River Rules

by Stevie Fischer

  “I’ll circle back to you soon.”

  “Buddy, if you’re too busy helping housewives lose cellulite, let me know. I’ll find someone else before the door hits you in the ass on your way out.”

  Ian gritted his teeth into a smile. “No worries, mate. I include you in my special prayers.”

  “Thanks. A little extra in the God department couldn’t hurt.”

  CHAPTER 10

  THE FRIDAY MORNING OF PETER’S ARREST, CARMEN Fiori, forty-nine and unaware of this momentous event, stood naked in front of the full-length mirror in her huge bedroom closet and critically assessed her petite silhouette. The light from the antique wall sconces and the soft earth tones that graced her inner sanctuary, built out of her cheating ex-husband’s closet, were designed to flatter.

  “The legs are the last thing to go.” Carmen still approved of her shapely legs and the black shoulder-length bob framing her brown eyes, Roman nose and rose-bud lips, a look she’d tinkered with for years. Just like Cleopatra, her studious young grandson, Jimmy, suggested, delightedly showing her a picture from his favorite book on ancient Egypt. But Carmen frowned at her drooping breasts.

  “Damn gravity.”

  Carmen strapped the girls into a sag-defying padded bra and stepped into her basic spring uniform of tan capris, a black V-necked sweater and sneakers. As she did her makeup, adroitly applying concealer to her under-eye bags, she decided Botox could wait another month.

  Amped after a big cup of high-test espresso, Carmen walked the hilly expanse of Fiori Orchards, armed with her iPad and phone. She saw some rot on the Honeycrisps in Section A and photographed it carefully. Back in the house, she sent the pictures to the specialists at the state Apple Council. Absentmindedly, sipping at her second cup of coffee, she scrolled through her new text messages and almost fell over when she read Lori Welles’s brief text about Peter’s arrest.

  WTF, she texted back.

  Peter had muscled into her sex fantasies for almost a whole year. Carmen’s sixteen-speed vibrator worked impeccably, but she never came with such shuddering fulfilment as when Peter crowded into the picture. She recognized the irony; the man she couldn’t kick out fast enough needed to be in her head for the earth to move. Just thinking about him in this unguarded moment made her pulsate, an electric charge that juiced her pants and splashed her coffee.

  “Oh my God, Carmen. Get a grip.”

  Carmen had shut Peter out abruptly from her life two years ago, right after her daughter, Becky, died at twenty-three, high and drunk after yet another night of partying at the quarry. Although Peter supported her lovingly when her mother finally passed away from Alzheimer’s, a gut-wrenching shadow of her former self, Carmen couldn’t handle him after Becky died. She knew he cared about Becky and Jimmy, but the double whammy of losing her mother and her only child in three years destroyed her world.

  After the overwhelming awfulness of Becky’s funeral, which Carmen remembered in precise detail, she forced him to leave. She felt her edges sharp as glass and didn’t hesitate to skewer even the well-wishers. When a woman came up to her at the gas station and said she was so brave, Carmen stared at her with disgust.

  “Here’s a word of advice, die before your children so you don’t have to be brave.”

  Carmen boiled it down to simple calculations, all of them zero-sum decisions: cling to Peter and depend utterly on him or crawl out of the wreckage and depend on herself, somehow rising like a phoenix from the ashes of her life. And it had to be her, not only for Jimmy’s sake but for her own. So, she built an impregnable iron fortress, reinforced with barbed wire and snarling wolves, to chase Peter away and keep him out for good.

  “You destroyed your own happiness,” her grief counselor said when Carmen could finally do more than cry during their sessions.

  “I hate happy. It’s bullshit, and what you’re really talking about is love, isn’t it?” Carmen jumped up from the armchair she usually curled up in. “Romantic love or whatever ridiculous fucking name you want—it makes you blind and stupid. Look at what my being in love with Peter did. It doesn’t have a place in my life anymore.”

  “Is that fair to him? To yourself?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. We’re done here.” She never went back.

  Carmen was raising Becky’s son, the introspective Jimmy, now eight years old. He devoured books and delighted in impressing his grandma with his unusual interests, currently pyramids and pharaohs. Whoever Jimmy’s father had been, Becky, then seventeen, couldn’t remember or wouldn’t say when she told her mother she was pregnant.

  “I’ll get an abortion, Ma. It’s just a stupid mistake; I’m sorry.”

  “That’s my grandchild, not just a stupid mistake,” Carmen yelled, shocking them both. They locked eyes as they stood wordlessly frozen in place.

  Finally, through tears, Carmen spoke first. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sorry I said it. Of course, it’s your choice. I absolutely believe that.” She wiped her face and blew her nose noisily. Becky did the same, only louder, and they cried in each other’s arms.

  Becky loved Jimmy and made sure to give him the Fiori last name, but being a teen mom sucked, in her own words.

  “Jimmy Fiori is gonna know where he’s from. I can’t give him much, but I can give him our history,” she said to her grandfather, who slowly embraced the whole situation. Becky worked at the orchard after Jimmy’s birth and earned her GED. Carmen paid her a generous salary and helped with Jimmy, but Becky didn’t step up the way Carmen thought she should.

  “I need a life,” she complained to Carmen. “I’m missing all the fun. I want to go out with my friends. Why can’t you watch him more?”

  “Becky, you can’t go out every night and party. I’m happy to do three nights a week. And you better be using birth control.”

  “Butt out, Mom.”

  “You just asked me for more help, so I’ll butt in every now and then, thank you very much. I’ve got a life, too.” Carmen bit back the pointed observation that Becky was acting like a spoiled brat. She didn’t want to go there again.

  Peter used to come over once Jimmy, who slept like a log, went to bed. And Carmen spent a lot of time at Peter’s cottage. She huddled with Annie, Jeff’s wife, to scout through the attic for old black-and-white pictures of the Russo clan and farm. After checking with Peter, who gave her carte blanche to do whatever she wanted, she got them framed and hung them artfully on the walls. She also moved his collection of rubber chickens to a shelf in the garage.

  Lori panicked when Carmen spiraled into an absolute recluse after Becky died, only able to surface from the depths of her personal hell for Jimmy and the orchard. Anything and anyone else, including Peter had to go, not that Lori understood what happened there. But Lori knew Carmen would do anything to help Peter out of jam.

  Lori and Carmen went way back to elementary school. Feisty and always ready to fight for a cause, Carmen took no prisoners, even as a kid. When Lori, younger by a few years, needed protection from schoolyard bullies who taunted her for being different, shouts of “dyke” ringing through the air, Carmen made them pay. She also taught Lori a few key moves, like the best way to kick someone in the groin.

  Carmen’s fingers danced madly as she and Lori exchanged texts. When Vic called her to complain about ruining his Memorial Day plans, Carmen set him straight.

  “You’re doing it or I’ll make your life a living hell. Obviously, I’m footing the bill. It’s Pete, for Christ’s sake. And don’t tell him it’s me or I’ll hunt you down, so help me God.”

  “OK, I got it. Try a little decaf, would ya? But hey, you’re the boss.”

  “Damn straight and don’t forget it.” Carmen’s ex-husband Anthony Baldini, better known as Ant, had hit the road long ago. A hard partier who never met a vice he couldn’t master, he didn’t have Vic’s ambition, loyalty, or smarts. The Baldini’s hailed from West Hadley where their used-car dealer lots were celebrated for their trashiness. Carmen had never
taken the Baldini name, and Becky couldn’t wait to legally change her last name to Fiori when she turned sixteen.

  A few hours later, Carmen spoke to Lori on the phone. “How bad is it, Lor? Pete didn’t assault anyone, I know it like I know my name. But Saunders being involved must’ve made him crazy. I get that. But, if I was talking to him, I’d kill him for being such a pig-headed ass.”

  Lori sighed. “I know. I’ve asked Ian Edwards, you know, the personal trainer who’s partners with Andre at BIG? He’s a trip and a half, but he’s also a licensed PI and sharp as a tack. You’re going to pay his bill, too, Ms. Moneybags.”

  “Only under two conditions—I want to meet Ian face to face, and Pete never finds out I’m doing this.”

  “Don’t you think Peter will suspect something? I mean he knows Vic is your ex brother-in-law.”

  “Yeah, but he also knows Vic is an ambulance chaser who wins cases. And you work with him sometimes. It’s just a small-town connection. You know, the usual incest.”

  Carmen busied herself with prowling the orchard for more rot, disease and insects. The orchard laborers stayed far away, sensing her mood. But whenever she saw a potential problem, she summoned Miguel, the foreman who was her first hire when she took over the business and who she trusted with her life. She knew his boyfriend, backstory and immigration woes. He called her La Luchadora, the strong fighting woman who never quits.

  “Don’t forget who doesn’t take shit,” Carmen reminded him.

  “Don’t I know it.”

  Carmen’s humble Mediterranean heritage—her parents joked that her baby bottles were a mixture of olive oil, red wine and milk—informed her life. No processed food, no crap from anyone except the loser she ended up married to for twelve years, no surrender. Even as a girl, she’d cultivated her own vegetable patch, eagerly asking her beloved grandmother, Nonna, for recipes from the old country.

  “It’s peasant food,” her mother said disdainfully. “Don’t listen to her. Such nonsense. Since when is American cooking not good enough for you?”

  Nonna taught her how to pluck zucchini blossoms at daybreak and to stuff them with meat, rice, and cheese. Carmen learned how to get rid of evil spirits, how to put a curse on someone, how to use every part of a chicken, and how to save the blood for Nonna’s secret sauce.

  When her father, Aldo Fiori, finally washed his hands of his two slacker sons and loser son-in-law, he put Carmen in charge of Fiori Orchards. Painstakingly, she dragged it out of the Stone Age.

  “We’re gonna stop being like every other dinosaur orchard around here. I want sustainable horticulture,” she said to Peter.

  “Whore-what?”

  “Ha-ha.” She slapped away his wandering hands.

  Her brothers were furious at Aldo for passing them over. Carmen knew they were dunces, indulged by their mother until they thought the sun rose and set on their command.

  “Better you than them,” Aldo said to Carmen, waving off the whining protests. “I didn’t work my ass off to have them run it into the ground.”

  Nick, Carmen’s older brother and a womanizing layabout, still irritated Aldo immensely whenever they crossed paths. Frank, her younger brother, owed money to just about everyone. Frank’s gambling addiction, made much worse by Bridgeville’s proximity to three enticing casinos, kept him in and out of rehab, hospital emergency rooms and permanently in Aldo’s shithouse. But little Jimmy, his only great-grandchild, made Aldo smile.

  CHAPTER 11

  EARLY SATURDAY MORNING, JEFF, STILL APOPLECTIC, came by with warm freshly-baked crumb cakes from Rudy’s for the cops and a bombastic expletive-laden diatribe for his brother. He showed Peter a take-out cup of steaming coffee from the Alewife Java Hut, Peter’s favorite morning haunt, and refused to give it to him.

  “Oh, come on, Jeff. The coffee here is pure rotgut.”

  “You don’t deserve it.”

  After finally handing Peter the coffee and ranting for at least five minutes, Jeff calmed down sufficiently to inform him that Ian was on the case as a private investigator.

  “Lori’s busy, Vic’s busy—no one imagined you would be such an asshole. They need someone to get all the goods double-time on who might’ve attacked the guard. Lori tapped Ian to do the leg-work, and Vic’s in, too. BPD’s not gonna give you special treatment. There’s a line.” Jeff said, tilting his chair onto the back two legs. “That yoga freak has a current PI license, can you believe it?”

  “You gotta be shitting me,” Peter said. “Maybe I forgot that minor detail about Ian, but I thought I knew as much about him as any earthling could, outside of Andre.”

  “Hey, Nancy’s coming to see you today. Get ready—she’s fit to be tied.”

  Nancy Yates had a work ethic that would shame the most industrious honey bee. She got ahead by busting her ass off. After the ugly divorce that left her financially strapped with two furious young sons, who still hated her as grown-ups, a steady paycheck and good benefits, including full psych coverage thanks to Brock Saunders, became her reason for being. When recessions and constant mergers generated layoffs in the financial services sector, Nancy hung on, sometimes by her fingertips. Nancy’s cosmic clusterfuck as an aging single woman with major health problems and a handful of nothing fed the flames of her stress. It made her crazy. But what Peter had done made her practically certifiable.

  Nancy burst into the interview room ready for blood.

  “You jackass. If I could go back in time, I’d give you four flat tires every night just in case you hot-wired the ignition.” Nancy, currently a blonde, pounded the table with the heel of her well-manicured hand, barely able to fit her bulk into the molded plastic chair. Morbidly obese now, she sat with difficulty. Her blue eyes blazed angrily.

  Peter acknowledged Nancy’s fury with a vigorous head nod. “Mea culpa, but something had to be done, so I did it. I am not going to let those corporate bastards and government lackeys scorch the earth.”

  Officer Billy O’Leary listened to the conversation with disapproval.

  “Russo, come on. Just keep quiet like Tomassi told you.”

  “None of this would’ve happened if those Zenergy ratfucks showed some respect for nature. Wait, that’s an insult to rodents. And I’m not even mentioning how no one living near the fuel cell has a prayer of selling their houses or—”

  “Enough!” Nancy said. “We get it. But you’re on a big shit list now. The cops, the town, the state, and probably even the FBI. They’ll be watching everything you do and say.”

  Peter waved at imaginary cameras and gave a spirited thumbs-up.

  “So why did Lori bring Vic in? I mean aside from the obvious. I saw his latest profile on OKCupid. Tell me he’s a better lawyer than a liar. According to him, he looks like George Clooney and has a net worth like Bill Gates.”

  “Ha—he’s a dead ringer for a warthog,” Peter said. “And by obvious, you mean I need a sketchy operator to help my case? Or do you mean because Lori’s so in demand and had to scrape under a rock for a quick sidekick? Or do you mean Vic’s old connection to Carmen, the woman who doesn’t give a flying shit about me? Whatever. Lori’s lead on this, not that I know how the hell I’ll pay. I want my freedom back. But I’m not done.”

  “Shut up, Peter.” Nancy held up a finger in warning.

  Jeff wandered in and nodded to O’Leary. “Hey, Nance.”

  “Your idiot brother.”

  “Yup.” Jeff pulled over a chair. “Look, sorry to butt in on your time with Mr. Jerkoff, but I just had a good thought on the food truck.”

  “Did it hurt?” Peter asked. “Steam is coming out your ears.”

  “Listen to me. Now that Rachel’s officially celiac, on top of everything else, I want to do something positive for her. Plus I can swing a barter deal for a truck. And you obviously need more of a hobby than being a pain in everybody’s ass. So, the timing could work.”

  Jeff and Peter had kicked the food truck idea around for the past year or so, but everything
got derailed when Jeff’s twenty-two-year-old daughter, Rachel, got busted for heroin possession six months earlier.

  “Wait, are you saying that you wanna do gluten-free?”

  “Yeah. I mean, we still do breakfast and lunch for downtown Hatfield during the week and farmers’ markets on Saturdays. Just everything’s gluten-free.”

  “That’s not a money-maker. Any gluten-free baked stuff I’ve tasted absolutely sucked.”

  “Actually,” Nancy interjected. “Gluten-free is hot, so Rachel’s problem kind of gives you an opportunity. You bake your own.” She paused and stared at Peter. “Jeff, has he always been this slow?”

  “Would it kill you to come to the point?” Peter asked, suddenly irritable as his lack of sleep, throbbing hand and pent-up anger at his predicament kicked in.

  “Einstein,” Jeff said. “Rachel’s almost done with cooking school—specializing in baking. Does any of this ring a bell?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “We could hire a full-time baker and let Rach learn the ropes.”

  “Easy peasy. Are we actually gonna shit or get off the pot?” Peter raised his eyes towards the ceiling tiles and lightly pumped his hands in a modified praise-Jesus.“Try some recipes, buy some potholders and a couple of baking sheets. If it tastes halfway decent and doesn’t poison our friends, we fire on all cylinders.”

  “Time’s up,” O’Leary announced. He motioned for Jeff and Nancy to leave. “Jesus, Russo—potholders? It’s all about silicone oven mitts, man.”

  “But you’re going to need a dedicated baking facility if you actually go into production.” Nancy struggled to rise from the chair. Waving off Jeff’s help, she turned to O’Leary and pointed at Peter. “I’d shackle that one if I were you.”