“Nope. He's got an early board meeting and went to bed hours ago. Besides, I want to help you with your wardrobe selection.” This coming from a munchkin grinning at me and dressed in black and white check boxers and a too-large yellow tee-shirt that sported a Tasmanian devil across her chest. Her green glow-in-the-dark flip-flops accented her ensemble.
“I think you should wear something really sexy,” Brooke said.
“That's not me.”
“Show off your feminine side. You have no sense of style. I think you should wear that teal dress you have tucked at the back of your closet. Dig that sucker out. It makes your eyes sparkle. Show him how hot you really are.”
“I'm not changing.”
“You can't wear those jeans. And that blouse makes your face look washed out.” She scudded toward my bedroom.
“Stop it!”
She opened my closet door and kept her back to me. “It's about time you met a nice man. Get your love life back on track. He's perfect for you.”
“I'm not going.”
“Coward. You'll relax once you get there.” She turned holding out the blue-green sheath, dangling it in front of me. “Where exactly are you meeting Mr. Dreamy?”
I grabbed the dress and hung it back on the rod. “I'm not.”
“What do you mean? You're not?”
“I'm going to cancel.” I pulled out my phone.
“Why?” she screamed. Then her eyes glistened with the beginning sign of tears. “No, you can't.”
Twinges of guilt stopped me cold. Before I could react and say I was sorry, she grabbed my phone.
Brooke ticked her tongue against her upper teeth as she fingered the screen. “Girlfriend, you are going to find your backbone.”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Give it back to me.” I reached out. She deflected me with a twist of her shoulder and a raised elbow. For a small person she was strong.
It's a good thing I'm not the violent type otherwise I would have knocked her to the floor. Brooke felt everyone should have the-happy-ever-after life like she found with her husband, John, through match-me-up dot com. She wasn't the internet, or the matchmaker type for that matter, but that didn't stop her from trying to hook me up. And she was persistent with her campaign for me to meet this guy, Lee Hudson.
“Okay. Okay. I will go. I will meet your Lee Hudson. But I'm not wearing a dress.” I moved the dress to the back of my closet.
I tossed my phone on the bed. “I think it's time you go home,” I said, stepping past her and heading to turn on the shower. What is the chance I'd drown?
I wanted her gone and pointed in the direction to the front door motioning her out.
She gave me an air kiss before leaving with the parting words: “You need a good guy in your life. Take your mind off...your problems.” Her words hung in her wake.
I stayed under the hot stream of water for a long time. But not long enough.
Nervous energy must have propelled me because I arrived at Perkins early. Over the objection of my best friend, I opted to wear my purple Never-Underestimate-A-Girl-With-A-Camera T-shirt and white jeans, strappy sandals completed my outfit.
As expected, the place looked deserted at two in the morning. The sign at the payment counter directed me to seat myself. I chose the far seat in a booth half-way into the room where I had a good view of the entry. A waitress, Sally, according to her name tag, a menu tucked under her arm, brought a glass of water. When she came back with a cup and a small thermos pot of coffee, I told her I was waiting for a friend and would need another cup. She gave me a nod and left.
I was too jittery to read the menu which I set aside at the very moment when a man walked in and paused at the bakery counter. My jitters froze. He wasn't very tall, five ten maybe. A stringy goatee made his chin look pointed. Was Brooke playing a joke on me? That dress she wanted me to wear was totally inappropriate. When he looked at me, I wanted to slide under the table. Before I could suck in a breath, two more men entered and closed in on him. Thank goodness they appeared to be friends. I could breathe now.
But all air left my lungs when the next person came in. Tall, very tall, and handsome in a dark suit. The white shirt, no tie, contrasted nicely with his dark hair. His long strides ate up the carpet and he soon was at my side.
“Jaymie Becker?” He held out his hand. “Lee Hudson.”
I nodded, and we shook hands. He sat. I stared.
The waitress bringing an empty cup broke the spell. He said, “May I have tea, please?” This time she gave him a big grin and said, “Absolutely, sir.” Was that an envious glance she cast at me before turning away?
I should have worn the dress.
“I'm not big on small talk,” he said. “Where do you think we should start?”
“How do you know Brooke?” Even though I knew the answer, her name was the first thing that came to mind. He smiled with his eyes, dark mesmerizing eyes that could drill through concrete.
The waitress was back in a flash with tea and a too-wide smile. Much to her obvious disappointment, he dismissed her with an easy “Thank you,” and added a “No thank you,” when she suggested a fresh muffin, blueberry or apple cinnamon.
“I see you're into photography.”
How did he know? What had Brooke told him?
“I like your shirt.” He pointed with his cup.
“Oh. Yes. That's my hobby. I'm working on—”
“Hold it,” he interrupted. “Lean forward.” He raised his hand. “May I?”
I'd follow his command to the moon.
“You have a hair about to fall in your eye.”
Oh my gosh! I'm glad I'm sitting. When his fingers brushed my face, I lost my train of thought. Sometimes when I get near a person, I can sense an energy, especially if the vibe is intense. An angry person or a distressed person will bring on an urge to run. The man across from me exuded a pleasant calmness.
I told him about my project with Henry and was about to turn the conversation to him when he stiffened. “I'm sorry. I need to take this. I'm on call.” He stood holding a cell phone. “I'll be right back.”
I watched him move to the entry, out of earshot. When Brooke told me he was handsome, she didn't lie. Not one bit.
I didn't get a chance to find out what he did that gave him flexible work hours and put him on call.
He looked disappointed when he came back. “Duty calls. Let's continue this date another time.”
My guess is that he must work in the medical profession to get called to work in the middle of the night. I said, “Yes.”
And I believed him when he said, “I will call you.”
I vented for the next two hours by washing the kitchen floor and dusting everything in reach until it was time to go deliver newspapers. I had started delivering the Pioneer Press a few months ago when Henry suggested taking on the temp job. That way I'd increase my income faster. He said he was worried about me. One concern he had was my closeness to the temptation of alcohol. He's afraid I would weaken. But I'm determined not to give in. So far, every time I told myself that one little drink wouldn't hurt, my determination grew. All I had to do was remember the months after the accident, the pain of broken bones, the disgusting smells of the jail cell. That was the past, and I was going forward. Once I paid my restitution and fine, I'd step into my next chapter. Mid-December was my target. Then I'd quit both jobs and maybe take a job in an office like a normal person. Henry would be pleased, and then my father might start talking to me again.
More than once, Henry told me he was proud of me, but he still worried. Sometimes, when I finished my deliveries, I'd stop at The Bent Fork Cafe for coffee and one of his famous caramel rolls. He was easy to talk to.
It was around 3:00 a.m. when I left my house. Thought I'd start a half-hour earlier than usual. I wasn't always a night person, only since taking on the bar gig. Surprising how quickly I've grown accustomed to the night, where the air is crisp,
and the darkness was like a cozy blanket.
Easing my car out to the street, I speed-dialed Henry's phone, got voice mail and said over a chuckle, “Hey, handsome.” The fifty-two-year-old was handsome in a solid sort of way. With his bald head and muscular physique, he could easily pass for the role of Mr. Clean in last year's Super Bowl TV ad, that is, if you take away the white eyebrows. All he needed was the white outfit. “I've finished the layout and what's more, I've got more pictures for you. They look really good. I'll stop by later. Ciao.”
The nice thing about working the route, was that I was in control. I could vary my route if I wanted. Take my time or hurry, no matter as long as I got the job done.
As I made my way up the street, I saw my favorite tan and white spaniel jump the fence, sprint across the front lawn and stop five feet from the street. “Hey there, boy, here's the paper!” He took the rolled paper that I flung his way, then raced to the front door, dropped it and came back to the same spot in the grass, huffing in delightful anticipation. “Good boy!” I tossed him a MilkBone. Life should be so predictably fun, I thought as I drove on.
2
Mason Carlyle jiggled his legs up and down to calm his nerves. The ratty backpack on his knees bounced up and down. Even though he and Willy were the only passengers on the metro bus at 2:00 a.m., every time the driver stopped, he wanted to yell at the driver to speed it up. Every friggen' block he slowed.
He propped his feet against the back of the empty seat in front of him; and then nudged Willy who had his eyes closed while he listened to the music coming through earbuds on his ancient cell phone that his dad, my uncle, pays for. “What?”
“You gonna be cool?”
Willy snorted, shifted, and then closed his eyes again.
Willy could be unpredictable, but said he'd been clean for days now.
According to the bus map, they had ten blocks to go. Enough time to dream about what kind of car he was going to buy. The two grand, minus the two hundred he promised Willy for helping out, should get him a sweet set of wheels.
When the Kwik Trip came into view, Mace punched Willy's arm, waking him. “Time to move.”
Shouldering their backpacks, he led the way into the store where he bought two bottles of Mountain Dew, a package of Twinkies, and the smallest gas can with the twenty he was fronted for expenses.
The clerk behind the counter glared at him and asked how much gas he wanted prompting Mace to say, “Ran out a ways back, two bucks worth should get me back here.”
When Mace spotted Willy pocketing a Snickers bar, he covered by saying, “My sister's goin' to be pissed I ran out of gas.” He shrugged, fisted his change, and led the way out of the store. Jazzed.
It didn’t take long for them to walk to The Bent Fork Café where a dim nightlight seemed to be the only light on inside. And the only vehicle in the parking lot was a food truck butt-end to the fence. Good. He was told the place would be deserted.
Mace set the gas can down near the back door and dropped his backpack. Planning a fire always gave him a rush, and watching a fire was better than sex.
Willy crumpled the candy wrapper and shoved it into his empty Dew bottle and then heaved it toward the fence.
After Mace popped the door lock, Willy giggled and said, “You haven't lost your touch.”
Mason Carlyle had lots of practice with locks and fire.
Both men fished out flashlights from their backpacks leaving their packs outside and then shuffled into the small cafe.
“Shit. My battery's low. Gi' me yours.” Mace yanked the flashlight from Willy and gave him his.
“What the hell, man?”
“Shut up. You check over there.” Mace motioned to the right, he went left where the cash register was. Too bad the drawer was open. Nothing in the empty tray. But on the wall were a few framed dollar bills in some weird shape, kinda looked like birds. It took a bit of tugging to get the small picture frame off the wall. One quick rap against the edge of the counter took care of the glass. He pocketed the birds just as Willy came into the room.
“What's up, man?” Willy whispered loudly.
“Nothing, knocked a glass over.”
Willy snorted and then said, “There's a safe back there. Let's take...”
Suddenly the overhead light went on.
“You bastards!” A bald guy swinging a mop was yelling, “Get the fuck out!”
“You shit-head. Now look what you've done.” Mason couldn't believe his eyes or the ringing in his ears.
This was not supposed to go down this way.
“Hey, man, not my fault. The fucker hit me. Gun just went off.” Blood ran down the side of Willy's pocked-mark face which under the bright light seemed to take on a sickly grey hue.
Mason stomped around the body to within inches of Willy and leaned into him, shouting, “The boss is going to shit bullets. Might even plunk one right there.” He poked a finger between Willy's thin eyebrows. “You ape-shit moron. Put that away before you hurt yourself.”
He waved the mop handle at Willy thinking how easy it would be to rearrange the weasel's face. Was he a fool to bring the halfwit along? Yesterday an idea popped into his head when Willy showed up looking for a handout. “Something. Anything,” Willy begged. Mace's thinking was that his cousin could help with a grab “n” dash. Two people could cover twice the territory and get out quicker.
He told him he'd give him two hundred if he helped, but he'd have to lay off the dope until they were done, and he got the money from his contact.
The buzz in Mason's ears started to ease. The guy on the floor had his eyes closed. A gurgle like low-boiling burps came out his mouth.
Willy said, “He's not dead. Let's get out of here,” and made a dash for the door but Mace blocked him.
“You really are an idiot....” He pushed him back. “We don't deliver, we ain't goin' to get paid.”
“I can't do a murder rap.” Panic filled Willy's voice.
“Well, you should have thought of that before you wagged your piece.”
All they had to do was torch the place. Now he had a complication. Two complications.
The smell of urine wafted up from the man attempting to push up from the floor. Mason thumped his foot on the guy's back pushing him down.
“You said no one was going to be here.” Willy had circled behind the counter, close to the door.
“Well, fuck you. I was wrong.”
“I say let's beat it.”
“Idiot. Get over here and help me.” Taking in shallow breaths, Mason straddled the man taking care not to step in the dude's blood. They rolled the man to one side to get to his pockets.
The guy coughed, blood belched from his mouth, barely missed Mace's shoes. Then he went limp. Dead.
Mace pulled keys, car keys from one pocket. The back pocket gave up a wallet.
“We got wheels now,” Willy said. “Now we can snag the safe.”
“Forget it. We don't have time.”
“No. No. Man.” Willy's voice was charged, like a young boy on Christmas morning. “It's not even bolted down.”
Soon, a high-pitched squeal of steel against concrete pierced the silent room. Willy was sweating by the time he had pushed the small safe out past the body on the floor.
“Help me you bastard,” Willy grunted.
By the time they got the knee-high-sized safe outside, both were gulping air. Willy wheezed, “You got keys. Ride's gotta be close.”
Sure enough, Mace found the van parked on the other side of the meat wagon. That was a dumb move not to see it earlier. Might have known someone was in the building. They better get out of there soon. By the time he parked the guy's van near the door, his adrenalin was full bore. It didn't take them long to get the safe shoved in the back.
Mace said, “We have one more thing to do. Inside.” He needed to make the body look like an accident.
“Get over here. Help me push this over.” Tipping over the industrial-size refrigerator was a piec
e of cake after wrestling with a heavy safe.
“I'm outta here,” Willy said.
“Grab the backpacks,” Mason yelled. “And here,” he tossed the keys to Willy, “start the van.”
After Mason poured gas around the room, he backed out, lit a cigarette, took two drags and then tossed it into The Bent Fork Cafe. And ran.
He had to run around to the other side, because Willy was slouched in the passenger seat. Good thing because the guy's license was suspended.
Within seconds, Mason drove away looking for the fire in the rear view. In the old days, he'd watch the fire department douse the fire. But today was different.
3
Immersed in the rhythm of stuffing papers into curbside plastic tubes, I almost didn't see the motor scooter come whizzing by me. But I saw enough to shake my head wondering what Star was doing in this part of town at this hour. Scooters are a rare sight in Minnesota, and definitely never seen in the winter months. There is only one person I know with a light-colored Vespa and that was Henry's new cook. I really couldn't say I knew her, because I've only met her once at the Fork. Her working hours are my bedtime hours.
I remember her for two reasons. Her fading black eye matched the color of her tattoos at the edge of her face. And who would choose a ridiculous mode of transportation. If you're going for motorized two wheels, get a real motorcycle, something with bite.
Six houses later and with half of my newspapers delivered, I noticed light on the eastern horizon. A bit early I thought. Weird in an orange sort of way. I worked my way to the end of the block and saw more of the light. I hit the brakes sending a high pitch screech from my worn brake pads into the 4:00 a.m. quiet. “Oh no!”
The Bent Fork was on fire! “Holy shit!” My hand shook so much it was hard to dial 911. Flames poked through the roof of the old converted Shell gas station.
Kiss or Kill Under the Northern Lights Page 13