“What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know. I traced the number through the area code after I called you the second time. It was easy really.”
I said, “From the train station?”
“Yes, in Florence. I … I ran away. The first reports I heard about the fire said that I was the one who died. That was all right with me. I figured that would give me enough time to find out who didn’t want me to succeed and why. But it took me a while to get to the States. I’d only been in Fort Worth a few days when you came home and found …”
“Steven Miller,” I finished. “What does his death have to do with all this, Steven? Is your name … really … Steven?”
“Actually, it is. It’s not the name I go by, but my middle name is Stephen .. . p-h-e-n … not v-e-n. And, in answer to your other question, Miller was shot by someone who knows ‘Lydia.’ Probably sent by the same ones who want me dead. Honey, for the last time, for God’s sake, tell me, who is Lydia?”
“I am, Stephen. I’m Lydia.”
SEVENTEEN
I didn’t know what to do on Monday morning. It was hard to realize that it had only been two weeks since I’d stopped by Steven Miller’s to have the car checked before I left town.
Even when I do schedule a week in Fort Worth, I plan little things throughout the week so I always have something to occupy my time. One of the things I usually include in a week off is a trip to Steven Bondesky to reconcile my bank statement, so right after a croissant and jelly, I retrieved the Malibu from the clinic garage and headed toward the west side of Fort Worth.
Bondesky’s office is down behind Montgomery Ward, a small, orange brick, garagelike warehouse still bearing the water marks of the 1949 flood up near the ceiling molding. I didn’t know where Bondesky lived. It never occurred to me that he didn’t live in his office; he was always there—like he was that Monday morning when I dropped by unexpectedly.
There was no secretary, just the usual couple of guys that hung around the coffeepot outside the frosted, fly-specked glass of an inner-office door. I smiled toward them, knowing I looked as out of place in the rank-smelling outer office as a daisy growing out of an oil spill, before I tapped on the glass and slipped inside Bondesky’s sanctum. Those guys didn’t invite any further intimacies, and I wouldn’t have wanted to share them if they had.
“What are you doing here?” That’s Bondesky; full of warmth and welcoming cheer. “You’re supposed to be in Boston.”
Everybody knows my schedule.
Bondesky looks like that character from Dick Tracy, the one whose name I can’t remember, but whose buttons keep popping off his shirt because it’s too small to fasten over his big chest and fat belly. Except that Bondesky’s greasy hair was white—or would have been if it was clean—and the cartoon Bondesky’s was black. And the real Bondesky was much older.
I’d inherited him and his talents from my father. “Trust Steven Bondesky, Honey,” my father had always said. “He’ll keep your finances well in hand. He always has mine.”
“Well, I’m not in Boston. I’m here,” I bellowed at Bondesky, matching his welcoming tone.
“I didn’t think you’d let a little thing like a murder keep you from your appointed ways.” Bondesky knows me well.
“How’d you know about the murder?”
“One of the guys read about it in the Star-T, and so he told me about it.”
And I was thinking the stooges outside didn’t know how to talk, and here Bondesky was telling me they could read.
“If you’re so worried about me,” I said pointedly—he hadn’t said he was worried—“you could have called.”
“I figured you need me, you’ll call me,” he answered.
He was wearing a green eyeshade to protect him from an imagined glare of the single overhead hanging bulb, its dirt-encrusted glass fixture absorbing any beam that might escape upward, resulting in Bondesky sitting in the middle of a focused if murky spotlight. Surrounded by dozens of heavy ledgers that spilled over onto two jerry-rigged card tables, their legs tied together with heavy-duty packing string, he looked like a backroom payoff hood from an old black-and-white Dick Powell movie.
The only incongruous touch to the scene was the state-of-the-art Dell P200 computer with its green, inside light displaying rows of numbers, just numbers in clusters of three to six digits each.
Bondesky followed my gaze and reached backward to turn off the monitor. Like I was going to know numbers.
“So, what do you want?”
I was used to his ill-mannered, brash approach to all things human and didn’t take offense at his action or his words. If it was comfort I was seeking, I had come to the wrong place.
“Steven Miller was killed at my house,” I restated what he already knew.
“Your garage man. Yeah, I know him from the bills.”
“My friend,” I corrected.
“Yeah, your friend. What a shock, huh? It didn’t have anything to do with your squirrelly phone call, did it?”
Until he mentioned it, I’d forgotten that I had told Steven Bondesky about that first phone call the day that I’d received it. Looking back, I saw how lonely I must have been, running all over town, blabbing about a mysterious phone call, telling everyone I ran across about the unexpected excitement in my day. Now I had so many people in my life—so many strangers—that I wished I hadn’t told every Tom, Dick, and Harry. No, I corrected myself. I hadn’t told Harry.
I especially wished I hadn’t told Steven Bondesky.
“Uh, the phone call?” I asked, stalling for thinking time.
“Yeah, the one from the guy with the same name as me; the Steven part, not Bondesky.”
Since Stephen had told me how he spelled his name, he’d taken on a different personality for me. The ph instead of the v in his name had separated him from the other three Stevens in my mind and now, just as I had not once realized I knew three men by the same name, Stephen was as removed from a connection with the Stevens as if his name had been Herbert or Charley. I couldn’t honestly say that I knew four Stevens anymore.
“No, his name’s not the same as yours,” I told Steven Bondesky truthfully.
“Oh, I thought it was. Have you heard from him again?”
“Why do you ask?”
“The guy threatened your life. I’m trying to act concerned here. Have you heard from him or not?”
His belligerence and my natural inclination to please forced me to answer in the affirmative, but I hastened to add, “But he didn’t have anything to do with Steven Miller’s death. I’m sure of that. But you’re right; Steven Miller’s death was a shock. After all, I found him …” My voice broke as I remembered Thursday night.
“So, I’m sorry. What’s the matter? The police giving you any hassle?” he asked, his voice indicating that if they were, he’d take care of it. And he probably could have, too. Sometimes there were police cars parked outside; the uniformed officers making a strong statement in contrast with the usual raggedy men.
“The police are fine. Everything’s fine. But thank you for your concern and sympathy. I’ll be sure to pass it on to Steven Miller’s family.”
The banter had gone far enough. I wasn’t afraid of Steven Bondesky. When I was younger, I liked to think that his rude indifference covered a heart of gold; that he was an old softie with a bearlike facade, but it didn’t, and he wasn’t. Steven Bondesky was just an old bastard who was good with numbers. He’d taken me on as a client because of some obscure understanding with my father—God knows where those two had met—and he had kept me out of some perverse sense of pride. Probably derived from the satisfaction he got from listening to his perpetual cronies’ admiration of my legs, breasts, and hair. All that was crisp or curvy about me came under close scrutiny when I ran their gauntlet during my regular visits. Today’s surprise appointment must have them slobbering against the glass door.
I quit the tough-girl, quick retort act and leaned over his odorifer
ous desk. “I do need your help, Bondesky. I need to buy a new car, and you have to help me find the money for it … figure out how I can pay for it.”
“The old jalopy finally folded, huh?”
“No, not yet, but Steven Miller was the only one who could keep it going, and now of course …” My shrug finished the obvious. With Steven Miller dead, I couldn’t risk driving the old reliable out on the road again.
“You gonna buy another Malibu?”
I pointed my finger at him. “Wake up and join the twentieth century, Bondesky. What I need now is a van. Make it easier to carry stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have one yet. But … you know … stuff.”
He reached backward and patted the Dell. “I think the twentieth century and I get along just fine, but I didn’t know about vans. Must not be important enough for me to keep up. Whatcha got in mind, Huckleberry? A Caddie?”
“Come off it. Cadillac doesn’t make vans. I don’t think. And you know I can’t afford a Cadillac.”
“Sure you can.”
“Honestly, Bondesky, you keep my books. You know how I squeak by every year. If I didn’t stay on the road all the time getting tax credit for my expenses, I couldn’t afford to live—even with the house paid for.”
“It’s been ten years, Huckleberry. Don’t you think it’s time to drop the independent act and use some of the dough your old man left you? I think you’ve been stupid about it, anyway. Living in that spooky old mausoleum of a house when you coulda been enjoying the—”
“I did use Father’s money. To get an education. Remember? You’re getting senile, Bondesky. You’re slipping. The money’s gone. It’s been gone for almost six years. What I earn and what you manage to keep for me through taxes is what I’ve got.”
“Nah, I’m not talking about the bank savings account. That was small potatoes. I’m talking about the real money he left you. You know, the big bucks.”
“Get it through your head, there’s no big bucks. There’s no bucks, period.” I opened my purse and took out last week’s receipts. Throwing them on the desk, I said, “I don’t know why I asked for your help, anyway. Here’s last week’s stuff. I didn’t spend the whole night in Alice, but you’ll probably have to pay the bill when you get it.” I headed for the door.
“What kinda van you got in mind?”
“What?”
“Whatcha you want to buy? You want me to get you a deal on another Chevy? A new model?”
I stopped because I did need new transportation and knew I would be hopeless in an automobile showroom. I had put up with Bondesky these many years; I might as well stick. He’d never hurt me yet, and although he had delusions of hidden wealth somewhere in my background—probably from my father’s demeanor—I was telling the truth that his expert manipulations of my meager earnings kept me in croissants and tuna fish and off the welfare line.
“I want a Plymouth Voyager.”
“Voyager, smoyager. Didn’t you say I don’t know from Malibu? What makes this a good choice?”
“Steven Miller once said they must be good because he didn’t get many in to work on. He figured the least maintenance, the better the product. So, since then, I’ve had it in the back of my mind that if I ever needed—”
“Okay, save me the explanations. Sorry I asked. Look, Huckleberry. This is Monday, see. Wednesday. Thursday latest, I’ll get one of the guys to bring you one. Don’t worry about the cost. We’ll take the Chevy and make a deal. I’ll take care of you like always. Okay?”
His eyes had narrowed, or narrowed as much as a person with such a broad face’s eyes could get. For a moment I was tempted to say, “Make sure its all legal, now.” But I didn’t. Bondesky knew how to walk the line.
My resolve almost faded again though when he yelled at the closed door and one of the riffraff slithered in. “Huckleberry,” Bondesky said in his gravelly voice, “this is Jimmy. He’ll make the switch … with the cars … when I find one for you. I wanted you to meet so you wouldn’t be afraid when he shows up. I’ll tell him how to find the house.”
Without prior warning I would have been scared to death, in fact. Jimmy was tall and skeletally thin. He had a bald head, not one of the deceptively sexy ones, but a bony protrusion that was half-covered with a dirty bandage wrapped so close to his head that it looked like he had only one ear. He was so eager to please Bondesky that he just grunted and nodded his acceptance of the assignment. I guess. Maybe he was one of the ones who couldn’t talk.
“That’s too much trouble, Bondesky. I’ll just check back by Thursday morning.” I didn’t want that character near my house.
“No trouble. Jimmy’s my best man. He’ll take care of you.”
That’s what I was afraid of.
“Thank you,” I said and sidestepped Jimmy to take my leave.
“Huckleberry?”
I almost fell as I tried to turn and avoid touching Jimmy at the same time. “What?” I asked.
“What color you want?”
Holding my breath so I wouldn’t breathe in the same air as Jimmy, I squeaked, “Surprise me,” and left.
EIGHTEEN
I didn’t have any other place to go, so I went home and took a bath. I’d had one last night before Stephen called, but after thirty minutes with Bondesky and company, I felt dirty again, deep-down dirty.
Spring storm clouds were gathering once more as I came downstairs to fix a late lunch. I looked outside, but didn’t see Joaquin. The sky was turning dark as the clouds swept by like ghost riders, and I turned on the kitchen light before daring to reach inside the pantry for a can of tuna.
The can felt like the right size, but I was disgusted to find it was water chestnuts. “Why would I buy water chestnuts?” I asked myself, my voice sounding strange in the gloom that preceded the coming storm. Summing all my strength, I reached back in the pantry for another can the same size. It was tuna. I wondered how it would taste with water chestnuts.
It was okay; crunchy like apples, but with no real flavor.
What with fixing and eating the sandwich and then cleaning up the small mess I’d made, I was unaware of the size of the approaching turbulence outside. All of a sudden, it was terribly quiet, just like they say about the calm before the storm, and I shivered. But not just from the weather. With the same surety I had felt on Thursday night that I was alone in the house with Steven Miller’s body, I now knew that I was not alone.
What to do?
I could cross over the short distance to the back door and run outside into the now-pelting rain, or I could stand right where I was and wait for someone to push open the swinging door from the dining room, or I could …
There were footsteps heading my way. I’d never make it to the outside door, and I couldn’t just stand there like a helpless victim.
I hid in the pantry.
All the nameless fears of my childhood descended upon me as I shut myself into the tiny area. My heart was beating so furiously at finding myself voluntarily entombed in the most dreaded spot of my house that I couldn’t breathe. And with my head swimming from the dizziness of the lack of oxygen and fear, I could barely hear the footsteps of the unknown intruder. I gasped in air, holding my hand over my mouth to cover the sound.
The back door was opened, and I could hear the heavy rainfall. I thought maybe he’d go on out, but then I heard the refrigerator door open, and after a few seconds, close.
He was still in the house.
After some kitchen type noises and the sound of the dining room door swinging to and fro again, I relaxed my position. I had been standing on tiptoe, one hand clutching the miniature doorknob, holding the door shut in case he tried to enter. Stepping back on my heels and taking a deep breath sent me into another spiral of breathless terror; I was still in the pantry, it’s narrow width and dead odors sending renewed chills up my spine.
If I moved backward, I’d hit my head on the underside of the staircase. To the side
s were the can-loaded shelves. Sweat broke out on my forehead as I fought claustrophobia. Anything was better than this. I started to open the door when I heard another noise. Disoriented now, I didn’t know if it came from the kitchen or above me. I was afraid to stay in the pantry but certain I would be killed if I didn’t.
After about thirty minutes of crouching in a stiff, defensive position, my legs started to cramp. Nauseous with the stale smells surrounding me, I swayed as I tentatively reached out to actually touch the sides. Supporting myself by holding on to one of the shelves, I shook out first one leg and then, reversing handholds, the other.
I heard the distant thunder—or was it someone on the steps above me?
I can sit down, I thought. Yes, I can.
No, I couldn’t.
Finally, I had to.
Occasionally, when I mopped the kitchen floor, I had opened the pantry and taken a few quick swipes inside. Just enough to push dust and dirt and who knows what else back up under the stairs, I realized as I sat down heavily, bumping my head on a lower upside-down stair. The debris of my mopping efforts and probably of more years than that greeted my hands as I touched the floor to shift to a more comfortable position. I shuddered as I rubbed my hands together, trying to rid them of the gritty trash.
Sitting with my knees crossed, not daring to think what I was sitting on, I held my hands outstretched on my lap like a physician preparing to don surgical gloves for an operation. I was surprised that my back was as comfortable as it was; I had imagined that the pantry extended all the way back in a descending order to the last step, but I seemed to be leaning against some kind of board. I leaned my weight against it and waited.
My thoughts were of whoever was in my house—upstairs or wherever—and to help me forget where I was, I remembered how Stephen and I had finished our phone call last night.
He’d been fascinated by the origin of the poem game; wanted to know immediately where Steven Hyatt was now, disappointed when I told him Australia.
The Complete Honey Huckleberry Box Set Page 9