Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)
CHAPTER TWO
Jamila and I had gone shopping for antiques on Sunday. Which is to say, Jamila wanted to shop for antiques and I dragged my ass along.
We took a spin to a small shop outside Berlin, Maryland. A mom-and-pop outfit in the middle of nowhere. Inside the store, Jamila took her time browsing while I stifled yawns.
A lacquered rosewood music box caught Jamila’s eye.
“Isn’t that pretty?” she asked.
I made approving noises. I had to admit, the image of kittens on the box was cute. However, I hate knickknacks. More stuff to gather dust and cat hair.
After checking the price, Jamila made a counter offer. The saleswoman may have looked like Aunt Bee on the Andy Griffith Show, but she drove a hard bargain.
Having reached a happy compromise, the lady wrapped Jamila’s new treasure and placed it in a gift box.
“You all have a lovely day, girls,” she said, beaming as if life couldn’t get better.
I followed Jamila to her silver Beemer. The spring in her step matched the saleslady’s mood. But not mine.
“I was thinking, there’s another place only half a mile from here.” Jamila could barely contain her excitement.
“Um, okay.”
Jamila scrutinized me. “You’re bored, aren’t you?”
“Well …”
She smiled and shook her head. “Guess you and I won’t be watching Antiques Roadshow together anytime soon.”
“I’d take that bet.”
*****
We stopped for coffee then drove to the condo and parked in the lot. A group of twenty-somethings stood around a candy-apple red Corvette. They turned to look at us as we got out of the car. I recognized a couple of them. Renters in the condo beneath ours. They’d kept the stereo blasting until well after midnight the night before. I’d gone down and threatened to sic the cops on them. They had slammed the door in my face. I’d stomped back upstairs and made the call. I suspected I wasn’t high on their list of favorite people.
“Hey!” one of the men called out. “You ain’t supposed to park here ’less you live here.”
“We’re renters. We have permission,” I shot back, not stopping to engage him further. How is this your damn business, anyway? Who are you, the parking lot police?
“Well, that’s a fine thing,” the young man shouted. “Didn’t know niggers could rent here.”
I ignored him, but I could feel my face grow hot with anger. The group snickered amongst themselves. A real rocket scientist, I mused. Probably a Harvard grad.
“Hey!” he said again. “I’m talking to you.”
The guy ran around and barred our entry to the exterior staircase leading to our unit. Jamila and I froze. I gazed at the gangly, sandy-blond kid. A real shit-kicker, based on looks alone. Grin a bit too goofy, beady eyes a bit too close set. His parents were probably first cousins.
“I said, I didn’t know niggers could rent here.” He challenged Jamila with a withering look. Then it was my turn. I stared right back. I was ready to kick his nuts up to his neck. But all his friends were there. Things could get ugly. So I did nothing.
Jamila was a vision of total calm. She didn’t even flinch when he used the N-word.
I whipped out my cell phone. “Step aside or I call the cops.”
“And have me arrested? For what, you dumb white bitch?” The blond began laughing. All his friends joined in.
He had a point. He hadn’t done much of anything. Yet.
“Excuse me,” Jamila said, trying to get past him.