[short story ] The Monday After

In the continuation from the “Father’s Day” short, Cain takes a trip back in time in search of much needed information. As the thirst for vengeance grows, new intel brings about a need for patience, strategy, and caution.

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The Monday After

[ not professionally edited ]

Rage. The Monday after Father’s Day moved at a painstakingly slow rate, because I couldn’t get answers from anyone. The good thing was when we got to the hospital yesterday, Carina’s wounds were largely superficial. Some scrapes and cuts on her hands, arms, and legs from where she jumped out of a fucking moving vehicle.

The busted lip and left over impression of fingers on her neck, however, had me up all night. Because those were emotional actions rooted in something personal. A random attack woulda just left me pissed. But I only knew one way to respond to this type of transgression, and no one could get me what the fuck I needed to do so.

The police were useless. 

The officer we spoke with at the hospital told me what I already knew. There had been a spike in carjackings over the last year, blah blah blah. And I was too unplugged from the necessary channels to find out what was truly happening on the street. When I divested from this shit almost thirty years ago, I control-alt-deleted everything. And the Consortium followed suit.

We weren’t a family per se, opting instead to consider ourselves as a collective. Rasheed, ran weapons. Colin, dealt in antiquities, and money laundering. And my guy Monty was my right hand. He took care of the numbers game by day, and intel by night. I handled property management, negotiations, and blackmail. 

Of course the one I needed the most, Monty, was the one I didn’t have access to. Even now just the thought of reaching out to him triggered an entirely different set of thoughts. The type that threatened to pull me into one of the depressive episodes I experienced from time to time.

“Paw Paw,” my little buddy’s voice cracked the exterior of my thoughts, as he descended the stairs. “Here ta’go, Paw Paw.”

Darrin walked over to me with a glass of cranberry juice with a lid on it. My little chubby guy was independent as hell. To keep from ruining our carpets we had to baby proof everything.

“Aw, thanks, buddy. Did Maw Maw tell you to bring me some juice?” I asked, as I closed up an old leather notebook and debts owed ledger.

“Mmmhmm. I had apple juice. And Paw Paw need his cranderry juice.”

“Well thank you, for my cranderry juice, buddy,” I smiled.

“Can we go outside and put water on the butterfry bush?”

“Yeah, we can…” I trailed off. 

I stood from my leather recliner and looked down at him for a beat as pins gradually began to fall in place in my mind. Got dammit, of course. The flower shop.

“You want to go into the city with Paw Paw?”

The door chimed as we stepped into Naomi’s Flower Shop, in downtown Washington, D.C. I thought Darrin’s head was going to explode at the way the colors from the different blooms and plants commanded his attention.

“Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to Naomi’s. I’ll be with you in just a second,” said a young man from behind the counter.

I told him to take his time as he finished up with a customer. A snapdragon display caught my little buddy’s attention. I let his hand go, he walked toward it and bent over with his hands clasped behind his back. Where in the hell did he get that old man shit from?

“Mr. Davidson?” A young woman said as she approached.

I followed the voice to find one of the warmest smiles I had ever seen. She was one of those women whose personality was impossible to hide, because it resonated off her. Everything was big, beautiful, and welcoming. As she drew closer, something about her felt very familiar. Calming.

“It is you,” she said with a confirmed surprise. “Your eyes are, wow! I know you were hell back in your day. Mmph, I’m sorry. Sometimes my mouth just says…”

“Fuck it,” I finished, and cocked my head at her. I hadn’t heard that line in ages.

Her smile disappeared and a look of shock swam across her face, followed by uneasiness. My little buddy turned, patted my leg and uttered, “ooooh, Paw Paw said a bad word.” I apologized without breaking eye contact with her, then softened my gaze.

“How did you do…I'm sorry. Where are my manners,” she said nervously. “I’m Lynee. Lynee Thomas. How can I help you today?” She extended her hand and I took it.

“Your last name may be Thomas, but you’re an Orr through and through, lady. All of you have diarrhea bout the mouth,” I chuckled. “But if you’re working here, that means you are also highly intelligent, and the Google search bar to the streets. Do you all still offer pruning classes in the back? I need a refresher.”

I watched her carefully to see how she responded to the coded message. She nodded and gave a purple snapdragon to Darrin, who thanked her with wide eyes. After she grabbed a few more, she turned and waved me back without another word.

After the trip into the city I took Darrin to grab a bite to eat and to the playground by RFK stadium, before heading back home. Fat and full in the backseat, I put a call in to my boy Ra. I had a few guns stashed around the house, but I needed more. Lots more and a shitload of ammo, because I had bodies to drop.

Over the course of an hour long pruning session, Lynee couldn’t give me exactly what I wanted, but she gave me plenty. The exact type of information I could only receive at Naomi’s. One of my first legit investments back in the day.

The shop was a gift for Monty’s grandmother, who practically raised us as kids. At first, she offered the back room up as Switzerland—a safe haven for meeting and airing out grievances among the bosses in the city. When things got too hot, a new Switzerland was chosen, but it was agreed that Naomi’s would stay in the Orr family. And it had to be run by someone who wasn’t in the streets, but of it. 

The Consortium was as successful as we were in our time, because of information. And we had that in droves about anything and everyone.

Today, the D.C. area like a lot of major cities was mired in a level of bubbling chaos. The perfect storm of poor planning and too much parental coddling, had kids running amuck. They did dumb shit like fighting, stealing, and destroying property, supposedly out of boredom. 

It didn’t help that task forces took out the Wharf, the collection of organizations that ran the D.C., Maryland, and Virginia area since the eighties. That deregulation left a power vacuum for any hothead with a switch or extended clip to operate in. But like I figured, this shit from yesterday was something more. 

Lynee was able to find out there had been some chatter behind the walls of a couple penitentiaries, in Maryland, West Virginia, and Louisiana. The topic of inquiry, oddly, was the Wharf. Whoever was behind it, got enough information, to farm out more personal inquiries among civilians in certain neighborhoods in D.C.

It turned out what or rather who they were looking for, was me.

What they didn’t count on was the fact these young bastards out here now, were all aggression and ego. Some little nigga got ambitious or got his feelings hurt and did more than he was asked. And now my baby’s in the hospital and my future son-in-law was dead. And for what? 

Inhale deep, exhale slow.

I stared down at the smartphone Lynee gave me and willed it to ring. She reached out to someone she knew about tracking down some high level info. In the meantime, she had someone else looking into who was looking into me specifically. This was my ace’s niece so the last thing I wanted was her putting herself out there.

“Respectfully, Mr. Davidson, your daughter’s family by proxy. There’d be no Naomi’s if it wasn’t for you. The game is a little different now and I keep smart people around. Don’t worry about me,” she said.

“Cain! Cain! Where is he Marion!?”

The fuck!? Douglas’ voice boomed from upstairs. I heard her trying to shush him to no avail. I stared up at the ceiling on my way to see why this nigga had lost his mind.

“Keep your voice down!” I forced out through clenched teeth to not wake Darrin.

“What the fuck are you doing!?” He growled.

“Nigga, I’m gonna tell you one more time, to keep your voice down or we’re gonna have a problem,” I barked, before moving to stand nose-to-nose with him. “This is my house. Don’t let that badge get your big ass fucked up.”

He narrowed his eyes at me while Marion grew uncomfortably quiet. She fell in love with the old me, but she agreed to marry the newer version. This kind of energy was very rare in our home. When he turned to her and apologized, she nodded, and he followed me out back like a chastised child.

“You know I was a part of the second wave of task forces that put the nail in the Wharf’s coffin, right?”

He barely let the patio door close before he started into me. I ignored him.

“Imagine my surprise, when our techs started seeing a flurry of digital traffic earlier, checking visitor logs for the last six months. Logs at three corrections facilities in particular.”

When I didn’t flinch or look in his direction, he crowded my space and stared down at me from the right.

“At the same time, prison phone records were combed for the last three months at two of those facilities. You want to know what the advanced search keyword was? Darringer. So, I ask again, Cain. What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m not doing sh—…”

“And don’t bullshit me like I haven’t known you since ninth grade,” he interjected. “I saw Carina. I told you about Kevon, and I heard about baby Darrin. You may not be the man you used to be, but your ass is way too calm.”

I just stood there quietly, because what was there to say? Sure we had history, but at the end of the day Douglas was a damn cop. His job was to investigate crime. I was actively putting together the framework of a plan to keep the coroner busy until Christmas. He was right though, I was way too calm. Which was exactly where I needed to be.

I finally turned in his direction. “What has your team found out? About the murder? The abduction? The assault? Anything? Hmm?”

“Come on, Cain, don’t do that. It’s barely been a day.”

“You’re right…officer. A day since your niece was assaulted, her fiancé murdered, and my damn two-year-old grandson witnessed some or all of it,” I snarled.

When the phone in my hand chimed, I stepped away and checked the message. Apparently, two weeks ago, some trash ass local rapper made a low budget video in the trenches, not too far from Suitland Parkway. One of the lines in the song mentioned keeping switches for Darringers. Clever. Stupid as fuck, but clever.

I sent a quick reply to ask for a location and known affiliations. Whoever Lynee had access to got me a full police file on the rapper and the building his crew terrorized in Northeast. I thanked her, then looked over at Douglas who eyed me conspicuously.

“We done?”

“Cain,” he sighed and walked over to me. “I know you’re upset. Hell, you have every right to be pissed off. But don’t do anything stupid. Let us handle this.”

“Have a nice day Officer,” I offered without a blink or another word.

He stared at me for a beat before catching the hint. Once he left I went back inside and down to the basement. Opening my humidor, I removed the top shelf, and all the cigars in the far right quadrant. Removing a false wall, I pulled out a small old school address book. Flipping to the I section I dialed a Houston area code and hoped the number was still active.

Solid information on a target left my tongue swollen for the taste of blood. But in order to set in motion what I wanted, in the way I needed, I had a very big favor to cash in. 

“Pop Ingram, good afternoon sir, I hope all is well. It’s Cain…Darringer.”

(…to be cont’d)