by S. D. Thames
I caught a glimpse of something flapping on the balcony. I walked closer and got a better angle to look outside.
There I saw a petite brunette talking on a cell phone, one hand holding the phone, which was twice the size of her hand, and the other holding her robe closed. It was her robe I had seen, fluttering in the gentle breeze. Her hair was tied in a bun with a porcelain pick. I gave her a few minutes to finish her call, but it seemed she was going to spend the morning outside.
So I slid the door open. The balcony was deep and wide, traversing the entire front of the building.
“Hello?” I said. Across the river, the silver minarets peaked into the sky, shining under the sun. I heard a droning, a buzzing in my ears, and snapped out of it when she told whomever she was talking to that she’d call back later. She turned and pushed me inside.
“Hey there,” she said. “You’re early.”
“Funny, I thought I was late.”
She held out her hand and studied me. “I’m Angie. Have we met?”
I shook my head. “I’m Milo. I’m pretty sure we haven’t.”
She leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. “Good to meet you, Milo.” She moved across the empty room and took the hallway to the kitchen. I followed her. “Sorry if there was a mix-up. I wasn’t expecting you until eleven.”
“No problem,” I said, following behind her. “Is anyone else home?”
“Just us.” She grinned, flipped on the light to a kitchen that now glimmered with a stainless steel gas range and refrigerator that looked like they belonged in a restaurant.
She turned around, like she was modeling, and let me get a better look at her. Her skin was tanned, and glistened. Her hair had black roots that grew lighter for the most part, but also had a few random streaks of maroon. Her robe was thin and translucent, barely covering breasts that seemed too large for her dainty frame. The robe also barely covered her thighs, which were toned and thick, those of someone who spent a fair amount of time in the gym every week.
“You always leave the door unlocked?” I asked.
“Only when I’m expecting someone.” Her grin grew wider. Her eyes were emerald green, like the deep waters of the Gulf. Her gaze was like a spotlight that made you feel embarrassed, like being caught naked in a dream. “Like a very important person.”
I wondered how long I had before this very important person she was expecting would arrive. Whoever he was, I had a pretty good idea what he was coming for.
She laughed and her eyelashes fluttered. “You’re new to this, aren’t you?”
I played coy and admitted that I was. There was something about her voice I couldn’t quite place. It was as though she were trying to sound educated or formal, while hiding a strong southern twang.
“You usually want to start by leaving the donation for me, somewhere where I can see it.” She took a few steps closer. “But since I like you, we can take care of business later.”
“Thanks,” I said, swallowing hard.
“You want a drink?” She turned on a dime, opened the fridge, and pulled out a jug of grapefruit juice. A bottle of Grey Goose already sat open on the counter. She worked with her back toward me, and I noticed that neither hand cared for the robe any longer. It moved freely as she stepped back to the freezer and dropped a few cubes in her tumbler. Then she gracefully spun back to the counter for a few ounces of vodka, and topped it off with a splash of the grapefruit juice. She turned and looked me in the eyes as she took a long, noisy slurp. She held the tumbler with her right hand; if her left hand did anything, it only pulled the robe wide open.
I could now clearly see that she wore nothing underneath. She’d cared for every detail of her body, from the shade of her tan and the tone of her thighs to the thick polish on her nails, which matched the maroon streaks in her hair. Everything about her body looked perfect, except that it was so exposed.
She seemed very comfortable being naked in front of a stranger. “You sure I can’t get you something?” she asked as she took a few steps back in my direction.
I told her I was sure. She reached for me, and I pulled my head back. I thought she was trying to kiss me, but she was just going for my beard. “So thick,” she remarked as she ran her fingers through my mane, as though she were trying to massage my face. “Are you blushing under there?”
I took her hands away from my face and gently returned them to her sides and tried to close her robe. She stepped back, pulled her robe open again, and placed her hand on her hip, right next to a colorful tattoo—a heart with the word “Love” written in cursive along the right curve.
“Did that hurt?” I asked, nodding at the body art.
I shouldn’t have said that, because she pulled the robe wide open and gave me a view of everything that I, for the most part, didn’t want to see. “Not too bad.” She took a slow drink, licked a drop of juice from her lip, and grinned. “You want to touch it? I love being kissed in that area.” She stepped in my direction.
I took a deep, furtive breath. I needed to get some information or get the hell out. “This might sound funny, but do you mind if I ask when the man of the house will return?”
“Oh, don’t worry. He’ll be gone for a while.”
“Chad Scalzo?”
“You sure ask a lot of questions. Whatever, it’s your money. Yes, Mr. Scalzo will not be back for a while.” Her accent was coming through. I pegged her as being from Georgia or Alabama.
“You’re not married, are you?” If by some slight chance she were Mrs. Scalzo, I could effect service by leaving the subpoena with her.
She chuckled. “Are we married?”
“Just making sure, ’cause I don’t go for married women.” I stepped toward her with my arms at my sides.
“Do I look like the marrying type to you?” She took a step, too. Sure enough, there was no ring on her finger. We were about a foot apart now. Her head was hovering near my face.
“I can imagine a few men who’d like to marry you,” I said. Gratification immediately glowed on her face. “So, do you live here?” I asked.
She shook her head no, that mischievous grin growing on her face. “I’m actually homeless, would you believe that?”
I didn’t comment on that. Regardless, if she wasn’t Scalzo’s spouse and didn’t reside there, I was wasting my time unless I could get some information about his whereabouts. I put my hands on her shoulders. It was really to stop her from coming closer, but I rubbed them lightly to feign interest. “When will he be home today?”
“He’s not coming home.”
“At all?”
She shook her head. “He’s flying out for business tomorrow, and I’ll have the place all to myself.” She grinned playfully. “I get to stay here all week, all by myself.” Her shoulders were moving in circles now with my caresses. I couldn’t deny what it was doing to me. Her hands were on my chest and moving down slowly. “I hope I don’t get lonely.”
I smiled. “Can you at least tell me your name?”
“Most people call me Angie.” She was rubbing my stomach now.
“That’s your real name?”
She shrugged. “Close enough.” I was feeling warm. “You know, I got this gift,” she said. “Can I tell you about it?”
I glanced at the clock on the stove and swallowed hard.
“I have this uncanny ability, you see, to guess a lot about a guy,” she nodded toward my midriff, “just from how he carries himself. So if I guess yours now,” she held the sentence, moved her eyes toward me.
“Yes?” I gulped.
“Then you’ll have to prove whether I’m right.”
I took her hands and returned them to her sides again, too forcefully this time. But she seemed to like it. “You’re strong,” she said. “And shy? Don’t worry, I had you pegged pretty well, but I won’t judge you if I’m wrong.”
I couldn’t play the game much longer, or I was going to risk losing my license—among other things. Good thing I’d already go
tten about all I was going to get from her. I held her arms steady. She thought it was still a game. “Are you going to see Scalzo anytime today?”
“What’s with all the questions? Don’t worry about Chad.”
“When will you see him next?”
“Not till tonight. He’s taking us to dinner. A very special occasion.” She closed her eyes, like she was waiting for me to kiss her.
“You don’t say. So where does a special girl like you like to go to dinner?”
She opened her eyes, suspicion welling in her eyes. “I don’t know. It’s a surprise.”
Just then, the front door slammed open, and we both turned in unison. In walked a burly man with black hair slicked back. He was stubby, panting, and clearly in a rush. “Are you ready?” he barked at Angie. Then he looked at me as if an afterthought. “Who the hell is he?”
“Ready for what?” Angie said.
“What do you think?” he asked. “Your eleven o’clock.”
“I thought it was here,” she said and looked at me. “Him?”
He shook his head. “It’s across town, dumbass. I’m driving you there.” He looked at the vodka on the counter. “For crying out loud, you drunk already?”
My time here was obviously coming to an end. “Excuse me, sir, are you Chad Scalzo?”
She laughed at my question, and he just turned, annoyed. “Do I look like Chad Scalzo?” He looked to Angie again. “I’m asking you one more time, who the hell is this guy?”
She shrugged and downed her drink. “I don’t know, Kiki, I thought he was my date. He just walked in here. I assumed he had a VIP key.”
“Kiki?” I said. “Is that like kiwi?”
“What’s it to you?” Kiki was trying to act tough, but everything he did reeked of fear.
I handed him my card. “I’m looking for Mr. Scalzo. I got something really important for him. Please have him give me a call.”
Kiki read my card. “Porter Investigations and Process?” He raised his finger. “You get the hell out of here before I have you arrested.”
“No problem,” I said. “I’m running late anyways.”
“Hey, what’s going on here?” Angie was starting to register what had just happened, and perhaps the fact that she’d come on to a guy who’d rejected her. She didn’t look happy about that. “You’re an investigator?” There was no hiding the southern twang now.
I nodded, and told her it was good to meet her. “I had a great time.”
As confused as ever, she glanced at Kiki and then stared me down again. “Where are you going?” she asked, as though my answer might somehow explain what had just happened between us.
I picked up my pace and smiled politely. “Sorry, but I’m late for church.”
CHAPTER THREE
A Mighty Fortress
I found a seat in the back of the sanctuary, almost ten minutes after the hour. I was late because I’d driven by Rico’s to see if I might catch him at home and avoid coming here in the first place. I spent a good five minutes knocking on the door. You could never tell if Rico was home because he didn’t own a car. He lived within walking distance of his gym, which was closed on Sundays, and his church, Seminole Heights Church of the Redeemer, which was not. Rico didn’t answer, so I made the short drive to the church.
The pew creaked when I sat down in the back row. Whatever wood it was made from was rigid—excellent for lumbar support if that was your thing, but not so much if you had a tender rump or had attempted an 800-pound deadlift the day before. It had been a while since I’d sat in this church, or any other for that matter. I was hoping to get in and out unseen—not only because of the Scalzo job, but also because I had neglected to return a few calls recently from the church’s pastor, James Evans, inquiring about my prolonged absence. I was sure Pastor Evans had already seen me as he addressed the congregation that morning. It’s hard to hide when you’re my size and sport a beard larger than the average human head.
I scanned the sanctuary for Rico, who would also stand out in this crowd. I started first to the right of the aisle where he usually sat, and then worked my way westward. Rico was nowhere to be seen. A few of the parishioners turned and looked at me. I nodded back to them as Pastor Evans led the congregation through the liturgy. He would speak, and then they would respond in unison. I didn’t have a bulletin, so I couldn’t follow along.
I was certain Rico wasn’t there, but since he wasn’t known for his punctuality—his gym was rarely open on time, and he missed the bus the last time his powerlifting team had a meet—I decided to wait a bit longer to see if he showed. I hadn’t heard from him in days. All I knew was something wasn’t right between us, and I hoped the good news about paying the bank off would repair whatever our rift was.
I was dozing off, staring at the pew Bible in front of me, when the congregants stood in unison. I stood up, too. Then a blast of the pipe organ shook the sanctuary windows, not to mention my eardrums. I would have reached for the hymnal, but I didn’t hear the page number. I tried glancing at my neighbor’s hymnal, but the elderly woman with purple hair was keeping a safe distance from me. I had never heard this hymn before, but the congregation seemed to know it well, as they sang it with majesty and passion. The harmony was actually rather catchy, like an anthem you might hear sung at a ball game. I couldn’t follow the lyrics, but I caught something about a mighty fortress and a bulwark never ending, and again I thought of Rico, and his nickname for me: Fortress.
I liked the song, but I don’t care much for crowds, and I realized I’d been in this one now for nearly fifteen minutes. That’s how it starts. Just a little realization that you might be feeling anxious. The heart beats faster, and your mind tries pulling you back down. And just like that, you’re on your back struggling for air. But only you’re standing, and no one knows what’s going on inside. I took a few deep breaths. I counted and heard Dr. J’s instruction in the back of my mind. It helped some, but the music was getting louder. Now they sang something about devils and the Prince of Darkness and battles. I didn’t want any more battles, and I didn’t care for a religion that seemed to be preparing itself for the final battle, the final slaughter—Armageddon.
See what I’ve seen, and you’d be just as content to go to the grave and slumber.
I stepped outside for air. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a panic attack. I didn’t have one that day; it was just another tremor, the kind that reminds you the fault line is there, and you better be prepared for the big one. I stood outside breathing the humid air while the arcane melody inside continued, rattling the stained-glass windows along the wall. It was approaching noon and the upper nineties. You could feel it most days at noon and make a good guess whether it would storm that night. Though the sky was still blue, today felt like a stormy afternoon lay ahead.
The music stopped, which meant it wouldn’t be long until the sermon started. So I was surprised to turn and see Pastor Evans approaching me from the entrance to the narthex. “Shouldn’t you be in there?” I asked.
His eyes squinted from the sun and made his red cheeks look even fatter than usual as he smiled. “We have a guest preacher today. I just introduced him for the sermon.” He studied me closely. “You okay, Milo?”
“I’m just getting some fresh air.” I tried to hide the fact I wasn’t breathing well.
“He’s preaching on the Parable of the Lost Sheep. You know it?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Pastor. Honestly, I was here hoping to see Rico. I’m a bit worried about him.”
“He told me about the problems he was having. His gym’s being foreclosed?”
I nodded. “It’s not that bad yet, but he’s behind.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you come inside? I think you’ll like our guest. He’s from Virginia, and has a lot of experience working with vets. He’s a vet himself. Afghanistan and Iraq.” He waited for my response.
I tried peeking into the sanctuary, but the stai
ned glass prevented that. I could hear the echo of a man’s voice inside but couldn’t understand a word he was saying. “I wish I could stay,” I lied. “I took a job that needs to get done today, and the day’s slipping away.”
He nodded in agreement. “So, when can we get together for a beer? I hear they’re serving good stuff at that place you told me about down the street.”
I knew the place he was talking about, right there in Seminole Heights—Southern Brewing, a supply store that sells everything a home brewer needs, with a bar featuring their own brews. I told him that would be great, and I’d give him a call soon. I really committed to doing it, but I still doubted it would happen.
He nodded. “I hope to hear from you.”
I watched him walk back to the front of the church. I felt like I should follow him, but he disappeared.
The line for brunch at the Refinery was already winding around the century-old bungalow and onto Florida Avenue. No parking spaces were open, so I exited the parking lot, made a right, and parked along a lawn down the side street.
Seminole Heights, which for at least a decade had been heralded as the up-and-coming neighborhood in Tampa, had many of the same Craftsman homes you’d find down in South Tampa for about half the price. While a few of its streets were well preserved, many others, including the one where Rico lived, were not. And while the real estate market in Seminole Heights may have disappointed locals who were hoping to see more aggressive appreciation of home values, its restaurants and bars had not. The Refinery was one that led the charge, and still served a Sunday brunch that was hard to beat.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to wait, or to sit down for that matter, so I bypassed the line and entered the packed dining room. A few waitresses scurried around carrying plates of French toast and shrimp and grits. My stomach growled, but I didn’t have time to pay it much attention. I didn’t notice any familiar faces, but apparently one noticed me: “What’s up, Milo?”