by D. A. Bale
With a few hours to spare before work, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to scope out the post office where Reggie had dropped the money. It wasn’t too far from my apartment across the river, so after a quick swing through a nearby c-store for gas and cold cola, we hopped on the I-30 over to Dallas’s main postal locale.
The massive building with multiple parking lots presented far too many opportunities for the blackmailer to get in and out of the building unnoticed. Thus four eyes instead of two bettered the odds. The front lot offered the best view, but I had to drive around several times before a parking spot became available.
After getting cut off by idiots in big trucks and frazzled soccer moms a couple of times, I was tempted to pull a sneaky maneuver that involved using my car as a shovel. ‘Cept I couldn’t afford the higher insurance premiums that would inevitably come my way.
Sometimes being a good girl sucked.
Okay, so it was more out of protecting my baby Corvette from getting a boo-boo than any altruistic endeavors, but still. What had happened to chivalry? Respect for one’s elders?
Well that went out my window when the brat driving a green Smart car tried to zip around me and into the next available slot. If she’d so much as nudged my baby when I revved the engine and launched into the parking spot with a squeal of burning rubber, barely missing the guy in the Chevy who’d vacated it – let’s just say, forget the Jaws of Life cause you’d have to opt for a can opener to rescue her sorry carcass when I was done.
Thank God for good ol’ American-made horsepower and torque over some stupid sardine can. Someone should tell her the green looked more like what someone with a bad cold would blow out of their nose, not something to drive around where the whole world could see.
Smart car my ass.
Janine trotted across the pavement from the side lot then sank into my leather seat until her breathing grew closer to normal. “Do you realize how close you were to clipping that ugly little car?”
“Hey,” I responded. “If anyone almost clipped someone, it was snot girl.”
“Sometimes I forget how…um…powerful your driving can be.”
“It’s not the driver so much as the car,” I responded, patting the dashboard.
“No-o-o. I think in this case it’s both.”
I could take offense to that but left it alone to focus on more important matters. The well-earned spot offered a decent view of the post office front door area as well as the side parking lot, unless the guy cruising around in a monster truck decided to set up shop next to my Vette. Some guys will drive anything massive to overcompensate for what they lack.
And I’m not talking stature. Trust me, ladies. Size does matter in certain departments.
“So what’s the plan?” Janine asked.
I took another careful glance at our surroundings. “Since we’ve got a good angle on both lots from here, how about you stay with me and watch the side entrance while I scope out the front?”
“Roger that.”
“Have you taken a break from romance movies and started watching cop shows again?”
“Like I have time to watch anything right now,” Janine grumbled.
Taking a drink of the cold cola, I shut off the engine while we watched the parade of bodies tromping in and out of the enormous brick building and the vehicles in the lot jockeying for position. Sweat immediately beaded on my forehead and my bare legs tried to repel the sticky leather seats with a layer of moisture. When the tickle down my back started to turn into Niagara Falls, I realized what a bad idea I’d had. This was Texas. In August. A black car in hundred-plus degree weather with a thousand percent humidity – what had I been thinking?
Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration on the humidity part. Still, I had to be about one yard shy on fourth down to think this stunt would garner results. Why would someone risk being seen taking a wad of cash from a post office box in broad daylight? They’d most likely come skittering around at night. At night when it was dark. At night when most residents claimed it was cooler. Personally, I didn’t think ninety-eight degrees at midnight was anything to write home about.
I needed a vacation. Somewhere north – say the Arctic Circle.
Janine flipped down the visor and blotted her make-up with a tissue. The girl had barely started glistening. Maybe there was something to her mom’s acclimation insistence.
“So what are we watching for?” Janine asked before swiping on a fresh coat of lip gloss.
“Anything that seems odd.”
“And who are we watching for?”
“Anyone who stands out.”
“Like him?”
Janine giggled and pointed to a guy who looked like he was channeling Cruella De Vil – or at least her hairdo. Maybe some people could pull off the black and white bouffant combo, but I think it’d be best left to the animators at Disney. Or a transvestite showgirl – or would that be showboy?
“Uh, no,” I said. “Think someone more from the socialite syndicate. Someone who would normally send their lackey to run errands.”
That got me an eye roll to rival a hormonally-ravaged teenager. “Lackey?”
“What does your family call the household helpers these days?”
“Their names.”
“Really?”
“Well, Georgie calls one particular girl something entirely different, but I won’t dare repeat it.”
“Busty Brenda?”
“You’re on the right track.”
I just shook my head and swiped sweat from my eyes before a familiar figure hustled by with loaded bags in tow, wearing a crisp white linen suit jacket and matching pencil skirt tighter than permissible by Texas law. Looked to me like we had a former pageant girl who’d put on a little weight.
“Would you look at that?” I said, tilting my sunglasses down for a more accurate assessment. “Now that’s definitely something unusual.”
“Is that…?”
“That’d be a Texas-sized yup.”
“Doesn’t she realize linen is a loose weave?” Janine observed.
“That’s what you’re worried about here?”
“But those seams are going to unravel if she’s not careful.”
“You mean explode at any minute…and we’ll have a front row view too. Come on,” I urged, shoving open the car door and stepping out into a furnace.
Like a dynamic duo, we followed my arch enemy into the building, barely avoiding Little Miss Smart Car as she skidded around the corner again and sent a single finger wave my direction. Lorraine Padget got into a line while Janine and I watched from behind the glass around the corner wall. The pageanted Padget shuffled back and forth in her four inch cranberry-red platform peep-toes, periodically checking her watch and offering up an exaggerated sigh every ten seconds.
No, I couldn’t hear it through the glass. Based on the reaction of every other person stuck in line with her, I was fairly certain the huffs were loud and overemphasized – and that Lorraine could use a breath mint.
After about seven minutes, which in my book is a very reasonable wait time when it comes to government agencies, Lorraine reached the counter. Without preamble, she launched into a tirade – this time loud enough to hear through, if not break, the glass – and practically pelted the postal worker with a series of throw pillows.
“Wow,” I muttered to Janine. “And I thought she only acted bitchy around me.”
“She’s made it an art form,” Janine returned from peeking under my arm. “Especially when she thinks no one at church is watching, or when she has to deal with those she considers underlings.”
“Ooo, good word. I like that one better than lackey.”
All that got me was a poke in the ribs.
Janine stretched her back then leaned against the wall. “I thought you said something about a post office box.”
“Yeah.”
“So why aren’t we checking that area out here,” Janine said with a sweep of her arm, “instead of watching this
week’s episode of Lorraine Loses It in there?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Curious, I guess.”
What was I doing? I’d had a run-in with a bunch of thugs, gotten bawled out by Zeke, hauled home in a drunken haze by Grady, and dragged my bestie away from important work to play Lucy and Ethel Go to the Post Office. Thus far, my attempts at identifying Reggie’s blackmailer had yielded about as much as a hooker on dollar night. I was hot, tired, and sweaty with little to show for my efforts.
I pressed against the wall with Janine as determined heel clacking came closer until rushing around the corner. Lorraine’s eyes widened right before narrowing in my direction.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she yelled, staring daggers through my skull.
“My my,” Janine said in her best debutante voice. “Such strong language from a fellow member of the flock.”
“And I’m just helping Janine hold up this wall,” I returned, while Janine offered a fingertip wave. “And you?”
A quick glance down at the key in her hand before Lorraine closed her fingers around it. With a jut of her chin, the mask fell in place.
“I…uh…made the mistake of ordering some pillows for the breakfast room banquette from some fly-by-night company and had to return them. Tryin’ to spruce up the place in time for our engagement party in January.”
Next year? From what I understood, they’d already been engaged for several months. If she strung the engagement out too long her fiancé would die of old age before she dragged him down the aisle. Hmm. Maybe that was all part of her wicked plan, but then that would leave Lorraine without the bulk of the Summers estate to spend.
Janine piped up. “Why didn’t you call Reginald von Braun’s firm? Mr. Summers has worked with him in the past. I’m sure he’s still got an open budget there.”
“I would’ve, but I wanted to show my dearest Derek that frugality isn’t a curse word.”
Which in Lorraine’s case translated to more money left over for her when she did in the old geezer on their wedding night. Perhaps she was buying and returning things from other sources so she could pocket the cash. Now that could be an inventive way to make a quick buck. Then again, there was always blackmail – which also might explain why she hadn’t gone to Reggie for the banquette pillows.
“So what’s the post office box for?” I asked.
“What post office box?” Lorraine returned.
“Uh, the one for the key in your hand.”
Her gripped tightened around it until I half expected blood to come gushing out like in one of my B-movie horror flicks.
“That’s none of your business,” she huffed, spun on her heels without falling from her lofty heights, then marched outside into the fires of Hell where she belonged.
Janine leaned over my shoulder. “Was that odd? That seemed a little odd to me.”
“Yeah, definitely odd,” I confirmed.
We followed her outside and watched as Lorraine went postal in the parking lot, leaving tracks leading straight toward Mexico – or the nearest c-store for a hot dog to squeeze into that skirt. Standing in the sun, I was beginning to feel like a broiled hot dog at Cowboys Stadium. Beginning to smell like one too.
So much for this crap. Janine and I parted ways after she secured a promise from me to help with Bobby’s upcoming fundraiser. Then I herded myself to the car, turned the A/C on max, and pulled out of the parking lot in time for Little Miss Smart Car to make another round of the lot and grab my spot. Why she didn’t head into the side lot was a mystery, but give that girl a sticker for determination. Better yet, get her a paint job in a less offensive color.
Like black.
***
The heat followed me all the way to work that night. With bodies pressed in tight on the dance floor and the band sizzling in the spotlights, I wilted more each time everyone gathered around the bar and sent me scurrying to fill orders.
The moment the crowd broke away at the next set, I poured a glass of ice-cold beer and gulped it down before grabbing a couple of ice cubes and rubbing them across my bare upper chest. The tiny strapless dress covered all my necessary kibbles and bits enough to call it publicly legal – unlike Lorraine’s full-to-bursting linen skirt this afternoon.
That woman now sat at the top of my suspect list, and not for public indecency. As a news anchor with the local station, Lorraine had investigative journalists at her beck and call. The network offered ties to the larger outlets in New York City, a perfect storm to access Reggie’s records tying him to both cities. As a local anchor, she also had the mouthpiece to make a huge splash when revealing Reggie’s past duplicity, thereby destroying his reputation on not just a local but national level as well.
The thought kept me burning, even after Grady turned the air down a couple of notches. I really hated summer like Garfield hated Mondays.
The discomfort also made me overly crotchety for a twenty-six year-old. Why couldn’t I have been more like my mom? Cool and collected in all situations, with only an occasional glisten. Maybe approaching middle-aged menopause would help her sympathize with my lifetime of pain. I’d pay good money to see my mother transition from a good glistening to actual sweating.
A hand tugged up my ponytail before Grady reached around my scantily-clad frame to grab some ice. The cool wetness across my back brought immediate comfort from the hell-raising heat.
Until the murmur in my ear ticked my heartrate up a notch – or two. Thoughts of Lorraine and Reggie whisked away on the boss’s whispers.
“I love seeing you all sweaty, Vic. Only I’d prefer to get you that way somewhere a lot more private.”
“Didn’t you already squander that opportunity last night?” I asked.
“I’d rather you be sober when I take advantage of you,” Grady returned. “And willing.”
His chilled hands slid wet across my shoulders, dipping down my back as low as the dress allowed. I closed my eyes and shivered, imagining what it would be like to have his hands below the laced-up fabric. Oh, I was willing alright. What did his federally-issued handcuffs look like?
Uh-oh. That reminded me – government agent.
“You better stop that,” I murmured, “or there’ll be little I can say to Rochelle to get her to believe there isn’t anything going on between us.”
“Hey there, Vicki.”
My eyes snapped open as Radioman slid onto a barstool with a wide and knowing grin. Grady removed his hands, allowing a piece of ice to slip down my spine to puddle at the small of my back. I fought the squeal that rose in my throat and greeted my handsome customer with a grimace instead.
“Well if it isn’t my favorite radio personality,” I said, snapping the lid off a Sam Adams Summer Ale.
“In the flesh,” he returned before taking a long pull.
Yeah, I’d like to see him in the flesh. I shivered – and I wasn’t a hundred percent certain it was merely the ice cube.
“Ah,” Radioman said with a smack of his lips. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
I’d volunteer as his attending physician, especially after the warm-up Grady gave me. “Seen the doctor lately? You’re not dying or anything, are you?”
“Of heat, that’s for sure,” Radioman quipped before taking another drink. “Eleven o’clock at night and it’s still a hundred degrees out there.”
“It’s about double that in here,” I offered, grabbing another ice cube and rubbing it across my chest. “I think the A/C needs servicing.”
The muscles in his jaw constricted as his gaze trailed my hand for a beat. I could only imagine what kind of servicing he was thinking about – and I doubt if it had anything to do with air-conditioning. The smile he offered when his cornflower-blue eyes met mine again spoke volumes and made my knees all noodley. Somewhere in the periphery of my naughty mind, I heard Grady’s chuckle before he moved down the bar to help another customer.
“This helps though,” Radioman said before finishing off the bottle and
glancing at the crowd. “Have you seen Seth yet?”
“Your lawyer friend?”
“Yeah.”
“Not yet.”
“He’s supposed to meet me here.”
“Big date?” I impishly implied.
“I was hoping.” He leaned forward and took advantage of the momentary lull between the band’s sets. “Whatcha doin’ tomorrow night?”
I joined him in kind and rested my elbows on the bar. “You tell me.”
“Dinner?”
The still image Grady had shown me of Banker Boy a couple of nights ago popped into my head. A date with Radioman offered an opportunity to at least find out some background information about the guy. Maybe even something more current to explain the parking lot interaction. I caught the downturn of Grady’s mustache and the subtle shake of his head from the corner of my eye.
And promptly ignored it. “What time?”
“How does seven sound?”
“Sounds great,” I purred.
He tapped my number into his phone while I prepared drinks for the band’s upcoming break. Finally, after all the interruptions from Grady and Zeke and the recent hiccups with Nick, I’d get a chance to know the man behind the silky voice.
And yes, I hoped in the Biblical sense.
The thought buoyed me through the remainder of the evening and on the drive home. After entering my apartment, I tossed my keys toward the kitchen island and flicked the light switch out of habit.
‘Cept this time the lights didn’t even flicker.
My heart lodged in my throat. I’d completely forgotten about Grady’s warning concerning the follower of the night before. Instinct triggered that someone else was with me in the dark – and it wasn’t just Slinky.
The drapes had been closed. Ambient light from the parking lot didn’t cut through the inky blackness. The faint odor of cigars – Cuban – lingered in the air. The growing motorboat purr of my cat broke the silence.
Purring? That meant my critter was happy and content. Of all the…