Piano in the Dark by Eric Pete Read Free Book Online Page B

Jacobi muttered. “Maybe there’s a reason you don’t remember this girl. You never met her before.”
    “ Ooookay . But I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
    “Dawn, bro,” he scolded. He took his feet down, then leaned forward so as to avoid anyone overhearing what he was about to say. “What I’m saying is that maybe, just maybe, Dawn is doing this. Either testing you or wants to get leverage on you…for a divorce.”
    “Dude, you’re crazy. Dawn wouldn’t do something like that. Besides, if she wanted a divorce, she’d just file. I don’t have shit in terms of assets anyway.”
    “But does she have assets? Hmm? Easier to make you the bad guy if she’s thinking about leaving and wants to protect what she feels is hers. C’mon, we’ve seen everything in our line of work. I hate to think like that, but I’m trying to be honest here.”
    “That doesn’t fly, man. I was the one who approached Ava.”
    “ Ava ?” Jacobi asked with a grimace. “I thought Iris said her name was Charla Nuttier or something to that effect.”
    “Whatever. Anyway, I approached her outside the pub. Not the other way around.”
    “But pretty convenient for her to show up all alone at the same place as you. Maybe Dawn knew exactly where you were. Just dangling the bait for the fish to bite. Chomp.”
    “And I was out drinking with you. Maybe Dawn is paying you to put me in these bad situations,” I said, joking as I turned the tables.
    “Not funny, man. I certainly hope I’m wrong with my theories, but don’t want you getting blindsided. Besides, if you tell Dawn I came up with this, I’ll deny it. One of us on her bad side is enough.”
    If Jacobi was aware of my wife’s less-than-stellar assessment of him, he didn’t acknowledge it to me. “Thanks for your concern,” I responded, knowing he’d put a lot on my plate for me to digest.

12
     
    I looked at the name Charla Nuttier on my phone, debating over whether to call or delete it—especially after Jacobi shared his theories with me. I could just let it all go and move on. Safe, I suppose in that ignorance of what could be or what might be going on maybe being bliss in this situation. I decided to postpone that debate for another time and exited the Chevy Aveo. For another woman demanded my attention at the moment.
    I walked onto the porch of the single-story, white-framed home on West Montgomery Road and knocked twice, my usual code. As I patiently waited, I watched a lady exit Family Affair beauty shop next door. She stopped and checked her fresh new do in the reflection of her tan Cadillac DeVille’s tinted windows. As she made minute hair adjustments with her fingers, she suddenly turned and waved at me. Good eyes to go along with the nice full breasts apparent under her T-shirt.
    “Heeeey!” she said, pearly whites gleaming.
    “Hey,” I said, politely waving back as was required. Southern politeness and all.
    Just as she began to mouth something else, a man who I assume was her boyfriend exited the barbershop, carrying a little boy with a fresh cut. She quickly turned away as if I were no longer there, hastily entering the Caddy’s passenger seat. He placed the young child in the backseat, pausing to stare me down for some perceived slight.
    Never a dull moment in Acres Homes.
    I turned my attention back to the front door that was opening with the shuffle of multiple door locks and security chains. A diminutive yet deceptively strong woman greeted me, her deep brown skin bearing the creases and lines from years of hard work and circumstances. Her shock of thinning silver-gray hair hung freely, undone from the neat little bun she kept it in while cleaning office buildings. She still wore her uniform, but had nestled into her favorite pair of slippers. I’d tried over the years to get her to stop working and take it easy. Futility. Work was her therapy.
    “Your paper,” I said, handing the folded copy of the Houston Chronicle to my mother