Return to Fender

by Virginia Brown

  “I’m careful,” she said. “It’s just not so easy to tell sometimes.”

  “I have to agree with that.” He stood up, was at the side of her bed in two steps, and put his head down to nuzzle her neck. “Did I ever tell you I think there’s something sexy about a woman wearing a backless hospital gown? Especially a woman with a black eye and mud in her hair?”

  “I still have mud in my hair?” She put a hand up to touch her hair and recoiled from the stiff bristles. “It feels like a scrub brush!”

  “I know. Sexy. In an understated kind of way.”

  “I’d rather it be obvious when I’m being sexy. So men will surround me.”

  He kissed her neck. “Then I’d have to shoot someone. You don’t want that, do you?”

  “Possibly. Let me think about it a minute.”

  She closed her eyes, and the next thing she knew daylight was coming through the hospital blinds, a nurse was taking her blood pressure, and Mike Morgan was gone. All that was left on the couch was her backpack with some fresh clothes. She sighed.

  “Are you feeling any pain?” asked the nurse.

  “No. Just annoyance. I’m ready to leave. What do I have to do?”

  The nurse smiled. “Wait for the doctor to dismiss you.”

  “Is he on his way?”

  Now the nurse laughed. “That’s the rumor. Don’t hold your breath, though. It can take a while.”

  That was an understatement. By the time they got around to writing out a couple prescriptions and signing papers, it was late afternoon. Yogi was there to pick her up.

  “I don’t like hospitals,” he confided as they went down the corridor, Harley in a wheelchair guided by an attendant despite her protests, while Yogi walked next to her. “Too many sick people. It’s the government’s way of thinning the herd. Giving people diseases, then sticking them in hospitals to finish them off.”

  Accustomed to his anti-government views, Harley nodded. The hospital worker made a small sound, and Yogi took that as encouragement.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” he asked the older man. “I mean, you have to see it all the time, the way people are treated. Do they still do experiments on them?”

  “They don’t do that here,” said Harley when it seemed as if the worker was torn between flight and calling security. “This isn’t a research hospital.”

  That seemed to satisfy Yogi for the moment. When he went to get the van to bring it to the doors, Harley looked at the older man and said, “He’s not dangerous. He’s just opinionated.”

  The man nodded. “That’s okay. He reminds me of my father. May he rest in peace.”

  As the lime green van painted with purple peace signs and the odd body parts that Eric considered art pulled under the portico, the bemused hospital worker rolled Harley right out to the doors. Yogi got her settled in the passenger side bucket seat and closed the door. She wasn’t at all surprised that King sat in the back seat, panting happily with upholstery crumbs on his muzzle and a hole chewed out of the seat. He liked foam rubber as long as it was covered with vinyl. He seemed to have his standards.

  “So how’s Mrs. Shipley? Still limping along?”

  “She baked pies yesterday.” Yogi smiled dreamily. “Karo pecan pie just like my mother used to make.”

  Harley didn’t remember her paternal grandparents. She’d only seen them a few times before they died when she wasn’t quite fourteen. Their photos hung on the upstairs hall wall, one of Yogi’s commemorations to them.

  “That’s good,” she said. “Any news on how much longer it’s going to take to fix her house?”

  “Six weeks, the last I heard.” Yogi turned up the classic rock station when The Youngbloods sang “Get Together.” He had a nice singing voice, and while he preferred Elvis to most other singers, he still knew all the songs and all the lyrics of his early years.

  “Come on people now, smile on your brother,” he warbled, “everybody get together, try to love one another right now . . .”

  King decided to add his voice as well. He threw back his head and howled. Since she’d grown up listening to all these songs, Harley figured she might as well join in, and they rocked on all the way to Douglass Street. By the time the van stopped, Steppenwolf performed “Magic Carpet Ride,” and Yogi was still singing, “Why don’t you come with me, little girl, on a magic carpet ride,” as she opened the van door.

  Mike Morgan waited in the driveway, and he gave her a questioning look.

  “No,” she said, “I don’t indulge. We were just singing.”

  “Sure your water bottle isn’t spiked?” He put an arm around her and walked her to the front porch. “Or have the sixties returned?”

  “I’m not that old,” Yogi said a little indignantly. “I was twelve when that song came out. Or maybe fourteen. I can’t quite remember.”

  “That’s okay,” said Morgan. “I’ve heard if you can remember the sixties you weren’t there.”

  Yogi grinned. “Something like that.”

  The house smelled like lavender, sage, and chocolate. Not a bad combination. It smelled like home to Harley, and she joined Mrs. Shipley on the chintz-covered couch. “Do I smell cake?” she asked, and Mrs. Shipley nodded.

  “You do. In honor of your return from the dead. Oh child, it was awful! We all thought you were gone for sure. Except your mother. I don’t know how she knew, but she said you were going to be fine.”

  After living across from her parents for fifteen years, Mrs. Shipley still didn’t quite get Diva’s gift. Since Harley was a little uncomfortable with the whole “return from the dead” comment, she just said, “Diva is amazing.”

  Mike sprawled in the huge chair across from her. He just smiled. Harley got the overwhelming sensation that she was about to be set-up. Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

  Arms spread out to the sides to encompass the room, he said, “Isn’t family nice?”

  “No. I mean yes, family is great. No, I’m not staying.”

  “But there’s cake. Chocolate cake made with eggs, milk, and butter. Real flour. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Shipley?”

  “Don’t drag me into this.” Mrs. Shipley focused on her knitting. Blue yarn draped over her lap and off the couch into a basket. Apparently it was her orange day. She was a vivid hue against the chintz cushions.

  Morgan tried again. “But there’s cake. Cake.”

  Harley looked at her father. “Where’s my car? And my bike?”

  Yogi mumbled something and went into the kitchen. She stood up. “I’m fine at my apartment. Besides, I have to feed my cat. Sam went all day without food.”

  Morgan said, “He has a dry feeder that’ll feed him for a week. He’s fine. I’ve checked on him.”

  “I can’t leave him alone. He misses me. Someone might hurt him. Where did you say my car is? Where’s Toke?”

  Toke was Eric’s middle name, given him by Yogi. It was on his birth certificate. Harley liked to call him by his middle name when she was displeased. Or not. Sometimes she called him other names. Now she just called him gone with her car.

  “I want my car back. Do I have to call the police?”

  “Harley, I am the police,” Morgan pointed out.

  “Then I’d like to report a crime.” She turned toward her mother. “You understand why I can’t stay, don’t you?”

  “The universe is vast and mysterious. There are many paths to the palace.”

  Harley put her hands on her hips. “I don’t want to go to the palace. I just want to go home. I like it there. And I want my bike. Where’s my bike?”

  Mike said, “Right now your bike is evidence. Your fuel line was tampered with, and they’re checking for fingerprints. Maybe some DNA.”

  “Do you think the same guy who killed Johnny Pomona and Felicia tried to kill me? Did you check out Harvey Fine?”

  “It’s an ongoing investigation.”

  “So? That’s it? You’re not going to tell me anything else? Just ‘an ongoing investigation’ b
rush-off?”

  “Pretty much.” He stood up. “I can bring your cat here if you want.”

  “I don’t know how to make this any clearer—I. Am. Not. Staying. Here. I’ve no intention of endangering my parents.”

  Morgan nodded thoughtfully. “I can understand that. Okay. Plan B.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “What is Plan B?”

  “Protective custody.”

  “No way!”

  “Way. Don’t worry. It’s not permanent. Or terminal. Do I need cuffs, or are you willing to come along quietly?”

  Harley looked at her mother. “You’re my witness. I’ve been threatened with police brutality.”

  Diva just smiled.

  Chapter 14

  “SO WHAT DO you do for fun?” asked Harley. She looked around the room. A 65 inch TV hung on one wall. A foosball table was at the other end. A Wii, Xbox and what looked like a PlayStation 3 filled slots in the chest under the massive TV. “No pool table? I’m shocked.”

  It was a small house by East Memphis standards, tucked at the end of a cul-de-sac in a quiet neighborhood. Old trees shaded the house, autumn leaves covered green grass and stacked into piles. Three bedrooms and a bath and a half. A garage attached to one end, and the lower ground floor had windows much larger than usual for a basement. Boxes still sat in the garage and a corner of the basement.

  “I’m glad you like it.” Morgan flipped on a light over the foosball table. “It took me a year to find a house I like. Maybe one of these days I’ll get all the boxes unpacked.”

  This was the first time she’d been to his new house. It felt a little odd to be there now. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe because she wasn’t sure of their relationship. Coming to his house seemed to confirm they had a relationship, and that was unnerving. Then she remembered her revelation while in the hole. There were some things worth the risk.

  “I can help,” she offered. “Unpack the boxes. I’m good at unpacking. Not so good at where to put stuff, but I follow directions well.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “What? Unpacking or following directions?”

  “The last one. Here. Have a drink.” He poured Coke into a glass from the wet bar and held it out. Ice settled into the foam.

  “No beer?”

  “Not with your medications.”

  “We’re talking antibiotics, not street drugs.”

  Morgan smiled. “Glad to hear it. Sometimes I’ve wondered.”

  “Please, do I look like I smoke crack?”

  “You still have all your teeth, but sometimes you do inexplicable things. Have a seat. Any TV programs you like?”

  “You’re being too nice. This is scary. Am I dying, and no one told me?”

  He led her to the couch, a sectional with fat cushions and a recliner at each end. “Not yet. You came close, though.”

  She shuddered. “I know. So tell me—any progress on the case? You don’t have to tell me details. I just want to know if there’s anyone in particular I need to avoid.”

  “Right now, Bobby Baroni comes to mind. It was all I could do to keep him from locking you up until this is over. A little gratitude on your part would be nice.”

  Harley sighed. “You have my undying gratitude. Bobby gets too excited about certain things.”

  “Some of us are funny that way. We tend to get cranky when people we’re crazy about are almost killed.”

  Her heart skipped a beat, and her stomach got all squishy. While the L word had never been mentioned it was nice to know she made him crazy. She smiled and sank back into the couch cushions.

  “If I’m going to be held captive,” she said, “this is a nice way to do it.”

  “So you promise to stay here when I have to leave?”

  Gesturing to the room she said, “Why would I go anywhere?”

  He leaned close to her, one hand stroking up her arm to her shoulder and then her neck as he murmured, “You’re not the only tour guide, you know. There are more rooms here I haven’t shown you yet.”

  Turning her face so that their lips were barely apart, she said, “Do tell. I’m most intrigued. Are these rooms on the regular tour?”

  He slowly shook his head so that his lips grazed hers. “On special tours only.”

  Harley felt lightheaded. Her stomach got that squishy feeling again. Maybe being in protective custody wouldn’t be so bad. It showed promise so far.

  “Do I need a ticket for the special tour?” she asked almost breathlessly.

  “Yep. Luckily I just happen to have one left.”

  He stood and pulled her up with him. Then he took her empty Coke glass and put it on an end table by the couch. Blue fire shone in his eyes as he bent closer to her, hands moving up along her back in a light caress. Then he cupped her face in his palms to kiss her. What started off slowly quickly ignited into a feverish haste. She unbuttoned his shirt and yanked it open, popping off a button she forgot. The navy tee shirt under it rapidly followed. Somehow she lost her tee shirt, too. Mike pushed her up against a wall to kiss her face, her throat, then lower. Her eyes glazed over, and she was lost.

  Harley was never quite sure how they got to the bedroom. All she remembered was the trail of clothes up the basement steps, down the hallway, and scattered along the nice wood floors. If he’d had a ceiling fan in the bedroom, she was pretty sure it’d have a pair of Victoria’s Secret thongs hanging from the blades.

  A ringing phone woke her sometime before dawn. Mike rolled over and answered it, said a few things she didn’t catch, then tossed the phone back to the nightstand. “You awake?” he asked, and she ran a bare foot down his leg.

  “Almost. Don’t tell me you have to leave.”

  “Okay. I’ll let you guess.” He kissed her on the end of her nose and got out of bed. Thin light slid through mini-blinds over his window. The clock read 4:32. Obscene. She tossed the covers back over her head.

  When he came back to the bed, he smelled like soap and shaving lotion. His hair was still wet. He pulled the covers down from her face and kissed her again, then said, “I hope you’re not going anywhere today.”

  “I have a job, you know.”

  “Under the circumstances I’m sure Tootsie will understand.”

  “Tootsie will. Mr. Penney won’t.”

  “No job is worth you getting killed.”

  She looked up at him. “Seriously? You’re a cop, and you can say that to me?”

  “That’s different. I get paid to risk my life. You get paid to drive people around and point out landmarks.”

  Harley frowned. “Tell me again how that’s different the next time you get shot.”

  “You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you.”

  “I’m not trying to. But I thought of something Jordan said that makes sense now. I can’t just hide and hope it all goes away. I have to work. I have to walk down the street and go to the store. I can’t stop living. That’s what Sarah Simon has done, and I don’t want that for me.”

  “Sarah—oh. The woman who lives in the downstairs apartment. Damn, Harley.”

  “But I did think of something that may make you feel better. You give me a ride to work and pick me up at night. That way you’ll still be providing police protection.”

  “I’d rather take you to your parents. Or maybe let Bobby keep an eye on you.”

  “I don’t respond well to threats. Did you use all the hot water? I need to take a shower before we leave.”

  Because Morgan had to be at work before she did, he ended up taking her to Tootsie’s house to ride in with him. It was the next best thing. Tootsie looked sleepy and sounded grumpy when he let her in the house.

  “I can’t believe you’re going to work when you almost got killed. Do you have any idea how stupid that sounds?” he said to her as he led the way to the kitchen. “I told you I have someone else to cover your shifts.”

  “So I’m supposed to hide somewhere until this is over? How long can that take? A few days?
Weeks? Months? You know these investigations can take years sometimes. What do I do in the meantime?”

  Tootsie eyed her over the French press he’d taken from the cabinet. He ground up coffee beans and put them in the press, then set it on the stove before he answered, “I can see your point. That doesn’t mean you should put yourself in harm’s way, though. That’s just stupid.”

  “You’ve made your point,” she said. “I get it. Stupid. Which leads me to wonder if Jordan is still in the land of the living. Have you heard from him?”

  “He’s alive but in mourning for Felicia.”

  Harley’s brow rose. “In mourning? He filed for a divorce. He has a girlfriend. What’s wrong with this picture?”

  “It’s too early in the morning for you to be asking all these questions, Harley. I have no idea why he does what he does. I don’t even know who he is anymore. I thought he was a nice guy who liked to dress up in beautiful clothes and pretend to be a famous singer every once in a while. Now I find out he’s Lucrezia Borgia.”

  “Lucrezia Borgia . . . isn’t she the woman who murdered her husbands?”

  “Something like that. One or two of them anyway. You know how hot-blooded the Italians are.”

  Harley mulled over the possibilities until Tootsie poured some coffee into a small china cup not big enough to hold a boiled egg. She looked up at him. “Is this an egg cup? Am I supposed to drink out of this?”

  “It’s strong coffee. You don’t need much.” He pushed the plunger down to settle the coffee grounds and poured another cup. “Cream?”

  “And a tablespoon of sugar.” Tootsie rolled his eyes but complied with a delicate sugar bowl that held amber crystals. She spooned a generous amount into her cup. “I’ve been thinking. Jordan owes money, or so he says. He also claims to have bank accounts in the Caymans or Bahamas or wherever. What if he’s been laundering money for these guys in the construction business? Harvey Fine, for instance? And what if he, say, kept some of the money for himself? Would that make them pretty pissed off at him?”

  “I would think so. People tend to get cranky when it involves a lot of money. So is that what you think Jordan is doing?”