Perfect Match (44 page)

He smiled. “I’ll be fine. That hospital stay must have
caught up with me.” He made his way out front and sat on the flower planter
missing a few bricks, and filled with debris.

She pulled out a bottle of vitamin water from her bag.
“Drink this. I always carry an extra.”

“Thanks.”

“Mom gave me strict orders to watch out for you.”

Roscoe looked up, surprised.

Imogene gave him a knowing look, with a slight nod.

Roscoe said, “Rachel is a fantastic woman. You and Jerome
have a really, really great mom. And I can’t believe all the work the two of
you did on the attic room for me. I really appreciate it, and your work is
superb.”

She beamed.

Shortly the three guys were back out front surveying the
trash-littered lots, and cracked sidewalks, with spreading strands of grass.
Roscoe said, “Suppose I told you the business would be opening two weeks from
today. What would it take?”

“Sixteen hour days.”

“Might need to contract out a couple of things like
plumbing, electrical wiring, heating and air-conditioning system.”

“We could handle the rest, inside and out.”

Imogene said, “A little paint goes a long way.”

Roscoe said, “Are y’all ready to make a decision?”

Without any hesitation, Ned said, “Count me in.” He added a
big smile.

Imogene said, “This will be my first job. I’m ready.”

Jerome added, “I need a job, but I want this job. I look
forward to working with you, Roscoe.”

Roscoe looked at Billy.

He was silent, still looking across the abandoned area. He
ran his thumb across his bottom lip. He looked back at the small group, and
said, “I’ve known Roscoe since grade school. We’ve done a lot of stuff together
through the years, and most of it crazy things. Roscoe has been my best friend
but he’s also been a real jerk at times, but this business idea and plan of his
ought to illustrate that he’s a genuine good-hearted man, so you bet I want to
be part of this. When do we begin?”

“How about tomorrow morning at 6:00 a.m.?”

Heads nodded.

“One other thing. I have a name in mind for the business,
but I’d like to hear your thoughts.”

Jerome said, “Rainbow Renovations?”

Billy offered up, “Asheville Home Improvements?”

Ned said, “Speedy Building Supply?”

Imogene was still thinking.

Roscoe added, “Roscoe’s Renovations?” He beamed at his
suggestion.

Imogene was still thinking. The guys waited.

She said, “How about Romantic Renovations?”

“What?”

“Huh?”

Ned laughed. “Imogene, we ain’t playing dollhouse stuff
here, we’re talking real building. That’s crazy.” He threw his arms up, and
paced in a circle, head down.

She said, “Let me ask you a question, Ned. Out of the last
ten decks you built, how many men called you to inquire about building them a
deck?”

Ned slumped as he thought, and meekly said. “One. Okay, I
get your point. The main thing men were interested in was how much the deck was
going to cost, and would there be room on the deck for their beer keg.”

Everyone laughed.

She said, “Right. Men might earn the money sometimes, but
women almost always direct the money, when it comes to the home. Women will
renovate, men rarely get around to it.”

Ned said, smiling, “Okay, I vote for Romantic Renovations.”

The other three gave vigorous nods.

Roscoe said, “Well there goes my namesake. Romantic Renovations
it is. And guys that’s the first indication of a woman working her way up the
corporate ladder.” He reached over and gave Imogene a hug.

Rainbow Block Party,
Saturday

Over the past twelve working days, Roscoe and his start up
crew of four had worked 14 and 15-hour days renovating the business location,
including the upstairs that would serve as his loft, his home.

But today was going to be a celebration. Beginning at 6:00
a.m. more than 300 people, living in the area known as Rainbow Village, began
congregating in front of Romantic Renovations’ office. They brought brooms,
shovels, rakes, and other tools for cleaning up the street.

The neighborhood had been blanketed with flyers explaining
the plans for cleaning a different street over the next twelve Saturdays.
Anyone helping would receive a complimentary breakfast of coffee, juice,
donuts, muffins, and choice of fresh fruit. At one o’clock hot dogs and
hamburgers, with all the trimmings, chips, fruit and cold drinks would be served.

Area churches had loaned tables and chairs. Neighbors had
brought their grills.

A week ago Roscoe had secured the required permits, but had
met resistance from the police department. The uniformed officer at the desk
said, “I’m telling you, you’re going to stir up trouble down there in that
section.”

“How’s that?”

“That’s drug turf down there, and the people are crazy.”

“Huh, that’s funny. All the people I’ve met down there have
good sense, and the judge approved my plan for community service.”

“Bet you a donut and cup of coffee that the judge has never
been in that section of town.”

Roscoe shrugged.

The officer chuckled, as he handed the approved permits,
along with another copy of event guidelines. “You’ll learn the hard way. Good
luck.”

“Thanks. If you’re out that way on Saturday, stop by for
free burgers and hot dogs.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll be cruising the area.”

As the cleanup progressed through the morning, Roscoe
hobbled up and down the street thanking and encouraging his neighbors, while
filling his trash bag with litter.

When he passed the rickety wire fence to his right, he had a
flashback. An unpleasant flashback of the drunken night he put the young woman
out of his Corvette.
He saw the fright on her face, heard the echo of his
voice calling her names, relived the wild scream of his tires, as he ripped
down the street, leaving her abandoned
.

A heavy feeling was beginning to flood through him, when he
felt a hand tapping him on his leg. He looked down. A dirty old black woman in
a wheelchair looked up at him and said, “Mr. Roscoe, you lookin’ mighty sad.
Cheer up. I done filled another bag with trash.” She grinned, but was breathing
hard.

He took the bag of trash, knelt down, and asked, “What’s
your name?”

“Tilda.”

“What’s your last name?”

She laughed a bit. “Higgins I think. Tilda Higgins.” She
labored with her breathing, sweat running down her face. “That donut sure was
good early this morning. I ain’t had nothing to eat since yesterday noon.”

Roscoe’s concern grew, as he pushed her toward the main event
tent. “Imogene, would you get a bottle of vitamin water for Tilda? She’s only
had a donut since lunch yesterday. And let’s have one of the safety crew check
her. I’m afraid she gotten too hot.”

“Well, I wanted to do my part, Mr. Roscoe.”

“You’ve done your part, and I thank you.” He leaned down and
hugged her.

A trendy-dressed woman approached, with microphone poised,
and said, “I’m Jane Winters, with WVIP-TV, reporting on the event today. Are
you the owner of Romantic Renovations?”

“I’m one of the CEOs, but I want you to meet one of the most
important person’s out here today, my neighbor, Tilda Higgins.”

The cameraman was filming away.

The reporter leaned down, tentatively asking, “How long have
you lived here, Tilda?”

“All 95 years of my life, right in this neighborhood. This
is a fine neighborhood, fine neighborhood.” Her eyes sparkled. “I did six bags
of trash.”

Roscoe picked up the conversation, speaking to the reporter,
stretching his arm pointing down the street, “See that mound of large trash bags.
Now you see how important Ms. Higgins and her neighbors are to our efforts in
Rainbow Village. It’ll take at least two city waste trucks to haul it away.”

The reporter turned back to Tilda, thinking she would hijack
a straight answer to her original question. “How do you feel about someone like
him owning a business in your neighborhood?”

Tilda studied the intense, blonde reporter, thinking. “He
probably don’t own nothing,” her head shaking, “’cause he poor like the rest of
us down here.”

Before the frustrated reporter could sign off, a voice from
Roscoe’s left said, “Me-e-ster Roscoe, you want me and my crew to finish off
the other side of the street?”

Roscoe checked his watch. He’d met Valquez earlier in the
morning when crew volunteers were matched up. “Think you can finish in time for
lunch?”

Valquez nodded. “Sure. Thanks for helping Rainbow Village.”
He beamed, and turned to go, but the reporter was quicker.

“Sir, how long have you live in Rainbow Village?”

“Se-e-ks years, long time.”

“Do you have a green card?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. Proud of green card.” He pulled it from a
tattered canvas wallet, proudly holding it toward the camera.

Roscoe decided to head off this crafty little fishing
expedition from blondie. “By the way your TV station will be doing a great
public service today, if you find anyone without documentation. Send them here
to the main tent. We’re assisting anyone needing help with the complicated
paper work in becoming a U. S. citizen. I’ll check with you before you leave
and get any leads you uncovered.”

She quickly signed off, and then rolled her eyes at Roscoe.

“Stick around for burgers and hot dogs, and the music and
dance contests begin at one o’clock. Maybe we can chat, get to know each
other.”

She gave him an icy look. “I doubt that. Right now I need to
find who’s in charge of this mob.”

“Good luck.”

Jerome had been listening in the background. When Roscoe
turned around, Jerome said through clinched teeth. “We don’t have a citizenship
assistance program.”

“We do now. Grab some legal pads from inside, just in case.”

Jerome was shaking his head, but grinning. “Ned said you
were one crazy dude.”

Roscoe laughed. “Yeah, but I’m having real fun for once in
my life.”

Litter and debris had been bagged and piled along the
sidewalk at the far end of the street. Broken glass had been swept up and
placed in special containers. Grass and weeds had been cleaned from cracks in
the street, and sidewalks. Earlier both ends of Rainbow Avenue had been
cordoned off by the police, but they had mainly kept out of sight.

The grills were smoking, and the meats were sizzling. Lines
had formed for lunch, and the DJ hired blasted forth with the latest music.
Rainbow Avenue rocked. Laughter spilled across the neighborhood. Roscoe and the
other CEO’s circulated throughout the crowd, thanking people, chatting with as
many as they could.

Roscoe’s strength was beginning to wane. He headed back to
the main tent. A few of the younger set were beginning to showcase their latest
dance steps to the applause of the milling crowd. Midway up the block six men
dressed in black pants and T-shirts, wearing dark sun glasses were cutting
across an empty lot.

As they strode down the middle of the four-lane street, the
pockets of people spread back. The crowd’s laughter withered to murmurs of
‘Tojo’s gang.’ The music played on.

As the lines parted, Roscoe stepped in front of the grills,
facing the men. They stopped about ten feet from him. The big tall one, with a
smirk on his face, looked Roscoe up and down.

Roscoe said, “If you came for food, you’ll have to get in
line.”

Big tall one said, with a hoarse chuckle, “I don’t get in
line for anything. You got that straight?”

“You do here, since you’re trying to crash a celebration
event.”

“Smartass, you’re on my turf.” He eyed the crowd, calling a
couple of names, “Fedrow, Gotlet, Treva, I’m disappointed you in this crowd and
didn’t wise up this guy that this is my turf. I’ll deal with you guys later.”
The three shrunk back into the crowd.

His eyes returned to Roscoe. Tojo said, as he looked at his
gaudy watch, “I’m gonna be easy on you. You’ve got ten seconds to shut this
party down.” He stared at his watch. His five accomplices held their stance,
reaching a hand toward a pocket flap.

Roscoe said, “We’re not closing anything down.” The crowd
had swung around forming a horseshoe shape behind him. Billy, Jerome, Ned, and
Imogene stood by. Ned kept trying to nudge Imogene behind him. She wouldn’t
budge.

“Time’s up honky. You coming with us. Let’s take him!” He
grabbed the front of Roscoe’s shirt.

Roscoe’s arms shot up full force, breaking Tojo’s grip,
buttons popped from his shirt. As Tojo stumbled back, he whipped his handgun
from the back of his pants.

Five switchblades clicked open.

Tojo was pulling the trigger.

Roscoe lunged for him.

Hands and arms struck Tojo’s aim downward, as the gun fired.

A woman screamed, fell to the ground.

“Imogene’s hit.”

“Call 911.”

Undercover cops swarmed from the crowd, pinning the gang
members to the ground, disarming them, cuffing within seconds.

Tojo yelled, “Your knee is breaking my back.”

“You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain—”

The crowd erupted in applause, and “Thank the Lord” as the
gang members were raised to their feet, and shuffled from the crowd. Police
cars had made their way up the street to take their catch to jail.

The police chief had planned for trouble. He’d had an EMS
vehicle on standby four blocks away. They quickly tended to Imogene, mad as
hell because of a minor bullet graze. She protested going to the hospital, but
the CEO’s insisted she get checked out.

“You need to get off that foot. You’re not looking good,
Roscoe. We’ve made a decision. Get upstairs and rest. Me, Billy, and Ned will
get everything closed down.” Jerome stared him down. “You’re out voted. Go.”