hand, had not been quite
as fortunate. His mother died when he was a young boy and his father—a
binge drinking alcoholic brakeman for the railroad—would show his love
for his son in ways that would now have Child Protective Services knocking on
the door with a court order. “We all play the hand we’re dealt, Murt. I think
you’ve done a fine job of it all.”  When he didn’t respond Virgil asked
him a question. “How are you and Delroy hitting it off?” Murton grinned and
took a swig of Virgil’s pop. “Would you like me to order you something?”

“No, thanks. I’m good. Delroy’s
great. We’re doing well. He misses your old man. I do too. So, are you going to
tell me what’s going on with you or do I have to guess?”

Virgil took a bite of chicken and
chewed as slow as possible. When he spoke, he thought his own voice sounded
foreign. “I sort of wanted to talk to you about my dad.”

“What about him?”

“Remember what Delroy told me the
day you guys showed up at my place with that willow tree? After my dad died? You
had his bloodied shirt and when we put it at the bottom of the hole he said
something like,
‘the ground water will soak through the paper and into that
shirt. Your father’s blood will flow through that tree, just like it does your
own heart.’
Do you remember that?”

“Of course I remember. We just
wanted you to feel better man, that’s all.”

“I do…or at least I did.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I saw him this morning. I
actually…sort of spoke with him.”

“Who?”

“My dad, Murt. He was standing
under the willow tree.” But Virgil couldn’t look at him when he said the words,
his gaze drifting around the room as he spoke. “He was dressed exactly the same
way as he was on the day he got shot behind the bar. I’ll tell you something
else, Murt, he wasn’t wearing a shirt. I think he wasn’t wearing his shirt
because it was at the bottom of that hole where we put it when we planted that
tree.”

Murton turned his attention to the
bar as well and a long time passed before he spoke, but when he did, his eyes
were focused directly on Virgil. “You talked to him?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did he talk back?”

Virgil let his eyelids droop a
fraction. “Yeah, Murt, he did.”

“What did he say?”

“He said I was hitting the pills a
little too hard.”

“Are you?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not, Jonesy. Are you? 
Hitting the pills too hard?”

Virgil took a drink of his soda,
which gave him a few seconds before he had to answer. “I don’t know, okay? I
know my leg hurts like hell unless I take the medication.” Then he said
something else, something that surprised him, as if the words were not his own
even as they spilled across his lips. “I like the way they make me feel, Murt. They
make me feel alive. They make me feel well and normal and happy and able to do
just about anything I want. They make me feel like I have no regrets about
anyone I’ve ever had or known or lost in my life, even though deep down I know
that I do. Have regrets, I mean. I don’t know if this makes any sense to you or
not, but when I feel the meds starting to wear off, I tell myself I know they’re
wearing off because I can feel my leg start to hurt again. But I think that’s
backwards. I think my leg starts to hurt so I’ll go ahead and take the fucking
pills. I think the pills are making my leg hurt. Does that make any sense to
you? I’m not in control of it anymore.”

“You have them with you?”

“What?”

“The pills.”

“Yeah…why?”

“Let me see the bottle.”

“Why?”

“Just show me the fucking bottle,
will you? I’m not going to take them from you.”

Virgil reached into his pocket and
pulled the bottle out and set it on the table. Murton picked it up and studied
the label, counted the number of pills, did the math in his head and replaced
the lid before he handed it back. “Looks like you’re only taking what’s been
prescribed.”

“Yeah, I’m mostly staying on schedule.
But it’s getting harder and harder. I’ve called the doc twice in the last two
weeks alone and had them up the dosage. They’ve gone along so far, but that
ship is getting ready to sail, if you know what I mean.”

“One day at a time, brother. One
day at a time. When it’s time to quit, you won’t question it. You’ll know for
sure. You might not want to admit it to anyone, maybe not even yourself, but
you’ll know. Somewhere deep down inside in that part of you that’s safe from
everything and everyone else in the entire world, that part of you will tell
you to stop. All you have to do is listen.”

“It’s that easy, huh?”

“Hell no. It’s a bitch with a
capital B. But it’s a ride you’ve got to take or we’ll be planting a tree for
you on the other side of that pond sooner than you’d like.”

“We?”

“Yeah, asshole. Me and Sandy.” Then
he smiled, wiggled his eyebrows and said, “I think she’s sort of hot for me
lately.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, fuck me,” Murton said, and
they both laughed like they were young boys again.

After a few minutes of silence
Murton looked at Virgil and said, “So…heard you got sacked this morning. Who
get’s fired on a Saturday, anyway?” Then before Virgil could answer, he said,
“Sit tight, Jonesy. I’ve got to get a cup of Blue.” Virgil watched him walk
behind the bar and pour a cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee. A minute or so
later he sat back down, cocked his head slightly and let his face form a
question.

The more he thought about it, the
more Virgil realized that most of the cops in the department probably knew
about his termination before he ever walked through the back door of his own
bar. “I guess some news travels faster than others.”

“Every badge in this room has got
your back, brother,” Murton said. “I guarantee it. Hell, probably every badge
in the city.”

Virgil wasn’t up for anyone’s shame
or pity. “I appreciate it, Murt, I really do, but could we talk about it some
other time?”

Murton had his hands wrapped around
the sides of his coffee cup, pushing it around the table in small circles.
“You’re gonna dick around and burn yourself,” Virgil said.

He smiled. “You sound like your
mom.”

“My mom didn’t swear.”

“Sure she did,” Murton said. “Just
not in front of us.”

Virgil let a few seconds tick by, then
looked across the table at his friend. He was someone who had almost gotten
Virgil killed during their time together in Iraq, but had also managed to save
his life…more than once. The thought clicked in the back of Virgil’s mind if maybe
he wasn’t somehow asking Murton to save him yet again, only this time from himself.
“Ever wish you could go back?”

Murton thought about the question
for a minute before he answered. When he did, what he said reminded Virgil why
they consider themselves not just friends, but brothers. “Go back to what,
Jonesy? Back to sand-land to kill more innocent Iraqis? Back to my old man
beating the shit out of me when he was drunk? Back to watch your mom suffer and
die all over again? Or how about this? Back to your first day riding solo? What
would you do? Shoot Pope in the leg this time? Get out of your own head, Virg.
We might be shaped by our past, but the future is wide open and we get to
define it. The choices we make? The ones we think about right here, in the
moment? A year from now they’ll be gone and good or bad, we can’t go back. No
one ever gets to turn the lights back on and replay the last inning. Is that
what you’re looking for?”

BOOK: STATE OF BETRAYAL: A Virgil Jones Mystery (Detective Virgil Jones Mystery Series Book 2)
10.08Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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