The Red Hot Fix

by T. E. Woods

  C’mon, Mort. Show me a move … or I’ll have to show you one of mine.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Ingrid handed Allen Wilkerson a china cup emblazoned with the Wings logo. “That was an impressive show in Los Angeles. How’s the team? Travel getting the better of them?”

  Wilkerson worked to balance the delicate cup and saucer. Ingrid smiled at the awkward knees-and-elbows position he settled upon. “They’re not flying tourist on a red-eye. I’ve got two practices scheduled today. We’ll do a tune-up tomorrow morning, look at some films. We’ll be ready for tip-off.”

  She graced her coach with a smile as wide as her recent Botox allowed. “Two decisive wins against the best team in the league. On their own court, no less.” She made sure Wilkerson caught the glimmer in her eyes. “No oddsmaker in the world would have predicted it. I’m proud of you, Allen. We’re sold out for both home games. Concessions and product sales will be solid gold.”

  Wilkerson nodded. “I’ll let you do the bean counting, Ingrid. Los Angeles is one pissed-off team. I’ll stay focused designing new plays to keep ’em that way.”

  She calibrated her voice to flattering purr. “You’ve been brilliant so far, Coach. You’re playing LionEl and Barry beautifully.”

  Wilkerson grappled to lift his lanky frame out of the chair. “They rally around Gardener, for sure. That rookie’s got a veteran’s soul. But they won’t follow LionEl. Despite all the points he puts up, we’re weak when he’s out there.”

  Ingrid knew he was right. The sportswriters were poking fun at the obvious disregard his team had for LionEl’s leadership. “You want to play Barry more? The crowd adores him.”

  Wilkerson smiled. “You should have seen them at the airport when we arrived with two wins in our pocket. Kids especially. It’s been nice having a clean-cut workhorse out front. I get so sick of these prima donnas sometimes I want to strangle them with their own gold chains.” His face grew serious. “But forty-eight minutes on the floor is an eternity. We need fresh legs, fresh arms. We need both our guards.”

  “And that’s something I hope you’ll remember come tomorrow night.” L. B. Johnson’s clipped tones announced the entrance of the overstuffed blowhard. Ingrid did her best to cover her disappointment, especially when LionEl stepped in right behind him.

  Ingrid crossed to the two men. “L.B., always a delight.” She bent to offer her cheek to the agent before stepping on tiptoes to kiss LionEl’s. “What can I get you?”

  Wilkerson eyed LionEl’s black velour jumpsuit, replete with diamond “L” zipper fob. “You should be at the arena. Roll call’s in ten minutes. First practice after that.”

  LionEl looked away.

  “My man’s feeling under the weather.” L.B wobbled to the coffee cart, sorted through the assorted teabags, and decided on orange spice. He poured hot water into a cup and dipped the teabag repeatedly as he spoke. “Not sure he’ll be able to play tomorrow. Could be one of those twenty-four-hour things, could be something worse.” He tossed five sugar cubes into his mug and shuffled to take his place beside his client.

  Ingrid saw Wilkerson’s pissed-off meter threatening to spike. She gestured to the conference table. “Then by all means, let’s get him off his feet. Come, LionEl. Sit.”

  Wilkerson took a chair across from L.B. and the silent LionEl. Ingrid slid into her spot at the head of the pink marble table.

  “What symptoms are you experiencing?” she asked.

  “Let’s call it restless leg syndrome.” L.B. leaned forward, trying to appear less like a tubby Lilliputian at the table of giants. “He needs guaranteed activity to fix it.”

  Wilkerson’s jaw worked as he struggled to remain calm.

  Lyndon Baines Johnson reached over to rest a heavy hand on his client’s arm. “One minute more playing time than the kid. That’s what it takes to get LionEl out of his sickbed for game three.” His eyes bored into Wilkerson. “You wanna play Bet-the-Series for sixty little seconds?”

  Wilkerson started out of his seat and Ingrid reached across to restrain him. She was about to speak when Reinhart came through her office door, wearing his best black suit and the gold tie she’d given him last Christmas. She felt her heart accelerate and wondered for the briefest moment if it was due to attraction or fear. He held a small white box from her favorite bakery. His smile disappeared when he saw the four figures assembled around the conference table.

  “I brought you a treat.” He moved his eyes from his wife. “Sorry, fellas. I only got enough for two.” He tossed the box on Ingrid’s desk, took a few wide steps, and pulled out a chair between his wife and his coach. “What’s the game? Texas Hold ’Em? Acey Duecy?”

  L.B. alternated his gaze between Ingrid and Wilkerson. “So the real boss has arrived.” He settled his eyes on Ingrid. “Just as well. I don’t want to waste the Lion’s time talking to a puppet. Tell me, little lady CEO, what’s it feel like to have someone pulling your strings?”

  Reinhart reached across the table and grabbed L.B.’s tailor-made lapels in one large hand. He stood and pulled the agent up with him. “You want to change your tone right now or do I squeeze tighter?”

  “Reinhart, please.” Despite her weariness at yet another testosterone display, Ingrid felt a melting warmth deep in her groin. It had been too long since her husband had played the role of her Galahad.

  Reinhart tossed L.B.’s quivering backside into his chair. He pulled himself to full height and looked toward LionEl. “That official workout gear, partner?”

  LionEl glanced toward his agent.

  “I’m talking to you,” Reinhart roared. He turned toward Wilkerson. “We’ve got our first home game in the playoffs in less than thirty hours and you have a player in pajamas?” He pivoted to his wife. “And you’re serving his beached whale tea?”

  Ingrid forced her voice to remain calm. “I wasn’t expecting you, Reinhart.” She was torn between asking him to leave and throwing everyone out, locking the door, and replaying their night of passion. “The series is well in hand. We’re up two games. There’s no need for discord.”

  Reinhart stepped around the table and grabbed the back of the chair where Lyndon Baines Johnson, agent to one client, labored to keep his lower lip from shaking. He bent to position his lips a quarter inch from L.B.’s ear. His voice was low and potent. “If I ever hear you speak to my wife or anything else that’s mine that way again, you’re going to be sipping your cheeseburgers through a straw.” He stood and placed a gentle hand on the back of his wife’s chair. “Ingrid’s done a fine job as CEO. She’s got us up by two against the best team in the league. But it’s time for her to step aside.”

  Wilkerson stiffened. LionEl sat in silent fury, his eyes riveted on the marble table. Reinhart walked to the bank of windows as Ingrid traced the breadth of his shoulders and the ramrod of his spine. He finally turned and walked back to take a seat at the opposite end of the table.

  “We’re going to take both home games. Finish Los Angeles and move on to whoever’s next.” Reinhart looked toward Wilkerson. “Tell your team I’m back and I don’t give one rat’s ass about what contracts they have. It will be my subjective opinion that dictates how many, if any, minutes of playing time they get. Mine alone. When we sweep this series and we’re done in the playoffs, I will send each player and ten of their friends for a week anywhere in the world. First-class. My dime.”

  LionEl lifted his head at long last. Reinhart held his comments off with a raised hand. “But if I see one player, for one moment, give less than every ounce of what I think they’re capable of, I’m sending him home. Superstar or bench jockey, I don’t care. He can watch the rest of our wins from his lawyer’s office, calculating ways to sue me.”

  Reinhart cut off Wilkerson’s retort and focused on LionEl. He jerked a thumb toward L.B. “You’ve been listening to this sorry-ass excuse for an agent too long. Let me tell you the cold, hard, ain’t-not-even-Jesus-would-tell-you-any-different facts of life.” His voice was ice
. “I own you, LionEl. You got that? You sold yourself to me, and Fatso here drew up the paperwork. You are a tool I’ve purchased to use as I see fit. I want you at the arena. Suited up, fired up, and ready to play. If you’re not, I’m cutting you. Loud and with fanfare. After your half-assed showing in Los Angeles, you’ll be lucky to land a job selling popcorn and autographs in some Croatian bus league.” Reinhart turned toward L.B. “Try living off twenty percent of that.”

  LionEl snapped his head toward L.B., back to Reinhart, and back to L.B.

  Reinhart snorted in derision. “My God, LionEl. You ever read those piece-of-shit contracts he has you sign? You hitched your wagon to the wrong star, my friend. Hell, you get injured and all you’ve got is workman’s comp. I fire you, you got no buyout. You’re on the streets and my wallet’s free to pick up a new hired gun.” Reinhart pushed himself away from the table. “You all know your assignments.”

  Reinhart stepped to Ingrid. “Don’t worry about emptying out your desk. I’ll have Danielle handle it.” He bent down and kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you at home.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Mort’s mood was as foul and foggy as the damp afternoon. The chief had his back for the time being. He wasn’t happy to hold the press conference Mort swore was their best defense against more Trixie corpses, but he did it anyway. The chief liked to announce arrests, not warnings. “Just make sure the next time I’m standing in front of cameras, I’m declaring the end of this thing. We clear, Detective Grant?”

  He’d shave two years off his life for one solid lead. A knock on his office door pulled him away from wondering with whom he might cut such a deal. He saw Charlotte Conklin standing in his doorway holding two cups. He waved her in.

  “I saw the press conference.” She handed him a cup of something hot. “Thought you might benefit from a soothing beverage.”

  Mort pulled the lid off and the aroma reminded him of long, lazy hammock glides. “This smells terrific.”

  Charlotte sat down. “My own blend. It’s a roast I keep on hand for days that threaten to get the better of me.”

  Mort took a sip. “Is that cinnamon?”

  “My secret.” Charlotte settled back and took a drink from her own mug. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

  “I’m eyeball deep in dead bodies. Why wouldn’t I have time for a cup of coffee?”

  She laughed and Mort felt a pang of guilt for enjoying its melody.

  “I wanted to thank you for the hamburger the other night. I’d love to do that again.” She dropped her eyes for the briefest of moments. “If you’re interested, of course.”

  Mort’s mind reeled a montage of scenes from his life with Edie. The time he cleared out the men’s room at a concert their sophomore year in college and stood sentinel at the door. Hiding quietly in the hall as she sang to both kids in the bath. The police department Christmas party when she pulled him into a darkened coat closet, two hairs past drunk and determined to give him an early present.

  Mort raised his cup to Charlotte. “I thank you for the coffee. And the break.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Not unless you know the hooker responsible for all this.”

  “It’s not a prostitute.”

  Mort balked at her assessment. “No?”

  “These murders are calculated, Mort. Intentional.” He watched her stare into middle space as though she was seeing it play out. “Whoever kills these men is in complete control. Sure of her next move. Confident in the outcome.” She turned toward him. “Prostitutes don’t feel that way. They’re always aware of the danger in their world. They’re vigilant. Reactive. They want to keep their time with their client short and contained.” She looked away. “At least the ones who want to survive do.”

  Mort caught her profile against the diffused afternoon light.

  “Tell me how you know that,” he whispered.

  Once again she turned toward him and he saw a sadness that kicked hard in his gut.

  She set her cup on his desk and leaned forward. An internal murmur suggested he brace himself.

  “Because I’ve been there, Mort.” Her voice had the tone of surrender. “You’re looking at the call girl who used to get three thousand dollars a night for her services.” She shivered at the memory. “Five if you wanted me to stay for breakfast.”

  Icy fog enveloped Mort’s body. Charlotte was a woman who lobbied Congress and state legislatures. The idea of her accepting money for the most intimate human connection didn’t jibe with the Charlotte who held her own discussing philosophy with Larry.

  He crossed the room and closed his office door.

  “When? Where?” He resumed his seat behind his desk. His mouth was dry. “Am I even allowed to ask?”

  Charlotte’s steady gaze contrasted with her shaky voice. “Of course. I want you to know everything before …” Her voice cracked. “Before any decision about sharing another hamburger is made.”

  He nodded slowly and willed his hands to stop trembling.

  “I grew up in Des Moines.” Charlotte relaxed a bit. “Dad was a foreman at a grain collective. Mom worked part-time at Penney’s, full-time running herd on my two brothers and me. I had a delightful childhood. Lots of friends. Honor roll. Homecoming Court.” Mort saw tears form as Charlotte continued. “I was the lead in every drama class production from sophomore year on.” She smiled at him. “I know every word of every Rodgers and Hammerstein musical. You’ll want me on your team for Trivial Pursuit.”

  Mort held himself steady.

  “After graduation I worked at a local radio station doing promos and special events, saving each paycheck. My plan was to finish the summer and head off to New York City.” She looked down at her hands. “My brothers and parents cried as they loaded me on the bus, but I was beaming. Convinced I would be a star by Christmas.”

  Mort flashed to Allie. His precocious daughter was always filled with big dreams and little patience. He cleared his throat and refocused on Charlotte.

  “Imagine my surprise when the Darling of Des Moines was met with a less than enthusiastic welcome by Broadway producers.” Charlotte sounded defeated. “I made the rounds of auditions during the day and waitressed at night. The best I did was a callback for the chorus in a Sondheim musical. New Year’s found me struggling to make the nine hundred dollars a month I needed to share a one-bedroom fourth-floor walk-up with two other girls.” She glanced up at Mort. “Want to know how long you can stretch a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread?”

  Mort managed a tense smile.

  “I missed Christmas at home, of course. I worked so many shifts to cover expenses I couldn’t make auditions. Around Valentine’s Day one of my roommates, Sandy Mittering, took us all out to the Plaza for a farewell dinner. She was moving to SoHo. Got herself an apartment with her own bedroom, an elevator, and a full-time doorman.” Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “Ever been to the Plaza for dinner, Mort?”

  He shook his head. “Never been to New York.”

  “No other city in the world like it. Food tastes better. Music sounds sweeter. Your soul vibrates at a higher pitch.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Anyway, Sandy treats to what must have been a thousand-dollar meal for the three of us. Champagne, shrimp cocktail, the whole thing. Needless to say, I asked her where she got the money. Not only for the dinner but the place in SoHo.”

  “And Sandy introduces you to the glamorous world of prostitution.” Mort’s stomach tightened.

  “She didn’t use those words.” Charlotte settled back into the chair. “She told me about going out to dinner with older men coming to town for business. How all she had to do was be nice to them and show them the latest hot spots.” She ran a trembling hand through her sandy brown hair. “She worked for an agency that handled everything. All she had to do was dress up and smile.” Charlotte looked back down at her lap. “I’ll tell you, after six months of ramen and rejection, it sounded pretty good. Sandy assured me her agency would be inter
ested. Said my homespun look was just what they were looking for. Two weeks later I was on my first date. I earned a thousand dollars and my customer bought me a Stella McCartney sweater just because I said I liked it as we passed by Bergdorf’s window.” She looked away. “All I had to do was have fun showing them around town. And then put my mind someplace else for twenty minutes at the end of the date.” She stayed quiet for a moment. “Afterward there was always a generous tip waiting for me. I flew home first-class for Easter brunch and gave my mother a bracelet from Tiffany’s.”

  “How’d you explain the money to your folks? Surely they’d want to come see any show you starred in.”

  “I learned lying came as easily to me as self-delusion. I convinced them I’d become interested in the behind-the-scenes Broadway. Told them I was a casting agent.” She wiped a wet cheek. “I rationalized my lies by assuring myself I was protecting them. My parents died in a car accident that next summer. They never learned the truth about me.”

  “And your brothers?” Mort hoped he didn’t sound like her interrogator.

  “We get together twice a year. Conversation’s never deep. The subject of my six New York years has never come up.”

  “Why’d you leave?”

  Charlotte rose and stepped to the window. “Like I said, the money was good. By the time I was twenty-one, I had an apartment on the Upper East Side. I abandoned my Broadway dreams and found something that occupied me during the day and kept my evenings free.” She gave a pained laugh. “I enrolled in college. Columbia. It proved quite appealing to my customers. My manager raised my rates and suggested I take finance courses.”

  Mort was glad he was seated. If his legs were as unsteady as the rest of him, he didn’t think he could stand.