I stumbled to the kitchen and found Sandretta making a late breakfast. She efficiently dispensed lightly-buttered toast, grape juice, and coffee, which was exactly what I needed. Instead of thanking her I said, “That looks great.”
She nodded and said, “I was about to wake you.” She placed a glass vase in front of me with a peach-tinted rose and a card with my name on it.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“It arrived about thirty minutes ago,” Sandretta replied.
“For me? Who is it from?”
“Read the card, silly sir.”
I did.
The card said, “Meet me for lunch. Robaccio Restaurant. 11:30.” It was signed “Erin.”
Huh.
The rose was a nice touch but I couldn’t decide if it was a good thing or a bad thing. I hadn’t bought roses since high school prom, when I’d been forced, and I couldn’t remember if a peach rose meant “Let’s get together” or “Sorry for your loss.”
I checked the clock.
Nuggets.
I had an hour to get cleaned up and make it downtown.
I showered and shaved and put on some slacks and a button-down shirt. I jumped in the car and headed out. It took a minute to find a CD, but I finally settled on Queen. Usually, I picked “I’m in Love with My Car,” but today I felt more like “Somebody to Love.”
The Robaccio Restaurant was one of those places that sounded like a nice Italian trattoria—and it was. The funny thing about the place was the name: a blend of two Italian words. The word “robaccia” meant “trash” in Italian and “bacio” was “kiss.” Putting the two words together was like naming a British pub the Rubbish Smooch, which someone in London really needs to do. It was a popular spot with new couples because it was fancy enough to make an impression on a date but not expensive enough to create an expectation of romance. Best of all, the food was really good. I couldn’t vouch for their kisses.
I parked around the corner and walked past a screen of palms and myrtles. Erin was already outside the entrance. She was standing with her hip stuck out sideways and her arms crossed like she was impatient although I was early. She had a little clutch purse in one hand. In the other, she had a rose to match the one I’d gotten this morning.
She saw me. She didn’t wave or anything but she looked at me with a funny expression.
“Hey,” she said.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Fine. How about we talk?”
“How about we eat?”
“Okay. Talk first, then eat, if you still want to.”
We sat on a bench between the door and the corner of the building where people could wait for a table when the restaurant was busy. There was nobody else in the parking lot, except for a few empty vehicles, so we could be alone for a few minutes.
“So, what did you want to talk about?” she said.
“Uh. Whatever you want.”
“You invited me here,” she continued. “I assumed it wasn’t just for lunch.”
This wasn’t right.
The truck coming at us was pushing fifty when I caught it in my peripheral vision. The driver stomped on the gas and the engine roared, splitting the air. Five thousand pounds of metal barreled towards us. All I could see was about a mile of steel grill between a couple of headlights. Instinctively, I pulled Erin into my arms and dove sideways. She screamed. I turned my shoulders as we fell. She was on top of me when we hit the ground. Continuing the motion, we rolled on the sidewalk. There was a sickening crunch as the truck demolished the bench and slammed into a trio of date palms. My foot erupted in fire. I heard the pop of airbags through the truck’s open windows. It was over as quickly as it had begun.
Erin said, “Oh, wow.”
We were both panting like dogs. I tried standing up, hoping the driver of the truck was alive so I could kill him. The bones in my foot ground together and I grunted.
Erin said, “Oh, wow.”
I eased back down to the sidewalk. I wasn’t going to be walking on my foot for a while. Gritting my teeth, I looked at Erin. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, wow,” she said.
“Hey! Erin!” I looked at her until our eyes met and she focused on me. “Are you all right?”
She didn’t say “Oh, wow” again. She shook her head and then she nodded. She looked okay, just shaken. “You just . . .” she began. She looked down at my foot and must have seen the blood that I felt soaking into my sock and shoe. “Your . . .”
I shifted on the sidewalk. My foot didn’t hurt yet, but I could feel it throbbing. It felt like a bag of rocks on the end of my leg. Heavy. Wrong.
The noise and kinetic violence had attracted a small crowd.
I saw someone on their phone, punching three digits. 9-1-1.
Erin started moving like a person who just woke up and realized they were late for work. She scrambled on her knees to get her purse, which had fallen a couple of feet away.
“Lay back,” she said. There was an urgency in her voice that was new to me.
“What?”
“Lay back!” she hissed. She started pulling off my shoes and socks.
“What are you doing?”
“Putting you back together before the police get here.”
That sounded like a great idea. Over Erin’s shoulder I saw somebody from the crowd coming our way. A woman.
“Get back!” I said. She hesitated. “Keep everyone back. Check on the guy in the truck.” That would give the woman something else to do for a minute.
I leaned back on my elbows. “Why take off my shoes and socks?” I asked.
Erin’s reply was almost too quiet to hear. “Your body pretty much knows how to heal itself. But I need to give it a little guidance and speed up the process. I’ll reference the good side to help the other side be correct.”
“Well, there goes my career as a dancer,” I said.
Erin was busy with the task at hand but she heard me. After a minute, she said, “Dancer? What do you mean?”
“I think you just said you were giving me two left feet.”
Erin shook her head and I could tell she was trying not to smile. Or cry. “You are so dumb,” she said. “Hold still.”
She opened her purse and pulled out what looked like a medallion about the size of a silver dollar. She put the coin on my broken foot and held it there while her right hand grasped my other foot. There was a pulse of pale blue light from her hands, and the bag of rocks started rearranging itself. In looking at the process, I felt I ought to be screaming at the top of my lungs as the bones shifted under my skin. But I felt oddly at peace. There was no pain. The experience was fascinating to feel but nauseating to watch.
I tried to keep my breakfast down while my bones and muscles and tendons and vessels resumed their traditional places and knit themselves together. A smear of blood was left and that was the only sign on my body remaining from the ordeal. “Oh, wow,” I said.
“Unhn,” Erin put a hand to her head. She had a number of abrasions on her wrist and forearm and a bump was emerging on her forehead.
“You’re hurt,” I said. I didn’t know if she was feeling the effects of nearly getting killed or from the healing. Or both.
“I need something to drink. Sugary,” she replied.
By now, the restaurant staff had been informed of the problem. A waitress and a guy in a vest with a red carnation boutonniere and a nametag were over by the door, looking concerned.
“She’s in shock,” I hollered. “Get her an iced tea or a coke.”
The waitress dashed into the restaurant and came out with large glasses of both. She stepped around the truck carefully, glancing into the cab through the window with a fleeting expression of panic. Erin drank the tea first. A siren wailed, heading our way.
“Better?” I asked.
Erin nodded. She bent toward me, her head giving my shoulder a bump. “You saved my life,” she said. “You saved us both.”
I put my arm around her, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “I had to. You’re twenty kinds of amazing,” I said.
I got to my feet. I really wanted to get a look at our would-be killer before the cops arrived. I left Erin sipping her cola on the sidewalk and ventured toward the truck. The rose Erin had brought was destroyed. Its peach-colored petals were blowing all over the parking lot in sad little tatters. I dug out my private detective’s license from my pocket and held it up as an all-purpose get-out-of-my-way talisman. People moved aside and let me peer into the truck. The airbag had blood on it. The driver’s head was tilted sideways against the headrest. The impact had split his lip, and his face had been roughed up, turning it red. His eyes were closed. He had a thin horseshoe of hair and he was wearing a shirt and tie. He looked like a businessman who’d left the office for a little munch-and-murder. He was also Stained. The pattern was ugly and familiar. It was the same as Milly’s.
I didn’t recognize the guy. “Hey, buddy,” I said.
He opened his eyes halfway and looked at me. He got his head up off the headrest and mumbled through the blood that was sticking his lips together.
“Kill you. Mon-stah,” was all he said.
* * *
“He’s asking for you.” Just our good fortune that Lieutenant Kapok was in charge of the case. He’d spent the last three hours telling me there was no chance I’d be able to talk to the guy who had tried to run over Erin and me and make us permanent residents of the Robaccio Restaurant parking lot. Instead, I’d spent the time explaining that I didn’t know who this guy was, I’d never met him before, and I didn’t know why he was trying to kill us. I’d also spent the time trying not to picture how we could have been, smashed and broken and bleeding, pinned between a truck bumper and a stand of date palms. My stomach was in knots.
“Well, Luck, this guy knows your name and what you do. He admits to taking a shot at you with a rifle a couple days ago. Mostly, he’s clammed up and won’t talk, but that’s the sanest thing he’s said. Otherwise, he’s nuttier than a fruitcake on Christmas day in Squirreltown.”
“Why do you say that?”
Kapok shrugged. “Go talk to him. You’ll find out. I’m going for a smoke.”
I went into the interview room and took a seat. There was a file folder on the table containing the first reports. Our erstwhile hit-and-runner had been cleaned up and there was a white bandage on his upper lip that made him look like he had a narrow mustache. Sort of an inverse Hitler. The Stain around him shimmered balefully and I felt like it was watching me. The sensation was unpleasant and the feeling was hard to shake off. His hands were cuffed and locked to the underside of the table and the table itself was bolted to the floor. His eyes were bloodshot and held nothing but venom and murder.
From the file, I got his name: Charles Mayer.
“Hey, Charles,” I began.
“I’m gonna kill you for what you did,” he replied.
I nodded. “I’m sure you will. Just not today. So, since we have a minute and you wanted to talk to me, let’s talk.”
“Monster,” he said. It came out again as “Mon-stah.” Through his bandaged lip I could hear that Charles had a bit of an accent, and I placed him as coming from Boston.
“You’re right. I’m a monster. As far as I know, my parents weren’t even the same species. You seem to know a lot about me. So what about you, Charles? What do you do?”
“Try to kill you,” he replied.
“Well, I appreciate your single-mindedness. You must do something for a living though. To finance your attempts to kill me.”
“Yeah. I work.”
“And where is that?”
“Dying is too good for you.”
“All right. Let’s do this. Let’s pretend, for just a minute, that I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Mon-stah! You know what you done!”
“Of course I do. And I deserve to die. I realize that. But I said pretend, remember? I just want to hear you tell it in your own words. From the beginning.”
Charles took his eyes off me for the first time since I’d come into the room. He looked from side to side like he was trying to access a part of his brain that he hadn’t used for a while. Man, this guy was focused.
He looked up at me again, remembering something. “The pictures. They got my pictures.” He couldn’t point with his hands cuffed under the table so he jutted his chin in the direction of the file folder. “They got them out of my truck.”
“Pictures?” I asked. I shuffled through the folder and came up with several pieces of glossy photo paper. They were blank. I laid them out on the table.
Tears starting rolling down Charles’ face and the floodgates opened. “My baby,” he said. “Look at her. With you! She was such a good girl. You turned her into somebody we couldn’t even recognize no more! Mon-stah! You ruined her! Look at that one! You and her. What is that? Why’d you do it? And that one. You filthy . . . damn you! You got no right! She was so sweet. So pure. I wish I’d never seen her like that. How can I ever forget what you done to her?”
All I could see was white paper, but I had no doubt he saw everything he described. His pain was genuine. He hadn’t told me any details. Maybe he couldn’t say out loud. And I couldn’t be sure that the things I was imagining were worse than what he apparently could see. I listened to his heaving sobs and I felt ashamed of what he thought about me even though I had never met his daughter. Never done the things he thought I had done.
“Where is she now?” I asked. My voice came out thick and heavy.
“Dead!” Charles replied. The tears were flowing freely and a trail of shiny snot had started under his nose as well, running over the bandage. “Her mother and I put her in the ground last spring. I spent months tracking you down so I could kill you.”
He looked at my face with utter disbelief. Watched what was rolling down my cheeks. His expression changed from sorrow back to anger again. “Why’re you crying?” he demanded. “You don’t get to cry for her! You are not allowed to cry for her! You did this!”
I carefully stacked the sheets of blank paper and put everything back in the folder and then closed it up again. Then I wiped the dampness off my face with my hand and stood.
“I don’t blame you for wanting to kill me, sir,” I said. “And I don’t know if you believe me when I say I want to get you some help. But I’m going to try.”
“Don’t you leave! Mon-stah! Get back here!”
I left the room with Mr. Mayer cursing and vowing to kill me.
Kapok was standing in the hall, hunched over like always. “You got more out of him in ten minutes than we did in three hours,” Kapok said. “Maybe we won’t let him kill you after all.”
“Appreciate that,” I replied.
“He’s nuts, right?”
“Like a fruitcake in Squirreltown,” I said. “Got something for you though.”
“Go ahead.” Kapok frowned, already not liking what I was going to say.
“Check him for tattoos. He might have one on the back of his neck. If it’s temporary, wash it off. Let me know what happens.”
“Now you’re nutty,” Kapok replied.
“Never can tell.”
Chapter Eleven
Some Enchanted Evening
While I’d been at the police station, Erin had taken refuge in her lab. She appeared to be lost in thought. Lost deep.
“Hey. How are you?” I asked.
She roused herself and gave me half a smile. “Okay.”
“You had some scrapes and bumps. Do you need anything for those?”
“I heal quickly. It’s hard to use magic on yourself but I don’t need it. I’m fine.”
Upon inspection, the bump on her head was almost gone and the scrapes on her arm had all but vanished.
“How about you?” she asked. “Any other complaints?”
I had a few, where I’d landed on the sidewalk. “Only that we didn’t get to have lunch.”
“Mmm,” she replied.
“Would you show me how to use magic?”
She took a deep breath. “I guess that is my duty now, isn’t it,” she said. “As your undesired helpmeet.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. I didn’t . . .” I hated sounding defensive. “You don’t have to do anything. Just tell me who else to talk to and I’ll . . .”
“No, no,” she stopped me. She put her hand on my arm for a moment. “I didn’t mean anything against you. It’s this whole . . .”
“Deception thing?”
“Yeah.”
“I understand. Look. How about you come over to my house, okay? Max will make a great dinner for us and we can talk like we thought we would at lunch. There won’t be any truck-driving assassins. You can teach me to make a nickel float in the air or something.”
Erin smiled and it was two halves this time. “Okay. Dinner’s on you. Lesson’s on me.”
“Sounds good.”
She got serious again. “What happened with the guy in the truck?”
“You’ll find that very interesting. I’ll tell you after dinner. I have something else to show you and I think they may be related.” I wiggled my eyebrows. “The plot will thicken.”
Erin rolled her eyes just enough to make it cute. “So dumb.”
* * *
I was waiting at home, nervous like a teenage kid pacing around before a date with the prom queen. Which this wasn’t. Not a date. Just two professionals, talking business over dinner, who were married. Why be nervous? The phone rang. Kapok.
Got Luck Page 9