by Ayo Campbell
“What?” she said, near gasping.
“Like I told you,” Jake said, toying with the glass. “I’ve been out of town, and the payments have backed up. But, again, I’m a fair man. I’ll give you a week.”
“I—I can’t come up with that kind of cash in a month, let alone a week.”
“Show you what a nice guy I am; two weeks.”
“Look, Mr. Jake-whoever-you-are, you got no right to bust in here and–”
“Two weeks,” he said, swiping the glass off the table.
It shattered at Vanessa’s feet, splashing soda and shards around her. She never left eye contact. Jake stood up and motioned his boys. They headed for the door, but as they did, Jake turned and smiled at her.
“You know,” he said, “you’re a very pretty lady. See you in two weeks.”
The door slammed, the bell jingling madly. Vanessa just stood there in disbelief. Then she shouted and animalistic cry, raced to the door, and swung the bat at the bell. It tore away and skittered across the floor, landing under Justin’s stool. She locked ever lock tight, turned her back to the door, and slid to the floor, trying very hard to hold back her tears.
When she opened her eyes, it was the glinting of the broken glass that grounded her. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, got up, grabbed a broom and a mop, and cleaned up. She took the paper. One column had a list of money that he had loaned her mother, the other was the small payments which grew each month. The interest mounted, and at the rate that Ellen was paying back, she would have been in debt for years. In the office, Vanessa compared the sheet with her mother’s ledger; it all added up.
She wanted to cry again. She didn’t want any more to do with her mother’s affairs, legal or otherwise. Back in Washington she had a home, she had a job, and she had a life. She thought to just go to the police in the morning, then grab what cash she could and go home. But then she saw Bootsy’s and Collie’s faces as they found her gone on Tuesday – and she saw the faces of the kids…
She couldn’t sleep that night. She tried the television, but there was nothing that kept her. So, she looked to her mother’s dresser, thinking that there was little else that could rile her that night, and if there was, she might as well get it over with. She was surprised at how emotionless she was as she sorted through the things; there was really nothing that she remembered.
Her mother had been a meticulous homemaker, and all her clothes were clean and ironed. She got a garbage bag and began filling it for the Goodwill store.
At the bottom of Ellen’s lingerie drawer, Vanessa found a parcel that sent chills through her. In it was a small wad of cash. Next to that was a half a dozen letters from Samuel, each with a different return address in England.
She couldn’t bring herself to read them just yet, but that night, she sat down and wrote her brother a long letter, addressing it to his last address and marking it, “Please Forward.”
In the morning, she still debated calling the police. Instead, she called a locksmith. He changed the locks and added chain and a door-bar. She had only a momentary sense of security; the door was, after all, glass. She shook her head, and got ready for her appointment…and then she had a thought.
In his office, Arty he introduced her to a long, lean black woman who went only by the name of Wanda.
“Wanda is a private detective,” he explained. “She used to work for the FBI.”
“Used to?” Vanessa said.
“Long story,” the woman replied.
Arty was hiring Wanda, with Vanessa’s approval, to head down to Richmond, Virginia, to see what she could find out about Vanessa’s father. He explained that he would be fronting the expense, until the estate was settled. Vanessa began to see her mother’s fortune being slowly chipped away. Still, she agreed.
Wanda then began asking Vanessa the usual questions about her father: height, weight, complexion, skills, habits. But when Vanessa told her that she didn’t even have a photograph of the man, Wanda frowned.
“Has he ever been arrested?” she asked.
“I – I don’t know,” Vanessa answered. “I was just a little girl when he left.”
“Well, I’ll start with Boston PD. I’ll bet that there’s a mug shot somewhere. Anyway, Ms. Gaye, here’s my card. If you find anything, or think of anything that would help, please let me know.”
And with that, Wanda left.
Arty was pleased with Vanessa finding the letters from Sam, and thought that she had done well in writing her brother.
“All we can do now is wait,” he said.
“There’s something else…” Vanessa began.
She explained about the previous night’s visitors, and Jake’s demand. Arty shut his eyes and seemed to shrink in his chair.
“So,” Vanessa went on. “I was wondering, hoping that if there was any way the bank might give me a loan, using the estate as collateral. I mean, even if it is split three ways–”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Arty said. “They’d have to run a credit check on you. How’s your score?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ever had a loan? Credit card?”
“Just my debit card.”
“Well,” he said, drumming his fingers on the desk and eying her. “Since you don’t have any credit history, they may see their way into something small, say, maybe a thousand.”
“That wouldn’t help,” Vanessa said.
“I’m surprised at Momma Ellen, that she’d get mixed up with a loan shark. But they’re sly. They start things out easy, and the next thing you know…”
“Well, then I’m going to the police.”
“I hate to say this,” he said, leaning forward, “especially as your lawyer, but that would be a waste of time. Before any real investigation would begin, this Jake fellow would be wanting his money. And if he ever found out that you went to the cops, which is very likely, that would upset him – and I don’t think that you want that. Besides, even if the cops did have time and were sympathetic, you have no proof.”
“I have this,” she said handing him the paper.
“That’s just numbers on a page,” he said, hardly glancing at it. “It doesn’t identify anyone or anything.”
“Oh, god,” she said. “What am I supposed to do?”
Arty stopped drumming his fingers. He sat back, looking at her. Vanessa couldn’t fathom his gaze, but she didn’t like it.
“You need a loan,” he said finally. “A legit loan. I’m thinking…”
“Yes?”
“I could swing that kind of money for you.”
“You—you could?”
For a brief moment, Vanessa felt the weight slide away. But it was the look in his eyes that kept that weight from falling. There would be a catch; there was always a catch.
“I would be grateful,” she said. “And, and of course I would make any sort of interest that you would want.”
“No,” he said, waving his hand. “This would just be between friends.”
And with that, a small smile flicked across his face.
“I could have the money by Friday,” he said. “I could stop by the diner – after closing, of course. This would be just between you and me.”
“I see,” she said, understanding. “And, I suppose that you would want to stop by again, from time to time, just to check on your investment?”
“On a semi-regular basis. Wouldn’t you?”
She held his gaze, her skin crawling. How could such a man take such advantage of someone so vulnerable and afraid? She didn’t know if she wanted to slap his face or spit in it. She knew that she could, at least, fire him for any reason, but he was so involved with her case, and she just couldn’t see starting things all over again.
So, instead, she took back the paper and folded it neatly in her purse, stood, brushing nothing from her skirt, and said, “Thank you, Mr. Roark. But considering our business relationship, I don’t believe that we should complicate things further. Good afternoon.”
“The offer stands,” he said. “Call me if you change your mind.”
Disgusted, deflated, and depressed, she walked home, via her bargain boutique.
Tuesday morning brought back the breakfast bunch and scruffy Justin. Vanessa approached the middle-schoolers about a real part-time job as a dishwasher, but three of them had evening activities on the weekends, and one was “grounded for life.”
“Maybe we can find someone on Thursday,” Collie said.
The two were sitting down to their lunch during a lull. Bootsy was starting a jambalaya, and the aromas were heavenly.
Just then, the front door burst open, the little bell swinging and ringing madly. Vanessa had barely time to wonder how it got fixed, when a wiry, young black kid burst in. He was tall, with close cropped hair and a wild look in his eyes.
“Collie!” he cried, skidding to a stop in the middle of the room. “Collie, hide me! Hide me! Help!”
“Josie, what the hell is it?”
But even as Collie rose, three more boys strode into the diner. They wore white sneakers, black jeans, white tee-shirts, black jackets, and black baseball caps. The one in the center had racer sunglasses on. They took a stance in the middle of the room, hands deep in their pockets.
“Collie!” Josie cried, running behind her.
“What kind of pussy are you,” Sunglasses said. “Hiding behind some bitch?”
“I told you,” Josie said. “I just need a little more time.”
“And I told you that time is up.”
“What the hell is going on?” Vanessa said, rising and standing between the boys and Collie.
“This ain’t to do with you, bitch,” Sunglasses said.
“You don’t get to call me that,” Vanessa said. “How old are you anyway? All of fifteen? Get the hell out of here or I’ll call the cops.”
“I’ll call you whatever the fuck I like, bitch.”
Suddenly, three pistols came out, all pointing at Vanessa, gangsta style.
“Now, get the fuck out of the way, both you bitches, and gimme that boy.”
“Language!” Bootsy cried, storming in from the kitchen, readying a pump-action shotgun.
“Fuck,” Sunglasses said.
“This the problem in this country,” Bootsy shouted. “They let you use the language you want, you think that you can do what you want. Now you put those things away and leave or–”
“Or what, Grandma?” Sunglasses said, chuckling. “We got three against one.”
The pistols pointed at her. For a deadly moment, the four just faced each other.
“Looks like,” Sunglasses said, “we got us a Mexican stand-off.”
“Don’t you call me a Mexican,” Bootsy said. “And not only are you foul mouthed, you are stupid too. You hold those guns all wrong. You’re gonna miss me. I don’t even gotta aim and I hit all three of you.”
“Don’t you be calling me stupid.”
“What the hell is going on here?” Vanessa cried again.
The leader was looking at the shotgun, and Vanessa saw the sweat beading around his sunglasses. Vanessa realized that, for all his bravado, he was looking for an out.
“What do you want from this kid?” she asked.
“Fifty bucks.”
“What?”
“He owes us fifty bucks!”
“You really are stupid,” Vanessa said.
She batted his gun out of her way and stormed to the register.
“You’d shoot up this whole diner for fifty bucks? Spend the rest of your lives in prison for chump change?”
“It ain’t about the money,” he said. “It’s about respect.”
“Here,” Vanessa said, thrusting some cash at him. “There’s seventy-five. That enough respect?”
There was an icy moment as she glared at him through his sunglasses. But a moment later, the boy snatched the money. He shrugged. The others put away their pistols. Bootsy still held her shotgun. The boys tried to stand taller against her. But even as they strode to the door, the leader flipped her off.
“Get the fuck out of my diner,” Bootsy yelled.
Vanessa and Collie darted her a look.
“It’s the only language those giật mình understand,” she said, lowering her weapon.
Chapter 7
“Josiah William Davies,” Collie said, turning and glaring at the boy, her hands firmly planted on her hips, “what cause do you got trucking with a gang?”
“You do drugs now?” Bootsy demanded.
“No! No, honest,” the boy said. It was obvious that he was as afraid of Bootsy and Collie as he was of the thugs. “And I don’t go trucking with any gang. I just got – y’know, I got in some financial trouble–”
“So, you go to street gangsters?”
“No. No, Miss Bootsy. That ain’t how it started.”
Bootsy’s toe started tapping. She still held the shotgun. Vanessa turned to the scene. The flustered boy looked from one woman to the other and then back.
“You see,” he began, “it’s like this. It started when I got a twenty-five dollar fine from the school security officer.”
“For what?” Collie demanded.
“Jay walking.”
“What?”
“They real strict about that kind of stuff. The boulevard is real busy and–”
“And so you figured you’d get a loan.”
“Yeah,” Josie said, nodding, “but not from them. From my cousin Leon. But he wanted thirty back – and so there’s this kid in school who makes loans, but he wanted forty – said he’d turn my elbows backwards if I didn’t pay him in two weeks.”
Vanessa listened to the convoluted tale of middle-school loan-sharking, thinking about how early the kids were groomed, and how a well-intentioned school policy had such unintended consequences.
“Just wait a minute,” she said. “Didn’t the school send some kind of notification to your parents?”
“Y-Yeah,” the boy said, looking at her, then looking down. “But I always get home before my mom, and I can, y’know, intercept things.”
“Go on.”
Vanessa listened as the boy told how ultimately he met the guy from the gang who said that he’d pay Josie fifty dollars to deliver a small package. He did, and turned over one hundred dollars to the guy from the gang.
“But?” Collie said, urging him on.
“B-But half the money was fake.”
“You are more stupid than gang boys,” Bootsy said. “You ought to told your Momma. Why did you hide it from your Momma?”
“Because,” he began, then looked down and away. “Because I didn’t want to make her mad.”
“She beat you?” Vanessa asked.
“No,” he said, looking at her like she was crazy. “Never. I just – I just didn’t want to make her mad.”
Vanessa looked at the kid in a new light, and saw a boy who would risk all the complications that he did, just to keep his mother from being disappointed.
“But, look,” he said, eagerly and straight in her in the eyes. “I will pay you back. I will pay you back every dime. I promise.”
“How?” Collie asked. “You gonna go out and hustle more loans?”
“No. I – I can find a job – maybe.”
“A job doing what?”
“I got skills. My uncle was teaching me–”
“Can you run a dishwasher?” Vanessa asked.
“Sure,” he said, blithely. “Do it all the time.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“Josie is one of our Good Man aids,” Collie explained.
“He any good?”
“Fair.”
“Okay, Josie,” Vanessa said. “Tell you what. I’ll hire you to do dishes. I’ll pay you ten dollars an hour.”
The boy lit up.
“No,” Bootsy said. “He’s not worth that. Maybe five.”
Josie deflated, but still looked hopeful.
“Five dollars an hour,�
� Vanessa said. “You keep half, and I keep half, until your debt is paid. Sound fair?”
“Um, seventy-five dollars…” He shut his eyes, and the three watched him working it out. “That’s thirty hours.”
“You do that in your head?”
“My math teacher says I got a talent.”
“All right then,” Vanessa said. “You work after school, Thursdays, Fridays, and then lunch and dinner on Saturdays. Sound good?”
“Uh, yeah.”
Josie turned out to be a steady worker. He knew the dish-room, and he was meticulous, perhaps a bit too much so. His first night he fell far behind and Vanessa had to help him out. But he gamed. Josie was paid nightly; he needed the cash for bus fare.
Vanessa began to spend her time during those dinner hours helping Collie when she needed, and, taking a cue from Jasmine and Kitty, schmoozing her customers. It was nice not to end the night with a wet belly.
It was nicer still to have her Saturday evening covered, and she hoped that she could turn that into many more Saturday evenings.
She knew that Kaitlin would be pulling out the stops for her special singer, so Vanessa wanted to respect her. She needed, and she wanted, a new outfit. Her usual boutique had the usual prom dress returns, and she was tired of satin cleavages and flirty skirts. She wanted something bold.
In her nights at Kitty’s, she was not just taken by the music. She had an eye for what the women were wearing. East-Coast style was so different from Seattle. Like so many places, they were flaunty and flirty, but they also had a sense of flaunting and flirting the clothes, and not in the sense of designer labels or custom looks. Rather the trend was as if to say, ‘Look what I can put together.’
She saw that trend in Collie.
The girl would match black satin mini-skirts with baggy, torn sweatshirts, and make it work, with heels. She could wear distressed jeans that were actually, real-life distressed, and a glitzy, pink sequin tank. The customers would try not to be caught looking.
She was a plump girl with a balcony you could do Shakespeare off of, and yet she always looked so…so.
“Hey, Collie?” Vanessa asked as they were closing one night.
“Yeah?”
She was wearing skin tight yellow capris and a matching yellow tee that read ‘Road Kill’ in lavender lettering.