“Take him and his guest to VIP and take care of them for the rest of the night,” he shouted over the music.
Again, Kandace and I exchanged glances as we followed the waitress through the crowd. We got to a large booth protected by a velvet rope.
As she unhooked it, she said, “Welcome back. I’ll be right back with your usual.”
“Uh, thank you. I appreciate that,” I said as I reached for Kandace and helped her to her seat.
“I thought you said someone told you about this place. You ain’t tell me you were a regular. How often you come here?” Kandace asked.
“I don’t. This is my first time here,” I leaned over and whispered. “I’m guessing they think I’m someone else. Mistaken identity.”
“What? Don’t you think you’d better say something?” Kandace’s eyes widened.
“Hell no! I’m going along with it. All this damn royal treatment they giving us? We ’bout to enjoy this shit,” I told her, adjusting my chain. “They probably think I’m a rapper. You see my swag. Plus, I’m with a bad bitch.”
“Bitch?” Kandace frowned and stiffened.
“I meant it as a compliment, babe. Chill.” I leaned over and kissed her, and she relaxed. Seconds later, she was bouncing in her seat to the music and looking around.
“Here you are.” The waitress returned with a tray holding two glasses and an ice bucket cradling a bottle. As she set it on the table in front of us, I was tempted to send it back.
“Ace of Spade!” Kandace gasped.
“Is something wrong?” the waitress asked as she opened the bottle and began pouring. “This is your usual.”
“Um, how much is this a bottle?” I asked.
“It’s usually a thousand dollars a bottle, with service,” she replied.
“I guess we living that life tonight,” I said to Kandace, all the while thinking about how fast my thirty grand was going. I reached in my pocket for my debit card. “You might as well run a tab wit’ this.”
“Tab? You trying to get me fired?” The waitress shook her head, pouring us each a glass of the champagne. “You know your money’s no good here. My boss would kick my ass if I tried to run a tab for you.”
“I am allowed to tip you, though, right?” I took a hundred-dollar bill off my roll.
“It’s customary.” She smiled, taking it from my hand. “Oh, and he’ll be here in an hour. You might wanna get rid of your beard.” She picked up the tray and left.
“What was that supposed to mean?” Kandace asked.
I ran my hand across my goatee and shrugged. “Beats the hell outta me.”
My cell phone rang, and I checked the caller ID. It was Mr. Worth, my mama’s next-door neighbor.
“Shit!” I was alarmed, not only because he rarely called me, but it was damn near one in the morning.
“What’s wrong?” Kandace could see the concern on my face.
“I’m not sure. I’ll be right back. I gotta take this,” I said, jumping up and heading back to the hallway we’d come down so I could hear. “Hello?”
“Roman, it’s Bob Worth from next door,” he told me.
“What’s up, Mr. Worth?”
“Son, they just rushed your mama to the hospital. I think it’s a heart attack. You need to get over there and check on her.”
“Damn! Okay, I’m on my way.” I hung up without saying another word and ran back into VIP. I grabbed Kandace’s arm and shouted, “Put that shit down. We gotta go now.”
Kandace guzzled the rest of her drink. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“My mama had a heart attack.”
We rushed out of the club. My heart was beating so fast I could hardly see straight as I thought about the woman who’d given me life, now fighting for hers. I had to get home fast.
KD
9
At 6:37 p.m., the blue Cadillac pulled out of Morningstar Recycling and Scrap then headed south toward the 7-11 and stopped. The driver of the car was a middle-aged, balding white man dressed in plaid blazer and khaki pants, the kind of guy you would barely notice if he walked by. He stepped out of his car and went inside, returning a few minutes later with a plastic bag that probably contained milk or eggs his wife had asked him to pick up on his way home. In his free hand, he had a six pack of Bud Light, which he most likely planned on drinking as he watched preseason football. He got back in his car and didn’t even notice that he was being followed, or probably didn’t care. Men like him didn’t worry about things like that, although perhaps they should.
He drove out of the city limits for about two miles, and we hung back a few cars—just enough to see him, but not enough to raise any suspicions. Like in a movie, when he passed a big old billboard off to the side of the road, a highway patrol car pulled out behind with flashing lights. I had to laugh because I was sure he was confused as hell, considering he was driving at least ten miles under the speed limit. Like the upstanding citizen he was, he pulled over right away. The patrol car pulled in directly behind him and parked.
Peter Wildman stepped out and adjusted the hat that matched his state-issued Highway Patrol uniform. Tyler, who was driving the car that I was in, did the same. They slowly approached the Caddie, Tyler on the driver’s side, David on the other.
Tyler spoke to the driver, who eventually opened the door and stepped out. I couldn’t hear what was said, but his expression told me he was not happy. All three men walked toward the car I was in, then Tyler opened the back door and ordered the driver to get in.
“How you doin’, Herman?” I greeted him with a grin.
“KD, what the hell is going on?” Herman Cooke looked
