Overkill(25)

“I need to book a flight.”

“You can do that online, sir.”

“I’m aware of that, but I don’t want to book online. I want you to book it for me. Please.”

Grudgingly, “Your name?”

“Zach Bridger.”

A sustained silence was followed by a guttural laugh. “Are you kidding?”

“No.”

“The Zach Bridger?”

“I have a VIP code.” Zach rattled it off. “I’m not sure it’s still valid.” Miracle of miracles, it was.

The agent said, “With or without the VIP status, it’s my pleasure to help you, Mr. Bridger. Your destination?”

He swallowed, swore, and said a prayer in the same breath. “New Orleans.”





Chapter 11





Eban was awakened by a persistent knocking on his bedroom door. “Jesus!” He rolled onto his side and opened one eye halfway. “Later, Frida. I don’t want anything.”

His father opened the door and popped his head around. “Not Frida.” Without invitation, he strolled into the spacious room. “She told me you two arrived at the house at the same time this morning. She to report for work. You to crawl into bed. I understand she assisted you upstairs and saw you safely tucked in. Apparently Cal and Theo threw you quite a homecoming bash.”

Eban rolled onto his back, stretched, and bunched his pillow under his head. The clock on the bedside table read 12:04 p.m. His mouth was so dry, his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. As though reading his mind, Sid poured him a glass of water from a carafe and passed it to him. He gulped it down. “Thanks, Dad. God bless Frida.”

That she’d stripped him naked when she put him to bed didn’t surprise him. She’d been his parents’ housekeeper since before Eban was born. God knew how old she was, but she still chugged around like a small locomotive. He had her wrapped around his finger. She often addressed him as “Baby.”

Sid sat down on the end of the bed and crossed one long leg over the other. He picked at a nonexistent speck of lint on his trousers. Eban recognized the gesture as his father’s most often used delaying tactic. He asked, “So how are they?”

Who? Eban thought. Oh, Cal and Theo. Eban had tried to erase that dinner with them from his mind. It had gotten off to a rocky start and had been capped off by Theo’s remark about Eban’s prison sentence being fair since he’d actually done the deed. They’d parted with a handshake, but there’d been no authentic comradery behind it.

From the restaurant Eban had gone to the home of his favorite drug dealer. He didn’t know his last name. “Simply Simon” was how he’d been introduced to Eban before Eban had been old enough to shave. He’d been a regular customer ever since.

Besides his father, Simply Simon seemed to be the only person in Atlanta who was genuinely glad to see him. He’d unctuously welcomed him into his palatial home where gold leaf had been troweled onto almost every surface. Throughout the house, lounging about in various stages of sublimity, were dopeheads of every stripe, from corporate CEOs to gangbangers. The recreational use of illegal substances was the only common denominator of the demographic.

Eban partook of Simon’s smorgasbord, even though Simon cautioned him to exercise moderation until he’d been reconditioned to his pre-prison tolerance level.

He brought Eban two women for his consideration. One had skin the color of cream, the other’s was as rich as a dark roast blend. Rather than choosing, Eban had told Simon he’d have café au lait.

The young ladies had been equally beautiful, talented, uninhibited, and, it appeared, expensive. Because when Eban left, the money clip his father had given him was empty.

“What are they doing with themselves these days?”

Eban pulled himself out of the recollection of last night’s ménage and realized that Sid wasn’t asking after the two whores. He was stuck on Cal and Theo.

What were they doing these days? Had he asked? Had they told him? Hell, if he could remember. “Cal’s married,” he said. “Can you believe it? All the pussy he got without even trying, and the dumb schmuck gets married. Do you think I could weasel a Bloody Mary out of Frida?”

“In a minute. There’s something we need to discuss.”

Eban had sensed that, but he whined, “Can it wait?”

“No, it can’t. It’s important.”

“All right.” Eban tossed back the covers. “Hold the thought. I gotta piss.”

He went into his bathroom and used the toilet, chugged a mini bottle of vodka, then squeezed a dab of toothpaste on his tongue.

“Ah, better,” he said as he reentered his bedroom. He took a pair of briefs from his bureau and pulled them on, then sat down on the end of his bed and faced Sid, who had claimed a chair near the window.

The early afternoon sun found a crack in the blinds, skewered Eban’s eyeball, and pierced straight through his skull. With the sun-filled window behind his old man, his face was in silhouette, a calculated juxtaposition that gave him the upper hand during this “important” chat. Eban knew that tactic, too.

He smiled. “So, Dad? I’m all ears.”

“Last night after you left, Up brought up something rather—”