Chapter 6

            Sitting in the driver seat, Herbert looked down at the business card. Adrian Trotman, Esquire.  He knew that anyone with half a brain could see this attorney wasn't to be trusted. There was something in those eyes he didn't like. Some knowledge, a secret. As though he were part of a cruel inside joke.

            A long dormant desire stirred inside him, a thousand-year thirst. He knew what would steady his nerves and clear his head. He knew what would help him plan everything out. He took a breath and gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. The thirst would pass, just as it had many times before. Herbert breathed and started the car. He steered the van toward the shop, ignoring his parched throat.

            Darius leaned against the counter and sucked his teeth when he saw Herbert. “You sure you ain't sick? You look like shit, Herbie.”

            “I'm fine.”

            “No cancer?”

            “I'm not in the mood.” The words shot from his mouth drenched in venom.

            “Jesus,” Darius rubbed the back of his head. “Didn't mean nothing by it.”

            Herbert closed his eyes and slumped down into the chair at his desk. He smacked his lips and tried to forget about the dryness in his throat. Pinpricks of cold sweat appeared across his forehead. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Darius' extended arm holding a paper cup full of water.

            “You look like you could use some of this.”

            Herbert took the cup and muttered thanks before throwing back the contents in one gulp. The shock of cold was almost the same as the burning he craved. He sighed.

            Darius frowned down at him. “Is everything all right?”

            “Yeah.”

            “C'mon, Herbie. Be real with me.”

            Herbert shook his head. He wanted to tell him the truth, but he knew the kid wouldn't be able to process things, that he'd end up doing something stupid to get them both killed. But he had to tell him something. Herbert pulled the business card from his pocket. The best lies were as close to the truth as possible. “I met with a lawyer.”

            “Fuckin' A.” Darius frowned. “Why didn't you take me? I'm wrapped up in this shit just as much as you are.”

            “It wasn't anything official, yet. Just getting a...lay of the land. Seeing what our options are, how realistic we are to catch any shit.”

            “What happened to there being no evidence? What happened to no body, no case?” Darius' voice grew louder, filling the empty shop. “You runnin' to a lawyer don't sound like no case.”

            “I already told you,” Herbert croaked, “it's just in case.”

            “Then why're you lookin' so rattled here? What's your problem?”

            “Because I want a fucking drink for the first time in years.” The words slipped from Herbert's mouth before he could register their importance.

            Some of the anger was extinguished from Darius' expression. “Well, shit, Herbie. You got a sponsor to call or somethin'?”

            “Forget I said anything.” Herbert shook his head. His resolve hardened. The shame of verbalizing that craving was enough to send it scurrying back into the shadows. He felt his face warm as some of the color returned to his cheeks.

            “I didn't know you were an alcoholic. I just...you know, figured you were a wet blanket.”

            Herbert shrugged. “Don't worry about it. Just going through a tough time right now. This shit is stressful, but I think we'll get through it.”

            “Well, what'd the lawyer say?” Darius scratched his head.

            “He didn't seem worried. Told us to cooperate with the cops if they ask any more questions. We didn't do anything wrong, so there's no reason to be afraid.”

            “Did you tell him...?”

            The look in Herbert's eye was enough for Darius to look down and rub the back of his neck.

            “Yeah, I don't know why you would. So, he wasn't much help then?”

            “Not really. Gave me his card to call him in case shit hits the fan. That's about it.”

            “Right.” Darius sighed. “So, there's nothing else he can do?”

            “Not at this point.”

            “Shit.”

            “I know,” Herbert nodded, his lips pulling back in a grimace.

            The rest of the day went by at a crawl. Herbert tried to busy himself with work, but found his thoughts wandering back to Trotman. The fat grinning face materialized in his mind's eye and Herbert felt a wave of contempt surge through him. Beneath that visceral hate was something else, just as Herbert knew that beneath Trotman's dismissive reaction was something keen and predatory. Herbert was afraid. The worst part was that he wasn't sure why. Intuition told him something was very wrong, but he didn't have enough pieces to know for sure. Fear filled the gaps.

            Finally, it was time to go home. The sun was sinking below the horizon, casing long shadows and bathing the brick developments in gold light. By the time Herbert piloted the van back to his building, it was dark.

            He parked on the street in front of the building and instinctively looked up at the window of his third-floor apartment. Paranoia slithered out from the pit of his stomach. Did he see something move in the darkness, or was his eyes just playing tricks on him? His heart started to pound. Herbert bent down and pulled the revolver out from under the seat. Reassured by its weight, Herbert got out of the car and went inside.

            He tried to ignore the dryness in his throat as he climbed the stairs. The hallway stank of stale tobacco. Herbert couldn't tell if the smell was coming from his apartment. His fear-sick mind could have easily been deceiving him. He took a breath and placed his ear against his door. Not hearing anything, he slid his key into the lock as slowly and quietly as possible. His other hand gripped the handle of the revolver. His thumb cocked the hammer back.

            He threw the door open, causing the white florescent hall light to knife through the shadow of his apartment. He stood in the doorway with the gun leveled, peering into the darkness. Just as he was about to breathe a sigh of relief, he smelled the smoke and saw the smoldering red tip of the cigarette hanging in the air like an all-seeing eye. Then there was the explosive crack and the lightning flash from the barrel of the pistol. Pain seared through Herbert's shoulder. It didn't distract him. He returned fire, feeling the tremor of recoil course through his arm like an aftershock. The air was still and quiet and smelled of gun smoke.

            Herbert flipped on the light. Sitting at the kitchen table in his studio apartment was a man with a hole in his neck. Blood poured from the wound like a fountain, staining his button-down shirt and forming a pool on the tabletop. He was a young man with hard features. Sharp nose, straight jaw. Dark hair. Wide eyes, dark eyes, blacker than black eyes. His cigarette dropped from his open mouth and burned a hole in his shirt as he tried to suck air with a wet rattling sound. The pistol fell from his limp hand and hit the floor with a soft clatter. His head slumped back and he fell quiet.

            Herbert closed the door behind him and set his revolver down on the counter. He placed his hands on his hips and looked at the corpse sitting at his table. His heart rate steadied and Herbert became aware of the pain in his left arm. Blood soaked into the sleeve of his jumpsuit. He looked down at his wound and instinctively knew it wasn't serious. The bullet had only grazed him. He grabbed a dish towel from off the counter and wrapped it around his bicep.

            Rubbing his eyes, Herbert pressed his back against the door. This was a mess. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed.

            “D.” He stared at the corpse's open eyes. His voice was dry and hoarse and sticking in his throat. “I need you to come over to my house. Right now.”

            “What's wrong?” Darius' voice was distant, but Herbert could hear the concern.

            “Just get over here right now.”

            “Man, Herbie, I jus' sat down at the bar. Can't it wait?”

            “Right now, Darius.” Herbert's voice came out a roar into the phone's receiver.

            “Shit, all right. I'm coming over right now.”

            “Good.” Hebert hung up the phone. He sighed and rubbed his eyes again, still pressing his weight against the door.