Chapter 31 A SIGNET RING AND AN ATTACK

Seven years earlier

DETROIT, MICHIGAN

Heads u; fairly long chapter.

A U R E L I A N O

Weasel!

In my house?

The gig is up.

They've got me. It's time for me to split.

My heart decides to behave like a jelly fish as it begins a beat setting a chain of wobbly motion throughout my body, making my knees almost buckle under me.

I sweep my eyes around the sitting room looking for shadows lurking in the corners, but I come up empty.

No! They must be hiding somewhere.

So I do it again, this time rushing to the floor length curtains, and parting them to reveal the parts covering the wall.

I don't see any gunman with a double barrel and an accompanying sick smile.

I peep through the open window overlooking the wild hedges mama has been trying to prune for awhile now.

No tell tale red light from a marksman hiding in the hedges waiting to play a Sylvester Stallone move on me.

I move away from the window, and dart my eyes around the lone couch, looking for . . .

And then my eyes fall on something.

No!

It can't be . . .

Yet the evidence stares up at me from the table.

Unblinking. Unflinching.

The only expensive thing mama bought ever since we moved to Michigan ---- a 1920's antique China vase.

Delicate as it is beautiful.

I keep trying to tell her the real thing is as ugly as fuck and would have cost much more, but she's too proud to admit it was a two thousand dollar rip off.

But that's not what's got my insides in a jiggle. What lies inside has me producing ridges on my forehead.

A huge bouquet of roses so red, they totally blindside me to the fact that mama is calling my attention.

"Todo bien, hijo?" (Everything okay, son).

I swing unbelieving eyes back to her and with a voice dripping with sarcasm, point accusing fingers at Weasel. "Him? He's the love of your life?"

She looks confused, as she turns to the fucker standing there with a smug smile on his sick-looking face.

For a few seconds, nobody moves.

Nobody utters a word.

We stare at each other, gauging who's going to say the first words, to make the next move.

And then Weasel smiles.

"Checkmate, Aureliano!"

What the fuck is he talking about?

Then he speaks up again, this time addressing mama. "Lo siento pero tengo que estar en camino. Algo acaba de surgir. Mis disculpas." (I'm sorry, but I have to be on my way. Something just came up. My apologies).

As if being close to mama is not bad enough, he leans even closer ---- so impossibly close, drawing her to him by the waist ---- and plants a kiss on her lips. Then his eyes flick to me, and he smiles.

I fist my hands at my side, close my eyes and wait for the red cloud to dissipate from my vision. Once I open them again, he's gone, and mama's nowhere to be seen.

I hear some noise coming from the kitchen and make my way there. Mama stands by the sink, washing plates with a wistful smile on her face.

They even had dinner without me.

I feel sick to my stomach as I watch her staring dreamily at the plates she's washing, and humming under her breath.

After putting my anger under some control, I clear my throat and watch as her head snaps up. "I want you to stop seeing that man, he's no good for you."

She turns round to face me fully, nodding as a speculative look creeps into her eyes. "Yes! He said you'd say that." She wipes her hands with a napkin and avoids my eyes as she continues speaking. "I raised you better, hijo. I didn't expect it from you?"

With rising confusion, I regard her, wondering what crap weasel fed her.

"How could you . . . ?" She shakes her head, her lips curling up in a snarl. "How could you robar de él?" (Steal from him).

What? Me, steal from Weasel and I didn't know.

A dissapointing look steals onto her face as she suddenly straightens up and fixes me with a glare. "No crié ladrón, así que mejor arregla esto." (I didn't raise no thief so you better fix this).

My mouth hangs open as she bustles past me.

She stops just before entering the room and looks back with a cold glare. "No voy a dejar de verlo, así que mejor prepárate para más visitas. (You better prepare yourself for more of his visits), and she goes in and bangs the door behind her.

Well played, Weasel, well played!

Anger begins to well inside me once more, so to avoid saying stuff that'll definitely affect my relationship with mama, I pick up my jacket and storm out the door.

When I get to Tracy's house, I peep through the kitchen window only to see her hunched over her computer, working.

She's always working.

I watch her for a bit as she writes something on a jotter.

A toussle goes off in my mind, as I finger the key in my hand.

Do I knock on the door or just use it?

Don't want to invade her privacy, although she wouldn't mind me doing so.

Even though she hasn't yet told me how she feels, it's clear she has serious feelings for me. Real feelings. The type of feelings that could mess shit up if she doesn't put a stop to it now.

I'd been meaning to stay away from her, but how can I do that when we're closely working on a case. Truth be told, she's a good girl with a good heart, but I don't have feelings for her.

It is what it is. Right?

Unfortunately, I don't think she'll accept anything less than my all from me, because after deciding to open the door with the key, she catches sight of me and with a wide smile, jets up from her seat and closes the gap between us.

She gives me a lingering kiss on the lips. The type that sets a fire downtown. She's playing with trouble, 'cause once lil boy is stoked, there's no backing down.

"You finally decided to use the key I gave you!"

Oh crap! Time to burst that bubble she's wrapped in . . . a second time.

But what comes out of my mouth is something else entirely, as my mind suddenly recalls the picture of a forgotten memory.

"Signet rings. What do you know about them?"

Tracy gives me an odd look, uncoils her hands from around my neck and sighs. "From the little I know, signet rings are a sign of a personal or family heritage." She walks back to her computer, sits down in front of it, and continues working.

"That all you got?" I know I should let her be, but I can't get that red signet ring ---- I'm sure belongs to The boss ---- out of my mind.

The noise of her tapping on the computer, rings out in the sudden stillness of the kitchen. After a few seconds, she begins talking again and I notice she's reading from the computer. "A signet ring can also be called a gentleman's ring. It's all about status and how wealthy or how powerful you are." She turns to me and asks in an enquiring tone. "Care to tell me why you're asking?"

"I think The boss wears a signet ring."

"You think, or you know for a fact?" She archs a brow.

So I recount what happened when I was almost passing out on the floor of the cave during my first encounter with him, and how I just remembered it.

"Do you realise what this means?" Excitement tinges her voice as she gets up and comes to stand in front of me. "We have a good chance of finding out who he is."

As she says this, she moves back to sit in front of the computer and begins tapping on it, her voice sounding a bit muffled as she reads from the screen. "Did you know in the olden days, signet rings were used to stamp letters, like a personal seal? She turns round to face me once more, and I can see the rising excitement stamped on her face as she breaks out in a wide smile. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Her voice becomes hushed. Reverent.

"Um . . . send the FBI to raid his warehouses in search of -----"

"Letters! That's right, letters. Some correspondence from the main man. Seems our man likes it the old fashioned way. After these letters are read, they get rid of them. Instead of using phones that can be traced, and . . . tracked." We're both quiet as she suddenly lets out a whistle. "Wow! The boss is a fucking genius." Her voice takes on a hushed sort of reverence.

And Tracy doesn't swear, ever.

We're finally on to something. Finally.

This is a huge find, but I'm still kind of confused. "So the FBI is just going to waltz in there and raid the place for letters?"

"Okay, we're not actually going to raid the place. We're ----- you. Yes! you are going to look for letters at his various warehouses.

On hearing this, my heart beat speeds up. "M . . . me."

A pitiful look creeps into her eyes and I instantly turn around, swiping a shaky hand across my face.

I don't want her to see the fear in my eyes.

"Come on Aureliano, you're smart, you'll figure something out. An excuse. Some sort of reason for getting your hands on all the mail. Think about it, and don't take too long. Time isn't on our side anymore." I hear the scrape of the chair as she stands up, and the tip-tap of her floppies as she comes close. ". . . something for you. . . . might like it. Follow me."

I hardly register what she's saying. I'm still busy thinking of what they'll do to me if I get caught sniffing around their shit. There probably wouldn't be a tommorow for me to look forward to.

Damn it! I need this whole drama to come to an end.

"Are you coming?" Tracy's voice sounds off from a distance, so making up my mind, I turn around in time to see her retreating back disapearing into the sitting room.

Wonder what the big secret is all about. I mean if it's sex she wants, all she needs to do is ask. I'll jump on that wagon so fast, she won't even know what hit her, because I need a fucking diversion right about now.

"Taraaaaa!" She stands beside the sofa, looking like an excited elf, smiling ear to ear.

"You wanted to show me your sofa?"

She gives me a blank look.

"Different ways we can hit it on the sofa?"

She rolls her eyes.

"Alright, you want us to get naked and get our freak on, right here on the sofa?"

"Urrrrrr! Is that all you think of --- sex?" She throws her hands out, clearly irritated with me.

"Hey, don't blame me. You're the one with the 'come get me' smile."

She shakes her head, clearly amused at me, and then removes a tapauline from the table uncovering something.

"What's a tattoo machine doing here?"

She smirks as she comes close to me. "You, dear sir, are going to have a tattoo on your chest."

Say what?

"I don't think so."

She picks up the small machine and archs a brow as she faces me. "I don't think you'd want to walk around without a shirt on and have people wonder if you're a reincarnation of the slaves from the twentieth century or in a freakish cult, that ----"

"Fine! I get your point. But who's gonna to do it?" I look around.

Maybe the guy's in the wash room.

"Me!"

I gotta tell you ---- she keeps rolling out the surprises day by day.

"So you're trying to tell me you're a fucking pro on tats?"

She shakes her head and walks close to me. "I'm not trying to tell you Aureliano." Her lips curve up in a smirk. "I'm going to show you."

And then she pushes me on the sofa and straddles me, her denim skirt riding dangerously high, showing a peek of her jet-black thongs.

Sweat breaks out on my forehead.

She removes my tee with one hand, all the while looking into my eyes.

"What kind of drawing do you want?"

My brain is scrambled.

From the corner of my eyes, I see a bird taking flight outside the window.

"Errr . . . a bird."

"Like Twitter?"

"Something more . . . " She moves higher up on my laps, and settles on lil boy. ". . . creative." I manage to squeak out.

The smirk on her lips makes me know she's doing this deliberately.

Once this is over, I'm bending her over this sofa.

Hours later, after being sated with good sex, red wine, and a somewhat pleasing-looking tattoo on my chest, I'm feeling pretty good.

Whistling, I walk up to the door of the apartment, fit the key into the slot, but it misses and slips from my fingers onto the ground.

Somewhere faraway, a siren blares.

"Fuck you, popo!" Only because they can't hear me.

I search for the key amongst the reeds on the ground. Once I find it, I fit it back into the slot, twist it, and . . . there's no click.

"Why isn't it opening?"

I try the handle and it swings open.

Strange.

Mama never leaves the door unlocked.

I turn around and scan the hedges looking for movement. Not seeing anything, I swing my eyes back to the door.

Someone either came here, or is still here.

But why?

Everyone three blocks away knows we're the opposite of rich, plus I give out all the money I make to the guys around who don't have, so who . . .

An then it dawns on me my time is up. This freezes me to the spot, but then I breath a sigh of relief, 'cause if that were really the case, they won't wait for me to come home.

I'd have been dead by now.

From my pocket, I bring out a hankie, wrap it around my knuckles, and push open the door with my feet.

I slide inside, and the smell instantly hits me.

Who breaks into someone's house with so much perfume on?

An amateur . . . or someone I know.

I inch my hands across the walls, flick the switch on and . . .

I see him sitting in mama's favourite chair with his head bent like the whole world's on his shoulders.

"What are you doing here sitting in the dark like some ninja?"

He lifts his head up slowly, the grim expression on his face showcasing his feelings.

"Why are you in my house?"

His mouth curls up in a sneer, as he looks around the sitting room. "You call this matchbox a house?"

That's when I see what he's holding.

"I've been watching you come and go, acting like your shit don't smell. You peddle drugs, but you don't take them, and when one of us hosts a party, you don't fucking show up. Think you're better than the rest of us, huh?" He swings the gun in his hand around like a flag.

Now I don't know about you, but when a loaded gun is pointing at you --- a .35 callibre shot gun, at that --- you shut the fuck up and figure out a way to calm the person holding it.

"Boy, I'm talking to you." He gets up from the sofa and begins to creep towards me, a murderous look on his face. "I always wondered what Roxy saw in a nigger like you. Black man that doesn't know his place." He inches closer, the murderous look on his face growing in intensity. "You know why this is called a gun?" He jerks his head to the gun he's circling the air with. "It's because once I use it on you . . . you'll be gone."

He smiles a sick-looking smile and my heart sinks.

This. is. not. good.

Statistics show many men have died because of a woman.

I'm sure as hell not going to be part of that statistic tonight, or any other night at that. Definitely not because of Roxy.

"Abdul, please calm down. We can talk about this."

"Talk!?" He looks at me like I just grew a second head, and throws a look to the side like he's addressing someone. "Can you believe that? The nigger wants to talk."

When next he looks back at me, I see the crazy in his eyes, and I realise there's nothing more I can do. There's also something else I realise.

Only one of us is coming out of this thing alive.

I've come this far for it not to be me.

I begin inching backwards slowly with my hands up. I try not to make it obvious so he doesn't make any sudden moves with the gun.

What happens next, makes me realise life is very unexpected. You don't know what will happen in the next few seconds.

Things seem to take place in slow motion as he throws a cushion at me. Just as I swat it aside, he rushes at me, pushes me against the wall and knocks my breath out.

With my whole strength, I push back, but probably because of all the wine I drank, it's not hard enough. He staggers for a bit, and rights himself.

That's when I hear the gun going off.

The bullet zings past my ear, hits the edge of my earlobe, and draws blood. I duck to the ground, and try to crawl behind the sofa. I'm winded at this point, but as I begin scrambling for safety, a second gunshot rings out. I feel the whoosh of air as the bullet wheezes above my head, missing it by a few inches.

Shit! This man isn't playing around.

I let out an oomph, as he slam-dunks me, tackling me while I'm still on the ground.

A wrestle ensues, as I grab a hold of his hand ---- the one he's still holding the gun with ---- and begin hitting it on the ground. Unfortunately for me, Abdul is built like a Rothwieler. Solid.

By some feat of luck, I release myself from his grasp and spring up from the ground, throwing him a few punches, but he dodges, and kicks me in the stomach, making me double up in pain.

He comes at me again and again, treating me like a punching bag. I'm not proud to say I'm not able to fight back. I'm so fucking weak at this point.

Soon enough, I feel the strength leaving me. Just as I give in to the weakness drawing me under, some words rise unbidden into my mind.

We're going to America, son. We're going to get a better life.

A better life.

No. It definitely can't end like this.

I need a better life.

Suddenly fueled with strength from within, I put all the force in my fists as I drag Abdul by the leg, and watch as he stumbles to the ground. I hear a clatter as the gun falls, accidentally discharging a bullet.

For the first time I'm happy mama's out of the house, because with all the bullets being fired, one could have hit her.

We continue rolling around on the floor, with me trying to get a hold of the gun, and him trying to drag me away from it. At a point, he pins me to the ground, but I'm able to free myself and spring up.

Don't ask me how.

At this point, survival instincts kick in, as I start running towards the door. Towards safety.

I'm just hoping to get out of this thing alive.

Just when I reach out to yank the door open, Abdul grabs a hold of the edge of my jean trousers and doesn't let go. I stumble to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

That's when I see him with the gun in his hand, standing over me, a triumphant look on his face.

Time to change tactics.

"Abdul, please -----"

"Shut up and say your last prayers, nigger."

Naah! I'm not going out without a fight.

Without thinking, I dash up with lightening speed, and grab a hold of the gun. We're a blur of hands as we grapple for it. At some point, the gun is held to my chest, and at another, I'm able to direct it to his.

I feel the recoil as it goes off a fourth time.

It feels like time stands still as everything seems to freeze.

Something feels different. Off.

And then a storm begins roaring in my ears.

I feel Abdul slipping from me, dragging me down with him.

I watch in horror as his hand that's still clutched around my collar, begins to loosen. It lands with a heavy thud beside him on the floor.

I try to lift him up, but he's like a dead weight.

"Please don't be dead! Please don't be dead!"

Just like a song, I chant it over and over again, but Abdul lies with lifeless, unstaring eyes.

I slide my hands up his shirt to check for a heart beat.

That's when I feel something sticky.

Blood.