Bunnie.
At the thought of losing Bunnie, a flood of panic washed over him so that he could hardly breathe. He would die and Bunnie would remarry. Who wouldn’t snap up a gem like his Bunnie? Bud clenched his fists, grimly promising himself he would climb over the pearly gates and cold-cock Saint Peter himself – so he could come back and haunt any man who didn’t treat Bunnie like the queen among women that she was.
Chip.
Bud dropped his head to his chest and covered his eyes. Would Chip remember him? Miss him? Tears burned in Bud’s eyes as he thought about not being there for Chip, not being at Chip’s wedding, not knowing his grandchildren. Would they mention Bud in the toast? Would Chip go through the same thing as this in fifty years? Did I give him the heart gene that’s going to land him in a bed – staring up at an anonymous hospital ceiling, contemplating – eternity? The thought was too painful. Bud forced himself to return to his list of what “no more Bud” looked like.
Degenerate murderers.
Who would make them pay?
Bud felt a stab of helplessness that sent his hand to his heart and his eyes back up to the ceiling as every fiber in his being cried out…
I’m not done!
An image of his father materialized.
He died like a man. He faced the diagnosis of cancer with courage and dignity.
Stoically.
Would it have been better if he’d been less stoic?
Ashamed, Bud chased the thought away with a reminder that what his father had gone through wasn’t about him or his mom. His father was the one who had to suffer through all those painful months of treatment that seemed worse than the disease. If his father chose to be stoic – so be it. Who was Bud to say that it would have been better if, just once, his father could have said something that he could have clung to during the tough times?
Did he love us? Was he proud of me? What was he thinking when he was here – like me – facing eternity?
Bud felt a great emptiness open inside of him. It was that same familiar feeling of loss, of a vast emptiness – every time he thought of his father.
Morris Orlean.
From all accounts: good husband, good father and good provider. Married to Clarice Gantry. Fragile Clarice. Soft-spoken Clarice.
Opposites attract?
Stoic Morris plus fragile Clarice – equals Bud.
No more Bud…
Bud turned his eyes to the door, desperately wanting Bunnie to come to him – just to be there with him. He wanted to feel her hand in his.
Maybe she was down the hall – talking to the doctor – discussing his heart. Bud had never imagined he’d include “heart disease” as a description of who he was.
It felt…
Devastating.
No, he sternly reminded himself, it would only be devastating if he allowed it to be devastating. He searched for another word that he could somehow live with. He came up as empty as he had when he tried to visualize eternity.
I’m only looking for a word!
Bunnie tiptoed into the room, her voice soft and sweet. “Hey, Sweetie…?”
Bud gripped his heart, alarmed. “Is it that bad?”
Bunnie looked startled, “What? No – it’s…”
“Bunnie, don’t scare me like that!”
“I was trying to be nice!” Bunnie snapped.
“Yeah, well, stop it. Be yourself.”
Bunnie scowled, plunked down in a chair. “Your heart blows donkey dicks from hell.”
“That’s more like it.”
“Bud, I hope I’m not going to end up changing your diaper, am I?”
Bud laughed, “We’ll hire somebody.” He felt strangely comforted that no matter what – Bunnie was always Bunnie. Bud reached out, took her hand and felt a warmth steal over him.
Bunnie said, “I guess leaving you forever – just for this afternoon – is out.”
Bud smiled.
Bunnie frowned and said, “At least till I get you pumped full of fiber and back up on your feet – then all bets are off.”
“I love you,” Bud whispered, squeezing her hand.
Bunnie made a face, failing miserably at her attempt to look uncaring. “You’re a fool,” she said bitterly.
“For you.”
“That and a buck won’t buy me groceries, mister.” Bunnie cleared her throat and stood up. “Gotta find Nurse Ratchett – find out when you can blow this joint.”
“Bunnie, I’m going to be fine.”
She turned, hand on the door. “You’re not going to retire – after this? Not even for me…?”
“I’m sorry,” Bud said.
She braved a smile and disappeared.
Bud listened to her footsteps echoing down the long hallway, still feeling the warmth of her hand in his.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Once you begin being naughty, it is easier to go and on and on, and sooner or later something dreadful happens.
–Laura Ingalls Wilder
Enid stared in awe at the magical beauty of the Phoenician resort. Strategically placed lights and the soft glow of the sunset on the mountains gave her the impression that they were driving up to a fairy kingdom.
Jack drove past the valet parking and self-parked at the far end of the lot. Enid watched in fascination as he dug through the trunk of his car and pulled out a surprisingly sharp suit and shoes. The trunk was neatly packed with everything from a toolbox, a cowboy hat, hardhat, hiking boots and various other “props” as Jack called them.
Enid said, “Like Vivian called the cigarette her prop?”
Jack shot her a startled look. “It’s nothing like that.”
Enid stood guard at the front of the car as Jack changed his clothes behind the car.
After several minutes, Jack joined her and Enid found herself staring at him. He looked sort of – handsome.
“How do I look?” Jack said.
“Like a mortician.”
He made a face.
They walked toward the Phoenician’s entrance, which shone like a gem on display.
“What about me? Aren’t I supposed to have a costume?” Enid said.
“You’re a wayward girl with an attitude.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means you had a dress, but you’re too badass to wear it.”
Enid grinned.
Does he think I’m a badass?
Enid cast a nervous glance at the valets who smiled and welcomed them. She expected them to block their entrance and give them the boot – it was obvious they didn’t belong to anyplace this perfect.
Jack leaned down, whispered, “Act like we belong.”
She glanced up at him in surprise.
Act.
He knows it too…
Jack strode through the entrance like he owned it.
Enid stopped. She couldn’t help but to gawk at the vista of glittering lights that illuminated the palm trees, golf course and sparkling blue of the pool surrounded by yellow bathing tents. A magical world stretched out in front of them, ending at the base of mountains bathed in a sunset of pink and violets. Enid half-expected to look down and see that her faded blue jeans and T-shirt transformed into a ball gown and her Converse sneaks morphed into glass slippers.
“Come on,” Jack nudged her toward a wide staircase where a sign read: Annual Fundraiser for The Phoenix Home for Orphaned and Wayward Girls.
“Does ‘wayward girl’ mean I’m a slut?” Enid said.
An elegantly dressed lady walking up the stairs gasped, appalled.
Jack hustled Enid down the stairs as the woman glared after them disapprovingly.
“A little louder next time – the Queen of England didn’t hear you.”
“How am I supposed to act?”
At the bottom of the stairs, Jack ruffled his hair so that it stuck up awkwardly. “Welcome to your first undercover case, Enid Iglow...?” Jack stopped, unsure and embarrassed.
“Ski. You’re daughter’
s name is Enid Ivie I-V-I-E Iglowski.” Enid said.
“Iglow – ski.” Jack said as if trying to commit it to memory.
Enid smiled in mock approval. “Are we bonding yet?”
“Sarcasm ill becomes you,” he said.
Enid watched as Jack “nerded up” his appearance. He put on geeky glasses and hefted his pants up so that his previously perfect fit on the suit was now high-watered and wedgied.
“Ew,” Enid said.
“We don’t know each other,” Jack murmured. “Get a soda – I hear they’re free for wayward girls.”
“Huh?”
Jack nodded to a group of girls standing around a table loaded with drinks and eats.
Enid frowned, suddenly scared. They looked like the real badasses.
Jack said, “See if you can find anything out. Remember, you’re undercover. Don’t blow it.”
Before she could protest, he was gone.
Nervous, Enid walked toward the girls and immediately felt the cold eyes of the tallest girl zero in on her. She had a mass of red hair that fell to her shoulders like a cloud of rusted cotton candy and a nose that crinkled like she had picked up the scent of fresh dog crap.
Enid felt her courage falter as she saw the girl she nicknamed “Red” nod toward her and say something that made the other girls laugh.
Palms slick with sweat, Enid was about to veer off when she reminded herself…
I’m a badass.
She locked eyes on Red and sauntered up, doing her best imitation of how she imagined a badass wayward girl would walk.
“What do you want?” Red asked, staring at her with disdain.
“I’m a badass!” Enid blurted out.
Red stared at her incredulously. The other girls fell silent, staring at her like she was mental.
“Checking into motel ‘wayward girl’ tomorrow.” Enid tossed her head like she’d seen the cool girls do it back in Florida.
“How come you’re dressed like that?” Red sneered.
“Um…” Enid fumbled for something to say and, coming up empty, was about to fade into silence when she saw Red’s eyes flicker with triumph. Without thinking, Enid ferociously burst out, “I do what I want!”
After what felt like eternity, Red shrugged, “Don’t worry, they’ll get you back on your meds after you check in. What are you, bipolar?”
“Uh…”
Red pointed to each girl, “Tweaker. Spaz. Bones. Heather. When Tweaker checked in, she got beat up three times before they got her meds straight. Don’t go tryin’ to break any records.”
Tweaker looked like a twelve-year-old trying to hide coat hangers under her ugly blue dress. She was so skinny that her bones jabbed at the fabric like they were trying to make a run for it.
Spaz had corkscrew black hair and a gap between her front teeth. Her tentative smile was more like a vague plea for mercy – like she was silently begging “Uncle” with every smile.
The girl named Bones had a muffin-top waistline that strained against her dress so that the buttons looked ripe for popping off. She had a nervous habit of twisting a strand of her long brown hair, sticking it in her mouth and sharpening the strand of hair to a point, which she would occasionally stab into her cheek.
Heather had long blond hair and gazed at her with eyes that shone with a cynicism that belied her years. She looked like a typical pretty sixteen-year-old in a flowered sundress – until you saw her eyes. The expression in her eyes reminded Enid of a dog who’d been beaten and starved, but was fighting to stay alive.
“I’m Red,” The girl with the mass of red hair said.
Enid grinned, surprised that she had guessed her nickname. “Enid.”
“E-what?” Red what derisively.
“E-nid. Short for ‘don’t-mess-with-me-Red!” Enid blasted back.
Red burst out laughing. The other girls followed with their own versions of nervous laughter.
“What are you in for?” Red asked.
Enid grabbed one of the sodas and popped the tab. “Waywardness.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“Are they going to make me wear a dress?” Enid said.
“For parties – bullshit like that.”
“So,” Enid asked, trying hard to appear casual, “What’s the four-one-one?”
Red’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
Enid said, “Looking for a heads-up. What kind of crapstorm am I walking into?”
They stared at her with such foreboding that Enid looked away. “Who’s in charge of the monkey house?”
“Hargrove.” Red said, “You haven’t met her yet?”
Enid shook her head.
Red made a face, “Total bitch.”
“I tried to kill her,” Heather murmured.
Enid looked at Heather. She didn’t seem to be joking.
“We can’t decide,” Tweaker said, “Heather wants to shoot her, Bones wants to slowly...”
“Meth-odically,” Bones chimed in.
Tweaker said, “Boil her alive in her own piss! While Spaz here – ”
“I ain’t doin’ nothing. I’m not going to jail,” Spaz growled.
“Spaz is a dink,” Tweaker said, “I have the best plan…”
“Shut up!” Red said.
Tweaker fell silent, pulling nervously at her dress, which accented the sharp jab of her collarbone.
“What’d she do?” Enid asked.
Red was about to say something when she caught sight of someone in the crowd. She frowned, glanced at Heather, who seemed to understand what was wanted and, with a sigh, dumped her soda onto the ground and disappeared into the crowd of partygoers.
Red said, “You’re going to love it here. A real home away from home – assuming you grew up in hell.” Red followed Heather.
The girls followed her and, as Bones passed, she hissed, “Run!”
Cold goose pimples ran down Enid’s arms as she watched them disappear into the crowd.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
A clever, ugly man every now and then is successful with the ladies, but a handsome fool is irresistible.
–William Makepeace Thackeray
As Jack wedged his way deeper into the heart of the party, he wondered again at the phrasing of “wayward girls” – it sounded like Charles Dickens with a splash of soft porn.
Maybe that’s what they’re going for…
A line of bathing tents was set up around a large pool that reflected glittering lights. It reminded him of the Arabian Nights stories and the Sinbad movies he was so fascinated with as a boy.
A server offered him a flute of champagne and he grabbed a crab puff from a passing platter. Popping the crab puff in his mouth, he scanned the crowd for any resemblance to the woman in Jeni’s photo – an older version of the girl with the Venus Flytrap eyes.
It was the typical upscale Arizona shindig. Lots of old white guys with their aging trophy wives and a generous scattering of hot young wanna-be-wives looking for a rich sugar daddy.
Welcome to Arizona.
He asked a woman with a face tighter than a drum if she could point him in the direction of Vivian Hargrove.
She pointed to another woman twenty feet away.
Vivian Hargrove was standing in a knot of people, like an empress holding court. Now in her fifties, she was striking, if not beautiful. Walking toward her, Jack looked for any sign of the girl who had once been a stripper and known a thing or two about crashing parties and trolling for a rich husband. That girl was cleverly concealed behind designer duds, jewelry and hair that looked like it could survive a wind tunnel.
As Jack got closer, he saw the upsweep of her eyebrows that had reminded him of startled birds taking flight from a snowy field when he first saw the photograph.
Jack changed the cadence of his step to something quirky. He cleared his throat with a nasally sound and asked, “Pardon me…?”
Vivian acknowledged him with an aloof nod and returned to listening to a man with pork chop s
ideburns.
Jack stuck his hand out so that Vivian couldn’t ignore it. “Nathaniel Hawthorkin. I think this is a commendable and highly worthy cause…”
Vivian raised her eyebrows in apology to Pork Chop as she shook Jack’s hand.
Jack pulled out his checkbook. “I’ve been searching and searching for the right charity – I’m rather short on my yearly deductions – so says my CPA – whom do I make the check to?”
“It’s a silent auction – if you’d like to bid…” Vivian waved her hand toward a series of tables set up with everything from gift baskets to weekend getaways to exotic locales.
Jack pulled out a pen, clicked it. “One hundred thousand…?”
Vivian’s eyes lit up and Pork Chop was relegated to the back burner. She took Jack’s arm like he was a dear friend, “Make it out to: Phoenix Home for Orphaned and Wayward Girls.”
Jack wrote, murmuring, “Wonderful cause – simply wonderful.”
“Mr…?”
“Hawthorkin.”
“How is it that we’ve never met?” Vivian cooed.
“My therapist says I need to stop being so anonymous with my donations. Deeply rooted mother issues, you know. My therapist says the only way to overcome them is to find a worthy charity and give, give, give – until it hurts.”
“You’re interested in children’s causes?”
Jack gave his best nerd smile, “I do what I can where I can.”
“Perhaps we can schedule a tour of the girls’ home?”
Jack studied her thoughtfully, “Say, you look familiar – oh!” He snapped his fingers like he was remembering something, but then held himself back, murmuring, “Striking resemblance.”
“Everyone has a doppelganger, I suppose.” Vivian smiled, eyeing the check. She attempted to pluck it from his fingers, but he pulled it back, seemingly unaware of her efforts.
Jack said, “Did I mention I’m an amateur historian? I’m honored to say I have an article coming out in the Arizona History bimonthly magazine and – believe it or not – oh, it’s quite risqué, but that’s what drew me to the project, I must admit…”
Viv glanced nervously from Jack’s face to the fluttering check.
Gunning For Angels (Fallen Angels Book 1) Page 13