by Crowe, Stan
“In addition, I’ll need you to persuade Mister Simmons to finalize his selection of an attorney. Right now, it’s us, or Hammer and Nelson. Simmons has privately informed me that he’s leaning in our direction. I’m a very busy woman, and cannot continue to court new clientele as much as I used to. The other partners are similarly busy, and Mister Silverman tendered his resignation this morning—it’s a private matter; don’t ask.”
Lindsay shook her head.
Fuller continued. “You will be given a company credit card and will meet with Mister Simmons to ensure that he follows through with what he told me. Wine him. Dine him. Golf with him. Whatever it takes. This case is worth a great deal to Fuller, Winston, and Silverman. You will close this client.”
Lindsay nodded curtly.
“Johnson and Hollis will take over your current assignments. Considering you’ve not taken any of those cases to trial, we can expect a seamless transition. I’ve already informed our clients of the change. To your credit, all three of them expressed disappointment.” Fuller let the barest of smiles light her eyes, and Lindsay felt the tension drain from her.
“The court date is two weeks from today. You’ll meet with Simmons within the next forty-eight hours, and I expect a report immediately afterward.”
Fuller pointed at the thick folder. “Review that. You’ll know it as well as I do by the time you join me in the court room. I’ve asked you be given access to all online files as well. Do you have any questions?”
Lindsay shook her head. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll do this.”
“Of course you will. I wouldn’t have even considered you for this otherwise. You’re excused.”
Lindsay rose to leave, but Fuller called for her as she stepped into the hall. “Miss Sullivan,” Fuller said. “With Silverman’s departure, we’ll have a junior partner vacancy. I’ll be evaluating candidates soon.”
Lindsay nodded again. “I’ll bear that in mind, ma’am.”
“Good day, Miss Sullivan.”
Lindsay shut the door quietly, and then walked calmly back to her desk. She saved her whoop of joy until she got home that day.
It was official: Clint would never in his life take up residence in Arizona. At least the heat was dry. Still, was it better to be baked alive in Phoenix, or slowly boiled in the salty air of a San Franciscan summer? Wiping sweat from his brow, he decided boiling was better.
A hundred feet away, the Giants were warming up on the field of Chase Stadium, home of the Arizona Diamondbacks. Men took turns swatting at balls in batting cages, while others played catch and fired fast pitches out on the turf. Around him, the stands were moderately full—mostly families, and all dressed in t-shirts and shorts or light skirts. Hawkers roamed the stands selling their normal, overpriced wares. Despite the sweltering heat, everyone seemed in good spirits. Clint took a long draw from a large soda that set him back more than he cared. As hot as he was, though, he’d have paid for a hundred more large drinks and been glad for the cold relief.
“First pitch is in five, Clint,” Molly said as she sat next to him. “Here’s your hot dog.”
Clint took the tube steak, and bit into it. Beautiful. Hot dogs always tasted better at a game, even to the tune of five or six bucks.
“You know you really didn’t have to do this for me, Molly.”
She cocked her head. “I know.”
“Every Giants game this season?”
She shrugged. “We’ve been together three years now, Clint. You’ve talked about the Giants the whole time. It seemed a suitable birthday gift this year. Besides, you’re not under the Program any more. And earlier today I got word that we’ve found a spot with a graphic design agency that fits your skill levels perfectly. They’ll start you as soon as we’re done with this trip.”
Clint nodded rigorously. Life in the Witness Protection Program had been… confining. Safe, yes, but he’d never felt so utterly contained in his entire life. Fresh air had never tasted better than it had in the last few weeks since he’d been cleared to leave the Program.
“I really appreciate this, Mols. Guys dream of things like this.”
She nodded once. “We’ll have more time to discuss it tonight over dinner.”
He raised an eyebrow. “The way you say that tells me you’re not planning on mac and cheese at the hotel.”
She shrugged again. “I’ve… arranged an opportunity for you.”
“An ‘opportunity’?”
“To formalize things.”
He stared at her. She said nothing. “Well?” he asked.
“Just enjoy the game, Clint.”
It was official: Lindsay would never in her life take up golf. Another enormous wad of turf popped into the air, and flopped pathetically to the ground a few feet away.
The ball was still on the tee.
A man chuckled softly behind her. “Your boss doesn’t usually have you talk business on the links, does she?”
Lindsay glanced back at the golf cart she’d rented. Zachary Simmons was in his mid- sixties and appeared entirely at ease resting against the small electric vehicle, dressed in typical golf attire. His face had the same, kindly smile her Grandpa Wistisen always had; that reduced her humiliation slightly.
Squinting in the mid-day sun, Lindsay wished she’d had the foresight to bring a wide-brimmed hat like Simmons; at least she’d been good about applying liberal amounts of sun block before making a fool of herself. She placed the nine-iron—or was it a five? Or a wood? Or whatever kind of stick it was—back in the bag of rented clubs, and let out a slow breath. “I could use a bit more practice, I suppose.”
Simmons chuckled merrily at that, and hefted himself up from leaning. “Tell you what, Miss Sullivan. Golf bores me to tears. Always has. I learned the game because you don’t do big business without knowing how to swing a club—literally and figuratively. But you don’t have to impress me with your drive. If your boss really wants to nudge me in the direction of your firm, I have a much better idea. And don’t worry about gifting and all that nonsense. This one’s on me.”
The frustrated attorney raised her eyebrows. “I’m listening.”
Lindsay was grateful the Diamondbacks jersey Simmons had purchased her hadn’t been used by an actual player. The grungy smell of sweat and red dust emanating from the nearby dug out was one she could do without. Pro baseball wasn’t anything she’d ever participated in; her parents were never into the sport, and so neither was she. Now that she was here, though, she was surprised by how… liberating the experience was—it wasn’t at all like the parties Mom and Dad favored.
All around her, Lindsay saw normal people living normal lives. Moms were pulling fighting kids apart while dads were chatting noisily with their buddies, or maybe grabbing a stray kid themselves. Young couples were cuddling in the bleachers, sometimes engaging in PDA, or goofing around. Single guys were whooping or hollering obscenities at the opposing team, and vendors were picking their way through the stands, leaning over spectators to swap food and paraphernalia for handfuls of cash. The roof of the big stadium was wide open to the usual, cloudless Phoenix afternoon, and the sun shining on the field felt wonderful—especially since she was sitting in the shade. She still felt guilty that her client was sitting out in the stands, instead of ensconced in the Audi Club, watching the game in style. Simmons, however, had insisted on “the real deal,” as he called it. And so, there they were.
The older man was teetering on the edge of his seat, eating up every last piece of the action. Each swing of the bat, each runner sliding to the plate, each pop fly seemed to pump more and more energy into someone Lindsay would normally expect to be carefully examining his retirement fund. A long drive to left field brought a roar from the crowd, and Simmons was on his feet before she could blink. Just for fun, Lindsay jumped up with him and cheered.
Then her feet were frozen and wet.
She gasped from the shock, and looked down to notice she’d kicked over her Coke. Ice and cola were e
verywhere. In horror, she realized that “everywhere” included Mr. Simmons’ gray golf slacks.
“Oh, I am so sorry, Mister Simmons!” She dropped instantly, and seized the bundle of napkins her guest had gotten with his slice of supreme pizza, and mopped furiously at the mess.
“Don’t worry about it,” he laughed from above. “Dry cleaning is cheap, and these things happen. It’s a ball game! Enjoy it. Don’t waste your time down there.”
“No, really,” she said, “it’s no problem.”
“Suit yourself. And hey! Will you look at that? The guy that caught that home run ball just handed it off to that little kid. We need more folks like that. Good for the D-Backs to show that off on the jumbotron. Good for them.”
Lindsay was glad for the inattention, and silently prayed that Simmons’ good mood wouldn’t wear off once he actually saw the large, brown stain on his legs. It was bad enough she’d… nudged… that one car in the parking lot, on her way into the game. Her potential client had laughed that off as well. She wasn’t sure she could afford a “strike three.” Fuller would have Lindsay’s job faster than the speed of light if Simmons backed out. The answer? Keep the man as happy as possible.
She stood, keeping the wet napkins hidden. “Let me get you another slice of pizza, Mister Simmons.”
Clint had always dreamed of catching a home run ball off Pablo Sandoval. When he saw the look of longing in the eyes of the five-year-old behind him, he knew what he had to do. He nodded to the smiling father after handing the ball to the kid, and ruffling his hair.
Following the game, Clint’s good deed for the day combined with the rollicking the Giants gave the D-backs (and on their home turf, no less) had filled him with an excellent afterglow. The dance of orange light along the western horizon and through the surrounding towers mirrored his feelings. A smattering of faint stars competed with the twinkle of the lights of downtown, and a great peace seemed to settle over the desert valley, despite post-game traffic.
Then he saw his car.
“For the love of the game,” he muttered. The driver’s side taillight had been shattered. The fender looked like his sister Holly’s hair whenever she attacked it with a crimping iron. He’d seen worse, but still he wondered how much his insurance rates would go up after this. He stormed to the front of the car to see whether the idiot who had hit him had at least been courteous enough to leave some basic contact information. Thankfully, a white, 3x5 card was tucked under the windshield wiper. Whipping it free, he read the neat scrawl—a woman’s handwriting—aloud.
“Dear Sir or Madam,” he read. “Sincerest apologies for the damage. Please contact me to exchange insurance information.” Below that were a phone number and an e-mail address.
He seized up when he read the name above the signature.
“Was there an explanation given?” Molly asked, coming around the car.
“Um, no. Just the note. I’ll give the… person a call when we get back to the hotel.” He casually slipped the card into his wallet, and opened the door for Molly.
“Let’s go,” he said with a yawn. “I could use some down time before dinner tonight.”
Clint felt like a sixteen-year-old again, about to be busted by his mom. Keeping close to the walls of the condo stairwell, he kept a vigilant eye out even as he stepped up to the door of a third floor apartment miles from where Molly should be. If he hurried, she might not come looking for him. He’d showered quickly after dinner, and exited on the excuse that he “needed some time to think.” Molly hadn’t hidden her displeasure; it was no surprise, considering the kind of dinner they just shared. He knew she expected him to ask her a very specific question. He simply couldn’t bring himself to pop that question. Especially not now.
Forcing his mind to the present, he looked at the tan door before him; it was simultaneously terrifying and thrilling. He flipped through his sketchpad, wondering whether what was inside would be a sufficient peace offering for the person beyond that door. If not, maybe the three roses would help? It was better than nothing, right?
He double checked the address on the 3x5 card—yes, this was the right address. It had been easy enough to find, but he’d still wandered aimlessly for half an hour in a vain effort to summon the courage to actually go through with it. He’d come here anyway.
Do or die.
He closed his eyes, and knocked firmly enough that he couldn’t back out on the pretext that no one had heard him. Moments later, he heard muffled sounds from inside, and then clearly heard footsteps approaching the door. The light above the door flicked on and he saw the peep hole darken. Suddenly, the light shut off and something thumped once on the inside of the door. And then all was quiet.
Okay, he thought. At least we know someone is home.
He knocked again. And again. His nerves began to protest when he pulled out his phone. Between shaking hands and fumbling with the roses, he had to dial the number from the card three times before he managed to get it right. A phone buzzed from inside the condo but after four rings, it went to voicemail.
“Um,” he said after the beep. “Look. I’m not mad about the car. Call it karma for what happened with that old Audi. Anyway, I know you’re home. This is weird for both of us, but can we maybe talk like normal people instead of you leaving me out on the porch? I promise, I’ll deal with the car damage myself. Okay? So please, come on—”
The porch light blinded him again and the door clicked open. An obscured shadow appeared in the small opening. The glint of a door chain left no doubts about the level of welcome he could expect.
“Hey,” he said plainly.
The shadow didn’t respond.
“So. You’re a D-Backs fan now? Or were you actually stalking me, waiting for a chance to bang up my car?”
Still no answer.
“This reminds me of that road trip to Seattle. You know, the stretch from Frisco to Portland? I guess I can carry the conversation this time too, but it’d be a lot more fun if you said something. If nothing else it would relieve my nerves enough that I didn’t have to worry about peeing my pants.”
The door closed in his face, and he heaved a sigh. Before he could make the stairs, a chain jingled behind him. The door swung open again, and the porch light went out. He turned to see that same shadow standing in a small foyer, radiating impatience and frustration. Wordlessly, he stepped into the condo.
The smell of some tropical fruit air fresheners gave him the impression that he had accidentally stepped into an island resort. The place was sparsely, but tastefully decorated to the theme of “professional single woman.” Clint found he really liked her digs. The paint scheme was great, too—off white with hints of pastels that spoke very much to the artist in him. It reminded him of that watercolor meadow scene he’d once tried.
“So. Been here long?” he asked, as he set the roses on the glass coffee table.
Lindsay Sullivan peered at the roses, and then turned a cold gaze on him. “Why are you here, Clint?” Her cold, quiet tone left no room for misinterpretation.
Clint walked into the kitchen, and searched the cupboards for a glass. He found one, and got some water from the dispenser in her refrigerator. It was clean and cold, and slid down his throat nicely. “It’s good to see you again, too. Those are for you,” he said, nodding at the flowers.
“Answer me. Please don’t make me call the police.”
Clint turned to her. She was poised tensely in the doorway, one hand on her hip, the other on the knob. Her face had a strange mix of emotions he couldn’t quite unravel. Of course, he never had been good at reading women, nor had his little curse conveyed that ability. Still, she looked beautiful. Seeing her again raised his heart rate; she still looked cute when agitated. He only wished he could actually take advantage of that. He hadn’t realized just how much he had locked his heart away since that morning in Seattle when she stopped being a part of his life. He hadn’t looked at his sketch of her in over two years.
“Whoa. Ca
lling the cops after letting me in is a bit extreme, don’t you think?”
She frowned deeply. “And I don’t want the roses.”
“They’re on me. Look, Lindsay,” he said, rinsing his empty glass and setting it in the dish drainer, “I’m not sure how to say this.” He walked around the small bar that separated the kitchen from the living area, and pulled up a stool. “I haven’t seen you in a long time, and… geez.” This was proving much harder than he’d expected. Why couldn’t he say it? Oh, yeah. He’d already tried, and failed miserably.
“You have exactly five seconds to make your way out,” she said, “or I will dial the police.”
Clint waved it away. “Fine. Five seconds. Lindsay Sullivan, there has been a hole in my heart ever since I let you go. I wish like anything I could have had that curse removed and given us an honest-to-goodness chance. There. Five seconds. I’m done.”
He got up to leave, and noticed that her eyes were virtually brimming. Eh. It wasn’t the first time he’d said something stupid and made a woman cry. She looked sharply away when he made eye contact, but aside from lowering her arms, she made no movement when he brushed past her a second time—not quite touching—on his way out. He could still feel that morning on the beach, and her soft warmth against the cold, wet sand of the Puget Sound. It was as if time had simply skipped a few years, and deposited him in the hot, dry sands of the American Southwest. Either way, he was with her.
Blue blazes, he mused. She smells good.
Then he was past her and out in the open-air stairwell again, and on his way down. He knew the best thing to do was simply say goodbye once and for all and then wait for Molly to come collect him. He knew her well enough that he was actually surprised she hadn’t shown up at Lindsay’s place already. Rather than risk a scene and embarrass Sullivan further, he’d take it to the courtyard by the pool and let the night owls watch the action. Maybe he could even go for a little swim while he still had a few minutes.