A short excerpt from my novel, A bridge to Home. We're in south Baltimore, 2022.
Darla
My immediate focus was on this Darla Cravens. Was she still alive, and would I be able to find her? A few minutes on the internet and you can sometimes get lucky. Darla Cravens turned out to be as easy to find as Garfield Tire and Lube, where she worked. The shop was, as their web site put it, “Right on Greenmount Avenue!”
Monday morning
Garfield Tire. When I arrived there at 08:30, the harried young man behind the counter seemed to be close to a breakdown. He was torn between acknowledging the agitated, red-faced octogenarian in front of him or answering the ringing cell phone in his hand. He wore a gray short-sleeved shirt with Fred embossed in red over his heart. My eyes were drawn to the name because a splash of brown oil had formed what looked like an exclamation mark next to it. I was in line behind seven other worried-looking people waiting to speak to Fred!.
When my turn finally came, he twitched what appeared to be a newly grown brown mustache in anticipation of my question. When I asked it, he turned suspicious. “Why would you want to see her?”
“It’s a personal matter that I can’t discuss with you. But it is important I speak to Ms. Cravens.”
With some reluctance in his eyes, he told me that she was their bookkeeper and stock manager. Fred! pointed with his thumb to a gray painted door at the rear of the auto shop. He then led me into the hallowed space behind the counter, where no other customer would ever go. I tip-toed to the door and rapped on it three times with no effect. Was about knock again when she opened it.
The Farrah Fawcett hair was now in a brown bob generously streaked with gray. Her face had grown pale over the decades and had acquired a few wrinkles. But the eyes, they were the same as those in that forty-year-old snapshot. She was, even then, an impressive woman. I could see that when behind her gray painted metal desk, she straightened her back to confront me. Her gray shirt said Darla, a crisp, starched shirt with no oil stains on it.
“I am sorry to bother you, Ms. Cravens. My name is Mr. Faung. I am with the Democratic Senate Election Committee.” She stared at me as if I were an apparition that she refused to acknowledge existed. “I’d like to ask you some questions about Tommy Miller.”
“Democratic Election Committee – really? That’s all you’ve got?” I opened my mouth to answer but decided to wait and let her go on. “The Tommy Miller I knew died in 1979,” she said. “Why would some little Chinee cop come looking for him now?”
“First, I am neither Chinese nor a cop, Ms. Cravens. I’ll get to the point. Was his death drug related? Was he dealing in cocaine?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She remained seated but crossed her arms over her chest. “You’ve obviously made a mistake here. I told the other cop the same thing.”
“The other . . .”
“The big, pushy, bearded asshole that bulled his way in here on Friday. He struck out with me, so he sent you, is that it?”
Big, pushy, bearded asshole – Mick Luby. My mind was racing. But I didn’t know how to answer her. She ignored my silence and went on. “Look, I don’t know anything about Tommy, not in that way.” The woman stood up behind the desk and put her hands on her hips. “Look around you, whatever your name is. I’m seventy years old. Don’t come in here and jeopardize my job; I’ll never find another one.” She dropped down on the battered office chair. “Whatever this is about, you’re wasting my time and yours.”
“My apologies, Ms. Cravens.” I turned toward the gray metal door. “I had to check on his history, and you were my only lead.”
“Hey,” I heard her say softly behind me as I neared the door. “The Tommy Miller I knew was a good man, okay? A sweet man.”
“Of course,” I said as I opened the door to step back out into the noisy waiting area. “Thank you, Ms. Cravens.”
From what I read, it is quite intriguing. Actually probably an Action/Thriller, the often mistaken default genre.
But I originally thought it might be a memoir. My junior high unattainable sweetheart who gave me a beautiful ninth grade prom photo for helping her with her algebra, was given that name, Darla. Her mother owned Milady's Beauty Shop on Central Avenue. She later acquired it and has retained her good looks through her 70s. Emailed me recently.
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Darla
