Not One of Us(7)

A trickle of blood streamed down Tommy’s left temple. “Son of a bitch,” he cried, raising a hand to swipe at the blood.

The third man wisely did nothing but shoot Ray a scowl.

But Tommy exploded to his feet and lunged again at Ray, this time making contact. The men fell to the ground, breaking a chair leg from the nearest table on the way down. Tommy was on top as they hit concrete, but Ray quickly maneuvered out from under him and straddled Tommy, his right arm raised overhead, hand fisted to land a punch.

The bouncer, a lumbering six-foot-five giant weighing at least three hundred pounds, ran over with surprising speed. “Break it up,” he ordered, grabbing Ray’s raised fist and pulling him off Tommy. Both men quickly rose, glaring at each other. Tommy was breathing hard but shallowly, as though it hurt his ribs to draw a full breath. “All of you—out right now,” the bouncer ordered.

The first attacker crossed his arms over his ample belly. “You’re going to be sorry,” he warned Ray. “Better stay away from us.” For all the world, he sounded like an elementary school bully displaying false courage in the bouncer’s presence.

Ray snorted. He dug his wallet out from his back pocket and slapped a ten-dollar bill on the table. “I was just leavin’,” he said drily. His dark eyes slid over the men. “You pansy-ass boys oughta pick yer fights better.”

Tommy balled his fists at his sides. “Oh yeah? You just better watch your back and get the hell out of our town.”

Ray shuffled toward the door, shaking his head. “I’m real scared.”

“You should be,” Tommy called to Ray’s back. “You come near me, and I’ll kill you, motherfucker.”

Ray didn’t bother turning around as he raised his right arm and flipped off the crowd.

“The rest of you get out of here too,” the bouncer ordered, turning to the attackers. “Mister Broussard don’t tolerate no fighting in here. I’ve warned y’all before. Something like this happens again, you’re all banned.”

The four of them huffed and blustered as they strode to the door, muttering about revenge.

“Cops already been called,” the bouncer warned. “Better not start no scuffle in the parking lot either ’less you want to spend the night in lockup.”

The door slammed behind the last of them, and I hurried back to the booth I shared with Dana and stared out the window. Ray had strapped on his helmet and mounted a beat-up motorcycle. The engine roared to life and emitted a cloud of noxious black smoke as he sped out of the parking lot, spewing gravel in his wake.

Tommy and his friends piled into a battered pickup truck that had a shotgun mounted in the rear window. The driver hit the accelerator, and they made an equally loud exit from the lot, their tires spitting up dust and gravel.

“Think they’re following Ray?” Dana asked.

“They’re just stupid enough,” I said with disgust. “Let’s hope their chase is only for show, a way of saving face after getting their asses kicked and thrown out of here.”

“Maybe,” she agreed, though her eyes looked doubtful.

I settled into my seat and sighed, the slight alcoholic haze already stripped away by Ray’s oblique mention of the Cormiers. All I’d done was upset myself. Regret roiled in my gut. And if I’d never gone to talk to Ray, would he have escaped notice from Tommy and his gang of rednecks?

Still, he’d piqued my curiosity with his remark about people disappearing around the bayou. If there was a connection between my cousin and Deacon’s murder, I couldn’t just let that go. If there was a way to find out what had happened to Deacon and his parents, I’d do anything to know. Damn the danger.

“Need another bloody mary?” Dana asked. “After all, I’m driving tonight. Remember?”

I pulled my gaze from the window. “Yeah, I need one, but I’m going to pass.” It wouldn’t do for me to arrive home all liquored up. The whole point of my return to Bayou Enigma was to help take care of Mimi and Zach. I’d be useless to both if I drank any more.

“I understand.” Dana’s eyes radiated sympathy. “How is your grandmother?”

“Fine until she’s not.” So far, I’d only glimpsed a few lapses of memory—Mimi wandering into the den and leaving a pot of okra to burn on the stove, repeating herself in a conversation, with no recall of telling the same story minutes before. I’d insisted she see a doctor, and she’d been diagnosed with dementia. Specifically, he’d determined she was at stage four Alzheimer’s with moderate cognitive decline. The doctor had warned that her condition would grow progressively worse, although no one could predict how fast the fall from normalcy might be.

“And Zach?” Dana pressed.

“Same as ever.” I’d already told her about my family’s precarious situation.

“I’m glad you’re home with them. It’s a good thing your job is so flexible.”

Thank heavens for that, at least. I took a deep breath, calming the ever-present worry about what was necessary for Mimi and Zach in the long term. Before Mom had died, I’d promised her that I’d always make sure they were okay. Over the next few weeks, I’d have to decide exactly what fulfilling that promise might entail. Not for the first time, resentment flared in my gut that Zach’s and my father had cut loose and run shortly after Zach was diagnosed at age two. No help would come from that quarter. A few pellets of rain plopped against the window, a prelude to the gulf storm expected to arrive later that night. The day grew darker by the second, matching my apprehension. What if those idiots caught up to one another on some lonely road in the boondocks and one of those men got hurt? What if, right at this very moment, Mimi was cooking dinner and had left food on the stove and started a house fire?