Houses of ill repute? How old was this guy? And hadn't he ever heard of therapeutic massage? On the screen, Scruffy continued, "We gotta protect the children from purveyors of witchcraft and trickery."
Next to me, Crystal said, "What’s trickery?"
I shrugged. "Got me."
The camera panned to the picketers, chanting and jostling for a front-row position. I saw Darren wave and smile at the camera. They didn't air a single word from my brief interview. The segment did end, however, with an ass-shot of me returning to the store, wearing sweat pants and loafers.
"That bitch!" I said.
Crystal gave me a sideways glance, but said nothing.
The story ended with Lucy telling the camera, "That was Selena Moon, fortune teller and amateur wrestler."
What the hell? I turned to Crystal. "Amateur wrestler? Where'd she get that idea?"
"I might have mentioned it," Crystal mumbled.
"But I'm not a wrestler."
"Yeah, but you're pretty scrappy," she said.
"So?"
"So I wanted her to know you're tough."
"Why?"
"I figured it might scare her off a little."
"You saw that story," I said. "Think it worked?"
"Guess not," Crystal said. "Probably, I should've told her the other thing instead."
I was afraid to ask. "What other thing?"
"That you're a bouncer at Chains."
I stared at her. "The biker bar?"
"That would've scared her off for sure," Crystal said.
At midnight, I fired up the Mustang and pulled away from my apartment. The night sky was filled with stars, a rare occurrence in a Michigan winter, when low-hanging clouds dominated the sky for weeks on end. That night, without the blanket of cloud-cover, temperatures were even colder than normal. I dreaded the prospect of getting gas.
When my low-fuel light came on, I stopped in Flint, Michigan, one of the cities hardest hit by downsizing in the automotive industry. I pulled on a sweatshirt and exited the warm car.
The cold hit like a physical force. Cursing my lack of gloves, I pulled the sleeve of my sweatshirt over my hand and grabbed the gas nozzle. When the first drops of gas came out, I pressed the lever to keep the fuel coming. I dove for my car and shut the door.
The pump stopped. I got out and looked around. Over the intercom, a male voice said, "You gotta stay with the pump."
"Awe c'mon," I yelled into the speaker. "It's freezing out here."
"That's the rules," the voice said.
I glared in the general direction of the store, but stuck it out. When my tank was full, I went in for a hot coffee. The clerk sat smoking a cigarette on a barstool behind the counter.
He was a burly man with bushy eyebrows and an unkempt beard. He looked old and hard, but I doubted he was much older than I was. A sign behind him said, "Thank You for Not Smoking."
"Thanks a lot," I said. "Do you know how cold it is out there?"
"The rules is the rules," he said.
I pointed to the sign behind him. "What about the no-smoking rule?"
"I'm on break," he said.
I looked around. "Then who's manning the store?"
"The sons of bitches don't give me no break," he said. "So I take 'em when I want. You should be so lucky I let you get gas at all."
"Gee," I said. "Mighty big of you." I filled a disposable cup with coffee.
"You don't want that," he said.
"Why not"
"It's gotta be five hours old."
"Then why is it even out there?" I asked.
"The boss says I can't make a fresh pot 'til the old one's gone."
I looked pointedly at his cigarette. "Yeah, I notice you're a real stickler for the rules."
"I'll tell ya what," he said. "Grab something from the cappuccino machine." He flicked an ash into a soda can. "No charge."
"Hey, are you being nice to me?" I said. "'Cause now I'm kind of confused."
"You want the cappuccino or not?"
Ten minutes later, I was on the road again, sipping a hot vanilla cappuccino. I thought about the gas station clerk. He wouldn't survive a day in the South, where even at gas stations, people still called strangers "sir" or "ma'am," and men still held doors for women, and where women accepted such courtesies with gratitude.
Yet I also knew that his Southern counterpart wouldn't survive a day in Flint, where life was hard, people were tough, and winters could be deadly. Politeness, I’d come to realize, was relative.
In the North, good manners sometimes had very little to do with common courtesies. If you gave brisk service, minded your own business, and didn't get in anyone's way, you might be considered polite enough. For all his gruffness, the clerk had done me a favor.
He made me think of Scruffy, the picketing ring-leader. He was rough and hard, but he didn't frighten me. Maybe he should've, but I didn't believe there was any true bite to his bark.
I hit the Indiana state line at four in the morning. My thoughts turned to Jim Bishop, as they often did when I ventured beyond the boundaries of my home state.
Chapter 36
That first summer, when Bishop returned from Detroit, I learned a lot more than I should have.
Less than twelve hours after Lawton's surprise visit, I'd fallen asleep on the sofa in the book room when I felt something smooth brush against my face. My eyelids flew open, and there he was, Bishop, crouched by my side.
I glanced around the darkened store. "What are you doing here?" I said.
His voice was low. "I had to see you."
Suddenly, everything came flooding back to me – Lawton's visit, the news that Bishop had been shot, and the fact he wasn't supposed to be travelling for at least three more days.
I sat up and reached for his hand. "Are you okay?"
Cast in shadows, he said, "I am now."
I didn't know what to say, so I just soaked up the sight of him. He looked okay. He looked more than okay, actually. His face looked a little more angular, maybe a little thinner, but in the shadows, it was hard to be sure.
I felt myself swallow. "You were shot?"
"You weren't supposed to know that."
"Yeah, well I do. So tell me what happened." I squeezed his hand. "Wait. You're sure you're alright?" My voice trembled as my gaze traveled the length of him. "Where were you shot?"
He lifted his T-shirt and showed me a wide, flat bandage a couple inches above his right hip. "Not a big deal," he said. "They didn't hit anything important."
I felt my eyes grow moist. "Yes they did," I said. "They hit you." I reached out, trailing my fingers on either side of the bandage. I feared this was a dream, but his body felt real and solid. His muscles shifted, giving me the barest glimpse of his defined abs before he let his T-shirt fall back in place.
I pulled back my hand. "Wait a minute," I said. "Who's they? And I thought you couldn't travel."
"Not on the bike," he said.
"So what'd you do?"
"I traded it."
"For what?"
"A car. Some beat-up Nova."
I sagged. "Oh man, I'm sorry. I know you loved that bike."
"Nah, not a big deal. Besides, I'm gonna fix it up the car. When it's done, you won't even recognize it."
Right now, I didn't care about the car. I cared about him. "But Lawton said you had to take it easy."
Bishop gave me a half-smile. "Lawton said a lot of things, didn't he?"
"Hell no," I said, "It practically took a crowbar to pry that much out of him."
"He told me some interesting things about you too," Bishop said.
"Like what?" I said.
"He said he caught you beating the crap out of another girl."
"You mean Cat?" I made a sound of disgust. "She totally started it."
Carefully, he sank down next to me on the sofa. "I'm sorry about that. It won't happen again."
"How do you know?"
"It just won't. Let's leave it at t
hat, alright?"
I snuggled close to him. "Bishop?" I said.
"Hmm?"
"Tell me what happened."
"That's not a good idea."
"Why not?"
He blew out a long breath. "It's a long story, and it's not pretty."
"I don't care," I said. "I want to know."
"Why?"
"Do I need a reason? I mean, c'mon. You leave for supposedly just a few days, and come back ten days later with a bullet wound? And I'm not supposed to ask any questions?"
He was quiet a moment, and then said, "I don't want you involved."
"I won't be," I said. "I just want to know, that's all."
He turned sideways, facing me. "You're not like any other girl, you know that?"
I felt myself smile. "How so?"
"I have a hard time telling you no."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It is a bad thing."
"Oh c'mon, tell me."
He was quiet, and I braced myself to try again. But then he spoke. "I will. But first, you've got to promise me something."
"What?"
"This goes no further. Not now, not ten years from now, not fifty years from now."
"How about a hundred years from now?" I asked.
"It's no joke," he said.
"I'm sorry," I said. "But you sounded so serious. It's creeping me out a little."
He leaned closer, wrapping me in his arms. "Baby, I never want you to be scared."
"I'm not scared. I'm creeped out.
"Uh-huh."
"Tell me what happened," I said.
"I shouldn't. But I'm going to. And you wanna know why?"
"Why?
"Because I'd rather tell you the truth, ugly as it is, than have you thinking I went down there to see another girl."
"I didn't really think that," I said. "I just wondered, that's all."
"Well, I don't want you to wonder."
"Okay," I said. "I'm listening."
Chapter 37
His voice was low in the quiet room. "A couple years ago, there was this guy, who did a really bad thing."
"When you say 'this guy', do you mean yourself?"
Against me, his muscles grew rigid. And when he spoke, his voice was filled with such loathing it almost made me want to pull away. "No. What this guy did, I'd never do. Not if my life depended on it."
"Sorry," I said, "I was just wondering if it was one of those hypothetical things where you say 'some guy', but–"
"It wasn't."
"Alright," I said. "So what'd the guy do?"
"There was this friend of mine. He has a little sister. The guy tried to–" Bishop hesitated. "–there's no nice word for what he tried to do."
He didn't need to spell it out. My stomach churned. "How old was she?" I asked.
"Thirteen."
"So, did he–?"
"No. He never had the chance. But this friend of mine wanted to make damn sure he never tried that shit again. Not with his sister, or anyone else's either. So, after this thing came out, my friends knocks on this guy's door, and when the guy answers, my friend beats the living shit out of him."
"Good," I said.
Bishop gave something like a laugh. "Yeah. Unfortunately, the police didn't see it that way."
"But after what the guy did, or tried to do–"
"No one could know about that."
"Why not?"
"Because my friend's sister, she didn't even know about it. And my friend was determined she never would."
"But how could she not know?" I said.
"The girl's mom, she was the one who arranged it."
"Oh my God," I breathed. "That's awful."
"Yeah."
"But the guy who did that needs to be put away," I said, "not just beat up."
"Put away or dead," Bishop said, "which was probably what my friend had in mind."
I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing.
"So this guy," Bishop continued, his voice growing harsh, "this fucker, he's not dead, and he's not in jail. So he's gotten off light, right?"
"Yeah. Too light."
"Except this asshole doesn’t see it that way. He wants my friend tried for attempted murder, as an adult."
"So your friend is a minor?"
"He was at the time. Not anymore."
"But this guy is someone important, there's a good chance he'll get exactly what he wants. He knows all the right people. He's making all the right noises. And yeah, that beating did almost kill him, so, you get the idea."
"So what happened?" I said.
"What happened was, maybe a few weeks after all this went down, this guy learns about some video footage that won't make him look good."
"What kind of footage?" I said.
"Basically?" Bishop blew out a breath. "He's fucking a low-rent hooker dressed in little-girl clothes."
"Ick."
"Yeah."
"So what happened then?" I asked.
"So we tell the guy that if he wants to keep pushing that attempted murder charge, fine. Then we'll push out our footage."
I felt myself stiffen. "Your footage? So you took it?"
"More or less."
"How'd you–"
"It was a setup."
"So you hired the–"
"Yeah."
"Oh wow." I didn't know how I felt about that, so I focused on what he was telling me. "So the guy backs down?"
"Pretty much."
"But how does all this relate to you getting shot?"
"Well, like I said, that was a couple years ago. Now that some time has passed, the guy's decides he's being royally screwed. He wants the footage, once and for all. So he sends a few thugs after my friend, hoping they can scare him into coughing it up."
"But that's stupid," I said. "I mean, there could be a hundred copies for all this guy knows."
"Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, he's tired of it hanging over his head."
"You weren't blackmailing him, were you?"
"No. Not for money anyway."
"Then for what?"
"Good behavior."
"About your friend," I said, "you said some guys were scaring him?"
"No. They were trying to scare him. But he doesn't scare easily."
"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me," I said.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because your 'friend' is Lawton," I said, "and he's your brother."
Bishop drew back to look at me. "How do you know?"
"Lucky guess."
He gave me a dubious look. "Uh-huh."
"Lawton didn't tell me," I said, "if that's what you're thinking. But come on, tell me the rest."
"Alright, so this problem, it's not going away. The threats are getting worse, and more frequent."
"So what'd you do?" I said.
"First, we upload the footage to his work computer, make sure it's the first thing he sees Monday morning."
"I bet he really loved that," I said.
"Yeah," Bishop said, "he loved it so much, he put out a hit out on Lawton, maybe figuring if he went away, so would the problem."
"Oh my God," I breathed, "you're kidding."
"No."
"So what happened?"
"Keep in mind," Bishop said, "I didn't know all of this up front. It's what we learned after."
"How?"
"You don't wanna know."
In this, I believed him. "So what happened?"
"Well Lawton, he's an underground fighter, and these guys, who aren't very bright, by the way, think they're gonna do the deed just before one of his fights."
"Why then?"
"My guess? To make it look random, a crowd out-of-hand, you know?"
I nodded.
Bishop continued. "But I spot them on the edge of the crowd. And I can tell something's up, because it's obvious they don’t give two shits about the fight."
"So what'd you do?"
"So I go up behind them�
�" At this, he hesitated.
"Tell me," I said.
Bishop blew out a breath. "I pulled on them first."
"What?" I stared up at him. "You have a gun?"
"Yeah. A few actually."
"But I've never seen any."
"Because I've been careful."
My head was swimming. I didn't know where to start, so I focused on the thing that mattered most.
"So what happened?" I swallowed. "One of them shot you?"
"Nah. I was just hit in the crossfire."
"So someone else shot you?"
"Basically."
"Who?"
"One of Lawton's–" At this, Bishop hesitated again. "–I guess you'd call them bodyguards."
"He has bodyguards?"
"No. But the guy he fights for does."
"What kind of bodyguards? The legal kind?"
"No."
I looked down toward Bishop's midsection. My voice trembled. "You could've been killed."
"Nah," he said. "Those guys? They're not bad shots. I was just standing in the wrong place, that's all."
Somehow, this didn't make me feel better. "So how about the two guys," I said, "the ones hired to kill Lawton, will they try again?"
"No."
"Because…?" I didn't want to say it.
"You know why."
My stomach lurched. "Did you kill them?"
"No," he said.
I let out a breath. "That's a relief."
"But I'm not gonna lie to you," Bishop said. "If it came down to that, I would have."
I stared at him a long time, unsure who I was really looking at – the guy who carried me across the parking lot, or the guy who'd say something like that without blinking.
Finally, I asked, "So who did?"
"Let me put it this way. My friend's manager. He doesn’t like someone messing with his investments."
"But what about that first guy?" I said. "The guy on that tape. Won't he just send someone else after your brother?"
"No.
"Why not?"
"Because he's dead."
"How?" I asked.
"Shot. A home invasion."
"Was anyone else hurt?"
"No. The guy was alone."
"When did this happen?"
"A few hours ago."
My voice was very quiet. "Did you have anything to do with that?"
He was silent a few beats, and then said, "No."
"You're lying. Aren't you?"
"If I were," he said, "I wouldn’t say."
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