Not One of Us(6)

Ray lifted his glass and took a long swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “We all got troubles. My life ain’t been no picnic either, missy. I served my time. You done harassing me?”

I cocked my head to the side, studying his hard features. What had I hoped to gain by speaking with this man? He couldn’t care less that my aunt’s life had been forever scarred. Must be the alcohol that had made me so hell bent on making sure Ray knew the impact of that long-ago murder. I’d said what I’d come to say. There was nothing else to discuss, except: “When do you leave?”

He raised a thin brow streaked with gray hairs.

“I’d hate for my aunt to accidentally run into you in town.”

“Again, none of yer bizness, but I don’t mind tellin’ ya I leave in a day or so. Got some private bizness to take care of that should set me up nicely while I get back on my feet.” His eyes shifted in a crafty way, and a sly grin slid over his wan face. No doubt this business was something highly illegal.

“Now that Momma’s dead and buried, ain’t no need for me to ever come back to this hellhole,” he continued.

“Good.” My face suffused with warmth. “Not that your mother died,” I hastened to assure him, even though I had no need to explain myself to this loser. But politeness had been drilled into me all my life, and I couldn’t be a total jerk. “Good that you’re leaving, that is.”

Message delivered, I started to rise to my feet when a group of four men with pool cues marched deliberatively over to our table. Our raised voices had attracted the attention of the bar bullies. I’d seen them around over the years, always stumbling about half-drunk and taking offense at folks for the least provocation. Luckily, they mostly stuck to the back poolroom and were easily avoided. But tonight, the beasts had been roused. Their eyes were narrowed to mean slits, and one of them slapped his cue menacingly into an open palm.

“Ray Strickland,” their ringleader groused. His thin mouth tightened into a grim line. “Can’t believe you have the nerve to show your face here.”

Ray cradled his hands around his beer glass, the calloused knuckles white, emphasizing a row of tatted crosses lining each knuckle joint. “I ain’t botherin’ nobody.”

Dana hovered by my side. “Let’s go,” she whispered in my ear, her hand on my arm.

“He botherin’ you?” one of the guys asked me. With a start, I realized I recognized this one. Eddie Yaeger. He’d been several years ahead of me in school and was always being called to the principal’s office for fighting or some other mischief.

“Nope. Thanks, Eddie. Y’all go on back to your game.” I pushed onto slightly unsteady feet. I despised Strickland for what he’d done to my family, but to be fair, I’d been the one to approach him. Man didn’t know me from Jack. I had no stomach for fistfights, either, especially when it was unfair. Surely Ray had learned a few slick moves protecting himself in prison, but tonight’s four-to-one odds meant an ass whoopin’ I’d rather not witness.

“Why you showing your face here, Ray?” the ringleader asked, not willing to retreat just yet. “This is a respectable joint. No convicts allowed.”

“I ain’t a convict no more.” Ray’s tone was truculent, and the muscles in his arms tensed as though preparing for a fight.

The men edged closer to the table in a semicircle, blocking his exit. Chairs scuffled all around us, the other patrons sensing trouble and hastening to put distance between themselves and the brawl’s epicenter. Dana’s grip tightened on my arm as she pulled me away. “Come on.”

I couldn’t abandon Ray to this fate. I should never have approached him. This was all on me.

“He was just leaving,” I offered, pointing to Ray’s nearly empty glass. “Isn’t that right, Ray?” I asked, beseeching him to gracefully exit the danger.

He dug in, his jaw hardening even more. “Ain’t going nowhere ’til I’m good and ready.”

Stubborn jerk. I backed away from the inevitable scene.

Eddie turned to the ringleader. “Ray ain’t worth our time, Tommy. Let’s go.”

But the man nearest to him wrapped his hand over Ray’s bicep. “Go now,” he threatened.

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll kick your ass.”

“I don’t want no trouble. Get yer hands off me. Ain’t warning ya again.”

Instead of backing off, the man tugged on Ray’s arm.

Ray picked up his glass and threw what was left of his drink into the guy’s face. The golden, sticky brew trickled down into his eyes and made tracks in the scrubby stubble of his jaw.

An awful silence descended throughout the room. Everyone recognized the split second of stillness for what it was: a signal of coming disaster.

One moment Ray was seated at the booth; the next he was on his feet, easily flicking off the man’s hold on his arm. The attacker shoved at Ray’s chest, and Ray shoved back, sending the guy flying into the nearest table. Bowls of gumbo and pints of beer crashed to the concrete floor as the table was upended. A woman screamed somewhere nearby. Hot liquid scorched my right calf, bits of rice and crawfish dotting my jeans.

The other three men were galvanized into action. Eddie swung his pool cue at Ray’s head, but Ray snatched it before it made contact and snapped it in half. He clutched the pieces of the broken stick in either hand like a weapon. Tommy lunged toward Ray, only to be walloped on the side of his head. The contact made a nasty crack, the noise creating a whip of black that exploded in my mind’s eye.