by Tracy Clark
“Allen’s holding back,” I said.
“Everybody holds back shit. And don’t mind the fact that we almost got tin canned.”
“In the elevator? She wanted to know if I had a gun and knew how to use it. Why, if she didn’t think I’d have to shoot somebody?”
“Could be she’s just curious.” Ben rolled down his window, leaned out. “Where’d you learn to drive, dodo? Hell?” He flipped off the languid-looking cabbie, then rolled his window back up and sped through the yellow light. I gripped the shoulder harness for assurance.
“Did she ask you?”
“Nope, but I look like I could shoot the crap out of something. Nobody expects that from a woman.” His big cop foot pressed down on the gas, and the Camaro wove around a green Hyundai with pink, fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror. I squeezed my eyes shut. Cars, testosterone, and traffic did not a good mix make.
“But don’t shoot the messenger,” Ben said, chuckling. “Get it? Shoot the messenger?”
I shook my head, remembering what it had been like riding with him every day. He was a good cop, and we’d worked well together: we’d known each other’s moves, strengths, weaknesses, and then there had been times like this when he brought what he thought was The Funny.
“Shoot the messenger,” I muttered sourly. “Got it.” I flipped the passenger visor down and looked at myself in the oblong mirror, at the frown on my face, the worry lines creasing my forehead. It hadn’t been curiosity I’d seen on Allen’s face; it had been fear.
Ben dropped me at my car, which was parked at Allen’s office, and then we parted ways. I offered up a prayer for his safe deliverance and then headed south, toward home, picking at the edges of Allen’s problem. I had a new car, well, new to me. I’d bought the Black Honda Civic used at a dear price just a month earlier. Not by choice. Someone had tossed a Molotov cocktail into the backseat of my old one—a hazard of the job. I’d driven the Civic off the lot with nine hundred miles on the odometer, resentful of having to sign my life away for it, but more than a little enamored of the new car smell.
My cell phone was in my bag, but a buzz sounded through the car speakers, announcing an incoming call. I glanced at the dashboard readout, one of the new age techno whizbangs I hadn’t had in my old, reliable ride, now smoked and gone to auto heaven. It was Eli. I smiled and then tapped the snazzy button on the steering wheel.
“Hello, stranger.” His voice rolled nice and easy out of the speakers.
I smiled, checked the rearview, changed lanes. “Hey, what’s up?”
“I’m standing outside your place with too much Chinese food, an extra pair of chopsticks, and a whole lot of cop swagger.”
I sped up just a bit. “Beef and vegetables?”
“My swagger’s not enough?”
I turned onto the Inner Drive, just blocks from home, but didn’t say anything. Let him think I was trying to decide.
“If it takes that long, I’ll take my egg rolls and go home.”
I snickered. “Wait. Why are you standing outside? Mrs. Vincent should be home. She’ll buzz you up.”
“I don’t think she likes me like that yet. I get a vibe.”
Mrs. Vincent lived on the first floor of the three-flat building I owned. She was part neighbor, part mother figure, gentle, stern as nails, full to brimming with good old-fashioned mother wit. I squinted, curious. “What kind of vibe?”
“The kind that says she knows we’re spending time, and she’s not all right with it.”
I whizzed past the green domes of the museum, ready to make the turn, amused by the big, tough cop’s unease at coming up against a kindhearted octogenarian in sensible shoes. “Spending time, really? She’s old, Eli, not dead. She knows I spend time. In fact—”
He interrupted me. “Never mind. Forget it. I’ll wait in my car.”
I chuckled. Couldn’t help it. “Five minutes. Keep the food warm.”
We ate sitting crossed-legged at opposite ends of my couch, the food between us, watching nothing in particular on television, the sound muted. I picked vegetables and noodles out of the carton using chopsticks, forgoing proper plates and forks, which were way at the back of my apartment, in the kitchen I rarely used. I’d changed out of my suit into an old pair of jean shorts and a faded Chicago PD T-shirt. Eli, fresh from work, was in slacks, shirt, and loosened tie, his police star still clipped to his belt. This was clearly the easiest part of my day.
“And then she tells me I can bring workout clothes.”
“Vonda Allen,” he said. “That’s some high cotton.”
I jabbed a chopstick at him. “She’s bent.”
“What’s Mickerson think?”
“He thinks she’s bent, too, but he’s okay with babysitting her. Sometimes I don’t get him. I mean, I get him, but then . . . I don’t get him.”
Eli speared a baby corncob and stuffed it into his mouth. “Stalking cases are tough. Lot of levels.”
“The fact that she’s tight-lipped says a lot. She could involve the department without broadcasting her business, so why hasn’t she? And she has lawyers, lots of them, I’d imagine. Why not have them work it out? Or, like Ben suggested, just tell whoever it is to buzz off. There are a lot of options out there.”
Eli looked at me, shook his head.
“What?”
“Buzz off?”
“In a polite but firm way, sure . . . It can be done.” He looked like he didn’t believe me. “I’ve done it. Trust me. Egg roll?” I offered up the bag, but he declined another.
The final score of some game scrolled along the bottom of the TV screen. He took only a passing glance. “I hope I never get that kind of brush-off.”
I smiled, took a bite of broccoli, watched him as I chewed.
“No assurances?” he asked.
I shrugged, grinned playfully. “If it comes to that, I promise to let you down gently.”
“Brutal . . . but oddly titillating. Too bad they didn’t get anything out of the guy on the phone.”
“No name, nada. He copped to the flowers, said he knew her, but that’s it.” I shook my head. “It could be someone else entirely. I don’t know enough yet, and Allen’s sure not helping.”
“What about this Chandler? You might get something from her, if you frame it as you looking out for her boss, not trying to damage her. Aren’t you both on the same side, more or less?”
I frowned, considered it. “Unfortunately, in this case, if you’re blocked by one, you’re blocked by both.”
“Well, you’re just at day one. You’ll figure it out.”
“I would, only I’m just supposed to stand there and swat flowers away.”
Eli chuckled, tossed me a fortune cookie. “You think you can just stand there?”
“In the spirit of friendship, I’ve committed to giving it a try. Hands off. Eyes on the prize. Cass Raines, statue.” I struck a pose, held it for a second. “Let’s hope I don’t screw up and blow the whole thing.”
Eli leaned back against the couch. “You’re perfect from where I’m sitting.”
I bit into the cookie, narrowed my eyes. “Perfect, huh?”
He scooted closer to me. “Perfect lips, two very nice eyes . . . cute nose.” A little closer still. “Not to mention a world-class . . .” He stopped talking.
“World-class what?”
Eli was a few years older than I was, a little gray at the temples, thin lines at the corners of his eyes, a killer smile that started there and spread across his dark face to two deep dimples in his cheeks.
“Can’t say. It could be considered . . . delicate.”
I looked around the room. No one in it but him and me. “To whom?”
Eli took another slide down the couch. “Okay, you’re sitting on it.”
A slow smile crept across my face. “World class?”
“Hands down.”
We met in the middle, shared a kiss.
“Well, sometimes the gods do smile.”
“They sure did,” he replied.
“Are we done talking?” I nipped at his lower lip. “Because I have an idea.”
“Hell yeah, we’re done talking.”
I moved to his ear. “Good.”
“Better than good.” His hand trailed down my neck. “Great.”
I stood, stretched. “Then if we’re done, I’m going to take a shower. Early morning tomorrow. Workout. Swanky club. Vonda Allen. Pip-pip.”
“What?”
I headed for the hallway, my shower and bedroom at the end of it, grinning, knowing he’d follow.
“I could use a shower, too,” he said.
“Then, I’ll try to save you some hot water.” I took off running toward the bathroom, my bare feet squeaking on the hardwood floor.
“Oh, no you won’t.”
Eli easily closed the gap. We eventually shared the shower, and the whole time I didn’t think of Allen once.
Chapter 6
There must be a better way to find some peace, Philip Hewitt thought as he wove his way from the backseat of his Uber ride to his front door, four gin and tonics, a screwdriver, and half a bowl of stale Bavarian pretzels sloshing around in his sour stomach.
“Damned bitch.” He poked his key at the lock, missed his mark, tried again. The weaving didn’t help. “Damn bitch lock.”
Quiet block, quiet neighborhood, especially at half past one in the morning on a Tuesday. His neighbors were probably all tucked in bed, not letting the bedbugs bite, Hewitt thought as he finally matched jagged key to jagged lock cylinder. The courtyard of his building was still, empty, or so he thought, as he twisted the small silver key, longing for the comfort of his own bed. But something wasn’t right. A feeling. Even with the gin buzz, he sensed something, someone, tuck in behind him, too close for him to feel easy about it. He turned to find the last person he ever expected to see on his humble doorstep. He was so surprised, he began to cackle like a loon.
“Are you serious? I can’t get a break.” He tried correcting his weave, tried pulling himself together. “What’re you doing here?”
But it was too late in the game for talk. Hewitt was a problem. His eyes grew wide as saucers, then slowly lowered from familiar eyes to the glint of gunmetal. “Are you crazy? Get the hell out of here.”
He’d misjudged, but didn’t he always?
Hewitt turned his back to the gun, a show of disdain fueled by alcohol, but his heart raced just the same, and his blood ran cold. “You’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life. I’ll own you now.”
But the mistake was Hewitt’s. This was no prank. Not a fake. This was a plan coming together, a mugging gone horribly wrong—or so it would appear later. Just another senseless tragedy, yet another life cut short by random violence. Remember to take his wallet and cheap watch.
Hewitt turned back, jabbed an angry finger in a feeble attempt to intimidate. “You’ve picked the wrong guy.”
He had always been a stupid man, had never been able to read the room. Good to know some people were consistent right to the end. And make no mistake, this was Hewitt’s end.
A playful wave. Really, there was no reason not to say good-bye, was there? Hewitt almost laughed but couldn’t; he simply didn’t have the time. Too quickly, the hand thrust forward to press gun barrel to drunken forehead. There was a look of shock, one muffled pop, a single twitch. One languid slide to oblivion, and that was all. Hewitt lay wasted on cool cement, in a fast-expanding puddle of gore. Some of the human blowback had splattered across his front door.
Hard eyes assessed the carnage. Done. “Such a ridiculous fool he was.”
* * *
Highland Health Club was the place to breeze through a sedate workout, celebrity watch, or close a million-dollar deal over an endive salad and imported water. Allen skimmed the Wall Street Journal from a large elliptical, glancing occasionally at the big-screen televisions mounted to the wall, ignoring me. I watched her from a spot a few feet away, off to the side, where I could see the entire room and Allen, too. The whole place smelled of perfumed sweat, damp towels, and just a whiff of pomposity.
Every machine here was designed to tone, sculpt, and tighten whatever sagged or jiggled, and there were toning classes, nutrition counseling, massage rooms, a sauna, and an assortment of European-inspired body wraps utilizing everything from Swiss mud to emulsified kale. And none of it was bargain basement. The hefty membership fee alone discouraged pretenders.
I’d reluctantly left my bed at five-thirty to get to Allen’s place by the time she set. Ben tried starting some light conversation in the limo on the way here, but Allen wasn’t interested. It was now a little after seven and the room was already packed with stick-figure people, who rushed from apparatus to apparatus, trailing dry towels along behind them. The televisions were tuned to the morning news reports, and one station was running a story on an overnight robbery-homicide, the details of which I could not hear, since the sound was channeled through headphones that plugged into the machines. Everyone moved with a purpose; everyone stared at me and found me interesting. No one tried to hand Allen any flowers or notes. I’d opted out of working out with her. This was business. I didn’t like her well enough to blur the lines.
After a half hour, during which time Allen never broke a discernible sweat, the buzzer on her elliptical machine sounded. When the pedals slowed and stopped, Allen tucked her paper under her arm and headed for her massage. She didn’t say a word to me, which was just as well. I wasn’t lonely. She was a little miffed I hadn’t brought my “workout togs.” I’d nearly snorted when she said, “Workout togs.” As a rule, togs wasn’t a word many black folks used a lot, and I wondered what Allen was trying to prove. I was dressed instead in a black blazer, a silk shirt, black slacks, and shoes I could run in, if I had to, without twisting an ankle—“bodyguard togs.”
Allen kept up the pointed silence all the way to the massage room, where a smiling blond woman with bright blue eyes and a silver nose ring met us at the door, dressed in a formfitting pink tank and spandex pants.
“This is Jade,” Allen said as the woman opened the door and led us inside. Allen padded over to the massage table and sat down to start unlacing her shoes. Jade smiled. I smiled.
I checked the small room, with its neat shelves of fragrant oils and freshly folded towels. There was only the one door, so that was easy. I then checked Jade. Harmless.
I started to leave. “I’m right outside the door.”
Allen acted as though she hadn’t heard me. Rich people tended to do that—act like they didn’t hear or see a person. I was starting to expect it from Allen.
“I’ll take a mineral water.” She didn’t bother looking up. “You’ll find it at the juice bar. Try getting it to me while it’s still cold, will you?”
Allen calmly slipped off her anklets. I assumed she’d been talking to Jade, but when the young woman didn’t move, it dawned on me that it was me Allen was sending out for water. I turned, smiled at the perky masseuse. “Um, Jade? Would you give us a minute, please?”
Jade hesitated, unsure what to do. After all, Allen was paying her. She didn’t know me from Adam’s house cat.
I held up a finger. “Just one minute.” I maintained the smile. “Ms. Allen will be with you toot sweet.”
When Jade stepped out and shut the door behind her, I walked over to the table and stood directly in front of Allen so she couldn’t help but see me. She looked up, a bored expression on her face. I looked down, not bored, deadly serious. We were mere inches from one another, so I didn’t have to raise my voice. Sometimes a whisper could be just as effective as a shout.
“I’m not your maid. I’m not your groupie. I don’t go for water, cabs, energy bars, or escorts for the evening. You want water, you’ll get up off that ridiculously overpriced table and get it yourself. Anybody bursts in here and tries to strangle you, that’s when I do what you’re paying me for. Capisce?”
She didn’t say anything, but it looked
like she had loads of things bubbling up inside of her. She flushed, glowered at me, then looked away briefly before turning back to find me still standing there, serious as a heart attack.
“If not, all you have to do is say so,” I said.
A tiny muscle twitched in her neck. She was clenching her teeth too tightly. Maybe she was balancing her desire to fire me with her need for someone to cover the door while she got her backside worked over with jasmine-scented oil and emulsified vegetables. Jade seemed like a nice person, but I didn’t think Allen believed she’d take a bullet for her. At this point, I wasn’t even sure I would.
“I knew you’d be trouble,” she said. If steam could have shot out of her ears, I thought it would have. In contrast, I was perfectly calm, not angry in the least, just insistent that Allen fully grasp the true dynamic of our relationship.
“Five thousand dollars I’m paying, or have you forgotten that?”
I hadn’t, but money didn’t move me. I’d had it, not had it. Money wasn’t integrity or self-respect; it wasn’t love or death. You couldn’t do a thing with it on your deathbed. I could hear activity outside the door, the busy health club going about its business, while I waited on Allen to straighten up and fly right.
Finally, “I’ll get my own water.”
I stepped away from her, our deal done. “Enjoy your massage, Ms. Allen.”
When I pulled the door open to leave, Jade was standing right there. She looked at Allen, as if assessing her for body damage, but she didn’t say anything. In her hand she held a bottle of chilled mineral water.
I smiled. “Oh, looky, looky. Jade brought you your water. How nice.” I stepped aside and let her in, then leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Good luck with that.”
Chapter 7
I cooled my heels outside the door, giving people who passed the once-over, making sure no one got too close, occasionally glancing up at the television sets to check the news. I was watching an older man in tennis whites pass me on his way to the courts when I heard a gasp go up and turned to see a breaking-news alert crawl along the bottom of the nearest screen. Cop killed. Suspect in custody. The choppy footage, shot from a news helicopter, showed blue-and-whites, lights flashing, cordoning off a city block in Bridgeport. My throat tightened. I couldn’t move from the door, and I couldn’t hear the report from where I stood. Cop killed. I thought of all the cops I knew, friends, more than that, family. Eli, but it couldn’t be him. Not his district. No ID yet on the dead cop. I felt for my phone, but just then it vibrated in my pocket. I slid it out, glanced at the number. Ben.