No Offense

by Francesca D'Armata

  “What?” She stopped crying briefly and rambled, “Where’s he? Did he have an accident? He’s a good driver, except he drives too slow. Says he’s being careful. I told him not to drive so slow. Is he in the hospital or something?” Then she abruptly stopped. “You wouldn’t be here if he was just in the hospital.” She felt her knees buckling. “Would you?”

  The officer placed her hand on Steely’s shoulder. “Honey, I’m so sorry. Sometimes things happen that are out of our control. We tried—”

  “Tried?” Steely said frantically. “I want to talk to him. Where is he?” She took her cell out of her pocket. Her dad bought her the phone. It was for one purpose: to call him or her mom, any time, any place. Dad always answered. His number was the first one stored on speed dial. He set it up himself. Her finger wobbled as she pressed the single digit. Tears trickled past her face down to her neck. She brushed them off with the back of her hand. “My dad will answer. You’ll see; he’ll answer.”

  The phone rang four times. Then it went to voice mail. Steely cringed upon hearing her father’s recorded voice for the first time. She looked up at the officer and then slid down to the floor and crunched forward.

  “I’m so sorry.” The officer stooped down beside her. “Your father had an accident at Curley’s Bar.”

  Steely dropped her head and rocked back and forth. “What? My dad doesn’t even go to bars!”

  The officer placed a hand on Steely’s back. There was no way to lessen the load she had just dumped on her. “We’ll get to the truth. We have detectives interviewing witnesses now. They’re telling us your father fought with a man—supposedly over a woman.”

  Those were gut-wrenching words. “A woman?” she whimpered. “There was no other woman.” Her face overheated. Her body perspired profusely.

  The officer had delivered the most stinging news an eighth grader could ever hear: her father died in a bar fighting over a woman who wasn’t her mother.

  Steely jumped up and ran for the kitchen. She leaned over the sink and poured her insides out.

  Montgomery stayed with her. “I had to tell you because it’s already hit the news.” Montgomery opened a few drawers until she found a washrag. She ran cold water over it and dabbed Steely’s burning face. Then she rinsed it and placed it around the back of her neck.

  Steely lifted her head a few seconds later. Her body was briefly cooled, but inside she was still a raging furnace. One thing she was confident of: she knew her dad. No one could convince her otherwise. No way he had some other life. No way he was some other person she didn’t know. She respectfully responded. “I don’t care what anybody says. I know my dad. There was no woman for him except my mom.”

  Montgomery wasn’t there to debate her father’s fidelity. She was there to carry out the worst part of her job by delivering the news. “I believe you, Steely. I don’t believe everything I’m told. I hope you don’t believe everything you hear on the news.” The officer held Steely’s chin up. “Your mother really needs you now. Why don’t you go in and see her. I’ll let you know when we have more information.”

  Steely wiped her face again and hurried to the bedroom. She cried in bed with her mom until her mom fell asleep. She eased out of bed so as not to wake her. Next, she booted up her laptop. She read every news report she could find. The stories were just as the officer said. She read through each of them over again and then watched the video reports over and over but learned nothing new.

  The only confirmed fact was that her dad had passed. It didn’t matter to Steely that every one of the witnesses gave the same account of what happened—Fred Paupher was in the bar fighting over a woman. Steely wasn’t buying it. No matter what the witnesses or news reports said, she didn’t believe it.

  Her mother was devastated. She and Fred had been together since high school. He was not only her husband but also her best friend.

  The police had made many arrests at the cantina. The manager, along with over forty patrons, were picked up for drunkenness. Most had crossed over the legal blood-alcohol limit hours before the fight.

  Detectives questioned everyone. But they couldn’t identify who’d shoved Fred into the wall, where his head took the fatal blow. The only thing all of the witnesses agreed on was that a woman started screaming for Fred to leave her alone. And then a brawl broke out. The medical examiner ruled Fred’s death a homicide. Tests revealed his blood-alcohol level was zero. Steely was stumped trying to figure out what brought her dad to the bar that afternoon.

  Steely’s mom slid deep into depression. Before long, she was unable to work and almost homebound. The responsibility for her and her mother had suddenly been passed to Steely. She was her mom’s unofficial guardian. She wasn’t old enough to be official and feared telling anyone since someone might trigger having her mom committed to the state psychiatric hospital in Rusk. Steely would then become a ward of the state. Motherless and fostered until she was eighteen. Steely protected their home at all costs, telling no one about the situation.

  Chapter Seven

  Steely was sitting on the edge the sofa. The checkbook tumbled from her hands, landing between her and the coffee table blanketed with bills. Her mother lay under a blanket on the adjacent sofa watching a game show. Contestants dressed in humorous costumes for a chance to win a grand prize or to walk away with a dud was the scope of her entertainment.

  Steely had learned how to clean the toilets. The toilet cleaner label gave clear instructions. Pour it in and scrub. These were directions she could understand and follow. But there was no guidebook on how to make up a budget shortage of a thousand dollars each month. She had used coupons and bought discounted sale items. Every time she got close, somehow the shortage grew.

  “Mom, do you know if Dad had any other accounts?”

  “No, just those I gave you.”

  Steely gathered the bills together. She stacked them in a pile. They were the liabilities. The family’s checking-account statements were lined up next to them. The measly two pages accounted for their only liquid assets. There was no need to include the savings account with its zero balance. She folded her hands together and stared at the table. Seconds later she took a deep breath and exhaled as if she had run a marathon.

  “Mom, have you seen the most recent statements?”

  “No, only the ones I gave you from last month. There’s a lot of money in those accounts. Dad even paid off the mortgage.”

  “Yes, it’s paid off,” she sighed.

  “I know he was saving to build a new home. He wanted to tear this one down.”

  Steely gazed at the middle of the living-room floor.

  “The trees are beautiful, but they can destroy a foundation,” said Mom. “Dad talked about getting a beach house too, and maybe a boat. He said we could pay cash by the end of the year.” Her mother caught Steely’s distressed face. “Is something wrong, dear?”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  But it wasn’t fine. The bank accounts had a total of $575.23. Fred had emptied them. Steely pulled the previous twelve statements and carefully lined them up. Fred’s income had shot up to $25,000 a month. Two days before he died, he’d withdrawn $273,042.18 in cash. The money had vanished. And there was no record as to where it went.

  I’m not telling her. After the report about the woman, she’d think Dad was running around on her for sure. I have to find a job.

  Her granddad in Pensacola had told her about his childhood a few years before he passed. By the time he was fourteen, both his parents had died. Granddad lived at the YMCA for four years before he joined the army. After two years of service, he came back and started his own business, selling cooking pots door-to-door. If Granddad could make it, so could she. But not by selling pots door-to-door. It wasn’t a good idea to knock on a stranger’s door and ask if they wanted to buy some pots.

  Over the next two weeks, Steely applied for work at fast-food restaurants, bookstores, home-cleaning services, and finally at a library. She was ready, wi
lling, and able to work. But no one would hire her. The reason for her rejection was as clear as the toilet she had scrubbed. She was only fourteen. Every prospective employer gave Steely the same story. “You’re too young.” She couldn’t get a job doing even the simplest task.

  There was no business left to call, no place to apply—until Jenny Dix caught her after school at her locker. The halls were nearly empty; only a few students remained fifteen minutes after dismissal. Steely didn’t know Jenny well. She had one class with the girl whose signature outfit was chains—big ones around her neck, arms, legs, just about everywhere they could be hung. Back in the sixties, Jenny would have most certainly been present at Woodstock wearing nothing but long hair and chains. Steely had a signature outfit too: faded jeans and a knit pullover.

  Jenny fanned her hand past her nose. “Steely, your books stink. What kind of cheese did Cricket put in your locker?”

  “I don’t know. I’m taking them home this weekend to air out in the backyard.”

  “Hey, you ready to call my guy for a job? He’s got only one opening.”

  “Thanks for the offer, Jenny.” Steely shut her locker and spun the combo lock. “No offense, but it sounds a little sketchy.”

  “It’s not!” Jenny said defensively.

  “I’ve filled out forty-three applications. They all said I’m too young. Nobody will hire me. There’s something about their insurance that stops them from employing anybody under sixteen. Everything will be all right. I’ll figure something out.” Steely headed down the hall.

  “Hold on.” Jenny caught up with her. “He’s a successful businessman who will hire you today. He’s made a ton of money.” Jenny searched her phone. “Here, call this number.”

  “Why would this man be different than anybody else?” Steely was resistant to even make the call.

  “He’s unconventional. Call him.”

  “I don’t know…”

  The girls moved down the hall toward the exit. Two boys passed, gawking at Jenny.

  “What are you looking at?” she snapped.

  One of the boys taunted, “Did you escape from the zoo?”

  Jenny fired her math book at him. The boy dodged it and walked off chuckling.

  Timmy Kipps came up from behind. Small for his age, he was not an ounce over ninety-nine pounds. He picked up the book and handed it back to Jenny. “Don’t pay any attention to them. They just like getting you stirred up.”

  Jenny agreed.

  “Thanks, Timmy,” said Steely.

  He shyly ventured, “Steely, I’ll wait out on the sidewalk if you want to walk home together.”

  “Sure. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

  Timmy grinned and shuffled off.

  Steely and Jenny continued on.

  “How well do you know him?” Jenny asked.

  “Just met him a few weeks ago when I was cutting the grass. He lives a block from my house. He offered to help me that day and has been helping ever since.”

  “He’s ticking off the wrong people.”

  “I don’t know how. He’s a supernice guy.”

  “Anyway, let’s get back to business. This man will hire you. He’s easy to work for. His boss is weird, needs a good waxing, but you’ll never see him. I only saw him once by accident. Are you interested?”

  Steely shrugged. “What kind of job is it?”

  “Delivery. You pick up and deliver packages. Easy stuff.”

  “Like a courier?”

  Jenny gave a thumbs-up. “That’s the idea.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “Nope. It’s exclusive. Someone got promoted, and he has an open spot. You don’t want to miss this opportunity. Hurry, before he hires someone else.”

  Steely paused. “Do I need a car? I can’t get a provisionary license for another ten months and twenty-seven and a half days. You have to be fifteen.”

  “You don’t need a car. He prefers that you walk or ride a bike. Easy to get around.”

  “Will he need to talk to my mom? You know, to get permission?”

  “Steely, were you harvested in a shell? If you go around asking questions like that, people will think you’re slow.”

  “It’s a legitimate question.” Steely popped open the door and tapped down six steps.

  Jenny hit every other one, trying to keep up. “Call him. He’s really nice, except for one thing.”

  “Is he a pimp or something?”

  “No! I told you it’s a delivery business.”

  “I wasn’t sure if I was the package.”

  “I’m not a prostitute!”

  “OK, then what’s the catch?”

  “He’s very private. He just doesn’t like it if you ask too many questions.”

  “What am I delivering?”

  “What did I just say? Do your job, and don’t ask questions.”

  Steely set her books on the sidewalk between her legs. She took out her cell, input the number, and placed the phone next to her ear. “I don’t care about his idiosyncrasies, as long as it’s not illegal.” Steely looked point-blank at Jenny. “Is it illegal?” The phone was ringing.

  “Of course not,” assured Jenny.

  He answered.

  Steely had her first job.

  Chapter eight

  The Houston Police Department wasn’t the place Steely expected to be on a Friday evening. It wasn’t where she expected to be at any time. She was there for only one reason. She was in trouble. If someone at HPD needed to talk to her, she would’ve rather they did it by phone, just like her dad did when he reported a minor car accident. Steely was getting the idea that she was the only thing minor about what happened.

  Officer Montgomery ran Steely past the detainees lined up in chairs along a wall. Men and women were mixed in together. Handcuffs and fetters held them in place but didn’t stop the obscenities from pouring out of their mouths. Those arrested were innocent. Every one of them said so.

  HPD had run a sting that netted a bumper crop, way more arrests than they had officers to process. Those picked up were drugged out, liquored out, totally spaced out of their minds—some without the help of a mind-altering substance. Every detainee had the same attitude, the same angry look, and the same rough appearance, except the girl donning a white cardigan with heart-shaped buttons.

  Montgomery placed Steely in the chair next to Sergeant Donovan’s desk and informed her that Donovan would be right back. Everyone else was in line for a padded interrogation room.

  Donovan towered over Steely while getting to a chair that disappeared when he sat. His hand swallowed up a pen. The six stripes on each sleeve were earned from consistently locking up more bad guys than anyone else in the department.

  Steely was calm until Sergeant Donovan read Officer Montgomery’s report out loud. She wondered if she would be the next one seated in the chairs lined up on the wall.

  “Let’s start from the beginning,” he said, in a deep, brassy voice. “What were you doing meeting with Sling?”

  “Working.” She clenched her sweaty hands in her lap. Then she unclenched them and stuck one under each thigh. “Why did Officer Montgomery bring me here?”

  “She doesn’t want you to die before you get to prison.”

  Steely sniffled. “Well, I don’t want either one. I need my inhaler.” Steely took the canister, pressed two squirts, and returned it to her purse.

  Donovan pulled a tissue from a box and passed it to her. “Steely, listen to me. I can’t tell you what’s going on, but I can tell you this much. Don’t ever call that number again. Don’t ever—I mean never.”

  “Yes, sir,” she squeaked.

  “Never ever.”

  “I won’t. That job is over. I quit!” Steely closed her eyes tightly.

  He set the report down and eased back. “Good. May I tell you a story?”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “You’re being questioned.”

  “Why don’t you arrest Mr. Sling, if he’s breaki
ng the law?”

  “We want his boss. Slings are like weeds. His boss can always find another Sling.”

  “Am I a person of interest?”

  “No, not in that sense.”

  “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “No. May I tell you my story?”

  “Yes, sir. Please proceed.” She sniffled, dabbing her nose.

  “My dad died in the Vietnam War when I was a little boy, much younger than you.”

  Steely regained her composure and listened intently.

  “It was me, my momma, brother, and two little sisters.”

  She sighed.

  “My momma was a cook, worked late almost every night. My brother, Eddy, walked my two sisters and me to school and picked us up each day. He was fifteen. Momma didn’t make enough money for us to live on—a little short each month. Eddy got a job at the movie theater ten months before he was sixteen.”

  “How’d he do that?”

  “Well, I’m not recommending you do this. He told them he was sixteen.”

  Steely’s face widened. “He lied?”

  “Yep.” Donovan raised his hands. “He only worked there eight months before they found out and fired him. Then he could never work there again.”

  “But that was eight months your family got the money they needed to pay their bills.”

  “You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”

  “Exactly.” Steely perked up. “I’ll be fifteen in a few weeks. I’ll find a job! Thank you, Sergeant!”

  “You’re growing up fast, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” Steely was almost bubbly. “I’m all As. I have to work hard in English. It doesn’t come naturally, like math.”

  Stone-faced, Donovan quipped, “That isn’t reflected in your verbal skills. Now, listen closely. This is extremely important. You must remember to follow a few rules.” The sergeant spread out five fingers. He held down the first. “Don’t hang around anyone older than you. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He held down the next finger. “Only be where you’re supposed to be, at the time you’re supposed to be there, with whom you’re supposed to be.”