The Red Hot Fix

by T. E. Woods

  Maizie spoke that way now. Like she needed to get as many words in before Lydia would vanish and she’d once more be alone.

  “Whacha got in here?” Maizie asked. “It’s heavy.”

  “You told me to prepare myself for something special.” Lydia pointed to a large rock. “How about there?”

  Maizie pulled the pack over and unzipped the front compartment. “What’s this?” She pulled out a red-checkered oilcloth and set it aside before reaching in again. “Little lanterns? Are you planning on camping?”

  Lydia snapped the oilcloth over the rock. “Hey, if I’d known it was this lovely, I might have brought my sleeping bag. There’s a blanket in the back section. We’ll sit on that and use the rock as our table.”

  Lydia gave directions as they set up their lunch of chicken salad, croissants, strawberries, and chocolates. Maizie took great pains to follow them to the letter, eager to please the lady showing her attention.

  “It’s like a party.” Maizie beamed when Lydia lit the lanterns. “My mom lighted candles when I had a birthday. She put them on my cake and I’d make a wish and blow them out.” She looked up and shook her head. “Don’t worry. I won’t blow these out.”

  Maizie’s smile disappeared when Lydia asked what she would wish for. Her chest heaved as she studied the pine needles at her feet. “It’s not good luck to tell your wishes.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.” Lydia didn’t want the girl to stay with her sorrow. “You want your chicken salad in the bun or on the side? I think I’m gonna do mine as a sandwich.”

  Within a few bites Maizie was back to chattering. She wondered where squirrels slept at night, asked Lydia if she knew how to make chili, and spent a solid five minutes on the relative merits of little dogs over big dogs. “Not that I have anything against the big ones. It’s just I’d love to have a white furry pooch I could sleep with, and my bed’s a small one. You got a dog, Lydia?”

  Lydia told her she didn’t and Maizie wanted to know why.

  “I’m not home much.” Lydia’s mind raced with what to say when the inevitable “Why not?” question arose. Maizie saved her with a curve ball.

  “You know that song ‘Up on the Housetop’?”

  “The Christmas song?” Lydia wondered what that had to do with dogs.

  “Yes.” Maizie grabbed a strawberry and licked its sides before popping it in her mouth. “You think they’re saying ‘Up on the housetop reindeers’ paws’?” She made a pawing motion with her hands. “Or are they saying they ‘pause’?” She stopped as though frozen.

  Lydia swallowed a smile at the earnest inquiry. “Reindeers don’t have paws. They have hoofs.”

  Maizie nodded. “So those reindeer are pausing. Makes sense. You’re smart, Lydia.”

  “As are you.”

  “You have to be smart to be a … a … whatever it is you are? I can’t say that word.”

  “Psychologist? That one?” Lydia considered her answer after Maizie nodded. “Well, I don’t know if you have to be smart. You have to be trained.”

  “Who trained you?” Maizie pulled herself into a cross-legged sit.

  “Lots of people. Why, if you started with me in kindergarten and counted the years I spent in school until they said I could be a psychologist, you’d hit the number twenty-three.”

  Maizie’s face clouded over. “That leaves me out. I didn’t even get to third grade.”

  “Would you like to go to school?”

  The little girl traced a circle again and again on her knee. Lydia decided to push.

  “Maizie, is there anything I can do to help you? Would you like me to speak with your father?”

  Maizie’s eyes widened. “Pa can’t know about us. Not at all.” Her voice quaked. “Promise me you won’t tell him we’re friends.”

  Lydia needed to deflate Maizie’s rising fear. “It’s not my story to tell,” she said matter-of-factly. “He won’t hear a peep from me.”

  Maizie’s look indicated her lack of trust.

  “Let’s do something.” Lydia hoped a distraction would break the moment. She reached for the backpack and pulled out a small camera. “How about we go on a nature walk and take some pictures?”

  Maizie scampered back on all fours. Her face paled, her breathing heaved, and a small whimper escaped from her lips. Lydia looked down at the camera. She immediately tossed it back into the pack and slid the zipper.

  “It’s gone, Maizie. The camera’s gone.”

  “I don’t want to do that with you.” Maizie was sobbing now. “I don’t want to do that.”

  Lydia inched toward the girl while cooing assurances that everything would be all right.

  She sat next to her and slid a gentle arm around her shoulders.

  “Can you tell me why the camera scares you, Maizie?”

  The terrified child trembled and said nothing.

  Lydia kept her tone gentle. “Remember when I was talking about being a psychologist and said people go to folks like me when their hearts are breaking?”

  Maizie still shivered in silent fear.

  “Let me tell you another thing about us.” Lydia needed to reach her before she slid into a place of utter terror. “We’re trained in keeping secrets. People come to us and tell us all their hurts and fears. And we don’t tell anyone.”

  Maizie looked up. Her chin quivered and her cheeks were burning red.

  Lydia shifted her body and looked full into frightened blue eyes. “You can tell me anything. I promise you I’ll listen. And we’ll find a way to make it better.”

  An hour later an exhausted Maizie laid her head on Lydia’s lap. Lydia grappled her instincts and swallowed her rage. She’d gotten the details she’d needed. Her stomach lurched at the torture being inflicted on this young girl. Maizie said she knew better than to ask people for help. They’d just give her the same answer George had suggested back in the library.

  No one crossed Gary Dunfield.

  Lydia rocked the weeping child there in the pine cathedral. She hummed a soft tune until the girl’s trembling stopped.

  “Stay strong, Maizie.” Lydia focused on the silver sparkles dancing on the blue water. “I promise you. I’m going to fix this.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “It’s the police!” Nancy Mader turned her pixie face up from her knitting. “Everybody up against the wall.”

  Mort walked across CLIP’s storefront headquarters toward the table where Charlotte and Nancy were seated. Charlotte pushed her own knitting aside and offered him a hesitant smile.

  “You’ve caught us taking a break,” she said. “We’re brainstorming additional funding sources and keep running into brick walls.”

  “Nothing like a little stitch and bitch to clear away the cobwebs,” Nancy said. “Who’s your wingman?”

  Mort clapped a hand on Robbie’s shoulder. “This is my son, Robert Grant.”

  Robbie offered a handshake to each woman. Charlotte took her time appraising his son.

  “You a detective, too?” Nancy asked. “Father and son double-teaming the Trixie case?”

  Robbie shook his head. “I’m a reporter. I cover the crime beat in Denver. I’m tagging along chasing the story.”

  “Your father brags about you,” Charlotte told him. “International bestseller and all that.”

  Nancy’s eyes widened in recognition. “Robert Grant? The guy who wrote The Fixer?” Her lips parted in star-struck awe. “I read it in one sitting. You really think a gal could get away with that many murders? Or was that for dramatic effect?”

  “Oh, it was all very real, Ms.…?” Robbie was the picture of grace. Mort assumed weeks on the book circuit had prepared his son for any matter of criticism from his readers.

  “Nancy Mader.” She set her needles on her lap. “That Fixer’s no great shakes. Vigilante seeking justice for the little guy?” She shrugged her shoulders. “Heard it before. Robin Hood to Batman. But you take what’s going on here with Trixie? Now, that’s som
ething different. Every time I read the paper, it’s like a movie or something.”

  Mort turned to Charlotte. “That’s why we’re here.” He glanced down at her pile of yarn and hated the clumsiness he felt. “I’d like to take you up on your offer to introduce me to some of the women on the streets. I need to know what they know. You’ve got credibility with them. I’m hoping you’ll convince them to open up.”

  “And you’re going to ride shotgun?” Nancy asked Robbie.

  Robbie rocked on his heels. “Sounds like you’ve got some ideas, too, Nancy. Maybe I ought to interview you. That is, if you’d be willing.”

  Mort ate a grin. He knew where Robbie got his charm. Edie could always get a butcher to bring out the prime hidden in the back and sell it to her for cost.

  Nancy ran a length of fat yarn between her fingers. “I’d be happy to. Name the time.”

  Charlotte signaled for Mort to follow her to her office while Robbie and Nancy arranged their interview. He took time to register the space. The small room lacked a window, but Mort was impressed with its bright feel. Pale yellow walls glowed from the light of several table lamps. A whitewashed desk, filing cabinet, and credenza added to the overall sense of airiness. Binders and papers were neatly stacked. Mort envied Charlotte her uncluttered world.

  “So this is where you save the day?” he asked. “It looks like you.”

  “Small and cheap?” she teased, but she looked pleased. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  Mort felt like a teenager seeing his girlfriend’s bedroom for the first time. “No, thanks.” He pointed back toward the main office. “I didn’t know you knitted.”

  Charlotte laughed. “I don’t know if what I do is something you could call knitting. Nancy’s trying to teach me. So far all I’ve been able to master is rows of stitches which never seem to line up. But it soothes me.”

  Mort knew the value of distraction. He divorced himself from the burden of cases and clues by sitting in a booth and working a crossword with Larry. “Maybe you’ll knit me a pair of socks one day.”

  Charlotte seemed to relax. “That’s a nice goal.”

  He felt a pull to reach toward her. To touch the scar running along her chin he’d previously not noticed but now couldn’t keep his eyes off. He forced his attention back to task. “Can we set up a time to meet with some girls on the street? Soon works for me.”

  Her all-business look returned. “I’ll get out there. See who’s willing. Can I call you?”

  “That would be great. I’ll be at the Crystal tonight.”

  “Ah,” she said. “It is Thursday, isn’t it?”

  “You could set a calendar by Larry and me.”

  Charlotte focused on his face until he felt the faintest stirrings of discomfort. “Something tells me, Detective Grant, ‘predictable’ is a word one should never use to describe you.”

  “Dad, you ready?” Robbie’s call saved Mort from needing a response. He ushered Charlotte ahead.

  “I told Jimmy I’d meet him back at the station and …” Robbie glanced at his wristwatch. “You’ve got to meet Larry in thirty minutes.”

  Mort turned to meet Charlotte’s grin. “See? Predictable as Swiss with ham.” He said goodbye to Nancy and joined his son at the door.

  “Wait.” Charlotte’s call turned him around. She grabbed the long string of stitches she was working on, cut off a length, tied the end, and draped three loose loops around his neck. “Almost a scarf.”

  Mort fingered the soft yarn and again felt the urge to touch her. He cleared the lump in his throat, thanked her, and followed his son out into the springtime mist.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Reinhart watched Barry Gardener pass the titanic Jackson Pollock dominating the side wall of his club’s private dining room. He stepped away from the white-clothed table to greet the Wings’ star of the moment.

  “Thanks for coming.”

  Gardener walked to the windows and stared out from the fortieth floor. “Feels like the top of the world. There’s Smith Tower. The ferry landing. And there’s the arena. I feel like a bird up here.”

  Reinhart waved him back to the table. “Funny. I’ll bet you didn’t know my name—Vogel, that is—means ‘bird.’ In German. Actually, my boy calls me that all the time.” He pulled a chair out and took a seat. “It’s a great feeling, isn’t it? Flying high and looking down on the world?”

  Barry Gardener slipped out of his sports jacket and moved to hang it over the back of his chair. Reinhart signaled the valet.

  “Simon will take care of that.”

  Barry nodded to the elderly black man reaching out to help. “Thanks. I’ve never gotten the handle on how to wear a coat while I’m eating without dragging my cuffs through the gravy.” He sat down opposite his host. “My mother says she can tell what I’ve eaten with one look at my shirt.”

  “No need to worry about that here. We’re two men all alone. We can get as messy as we dare.”

  Barry glanced to the valet, who’d resumed his spot in the corner. He nodded to a Hispanic man behind the well-stocked bar and thanked the middle-aged black man who was filling their water glasses. “Doesn’t look like we’re alone. In fact, looks like we’re outnumbered.”

  Reinhart draped a heavy napkin across his lap. “They’re selected for their discretion. Staffing this room is a plum assignment.” He snapped his fingers and a stunning woman in her mid-twenties approached. She placed a cut-crystal tumbler filled with ice and bourbon in front of Reinhart, turned to Barry, and asked him what he’d like.

  “Man’s got a game tonight, Latesha.” Reinhart winked. “He’ll save the booze for the off-season.” He pointed to Barry’s glass. “You’re good with that, right?”

  Barry nodded, thanked the young woman, and took a drink of ice water. “I thank you for your invitation, Mr. Vogel.”

  “Call me Reinhart, son. I wanted to show my appreciation for the way you’re playing. I spend a lot of money on that team. You’re protecting my investment.” He drummed the table and waited for a response that didn’t come before he pulled a roll from the breadbasket. “This town’s treating you differently than they have all season. I can’t turn on the television without seeing your mug being interviewed.”

  “Things are happening, that’s for sure.”

  “You’ve got me to thank for that.” Reinhart washed his bread down with a pull of bourbon. “We were losing against Portland. Our season would have been over if I hadn’t called down and told Coach to put you in.” Reinhart’s eyes gleamed. “Damn, son. I was hoping for a little song and dance from you, but you gave me Broadway opening night. Backed it up in L.A., too.”

  Barry thanked Latesha as she placed a plate of leafy greens and smoked salmon in front of him. “Just doing what you pay me to.”

  Reinhart leaned back to be served. “Can we take L.A. in five?”

  “I’m a point guard, Mr. Vogel, not a fortune-teller. I’m going to give this team all I have. We get a chance, we’re going to take it.”

  “You impress me as the type who makes his chances. You and I are alike that way.” He held his glass up and waited for Barry to do the same. “Here’s to a long and prosperous relationship.”

  The discussion turned personal over hazelnut bisque. Barry talked about his brothers and sisters and growing up in Spokane. “I’m one of ten children. The ninth. So nine will always be my number.” Reinhart laughed at Barry’s description of ten children getting ready for school in a house with one bathroom. “We were a well-oiled machine. That is, until my sister Stephanie got in there. Lord knows what she was doing all that time. If Steph didn’t go last, we all missed the bus.”

  “Did you see much of your father growing up?”

  Barry bristled. “My parents have been married nearly forty years, Mr. Vogel. Every afternoon my dad would stand waiting in the schoolyard. His shift at the lumberyard ended at two thirty. He’d get me and my little brother first because elementary school let out early. We�
��d march to the middle school, then the high school, picking up kids along the way. He looked like one of those dog walkers juggling ten yelping mutts, each of us trying to outtalk the others. We’d eat dinner and Mom would fill us in on her day at the hospital. She was a nurse’s aide. Then Daddy would give us our chores, kiss my mother, and head off to his night job as security at the power plant.” Barry smiled. “Yes, sir, I saw a lot of him growing up. Never enough, but a lot.”

  “No offense intended, son. I just thought—”

  “You just thought that black men knocked up their women and tossed them to the curb? Not in my family. Not my father, not my brothers, and not me. My mother would have our hide if any of us even thought about disrespecting a woman.”

  Reinhart stared into his drink for several quiet moments. “Sounds like a lovely childhood.” He took a small sip. “I’m envious.”

  “Why? I work for you, remember?” Barry gentled his tone when Reinhart didn’t respond to his tease. “Where’d you grow up, Mr. Vogel?”

  Reinhart flashed on being alone in his bedroom above the tavern where his mother worked double shifts and drank away most of her tip money. On hustling dinner from whatever barstool jockey thought taking care of Gina’s boy would get him a taste of her oversized breasts when her shift ended.

  “Northern Oregon. Lincoln Shores. Left as soon as a scholarship could get me out.” Reinhart picked at a piece of salmon. “I blew out my knees playing high school ball and had to settle for an academic package.” He took his time chewing. “But look at me now. I’ve done well enough to live vicariously through the exploits of my team.”

  “Keep in touch with your folks much?”

  A hazy memory of calling his mother all those years ago drifted into Reinhart’s consciousness. Telling her why she wasn’t invited to her only son’s wedding. Trying to convince her she’d be uncomfortable with people she’d never met but knowing she knew he was embarrassed to have his millionaire in-laws meet the bleached-blond barmaid with the cigarette-bruised laugh. Another memory intruded. A discreet phone call from the most expensive nursing home in Portland. The one that had twelve years’ worth of checks from Rainy Day to make sure his mother received the finest care and the best whiskey. Despite his never having visited, the executive director thought he’d want to know his mother died peacefully one December morning. Reinhart asked him to make arrangements for a speedy cremation and to ship her ashes to his warehouse.