Since his breakup with Hallie two years ago, he had gone through the motions of living—feeling nothing, touching nothing. That way he’d been off the hook emotionally, which had been the only way he could hold body and soul together.
And his strategy had worked, enabling him to awaken each morning without that burning pain in his heart. But then things started to backfire, and once again his life seemed to change faster than a crashing stack of dominoes.
Jackson walked to the bar in his office and helped himself to a drink. It didn’t help, so he set the empty glass down and went to his desk. But sitting wasn’t the answer, either. He felt like ants were crawling through his insides; he walked to the window and stared outside.
The evening, like the day, was magical. The trees, swayed by the brisk wind, sent their multicolored leaves cascading to the ground. He watched the soothing sight for a moment, then turned around. He should call Terrance and let him know he was back. He owed it to his assistant to inform him of what had transpired at the police station, but he wasn’t ready. He needed more time alone to get his jumbled thoughts in some kind of logical order.
Murder.
Such an ugly word. It made him shudder to his core. The very idea that he could be accused of such an act was incomprehensible. So too was the image of Roberta’s lifeless body. She had been his lifelong friend, for heaven’s sake.
He rubbed the back of his head and muttered an expletive. Brooding over his present predicament wasn’t doing him any good. By seeking Hallie’s counsel, he’d taken the necessary steps to head off this impending disaster. The best thing he could do now was to visit with Terrance, then mingle with the customers.
But he still didn’t feel like facing anyone. That feel-nothing, touch-nothing mood had invaded his system again.
The phone suddenly rang, jarring him. He grabbed it and said, “Cole.”
“Ah, I’m glad I caught you.”
At the sound of the low, familiar voice, red hot fury boiled inside him. “I told you to stop calling me, you bastard.”
“Now, now, is that any way to talk to someone who has your best interest at heart?”
“Heart?” Jackson gave a harsh laugh. “You wouldn’t know about that, since you don’t have one.”
“If you persist in refusing to sell,” the caller continued, “we’ll find a way to take over, to force you out.”
“Then, I suggest you give it your best shot.” Jackson slammed down the receiver. But so much for his bravado. He felt gutted on the inside, a feeling he despised as much as he despised them and their bullying tactics.
Damn them, the organized crime faction that was determined to bring him down.
Lately the pressure had increased relentlessly. They seemed more hell-bent each day on buying him out, chipping away at his resolve.
Why him? Why his place? Why not one of the countless other clubs on the drag? He’d wrestled with those questions until he’d come up with several reasonable answers. Elan was slightly off to itself, making it more secluded, yet still accessible. In addition, the building property had more square footage and more land.
No matter. He’d dug his heels in and had no intention of budging.
He wondered suddenly if his implication in Roberta’s murder wasn’t Mafia related. They had the resources and connections to frame him. Having reached that conclusion, shouldn’t he tell Hallie?
Not yet. He had no intention of involving her in a dangerous game with the mob. Besides, she had enough to do looking after his legal worries. Too, handling this crisis was a responsibility he wasn’t about to put off on anyone else. He would take care of things himself. He always had.
None of the success he had obtained had come easy. Life had dealt him some cruel blows, beginning with the death of his mother in an auto accident when he was eleven years old.
Left with his father, an alcoholic who owned two bars, Jackson had very little home life and virtually no parental love or supervision. He spent most of his out-of-school time hanging around bars, until he met Roberta’s mother, Ruby.
In the evenings, she often frequented one of his father’s clubs, yet Ruby had used restraint in her drinking. Jackson had met her one evening when she had approached him to play a game of pool.
From then on, she had taken pity on him, and often invited him to her house to share pot roast dinners with her family. Ruby had a son, Edgar, who was never there, and Roberta, who was several years Jackson’s senior. He, Ruby and Roberta, three misfits, had become firm friends. He would never forget the fond times he’d spent at their home, even though the environment was certainly no June Cleaver haven.
At the time, however, he was grateful for any crumb of womanly compassion he could get. Ruby and Roberta had helped buffer his acute loneliness and build his self-esteem.
Once he graduated from college with a degree in business, he was determined to make something of himself away from the nightlife. But when his dad died unexpectedly, he found himself saddled with the responsibility of the bars. After selling one, he had borrowed more money and turned the other into Elan on Beale Street.
He had been successful beyond his wildest expectations. Yet there was something missing from his life—a sense of real belonging, a sense of roots. At one time, he thought he had found the answer to those needs in Hallie, only to lose her by betraying her trust.
Granted, he had been less than honest with her about his relationship with Roberta. After the fact, he rationalized that he and Hallie would not have made it anyway. Her career was going full steam ahead while his was winding down. And she hadn’t been particularly eager to have children, while he was.
Nonetheless, he had never stopped loving her or wanting her. He carried with him every sound, smell and taste of her. Though he hated that weakness, he was powerless to shake it.
“So why ask Hallie for help?” He realized he’d spoken aloud when his voice penetrated the silence in the room.
It was an insane move; he was far too vulnerable where she was concerned. Just seeing her had made him throb with that old intense longing. But a desperate man did desperate things.
And like he’d told her, he trusted her. Even if he hadn’t known her personally, hadn’t had a hot, intimate relationship with her, he would have sought her out. Her reputation as a tough officer of the court was widespread. She was both respected and admired. When it came to her clients, she was feisty and fearless in defending them.
He had met her by accident, or maybe it had been fate. They had both been at a party for the rich and famous at a rival nightclub. He hadn’t wanted to go, but Terrance had insisted, reminding Jackson he needed to get out of his cocoon and see what the competition was up to.
He had agreed, though with no real enthusiasm.
He hadn’t been interested in a permanent relationship with a woman. Nonetheless, he suspected that was what Terrance’s urging was all about. For sure, Jackson had had plenty of women. A man didn’t reach forty without having had his share of affairs.
But that was exactly what they had been—affairs. None of the women he’d been involved with had been what he considered “wife material,” though he wasn’t sure he knew what that meant. He’d been too busy with the club to think in those terms. Besides, tying the knot had scared the hell out of him. He’d been alone too long to take a waltz down the aisle.
The second he had walked into the club, where a band was playing a waltz, he’d felt out of place. Terrance had left him on his own almost immediately, having spotted a woman whom he’d dated. Jackson was about to turn and walk out the same door he’d come in, when he saw her. He’d stopped dead in his tracks.
He