Made for Breaking

by Lauren Gilley

  Sly shrugged.

  “I think,” Father Morris said, meeting Ray’s gaze, “that he might even be willing to help you retrieve the goods. He’s not really a bad sort, I don’t think.”

  Sly and Mark snorted in unison at “bad sort.”

  “Help us retrieve?” Ray asked.

  The priest’s smile widened. “That’s what I’m paying you for, isn’t it?”

  Ray had to grin. “You know, Father, you make me almost wanna come to church.”

  10

  Back when Cheryl Russell had still been Cheryl Peake, when she’d helped her parents farm fish, she’d had no comprehension of chivalry. Richard Peake had been more a warden and slave driver than father, and there was no love between him and his wife. Cheryl had always been knee-, and waist-, and chest-deep in algae filled water, catch net in hand, wrangling the trout and catfish from the warm, muddy, man-made ponds where they matured. She’d reeked of fish and slime and had worn her hair boy-short back then, when she was a skinny teenager. She’d watched her father harass her mother until April was no longer even a woman, just a pair of hands and a set of brown, downcast eyes.

  She’d had no idea how a man was supposed to treat a woman until Ray had come into her life. The afternoon of their meeting was a treasured, perfectly preserved, crystalline memory she carried around like a worn photo in her back pocket. Sixteen, lanky, all elbows and knees, a hank of almost-black hair falling over her eyes, she’d stood in line at the Seven-Eleven, a box of powdered donuts in one hand, an orange juice in the other, a wad of cash clenched between her fingers. She’d been in cutoffs and a mud-spattered white t-shirt that hung off her narrow frame. And when she watched him come through the door, the bell above jangling, she’d wanted to take her dirty, short-haired, fish-farming self and get as far away from him as possible, because girls like her did not pass in front of boys like him without suffering some scathing remark or other.

  But he’d smiled at her, the boy with the green eyes, and asked if she was “the Peake girl,” and if she knew how famous her family’s fish were. He’d been lying, of course, but she’d smiled. And after weeks of smiles, more than smiles, she’d started to think that maybe not every male in the world was like her father.

  Ray had been the first one to give her flowers and though he now cursed her obsession with the things, and knew she had a yard full of them, he still had florists bring her arrangements for random occasions.

  “Flowers came for you!” Jean, one of her fellow receptionists, commented as they passed in the narrow back hall of Dr. Carmichael’s office.

  “Already?” It was just ten after eight.

  “Yes, and they’re gorgeous!” Jean flashed one of her dazzling smiles as she shouldered through the door and out into the parking lot, a flash or morning sunlight flaring before the door closed again.

  Cheryl stepped into the small break room – it was really more like a closet with a microwave, mini fridge and shelves to hold their purses – put down her bag and slipped her summer weight cardigan on over her scrub top. Wondering if Ray was apologizing for their truly rather benign conversation the night before about Lisa, she stepped back out into the hall and headed for the front of the office, past open, empty exam room doors. Dr. Carmichael and some of the hygienists were having a powwow in the waiting room and Cheryl threw up a hand in greeting as she passed.

  While it might not have been her dream job, her receptionist position had become a comfortable, stable environment in which to work. She liked all the other girls and Dr. Carmichael was a grandfatherly sort, who gave good Christmas bonuses and made all of them feel needed and appreciated. The reception desk was a chest-high wall and laminate countertop that separated the waiting area – a sea of vinyl chairs and potted plants, glossy magazines on glass tables – and the neat rows of filing shelves where patient records were kept. As Cheryl pushed through the swinging half-door, she spotted an explosion of color at her station and smiled.

  He outdid himself this time, she thought, as she pulled her rolling chair out of the way to more closely inspect the arrangement. White lilies, yellow roses and eucalyptus springs jostled together among red tulips and baby’s breath. Each bloom was more incongruous than the last, but it all somehow seemed to work. She would never have put together such a collection, but it made her chuckle.

  “Those are lovely.” Dr. Carmichael’s voice pulled her attention. “From your husband?”

  “I’m sure.” Cheryl plucked the card from the plastic tongs. “He’s always trying to make up for something or other.” She flipped the paper square open, read the message, then read it again, her smile faltering.

  It wasn’t from Ray.

  All the pretty colors for a pretty girl, it said, and Cheryl knew without a second thought that it was much too cheesy and trite to have been written by her husband. Ray did not do puns or rhymes or anything even remotely stupid when it came to romantic gestures. There was no name listed, either, which made the fine hairs on the back of her neck suddenly prickly.

  “Everything alright?” Dr. Carmichael asked, and Cheryl realized that she was frowning in earnest, chewing at a corner of her lip.

  “Yes,” she lied, and folded the card back up. She gave her boss a quick, tight smile that seemed to reassure him and then sank down into her chair. Probably nothing, she reasoned, and started to trash the card. But at the last moment, she tucked the paper into the mug that held her pens. Better to be safe, because sorry always sucked.

  “You know those lists that get put together? ‘Top Ten Companies to Work For’ and that kinda thing? Yeah, you are so not helping this be one of those places.”

  Lisa counted to five in her head – because ten would have been pushing it – and still couldn’t seem to drum up a pleasant expression for her cousin. “Johnny,” she said around a sigh, pushing her still-damp hair behind her ears. “I don’t run this shop, your dad does, and if he was here, I wouldn’t have to bitch at you. So take it up with him.” The phone rang yet again, proving her point. “Where the hell is everybody?”

  A quick sadness flickered across his face, the look of a child who’d been left out of some fun activity. He shrugged, scrubbed a hand through his gelled dark hair. “Dunno. Maybe you should try their cells.”

  “I did. Four times.” She picked up the phone and missed his answer beneath her rote “King Customs” greeting.

  “Hey, this is Big Tom Elson from over at the Big E-zee Ranch and I was calling to see if…”

  Lisa rolled her eyes as she listened to the man’s request. The Big E-zee Ranch was actually five acres of abundantly landscaped pretend farm where “Big Tom’s” daughter rode her fat pony around in a circle. Hfelt the need to refer to himself as “Big Tom” at all times, often in the third person, like he was trying to make his own nickname happen. Regardless, he had an obsession with classic cars and he both provided them with and referred business, so they humored him.

  “Big Tom?” Johnny mouthed from across the desk with a grin.

  She nodded, then aimed a pen toward the open garage door. “He wants his Mustang by end of the week!” she mouthed back, and watched his brows scale his forehead. He left in a rush, nearly tripping over his gangly legs.

  In the span of time it took her to assure Tom that the guys could work miracles on his old Fastback and that it would be ready for pick-up in just two short days – an impossible feat if her crew didn’t drag their asses into the shop – she watched through the window as a florist’s van pulled into the lot. It parked up close by the office and a uniformed employee wrestled a monster flower arrangement out of the back. The delivery driver had both hands wrapped around a massive glass vase that spewed particolored flowers in a spray that he couldn’t see over the top of. Realizing he was likely to crash into the door, she hurried to her feet and moved around to open the way for him.

  “Thanks,” he said as the bell above jangled and he came into the office. He was a young guy, maybe her age, skinny, his arms looking tax
ed as he tried to hold up the flowers. He huffed a tired breath. “These are for Lisa Russell. Where should I put them?”

  “On the desk. Oh, here, um…” She hooked a hand in the mouth of the vase, wincing as she felt a missed rose thorn catch her skin, and helped steer him in the right direction. “That should be good.”

  “Man,” he said as he stepped back. He looked even younger without a tangle of flowers in front of his face. His cheeks were mottled from exertion and Lisa had to bite back an amused smile. “Are you Lisa?” he asked.

  “Unfortunately.”

  His face twisted like he wasn’t sure what to make of that comment, but he pulled a narrow clipboard from its place tucked into the waistband of his uniform black pants and asked her to sign for them.

  “Who’re they from?” she asked, casting a glance up at the strange ensemble of colors poking out of the vase as she scribbled her name on the appropriate line.

  “No idea.” He took the clipboard back. “Guy paid in cash.”

  That bit of information left her frowning. Lisa did not get flowers, except from her dad or uncle on Valentine ’s Day, and that was after she’d repeatedly asked them not to do it. She certainly didn’t get huge, random bouquets midweek from cash-paying customers. When the deliveryman was gone, she reached out to pass her fingertips over the smooth petals of a yellow rose. It wasn’t the prettiest grouping of flowers, and most of them were unfamiliar to her. Her mother would have known, but she was flower-handicapped.

  The card was a folded square on a plastic stake and she withdrew it. Inside, a single line stared up at her. All the pretty colors for a pretty girl. There was no name, no signature. Lisa flipped it over twice and could come up with no clues as to the sender’s identity. The words though…were either those of a hormonal teenage boy or a creepy old dude. Very tacky.

  “Whose flowers?” she heard Johnny ask behind her. She startled, just a bit, and scolded herself for it. She’d been staring at the card so intently that she hadn’t heard him approach and it had rattled her.

  “Mine,” she said, turning around to face him.

  He scrunched up his nose. “Who would send you flowers?”

  “You’re so sweet.”

  “No, I just mean…” He twitched a grin. “What’s the card say?”

  She handed it to him and Johnny frowned. “Dude, what is this?”

  “Pretty lame, huh?”

  He lifted a grimacing face. “How ‘bout strange. Guy sounds like a serial killer. You’re so preeeeetttty,” he said in an affected, breathy voice that brought a chuckle out of her throat.

  “Oh my lord, get back to work, you moron.”

  He passed the card back. “Can’t. Gotta order a part for the Mustang. It won’t be ready by the end of the week.”

  The sleeves of his sweatshirt covered the ligature marks on his wrists, the angry red furrows where the rope had chafed his skin raw, but the hooded black sweatshirt drew its share of looks in the middle of a summer mid-morning at IHOP. Drew felt their waitress’s eyes move over him as she topped off his coffee and moved on. She was one of those standard waitress types, in her early forties with a mop of curly red hair, glasses, and a brace on one wrist that told a story of carrying too many heavy trays. She hadn’t stared at him, but she’d been curious, he could tell.

  Across the table from him, Bullitt – his name was really Sly – was in a much more suitable white t-shirt, his sunglasses hooked in the collar by one earpiece. He had coffee too, but hadn’t ordered any food. The sunlight streaming in through the plate glass window to his right gave his eyes an almost translucent, ice-like quality. Drew had initially thought, and still believed, that of the four men he’d met that morning, this was the most dangerous.

  Which, in a way, put him more at ease. He could respect a dangerous person. True danger, not just a put-on illusion of such, was all about control and self-possession. This Sly was not the go-crazy-and-shoot-up-the-place kind of scary. No, he was too composed for that. He was professional. Collected. He was also staring at Drew and waiting for an answer.

  “I dunno,” Drew finally said with a shrug. “There’s not a lot of trainers out there. Most of ‘em suck. Ricky at least pushed me.”

  The other man’s brows lifted a fraction, putting creases in his forehead, animating his otherwise expressionless face. “Pushed you in the right direction?”

  “No.” He had to be honest about that. “Not all of the time.”

  The barest hint of a smirk touched Sly’s mouth, but he took a sip of coffee and didn’t comment.

  Drew’s breakfast arrived on the waitress’s good arm: ham, two eggs over easy, hash browns, toast, and a blueberry muffin. Screw his damn diet. It all smelled heavenly and he couldn’t get his silverware unrolled fast enough. He shoveled an entire egg into his mouth and chased it with orange juice before he took a breath, forced himself to eat more slowly, and turned his attention to the man across the table from him again.

  “What did Ray mean about a job?”

  Sly dug something out of a back pocket – a card – and slid it across the table. Drew pulled it closer to him while he chewed a corner of toast and read the glossy script printed across the card’s front.

  Raymond Russell

  Business Security Solutions

  There was a cell phone number and a P.O. box address listed.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, returning to his breakfast. “I thought he was a mechanic now.”

  “He owns the shop,” Sly said, “but he don’t work on cars. Lawyer types don’t go grease monkey.” It almost sounded like there was a smile to his words, but only for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was back to its neutral, flat tone. “It’s just like the card says: we provide security. Sometimes that means working a party. Sometimes it means what we did today.”

  Drew snorted.

  “Ray’s got some old guilt shit he’s working out. I dunno. But he’s making decent money, so I can’t complain.”

  What was decent? Drew wondered. For a man subletting a room and some bathroom time in a crappy apartment with a roommate he couldn’t stand, even minimum wage would have sounded “decent.”

  The muffin broke open under his fork and steam curled up from its crumbly innards. The blueberries in it were huge and leaked purple juice down onto the plate. “How’d you get hooked up with him?” Drew asked before he shoveled too big a bite into his mouth. He was starving. Hungrier than maybe he’d ever been.

  The white sunlight showed the shadows at the corners of Sly’s mouth when he made a go at a smile. His eyes looked like ice. “That’s not a story fit for kids.”

  Drew frowned and swallowed.

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “You ever been in the Service?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re a kid.” He took a swallow of coffee that said he’d offer no more information on the topic. “Ray’s a good guy,” he said. “Mark’s better. They take care of their people.”

  “And you’re one of their people?”

  “For now.”

  Ray had told him to go to breakfast with Sly, that things would get explained, but so far, he still felt like he was watching a movie that everyone understood but him. This was all still so vague and shadowy. He needed subtitles or something, and the thought was making him more frustrated by the second. “So lemme see if I got this right,” he said, putting his fork down with some effort. “You guys pick me up, drug me, date rape – whatever the hell – and then I cry ‘uncle’ and you’re ready to sign me on?”

  The first genuine smile touched Sly’s lips. “Now he’s getting it.”

  “Why though?” He had raised his voice and knew it, saw the elderly couple sitting behind Sly shoot him curious glances, but couldn’t seem to help it. “Why would he wanna hire me if he doesn’t even know if he can trust me?” A passing waitress who stared at them openly forced him to drop his voice to an angry hiss. “I’m a r
at, remember?”

  “Oh, I remember.” The smile fell away. “Everybody rats at some point or other. That’s not important. Ray takes on security gigs that call for either a special skill set, or big muscle. If nothing else, you’re muscle.”

  “I’m not an idiot.” Drew scowled.

  “You kinda are. Come on board, take the job, get away from that bastard you’re working for, or don’t. It doesn’t matter to me.”

  “I’m a fighter.” It felt like a stupid protest, a reminder this guy didn’t need – he’d seen him fight in the barn that night.

  “I know,” Sly confirmed. “You come to work for Ray, chances are you will be fighting.”

  Getting away from Ricky sounded…wonderful, he had to admit to himself with an internal sigh. He really did hate the man.

  But on the other hand, he knew Ricky. These guys were a mystery. A violent, torturing-for-information mystery.

  Drew knew which direction he was leaning – both options involved a certain risk that he’d end up in jail or dead – but it was hard to admit defeat. “You water board me, then you offer me a job,” he said with an unhappy smirk as he picked up a piece of burned bacon.

  Sly shrugged, and slid out of the booth. “It’s nothing personal. It’s just what I do.” He dropped a handful of bills on the table and put his wallet back in his pocket. “Think about Ray’s offer.” And then he was gone, striding between the booths like a character out of a sixties movie.

  ***

  “Finally!” Lisa pushed her chair back as her father and uncle stepped into the office. “Where’ve you guys been? I’ve been having a Big Tom crisis,” she said, rolling her eyes. So far, the parts company had been evasive about getting back to her with a quote or delivery date. Big Tom had called twice more, each time more anxious than the last. Johnny and their current – affectionately dubbed – “shop rat,” Rico, were impossible to motivate on her own. And even worse, she’d lapsed into more than one staring contest with her flowers, racking her brain for possible senders.