If there are no parking spaces, it’s a sign I’m not meant to have this job, I told myself, cruising along North Water Street.
A van shot out into traffic just ahead of me, leaving a large, juicy parking spot only inches from Hottie Latte’s doorstep. I waited for another car to swerve around me and snag the spot, but none did. Reluctantly, I pulled in to the slot.
If the Doyennes of Decency capture me and try to exorcise Satan out of me, it’s a sign that God doesn’t want me to work there, I told myself, getting out of the car.
The Doyennes were nowhere in sight.
I waited for some other human or divine agency to stop me, but no one tried to abduct me into a cult, lure me into a back alley, or set me on fire, so I pushed through the front door, found Juju, and fumbled through my inquiry.
“One of my waitresses just quit—you can start right away,” Juju squealed, before I could even finish, managing to talk, count out the cash register drawer, and nibble on a raspberry doughnut at the same time. “Fill out the paperwork later.”
Hand me a paper bag, I thought, because I was one breath away from hyperventilating. She wanted me to start now, before I had a chance to psyche myself up? But there wasn’t time for me to have a panic attack, because Juju, the human equivalent of a five-hour energy drink, was flinging outfits at me from the lingerie bazaar she kept in a backroom closet. Bustiers, baby dolls, bikinis, tankinis, and cheekinis rained on me, a shower of scanties.
I snatched up the outfit that seemed to have the most fabric per square inch—black satin shorts that would have been a tight squeeze for Slut Barbie, a scoop-necked top over a black push-up bra that lifted my devil’s dumplings heavenward, and heels that felt like stepladders. I changed in the employees bathroom. Ten minutes later, I cracked open the bathroom door and tiptoed out, wishing I could drape something less revealing over my exposed skin—like a sofa cover. Arms crossed protectively across my chest, I reported for duty.
“You look great,” Juju said, swiftly scanning me. She thrust a tray at me. “Now get out there and serve this mocha latte to the guy in the suit.”
“I thought maybe I could hang around behind the counter, slicing bagels or something.”
“Go.” She shoved me toward a table. Reluctantly, I moved out from behind the counter, blushing so painfully I could feel the blood thrumming in my ears. What if someone I knew came in and saw me? What if—God forbid—my parents flew up from Florida as a surprise and happened to stop here for coffee? What if—the thought stopped me cold—Labeck and Aspen returned for more on-site reporting?
I forced myself to move. My first customer was a balding guy with a spare tire around his middle that forced him to sit a foot away from the table. I set down his order, offering a quivery smile.
“I want something to go with this,” he said. “How fresh are your pastries?”
“They’re from this morning.”
“I don’t like ’em if they’re not fresh.” He eyed my bosom. “Your doughnuts look fresh, honey. Round and soft and—”
Juju, clearing the next table, swooped in to my rescue. She swatted the guy on the top of his bald spot with a Wall Street Journal. “What kind of question is that to ask a lady? You apologize.”
“Sorry,” he said, his grin indicating that he would probably enjoy being spanked with the market report.
Humiliated, I hurried back behind the counter.
“I cannot do this,” I hissed at Juju. “This is not me.”
“Yes, it is you,” Juju insisted. “It’s your inner you.”
“My inner self doesn’t like its outer cheeks pooching out.”
“Get over it! Look what that guy left you.” Juju waved a twenty-dollar bill at me, and when I didn’t take it, she stuffed it into a coffee can beneath the counter. There were six coffee cans lined up, each with a waitress’s name on it. She’d already labeled a can with my name. Juju swatted my black satin rear with a towel. “Now get out there and hustle. And tomorrow wear a thong.”
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I clopped out from behind the counter, order pad in hand, toward the two young guys sitting at a window table. They wore jackets with the logos of Chicago sports teams, so I assumed they were Flatlanders—Wisconsinites’ derisive term for Illinois residents—here for the Bucks-Bulls game tonight.
“Hi,” I said, coming up to them, attempting a perky smile. “And what are you gentlemen in the mood for?”
Big smirks appeared on the guys’ faces. I felt like slapping myself. What are you gentlemen in the mood for? It sounded like a crude come-on. I might as well have had Horny as a Hoot Owl stenciled across my chest.
“I want an espresso, a cinnamon doughnut, and a side of you,” said the guy in the Cubs jacket, snaking an arm around my waist.
If he didn’t let go, I was going to jab my pencil through his eardrum.
“Hey, Miss Delicious, you got a boyfriend?” the other comedian asked, studying my cleavage as though it were going to be on tonight’s pop quiz.
“Yeah,” I said. “Sixto Sanchez—maybe you’ve heard of him?” Sixto was a loose cannon who pitched for the Brewers, a guy known for his volatile pitches and even more volatile temper. “He comes in here a lot. Checking up on things, you know?”
The first guy yanked his arm back. He probably didn’t believe the Sixto stuff, but just in case, he decided to mind his manners. Once they got it through their heads that this wasn’t a titty bar, the guys turned out to be perfectly nice. They both left a generous tip.
A spate of customers arrived between seven and eight o’clock, as people on their way to sporting events or the theater stopped in for a jolt of joe to keep them awake. I got really tired of hearing:
Are your boobs real?
No, I ordered them from a silicone novelties catalog.
Why aren’t you a model?
Actually, I am. I’m just between Vogue covers.
Do you do lap dances?
Nope. I don’t do pole dances either.
Can I have your number?
No. But I’ve got yours, buster, and if you try anything, you’re toast.
Will you sell me your pantyhose?
No. But pat my ass again and I’ll wrap them around your neck until you turn blue.
My calves throbbed from walking in heels. My toes smarted from being cramped into the tiny toe box of the shoes. My arms ached from carrying trays. My boobs were spattered with tiny burn blisters. But my coffee can was filling up and I couldn’t wait to get home to see how much I’d made.
With only a half hour of my shift left, I served a complicated order of drinks and cheesecakes to a table of women—yes, women were now coming into the shop; take that, Doyennes of Decency—and turned around to serve the customer who’d just taken the table near the newspaper rack.
“Hey,” the man said, looking up at me. “Mazie, right?”
“Hel-hi-lo,” I stammered. It was the movie star from Rhonda’s party.
“You certainly get around, don’t you?” he said, smiling.
“Uh-huh.” Here it came, the red tide from hell, the uberflush. I tried picturing icebergs, glaciers, snowmen—anything to ice down my treacherous capillaries.
“Nice to see you again,” he said.
Seeing a little too much of me, I thought, tugging down my shorts.
I took his order, half-listening. Jared Kennison looked even better than I remembered. He was wearing a light-gray suit and a navy tie that brought out the blue in his eyes. Juju prepared his double espresso because I was still learning how to work the machines.
“I’ll give you fifty bucks to let me wait on that guy,” Juju whispered, fanning imaginary heat waves from her chest.
I smirked. “No deal.”
I brought Jared’s order to him, dipping a bit lower than was strictly necessary as I set his coffee on the table.
“Would you care to join me?” he asked, standing and pulling out a chair.
My, what lovely manners! I looked around.
All my customers were temporarily taken care of, so I sat down.
“Why haven’t I noticed you here before?” Jared asked.
“This is my first day. Are you a regular here?”
“Yup. Pretty girls, great coffee, and it’s only a five-minute drive away. My office is on East Mason—the Kennison Clinic—maybe you’re familiar with it?”
“A clinic? You’re a doctor?”
He smiled. “Why? Don’t I fit the stereotype?”
“Not really.” I would have guessed model for Jockey brand underwear.
“I do cosmetic surgery,” Jared said. “Also reconstructive surgery for accident victims, burns, melanomas—that kind of thing.”
“That must be very intercour—interesting—work.”
One black eyebrow rose. “Oh, it is,” he said, grinning.
I was grateful to be rescued from more Freudian slippage by the arrival of a crew of noisy fraternity boys. For the next half hour, all of us were frantically busy, then the college guys blew out and things got quiet.
“Your shift was over ten minutes ago,” Juju told me. “Go home, girl, get some rest, be back here at seven tomorrow morning.”
I dumped my tips into my purse and changed back into my regular clothes. Sliding my beat-up old sneakers onto my whimpering feet felt like salving a wound. When I got home I was going to climb into my bathtub and soak until I turned into a big, pink raisin.
But that’s not how my evening was destined to end. I walked out of the café’s steamy warmth into a light snow, got into my car, and turned the ignition. Pig made a static-electricity noise, the dashboard panel went into a flash-bang light show, and then everything died.
The alternator, I thought, clunking my head against the steering wheel. Eddie Arguello, a friend who knows cars the way I know chocolate, had told me I needed to replace Pig’s alternator. I had no idea what an alternator was, but I was pretty sure garages didn’t deliver them at ten o’clock at night.
I’d take a taxi home tonight and call a garage tomorrow, I decided. The prospect of sitting here in my cold, lifeless car, trying to excavate my cellphone from the garbage heap in my purse, was too overwhelming. I trudged back to the café, explained my problem to Juju, and asked to use the store phone to call a cab.
“Sure,” Juju said. “But if you wait around an hour I’ll give you a ride home.”
“I can give you a lift,” said Jared Kennison, looking up from his newspaper.
I hesitated, trying to decide. True, the guy was hot, but then, Ted Bundy’s victims probably thought the same thing about him.
He seemed to read my mind. “I promise I’m not a serial killer. I only kill my patients.”
“Are you crazy?” Juju said, practically shoving me toward him. “Go!”
Kennison held the door for me and we walked out together. The snow had changed to sneet—stinging particles the texture of sno-cones that made driving an adventure in brakesmanship. He was parked right out front, the kind of person for whom life obligingly opens up parking slots. I’d figured him for a doctorish Cadillac or Lexus, but his ride was a Jeep Grand Cherokee SUV in shiny black. He held the door for me and I got in. I hadn’t been in a vehicle this high above the road since I’d ridden in my dad’s old farm truck.
“Like my wheels?” he asked.
“She’s a beaut.” Immediately I felt guilty for admiring a two-ton, testosterone-injected monster that emitted six swimming pools’ worth of hydrocarbons every time it was driven to the supermarket.
As if sensing my thoughts, Kennison said, “I know. Not the greenest ride on the planet, but it’s good in rough terrain. I drive out to Wyoming for deer and elk every fall.”
“I don’t get the connection. Do you use the SUV to run over the deer?”
He laughed, not sounding at all offended. “It’s a guy thing, Mazie. I take it you’re not into hunting?”
“No. I hate the idea of shooting things. I can’t stand guns. If I had to fire a gun to save my life, I’d probably just die.”
“You should take up hunting, Mazie. Nothing like it. Being outdoors in all kinds of weather, bringing down an elusive animal using your brains and skill—”
“So this is all done with your bare hands?”
He chuckled. “You’re busting my chops, Mazie. Okay, I get you. The Bambi syndrome. The big bad hunter versus the poor little deer. But hunting—I guess you could call it a necessary evil. Hunters thin out the herd, eliminate the weaker animals, and let the strong ones thrive.”
That theory always sounds vaguely Nazi-ish to me, but I was too tired to argue. I gave him directions, and in ten minutes we were on Brady Street. “That’s my place.” I pointed to Magenta’s shop, closed up and dark.
“You own that shop?”
“I rent a flat from the guy who owns the shop. Just drop me here in the street.”
“Mazie, the only advantage to having MD plates is I get to park wherever I want.”
He double-parked in front of a Mini Coop, came around, opened my door, and escorted me to my apartment.
I opened the building’s entrance door, surprised when I didn’t immediately hear Muffin inside, making a racket. Then I remembered that Muffin was staying with Magenta tonight. The poor little guy spent so much time with Magenta, he was confused about who his real mom was. Unlocking the door to my place, I turned, half in and half out of my flat, and faced Jared.
“Thanks for the ride.”
He surprised me by bending and kissing me, a light brush of the lips. “It was nice,” he murmured. “I’ll call you.”
I went inside, closed the door, and locked it.
“I can’t believe you let that schmuck kiss you,” said a voice from the dark.
Chapter Ten
There are few disasters in life that can’t be eased by scrambled eggs and toast.
—Maguire’s Maxims
My heart catapulted off my diaphragm. I whirled around, clutching a hand to my chest. “Dammit, Labeck—give me a heart attack, why don’t you?” I snapped on the lights. “How did you get in here?”
Bonaparte Labeck lounged, arms folded, against the pine wardrobe that housed my third-hand TV set. He looked haggard. He had dark circles under his eyes and his color was off. His hair looked as though it’d been styled with a windshield scraper.
Well, it served him right. Probably Rhonda had kept him up all last night, making him jump through hoops, demonstrating exactly what she’d meant by “Nothing is off limits, Ben, nothing!”
I yanked off my coat and tossed it in a chair. “Who I kiss is not your business. Anyway, what were you doing with Rhonda Cromwell last night—removing her tonsils with your tongue?”
Against my will, I felt Labeck’s magnetic field sucking me in, pulling me closer until I was within sniffing range. He smelled like snow and shaving foam and didn’t-use-quite-enough-Right-Guard. I had to jam my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching out and stroking the hair off his forehead.
“You were spying on me?” he asked.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I sneaked into Rhonda’s house to retrieve my coat. Then you came in with—”
“Mazie, Rhonda is dead.”
I stared at him. He stared back at me. My mouth opened but nothing came out.
“She was in the neighbors’ backyard, stretched out in a lawn chair, frozen.”
“But … maybe she was just passed out.”
Labeck looked at me as though he thought zombies had been chewing on my brains. “She was dead.”
“Sometimes people are just in a deep coma.”
“For God’s sake, Maze—it wasn’t a coma. It was death. Jumper cables and a bulldozer battery could not have brought her back to life.”
Labeck rubbed his eye sockets with the heels of his hands. His voice shook. “She was strangled. Something was wrapped around her neck.”
“God.”
“Got anything to drink?”
I went to the refrigerator. My apartment is very simple
. You entered through the living room, where my sofa opened into a bed. There was a small kitchen just off the living room. Labeck followed me into the kitchen and leaned against a counter.
I pulled a bottle of orange juice out of the fridge.
He shook his head. “Not unless it’s eighty proof.”
The closest to eighty proof I had on hand was a bottle of supermarket red wine so cheap it didn’t have a cork, just a screw-off top. I took out two wineglasses—wedding gifts that had somehow escaped my mother-in-law’s grasping claws—sloshed wine into both, and handed one to Labeck.
“Start from the beginning,” I said. “You and Rhonda left her house together Monday night. I was hiding under the table. I heard you say you were going out for drinks.”
He nodded. “We went to O’Malley’s.”
“Classy. Peanut shells on the floor and wet-tee-shirt contests.”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t dressed for anything fancy. We ordered sandwiches and drinks. I tried to keep the conversation on my project—a documentary on meth addiction among the Chippewa tribes up north. I was telling Rhonda about it at her party and she seemed interested in contributing financial backing.”
I nodded, took a sip of wine. It would have made an excellent disinfectant.
“So we agreed to get together on Monday night, talk about the project over dinner.”
“Only it turns out you were on the menu?”
He nodded gloomily. “I don’t think she gave a damn about the project. She kept running her foot up my leg and I had to keep moving away until I was backed up against the end of the booth. After we ate, she wanted to go dancing, but I told her I had to get up early the next morning. Then I drove her home.”
“What time?”
“Ten thirty, maybe eleven.”
“Did you kiss her goodnight?”
He scowled. “If you’re asking did we have sex—”
“Don’t tell me!” I clapped my hands over my ears.
Labeck gritted his teeth. “Rhonda was all over me as soon as we got into her foyer. She dug her nails into my back, unbuckled my belt, tried to—I thought I’d have to pry her off with a crowbar.”
Crazy for You: Life and Love on the Lam (A Loveswept Contemporary Romance) Page 6