The Red Hot Fix

by T. E. Woods

  “It’s over.” Mort squirted mustard and reached for the onions. “The Wings are down fourteen at the half. Ugly.”

  Robbie scooped sauerkraut and shook his head. “LionEl’s playing tough. He just can’t rally the team.”

  “Brighter minds would head home before the real traffic starts. But my chance to sit on the floor won’t come again.”

  Robbie stuffed a straw into his Coke. “Let’s stay and hope for a miracle.”

  Mort led the way back to their seats. “Here they come.” They were close enough to read the players’ faces as they entered the arena. “Take a look at Wilkerson. I’ll bet that was some locker-room chat.”

  Robbie nodded. “Check out LionEl.”

  The legendary point guard took a seat less than ten feet away. Wilkerson monitored his team’s warm-up and Mort sensed the exact moment he became aware his star player wasn’t on the floor. The coach spun on one heel.

  “Join your team, LionEl.” Wilkerson’s voice was loud and gritty.

  The Wings’ superstar stretched his long legs and said nothing.

  “Now!” Wilkerson leaned close. Mort instinctively stepped in front of Robbie.

  LionEl turned toward Wilkerson. “The team won’t work for LionEl. Why should LionEl work for the team?”

  Wilkerson’s fists flexed open and closed. The cords in his neck tightened as an assistant sprinted over and handed him a cell.

  “What?” Wilkerson screamed into the phone and turned to look up toward the line of luxury boxes ringing the arena. Mort monitored the coach and the player and reminded himself he was off duty. Wilkerson snapped the phone shut, threw it to his assistant, and turned his attention back to the court.

  “Gardener!” the coach yelled over throbbing hip-hop blasting from the arena’s speakers. Number 9 ran over and Mort got a close-up of the Wings’ six-foot-seven-inch first-round draft choice. Sharp-eyed. Close-cropped hair. Muscles carved from chocolate granite. The only player on the team not covered in intricate tattoos.

  “You ready to lead?” Wilkerson asked.

  The young man turned to LionEl. “You hurt?”

  “You look at me, not him.” The irritation in Wilkerson’s bark wasn’t wasted on Mort or Robbie. “Portland will see you and expect an easy target. You got something to show them?”

  Mort watched Barry Gardener’s face. The young guard knew the gravity of the moment. Gardener looked at his team drilling out on the floor and nodded.

  “I’m ready, Coach.” His tone morphed into unquestionable assurance. “We got a climb. Best we get busy.”

  An air horn signaled and the Washington Wings jogged back to their bench. Mort and Robbie settled into their chairs.

  “Glad we stayed, Dad?” Robbie shoved the last of his hot dog into his mouth.

  “Let’s see what the kid’s got.”

  Portland’s center did a double take when Barry Gardener stepped on the court. The possession was Washington’s. Barry signaled his team and brought the ball downcourt. Portland played the rookie loose. Fifteen feet from the basket, Barry snapped a fast pass to his center, who put it up for two points. Mort was impressed with how Barry guarded his man, forcing him to miss an easy layup. Barry grabbed the rebound, brought the ball downcourt, and passed again. The Wings’ power forward was fouled while shooting. The basket counted and he went to the line. Two hits from the charity stripe and the Wings’ deficit was cut to eight.

  “Kid’s looking good,” Mort said. “Let’s hope he can keep it up.”

  The two teams traded baskets for several long minutes, but the Wings were responding to the energy and focus of Barry Gardener. They were alert; guarding close, each cutting off their assigned man and forcing Portland to pass. Nine minutes into the third quarter, the Wings were down by five.

  Portland tossed the ball in after a Wings score. Barry challenged his opponent while Portland tried to shake a man free. Barry reached in, stripped the ball, and dribbled on the run. He threw the ball up and his center slammed it in for the alley-oop. The arena erupted and the Wings were down by three.

  Like twenty thousand other screaming souls, Mort and Robbie were on their feet.

  LionEl stayed in his seat.

  Barry Gardener proved born to manage the floor. He shot a half-court pass to an open man. His teammate pumped once and tossed it back to Barry, who caught it on the run, squared his shoulders to the basket, and released. His three-point swish tied the game.

  The arena roar rivaled a space shuttle launch. Gardener led his team’s relentless assault on Portland. The visitors tried to ice the momentum but the Wings responded to every delay with renewed energy. At the end of the third quarter, the Wings were up by three.

  Mort inched as near as he dared to the Wings’ bench. He saw LionEl stand, applaud, and slap Barry’s shoulders. “Nice mop-up, rookie. I’ll take it from here.”

  Wilkerson diagrammed plays as the team focused on their coach’s instructions. The signal to start the final quarter pulled four Wings out on the court. Wilkerson stood between LionEl and Barry. He shoved Barry across the line and the hometown crowd exploded.

  Wilkerson and LionEl glared at each other. LionEl pushed him aside, turned, and headed to the locker room.

  Mort thought his ears would bleed from the roar as Barry continued his flawless offensive. Not content to trade baskets and protect their slim lead, the Wings drew fouls under their own basket and made 90 percent of their free throws. Mort sensed the moment Portland knew it was over. The visitors slowed down. They took senseless shots and fouled irrationally. The Wings showed no mercy, hammering against a defeated enemy and giving the crowd a show worthy of the inflated ticket prices. The final buzzer sounded. The Wings secured their spot in postseason play with a seven-point win.

  Mort and Robbie inched their way to the exits, two salmon pushing upstream against a thunderous crush rushing to center court.

  “I’m going to remember this night forever, Robbie.”

  “The night Barry Gardener’s career kicked off?”

  Mort gripped his son’s arm. “Something did, anyway.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Lydia pulled copies of W and Teen Vogue from the shelf and ambled over to the bright corner with the overstuffed chairs.

  “Mind if I sit here?” Lydia asked. “The light’s better.”

  Maizie Dunfield brought her legs up and tucked them beneath her. She pulled the zipper on her pink windbreaker up to her neck and said nothing.

  Lydia offered a smile. “I don’t want to mess with your space.”

  Maizie shoved a length of dirty blonde hair aside and stared at her book. “Free country.”

  Lydia put the two fashion magazines on the table separating them. She hefted her large canvas bag onto her lap and shuffled through it, hoping her absentminded search would pique the girl’s curiosity. Maizie didn’t look up when Lydia pulled out a thermos, but when she poured steaming cocoa into a travel mug, cautious blue eyes tracked every move. Lydia opened a plastic container and chose four tiny marshmallows to drop into the chocolate before sealing the mug. She leaned back, took a long sip, and sighed.

  “George will have your hide you spill any of that on library property,” Maizie said.

  Lydia looked over her shoulder to the librarian processing paperwork behind the front desk. She turned back to Maizie and placed a silencing finger on her lips. Lydia allowed her eyes to dance with a secret as she picked up her mug and pulled one of the magazines onto her lap. With her free hand she signaled one, two, three.

  Maizie drew in a sharp breath as Lydia inverted her mug over the magazine.

  “Space age,” Lydia whispered. “Not a drip comes out until you press this little red button.”

  Maizie’s face wrinkled in disbelief.

  “You like hot chocolate?” Lydia pulled another mug from her bag before Maizie could answer. She pushed the container of marshmallows over to the girl. “Pick your pearls. Drop ’em in and I’ll show you how it works.”


  Maizie hesitated while Lydia poured, but she dropped two marshmallows into the mug.

  “See?” Lydia leaned forward. “It’s a double seal around the edges. Nothing escapes.” She handed the mug to Maizie. “Try to take a sip. Nothing will happen until you press that button.”

  Maizie tipped her mug over a small open hand. When nothing dripped, she pulled the mug close and examined it. Finally, she pressed the red button and drank. She licked her lips and handed the mug to Lydia.

  “Go ahead and finish it.” Lydia leaned back. “I brought way too much. You’d be helping me out.”

  They read in silence for nearly twenty minutes. Lydia eyed the tilt of Maizie’s mug each time the girl drank. When the angle indicated near-empty, Lydia made a psst sound to get her attention. Again, she signaled for a conspiracy of silence.

  “Pass me two of your books,” Lydia whispered. “Doesn’t matter which ones.”

  Maizie leaned protectively toward her stack.

  Lydia glanced back to see George focused on his computer. She held her hand out to Maizie. “C’mon. Quick.”

  Maizie pulled the top two off her pile and passed them across. Lydia smiled to see the young girl keeping her eyes on George. She was in the game. Lydia stood the opened books on the table to make a barricade between them. She reached back into her canvas bag, pulled out a plastic bag filled with brownies, and placed them on Maizie’s side of the book blockade, away from George’s line of sight.

  “Baked them this morning. I’ll bet they’re still warm.”

  Maizie’s jaw dropped. She looked back to George. “You can’t eat in here,” she whispered. “You’ll get crumbs on everything.”

  Lydia put napkins on the table. She pulled out a brownie, broke off a corner, and tossed it in her mouth.

  “Not if we’re careful,” Lydia said. “That’s the secret to life. If you’re careful, you can get away with just about anything.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Are you all right, Mother?”

  Ingrid rubbed her temples and closed her eyes. “I’m afraid I got a little carried away last night. I had three glasses of champagne at the victory celebration. Dr. McLaughlin warned me alcohol would interact badly with my Vicodin, but the thrill of making the playoffs got the better of me.”

  Pierce Stinson scrutinized her face. “You seem fully recovered.”

  Ingrid ignored his allusion to last month’s eye tuck. “Even Reinhart got swept away. He waltzed me around every corner of that owner’s box.”

  She played with the pearls around her neck, lost in the memory of a tender moment with her husband. Pierce knew they were rare and allowed her the time.

  “We’ll have coffee and dessert in the living room.” Ingrid Stinson-Vogel spoke absently to her housekeeper and urged her son away from the dining table. “Let’s watch the sunset reflected across the skyscrapers.”

  “Hildy, the salmon was spectacular,” Pierce said. “Your béarnaise would make any Frenchman remember home.”

  The rotund Hungarian’s smile was a mixture of embarrassment and pride. “Herbs from my own garden is secret. Your father likes, too.”

  Pierce flinched. Hildy’s limited English and lack of Stinson family lore led her to refer to her employer as his father. Indeed, Pierce knew no other man in that role but Reinhart, and he’d been a good one. Still, the vacuum of not knowing the slightest information about the man who had contributed half his DNA left Pierce vulnerable whenever any reference to his father was made.

  “You needn’t hand her your plate.” Ingrid linked her arm through his. “Blurring boundaries confuses the staff.”

  Pierce let her lead the way and settled his mother into her favorite spot in the oversized living room: a wingback upholstered in golden silk chenille. Carved legs, tailored to his mother’s height, lifted the chair higher than the norm and afforded an unobstructed view of both the room and the seventy-foot-wide panel of glass that served as the far wall. He took his accustomed spot on a love seat just to her right and spent a few moments drinking in the twinkling lights of the Seattle skyline. In the middle distance, a ferry churned through blueberry waters, retrieving another batch of brokers, attorneys, and corporate giants home to Mercer Island.

  “You needn’t have come for dinner,” Ingrid said. “I don’t require babysitting.”

  It was as close to a thank-you as his mother would offer. “I’m glad you had the time.”

  Ingrid leaned back on her throne. “Reinhart didn’t ask you to come? Keep me company while he’s off doing who knows what?”

  Pierce counted brown diamond shapes on the antique oriental carpet. He hated being the puck in their twisted hockey game. No matter which of them scored, he was the one slammed into the net. Any need to reply was eliminated when Hildy entered the room.

  “You are lucky two times, mister.” Hildy waddled behind the dessert cart that had been a wedding gift to his great-great-grandmother when she married the barrel-chested Swede who, before his fiftieth birthday, would become the largest timber exporter in the world. “First you get my salmon. Now you get my carrot cake.”

  Pierce rose to help but was stopped by his mother’s glance.

  “Leave the tray, Hildy,” she said. “I’ll serve my son.”

  Ingrid waited until her housekeeper was gone to cross to the cart. She poured coffee from a sterling pot given to her grandmother by the emperor of Japan in 1946 when the family firm negotiated the first postwar trade agreement and Stinson Lumber began rebuilding cities rotting in radioactive rubble. Ingrid took a sip from a china cup decorated in roses surrounding a gilded “S.”

  “Perfect,” she declared before handing it to Pierce.

  “Tell me about the Chicago expansion.” Ingrid returned to the dessert cart. “I’m proud of your ambition, Pierce. Your grandfather would be, too.” She cut a wedge of carrot cake and placed the cream-frosted delight on a plate. She removed the tip of the slice with a heavy sterling fork and tasted it. “He always was the first to spot an opportunity.” She handed the plate to Pierce and returned to pour herself a cup of coffee. “You get your business acumen from him.”

  Pierce grimaced at the crimson swipe of his mother’s lipstick staining his fork. “I don’t know if ‘proud’ is the word Reinhart would use. He seems to think I’m moving too fast.”

  “You’ve been running Rainy Day for over a year,” she said. “Would a leader care what Reinhart thinks?”

  Pierce fantasized about making a drinking game out of his visits to his mother. A shot thrown back for every veiled insult to his masculinity. A typical evening would have him drunk before salad was served. “It’s Bird’s company, Mother. It’s in my best interests to care what he thinks.”

  “Must you insist on calling him that ridiculous nickname?” Pierce imagined another drink slammed down. “The time for childish in-jokes is long past.”

  He breathed in deep and slow. His mind floated back to when he first met the large man with the intimidating presence who would become his stepfather. Raised in the company of his mother, grandmother, housekeepers, and cooks, Pierce had never before encountered such primal masculine power. Reinhart knelt down on one knee, looked the six-year-old Pierce straight in the eye, and asked him if he could do with a game of catch before dinner. It was an invitation he’d longed for but never received from his seldom-present grandfather. After dinner, when his mother handed him over to his nanny and breezed out with the tall new man, Pierce hurried to the family library, found an English-German dictionary, and learned that Vogel meant “bird.” Eager to impress, he shared what he’d learned the next time he saw his mother’s beau. Pierce smiled at the memory of Reinhart’s booming laugh as he ruffled his hair. “Bird” became his preferred name for Reinhart from that moment.

  “Whatever I call him, the fact remains Reinhart can, at any time, step back in and take control.” He watched his mother work to scowl and wondered how many more times her surgeons would be able to stretch her thinnin
g facial skin. “And might I add your comment sounds a bit like the pot calling the kettle.”

  “Another childhood rhyme, Pierce?”

  “You and I are in similar positions, Mother.” He savored a bite of cake. “You’re Reinhart’s employee with the Wings. We can imagine family equality all we want. We can even fancy ourselves to be masters of our impressive titles. But the truth is we go to work every day at jobs we enjoy because Reinhart lets us.”

  Ingrid drew herself to her full height and threw her shoulders back. “Reinhart Vogel is where he is today because my father, your grandfather, made him. It was Stinson money that started Rainy Day. Without its success, he couldn’t have purchased the team.”

  Pierce let his mind drift as his mother launched into a rant by now so familiar he could recite it word for word, albeit without the rancor his mother exhibited when she told the tale of a talented young finance graduate who’d taken his first job out of graduate school at Stinson Lumber. How he soared through the ranks thanks to the tutelage of Ingrid’s father. Reinhart was the head of the company’s international development office eight years later, when Ingrid was brought in to learn the industry. He swept her off her feet, married the boss’s daughter, and left the family business ten years later, wanting to make his own mark.

  “It was my fifty-thousand-dollar investment that seeded him for the Internet business. He’s done well over the years, I’ll give him that. But never forget it’s your family money that gave him the opportunity.”

  “Turning fifty thousand into four hundred million is a bit more than doing well.” He hated defending Reinhart to his mother as much as he hated defending his mother to Reinhart. “He paid back your investment and buys you a new Mercedes every year as thanks. The Wings he bought on his own.”

  “And he makes damned sure no one else owns one piece of either Rainy Day or the Wings.”

  Pierce wondered how she packed so much venom into such a soft voice. “Can you blame him, Mother? Bird—excuse me, Reinhart—has told me several times that owning his companies solely and outright is the only thing that allows him to breathe his own air. All this Stinson money. You can’t drive two miles in Seattle without seeing our name emblazoned on something. He even has to drive down Stinson Avenue to get to the arena. Can you blame him for wanting the world to know he’s not bought and paid for?”