Blue Blood Read online

  “I really hate to hear that,” I say. “How are you doing with it? You okay?”

  “I’m okay. I really am. Like I said it’s been a long time coming. I mean, I hate it, but . . . I’m okay. It wasn’t all of a sudden like someone dying or something. It didn’t catch either of us by surprise.”

  “Well, it certainly has me,” I say.

  “I wanted to talk to you because I knew I’d be seeing you less and I wanted you to know and to keep an eye on Reggie—to help her if she’ll let you.”

  “Of course,” I say. “I’ll look out for her.”

  “I know you’re going through your own shit right now.”

  “That’s the best thing for it,” I say. “Get out of my own cycle of self-pity by helping someone else. But I’ll still see you.”

  “I’m actually moving over here,” he says. “Casey already attends college and works over here and there’s a good school for Kevin. I can’t make a living as a journalist in Wewa. I’ve taken a job with the News Herald. I’m sure our paths will still cross occasionally but probably not nearly as often. That’s why I wanted to go ahead and tell you in person—that and to introduce you to Dave.”

  “Dave?”

  “My counselor friend I was telling you about.”

  “Oh. Gotcha.”

  “You up for meeting him tonight?” he asks.

  “Maybe not tonight, but soon,” I say.

  “I just feel like if you don’t meet him tonight you might not ever. Please. Just for a few minutes.”

  3

  “Now, look, my young brother,” Rodney says when he and Merrill are in his room. “I’m glad you made a love connection or whatever that was with Malia. She needs to be comfortable with who’s gonna be guarding her. But I gotta know you can do the job and that you’re really worth the money. I’m the one bankrolling this operation. I’m the one calling the shots.”

  Merrill doesn’t say anything.

  “Oh, you a hard nigga, that it?” Rodney says. “Well, I guess that’s good when you protecting the princess, but . . . you ain’t gonna get the chance to do that, you don’t convince me you the right man for the job.”

  Though Rodney’s room is nearly identical to Malia’s, something indefinable about it makes it seem like it’s not as nice. It’s not as bright and well lit. It doesn’t smell as good. And it’s not as fresh and clean. But Merrill decides the real difference is the absence of Malia herself.

  “Thought I already had the job,” Merrill says. “Ain’t tryin’ to be hard. Just listening to you and tryin’ to get the lay of the land. Didn’t realize Ms. Goodman wasn’t in charge.”

  “Oh, she thinks she is,” Rodney says. “And I’m happy for her to think that. She’s very good at what she does. Makin’ a real difference, but she’s naive. The threats are real—from a lot of different directions. She wouldn’t last a day out here on her own.”

  As Rodney talks, Merrill gets a good look at him for the first time. He’s a tall, thin, older man in a cheap burgundy suit with long hands and bony fingers. His eyelids are loose and droopy and appear hooded. Peeking out from behind them, his small, watery eyes are wary and furtive.

  “Maybe I’m a bad judge of character,” Merrill says, “but she doesn’t strike me as naive, and I’d say given what she’s gone through, what she goes through every day, she’s tough enough to handle most anything comes her way.”

  “I’m not sayin’ she’s not tough or strong, not resilient in a certain way,” Rodney says, “just that she’s . . . She’s a . . . a visionary I guess you’d say. She’s a big-picture type of person, not good with details. That’s all. I’m not saying anything bad about her. Just letting you know—”

  “Who calls the shots,” Merrill offers.

  Rodney leans back and studies him for a long moment before speaking. “You fuckin’ with me, boy?”

  Merrill’s brow furrows as he looks up and squints, seeming to consider something.

  “You have to think about it?” Rodney asks.

  “About what?”

  “Whether you’re fuckin’ with me or not.”

  Merrill shakes his head. “No, not that.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’s tryin’ to remember that last time I’s called boy. And what I did to the man who said it.”

  Rodney holds up his elongated hands, palms out, in a placating gesture. “Didn’t mean it like that. Sorry. Got caught up in playin’ the old man role a little too much. Tell you what . . . you let that one go and I’ll let the fact that you were fuckin’ with me go.”

  “The only reason I’m still here,” Merrill says, “only reason I haven’t knocked you on your old black ass, is how much I respect the lady and admire what she’s doing and know I can protect her better than anybody else. But there are limits even given all that and we’ve about reached ’em. Hire me or don’t, but get on with it.”

  “You should be the best for what you charge,” Rodney says. “You come highly recommended by the right people, but goddamn you’re pricey. I could hire three bodyguards for what I’d be payin’ you.”

  “Get what you pay for,” he says. “And you ain’t just gettin’ me. But I’m willing to give Ms. Goodman a discount for the cause.”

  “That’s very generous of you and would be greatly appreciated. Thank you. But we’ve got to talk about who’d be helpin’ you. The gentleman who came with you tonight isn’t right for what we need.”

  “I say who’s right to work for me and nobody’s righter than John.”

  “Righter or whiter?” he asks. “And it ain’t just that he’s white. He’s a cop.”

  “Two things Ms. Goodman obviously doesn’t have an issue with.”

  “As I said she can be too naive for her own damn good sometimes,” Rodney says. “The thing is . . . this isn’t just about who can do the job but how they look doing it. I’ve got to consider the optics involved in everything we do.”

  Merrill turns without a word and leaves the room.

  Rodney follows him.

  Merrill steps down the hallway and knocks on Malia’s door.

  “Wait,” Rodney says. “There’s no need for . . . Don’t disturb her. We can work this out.”

  Tana opens the door.

  “Did you make sure it was us?” Merrill asks.

  “No, I’m sorry, I just . . .”

  “I need to speak to Malia a moment.”

  “She’s—”

  Malia appears behind her. “What is it?”

  “Just came to say goodbye and to make sure you knew why I wasn’t taking the job,” he says.

  “I thought you already had,” she says.

  “I did too, but evidently, Rot-ney here calls all the shots because he’s bankrolling this little operation and he thinks I’m too expensive—even with my offer of a discount because I believe in what you’re doing—and my friend is too white and too much a cop to be working for you. It was an honor to meet you. Keep up the good work. And maybe be a little more selective about who you surround yourself with.”

  With that, Merrill nods to her and turns to leave.

  “Wait,” she says. “Please.”

  4

  “We can make it very difficult for someone to kill you,” Merrill is saying to Malia, “but we can’t make it impossible. If a madman with a gun or a bomb or even a knife is committed enough he’ll eventually get close enough.”

  “Unless you stop him before he does,” Malia says.

  Merrill nods. “Unless that. And that’s what I intend to do. But I just want you to know the reality of the—”

  “I do,” she says. “I know absolute safety like absolute certainty is an illusion and unattainable. I also know the reality of Rodney’s situation. Hopefully he won’t be a problem, but if he is, you let me know. I can’t do everything, so I have to delegate, but if there’s ever an issue I need to step in and fix it. Fast. What we’re doing is too important not to.”

  “Let’s talk logistics,” Merrill says.

  “Let’s do,” she says. “Tana, can you step over for this?”

  Tana, who has been on her phone and a laptop on the other side of the room, stops what she’s doing and walks over to where we are standing near the door.

  “Tana is my right hand,” Malia says. “We’re virtually inseparable. She needs to hear everything we’re saying about how this will all work.”

  Tana Kay, Malia’s intern-secretary-travel companion-assistant-surrogate daughter, is a thin, young, plain-looking light-skinned black woman in her late twenties. She is quiet and shy and seems perpetually ill at ease. She is bright and bookish, but behind her small, unfashionable glasses she blinks a lot and often looks both wary and afraid.

  “Since things got off on the wrong foot with Rodney,” Malia says, “let’s start by going over what everyone does. Rodney does call most of the day-to-day, moment-to-moment shots, but not because he’s in charge. I’ve made him my operational manager. And he does a lot. But he works for me. He’s very protective and mostly means well, but he has a tendency to overstep his boundaries. Usually, he’s quick to make a course correction when I point something out, but . . . we’re in some uncharted waters right now. Though he works for me and I pay him a salary, he recently loaned me—or more precisely our operation—some money. It’s just until I can finish my next book and get the rest of the advance for it and can do a little more fundraising—both of which take time that I’m spending in other ways just now. It’s very expensive to do what we do and I’d have to do less of it in order to fundraise or write more books and . . . anyway, Rodney offered the loan and I took him up on it. It may have been a mistake. But that’s probably why he feels even more emboldened lately. He normally doesn’t travel with us, but he insisted on coming with us this trip. Anyway, that’s all things for me to deal with but I wanted to give you some background so you know what you’re walking into. As far as Tana . . . she’s my heart and soul. Couldn’t function without her. But sadly I’m going to have to pretty soon. She’s planning to leave me at the end of next month. She helps me with everything. She’s far more than an assistant. She helps with my writings and speeches and appointments and keeps me sane. If you have a question and I’m not around or available, ask her.”

  Tana gives a quick, awkward smile and a little nod.

  Merrill nods and says, “Got it.”

  “Okay,” Malia says. “Logistics.”

  “We’ll need to know more about the threats to evaluate the potential risks and come up with a comprehensive strategy,” Merrill says, “but in general, one or both of us will be with you at all times while you’re here. And we may have to bring in additional help. If we do, it will only be one or two others and they will be people I trust.”

  “That’s fine and it makes me feel safer already,” she says, “but we’ve got to weigh risk versus reward. I can’t be hindered from what I’m doing. And I can’t appear to be afraid—though, to be honest, sometimes I am. And as a woman, I can’t be seen to be this helpless little thing unable to carry out my mission without a man to protect poor little ol’ me.”

  Merrill nods. “We’ll be in the background. And we’ll stay there until we’re forced into the foreground by a threat.”

  “Even then I have to insist on measured responses,” she says. “I’m out here as a force for justice and equanimity opposing unnecessary violence. Nothing to do with my organization can even appear to employ tactics we oppose. I know I’m putting you in a very difficult position, but . . .”

  Merrill shakes his head. “We get it. Won’t be a problem.”

  “We?” she asks, glancing over at me. “Does Silent Bob over there ever say anything?”

  “I’ve been known to,” I say.

  “Well, it’s good to know you can anyway,” she says. “’Case you need to tell me to duck or some shit like that.”

  “Some might even say I’m well spoken,” I say with a smile.

  Her face lights up, and I can tell she instantly gets my riff on the racist compliment black people, especially those in public life, so often receive.

  She looks at Merrill. “He’s a keeper. I like him. Well . . . I’m sure there’s more we need to cover, but I’m hungry and tired and still have calls to make and emails to respond to. Can we pick this back up in the morning?”

  “Sure,” Merrill says.

  “And when we do,” Tana says, “we need to talk about the attempts on Malia’s life. Because all I’ve heard y’all mention so far are threats, but there’ve been a lot more than just threats.”

  5

  “You sure you don’t mind meeting like this?” I ask.

  “Not at all,” Dave says. “I’m happy to. I’ve conducted counseling sessions in far stranger places.”

  Dave Lloyd is a large, laidback man with coarse gray hair and glasses in his mid-fifties. He has a relaxed, accepting manner that makes him easy to talk to. A licensed mental health counselor with over twenty-five years’ experience, Dave was raised in Panama City but has lived and traveled all over the world. Because of his travel schedule, Dave’s private counseling practice is mostly done online these days.

  He and I are seated in padded conference room chairs at the end of the third-floor hallway not far from Malia’s room.

  Since I’m not sleeping much these days anyway, I offered to take the first shift, and Merrill took me up on it, saying he didn’t want to take the chance of having any other dealings with Rodney Livingston tonight.

  When Merrick had explained to Dave where I would be and what I would be doing tonight, he had offered to come by after his gig at the Little Village in St. Andrews. In addition to being a licensed mental health counselor, Dave is a musician and singer who performs at several restaurants and bars both in Panama City and on Panama City Beach when he’s home.

  Like me, Dave has a background in theological studies, and I’m surprised our paths haven’t crossed before now.

  “How do you know Merrick?” I ask.

  “He’s attended a lot of my gigs over the years, and has written a few pieces for the paper here and there—a profile on a band I was in, a feature on a food program I was involved with. I don’t know . . . seems like I’ve always known him. How about you?”

  “Met him when I moved to Wewa,” I say. “He used to date my boss.”

  “He told me he and Reggie broke up,” Dave says. “I was very sorry to hear that.”

  I remind myself again to call and check on Reggie.

  The hallway is dim and quiet and seems to extend into an infinite horizon.

  It’s a strange place to spend prolonged time in, and it reminds me of a story Daniel Davis told me about having a panic attack in a hallway while standing guard outside the room of his future wife Sam Michaels back when they first met. They were hunting a serial killer who used fire as a weapon, which brought them to interview the Phoenix at PCI where I was a chaplain at the time, though we didn’t actually meet until a few years later.

  Dave and I continue small talk for a while that isn’t small talk at all. I can tell he’s letting me get comfortable with him, and it’s working. Over the course of unhurried conversation and unawkward silences, we eventually arrive at the real reason he’s here.

  “I just feel so guilty,” I say. “And I don’t just mean about what I did—that in itself is nearly debilitating—but if I ever catch myself not feeling guilty, not thinking about what I did, I feel guilty about that. I walk around with this oppressive heaviness that is weighing me down and causing everything else to fade into the distance—every experience is muted, every feeling subdued. I feel disconnected from everything.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that, man,” he says. “It sounds like in addition to the guilt and everything else . . . you’re still in shock.”

  “I have a real hard time eating anything,” I say, “but when I do—no matter what I eat—nothing has any taste. It’s . . . just all so bizarre—like I’m trapped deep inside this body, observing everything from a great distance, not experiencing anything directly.”

  He nods his understanding and expresses his empathy but doesn’t say anything.

  “It’d be one thing if it were just me,” I say, “but I have a wife and two daughters, other family and friends who count on me . . . If it were just me . . . I might be able to walk around like a soulless . . . But with my girls, I can’t keep . . . I feel so guilty that I’m not giving them what they need, that I’m not really with them even when I am.”

  “So much guilt,” he says. “Coming at you from so many directions.”

  It’s late and we’ve been talking for a while, and our throats are tired, our mouths dry.

  “None of it unwarranted,” I say.

  “Well . . .” he says, “just because there are reasons doesn’t mean it’s warranted. Even beginning with the initial incident . . . As I understand it—and not just from you, but Merrick and others—it was an accident. And not just an accident but . . . you were set up.”

  Dave’s compassion is palpable and I find just being in his presence therapeutic and buoying.

  “And on a certain intellectual level I know that is somewhat true,” I say, “but that does nothing for how I’m feeling. Nothing at all.”

  He nods. “You can’t think your way out of this, and knowing something on an intellectual level isn’t the same as experiencing it on an emotional level, but . . . every single feeling we have is preceded by a thought. Your thoughts are causing you to feel what you’re feeling.”

  I think about that.

  “So, mindful practices to help you deal with your thoughts would be very helpful and a great starting place,” he says, “but let’s go back to the guilt itself for a moment. You said none of your guilt was unwarranted. Is that true? Think about how we respond to things that happen. Sometimes we respond appropriately but others we either over or under respond. Certain guilt we feel is proportional. We failed a friend or lost our temper or said something unkind and we feel guilty. But other forms of guilt are disproportional. We take too much on ourselves—too much responsibility for the actions of others. I think it would be worth your time to explore whether the guilt you’re feeling—especially as it relates to what happened in that school hallway that day—is actually proportional. You strike me as the kind of person who is constantly trying to help others, which is . . . heroic, but often people like that take on the weight of and responsibility for those others. If you’re prone to do that, then your guilt response is likely to be disproportional.”