Prodigal Bum

Author

Chapter One

Bobby Capone Carter was fast asleep in the frigid, predawn gloom of Midtown Atlanta’s glorious Piedmont Park, when he received a sharp kick to the left kidney. He awoke instantly and his pain-filled screams tore through the peaceful darkness like a knife. The screaming prompted the second kick, which caught him directly between the shoulder blades. Capone tried to roll away from the kicks, with hopes of getting up and running away, but he was effectively trapped in his bright red sleeping bag, where he had been sleeping peacefully for nearly ten hours.

Fighting was out of the question. He was in way too much pain to fight and he simply wasn’t very good at it anyway. Capone would have to escape his assailant, lest he receive a brand new scar like the very old one on his right cheek, just like that of his infamous namesake, though not quite as long. Most of the similarities began and ended with the scar.

His amigdala fired and deposited a sizable dose of adrenaline throughout the rest of his brain. Fight or flight were the only options his brain could focus on, and it chose flight, which was not working at all. Panic set in.

Get outa that bag, but don’t get up. I won’t kick you no more, less I have to. Just get out. Don’t look at me, and I won’t kick you no more! Next time I’m gonna break something, ya hear? said a raspy voice somewhere behind Capone.

Capone reached his hand up to the sleeping bag’s zipper, but found it difficult to grasp with the expensive Thinsulate ski glove he wore.

Hurry up, motherfucker! I ain’t got all fuckin’ day! shrieked the attacker, his mood growing more intense with each passing second. He delivered another hard kick to Capone’s left buttock.

Yanking off his right glove with his teeth, Capone unzipped the bag as quickly as he could. Scrambling across the ground like a startled blue crab in a tricky tide, he distanced himself from the attacker’s feet and paused to collect himself.

The raspy kicker, who Capone could see from a light over a nearby jogging trail, was wearing a ski mask. His crazy eyes were opened wide in the center of each fuzzy eyehole. He also wore stained khakis, battered tennis shoes, and what appeared to be two or three filthy sweatshirts. He was trembling like an old Chihuahua. Crackhead, thought Capone. Far more important than his grungy apparel, the man was also holding a thick piece of tree limb with the smaller branches broken off. He raised the cudgel above his head to strike.

No, man! Don’t hit me! What do you want? I’ll give you whatever you want! Capone shouted desperately, raising his left forearm to block any blow that might come.

Damn, them gloves is nice. They all thick looking. That coat, is that shit goose down or what?

Yeah, it’s goose down.

Take off them gloves and the coat. Hey, take them boots off too. Capone looked like he was thinking about it. The temperature had to be in the twenties or thirties. Do it, motherfucker! Do it right now, or I’m gonna knock your fuckin’ head clean off!

Capone quickly complied.

Now get up, said the trembling attacker.

Capone stood up. The frigid morning dew quickly soaked his socks and chilled him to the bone. A breeze kicked up and it blew under the back of Capone’s untucked pinpoint button-down and t-shirt. Now they were both trembling. Capone wanted to bury his hands deep in the pockets of his slacks, but he thought it more important to keep them free, so he could defend himself if Paul Bunyan took a swing with his tree limb.

The kicks to his shoulder blades and butt hurt, but not that bad. His kidney was killing him. It felt like a deep bruise and burned like fire at the same time. Never in his life had he been aware that his kidneys were even there. Of course, anatomically he knew they were there, but they had never really given him any sensation to make him aware of their presence. Damn it was cold!

Now get the fuck outa here, fore I really fuck you up.

Almost as quickly as the impulse to flee shot through his brain, the message to fight arrived. Capone took a good look at the man, but more importantly he took a good listen. That raspy voice sounded vaguely familiar. Mr. Raspy Voice Crackhead better not sleep in the park with that bag, he thought. Plus Capone knew he could recognize the coat and hiking boots if he saw them again, whether the man spoke or not. And what was with that ski mask? Did he think he was going to hijack a plane in the 70s or rob a bank with Patty Hurst? The great sleeping bag heist of Piedmont Park, he thought. Stupid crackhead.

He reached up to straighten the collar of his shirt and remembered that his navy blazer was neatly folded inside of the sleeping bag. His lucky necktie was in the breast pocket. Some luck, he thought, and trotted in his wet socks toward the refurbished pavilion overlooking Lake Clara Meer.

Chapter Two

The mahogany alarm clock looked like an antique from the 1920s, though in reality it had been purchased only a year before at Pottery Barn in Lenox Mall. Its clapper oscillated vigorously, striking the single bell, which was designed to look much older than it was. The effect made the posh condo sound like an old-fashioned firehouse.

Kurt Parker’s high-rise condo was a large corner unit on the twenty-first floor and it overlooked Lenox Mall. It also overlooked the very elegant and expensive Phipps Plaza, but Kurt bought it for the bigger view, the money view as the realtor had called it. Midtown could be seen easily on clear days, with several large towers, and downtown with even bigger towers, all sprouting out of the trees beneath them. Even in March the city looked green. In a month or two all of the leaves would be out and it would be greener still. The funky, brownish haze that hovered over the city stood in dismal contrast to the vibrant greenery below.

Kurt Parker awoke with a throbbing headache and turned off the clocks ringer without even looking at it. He felt a slight difficulty in breathing and opened his parched eyes. A slender arm was gently resting across his thick chest. Oh, a girl, he thought. He tried to remember a girl.

He had gone to dinner with his mother at Houston’s on Peachtree Road and had greatly enjoyed the tempura-like chicken dish he always ordered and two Red Brick pints, which were brewed locally in Midtown. After dinner he went to his mother’s house for a couple of hours to watch a movie. What had it been? Oh, yeah, one of those sappy Tom Hanks movies where the main character’s wife kicked over and now he’s sad and alone or something. Kurt was glad he slept through most of it. Let’s see, he thought, then his mom woke him up, she’d asked if he would spend the night in his old room, because good heavens it was already 11:00pm, but he begged off. Then, sitting on the edge of the sofa he had just sacked out on, she started the dreaded and seemingly inevitable diatribe concerning settling down and starting a family. That’s when he kissed her goodnight, jumped in his beloved Porsche Boxter and sped away. He called a few buddies on his cell, and went clubbing until the wee hours. Buckhead was absolutely great for clubbing, especially after 11:00pm. He found mild amusement in the idea that his brain was functioning so well in such a hungover condition.

Being careful not to wake the young woman, he gently removed her arm and got out of bed. Still naked, he stretched for a moment and then took a good look at her. He was pleased to see she was also naked, but she was unfortunately covered by the flannel sheets he had put on the bed only the day before. He guessed he’d be changing those later. Her long, light red hair was covering most of her face. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember where in the hell he met her. The hangover was obviously worse than he first imagined. Not remembering where a lover came from was bothersome, if not disturbing. He knew it would come to him in a minute or two.

Scratching his ass as he walked, he made his way across their pile of commingled evening clothes and underwear. Continuing across a large Persian rug that covered most of the dark cherry hardwood floor in his bedroom, he entered the master bath. The dark wood merged naturally into large granite tiles that covered the bathroom’s floor. Using AutoCAD software on his laptop, Kurt had designed the space himself and was actually quite proud of it.

After activating the steam feature of his shower, which was absolutely his very favorite part of the two-bedroom condo, he walked back into the bedroom. He opened a lower door on a large floor to ceiling built-in that housed his TV and other electronics, a small bar, a microwave, and a refrigerator. All of these things were behind finely milled cabinet doors. The same built-in also had plenty of exterior shelves that displayed a few dozen old books, a small bust of Debussy, a heavy brass plate his mother had brought him back from a trip to Israel a few years earlier, and various other artsy brick-a-brack she had picked out for him.

Inside the small refrigerator were a few bottles of water, old fashioned green Gatorade, various craft beers, and even a bottle of Dom for an unexpected special occasion. He took out a quart of Gatorade. After the first three swigs he made his way over to the bed and looked down at the girl again. Ah, she had rolled onto her back and out of the covers. He was immediately impressed with her beautiful, pale breasts, which appeared to be completely natural. He seldom encountered natural breasts anymore. It was all about the implants these days, he mused. If a healthy young woman in Buckhead, or a not so healthy older one for that matter, didn’t have at the very least a pair of large, overly firm c-cups, then she didn’t feel very competitive. It was a competition, after all. It was a very silly game and he briefly wondered how many perfect breasts had been needlessly stuffed with sacks of saline. Thousands? Millions, perhaps? People and their insecurities. He was glad that he cared much less about others’ opinions than the multitude of fake-breasted Buckhead Betties out there.

Having a hard time taking his eyes off his guest’s lovely breasts, Kurt noticed that he could see the young woman’s face bathed in the soft rays of the morning sun. She was quite beautiful, even with the smeared makeup and tangled hair. He had no idea who she was, but now he seemed to remember meeting her in the last of three clubs he and his friends had visited. He bought her a couple of drinks. They danced a few times. They chatted, almost screamed really, about much of nothing over the loud music, and then he had used his cell to call a car service to take them back to his place. After all of the Stoli, he hadn’t trusted any of his drunken friends to drive the Boxter back to the condo, so he left it at the club.

He took another appreciative look at the young woman in his bed, before taking a long swig of Gatorade and walking back to the bathroom. After taking three ibuprofen tablets, he opened the door to his shower quickly, as not to let much steam escape. A tiled in bench ran four and a half feet across the left wall of the shower. It was purposefully big enough for two, but it didn’t look like he’d need to share at the moment. He plopped down and leaned back against the warm tiles. The steam quietly spewed from its tiny, stainless nozzle filling every inch of the large shower, as he sipped away at the bottle of Gatorade. Life is good, he thought, as he began sweating out everything he had done wrong to his body the night before.

Chapter Three

Just tell me the truth for God’s sake, Corey, am I going to die? asked Edward Carter from his hospital bed.

I won’t lie to you, Edward. The prognosis is bleak, said Dr. Corey Tyner, taking off his small, stylish glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. Edward Carter was the last of his oncology visits, and he would be heading home and getting some much needed sleep when he was finished.

"’The prognosis is bleak’? You think I don’t know that? I’m asking you flat out, Corey, am I going to die? Today, tomorrow, or whenever? And don’t give me any nonsense about how we’re all going to die eventually, Edward, and all that bullshit. You’ve been my doctor for over a year now and you’ve always told me straight, now spit it out man." His skin, which was normally too dark to pass what his mother had ruefully called the paper bag test, a test she easily passed with her light complexion, may have actually passed the shameful test. It had been a year since he had spent more than thirty minutes outside and he had been cooped up in his hospital room for nearly two weeks for tests and pain management.

Yes, you’re going to die. I don’t know when exactly. Maybe today, maybe next week, maybe a few months from now. There are so many variables we’re dealing with, Edward. Your cell counts are very low, the cancer has spread from your lungs to your liver and we aren’t even slowing it down at this point.

"That’s bleak all right. Especially considering I’ve never smoked a cigarette in my life and I never drank much. Shoot, I haven’t had a drink in over five years."

I wish I had better news for you, Edward. You’re not just my patient, you’re my friend.

I know, I know. It’s just so damned frustrating. My mind, my brain, it’s fine. I feel as mentally strong as I ever have, it’s just this damned body. It’s quitting on me, Corey, and I have a lot to live for, you know?

Yes, I know.

They both remained there quietly for a moment, Edward tilted up in his bed, with his hands folded across his slim stomach, and Dr. Tyner standing next to the bed, wishing he had better answers.

Edward, would you like to go back down to Texas again? Dr. Tchicaya is working on some experimental things down there, new things that he hadn’t been ready to try on your last visit down there. You’re in bad shape, but we could charter a jet and get you there safely and comfortably. I’d even be willing to clear my calendar and make the trip with you. It might be worth a shot.

Edward looked down at his hands and gently shook his head from side to side. "Corey, I’ve lived in Chicago all my life. I was born in the projects on the Southside and now I have a fancy home with the rich folks. I love this city. This is the best city in the world and it’s full of fine doctors, just like you. No offense to those folks down in Houston, but they had their turn and they couldn’t do any more for me than you already had. No, if I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die in my city. This city has been a great blessing to me and I’m not taking any chances on dying anywhere else." A coughing fit began and ended minutes later. Edward was more exhausted than he had ever been.

Dr. Tyner put his glasses back on and patted the top of Edward’s bony shoulder softly.

I know just how you feel, my friend. I love this place too.

Edward nodded and inhaled deeply from the oxygen tube in his nose. Then he could speak again, though more quietly.

Well, I guess I better get my shyster in here, because I have a couple of things I need to do with my will. It’s going to take some time too.

They frown on that, you know?

On what?

Last minute changes. They’re sometimes contested in court.

"By who, Felicia? She wouldn’t do that. She’s my baby girl. How much money does one person need anyway?"

You thinking about cutting me in? said Dr Tyner with a sleepy smile.

"Doc, you probably got more money than Oprah. I am gonna cut somebody in though, just not you, Mr. Money Bags."

I’d like to see that ingrate Felicia’s face when she gets the news that she’s not getting every last nickel, thought Dr. Tyner.

Edward, you just let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.

Try to keep me alive a few more weeks, so I can make sure I got my ducks in a row.

Chapter Four

"Listen, you idiot! I’m telling you that my car is broken. It’s making funny noises," shouted Felicia Carter into the speaker phone, getting closer to the speaker in hopes of blowing out his eardrums.

She sat at an elegant rosewood desk. The thin, finely turned legs of the large desk gave it a fragile look, though it was actually quite sturdy. It was open on all four sides, giving a clear view to anyone who entered the office a magnificent view of her long, shapely legs. She wore expensive skirts and outrageously expensive high heels to show them off to full effect. Everyone noticed them, including her employees and, of course, the parade of obnoxious and oh so horny sales people always wasting her time by trying to sell her father’s office cleaning company everything from trucks, uniforms, insurance, gigantic floor polishers, industrial strength vacuums, other heavy equipment, and various cleaning chemicals. They had to make it through her first and they almost never did. Her father, Edward Carter, liked it that way. He’d raised her to be tough and smart, but she was becoming tougher all the time. Perhaps too tough.

These days Felicia ran the company almost single-handedly, especially since her father’s cancer had laid him up in the hospital. Though she was very sad he was suffering, as she loved him as any daughter loves her father, she also loved the power. The money meant less and less, because Edward had always been overly generous with it, but the power was sweet. She basked in it, she bathed in it, she took deep breaths of it, like oxygen, and considered it just as crucial to her very existence.

Ma’am, I assure you that we thoroughly checked out your car and we couldn’t find anything wrong with it, said the service manager of the Mercedes dealership where she had bought the car.

If there’s nothing wrong with it, then why is it making the noise? Answer me that, she impatiently barked. She crossed, uncrossed, and recrossed her legs impatiently. She smirked as she remembered what her father often said about stupid or inefficient people, ‘He couldn’t find his ass with both hands!’

Hold on a second, please. She could hear papers moving. It says here that you described the noise as sort of a, umm, ‘eeeerrrerrrreeerr’ sound. Is that correct? he stated seriously.

No, no, no! I said it was making a shrill sound. It goes ‘reeeeereeeeereeee’. Like that. Not whatever the hell it was that you just said. It’s a machine sound, not some dying aardvark sound. She studied her nails as she snapped on him.

"I think it might have been a little brake dust on your disks. We thoroughly cleaned them, twice, and then I personally drove it for fifteen minutes, giving the brakes plenty of time to warm up. Then I braked slowly, abruptly, and normally and every other way I could think of, with the windows down in this cold weather, mind you, and I didn’t hear any sounds at all. None." He had long ago lost his patience, but was struggling mightily to control his emotions. He dealt with complaints on a daily basis, but she was especially irritating to him.

Do you think I’m deaf, you fool? Do you? I heard the sound I just described on the way over to my office this morning as clear as a bell. ‘Reeeeereeeeereeeee’! It’s horrible! It’s embarrassing! It’s driving me crazy!

Miss Carter, we ran a complete diagnostic on the computer and everything came up perfect. However, we’ll send a man over in a loaner and bring yours back in for more testing, if that will make you happy. We want you to be entirely satisfied, no matter what it takes, he said as humbly as he could. If this stupid bitch didn’t trade in every summer for a new model, I’d tell her to go fuck herself, he thought.

That’s what I wanted to hear. Have your person call my secretary before he gets here and we’ll send someone down with the key. You’re sending me an S-Class, right?

Yes, ma’am, he managed to say, just before she hug up.

Chapter Five

David Evers was the only person on earth Edward Carter trusted as much as his daughter, Felicia, and his buddy, Dr. Tyner, of course. If a man couldn’t trust his daughter or his doctor, then he might as well die of cancer. Lawyers? Well, if you could find one of them to trust, then you should thank God for the miracle, he thought.

Luckily for Edward, David happened to be his attorney. He represented Edward in both business and personal affairs.

David Evers was a tall man, nearly six feet four inches, and his trim, almost athletic body always looked good in an expensive suit. As he walked through the door, he smiled broadly, though his favorite client, and indeed, one of his best friends and mentor, lay dying in the somewhat cozy hospital suite.

David wore a dark blue Brooks Brothers suit, with very faint, slightly lighter, blue stripes. He wore a freshly pressed white pinpoint shirt that framed his golden, silk tie perfectly. Edward always enjoyed seeing what David would wear to a meeting, because he remembered the grubby young man with the scraggly beard who once worked bathroom cleanup, just as he had, so many years before. David had been Edward’s favorite employee, back when he was working his way through the University of Chicago. He reminded Edward of himself, internally motivated, hard working, and moral by nature.

The two men met shortly after Edward had started Windy City Janitorial Services and shortly after David had graduated in the top ten percent of his class at Senn High School. Even W.E.B. DuBois would have been proud.

They had watched the business grow from a tiny startup to a business employing almost five hundred, supporting clients as small as his own business originally was all the way up to the offices of 17 fortune five hundred companies. Edward’s company also cleaned David’s offices.

How you feeling? asked David, as if Edward were getting over a cold.

Like I’m gonna die. Edward had no need to beat around the bush with David. They were very comfortable around each other and he had no need to sugarcoat anything.

You said on the phone you wanted to change your will. Has this got to do with what we discussed a few months ago? The whole thing about your adopted son?

"He’s my real son, David. God gave him to me."

I just meant that he wasn’t your biological son.

What, just because he didn’t come out from between the legs of that junkie bitch, Lula, like Felicia did, that he’s any less mine?

"Okay, okay. Your son. Bobby, your son. There. How’s that?"

Much better.

I’ve prayed and prayed about this, David. I know I cut him out of my will before, but I’ve got a really strong feeling about this. God’s blessed me some clarity, now that I really know I’m at the end of the line, you know?

David didn’t know, but he nodded as if he did. David didn’t believe in God, but he played along with those who did, as not to offend them. When it came down to it, he believed in himself and so far he had never been disappointed. He often wondered if God existed, then he would see a fine person like Edward dying of cancer or an abused child and he was sure God was only folklore. It was very positive folklore that helped people who needed it live better lives, but it was still only folklore.

"I’ve got to get my house in order. I’ve got my business in order, I’ve got my finances in order, I don’t owe anyone a damn thing, but I’m incomplete, I’m not finished with what I have to do. I have a hole in my life, David. It’s like my life is a big confusing puzzle and I’ve worked all these years to put it together, piece by piece, and I thought I’d finished it. But there was a piece missing that had once been there. Bobby is that missing piece. I have to forgive him and I pray to God that he’ll forgive me for giving up on him like I did. I’ve got to make things right with that boy, David. I can’t die until I do. I don’t want to face Jesus without having made things right, and Jesus is just around the corner."

I appreciate what you’re saying, Edward, but you don’t even know where Bobby is, or if he’s even alive for that matter. He could be anywhere. He could be six feet away or six feet under for all we know. It’s been what … four, five years?

"Almost five years. You’re right, we don’t know where he is, but I’m telling you right now, I know he’s alive. I can feel it in my heart … in my very soul."

But what about Felicia?

What about her?

How do you think she’s going to handle the idea of Bobby getting some of your estate? She knows you removed Bobby after he left.

"Let me tell you something about Felicia. First of all, you know how much I love her, right? But there’s a good bit