The Booster Club

by Angela M. Sanders

  “Or we could talk about Wanda Rizzio’s kids,” Claudine said. “Which is why we’re here.”

  Ruby shot her a dirty look. “I think that’s nice, Deb. I’ll start. I grew up down South, but when my dad left us, me and my little sisters, Pearl and Opal, came back to Carsonville, where Mom was from. Mom was president of the Carsonville Women’s League.” Ruby looked from Deb to Claudine to see if they registered the importance.

  “Oh, my,” Deborah said.

  Something didn’t add up. “So you were wealthy,” Claudine said.

  “For a little while.” Ruby dug in her bag for a fan and flapped at her reddening face. “Sorry. Anyway, Mom died when I was fourteen, and I went to beauty school and married Bruce, and here I am,” she finished quickly.

  “Oh,” Deborah said.

  There was a lot missing, Claudine thought. She wondered who had taken responsibility for the sisters. Ruby, probably.

  “Tell us about you,” Ruby said to Deborah.

  “I’m an only child. I wish I had sisters like you.” Deborah gave the women a melting look. Ruby appeared ready to adopt her. “I went to the state university and started a degree in child development. I wanted to be a teacher. But then I met Louie when I was home during summer break.”

  “You’d make a lovely teacher,” Ruby said. “I did a couple of quarters of community college.”

  “You’ve been awfully quiet, Claudine,” Deborah said. ‘What about you? Where did you go to college?”

  “Nowhere,” she said. Why all the nosiness? They had a job to do. This wasn’t a social club.

  “Is that all?” Ruby asked.

  “Look, we’re here to talk about the kids, right? Why don’t we get down to business?”

  “All right. Sure,” Ruby said. “No harm meant.”

  “Sorry,” Claudine said. “I have somewhere to be, that’s all.”

  “Where are the others?” Deborah asked. Her phone on the table chimed, and her eyes shot to its screen. “My mom.” She sounded disappointed. She pushed the phone away a few inches.

  “I think it’s just us,” Claudine said. No one else was foolish enough to meet in a group like this. Now she knew why.

  “Larry says Wanda’s kids are squatting in an old firehouse in the warehouse district down by the river,” Ruby said.

  “How many are there?” Deborah asked.

  “Four. The oldest is a boy, not quite eighteen. Then there’s another boy and two girls.”

  Claudine remembered the oldest boy, Hugo, from years ago. He’d been chubby and interested in model airplanes. Wanda had been disappointed that he didn’t have the physique for slip-and-fall work. “Isn’t there a family shelter in town—you know, somewhere they can stay together?”

  “Nothing,” Ruby said.

  “And no families who can take them all?” Deborah asked.

  “Apparently not. And now that they’ve run away—” Ruby started.

  “Exactly,” Claudine said. It would be juvie for them.

  “Oh,” Deb said. “Those poor kids. My parents get lots of stuff left behind at the dry cleaner’s. Some good sleeping bags and coats. We could put together a care package.”

  “First we have to see if they’ll take our help,” Claudine said. “We don’t know much about them now, other than what Larry says. And you know Larry.” Larry, who’d set her up for this.

  “True.” Ruby tapped a peony-pink lacquered nail on the table. “We’ll visit the firehouse. Check out the situation.”

  “I know,” Deborah said. “We’ll have a fundraiser. Then we can help them get the things they need.”

  “That’s a brilliant idea,” Ruby said. “The Women’s League does them all the time.”

  Claudine looked from woman to woman. Were they talking something legit? “You mean like a bake sale or car wash or something?”

  “No. Not that,” Ruby said. “A cocktail party. Or a dinner. We sell tickets and invite a crowd who can donate, you know, get the right people involved.”

  “But—” Claudine said. Raise money? Straight-like? “Absolutely not. Have you forgotten something?” She leaned forward and whispered with enough force to ruffle the solitary mum adorning their table, “We’re crooks.” She leaned back and folded her arms over her chest. “I’m sure we can scare up a few donations if we tap into that community.”

  “I do have a lot of rather expensive watches,” Deborah said.

  “The Women’s League would never sell stuff to raise money,” Ruby said.

  Claudine arched an eyebrow. “If you like the Women’s League so much, why not just join them?”

  “I have my reasons.” Ruby’s icy tone made it clear she didn’t want to go down that path. “As for doing this legit, I don’t see why we should endanger the kids by pulling them into anything illegal.”

  “Maybe we could hold it here, at the tea shop,” said Deborah.

  “My salon is out,” Ruby said. “It’s too small, and it would agitate the dogs.”

  “Stop it already. No one agreed to hold a fundraiser, we—” Claudine began.

  “I have a big house,” Deborah cut in.

  Ruby’s face lit up. “Of course. The Granzer mansion. People will come just to see it.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it a mansion,” Deborah said in a small voice. “It’s not like we have servants or anything.”

  “The big stone building up on the bluff, right? The one at the end of the street?” Ruby asked.

  Yes, Claudine thought. That’d be the house. They might need to rent silverware, but she had to admit it would be a good spot for an event. Not that she’d have anything to do with it.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Perfect.” Looking satisfied, Ruby settled back on her velvet-upholstered chair.

  Claudine shook her head involuntarily. This idea of Ruby’s was bad news all around. “Look, I’d better be moving on. Why don’t we talk about all this next time?” Claudine pushed her chair out and reached for her purse. There’d be no next time for her. She’d send a check to Larry and wash her hands of this.

  “Already?” Ruby asked.

  Seeing her rise, the host trotted to the table with their bill on a porcelain saucer.

  “I’d better get home, too,” Deborah said. “Louie’s supposed to fly in tonight, and I want to make sure the house is presentable.”

  “Fine. All right,” Ruby said. “Let me get the check.”

  “Oh, no.” Deborah dropped a fifty dollar bill on the saucer, and the host snatched it up. “Keep the change.”

  “We’ll be seeing you again?” the host asked Deborah. “And the rest of you?” he added with less enthusiasm.

  Ruby seemed to pick up on his tone immediately. “Why, yes, you will. Regularly.”

  “I suppose you want the large table again,” the host said.

  “A more intimate table, better placed, of course, will be fine.” She yanked her bag to her shoulder and, chin up, walked to the door.

  Claudine paused, then followed, with Deborah behind her. On the sidewalk, the women faced each other.

  “I’ll send out an email about going to the firehouse. We can check on the kids, bring them food,” Ruby said.

  “Fine. I guess I’ll see you girls later,” Deborah said.

  “Wait,” Ruby said. “We don’t have a name for our group. We have to at least settle that.”

  “Why do we need a name?” Claudine asked.

  “It makes us official,” Ruby said.

  They moved to the side to let two chattering women enter the tea house. Through the window, the host was smiling broadly and gesturing toward a table.

  “How about the Booster Club?” Claudine said. Who cared what the name was? She wasn’t going back anyway.

  A smile glimmered on Ruby’s mouth. “All right. The Booster Club it is.”

  Deborah looked puzzled.

  “Come on, Deb. I’ll explain.”

  4

  The Booster Club. Claudine shook her head
.

  She pulled the Accord into the garage behind the Scent Shoppe, the Dupin family business. Well, second business. The Scent Shoppe occupied a rehabbed Victorian house with an apartment upstairs, where Claudine now lived alone since her father had moved to the Villa. The house was on a commercial street, but quiet—perfect for their line of work.

  She’d left Sue, a retired bookie, in charge of the shop while she was gone, but the woman’s car was nowhere to be seen. The boutique’s front door jangled as Claudine entered a miasma of scent underscored by the quiet soundtrack of Fred Astaire’s “Putting on the Ritz.” “Sue?”

  A dark-haired man with a slender mustache glided from the house’s old living room, now rimmed with perfume display cases. “Ah, señorita, can I help you?”

  André! Claudine hugged her brother. “I almost didn’t recognize you with dark hair. What are you doing home? Dad said you were in Mexico City filming a telenovela.”

  “My evil twin killed me off and went to prison. They said they might write me into the series next year, but I’m not holding my breath.” He dropped the Mexican accent. “I sent Sue home. Hope you don’t mind.” He picked up a bottle. “I see we got in the new Comme des Garçons.”

  “Heavy on the cedar, but not bad. You want to stay with me?”

  “There’s a vacancy at the Villa, so I’m staying with Dad.” At her look of concern, he added, “Ronny passed. I heard it was peaceful.”

  “He’d been sick for a while.” Strictly speaking, Ronny shouldn’t have been a Villa resident since he hadn’t broken the law. He’d made his living buying cheap electronic items from China, then reselling them on the street as hot. He didn’t have the stomach for crime, but he liked the community.

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right? I have a roll-a-bed.”

  “Dad’s getting older. I figure I’ll stay there until someone makes a stink about me not being retired and kicks me out.”

  The door rang, and a woman dressed as if she’d just left her yoga class hesitated.

  “Señora? May I help you?” The accent reappeared, and her brother once again became the Latin lover.

  “I, um—” The woman bit her lip. “I was thinking about getting a signature scent. I’m not sure where to start.”

  André led the woman to the boutique’s showroom. “We’re just about to close, but you, with those dazzling eyes, must have a perfume that sings with violets. Let’s try Aimez Moi first.” Seeing Claudine gesture from the vestibule, he said, “Un momento, por favor.”

  Claudine lowered her voice. “You don’t mind closing up?”

  “Not at all. Oh—Oz came by.”

  Oswald. Her ex. A shiver ran through her. Whether it was dread or anticipation, she didn’t know.

  “He left this for you.” A folded note appeared in André’s palm. André had never stopped practicing his illusionist’s skills. He’d always been the adventurous Dupin—joining the circus after high school and training as an acrobat, living for a year on a cruise boat and performing as a magician, and, despite being gay, charming enough well-to-do widows to keep himself in Belgian loafers. He liked to brag that if he left the widows a touch lighter in the pocketbook, they were much richer in joie de vivre. “I’m due at the Villa for dinner after I close up here, but I’ll stop by soon.”

  Claudine took the interior stairway behind the counter to the apartment, which had a convenient second entrance from the outside. An orange tabby cat leapt from an armchair and rubbed against her legs. “Hi, Petunia. Get enough beauty sleep?” Petunia was male, but he was a year old before she figured that out, so his name stuck.

  She dumped kibble into the cat’s dish and poured herself a glass of wine. She took Oz’s note to her armchair but couldn’t bring herself to open it yet. Oz, damn it. She’d had a long dry spell as far as men were concerned. No civilian was safe, and the crooks were, well, crooks.

  She clicked on a lamp. It was getting dark so early these days. Still avoiding the note, Claudine reached for her laptop and checked her email. She had a new message from “chihuahualover.” “Let’s meet to check out the old firehouse. Monday at 4 pm,” it read. “See you there.” Claudine would send her regrets later.

  Petunia, having crunched enough of his dinner to satisfy him for the moment, jumped into Claudine’s lap. With one hand stroking the cat’s head, Claudine ripped open the note at last.

  “Hi Deanie. Hank said he told you I’m out. I hear you have a big job planned. Would love to see you. How about Monday afternoon? Oz.” Below his name was his phone number.

  After three years, she was pretty sure Oz was out of her system. He’d find some other woman to charm into keeping him in beer and clean laundry until he moved on. But if he knew there was a big job in the works—something he might get a piece of—he’d plague her until he had a piece of it, too.

  She tossed the note on the table and picked up her wine glass. This heist was going to be a big one—her biggest—but also her last. She could clear a couple million fairly easily and live off the investments. The San Francisco Museum of Decorative Arts had planned an exhibition of jewels from Rosa Cabrini’s estate. Cabrini, an opera singer, had run through five husbands—a sheikh, an oilman, an Argentinian soccer star, a shipping magnate, and the heir to a disposable diapers fortune—before dying in the bed of her chauffeur, a friend from childhood. Along the way she’d amassed a heap of jewelry that made Elizabeth Taylor’s collection look like it came from a Cracker Jacks box. The best of it would be on display in San Francisco in less than a month.

  Claudine had the building plans encrypted on her laptop, plus three colleagues on tap to help with the heist. An Austrian jeweler was already crafting fakes. She’d break in and whisk past security, both physical and electronic, and swap out the real jewels for the dupes. A dour but whip-smart colleague in St. Louis would do surveillance the night of the heist. A colleague in Geneva was ready to transform the jewels into ready cash to deposit to an offshore bank account. It was a small but crack team, and Oswald had no part in it.

  Oz would know if she were lying—con men were good at that. He’d never relent if she flat out told him to get lost. Putting him off and hoping he’d be distracted elsewhere was the best solution. He wanted to meet on Monday. She supposed she could look at the firehouse with the Booster Club Monday afternoon instead—or at least pretend she was.

  She punched Oz’s number into her phone and sent a text. “Already have plans Monday afternoon. Will be in touch.” Yeah, right.

  She nudged Petunia off her lap and lowered herself to the floor for her nightly series of stretches. Faint piano music from the house next door drifted through the window. Something by Brahms—a sonata, maybe. Soon the days would be too cold to leave the window open. She could already smell the shift to autumn.

  Her father had beamed when he’d heard the details of the San Francisco heist. Finally, he’d said, something worthy of her grandfather, something closer to her old jobs. Dad would be less happy when he heard she was quitting the business. She sat up. Had he told Oswald anything detailed about the heist? Surely he wouldn’t be that stupid.

  She relaxed again into a hamstring stretch. Then, rising from the floor, she grabbed the top of the doorway and raised her legs, toes pointed, to waist level. Where would she be now if she’d gone to college, as originally planned?

  Her face burned as she remembered being called into the high school vice principal’s office. In one chair sat her favorite English teacher, hands in lap, and in the other, Ellie Whiteby, one of the most popular girls in school and a gold-plated goody two-shoes.

  “Miss Whiteby tells me she saw you shoplifting last weekend,” the vice principal had said. Ellie nodded, her Pantene girl hair glinting in the sunlight through the window behind her.

  Remembering, Claudine cringed. Yes, she had pocketed a tube of ointment. It was one of two times she’d ever been caught shoplifting. Otherwise, her record was impeccable. The shopkeeper had let her go with a stiff warning whe
n he found out she was only trying to help her father’s sprained back. She didn’t tell him, of course, that he’d sprained it jumping from the second story window of a house he was burgling.

  “We checked with the drugstore, and they confirmed it,” the vice principal added.

  Her English teacher had seemed genuinely upset. “I’m so sorry, Claudine, but we’re going to take back the college scholarship we offered you.”

  “We’re withdrawing our letters of recommendation, as well,” the vice principal said.

  “I’m so sorry,” the English teacher repeated almost in a whisper.

  “It can’t be helped,” Ellie had said. Claudine and Ellie locked gazes. A smile of triumph flashed over Ellie’s face.

  Ellie would pay, Claudine remembered thinking. How and when, she didn’t know, but she’d pay. Yet she never had.

  5

  Monday afternoon, Ruby stared at the firehouse. It had been built as a Works Progress Administration project during the Depression, then abandoned when Carsonville built the big new station eight or nine years ago. The years had not been kind to either the firehouse or the neighborhood. The building’s windows were shards, and mortar crumbled from its brick exterior. Beyond the firehouse extended the rail yards, and next door was a graffiti-covered warehouse. Weeds burst through cracks in the sidewalk. It was hard to believe that only a few blocks away were high-end restaurants and glittering condos.

  “Are you sure anyone lives here?” Deborah asked. Next to her, Claudine also surveyed the building.

  A crow perched on a gutter, its talons scraping the metal. The weather had turned cold overnight, and a brisk wind whipped up the narrow street.

  “Larry says this is definitely the place.” Ruby shifted her grocery sack to the opposite hip and tried the garage doors where the fire engine would have once been. Locked, of course. In the late afternoon light she could make out nothing but cobwebs and a few boxes on the dusty cement floor inside.

  “Maybe they moved on,” Claudine said.