The Tragic Tale of Howard Part 8
A West African 9-Part Series short story about loss, second chance, betrayal and personal demons.
“Thank you again Howard,” Joseph said. “I thank you for coming with me to wash the cars.”
“It’s no problem, man,” Howard said. “No problem at all.”
Joseph gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles changing color. If Howard hadn’t been so focused on looking out of the rolled-down window of Ola’s Range Rover, he might have noticed.
“Like a dog,” Joseph thought to himself, clenching his jaw each time he glanced at Howard with his head sticking out of the passenger’s window. This job was supposed to be easy. Infiltrate the homes of the wealthy, posing as their driver or a member of the household help, steal valuables, and move on to the next target. It was a relatively straightforward payday for him and his crew.
Despite being amongst the youngest members, he had pitched the idea to his crew boss, a drug kingpin with a significant hold on the city’s south area. “You got balls, boy,” one of the senior members had remarked when he presented his plan. While many in the crew saw the plan as too risky, fearing the wrath of wealthy elites with some of them having connections as far up to the president, the crew boss saw potential. His approval was all that mattered, after all.
However, there was a condition: Joseph had to execute the plan himself. There could be no mistakes, no brushes with the police. If Joseph were caught or spotted near an officer or police station, he could kiss his membership in the crew and, ultimately, his life goodbye. The Raiders, save for the boss, all adhered strictly to the code: the police meant certain death. Even the boss didn’t dare to challenge this code, despite his leadership status and impunity.
Joseph trusted Ola’s houseboy, Isaac, who had been a childhood friend. It was Isaac who had informed him about Ola’s need for a skilled driver and the safe in her room. It would not have been a hard safe to crack really as he had experienced with much worse. 1 hour max and he would have access to all the lady’s valuables. Would have if it was not for the lady’s homeless friend. Joseph had expected no one to be home that night. It would have been his easiest job yet: would have.
“Homeless drunk,” Joseph muttered as he glanced again at Howard. He couldn’t fathom what Ola saw in him. Everybody and their mother knew the man was a drunk, a horrible one at that. Joseph had seen Howard many times in the city, wasted out of his mind and pissing openly in the streets while swearing at passing traffic. He also regarded Howard’s tales of attending private Catholic school and a prestigious university in America as what they were, tales, with the purest fiction. If only Ola could see how he and everybody else saw the homeless man when he was in his element, flat out drunk, then she wouldn’t be so quick to cater to him.
“Em…Howard,” Joseph said.
“Huh?” Howard turned abruptly from the window, as if snapped out of a daydream.
“I need to stop by... my place in the city first to check on mi papa. Not take long, just to see if he... if he…took his medicines.”
“Sure, no problem, man.”
That was a lie. Joseph didn’t have a papa, at least not currently. Raised by a single mother, he only remembered his father from when he was five, leaving with the parting words, “I’m not raisin a pikin that’s not mi blood.”
However, it was a crucial lie that preserved his plan. Joseph shuddered at the mere thought of being dragged to the police. He was prepared to fight Howard that night to the bitter end, if necessary. Despite keeping the plan intact, the window of opportunity had closed. Ola was due back tomorrow around noon, preceded by her children and house staff in the morning. The chance Joseph had hoped for evaporated the moment he was caught in the act. And he couldn’t predict when another opportunity might arise with the mansion empty. Waiting for such a chance was out of the question. He hated having to tell his boss that he needed more time, possibly another two weeks at the latest. Action needed to be taken immediately, preferably far before those two weeks elapsed.
The only problem with this entire plan was Howard. Ever since that night, the man had been watching Joseph like a hawk and checking the mansion every night. Joseph had Howard’s assurance that he would not tell Ola about what happened. Still, he did not trust such assurance, not from a man who used to piss in the streets.
The previous night, Joseph had pondered over ways to deal with Howard. He discarded several options as too risky and likely to attract the wrong types of attention. Joseph preferred subtlety in his criminal endeavors. While his crew favored bullets, he preferred finesse—a slip of poison in an adversary’s cocktail, a bribe to the server. While they preferred armed burglary, he favored quiet infiltration and a heist or an inside job, without detection. And while they resorted to force, he preferred exploiting people’s vices to make them disappear with no signs of foul play. In the case of Howard, Joseph settled on the latter approach. If all went as planned, he wouldn’t have to worry about him by the time of Ola’s flight arrival.
Joseph pulled up the white Range Rover to a bustling side street in the heart of the city, the air thick with the aroma of street food and the sound of honking cars and lively haggling between market vendors and customers . Abruptly, he opened the car door and leaned over to Howard through the rolled-down window.
“I’m gonna check on mi papa quick,” Joseph said hurriedly. “Watch the car? You know, the bad pikins coming from school throw rocks.”
Howard nodded and stepped out of the car. He watched as Joseph darted off into the crowd, disappearing amidst the hustle and bustle of the market. Howard redirected his focus to the car, standing vigilant against any potential troublemakers.
He stood watch for what felt like an eternity, the minutes dragging on like hours. The weight of exhaustion pressed heavily on his eyelids, a reminder of the sleepless nights he had endured over the past few days. Yet, despite the toll it took on him, he found solace in the accomplishment of his goal: completing the interior painting of Ola’s home before her impending arrival.
Joseph’s delay was longer than expected, tempting Howard to abandon his post and find the reason behind it. However, the thought of abandoning Ola’s car left him paralyzed. He couldn’t bear the thought of even a scratch tarnishing the pristine vehicle. Besides, even if he wanted to search for Joseph, the frenetic market street would swallow him whole, making it nearly impossible to track the young man down.
Leaning against the passenger side of the car, Howard felt himself drifting into a light doze. Just as his eyelids drooped shut, a sudden burst of blaring music jolted him awake. The cacophony emanated from a nearby open-air bar, the only one with a patch of beach sand to create the atmosphere of a tropical island. Amidst the concrete jungle of heavy traffic, busy crowds, and loud market vendors, the open-air bar with its sandy beach was a tacky eyesore. However, Howard understood its appeal and why it was situated in the middle of the city’s busiest area.
With the blaring music, Howard recognized the telltale signs of happy hour—a time when the bar enticed customers with lively tunes and discounted drinks, luring in weary workers on their way home from a long day. Like them, Howard used to frequent the bar during these busy hours. In fact, he was once the star attraction. He’d dance energetically on the sand as the crowd cheered and tossed money his way. With each round of drinks funded by his impromptu performances, he’d push himself to the brink, stumbling and falling amidst the laughter of the crowd. He was their homeless drunk jester, always ready to entertain customers after a hard day’s work.
“Sir, ice-cold beer?” came a voice, interrupting Howard’s thoughts.
“Huh?” Howard said, glancing around for the source of the sound.
A hand waved in front of him, drawing his attention downward. “Sir?” the woman repeated, her mocha complexion glowing under the sunlight.
Howard took in the sight of the woman in front of him, clad in a white bikini top and jean shorts, her feet adorned with pink flip-flops. In her left hand, she held a round black tray, upon which rested a half-empty green beer bottle and a full glass of foaming beer, complete with a yellow umbrella straw.
“Ice-cold beer, sir,” the woman said, holding the tray with both hands and extending it toward Howard.
“No thank you, Miss,” Howard said, quickly sidestepping away from the tray.
Undeterred, the woman moved closer to Howard and pushed the tray toward him again. “You sure? Half price.”
“Nope, nope Missy,” Howard said, shaking his head. “I’m good.” As he spoke, he realized the significance of his words. It had been nearly three months since he last touched alcohol. Certainly, he could credit his dedication to Ola’s renovation work for abstaining from alcohol, but enduring almost 90 days without the agonizing withdrawals and headaches felt like a miracle in itself. Oddly enough, as the woman held up the alcohol enticingly before him, he didn’t feel a shred of temptation. Instead, he felt disgusted.
“You’re a big man like you, after a hard day’s work,” the woman said in a seductive tone, her gaze drifting towards the Range Rover. “You must take break. Not everything has to be work and money. You must relax little.”
Howard chuckled, following her gaze. “Oh no, Missy, that’s not my car. I wish it was, but it’s not. Thank you, I’m fine. I’m just waiting for my friend, and then we’ll be on our way.”
After a few exchanges with Howard, the woman reluctantly abandoned her sales pitch. Despite offering the first drink on the house, she couldn’t sway him. She desperately wanted to persuade him, knowing there was a generous tip awaiting her if she succeeded—or so the young boy had promised when he slipped her $150. Disheartened by her failure, she trudged back to the bar, defeated. That tip would have covered her expenses for the entire month and more than provided for her three young mouths at home. Now, she had to make her rounds the old-fashioned way with the bar’s happy hour and cheap regulars.
Howard watched as the woman made her way back to the bar, her persistence leaving him amused. She was definitely the most tenacious waitress he had ever encountered. He observed her slow progress on the beach sand, her pink flip-flops trudging along as if they were heavy hiking boots. As he followed her footsteps, the reggae tune blaring from the bar’s speakers caught his attention. It had been playing throughout their exchange. Turning his gaze to the speakers, Howard recognized the familiar drum beats, guitar chords, organ melodies, and lyrics. He could never forget those lyrics. Singing, ‘Don’t worry ‘bout a thing…The soothing voice of Bob Marley. Only Howard was not hearing Bob Marley, he was hearing her voice: ...every little thing gonna be alright…
Howard clutched his head and staggered backwards. “Shit,” he said through gritted teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. The nausea and throbbing intensified as his mind became inundated with a torrent of memories: memories of her. Memories of her singing to him at night in bed as he wrapped his arms around her and lay his head on her chest. Memories of him telling her he loved her “more than anything on this whole wide Earth.” Memories of her smile and that blue moon eye. Memories of the last time he saw her, and the diamond ring on that finger.
These memories stirred up a whirlwind of thoughts, a recent development as he had been grappling with them over the past few years. He pondered what her life might be like now—perhaps she had children, maybe even grandchildren. He wondered if, during those quiet moments alone in her rocking chair on the front porch of the suburban house they used to dream about together in the shipping container, she ever thought of him.
Howard slowly opened his teary eyes. Although the nausea and throbbing began to fade, his mind continued to replay the same thoughts in an endless loop. He rubbed his scratchy, dry throat, feeling as rough as sandpaper. Scanning through the rows of market street vendors and pedestrians, his gaze eventually landed on it; it was sitting alone on the bar table, untouched and abandoned on the black tray. Illuminated by a ray of evening sunlight, it emitted a faint green hue, beckoning to Howard like a lighthouse guiding a ship.
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