Last Call

Chapter 2

Theo drove home alone and angry. Really angry. There were two things you just didn't talk about with Theo Knight.

His father.

And his mother.

Isaac had thought he was so clever, the way he'd ventured into the maternal half of the forbidden territory. Theo knew he didn't give a rat's ass about him or his mother. Isaac brought her up only as a reminder that the cops hadn't lifted a finger to catch the guy who'd slit her throat – yet another reason Theo shouldn't turn to the police. Little did Isaac know that Theo had shipped off those demons to a place that Trina called the gulag of Theo's mind.

Theo's Coconut Grove town house wasn't in the ghetto, where he'd once lived with Tatum and their mother, but his little hovel wasn't exactly the poster property for Miami 's real estate nirvana, either. In many ways, Theo was a man in transition.

The porch light was out. He fumbled for his key in the darkness, but the blue-green glow of the television screen greeted him as he opened the front door.

"Cy?" he said. "You up?"

The old man rose from the E-Z chair. He was technically Theo's great-uncle, and just about everyone called him "Uncle Cy," but Theo just called him Cy "Course I'm up," he said.

"It's three-thirty in the morning."

"When you're my age, that's almost lunchtime."

The old man chuckled, and Theo smiled, even though he'd heard the joke many times before. His great-uncle had suffered a mild stroke over the summer. He was almost completely recovered, save for a slight loss of motion in his right leg and occasional short-term memory issues. The doctors thought it was better that he not live alone until he finished his rehab. He'd been staying with Theo for the past three months. It was the least Theo could do for the man who'd taught him to play the saxophone.

"Sit with me for a minute," said Cy as he cleared away the clutter of newspapers on the couch.

Theo tried not to groan. "I'm really beat."

The old man shot him one of those lonely hound-dog looks. All his life, he'd been tall and thin, and he had a saxophone player's stoop even when he wasn't playing, as if his chin were glued to his sternum. He could cut to the soul when he looked at you, head down, through the top of those sad eyes. The man just didn't play fair.

"All right," said Theo as he flopped onto the sofa.

Cy lowered himself into the chair and flipped through the channels with the remote. "I wanted you to see this," he said.

"See what?"

"It's been all over the news. There was a prison break last night. A guy named Isaac Reems escaped. There it is," he said, stopping on Action News.

Isaac's inmate photograph was on-screen staring back at Theo. The orange jumpsuit, the prison haircut, the mad-at-the-world scowl. For a fleeting moment, Theo saw himself – what he once was, the way he could have ended up. Thankfully, the anchorwoman was at the end of her three-minute update.

"Reems is assumed to be armed and dangerous," she said to her television audience. "Anyone with information as to his whereabouts should immediately contact the Miami-Dade Department of Corrections." A telephone number flashed on the screen, and then the newscast broke for a commercial.

Cy hit the mute button. "Isn't that the boy you and your brother used to hang out with?"

"Yeah, that's him."

His uncle shook his head. "I knew he'd never amount to nothing. The other newsman said he's been in and out of prison since he was seventeen."

"Almost as bad as Tatum," said Theo.

Almost. His older brother had grown up to be a contract killer.

Cy said, "I just thank God one of y'all made something of his-self."

"Yup, that's me, all right. Saint Theo."

"Don't you go puttin' yourself down. Ain't no comparison between you and those two thugs. You should be proud of yourself."

"Must have been the music that turned me around," said Theo.

He meant that. In his prime, Cyrus Knight had been a nightclub star in old Overtown, Miami 's Harlem. He played all the best joints. At his peak, in the 1960s, he even did orchestra gigs for Sammy Davis Jr. and other stars in the big hotels on Miami Beach. When Theo was released from prison, Cy gave him his old saxophone, a classic Buescher 400. "You might be happy to be out of prison," his uncle had told him, "or you might be pissed off that they locked you up in the first place. It don't make no never mind. You just put all those feelings right here." Theo took the sax and the advice.

"'Tell me something about my momma," said Theo.

His uncle did a double take. It might have amazed an outsider, but this was a conversation they'd never had before. Never. Theo was that adamant about it.

"Where did that question come from?" said Cy.

"Isaac was there the night we found her. I guess it got me to wondering, seeing him tonight. I mean on the TV," he said, quick to correct himself.

Cy didn't seem at all comfortable with the chosen topic of conversation. "What do you want to know?"

"Something good. Tell me something good about her."

The old man was silent, as if searching. He answered without looking at Theo, his gaze drifting off toward the middle distance. "Ain't nothin' good to tell, Theo. Nothin' good at all."

Theo nodded, more in resignation than agreement. "I'm going to bed." He rose and headed toward the bedroom.

Cy called his name, stopping him. "Are you okay, boy? You seem a little bit off."

Theo shrugged. "Tough night."

"Trina giving you heartache again?"

"No, it's not that. We talked right before closing. I think we're gonna be okay."

"Good. I like that girl. But something's eatin' at you. What is it?"

Theo sighed, burying his hands in his pockets. "I just don't like feeling ripped off, that's all."

"Not again. You was robbed?"

He weighed the word's every connotation. "Comes with the turf, I guess."

"Did you call the cops?"

Theo harrumphed, as if to say, "What the hell good would that do?" He suddenly felt much the same way about this conversation. Absolutely no good could come of telling Cy about his surprise visit from Isaac. "I really don't feel like talking about it."

"That's all right. You get some rest."

"'Night, old man."

"Good night, boy."

Theo continued down the dark hallway and didn't even bother turning on the bedroom light. He practically fell on the bed, dead tired, emotionally exhausted, drained in every sense of the word – and completely unable to sleep. He could have lain there till dawn, staring at the ceiling as all of Miami woke. Or…

He knew Rene was in town, but this couldn't wait till morning. He reached for the phone on his nightstand and dialed Jack. His friend.

His lawyer.