Cat's Paw - Chapter Four

Cat's Paw
​Chapter Four
​

​Alex’s luck had finally turned on the main highway to St. Francisville. An older Black man in a truck picked him up. The man even let Alex use his phone. The first call on the outside was to his sister.
​
“Miri? It’s Alex.”

“You got my message, right?” His sister sounded upset, angry, all of the above.

“I got the message that you weren’t picking me up. I know you’re pissed at me, but stranding my ass—”

“I had a flat tire and no spare. I didn’t have a way to get it fixed fast enough, so I couldn’t come get you.”

Oh. No doubt the prison office had gotten her message and just hadn’t bothered to pass it on. One final way to screw him over. And he’d thought she had blown him off.

“Sorry, sis. I got a ride,” he said. 

“Where are you now?” 

“Nearing St. Francisville. I’ll try to catch a ride from there to Baton Rouge.” 

“Okay,” his sister said. “I’ll see you later.” 

She hung up on him. No “glad to hear you’re out, bro.” Nothing.

Hell. He knew it was going to be hard, but not this hard. 

Year after year, he’d worried about a lot of things. Staying safe, avoiding anything that might lengthen his sentence, keeping on the right side of the right people so he didn’t end up a corpse. Worrying about how his sister was surviving without him.

Alex had made a list of things he had to do once he was out; get a job was number one on that list. It’d probably be working at a car wash or burger joint because of his criminal record, most likely at minimum wage. He’d tried to convince himself that anything would do at first. Maybe he could move up the ranks and . . . then what? Become a night manager at a convenience store or a Bourbon Street restaurant? 

It was as if all his years with the DEA meant nothing; he was back to square one. Worse than that, because how many people wanted to hire a guy who’d been convicted of cocaine possession?

Fear wasn’t his usual emotional setting, at least not until the last month or so. Was he ready for the real world? Six years was a long time—one year awaiting trial and five inside the country’s largest maximum-security prison. He’d tried to stay current by reading news reports on the internet in the prison library, but that wasn’t like really living out here. How much had changed? 

“Everything okay?” the driver asked. He’d said that his name was Russ and he was retired. Alex noted that he hadn’t said what he’d done for a living.

“Life’s not great right now.”

“You just get out?” the man asked, examining him with bloodshot eyes.

Alex gave him a long look. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

“The muscles. The tan. You get them from working on The Farm. You on parole?”

“Nope. 12/12.” The full sentence.

“I did the same. That’s why I picked you up. You looked like an ex-con. I can see it in your eyes.”

“It’s that noticeable?” Alex groaned.

“Only to those who’ve been there. You gonna do something stupid to get yourself back in there?”

“Hell no. I’m done with that.”

“Good. I was the same. My life turned out okay. Maybe yours will too.”

Like I believe that shit.

* * * 
​

Once in St. Francisville, Russ took Alex to a convenience store, where he bought a pay-as-you-go phone, water, and protein bars. Then they were back on the road to Baton Rouge, because his driver refused to let him hitchhike any farther.

“The cops will check you out if you’re hitching,” Russ warned. “If they find out you’re just out of Angola, it could get rough.” That, he didn’t doubt. “What were you in for?”

Alex told him the story.

“Well, shit. That sucks. I was in for armed robbery. I was good for it.”

“I wasn’t. It didn’t matter either way.”

“That’s often the case,” Russ replied, shaking his head.

Thirty minutes later, they were closing in on the Baton Rouge bus station.

Alex cleared his throat. “If you were me, would you want revenge on whoever fucked up your life?”

The older man sighed. “If I were your age, yes. My age? No. Wouldn’t matter now.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

“There isn’t a right one. You gotta ask yourself how much this revenge is gonna cost you. What is the price you’re willing to pay? You will have to decide whether that’s a bill you’re willing to cover.”

When they pulled into the Baton Rouge bus station off Florida Boulevard, Alex thanked the man and offered to pay for gas. 

“No. I won’t accept it.” Russ smiled. “Just do me a favor: Be sure you don’t ruin your future to settle the past. The past isn’t worth it. Only your future counts because that’s all you’ve got left.”

It was sound advice, which Alex knew he’d ignore. 

After a quick trip to the restroom, he made his way to the ticket counter, skirting around various travelers. The noise in the station felt off, not the routine sounds he was accustomed to. He found himself becoming increasingly jittery. Prison routine had a purpose: It reminded the inmates they weren’t in charge. Out here, he could go anywhere he wanted. Do anything he wanted. In many ways, that scared the hell out of him.

Alex was relieved to see he could easily afford a one-way ticket to New Orleans. The next bus left in fifteen minutes, so he bought a ticket and found himself a seat on the bus. One step closer to his sister.

He’d always been tight with his only sibling, from the moment Miri was born. That had been a given, since their mother was a drug addict and their father an over-the-road truck driver. It’d been up to eleven-year-old Alex to take care of the new baby, who probably wasn’t even his dad’s kid. He didn’t care about that. All he knew was that Miri was the brightest light in his miserable life and he adored her. 

For a time, his sister had felt the same about him, right up until he’d been arrested for possession of cocaine and her rampant hero worship had imploded. Miri grew to distrust most everyone. 

Especially me.
​
He had to mend fences with her. Then, after he had a job, he’d figure out who had sent him to prison—and decide exactly how to take his revenge. 
No matter what, there’d be blood and a lot of screaming. None of which would be his own.

* * * 

Despite the uncomfortable position and the low murmuring of the other passengers, Alex didn’t wake until the bus pulled into the station in New Orleans. 

Or at least back where he’d started years earlier. As he trudged down the bus steps, he caught the smell of a city unlike any other, a blend of fish, river, people, and swamp. With a bit of jambalaya and evil thrown in to spice up the mix.

The place was busy, doubling as the city’s Amtrak station. Alex half expected to see the Blake woman waiting for him, tapping her foot, arms folded over her chest in annoyance. But there was no one to greet him except a panhandler outside the station. Alex dug into his pocket and dropped a few coins into the guy’s paper cup.

“Thanks,” he said, looking up with watery eyes.

“No sweat,” Alex replied. He’d been at the bottom himself, what with the time in prison, but during all those years, they’d fed him and given him a place to sleep. This guy didn’t even have that.

Not needing to claim any luggage, he walked outside the white stone building, his plastic bag over a shoulder. Looking up, Alex studied the hazy sky, then the buildings toward downtown. He paused for a moment, picturing where he was on a mental map, and then set off. 

Miri’s place was located in Central City, on the other side of the interstate. He still couldn’t believe she’d be living in such a dangerous, run-down neighborhood, and that told him she was squeezing every dime she earned.

Not now. I can help her.

No one messed with him as he walked along. Prison had given him a hard look, and the people who could read that message respected it. A couple young gangbangers called out to him, but he kept moving and they made no attempt to follow. 

Finally, he made the turn onto South Liberty and then paused. The street was a classic example of poor New Orleans—small one-story houses, sometimes two stories, with a few steps up from the street in case of flooding. Most had dilapidated fences shielding them from the street. Weeds grew in some of the yards, but not in others. He passed several houses that were boarded up, abandoned. A bird flew out of the broken second-story window of one.

Alex finally found Miri’s rental house—not by the street number, but by the old car sitting in front of it with a flat rear tire. The house was small, and if it had been a person, it would have been drawing Social Security. 

A dirty, uneven teal, it desperately pleaded for some maintenance, starting with a coat of paint. Clearly, the landlord didn’t give a damn, as the hurricane shutters were either damaged or missing, and Alex bet you could read a newspaper through the roof's pathetically thin shingles. 

Jesus. 

His baby sister lived here. Why the hell hadn’t she told him it was this bad? Probably because there was nothing he could have done about it, not when he was earning a few cents an hour on prisoner’s wages.

The place was divided into a duplex, the apartment door on the right sealed shut with warped plywood. Graffiti added a colorful touch to the dull and blackened wood. The neighbor’s house to the right was even worse, with a sheet of plastic covering a broken window and a rickety porch leaning lazily to one side, seemingly unable to decide whether to collapse or keep fighting gravity. At least the place on the left was a little better, with intact windows and an old tricycle in the yard. 

Gathering his courage, Alex fought the rusty gate, then walked toward his sister's front door, taking note of a few scraggly flowers growing in little plastic pots along the cracked sidewalk. Miri had always loved to garden.

He was on the porch and about to knock on the door when he felt his pride sting. If it’d been Miri coming home after so long, he’d have been watching out the window, waiting for her. But she wasn’t watching for him, as if he’d just been gone for a few days. When he knocked, it took a while for the door to open, revealing a thick security chain. 

His sister’s brown eyes peered at him, a decade older than her twenty-one years. They looked like his—same color, same pain. 

“Oh, it’s you,” she said. She removed the safety chain, and the worn door opened. He couldn’t help but notice that she held a pistol down by her side.

When the hell had that happened?

“Always meet people at the door with a gun?” Alex asked, stepping inside and letting the flimsy door close behind him.

“Yeah. Lock it, will you?”

He did as she asked, then turned to study the house’s interior. It was better than he had expected, the walls painted a pale blue and the curtains a bright white. A pale lime-green dining table—just big enough for two people—sat in a tiny kitchen. 

The floors were warped wood and promised splinters to anyone adventurous enough to go barefoot. The living room furniture was likely scavenged from thrift shops and yard sales. Despite the fact that it screamed “No money here!” it felt like a home. Something he hadn’t had in over six years.

A lump grew in Alex’s throat as his eyes dampened. He blinked to clear them as he set the plastic bag on the lumpy black couch. Miri put the pistol in a kitchen drawer, then turned toward him. Her hair was lighter brown now, cut shoulder length, her features more filled out than he remembered. She was about four inches shorter than him, five-eight or so. 

Of course she’d changed—he hadn't seen her in three years, not since her last visit to his private hell. 

“Well? It’s a dump, right? Just say it,” she demanded.

He shook his head. “No. It looks good. I’m so damned proud of you.”

He’d meant it as a compliment, but somehow that set her off. 

“Well, I’m not proud of you, okay?” she shot back. “If you think you’re staying here more than a couple days, you’re wrong. Get a job, move on. I have my own life now.”

She couldn’t have hurt him more if she’d taken her gun and shot him in the heart.

“You’re serious? You don’t want me around?”

“No.” Then she frowned. “Just . . . this isn’t easy, Alex.”

“Not for me either, Monkey.”

“Don’t call me that! I’m not some kid.” 

No matter what he said, it was wrong. “Okay, whatever you want. I’ll get a job and move on. But . . . ” He swallowed hard. “If you need me, I’m here for you.”

“You weren’t for six years, why would you be now?”

“Don’t you think I know that?” he said, his voice rising. “Every damned day. Every damned night, I thought of you, and—”

“Don’t tell me how rough it was,” she retorted, taking a step closer now. “You got three meals a day, no matter what. You didn’t have to worry about someone breaking in, beating you, trying to—”

He was in front of her now, his heart thudding, wanting to hold her but not sure if she’d allow it. “God, tell me that didn't happen.”

Miri shook her head. “I ran out the back door and hid a few streets over. The bastard took the TV and ripped up the place. It’s why I have the gun now.” She shrugged like it didn’t matter, but he knew it did. “I didn’t bother to get another television. They always steal them.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks, shocking him. “Miri . . . Jesus, I never . . . ”

She blinked at him as her own tears formed, and then they were in each other’s arms, sobbing like they had when their dad had died in that truck accident. Like they had when their mom had taken that final overdose and left them orphans.

“If there is any way I can make this up to you, I will. I swear to God,” he whispered.

She tugged out of his grasp, as if embarrassed to be crying. “Just don’t go back to jail, you hear? No cocaine, no pills, no nothing.”

“I didn’t do any of that in the first place,” he said, wiping away his tears. “That cocaine was planted, Miri. I’ve told you over and over.”

No matter how many times he explained that he’d been framed, she wouldn’t accept it. They were right back to where they’d been all those years earlier. It was why she had no longer come to visit him at Angola—because it’d always come down to this. 

“Just admit it, Alex. You got caught and you did the time. Now use your head and don’t do something that stupid again.”

His anger roiled. “You know, you’re right. I’ll find a job and get out of your life. Because if my own sister doesn’t believe in my innocence, why the fuck bother at all?”

“It’s not my fault,” she said. “Never was.”

“Not mine, either,” he shot back. 

Miri shook her head, like he was just being stubborn. “I have to leave for work in a bit. There’s some food in the refrigerator. There’s only one bed, so . . . ”

“I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No, you sleep on the floor. That’s where I put my mattress. People like to shoot through the windows around here, so it’s best you’re not up high. If they find out you used to work for the DEA . . . ”

Time to change the subject. “How are you getting to work?”

“A friend’s picking me up. She’ll bring me home, too. It’ll be late. It’s Shanita’s birthday, so we’re going for drinks after work.”

Alex nodded his approval of that plan. He couldn’t stand to have her walking around these streets alone.

Miri dropped a set of keys on the kitchen table. “If you could get my tire fixed, that’d be good. Shanita can’t drive me tomorrow.”

“I’ll take care of it.” At least he could do that much.

“Oh, and if you see Mr. Toes . . . ” She paused. “He’s my cat. If he shows up at the door, feed him. His food is under the sink.”

“I can do that, too. What kind is he?”

Some of the frost fell away. “Calico,” she said with a faint smile. “The males are kinda rare. I found him in an alley. He’s got six toes and he’s really cool. You’ll like him.”

Maybe the cat was the way into Miri’s heart. He’d find out soon enough. 

Alex parked himself next to his plastic bag on the couch, his legs feeling like they couldn't hold him up any longer. He remained there while his sister dressed for work. When she exited her bedroom in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, he frowned.

“Don’t you have to wear a uniform or something?”

“I change at work. It’s easier that way,” she said as she dropped some money by the keys, probably for the tire. 

He dug in the bag for his new phone, found the number in the package, and gave it to her. “You call me if you need a way home tonight, you hear?”

“You don’t have a driver’s license.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he replied. “Keeping you safe does.”

She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “I am glad you’re home.” 

His heart beat double. That was exactly what he’d been dying to hear. 

Miri had always looked like their mother, at least before their mom started doing drugs. His sister was blessed with fine features, dark eyes, and a lithe build. “You’ve turned out to be a really pretty girl,” he said. 

“Yeah, I hear that all the time when some guy is trying to grab my ass or my breasts.”

“So how many have you shot so far?” he said, trying to lighten the moment.

It worked, as Miri grinned. “I’m tempted, but I need my job.”

“I can teach you a couple self-defense moves to make those assholes back off.”

“Really?” she asked, interested now.

​“Yup. I learned a few in the joint. They’re the kind that will bring serious pain, but not the kind that will likely get you fired.” Or thrown in solitary.

Miri cocked her head, then nodded as if his peace offering was appreciated. “Yeah, I’d like that.” 

A car honked outside. When she reached the door, Miri flipped the lock, then hesitated. She turned back to him and a weary smile came to her face, erasing a year or two. “Stay out of trouble, okay?”

“I will.”
​
Alex locked the door behind her, plugged in his new phone to charge, and stretched out on the couch, ignoring her warning about sleeping on the floor. If he hadn’t died in prison, he sure as hell wasn’t going to die in the real world. 

​* * * 
​

When Miri ducked inside the late-model Ford, her friend Shanita smiled at her. The twenty-five-year-old blonde was the tallest of the cocktail waitresses at the Down and Dirty Bar, topping out at six-one. Add three more inches for her heels and she was an Amazon. 

Miri was shorter and a bit bustier, which played well with the horny tourists who visited the French Quarter watering hole. She’d never understood it, but something about coming to New Orleans meant they left their good sense and morals back home. The cheap booze did nothing to help the situation.

Still, the money Miri made in tips more than compensated for the grabby hands. Or at least she told herself that. She hadn’t let Alex in on the fact that she wasn’t at the restaurant anymore, because he’d just go Older Brother on her and insist she quit. She was too close to having enough money to move to give that up. 

As if tapping into her thoughts, Shanita said, “This neighborhood sucks. Tell me you’re going to move in with me . . . like, tomorrow.”

“Soon. I’ve almost got the money together.”

“You don’t have to have all of it.”

“I know, but I want to have enough that I don’t have to worry.”

“Okay, it’s your thing. Let me know when moving day is, and make it soon.” Shanita headed down the street and turned the corner. “Your bro get home?” 

Miri usually didn’t tell anyone that Alex was in prison, but she needed someone to talk to and Shanita wasn’t judgmental. Not when her own father had served time. 

“Yeah,” she replied. “He just got home. He had to hitch a ride because of the tire thing.” She sighed. “He looks old, Shanita. I mean, he’s older than me anyway, but it’s even more than that now.”

“Hard time does that. My daddy came home looking bad.”

“Well, Alex looks healthy, but it’s what I see in his eyes.” Miri shook her head. “Of course, I got in his face right off. Rather than hugging him and saying I was so scared I’d never see him again, I went total bitch.”

Her friend sighed. “Love will do that to you. Tell him tonight. Don’t let him think you don’t care.”

Miri blinked back tears. “I do love him, but he keeps insisting he had nothing to do with that cocaine. Why can’t he just admit he screwed up?”

“Was he always on the right side before he was busted?” 

Miri nodded. “Totally straight arrow.”

“Then maybe he wasn’t good for it.”

“But if someone set him up, that means . . . who did it? His ex-wife? His partner at the DEA? Who? Because it sure as hell wasn’t me.” 

Shanita quirked an eyebrow. “If your brother was really doing his job, not just phoning it in, he’d have a lot of people who’d want to take him down. What better way than planting coke and busting him for possession? Five years out of circulation, easy.”

Today, when Miri had seen Alex’s face, seen how prison had changed him, her certainty of his guilt had begun to develop cracks, like a piece of flood-damaged concrete. It’d been easy to lay all the guilt on him for the hell she’d faced while he was gone. Now, she wasn’t sure if that was still possible. 

“I’ll wait and see,” she said. “If he stays clean, then I know they screwed him over.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Miri frowned. “Then he’d better be dead, because if not, I’ll kill him myself.”

Chapter Five


​Cat's Paw
​Veritas Book 1
(c) 2016 Jana G. Oliver
 All Rights Reserved.

Available on Amazon