Little Mornings

By C.M. Albrecht

How many people does it take to write a best seller? How many of them will live to brag about it? In this dark novel of intrigue and deception the line between good guys and bad guys is blurred.

Very blurred.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Write Words Inc.
• Release date: Sep 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781594319136

Book preview

1

Little Mornings

C.M. Albrecht

© 2011 C.M. Albrecht All Rights Reserved

First Electronic Edition, March, 2011

© 2011 cover art Shelley Rodgerson

Published at Smashwords by Write Words, Inc.

ISBN 978-1-59431-913-6

Acknowledgements

For my loving wife, Irma.

She always sees through me.

She always sees me through.

The characters in this book are: Mad, bad, and dangerous to know

—Lady Caroline Lamb

Part One

Awake, my darling, look!

Day is already breaking…

Life’s all about choices. Every time we turn around we have to make a choice. It’s always choices. And most of the time we make bad ones. At least I do. I don’t know why, but someway, somehow, I always make the wrong choice. It isn’t because I don’t know any better or lack sound advice. Time after time people—people who know—point out the error of my thinking and still by God, knowing that, and taking everything into account and admitting they’re undoubtedly right, I still have to go and do it anyway. I sure made a bad choice when I started after Angie. Then again, it’s almost like, maybe I didn’t have a choice at all.

So you knew that was a bad choice, Mr. Lemarsh? Or can I just call you Darcy? Kirk’s voice was low and confidential. A little bit hoarse. He wanted to be my friend. He wanted to help me. He was a big beefy guy with a paunch. His jowls were heavy and red as if he shaved too close, and he had kind of iron gray hair in a brush cut. His eyes were red and he looked tired—tired and discouraged. He wore a cheap short-sleeve shirt and a striped tie. Dark wet spots stained the armpits of the shirt. A year ago I wouldn’t have noticed it was a cheap shirt, so I guess my short brush with fame and fortune taught me a couple of things. I just wish life could ever teach me something useful.

I rubbed my wrists where I’d been handcuffed. They were still tender. I took my writer’s glasses out of my jacket pocket and held them in front of me. I guess I was figuring how to start. I looked at them. Big dark brown plastic frames with lightly tinted glass. I tapped them on the table a couple of times. I looked at them some more and laid them down.

The little room was painted thick cream enamel with a dark green trim around the window and the door. There was only the table and three metal chairs with green plastic seats. The big window faced me like a wide-screen television along the wall behind Kirk. I saw my dark reflection, a sad and lonely loser with unkempt hair. I could barely see my beautiful jacket reflected in the window; it was too dark. And I was back to needing a shave. I knew people could stand on the other side of the window and watch me and hear what we said. I figured they were videotaping me.

I’d been sitting there twenty minutes or so before this big guy came in. He told me his name was Sergeant Kirk and removed my cuffs. That was a nice friendly start. He had a way of putting me at ease. Not really at ease, but at least I didn’t feel like he was going to pounce on me. For some stupid reason I almost laughed at his name. I had an urge to ask him if he got demoted. The only Kirk I knew had always been a captain. But I didn’t. I didn’t say anything at all about that.

Yeah, Darcy’s fine. That’s all I said.

He placed a recorder on the table and pressed a button.

Just start at the beginning and tell me in your own words, Darcy, he said. The only way I can help you is for you to open up and tell me everything. It’s still not too late to change your mind and have a lawyer present.

No, I said. They’d already asked me two or three times if I wanted a lawyer. I didn’t need a stupid lawyer, at least not right now. Like I said, I made some bad choices but at least I’m man enough to stand up and admit it. Considering my position, I didn’t think a lawyer could do much for me. Besides, now I didn’t have any money to be hiring lawyers.

But even today, looking back, I can’t honestly say I would’ve done anything differently. Things just have a way of creeping up on a guy.

That’s the way it was when I met Angela Berry. There was plenty of warning. I should’ve seen right away that she was one pencil short of a gross, maybe two. But when I say warning, I’m not sure I know exactly what I mean by that, because the choices I made later on and the way things happened…I could never have foreseen them. No way. Not in my wildest dreams.

* * *

Angie was I think twenty-five. Slender and lithe. She didn’t have big boobs and all that, but there was a firm catlike quality about her that stirred me and made me feel immediately that she’d be a holy terror in bed. She had a fine nose and wide cheekbones with dark hollows underneath. She had wide-set almost colorless eyes, eyes like those arctic dogs; eyes that made me feel she couldn’t be trusted. And they had kind of a daredevil faraway look in them so even while I was talking to her I had a gut feeling that she was off on some cutting edge adventure all by herself and only giving me half her attention. When she looked at me, I felt like she looked right through me, at something beyond.

Angie worked at The Owl, this little chili joint where I dropped in for a bowl of chili once in a while. She hadn’t been there but a few days I guess, the first time I saw her. We didn’t talk that time but the lazy way she let those icy eyes linger on me told me I wasn’t the ugliest guy she’d ever seen. But I figured too that maybe she was just one of those gals who like to dazzle you with a look so you’ll leave a nice tip but don’t get your hopes up. She had dark straight brows and dark hair that frizzed a little, especially near the roots. She wore it cut short to reveal a long slender neck, a look I thought was pretty beautiful. I never was much of a ladies man, but after a couple of visits to The Owl, something about this gal gave me the idea that she might just like me at that, at least a little bit.

The Owl wasn’t a very big place. Deep and narrow and kind of gray. Back around the grill the gray had turned a sickly yellow from years of smoke and grease. A counter ran down the left side and a row of tables ran down the right side ending at the kitchen. By that a little hall led to the restrooms in the dark near all the garbage.

The Owl always smelled. Whether or not you consider that good depends on whether you like frying onions, the smell of bacon and beans and fishy grease wafting on the air. And if you sat too near the restrooms you smelled them too. The food smells didn’t bother me but I usually didn’t sit any closer to the restrooms than I had to.

About the third time I came in after Angie started there she was sitting at a table in the back, near the restrooms. Naturally I saw her immediately. She had her elbows on the table with a cup of coffee in front of her and an unlit cigarette held high to let the imaginary smoke drift away from those faraway eyes. If she saw me come in, she didn’t let on. Even though her eyes were trained directly on me there was no sign that she was in this world. Her eyes were so colorless that it was always hard to tell. Mostly you only saw the little black pupils.

But for all that, I felt a strange sense of connection. Something about the way she’d looked at me before—maybe even a crazy feeling that somehow, someplace, we’d known each other before—maybe in another life. Who knows? Something more than just her looks pulled at me to wander on back and stop at her table. I didn’t even notice the smells from the restrooms.

Now she acknowledged my presence with a faint smile.

More chili? she said. Better check it if you get some.

Check it? I asked. I wondered where this was going. I’d already had something I thought was pretty clever to say to her. I was going to say, Hey, do you come here often? But that threw me off.

Yeah, she said and nodded toward Jessie, the waitress behind the counter. Jessie had been there ever since I’d been coming in. A little taller and older than Angie she wore too much makeup and had about twenty pounds of jet-black hair piled high on top of her head. She had big soft boobs and ass all right, and a lot of the guys came in just to BS with Jessie. Her curves were too dumpy and exaggerated to do much for me. And the lazy way she moved her ass around—I could just imagine what a slob she must be at home. Not that my one room pad was anything to talk about. I hate it but every time I diss somebody a little voice reminds me that I’m not perfect either. I don’t know why that is, especially in the light of everything that happened later, but I do believe I have a conscience.

Yeah, Angie went on, a customer pulled a two foot black hair out of his chili today and he’s threatening to sue. Don’t be surprised if Jessie’s long gone by next week. I won’t be sorry. She’s been stealing tips from me.

A two-foot hair? That sounded pretty long even for Jessie, but I could believe it. Jessie always wore her hair pinned up, but more than once I’d seen long stringy black hairs working their way loose around her head. I remembered thinking once that if you pulled at it a moth might fly out. The thought of pulling a long black hair out of my chili kind of put me off. I guess I’ll just have coffee, I said. Then in a lower voice: She’s been stealing your tips?

Yeah, every time a customer leaves me a big tip, Jessie swipes some of it.

Some people are pretty greedy, I thought. I turned to go to the counter to order, but Angie reached across and touched my arm—it was like being zapped by electricity.

Relax. I’ll get it for you. She scraped her chair back and went around to the kitchen and behind the counter and poured me a cup of coffee. I liked the assured way she looked and carried herself. She looked like she was fully in charge and knew exactly what was going on. While I waited, I saw Jessie eye me and whisper something to Angie with a snicker. Angie smiled back. I guess she’d forgotten about her stolen tips already.

She came back with a mug of coffee and placed it in front of me. You’d better talk fast, she said, sitting back down, I’ve go to get back to work in a minute.

Talk fast? I’d had a hard time coming up with that line I didn’t get to use. I didn’t know what to say now. Like did she know what I wanted to say? I wasn’t sure myself what I wanted to say to her. I just knew I wanted to be around her, to talk to her. Or I could’ve spent the evening not saying a thing, just so long as I could hang around her. She was like a magnet. One of those powerful magnets that grab and hold on tight without doing a thing.

I caught my breath and tried to look cool. What do you want me to talk fast about? I asked her.

She just looked at me, kind of sideways. I thought maybe you were going to ask me out for something decent to drink after work.

I couldn’t believe my ears. I’d always been a little awkward around women, and the few women who ever came onto me were the ones I didn’t really want or need. I guess for a guy who didn’t have much to offer I was kind of picky. But Angie? I gulped and tried to be cool.

What time do you get off? I asked.

She looked coolly through me and gave me that Mona Lisa smile. Nine. Just wait outside on the corner. Suddenly her voice changed. She became very businesslike: Got to go. She stood up without looking at me and picked up her mug and disappeared back into the kitchen area.

I sipped about half my coffee and stepped up to the counter. By then Angie had come around and I paid her for my coffee and mumbled something about seeing her at nine.

I’ve got to go to the bathroom, I told Kirk. He got up and called for a uniformed officer to take me down the hall to the can. After that, the officer brought me back.

Kirk was very accommodating and asked if I wanted a Coke or some coffee or something and I said no, thanks, I was fine.

Well, you just go ahead and tell me what happened next, Darcy.

* * *

Outside it was cool. Having a little time to kill, I decided it was time I got a haircut that I knew was way overdue. My boss had already made a couple of wisecracks about it and I hated that. The barbershop next door to The Owl was a small one-man affair. Conan the Barberman. I’d been there before but hadn’t been back because to tell the truth Conan kind of scared me. Sometimes he’d swing those scissors around like he thought he really was Conan with a sword in his hand. He was a thin old guy with loose gray hair and wrinkled skin. He’d start off all right but then the hand that held the scissors would get to shaking and pretty soon he’d lean down behind the chair where he thought I couldn’t see him and pick up a green bottle and take a jolt. Then almost immediately the shaking would stop and he’d get back to trimming my hair. I smelled booze on his breath and that wasn’t unpleasant, but beneath that there was a sourness I didn’t like. When it was all over the haircut looked all right but I couldn’t help being relieved to get away from that shaking hand and those long pointed scissors. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t go back. But that evening I went on in anyway. What the hell.

Just a trim, I said, getting into the seat. Conan wasn’t a barber to talk a lot and I liked that about him. Having been there before I realized the underlying sour smell I’d noticed before was from his drinking. Not from the drink he’d just had, but from all the drinking that had gone before. It kind of pervaded his space, even cutting through the after-shave lotions and talcum and crap. His eyes were pale and looked a little out of focus and up close the red veins in his nose were pretty bright.

He snipped and snipped and sure enough pretty soon I saw his hand was shaking pretty good. He disappeared down behind the chair for a moment and out of the corner of my eye I could see him through the mirror that ran along the wall. He picked up the green bottle that stood on the tile floor there and took a healthy jolt and I watched him stiffen for a second while he renewed his forces before he pulled himself together and came back up with hands so steady he could put a valve in your heart.

By the time I got that over with and paid Conan I took a walk around the K Street Mall. Then I fiddled around in the magazine store on the corner near The Owl until it was nine and a few minutes later I watched Angie pop through the door. She paused just outside and lit that cigarette she’d been playing with earlier and looked casually about her before she blew out smoke. It was getting dark and I wasn’t sure she saw me but before I could make a sign she headed in my direction. She walked pretty fast and I liked the catlike gracefulness in the way she moved and carried herself. That was part of the reason I couldn’t help watching her the first time I saw her there in The Owl.

I stood in front of the magazine store and waited as she approached. I knew by then that she’d seen me, but she didn’t wave or let on until she was right in front of me.

Hey, she said. She lowered one shoulder and gave me a little wave of her hand. She was wearing tight jeans and a light cotton athletic sweater that went well on her. She wore a little fanny pack at her waist and looked confident and ready for anything.

Where do you want to go?

Someplace where I can get a nice cold glass of Chardonnay, she told me.

I had a twelve-year old Chevy pickup with a banged-up tailgate parked down the street. It wasn’t much before the accident and I still hadn’t been able to get it fixed. I wasn’t sure she’d go for riding in it, but the subject hadn’t come up earlier. She hopped right in without a saying a word and that made me feel better. I drove out to a little lounge called Embers. Their feature was really Mexican beer and tequila and margaritas. Despite its name, Embers was a Mexican lounge and almost everybody in the place dressed Western and talked Spanish. Most of the men were short and dark with mustaches and wore white straw cowboy hats and blue jeans and snakeskin cowboy boots. As usual, the jukebox was blasting Mexican cowboy music. I had already figured that in a noisy place like Embers I could get by without saying too much. And it was a comfortable place. Nothing fancy. I’d been there before and felt like it was sort of my kind of place somehow. Ever since I’d heard that song, South of the Border when I was a kid I’d always had this romantic idea about running off to Mexico. I even studied Spanish in high school because for a while I thought about moving down there. And I got some practice and picked up a little slang whenever I worked around Mexicans, so I was able to hold my own.

Though it was cool outside, Embers wasn’t very big and because of the crowd they had the air conditioning on, but they had a gas log going in the fireplace in the center of the room too. I sat there by the fireplace with Angie and sipped Mexican beer while she played with her glass of Chardonnay. It was pretty nice, sitting there.

Her full name was Angela Berry and before The Owl she’d worked at the Burger King in the bus depot, which wasn’t far from The Owl.

Every time a bus pulled out, she told me, I was tempted to toss my apron and go hop on it. She watched the effect of that on my face.

Where would you go?

Who cares? Anywhere. Just somewhere. Anyway I couldn’t really run off. That was just wishful thinking. I have to stay here and take care of my grandpa. All I’ve got is my grandpa—I should say all he’s got is me. I kind of take care of him. You know he’s getting up there. To me bus stations are depressing places. Most of the people wandering around don’t look happy to be traveling and they’ve got too much baggage with them. I think that’s the trouble with all of us. We carry too much baggage around with us. She took another sip of wine and made a little face. Moisture beaded on the glass and ran down the sides leaving her fingerprints on it. It was a lousy job. She rubbed her damp fingertips on her paper napkin. But they’re all lousy jobs when you get right down to it, don’t you think? Her eyes gazed into me, through me, steadily.

I sighed. Well, I haven’t ever found a job I wanted to consider my life’s work, I have to admit that. I heard the sounds of people talking and the jukebox blaring away and smelled booze and limes and some combination of maybe colognes and beer. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell. I leaned back and became more expansive, but I had to talk loud. People are always trying to get me to become an apprentice plumber or electrician or something like that. I already know going in that I that don’t want to be a plumber. And besides I haven’t got four or five years to fool around before I get on a job that pays any money.

Still, you do know that four or five years will go by anyway while you’re dicking around trying to figure out what to do, right? Now her eyes held a twinkle and I wasn’t sure whether she was just kidding me or—what I had a sneaking suspicion of—maybe she was just feeling me out.

Yeah, I admitted. Yeah, that’s what people tell me. You’re right. I don’t know. I looked straight at her and our eyes locked in the dark. Kind of a Kodak moment without the flash. Maybe what I need is a good woman to set me on the right path, I said.

Now all that was still before you met her grandfather? Kirk asked.

I looked blankly at Kirk. I’d been kind of lost in my memories. Grandfather? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I hadn’t met him yet.

This girl Angie, she sounds pretty independent.

Yeah…independent.

Well, go on.

Okay, just at that moment the jukebox stopped and Angie laughed loud enough to cause other patrons to look our way. A good woman to get you on the right path, she repeated. That’s a hot one. She finished the wine in her glass in one swallow and stood the glass back on the little table and massaged the paper napkin with her fingertips again.

Oh, I was just kind of kidding around, I said.

I’m not laughing at that, she told me. I’m laughing at the part about finding a good woman. If you want a good woman to set you on the right path, Darcy, you’d better start looking someplace else. I’m going to hell and I’m the kind of woman who’ll take you straight to hell with me if you don’t watch out.

When she said that her eyes had turned dead serious and I felt she wasn’t joking around anymore.

The cocktail waitress came over and I ordered two more of the same.

As I said before, even when I should know better I usually go ahead and do the dumb thing.

Maybe I’d rather go to hell with a girl like you than be on the straight and narrow with some dowdy housewife who lies around watching soap operas all day, I said.

The jukebox finished another song and stopped again. The room became almost silent for a moment.

Give me some change, Angie told me.

I dug in my pocket and came up with a handful of change. She hadn’t touched her second glass of wine. She went and leaned over the jukebox for a while looking at the selections. I liked the way her rear stuck out and shifted when she bent over the titles. She managed to move it just enough. Finally she put money into the slot. The song that started up sounded familiar—I’d heard it before.

What’s that? I asked her. With the music playing again we just about had to shout but for the most part nobody could hear us.

Las Mañanitas, she told me, sitting back down. It’s an old Mexican folk song I think. I don’t even know what it means.

I could barely hear the plaintive voice that rose above the guitars and cornets.

Ya viene amaneciendo,

Ya la luz del día nos vio...

Las Mañanitas…I’d translate it as The Little Mornings, I told Angie. But I guess actually it means very early in the morning or something. I’m no Spanish expert. But I think The Little Mornings sounds more romantic anyway, don’t you think?

She jus’ mean the little birthday love song, I t’ink, a voice behind me said close to my ear. I looked up. It was our waitress. She was a stocky little gal in a white satin blouse with a red floral trim. She had her fat ass stuffed into black jeans and wore a little apron with a change pocket. I t’ink that’s what she mean, you know.

I laughed. After she’d gone about her business, I told Angie, Forget her, I said. I still t’ink The Little Mornings sounds more romantic.

Romantic? I don’t know…

We sat listening to the blare of the jukebox for a little longer, sipping our drinks. After a bit Angie shifted her weight and moved her glass around on the table. Her glass was still nearly as full as it had been when the waitress brought it. Again with the fingertips on the napkin.

She leaned across the table so I could hear her. Funny, I had it pretty good for a while, she said thoughtfully.

How’s that?

Before the gig at the bus depot I got hired to be a nanny for this couple that was having a baby. They’re both lawyers. Lots of money. I mean money up the yingyang. You should’ve seen their house. What a place. There’s enough room there for three or four families and still a few rooms to let out. I had my own room with a private bath and a television and everything. For a second she looked wistful.

What happened? How come you left that?

Oh, she toyed with the stem of her glass, by the time the baby was a couple of months old I just couldn’t take it any more. Changing diapers, cleaning up the mustard and all that—and then the kid would get colic and cry for hours. She sighed and looked at me in that lazy way, It was a good job, you know? But finally I couldn’t take it anymore so that’s when I quit and went to work at the bus station. She took another sip of wine. I guess I wasn’t cut out to be a mother.

What were you cut out for, I had to ask.

She gave me one of those looks that said, If you play your cards right you may find out.

I know it’s dumb, but I think I must have flushed a little in the dark.

She studied me for a beat and then took a tiny sip of her wine. But I’ll give mothers credit, she admitted. Mothers put up with a lot.

I didn’t say anything and then she sighed again. I know mine did.

Your mother put up with a lot? I asked.

Didn’t yours?

I thought about that for a minute. I suppose she did, I admitted. I thought how I always intended to send her a little extra money now and then, but hardly ever did—and then one day it was too late. She’s gone now.

Angie’s eyes softened. I’m sorry, she said and I felt like she meant it, So’s mine. I never really ever knew mine. She suddenly knocked back the rest of her wine and grimaced and pushed her chair back. Let’s get out of here, she said. I don’t like that waitress talking about me.

What waitress? I asked. Then I realized she must mean our waitress. Talking about you?

Angie looked sideways at me as if I were a little dense. She was talking to the bartender. She said something.

Do you understand Spanish?

No—I couldn’t quite hear anyway because it’s so noisy, but she said something about me. I could tell. I don’t like it. Let’s go.

I thought maybe the waitress didn’t like Angie’s attitude. She could act a little bitchy. I noticed that right away. I could imagine why some women might not like her.

On the sidewalk I said, Where do you want to go now?

You better take me home, Angie told me. I’m drunk.

It wasn’t real late, but we got into the truck and she gave me directions. Traffic was light. I guess I was feeling my beer because I hardly ever sing outside the shower, and nobody wants to hear me sing anyway. But that song kept running through my head. And maybe I was just showing