“It’s Brunswick, Auntie Grace. I’m almost ten.”
“Sure thing, Brunswick. Although, it may be a hard transition for me, I’ve always known you as Buns.”
“Mom, too,” he sighed. She’s not the one getting made fun at school.”
“Ah, I see. Trouble?”
“Yeah. Not sure Brunswick is any better. Kids call me “Strikes, Big Balls, Broomstick, Brunswicked—all sorts of stuff.”
“I don’t know any child who doesn’t procure at least one nickname during childhood. It’s kind of like a rite of passage. Endure the name, claim the fame.” Look at all the famous people who kept their name. Babe Ruth, Buster Keaton, Bugs Bunny!”
Buns stared at Grace, perplexed. “I thought Bugs was his real name.”
“You get my drift?” Grace flipped the perfect pancake onto a warmed plate and set it before the boy. “Wash up before this beauty gets cold.”
Buns reached for the soap and turned on the faucet. “Aunt
Grace?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think my mom is gonna die?”
Grace shivered. Her pulse quickened. “What makes you ask?”
“She’s been going to the doctor a lot. Sometimes I hear her and daddy crying.”
“Well, I think she’s doing much better. The doctor said her check-up was good yesterday.”
“Then why was she crying so hard?”
“Maybe she was relieved. It’s scary having cancer.”
“Yeah, maybe. I just don’t feel comfortable with the whole thing.”
“Really?” Grace wanted to squeeze the fear right out of him. She adored this boy to no limit.
“I heard Daddy say, ‘Don’t tell the kids.’ I wasn’t supposed to be listening.”
Grace reached for the boy and pulled him close. “No worries, little buddy. We’ll get the scoop when your mom and dad return from their trip, okay? I’m sure there’s an explanation. Maybe they were talking about something else.”
“Can you find out for me? I don’t want them to know I was listening through the door.”
“I think the truth is best.”
“You know I’ll get in trouble.”
“Maybe so, but the truth is always best.”
Grace held Buns close for a few seconds before releasing him.
“Eat your pancake before it gets cold.” Grace’s stomach pitched. Why would Sal lie to her? They had an understanding. No black dress! They would go through life wearing red, yellow, green! There would be living, not dying. Life would be a party, not a funeral—no matter what.
* * *
Paul and Skip dropped the couple at the tourist police station at Corrientes 436 in Buenos Aires. There, they would be able to get help with their stolen vehicle.
“Sure you don’t want to join us?” the man asked Paul, clasping his companion’s hand. “How can we get in touch with you? The least we do is buy you a nice meal.”
Paul and Skip exchanged glances. Paul extended his hand to shake, “We’re just passing through, but thanks. Good luck finding your car.”
“Our situation would be expedited much faster with a member of the law behind us, even if you are from another country. You chaps are on the same team, wouldn’t you say?”
“Not exactly.” Paul and Skip exchanged looks. “You’ll be fine.
“Just tell them what you told me, that’s all.”
“Yeah, these guys aren’t always fond of ugly Americans. Especially me.” Skip let out a growl. The woman giggled.
* * *
Buns quietly sat as Grace sidled her way through the cul-de-sac. Feeling the boy’s angst, she couldn’t help but speak.
“Name-calling is what others do when they feel threatened by someone or something. Then again, it can also be a sign of endearment. You decide. I’m sure you will be able to tell who calls you a name because they like you and who calls you a name because they don’t.”
The boy sighed. “Thanks, Aunt Grace, I can take it from here.”
“Sure.” Grace stopped the car.
Buns grabbed his backpack from the back seat. Before his small hand reached for the door handle, he bent forward and kissed Grace on the cheek. “I’m having a real good time at your house. See you after school?”
Grace welcomed his show of affection. She balled her fist so they could bump knuckles. “I’ll be right here.”
Buns’ side smile warmed Grace’s heart. The boy gave a wink and closed the door. As she watched him meld into the crowd of students, she imagined her own little boy with Paul’s smoky eyes. Some day.
While navigating away from the curb, Grace felt her phone begin to vibrate in her purse. She smiled to herself and pulled into a short-term parking space, hoping her thoughts of motherhood resonated with Paul. Her smiled faded quickly. The blocked number caused her unease. She stared at the flashing light until curiosity won out. “Hello?” No one responded. “Hello?” She was about to hang up when she heard the voice on the other end.
“Do you miss me?”
Trepidation seized her limbs. Her head tingled. Her stomach clenched. Her eyes scoured her surroundings. “Where are you, Jess?”
“Ahhh, you do, don’t you?”
“What do you want?”
“You. I’ve always wanted you, Grace, I told you that.”
“You also told me you were getting divorced. You neglected to tell me you were torturing your wife in the basement. Skipping little details, Jess?”
“She never held a candle to you, babe.”
“Lucky me.”
“Saw your boyfriend.”
Grace froze. She couldn’t speak.
“Yeah, he thinks he’s such a hotshot.”
Her heart stampeded in her chest as she waited to hear more.
“He can’t have you. You know that, babe, don’t you?”
A tear slipped from the corner of her eye. “Where are you?”
His evil burst of laughter felt like tiny shards of glass severing her nerve endings. “I’ll never tell.” >click<
* * *
The mirror’s image confirmed his satisfaction when Jess snapped his phone shut. Bitch. Let her think on this! His hand cupped his groin and squeezed. His bottom lip quivered as fettered thoughts clenched his brain. His mind flooded with images of a small boy lying on a piss-stained mattress, a pair of tiny jockey shorts with blue-and-red rocket ships tangled around one knee.
* * *
Grace steadied her body against the convulsions building momentum. Breathe. She gulped air. Breathe. She gulped more, forcing herself to swallow and exhale. Again. This time, she inhaled through her nose, letting the air escape through her mouth. She repeated the process until her heart began to slow and the dizziness subsided.
She dialed Paul.
Her heart, now at a galloping pace slowed further at the sound of Paul’s voice. Even listening to his message greeting eased her anxiety.
“Hi, Paul. Just dropped Buns off at school. Poor little guy, big decisions on his horizon today. Kids have been calling him names. Speaking of which, yours came up a moment ago. Jess called. Yes, I am a little rattled. Am I talking too fast? He said he ran into you. I’d love to hear details. Can you call me back. Soon? Please? I’m missing you. Bye.”
Grace held the phone to her breast as if there were a direct-connect to Paul—heart to heart. He’ll call.
* * *
Functioning on only a few hours’ sleep, Paul instructed Skip to drive into Puerto Madera. “We don’t have time to wait.”
Skip agreed, “Raphael wasn’t too pleased being roused from his warm bed, but he said he’ll meet us there.”
“Nobody sleeps ’til we find him.”
“Gotta admit: Jess is good, buddy. Either he’s got radar up his ass, or he’s just plain lucky. Either way, he keeps eluding us. What’s your plan?”
“He’s got to go one of two ways, up or down, in or out. I say he’ll go deep. Vermin always go deep.”
Skip’s hear
ty roar filled the small vehicle. Paul’s gratitude having the man’s friendship sparked a sentimental feeling. He plucked his phone from his pocket, intending to take a peek at Grace’s picture. He wasn’t expecting to see the message.
He listened intently. When the message finished playing, he hit the button to listen again. After the third time, he jammed the phone back in his pocket.
“Pull over.”
“What’s up?”
“I need to call Grace.”
“C’mon, no time to be romantic.”
“Pull over!”
Skip obeyed. Paul bolted from the car and stopped ten feet away to dial Grace. The phone finally rang after the fifth try. Grace picked up.
“Hi, sweetheart, got your message.”
“Where are you?”
“The reception is so bad here, what did you say?”
“I asked where you are.”
“I’m sorry, Grace, I’m on the road. I’ll have to call you when I get back.”
“Paul, can you hear me?”
Paul squeezed his eyes closed. He hated to lie. His blood boiled at the thought of Jess upsetting her. More reason to get that son-of-a-bitch off the planet once and for all. “You’re breaking up, Grace. I haven’t seen Jess. He’s trying to get your goat. If he calls again, get ahold of Spiderelli. I should be home in a couple of days. This birth is going to be difficult.” Paul shoved his hand into his pocket and kicked dirt with the toe of his shoe. He wanted to hold her, ease her fear. “Grace, can you hear me? Are you still there?” He rubbed the phone on his shirt pocket, making a rustling sound, and then held it to his ear. “Sweetheart? Can you hear me?”
“Paul?” She set the volume on her phone higher. “Paul, can you hear me?” He sounded a million miles away. Must be out at the Leatherby’s, attending their prize milker. He had mentioned the breech birth, said it may take days. “Paul, there’s too much static. I can’t hear. Call me when you get back. I miss you.”
She clicked her phone off and stared at her dash. Overreacting? No, she didn’t think so. Though she had to admit she felt better knowing he was at the Leatherby’s farm and not in some God-forsaken country where Jess could get away with harming him. She shivered at the thought.
The school bell rang, bringing her back into the present. “Go to work, Grace,” she said aloud. Forget the call and go to work.” He wants you to be afraid. “Sorry, Jess,” she mumbled. “You are not going to win this one. I am not Jenna, and I am not your babe!”
* * *
Paul climbed back into the car. “Let’s go.”
Skip didn’t ask questions. He responded immediately. Forty minutes later, Skip pulled up to a modest house and honked the horn. A man in his early thirties strode down the walkway, donning a shirt on his way. Paul could see the man’s toned muscles ripple with every movement as he bent down to insert a switchblade into the top of his boot. The black bag slung over his shoulder held the rest of his arsenal, no doubt. When the man reached the car, he knocked on the hood and sang to Skip in Spanish. Paul wondered if he were seeing his first man-crush in play. Skip caught his quizzical expression and confirmed.
“Don’t worry, buddy. I’m not fuckin’ ’im. He’s just has a thing for my red hair.” Skip broke out in a roar as the man blew a kiss and got into the back seat. “Paul, meet Raphael.” Paul reached back and shook the man’s hand.
“So, who’s the unlucky bastard today?”
Paul was pleased with the man’s English.
“Jess Bartell. Killed Paul’s parents. Now the bastard is after his girl.”
“Cocksucker. Let’s get ’im.”
Skip reached back to give Raphael a high-five. “Who’s he going to seek out if he’s on the run?”
“Whorehouse on Tenth. Make a right up here.”
Skip followed Raphael’s directions. Four blocks later, they pulled up to a brick building with darkened windows and a red neon sign that read “OPEN.” The three men gathered on the sidewalk, checked their equipment, and rang the bell. A slight woman in her forties answered the door. “Yes?” Her robe gaped open, giving the men a glimpse of her large breasts. Raphael moved to the front of the line.
“Hello, my beautiful blossom. May I come in? I’ve brought friends. Americans…with money.”
“A friend of yours, my sweet, is always welcome. Paul could smell at least four different scents of perfume, yet only one woman was present. When the front door closed, women appeared from the folds in the drapes. Three looked to be no more than fourteen or fifteen. Two, maybe seventeen. Two, in their early twenties, tops. All were bare-breasted and beautiful. Skip’s eyes danced around the room. Although he seemed to be enthralled with the merchandise, he was shopping for any tell-tale signs of Jess. Raphael nuzzled the Madam’s neck.
“All the girls here?”
“Two are upstairs. Why?”
“I’m looking for someone.” He took the madam aside and showed her Jess’s photo. “He may have different hair. He’s dangerous. Not someone we want in our midst.”
The woman shook her head. “I assure you, he has a face I’d remember. Those eyes—they’re the eyes of a killer.” She shuddered. The girls came closer. Paul felt warm breasts brush his arm. He turned to face sweet, brown eyes and a contagious smile. He withdrew five hundred pesos from his wallet and gave it to her. She gave it to the madam who, in turn, slapped the girl across the face. The girl slinked away. Paul didn’t interfere. He sensed the madam’s cruel streak and made a mental note to have her investigated when he returned to the states.
* * *
Jess sank into the perfumed pillows. The madam undid the sash to her robe.
“How many were there?”
“Three.”
Jess chuckled and rolled to one side. “How much did they pay you?”
“A thousand pesos.”
“You’ve had yourself one profitable day, haven’t you?”
“The night is young.”
Jess caressed the madam’s lean torso, working his way down to the parts of her body that made her squirm. He slipped the satin sash around her neck. Her eyes brightened. She leaned closer.
“You are such a bad boy.”
“Yes, I am,” he said, tightening the sash until the woman’s eyes bulged. “And your night is now…over.”
* * *
Although Grace arrived at her office in plenty of time, her nine o’clock appointment was waiting at the door. Twenty-five-year-old Misha Kaminski stepped aside to let Grace insert her key into the lock.
“Good Morning, Misha. Lovely outfit.” Grace admired the young woman’s fitted, smoky-suede suit, trimmed in shades of heather grey. Her tangerine-colored silk camisole complimented long, straight, raven hair, styled like Cleopatra. “Give me a few moments to get settled. I’ll be right with you.”
“I had to get a ride. That’s why I’m early.” Misha’s voice fit her petite frame, high pitched and mellow.
“No worries. I just need to open up the office. Sal is away for a few days.”
“Yes, she is ill.”
“Why would you say such a thing?”
“I get feelings, remember? Perhaps I should not say them out loud.”
“Sal is taking a little vacation with her husband.”
Misha lower her eyes. “Oh. Very well then.”
Grace sensed Misha’s contrition. Although they had briefly addressed her so-called feelings in session, Grace wanted to learn more. She too had a feeling Sal was hiding something. Her earlier conversation with Buns and Misha’s comment promoted doubts about Sal’s remission. Sal’s symptoms contradicted the “all clear” she had received from her doctor. Sal was still losing weight. Her skin appeared sallow, and she fought to stay awake throughout the day. Their coffee allotment had increased two-fold in the last month.
Grace shuddered at the thought of losing her best friend. But lately life hadn’t treated her fairly, and she held no expectations for change.
Once the mail was sorted an
d a pot of coffee was brewing, Grace collected Misha’s file. She proceeded to her office, raised the blinds, and fluffed the pillows. At exactly nine a.m., she called Misha into her office.
“I apologize, Miss Simms. I should mind my business. In my country, we don’t speak of …those things. I watch too much American TV. Paranormal.”
“Are you interested in paranormal topics?”
“Yes, very much so.”
“What made you say my secretary is ill?”
“I see dark when you say her name.”
“What does that mean?”
“When I see dark with a name. It means…sick.”
“What kind of sick?”
“I should not say. I don’t know her.”
“Please, tell me.”
“Black means death.”
Grace shivered. “I’m freezing. Are you cold? I can turn up the heat.”
“No, thank you. I am comfortable.”
“Let’s talk about you, shall we?” Grace leaned back in her chair. She tried to steady the notebook in her hand. Why are you shaking so?
“I told you why I left my country.”
“Yes. Perhaps you can tell me more.”
“My father told me to leave his house. He said if I stayed in Greece, I would be killed for my beliefs. I see things. I have dreams that my country is in big trouble. My father says this is dangerous to my whole family.”
Grace peeked at Misha’s chart, curious if she had written the information down. She didn’t remember. Lately, it seemed she forgot things she wouldn’t have in the past. Stress? Most likely. “How long have you been in the U.S.?”
“Two years. Kaminski is my mother’s name. She was from Poland. Misha is what my mother called me in the letters she wrote to me before my birth. Melissa is my birth name. Melissa Veremis.”
“And you were sent here because you saw things; what kind of things?”
“I see my government stealing from the people.”
Welcome to the club, Grace thought. Strife spread worldwide.
“That kind of information is available to us via our news media.”
The Black Dress Page 3