Yesterday's Stardust

by Becky Melby

  “Don’t pull the dumb blond routine on me. Do you know how many times I see that look every day? ‘The speed limit’s twenty-five? Really?’ He batted his eyes. “‘Why, officer, I thought the sign said fifty-five.’”

  Dani laughed. “Makes you all weak in the knees, I bet.”

  Rena padded into the kitchen in bare feet. “Makes him all weak in the head more like.”

  “Watch it, girl.”

  Rena yawned. Wiping her hands on the dishtowel, Dani smiled at the girl with the black 7 healing above her collarbone. “I’ll take you home. It’s not safe to be out at night in this neighborhood.”

  “…and he went all ballistic on me right in front of Jarod. He can’t accept that I’m not a little kid anymore, and I’m not a moron…”

  Dani rolled down a window. In defiance, maybe. They were parked in the same spot where she’d fallen asleep in Vito’s car. Finally the venting trickled to a stop. She looked up at dark kitchen windows that had blazed last week at two a.m. “Nicky works strange hours. Why doesn’t he bake during the day?”

  “Tradizione. It goes back to wood-burning ovens or something. You bake at night when it’s cool, and that way if something burns or flops you have time to do it over. Nicky’s weird. He says he wants to change things, but he’s stuck on old school stuff.”

  “Old school like wanting to know where you are and who you’re with?”

  “I’m three months away from eighteen. My great-grandmother had two kids by my age. He needs to chill.”

  “What do you do when you’re not working? Are you with Jarod all the time?”

  A tiny crease formed above Rena’s nose. “Most of the time, but we hang out with…other people, too.” She shifted in her seat. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “No. Not since college.”

  “How come?”

  She loved the directness of teens, but it could be disconcerting when they tried to turn the tables. “I guess the honest answer is I’m way too picky. I’ve been disappointed too many times by guys who aren’t who they pretend to be.”

  Rena folded her arms and leaned her head against the car door. “Yeah…”

  “Sounds like you know what I mean.”

  “I grew up with people who let you know what they were thinking. Nicky gets upset with me, he blasts me. Jarod’s all closed up.” She made a fist and held it out. “Like that.”

  “What attracted you to him in the first place?”

  “I felt safe with him.” She blinked, as if sweeping away a mirage. “Todd asked if you were covering the story. Did he mean about Miguel?”

  “You knew him?”

  “Yes.” She ran a finger under the lashes of her right eye. “And you know China?”

  Rena’s head tilted to one side. “How do you know her?”

  “I did a story awhile back about families affected by online gaming. I interviewed her. Do you know how I can get ahold of her?”

  “You’re the one who told her to get rid of Miguel, aren’t you?”

  A sharp breath rasped in Dani’s throat.

  “She told me she talked to a reporter. You told her she was too good for him, didn’t you?”

  Dani rubbed her hands against her knees. “Did she tell you what she thought about that?”

  “She figured you were right, but she couldn’t walk away from him until she had somebody to protect—” Rena bit her bottom lip. Her foot tapped against the door.

  “Was she afraid of what Miguel would do?”

  Rena fingered the door handle.

  “Rena.” Dani quieted her voice. “Was Miguel involved in a gang?” Are you?

  The foot tapped faster, giving the impression she might bolt at any minute. Tears spilled onto pale makeup. “Yes.”

  “Was that why China was afraid to break up with him?”

  Choppy hair batted her face. “She was going to run, go out of state, but he caught her and…” In the glow of a streetlight, pooled tears glimmered. “The guys in… A lot of guys are like Jarod. China and I talked about that a lot. It’s hard when people keep secrets from you, when you don’t feel you really know them or that they don’t really want to know you for who you are.”

  “Is Jarod part of the gang?”

  Rena picked at dark nail polish. “Are you doing a story on what happened to Miguel?”

  “Yes. And no. I don’t know if I’ll use his name, but can’t you see where his story could touch a lot of people? Maybe stop somebody else from taking the same path?” Rena didn’t comment. “I want to do a story on kids in your neighborhood, about“—the focus of her story suddenly crystallized—” gangs and why there’s so much crime here, and what can be done about it. I want to talk to kids and see what’s going on in their lives. Miguel’s death is just kind of a starting point.”

  Silence. Rena chewed one fingernail then another. “You said you wanted to talk to China. What did you want to tell her?”

  “That Miguel’s death isn’t her fault. Or mine. I’m worried about her. Do you think she’s capable of hurting herself?”

  “Maybe. Her family’s getting her out of here. I don’t know where she’s going, but they’re leaving Friday. We’re doing our own memorial thing at the beach Friday night, and they won’t let her stay for it. That’s seems wrong, but I get why they’re doing it.” She turned to the window and folded her hands. “If you did a story on kids in gangs, not hard-core bangers, but people on the fringe who were in danger of getting deeper, the ones who aren’t beyond hope…what could happen? To you. Or us.”

  Dani didn’t react to the last word, the girl’s admission. “I don’t know. There would be a risk, I suppose, that someone would retaliate. I wouldn’t use names of minors, maybe not even the name of the gang.”

  “But you wouldn’t want to keep it all generic, right? ’cause the goal would be to show adults, parents, and teachers and people like that, what’s really going on so they could do something—make a safe place for kids to hang out or“—knuckles pressed into her lips; tears brimmed—” a way to get out.”

  Do you want out? For once, she held the question in. “It could work that way. I always hope my stories will stir someone to act.”

  “Then I’ll help.”

  “So I can start with you? Are you willing to answer some personal questions?”

  A faint smile brightened the tear-streaked face. “How ‘bout I just take you somewhere where you can start getting answers yourself?” She reached out and touched the ends of Dani’s hair. “Have to do something about this first.” She fingered the sleeve of Dani’s retro gauze shirt. “And this.”

  September 30, 1924

  Francie’s legs felt weighted as she climbed to her room. One end of Daddy’s old leather satchel pushed out the curtain nailed to the crate beside her bed. She’d already filled it with stockings and undergarments. She closed her diary on the lines she’d written an hour ago. Tonight she’d write about giving up her money to save Applejack. And not going to Chicago.

  As she picked up the coin-filled jar, the putter of a car motor wafted through the open window. The syrup truck braked to a stop in front of the barn.

  Daddy was gone, and Mama wouldn’t know what to do. If they didn’t get this delivery, there’d be nothing to sell. She climbed down the steps, skipping the last two altogether. “I’ll go sit with Applejack.” She set the jar on the table, took her coat, and ran to the barn.

  Two men stood in Daddy’s office. Francie smoothed her hair back. “My father was called away on an emergency. I can help you.”

  She’d seen the older, stouter man often from the hayloft. He doffed his hat, showing a mostly bald head, and shot a questioning look, part amusement with maybe a hint of fear, at the other man. Francie followed his gaze and for a moment forgot to breathe. Eyes greener and more intense than any she had ever seen gazed back at her. Slicked, jet-black hair parted in the middle, high cheekbones, and a smile that showed an amazing dimple on his left cheek. He wore a tweed hat and a dark
gray coat belted at the waist. Francie’s knees weakened.

  His right eye twitched. Almost a wink but not quite. “Glad to meet you. Do you know when your father will return?”

  “He went to fe—call the vet.” She couldn’t use a word like “fetch” around a man like this. She walked across the room, opened the flat middle drawer in Daddy’s desk, and pulled out the ledger. Two years of eavesdropping and snooping around the office came to her aid. “I believe we’ll be needing three gallons this time.” She closed the book and turned around.

  Baldy shifted from one foot to the other. Clearly he was not the decision maker.

  “I assure you I am fully acquainted with my father’s business dealings.” The words sprouted without thought. Daddy wouldn’t be so quick to call her incessant reading “foolishness” after this.

  It occurred to her that neither of the men had introduced themselves. Clutching the ledger to her chest, she stared at Green Eyes. The man nodded and looked at his partner. “Everything copacetic?”

  “Whatever you say. I don’t know about this, but whatever you say.”

  Green Eyes grinned. “There ain’t nothin’ I can do…” he sang, “‘Tain’t nobody’s business if I do, do, do, do.”

  Francie blinked hard. Leaning back, she misjudged the space between her back and the desk and banged into it. The man could sing! “That was swell,” she gushed, sounding as lame as a three-legged horse. “Sara Martin.” Mama would die if she knew she’d ever heard that kind of music.

  “Sara Martin indeed.” He took a small bow.

  Baldy shook his head. “We’ll tell her hi from you.”

  “You know her? Personally?”

  “We’ll be seeing her in Chicago next—”

  Green Eyes silenced him with a hard look. “So, shall we get down to business?”

  “Yes.” Her voice sounded like the youngest Huseby boy.

  “Fine. That’ll be fifty-one dollars, Miss Tillman. Three gallons at seventeen clams per.”

  Strength rushed back into her legs. The man was trying to gyp her! Daddy would be none too pleased if she let them walk away with fifty cents more a gallon than the stuff was worth. She smiled, wide eyed, playing the dumme girl he thought her to be. “I’m sorry, sir, but I believe that will be forty-nine dollars and fifty cents.”

  His Adam’s apple lowered then bobbed to the top of his neck. “Sharp cookie. Okay, forty-nine fifty it is.”

  She tried not to feel his stare as she opened Daddy’s safe. Who was this man? Dressed like he just stepped out of a magazine, with a voice better than some she’d heard on the radio at the mercantile. What would it be like to dance with him under a mirrored ball across a polished floor in— “Chicago?”

  “Excuse me?”

  She whirled around, money box in hand. “You’re going to Chicago?”

  “Maybe. Who wants to know?”

  “I do.” She lowered her voice. “My sister lives there. She needs me to watch her little boy, and I told her I’d be there by next week to help, but all the money I’ve saved has to go to pay the vet to treat our horse. If I could get a ride with you, I wouldn’t be any trouble at all.”

  Green Eyes stroked his chin. “What would your daddy say about you riding with us?”

  She glanced toward the door and straightened her shoulders. “He wouldn’t need to know.”

  Both men hooted, louder than some of Daddy’s customers after a few pints. Baldy shook his head. “Sorry, sister.”

  Green Eyes squinted and looked her over from her hair to her boots. For the longest time, he just stood there. Francie counted out the money and set it on the table. Finally his left eyebrow lifted. “How old are you?”

  Her hands slid behind her back. Her fingers crossed. “Seventeen.”

  Green eyes closed for a moment. She was sure he wasn’t falling for it.

  “Can you drive?”

  Her heart flip-flopped. She’d driven the Huseby’s brand-new Model T pickup from their house to the barn with Mrs. Huseby sitting beside her, telling her what to do, but just to be sure the not-quite-lie wouldn’t count, she tightened her crossed fingers. “Yes, sir.”

  “You’d have to be ready to go in five minutes.”

  “Not a problem.” Sara Martin’s words giving wing to her feet, she ran out the door. “‘Tain’t nobody’s business if I do, do, d—” She slid to a stop. The safe. She’d forgotten to lock it again. Spinning on her heel, she ran back.

  The two men sat at the table, smoking. The safe was closed.

  Under the gaze of cool green eyes, she opened it.

  The box was empty.

  CHAPTER 9

  What had she done?

  Rena sat in bed, knees pulled to her chest. Tree branches, quivering in the night breeze, cast flickering shadows on the sheet. She chewed a second fingernail. The first was bleeding.

  Her idea could get both of them in way more trouble than the reporter knew. Maybe she should take it back.

  But maybe it was her only hope.

  She pushed a button on her phone to check the time. 1:38. Giving up on sleep, she turned on her lamp and got out of bed. Rummaging through the bins in her closet, she found a box of too-small clothes she’d set aside to donate. She pulled out two pairs of jeans and three shirts. The pants would have to be shortened, but they should fit. She fished a handful of earrings out of the pile on her dresser. Another piercing or two would help. What kind of reaction would that suggestion get?

  If she did back out, would Dani go to the cops or to Nicky? She hadn’t shared all that much, but the girl with all the questions could figure things out.

  What if she went ahead with the plan and Jarod figured it out? Or a story came out in the paper that brought cops crawling all over the neighborhood? Would things get better? Or way, way worse?

  Like the wolves in a nightmare she’d had after that horrible night a year ago, fear circled.

  Closing in on a wounded animal.

  Dani opened one eye and stared at the clock. After three hours of fighting with her sheet, she’d apparently won the battle. It lay on the floor in a twisted mound.

  She pressed the heels of both hands to her temples, wishing the pressure could stop the thoughts. You gotta draw a line between reporting and social work.

  Yes, she wanted to help Rena get out, but the bottom line was still the story. Lots of reporters went incognito to get the scoop. In college she’d spent a day at the mall in a wheelchair, recording people’s responses to her. This was no different. It wasn’t a lie, it was research. She was an actress on the stage of life. An actress for a cause. The more awareness she brought to the lure and danger of gangs, the more chance there was that someone would do something about the problem.

  And she wasn’t doing anything illegal.

  She exhausted every possible rationalization and still didn’t have an ounce of peace, but turning back didn’t seem the right option either.

  Maybe Rena would change her mind and call. Maybe Evan wouldn’t answer the message she’d left him. Or maybe he’d say no to what she was going to ask and then that would be her answer, too. No. Sorry, Rena. Thanks but no thanks. Not going to risk my life for a story.

  Sometime after three she fell asleep. In one of many disjointed dreams, Nicky Fiorini took Agatha’s keys from her and baked them inside a spinach calzone.

  Dani’s phone rang at five-thirty in the morning. Sitting bolt upright, she fumbled for the phone. Evan. Flopping back on the pillows, she answered in a barely audible croak.

  “Rough night?”

  “Mostaccioli. Cannoli.”

  “Ah…the oregano morning after. Thought your message sounded a little weird. Sorry I didn’t return your call. Had my phone on vibrate, and it was after midnight when I saw it. So what’s up? What are you getting me into now?”

  “Do you know what time it is?” She flipped a pillow onto her face. “I’ll tell you at work.”

  “No. You’ll tell me in twenty minutes when I pick yo
u up.”

  “Evan. No. I had a horrible night and—”

  “Okay, fine, if you won’t do a favor for me I guess I can’t do whatever it is you want me to do on Fri—”

  “I’ll do it.” She sat up again. “What am I doing?”

  “It’ll only take about an hour. I’ll get us to work on time.”

  “Sure.” Whatever it was, she wasn’t in a position to refuse.

  “I’m making coffee for you. Hazelnut. Smell it?”

  “Hurry.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty.”

  Ten minutes into a hot shower, Dani regained full consciousness. Hazy snips from another dream surfaced in the steam, sending chills skittering down her back. She was sitting at a picnic table by the lake, watching the sailboats. She could even remember the colors—a striped red and yellow sail dipping and rising on surreal vibrant blue waves. And then someone tapped her shoulder. She turned. China stood next to her, her face lined with hideous black streaks. Intense relief washed over her, but as she reached out to hug her, China placed a gun in the palm of her hand. The barrel was still hot.

  She turned the water temperature down, rinsing in the slowly cooling water until her skin tingled. As she dressed, the sick feeling of the gun in her hand remained.

  When she walked out of the bedroom in a sleeveless poor boy shirt from the seventies and plaid peddle pushers, Evan sat at the counter with his back to her. “Morning,” he said, “you decent?”

  “Ugly, but dressed.”

  He turned and held out a travel mug of coffee. “You are particularly retro this morning. Let’s go. I want to use this light.” He put his keys in her hand. “In fact, I want you to drive the H1 so I can get some shots on the way.”

  “That’s a first.”

  “I’m so crunched for time I’ll chance it.

  “Crunched for time? As in an official deadline? As in Urbanart likes your idea?”

  Evan beamed. Dani hugged him then ran ahead of him down the steps and opened the driver’s side door of the Hummer. She drove in silence, turning, slowing, and stopping at Evan’s commands. The click of the shutter formed a backdrop to a replay of her talk with Rena.