The Bag Lady, the Boat Bum and the West Side King by Sam Lee Jackson

Author:Sam Lee Jackson [Jackson, Sam Lee]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780999852606
Publisher: Piping Rock Publications, LLC
Published: 2018-03-03T05:00:00+00:00

29

I was sitting in the Mustang about a half mile down Scottsdale Road from the night club district with Nacho beside me. My phone rang. I dug it from my pocket. I was expecting a call but I didn’t recognize this number. I figured it to be a blind robo call. I connected and said “Yeah.”

“Jackson? Is this Jackson?”

I recognized the voice. “Father Correa, as I live and breathe.”

“How are you son? I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“I’m fine, Father. Just chugging right along. What’s up?”

“Well, I thought I better call you. Our friend has flown the coop.”

“Reggie?”

“She was doing so well. Everyone liked her. Her quirky little personality. She loved playing with the babies. I had such high hopes.”

“What happened?”

He was silent a moment. “I should have been more vigilant. One of the downtown churches brought a new one to me. We searched her clothes like we always do. We didn’t find a thing. I had so much faith in Reggie, and we are so full, I bunked her in with Reggie. This morning I found the new girl stoned and incoherent and Reggie was gone. The new girl must have smuggled some crack or heroin in. I waited for Reggie to come back, but I’m afraid she probably won’t.”

“It’s not a prison,” I said.

“No, they are free to come and go as they please, I just had such high hopes.”

I don’t know why, but this wasn’t a shock to me.

“I’ll keep an eye out for her.”

“Are you still acting out your little charade?”

“I’m still Jack Summers. I’d prefer no one knows we know each other. Quite frankly, it’s safer for you that way.”

“Do you still have your Apache angel looking over you.”

“There is not an ounce of proof that Blackhawk has a drop of Native American blood in his veins, Apache or otherwise.”

He laughed, “Every man should have the chance to be whatever he wants to be. If you see the girl, try to get her to come back. We were making such good progress.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I said. He disconnected.

Nacho looked at me, “Who’s Reggie?”

I grimaced, “Girl I was trying to help.”

He leaned back and just looked at me. “Bring Jackson your poor, your huddled, your strung out and doped-up masses,” he said with a grin.

I looked at him, “That almost sounded educated.”

“Three years on the inside. I took history classes.”

The phone rang again. It was Pete.

“Hey Pete.”

“He’s gone inside the club.”

“We’re on our way. Give us five minutes, then come in behind us.” I disconnected. I pulled out into traffic and made my way to the club. We had to park two blocks away. The doorman stamped our hands after we paid the fee. He gave Nacho a long look.

Pete had said that Tommy always tried to get a table toward the back, as far from the dance floor as possible, so he could study the crowd. I spotted him. He was alone at a table for two. Behind him, and along the wall, was a bench upholstered in red vinyl.

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