One Step Ahead of the Raging Storm
-Virgil Hervey
Harry Kresge had had block-buster disaster movie type dreams on two successive nights. This was unusual for him as he rarely ever dreamed. Harry figured this was just a set-up for either a "Third in the Series", or a block-buster nightmare real-life experience. He braced himself and vowed to avoid heavy late-night snacks. The first dream involved the impending arrival of a hurricane. At the end of the dream he was waste-deep in rising waters and moving as if in quick-sand. As the water rose to his chin and angry black clouds loomed on the horizon, he started to panic. Then the alarm clock went off. As he dragged his fat ass out of bed, Harry thought to himself how tired he must have been. He never dreams. He almost always beats the alarm. The next night's dream was about an earthquake. Amidst darkening skies and deep rumblings, large cracks were opening in the earth all around him. Just as he was about to be swallowed up, the alarm clock went off, saving Harry for the second day in a row. All morning, on the commuter train and in the office, Harry pondered the meaning of these dreams. Aside from the natural disaster aspect, it seemed to him that the significant similarity of the two dreams was the element of flight, of trying to out-run some terrible disaster. He dreaded a third night's dream, or perhaps, even worse, a reality that these dreams may have portended. He had his secretary screen his calls. He felt that if he could get through this day and night without incident, he might be alright. All day long, he continued to have his secretary tell callers that he was in court. But in the early afternoon, when his secretary told him that Peaches Prudhomme was on the line, Harry decided to take her call. "Kresge, did you find the belt to my raincoat in your car, after you drove me back from court, last week?" He had. And he'd had his suspicions, thinking that perhaps Peaches had left it there on purpose as an excuse to call him later, after her case was finished. "Yes I did," he replied. "I was going to call you. Then I thought about mailing it. You know how jealous Lamar gets. If he knew that your belt was in my car, he'd make much more out of it than it really was. You want me to mail it?" "I'm going to be in your area later. Can I stop by and pick it up?" "Sure. What time?" "Is six o'clock too late?" she asked. "No, six is fine," he told her, even though it normally would not be "fine". Peaches always ran late, and Harry usually left at 5:30. But everyone would be gone by six, and the prospect of being alone in the office with that crazy thing was intriguing enough to make him wait for her. By 5:30, everyone had left the office. Harry grabbed a styrofoam cup from the kitchenette and poured himself some Jack Daniel's from a bottle which he kept in his desk. He turned on the radio, put his feet up on the desk and waited. Three drinks later, there was a knock on the outer door. He went to the reception area and opened it. Peaches was wearing white shorts and a white cotton tank top, white sandals and a lime green bandanna over her bleached-orange dreadlocks. Her long black legs protruded crane-like from the loose shorts. There were keloid knife scars on both thighs. The nipples on her tiny breasts poked against the thin material, hard as vulcanized rubber. Her broad smile showed off gold caps which matched the gold ring in her nose. Her thin arms were muscled and tattooed like a man's. There were additional scars on her arms, nasty ones that must have taken lots of stitches. In one hand she was carrying a canvas gym-bag. "Come on in, sweetie-pie." He escorted her to his office. "Watcha drinkin'?" she asked, when she spotted the cup. Harry pulled the bottle out of his drawer and offered her some. She accepted. "So how's your boyfriend doin'?" he asked her, referring to Lamar Dreadburn, the ex line-backer from Grambling who had made it to the final cut at the Jet's training camp a couple years before. Unable to pursue his chosen career, Lamar had become a bodyguard to a well known rapper from Brooklyn. He was once arrested for breaking the arm of a record company executive, but the police had to let him go when the man refused to testify against him. "Lamar's still checking the closets and under the bed, every time he comes over to my place," she laughed. "Ain't it a hoot what he imagines about you and me? If he knew we were here alone together, the chump'd get his gun and come lookin' for us." "For all the times he's suspected us, without any reason, we ought to pay him back and really do something big-time," Harry only half-kidded. "I hear you!" she said, flashing gold. "I bet you been thinking about that too. I bet you just dyin' to know how you shape up against them gals I done time with..." That very thought had crossed his mind more than once. Hell, at that very moment, something was coming to life inside Harry's trousers. But he knew she was playing him. Peaches don't give nothing away; not to no pudgy, middle-aged square. This was going to cost him, one way or the other. "Want another drink?" he asked her. "I brought my own," she replied, producing a butane lighter and a crack pipe from her gym bag. She lit it, took a long drag and held the smoke in her lungs as she offered the pipe in Harry's direction. He hesitated. This wasn't really his bag. But he prided himself on being the adventurous type. He never believed that crap about "one taste and you're addicted", anyway. He knew recreational users, who could take it or leave it. He'd try anything once. And besides, he didn't want to play the part of the square. He took it - took a drag. Almost immediately, his mind started to race. He was chasing his own thoughts, like a dog chasing its tail. Peaches was smiling at him from across the desk. He passed the pipe back to her. Before he knew it, they had finished it . Then Peaches came around to his side of the desk, ran her hand up his thigh and massaged his crotch. He pushed her butt onto his desk and tried to slide off her shorts, but she resisted. His brain seemed to be circling above the scene, as if looking for a good place to land. She seemed to be piloting her's, just fine. "Let's go to my place," she suggested. "It don't feel right here." She grabbed his crotch again, and literally led him out the door by his dick. Harry hailed a cab in front of his building. In ten minutes they were in a transitional neighborhood, between Downtown Brooklyn and a ghetto they call Brownsville. "Stop here!" Peaches told the driver. The cab pulled up in front of a liquor store. They tumbled out like a pair of circus clowns. Harry grabbed some money from his pocket and paid the driver through the passenger side window. The cab pulled away. "I'm gonna get me some Hennessy, honey. You wait right here!" she ordered Harry and went into the liquor store. It was early evening - still light out - hot - but a dry heat. Harry looked up and down the street. It was quiet. He looked through the window of the liquor store. It was empty, but for Peaches and the clerk. She was at the counter. She placed a bottle on it, then reached down into her gym bag on the floor and took out a .45 automatic and pointed it at the clerk. Harry watched, stupefied, as the man opened the register and turned over a handful of bills to Peaches. She gestured with the gun and the man got down on the floor, face down with his hands behind his head. Peaches stuffed the bottle, the money and the gun into the canvas bag and ran out of the store. "Come on!" she yelled to Harry as she came through the door and turned left as soon as she hit the sidewalk. Harry ran after her. They made a right at the next corner, then continued to run for two more blocks, until they got to Peaches' building. As they entered the lobby, Harry heard the sound of sirens from the direction of the liquor store. They climbed two flights of stairs and Peaches let them into her apartment. Harry was so out of breath and his heart was pounding so hard that he got down on his hands on knees on the floor. His mind was racing again, but it wasn't from booze and drugs. He could hear Peaches laughing. He looked up. She was sprawled on the bed. "Now ain't that a rush, lawyer?" she snickered. He knew what she was getting at. In twenty-five years of representing armed robbers, Harry had never known how it actually felt to do it. He'd had clients, whom he was sure had been addicted to stick-ups, but he couldn't understand why, until now. The adrenaline rush was almost the same as the rush he'd gotten from the crack. The sirens were now on her block. "You ever been in that liquor store, before?" he panted. "Don't worry. I never go in there. We'll just lay low here overnight and every thing will be cool in the morning." She stood up before him, pulled her tank-top over her head and wiggled out of her shorts. She grabbed Harry by the ears and pulled his nose into the neat patch of Brillo that guarded her dark cave of exotic treasures. "No! No! Not the briar patch!" echoes of Brer Rabbit ricocheted around in Harry's empty brain. Suddenly, there was a commotion in the hall, then banging on the door. "Open up, it's the police!" "That's Lamar!" she whispered. "Get under the bed!" "Shit! He'll look there," Harry whispered back. "No he won't. I'll take care of that." She grabbed a towel and wrapped herself in it. Harry slid under the bed. Peaches went to the door where Lamar was still pounding, playing out his little joke. He had seen the police cars in the street on his way to Peaches' building. She opened it and let him in. By lifting the bed ruffle and peeking out, Harry was able to see everything. Lamar went straight to the closet, pulled a pistol out of his pocket and poked around inside. Then he started toward the bed. Peaches had maneuvered herself into position between Lamar and the bed. As he approached, she let her towel drop to the floor. She dropped to her knees in front of Lamar and zipped down his fly. Harry watched as she went to work on him with her mouth. Then she pulled Lamar's clothes off and got him onto the bed. Harry could hear the sounds of sucking and licking in between Peaches' moans. Then the bed started to bump up and down. With every stroke, the box-spring would knock Harry on the head. The old wooden floorboards underneath him began to tremble. Police vehicles raged up and down the street outside, sirens howling in the impending dark of night. Harry was helpless. All he could do was wait. "Come on, ring, you bastard!" he muttered under his breath to the alarm clock he knew must surely be out there somewhere.
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