Chapter 7
Molly had been home from the hospital for a couple of days, but I hadn’t seen her. This evening, she was standing on the landing, smoking a cigarette, with a glass of Vodka in her hand.
“Johnny, did you call the police on Alphonsio? They got him in the hospital for parole violations.” She slurred.
She was a bit confused
“Hi, Molly, How are you?”
She made several faces. One face was sad, another angry, the next was confused. She ended on happy. She smiled. “Hi Johnny, I’m good. How are you?”
“I’m happy to see you.”
Both her eyes were blackened. Her face was swollen and colorful. Her nose was taped.
“You’re so good to me, Johnny. Give me a kiss.”
She puckered up her split lips, but I kissed her on the forehead. Even her hair reeked of vodka, and cigarette smoke.
Molly had been beautiful once. I hoped that one day, she would be again. Here, or there.
She was drinking herself to death.
Life on earth is hard. In some locations, the environment is so extreme, just living through a day can be tortuous. For many the hardships are not environmental, they are emotional, psychological or physiological. People do things they should not do.
It’s not my place to judge. We all have a judge. We’ll all face Him, soon enough.
Until then, some of us are called to speak the truth, in love.
Sometimes, truth hurts.
The darkness hates the truth.
We are called to be salt, and light.
The darkness hates the light.
Salt preserves that which is good, it also gives flavor.
The darkness corrupts everything, and the darkness hates our flavor.
We can’t save the lost. They have a Saviour.
We can love them, though. We can lead them to the Saviour. Sometimes, that is all we can do. What they choose to do after that, is beyond our mission, or our control.
“Molly, do you want to get better? Would you like to be sober?”
She made some more faces.
It’s pretty much pointless to talk to someone while they’re drunk.
She sort of smiled, a sad smile, and nodded her head.
“We’ll talk tomorrow. I know of a program through our church, which might help you.”
Inside my apartment, I called Christine Valakova. She was the red headed receptionist at Simpson Oil and Gas.
I’d called her earlier in the week, to make a date.
“You still want sushi?” I asked.
“Oh yeah, with ginger and wasabi, and red wine,” she added.
“OK, I’ll pick you up at 6:30.”
Tyler is the regional center for the professional occupations, medical, banking, legal, and a host of others. The city attracts students to the University of Texas at Tyler, Tyler Junior College, and other colleges.
Tyler has most of the amenities of a big city, while retaining a small town atmosphere. If the traffic is light, you can drive from one side to the other, in about twenty minutes. Tyler is known as the Rose City or the Rose Capital of the U.S.; because most of all the roses sold in this country, are processed, or are produced in and around Tyler, Texas.
The only Tyler rose I was interested in tonight, was Christine Valakova.
I picked her up at her apartment. It was in an upscale, gated apartment complex. Her apartment was beautiful. She had decorated it in warm jewel and earth tones. She told me she had been living alone for a couple of months, since her roommate had moved out.
Tonight she wore a green dress that could have been tailored to fit her. It had some sort of sparkly crystals and sequins on the bodice. She had a necklace and earrings, also made of sparkly crystals that flashed changing colors in the light.
She introduced me to her cat whose name was Mr. Tumescence, although she always called him “Tummy” or “Tum Tum.” She explained that when she named him, she thought that the word meant “Fat.”
Go figure.
We headed to the trendy sushi place, best known for the creative and colorful preparation and presentation, by an award winning chef.
“…my family name goes back to some of the people called Romani who traveled throughout Europe, without any particular national allegiance,” she said.
You could have knocked me over with a feather!
“My grandfather was a leader among the Romani here in America, back at the end of the nineteenth century,” I said.
“We could be related,” we both said, together at the same time.
We both laughed, and I asked her, “How did you end up here in East Texas?”
She was pensive for a moment.
“My boyfriend in college was from here. We were going to get married, or so he said. After I graduated, I moved here to be with him. He’s gone to Chicago now, and married to someone else. I’m still here.”
She made a face.
“Where’s your family?” I asked
“They’re mostly in the hill country, just northwest of Austin. My brother and his family live in Dallas.”
“What about your family?” she asked
“I’m all there is. The end of the line, I was an only child.”
“Where are your parents?”
“They were killed in a tornado in Oklahoma, several years ago, while I was in the Navy.”
“How long were you in the Navy?”
I figured I should restrict my answer to the most recent term of service.
“Eight years. I probably would have made a career of it, the Navy that is, but I got hurt and some other things happened that sort of ended my interest.”
“What do you do now?” she asked.
That question posed a problem. She didn’t know that I was working for her boss.
“After the Navy I went to work for the Department of Homeland Security. Eventually, I got tired of the system and the politics. There were too many layers of bureaucracy. I came back here and went to work for myself. I own my own business”
“Doing what?”
“I do private investigation.”
“Really, a P.I., like on TV?”
I get that a lot.
“Well, no, not really. I drive a pickup, not a Ferrari or anything. I help families in crisis and locate missing heirs, that sort of thing, and I provide services to attorneys and corporate clients. It tends to be kind of boring and tedious work, mostly”
“Wow,” she said. “I kind of figured you for a security type. I knew you weren’t one of those goons Walter uses, but you have a certain air about you.”
“Goons?”
What was she talking about?
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you look like a goon, or anything…uh, I just meant you don’t act like a typical, pot-bellied, business type.”
I must have looked exasperated, but I was really only amused and a little perplexed.
“OH! I really am sorry. I know you own your own business. I just meant…” She trailed off, dismally.
I laughed.
“It’s OK. I get that a lot. People are always asking me if I’m in law enforcement.”
She looked relieved.
“That’s it. That’s what I meant. Do you carry a gun?”
“Yes, I do. Not always, of course, but usually.”
“Why, what are you afraid of?”
“When I have my gun, I’m not afraid of much of anything.”
We both smiled, and drank some wine.
Eventually, I asked her about Walter’s “goons”.
“Mr. Simpson never travels without his security people. Walter hires them, and I think he scrapes the bottom of the barrel. Oh, I’ll bet they’re plenty competent. They manage to be big and scary, very well. They have the whole intimidation thing locked down. They just la
ck class.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“They’re all stamped from the same mold. You know, former football jocks, ex-military, swaggering, cocky, adolescent, locker room, baboons.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Have you had problems with them?” I asked.
“Every single one of them has hit on me. They’re vulgar and disgusting. Walter seems to think it’s funny. I am not amused.”
I nodded.
“Yeah, I can see that.”
“I am so sorry if I indicated I thought you were like one of those guys.”
“Not a problem, Christine.” I smiled.
We both enjoyed dinner and being together.