Good Sam

by Dete Meserve

  In my experience, when a guy cooks for a woman, he does it as a surefire seduction ploy—a way to make her feel cared for and relaxed, and maybe to show off a little so he can whisk her off to bed later. If that was his intention, it was working. After a little wine, I felt the aches in my muscles relaxing..

  “You’ll have to stop looking at me like that,” he said, “or I won’t finish making the soup.”

  “What kind of look am I giving you?” I said, all sassy and confident. But I was a bundle of nerves inside.

  “Like you want me to kiss you.”

  “You misread my look, Captain Hayes,” I whispered, bringing my lips within inches of his. “I was only marveling at your onion-chopping technique.”

  His eyes were smoky with laughter. “If I didn’t have my hands full of onions, I’d kiss that grin off your face.”

  “Promises, promises,” I said and slipped out of arm’s reach.

  In the corner of the pantry by the back door, I spotted something that resembled a two-foot-tall vinyl horseshoe.

  “What’s this?” I asked, peering at the faded orange cover, dry and cracked like peeling bark.

  “A buoy. It used to be on my brother’s boat. We had it since we were kids, but he thought it brought him good luck, so he made sure it was onboard every time he sailed.”

  “So everyone in your family liked to sail?”

  “Brian loved sailing more than anything. He said it was in our blood because we had a great-grandfather who used to build ships. Brian was always the first to get on and the last to get off The Crazy Eight.”

  “The Crazy Eight?”

  He dumped a handful of chopped onions into the pot. “That was the name of Brian’s boat. She was fast but steady, even in choppy water. And beautiful. As elegant a mast as I’ve ever sailed.”

  “Do you have photos?”

  “There’s a photo album somewhere on the shelf in the living room.”

  I found the album nestled alongside Navigation the Easy Way, a worn copy of Two Years Before the Mast, and a tome titled, The Annapolis Book to Seamanship. Inside was page after page of sailboat photographs, taken at sea at all times of the day and night. I could feel the photographer’s love of sailing in the way the light caressed the tall sails and glinted on the deep blue waters. There were pictures of Brian and Eric sailing, both of them tanned and smiling. Other photos were of a party while the ship was moored in a marina—sun-kissed faces in the glow of warm lights, wine glasses raised.

  One of the faces in the photographs looked familiar. I leaned in to get a closer look. Standing on deck, his arms linked with Brian and Eric’s, was Larry Durham, the out-of-work carpenter who had received money from Good Sam—or at least someone who looked like him. Maybe it was an optical illusion. Perhaps at the precise moment the photograph had been taken, the light and shadows had assembled in such a way as to make the man look like Larry Durham.

  I brought the photo album into the kitchen. “Is this Larry Durham?”

  Eric peered over my shoulder at the photo. “Not sure who it is.”

  “He looks exactly like one of the people I interviewed who received money from Good Sam.” I noticed the tattoo on his neck. “Even down to the tattoo.”

  Eric shook his head. “I think he was a friend of my brother’s. From New Jersey.”

  “Weird how the eyes can play tricks on you.”

  Eric placed a warm hand around my waist, nuzzled my neck, and took the album from my hands. “Why don’t you put that book away and taste this chicken soup? I think it’s missing something.”

  Maybe it was his touch that crackled like electricity along my skin or the way he toyed with my feet under the table as I inhaled the delicious soup he had made. Maybe it was the way he spoke to me, caressing me with his voice, deep and warm. It felt right being with him, like we always had been together. Yet there was also a tension between us. I think we both felt our attraction deepening but weren’t sure what we were going to do about it.

  “Have your eyes always been green?” he asked.

  “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

  A soft grin lifted the corners of his mouth. “I kind of liked it—your coming on to me like that.”

  “I wasn’t coming on to you,” I said. “I really thought your eyes were green.”

  I picked up my bowl and headed to the kitchen. As I passed him, he reached out and tugged on my hand.

  “You weren’t flirting with me then? Not even a little?”

  “Not even a little,” I teased. “I hardly noticed you.”

  He stood. “And now? Would you flirt with me now?”

  “Maybe a little,” I whispered, as my pulse picked up its pace.

  He kissed me, more urgently this time. I felt his body, rigid and hard against mine, and I knew where this was headed, knew where I wanted it to go. My hand lingered at his waist then roamed the length of his body, pulling him to me.

  He closed his eyes. “Don’t,” he whispered, “or I won’t be able to keep my promise to be a Boy Scout tonight.”

  “I don’t remember your promising to be a Boy Scout.” I said it brazenly, but I was quaking inside, anticipating what would come next, surprised by my own need.

  He took my hand and held it. “God, I want this,” he said quietly. “I want you.”

  I drank in what he said, absorbed it like a thirsty flower in a desert rain. I was supposed to be the one with a gift for words, but in that moment, I didn’t have any.

  He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “But given what you’ve been through, we shouldn’t rush things.”

  I linked my arms around his neck. “I’m fine. Really I am.”

  “You almost drowned. You need to rest, get your strength back.”

  He’d said it gently, sincerely. I had no doubt he was concerned about me. Still I couldn’t help feel stung by his rejection. Most men would’ve seized the opportunity no matter what a woman had been through—especially when I was so clearly willing. But Eric was clearly not most men.

  It only made me want him more intensely. As I lay on the couch with him, his arms enfolding me, I felt wonderfully cared for, safe. But as my eyes grew heavy, I wondered what it would be like to touch his body freely. To have him touch me. What it would be like when we finally made love.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I’m fine,” I argued on the phone with David the next morning. I had finished my third cup of coffee and was organizing all the medicines on my kitchen table, getting a little stir-crazy.

  “You almost drowned. Seriously, take a few more days off and come back when you’re one hundred percent better.”

  “I am one hundred percent better. Want to call my doctor? He’ll tell you.” I was bluffing, of course, because I hadn’t seen my doctor since I’d been released from the hospital.

  He sighed. “All right. But I’m giving you an easy assignment.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t argue,” he protested. “Take it easy. When you’re up for it, I want you to get reaction from a Good Sam recipient about Jack Hansen’s bid for Congress.”

  “On it. Who’s already been interviewed?”

  I heard him clicking through a list on his computer. “Just about all of them. But no network or station has been able to get Dr. Kryvoskya or that Durham guy to talk to them on camera. But seeing as you broke the story with them, maybe they’ll talk to you. So pick one of them, but only one today. Then go home and rest. I mean it, Kate. Go slow.”

  I wasn’t interested in going slow. I wanted to race back into my life. Unfortunately, my body wasn’t cooperating. The muscles in my legs and back, bruised and battered, pulsed with hot pain. I figured the best way to get through the rest of it was to forge ahead and get my mind off it.

  Josh had been assigned to a cover a story about the Valley Bandits, who had just pulled off their third bank robbery in the San Fernando Valley so the newsroom assigned a new photographer, Jeff, to work with me for the day. I was disapp
ointed but also relieved. Jeff was a thirty-something cameraman with two awards for video photojournalism from the National Press Photographers Association, so I knew his work would be good. I had also heard that he wasn’t one for small talk, which meant I wouldn’t have to expend any energy holding a conversation.

  As I left my apartment and headed to the waiting news van, I was surprised to find Alex waiting for me. His normally pressed khakis pants were wrinkled, and it actually looked like he had the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow on his pale, young face. “I know you’re still recovering from the accident but…how do I say this?” He ran his fingers through his mussed hair. “I haven’t told anyone. And I didn’t want to tell you over the phone or in front of everybody. I’ve been waiting until you were well enough—”

  “What’s this about, Alex?”

  “Phil, the forensics accountant, put together a detailed list of each of Jack’s cash withdrawals.” He paused, clearly nervous. “It looks like Jack definitely withdrew over a million dollars, like he said he did. But we followed the money and…” he trailed off.

  “Go on,” I urged.

  “Jack’s first withdrawal of funds happened two days after Michael and Marie Ellis received their cash. The money they received didn’t come from Jack Hansen.”

  I felt my skin get clammy. “Why the hell didn’t Phil tell us this before?”

  “Jack sent something like eight different statements with more than one hundred transactions in a thirty-day period. If you remember, Phil verified that Jack had withdrawn more than a million dollars, but we hadn’t hired him to correlate the dates people received money with the actual withdrawals.”

  I leaned against the van to steady myself. “But if he didn’t withdraw the money until two days after the Ellises got their cash from Good Sam, then how did they or Cristina Gomez or Larry Durham or even Dr. K get their money?”

  “Phil and I have been wondering the same thing,” he said quietly.

  Was it possible that Jack wasn’t Good Sam?

  If Jack wasn’t Good Sam, then who was?

  I turned this question over and over in my mind as Jeff drove me through Hollywood that morning. There’s an otherworldly quality to every neighborhood in the early-morning hours, and Hollywood is no exception. Its graffiti-stained sidewalks and front yards fortressed with chain-link fences were awash with sleep and an almost luminous greenish yellow light. The sounds of the city in the distance were hushed, while the ones up close were magnified—the hiss of sprinklers, the sparrows calling out from the eucalyptus trees.

  “Where do you want to go first?” Jeff asked as we stopped at a busy intersection.

  I handed him the scribbled piece of paper with the addresses David had given me for Dr. Kryvoskya and Larry Durham. “Let’s start with Larry Durham,” I said absently then turned my attention to a large black crow preening on a bus stop bench. He marched along the bench ruffling his feathers and trumpeting a steady caw.

  While Jack had paraded himself as Good Sam, was the real Good Sam still out there, still undiscovered?

  I needed time to think this through and wished I hadn’t agreed to take on today’s assignment.

  “This is 144 North Mariposa,” Jeff said, interrupting my thoughts. “Larry Durham’s house.”

  As he parked the van, I spotted Larry Durham going into his front door. I got out, gingerly favoring my right leg, which was stiffer than the other.

  “Larry!” I called out. “Wait!”

  I’m sure I was quite the sight, hobbling toward him, shouting.

  “Shouldn’t you be at home recovering? I saw the story about you getting caught in the river.”

  “News never sleeps.” I shuffled up the steps, surprised how much out of breath I was after such a short distance. “I’m trying to get reactions to Good Sam’s run for Congress.”

  “Much as I like getting the money, I kind of wish Good Sam hadn’t come.” He swept a cobweb from his entryway. “Complete strangers call or just show up on my doorstep asking for money. New ‘friends’ invite me to stuff, hoping I’ll pick up the tab or invest in one of their dreams. And you reporters never leave me alone.”

  “How do you feel about Jack Hansen—Good Sam—running for public office?”

  He shrugged. “I like that he’s looking out for guys like me. Can’t say that most politicians even take notice.”

  “Can I get you to say that on camera?”

  He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. “You know I won’t. So you can stop asking.”

  “It’ll only take a minute to—”

  “Don’t waste your time on me.” He touched a lighter to the end of the cigarette and started to go back into his house. “Go on. Interview someone else.”

  I could tell from the way he was looking at me that I wouldn’t be able to persuade him to agree to an interview this time. But then I remembered the photo I’d seen in Eric’s album. The image that looked like Larry Durham. “You got a twin, Larry?” I asked, hoping the questioning might keep him talking long enough that I could get him to change his mind about an interview.

  He stopped and turned around. “Not that my parents told me.”

  “Funny thing. Someone was showing me some photographs and I swear I saw someone who looked exactly like you.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe it was me.”

  “You ever been on a sailboat that belonged to Brian and Eric Hayes?”

  He blew a cloud of smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “All the time.”

  The blood drained from my face. I struggled for words, but nothing came out of my mouth.

  “Why are you looking at me like that? I don’t look like the boating kind to you? You think because I don’t wear topsiders and khakis, I can’t set foot on a sailboat?”

  “It’s not that. I didn’t expect you to know Eric or Brian.”

  “Knew them? I was practically a member of their family.”

  “How did you know them?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You doing a story about them?”

  I shook my head.

  “Brian was my best friend since fourth grade. After high school we kind of went our separate ways. He became big with the whole houses thing, while I went to work with my hands, building houses. But the boats always brought us back together. I did all the repairs to the decks and a good load of the cabinetry below.”

  “Eric said it wasn’t you in the photograph on the sailboat.”

  “Can’t blame him for forgetting, considering what he’s been through.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  “The accident. It devastated everyone—Eric more so than just about anyone.”

  I didn’t know what he meant about an accident, but I knew better than to press too hard. “How do you mean?”

  “He shut down after that. He’d not only lost a brother, but he lost his sailing buddy, the one person who loved sailing almost as much as he did.”

  “Do you still see him?”

  “Eric? No. I think I remind him too much of the times we had when Brian was alive.” He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Good times.”

  Larry looked away and turned silent after that. His solemn expression made me change my mind about asking any more questions.

  My mind was racing, but I knew what I had to do next. Maybe Larry’s connection to Eric and Brian Hayes was just a coincidence, a fluke. So we headed to Cristina Gomez’s house to test my theory. Unfortunately, Jeff didn’t have Josh’s navigating skills, so we got lost twice before we finally found her place.

  Cristina Gomez had become one of Jack Hansen’s biggest supporters. She had seen and read everything about his run for Congress and seemingly memorized it, reciting it nearly word for word. Sporting a new haircut that made her look ten years younger, she spoke with me on her front porch.

  “We need a congressman like Jack Hansen. He will make the needs of workers like me a priority.”

  She went on in detail about h
ow Jack Hansen had changed her life, but I wasn’t listening. I was wondering why Eric hadn’t told me anything about his brother’s accident. Why had he never mentioned he knew Larry Durham, even when I talked about the people Good Sam had helped? Even when Larry was in the photograph with Eric and Brian?

  Then my mind made one of those giant leaps it often does when facts and evidence don’t make sense. Forget Occam’s razor, the theory of the fourteenth-century philosopher that the simplest answer is most often the correct one. Sometimes the most far-fetched answer is the only plausible one.

  A far-fetched question for Cristina Gomez was poised on my tongue. A wave of heat rushed to my head as I waited for the right time to ask it.

  When Cristina paused for a moment, the question flew out of my mouth. “Did you know a man named Brian Hayes?”

  I expected her to look at me strangely, maybe even to ask what this question had to do with the interview about Jack Hansen. Instead her eyes misted over. “Of course.”

  My throat tightened. I had my answer. But what now?

  “How did you know him?” I asked.

  “I was a babysitter to his son from when he was born until he started school last year. Why do you ask about him?”

  “It’s complicated,” I said, unsure how to explain my thinking. “Did you know him very well?”

  “I used to babysit his son every day and sometimes until late into the night. Brian and his wife worked long hours. The boy, Jonathan, was often sick. He had many ear infections, pneumonia twice…and terrible asthma.”

  Was it simply an odd coincidence that two of the people Jack had given money to had connections to Brian Hayes? Was it possible that if I interviewed people at random—say, two people in the grocery checkout line—I could find something that linked them together?

  I remembered the words of one of my college journalism professors. “The problem with being human is that we see connections to events that are purely coincidental. What you need is proof.”

  I was going to find it.