A Bitch Called Hope

by Lily Gardner

  “Tommy,” she said.

  “Since I checked for you, Tommy’s the only one that has signed the log sheet for that locker key,” Sarge said.

  “I asked him about it a couple days ago.”

  There was reproach in Sarge’s eyes. “You tipped your hand,” he said.

  Sarge had been wise to Tommy all along. All of her friends had been. It was only Lennox who didn’t get it, who kept believing in him when it was obvious to the world what bad news Tommy had always been. Her heart, her poor heart, bumped against her rib cage.

  She’d looked up to him. She had destroyed her career for him. How many shortcuts had he taken unbeknownst to her? Was this about justice or was it a scorecard kept between the prosecutor and the defense team? And what could she do about it?

  Sarge pitched his cardboard tray in the garbage. “He’s destroyed the chain of custody,” he said. “Even if I could get it back, anything you learned wouldn’t be admissible.”

  “I know.” The cold leached up through her shoes. She shivered.

  “It’s not right,” he said. “I’m taking it to Captain Gerber.” All kinds of things went missing in those evidence lockers. Sarge didn’t have the budget or the manpower to keep track of everything. A cop was on his honor to maintain the chain of custody. A cop played by the rules and justice prevailed, or it didn’t, but a cop lived by the law. That’s the way Sarge lived. That’s the way she lived. She was one of the good guys. And for all his shit, she had always believed Tommy was too. When had he started jacking with the evidence?

  Even now, weren’t they supposedly fighting for justice? So they sat on opposite sides of the bench, one of them destined to lose the battle. Still, the battle was for justice, wasn’t it? And Delia was innocent. Her greediness, her diet pills and her lightning romance with Doctor E—Delia Pike was no lamb, but that didn’t mean she’d killed her husband.

  “If you talk to the captain,” she said, “Tommy will accuse you of helping the defense.”

  “I’m responsible for those lockers.”

  “Like you said, the cigars are no longer admissible,” she said.

  “It’s on my head if the brass find it’s missing,” Sarge getting increasingly red-faced. “Tommy’s not going to get away with it.”

  “Damn right, he’s not going to get away with it,” she said.

  “Give it up, girl,” Sarge said. “He’s bad news.”

  A street musician in his late twenties joined Lennox and Sarge under the eaves of the bookstore. He strapped an accordion against his chest and began a song. The rain hitting the sidewalk made its own music. This was one of those times she wanted to weep in the worst way. Instead she dug in her bag and came up with a few bucks for the musician.

  “I got to get back to work.” Sarge pitched a few more bucks into the accordion case.

  They parted at the corner of Oak and Third, Sarge back to the cop shop, Lennox back to her car. She’d lost the cigars, the only lead she could think of. She started the car and sped out of downtown to the freeway, sending a rooster tail of water over the concrete abutment that divided I-5 from the Banfield.

  Chapter 20

  It was two in the afternoon the following day when Lennox had the phone meeting with Kline. The meeting ended with Lennox getting fired. She threw her phone at her desk. The trapdoor thingy where you put the batteries popped off on impact, the phone continuing to skid across the desk like a hockey puck until it encountered her lamp. Fuck it. She left the phone where it landed and grabbed her keys and got into her truck. Turned her windshield wipers on high, and twenty minutes later she picked up 99W.

  It was crazy driving to Spirit Mountain Casino in this weather, but she’d be damned if she was going to mope around the house. Tomorrow she’d be just as unemployed.

  Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t fire you right now, he’d said when she told him that there was no expert witness that could help Delia’s case. She told him Doctor E had four overdoses in the last ten years. So maybe she could’ve been more politic, but he had sent her on a fool’s errand.

  It doesn’t matter whether Delia’s innocent or not. Or even if you get her off, so long as you get paid, she told him. That’s why you don’t want me to go too deep with this. He told her she was impossible, told her he needed a more seasoned, professional team. He had decided to go back to the people at Calderbank.

  Lennox could stay home. Lick her wounds, look for a new gig. Or she could drive in the pouring rain to the casino.

  Lennox passed through miles of suburban ranch houses and strip malls to open fields, then through Newberg. She’d told Kline that Bill’s pharmacy didn’t supply Delia’s insulin. She got it straight from Doctor E. Who’d had four cases of medication errors that landed his patients in the hospital. I thought we were clear about laying off the family, Kline said.

  She drove through filbert orchards and vineyard country to the little town of Dundee. The foil Christmas garland strung across the highway through town sagged in the rain. The only thing sadder than rain-soaked Christmas decorations was being holed up in your house thinking about what went wrong. Thirty-four miles to go.

  The rain came down harder as 99W narrowed to one lane. An RV with South Dakota plates pulled out in front of her and immediately dropped to twenty miles under the speed limit. A pressboard Santa attached to the back door of the trailer waved at her as she drove behind the RV. Over and over in her head Lennox heard Kline tell her she wasn’t a cop. Santa waved.

  You want to relive your glory days; meanwhile, I’ve got a client raising holy hell. She followed Santa all the way into the casino parking lot.

  Inside, retirees in Christmas bear sweatshirts played video slots while a couple of lonely-looking dealers manned the Three Card tables. Lennox chose the taller of the two, a doughy man with thinning blond hair and an unfocused smile that seemed very welcoming at the moment. He reeked of Brut, but there were worse things in life. Pinned to his black shirt was a brass nameplate that read Axel.

  Lennox sat at Axel’s table, bought three hundred dollars’ worth of chips, said how you doing and got an even sweeter smile from him. She placed a five-buck chip on Ante and another on Pair Plus.

  Axel broke the seal on a pack of cards and shuffled. “How’s your day so far?” he said.

  “Wrong question,” she said. Lawyers. They believed if they came at the same data from a different angle, it just might yield a different result. But in her world facts were truth.

  Three Card Poker. No tells, no acting. No judgment. Listen to the sweet slap of cards on the table and the snick of poker chips. Bet on a queen, six, four, or better. Either you have the cards or you don’t, and there’s three cards behind them, better or worse. If Kline thought there was any chance in hell of casting doubt around the inhalers or setting up an alibi for Delia while she hosted a gala party, he was plain and simple crazy.

  A cocktailer passed by her elbow. Why not? A martini with a twist. It wasn’t every day a girl got fired. Lennox folded on the jack, six, ten. Up sixty dollars, up a hundred. Pretty soon she was sitting on five hundred dollars’ worth of chips.

  Two hours passed, just her and Axel. No rain, no August Kline telling her she wasn’t a cop anymore.

  No case. But, sure, she’d have another beverage. Make it straight up this time. Do you have any cocktail onions?

  Then a ten, six, four, all spades came her way. Flush. Axel pushed a stack of red chips in front of her. Riding the patterns, lost in numbers and suits, Lennox enjoyed yet another martini and threw a red chip on the ante.

  “Well, if it isn’t Nancy Drew. Look at you, are those your jammys?” The voice belonged to Friday night poker at the Shanty.

  “Jerry!” she said. She slid off her chair to greet him and, whoa, she was somewhat wobbly. Jerry kissed her on the mouth the way he always did, mouth open like he was wrestling her tongue with his. So what? She was feeling warm and friendly.

  “Axel,” she said. “This is my old poker buddy,
Jerry. Jerry and I go way back. If you ever need an attorney, he’s your guy. Hey, can you give us a minute, Axel?”

  She turned to Jerry. “His name’s Axel.”

  “I gathered that,” Jerry said.

  She said, “What are you doing here? Don’t you have work to do?”

  “Holiday party for the staff. What about you, Sherlock? I thought you were on a big case.”

  “Free as a bird.” She leaned towards him and said in a stage whisper, “I got sacked.”

  Jerry took her arm and steadied her. “Did you tell Ham?”

  “I’ve got a call in, but he’s in court all day.” It was one of those things. People can’t be available to you twenty-four seven. Sometimes you got to just deal with it. “Hey, I got to get back to Axel here. You play, too?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

  Axel broke a new deck of cards and dealt the next hand. She raised on a pair of eights and a deuce. A waiter asked them if they wanted anything.

  “I’ll have a beer,” Jerry said. “Do you want a sandwich or something, Lennox?”

  “Martini straight up, three onions.”

  Lennox drew two queens and a king. A pair of fives and a three. The drinks came.

  Jerry opened his wallet and pulled out a twenty. “I’ll get this,” he said. “And bring the nice lady a club sandwich. Whole wheat.”

  With that martini, the cards got colder and colder. She got tired of it. Wanted to mix it up, get the juices flowing. She started betting, what the hell. Wasn’t this an entertainment industry?

  Then her chips were all gone. She turned to Jerry. “We got to find ourselves a warmer table.”

  “We got to get you home,” he said and scooped up his chips. He motioned for the waiter, paid for her untouched sandwich and told him to box it for them. They’d be at the cashier’s window.

  “Why do we have to go home?” she said.

  “You raised on a jack, seven, five. Where’s your wheels?”

  “I’m not looking for any more goddamn cracks.”

  “You’re making no sense. Let me find my partner. Here’s a twenty,” he said. He steered her to a stool. “Sit right here and play this nice game. Queen of the Nile, see? She even looks like you, sort of. If you wore eyeliner.”

  “Good old Jerry,” she said.

  The game was stupid, really. Match all five snakes. What did they call them in Egypt? Asps.

  “Asps.” She said it out loud just to hear what it sounded like. It made her lips feel rubbery. She said it again. Asps. The Asian grandmother on the stool next to her gave her a look. The old granny was feeding hundred-dollar bills into the slot machine, so maybe Lennox was breaking her concentration.

  Goddamn Kline, his so-called strategy. Poor Delia would be somewhere in her eighties before she was free again.

  Jerry was back. “That’s my girl,” he said. “Put on your coat.”

  “I hate lawyers,” she said.

  “We all do,” Jerry said. He cupped her elbow and led her past the slots: Dolphin Treasure, Penguin Pays, Boot Scootin’. That sounded so fun: I’m going boot scootin’. Bars of turquoise neon bled into green over the machines. So lovely.

  Jerry pushed the lobby door open. It was dark outside, still raining but not as hard as the drive down. Misty, moisty.

  “I forgot my umbrella,” she said. “Axel’s got it.”

  “For fuck’s sake.” Old Jerry sounded exasperated.

  Jerry told her he’d buy her a new umbrella. Did she remember where she’d parked her car? Not exactly. But there weren’t a lot of Broncos in the parking lot, mostly RVs, SUVs and Buicks, so they found it pretty fast.

  Once they were belted into their seats, Jerry turned the radio on. Philosophy Talk.

  She guessed she must’ve fallen asleep because they were parked in her driveway. Her head felt like someone had shoved sand up her nose. She needed milk or something. Jerry helped her with her seatbelt, walked her to the door, unlocked it for her.

  “You want to come in?” she said.

  “No.”

  “Don’t you need a cab or something? How about a drink?”

  “Nothing to drink,” he said. He didn’t sound very happy. “But I’ll come in and wait for a cab.” Good old Jerry. God, she was thirsty.

  He was standing in the middle of the living room.

  “Sit,” she said. She patted the sofa seat next to her. He sat down. She wished he wouldn’t go; he was so nice. Really nice. Funny how she never really appreciated how nice he was before.

  “Have a beer,” she said.

  “The cab will be here in a minute,” he said.

  She leaned closer to him on the sofa cushion. “You could stay here. Take advantage of me.”

  He gently put his hand on her shoulder and tipped her back so she was no longer leaning against him. “You’re my friend,” he said.

  Jerry being noble, if that didn’t cap it. Suddenly all that was lovely and very nice wasn’t.

  “What is it, Jer?” she said. “Am I too old for you?”

  “Fucking Christ,” he said. He rubbed his eyes with his fingers. His glasses pulled away from his face. “Look. I know you’ve had a bad day.”

  “Bad day? Try bad year. Hell, I’ll give you this year and raise you another.”

  He pulled himself off the sofa and stood facing her. “Listen to me, Sherlock. You’re probably the smartest woman I know. You’ll figure out something.”

  A car horn sounded outside.

  “That’s my cab,” he said. He bent down and lifted her chin with one finger. Kissed her on the mouth.

  “Take care, beautiful,” he said.

  Chapter 21

  Lennox woke facedown in bed. She lifted her head somehow, her mouth leaving a wet patch on the pillow. How she had reached her bed was anyone’s guess. Please, God, don’t make her guess. She stretched the muscles around her eyes, but she couldn’t seem to open them all the way. With great effort she pushed the quilt off her. Her raincoat was twisted around her body.

  Lennox tried to sit up. The effort sent a wave of nausea over her. She did her best to swing her legs off the bed. Then realized she still had her shoes on. Her shoes? She must have been totally gone.

  Kline fired her. Invoice me for your time. She couldn’t think. Tea and toast, then a hot shower. She’d be plenty good enough to face the day.

  She stumbled downstairs.

  Spirit Mountain. Green felt. Martinis. Never, never, never, never, never, never again. Her office phone rang. Let it.

  The recorder clicked over to message: “Hey, beautiful. This is Jerry. Hope you’re doing okay.”

  Jerry! Her blurred memory refocused. Jerry. Queen of the Nile. She’d put the moves on old Jer. And he’d turned her down. What the hell was his problem, not that she would relish hooking up with Jerry, but jeez.

  Lennox poured water into the kettle, felt a wave of dizziness. There comes a point where a body can’t take on any more shame and Lennox was so there.

  Tomorrow she’d feel human again. She’d drum up some business. By Friday night poker she’d face Jerry, look him straight in the eye. Tell him thank you kindly, how grateful she was her virtue was still intact.

  Thirty-eight-fucking-years-old, in her sexual prime and she hadn’t been laid in a year. It was a big fat shame.

  The doorbell rang. Lennox cracked the door. Alice Stapely stood on the porch, a to-go cup of coffee in each hand.

  “You busted in on me a week ago. I figured what goes around.” Alice’s eyes took in Lennox’s wrinkled raincoat, her hair sticking out every which way. She made eye contact again.

  Lennox cleared her throat. “I took care of that thing we talked about.”

  That thing we talked about? What had happened to Lennox’s language skills? Probably drowned in gin along with countless other brain cells. Lennox tried again. “You shouldn’t be hearing from the Pikes again or that slimeball attorney, Fergusen.”

  “Thanks,” Alice said, like Lenno
x had just passed her the saltshaker. “Remember before, you said you wanted to help?”

  “I would help you; only right now, I’m sick,” Lennox said. “I’ve got a virus.”

  “Yeah, I know the one.”

  “Have mercy, Alice. Jeez.”

  Alice’s face turned so dejected, she looked like the lost kitten in a velvet painting. “Oh, forget it.” She turned and started down the porch stairs.

  A wave of guilt, more potent than the residual nausea, washed over Lennox. She leaned out the front door and called Alice back. Alice handed Lennox a coffee and followed Lennox into the house, smelling of patchouli and tobacco. She was dressed in a black knit tunic, leopard print leggings and work boots.

  Suddenly Lennox had a need to sit down. She lowered herself onto the sofa cushions. “Just so you know, I’m no longer working for the Pike family.”

  “Good. Those people think they’re above the law.” Alice flopped herself into an easy chair facing the sofa. “I’m not here about them. It’s Gabe, my boyfriend.” She ran a hand in her hair, pushed it off her forehead. “I wouldn’t bother you, only I can’t go to the cops. And I don’t know who else can help me that I can trust.”

  Lennox sagged deeper into the sofa cushions. “What’s the problem?”

  Alice started to fidget. She pried the lid off her coffee and stirred the froth with her straw. She settled the lid back on her cup. Took a sip. Took her jacket off. Finally decided to go ahead with whatever was troubling her. “If I hire you, then what I tell you has to remain confidential?”

  Curiosity awakened in the few remaining brain cells Lennox hadn’t destroyed from all those martinis. She told Alice she could maintain confidentiality so long as Alice hadn’t killed anyone.

  “See, it’s crazy,” Alice said. “Gabe’s always been this trustworthy, totally honest guy. Only now he’s quit both his jobs. And he’s got lots of money. He takes me out to dinner three times a week. Talking about publishing his comic book. Which is super great but it takes a huge pile of money to do that. He’s not talking black and white either. Full color, he says. And it’s not only publishing, but advertising that you have to have. Altogether it’s like twenty-four thousand. And last month he was scraping for his phone bill.”