CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Mr. Long
Horace Long was about the best friend Blair could ever hope for, whether it was while out on the streets or sitting in a plush condo. Sure they had their disagreements, but in the end there wasn’t much one wouldn’t do for the other. Blair was in trouble, and Horace was there to help him. He was even willing to lay his life on the line for a friend, as he had done many times before in Vietnam.
Horace was an older man, better than fifty by now. He had seen and done lots of things, but perhaps the one thing that hurt him more than hard times and economic decline was the fact that his efforts in the Vietnam conflict never seemed to be appreciated. Any man who managed to come back at all was very lucky. But to come back to fierce indifference and unopened arms was a shame. He quickly found solace in alcohol, and there he stayed until this very day.
As he sat next to Blair, Horace rested his hands against his knees and stared up at the sky. The sun rising from the east reflected off the Purple Heart dangling from around his neck with a particularly awesome glow. No matter how down and out he was and no matter how much he needed fast cash, it never dawned on him to sell either of his metals.
Blair had always been captivated by the gallantry represented by the Purple Heart. The bronze medal, consisting of a purple, enameled heart with a profile of George Washington in the center, was the mark of a man willing to die in order to get the job done. On the back of the medal was a bronze heart with the words “For Military Merit” under a bronze shield and leaves. Horace had been one hell of a man, and he still was.
Pulling out a pack of smokes, Horace offered one to Blair. “No thanks,” Blair said as Horace took one for himself and then put the rest back in his pocket. After lighting it, he rested against a marble marker. Something was rattling around in his throat, so he coughed it up and then spat it out as if he meant it.
“Don’t let all this get you down, Sheepskin,” Horace told Blair, watching him carefully. “Life goes on.”
Blair looked out over the city from a vantage point which should have been reserved for kings. “What she did hurts,” he said, referring to Mercedes. “I thought she would be there for me, and it hurts to think that it was all just a lie.”
Horace coughed again, and then took a long drag from the cigarette in his hand. “I’m sure she ain’t the first to kick you below the belt, and she won’t be the last, my friend.”
“Is it too much to ask to find someone special?”
“Of course not,” Horace said, “but if you want a serious relationship with somebody, you gotta lot of growin’ up to do.”
“Why didn’t you ever get married, Horace?”
He shrugged and said, “I guess I wasn’t much interested in growin’ up. But I can see that you’re interested. You gotta lot of potential, boy. Use it.”
“Every woman I’ve ever cared about has been nothing but bad news. Are they all that way?”
“No, they ain’t. There’s lotsa mighty fine women out there, and I’m sure you’ve met some of ’em already.”
“Yeah, right.”
“One of your problems is, you measure a woman by how good she looks. Now that’s fine, but what really counts is what’s beneath them mountainous breasts of hers.” Blair looked at him. “She’s gotta have a heart.”
“I thought Mercedes had a heart.”
“She did. It just wasn’t for you, is all.” Horace put the cigarette in his mouth and let the smoke blow out from both sides. “You probably already met the woman of your dreams. You just don’t know it yet.”
Blair shifted his behind against the ground; one side was getting weary from the weight. He grabbed a few blades of grass and ripped them up one by one. “Have you ever been in love, Horace?”
“Yes, I have,” he said, smiling as if remembering more than he would allow himself to confess. “And she was sure ’nough in love wit me. There wasn’t nothin’ she wouldn’t do for Mr. Long.” Horace paused, his face dissolving into discontentment. “But I just didn’t think she was pretty enough. I always concerned myself about what my friends would think. You know, I always had to have a good-lookin’ woman on my arm. But you know what I found out? Bein’ swept up by that superficial shit is what makes people lonely.”
“How’s that?”
“It’s catchin’.”
Blair looked puzzled.
“What I’m sayin’ is, while you goin’ ’round lookin’ for what woman looks best, that very same woman is probably lookin’ at superficial shit, too. You’re her role model. She gets the moves down pat by watchin’ you! She may not be holdin’ out for a handsome man, but she may be holdin’ out for a big bank account, or a dignified family name, or a man with privates the size of Florida. You go lookin’ for the wrong stuff, and that’s exactly what you’ll find.”
“What should I look for?”
“Where is it written that a man’s lover can’t also be his best friend?” Horace shook his head and took another drag. The smoke sputtered out as he spoke. “Man, I don’t care if your dog looks better ’n she does. Just remember that when the lovin’ starts and the lights are low, it don’t make no difference how she looks no how. And if you love her, you can’t see how bad she looks anyway.” He flicked the ashes from the tip of his cigarette, watching what was left glow like a firefly against the dark gray sky. “If she’s a good friend, grab her and run with her like you ain’t never gonna get the chance again. ’Cause if you like me, you probably won’t.”
Sunlight began to douse the markers and headstones as it jetted up and over the hill. Blair’s back was against a battered image of Jesus nailed to a cement cross. Glancing up at the monument, Blair patted the pedestal; he couldn’t even begin to imagine how much a memorial stone that big would go for. As a matter-of-fact, all of the headstones were spectacular in this section of the draw. Old Cynthia Maxwell was about to be laid to rest in a real classy spot courtesy of her affluent father.
“Head’s up,” Horace said. “The funeral procession’s comin’.”
Both men stood up and watched the parade of cars come through the gate and then move slowly down the path. They lined up one behind the other along the side of the road. The hearse was the first vehicle to arrive, followed by Cal Maxwell’s BMW. His wife Corinne was sitting by his side. Following them were the cars carrying other family members and friends.
Jeremy Driscall’s black Porsche finally pulled up and Blair watched it closely. Blair couldn’t remember loathing anyone as much as he did Driscall. No sleep and being betrayed by a woman he’d wanted to fall in love with was making Blair a very angry man. Not to mention the fact that he didn’t have many friends and those he did have were all ending up in body bags.
And the reasons for this mayhem were carefully tucked away, buried next to the trashiest gravesite he could find. The rubies were back in the same earth from whence they came and as far as Blair was concerned, they could rot there. He was sick of the way greed had been responsible for making him lose everything he’d ever cared about, and he included his own self-respect in the tally.