Mackenzie August Boxset 2

by Alan Lee

  I pressed send and waited.

  She called me back after fifteen.

  “Hi, yes, it’s me, Alex—sorry, I was in a class. Is everything okay? With my dad?”

  “Didn’t mean to alarm you, he’s fine. He hired me and I’m hoping I can ask you a few questions.”

  I heard lots of movement on her end. “You had me spooked. With his condition, I worry. Sure I can help, happy to.”

  “When can you meet?”

  “I’m in Blacksburg at the moment.”

  Yes, I know, I’m a creepy stalker in a car outside. That felt like an unfortunate thing to admit. “Uh,” I said, adroitly, to buy myself a second to think. “How about in an hour?”

  “How about two? My class will be over then. You’re sure there’s no emergency?”

  “No emergency.”

  “Find Owens Dining Hall, near Johnson. I’ll meet you there.”

  As a matter of fact, I was parked next to it. And there I sat shivering for two hours. I liked what I did and Ulysses was paying me handsomely. And yet, on days when I sat freezing in a car for hours with nothing to do but listen to sports radio or podcasts on theology, a little life panic crept in. Was this what I should be doing with my life? Shouldn’t I be a starting pitcher for the Washington Nationals?

  At eleven I got out and hustled across the frozen tundra and into the dining hall. Just me and a thousand twenty-year olds. The girls wore leggings and leather boots, some with fur, and vests and purple gloves and scarves. All the scarves. The guys, of which there were fewer, wore sneakers or hiking boots, and jeans and khakis, and puffy Patagonia jackets. Everyone looked intelligent and trim and beautiful and socially talented.

  I glanced in the mirror. I looked less so.

  I recognized Alex Steinbeck by her photograph, but it didn’t do her justice. In a dining hall full of pretty people, she glimmered. Picture the perfect blonde in every movie about high school or college, the one who sparkles.

  “Alex,” I said. “I’m Mackenzie.”

  “Hi Mackenzie. Gosh you’re a big guy.” She stamped and shivered and walked deeper into the dining hall. She was a native and I an immigrant. She pointed toward an empty table. “Sit there. I need coffee and eggs or something. Be right back.”

  I sat obediently.

  She returned with Chick-fil-A nuggets and black coffee. She got me a coffee too, darling girl, just like her mother. She sat down and mixed in cream and Stevia.

  I said, “You ever mix butter or cartilage into your coffee?”

  “I do!” She sparkled again. “You do keto?”

  “My roommate does. I think he’s loony.”

  “It’s a great money saver. Besides, I bet he’s pretty thin.

  “Yes but beauty is vain, I heard. From your mother, actually.”

  “Hah. Because she married that muscular moron. He’s as big as you.”

  “But less tough,” I said.

  “Think so? I mean, he lifts weight for a living.”

  “Strong does not equal tough.”

  “Nor intelligent.” She sipped her coffee and ate a nugget. The kind without breading. “How can I help? Anything for my dad. He’s well?”

  “He’s very well. Saw him recently. Sitting at his desk. He reads the newspaper, writes in his journal, goes for walks, still consults for radiologists. Doing great.”

  Her eyes teared and she smiled at the table. “That’s Dad.”

  “He hired me to find his dog.”

  She was about to eat another nugget. And she did, after the briefest pause.

  That right there. That was why I came. I wouldn’t see the pause over a phone call.

  “Georgina,” said Alex.

  “Right.”

  “The dog he had three years ago. Why does he want it back?”

  She called Georgina an it. Like my father would. Like probably I did some.

  “He doesn’t know. You know him, the ‘why’ can be foggy. He’s leaving himself notes to find it, and believes the dog is important.”

  “Sorry, this is weird. But…do you have proof you’re actually working for him?”

  I sipped my coffee. “What do you mean.”

  “How do I know you’re trustworthy?”

  “I could show you the image my bank sent me of the check he wrote. I could tell you that we sat across from each other in his office, and he wrote in three different leather journals, spending most of the time in What is Happening Right Now. And that in his Who is Who journal, I’m listed as trustworthy and reliable. You could call your mother, who should vouch for me. She told me more about the wreck than he remembers.”

  “She did? What’d she say?”

  “That Ulysses had been drunk, which was odd because he didn’t drink. And that she suspects he’d been with a woman.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Did she say who?”

  “She doesn’t know who.”

  Some of the iron left her spine and her shoulders dropped. “Sorry, Mackenzie. I should trust you, I realize. It’s…it’s complicated, I guess.”

  “How so?”

  “Our family is…I don’t know. Family is hard and so is our past. And Gordon thought they should get the dog in the divorce, so…”

  “You wondered if I might be working for Gordon.”

  Half smile. “It occurred to me. But you’re not.”

  “I’m not.”

  She waved at some friends walking by.

  She said, “Tell me again, why does Dad want the dog? Or, let me rephrase. Do his journals give him a reason to find the dog?”

  “The initial note, which was written a long time ago, reminded him not to forget the dog. The dog is the key.”

  “The key? As in, the dog is vital? Or the key to unlocking something?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Rose thinks settling the matter will bring him peace, even if he won’t remember details.”

  “Sweet Rose.” Her eyes teared again. “We’d be lost without her.”

  “Can you tell me anything about the dog I don’t know.”

  She leaned her cheek on her palm, elbow propped on the table. She still wore a black heavy down jacket with hood, and with her free hand she unzipped it. A sigh. “Yes. I can.”

  Ah hah! Clues inbound.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Ugh. This is going to make me look awful.”

  “I doubt that is possible.”

  Another half smile, but genuine. Like her mother. “Thanks. Okay, Mackenzie, I’ll tell you. When he bought the dog, it was weird. You know? He didn’t tell me why. I was in my senior year. But he did his best to keep it a secret from my mom. Then, one day, he told me the dog was mine.”

  “He bought Georgina for you?”

  “Yes. Or he told me he did. He said I should keep it and not to give it away, especially not to my mother or Gordon. Gordon was in the picture at that point.”

  “So the dog was a secret and it was important, sounds like.”

  “Exactly. Not like a normal father/daughter gift; he thought it was somehow totemic. I was still living at home when the accident happened, but…” She winced, like the memory was painful. “I grew up wanting a dog. All my life. But I was never allowed to have one, and then……I don’t know, suddenly in my senior year I didn’t see the point. Nor did I have any time to train it. Isn’t that awful? He gives me a gift, it’s obviously important to him, and I didn’t care.”

  “That’s not awful.”

  She waved some more to passersby. She was popular. Me, less so. “So the accident, the hospital, the recovery. He comes home. My mom and Gordon come to visit, and Gordon is obsessed with the dog. He thinks it has something to do with money.”

  “The trip to the casino?” I asked.

  “Right. Wow, so you know a few of our sordid secrets. I don’t believe that’s in the public realm. Gordon was so outraged by that trip that he got a lawyer involved. He suspected maybe Ulysses faked the trip and hid the moneysomewhere, or bought the world’s mo
st expensive dog. But my father quickly produced his passport and the airline ticket to Monaco and the cashier receipts for large, large sums of money. Paperwork for currency exchanges, things like that. He has the documents to prove he went to Monaco and gambled. Even took a few selfies there. To force Gordon and my mom to back down, Dad agreed to pay alimony.”

  “You think he went to Monaco and blew the money because he hated Gordon?”

  “Maybe.” She nodded. “They loathe one another. Or did, I don’t know if my father still remembers him. It sucks because he has less money now. I don’t want to strain his finances further so I’m putting myself through school.”

  “Very admirable.”

  “Being broke rarely feels admirable.”

  “Better than massive debt.”

  “I got us off track. Sorry.”

  “Did the dog run away?”

  “No.” She looked embarrassed. Like her mother. “Gordon kept bothering the animal, so I took it to my boyfriend’s house. Didn’t tell anyone.”

  “Good idea.”

  She brightened. “Was it?”

  “I think so. And I’m really smart.”

  She laughed.

  I asked, “Does your boyfriend still have it?”

  “No. We broke up my freshman year and he demanded I take it back. But I was in a college dorm and I’m gone all the time, flying everywhere, what am I supposed to do with a dog?”

  “You fly everywhere?”

  She looked embarrassed again. “Yeah, still do.”

  “For what?”

  She held up a finger. Pulled her phone out. Pressed the screen a few times and slid the device across the table. She’d opened her Instagram account. All the photos were of her. On a beach in a bikini. In the snow in a bikini. In the water, laughing, wearing jeans and a sweater. Smiling in the wind wearing a sweater. Smiling in the rain in a bikini. Professional quality. About half the photos were watermarked with name brands.

  “You’re a model,” I noted and slid the phone back.

  “I am. Lots of girls are these days, with photoshop and selfies. I happen to get paid a little. Did you see how many followers I have?”

  “Over a hundred thousand.”

  “Not much, to be honest, in my profession. All my classes are on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and I’m often gone Friday through Monday.”

  “But you’re not rich?”

  She laughed. A wry sound, no humor. “No. I’m broke. Instagram famous isn’t really famous. It pays for school and a little extra. But,” she said and she held up her thumb and fingers to make a circle shape, “zero social life. Haven’t been on a date in months.”

  “There’s no way you could take care of a dog. And you broke up with your boyfriend.”

  “Right.” Her cheeks reddened. “So I gave Georgina away.”

  Ah hah. Getting closer.

  “To whom?”

  “A nice family on Craigslist. I forget their names.”

  “You still have the emails? Could I get their contact info?”

  “Of course.” Her posture straightened and she dazzled with pleasure. I got the feeling her sparkling and dazzling were tricks she learned to make a camera happy. “Probably still have it on my phone.”

  “Alex, you saint.”

  She smiled and squeezed my hand. Not romantic, I thought; just one human acting friendly to another. Like mother, like daughter. “My full name is Alexandra.”

  “Alexandra Steinbeck. With that name, you’re destined to go places, kid.”

  “Thanks.” Another genuine smile. She scanned her screen, searching emails.

  “While you look, one more question.”

  “Sure, Mackenzie.”

  “The night of the accident, Ulysses was with a woman. So your mother tells me. Who was it?”

  Alex lowered the phone. Stopped searching. But she didn’t look at me.

  “That was an awful night.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “And, if it’s okay, I don’t want to discuss it. I’d rather not remember or talk about it ever again. One of those family ordeals that should stay buried.” She didn’t wait for a response and she resumed searching through her phone.

  I was stimulated.

  Chapter 10

  Back in the car, freezing, near death, I emailed the nice couple from my phone.

  Dear Cohen Family,

  A few years ago you adopted a boxer named Georgina Princess Steinbeck from a girl named Alex. Alex is the daughter of Ulysses, the original owner of the dog. For reasons of sentimentality, Ulysses is hoping to be reunited with Georgina and become her owner again. Do you still have Georgina? If so, would you be willing to part with her?

  Sincerely,

  Mackenzie

  The drive home lasted an hour and I debated whether Alex Steinbeck and her mother Colleen Gibbs made all guys feel special and good about themselves, or if they only sparkled and smiled genuinely at me.

  Probably just me, I decided.

  I also wondered if this was a trick a lot of women did to build connections and trust, the physical touch thing.

  I got home and checked my phone.

  Mackenzie,

  We still have Georgina!! She’s a great dog. We love her and don’t plan to give her away. Please tell her original owner that we’re sorry, and we hope he finds another dog to love!!!

  Sincerely,

  Ramona Cohen.

  Rats.

  Chapter 11

  Marcus Morgan met Ronnie and me for lunch at Martin’s the next day. He and the owner had some arrangement where he could use the place day or night, open or closed. Perhaps they were in cahoots or perhaps there weren’t in cahoots and they were just friends. Either way, we got a big table by ourselves at a window and a server dedicated solely to us who knew to be attentive while keeping her distance.

  Crime definitely paid.

  Marcus looked as he always did—eternally wise and stoic. Black puffer jacket by Moncler, probably worth a grand. Black slacks. Silver belt buckle and Tag Heuer watch and wedding band. His socks were black and so were the Prada loafers. He kept the jacket zipped, almost to his chin.

  Each of us, because we were classy gangsters, ordered tea. I sipped mine with lemon, feeling a little goofy. My hand was too big for the cup. Ronnie sipped hers, looking like a duchess.

  “So,” said Marcus. He lowered his tea to the saucer. “You want out.”

  “Of the marijuana business,” Ronnie said.

  He made a grunting noise.

  I said, “It can be done.”

  “Can be done.” He nodded. “Don’t happen much. Don’t know how it’ll work. Summers here, sweetheart that she is, got more…ah, history with the District Kings than most.”

  “Because I was coerced into being their actual sweetheart for a long time.”

  He nodded more. Slowly. “Some of them keep expecting you to show up. Got plans to carry you away, marry you on some private island and live there forever.”

  “That sounds nice. Who plans that?” she said.

  I frowned. I didn’t have a private island.

  She poked me. “Teasing. Bad joke.”

  “Don’t matter how rich they get. A foolish man is a foolish man,” said Marcus. “Especially about fine ass women.”

  “Guilty,” I said.

  “Was talking about other foolish men.”

  “Still.”

  “At least you’re a foolish man whose fine ass woman is foolish about you in return,” said Ronnie.

  Our server brought another pot of tea, set it on the table, and retreated.

  “About the marijuana,” I said. “None of this is legal. Is there even a precedent for selling resources such as hers?”

  “Sho nuff. It happens. Underworld recognizes ownership.”

  “Honor among thieves.”

  He nodded.

  “Selling, however, won’t be Ronnie’s panacea. Selling doesn’t erase relationships,” I said.

  “Righto.”r />
  “There’s no relational bond on my end,” she said. “But on the other side, sometimes there’s an anchor.”

  “Meaning, it’s hard for you to get free from them,” I said. “Because even if you think you’re free, there’s a rich and powerful and foolish man holding tight to the other end.”

  “And on some level, in their mind, they have ownership over me.”

  “Look at us,” said Marcus with a grin. “Talking about levels of ownership, none of it legal, all of it intellectual and emotional. We deep as hell.”

  I said, “Do the foolish men know you were coerced into it by Darren?”

  She and Marcus both nodded.

  I said, “Doesn’t make a difference.”

  She and Marcus both shook their head.

  “Being honest,” said Marcus. “Surprised Darren’s still alive.”

  “He called off the contract on my life. I sent him a message, explaining that bought him sixty days.”

  “Sixty days to what?”

  “To vanish. After sixty, I extirpate him.”

  “That mean kill?”

  “Destroy completely.”

  Marcus nodded. Absently squeezed his lemon into the cup. “Cause he prostituted your girl and put two separate contracts on your head.”

  “Either of those be enough, if you ask me,” I said.

  Ronnie remained quiet.

  “Gonna be a war,” said Marcus. “You try.”

  “I know. He’s hoping the threat of that will deter me.”

  “Will it?”

  “I cannot be deterred. Some might say, I’m determined.”

  “How long’s he got left?”

  “Three weeks.”

  “Shit.”

  The way Marcus said it, sounded like, Shee-yit.

  Ronnie said, “I’d rather you not die.”

  I snorted. “Die.”

  “So you won’t?”

  I snorted again. “Probably not.”

  “First things first,” she said. “Marcus, find me a buyer. Can you do that?”

  “Think maybe I buy you out myself,” he said.

  She smiled. Marcus and I sat up straighter; her smile made one remember one’s self. She said, “I was hoping you might.”