Chapter 9
Blake eased into his Lazy Boy recliner and took a swig of his beer. He let out an extended “ahhh”, and then clicked on the TV like he was Joe Average Suburban.
He came across an old basketball game on ESPN Classic, featuring Michael Jordan. He was the one contemporary from the 1980s that he would put on his level. He admired Jordan’s “killer instinct.” He didn’t want to just beat his opponent—he wanted to embarrass them. Natasha had a similar quality, but she lacked Jordan’s relentless work ethic—he blamed Irina for that.
Thoughts of Natasha made him change over to the local news, which was showing highlights from the Scottsdale Open. He had a special bond with her, probably because he spent more time with her than his other children, staying until she was almost eight.
He was forced to leave the US when Cam was just two, and Geoffrey was yet to be born. Cam was often compared to him, which he scoffed at. His son might have had a similar skills-set, but that’s where the comparisons stopped. Cam was mentally weak, always walking away when things got tough. He blamed himself for not being there for him, as it was obvious that the boy needed a male role model to push him. Geoff inherited his father’s mental toughness, but it didn’t do him any good, as he was nothing but a cripple. If he could combine all his children into one person he might have something, he thought with a sad shake of the head.
He rarely reflected on the Cuban years. He never wanted to be there—forced to hide out in the Soviet puppet country when things got too hot for him in the US following Senator Barrett’s death—and left the first chance he got. Teo was a replica of Cam, in that he was blessed with all the talent in the world, but lacked the mental toughness to reach the top. And his older sister, Anna, who now lived in the US, working as a simple waitress, was destined to follow in her whore mother’s footsteps. She was barely even worth thinking about.
He switched the channel again, this time to GNZ cable news. The bombings in Israel were the headline story, but Blake was only interested in the woman reporting the story.
He slipped into a trance at just the sight of her. So much so that he didn’t even hear Jineane calling him from the other room, inquiring whether or not he would like a piece of apple cobbler to wash down the burgers. On the third, “Baby, did you hear me?” he waved her off. She wondered aloud how he could be so glued to the news. “It’s nothing but death and misery, Blake.”
He remained focused on the screen. Katie Barrett stood in front of a desert landscape with a sand-filled breeze blowing in her face. The morning sun had risen over the Middle East and reflected off Katie’s still-beautiful features, giving her an angel quality. Her hair was much shorter than during their marriage. He preferred it long, but was pleased she’d recently returned to blonde … the glasses were a new twist. But he grew frustrated that the camera view wouldn’t give him a look at her legs. They were his true weakness, and if Lee Henson had the sense to use them against him, he would have surrendered years ago.
From the moment he laid eyes on Katie in that DC bar, he felt the danger. Their meeting was an arranged by his superiors, since her father was the head of the Intelligence Committee in the US Senate. But his feelings for her were anything but contrived. They were instant, and hadn’t lessened an ounce in the many years since he was torn away from her.
She seemed as tough and independent as ever. It was always more than her beauty that attracted him. He always admired her toughness. Not only would she not back down from him, but she could get under his skin like nobody before or since.
He worried for her safety in the unstable region, and wanted to reach inside the TV and pull her into his arms. It made him think of their honeymoon, when they promised that they’d never let go of each other, no matter what.
Until he moved to Sedona, he never knew of its ethereal beauty made up of stunning red rocks. Because when he and Katie took their honeymoon here, they never left their hotel room for the entire week.
He told himself that the reason he chose Sedona upon his return, was because it was a tactical place to find refuge. But his true hope was that Katie would make a pilgrimage here one day to re-live that magical time. She wouldn’t be able to explain it, she just had to come. At least that’s how it played out in his mind. But he’d been here a decade, and he was still waiting. He knew at some point he would have to risk everything to go to her, but that day had yet to arrive.
He shut off the TV and went back into the kitchen. “I’ll take that pie now, baby.”
Jineane was feeling frisky. “I’ll give you some pie.”
He decided to skip dessert. They retired to the bedroom where Jineane took him up on his lovemaking offer.
He would think of Katie.
Chapter 10
The light turned green and the wheels of the black Jeep screeched. Tim tried to keep up in his rented Ford Focus. He was just glad Natasha wasn’t driving that fire-engine-red Ferrari that she and Tatiana toyed around Miami in a few weeks back.
Natasha was treating Scottsdale Road like Daytona, swerving in and out of traffic, oblivious to the angry honks.
Tim got stuck behind a slow moving pickup truck. He needed to stay with her, but as he strained to see around the pickup, he witnessed the Jeep getting smaller and smaller, until it was just a black dot.
He had to make his move. So he drove into the southbound traffic. The first problem was a truck barreling right toward him … and fast. It slammed on its brakes, but it would never stop in time. He made a sharp move to his left, avoiding the truck. He apologized to Sam and Milla for his untimely death, held his breath, and darted back across the traffic, toward the northbound lane.
A symphony of horns rang in his ears. But when he breathed again, he realized he made it. He wasn’t sure how, but didn’t have time to wonder—he had to catch the Jeep! He hit the accelerator, but as he passed each major intersection—McKellips, McDowell—there was still no sign of it. He got stuck at a light on Thomas and thought it might be a lost cause. But then he saw the Jeep in the parking lot of a Circle K convenience store.
He noticed the girls laughing. Mocking him. It might have stopped a greater man, but luckily for Tim, he was completely sapped of his dignity at this point.
The Jeep took off again—the girls knowing full well he’d follow.
Tim didn’t drive very often, or even own a car—the subway was his preferred form of transportation around New York. But he was getting the hang of it. He sped as fast as he could and even performed a Z-like maneuver to pass three tightly bunched cars. He felt like those paparazzi who were always chasing Natasha.
They let him get close enough to view their laughter, before speeding ahead again. They were toying with him, but they were underestimating the resolve of a New York PI. Nothing could stop him … until he heard the sirens.
The lecture from Officer Nelson was long and rigid. “Thirty-three miles per hour over the speed limit,” “no regard for the safety of others,” “what’s your hurry?” And the out-of-state driver’s license didn’t help his cause.
But Tim was barely listening—he was focused on how he might have missed his last chance at Natasha. That was his hurry. The ticket he received for over $300 was just more salt in the wounds … and more red ink for O’Connell Investigators.
He didn’t know what to do next, so he just sat in the car on the side of Camelback Drive, and stared out at the mountainous horizon. He figured that his best bet was to find the closest bar and wallow in some 80-proof self-pity. Then a knock on the passenger side window changed his plans. He looked up to see the blonde hair of Natasha Kushka. He wondered if it was one of those desert mirages he’d read about.
“Are you gonna just let me stand here all night? If you don’t pick up hitchhikers, I’ll bet I can find another boy to give me a ride.”
Tim didn’t doubt the boast. He reached across and fumbled with the door handle. The cheap Focus didn’t have power locks. After finally managing to open the door, Natasha got i
n, wearing a black mini dress that left little to the imagination. It appeared she’d made a wardrobe change for the evening portion of the show.
“You drive like a crazy woman,” he said, as he started the car and pulled back out onto Camelback.
“You should see me after a few shots of vodka.”
She laughed, but he didn’t think she was kidding.
“So, where are we going?”
“Do you like my dress?”
“It’s cute.”
“Bunnies are cute. I think we both know it’s a little more than cute!”
“And modest,” he said, feeling his PI mojo returning.
“Tatiana doesn’t think you’re very cute, Tim O’Connell, but I do. I like older guys. They are more romantic.”
“Does that mean you’re going to give me that interview, Natasha?”
“My friends call me Nat.”
“Okay, Nat, are you going to give me that interview?”
“I haven’t decided if we are friends yet, Tim O’Connell. So I’ll let you know when … and if … you can call me Nat. Do you really work for a parenting magazine?”
Her mood did a sudden one-eighty. Part of him wanted to tell her the truth, but the bigger part knew the truth was overrated. “Yeah, um, why would I make that up? If I wanted to impress you, I’d tell you I write for Rolling Stone or something like that.”
Natasha laughed. “Or Second Serve?”
“Pathetic?”
“Worse than pathetic.”
“Really pathetic?” Tim played along.
“Worse!” Natasha shouted, returning to her childlike playfulness.
“Really, really, really pathetic?”
“That’s the one!
Her seriousness then returned. She swung moods as hard as she did her racket. “I do know what it’s like to have a parent commit suicide. If you think I can help, then I will do my best.”
“Does that mean we’re friends, Natasha?”
She thought for a second, and then said, “Call me Nat.”
Chapter 11
Tim followed Natasha’s orders to a bar called Dessert Oasis. It was quiet and dark—much different than most of the places he’d followed her to. The name played off the Arizona desert theme, but was spelled like the treat that followed the main course. He got the feeling that’s what he was for Natasha, and his guard remained up.
Men in suits mingled with professional-looking women, who hung on their boring stories. The place had a grownup feel to it, very anti-Natasha. Tatiana was already seated at their table, and stood to greet her commanding officer—she also had made a wardrobe change into a skimpy dress. She was attractive, but standing next to one of the fifty most beautiful people in the world—as voted by People magazine, which has the final say on such matters—made her seem pedestrian. She was still in a much higher league than the one Tim played in.
Tatiana and Natasha greeted with a double-cheek air kiss. Then Natasha asked, “Did you lose them?”
“You should have seen how pissed they were when they saw it was just me in the Jeep,” Tatiana exclaimed, with a little more Russian, and less Florida in her voice than Natasha. She proudly held up the blonde “Natasha wig” she’d been wearing over her auburn hair.
Natasha smiled wickedly. “I’m not sure you two have been properly introduced. Tim O’Connell meet Tatiana. She only uses one name because she thinks she’s famous like Madonna.”
He grinned. “So you’re the one who doesn’t think I’m cute?”
“At least I’m honest,” she shot back.
After they took a seat, Natasha said, “So Tatiana, did you know that Tim O’Connell actually writes for a parenting magazine. I have agreed to do an article for them about children of suicide.”
Tatiana flashed a look of disapproval. “This afternoon it was Second Serve, and now it’s parenting. Next he’ll be from Playboy and have you naked by midnight,” she said, accompanied by a sarcastic roll of the eyes.
The waitress arrived. Natasha announced they would start with Sake Bombs. She seemed quite comfortable with alcohol for someone who was years away from reaching legal drinking age. Tim was no stranger to the occasional cocktail himself, and thought a few drinks could help him get the information he needed.
When the waitress left, Natasha turned to Tim. “I apologize for Tatiana’s rudeness. She hasn’t been laid in about six months, so she’s in ice princess mode.”
“I can’t believe you’re talking, Nat. You have never even …”
Natasha shot a laser beam glare, which stopped her in mid-sentence. Tim found the exchange interesting.
Sake Bombs were followed with a round of vodka shots, and predictably the mood at the table picked up. Natasha told a humorous tale of how the girls tricked Natasha’s security earlier in the evening and left them in the dust at the Phoenician, the resort they were staying at.
“They are probably still looking for us!” the girls shouted in unison, followed by drunken laughter.
“Liquor before beer never fear. Beer before liquor … never sicker!” the now very drunk girls began singing. They were picking up all the important American customs.
A good-looking man in a tan suit walked over to their table and summoned the courage to ask Natasha to dance. She put her arm around Tim and announced she was here with her boyfriend, which got strange looks from everyone. But Natasha offered Tatiana as a consolation prize. Tatiana sent her a dirty look, but followed the man to the dance floor. She seemed to have mastered the skill of knowing when she could push Natasha, and when it was best to submit to her whims. Tim wondered how far she’d go to please her.
He now had his opportunity. Alone time with Natasha with the added benefit of having a few drinks in her. Better than he could ever have asked for. It was now or never.
“Since I’m your boyfriend, do I still call you Nat? Or should we have one of those pet couple names?”
Natasha pushed herself up against him. Tim felt a lightning bolt pass through him. Anna who?
“Now that you’re my boyfriend you can call me Naughty Kushka,” she said with a giggle. She then kissed him on his sunburned cheek.
Tim momentarily stopped breathing.
She patted his inner thigh, which jolted him back to life. “Don’t worry, Tim O’Connell. You don’t have to have a stroke—you aren’t getting any tonight.”
“Will I be getting my interview?”
“You aren’t really with Playboy, are you?” she asked hesitantly. He could tell she wanted to trust him, but trust didn’t come easy for her. Might have something to do with a certain father who abandoned her.
“I’m not, but if you want to pose naked I won’t stop you,” he said with a smile. “I just have a few questions about your father.”
Natasha sat back in her chair, her arms crossed tightly across her chest—a rare defensive position from her.
“Okay Tim O’Connell—let me hear your questions.”
Chapter 12
Tim pulled a small flip-pad out of his back pocket. It seemed like something a serious journalist would do—except for the fact he didn’t have a pen. Luckily, Natasha was prepared. She explained that she carried pens and photos of herself at all times because of the constant requests for autographs.
“Let’s start with what he was like. What do you remember most about him?”
She appeared to think deeply about her answer, surprisingly taking the interview seriously. “That he seemed like a giant to me, like he was fifteen feet tall, and his smile always gave me comfort no matter how tough he was on me. I felt safe when he was around.”
“How was he tough on you?”
“A lot of yelling and punishments, but never hitting, if that’s what you’re thinking. Usually about tennis, but also if I didn’t finish my chores. He said he got mad at me because I could be the greatest in the whole world if I developed a killer instinct, and he didn’t want me to miss my chance like he did.”
“How did he miss h
is chance?”
“He would have been the greatest Olympian the Soviet Union had ever seen, but politics got in the way. He was a soldier, and it made him miss the Olympics.”
“Did he ever talk about what he did in the military … was he in a war? It must have been significant if he was forced to miss the Olympics.”
“Not that I remember, but I would have been too young to understand, anyway. When I asked my mother about it, she told me that his missions were so secret that even she didn’t know.”
“What was his relationship with your mother?”
“They used to be angry a lot, and then he wasn’t, and became really quiet. It was like he gave up, which was the opposite of what he taught me—he always said when life gets you in a corner, that’s when you have to fight harder.”
“Tell me about the day he left,” Tim said, bracing—her expression said he was opening old wounds.
But she didn’t attack—quite the opposite. It was if she’d been waiting to tell her story for a long time. “I remember finding the note. He sometimes would leave me notes when he went on fishing trips. Little reminders of tennis stuff, like remembering to use my backhand more. I was always excited to read the notes.”
Tim felt a pit in his stomach. What a son of a bitch—it was one thing to leave, but another thing to toy with a seven-year-old girl. “But this note was different?”
Her eyes began to well with tears. Tim repeated to himself the first rule of PI work—never get emotionally involved. But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel for her. Behind all the glam and drama, she was just a typical mixed-up kid.
“I still can see it. An envelope between my tennis trophies,” she said, struggling to fight back the tears.
“May I ask what the note said?”
“It talked about how I need to always have the ‘killer instinct’ in tennis and in life,” she shook her head as if trying to shake the memories away. “He planned on killing himself, yet his last words to me talked about killer instinct. How messed up is that?”
The Jack Hammer Page 4