The Mourning Missed Read online

  “I’ve never experienced that,” Clint said softly.

  “Really?” She was clearly surprised. “Well, I have. And speaking of horny, I’m going to rub myself all over your face.”

  “As long as your mouth is busy, I’m okay with that,” he replied.

  Pausing in the process of stripping, Lilly looked down at him; dead-serious. “What, you can’t tell me you want a BJ?” She demanded.

  “I’d rather not,” Clint replied, averting his gaze.

  “Do you not want one?” Lilly asked.

  “Yes, I do,” he replied, still not meeting her gaze.

  “Then look me in the eye and tell me you want me to,” she instructed.

  Raising his eyes to hers, he softly whispered. “I’d like a BJ.”

  “Oh, that was well done, Oliver. Please, sir, may I have some more porridge? Damnit, man, grow a pair,” she huffed. “What woman wants to pleasure you when you mumble around about it like you’re asking for a second slice of cake? Say it like you mean it,” she ordered.

  “I want a BJ,” Clint said loudly.

  “That’s better, but still not convincing,” she replied.

  Clint whipped the front of his pants open, leaving no doubt of his desires. “I want a blow job now, woman,” he yelled.

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” she replied, lunging toward him with her mouth held wide open.

  From the motel room next door, they both heard a male voice clearly yell, “I want a blowjob now, woman.”

  A less audible but still clearly female voice replied, “Oh, Harold, I just love it when you’re demanding.”

  Three

  “WHY HAVE YOU DECIDED we’re going to be a couple?” Clint asked as they lay in his bed. She had insisted she move in with him the afternoon after graduation. They had the weekend off before they would have to report for their first duty assignments on Monday.

  “Because I really don’t have an apartment; I let my lease go when I got accepted,” Lilly replied. “I wasn’t sure where I would get assigned and wanted to get a place in my district.”

  “Well I got Central, which is twenty minutes away on a good day,” Clint grumbled. “You got Northwest and your Station House is a five minute walk from this apartment.”

  “I know, but that’s not why I invited myself to move in,” she smiled.

  “Which takes us back to my original question,” Clint repeated.

  “My Nana Jackson was an old-school Cajun, even called herself a Coon-ass,” Lilly explained. “She used to tell me when I met my split-apart, I’d know right away. She also said it might be a man of color and might not. Might not even be a man,” she finished.

  “You are going to tell me what all those words which sound like English really mean, right?” Clint said perplexed.

  Lilly laughed. “Which ones?”

  “Coonass, for starters,” Clint replied. “And then, split-apart.”

  “Cajun is a variation of the French word Acadian, which is where the original settlers came from; they were French-Canadians. A Coonass is a true Cajun; someone from the original French colony displaced to then-Spanish Louisiana. They usually intermarried with Native Americans or free blacks from the Caribbean,” she explained.

  “It has nothing to do with the fact that raccoon is a favorite dish in the bayou, where Coonass is a term of honor and respect - in the city, not so much. It’s kind of like you calling other whites trailer trash. But white folks who live in trailer parks call themselves that with pride,” she finished.

  “I can’t see the allowance for having pride in being socioeconomically disenfranchised,” Clint said.

  “You are going to tell me what all those words which sound like English really mean, right?” Lilly smiled, turning his own words back on him.

  “Come on, you know what they mean,” Clint said, shoving her shoulder playfully.

  “Yeah, but you won’t ever hear me say anything so pompous,” Lilly replied.

  “Pompous?” Clint retorted, feigning affront. “How is using proper terminology pompous?”

  “Pompous is when you show off and don’t have to,” Lilly provided. Clint just stared at her for a long moment before he broke into a slow smile. “Okay, you got me. Hoist on my own petard.”

  “Really?” Lilly glared in mock consternation. “You’re going there?”

  “Hey, it’s one of my mom’s favorite phrases for anytime someone gets caught doing something they accused someone else of doing,” Clint said in defense.

  “So, what does it actually mean?” Lilly demanded.

  “Wait; you were explaining how the word Coonass came about,” Clint reminded her. “How did this suddenly become about me?”

  “True, but you’re not getting off that easy,” Lilly admitted. “I’ve explain about Coonass, now you get to explain about petards, or whatever you said.”

  “Well, what about split-aparts?” Clint reminded her. “I think I’d rather know about that first.”

  “Fine, quit trying to confuse me,” Lilly rebuked. “My Nana Jackson used to tell me the tale of how when God created mankind, we were all perfect and happy. When the originals sinned against God, He decided all other humans would be born with half a soul and would be required to spend their lives searching for their other half. This is why so many people are miserable their entire lives; their souls are incomplete.”

  “And you believe our souls are two halves of the same whole?” Clint gaped.

  “Yep, I felt it the first time we looked in each other’s eyes, and confirmed it the first time we made love,” Lilly replied. “I’ve had lots of lovers but none of them ever touch my soul.”

  “Ah, that’s actually called a G-spot,” Clint said, teasingly. Lilly’s hand lashed out so quickly Clint didn’t even see it until she was drawing her hand back.

  “Don’t ever make fun of me when I’m confessing my love for you,” she snapped.

  She had only slapped him slightly but his hand nonetheless remained on his left cheek. Silently, he reached for her and pulled her to him. “I’m not sure I know how to love someone,” he confessed. “My parents were never big on showing affection when we were growing up. My grandparents were so stilted, my brothers and I used to joke about them getting up every morning and shoving stainless-steel poles up each other’s asses.”

  Lilly barked a short laugh, and then held her hand to his reddened face. “I’m sorry I slapped you,” she apologized sincerely.

  “Don’t be, I most likely deserved it,” he grinned. “So, I’m the other half of your soul and you’re mine?”

  “Yep, I felt it in my heart and in my head the first time we kissed. Remember that?” She asked softly.

  “How could I forget?” He replied. “I mean, how often does I guy get kissed just because he makes an asshole stop being one? Plus, it was obvious a week later in hand-to-hand that you really didn’t need my help.”

  “Well it just so happens women practice chivalry as well, you know,” Lilly offered. “And should do so more often, I think.”

  “Ah, kissing the hero is chivalrous?” Clint wondered aloud.

  “You better believe it, Buster. And before you ask, I’m not a Coonass,” Lilly clarified.

  “Your mom was Asian, right?” He asked, softly touching the corner of her almond-shaped eyes.

  Placing her hand over his alongside her face, she nodded. “Mom was Vietnamese and Dad married her in-country. He rotated stateside and immediately started the paperwork to have his wife join him. Those were troubled times.”

  She shook her head. “Every person of Southeast Asian descent was thoroughly vetted before being granted US citizenship. I was 18 months old before I actually met my father. I was told Mom was quiet and withdrawn for the first year of my life. She never laughed, hardly ever even smiled.”

  Lilly laughed softly at a memory. “When the official car came to the village for us, everyone though she was being taken away to be killed. My grandma Ni screamed and put up su
ch a fuss that my Grandfather went to get his machete to stop them.”

  “It was only when the driver pulled a pistol from inside his jacket that everyone stopped long enough for him to explain we were going to America. She didn’t tell me until my tenth birthday how she though Dad had abandoned us.” The smiled melted sadly from her face. “She died a year later giving birth to my fifth brother.”

  “And now here you are, having successfully raised five brothers, cared for your dad, and just became a police officer,” Clint expounded. “Looks to me like you’ve done alright.”

  “Sure, if you consider the three youngest being in foster care after dad drank himself into the hospital,” she offered. “When Mom died, so did Dad’s soul. He had a good job although he travelled a lot, we had a nice house and we went to a good school. Inside a year; we got evicted, moved into a run-down, inner-city tenement building and went to the slum schools. We lived there five years because he was too proud, too ashamed, or both, to ever call his mother or family for help.”

  “Joshua had just turned five when Dad had his first attack of DTs,” she continued, her gaze locked on some unseen spot in the distant past. “I was scared so bad, all I could think to do was call Nana Jackson. We didn’t live real close, but she managed to get there.”

  “She stayed two weeks and took the three youngest with her when she went home. They stayed with her three years until she had a heart attack and had to go into long-term care. The oldest two refused to go with her and she allowed at the time as they were old enough to decide. They were 12 and 14,” she cried.

  “We all stayed with Dad for two more years until he had his first stroke, then the state was happy to let them stay with me as I was an adult.” Her gaze became distant. “The first time I caught them smoking crack, I beat them literally senseless. When they woke up, I told them the next time I’d castrate them in their sleep. They believed me.”

  “Would you have?” Clint asked, his free hand stealing slowly toward his own crotch.

  “Oh, silly, I’d never hurt your stuff,” she chuckled. “I like it too much where it is right now.”

  “What happened to the oldest brother?” Clint asked with sincere interest.

  “Jameson got arrested at sixteen robbing a liquor store with an unloaded twenty-two pistol,” she sighed. “Public defender told him to cop a plea and he did two years as an adult. I went to visit him twice. The first time, he had been beaten so badly one of his eyes was swollen shut and he had five stitches in his lower lip.”

  She shuddered. “He machoed up and said I should see the other three. The second time, his hand was in a bandage and I could see his little finger was missing. He told me it was an accident in the laundry. That’s also when he told me not to come see him anymore.”

  “And the other brother?” Clint asked.

  “Cambridge died at fifteen, the victim of a drive-by shooting. Oh, he wasn’t an innocent victim. He was hanging out in the front yard of the rent house where the drug dealer he ran for stayed. A rival gang decided they didn’t like his gang members talking to women from their ‘hood. One of the shooters in the drive-by had a Mac-10, and Cambridge took two in the face. He died instantly.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Clint said, drawing her closer into his arms and laying his cheek on top of her head. She allowed him to hold her for long minutes before she straightened her spine and pulled her head back to look him in the eyes.

  “It is what it is,” she said simply.

  Four

  “MCMICHAELS HAS TO BE dealt with,” the Dark Man said.

  “I’m not ready to kill a cop just yet,” the Boss replied.

  “He’s been taking a lot more than his share,” the Dark Man complained. “And when I call him on it, he laughs in my face.”

  “His time will come, by patient,” the Boss said.

  “PARSONS, YOUR NEW TRAINING officer is sitting in the day room with the other newbie’s trainer. Go introduce yourself,” the shift commander instructed.

  Walking into the room, Clint saw a middle-aged man in a wrinkled uniform, with five extra inches of belly which was just beginning to fold over his equipment belt. Please, God, don’t let that be him, Clint prayed. “I’m Clint Parsons,” he said noncommittally to the room. The other officer had a lean and angry look about him. He put Clint in mind of a panther he had seen pacing in a cage, just waiting for someone to be stupid enough to open the door.

  “McMichaels,” he said, offering a hand. When Clint shook it, the grip was like a steel vise. He increased his own grip strength both to keep his hand from being damaged and to respond to the overt challenge. After several seconds of pressure, the older officer released his hold abruptly. “Good grip strength, it’ll come in handy,” McMichaels said. “Follow me.”

  Hustling to catch up with his trainer’s ground-eating stride, Clint walked beside him down the main hall toward the front of the building. He knew better than to ask where they were going; time would tell. As they exited the downtown Station House, Bart McMichaels took a set of keys from his pocket and tossed them to Clint. “You drive,” he instructed.

  Surprised, Clint remained mute and slid behind the wheel of the Crown Victoria. This was one of the older cruisers and had all the extra equipment the force had installed on police vehicles before the budget crunch had hit. The newer cars were stripped-down version with puny engines and no extras. Cranking the engine, Clint listened to the big motor rumble as he pulled the transmission down into reverse. Backing into the street cautiously, he reached for the control console to test the lights and siren as they’d been trained in the academy.

  “Already tested them, just drive,” Bart said brusquely.

  “Where am I going?” Clint asked for directions.

  “Straight, I hope,” Bart replied.

  Clint pulled off down the street and just drove.

  “So, where do you live,” Bart asked conversationally. “Have you had breakfast?”

  “Near Maple and Overland,” Clint replied. “And yes, I did, before I came to work.”

  “Well, I didn’t, so take the next right and go two miles south,” he instructed. “We’re looking for the Taqueria truck.”

  When Clint spied the rolling restaurant, he pulled to the curb fifty feet away. “Pull right up in front,” Bart instructed. “I want to introduce you.”

  Doing as he was bid, Clint allowed the cruiser to slowly roll up even with the service window. Bart held up two fingers, and the man inside scowled but went to work on the food. Two minutes later a skinny Hispanic kid, maybe eight-years-old, stepped out of the back of the truck and warily brought the meal to McMichaels.

  “Thanks, Paco,” he said, taking the food. “Sure you don’t want anything?” His trainer asked Clint around a mouthful of food. “This shit’s really good.”

  “No, sir, I’m fine,” Clint replied formally.

  “Suit yourself,” Bart replied. “We can go now.”

  “Ah, aren’t you going to pay for that?” Clint asked.

  “It’s compliments of the house, on account of I send him so much business,” Bart said. As Clint pulled away, he glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw the kid scrambling back inside the truck and slamming the door.

  “PULL UP NEXT TO THE Golden Dragon,” Bart ordered. Clint did as instructed, putting the cruiser in park. “Come inside with me, there’s some people you need to meet,” Bart said.

  Grabbing the radio microphone, Clint prepared to call them out of the vehicle. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Bart snapped.

  “Calling us in 10-8?” Clint replied questioningly.

  “Did I order you to call us in?” Bart asked harshly.

  “No, sir,” Clint replied.

  “Then let’s get this straight,” Bart said, turning slightly toward him in the seat. “If I want us called in, I’ll tell you to. If I want something paid for, I’ll tell you to. If I need my ass wiped, I’ll tell you to. But unless I tell you to, you don’t do shit excep
t breath and smile. You don’t even talk. Clear?” Clint nodded silently. “Lock it up,” Bart snapped.

  Inside the closed restaurant there was a large aquarium, at least a thousand gallons, separating the main entrance from the dining area. Sea Bass were swimming lazily from one end to the other and the bubbling of the aerator was overly-loud in the unnatural silence. The odor of Asian spices and grease assailed his nostrils. They weren’t fresh smells; like the restaurant had been closed up for a while. Noises coming out of the back of the building suggested mechanical work was being done. Walking toward the noise, Bart focused on an elderly Asian man standing in one corner, frowning at the workers who were repairing a piece of equipment in the kitchen. Striding to him, Bart grabbed him by the arm and dragged him toward the front of the building where the tables and chairs waited for the lunchtime customers.

  The old man struggled to keep up and it was obvious from the pained expression on his face that Bart’s grip was hurting his upper arm. When Bart stopped abruptly, he spun the old man toward a table with chairs. The man struck the edge with his hips, bending over the table abruptly while catching himself to preserve his face. Bart rushed in and grabbed the braided hair at the back of the elder’s head. Gripping it like a handle, he ground the man’s face into the hard wooden surface before lowering his own face alongside it.

  “The payment last week was light, Hop Sing,” he spat viciously into the man’s face. “Do I need to remind you what happens when payments are light?” He spewed, slamming the man’s cheek into the table top.

  “No, no,” cried the old man. “The fryer is old and stopped working. We do not have enough profit to replace it. We had to order parts, which took three days. We have been closed for a week. We make no money last week,” he tried to explain.