Beer Money (A Burr Ashland Mystery) by Dani Amore
Authors: Dani Amore
Tags: General Fiction
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handshake was soft, as if he had nothing to prove.
"Naw, I'm just trying to...to deal with this shit. To cope, in some form of privacy," he said and took off his shades. His eyes were bloodshot.
"Why don't you go home?" I asked. "I'll hang out and call you if his condition changes."
He shook his head. Glanced at the clock on the wall. "Thanks, but some of the guys from the neighborhood are going to stop by in an hour or so. Fred meant...means...a lot to them." Ordell put his sunglasses back on and in their reflective surface, I could see CNN broadcasting information on the stock market.
"So what happened, Ordell? Were you there?"
I saw nothing in his face except the latest statistics on the Dow Jones. Blue chips were down. The tech sector was taking a pounding.
Ordell finally said, "No clue, man. I was supposed to pick him up at the studio. I came by, rang the bell, no answer. Went back there and found his ass put down on the ground. Blood all over his face." He gestured around his face, and his hand shook. "I thought for sure he was dead. The gun was in his hand. First time I ever saw a gun in his hand. Told the cops that. They didn't seem to believe me."
I nodded.
"They ran a check on me," he continued. Shook his head. "Man, when you're black and gay...Jesus Christ. Talk about double jeopardy. But I was clean. When they saw I didn't have a record, they like...lost interest. I guess it would be tougher for them to pin something on me, you know?"
"And the note?" I asked.
More silence. Now a commercial for toilet paper was playing on his sunglasses.
"The note." He looked up at me, I could only tell by his uplifted face. "Some fuck-ass note said you and Fred and Tim were all goin' at it, know what I mean? Said he killed Tim." Ordell laughed. A bitter laugh. "What kinda bullshit is this? Fred kill someone? That'd be like the Pope turning tricks down in the Core."
Twin tears rolled out from underneath his shades.
"Somebody wants something and is trying to set up Fred, that's all,” I said. “We both know none of it's true."
Ordell's attention seemed to linger on me for a bit longer than was comfortable. He shifted his feet. The awesome muscles in his shoulders seem to ripple on their own volition.
"Yeah," he said.
I would have liked him to say it with a little more conviction.
Twenty-Eight
Dusk was settling in by the time I made it to the Third Ward. Rush hour was coming to a close, road rage was tapering off as the sun finished its departure via the western skies.
I had decided that it was time to visit the place Tim had been murdered. I’d put it off for as long as I could. I’d hoped that the longer I waited, the less emotional I would feel. Maybe the more time that passed the smaller the knot in my stomach would be. But judging by the feeling in the pit of my gut, that theory wasn't working.
Finding the place wasn’t a problem. The stories in the paper had been specific, and Altenburg had told me the address as well.
I wheeled the Audi next to the curb in front of 1033 Erie. I gazed up at the building from the driver’s seat. Sitting, the third floor looked incredibly high. I yanked open the car door and stood. The wind had picked up, the air had a cold bite to it that had been absent earlier in the day. Despite the cold, my palms were sweaty. I felt a trickle of sweat roll down my back.
It was one of the many typically abandoned cream city brick edifices that survived, in a sense, the fire of 1896. It had probably been gutted and re-built for light manufacturing at some point around the turn of the century. But it had been poorly done, and was not slated for condo development like a lot of the older buildings in the Third Ward. This would be an eyesore until someone tore it down.
A sidewalk ran parallel to the building before winding its way around the southeast corner. From the street, I looked between the buildings and saw the crime scene tape attached to four posts, fluttering in the wind.
"Naw, I'm just trying to...to deal with this shit. To cope, in some form of privacy," he said and took off his shades. His eyes were bloodshot.
"Why don't you go home?" I asked. "I'll hang out and call you if his condition changes."
He shook his head. Glanced at the clock on the wall. "Thanks, but some of the guys from the neighborhood are going to stop by in an hour or so. Fred meant...means...a lot to them." Ordell put his sunglasses back on and in their reflective surface, I could see CNN broadcasting information on the stock market.
"So what happened, Ordell? Were you there?"
I saw nothing in his face except the latest statistics on the Dow Jones. Blue chips were down. The tech sector was taking a pounding.
Ordell finally said, "No clue, man. I was supposed to pick him up at the studio. I came by, rang the bell, no answer. Went back there and found his ass put down on the ground. Blood all over his face." He gestured around his face, and his hand shook. "I thought for sure he was dead. The gun was in his hand. First time I ever saw a gun in his hand. Told the cops that. They didn't seem to believe me."
I nodded.
"They ran a check on me," he continued. Shook his head. "Man, when you're black and gay...Jesus Christ. Talk about double jeopardy. But I was clean. When they saw I didn't have a record, they like...lost interest. I guess it would be tougher for them to pin something on me, you know?"
"And the note?" I asked.
More silence. Now a commercial for toilet paper was playing on his sunglasses.
"The note." He looked up at me, I could only tell by his uplifted face. "Some fuck-ass note said you and Fred and Tim were all goin' at it, know what I mean? Said he killed Tim." Ordell laughed. A bitter laugh. "What kinda bullshit is this? Fred kill someone? That'd be like the Pope turning tricks down in the Core."
Twin tears rolled out from underneath his shades.
"Somebody wants something and is trying to set up Fred, that's all,” I said. “We both know none of it's true."
Ordell's attention seemed to linger on me for a bit longer than was comfortable. He shifted his feet. The awesome muscles in his shoulders seem to ripple on their own volition.
"Yeah," he said.
I would have liked him to say it with a little more conviction.
Twenty-Eight
Dusk was settling in by the time I made it to the Third Ward. Rush hour was coming to a close, road rage was tapering off as the sun finished its departure via the western skies.
I had decided that it was time to visit the place Tim had been murdered. I’d put it off for as long as I could. I’d hoped that the longer I waited, the less emotional I would feel. Maybe the more time that passed the smaller the knot in my stomach would be. But judging by the feeling in the pit of my gut, that theory wasn't working.
Finding the place wasn’t a problem. The stories in the paper had been specific, and Altenburg had told me the address as well.
I wheeled the Audi next to the curb in front of 1033 Erie. I gazed up at the building from the driver’s seat. Sitting, the third floor looked incredibly high. I yanked open the car door and stood. The wind had picked up, the air had a cold bite to it that had been absent earlier in the day. Despite the cold, my palms were sweaty. I felt a trickle of sweat roll down my back.
It was one of the many typically abandoned cream city brick edifices that survived, in a sense, the fire of 1896. It had probably been gutted and re-built for light manufacturing at some point around the turn of the century. But it had been poorly done, and was not slated for condo development like a lot of the older buildings in the Third Ward. This would be an eyesore until someone tore it down.
A sidewalk ran parallel to the building before winding its way around the southeast corner. From the street, I looked between the buildings and saw the crime scene tape attached to four posts, fluttering in the wind.
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