Charlie pulled out his checkbook and wrote a check for $1,000. Easy come, easy go. This was the sort of thing wealthy people did, he supposed. Still, this strengthened the feeling he had that Dana Colescu was one very expensive person to hang with.
Aimee stood at his shoulder. “To Redeemer Wilson’s—”
“Holy Way House and Hunger Palace Foundation,” Charlie said. He really did almost know the man.
Aimee slid away once the money was in the basket.
“Let’s vork the room,” Dana whispered in Charlie’s left ear. “By the vay, her gown’s a Kabertigan. As a writer, you should know.”
“She’s wearing enough diamonds to keep an African civil war going,” Charlie observed.
They drifted into a large, crowded parlor buzzing with conversation. Expensive colognes and perfumes vied for Charlie’s attention. Near the front window, a tuxedoed black man played a Cole Porter tune on a grand piano. Charlie recognized several African-American partygoers as members of the city’s political elite. The look was semi-formal: Many men wore suits, a young Indian woman wore a sari, and an older Japanese man also wore a tuxedo.
The event was half charity ball, half trade mission. Welcome to Atlanta.
“I’m famished,” Dana said, moving toward the food table. “Vould you get me gin and tonic?”
Charlie ordered Dana’s drink, along with a Diet Coke for himself. The green-eyed black bartender gave Charlie’s scar an appreciative glance. While Dana ate finger sandwiches from a plate, Charlie served as her drink caddy and watched men steal glances at his date when their wives weren’t looking, even though plenty of women were also checking out Dana.
When she finished eating, Dana grabbed her drink and said, “I’m going to mingle and try to sell some paintings. Vy don’t you find your next true crime story?” She laughed lightly as she glanced around the room. “Looks like here there are plenty of evildoers,” she said, savoring the last word.
Left on his own, Charlie stepped out onto the patio, returning seconds later, coughing, his eyes stinging from cigar smoke. After that, he gave himself a tour of the house—those parts that weren’t cordoned off. He paused at the top of the wide, curving marble stairs to gaze down on Atlanta’s elite. He suspected they’d all done something similar to Pappy’s misdeeds—or at the very least, inherited their grandfathers’ ill-gotten gains. In any case, he was looking at the result of nearly 300 years of affirmative action for white folks.
Aimee looked up from the foyer and beckoned him to join her. Then she called out to a distinguished-looking man in a gray suit: “Pitts, come here, you rascal you.” She introduced the two men, though Charlie recognized W. Pitts Scudder from countless photos in the newspaper. He was the CEO of Susan’s bank. In fact, Scudder had interviewed Susan for her first job in Atlanta many years ago, when he was a lowly VP. Charlie saw no point in mentioning their connection, however.
“Ah, Sherman!” Scudder said, rolling his eyes as he shook Charlie’s hand. “You’ve certainly got things stirred up in Forsyth. What’s the latest on the development of the Cutchins land?”
“Minerva Doe’s attorney filed a lawsuit Friday.”
Scudder shook his head. “That’s going nowhere.”
“I don’t know about that. She has a strong claim. There was extortion.”
Scudder gave him a stern look, then broke it off with a scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous. Be a shame if that got any traction. I know the developer. Good man. Played a round with him just last week. I’m sure he’ll survive any so-called exposé. Or should I say, airing of a family’s dirty laundry?”
Charlie grinned. “There’s always that chance, isn’t there? Next time you two go golfing, tell him to settle.” He patted the banker on the shoulder for good measure.
The banker gritted his teeth at the patronizing gesture. Aimee said, “Let’s change the subject.”
“Good idea,” Scudder said. “Aimee, did you know this muckraker’s wife—or is it ex-wife?—is one of my employees? She’s testifying for the bank in an upcoming class-action case. Charming woman. Always liked her. I don’t think she shares Mr. Sherman’s views on affirmative action.”
“What case is that, Pitts?” she asked.
“It seems one of our African-American employees didn’t get a promotion and decided to involve all her friends. They’ll lose, of course. Perhaps Mr. Sherman could share his royalties with them. That’s the way you liberals work, isn’t it? Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He bowed to Aimee and turned his back on Charlie as he walked off.
Charlie opened his mouth to say something witty and scathing, but Aimee was already drifting away. Just as well, since he could only come up with profanities. Scudder joined some friends across the room. Charlie saw the glint of contempt in Scudder’s eyes as the banker glanced back at him and gestured over his shoulder with a thumb. He said something Charlie couldn’t make out, but if he’d lip-read correctly, Scudder had just bragged about fucking “that asshole’s wife.” His buddies guffawed.
No. It couldn’t be.
Charlie knew he had to get out of there. “Excuse me,” he said, squeezing past two gossiping doyennes in a hall on his way to the kitchen. He found Dana chatting up the caterer. He felt a pang of jealousy and a sense of dread, suspecting that screwing the help was just her way of doing business. He whispered, “This party’s gone south. We need to go before I kick somebody’s ass.”
Dana took the caterer’s business card and walked with Charlie to the foyer. There they saw Charlene Guy laughing merrily, her arm interlocked with that of her escort, a handsome blue-eyed man in a tux with a rim-collared shirt. Charlene gave Charlie a purposefully nasty glare. She looked like she was going to pull a microphone out of her black clutch purse and continue the disastrous early-morning interview they’d conducted earlier that week. Charlie pivoted away, dragging Dana behind.
When he found Aimee, Charlie said, “Wonderful time. Gotta go.”
“But it’s so early!” Aimee protested.
“Sorry,” Charlie said. “I have pumpkin issues.” He left her laughing.
Once out the door, Charlie breathed a sigh of relief. At least Dana was still with him.
“I have come to the conclusion,” Dana said as Charlie pulled her along, “that those vere not your people.”
“No, they’re not. Then again, I’m not even sure I have people.”
“They’re not mine, either,” she confessed as they got to the car. “I only came to try and separate them from their money. Vot is your excuse?”
“I guess I just wanted to see how the other half lived. I’d rather wash dishes at Redeemer Wilson’s soup kitchen than party with these folks.”
“Vell then, you should.”
“I should.”
The drive to Castlegate seemed to take forever, due to Charlie’s anticipation of a happy ending to the night. As soon as he parked in the garage, Dana popped out of the car, laughing gaily. “Come on! I’ve been vaiting for such a long time. When I saw you looking like burly truck driver at Jean’s coffeehouse, I said to her, ‘I vant to taste that.’”
And he vanted her, too. Once they were inside the vestibule, she pressed the elevator button insistently. The doors opened to reveal a stranger in a suit. “Which floor?” he asked.
Before Charlie could step inside, Dana dug her fingers into his arm and pulled back.
“Aren’t you getting off?” she asked.
The man smiled and said, “Of course.”
After he exited, Charlie and Dana stepped inside and the elevator door closed. “Let’s go to your place,” she said.
“I thought you wanted—OK.” Charlie pressed the button for his floor.
As the elevator rose, Dana gave Charlie a tight-lipped smile.
The doors clanked open and Charlie looked down the corridor. He stepped out, and Dana followed a half-step behind. Suddenly Charlie was staring down the barrel of a pistol. From the corner of his eye, he saw another armed man grab Dana’s rig
ht hand as she reached into her purse. He pulled her thumb back, hard. She shrieked in pain, and a black Glock automatic flew from her hand and hit the floor. The man cinched her waist from behind and lifted her off the floor.
Charlie was about to go for the gun pointed at him—multiple attempts on his life had made him fatalistic—when a badge holder flopped open in front of his face. “FBI,” the man said. A rumble of footsteps came from the stairwell. Seconds later, a SWAT team burst through the exit door into the hall. With a dazed expression, Charlie looked around, his hands in the air. A half-dozen helmeted men in body armor pointed assault weapons at him.
Dana would not go gently; still held from behind, she reared up and kicked a SWAT member in the helmet with both feet, knocking him to his knees. Two other men grabbed her legs. She was hogtied in mid-air, hair disheveled, spitting and spewing foreign curses, her right breast exposed and flopping.
“Rodika Arcos, we have warrants for your arrest,” said a stocky white man with bristly gray hair—FBI Agent Brisco, who looked like he’d neglected to shave his head for a week.
“Rodika Arcos? There must be some mistake,” Charlie said.
Four men carried the writhing, screaming woman to the open elevator. Charlie, stunned and shocked, remained passive as an agent pressed his face to the wall and cuffed his hands behind him. A door opened and a neighbor peeked out, then disappeared.
“Am I under arrest?” Charlie asked.
“Not yet,” said Brisco. “Come downstairs with us.” Not that there was a choice with a SWAT member holding each arm. Charlie walked down the stairs under his own power, thereby avoiding Dana/Rodika’s rough treatment. Once outside, Brisco called Charlie over to a spot on the sidewalk in front of the bakery while three SWAT members stood nearby, their assault weapons pointed in the air.
Dana got special treatment. A black SUV roared up the street and squealed to a stop in front of the garage. As she was stuffed into the back seat, she shouted, “Cancel my dentist appointment!”
“What’s that about?” Brisco asked Charlie.
“I have no idea,” Charlie said as he watched the SUV speed off, even though he did.
As it turned out, Brisco knew who Charlie was and treated him with a modicum of respect. He uncuffed the writer for a sidewalk interview that convinced both men Charlie didn’t know much about Dana/Rodika, except that she was incredibly hot. Brisco then released Charlie without telling him why she’d been arrested, though Charlie was sure the charges would be exotic, since that’s how she rolled.
Back in his apartment, Charlie fretted. Why couldn’t they have busted her in the morning, after he’d spent the night with her? And should he, as a gentleman, post bond? Nah. She was a flight risk. Based on her travel habits, a frequent flight risk. Still, he owed her some consideration in exchange for what she’d done for him when he’d been shot. He dug up the bill for his root canal and cap and called the dentist’s office. He realized that his phone might be tapped, but at this point, what did it matter? The voicemail message gave him an emergency phone contact. When he called the second number, a woman answered. “Buna Zeewa.”
“Doctor Blaga, please. It’s an emergency.”
A moment later a man said, “Hallo. Who iz thiss?”
“A friend of Dana Colescu. Or Rodika Arcos. The FBI arrested her about an hour ago and took her … I don’t know where, actually. She asked me to call you and cancel her appointment … whatever that means.”
Apparently, Charlie had said too much. Foreign curses filled his ear, and the man hung up.
After a few minutes of moping, Charlie remembered he needed to check on something. He went downstairs and bought an early edition of Sunday’s paper from the rack in front of the bakery. Atop the front page: “Sherman’s March Through Forsyth.” The subhead: “Do Author’s Character Defects Mar Books?”
Another story inside bothered him more: “Sherman’s Sources Disputed.” Crenshaw had interviewed historians from Emory University and the University of Georgia, who didn’t say anything conclusive. Their professorial hemming and hawing served mainly as ballast. The real accusations came from David Clark, Cecil Montgomery’s self-appointed replacement as local historian. “Bullshit!” Charlie cried out and stomped around in a circle in front of the bakery. There is a special place in hell for historians who bear false witness … against those that do God’s will, that is.
Charlie was so restless from the night’s tumult and drama that he couldn’t sit still, let alone lie down and sleep before the trip to Chicago, where he and his character defects would match wits with varmints on that abominable TV show. Having no idea where he would end up, he hopped into his BMW and drove into the night. He headed north on the Downtown Connector, then northeast on I-85. Before he knew it, the car was idling on Thornbriar Circle and Charlie was staring at his old house, wishing he was inside it. He even missed Susan, if only because she held a broken-off piece of him and wouldn’t give it back. That nasty BMW now occupied his old spot in the driveway, and another man slept in his former bed beside Susan, who was breaking vows and commandments left and right. But mainly she’d been lying. First with Bryan. Now with Harold.
Had Susan slept with Scudder, too? Charlie’s face burned hot with anger and jealousy. He couldn’t drive the horrific possibility out of his mind that Scudder was Ben’s father. But when Charlie thought about it, Ben did resemble Susan’s CEO. No! Don’t go there! He couldn’t help himself, however. He kept matching the bank president’s face to his son’s until one became the other. He told himself that no matter who the father was, Ben was his son. This was the same concept Minerva had tried to preach to him about John Riggins. At the time, Charlie had been too involved with his own version of the truth to listen to hers.
He is my son, Charlie told himself. And I know better than anyone on earth that he can be taken from me.
And what about Beck?
Was this the payoff for his heroic efforts on the Almighty’s behalf? Had he fulfilled his contract only to be mocked and have his children stolen from him? This was an outrage on a cosmic scale: Not only were they being stolen from him, but now he was being stolen from them, his genes sucked out of them like he’d never existed. Why was his reward this crushing loneliness? No, this couldn’t be Satan he was dealing with. Even the devil would have cut a dude a better deal than this. The devil was logical and cunning. This was random and cruel, to give him a test that had all wrong answers.
Charlie knew he should leave before something else weird happened. He drove off and circled the city on I-285 until he came to the Memorial Drive exit. He took it, turning away from the giant Confederate monument at Stone Mountain and heading west toward Atlanta, listening to a late-night DJ pretend the world was a party. When he reached Redeemer’s church, Charlie pulled into the parking lot. Aimee had hinted that Redeemer was dying. The man’s dream—his shelter for the homeless—was withering away, too. Charlie wondered where the money would go. Probably to pay Redeemer’s medical bills, but no one would admit that, because it would sound corrupt, and some twenty-four-year-old TV reporter might get hold of the story.
Charlie wasn’t there looking for God or answers this time. He was looking for Tawny. It had been months since he’d seen her, and now maybe it was time …
A car barreled past on Memorial, weaving in and out of its lane, horn blaring. This part of town was surreal in the middle of the night. Certainly not a safe place for his BMW. As he sat with the engine idling, contemplating how to proceed, a woman’s unearthly screams tore the air.
They seemed to be coming from down the street.
What was he thinking, coming to this place? There was nothing he could do but save himself. He drove off, testing the car’s acceleration. On the way back to Castlegate, he managed to convince himself that the cries of torment hadn’t come from the church.
* * *
Fueled by bad news and lack of sleep, Charlie’s depression was in full force Sunday morning. When the alarm rang,
he rolled over and looked at the clock. If he hurried, he could eat breakfast and catch his flight to Chicago. On the other hand, if he went back to sleep, he’d miss it. An easy choice: He would let the varmints have their undisputed say. They could steal hotel towels, too, for all he cared. Charlie turned off his phone and avoided the computer. When he finally got up, he watched a baseball game on television, then an old movie. After that, he listened to jazz. He figured that if the food held out, he wouldn’t have to leave the loft until Friday, when he was due in court to battle Susan for the kids.
Sunday bled into Monday. Just before dawn, Charlie woke up. Curious about Dana’s fate, he ambled downstairs to get a newspaper. Her late-night arrest hadn’t made Sunday’s paper, but now it was front-page news. Only then did Charlie learn what had kept Rodika Arcos flying all over the world: international art fraud, drug smuggling, gunrunning, and—according to Romanian authorities—espionage and conspiracy to commit murder. There were also “crimes against humanity” on her rap sheet, stemming from the time she spent with a Serbian man. Then, her name had been Arca. And what was this? What kind of woman would participate in an armed attack on an orphanage? Wow. Could he pick ’em, or what?
Although Charlie escaped mention in the arrest story, he’d been linked to the international fugitive in a society brief about Saturday night’s soirée. “I’m toast,” he muttered when he saw his name in bold print next to Dana Colescu’s.
He stared at the painting he’d purchased from her. Why did he have to go and buy art from a forger? Hell, he didn’t even know if it was hanging right side up—or if it was backwards, for that matter. Did the artist really live in Paris and have AIDS, or did a twelve-year-old Filipino girl paint it using photographs and mirrors?
The first knock on the door came at 7:03 a.m., and he was officially under siege. That morning, at least a dozen people pounded on the door. Each time, Charlie stood still and waited for the knocking to cease.
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