Cajun Justice(20)

Cain pointed at the empty stool next to him. “Sit down, Jackson. Be serious for once in your life.”

His face reddened. “I am being serious.” Tom then motioned to the bartender. “Billy, get me a beer.”

“His name is Bill. Why do you call him Billy?” Cain snapped.

“What’s got you so pissed off?” Tom asked.

“His name is Bill. Not Billy.”

“He’s wet behind the ears. Probably still a virgin. When he grows up, then I’ll call him Bill. But forget about him. How did that meeting go with LeRoy? You didn’t call me afterward.”

“I didn’t call anyone afterward.”

“Yeah, but I told you to call me right afterward.”

Cain scoffed. “When are you going to get it, Jackson? It’s not always about you.”

“You’re complaining when it’s me they’re looking to fire, man?”

“I’m telling you the truth,” Cain replied. “Which is something you need to start doing.”

“The truth, huh? How about this for truth? I hear they’re going to make you and me take polygraphs.”

Cain shook his head and exhaled deeply. “The King didn’t mention anything about a polygraph, only a psych eval.”

“So, what else did the King say, man? Is he on our side?” Tom asked.

“On our side? Of course not. You know the King. Think of the position you’ve put him in, and—”

“Hey, it wasn’t just me, pal. There was a bunch of guys screwing off down there.”

“Yeah, maybe. But the others paid their debts.” Before Tom could open his mouth to reply, Cain lifted his finger to Tom’s face. “Let me finish. He’s also pissed because they’re squeezing him hard on this one. Management is not going to sweep this one under the rug.”

“Management? What a joke! With all the stuff they used to pull, now they’re the moral authority?”

Cain finished his second Jack on the rocks with three swigs, just as Bill brought out his shrimp and grits. The plate was sizzling and smelled delicious, but Cain had lost his appetite. “Bill, Mr. Tom Jackson will cover my tab. He still owes me several hundred.”

“You know I’m good for it. I’ll get your money. Payday is next week.”

“I’m not going to hold my breath. You squeeze a quarter so tight the eagle screams.”

“Ah, come on, now. My wife and kids bleed me dry.”

“You don’t give a shit about your family!” Cain shouted.

“At least I have one,” Tom said without thinking.

Cain clenched his fist and launched it at Tom’s face. It connected with a thud, and Tom knocked over two barstools as he fell to the floor.

“This is all your fault,” Cain barked at Tom. “You’re fucking with my life and career, and you don’t even give a shit.”

“I think you broke my nose,” Tom exclaimed as blood trickled out his nostrils.

“You’re lucky to still have teeth in that head of yours,” Cain said between angered breaths.

“I’ve got nobody on my side, Cain. Not even you anymore.”

“Own it. You made your bed. Now lie in it,” Cain said before turning and heading toward the exit.

Tom yelled out, “We were all off duty! The media is blowing this out of proportion.”

“It’s always someone else’s fault with you. Clean up your mess!”





Chapter 18



Cain stormed out of Old Ebbitt Grill and paused on the wide sidewalk. His blood was pumping, and his hands were trembling. His head swam with frenzy and he felt the effects of his drinks. He looked left and right. Traffic was picking up. He looked skyward and saw several dark clouds hovering overhead. A downpour was threatening. He had completely lost his cool and punched his partner, something he thought would never happen.

He swung his leg over his motorcycle. He dropped it into gear, rolled the throttle, and sped away. He navigated the windy streets and impatiently paused for a group of Asian tourists in the crosswalk at the Lincoln Memorial. There were at least fifty of them, and they were not in a hurry. They were snapping photos and talking with one another. Cain twisted the throttle several times and the Harley-Davidson’s engine roared, frightening the tourists. He then sped right through a narrow opening in the crowd.

He was cranky and full of rage. I’m not supposed to be dodging pedestrians on my bike! I’m supposed to be protecting the president. He relies on me, and I’ve let him down.

He skidded to a halt in his driveway, running into the wall and putting a softball-size hole in the drywall. He flipped down the kickstand and killed the engine. He threw the cover over the Harley and went inside to treat the migraine that was pounding his head like a jackhammer. He wanted to see a doctor about them—they seemed to be increasing in frequency—but he hadn’t made the time yet.

He slung his leather bomber jacket over a kitchen stool, grabbed a glass, and filled it with some water from the tap. He put the glass down and started rubbing his temples to ease the pressure. I need a Tylenol PM.

As he headed to the bathroom, he accidentally kicked over a box. Framed pictures spilled out onto the living room floor. One was a wedding picture—his wedding picture.