Settling Old Scores: BWWM Second Chance Romance (17 page)

Kevin
quickly went back to the truck, got in and rolled off. It appeared
that Mr. Bailey was still alive and not kicking. He was definitely
going to get a visitor in the personage of Kevin tomorrow. He slowly
made his way back down to the Avenue, turned west and headed for the
city limits.

Just
outside of town, there was the sporting goods store where he had
purchased the handgun years before. He parked in the lot, went inside
and looked at the handguns they had for sale. He selected a short
barreled, used stainless steel .357 magnum double action revolver. It
was a slow Monday night for the shop owner. He was just minutes from
closing time. The old owner looked out the window of the gun shop.
The only car in the lot was Kevin's old truck.

"That
you out there,” the man said thumbing at the truck.

"Yeah,
that's me,” Kevin said.

"Tell
you what. I know you ain't no damn cop. I never forget a face, and I
know I have sold to you before. Give me $150 cash and I'll throw in a
box of shells. I'll give you an untraceable version of this same gun.
There will be no waiting period or paperwork. You cool with that?"
he asked.

Kevin
nodded and spent a moment looking the replacement gun over to make
sure it was the same. He spun the cylinder, checked the ejector and
hammer, and tried the trigger pull. He dry fired it to make sure the
trigger pull was satisfactory. He looked down the barrel to check the
rifling. The serial number had been ground off the frame. It was a
done deal. He counted out seven twenties and a ten. Kevin stuck the
revolver in his waistband and pulled his sweatshirt down over it.
Then he grabbed the shells and headed out.

As
he drove away, Kevin wondered why he didn't buy in a legitimate
manner. He decided he just liked doing these things in a bad boy
fashion. There was no reason for doing what he just did. When Kevin
carried, he always got a certain feeling of bravado from doing it
that is hard to describe. Just a certain "don't fuck with me"
attitude that feels great. Kevin had the same old feeling now. He
liked it, too.

When
Kevin got home, he brought the gun upstairs and got out some cleaning
supplies. He cleaned and oiled the gun, and loaded it. He went in his
storage closet and selected the few tools he thought he needed. The
gun and the tools were stuck in a small tool box Kevin owned. He
latched the box and thought some more about what he intended to do.
He studied a little more, had his nightcap and went to bed.

The
next morning, he loaded up the tool box. He put it in the truck and
headed up to have breakfast with Matt. Kevin carried on with Janet
some more, too. Then he asked about the old houses on English Avenue
that the McCanns used to have. Janet was a fountain of information.
"The city bought the whole block. They are going to tear the
houses down and build low income housing units. That will be better
than having whorehouses there. When the McCanns got paid for the
property, they bought their Stripper Bar. That was about three years
ago," she said.

"Do
you think they are still in the prostitution business?” Kevin
asked.

"Sure
they are. They do much better with the strippers though. They don't
have nearly the trouble they used to have with vice squads and all
that either. I am sure some of the strippers still turn tricks on
occasion. I will ask Tammy about it. They are way more uptown,
upscale and exclusive than they used to be. Just trying to put it in
terms a schoolboy like yourself would understand," she said
smiling.

Matt
came in and they ate a quiet breakfast. "Just out of curiosity,
do you know or remember anything from your days on the Avenue?”
Kevin asked.

Matt
told him how he used to get food from the shop owners at the end of
the day. "Ray James that had the rib place used to give me a big
takeout order of ribs just about every other night. The grocery store
at the east end gave me produce every night along with loaves of
bread and deli sandwiches. I ate good back then. Actually, I regained
some of the weight I had lost when I was on hard drugs in Vietnam,"
he said.

"In
those days, I generally slept in some of those bad order cabooses
they had parked on the siding over by the river. They weren't bad.
One of them still had an old stove in it I could fire up when it got
real cold. Once you got it blazing, you had enough heat to keep the
caboose 30 or forty degrees warmer than the outside temp for most of
the night," Matt said.

Kevin
smiled, "You make it sound like it was an adventure, not a
struggle to stay alive."

"Those
old guys that had those stores kept me alive. They fed me. On real
cold nights, some of them also let me sleep in the back of the
stores. They trusted me that much. They treated me better than my
parents did. My parents wouldn't even let me come back home when I
got out," Matt said angrily.

It
was a chance for Kevin to ask about Matt's parents, and if he had any
contact with them anymore. They spent a good hour talking about that.
Matt hadn't seen his parents in years. He didn't even know if they
were alive, didn't seem to care much either. He had a younger brother
that was serving time in prison for armed robbery. He hadn't seen him
in years, either.

Just
to be perverse, Kevin told Matt that he would pick him up the next
morning at the hotel and take him to breakfast somewhere new. Kevin
was thinking they would eat at a restaurant closer to where Matt's
parents had lived. Maybe, revisiting these places would help Matt get
some perspectives on his life. Matt seemed to be game for it. So,
they made some plans for the next day.

26.
English Avenue

Kevin
got in his ride and swung up to the old neighborhood. It was about
9am. He drove by William Bailey's house and saw the old guy sitting
on the porch drinking a cup of coffee in a worn-out bathrobe. He
nosed the truck to the curb, got out and strolled up to Mr. Bailey.
"Hi, Mr. Bailey. Do you remember me? I used to be your paperboy
about 11 years ago," Kevin started out. Mr. Bailey eyed him
closely with tired old bloodshot eyes.

"I
quit taking the paper years ago. They couldn't put it between the
doors," replied Mr. Bailey.

"I
used to put it between the doors all the time, and I always rang the
bell only one time when I came here to collect," Kevin said with
an amused grin.

Mr.
Bailey looked him over more closely and said, “I do remember
you now that I think about it. You were that skinny boy that carried
the typewriter roller in your papers sack. I saw you hit the
neighbor's Irish Setter with it when he chased after you one time. I
always hated that dog cause he did the same thing to me when I went
out to my car sometimes. I couldn't run away though. I complained but
the owner didn't seem to care."

Kevin
laughed, "I remember, I hit him and chased him up on the porch
of that house. He jumped right through the screen door trying to get
away from me. Then, thinking he was safe, he turned around to snap at
me again. I hit him again right through the screen. I never saw the
dog after that. It was early on a Sunday. He yelped like crazy and
ran through the screen on the end of the porch.”

Mr.
Bailey smiled, "I saw it all. You did nice work that time, boy.
That motherfucker got rid of the dog after that. He wasn't happy
about having to replace a couple of big screens, either."

There
was a small lapse in their conversation. Kevin stepped right into the
lapse and asked Mr. Bailey if he was the one that owned the labor
newsletter at one time. Mr. Bailey nodded that he was. "I was a
big labor guy. I lost my leg in a rail accident in 1950. I was a
member of the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters, the BSCP, until I
slipped and lost my leg. I worked on the Empire Builder," he
said.

"After
my accident, the union helped me buy the paper so I could support
myself and not be a burden on anyone. Most of my subscribers were
fellow members of the union. The BSCP were the ones that helped to
make a good solid black middle class in this town back then," he
said with pride.

"I
know a little about the guy you bought it from, Clarence Washington.
Did you know him?" Kevin asked.

"I
knew him and his brother. He had come up here from the South. Both
them boys worked at the uniform mill during the war. They kept the
mill equipment running. After the war, Clarence started the paper. He
couldn't really get anything going with other unions cause the white
unions didn't want to be joining up with black socialist activists,"
Mr. Bailey said.

"His
brother got fired from his job and the paper couldn't support both of
them. So, they sold it to me. I changed direction a little and got
away from socialism and race issues. I bet you don't remember Joe
McCarthy, do you boy? That sack of shit from Wisconsin had the FBI
out spying on every labor union member in the country. I pretty much
made it a BSCP sponsored paper. I kept it going until the trains went
out of business in the early 60s. By then, I could retire, and that
is what I did," Bailey concluded taking a big sip of his morning
coffee.

"What
did the two brothers do after they sold the paper to you?" asked
Kevin.

"They
took off to Lumberton, North Carolina. They went to work for a non
union mill down there. I sent them checks to an address down there
for about five years, paying for the printing press I bought from
them. The business wasn't worth any more than the one asset it had, a
printing press,” said Mr. Bailey.

"It
must have been hard to go back to the South after being up here,"
said Kevin, probing further.

"Well,
I ain't so sure about that. Those two Washington boys, they could
make most anything run on baling wire & bubble gum. But after
they made people mad up here, they were blackballed by everyone. So,
they didn't have much choice. I treated them fair though and paid
them off. I don't think they could have done anything about it if I
didn't," said Mr. Bailey.

"You
know, a man could learn a lot from talking to a guy like you. Is it
okay if I drop in occasionally? You must have forgotten more about
this neighborhood than I will ever know. Besides, you been places I
will never get to see. The empire builder ran from Chicago to
Seattle, right?" Kevin asked.

Mr.
Bailey looked at Kevin intently before saying, “I suppose I
could teach a guy like you a thing or two," with a slight smile.
"I was on that route for years through all kinds of weather. I
knew some very important people in my day, too," he added.

They
talked some more. Kevin eventually edged off the porch back to his
car and gave Mr. Bailey a wave. As he headed out, he puzzled to
himself about the Washington boys. Maybe, he could locate them if he
wanted to. He wasn't sure what he would do if he found Patricia's
dad.

Kevin
headed over to the far end of the former parking lot for the funeral
home on the Avenue. He was ready for a little B & E, breaking &
entering, on a couple of former whorehouses on English Avenue. He
grabbed his toolbox off the floor of the passenger seat. He flipped
open the toolbox and took a quick look inside. He pulled some heavy
duty work gloves on. Then, Kevin closed the box with a snap and eased
out of the car after taking a quick look around. He quickly headed
with the toolbox up the alley to the cutaway in the retaining wall.

Kevin
ducked into it and took two steps up so he could look at ground level
at the two back yards. The route to the basement window was clear.
The frame was completely missing from the window of the first house.
Kevin got in a prone position, took a quick look and pushed himself
feet first into the basement. He grabbed the tool box and dragged it
in with him as his feet dangled into the basement. He let himself
drop the last few feet to the basement floor.

He
quickly grabbed the tool box, opened it, pulled out a flashlight and
placed the work gloves back in the box. It was broad daylight outside
but dark in the cool musty basement. He took the .357 S&W out and
jammed it in his waistband. Kevin stood there for a few moments
getting his bearings and letting his eyes adjust to the dark. He
listened carefully and began to look around.

There
was nothing in the basement. Someone had already been there and taken
the fuse box out completely, leaving some naked wiring exposed from
the feed conduit. The big old asbestos covered boiler took up a major
chunk of real estate in the basement. In the front of the basement,
the place where the water and sewer came in, there were some laundry
tubs. The washer, dryer, and water meter were all gone.

Part
of the basement cement floor had been busted up and replaced but not
repainted at the back of the house, not far from where he had dropped
in from the basement window. There was a cut piece of plywood lying
on the floor not far from the window. It was lying face up with nails
sticking out. Judging from the size, it was the former covering for
the window. One good kick from the outside had gotten someone into
the basement easily. The stairs going up to the main level were steep
and rickety. Kevin knew from his paperboy days that the basement door
opened into a short hallway between the kitchen and the parlor. He
slowly came up the stairs to find that the basement door had been
removed. Those old solid oak doors with big brass knobs had to be
worth something.