The Shoal of Time

by J. M. Redmann

  “Great choice,” she said with a smile, taking the French toast for herself. She sighed and said, “I have to be in a meeting in an hour.”

  “So we’d better eat.”

  “We don’t have to speed eat, but we can’t linger either.” She added, “This time.”

  That was good enough for me. “It’s pretty nice having coffee and food magically appear. You can’t make the entire world go away.”

  She smiled and we ate. Once we were finished, she said, “I need to get ready. Which means I’m going to have to throw you out.” She gave me the wistful smile again.

  “I’ll stay out of your way,” I offered. “And I can take you where you need to go.”

  “It’s just a few blocks away, I’ll walk. And…you’re a distraction.”

  “That’s a bad thing?”

  “It is when I can’t be distracted.” She stood up, took me firmly by the hand, and led me back to the bedroom. “You have to get dressed and out of here and I have to get ready for my meeting.” She let go of my hand.

  I did as I was told, finding my clothes and getting into them. One advantage of the winter months was that yesterday’s clothes weren’t crusted in dried sweat. Never attractive. Ashley went back to the other room while I was dressing. That way neither of us could be a distraction to the other.

  Once I was finished, I rejoined her. She was standing by the arm chair, putting her notepad into her briefcase, still in the bathrobe. It had loosened slightly, showing the pale skin of her neck, leading to the soft mounds of her breasts. She was wearing nothing under it.

  But we couldn’t be distracted. “Have you seen my phone?” I asked. I had thought I’d brought it to the bedroom with me, that’s my usual habit, but it wasn’t there.

  “Your phone? I don’t…oh, wait, there it is.” She picked it up off the side table by the love seat.

  I took it from her and stuffed it in my pocket.

  We walked to the door.

  “I’m sorry to run you out like this…”

  “It’s okay. At least you fed me first.”

  She looked down, then up at me. “I shouldn’t do this,” she said. She put her arms around me tightly and kissed me.

  I kissed her back, embracing her. She smelled fresh and clean from the shower, her mouth a mix of sweet and coffee, riveting and intoxicating.

  She pulled away. “I…we…you need to go.” Her voice was shaky. Adding more firmly, “I need to be in meetings most of today, and meetings that I need to pay attention to.”

  “I’m going,” I said. “But I’d like to come back.”

  She opened the door. “I’d like that, too.”

  I stepped out. She blew me a kiss and closed the door.

  I headed for the elevator. Yes, I was tired. Last night hadn’t been a long, restful sleep, but I was also happy in a way I hadn’t been in a long time. The world had become new and filled with possibilities and second chances.

  The mundane did pop up as I had to stop at the lobby ATM and pay the outrageous fees to get enough money to spring my car from the valet parking. I kept the receipt. After all, this had been mostly business.

  It was a little after nine o’clock when I pulled out of the hotel. My first task was to go home, shower, and change clothes. I hoped I hadn’t scheduled any morning appointments. I didn’t remember any, but given the multiple distractions of the last twenty-four hours, I didn’t trust my recall to be perfect.

  I cut through the French Quarter. I was early enough that most people should be sober, and the ones who weren’t had probably stumbled home around sunrise to sleep it off.

  My route took me near Madame Celeste’s place. On a whim, I turned to drive past it. I wished I’d never agreed to do security theater for her. But the case isn’t solved yet, I reminded myself. Plus I might do some good by providing her working girls with info—and a few soft body parts to hit—that might prove useful. At least I could tell her I’d driven by.

  All was quiet, as befit the workaday morning hour. It looked like what it wasn’t, a historic building, probably residential where the residents couldn’t quite manage the upkeep. The only telltale signs were that the sidewalk was clean and swept, no go cups left from the night before, and the small, discreet camera pointing at the doorway. This appeared to be a sleepy block, one few tourists visited.

  My duty done, I headed home.

  The shower and clean clothes were good. More coffee was even better. I’d only had time for one hotel cup earlier. My coffee cup holds a lot more than theirs do.

  I pulled out my phone. I probably needed to charge it, but wanted to check my calendar.

  The wrong view came up. The main view I use is a mostly blank one, with a finger swipe to get to the one with all the junk—apps, files, etc., on it. Now it was coming up to the cluttered view. I darkened the screen and brought it up again. Same thing. The last time I’d used it was showing Ashley the photos. I have a four-digit password. She had been close enough to see as I entered it to get to the pictures.

  She’d hacked my phone.

  “Do you trust anyone?” I said out loud. I quickly scrolled through to see if anything was missing or changed. I was annoyed.

  Why would she trust me? Certainly she’d done a background check by now, probably accessed most of my phone records. I know enough about security to know that if it’s written down, collected, stored anywhere, someone can get a hold of it.

  Maybe she needed to be sure I really had deleted the photos. Maybe she needed to be sure she could trust me, and that required either time spent together in the kind of situations that show what a person is really like, or finding out as much as you could as quickly as you could.

  She had kissed me after she’d checked out my phone. Maybe that meant she hadn’t found anything to make her wonder about me. Most of my photos were of our cats or food. There were probably some of Cordelia still stored there, but I didn’t want to see her, so hadn’t bothered to delete them.

  “If you can’t trust me, you can’t kiss me,” I said to the now-darkened screen. But the words were more a dare than a truth. If I got the chance I knew I’d kiss her again. Did I trust her? What does trust even mean? I’d certainly trusted Cordelia, and one of the things I’d trusted was that she would never intentionally hurt me. Maybe what she’d done hadn’t been intentional—at least not about hurting me. It was what she needed to do to survive and get through the dark and scary place she was in. But I’d been hurt, was still hurting, still thinking about her too much.

  Did I trust Ashley? She genuinely seemed to care about me. She was attracted to me—as I was to her. I trusted her as much as I could given the situation. I’m too old and scarred to easily jump into love and wouldn’t call this anything close. Yet. It was a beginning, a road that didn’t seem to say dead end. I trusted her enough to take a step and maybe another step to see where they would lead.

  I’d ask her about the phone, not because there was a right or wrong answer but to see what she’d say, see if she was honest or would deny it. Every step would be a little more trust. Or a little less.

  I shook myself into the present. Deal with what you can deal with. I checked my phone calendar and was relieved to find that I hadn’t missed anything.

  Much as I wanted to go back to bed, I’d skew my body clock if I did that and woke up in the afternoon. That meant plowing through the day until something close to a reasonable bedtime. And that meant going to my office, with no tempting bedroom ever so near. I sighed, a long, loud sigh for a long day.

  I also filled a travel mug with coffee.

  At least the sun was still shining. A rainy, gray day might have been too much to stay awake through.

  Once there, I forced myself to attend to the usual boring tasks, answering email, returning phone calls, only to leave a message that would have to be returned in turn, filing—oh, I hate filing—sending out bills, another hated task, but one that occasionally brought in money. My schedule had hit a bit of a lull,
fortunately for my groggy head. I had just wrapped up a bunch of cases. A few were in a holding pattern—initial reports in and I was waiting for my clients to see what they wanted to do next. Several security installations were up and running and would only need an occasional check now and then.

  While it meant I wasn’t going to mess up anything critical due to my tired state, it also left me with no compelling tasks to pull me through the day.

  I made a pot of coffee, the travel mug long empty. I bargained with myself that I would caffeinate until mid-afternoon, then wean myself off to be able to sleep tonight.

  I wondered how Ashley and her meetings were going. She had been up even later than I had. Although when I had called she sounded like she was sleeping, so maybe she managed some shut-eye while I was chilling out in the parking lot.

  After lunch—a sedate and healthy turkey sandwich—and just as I was sipping the last of the coffee, my buzzer sounded.

  Flowers. Someone was sending me flowers.

  I buzzed the woman in, then headed down the stairs to meet her. Partly out of kindness—my office is on the third floor—and mostly out of caution. I could look over the stair rail and make sure it was indeed a flower person and not someone using the well-worn ruse of gaining entry with a claimed delivery.

  She was skinny and young and carrying a bouquet of flowers.

  I met her on the second-floor landing; she handed them off to me and scampered back down the stairs.

  How sweet of her, I thought as I carried the cheerful yellow, gold, and crimson bunch back to my office.

  I found a vase for them and then put them on the side of my desk so I could smell the fresh floral tang.

  Then I opened the card.

  I’m very sorry for kicking you out so early in the morning. I’d really like to talk. EH.

  EH?

  Emily Harris.

  Shit. I had assumed they were from Ashley. The woman who’d only kissed me, not the one I’d slept with. Or I wanted them to be from Ashley and for Emily to ever so conveniently disappear out of my life.

  The phone rang. I stared at it for a moment, afraid it was Emily wanting to talk.

  I roused myself and answered it. I was a big girl; if I made a mess, I needed to clean it up.

  It took me a moment to recognize the rumble as a human voice and another moment to place it. Madame Celeste’s assistant. What was his name? Roland. He was asking if I had some time late this afternoon or early evening to come over and talk to his “coworkers,” as he called them.

  Remembering the very good Scotch, I agreed. After all, I had said I would and taken her money. Ashley had meetings all day, plus she had to be tired from last night. Much as I wanted to spend time with her, we hadn’t made any arrangements and I wasn’t going to be a high school girl waiting around for her to call. I knew I’d need to talk to Emily, but had no clue what I wanted to say. Sending flowers wasn’t exactly a message that said, “Sorry, it was a mistake, let’s forget it ever happened.” I felt like I should choose but didn’t know enough to make a choice. Yes, probably Ashley, but she was on temporary assignment here, and much as we both seemed to like each other, one passionate kiss isn’t a relationship.

  Nor is spending one brief night with someone. Brash as she was, I also liked Emily. If Ashley weren’t around, I’d be a lot more interested in her, probably be happy at the bouquet and her wanting to see me again.

  “I hate this fucking romantic stuff,” I told the flowers.

  They just looked pretty and said nothing.

  I decided to go earn my Scotch—and the money—Madame Celeste had already given me.

  I printed out info on self-defense and made ten copies. They could make more if they wanted. Vice is a business, after all, and most businesses had copy machines.

  Shortly after that I left my office and headed home. I wanted to change clothes. While there seemed no fashion rule as to what to wear to a whorehouse to talk about self-defense, the old jeans and baggy sweater I had grabbed this morning didn’t seem up to my sartorial standards. Plus, it was a nice night, which meant parking in the Quarter would be impossible. I could leave my car at home and walk in.

  Black jeans, dark gray boots, deep purple V-neck sweater, and my black leather jacket. Not a motorcycle one—I’m not that hardcore. I stuffed my handouts into a messenger bag—also black to fit in with the overall theme of my ensemble—as well as other things like my gun. Not that I was planning to use it, but you never know.

  I headed out the door. It would be about a fifteen-minute walk. Ten, if I hurried.

  The evening was perfect, a golden sunset, cool temperatures that made walking easy. I took Burgundy, a mostly residential street and one with fewer tourists.

  I hoped the brisk air and movement would help clear my head, but the only thing that came to me was to let things play out. I could talk to Emily and hear what she wanted to say. I could go out on the town with Ashley and see where we ended up. I could make decisions when I had to make decisions.

  I turned on the street of Madame Celeste’s establishment. It was quiet, the gaslights of a few places on, adding gold to the blue of the evening.

  Roland opened the door just as I knocked. He must have been watching. That was probably his job, watching.

  “Good evening,” he greeted me. “Please come this way.”

  I returned his greeting and followed him. He led me a different way from the last time, to the other side of the building. Madame Celeste had her space and the “coworkers” had theirs.

  Just pretend they’re Girl Scouts, I told myself. This was one of the more unusual places I’ve done talks like this. I couldn’t let what I might be thinking show on my face, all the conclusions I’ve been told to have: They were wrong; they shouldn’t be in this business. It was dangerous. If they wanted to be safe they could work in a bank.

  I could afford to make moral judgments. I’d never been faced with the bad choices and worse choices that brought a woman here. Minimum wage or a thousand a night? An abusive husband or nameless johns? Get caught on the wrong side of the law and find it too hard—many places won’t hire convicts—to get back to the right side. Or even a prudent business decision? Spend a few years making a lot of money; use it to go to school, set up a business—like Bianca and her dreams of a hair salon.

  Roland led me to a lounge area with comfortable couches on one side, a TV on the wall, and a small kitchenette on the other side with a long table and enough chairs to seat eight. The furnishings were nice, the couches leather, the table a well-made solid wood, and all the chairs matched. If it was a cage, it was a comfortable one.

  Several women were sitting on the couches. It could have been any break room in any company except these were some of the most gorgeous women I’d ever seen. While some of them were in jeans and T-shirts, a few of them were clearly dressed—or not so dressed—for work in teddies and lingerie. Three of them were blond, probably one natural and two from the bottle, judging from their skin tones and eye color. One was a redhead, probably also from a bottle, although she had the green eyes to make the real thing possible. One was a brunette, subtle highlights probably also gotten at a hair salon instead of the beach. Two of the women were dark-haired, natural since they were also not white like the others. But their olive skin was hard to read, Hispanic, Mideastern, very light black, or some combination. Beautiful, yes, but also exotic. Madame Celeste catered to a variety of tastes. I noticed there were no truly ethnic woman here, no black women or clearly Latina or Asian. Maybe they worked at different times. Or maybe they weren’t what the customers wanted. Beauty is in the eye of those who pay for it.

  I took a brief glance. It’s hard not to stare at a woman in a low-cut silk bra in leopard print whose breasts were from either great genes or a skilled plastic surgeon.

  One of them—the blondest one—looked up at me. “Roland didn’t say you’d be a girl,” she said.

  “Does it matter?” I answered. “As long as I know what I’m
doing?”

  The woman next to her answered. “No, it’s kind of cool you’re a woman.” She emphasized “woman” just enough to make her point.

  Roland did introductions, but the names he gave were clearly their working names—Destiny, Ginger, Eva, Ramona, Antoinette, and Bordeaux.

  Show time.

  I don’t like to lecture, especially to a group of six people. I grabbed one of the kitchen chairs and used it to complete a circle with the couches. Asking questions, I led them through most of my suggestions. Pay attention to your surroundings. If possible travel in pairs or groups. Wear practical shoes and clothes so you can run if you have to. Trust your instincts. If a situation or person feels not right, get out of there. Stay in well-lit, well-traveled areas if you can. Carry a whistle or something else that can make a lot of noise. If you’re attacked, yell and make noise if you’re in an area where people are around. Yelling “fire” will often get people out when things like “help” might not. Know your route and places you can go for safety.

  We talked through some possible scenarios. The blondest woman was my problem child. She came up with unlikely possibilities, as if her goal was to stump me. “But what if it’s three big guys and you’re in high heels?” or “What if you’re in the middle of nowhere and you don’t know anyone?”

  Some of the other women rolled their eyes at her. I kept calm and answered as best I could. “Each situation will be different. Always look for how to escape. Don’t fight unless you have to. If you do have to fight, your goal is one killing or incapacitating blow. Eyes, groin, whatever you think you have the best prospect of hitting very, very hard.”

  When I got the chance I asked if any of them knew the women who had been killed. They all said they didn’t, some indicating and Blondie right out saying they didn’t hang out with that rank of girls. They were high-class, expensive women, working behind secured doors. Other women, especially those out on the streets, were far more at risk.

  I nodded and didn’t argue. Maybe they were safer. But I knew no one was truly safe. Nothing builds an impenetrable wall that can keep all danger out.