Bravado's House of Blues Read online

  Heather sat between his legs completely naked. He wanted to shout in amazement as his eyes traveled the contour of her body down her smooth back and over the achingly precise curve of her bottom as she leaned forward and . . .

  He let out a gasp. Finally, the mind managed to force an action. His protests burst forth from his lips in a whimper.

  Later, as they lay across the hotel bed, two bodies intertwined in spent bliss, he began to understand. She had done things to him he’d never imagined. They had performed acts he felt sure were illegal in Kentucky, and he reveled in it.

  *

  The next few days flew by. He worked in a fog of her memory. Even young Patricia couldn’t get a rise out of him. Once, the day Heather was to return from her overseas flight, Mr. Bloocher commented on Uly whistling, “like he was off to work with those damn dwarves.”

  Uly’s life became a roller coaster of abstinence and consumption. When Heather was away, he worked long days, closing up shop every night, and spending time shooting pool or reading books he thought would make him interesting to Heather. When she came into town he abandoned work and new friends opting to spend every minute with her, morning, noon and night—especially night.

  At the end of the third week, Granny called to inform Uly that instead of returning right away, she was going to stay a bit longer and consider moving her residence to the condo complex her sister recommended in Coral Gables, Florida. Uly couldn’t speak.

  “I am not saying that I’ll do this, Uly,” she informed him. “Don’t get your hopes up about that house. If the time comes for me to relocate here, I’ll contact a realtor to sell the place. I don’t see any reason why you couldn’t buy the old homestead, but I won’t be giving you anymore than I’ve already done. You’re a good boy, but a bit prone to sloth and over-indulgence. I’ll call you next week with more news.”

  And with that she stepped out of his life. He didn’t care anything about the old house. As a matter of fact, it was the catalyst he needed to make the final break into true independence. With the approval of Mr. Bloocher, Uly took over the single apartment above the funeral home’s garage. He didn’t even have to use his luck.

  “About time you got a place of your own,” Sam said, shaking his head.

  Heather, Mr. Bloocher, and a couple of the boys Uly had been shooting pool with regularly helped Uly move his meager possessions into the apartment that next Saturday. Uly strutted around the place like a prize gamecock. After the boys left, he and Heather christened “his new pad” by making love in all three rooms.

  *

  The sound of squealing tires and drunken revelry woke Uly around three in the morning. He stood in front of his only window and watched dumbfounded as Stuart Johnson and some of his rowdies did doughnuts in the grass between the funeral home and the flower shop. Uly knew the bigoted Stuart hated the Vietnamese family who ran the flower shop. He also expressed his particular brand of disapproval toward Mr. Bloocher for passing them business from the funeral home.

  “Damnit,” Uly swore under his breath.

  “What is it honey?” Heather said from the bed.

  “Just some assholes harassing the Nguyen family again.”

  “Should we call the police?” she asked, sitting up.

  He looked back at her as the halogen streetlight painted her in streaks of black and white. God she was beautiful. He didn’t know why she chose to be with him, but here he finally felt he had an opportunity to prove himself.

  “Yes, call the police,” he said as he slipped on his slacks.

  “What are you doing?” she asked as she dialed.

  “I’m going out there. Someone has to put a stop to this nonsense.”

  “But Uly, you’ll get your ass kicked.”

  He glanced back as he pulled a T-shirt over his head. “Sometimes a man has to stand for something,” he said.

  “You don’t have to prove anything to me,” she said, eyeing him with understanding.

  “Just call the police. I’ll be careful.” And with that, he slipped on his loafers and stole out into the night.

  He glanced up to see if she watched him from the window, but he couldn’t see past the reflection. He screwed up his courage and walked over to the flower shop. The boys had dismounted from their vehicles and stood around drinking beer. Uly could see little San Nguyen in the upper story window, watching as the rednecks terrorized his world.

  I know just how you feel, Uly thought as he stepped out into the light.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the crowd of drunken men and boys.

  One of them looked over and began to laugh. The news spread fast from car to truck until all eight or so thugs pointed and laughed at Uly. It took him a moment before he realized he’d zipped his shirttail out through the fly of his pants. He quickly turned around and furtively stuffed the white cotton back inside.

  “Why don’t you boys head on home now?” he asked, his voice calmer than he felt.

  Sniggers and guffaws broke out among the men. Jimmy Woodsen climbed out of his truck and walked over to Uly, whipped down his zipper, and began to urinate in Uly’s general direction.

  Uly jumped out of the way, but not before urine splattered his canvas shoes.

  “You bastard,” Uly said. The crowd grew silent.

  “What did you call me, faggot?” Woodsen growled.

  “Are you some sort of animal, prowling the night, marking your territory from the other dogs?”

  Woodsen took a step forward, beefy hands clenched into fists, when Stuart Johnson placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Get in the truck, Jimmy. The prick’s probably called the police. Not to worry, I think we’ve made our point to the rice bowls.” He eyed Uly as Jimmy moved back grumbling. In the distance, sirens began to wail.

  Several of the vehicles took off in a spray of gravel and dust.

  Uly stood his ground as Stuart loomed over him.

  “Bobbie may come and see you, Ulysses,” he said, spraying spittle onto Uly’s shirt. “But that piss-ant deputy can’t keep me from kicking your ass first.”

  “Step off, fucker,” Heather shouted. Both men wheeled around to see her standing in the middle of the parking lot in nothing but one of Uly’s shirts. She stood with her legs slightly apart, and a .357 in her raised hands.

  “Give me reason to pop a cap in your ass,” she said dramatically. Uly could hardly suppress a chuckle. That’s what the gang-banger had said on that police procedural she liked so much.

  “Got your fucking whore protecting you, Uly sweetie?” Stuart said.

  Uly turned on him, took a step forward, and stabbing a finger in the larger man’s chest began, “You watch what you say about that fine woman.” At least that is what he had planned to say. Instead he said “You . . .” and he ended up spitting out blood and dirt after Stuart’s blow knocked him into the churned sod.

  Stuart turned to Heather, pointed a dirty hand in her direction, and said, “Call me when you want a real man, sweetheart. I’m sure needle dick here can’t possibly satisfy a fine piece of ass like yourself.”

  He took a step away from Uly, hands in the air. “Don’t shoot,” he said with a chuckle. He turned, wiped one hand across his open mouth, and kicked Uly in the stomach. “Stay the fuck outta my business.”

  Uly coughed and hacked, clutching his abdomen as he curled into a ball.

  “Leave him alone,” Heather said.

  Stuart moved toward his pickup, picked up a can of beer from the dashboard and drained it. He flipped the can at Uly who moaned on the ground.

  “Too bad you called the cops, Uly. Next time, you won’t be so lucky.” He slipped behind the wheel of his big Ford, cranked the key, and stomped the gas. Dirt and grass flew over Uly’s prostrate form as the pickup fishtailed across the ripped up yard.

  Vacuum, Uly saw her mouth say as the sirens screamed into the parking lot.

  *

  Uly took a couple of extra days off after the incident. Mr. Bloocher wanted t
o give the community time to calm down. Uly and Heather spent little time in public, avoiding any chance to run into one of Stuart’s boys. Mr. Nguyen sent a flowered wreath to Uly with a note thanking him for sticking his neck out. Seems that very few in the community wanted to get involved.

  Heather only had one more day off before she had to return to work, and they wanted to make the best of it. She was scheduled to fly to Seattle, three days on and two days off. Uly wouldn’t see her again for a while.

  He went for take-out and rented a couple of movies while Heather packed. She would be flying out at three the next afternoon.

  They barely watched the movies, choosing to spend their time making love and talking. Between them they ate cooling Kung Pao chicken, hot and sour soup, and crab won tons. Uly began to heal physically from the encounter, but something deep inside him emotionally had broken open. Whether it was the humiliation in front of the woman he loved, or the community’s stunned silence concerning the whole affair, his anger formed a red-hot ember in his belly.

  Late Thursday morning they lay together, spent and glorious. Heather lay kitty-cornered across the bed, blonde hair tousled and limbs akimbo where she had fallen into a satisfied sleep. Uly eased out of the bed and sat in the chair across from her, watching her sleep. He loved her so much.

  He watched her chest rise and fall as she breathed deep in her slumber. Watched as she glowed with the vibrancy of life. Watched as he thought of his recent transformation. Watched and plotted.

  The maelstrom grew at his core. Fear that had lain dormant for twenty years had finally burst forth from his psychic internment and fed voraciously on the fire of his anger.

  He knew what he would do. He would make them pay. He would return kind for kind. But to do it, he would need to step over the line.

  His luck talisman lay in his top dresser drawer where it had lain for many weeks. His luck had finally turned and he felt he could handle things as they came. Stuart Johnson, however, would require all his effort, all his attention, and more luck than he had in him.

  He stooped over Heather as she slept and performed his ritual. The sun reflected off her alabaster skin. She glowed white-hot as he moved over her, talisman weaving in and around her curves—her bends and crevices. He worked his magic slowly and carefully. Mr. Bloocher’s warnings to never siphon from the living echoed in his head, but for his revenge, he would need a powerful force, and he was only going to take a little. The living had huge reserves. Just as he completed his mantra, a surge of energy erupted from Heather and connected with the talisman. He fell off the bed with a yelp as the talisman vanished in a flash of heat and smoke. Heather moaned deeply as Uly pulled himself up off the floor and sat back on the edge of the bed. He sucked his fingers where he had been scorched. Heather moaned again and he lay his wounded hand across her stomach.

  Heather left for the airport. As the cab pulled away, Uly prepared himself. He put on the jeans Heather had convinced him to buy, put on her Seattle Mariner’s cap, and walked out of his sanctuary. He waved at the Nguyens as he passed their shop and made his way down to Jones Street. He crossed Main by the old Five and Dime, knocked on the glass, and waved at Mrs. Templeton as she swept the aging retail outlet. This was his town, he thought resolutely. He’d lived here his whole life and he’d be damned if he was going to let Stuart Johnson drive him out.

  After several blocks, he crossed Maple in front of the courthouse and stood staring at the Wild Thangs, the only bar in town. He knew he would find Stuart here, knew it just as he knew that the retired farmers would all attend his next funeral, like the Liquor Village would sell to minors, like the redneck bigots of this growing town feared those different from themselves. This fear had finally registered with Uly. He knew fear and uncertainty. He knew what they refused to see—what ate at them. He’d been living in the shadow of fear for thirty odd years and had finally embraced it. These macho boys would never know what hit them.

  A warm wind blew across the town that evening, Uly observed—wind that smelled of thunderstorms. He felt the energy rippling through his body like a Tesla coil.

  *

  The Wild Thang catered to lawyers and local government workers until just around six. That’s when the decent folks headed home for supper with the family and the rougher crowd moved in. Uly quietly walked around the two pool tables as the last of the suits made their way to the exit. Within a half an hour, the place held two die-hard lawyers, arguing the merits of some case or other in one of the back booths, and Uly. He sat at the bar, nursing a scotch and soda, when he spied his first target. Billy Templeton, at the ripe old age of eighteen, had already sided with the no good, bottom-feeders in town. Uly challenged him to a quick game of eight ball. Rumors had it that Billy fancied himself a hustler. Uly took twenty dollars from him in the first thirty minutes, all the while feeling the luck sing in his ears.

  An hour later, Uly watched from a side table as Stuart and some of the others entered the bar. They didn’t notice him at first, but took over the bar en masse. Within minutes, Billy filled them in on his losses. Stuart threw back a shot of whisky and called out to Uly.

  “So, faggot . . . Billy here says you can play some pool.”

  Uly slowly chalked his cue and stared at Stuart.

  “How about you and me play for some real money,” Stuart said as he slapped a single hundred-dollar bill on the table.

  “You’re on,” Uly said.

  Uly let Stuart get ahead before he put on the juice. He ran the table, sending Stuart around the room cursing and stomping. Uly reached for the hundred with all the confidence in the world.

  Stuart called him again and they played for two hundred, “Double or nothing,” Stuart had brayed.

  The outcome was the same. Uly pushed his luck again and again. He even went so far as to cause Stuart to scratch on the break of their fourth game. By this time, Stuart had consumed a large quantity of alcohol. Uly stayed one step ahead of the boys all night, tweaking the balls at every opportunity. Many of the other patrons started grumbling words like “cheater” and “hustler.” Uly watched gleefully as Stuart’s rage continued to build.

  Finally around eleven, Uly picked up the seven hundred dollars he had taken from Stuart and his boys. He folded the money dramatically and shoved it deep into the front pocket of his jeans. He tipped two fingers to the side of his head in salute to the barmaid and stuffed a twenty into her tip jar. She just eyed Uly as she wiped down the bar.

  Uly went to the bathroom. When he came out, the bar had pretty much cleared out.

  “Good night,” Uly said to the barmaid.

  “Don’t come in here again,” she said in return. She didn’t look happy. Uly smiled at her really big as he grabbed a handful of peanuts out of the wooden bowl on the bar. He sat down and looked up at the television.

  “Been playing the same news story all evening.”

  “What’s that all about?” he asked the unhappy barkeep.

  “Don’t suppose you paid any attention to the news, seeing how you were hustling Stuart Johnson.”

  “Yeah, I did humiliate him tonight, didn’t I?” he asked with a smile.

  “He’ll kill you, you know that don’t you,” she said, her voice flat and unemotional. Like she was telling him his fly was open.

  “Yeah, well, I can handle myself,” he said. His bravado rang with his stunning victories of the entire evening. “I kicked their asses.”

  “Shut up,” she said, and turned off the mute on the television.

  *

  In our continuing coverage of the air disaster over Montana . . . He spun around on the stool.

  Tonight another Boeing 737 fell out of the sky, killing all one hundred and thirty seven passengers and crew aboard. The National Transportation Safety Board has not confirmed why the late model Boeing jet fell from the sky. The last transmissions from the pilots to the air-traffic controllers reveal no problems. Weather has not been ruled out as a cause. The NTSB will know more once crews
discover the black box that is somewhere in the five square miles of wreckage.

  He watched in horror as the flight number flashed across the screen. That was Heather’s flight.

  He thought back to the afternoon. Heather had stumbled when coming out of the shower and broke the shower head off the wall as she tried to prevent herself from falling. While packing, she’d accidentally smashed her favorite bottle of perfume into her suitcase, drenching all the clothes she had here in Kentucky. As she rushed to get out to the taxi, she broke the heel on her left shoe and had to go back inside for another pair. She had left the book she was reading on his nightstand and she had stepped on her sunglasses. He had been so preoccupied with plotting his revenge that he had not put the pieces together. Mr. Bloocher had warned him against tampering with the luck of the living. He hadn’t listened. He had tapped into the natural ebb and flow of her luck, and now he was responsible for the deaths of one hundred and thirty seven innocent people, including the woman he loved.

  Uly tried to stand, but found his legs would not respond to his commands. She was gone and he’d killed her. The wild fluctuations of the living luck had filled him to overflowing and had left her wanting. The television began to talk of pilot error.

  He staggered out of the Wild Thang and leaned against one of the three parking meters on Maple. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. The night around him throbbed with the upcoming storms, but he had lost the sympathetic thrum he had felt earlier. His luck had been expended, pushed to its limits in his rush to humiliate his enemies. He needed to get home, to find Mr. Bloocher. He’d know what to do. He numbly walked across Maple and cut across the courthouse lawn. As he neared the parking lot behind the jail he heard the quiet crunch of gravel.