Simon dropped his eyes to his lap. “I know.”
“You got to turn yourself around, boy, or you won’t make it to your seventeenth birthday.” Simon nodded without looking up. He’d heard this many times, each year of his life in fact, and though he knew it was true, he had resented it more each time. Now the familiar refrain gnawed at him, making him feel raw and irritable.
Behind his aunt a group of young men had entered the room. They were all dressed in baggy jeans and white T-shirts. They spotted Simon with his aunt and then halted, looking surly and would-be tough, in the corner of the big room. Their bad-ass attitudes were laughable in a place that dealt with young gang members and felons on a daily basis, and the people in charge reacted with nothing more than a bored glance. Simon noted all of this, and felt a kind of shame, a crack forming in his rigidly created belief system.
Aunt Rosa followed his look and saw the boys hovering in the corner. Turning back to Simon, she fixed him with a hard, brown stare. “What are they doing here?” she demanded flatly.
“Visiting,” Simon muttered, afraid to make eye contact.
“Simon, I know you think they’re your friends, but they’re nothing but poison.” Rosa leaned in and grabbed Simon’s face roughly, forcing him to look at her. Simon could only stand the gaze for a couple of seconds before he pulled away angrily. Rosa sighed and slumped back in the folding chair. “You’ve got to choose, boy; nobody can help you if you keep acting like a fool.”
Feeling honestly frightened that she would give up on him, Simon looked up appealingly to his aunt. She was the only family he had. His friends had become his family, protected him, saved his life even; Rosa didn’t understand that, but he was terrified of losing her.
“They’re my friends,” he said with a mixture of defiance and despair.
Rosa sighed deeply again, her huge chest rising and falling like a swell in the sea. “I know you think that, but they are not your friends.”
Simon turned his face away from her and said, “Thanks for coming,” as coldly as he could. But when he heard Rosa’s chair scrape back as she stood to go, he spun back and peered up at her desperately. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. He wondered whether she’d be too angry to come pick him up when he was released tomorrow. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been stranded miles from a bus stop.
“I know,” Rosa said. She sounded tired beyond her forty years. “Just try to get through this.” Then she fixed him with a searching stare. “But hear me, boy. Friends don’t put you in danger. If you don’t cut them loose, you can’t come back to me. It’s not good for Valeria, and it’s not good for you.” She must have seen the panic in Simon’s eyes because she softened somewhat and added, “I know it’s hard. I know they’ve been there for you when nobody else was. But we all got a choice, Simon, and you’re grown up enough to know the right choice from the wrong one. I tried to teach you right, but if you haven’t learned it by now”—her shoulders sloped forward—“then I’m gonna miss you.”
Then, with a quick squeeze of Simon’s hand, she turned without looking at him again and strode out of the room, ignoring the gang of boys in the corner.
For their part, the boys watched Rosa warily, as though hoping she wouldn’t spot them. Simon actually saw them shrink against the wall as the large woman stalked past them. Then they crossed to Simon and tapped their fists against his.
“Yo, what’s up, Sy?” asked the first to reach him.
“Yo, Loc, Tic, Juice.” Simon nodded at each boy. “Wha’s up?”
“Shit, Sy, your aunt is one scary bitch,” said the tallest of the three as they sat down across from Simon. This was Loc, the natural leader of the group.
Simon smiled. “You fucking telling me that?” he asked. Then he settled back in his seat and, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, glanced around the room to make sure none of the keepers were within earshot. He looked to Loc. The other two sat slightly back from the tall boy and deferred to his every movement. “You got news for me?”
“We hear some shit,” Loc said, his eyes roaming the room as well. His shaved head shone in the fluorescent overhead lights, and his forearms, toned from hours in the gym, rested with deceiving passivity on his thick thighs. “Don’t sweat it. We’ll take care of it.” Next to him, the smallest of the three, Tic, moved constantly, fidgeting and tapping one black sneaker against the linoleum floor.
“I want the fucker who put me in here to—”
“Chill, fucker,” Loc said with a warning note in his voice. “I told you, we’ll take care of it. When you out?”
“Tomorrow, but listen to this shit. I can only go if I do community hours or get a job.”
“That sucks,” said Juice eloquently. He was a large young man, not fat, but big, and his lazy body language disguised a rippling strength that could be sparked into action by the smallest ember of anger.
“Can you pick me up?” Simon asked, trying to look like he didn’t care, and half hoping they would say no in case his aunt showed up.
“Not tomorrow. Got some bin-niss,” Loc said to him with a pointed look at the other two boys.
Simon nodded. “That’s cool.”
“We’ll meet you at the joint,” Loc said. “Tomorrow night.”
Simon’s heart fluttered, but he kept his face cool. The joint meant a night of tequila drinking and dope smoking in a junkyard. He hadn’t had alcohol or drugs for over two months, and in that two months he’d had regular meals and more physical exercise than he’d thought he could survive, but his muscles felt strong, and his body felt clean. The thought of drinking till he puked made his stomach churn. A little bit of smoke sounded good, but with Loc and the others, there was no such thing as a little bit of anything.
The quiet lull of voices in the rec room was shattered by a jarring alarm bell. Everyone in the room jerked spasmodically at the harsh assault on their nervous systems and shot panicked looks around. Simon saw Loc reach fruitlessly toward the back of his baggy pants. Subject to search when he came to the camp, he would have left his piece in the car.
The only people who didn’t react convulsively at the noise were the firemen. They calmly walked to the middle of the room and waited for the three long, harsh bell blasts to subside; then one of them spoke in a clear, calm voice that carried in the postalarm silence.
He addressed the visitors first. “I’m sorry, but that means we have to cut visiting day short. We’ve been called out to work a fire.” His attention and tone shifted as he addressed the inmates themselves. “Okay, guys, let’s gear up and meet by the trucks in two minutes.” He indicated the large industrial-looking clock on the wall. “That will be at two twenty-seven. Go.”
The young men scattered with varying degrees of reluctance. Simon offered a roll of his eyes to Loc, Juice, and Tic as he passed them, but once he reached the bustle of efficient action in the open yard and his back was to his friends, a thin, self-satisfied smile twisted his lips, like a wisp of smoke gathering itself and then curling lazily upward.
Chapter 6
Al Wright’s restaurant looked like a dive, but inside it was sumptuously done in deep red booths, a long oak bar, and the delicious smell of prime rib. Greer sipped at her soda water, set it on the counter, and gave her appearance an appraising once-over in the mirror behind the bar. She was satisfied with what she saw there, but she thought that must be mostly because she liked who she was. It would have surprised her in her modesty to know that the bartender and indeed every other man in the place had been admiring her since her arrival. At a glance, Greer saw a woman with a contented face: Her green eyes were striking, yes, and her mouth had the kind of fullness that she knew men thought attractive. Her wavy auburn hair and her plumper-than-magazine-fashionable curves were also traits that men found far more alluring than popular culture would admit. Then a quickening of her pulse told her to turn to the door, and a second later her date, Sterling, walked through it.
As always when she first saw him, Gree
r felt delight, and secretly surprised that such a handsome, manly man would have found her equally attractive. Sterling Fincher had skin the color of strong coffee that framed his incongruously green eyes to their best advantage. He was wearing a silver-gray dress shirt that did little to hide the impressive strength in his arms and shoulders. He zoned in on Greer as though drawn like a magnet and moving quickly to her, he kissed her luxuriously on the plush cushions of her lips as though enjoying a drink of cool water after a long thirst.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured.
“Thank you,” Greer responded as the fluttering of swallows stirred in her chest. “And you look very handsome, as usual.”
Sterling laughed, showing his perfect white teeth, and Greer felt the rich, honest, rumbling laugh as a pleasant ripple through her body. “I don’t know how handsome I can be after having my face pummeled half a dozen times.” His voice was thickly accented, a testament to his upbringing in the south of London. It was true that he looked like a man who had never shied away from a fight, but his ruggedness added to his masculine attractiveness because he looked as if he’d won more fights than he’d lost.
“Thanks for putting up with a business dinner instead of a legitimate date. I’ll make it up to you,” he said, taking the bar stool next to her.
“I’ll give you ample opportunity to try.”
The barman approached them with a smile. How different from their first date at this same restaurant, Greer thought, which had been a setup by her business partner, Dario, when this same bartender had studiously ignored them. Now, of course, Greer and Sterling were “locals” and that’s what they liked to see at good ol’ Al’s.
“Hello, Alan,” Sterling greeted him with a firm handshake. “Having a good one?”
“Oh, I’ve got a good one,” said the wiry septuagenarian. “What I need is a good place to put it.” Both Greer and Sterling snorted with surprised laughter. Alan was famous for lines like these, but looking at his ornery, lined face, it was hard to get used to them coming from him.
“You want a drink here or at the table?” he asked Sterling with only the faintest glimmer in his eye to show that he had enjoyed their response.
“Here. We’re waiting for another couple. Actually, the man responsible for that giant subdivision everyone resents so much,” Sterling told him. “Don’t blame me though, I already turned him down, but he still wants me to do the landscaping.”
“What landscaping?” Alan asked dryly as he reached for the gin bottle, poured a shot and a half into a tall glass, and then sprayed tonic into it with the soda gun. “What’s to landscape? They’re leaving yards the size of my back doormat.”
“I know,” Sterling sighed and took the offered drink. “And what happens to those minibackyards is up to the home owners. He wants me to do the breaks and common areas, what little there is of those. I turned it down at first, but he’s offered to make some concessions, so that’s what I’m here to discuss. I was hoping I might be able to influence him to leave at least some open space.”
Alan’s snort as he turned away was an eloquent expression of a large portion of the local population’s sentiment. He muttered something about greedy somethings and went on studiously ignoring a gesticulating newcomer at the other end of the bar.
The door opened again, letting in a blast of hot air along with an unlikely couple, who stood blinking around in the comparative dimness of the bar. The man was friendly looking. His Santa Claus figure was awkwardly covered by what was obviously an expensive but ill-fitting suit, making Greer think that here was a man who could afford the best but couldn’t be bothered to show up for the fitting. His once-blond hair was mostly gray now, thin on top and combed over to one side in an oddly endearing attempt to disguise his diminishing hairline. He wore rectangular glasses that were a decade or so out of fashion, on a bemused face. As he surveyed the restaurant, he had the pleased, doughy expression of someone who has entered a place with no particular expectations and found it surprisingly quaint.
The woman next to him was in sharp contrast to her husband in almost every aspect. She was quite beautiful in a very well-preserved way, as though at about thirty-five she had dug in her heels, decided that’s as far as she was willing to go, and refused to acknowledge the next fifteen or so years. She was definitely Asian in descent, very thin and svelte. Her shoulder-length black hair was meticulously styled, her fingernails were manicured, and her nose was in the air. Her crème silk suit fit her like the sleeve of an umbrella; you could almost hear the smooth swish of fabric as she moved toward them. Her exact age was hard to place, thought Greer, probably early fifties, but Greer didn’t need any special abilities to instinctively know that inquiring about this woman’s age would be a faux pas from which she might never recover.
Spotting Sterling, Rowland took his wife’s arm and steered her toward the bar. As they came closer, her face arranged itself into a beaming smile, somehow without seeming to crease her face, and she extended a strong white hand first toward Sterling.
“Hello there. I’m Susan Hughs,” she introduced herself, and then smiled politely at Greer as the gentlemen exchanged greetings and handshakes.
“Allow me to introduce Greer Sands,” Sterling said. “She owns Eye of the Beholder beauty salon, right next to my office. Greer, this is Rowland and Susan Hughs.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Rowland said, and his voice had the slide of the south in it. As he shook Greer’s hand, she noticed that his palm felt slightly damp from the residual outside heat, but other than that, Greer sensed nothing unusual.
Susan cut in: “I’ve seen your salon, and I’ve heard very good things about it. You’re next to that coffee shop, aren’t you?” Susan was focused on her so intently that Greer felt as if she were answering a question of national importance.
“Yes. I’m pleased that you’ve heard good things.”
“I was told you have the best hairstylist in the area. Is that true?”
Greer smiled warmly at the thought of her showy partner. “Absolutely. But don’t take my word for it. Ask him—he’ll tell you.”
Susan extended her graceful white hand again. Greer took it and instantly wished she hadn’t. An image like a black mass appeared to her in the vicinity of Susan’s chest. The alarm she felt must have shown on her face because, without releasing Greer’s hand, Susan asked, “Are you feeling all right?”
Sterling’s eyes cut quickly to Greer. He knew too much about her psychic impressions to think that this was anything other than a reading.
Greer recovered quickly. “I’m fine. I was going to ask you the same thing.”
Susan’s brows lifted and she released Greer’s hand. “Why would you ask me that?”
Greer was trapped. How could she say, “Because it looks like you have a cancer in your chest”? So she just laughed it off by replying, “Because you’ve been out in that awful heat and we’ve been sitting in here enjoying a gin and tonic.”
Susan seemed appeased, if not convinced, and with a classy grace she waved the hand sporting a six-carat marquis diamond—a yellow diamond no less, Greer noted—and said, “Well, now that you mention it, I’m am feeling a tiny bit stressed, but I’m sure it’s nothing a good, cold drink won’t fix.”
Stressed, thought Greer, was the understatement of the year. She felt sure that this woman was so tightly wound that even the smallest of punctures in her outer membrane might cause her to pop spontaneously. Blackness meant danger, and most often Greer “saw” it outside the person, but this was definitely inside Susan, and all Greer could think was that she was either close to an emotional collapse or seriously—possibly terminally—ill.
Sterling took the situation in hand by saying, “Shall we go to our table?”
They were soon settled in one of the large booths, the ladies on the inside next to each other and the men facing across the table. They each ordered prime rib, except for Susan, who wanted the duck—but without the orange sauce—and vegetab
les—no, not the medley, just broccoli, lightly steamed, no butter, some lemon slices, please—instead of the offered potatoes or rice. It struck Greer that Susan probably always required a special order. That settled, the talk turned quickly to the project.
Sterling had been working on a smaller project for the Hughses’ company, eleven high-end homes built on four acres. The homes were huge, over four thousand square feet each, and packed tightly together in a community that already held small homes on lots of five acres or more. All of Shadow Hills had been baffled as to how the zoning had gotten through, but as Sterling and Greer listened to Susan, it became crystal clear.
“You have to stay on these local politicians,” she was saying as they discussed her efforts to push through a zoning variance for what would be stage three of the proposed seven-hundred-home development that was under way. “There are loopholes in most of the local zoning laws, and if you expedite your proposals by handling things personally, which I do,” she stressed as Rowland beamed proudly at her, “then you can usually push things through as long as you don’t get caught up by some busybody environmental group.”
“You don’t care for them?” Sterling asked, and Greer had to suppress a smile at the almost undetectable sarcasm in the question.
“The bane of my existence.” Susan poked the tablecloth with an acrylic nail as she spoke. “I mean, we are building beautiful homes, adding value to the existing properties, bringing in new life and resources to a floundering community. Local businesses will profit more than they can imagine, and yet people want to fight us.” She turned both her palms up and registered mock shock on her face. “I mean, I just don’t get it.”
Greer kept her voice friendly but she offered, “Maybe the local people like things the way they are. I know that some people I’ve talked to don’t want the additional traffic, and they are sorry to see the open land developed. They love the hills the way they are.” She smiled at Susan. “I mean, that’s just what I’ve overheard in the salon.”
Speak of the Devil Page 4