“What do we have to do to get it?” asked a hard-looking man with a beard that didn’t quite cover his gaunt cheeks. He stood closer to the woman and child as he added a small piece of rotting wood to the fire. The fire snapped, and a stream of black smoke trickled into the air. Several pairs of hands shot out and hovered over the trash can, until the measly flame grew to a pathetic flicker once again.
“Nothing,” I answered. The man’s face remained rigid, but when I looked at the woman and repeated, “Absolutely nothing,” a spark of hope ignited in her lifeless blue eyes. At one time she might have been pretty, but hard times had obviously taken a toll on her. Her fingers clenched and unclenched as her gaze darted between the grocery bag and me.
“Go ahead. Take it, please.” I nodded, stepping back.
“Can I, Mama?” The little girl, engulfed in what had to be her mother’s coat, hat, and gloves, stared up at the woman with the biggest brown saucers I’d ever seen, as though I’d just given her the most valuable present in the world.
In a way, I guess I had.
The mother nodded, and I swallowed another lump. The little girl carefully opened the paper bag and pulled out the cookies then gasped so loud it echoed off the warehouse behind her. The woman stared at all the food for a long moment, her brow buckling, then she stepped back and softly called to the others. “It’s okay. Come get your share.”
She didn’t take a single item for herself, even though her tattered, threadbare clothes hung from her haggard frame. She had to be hungry and cold, but still she stood back, letting others go first. Whatever had happened to her had to be so much worse than being used by a man and embarrassed by naked pictures of herself on the Internet, yet she hadn’t grown mean or selfish. She’d kept her family together and found a way to survive.
My troubles were insignificant in the grand scheme of things. I pulled off my hat and mittens and handed them to the little boy, who snatched them out of my hands and ran away as though he thought I would change my mind. Then I slipped off my Eskimo parka and wrapped it around the woman’s shoulders. She hopped nearly a foot and then blinked furiously but not enough to stop a single tear from rolling down her cheek.
“Th-Thank you,” she said in barely more than a whisper.
My own eyes filled, and I gave her a wobbly smile as I hugged my middle, shivering slightly in the February night air. “Y-You’re welcome. Now if I had a pitcher of Bahama Mamas and some mac and cheese, I could really show you a good time.” I chuckled, but my laugh sounded forced to my own ears.
“Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no Labamba Ramas, but I’ll take that bag of dried fruit,” a bag lady said, scratching her head under a tattered cap as she snagged the fruit. “Need some meat on my bones for my man over there.” She jerked her head in the direction of a cardboard tent housing the wino in the moth-eaten coat. “Gotta keep warm, ya know.” She shot me a toothless grin and then shuffled off to crawl under the tent and snuggle up to ‘her man.’
I couldn’t help grinning back. Hey, whatever works, I thought, amazed that even someone in this bad a situation could find someone to snuggle up to.
The hard man added another piece of wood to the fire. I started to walk away, almost forgetting why I was there in the first place, when the brief flame illuminated something shiny over by the warehouse. I changed directions, edging closer to the entrance, when a paper bag with a wine bottle sticking out caught my attention. Only the hand holding the bottle had brown spots and wrinkles, and black leather encased the arm attached to the hand. Dylan’s black leather. But that wasn’t Dylan.
I blinked. So he had seen me leave my apartment and followed me just as I’d suspected. Then another thought hit me. If Dylan gave his coat to Mr. Wino, then what was he wearing, and who in God’s name was Ms. Toothless Bag Lady snuggling with?
I blinked again. No way. I spun around and studied the tent closer. The pointy tip of one monstrous snakeskin boot poked out from beneath the end of one smelly, flea-ridden coat.
Snort! Priceless. Absolutely priceless. Lack of sleep and flea bites. Things had turned out better than I’d expected. Now that I’d done some good, I felt perfectly justified over the turn of events.
“I’d say that’s enough payback for one night, wouldn’t you?” whispered a male voice beside me.
I jumped and then looked into the face of a dirty bum. Not Dylan, but a face way too full and healthy to be a real bum. The phony crony winked, and I grinned wide, feeling a whole lot better now.
“It’s a start,” I said. “Just a start.”
***
Riiiiiing!
“What, who?” I pried one eye open.
Riiiiiing!
“Who, what?” I pried the other eye open.
Riiiiiing!
I uncrossed my eyes and focused on the clock. Six A.M.! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, who called at six A.M.?
Riiiiiing!
“Oh, shut up, already, I’m coming.” I struggled out of bed, checked the caller ID, then snatched the phone off the counter in the kitchen. “What.”
“Good morning to you, too,” came a sexy male voice over the phone, followed by a scratching noise. “Get up on the wrong side of the bed?”
“Dukeypoo, what are you doing, calling me this early?” I collapsed onto a chair and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. If you could call two measly hours sleep.
“Just a friend checking in to see how you’re doing before you head off to class.” Scratch. Scratch. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t dare assume we’re anything more.” He sounded cool, obviously still ticked over the distance I’d put between us after that kiss on the ice. Well, that made us even, because I was still miffed over his siccing the Brat Pack on me.
“At six A.M.?” I croaked in my not-used-to-talking-this-freaking-early voice.
“Figured you were getting ready for class.” Scratch. Scratch. “And I have an early doctor’s appointment.”
“Anything serious?” I asked. “And what’s that scratching noise? Did you get a cat?”
“No.” He grunted. “Got into a little scuffle while working and then woke up this morning with a rash on my... anyway, I’m having it checked out.” He cleared his throat. “So, is everything okay? Any more crazy things happen I should know about?” Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
I tried hard to stifle my laughter, but a little snicker slipped out as I pictured him scratching at flea bites while fighting off gummy, toothless kisses last night. “Nope. Everything’s fine, other than a sudden case of insomnia.”
“They’ve got pills for that, you know.”
“I don’t like taking pills, and I’ve never been one to just lie around when I can’t sleep. Gotta do something to tire myself out.”
“Try reading and drinking a glass of warm milk like most normal people,” he mumbled.
“What was that? I didn’t quite catch the last part?” I grinned, enjoying this. And that was the only reason I was grinning. It had absolutely nothing to do with hearing his voice again. Nothing at all.
“I said, try reading a book and drinking a glass of warm milk.” Scratch.
“Hmmm, fresh out of books.”
“Just try the warm milk next time, okay? Or call me. I can’t sleep lately, either.”
“Why’s that?” This ought to be good.
“Just a pain-in-the-ass case I’m working on.”
“Really. Then why bother?”
He hesitated, then sighed. “Because there’s something strangely appealing about this case. I’m hoping it will be worth it in the end, if I survive.”
“Oh, well....” What could I say to that?
Scratch. Scratch. “Christ, I gotta go.”
Snort. “Good luck with your case and the doctor.”
“Thanks. I’m beginning to think I’ll need all the luck I can get. Stay out of trouble, would ya?”
“I can’t promise anything. Trouble seems to follow me around lately. Don’t know why.” I stifled a giggle.
“J
ust try.” Scratch. Scratch. Curse. Dial tone.
I hung up the phone, sang the lyrics to Cat Scratch Fever, then burst out laughing, suddenly wide awake and exhilarated. Who said payback was a bitch? I was having the time of my life, even if Dylan wasn’t.
Note to self: Always wash produce thoroughly. God only knows where it’s been.
***
Episode Two: Mean Mama cleans up Fisherman’s Wharf at three A.M.
I stabbed another piece of trash with a metal poker and put it in the nearly-full trash bag I carried. Still no sign of Dylan.
“If you don’t show, I’ll give you more than Cat Scratch Fever, Zuc,” I grumbled, then yawned, nowhere near awake, even after I’d consumed a whole pot of coffee. These episodes were killing me.
A cold sea breeze blew into the harbor, carrying with it the smell of dead fish, and I shivered. I couldn’t afford a new coat. Wouldn’t need one soon, with spring right around the corner, so I’d opted for layers. Only now, I wish I’d added another fleece.
I walked down the dock a bit further, searching for more trash. This had to be one of my worst ideas to date. What if the Brat Pack forgot to set the stage with their phony cronies? I looked left, then right, but didn’t see anyone. Then again, that was the point. Still, what if the mob hung out here? I took a step back, my heart imitating a bass drum. What if Professor Butthead had connections and had hired a hit man to off me because he’d found out I’d called him a pickle?
Cement shoes, here I come.
A boat’s horn wailed right beside me. “Ahhhhhh!” I jumped a foot, dropping the trash bag and poker. Jeesh, I had to stop watching the Sopranos.
I turned around and ran smack dab into a smelly sailor, and the stench of whiskey blasted me in the face. The bass drum in my chest turned into a whole percussion section as I raised my fists and danced on the balls of my feet. My insecurity bounced right along with me as I jabbed left, left, right at the air. “Back off, buster. I know ka-ra-tay.”
He stared at me with heavy-lidded eyes and slurred, “But you’re boxing.”
“Uh, right.” My mind raced for a plausible explanation. “It’s kinda like kick boxing, only it’s called karate boxing.” I sliced the air furiously, looking more like I was making the sign of the cross, then I threw a right hook. “Ye-haw!”
The drunk swayed at just the right moment, and I missed. “Don’t you mean hi-yah?” A goofy grin spread over his face.
Stupid, stupid, Callie. “Where I come from we say ye-haw. It’s the country version of karate boxing.”
“Got it.” He opened his half-closed eyes, for just a moment, and winked then slurred in a loud voice, “Whatcha doin’, pretty lady?”
Another phony crony, thank God. He had me worried. I relaxed and dropped my fists, then I raised my voice to match his. “Just trying to do my part in serving the community. Not sure it’s working, though.” I stared around the docks. Maybe he’d seen Dylan.
He nodded. “Oh, it’s working.” He tipped his head slightly in the direction behind him. So that’s where Hot Britches was hiding. “Well, I’m part of the community, honey. Why don’t you come serve me?” He reached out three times before he snagged my arm and pretended to try to pull me over to a dinghy by a big dumpster.
I freed my arm and took a step back. “Laying it on a little thick, there, aren’t you pal?” I whispered.
“Just trying to get a rise out of Detective Cabrizzi. He moved over by the dumpster,” he whispered back. “The dumpster full of fishguts.”
I gasped, seriously considering pushing Hot Britches to dive right in, but then I decided even I wasn’t that bad. Keeping Dylan up all hours of the night was enough. “Sorry, mister,” I said nice and loud. “I finished what I set out to do.” I snagged my trash bag and poker then turned around and headed in the opposite direction.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure,” I answered, but kept walking.
“Because it wouldn’t take much to--”
Smack!
I came to an abrupt stop and whirled around but could only see shadows scuffling. It sounded like fists smacking skin, and then something went thud.
Dylan! Oh, God. I’d just wanted to get even with him, but I didn’t want him getting hurt because of me. I dragged my loaded trash bag and poker as I jogged back to the dinghy. As I drew close, more rustling came from the dinghy, and then a shadow darted by and a whoosh came from the dumpster. The fishgut dumpster. Uh-oh.
“Hello? Anybody there?” I held up my poker. What if it wasn’t Dylan? “It’s Miss Community Serrrr-viiice,” I called out in a singsong voice, my stomach in my throat.
No answer.
Swallowing hard, I peeked inside the dinghy only to see the phony crony lying flat on his back, out cold. “Oh, yeah. That’s gonna leave a mark.” And I was gonna be in big trouble when he came to.
A muffled grunt came from somewhere inside the dumpster, and I jerked my head up. Gripping my poker tighter, I peered over the edge and blinked. Nothing there. I squinted and looked closer then pressed my lips together. A patch of black hair lay barely visible beneath a mound of garbage. I waited until I saw him move a fraction, then I pulled away.
Snort. Big, big trouble. Payback had gone a bit far tonight, but since the damage had already been done, might as well roll with it.
Note to self: Fishguts at three A.M. make a perfect late-night snack for rotten produce.
I felt myself soften. Rotten or not, he’d come to my rescue. Probably because he still hadn’t caught Flasher Freak, I reminded myself, but a part of me didn’t really believe it. Still, I had to admit that community service felt darn good. I plugged my nose, trying not to inhale, and tossed my trash bag into the dumpster, my work for the evening complete.
I couldn’t resist. I sliced the air for good measure, threw a punch, then yelled, “Ye-haw!”
Ding. Ding. Round two went to Callie MacDonald, the country karate boxing champ of the evening.
***
At the end of the week, I stood grinning in my bathroom mirror as I got ready for my date. Dylan had called a few times after the first two episodes, asking if I wanted to get together, but I’d made one excuse after another, until he’d finally stopped calling. Well, he couldn’t blame me for being leery of our sham of a friendship after that kiss, and he deserved the silent treatment after siccing the Brat Pack on me, even if I was getting over it.
We’d get back to using each other soon enough. Just as soon as I had him convinced this naïve little small-town girl had finally gone loco on him. I had to be close after this past week.
I’d turned myself into a careless, irresponsible, completely helpless damsel in distress. I’d chosen Grand Central Station at one in the morning and Chinatown at midnight for Episodes Three and Four. I snickered, thinking maybe he’d finally had enough, but part of me didn’t want to stop. I was having too much fun.
He must have been questioning his own abilities as a Detective, because I hadn’t given the Brat Pack a single problem. Just him. He’d even called Gloria, asking if something had happened to me because I was acting strange.
Something had happened, all right. I’d successfully put him in his place, and he’d apparently moved on. I frowned. According to the Brat Pack, Dylan had a date. Penelope was a red-hot masseuse he’d been casually dating before I had invaded his life. But since I hadn’t agreed to “hang out with him,” he’d decided Penelope would do as a Valentine’s date.
Bet he wouldn’t be her friend tonight.
It shouldn’t have irritated me. I should have been glad he’d moved on in the dating department, but darn it, I wasn’t. So I’d found out where he was taking her, and I asked the Brat Pack to fix me up with my own date. If he could move on, hypothetically, then so could I. After all, we never were “really” dating.
Besides, tonight wasn’t about jealousy, it was about my final stand in the payback department. One final stand. That was it. Really. Sigh.
I didn’t belie
ve me, either.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Figured, Dylan would take Penelope to Dominic’s. He only took me to his place. I guess that was all a hypothetical date warranted. No need to impress me before moving on to dessert, which was all I had been to begin with. Bart, my hot-beefcake-with-no-taste date, bypassed the valet and parked his pickup in a handicapped spot at the expensive restaurant.
I had to slam my shoulder into the truck’s rusted door three times before it opened, not that Beefcake would think to help me. He might have been attractive and packing some good-sized produce, but he couldn’t have had more than a peanut for a brain. Preppy Khaki Man must have chosen Crude Bart as his form of payback for the whole smelly-feet incident.
Bart tossed his key to the doorman who just blinked at him, then Bart sailed through the door and let it close in my face. I sighed. “Sorry.” I smiled at the doorman.
“No, problemo.” He pulled the door open wide.
“Thank you.” I walked into the restaurant, smoothing my hands down the front of the little red dress I’d borrowed from Gloria. The one that made her look like a goddess and me a two-bit hussy. Given my height, it barely covered my insecurity but showed off my legs perfectly. Only, Gloria’s breasts were so much bigger than mine. The neckline plunged well below my non-existent cleavage. I’d had to go without a bra and tape the red shimmery material to my nipples. I only hoped the overall effect would work on Dylan.
I wanted him to suffer.
Beefcake shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he stood in the lobby, waiting to be seated. “There you are. What took you so long?”
I stared at him, wanting to knock him upside the head. “I had a little problem with the door.”
“I know, man, that sucker was heavy.”
“Ya think?” I took a deep breath, putting Beefcake’s manner’s--or lack thereof--out of my mind as I searched the restaurant for Dylan.
“Be right back. I gotta go fill the pool,” Beefcake said.
“Huh?” I asked, still scanning the interior. “They have a pool?”
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