Read an Excerpt
Justified License To Kill
By Eddie Dee Williams, John Sumlin AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2013 Eddie Dee Williams
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4817-3314-4
CHAPTER 1
Time-Out Knocked Out
It's copasetic not to check my watch, body perspiring. My, how time flies when you exercise, and the very last fish-and-chips order is in the window, no more tickets on the waitress' order wheel, have totally up all their books, unwinding sitting facing the bar, relaxing on black, spiral stools while inhaling their nicotine of choice, enjoying the complimentary, post-shift drinks. Ignoring their girlish laughter, I visually ensure that the dining area is officially closed, and allow the kitchen door that leads to the restaurant to swing shut. Now it's time to systematically break down and prep the lunch line, as well as replenish it with fresh condiments. With a knowing eye, Boss Kathy commences her timely inspection of the entire anatomy of the kitchen before relinquishing my check, plus three days hiatus pay. Once I step out of here, it's Eagle-Flying Friday. I'm a sweaty mammal sporting a white cook's uniform and a stained apron, with the aromas of chopped onions and diced, raw bell peppers rising deliciously out of the pores of my mocha skin. I'm presently employed as a lunch shift line cook at the Prime Rib Restaurant on Sandy Blvd in Northeast Portland. Originally, I was working a full-time job for my Stepfather Robert when I was performing janitorial services here, sanitizing the restaurant lounge and rest rooms during closing. Then, one rainy day, the owners, Rick and Kathy, said they needed a dishwasher desperately, and I grabbed the opportunity. I've been promoted from dishwasher to prep cook to line cook since I started here, and I feel I'm here for the duration because of the friendly atmosphere, and because nobody's lazy.
I ignorantly blew a real opportunity to be a full-time firefighter. I attended Fire Science classes at Portland Community College for a year, racking up a hundred credit hours of on-the-job training while employed as a fire cadet at Engine House Number Seven, beneath the Hawthorne Bridge on the East side of the Willamette River. I flunked by scoring ridiculously low on the curve for the firefighter's exam, effectively screwing up an obvious opportunity to be hired by the Portland Fire Bureau, even though I was considerably respected as a hardworking, upstanding, perfect-fit-for-the-job. However, my lack of attention-to-detail, dysfunctional study habits, and daughter in the oven from my new relationship with Angela, who dumped me like I was rat poison for an illegal immigrant Cuban drug dealer, all conspired to torpedo that opportunity. Full-time employment is as essential as breathing when you have child support to pay. You don't pay, you're just a deadbeat, dysfunctional dumb dad, and I am not going to go there.
Hindsight being 20/20, I regretfully realize that leaving the Army was not a logical decision. Lisa's infidelity tilted my foolish pride to the point where I couldn't stomach reenlisting; fellow barracks buddies I knew smiling in my face, pretending to be anything but good-for-nothing-ass friends while we're out in the bush, taking turns knocking the lining out of the wife's boots. Things don't always come out the way you plan, and you don't always get what you want. That's just life, I suppose. I was under the impression that Lisa gave birth to my biological son, which was not the case, unfortunately. She deliberately missed five scheduled appointments to do the paternity test. What can be learned from all this? Mirror, mirror on the wall, which sex can manipulate the greatest lie of all? Exhibiting unnerving genius, upon my return to America from Germany, she purposely gets pregnant by yours truly. Gloating cheerfully when Deon is born, Lisa braggingly saying, "You cannot say he's not your son!", verbally admitting to my face while she's lying in Emanuel Hospital, resting in an elevated bed, eye to eye, short, sweet, and to the point, that I am not Eddie Dee's biological father.
Here comes Boss Kathy strutting toward me, inspecting everything in sight, as expected. She's Caucasian, five-foot-six, slender, sensuous silhouette with nice athletic legs, an attractive, sexy, seasoned brunette lady with a nice aura about her when she's intoxicated; sassy, yet pleasingly bossy. Kathy's companion Rick, last name Go, who couldn't slow down even if you cited him with a speeding ticket, is the restaurant's very versatile chef, cook, dishwasher, bartender, manager, and waiter combined. He's also Caucasian, five-foot-ten, medium build, straight black hair, looks Italian. Other than coke falling out his nose at-will, Rick's an all right human being when he's not geeking. One way or another, we humans all have our addictive vices.
I finish up the kitchen by bleaching the prep table. Everything's complete and double-checked; sanitation cans, freezer, dish tank. Let the inspection begin! I love a good challenge. "Hello, Eddie.", Kathy says as she walks around inspecting the kitchen in a Navy-Blue dress, walking toward me in black high heels, lady scented like a tropical, perfumed flower. "How was lunch? Everything go okay, Eddie?" she asks, checking the soup. "Yes Kathy," I reply, "We had a nice little push at the end. Everything is replenished, all the prep is done, and the line is ready to go." I put my hands behind my back because I know they're sweating. "Well Eddie, here's your check. You can take off.", she says as she walks down the line, checking and inspecting each wall and every container in every section thoroughly, one-by-one, like she's a Health Inspector for the State of Oregon. I'm smelling sweet victory. Apparently, I've got the green light. "Good job, Eddie. Enjoy your days off.", Kathy says, nodding her head and handing me my check. "Stop by the bar and have a drink on me after you're off the clock.", she adds.
Officially off the clock, grabbing my gray cowboy hat, my blue, white, and gray Dallas Cowboys jacket, I exit out the door blazing through the ghost-quiet, maroon-carpeted restaurant, past the quaint wooden dining tables, where I take a seat at the end of the bar far away from the few customers drinking socially, unwinding their thoughts. I just want to cash my check, not jumpstart happy hour. Today's protocol; pay bills right away. Tammy and I have been invited over to my folks later on for some state-of-the-art, five-star collard greens, neck bones, potato salad, chicken, lemon cake, and bomb-ass barbecue ribs.
I'm looking at the television but not watching it, impatiently trying to get noticed by Rick, who is tending bar. I grab a book of matches, pull a cigarette out of the pack in my shirt pocket, light it, blow out the match, toss the match in the ashtray, reach over the bar and get Rick's attention. The broadcasters on the news are discussing the Trailblazer's most recent ridiculousness in the NBA Playoffs, employing the well-known media phrase, "the no good news cycle". "Eddie!", Rick says loudly, as he approaches quickly, "Yukon Jack, right?" "Yes, indeed.", I reply, flicking my ashes in the ashtray. "Coming right up, Eddie, but I can't cash your check." "That's okay.", I say as I pick up the shot glass and swallow in one gulp, as if it were cough medicine. Setting the glass down as I retrieve my cigarette from the clear glass ashtray on the bar, "See you in a few days.", I say, inhaling, exhaling, putting my cigarette out, spiraling off the bar stool, walking toward the exit.
Out on the street, my eyes take a while to readjust to the bright sunlight. Wow. No rain. As I'm putting on my jacket and hat, my ears instantly detect the engine noise of the approaching bus. Without delay, I zoom across the pavement as if I were some kind of bionic man. The driver notices me running across the street for the bus stop and slows the gray-and-orange bus down, indicating he is definitely going to stop. The door opens and as I step aboard, I flash my bus pass, thanking him. He nods and I try to brace myself as the bus abruptly takes off downhill on Sandy Boulevard, forcing me to grab the silver pole, swivel, and slide into one of the front seats. There are only a few other riders which means this will be a fast trip. I'm standing less than a mile later, alerting the driver I want the next stop. The sweaty aroma from prepping all those vegetables engulfs the front of the bus like a dirty aerosol Salsa blast has just exploded, clearing out everyone's plugged up nasal passages.
Exiting the bus, I walk around the corner to 39th Street, just a few yards from the stop where I need to transfer. Eyeing my watch, I see I have time to cash my check. The next bus arrives in twenty minutes, so I'd rather get it done sooner than later. I fast-walk to the bank, cash my check, and then sprint two-and-a-half blocks to the Hollywood liquor store, which is a huge-looking warehouse of a building at 41st and Sandy Blvd. Inside, there is an easy-on-the-eyes, short, fluffy, well-rounded red-headed lady, standing behind the counter in a long, multi-colored blouse with black slacks. Uh oh, and here we go, I'm touching my rear, Bingo! discovering my wallet, relieved. I'm awaiting a compliment, Ah yes! My intelligence informs me that this will definitely be Fun Friday, as I open the door, that glass door of opportunities, with a mid-evil smirk. Already, she casually assumes I'm an underage minor who thinks that he is slicker than a snotty-nosed child in the middle of an oil spill. "Hello, how are you?", I inquire. She says nothing, just stares with her hands on her hips, like I slept with her last night and didn't call the next day.
"May I have a fifth of Seagram's Gin, please?", I ask politely. "May I see your ID?", she demands, being seriously sarcastic. "Well ... thank you for the compliment.", I say happily, grinning as I reach into my wallet and hand the lady my Oregon ID card. Her eyes get really wide, which is normal, since I am 31, not 21. "You black people don't look your age at all.", she says as she turns to get the fifth of alcohol off the display shelf just behind her. I hand her a twenty-dollar bill and she gladly hands me back my change. Not having enough time to explain that I am not black, I just let it go this one time. "Now, you have a nice evening, sir.", she says with a big smile. "You do the same.", I reply, smiling as I push the door open to leave. I have just five minutes to spare before my bus comes. I love it when a plan comes together. Simply marvelous!
Now all I have to do is hand Tammy the money for the bills; take a shower, and we are off to the Friday night barbecue. The bus is practically full, but I manage to get a seat just as I was looking for a one. Being in the right place at the right time makes for a wonderful day. I'll probably arrive home in less than a half-an-hour or so. Tammy, who is my lady and nine years younger, and with whom I have been in a relationship over a year now, has a handsome son named Devinare, and things are going all right, I suppose. We met at the Tamarack apartment complex one sunny July summer day. I'm gallivanting around my old neighborhood, headed nowhere in particular, when I happen to catch a glimpse of her sexy smile as she stood there wearing sporty, black stretch pants and a white tank top, staring out the doorway of her apartment at me. She is five-foot-eight, biracial, light Butterscotch-complexion, freckle-faced, sexy eyes, beautiful shoulder-length brown hair, voluptuous breasts, long sexy legs, and also has somewhat of an atomic temper.
This was during a very depressing time in my life. That day, I set out to get into mischief. As far as I'm concerned, I bit off more than I could chew.
My cousin Ronnie, one of my favorite, has his brake lines tampered with after working on an oil rig in Kansas, goes over a seventy-five-foot cliff, killing him instantly, twenty seven years old, same age as my Uncle Clyde. Then, ten days later, my maternal Grandmother passes away from cancer. I did not know what to think, because a few weeks later, my Aunt Anna also passes away from cancer. I'm feeling abandoned, losing my mind, in a chronic state of grief, constantly being a pallbearer. The same day I meet Tammy at the complex, I decide to get intoxicated, drinking Night Train and Mad Dog 20/20 wine with some degenerates who live in the housing development a couple of blocks West of Tammy. As the night stood still, this dude named Archie Williams got my tipsy-ass all riled up out of my comfort zone and dared me to steal some liquor with him. We both enter the double doors of the brown brick neighborhood store, and as we immediately split up, the cash register opens, a short man with black hair is handing a customer his change when I spin into action saying, "Don't move!", loudly, taking the money out of the till and running out of the store to the escape vehicle parked one block away, in the pure, dark shadow of a huge oak tree. I'm safely in the car, Archie jumps into the driver's seat, turning the ignition as the police speed by to the scene of the apparent crime. He hesitates in taking off as a police officer driving by takes notices of us. Archie then panics, and gives himself up! Then, he snitches on me while I'm hidden in the dark, curled up like a brown ball! The cop handcuffed and arrested me and escorted me to jail, where I'm charged with robbery.
My family and friends were in utter shock because they know I'm no criminal. At my trial, the District Attorney attempted to have me sentenced to five years in jail, but the furious and logical Judge Abraham stated, "I am not going to send this young man to prison. He took 28 years to commit his first crime, has a very long, steady work history, and he's an Army veteran. I'm sentencing Mr. Williams to five years probation. Now, Mr. Williams, get your act together!", and smacked the desk with his mallet. For the first time in my life I am a certified felon, checking in with my probation officer promptly every month, paying my fees on time, everything going just fine, as long as I stay away from that hideous-ass wine.
Tammy can be quite the sweetheart, in spite of a genuine lack of trust and all her various accusations. Among the many splendorous reasons, mainly it's her uncanny disposition that makes me love her so. Can you really love crazy? I've pretty much tried to make her feel special, but the more I try, the more she suspects something. In the final analysis, after she repeatedly conducts her bogus investigations, time-after-time, she finds I'm not a cheating man. Sure, my ex-relationships' luggage is a thing of the past, but not so easy to overcome, and often trying to break your spirit, not allowing you to rise above your insecurities.
Finally, the next stop is where I get off. With the bus being so full, I reach carefully over the elderly man's head with my left hand to ring the bell. After I get off the bus, it's impossible not to notice how badly I reek of onions, garlic, and other dastardly, unnamable smells. I feel like a walking health hazard, a totally unfamiliar inferno of uncontested funk. As a precaution against having to smell myself, I quickly pull out a cigarette, ignite the nicotine, and take a long drag, exhausted while welcoming my second wind, right here, right about now.
I approach the castle, making my way up the stairway ever so carefully, holding the bag containing booze, fantasizing about the day I can comfortably afford to purchase a home of my very own and pay the mortgage, instead of shacking. I notice that I've done an excellent job of trimming the four evenly-spaced shrubs in the yard, while at the same time, letting a huge, wild-growing holly tree in the back yard go crazy. This funky, two-bedroom, green-colored house with the finished full basement, mid-sized kitchen with dining room, and standard-sized bathroom, is more than likely in desperate need of a tree maintenance facelift. But it's home.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Justified License To Kill by Eddie Dee Williams, John Sumlin. Copyright © 2013 Eddie Dee Williams. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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