Helen Hanson - Dark Pool

by Helen Hanson

  Not a single piece of good news. She understood why dogs liked to bite mailmen.

  Her sour attitude decayed to righteous self-pity before a face filled her window, all dark chocolate and smiles. Denesha’s smile had a homemade ice cream quality to it that generally made you want seconds. But, Maggie wasn’t hungry for happy. Denesha rapped on the window.

  Maggie stuffed the mail in her backpack and got out of the car. Maggie, slim and tallish, hovered over tiny Denesha. They both wore starched white blouses and crisp black slacks.

  “Hey, girl! You back here already? How’s Travis?”

  Maggie’s cloudy mood shrank a little in Denesha’s effervescent company. Being surly with her was on par with kicking a baby bunny. “Hey, yourself.” Maggie threw her pack over a shoulder. “He’s glad to be out. And glad Dad’s not in.”

  Denesha tossed some braids behind her back. “Say what?”

  “We had a little trouble last night.” She told Denesha about the body they’d found and the trip to the police station.

  “Haven’t you had enough nonsense?”

  “Tell me.” She locked her car. “Who’s on shift?”

  “I don’t think Peter’s working tonight.” Denesha answered Maggie’s ulterior question. She yanked open the door to the employee entrance. “The man does not treat you well.”

  Crossing the threshold, their demeanor changed like a rock band taking the stage. Three hours before the dinner rush and a cacophony of kitchen sounds arose as the staff hopped to the orders of the owner and Chef de Cuisine, Taki Murakami. The scent of honeyed ginger and oranges reached Maggie before the olfactory tsunami left her with no discernment for individual aromas. All culinary elements morphed into a single unified smell—delicious.

  Maggie reviewed the specials with the wait Captain, Joe Potter, a man brusque and gruff to everyone beneath him except Maggie, until she turned him down for a date. From the service alley behind the dining room, she checked on her tables. Patrons sat in clusters around the spacious dining room.

  Maggie caught sight of Peter helping a bejeweled, elderly woman into a seat at one of Maggie’s larger tables for the night. Under Peter’s spell, the woman was all smiles. Maggie stopped and turned back, slamming directly into Benito. The bus boy dropped the tray he carried, shattering two wine glasses on the maple wood floor. Remains of red and white wines splattered the melon-colored wall like a Jackson Pollack.

  “I am so sorry.” She reached to help the young man. “Say ‘behind you’, so I know you’re there.”

  His narrow face pinkened at her attention. “No, no. You wait tables. I clean up.” He pulled a towel from his apron and subdued the mess.

  Maggie stooped to reload his pile of dishes. Management tolerated minimal breakage from bus boys. Benito had enough strikes against him without her help.

  She stood and dusted her clean clothes and glanced at her table. She had expected Peter to be gone by this time. He saw her and continued his conversation. Dawdling in a restaurant was a greater sin than murder. Her incisors clamped down on her lower lip. She lifted her chin and strode to the table.

  What was his damage, anyway?

  “Good evening. My name is Maggie, and I’ll be your server tonight. Though I’m sure Peter has been treating you well.” She smiled his direction and hoped her teeth didn’t crack under the stress.

  The patron’s smile washed away. Concentric strands of pearls framed her fleshy face.

  “Well, she isn’t the worst waitress you could get tonight.” Peter touched the lady’s bare shoulder. Milky, brown eyes sparkled with his touch.

  Maggie felt an undertow from the currents. “I understand the rest of your party is en route. Can I get you anything to make your wait more comfortable?”

  “Honey, Peter and I are getting along famously.” She patted Maggie’s hand with fingers so cinched from diamond rings they looked strangled. “I’d just as soon he stays with me if you don’t mind?” They all knew it wasn’t a question. Customers ruled. Another round to Peter. The punk.

  Maggie reported back to Joe but didn’t bother to tell him about the incident. Peter was an effeminate-looking guy with sun-blond hair and a sprayed-on tan. He schmoozed customers like a real estate agent at an open house. His charm and civility poured over those from whom he stood to gain. With anyone else, he didn’t bother. Eddie Haskell’s malicious twin.

  And for Joe, it just wasn’t a problem. He assigned her another smaller, less desirable table; it always generated less tips. She calculated how much further behind she would be in paying off the late notices, and what she might do about it, when the greeter seated a group of four at one her tables. No time to waste. Waitresses couldn’t afford revenge.

  The night fell into rhythm, and toward the end of the shift, the pace finally hit neap tide. Three tables remained under Maggie’s watch. The restaurant no longer received new guests. Whether over dessert, or wine, or conversation, all three parties lingered. She attended to the tables sparingly as they needed nothing save a reason to go home.

  She tallied a customer’s final bill at the computer screen in the alcove off the kitchen. Benito trudged toward her with a pan full of dirty dishes. Peter came up from behind him as Benito smiled her direction.

  Peter caught Benito’s foot with his own.

  Benito tipped forward and lost his grip on the heavy dishpan. It thudded to the floor. Unfinished drinks sprayed the walls. Glasses smacked down into rubble, their shards launching like tiny scuds. A mushroom cloud of food scraps spewed into the air. The accident created a mess that transcended floors and walls to reach ceiling-height. Benito fell face-first on the maple planks to avoid shrapnel.

  Joe lumbered into the alcove. Peter’s smirk receded back into his thin, mean lips.

  “Dammit, Benito,” Joe tried to suppress a screech. “That’s the fourth time this week.” He threw a towel onto the counter. “We spend more on dishes than we do you. Pack it up. You’re fired.”

  Maggie stepped in front of Joe. “If you’re going to fire him let him earn it.”

  “Stay out of this, Maggie. The kid’s not worth it.”

  “This wasn’t his fault. Peter deliberately tripped him.”

  Peter rocked back on his heels and crossed his arms. “Phshh. Maggie’s full of it. I didn’t trip him.”

  Joe looked around the gathering crowd. “Did anyone see him trip Benito?”

  “I’m the only one who saw it. He made sure of that.”

  “Look Maggie, I know you and Peter don’t get along, but it’s your word against his.”

  Benito rose from the floor, red spreading from his face to his neck, “And me. I don’t know who, but I got tripped like Maggie say.”

  “I don’t think Pedro gets a vote, he’s just trying to save his own neck.”

  Disgust lapped at her throat. “His name is Benito.”

  Peter’s smirk returned. “Plus, he’s hot for Maggie. He’s been panting after her since day one. He’d say anything to get into her—”

  She fisted her right hand and popped him straight in the nose. She didn’t hear the snap, only felt it. Peter collapsed to the floor, cradling his nose as it pooled with blood.

  “Are you crazy?” His white shirt bloomed with crimson stains.

  Joe stared at Maggie. “What the hell?”

  “You fire her! Or I’m gonna sue!” Peter mispronounced the words, but everyone understood him, and no one was surprised.

  “Shut up, Peter. You’re not suing anybody. But, Maggie. What the hell?”

  “Fire her!”

  “Shut up!” Joe leaned against the wall. “Maggie. I know the man’s a joke, but what the hell?”

  Her hand still clenched. All eyes stared at the crazy woman.

  He swiped his wet brow with the back of his sleeve. “Morgan, get out there and take care of our customers. Sammy, go make an ice pack. Denesha, get this jackass a bandage. Maggie and Benito, follow me.” Joe glowered down at the bleeding waiter. “When are you go
ing to learn to keep your stupid mouth shut?”

  Fifteen minutes later Joe escorted Maggie and Benito out the back door. With final checks in hand, he abandoned them in the parking lot.

  “I am sorry, Maggie.” Benito meant it.

  Maggie was also sorry. Sorry she lost her job. Sorry her brother spent six months in jail. Sorry she was the only one wearing her burdens. “It needed to be done. I just didn’t need to be the one to do it.” Another day, further down the hill.

  He nodded. “You’re nice lady.” He put his hand out for her to shake. “Vaya con Dios.”

  She watched him return to his buddies. He was already joking and laughing with them, probably had some job ideas lined up. It took her months to find this job. They worked around her schedule at school, and the pay wasn’t horrible. She didn’t have months. The mortgage company wouldn’t give her months.

  She crawled in her car and opened a window. Her face lifted in greeting to the cool breeze. She needed to get home, sleep, and put another sorry day out of its misery. Tomorrow was soon enough to revisit today’s trouble. She cranked the ignition, and it made plenty of noise before the engine died.

  Chapter Nine

  The black Mercedes limousine waited outside the release gate of San Quentin when Vladimir Penniski broke free of the stale prison air. Most parolees left wearing a set of gray sweats that they purchased with money provided by the state. Vladimir let them keep their gate money and strode out in hand-tailored Italian wool and a crisp, white shirt of pure silk.

  San Quentin occupied a priceless piece of Marin County beachfront that neither Vladimir nor any of the inmates enjoyed during their stay, least of all those on death row. Vladimir stood on the sidewalk and closed his eyes, letting the sun warm his face. The pungent air coming off the cold Pacific could no longer taunt him through the prison bars. He breathed deeply as the breeze snapped the end of his jacket.

  The driver lounged against the car’s frame until he spied Vladimir approaching. He scrambled to return to the driver’s seat and started the engine. Anton and Yuri Suslova emerged from opposite sides of the rear compartment. The two brothers had worked for Vladimir since they were teens. Anton was a little older, sturdier, and did most of the talking. Their budding smiles made them look slightly less lethal.

  “Skolko let, skolko zim.” Vladimir called to them as he neared the car.

  “Skolko let, skolko zim.” The brothers returned the greeting.

  Anton waited for Vladimir to extend a hand then pumped it several times as if he expected water to flow. “It’s good to see you on this side, Mr. Penniski.”

  “We have much to discuss.” Vladimir clapped a hand on the bulky man’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

  As the car rolled toward the free world, Yuri withdrew a bottle of Stolichnaya from the freezer and filled three aperitif glasses. The driver paused briefly at the gate before heading for San Francisco. Vladimir leaned back in his seat and exhaled the last of San Quentin’s fumes from his lungs.

  Yuri handed a glass to Vladimir. “For you, sir.”

  Vladimir took the glass by the stem. “Now, I feel at home. Budem zdorovy.”

  “Budem!” The brother’s chorused.” They drank quickly, and Anton offered a second toast while Yuri refilled their glasses “To Barney Reid’s nose.”

  “To Barney Reid’s nose.” Vladimir downed his round and laughed.

  Yuri passed out small plates filled with pickles and herring.

  “What have you learned from our friend Kurt Meyers?” Vladimir ate some of the fish.

  “Meyers gives good speeches. The crowd, they love him.” Anton laid his plate on the small pullout table and wiped his hands. “His people meet with every investor. Meyers meets those who knew Patty O’Mara personally. We have the same list of investors.”

  Vladimir let a Dunhill fall from the pack. “Spencer Thornton spent major money to hire this guy. More than some of those people even lost. What do you have in place?”

  Yuri offered Vladimir a light. He rarely joined in the conversations.

  “We installed a keylogger on his computer,” Anton said. “For him, it is better than a phone bug. We see everything the man types, and he’s taken interest in a woman from Sausalito. Vonda Creevy.”

  Vladimir puffed life into the Dunhill. “What’s special about her?”

  “She knew O’Mara. Maybe they were close. We don’t have details. She is a litigation attorney and investor with a friend on Supreme Court. The last three governors offer her a seat on appellate court, but she turned them down. She likes the courtroom.”

  “Interesting lady.”

  Anton sat upright. “Wade Staunton sent a message that you want us to consider hackers.”

  “This disappearing money act bothers me.” Vladimir noticed the brothers exchange a glance. “I mean the way it disappeared. All the money moved electronically.”

  “The SEC tried to follow money trail, but they haven’t gotten anywhere. Money leaves an account but does not reappear.”

  “Patty O’Mara is a thieving little govno. But I don’t want that to cloud my judgment. Maybe someone stole the money from him.” He watched the brothers’ faces for a reaction. “Who wrote the software he used on his servers? Computer geeks don’t make the kind of money O’Mara had floating around. Maybe someone got greedy.”

  Anton nodded. “We’ll find out.”

  “I want the name of everyone on the software development teams—anybody who was in the building. If someone jacked my money, I want to know where that bastard is.”

  Yuri poured another round of vodka. “Maybe he bought a small island.”

  “Then get me the GPS coordinates, so I can nuke it.”

  Chapter Ten

  Maggie poured stiff coffee into a battered mug. Normally she added milk, but after losing her only line of income, drinking it black was fitting punishment. She sat the mug on the foreclosure notice. A dark ring seeped onto the page. However much she enjoyed bashing Peter’s nose, he wasn’t worthy of her sacrifice.

  Benito and his friends had found the problem with her car. A distributor wire rattled loose. They were surprised her car even had a distributor. Such was the state-of-her-art. When they reattached it, the car sputtered to life. The drive home seemed much longer than usual.

  Sleep crept over her sometime during the night, and she enjoyed the luxury of dismissing yesterday’s events as a bad dream. But in the morning light, her situation seemed even bleaker.

  Bailey and Belli sat at Maggie’s feet while she prepped their breakfast of no-name dog nuggets and some wet stuff she bought on sale. Bailey licked the back of Maggie’s hand as if to sample what was in the bowl. Belli nudged her head into Maggie’s knee. Maggie set the bowls down and gave them fresh water. The beagles were accustomed to an earlier meal, but Maggie couldn’t find a good reason to hurry out of bed.

  She slid into a chair at the kitchen table and stared out the window. The back deck was her favorite place to sip coffee and watch the surf. The weather was cool and uncharacteristically sunny. But she felt like fostering her ill humor a little longer. Outside, on the beach, she couldn’t adequately suffer.

  The bitter coffee matched her mood but sent a few thousand volts to zap her central nervous system out of her moldy funk. She needed a job. Today.

  Their savings was sapped by illness. They tapped the remaining equity on the house for Travis’ futile defense. Of the dozen guitars in her father’s original collection, she’d already sold ten. Daddy received a bit of money each month but not enough to support them all. And her degree, only two more years, or three, the rate she was going. And then law school. But if she didn’t get a job, she couldn’t pay the mortgage. Nothing else mattered. She hadn’t told Travis they’d defaulted on the mortgage and might lose their house. There simply wasn’t anything he could do to help.

  “Can you, Mag?”

  She snapped toward the sound of Travis’ voice. Hot coffee sloshed up, over the rim and onto
her hand. She shook it like a cat. “Oww.”

  “Are you okay.” He rushed to her side and checked her hand. “Want some aloe?” A natural caretaker, just like his mother.

  Maggie hadn’t shared her mornings for the last six months. Alone in her dark cloud, she’d forgotten about Travis. And Daddy? He’d forgotten them both.

  She squeezed his hand and drew back. “I’m fine, Trav. Just a little preoccupied. Can I what?”

  “I need to learn to drive. Javier and his mom helped me research it, and I can order the workbooks for my training. I have to pass the test before I can get a permit. It’s thirty bucks. They’ll overnight them, and I can use my jail money for it.” He spoke quickly as if he had a time limit before the words expired. “But I need you to order it for me online.”

  Thirty dollars. Thirty jail-dollars at that. It never seemed like much money before. Her father made a good income as a data center manager until Alzheimer’s pilfered his intellect. Travis behind the wheel was an expense she couldn’t afford.

  “I know it’s just the beginning of the costs.” He pushed up the sleeves of his denim shirt and took a deep breath. “Driver’s ed costs about three-fifty, but we can take this one step at a time. Plus, I can get a job of some sort. And—”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  He bear-hugged her like a drunken Russian. “Magpie, you’re the best!”

  She hadn’t heard his pet name for her in months. Her heart welled as she hugged him back. Before his arrest, Travis was the one sure soul she knew. Unlike so many teens, he never aspired to petulance. Even if he was guilty of this one colossal mistake, Travis was still her kid brother, and he’d already lost enough of his waning youth.

  Besides, it was only money. She could sell the guitars. As much as her father loved them, he couldn’t play anymore. He strummed them once in a while. And Travis quit playing the day his mother died. Maggie missed the music. Every home should make some kind of music.