by Alan Lee
“Tell me about the puppy.”
“He brought the dog home just before the accident. A puppy. But he hated dogs, Mr. August. Isn’t that strange? It had been wounded somehow at the breeder, but quickly recovered. Then, after the accident, one day it was gone.”
“What kind of dog?”
“A boxer.”
“Short hair,” I said.
“Yes. He hated dog hair. Even so, the puppy was a great surprise.”
“What kind of wound?”
“I don’t know. It healed quickly, but perhaps seeing the wound stirred his paternal instincts?”
“His journal said the dog was the key. To what?”
She picked up her tea cup. “I don’t know.”
“Have you checked the pounds? I imagine they keep records.”
“I assume the previous man we hired tried? But, Mr. August, I don’t think the puppy simply ran away. It was a puppy, and I had to pay her close attention. Remember, he got it just weeks before his accident. While he was in the hospital, I moved in here and I took care of the dog and house at the request of his family. When he came home, he had a nurse tend the burns and check his vitals, and an occupational therapist help with memory loss coping strategies, and he had other visitors. In and out, in and out. And it was during this time that the puppy, well, it vanished. She had a collar, so I don’t think…I mean, if she ran away or was hit by a car, we’d have been notified.”
“So,” I said with keen perspicaciousness. “Someone took it.”
“Maybe? I think so.”
“Why’d you move in?”
“The family asked me to.”
“What’s the dog’s name?”
“Georgina Princess Steinbeck.”
“Jiminy Christmas.”
“It’s a lot.” She said it with a laugh.
“For a man who hated dogs.”
“Yes. Isn’t it silly?”
“So, the dog, the divorce, and the car wreck. They all happened…what, within a month?”
She looked as though she wanted to cry. “He got a dog, he wrecked, and the divorce finalized three days after he returned home from the hospital—in that order. His ex-wife isn’t a heartless woman, though. That’s simply the way it played out.”
“Was the divorce contentious?”
“A little. He…well, he squandered much of their money when they separated. Very out of character for him, and she was understandably upset.”
“Yikes.”
“It was a hard time for everyone. Especially their daughter, Alex.”
I said, “Can you generate a list of everyone who visited him around the time the dog disappeared?”
“I’ll try. It was three years ago, however.”
“The details are hazy.”
“Hazy, yes.” She nodded into her tea.
“That’s how he feels, I bet. All the time.”
“Oh. What a very clever point, Mr. August.”
“There are many kinds of stupidity, Rose, and I’m afraid cleverness is the worst.”
“You’re quoting someone?”
“Yes,” I said. “But botching it.”
Chapter 4
I was married. Technically. Kinda. My marriage had been imparted to me.
I was married to a prostitute. Or, she had been. Kinda. Against her will.
It was complex.
But she quit the lifestyle and angered people. The people were angry at her and angry at me. And angry at their parents for rearing them in such a way they’d become reliant on prostitutes for affection. She asked for our phones to be linked so I could see her location at all times. She got kidnapped, I’d know immediately. Not a bad idea. Creepy, but not bad.
Long way of saying, I knew she was at her office because a map on my phone told me so. I called Roxanne and asked her to keep Kix an extra hour, and I drove to Veronica’s office, off Salem Avenue downtown Roanoke, and nestled into the long galley parking lot among the panoply of lower tier luxury cars. She worked on the second floor of a renovated brick building with several law offices, great view of the trains.
Her receptionist was gone for the day.
Ronnie sat at her desk. If angels could look weary, that’d be her expression. She saw me and smiled and I didn’t levitate but almost.
My old pal Ruben Collier took his ease across from her, his appearance incongruent with the upscale decor—he wore muddy work boots, Dickies, thick Carhartt jacket, unadorned ball cap, knife clipped inside his pocket. Large eyes, friendly smile.
“Ruben, you ol’ prolific grower of marijuana, you.” We shook hands. Mine were stronger. His were tougher. Call it a tie. “How’s business.”
He grinned good-naturedly. “S’the winter, Mr. August. I’m recuperating. Bout to take the wife to Florida for a week.”
“Rubes, can I call you Rubes? Rubes, what’ll happen when the entire nation legalizes weed? You go out of business? Or start making even more?”
“Got no idea. After all, ain’t my business. It’s hers.” He nodded at Veronica Summers, my wife. Kinda.
Veronica blew a strand of blond hair away from her face. “That’s what we’re discussing.”
“Trouble afoot? Other than you producing and distributing enough ‘Schedule I’ narcotics to go to prison forever?”
She groaned and laid her head on the desk. “Yes. Other than that. One of my wholesale buyers was arrested.”
“You have wholesale buyers?”
“Apparently.”
Ruben Collier said, “He’s gone. Prison for the next twenty years.”
“Can he rat on either of you?”
“No. Everything I handled was through drop-offs and the phone, Mr. August. Trouble is, I got bushels of weed just a’sitting there.”
“Sorry, bushels?”
He nodded. “Bushels, Mr. August.”
Ronnie groaned. Head down, she gripped a pen in both hands and absently twisted. “I don’t want to sell marijuana. Or grow it, or whatever. Even if it makes me rich.”
“Does it make you rich?”
She raised up. Eyes wide. Slow nod. “More than I make as an attorney. A lot more. And I love being rich. But still, I don’t wanna.”
“So crime does pay. I suspected it might. Maybe Ruben would like to own the land he tends? And the inherent business?”
“Oh no.” He raised his hands, palms out. “No sir, not for me. I like things the way it is.”
“Ruben is helping me brainstorm. We need to move the marijuana. A lot of dealers south of here are without product. Unhappy buyers and unhappy dealers, but we don’t know who they are or how to contact them. Only my wholesaler knew them. It’s all run through relationships. But apparently,” she said and she pointed at Ruben. “They know how to contact Ruben. And they’re making threats.”
I said, “So send them the bushels.”
“We’ve heard from two dealers so far. But I bet there are…I don’t know, dozens? Hundreds? Waiting and angry? I don’t want to anger the Kings either. They get a small cut, I think. This is a mess, Mackenzie.”
Ruben winked at me. “See? I don’t want to be in charge, sir.”
“Where are the bushels now?”
“Got’em in a climate controlled storage unit, Franklin County.”
“Ruben, you’re the tops.”
“Anything worth doing, Mr. August, better do it right. Even if I can tell you don’t approve of her being in the business.”
“Okay.” Ronnie stood. Set her hands on the table and leaned on them. “I’m tired. Let’s make a decision. Here’s what it is. Ruben, thank you for letting me know. I’ll have answers for you within a couple days. Mackenzie, you’re taking me to dinner. I need alcohol and maybe lobster. And then we’re arranging a meeting with Marcus. I bet he knows a buyer. Maybe he’ll buy me out himself. Sound good to everyone?”
Ruben chuckled and nodded. “Absolutely, Ms. Summers.”
I nodded also. “Absolutely, Ms. Summers.”
We a
te at Table 50. She ordered low country shrimp and grits—not lobster, which was overrated anyway. She didn’t eat much but it looked good next to her two dirty martinis. I had a rack of lamb with polenta and a Fat Tire. The lights were down, the candles lit, the waiters pious. Our table was in the corner, giving us freedom to wholly express ourselves.
“Mackenzie, would it hurt your feelings if I slept at my place tonight?”
“It would not.”
“That’s one of your many baffling characteristics.” She ate a shrimp thoughtfully. “You aren’t easily offended. Or offended at all.”
“The world needs fewer people getting offended, you ask me. Love is patient. And does not take offense.”
“Most of the girls I know use taking offense as a tool to manipulate. Are these girls not in love?”
I drank some beer. “Doing their best at it. Failing a lot. Love is not an easy thing to do. Are you such a girl?”
“I’ll try not to be. It will require practice. But, about tonight, life has been a whirlwind. I’m behind on work and I haven’t been home recently even though that’s where all my beautiful clothes are, and…and I think there might be two girls still living there. I forgot about them.”
“Prostitutes?”
“Whores, prostitutes, call girls, whatever they are, yes. But, no, I just remembered, they left last week. That’s good. I miss my bed.”
“Two prostitutes you’re rescuing?”
“You can’t rescue people, Mackenzie. You taught me that. I gave them a safe place for a while.”
I said, “You’re doing a lot.”
“It is a lot.” She nodded. She wielded her fork to delicately slide a shrimp into the pile of grits. Slid it out and pushed it in again, not watching. She looked out of place here, as though the ambiance hit her differently than us mortals. She carried movie star lighting with her. Her articulation made me realize I mumble, her posture made me realize I slouch. “And it all happened so fast. My father dying, the showdown with Darren, your abduction, the trip to Italy, your recovery…”
“Not to mention our sudden and unexpected marriage.”
“Right.” She smiled. “That was a larger surprise for you than me. Do you think we should get it annulled?”
“Maybe.”
She sucked in air. Dropped her fork. Knocked over her empty martini glass. The candles caught in her eyes, turning a shade of hurt. “Oh. Oh wow, I didn’t…”
“Hear me out.”
“Oh Jesus, I was just joking. You want…?”
I placed my hands on hers. Squeezed so she couldn’t pull away. “Ronnie. Relax. What I meant was, I never got to propose. We didn’t do it right.”
Her fingers trembled.
I said, “One of the things about me, I keep my word. I keep promises. And we never made them.”
She nodded. Not looking at me. “Okay. So then…so?”
“I think we should.”
“You want to have a real wedding ceremony? Me in a white dress?” She snorted. “Walk down the aisle, throw flowers, eat fucking cake?”
“I couldn’t care less about ceremonies and flowers. But the vows seem important. And the cake.”
She nodded. Still shaken and unconvinced.
Mackenzie August, leaping before he looks.
“Ronnie—”
“I switched counselors,” she said. Eyes on the candle. Resembling a lost, scared teenager girl. “Total Life Counseling.”
“Like it?”
“I confessed everything. In the first thirty minutes, I mean, I just… I told her I killed my dad. Told her I killed a woman in Italy. That somehow I’m the biggest marijuana producer in western Virginia. Used to be a prostitute. It simply spilled out. She was very kind. As she listened, she grew pale. She started perspiring and drank an entire bottle of water. She prescribed anti-anxiety meds. Recommended we meet next week, and often thereafter. On her note pad, I bet she wrote, ‘Bitch is a hopeless mess.’”
“That is some elite psychotherapy jargon.”
“My point is, Mackenzie, I’m a wreck. I cover it up well with mascara, but…it’s there.”
“I think—”
“And you know what? You are too. A wreck, I mean.”
I nodded. “No question. For example I’m late picking up my son.”
“No, I mean it. For a long time, I thought you were a whole human being. The most complete person I knew. But…you aren’t, are you.”
“Sooner you realize that the better.”
“I phrased that incorrectly. You’re still the best person I know, I think. I still adore you. But you have a significant character flaw.”
I frowned. “Okay. Easy. Flaw is a little harsh. I have…creases.”
“Want to know what your character flaw is?”
“Heavens no.”
“You’re dedicating yourself to the wrong woman. And you can’t stop.”
I didn’t reply. We proceeded on thin ice and I detected deepening cracks. Everybody be cool. Also, Lancelot though I may be, I didn’t like my flaws highlighted.
“You work so hard to keep your home perfect,” she said. “That’s the place of order, and you leave the orderliness to step into chaos and subdue it. See, Mackenzie? I listen to your vernacular. But the problem is, you brought the chaos home with you. Me.”
“You.”
“Yes. It’s a grand slam for me. And fun for you. Until I destroy it. You can’t save me. You know that. But you don’t believe it.”
I leaned back in my chair. Resettled my napkin. Drank some beer.
We watched one another. The air hummed with silence.
“It hasn’t occurred to you,” I said, “that perhaps I’m with you for selfish reasons?”
“It has. It is selfish of you to feed your sense of nobility.” She closed her eyes. A line formed in her forehead. “Wow, Christ, that came out poorly.”
“I keep you around because you make me happy. That is a selfish act. Were I noble as I think I am, I would only do it for your benefit. But I’m as enamored with you as most men are. I am possessive and self-indulgent and frightened, even when I try not to be.”
Her eyes were still closed. The candle light dappling shifted across her shirt as she took deep breaths. “I go to counseling for you. Because I know I should. To change. But deep down, I know I’m organically the wrong person. You shouldn’t be with me.”
“Because in a romantic comedy or novel, you would be the wrong woman? The nasty seductress the hero rejects at the end, turning his affections instead onto the charming and innocent heroine, and the crowd applauds?”
“Don’t make it sound cute.”
“Ronnie. You went to Italy for me. Risked your life. You spent untold thousands of dollars. You shot a woman because she sexually assaulted me.”
Her eyes opened. The right corner of her lips curled. “I did do that.”
“I know you’re a volcano. A volcano with seismic shifting. But…I like the way you look in jeans.”
She laughed. A sudden sound, perhaps my favorite. “I can’t promise this ends well for you, Mackenzie. Even if I’m hopelessly in love with you.”
“That’s what the vows are for. You have to promise me that.”
“Oh.” She paused. Searched my face thoughtfully. “Oh. That’s…revelatory. I never thought of vows like that before.”
“Because you’re in the business of writing legal contracts, you think of a marriage that way. A legal contract easily voided down the road. That’s not what I’m after.”
“The way you describe it makes the vows so much more…personal and intimate. Staggeringly important.”
“Yes.”
“So…sure, that’s great. And beautiful. Yet.” She squeezed my hand. We were touching the entire time. “Not everyone has your sense of duty. Your scruples. Marriage vows are broken every day.”
“It’s a leaky boat. But it’s the one holding the most water, I think. Our best chance.”
“Mackenzie, bein
g very honest, you still don’t know how broken I am inside. Vows don’t provide protection from…from volcanoes.”
I nodded. “You’ve been raped and abused for twenty years. You’re a wreck. I know this. But…sometimes the heart wants what it wants.”
“You like me just because you do.”
“The reasons are accruing, I admit.”
“Do you know, Mackenzie,” she said, releasing my hand and waving for the check. “You have never told me you love me.”
I nodded.
She said, “Don’t say it yet. I admit it, your idea is good. We need a ceremony and to officially exchange vows. You can tell me then. Because I’m realizing saying you love me would be making a promise. And you take that seriously.”
“I do.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t sleep at my place tonight.”
“Worried you’ll lose me?”
“Possibly. I’ve never had something of value before. I’ve never worried about losing someone.”
I said, “Fret not. I am yours.”
“Also, what happens if I become prurient?”
“Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder.”
Chapter 5
I visited the Roanoke SPCA and the local Angels of Assisi, inquiring after Georgina Princess Steinbeck. At both establishments I spoke with a woman—shouted actually.
“Loud,” I told the woman at the SPCA, in case she’d grown inured to the baying of the hounds from cages.
The woman replied, “They’re just excited about the new day, that’s all.”
“They’ll continue without surcease?”
“Pretty much, whatever the hell surcease means.” She typed into the computer some more. Her wrists had claw marks from cats. Also, so did her face. Stupid cats. “Tell me the name again?”
I did.
“Exotic and self-indulgent, no?”
She said, “You kidding? Met a dog last week named Mamma’s Lost Cause. Got a cat in the back, collar says Empress Pickle Juice. When did you say?”
I gave her the date, three years ago.
She frowned at the screen. “Nope. No boxers either, of any name. Wish I could help find your dog, but that’s a long time ago.”
“Not my dog, actually.”