"Theo," I said gently.
"It's, well . . . it's awkward, isn't it? I mean--" He leaned closer, eyeing me intensely, as if he could transmit information directly to my brain. "Do you really understand what I'm trying to tell you, Stella?"
"Theo. We're friends. Are you going to kiss me already?"
"Um . . ." He scratched his cheek awkwardly. "I guess I could do that. . . ."
I leaned forward. He leaned forward.
He closed his eyes and brushed his lips tenderly across my cheek.
"That was the nicest kiss anyone's ever given me," I told him honestly. "Now put that jar back up here so I can donate."
With a sweet, almost bashful smile, he returned the jar to its place. I dropped a handful of bills into it--everything I had--and watched Theo's eyes widen with astonishment.
"Stella. What are you doing? You can't--"
"I can't guarantee you'll be the next Mr. Hot Lips, but it's enough to beat Trigger by a landslide."
Theo came around the booth and embraced me tightly. His was also the nicest hug I'd ever received.
13
THE FOLLOWING WEEK, I WAS ABOUT TO CLOCK OUT after my shift when Eduardo, the head cook, stopped me on my way out.
"You got a minute, Stells?"
I couldn't remember the exact day he'd given me the nickname, but it had stuck. All the cooks called me Stells now. Stells Bells, Stelly Belly, and Stellow Mellow were variations, but I didn't mind. They beat "Hey, new girl!" which was what I'd been forced to answer to the first night on the job.
"Sure. What do you need?" I asked.
"Deirdre left early. Sick kid. Asked if I would refill her napkin dispensers. Think you could grab me a stack of napkins from the storeroom?"
Deirdre was a full-time waitress with two kids in day care. She usually worked days, but picked up a night shift now and then. From what I'd gathered, she had worked at the Sundown since Dixie Jo opened its doors over ten years ago. I was surprised she'd asked Eduardo to restock her tables and not me or Inny, who'd taken off a couple of minutes ago. As far as I knew, the cooks never helped waitresses with their tables. And I'd never seen Deirdre and Eduardo hang out during breaks, but obviously I'd missed something. It sounded like they were friends, or at least on friendly terms.
"No problem."
The storeroom was at the opposite end of the kitchen from the cooks' station, and down a narrow set of wooden stairs. I'd been to the storeroom several times before, and while it had the musty smell of damp concrete, it was always cool and I welcomed any opportunity to escape to it from the heat of the kitchen.
I flipped on the light at the top of the stairs and jogged down the wood planks. At the bottom, I rounded the corner and groped blindly for the light pull-chain. There were no windows in the storeroom, and at night, it was as dark as you'd expect a hole in the ground to--
The solid blow to my stomach knocked the wind out of me. Pain exploded everywhere, a sharp, excruciating sensation that left me wanting to writhe on the ground. I never got the chance; a pair of hands rammed me hard against the drywall. The shelves overhead rattled, and warm breath hissed against my cheek. My vision blurred gray.
I was still stunned from the hit--fighting to breathe, let alone scream--when he slapped his hand over my mouth. His damp skin reeked of leather and salt. Baseball glove and sweat. He snarled in my ear, and in the pitch-black space, the sound did exactly what he intended it to--I shivered in absolute fear. He felt my shudder and laughed softly.
Next thing I knew, pain blazed across my jaw. A sharp snap to my neck, and I went down on the floor, gasping for breath. I screamed--but the door at the top of the stairs had fallen shut behind me, and any noise I made was cut off when his boot drilled into my ribs. The air went out of me a second time, and my palms and elbows licked fire where I'd donated some of my skin to the floor. He kicked me again. And again.
I coiled my arms around my head and tucked my chin, but I couldn't protect the rest of my body. Intense pain seared through my legs and back. Each kick felt like a knife to the bone. Gulping air, I finally got a bloodcurdling scream out. It rang off the storeroom walls; someone upstairs must have heard it.
Thinking someone would come running any minute, I found my courage and bucked my legs wildly against his assaults. My foot collided with something solid, and he swore viciously. His hand came out of the darkness, slapping my ears hard enough to make my head ring.
"This is how I want to see you from now on," he whispered harshly. "Head down, minding your own business."
I lashed out, fists flying wildly, but he'd already backed out of reach. I heard the stairs creak under his weight; he climbed at a leisurely pace. I understood. He wanted me to know he wasn't running away and he wasn't scared. He could stroll into my place of work and beat me up ten feet under my boss's office. He could find me anywhere.
Fading into the pain, I dimly noted that his feet landed on the steps at irregular intervals. It sounded like he was limping. Had I struck his leg? I felt a flicker of grim satisfaction, and then the door at the top of the stairs opened, casting a slant of light into the darkness. I squinted, watching his tall, broad-shouldered silhouette slip through the doorway before I was once again consumed by darkness.
My head lolled on the cement floor. I fought the haze of unconsciousness. I wouldn't have minded the blissful relief from the pain, but Dixie Jo would be locking up soon. She'd never notice my bike propped against a tree out back. She'd see the empty parking lot, assume we'd all left, and take off herself.
I'd stay here all night, in this horrible darkness, tasting blood.
With a moan, I rolled onto my elbow. The pain was so excruciating, I was past crying. I drew short, shallow breaths, alarmed by the strange gurgle that seemed to come from my lungs. Was something broken?
"Eduardo." I wheezed his name, wincing at the knife-edged pain it caused to rip through me.
In agonizing shoves and heaves, I crawled toward the stairs. He'd spared my arms from the beating, and I used them to drag myself up. I had no idea how I'd ever manage to climb to the top. I couldn't stand. My hips and back throbbed, and a wave of nausea surged through me. Swallowing, I ordered my stomach to calm. If I were sick now, I might pass out. No one would find me until the diner opened tomorrow.
I felt weak, delirious. I knew it, and it made me cold with fear. Focus. Tears stung the backs of my eyes. Don't you dare give up, Estella. Was I strong enough to throw a can of sugar against the door? Would anyone hear it? I would not stay down here all night. He'd battered and bruised me violently, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd kept me cold, terrified, and isolated through the night.
Footsteps. I heard footsteps. The doorknob twisted and light spilled down the stairs. Eduardo breathed a slew of startled curses. In a fog, I heard the stairs rattle as he rapidly descended them. He knelt beside me, laying a quivering hand on my shoulder.
I faintly noted his wide-eyed and sickened astonishment, his warm brown complexion turning squeamishly pale.
He shouted over his shoulder. He was yelling at someone to call the police. I heard him rub his hands repeatedly over his thighs, drying the sweat.
For a self-proclaimed tough guy stamped head to toe with menacing tattoos, he was handling my condition worse than I was, I dimly observed.
Of course, I hadn't looked in the mirror yet.
14
ON THE AMBULANCE RIDE TO THE HOSPITAL, I released myself to the haze. I remained awake but not alert--I sent my mind to a separate place. I saw flashes of images, but I felt no response to them. Blankly, I registered the paramedics leaning over me, working quickly. Behind them I saw medical equipment, tubes, and monitors. Again, no reaction. In my numb and disoriented state, I heard fragments of commands, followed by concise responses.
Nothing broken. I heard that, and felt some tense, quivering part of me relax. If nothing was broken, I'd be okay, wouldn't I? They gave me something for the pain, and once it dulled, it was easy to sink into noth
ingness completely.
Carmina arrived at the hospital shortly after I did. Dixie Jo must have called her; I couldn't remember telling the paramedics who to contact. I still hadn't memorized Carmina's phone number. I should do that, I thought dimly. This was never going to happen again--I'd see to it--but just the same. It was good to have someone to call in an emergency.
Swatting aside the curtain, Carmina strode into the exam room. She looked as grim and formidable as I'd ever seen her. I wasn't ready to talk, so I turned my head away. Understanding the gesture, Carmina focused her attention on the on-call doctor. Instead of flying into hysterics like my mom would have, she kept her cool, weeding out information like a seasoned cop.
"What's her condition?"
"Bruised ribs, mild cuts, swelling."
"Have you given her something for the pain?"
"Lortab. We'll send her home with a bottle of ten tablets to get her through the next twenty-four hours, and a prescription. She's going to be tender for the next several days."
"I was told this happened at the Sundown Diner, during her shift. Have you heard anything about who was involved, who attacked her?" It occurred to me that Carmina might think there'd been a breach and that Danny Balando was behind this. But this wasn't the work of Danny's men. I had no doubt who'd done this. "Where's the officer handling her statement?" Carmina continued to press the doctor.
"I haven't seen anyone from the department yet. They should be here soon. Why don't you pull up a seat by her bed? I'll have a nurse bring you--"
"Coffee? I don't need coffee. I need the damn police department to send over someone to take her statement. I want them out there looking for the individual, or individuals, responsible for doing this to her."
At the whiplike anger in Carmina's voice, a strange warmth seemed to build in my chest. Gratitude and relief. She'd take it from here. I put that worry out of my mind, and for the first time since arriving at the hospital, I felt a semblance of peace. Carmina would see to it that I was taken care of.
A second figure, a tall, dark-featured woman in trousers and a silk blouse, ducked behind the curtain and into the exam room. "Carmina," she said.
"Grace." Carmina stood, shook the woman's hand. "I'm glad they sent you. Was hoping they would."
"I'm sorry. So very sorry this happened."
"Tell that to her," Carmina said, nodding in my direction. "Stella, this is Officer Oshiro. I worked with her for a few years before I retired. She's a good cop. She's crosstrained to investigate any type of crime, including assault. She's going to ask you some questions. Let me know if you need a break at any point."
I sat up, leaning into my pillow. "I'm feeling better." And I was. Now that Carmina was here, bossing everyone around, the chaos and confusion didn't feel so overwhelming.
"Even so." Her eyes focused on Officer Oshiro, and with a businesslike nod, she gave the go-ahead.
"Hi there, Stella," Officer Oshiro said, speaking in that gentle but serious voice adults adopt in a crisis. "What happened tonight? Walk me through it. Be as detailed as you can."
I explained how Eduardo had asked me to get him napkins from the storeroom, how my attacker had waited for me at the bottom of the stairs, how he'd kicked, punched, and slapped me.
"He?"
"He talked to me. He said, 'This is how I want to see you from now on. Head down, minding your own business.'" I swallowed, unsure if the tingle in my fingers was from anger or the trauma of reliving the event in words. With perfect memory, I recalled his husky, loathsome voice. It sent chills down my spine.
"Did you see his face?"
"I was on the ground, covering my head while he kicked me. I didn't dare lift my head to look at him, in case he kicked me unconscious."
"Did you notice anything distinguishing? Like what he was wearing, maybe a watch, a tattoo, or a specific pair of shoes?"
"The lights were off. The storeroom is underground and doesn't have windows. It was pitch black."
"Any idea who'd want to do this to you?"
Trigger McClure was the first name that sprang to mind, and I told her so.
Carmina and Officer Oshiro locked eyes. Carmina nodded, and I got the feeling they'd just shared an entire conversation. One that didn't discount my suggestion that Trigger was behind this.
Officer Oshiro said, "What makes you think Trigger would want to hurt you?"
"He threw his drink on me last week at work. He was mad because I wouldn't change his order after it had gone to the grill. I gave him a piece of my mind, and I don't think he liked that, either."
Carmina's mouth pinched. "You didn't tell me," she said disapprovingly, and I felt a twinge of guilt. I had made it a point to tell Carmina as little as possible. In hindsight, maybe I should have told her about Trigger. But I didn't think it would have prevented tonight's attack. I never would have guessed he'd go from throwing his soda at me to assaulting me. I doubted even Carmina would have seen it coming.
"Sounds like the two of you had a conflict," Officer Oshiro said, still speaking in that gentle, understanding voice. "I bet it made you pretty mad when he dumped his drink on you."
"He's an asshole."
"Stella," Carmina warned.
"What? It's the truth." I faced Officer Oshiro. "After he doused me, he took off without paying. Dixie Jo, my boss, had to go to his parents to get the money for his meal. The following night I saw Trigger bully a kid at the Red Barn. Trigger was pressuring the kid to give him free beer. He was also obviously drinking, so I called the cops--you guys. Needless to say, I don't think it really warmed him to me."
"You think he was humiliated enough by those two incidents that he decided to beat you up and put you in your place?" Officer Oshiro wanted to know.
"I think Trigger isn't used to being around a girl who does something besides stroke his ego or feel flattered by his advances."
Another brief glance passed between the officer and Carmina, and both their mouths pressed into a grim line of what I believed to be agreement. Apparently Trigger had made a name for himself--as something other than a baseball star.
I brushed my hair off my forehead, cringing when I accidentally touched the edge of my swollen eye. I'd had a black eye once before, during a game of Crack the Egg on a trampoline. I'd been eight, and clearly time had done a good job of erasing my memory, because I didn't remember it hurting this much. The dull pang of a headache was beginning to settle behind the blackened eye.
Carmina handed me a fresh ice pack and I dabbed it gently against the swelling. She said, "How long did he beat you?"
"A minute or two. It happened quickly, even though it didn't feel that way at the time."
"And then what happened?" Officer Oshiro asked.
"He left. He didn't run. He wasn't scared--he made that clear. He walked out leisurely. But I got a good solid kick in during the attack, and I must have hit him in the leg, because he was limping. It slowed him down."
Officer Oshiro wrote that down on her pad. "How do you know he was limping?"
"I could hear it. His gait was uneven. He favored one leg."
"And after he limped out?"
"There are three doors out of the kitchen. The carhop door, the swinging doors that lead into the dining area, and a back door we use to haul trash bags to the Dumpsters. I'm guessing he used that door. Eduardo was in the kitchen. He must have seen something. The door to the storeroom is easily visible from the cooks' station, where he would have been."
"Same Eduardo who called 911?" Officer Oshiro asked, quickly jotting down more notes.
"Yes."
"I'll touch base with him on that. Meanwhile, any other details from the attack stand out to you? Did the attacker say anything else?"
"He laughed." I shuddered unexpectedly as the snarling timbre of Trigger's voice drifted through me. "He thought what he did was funny. That I deserved it."
15
IT FELT GOOD TO WAKE UP IN MY LITTLE TWIN BED AT the top of the stairs in Carmina's hous
e. For the first time, I appreciated the familiar creak of the mattress and the hot sunlight streaming through the curtains. The room smelled like freshly laundered cotton and wood floor polish, and the smell was so much better than the sterile, recycled air pervading the hospital.
I pulled myself up to sitting, doing a quick inventory of my aches and pains. I was bruised all over, purple blooms splotching my legs, abdomen, torso. Deep down I was hurting, but the medicine--blissfully--masked the worst of it.
Carmina knocked and stuck her head inside. With a large lap tray held between her hands, she was forced to gesture with her shoulders. "I thought you might be hungry for a bite of breakfast. Should I leave it on the nightstand?"
A bite of breakfast included pancakes, eggs, hash browns, bacon, cubed honeydew and cantaloupe, and a tall glass of OJ. Carmina cooked meat and potatoes at nearly every meal, but this breakfast took things to a new level. I'd never seen her make so much food at once. And all of it for me. It had been a long time since I'd felt fussed over. The little girl inside me missed how my mom used to sit at my bedside and touch her cool palm to my fevered head. At the far reaches of my mind, there were still those memories. They were foggy, but they were real. Which made them that much more painful to remember. It's true what they say--you know keenly, cruelly, what you're missing after it's gone.
"Thanks," I said, clearing away the Walkman and cassette tapes from the bedside table. I was growing strangely attached to Van Halen, and usually fell asleep listening to their greatest hits. The cassette tape's audio quality was abysmal, but the music was decent. Anyway, it was good replacement music. I refused to listen to my favorite bands from home. Estella's life in Philly and Stella's life in Thunder Basin were two distinct entities, and I didn't want overlap. Estella had an inner jukebox that played fresh, undiscovered voices over and over until the lyrics became etched on her heart. When she left Philly, she wrapped her favorite songs in a box and placed them high out of reach. A wishful part of me still dreamed I'd get to go back and be her. I'd take down the box and let the music soar freely. But it could never be more than a fantasy, and with every passing day, the dream faded a little and reality brightened.
Estella was gone. Stella was my future.
Dangerous Lies Page 12