by Lois Greiman
I made an impressed expression, but came back with a zinger. “I once dated a guy who had a crush on my hot-water bottle.”
He opened his mouth, then shook his head, defeat written all over his face. “Go out with me,” he said.
“I don’t think—”
“I’ll be a gentleman. I’ll pay. I’ll even double-date.”
I was prepared to refuse again, but then I shrugged.
“Less likelihood of getting murdered in crowds,” I said, and he laughed.
23
In my opinion, kissing a lady’s hand is a fine tradition. After all, a man must start somewhere.
—Senator Miguel Rivera,
at his most flirtatious
RIDAYS CAN BE UNPREDICTABLE. Sometimes clients feel the need to store up extra therapy for the oncoming weekend, but this close to the holidays they seemed to be heading straight for a likely alternative—eggnog.
My last client left at 4:55 in the afternoon. I would be celebrating Christmas at Laney’s apartment, so there was hardly a reason to clean, but I still hadn’t finished shopping, so I closed the office early to brave the holiday crowds. Wheeling through Target, I found frilly pink pajamas with pom-pom footsies and a matching lace headband for Christianna. At six months of age, my niece was still as bald as a cabbage, and I was pretty sure her feminine ego might be flagging. But after setting the ensemble lovingly in the cart, I was overcome by a possibly irrational fear that I was trivializing her intellect and bought her a singing alphabet toy to balance her psyche.
By the time I reached home, there were two messages on my answering machine. One was from Mom, reminding me that good daughters call their mothers with the same regularity that they change their underwear. The other was from Senator Riveras secretary, who asked that I stop by Caring Hands on the following day at noon. There was little to no explanation. I tried to call the senator to ask what this was regarding, but I only got his voice mail, which was neither informative nor particularly conversational.
After sharing a lightly burned dinner of sautéed chicken and brown rice with Harley I called directory assistance for Austin, Texas, and asked for Cynthia Larson. Not surprisingly, no such person was listed, but there was a Cindy Larson. I got the number and called her. She was ninety-three years old and told me in no uncertain terms that she was as fit as a fiddle and attributed her well-being to the fact that she didn’t eat cinnamon. I congratulated her on both her health and her wise gastronomic decisions, then asked if she knew, or had known, any other Cynthia Larsons, but that’s where the communications broke down. She was only interested in opining about spices.
After that, I Googled the Larsons in Austin and found a host of options on a handy little site I’d never heard of before. It even listed relatives, but none of them matched the senator’s short-lived flame. Still, I printed up the list and vowed to start calling them immediately. Immediately being right after a dose of flirty fudge ice cream.
Ten minutes and three pounds later, I began at the top of the list, perfecting my pitch as I worked my way down. The first three didn’t know any Cynthias. The next one hung up before I had explained how I owed money to an old friend who had helped me out in a pinch, and the fifth swore at me in fairly colorful terms.
As interesting as the experience was, I needed a break, so I tried directory assistance again, this time for Baton Rouge, and asked for a Priscilla Ortez. I knew that Kathy Baltimore had been a lesbian and, according to Donald Archer, Emanuel had been a lush, but I didn’t really know if my Wiccan theory would hold water.
There was only one Priscilla Ortez in the Baton Rouge area. She answered on the third ring.
“Hola.” The woman’s tone was upbeat and energetic.
“Yes, hi… is Carmella there?”
“Carmella?”
“Yes. I’m calling from Our Lady of Guadalupe.”
“The church?”
My hands were sweaty. Lying might be second nature to me, but it’s still hard work. “I’m the treasurer here, and the task has fallen on me to call any members who might be able to boost our coffers. I’m afraid our monthly donations aren’t quite up to par, and the Lord’s work must go on.”
“Mama wasn’t a member of your parish.”
I sniffed. “It’s true that she hasn’t attended services for some time, but Catholicism has changed. Even though she’s been absent, we still consider her one of the flock.”
“That’s very open-minded of you, but—”
“Ergo, she can still make a charitable donation before the end of the tax year. A thousand dollars would go a long way toward new vestments for Father Pat.”
“A thousand dollars?” Her voice was becoming a little shrill.
I wiped my right palm on the leg of my ugly pants. “Donations can’t absolve sins, of course, but sometimes they can help the sinner feel—”
“My mother was a practicing witch.”
Bingo! “Oh, well… perhaps you—” I began, but she had already hung up.
raffic was atypically well mannered on the 2 that Saturday morning. I had slept in, then gone running. Because I had gotten mostly nowhere regarding immigration and couldn’t bear to face Ramla’s basset-hound eyes, I showered at a truck stop. Unfortunately, I hadn’t had enough time to find a Laundromat and was dressed marginally worse than I had been on the previous day. My sweatpants were frayed, and my T-shirt, while in decent shape, had suffered some kind of mystery breakfast stain en route. But maybe the folks at Caring Hands weren’t the kind to pass judgment, many of them being homeless and all.
I arrived there shortly after noon. The parking lot was cracked like a desert floor and nearly empty, but inside, the multicolored crowd was milling. I skimmed the faces, searching for the senator, and stopped, frozen.
Lieutenant Jack Rivera was standing not thirty feet away. My heart hiccuped in my chest. He looked good. Tired and worn, but still darkly alluring. He wore blue jeans, faded at the knee and riding a little low on his leaner-than-a-bush-warrior’s hips. A ribbed T-shirt showcased the ropy muscles of his arms and just brushed the ends of his too-long, midnight hair.
And he was laughing.
For a moment I actually thought I was mistaken. The dark lieutenant, laughing? But then I recognized his companion. I’m not sure how I had managed to temporarily ignore a woman like Thea Altove, but such is the power of insanity.
They were facing each other, conversing like old friends—or worse. But suddenly there was a breathless stillness to the place. I wasn’t sure what it was, couldn’t identify it immediately, but then I turned and saw Senator Rivera. He, too, had spotted his son and was striding purposefully through the crowd toward him.
The lieutenant turned slowly toward his father, dark eyes shifting, hard body flexing. As for me, I skittered behind a refrigerator-sized Jamaican man, but I needn’t have worried about being noticed. The Riveras only had eyes for each other. In fact, if I wasn’t mistaken, flames were momentarily shooting from those eyes, even though the conversation seemed to be relatively congenial, at least on the senator’s part.
As for the younger Rivera, his body language was shouting some words not acceptable in polite society. The senator raised a hand, indicating the back of the building, and, finally, after an abbreviated delay, they excused themselves from the supermodel with the hair and moved together through the crowd toward the senator’s office.
I darted my gaze there and back. There and back. The senator obviously had his hands full. Therefore I should leave, but that went against everything I stood for as a snoop and a lunatic. So I shifted carefully away from my human shield and through the crowd. Barely breathing, I stepped into the corridor where they had disappeared. The senators door was just closing. Glancing down the hall, surreptitious as a wild ferret, I tiptoed to the portal and laid my ear against the grainy oak.
“You wanted to talk to me?” Riveras voice was a low, angry growl.
“What are you doing here, Gerald?” the senator asked
.
“You tell—” began the other, but suddenly I heard footsteps coming my way.
Panicked, I jerked to the right as if heading toward the back of the building. But I would rather have cut off my ear than miss the conversation, so my hand—completely disconnected from my conscious self and common sense—reached out and turned the knob of the next door. It opened silently beneath my fingers. My heart stuttered in my chest. I was ready to spout apologies and as-yet-undetermined explanations, but the room was empty. Pushing the door closed behind me, I shut my eyes and told myself not to be stupid. Too late.
Footsteps tapped harmlessly past the door, and in a moment I had scooted between a folding chair and a stack of cardboard boxes. I pressed my ear to the wall. It was as thin as papier-mâché.
“We do very important work here,” the senator was saying.
“So your philanthropic nature insists that you help,” Rivera said. “Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
The senator sighed heavily. “This injured-son routine is getting a bit weary, is it not, Gerald?”
“You don’t really expect me to believe that your esteemed presence here has nothing to do with Gallup polls?”
“I admit that I have made mistakes,” said the senator. He sounded weary and put upon. “But we cannot all be perfect like—”
“Made mistakes!” Rivera began, then laughed. “Is that why you wanted me to come? So that you could somehow convince me that you are not as perfect as I have always believed you to—”
“I have no wish to have Thea turned against me.”
There was a moment of silent surprise, then: “Thea?”
“Don’t bother pretending ignorance.”
“Thea?” Rivera spat out the name like old chaw. “I hauled my ass halfway across town so you could warn me off a girl I’ve never met?”
“It wasn’t—” the senator began, but Rivera stopped him with a mocking laugh.
“Jesus! This is rich. You—”
“Don’t you take the name of the Lord in vain if you wish—” The senator’s voice had dropped to a hiss. I strained my ears, but there were footfalls in the hall again, distracting me.
I froze, not breathing, but the noise tapped past and away. I pressed my ear more firmly to the wall.
“Tell me, Senator, have you fucked her already or are you still just hoping?”
The tension was palpable, even on my side of the wall. “You were always a foul-mouthed boy who never—”
“And you were always a foul-minded lecher.”
“You ungrateful—” the senator began, then took a long, challenged breath. “Theodore Altove is a very dear friend of mine.”
I could imagine Riveras disdainful stare. He was aces at it. “I’m afraid you’ve lost your gift for pontification, Senator. Because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Thea is Teddy’s daughter.”
There was a momentary delay then, “No shit.”
“Keep your voice down.”
“This is almost too good to be true. My father.” He stressed the word. “The man who was engaged to marry my fiancée. The man who caused her death—”
“I had nothing to do with her death.”
“That same man is trying to keep me away from his …” He paused. “What is she to you exactly Senator?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Really? What is it I can’t comprehend? That there’s a deep spiritual bond between you? That she has an old soul that only you in your infinite wisdom can understand while you screw—”
“Shut your mouth!” hissed the senator, and suddenly I realized that I had become too absorbed in the familial volleys and had missed someone’s arrival in the hall. I turned, breath held, waiting for them to pass by. But the footsteps stopped. I leapt away from the wall, but as I did so, my foot caught the trash can. It bumped against the desk, rattling like kettle drums.
When I glanced up, there was a woman standing in the doorway. She was middle aged, short, and stunned. “Can I help you?” She was looking at me with a mixture of shock and reprimand. Rather like one might look upon finding a cow in the silverware drawer.
I thrashed around wildly in my head, but for the life of me I couldn’t come up with a single plausible reason for my current whereabouts. What was I to do but say “Sweet potatoes,” in a voice that rasped and lisped and sputtered all at once.
Her brows shot up like helium balloons. “I beg your pardon.”
Maybe part of my mind was desperately searching for sanity but the crazies had a good firm hold on my larynx. “I like sweet potatoes,” I said, slurring my words. “And giblets.”
She opened her mouth, closed it, tried again. “Are you looking for the meal line?”
“Meal,” I repeated, dumber than french fries.
“It’s down the hall and to your right.”
I nodded and shuffled out.
“And if you need new clothes, we offer those as well.”
I scurried away, face burning, still muttering about yams and chicken innards. When next I glanced back, she had disappeared into her office. I blasted out of there like a rocket ship on speed.
was still embarrassed hours later when I arrived at Best of Vegas. The rambling art deco restaurant was located on Harvard Drive, where the rich and spoiled like to loiter. I had heard mouth-lubricating reviews from the senator and others who dined there regularly but had never had the pleasure myself. Just that week, however, I had received an all-inclusive, one-day-only coupon and, wanting to be beholden to no man, thought it a clever idea to use it or use it.
“Christina.” Archer was waiting in the brightly colored lobby, dressed in a suit and tie. He motioned vaguely to his ensemble. “I never know what to wear.”
“You look fine,” I said.
He smiled. “Well, you look spectacular.”
I did look pretty good. Knowing Laney and Geek Boy were going to join us, I had pulled out the stops. Not that I’d intentionally put in any stops, but the lack of clean laundry had definitely given me pause. Earlier in the afternoon, however, I had remembered my unclaimed dry cleaning. Hence, I had hustled over to Zippy Cleaners. My plum-colored silk blouse was neat as a pin, my black knee-length skirt well pressed and pencil thin. Well, on Laney it would have been pencil thin. On me it was more the width of a… well, of my hips. But I still looked damn good.
We were escorted through stained-glass doors to a semicircular booth near the back, where we were seated.
“You hungry?” Mac asked.
I considered asking him if hippos had big asses but refrained. A little class wouldn’t hurt anything, especially when ordering a meal slightly more expensive than my house payment.
“‘Cuz I’m starved,” he added, and immediately began perusing the menu. “Would it seem criminal if we ordered without them?”
“Laney’s not easily offended,” I told him, “and Solberg… well, I don’t care if you offend Solberg.” I’d given Archer a thumbnail summary on the phone of Elaine, her career, and her improbable pet/boyfriend. He’d still shown up. Scanning the appetizers now, he asked me several salient questions regarding my affinity for portobello mushrooms and shrimp scampi. In a minute he had placed an order for both.
After a short segue of relatively painless conversation, the appetizers arrived. One was flaming, one simply resting on its lovely laurels, but I fear we might not have given them their due respect, because ten minutes later they were no more. Amidst scattered talk of family and polo shirts, the platters had somehow become empty. Donald winced.
“Please tell me I didn’t eat all of that,” he said.
I refrained from belching. I’m a classy mushroom’s worst nightmare. “I think I had a little.”
“Are you sure? ‘Cuz I eat too much when I’m nervous.” He unbuttoned his jacket and fidgeted a little. “I’m nervous a lot.”
I had to admit I was starting to kind of like this guy. Just then Laney arrived. She was wea
ring a pair of blue jeans that had had some hard knocks and a multicolored belted tunic. Nothing special. I waited for my date to pass out at the sight of her in all her unvarnished glory, but he managed to remain vertical. Another point for Rich Boy.
Soon we were all settled in.
“So …” Solberg grinned at me. “This your new squeeze, Chrissy?”
“Donald Archer,” I said, not taking my best raptor gaze off Solberg, “this is J. D. Solberg.” They reached across the table to shake hands. “He likes to call himself the Geek God.”
To Solberg’s credit, he looked a little chagrined as he glanced at Elaine. I was hoping he was embarrassed by his own ridiculous past, but, truth to tell, he wasn’t nearly the ass he had once been. Laney’s been known to reform cannibals and ax murderers, too.
“And this is Elaine Butterfield,” I added.
Archer nodded. “Royalty,” he said.
She shook his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He settled back in the booth, smoothing his tie away from the detritus of our hors d’oeuvres. “Where are you from?”
“The Amazon,” she said, and smiled.
He glanced at me and back. “You’re an Amazon queen?”
Her smile broadened just a little.
“And here I didn’t even know those Amazon ladies were real.”
The three of us blinked at him in startled unison.
“Oh, shit.” He looked stunned enough to flee. “I just said something stupid, and we haven’t even gotten our entrees yet.”
By the time the meal was finished, I’d laughed more than I had since my brother Pete mistook my science project for pudding. Both Laney and Solberg had stuck to mineral water, but Archer and I each had a single drink. Maybe they made the evening go by a little more smoothly, but I had a sneaking suspicion it would have been all right without it. Donald was intelligent enough, down to earth, and ridiculously comfortable to be with.
“Seriously,” I said. Elaine had gone to the restroom. Solberg was probably pacing like a rabid dog in front of the bathroom door, afraid she’d shimmied out the window and hightailed it back to her filming location in Idaho or wherever geek gods with hair implants were in scarce supply. We remained by the table, which was covered with a full dozen emptied platters. “You really didn’t recognize Elaine Butterfield?”