Jubilee's Journey (Wyattsville #2)(70)

On the sixth day Hurt climbed out of bed and pulled on his jacket. His eyes were burning and his throat felt parched. In the room there was no food, no drink, and no glass to drink from. Two days earlier he’d gone on a rampage when thoughts of his daddy banged into his head. He’d paced the floor and screamed obscenities until there was nothing more to say. That’s when he hurled the bathroom glass against the wall and smashed it into smithereens. While Hurt was at the racetrack someone had swept away the broken glass, but they’d not bothered to replace it.

“Cheap dump,” Hurt growled as he stumbled to the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and cupped his hands. He scooped the flow of water to his mouth, and as he drank it dribbled down his face and onto the leather jacket. When Hurt caught sight of the dark stain, he found a new level of anger. It rose up and raged inside of him. He cursed the fate of ever being born, then pounded his boot against the pipe below the sink until it burst open and began flooding the room. With water pouring from the broken pipe, he turned and walked out the door.

He didn’t need that room. He didn’t need a place to stay. He didn’t need shit. Today he was going to find his daddy. He’d do what he came to do, then move on. Before the day was over he’d be gone from Miami.

When Hurt stepped out onto the street the heat of the day was already crusted over the concrete. Before he had gone two blocks he was drenched in perspiration and thirstier than ever. He stopped at an orange juice stand and ordered a Coca-Cola.

“No Coke,” the boy at the window said. “Just juice.”

Hurt shot his fist through the window, knocked the boy to the floor, then walked off.

Continuing his trek toward the station where he would take a bus to the racetrack, Hurt walked three blocks, then stopped in an air-conditioned coffee shop and again ordered a Coca-Cola.

The pretty blond waitress smiled. “Coming right up.”

Hurt hated friendly. He hated people who went around smiling at one another for no apparent reason. “Phony bullshit,” he muttered. When she sat the Coke in front of him, Hurt downed it without taking a breath, then stood and walked out.

“Hey, mister,” the waitress called. “You forgot to pay.”

Hurt kept walking and didn’t bother to glance back.





When the early bus left for Tropical Park Raceway, Hurt was on it. He was first off the bus and first in line to purchase a ticket. When he entered the racetrack, there were only a handful of early-comers wandering about. He walked past the hot dog stand and circled around to where most of the betting windows were. Once he thought he saw George, but when he came closer he could see the man was an Oriental and looked nothing like his daddy.

Hurt rubbed his eyes. The brightness of the ever-constant sun made them burn and ache. It was a pain that drilled holes through his vision and ricocheted around the inside of his head. He had to find George today. He had to find George and leave this scorching hell.





Once Hurt had circled through the park he returned to a spot close to the entrance, a spot where he could watch the people who came through the gate. A spot where he was sure to see George.

He waited. And watched.

As he stood and watched the faces pass, Hurt counted up every angry word that had ever been spoken. He thought back to the sting of George’s hand across his face and the shame of being dragged down the street by the scruff of his neck. The hatred swelled in his chest and pushed up into his throat.

Sweat trickled down Hurt’s forehead and dropped into his eyes.

More people pushed through the gate. They came at him so quickly Hurt couldn’t catch all the faces. He thought he saw his daddy’s beard, then a corner of his ear, an eyebrow, a thick neck, an angry voice, but a complete picture of George never surfaced. Today was the day. Hurt knew it; he felt it in every twinge of muscle. Today was the day he would find his daddy.

All afternoon Hurt stood there with the sun baking him and the taste of bitterness stuck to his teeth. Then shortly after the sixth race had been called and scattered groups of people had begun to leave the track, he spotted his daddy. Not the face, but the back of him. He saw the belligerent swagger he had come to hate and a swatch of long grey hair hanging from the back of a baseball cap. Hurt wiped the sweat from his right eye, then pulled the gun from his pocket and stretched his arm toward the back of a daddy he’d spent a lifetime hating.

A woman shrieked, “He’s got a gun!”

Gun…gun…gun. The word echoed through the crowd and people began running, dropping behind trash cans, lying flat with their faces to the ground and their hands covering their heads.

Hurt lost sight of his daddy for a moment; then he spotted him running toward the ticket booth. Everything was moving. It was fuzzy. Hot. Spinning. The sting of sweat and sun blinded him. He no longer saw the people around him. He no longer heard the screams. It was just his daddy, his daddy coming at him with a raised fist.

He blinked back the red sun, squeezed the trigger, and fired. He couldn’t know the man he thought to be his daddy was actually an elderly woman, a woman with arthritis in her knee and a limp that caused her to swagger.

Hurt did not hear the call to drop his gun, nor did he see the officer. The two shots came in rapid succession; Hurt’s went wild, flew over the heads of people scrambling to get away, and lodged itself in the roof of a lemonade stand. The second shot fired at almost the same moment tore into Hurt’s chest. Before he felt the pain he fell backward and crashed against the concrete.