The countdown had begun, only 13 day until the release of Baby Girl Book 3! In this segment Cleo (Shanna Nu) is on the trail of finding her bio-family and the secrets behind her birth and kidnapping. There is a multitude of new characters in Baby 3 and I've already done posts on the most popular La Tige, Kacy, and Fetch. Today we'll look at Mrs. Nomes the flaming redhead and Frank Tomey's brother.
Abruptly, I turned on my heel to face a redhead, the redhead, Mrs. Nomes. Her flaming red big-hair gave her a very gnome-like appearance. Inwardly I laughed at my own observation. “I’ve been watching you sweety. What are you up to?” Oops, maybe he had gotten bored and had traded her in for a younger model, seeing her close up she had to be at least thirty.
“I’s just headin’ back to ma car, lef ma room key thare.” She looked at me quizzically. I may have went too heavy on the accent. “Scuse me.” I pushed past her, and felt her fingers grasp the camera cord around my neck, halting my forward motion and giving me a jerk.
“You’re coming with me.”
Déjà vu, why was it always scorned women I had to deal with, and this woman I didn’t have any connection to. Sam had taught me well and I knew I could take her, just like I did Halette in Paris, only I hoped the outcome wouldn’t be so morbid. Goose bumps ran up my spine as I remembered the Halette debacle. I unclipped the cord, and spun quickly, forcing my knee between her legs with a vengeance. She crumpled to the floor, and I managed to grab the camera a split-second before it hit the floor. I left her there, writhing in pain, clicking the button on the elevator. The doors slid open. Wasting no time, I bounced in, and hit the big G button. As the doors swooshed closed, I saw her shadow crawling towards me.
The elevator glided to its stop and I tore out the doors, and across the street as if a psychopath with a bloody knife were chasing me. La Tige screeched around the corner, and I jumped into the vehicle as we roared off down the street.
Frank Tomey A.K.A Slug's brother
My next stop was 1523 Tanwood Dr. Rows of duplexes lined the street on both sides circling back around a cul-de-sac. The construction was ‘80s style with lackluster brown paint on each and every cloned home. 1523 was on the outer edge of the cul-de-sac. I slowly walked up the street, contemplating what I was going to say. I considered this place had been something to Slug, not my mother, and many years had passed since he’d sent the letter.
Neighborhoods like these were transient, revolving doors for people trying to make a start or dealing drugs. Thoughts flopped around in my head something like a lizards tail missing it’s body. The front door coming ever closer with each step.
The door was now staring me in the face, the doorbell a hands length away when heavy metal music blasted like an automatic rifle against my eardrums, and the sound of a sputtering engine halted me in my tracks. I turned to see a late model Camaro pulling into the driveway. A fortyish man stepped out of the vehicle, a mane of thick brown hair flowed in a bad mullet from his head, a denim jacket minus sleeves covered his torso. The sleeves obviously handmade judging by the frazzled ends of the fabric around his arms, with a black rock T underneath, and jeans that bolstered more holes than my worst pair during my homeless days, covered his legs. “I’m not buying, so go away,” sputtered off his lips with a vengeance.
Did I look like a saleswoman in my jeans and T-shirt? His obvious negativity towards me resonated inside my head, forcing me to make up a story and quick. “No, no, I’m not here selling anything. In fact, I was hoping you could help me?”
“You’re a little young for me, but maybe we could work something out,” he murmured edging ever closer to me. I was feeling extremely uncomfortable, and thoughts of planting my foot straight into his most prized bodily possession lingered at the edge of reality.
Carefully, I chose my words, “Are you Frank Tomey?
I knew Slug, Frank, or whoever was sitting inside a jail cell; however, I meant business. He stopped a few feet from me; narrowed his eyes into tiny slits while rolling his fat sickly yellowish tongue across his lips before he growled, “Frank. What do you want with him?” The feeling of satisfaction overwhelmed me. He knew him. My fabrication formulated with every word that sprung from my mouth.
“I believe that I am his daughter. Many years ago he dated my mom.” At this point I pulled out the picture of Perdy I had lifted from her mother’s and poised it directly in front of his face.
“I never seen her and haven’t talked to Frank in a decade.” His eyes prickled at me to go away, and with each ensuing second that passed the air thickened with tension. I stood my ground, an out of shape, ‘80s castaway was no match for me. I drilled him with my cold hard stare until he relented, “Alright, Frank is my kid brother but we don’t talk. He got messed up in some bad shit that I didn’t need rolling back on me.” I continued my glare, attempting to boil information from his innards. “I didn’t know he had a kid. I doubt he knew he had a kid. You gonna keep staring me down?” I had been studying La Tige’s tactics, but this had been my first real opportunity to use them and it was working far better than I had expected. Nervously, he continued, “He’s in jail. Killed some kid a few years ago. He’s not a good guy. Not even when he was a young pup. Always played dirty.”
Now that he was talking I dared to reenter the conversation using the sympathy card. “I’m not looking for him to be a father figure. I just want to know about him.”
“It’s been a long night. Can this wait?”
“No, it took me days, and switching several buses to get here after finding a love letter he had written to my mother asking her to meet him here, and to bring me.” I fudged the love letter thing, thinking that my continued appeal to his compassionate side would at least get me in the door figuratively. I was surprised when it got me in literally.
He rolled his eyes while chortling, “A love letter? He is a psychopath, an extreme narcissist.” Flopping his hands to his sides in surrender, he offered, “Come in. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.” And whatever I wanted to know he did.
The tales he told were too far-fetched not to be true. “Frank left home when he was 17. Went to Georgia, or maybe Alabama. I forget. He hooked up with some chick, I’m guessing your mom. Then he got some big job in New York working as an enforcer for a rich, powerful family named Britt or Bridge, Bridd? I had figured they were mafia, but the name sounded English. I’d figured it would be Scarletti or something Italian. After that he’d come visit here every few years. Driving a truck, I’m on the road a lot, so I’d let him crash here. He talked big about his job, being the muscle for that family puffed up his self- centered ego. After a while I didn’t hear from him no more. He’s my brother but he’s a bad egg so I didn’t miss him. Then several years ago, he calls me from jail. Hadn’t heard from him in years and suddenly he wants money for a lawyer.” He clicked his tongue, then continued, “He’s not head smart, but I can’t remember him ever mentioning a kid.”
I pondered his words, swishing them around mentally. “I don’t think he wanted much to do with me. She raised me alone, never said a word about who my father was. When I grew old enough to ask she would always blow it off, changing the subject. I found the letters while snooping around her room.” It wasn’t a total embellishment; at least the snooping and single mom things were true. He gave me Slug’s (Frank’s) address in prison. One day I would pay old Slug a visit, but not until I had fit all the puzzle pieces together.
If you haven't read the series yet. they are only .99 a piece at Amazon! Catch up now and be ready for Baby Girl Book 3 on the 15th!
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