“Stop them? Hell no, this is going to be great. When was the last time you saw anything like this?” Riley said, grinning, and then felt a little bad as she was about to repossess this lovelorn geriatric’s wheels. Riley again, as she often did, seemed to read her elder sister’s mind.
“Oh, no! Hell, no! We are doing this. There’s no room for soft hearts in the repo business, just like there isn’t in the bail jumping business,” Riley preempted.
“But just look at the poor guy, his suit is a wreck, we’ve seen his house, and he’s lost his girl, if he ever had her. While it’s a great blues song, it’s pretty miserable in real life. We gotta let him go, we can’t do it. It’s not even worth anything to us really,” she replied, glumly.
“I know, Sis. I understand, but Ricki would have a fit, and we need the money. If we don’t do the repo, someone else will, and they probably won’t be as kind about it as you will,” Riley said, putting her arm round Roberta’s shoulder.
“We have to keep our focus here. We have to look after our business, even if it sucks to make it work. It’d kill Ricki to lose it. You’d be ok, you’re tough. But she’s put everything into R3. We gotta do it for her, OK?” Roberta smiled at Riley’s words, but it was weak.
“Alright, I’ll do it. Let’s get it over with.”
Joseph Cavanaugh was so embarrassed when Riley presented him with a receipt for his car, he got into the passenger side of his own vehicle without complaint, handing the keys to Riley. Roberta knew that Riley was heartbroken for him. She was about to return to her pickup truck, having gotten out to back up Riley more out of habit than any fear that Riley would be under any danger of attack from Cavanaugh, when a thin, shrill voice came from behind her.
“Hey, are you the police? Is he a criminal? I bet he is a criminal, the dirty mick swine!”
Roberta turned. It was the old woman. She decided to ignore the anti-Irish sentiment, and no doubt the further implication of a wider racist mindset.
“No ma’am, we’re just repossessing the car. Is he a friend of yours?”
“Pah!” she said as flecks of spittle were sent flying from the corners of her mouth. “That wimp is no friend of mine, my name is Miss Madeline Frome, of the Frome family, and we come from old money. He has none, and has delusions that I would marry him! The cheek! Who are you, then? Company, then personal names, please.” Madeline Frome stood in her haughty cross armed pose again. Roberta had never heard of the Frome family in her life, but judging by the evident former grandeur of the home of Miss Frome, they had once been quite powerful.
“We’re from R3 Recovery, downtown Savannah. I’m Roberta Vaughan, that’s my sister Riley.”
“I shall remember. Good day, Roberta Vaughan.”
With that, she spun alarmingly fast, and tottered back up the steps to her house, went inside, and slammed the door.
What an utterly bizarre woman, Roberta thought to herself.
Chapter Six
Riley
Eight days passed, and the heat hadn’t let up for a moment.
Riley was exhausted. Every morning she had woken up to the knowledge that for the next twelve hours she would be tracking down old wrecks and cheap repo jobs in the R3 Recovery tow truck. She considered herself lucky if she picked up a few parking violations for the day. They were cut and dry and she was always lucky to never encounter the deviant who had not fed the meter or left their car in a private parking lot. She managed to ride her bike for twenty minutes in the morning to the office, and another twenty at night returning to her small apartment. She loathed dismounting it these days; the former meant another day in the stinking truck, and the latter was a near fall as she was so exhausted, uneven able to ride for pleasure.
When she pulled up to the office building, the sunshine streaming murderously in her eyes nearly made her plow directly into the window of the barbershop next door. The barber, a man with an impressive afro and handlebar moustache by the name of Jonas glared at Riley as her front wheel left a mark on his window, but without anger. He rolled his eyes, and she gave a wan smile of apology.
Inside R3 Recovery’s office, Roberta was already at work and had busied herself with brewing coffee. Her face was as thunderous as it had ever been, and this had been the same story of the day for the majority of the week. Riley was merely happy that her ire was not directed at her, but every time she looked at Roberta’s face her own resentful feelings bubbled up to the surface of her mind. Damn, she had almost forgotten them again. The atmosphere in the office had been so sour of late she thought she might have choked on it. Roberta smiled good morning, without humour.
“Coffee?” Roberta said, “It’s fresh.”
“Sure. Bobby, can we take a few minutes not being sour?” Riley said. Her blunt words were tempered with the most placatory smile she could manage. There was no good in starting a second front of the great Vaughan civil war, oh-fourteen edition. Fortunately Roberta saw what Riley was getting at, and shook her head for a moment, clearing her thoughts.
“Sorry. It’s been on my mind since Tuesday. How can she say that, when I’m out bringing home bacon and she… damn it, I’m sorry. I’m doing it again, aren’t I?” Roberta laughed. “I can’t even stop! I must be going mad. Did you sleep all right?”
Riley appreciated the change of topic, but shook her head.
“I’m not even sure if I sleep anymore, I mean, there’s this strange period every night where I close my eyes for a few seconds, and then I wake up and I’m on my bike coming back here. My joints are really aching lately too; do you think I’m coming down with R3-itis? Get it? Arthritis? Huh?”
Riley elbowed her sister at her joke, causing Roberta to wobble as she tried not to spill her coffee. She did laugh along, at least, and that made Riley feel warmth at last. There was nothing like a good family brawl to really put the Georgia summer on ice.
“Very funny, David Letterman. You could have just said no!”
“I’ll have you know, I turned Letterman down; he said I was too edgy for a prime time audience to handle.”
Riley nodded wisely. Roberta’s mood picked up for at least the fifteen minutes following, until Ricki arrived and the tension between them returned with a vengeance. The cause of the issue was never far when all three sisters were in the same room. The root cause, of course, was the impending financial apocalypse of their business. The subsequent effect and exacerbating symptoms of this terminal illness was that human nature came into play. Of course, Ricki was doing her best, but it was Riley and Roberta who were out every day hunting people and cars down for peanuts. It took only a few minutes before Roberta had sniped once too often, which was to say, once, and Ricki figuratively exploded.
“Enough! I get it! You knew what you were getting into, both of you when we took this on, you know private investigative work is the long game and that’s why I’m stuck in here juggling bills while you are off playing goddamn cops and robbers! I swear Roberta; you never used to be such a bitch.”
Ricki flipped her sisters the bird, and walked out of the main office room and into the kitchen area at the back, slamming the door behind her. Roberta made to go after her, but Riley put a hand on her shoulder. “Leave it, give her some time to calm down, and could you please not needle her? In fact, come on, we have work to do ourselves.”
Riley shepherded her sister toward the door. Roberta’s fists were bunched and muscles taut. It looked to Riley that at least one sister would be sporting a black eye by closing time. She was unsure on who to bet on. Roberta was in great shape and could take down pretty much anyone Riley knew in fair fight, but Ricki was cunning, and Riley knew her left hook all too well. Her weighing of the odds was interrupted as they reached the exit to the street outside by an old woman coming in the other way. She seemed familiar, mean faced and slight of frame. Roberta nearly ran into Riley’s back as she stopped suddenly to allow the old woman in, and was left on tip toes with her hands on Riley’s shoulders. The effect from the newcomer’s per
spective must have appeared as evidence of a failed game of leap frog, which made Riley feel quite foolish in front of this diminutive yet formidable looking matriarch.
“Mrs. Frome? Uh, good to see you. How can we help you today?” Roberta said from over Riley’s shoulder, and suddenly Riley remembered her from the repossession of Joe Cavanaugh’s car. She stepped aside and let Roberta talk directly to the old woman before them. Mrs Frome’s face was furrowed and set with determination, seeming to pay no mind to the near collision of the Vaughan sisters.
“I have a job for you, for which I will pay you a handsome sum provided you find it, I must have it back, you see. It’s been in my family for generations, and it’s mine. Do you accept, or are you time wasters in this,” she paused to cast a disparaging eye around the R3 office, “business,” she finished, with a little too much venom for someone wishing to engage the services of a company.
Riley and Roberta looked at each other quizzically.
“Sorry, Mrs Frome,” Riley said, “Find what, exactly? A person, a car?”
Mrs Frome stamped her foot.
“No, you young fool, I already told you! The Rock of Rhodesia has been stolen!” She folded her arms in finality, clearly expecting Riley and Roberta to be aware of what the Rock of Rhodesia was. The blank looks the sisters returned eventually filtered through to Mrs. Frome. With exasperated solemnity, she continued.
“The Rock of Rhodesia is a large diamond, set in a diamond accented silver chain necklace. It’s worth millions of dollars. Now it has gone missing from my house! It is of course insured, but the sentimental value is priceless. I have been robbed, I’m sure!”
Roberta invited Mrs Frome to sit down on the cracked brown leather sofa in the office, which she did carefully and with the kind of look that people usually reserved for needles found in the wake of heroin abuse in a toilet.
“I think this is Ricki’s area of expertise, right Roberta?” Riley said, hoping Roberta would take the hint.
“Yes, definitely. I’ve got work to do, I’ll see you later.”
Roberta’s demeanour had stiffened, but at least she took the implication that it might not bear to have a frosty atmosphere with the prospect of a serious fee on the table. Riley knew that the recovery fee for the Rock of Rhodesia would most likely dwarf the meagre sums Roberta and she had pulled in for R3; and thus hand Ricki a distinct advantage in the war of words over who was not pulling their weight. Riley also knew that Roberta realised this as well as she, so she gave silent thanks for Roberta’s grace as she left the premises. Riley brought her sister out from the back room to meet Mrs. Frome, made the proper introductions, and then busied herself making a cup of tea for Mrs. Frome while she relayed the details of the case to Ricki, who was at the early point of the conversation almost monosyllabic with rage after her earlier spat.
Riley tuned back into the conversation when it appeared that Mrs. Frome had got to where she had already got to. Riley delivered her tea, and sat with Ricki, opposite Mrs. Frome who accepted her tea without comment, but eyed it suspiciously as if Riley might have spat in it.
“I’m sure that waste of space, Joseph, stole it,” Mrs. Frome said confidently. “He’s been sneaking around my house, sometimes at night I’m sure, trying to get in. I heard he was a drunk too, you know. Whole family are drunks as far as I know, his son got kicked out of his law firm, or accounting firm or something, and he’s just going to end up like his father. A thief!”
Her voice became steadily more glass shattering as she relayed her story.
“Well, Mrs. Frome, we’ll need to get a valuation on the Rock of Rhodesia to work out a return fee with them, if it is as valuable as you say; which I’m sure it is, diamonds being diamonds, then we should definitely be able to do business with you. I’ll come over to your address and have a look around too, if that’s alright. Have you reported the theft to the police?”
Ricki scratched notes on a pad of legal paper with a cheap ballpoint pen.
“The police? No, I don’t like the police. Too many ni—” Mrs. Frome checked herself at the dropped jaws of Riley and Ricki.
“I mean to say,” Mrs. Frome continued, with barely a flicker of the slur she was about to use, “I’d rather keep the police out of this for personal reasons. I take my leave, ladies. I’ll see you tomorrow, if you don’t mind for the home visit. I am quite tired from my journey across town to see you.”
Mrs. Frome got unsteadily to her feet, and left immediately, leaving her cup of tea entirely untouched. “Can you believe that?” Riley said. “It’s nineteen eighty-five, and people still pull that B.S!”
“Different era, that one, “Ricki said. “Think she might have been around to disagree with the emancipation proclamation. Still, we need the money, and it’s not her time. It’s ours, and her attitudes are dying out all the time. Don’t stress it.”
Riley wasn’t so sure. She had seen a lot of barely restrained racism in her own life, the shady glances at the minimart or rednecks shouting what redneck morons shout from their pickups. She didn’t know for sure if Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney really hung out and sang Ebony and Ivory together when they weren’t on MTV. Who knew.
She said none of this, but instead said “So, Cavanaugh’s house first? I’ll drive you, I know where it already. It’s a bit of a dump, if I’m honest.”
Ricki packed up her bag, and applied her makeup. Always perfect looking in public and private, Riley looked at her own greasy jeans. Maybe a recovered diamond would spring enough cash for a new set of Levi’s, maybe even a new jacket, if they saved the business first, of course.
Chapter Seven
Ricki
If it had not been critical to the survival of R3 Recovery and by extension the financial security of the Vaughans themselves, she had a mind to have told the hateful old Mrs. Frome to find the Rock of Rhodesia herself, and then give her some advice on where she could store it in future to prevent further misplacement.
As it stood, there was no space for morality in business; she knew that, had learned it the hard way. Her sisters still held on to this belief that commerce itself could be conducted in some morally clean way, despite the nature of the trade they were in. Deception, investigation and finding those who did not want to be found were not in the vocabulary of morality as far as Ricki were concerned. Still, despite her pragmatic views, keeping the anger from her face and ignoring racism in exchange for money burned hotter than coals.
Ricki followed Mrs. Frome out of the office, Riley in tow, and watched the old woman totter up the street and get inside a waiting taxi. Ricki turned away from her and led Riley down the alleyway that separated R3 Recovery from the barbershop next door, to the narrow back parking space where her car was parked. The silver-grey Toyota was immaculately kept, but unobtrusive enough to be nearly invisible to most eyes. Like Roberta’s pickup truck, practicality and anonymity were key factors in the vehicle’s suitability for the work it was used for. Roberta had once almost been bumper to bumper behind a wealthy businessman who was cheating on his wife for miles without him paying a second glance to her. She unlocked the driver’s side door, and popped the lock on the passenger side for Riley to get in, who slumped into the beaded seat uncomfortably. “Ugh, why do you have these things? They leave you with all these bead marks on your ass,” she said.
“You’re talking to me about comfort, when you ride a motorcycle and wear leather jackets in the middle of summer? I think I’ll stick with the beads.”
The joke fell flat, thanks to Ricki’s sour delivery.
“You still mad at Mrs. Frome?” Riley said, cautiously.
“No, screw her. She’ll pay us when we get this diamond back—you know, I bet it’s at her house, she seems a bit senile if you ask me. Anyway, she’ll pay us, and then the racist old bitch will eke out another few years grasping onto the thing, and then she’ll die.” Riley gasped at her bluntness. “What? I’m supposed to like her because she’s old and rich? Nah. Anyway, I’m more pissed
with Roberta; she’s been up my ass for a week. This will show her what’s what, and with no mistakes too.”
Ricki fired up the engine and reversed down the alley. The Toyota’s engine whined as it often did, disliking going backwards.
“Ricki, you know, it’s not been easy for us either; wait, let me finish. Think about it, you’ve always been in charge, always, even when we were kids. I was the baby, I got all the attention; you were boss, and that’s the way you liked it. Where was Roberta? In the middle, feeling ignored. Can you imagine what that felt like? In high school you were lettering in track, dating the star wide receiver… what was his name? Never mind. In any case, do you remember where Roberta was? Sophomore year, she had a terrible attack of acne, braces in and growth spurting so hard that she could barely run without falling over. Then you graduated, and she thought maybe she’d get her shot at being the popular one, but then I joined in my freshman year and all the attention was on the new girl who was covered in grease from fixing engines and stealing into shop class to learn more. Again Roberta was overlooked, as she saw it. She’d never tell you this; hell, she only told me after a couple bottles of wine.”
Riley looked imploring at her elder sister, but Ricki was unmoved as she expertly weaved her tiny car through the morning commuter traffic heading toward the center of town, beyond which lay the run down region where old Joe Cavanaugh lived with his son.
“Well, I couldn’t help how it panned out, could I? The football player was Ortis Sanders, and he tried to force himself on me at senior prom. I only ran because I was terrified of getting fat, and damn it, I’m not responsible for Roberta; or you for that matter. You’re both grown women!” Ricki honked her horn violently at a driver who had the temerity to drive at a speed that was slower than acceptable. “It’s no piece of cake running a business either. I can’t do it as well as Dad would have done, but I’m doing my best here. I need both of you to cut me some slack and do your jobs, and I’ll do mine.”
The Evil That Men Do Page 4