The Setup

County Jail

Slow Eddie closed his eyes counted to ten and let out his breath real quiet like. Opening his eyes he took in his surroundings. Bars, a metal bunk seven feet long, a pay phone receiver in the steel combination sink and toilet, heavy steel screening over the lone window kept the pale October moonlight impenetrable to the gloom of the cell. Yep, finally arrived to the pokey, the outhouse, the joint, the jug. In the immortal words of Hank Williams Sr., “We're in the jail house now.” Fighting the unreasoning panic of the trapped wolf, Eddie began to pace the length of the twenty foot by seven foot cell trying to ignore the cockroaches and the smell of old urine. As he walked, he notice the other four cells were empty. Only the empty metal bunks bolted to the concrete wall and the bars testified to the fact of what these rooms were for. Finally bored of pacing, he took a seat on the bunk, feeling lower than he ever had in his entire life and wishing he had a cigarette.

“Say Slow Eddie, wanna smoke?” a whisper came to him out of the gloom.

Eddie nearly jumped out of his skin he'd been so deep inside himself. “Dammit Brian! You nearly scared the pudding out of me!” he croaked. His voice sounded funny to him in this concrete hole.

“Sorry dude. You just looked all depressed and shit sitting there like that. Figured you could use a smoke,” Brian apologized. If there was a Fourth Musketeer to Eddie, Jake, and Junior's Three, it would be Brian Araya. He was the Shemp to their Larry, Moe, and Curly. Brown hair flopped over his hazel eyes which were full of honest concern.

“Hell, that's alright man. You know the deal, new house jitters,” Eddie joked as he reached through the bars for the hand rolled cigarette. “Just what I need to forget my troubles.”

Grinning, he took a huge drag off the joint watching as Brian's face turned from confusion to understanding to humor. Then the expanding burning sensation burst through Eddie's lungs and he coughed and flailed about for air. “Jesus!” Cough. “Brian!” Cough. “What kind of weed is that?” Cough Cough. “Nothing like I sold you last summer!”

Brian snorted and explained, “That 'weed' is actually Bugler Tobacco, the cheapest smoke on the canteen!” Brian complained, “Damn Eddie, I ain't seen no weed close to what you and Jake rolled up with last summer. That is the best I ever smoked! Period!”

Eddie, finally able to breathe again, grinned at the compliment. “Yeah, we sure outdid ourselves that time. And made a nice little bundle with it too.” But like so many things in Slow Eddie's life, he let it slip away too easily. Gone through his fingers like sand at the beach. He continued, “Yeah, when I get out of this shitter I might leave you a little stash with an outside trustee.”

Brian frowned which was not the reaction Eddie expected. “Don't get your hopes up for leaving anytime soon. I'm a trustee over in the courthouse and one of my hobbies is eavesdropping on the Sheriff.” Brian winked knowingly. “It seems Dougie Sr. is twisting the magistrate's arm to deny you bond. He's threatening all kinds of hellfire and damnation if he sets you a bond.”

“Doug, Sr.,” Eddie grunted, like a punch to the gut. “Well that changes everything,” he declared. “What else did he say?”

“I didn't hear much else, I had to slip away before I was seen,” Brian shook his head.

“Shit,” muttered Eddie, “When's the next time you can hear something?”

“I can't wear it out, but I'll find a reason to be outside the sheriff's office tomorrow night because that's where we usually work,” Brian stated.

“Yeah, I was wondering how you get out and about.”

“Eddie I gotta go get locked up now. It's almost count time. Here, take these cigs.” Brian held out the baggie of a dozen hand rolled Buglers. “Be sure not to let the police see them because no one is supposed to be talking to you or anything.”

“Damn, they must have something nice planned,” Eddie blew out a breath. “Well, I appreciate it Brian. Keep me posted when you can.”

“No problemo. One more thing,” Brian's eyes were serious, “you know Junior set you up from the jump, don't you?”

“Yeah. I should have known it would just be a matter of time,” Eddie said tonelessly. He didn't like admitting it, but there it was.

Seven AM Monday morning the Judas in question sat in Sheriff Lovelace's office with his daddy Doug, Sr., Virginia Commonwealth Attorney William C. Moore, Jr., Magistrate O'Neal, and of course the Commonwealth Attorney's father, Judge William C. Moore, Sr.

Magistrate O'Neal's nasal whine began the morning's proceedings. “Dammit Doug! That boy's mama hasn't stopped calling my house since noon yesterday pestering me to set her boy a bond. I don’t understand why you want to keep him locked up!”

“I don't care how many times that dried up old bat calls, you'll keep that sonuvabitch under the jail until we take him to court, give him a fair trial, then send his happy ass to Greensville!” Doug, Sr. steamed.

“Now hold on Doug!” belched Judge Moore. “You know it ain't as simple as all that. We have arraignments, preliminary hearings, plea bargaining, and all kinds of shit we have to go through before he goes up the road,” lisped the portly judge.

“Boy.” Doug's grunt full of menace, he glared at the judge. “What part of what I said do you not understand?” The hate that snapped back and forth between their eyes began over twenty years ago...

A spotless service record in Grenada and Lebanon, ex-Marine Doug Atwell thought he was free and clear, a newly hired Deputy under freshman Sheriff R. V. Lovelace. Until some cold hearted chippie out of Fayetttville shot him to end an argument. He recovered from that and about six months into his first and only year with the Department, he responded to a call from the squawk box for gunshots at a local judge's house.

Honorable James E. Turnbull had apparently shot himself after shooting his young wife. While searching the premises, the young Doug Atwell made a discovery in the judge's den that changed his life. Taped to the back of the second drawer from the bottom of Judge Turnbull's old mahogany desk (He'd learned to search carefully and thoroughly in Grenada.) he found an envelope. Most people would have rushed right out for a quick payoff. Not Doug Atwell. He mulled the situation over for a good six months before calling the then Commonwealth Attorney William C. Moore along with the freshman Sheriff out to his house for a drink for some real important news.

“This better be good,” lisped Moore that day.

“I hope so too, Doug. I'm a busy man,” seconded Lovelace.

“Just hold your horses and have a drink,” soothed Doug as he handed around some of his keepsake 12 year old bonded bourbon. “That's right. Kick back and relax and when I show this to you, you just contemplate before you speak, because I don't want what you think.”

Once they'd had a swallow of good bourbon, Doug fanned out thirty-two color pictures like a deck of very obscene playing cards showing none other than Sheriff R. V. Lovelace performing some of the most outrageous sex acts ever caught on film with the Commonwealth Attorney.

“That's right boys,” Doug purred, “before you think or do anything, I have taken precautions: copies, and a signed and sworn deposition are currently being held by a very expensive lawyer in Roanoke. So don't even think about trying what you did to the dishonorable Judge Turnbull.” Doug chuckled nastily. “May he rest.”

“Doug,” Lovelace choked out a whisper. “What in God's name do you want?” He slugged the remaining bourbon.

Moore, deathly pale and riveted to his seat in dread waited for the answer to come.

“The county,” Doug Atwell declared quietly.

Thus it began: First an insurance payout for an injury in the line of duty: a staged high speed chase that ended in a crash. Next, the retirement with Permanent Disability payments. No one thought too much of Doug's daily five mile jogs. Then, so the Attorney wouldn't be left out, Moore pushed legislation through the County Commission for an exploratory study on liquor by the drink and its boon on tax revenue and effect on the population. As expected, after the six month study the County Commissioners voted to do away with the notion. However, “Any bar open during this exploratory study in compliance with all Virginia Commonwealth Alcohol Beverage Control laws, rules, and regulations will remain open and in good standing as a pre-existing business.” So the Titty Tat Club was born, the one, the only, liquor by the drink, beer by the gallon, blood by the bucket, titty by the handful, honky tonk by the jukeboxful, dance palace in the whole county.

So it was for the last twenty years, so it would continue as long as Sheriff Lovelace and Judge Moore held their offices.

“I read ya,” Moore grunted, bringing Doug, Sr. back to the present, “Loud and clear.”

Junior Atwell smiled like a jackal that got a bit of a lion's leftovers. He tried to imagine what it would be like to tell these bigwigs of the county what to do, like his pa did, but, his mind wandered off.

“Doug,” asked Attorney Willy Moore, “Can Junior here remember to say what he's supposed to when he's up on the stand?”

“To be honest Willy, I don't know, but the little shitbird will make himself available for all the practice he needs,” Doug, Sr. commanded with a sharp look to his son.

“But Daddy! I was going to the lake today to try out the new ski boat!”

Doug Sr.'s answer was a plain and simple, “No!”

*

2009

Madrid, Spain

“Do you have something to confess?” Jadzia asked playfully.

Raphaella's fingers slipped and the cards went flying. Both girls giggled. Their long dark curls dancing in the breeze.

But Raphaella's face returned to its frown of preoccupation. “I just might have,” she admitted.

“Oh?” Jadzia had been kidding. She often teased Raphie (pronounced like something in between toffee and taffy) for being too honest, too sincere, and too much like a mark! “You want to tell a priest?”

Raphie frowned in an ugly way, an extremely rare occurence. She knew how beautiful she was and liked the rest of the world noticing it too. She didn't need any man to absolve her in any way. No man was helping her to live, why would she go to one for help with her conscience? And in this case she wasn't even the one guilty of wrongdoing! She huffed out a sigh and Jadzia stood up and held out her hand.

“Come on. I will show you our church.”

Raphie accepted the hand up, intrigued. She'd thought the stoop they practiced card tricks on, La Senora Tempestad de Tarot's weird little magic shop with its plethora of religious artifacts, deities, icons, and amulets was the street kid's church of choice.

They walked for a long time back into and through centro Madrid then down Avenida de la Ciudad de Barcelona to a large basilica remodeled in the late 1800s during the Reconstruction.

Twin verdigris steeples with huge crosses capped the twin towers framing the red brick building trimmed with white brick.

“Our Lady of the Grass?” Raphaella asked uncertainly reading the nameplate Real Basilica de Nuestra Senora de Atocha.

“She was found in high grass and this church was built to worship Her.” Jadzia led her through the deep red doors under the elaborately scrolled lintel. “That, or She came all the way from Antioch.” Jadzia slowly stepped into the main worship room and glanced around. “Luckily no one is here.” She led Raphie toward the shining gold altar high above the main altar where the business of the worship service was conducted.

“Oh,” Raphaella sighed in wonder seeing the statue of the Virgin and Child surrounded by gold and silver. The figure was black, either the original stone or a patina of age. The Madonna was seated with Jesus sitting on Her lap as a small child rather than a baby. Both figures wore incongruous jeweled golden crowns. Her smile enigmatically beautiful and mysterious like the Mona Lisa, yet full of a powerful healing grace that no oil painting or mere statue could convey spoke to Raphaella's confused conflicted soul. Standing in her presence Raphaella felt profound relief and peace wash over her mind.

“She is Black Maria,” Jadzia said simply. “Our Goddess.”

“I think She is my Goddess, too,” Raphie whispered.

“Now tell me what you have to confess!” Jadzia's loud voice shattered the moment. She giggled at Raphie's bug-eyed expression and dragged her to sit in a pew.

Raphie huffed a sigh and rolled her eyes. “I caught Juan Jose at work using a skimmer on some fat Americanos' credit cards. He just laughed like he does it all the time.” Her blue eyes met Jadzia's dark brown eyes with concern. “I don't know what to do. I don’t know if the bistro owner knows.”

Jadzia laughed. “You just want in on the action!”

Raphie smiled, but shook her head in denial. “I like the personal touch,” she said referring to the ease with which she picked pockets and unhooked expensive watches from wrists.

“What can be more personal than using someone's card?” Jadzia asked breezily.

Raphie could hardly believe they sat in the basilica discussing theft so brazenly. She looked toward Nuestra Senora but saw only a gentle indulgent smile. The Black Maria, goddess to the Travelers like Jadzia and the street boys, saint for the forgotten, abandoned, lost, the orphans... like me. She felt accepted here, as though she could live this life that God had set before her, for the first time since leaving Iesli behind.

“I'll tell you what, getting a rich tourist to give it to me!” Raphie laughed.