Hush Money

by T. E. Woods

  “I understand you want to speak to me.” Sydney settled an arm against the back of the woman’s chair.

  The woman stabbed a finger toward Mike. “I want that man fired.” Her voice was loud enough that patrons seated next to her stopped their conversation.

  “Did he mix your drink incorrectly?”

  “I don’t need my drinks mixed. Whiskey straight up’s always been my poison.” The woman’s words were slurred. “My husband’s late. Always is. So I’m biding my time like a good little wife. Least I can do is reward myself with a drink. But liquor cop over there cut me off.”

  Sydney gave her a gentle smile. “There’s been a morning or two in my life when I wished someone had been kind enough to stop me the night before. I understand Mike suggested ice water. Would you prefer coffee? Perhaps some tea?”

  “I prefer to get what I ordered! I prefer two fingers of whiskey. No ice. And I prefer that you go away and let me wait for my clock-challenged husband in peace.”

  “Ice water, coffee, or tea. What will it be?”

  The woman stared up at Sydney with bleary eyes. “That sounded like an order.”

  Sydney leaned in and spoke softly into the woman’s ear. “I’m calling you a cab. Go home and get some rest. Give me your husband’s name and I’ll let him know you waited as long as you could.”

  “My husband’s name?” People sitting at nearby tables looked up. “You don’t know who the fuck I am, do you?” She looked around as if to see if people grasped the totality of Sydney’s ignorance. “I’m Phoebe Millerman! But you can call me First Lady. And I’m waiting for the head honcho. Boss man. The big cheese.”

  Sydney looked toward Mike and held up four fingers. It was the signal the entire staff knew meant Call a cab. Mike reached for a phone and Sydney returned her attention to the mayor’s wife. “I’ve had the opportunity to meet your husband on two separate occasions.” She dropped her tone to one of conspiratorial camaraderie. “I’m sure it comes as no surprise to you he was late each time.”

  “Ha!” Phoebe slapped the bar. “Tell me about it. Only way to get the bastard to show up on time is to guarantee a news crew’s on the scene, waiting to snap a photo. Yes, sir. That gets the old goat checking his watch. You can damned sure believe that!”

  Mike brought over a glass with two fingers of brown liquid. He placed it in front of the drunken woman.

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Phoebe roared. “Never hesitate to call in the owner, children. Gets the help hoppin’ every time.” She lifted the glass to her lips, took a slurp, and grimaced. Once again Sydney leaned down to whisper.

  “That’s iced tea, Mrs. Millerman. There’ll be no more whiskey for you tonight. At least not here. Now, you can sip that and save face while we wait for the cab, or I can have a very tall, very strong gentleman escort you back to my office. Make your decision.”

  Phoebe Millerman gave her best attempt at a steely glare, but her wavering focus didn’t cooperate. She lifted her glass and toasted Sydney, splashing her iced tea. “Top shelf. On the house for my troubles?”

  “Of course.” This time Sydney spoke loudly enough for eavesdropping ears. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. We hope to see you at Hush Money often.”

  Sydney stood beside the mayor’s wife, making small talk, until a cab pulled up in front of the restaurant. She turned Phoebe’s chair and offered her an arm.

  “No need,” Madison’s first lady slurred. “When Hizzoner arrives, tell him I got fed up with waiting.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Sydney watched the woman totter away. When the cab pulled away from the curb, Sydney turned to give Mike a nod and a smile.

  “First round’s done and gone.” Nancy Richardson slid in to slip her arm around her daughter’s waist and lead her back to the dining room. “Nothing but high praise, from what I can pick up. And from the looks of the bar, we’ll have no trouble with a complete second wave of diners. I’d say Hush Money’s off and running.”

  Sydney watched her crew clear and reset the tables. Efficiently. Silently. “How goes the service?”

  “My team’s filled with pros. Each and every one of them.”

  “Any word from Windy?”

  Nancy shook her head, her lips set in a firm, thin line. Sydney remembered earning that look more than a few times during her childhood.

  “No call. No explanation. If she shows up tomorrow, she’s going to get a piece of my mind…and not the light and fuzzy piece, either.”

  Sydney laughed. She remembered being on the receiving end of that as a child, too. “Maybe you better leave Windy to me, Mom. I’d hate for there to be bloodshed.”

  “Hey! You mess with my kid’s big night, you get what you get. Things are humming here, Syd. I’m heading over to check on Ten-Ten.”

  After the encounter with the powerfully connected Phoebe Millerman, Sydney was in the mood for the common people. “Let me, Mom. You serve as queen bee for me here, okay?”

  Nancy’s ample bosom swelled with pride and purpose. “Hear me buzz!”

  —

  No one would have heard the door connecting her two restaurants open over the din in the Ten-Ten. The place was filled wall to wall with patrons laughing, drinking, and chowing down on Roland Delmardo’s burgers. Sydney had been hesitant to ask the great chef to concoct something so basic but had been surprised at his enthusiasm for the challenge.

  “I’m going to remove all debate,” he’d said. “I will create something so amazing they will whisper my name wherever aficionados of meat between bread congregate.”

  And he had. He’d nearly driven a local baker mad before she developed a bun worthy of his handiwork. He held the mixture of meats going into the patty as closely as a state secret. He’d even mused about hiring a patent attorney. He was just as secretive about the sauce he created as the sole condiment he’d allow.

  “My burger comes as I designed,” Roland warned the staff during their training. “Should anyone dare to defile it by requesting cheese or”—the chef had to swallow his disgust before he continued—“ketchup, give them the address of the nearest drive-through. Then disinfect the booth you threw them out of.”

  Roscoe was too busy behind the bar to see her walk in. She stood for a moment, a fly on the wall observing the goings-on. The Ten-Ten was going to be exactly what she’d hoped for: Madison’s best for Madison’s best.

  “Kitz!” Horst Welke waved her toward his table. He offered introductions as she pulled up a chair. “This here is Bob Clark. Sergeant at the West Side station.” He pointed to a pretty young woman with a long, thick ponytail. “That’s Bonnie Malory, EMT from Middleton. And that flabby wart sitting next to her is her husband, Gary. They ride the same truck. How he ever got a looker like Bonnie is anybody’s guess. Word on the street is he’s got some kind of mind control.”

  “It’s the way I have with the ladies,” Gary joked. “They’re all a sucker for my style.”

  Horst waved him off. “Next to Gary is Jillian Kohler. She’s a detective stationed downtown. Last and certainly least we got Rick Sheffield, canine unit.”

  Sydney welcomed each of them, letting them know she hoped they’d come by often.

  “Are you kidding?” Bonnie Malory asked. “I’m going to try to find a way to inject that burger into my veins! What’s in that thing?”

  Sydney shrugged. “I’m as in the dark as you. Chef swears the recipe goes to the grave with him.”

  “Then let’s put a special protective detail on him. Call the Secret Service!”

  “You’re Joe Richardson’s kid.” Jillian Kohler’s eyes filled with respect. “Joe taught investigative techniques when I was in the academy. Let me tag along on a couple of his cases even before I made the force. Hell of a man, your father.”

  “Thank you.” Sydney felt the same mixture of grief and pride she felt whenever anyone mentioned her dad.

  “Great guy. But with a mug that always reminded me of a pissed-off bulldog. You must tak
e after your mom.” Rick Sheffield smiled as though he were offering a compliment. “In fact, with that pale skin and black hair, you’re the spitting image of Vivien Leigh. Remember her? Gone with the Wind?”

  “She was dead before I was born. She couldn’t be my mother.”

  Sydney saw the bewilderment on the faces of the newly met cops and regretted her knee-jerk reaction to Rick’s comment. Horst laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

  “Sydney’s a looker, all right. I knew Joe Richardson better than anyone on the force. A finer man you’ll never find. But let’s say Sydney’s better off inheriting Joe’s ethic and drive.”

  Horst gave Sydney a look that signaled he’d always have her back. She returned a grateful nod.

  “How goes it with Madison’s upper crust?” he asked her. “I explained to these lugs how this joint’s connected to the other one. Thanks for keeping us separate, by the way.”

  “Like the prices wouldn’t keep you out of Hush Money,” Gary Malory teased. “I heard a drink and appetizer cost you a week’s pay.”

  “I’d rather be here,” Horst declared. “Leave the back-slapping, palm-greasing, and under-the-table crowd over there. Hush Money. Tell you what, Syd. You named it right.”

  “I’ve already had to send one drunk home in a cab,” Sydney offered. “My hunch is she won’t be the last.”

  “The difference is, with us you won’t be bothered calling a taxi. One of ours goes three sheets, we take care of ’em ourselves,” Horst promised.

  The table backed him up with a chorus of raised glasses. The party around them rolled on. Sydney didn’t speak much. She focused on these people. Her father’s people. Men and women who said what they meant, without filtering their words to fit any sort of impression they were trying to make. People who tolerated no pretense or guile.

  People who didn’t have secrets they’d be willing to give up their infant child to protect.

  Sydney shook that thought out of her head.

  Horst reached into his breast pocket, pulled out his cellphone, and answered it. He must have had it set to vibrate. There was no way to hear its ringing over the boisterous crowd and the classic rock Horst had programmed the jukebox to play. She watched the good-natured jocularity disappear from his face as he listened to whoever was on the other end.

  “Yeah…yeah…when?” Horst looked at his watch. “Who’s there now?…I’ll bring Jillian.”

  At the sound of her name, Detective Jillian Kohler set down her beer and focused her attention on Horst. Then the entire table stopped speaking and did the same.

  “Yeah, I know where that is,” Horst continued. “Give me seven minutes. Eight on the outside.” He closed the phone, drained the last of his beer, and pointed to Jillian. “We’re up, slugger.”

  Jillian stood without a single comment or question.

  Horst once again laid his hand on Sydney’s shoulder. “Sorry to leave such a swell party, Syd. Duty calls.”

  She remembered many nights like this. Her father settled into dinner or a ball game on TV. Then came the phone call that would pull him away from his family. He always went. Her mother had taught her early never to complain.

  “It’s his job,” she’d say. “Be proud. Dad belongs to more than us.”

  “Can I ask you something?” Horst turned to Sydney. “Over there?”

  She walked to the corner he indicated.

  “That drunk,” Horst asked. “The one you sent home in a cab. That wouldn’t happen to have been the mayor’s wife, would it?”

  Sydney hesitated. She liked to keep the confidences of her patrons. Then again, Phoebe Millerman had made a show of letting everyone there know who she was.

  “It was. She said she was waiting for her husband. Am I allowed to ask why you want to know?”

  Horst looked her square in the eye. “Because she told a police officer she’d been at Hush Money since it opened.”

  “Is she all right? Did the cab have an accident or something?”

  “No. But now she knows why her husband didn’t meet her for cocktails and dinner.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s dead on the floor at home.”

  Chapter 4

  NOW

  Shouldn’t there be more stars out? The young woman walked through the night. She recalled nothing specific about the reason she was headed through the neighborhood of stately older homes, but she had the sense her feet knew where to take her. They steered her away from the well-lit main thoroughfares and kept her in the darkened realm of residential streets.

  Why am I so tired? Am I supposed to keep walking? A thought came to her that she hadn’t a clue to whom she was asking all these questions. Nor did she expect an answer. Somehow, though, the questions kept her anchored. The walking seemed directed. I need to be somewhere else. The realization was insistent and clear. Each time it came to her she strained to think of where it was she was supposed to be.

  Keep walking was the only response her mind could give her. Every now and then she’d hear voices. People sitting on their porches. A delicate tinkling in between soft conversation. That’s ice. I’m thirsty. I can’t ask them. That would be rude. Keep walking.

  She turned her face away from the glare of headlights as cars passed by. When a car approached from behind her, she focused on the sidewalk, somehow realizing yet not truly believing that the shadow cast there was hers. She had no notion of how long she’d been putting one foot in front on the other, but she did know her legs were tired. She stopped at a corner and read the street signs.

  Odana and Nakoma.

  Her feet led her south on Nakoma Road. The houses grew even grander. Set farther back from the road. She couldn’t hear any voices now. The only sound came from the occasional passing car. As she walked on, the houses on the left side of the road disappeared, replaced by an urban forest.

  I could stop here. I could rest. She followed a dirt trail into the woods and walked straight toward a giant oak. She sat at its base, leaned her back against the trunk. It didn’t occur to her to be afraid. She didn’t wonder if she was trespassing. All she knew was that she was exhausted. It had been a long time since she had left that dead man. It’s done.

  She closed her eyes and gave in to the fatigue. Her next awareness was that she was very cold. She opened her eyes and saw little distinction between the blackness of her slumber and the deep dark of the forest. She tried to yawn in a chestful of cool night air. Her tongue felt stuck to the roof of her mouth. She stretched, stood, leaned against the mighty oak, and stared straight ahead to the faint glow of streetlights. I have to use the bathroom.

  She glanced left and right. The darkness was deep enough to conceal her. She lowered her trousers, squatted, and relieved herself next to the tree that had offered her sanctuary.

  Then she resumed her walk under the moonless sky.

  She focused on the sound of her feet as they led her down Seminole Highway. He’s dead, her right foot would call out. I’m glad, her left foot answered. Mile after mile her mind was filled with the call-and-response of her steps. The walking erased her chill. She wasn’t certain if it was her arboreal nap or the crisp night air that reenergized her. She didn’t need to know. She needed only to keep walking.

  She stopped at one corner. The signs told her it was Seminole and Warwick.

  Not much farther.

  Her mind didn’t offer specifics. Then again, it wasn’t being particularly generous with anything that evening. But her feet proved loyal and she answered their fidelity with submission. She turned west on Warwick. The houses weren’t grand here. Not at all. Small boxes crowded close together. Dogs barking. Cars parked on lawns.

  Two blocks later she came to one particular house and stopped, staring. There’s a key under the third rock. There’s food inside. There’s a bed.

  She didn’t question how she knew these things. She got the key, opened the door, and stepped into a home she intuitively knew belonged to her. She went first to the ki
tchen, where she cupped her hands under the faucet and drank her fill. Then she turned down a small hallway to a bedroom that seemed familiar.

  Take a shower. Clean yourself. Burn your clothes.

  An awareness flickered deep in her subconscious. Her brain was giving her more than instructions. It was handing her a warning.

  Now! Do it now!

  But her exhaustion was total. She stumbled to a bed she knew was hers and collapsed.

  I’ll listen tomorrow. I promise.

  Chapter 5

  NOW

  It was nearly midnight when Sydney passed the wrought-iron railing at 1 North Pinckney, descended the staircase, and entered the Low Down Blues. She raised her hand to the man onstage. Jimmy “Slow Kick” Williams returned the greeting with a small nod and never missed a beat as he sat with his Fender Stratocaster across his knees, singing the sad tale of a lover who left him with nothing but an already-used bag of Lipton tea. Sydney walked straight to the bar. Four seats were open. She chose the one on the corner.

  “I wasn’t sure we’d see you tonight.” The man behind the bar poured a generous serving of chilled pinot grigio and handed it to her. “How’d it go?”

  Sydney took a long sip. “Opening night’s done. Let’s say that.”

  “Let’s say more.” Clay Hawthorne leaned a toned arm against the bar. “Any woman brave enough to open two restaurants on the same night has things to teach me.”

  Sydney laughed. “About insanity, maybe. And what’s with you? Since when does the owner take a shift behind the bar?”

  “Since he caught his regularly scheduled guy coking up in the bathroom.”

  “Oh, no! The new guy? What’s his name? Faldo?”

  “Falbo,” Clay corrected. “And yeah. Him. Third night on the job.”

  “So he just left?”

  “I gave him a choice. Get the hell out or I call the cops. You’ll learn, Syd. One whiff you’re running an establishment that tolerates that kind of crap, and you’re hip deep in lowlifes by next Tuesday.”