by T. E. Woods
He crossed over to the window and watched the reflection of his mother, behind him on her throne, loom over the city across the bay. Her image rose and approached. She stood behind him and traced her long fingers across the back of his neck.
“Let’s not get upset,” she cooed. “It’s just that it bothers me to have you worried about Reinhart’s approval of your business plans. Call it a mother’s concern.”
He turned to her and felt a rush of affection. Pierce remembered another family story. The one where his seventeen-year-old mother prevailed against her titan father and domineering mother, who both demanded their only child abort when she became pregnant by a boy she refused to name. How the young girl stood firm against every threat of public humiliation or disinheritance by insisting the child she carried was a Stinson and as such deserved their respect and protection. He was alive today because of that implacable determination.
“And you have your son’s concern, as well.” Pierce walked her back to her chair. “I saw the game last night. I know it was Reinhart who made the call pulling LionEl out. That couldn’t have sat well with you.”
Ingrid patted her son’s hand. “It didn’t. But as you said, we’re merely employees.”
Chapter Thirteen
Mort walked into the Crystal at five fifteen. Mauser tossed him two copies of the New York Times and Mort waited for his pint of Guinness. He laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter and told Mauser to keep the change. He crossed to a corner booth, set one paper across from him, and snapped his own open. Three minutes later Larry and his beer slid in.
“Just get here?”
“We’re both early.” Mort feigned concern. “Think we’re turning into drunks?”
“I had to leave the office. I’m surrounded by narrow-minded academics so focused on the Nicene Creed or the latest social injustices in Peru they ignore the truly important events occurring right under their noses. I need kindred souls.” Larry leaned forward, more preschooler than world-renowned scholar. “You saw the game, I trust.”
“I was there. Courtside. Robbie’s agent set it up.”
Larry’s eyes went wide. “I could feel the electricity through the television. Tell me what it was like in the arena.”
“Think game six meets Namath’s Super Bowl. Add in the first time the girl said yes and multiply by ten.”
Larry fell back against the booth and sighed. “I’d trade my tenure for that opportunity. Where the hell is my own agent? Profiles in The American Book Review she gets me. Courtside tickets to the hottest game of the year? Not once.” Larry scooted closer. “You see the set-to between Coach and LionEl?”
“From five feet away. LionEl was as close to throwing a punch as I’ve ever seen by a man who didn’t. I don’t think he gave a rat’s ass there were more than twenty thousand witnesses.”
“Coach brought in the new kid.” Larry drummed the table in front of him. “What a performance. And the way the team responded. As beautiful as any Bolshoi production. Barry Gardener’s the future of the Wings.”
“LionEl’s still the biggest name in the league. He’s not going to take kindly to riding pine. Especially in the playoffs.”
“Morning pundits say it was Vogel himself who gave the order to pull him out.”
Mort agreed. “Wilkerson was chewing LionEl a new one when he got a phone call.”
“An age-old tale. Caesar and Brutus. New gunslinger in town. It’s a must-watch spectacle, that’s for certain.”
“I’m sure that’s what Vogel and Wilkerson are hoping for.” Mort glanced up and a flush of adrenaline rushed through him. “Will you look at that?”
Larry turned to follow Mort’s gaze. “Well, well. I’ve got a hundred dollars says she’s not here for Mauser’s beer-battered chicken.”
Mort pulled himself out of the booth and waved Charlotte Conklin over. He bent down and whispered to Larry. “Behave yourself or the next time Barbara Walters names you one of her most fascinating people I’ll make sure she sees the pictures from last Saint Patrick’s Day.”
Mort reached out to shake Charlotte’s hand.
“I had a feeling you two would be here. Last time had the aura of a standing meeting.” She smiled a greeting to Larry.
“Every Thursday since the earth began to cool,” Larry said. “How are you, Charlotte?”
“I’m fine. And thank you for remembering me.”
“Consider me smitten.” Larry’s eyes telegraphed a jibe Mort hoped Charlotte wouldn’t catch. He focused instead on how her sandy hair complemented her blue eyes. He snapped his mind clear and stepped aside as she slid into the booth. “Can I get you a pint?”
“I’ve got a Guinness coming.” Charlotte reached across and rested a hand on Larry’s wrist. “I hope I’m not intruding. I’ve been thinking about the question you two posed last time.”
“What question’s that?” Larry pointed Mort to the empty seat beside Charlotte.
“We were talking about the Trixie murders.” She turned to Mort. “You wanted my impressions of what would make a prostitute so enraged she’d torture and kill.”
Mort took a deep breath and caught her scent. Roses. “What have you come up with?”
Charlotte shook her head. “Nothing beyond the obvious. I keep coming back to a woman who’s snapped. One who’s been used too long and too callously by any number of men.” She rested her elbow on the table and held her chin. “Maybe she sees this as a way to reclaim her self-respect. Like she’s saying, ‘Let me show you how it feels to be powerless.’ ”
The waitress approached. Mort liked the way Charlotte looked Betsy in the eye and thanked her as she set the pint on the table.
Larry pulled back his sleeve and glanced at his watch. “Gotta run. Faculty meeting.” He turned to Charlotte. “My dear, you and Mort will have to solve the mysteries of Seattle’s latest serial killer without me.” He grabbed his Times and pushed himself out of the booth. “Be nice to the lovely lady, Morton, lest she grow bored with your ill-mannered ways.”
They watched Larry cross the room, wave to Mauser, and throw them one last salute.
“Great guy,” Charlotte said. “You don’t often see that in great men.”
“He’s been there for me every time I’ve needed him.” Mort let out a short laugh. “And even when I haven’t.”
“He didn’t have a meeting, did he?”
Mort shook his head. “L. Jackson Clark hasn’t attended a faculty meeting in twenty years. And then only because he was looking for doughnuts.” He slid out and took Larry’s seat opposite Charlotte. “You could have called. You didn’t have to chase me down to tell me your thoughts about Trixie.”
A slow smile blossomed across her lips and a warm wave tumbled down Mort’s spine. “I know how to use a phone, Detective. I was hoping I might get a burger out of this.”
Mort relaxed against the booth. “Mauser makes a mean one.”
I should go home and go to bed. I ate too much and I’m dead tired. But I turn the car west. To the dockyards. Payday swing shift’s ending and longshoremen with fat wallets and fatter egos might be looking for some fun. I could join in. Tie one on.
Tie one on. Good one. I crack myself up.
But I’m not up to it. Besides, I’m in my most sensible pantsuit. Not exactly trolling clothes. That would be a great name for a punk rock band, wouldn’t it? Sensible Pantsuit?
Hot damn. I’m on a roll tonight. Most every night. Hop into my mind any time. There’s always a party going on up there. I have her to thank for that, I guess. She’d bring her customers home and I’d make myself scarce. Scoot into my closet, close the door, and get lost in my own head. Couldn’t have Mama’s payday jeopardized by johns knowing she had a kid in the next room. God, I hated being crammed in that closet. Mothballs digging into my knees and nearly chocking me with their stink. The grunting from the men. The pounding of that cheap headboard on the other side of the wall. Waiting for the pounding to speed up. The grunts turning to moans. Mama
lying about how good it was.
Yes, sir. I could slip up into my head and entertain myself real well. Replay whole movies to pass the time. I’d listen for my mother’s thanks-for-coming voice. Higher and younger than when she was talking to me.
I tighten my grip on the wheel and watch the longshoremen stream out of the gates. Swinging their lunch pails. Heading for the line of bars across the street.
I should go home.
Chapter Fourteen
Lydia watched the overhead lights go dark inside Bane & Friends. She was parked on a side street and had full view of the coffee shop. It hadn’t rained all day and the flowering crab trees splashed color on the mild spring evening. Her pulse quickened when Oliver stepped out onto Capitol Boulevard. He waited for Callie. She saw them laugh as Oliver locked and double-checked the front door of his establishment. They turned north, walking hand in hand, pausing to admire a shopkeeper’s window. Lydia started her ignition just as they disappeared from sight.
Stopping had been an impulse. She’d caught a morning ferry in Clinton and spent the day at her home on Dana Passage. The once-familiar haven seemed foreign after more than a year away. She’d been pleased to see the grass and gardens were well tended. Lydia had used the same lawn-care company since she bought the place seven years earlier. A faceless corporate operation to whom she was merely a standing set of work orders. More often than not it was a different person tending her property every other week. As long as she paid her bills on time, their only contact with her was an annual calendar.
Inside, her house felt sinister. She walked through the entire space assaulted by memories of its violation. She ran her hand down the front door, replaced when Private Number’s minions burst through to leave his deadly instructions. She remembered snowy boot prints tracked across her slate entry. She clicked on the kitchen lights and tried to force a recollection of the joy she had planning the space, only to have it shoved aside with a flashback of roses congratulating her on what he thought was her most recent kill. She walked down the hall to her bedroom, stepped to her nightstand, and pulled open the top drawer.
Her revolver was still there, with the small pink sticker Private Number had added. His message to her that no place in her home was off-limits. She belonged to him.
She regretted not having pulled the trigger that ripped his throat wide open.
Lydia spent a half-hour in her home before she called a moving company, offered double their usual rate for immediate service, and spent the hour before they arrived gathering every rifle, handgun, automatic weapon, and Taser. She locked them and sixteen boxes of ammunition downstairs. She packed two suitcases with clothes and shoes and tossed them and a beloved book of poetry into the backseat of her car just in time to direct the large van down her driveway.
“Everything goes,” she told them.
Three men with shoulders enough for six exchanged glances as they walked into the exquisitely furnished home.
“Paintings?” the tallest one asked.
“Everything,” Lydia answered.
“This stuff, too?” The one with the bulbous nose and shaggy moustache opened kitchen cabinets and drawers.
Lydia turned to the third mover, the one with the cigarette tucked behind his ear. “How about you?” she asked. “You got any trouble understanding what ‘everything’ means?”
He scratched his chin and grabbed a floor lamp. “Not me, lady. I’m the brains of this outfit.”
Three hours later Lydia signed off on the work order and handed each mover a twenty-dollar bill.
“First round’s on me,” she said.
“They gonna be expectin’ us down at the Salvation Army?” Brains ripped off Lydia’s copy and handed it to her. “Can’t say as I recall them ever getting a load this big.” He yelled for Bulbous Nose to grab the dollies. “Or this much high-quality stuff. You wanna follow us to get your receipt for tax purposes?”
Lydia’s gut told her an escort for a van filled with designer furniture and original art was warranted. “I’ll follow you, but I want this donation to remain anonymous. As far as you know, you don’t know where it came from.” She handed him a fifty and watched him slip it into his pocket before his cohorts could see.
“My lips are sealed.”
Lydia locked up the house, mindful to have Brains watch her set the alarm. She followed them into town and waited until she saw the look of surprise on the faces of two volunteers when the van’s back door was opened. She drove away, fully intending to catch I-5 north and the ferry back to Whidbey.
But she headed for Oliver’s coffee shop instead.
Lydia kept Oliver and Callie in sight, thankful Olympia’s twenty-minute rush hour let her drive slowly enough to follow them as they walked. They were headed for Percival Landing. As they lingered along the boardwalk, pointing to the sailboats and tugs moored in the marina, Lydia pulled into a parking space. She crossed the grassy expanse and lingered in the shadows of shops and restaurants while Oliver and Callie purchased ice cream cones. She watched Oliver wipe a drop of strawberry off Callie’s chin as they settled onto a bench.
Lydia sat on a knoll twenty feet behind them. Oliver draped his arm across the back of the bench, forming a protective circle behind Callie. Lydia waited for him to touch Callie’s hair or rest his hand on her shoulder. Callie turned and offered him a lick of her cone. He shook his head and Lydia wondered if he might be allergic to strawberries.
He didn’t extend a reciprocal proffer of his chocolate.
The light lowered into dusk. Lydia wondered what the couple talked about. Did she regale him with funny stories about the day’s customers? Was he asking her to join him for a candlelight dinner back at his home? Were they planning a future together?
Did he ever mention her?
Oliver gathered Callie’s napkins and tossed them in a trash can. The two of them walked south this time, away from the mountains and the water.
Away from Lydia.
She watched them disappear into the streets of Olympia. It was darker now. The lights of the Landing shops glowed in the twilight. Sounds of cheerful voices and warmhearted laughter drifted past her. She sat on the knoll and observed people buoyed by the warm, dry evening head off to waterfront restaurants. The mountains faded into darkness and she scanned the skies for a star. Finally, she got up, crossed to the ice cream stand, and ordered a chocolate cone before heading to her car.
Chapter Fifteen
L. B. Johnson straightened his three-hundred-dollar tie, leaned back in a chair groaning under his weight, and leveled his best don’t-fuck-with-me glare at Coach Wilkerson. “Explain why I spent two hours yesterday convincing LionEl it wouldn’t be in his best interest to come down here and rip off your head.”
“L.B., we’re in postseason play.” Ingrid was tired of angry men invading her office. “If we keep playing like we did against Portland, LionEl will have ample opportunity to showcase his talent.”
“LionEl doesn’t need to showcase shit.” Johnson stabbed a finger at Wilkerson. “And don’t try any corny bullshit about how it takes a team. You’re in postseason because of LionEl and you yank him out?” His attention came back to Ingrid. “Maybe it’s not LionEl you should pull. Maybe it’s time to go looking for a new coach.”
Wilkerson’s hands tightened on the back of her chair and Ingrid reached up to stop him from lunging, bored that every conversation between men boiled down to a pissing contest. “You saw what happened, L.B.” Ingrid ran her eyes deliberately down his rolls of flesh. “Your client’s arrogance has alienated him. When Coach put Barry in, we saw a leader more interested in the team’s success than his own.”
“He’s a rookie,” Johnson said. “Rookies get lucky. You need a seasoned pro against Los Angeles. LionEl reads the papers. Every column’s about the young buck saving the day. Not one mention of LionEl’s contribution. You think that makes him eager to throw elbows with the Lakers?”
“I can’t help what they write.” Ingrid smile
d. “And I’d be careful with any threats.”
Ingrid wasn’t afraid to play chicken. Twenty percent of LionEl’s contracts and endorsements made L.B. a wealthy man. But L.B.’s only qualification for being an agent was having a star in his pocket. Ingrid knew, as did every basketball fan in the country, the legend of the two friends. Both boys raised in the heart of East L.A. LionEl’s mother in and out of jail and rehab, leaving the grade-schooler alone for weeks at a time to fend for himself. L.B.’s mother, Tawanda, was a lifelong activist who named her only child after her civil rights hero. Ingrid knew how L.B., the brightest student in their blighted public school, watched out for LionEl, sharing his lunches and walking him through his homework. In return, LionEl became L.B’s champion, keeping the short fat kid from falling prey to the gauntlet of bullies lining the school hallways and sidewalks home. When LionEl’s mother was sentenced to a seven-year prison stretch, L.B. moved the thirteen-year-old into his bedroom. L.B. and his mother attended every high school basketball game, and for the first time LionEl had someone to give his family tickets to.
When college scouts called, they dealt with Tawanda, with LionEl insisting any school who wanted the California High School Player of the Year needed to find an academic scholarship for his brother/friend. The boys shared a dorm room at the University of Memphis and L.B. forced LionEl to stay focused on the NBA prize and clear of any groupies looking to ride the conference scoring leader all the way to the bank. And it was LionEl who helped L.B. through his grief when the university chaplain visited their room one Monday in January to tell both boys Tawanda had been killed by a stray bullet that crashed through her living room window while she sat on her sofa watching her favorite gospel hour. LionEl went pro after his freshman year and L.B. negotiated his contract. The closeness of the two men had been the cover story of every major sports publication. Poster-sized prints of L.B. and LionEl graced the cinder-block bedroom walls of housing projects from Baltimore to Compton.