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appeared to sag even more under
Michael’s gaze, his face draining of what little color it
possessed. Tears pooled in his eyes. “They’ll kill me, Michael. I
swear to God, they’ll kill me.”
     
     
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER SIX
    Friday morning gave witness to a typical
Brusley, Louisiana summer. Humidity thickened the air like roux in
a gumbo, and the heat, even at eight-thirty, had already tapped
thermometers up to eighty degrees.
    Michael fidgeted at the red light, flipping
the car’s air conditioner vents up, then down, right, then left. No
matter the direction or how high he set the blower, sweat rings
still grew under his arms. Along with the heat, a bad case of
nerves had caused a prickly rash to sprout at the base of his neck.
If he didn’t talk to his father soon and get this money issue
settled, he feared his whole body would soon resemble a
strawberry.
    After Wilson’s final plea last night, Michael
weakened and left his father with the notion that he’d try to find
a way to help him. As soon as Michael closed the door behind his
father, however, he wanted to kick himself. Why did he allow
himself to fall for Wilson’s manipulations? He knew better.
Had lived through too many Wilson episodes to expect a new outcome.
Michael had to admit, though, the tears were a new twist. They were
the reason he’d caved. He’d never seen his father cry before. Not
even at his mother’s funeral.
    The image of Wilson’s tears haunted Michael
throughout the night. He’d tossed and turned fitfully, then finally
gave up and got out of bed around four. Two pots of coffee later,
he decided, tears or not, he had to stand firm. No money, period.
It was time he stopped enabling his father.
    To soothe his conscience, Michael had also
decided to go to the police with Wilson if he was truly in danger.
Bad business deals and killer investors sounded like an old,
rehashed plot from a Godfather movie, something Wilson concocted
for effect. But the truth would be revealed soon enough. His father
would either accept his help or he’d back off, exposing himself as
the bullshitter Michael suspected him of being. Either way, Michael
didn’t take any chances with the Stevenson money. At first light,
he went over to the funeral home, retrieved the cash he’d hidden in
his desk drawer, then went straight to the bank depository and
dropped it off. Once that was out of the way, he’d stopped off at a
twenty-four hour café and had breakfast, mulling over what he would
say to Wilson and the repercussions that might follow.
    Janet didn’t know about Wilson’s latest
financial fiasco. By the time Michael had finally gone to bed last
night, she’d already fallen asleep and was still sleeping when he
left at dawn, so they hadn’t had a chance to talk. Which might have
been for the best. Janet had always been his touchstone, his rock
in rough waters, and if it hadn’t been for her support and
encouragement he would have never made it through the last three
years. But she’d borne enough trouble from his family. The last
thing Michael wanted to do was burden her with more. He’d fill her
in on the prospect of buying the funeral home, but only if it
proved to be true and only after this mess with his father and his
so called investors had been dealt with.
    A car horn blew behind Michael, snatching
away his thoughts. He tapped the accelerator and crossed the
intersection just as the traffic light switched from green to
yellow. Two miles later, Michael took a right on Jenkins and
noticed cars lined up on both sides of the road. Old station wagons
and Pintos were fender to bumper with Mercedes, Park Avenues, and
Lincolns. Vehicles straddled the curbs all the way to Sylva Lane,
where he turned right again. When he stopped at the stop sign on
the corner, he saw cars lined up on both sides of Alabaster Road,
which ran directly in front of the funeral home.
    “Holy shit!” Michael blinked rapidly, not
trusting his vision. The mortuary’s