Free Frankenstorm: Category 8 by Ray Garton Page B

Marcus filled out his snug wife beater undershirt with plenty of muscle. His sandy hair was short and mussed, and he had tattoos on his arms and neck and metal in his face. He seemed unaware of Latrice’s presence.
    This is not the kind of company you wanna be keeping, girl, Latrice thought, looking at the guns and drugs on the coffee table. She stood there feeling stupid, wondering if she should sit down in one of the two empty chairs in the room or stay where she was and wait for Giff to make his call.
    He leaned back in the recliner as he put the phone to his ear.
    Marcus suddenly noticed Latrice and jolted to his feet as if he’d been poked with an electric cattle prod. He turned to Giff and said, “What the fuck , dude?”
    “Shut up, Marcus, and deal with it,” Giff snapped. Then he shouted, “Hey, Rosie! We got company!” He listened to the phone, then said, “Goddammit, Leland, where the fuck are you? Your friend is here and she wants your fuckin’ money! Call me back right away and explain what the hell’s goin’ on, here, goddammit.” He put the phone on the end table and turned to Latrice. “He say where he was goin’?”
    Marcus stood beside the couch, silently glaring at Latrice. She tried to ignore him.
    “Only that he was leaving the country,” she said.
    “He say why?”
    “He said he stole something from somebody who’s going to kill him for it if he sticks around. This was yesterday, and he said he was leaving right away. But if he hasn’t called you back by now . . . well, I hope he’s okay.”
    She glanced at Marcus. He had not moved nor taken his eyes from her.
    “The fuck’s wrong with you, Marcus?” Giff said.
    “Well, who the fuck is she?” Marcus said.
    “She’s a friend of Leland’s. You can shut the fuck up and watch your show or go back to your fuckin’ trailer.”
    All three men were about the same age—late twenties, early thirties—but Giff spoke to Marcus as if he were a child.
    Marcus stalked out of the room saying, “You gonna be bringin’ niggers around, Giff, I’m outta here.” A moment later, the front door opened and the sound of the storm rushed into the house until the door slammed, shutting it out again.
    Giff looked at Latrice and shrugged. “That’s just Marcus. He don’t like your kind, is all.”
    Oh, yeah, Latrice thought, this is a fun evening waiting to happen.
    She had to get out of there.
    A moment later, a young woman walked in and stepped in front of Latrice, grinning.
    “Hi, I’m Rosie,” she said, smiling. She had thin, stringy, blond hair, extremely pale, splotchy skin, and a black patch over her left eye. Her face was gaunt and her sweatshirt and sweatpants seemed to be a few sizes too big for her. She appeared to be made of sticks, unable to hold still, constantly twitching or turning or slightly bouncing. “Who’re you?”
    “Uh, I’m Latrice.”
    To Giff, Rosie said, “Who’s Latrice?”
    “She delivered a package for Leland. I need to reach him but he ain’t answerin’ his goddamned phone.”
    Although neither sentence answered her question, Rosie seemed satisfied. She turned to Latrice and said, “C’mon in the kitchen, I’ll get you something to drink.”
    Just us girls, Latrice thought. She followed Rosie, wondering just how weird the night was going to get.

2
    The door was opened by a man who filled the doorway. He was tall, broad, black as midnight, with a head as smooth as an egg, and he wore a black sweatshirt, dark pants, and sunglasses. He was so unexpected that, for a moment, Andy wondered if they’d come to the wrong house.
    The pounding beat of hip-hop music became louder when the door opened and, combined with the noise of the storm behind him, was a distraction for Andy.
    “Uh, I need to see Jodi,” he said.
    “Jodi who?”
    “Jodi Rodriguez. My ex-wife.”
    His eyes were invisible behind the dark glasses. “Jodi ain’t here.”
    “Is my son, Donny, here?”
    “No, Donny ain’t