by Kate Merrill
Diana hung back as Sorvino stormed down the hall and flung open the door to the master suite. She caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a home office, with papers scattered across a Berber carpet. A slim, darkly tanned woman in a terrycloth bathrobe, head wrapped in a towel, peeked around the corner.
“Sorry, I’m running late. Be out in a jiffy.”
The woman’s accent stabbed like a dagger from Diana’s past. Brenda Sorvino reallywas a Main Line girl, with an upper crusty voice like Katherine Hepburn strolling across Bryn Mawr campus. Diana grew up with girls like Brenda. She had envied their cashmere sweaters and expensive loafers. And although Diana attended their country club parties, she’d never been one of them. Instead, she had won her scholarship to Bryn Mawr and had long since forgotten the inequities of her youth.
The Sorvinos closed themselves into the master bedroom, their voices raised in muffled anger. Diana sensed trouble in Paradise, so she made herself scarce. She wandered back to the great room, noting how in spite of the expensive furniture, the house had a cold, unlived-in atmosphere. If Brenda attended Moore College of art, why weren’t there paintings hanging on the walls? As an avid collector, Diana could hardly breathe without art and sculpture, but she realized she was relatively alone in that passion.
Where were the books, the clutter of human habitation? The sterile perfection made her excessively nervous, but that was not unusual. Many of the fine homes she sold lacked the warmth of personality, especially those belonging to young couples who hadn’t yet discovered their own style.
She opened the glass French doors and stepped out onto the patio, where the balmy summer night soothed her with the scent of freshly mown lawns and overripe roses. Odd, but the aroma of roses always reminded her of stale beer. Sinking into an upholstered chair, Diana lifted her feet and closed her eyes. A humid breeze washed across her skin and crickets sang from the bushes. As she waited for the Sorvinos to finish their argument, her mind drifted through a sea of remembered faces, couples she’d worked with in the past. Some found happiness, others ended in divorce.
As she brooded, the night sounds changed, and she sensed a sudden disturbance, a rustling or scratching noise, like a creature rushing through the shrubs. She sat upright in the chaise and opened her eyes just as a flash of something white hurdled through the atmosphere. It landed heavily on her chest, howling in panic and clawing at the silk of her new dress.
Diana screamed and fought the beast. Finally, she tore it loose and flung it away. Then, through her terror, she saw the flicker of a long white tail scurrying into the underbrush at the edge of the flagstones. At the same time, she heard the pounding of small feet and the squeal of skidding sneakers. A child’s screams blended with her own as a little boy ended his headlong run not three feet from her chair.
“How come you hurt my cat, lady?” he demanded.
Stunned and disoriented, Diana stared at the panting, red-faced child. He was truly beautiful, with silken black hair and smooth skin the color of cocoa. He was about eight years old, with ice blue eyes the color of Diana’s, and she was certain they had met before. Perhaps he reminded her of her son, Robbie, who used to chase their family cat with a water pistol? But Robbie’s cat was black, and this boy’s weapon of choice was a spark gun. As he nervously clicked the trigger, little colored sparks crackled in the dark.
Of course! Suddenly she remembered. She’d seen this child only one week ago, at Bobby and Juanita’s place.
“Juan, what on earth are you doing here?” she gasped.
The kid glared at her, his eyes wide and suspicious. “My name’s not Juan, lady. It’s Johnny!”
EIGHT
Just like twins…
Liz McCorkle tugged a brush through her mane of red hair. “Are you saying this kid looks exactly like Juan?”
“Just like twins.” Diana rummaged through her purse for lipstick. “The only difference is Juan has a tiny scar above his left eyebrow, and he’s built a little chunkier.”
They were hiding in the women’s restroom at Piedmont Community College, waiting for Miles Lawton, who was lurking in the hall outside, to give up and go home.
“I guess it makes sense, in a weird kind of way,” Liz said. “One boy’s Hispanic, the other Italian. Both kids have those dark n’ handsome genes. What does Brenda look like?”
“Tall, blue-eyed blond. You know the type--- preppy and perfect?”
“I gather you and the lady of the house did not hit it off?”
“Not true. We got along just fine, once the confusion died down. We swapped some memories about the old home town, and then got down to business.”
“You can’t fool me, Diana. What went wrong at the Sorvino’s?”
Diana located her lipstick. “Well, Brenda was distracted and upset. She plays the stock market on the Internet, and the NASDAQ just took a nosedive. She lost a bundle.”
“Big deal.” Liz scoffed. “Like those two really need the money? How does the kid amuse himself while Mommy’s locked in with her computer?”
The idea of an only child, alone in that neighborhood, with no other boys his own age to play with, troubled Diana, too. “He has lots of toys…”
“Yeah, I bet he has enough stuff for an army of kids. Is he a spoiled brat?”
“I can’t say. Johnny was quiet. He stayed off by himself and didn’t say one word the whole time I was there.”
They closed their purses, each making a final inspection in the mirror.
“At least you got the listing,” Liz said.
“Yes, mission accomplished.” Diana had convinced John Sorvino to offer the property at just over one million to encourage a fast sale.
“Did Miles ask you out for a victory drink when he found out you’d landed a new client?”
“Yes, he did.”
“And you said no? What’s your problem, Diana?”
“Look, Liz, if you’re still interested in Miles, just step into the hallway. This is the Twenty First Century. If he’s still hanging around, then ask himout for a drink.”
“Great idea, but what if he insists on waiting for you?”
“Tell him I drown in the sink.”
“Okay, Diana, if you don’t want Miles, I’ll give him a wink, but tell me one more thing… Johnny Sorvino’s cat tore your new dress. Did his daddy offer to pay for it?”
The hope had crossed her mind, but Diana didn’t believe in the tooth fairy, either. “I should have gone fishing,” was all she could think to say.
NINE
&nb
sp;
Pure aggravation…
Floyd Clontz cranked up the engine of the utility van he had borrowed off a neighbor and drove out of Sylvan Acres. The van was a sorry piece of junk, but still a sight lot better than the Clontz Lumber truck. His and Darryl’s old rig wouldn’t hang together one more day, let alone haul another load of rough cut all the way from West Virginia.
The morning sun burned the left side of his face as he headed south on Interstate 77 towards Charlotte. It was pure aggravation having to crawl along in the right lane, with all the hotshots with their fancy cell phones passing him like he was a piece of shit. All those assholes would sing a different tune when he was driving his new eighteen- wheeler. Then he’d be their worst nightmare, a ton of hot steel blocking the passing lane. He had a vision--- his load letting loose, mashing those jerks in their matchbox cars under an avalanche of logs.
The vision made him smile as he checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. Floyd’s long hair, the color of dull coal, was fresh washed and pulled back neat in a ponytail, like a county/western idol, and his eyes were chips of polished anthracite. His face was shaved smooth as a baby’s bottom, but a red scar traveled across his mouth and into his lean, cleft chin, shattering any illusion of innocence.
He wished his idiot neighbor’s van was air-conditioned, because at this rate, he’d be sweating like a pig before he got to the bank. Already the shirt Leona ironed for him was hanging on his back like a wet dishrag. Floyd punched on the radio and tuned to his favorite gospel channel, but nothing come out but a crackling static even the Lord Almighty couldn’t fathom.
The static caused a familiar pain to throb behind his left eye, and his hands commenced to shaking on the wheel. He squeezed his eyes to drive away the pain, but it kept on twisting like the worm in the Tequila. When he reached under the seat, he felt the smooth leather case for his Beretta Minx .22. The little semiautomatic pistol was his comfort and joy, and as a rule, he kept it close---like the solid gold crucifix on the chain against his heart and the plastic Saint Christopher with magnets in his feet attached to the dashboard. Saint Chris would always keep him safe, so Floyd had set it up in the borrowed van.
Today he couldn’t keep his gun close as he’d like. Floyd figured Bank of America would have high security, maybe even pass him through a metal detector, or some such thing. But hell, he wasn’t fixing to rob a bank, only to borrow a little of their money.
He tucked the Beretta case farther back under the seat and pulled out his flask of Wild Turkey. He took a long swallow, and the heat burned up through his gut like embalming fluid. After that, Floyd put the whiskey away. No banker lent money to a drunk, so he’d best fly straight.
To his way of thinking, Friday was the perfect day for this mission. By the end of the week, the ill effects of Floyd’s Saturday binge had worn off, leaving his brain sharp as a bar room razor. Darryl and Leona both argued how Friday was bad on account of the banker would be itching to get a head start on his weekend. They said the banker wouldn’t pay attention to Floyd’s application. But they were too dumb to know Friday’s the ideal time for the scam--- a man already asleep in his inner tube, didn’t feel the shark nibbling at his toes.
The Lord helps those who help themselves.
Floyd lifted his eyes to where the Charlotte skyline jutted off the plain like a gang of robots with steel erections. The towering bank buildings were pumped on money--- they had a hard-on for the sky. The image excited him. He rubbed himself and thought about Leona. The last time he caught her alone was when Darryl was off doing the lumber run. Floyd couldn’t go because he’d bunged up his leg and could hardly lift himself off the bed.
When Leona came in with his supper, like a little nurse, he surprised her real good. He caught her wrists and wrestled her under him. He tied her hands to the bed with his belt and plugged her mouth with the sheet. The harder she cried and struggled, the faster he came. He had her twice before the urge left him, and then he turned her loose.
He told the bitch he’d kill her if she told Darryl. Besides, who would believe Floyd, with his injured leg and all, could take a strong girl like Leona? Still, something must have slipped out, because Darryl went and put a lock inside the bedroom door. The harlot had planted the seed of doubt, and things hadn’t been the same between him and his nephew again.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife.
But Leona wasn’t a neighbor. She was family, and families share n’ share alike. Besides, the girl was a gimp. She walked twisted on the right side ever since her stupid accident, couldn’t cook worth a plugged nickel, so the only thing she was good for was sex and keeping the company books.
And the books came in handy from time to time. Leona couldn’t cook, but she helped Floyd cook the books. Delighted by his play on words, Floyd howled like a wolf as he careened off the highway at the Uptown exit and steered towards the tallest buildings.
Last week, when him and Darryl went to Enterprise Truckto buy the rig, the salesman laughed like they were hayseeds fresh off the farm. That was half right, because Darryl sure enough looked the part. His nephew was a good boy, but he was big as an ox and twice as dumb. Plus, he suffered from hoof n’ mouth disease. Boy couldn’t open his mouth without sticking his foot in it, and the only words that ever came out were the gospel truth, even when the truth wasn’t convenient.
Thou shalt not be false to any man.
Honesty was fine and dandy, unless you’re talking to a loan officer, who held your future in his hands. Today Floyd decided it was best to leave Darryl at home with his little wife. What Leona didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, and Floyd wasn’t about to explain how all her bottom lines got erased, or how come the profit margins swelled to where Clontz Lumber looked like a Fortune 500 company.
He patted his briefcase and pulled into the Bank of America parking garage, but then a uniformed guard, with what looked to be an assault weapon slung under his arm, blocked the entrance. Floyd mopped the sweat off his face as the guard stomped up to the van.
“Move on, Buddy,” the ape growled. “You’ll have to park down the block and use the overhead walkway to enter the bank.”
Floyd glared as the rent-a-cop peeked into the back of his van. “How come I can’t park here?”
“We’re under orange alert. Don’t you listen to the news, buddy?”
More terrorist shit. Floyd had heard something on the radio, but he thought New York and Washington DC were the only cities under lock down. All the same, he backed up and slowly moved down the road, and he was righteously pissed by the time he circled twice and entered a garage well down the street.
“That’ll be fifteen dollars, sir…” The voice belonged to a pimply- faced kid behind a glass wall.
Floyd frowned at the rates posted on the booth. “Says right here it’s three dollars for the first hour, and a buck fifty for every hour after. I ain’t gonna be but an hour.”
The parking attendant pushed his glasses up the bridge of his bumpy nose. “Yeah, but we collect up front. Some deadbeats pull in and stay all day unless we do it this way.”
Well, I ain’t no deadbeat!” Floyd shoved three- dollar bills at the kid. “Take it, or leave it.”
The kid grinned, flashing a mouthful of braces. He crossed his arms and shook his head. “Sorry, sir, no exceptions. Give me the fifteen bucks, or take a hike.”
The twisting pain flared up behind Floyd’s eye as he eased his van right up against the yellow entrance gate. The money he already left on the shelf outside the booth fluttered off and drifted along the pavement.
“Shit, look what you done!” He snarled at the boy. “Move your ass outta there and pick up that money!”
“Get it yourself, Mister.” The kid laughed.
Floyd reached under the seat and fingered the Beretta case. He has a vision: the kid’s brains scattered like spaghetti around the booth, teeth and silver braces clinging to the ceiling. At the same ti
me, the kid lifted the panic phone.
“I’m calling security…”
Floyd gulped, swallowed his anger, and lifted two fingers in the peace symbol. His fingers trembled as he removed a ten and all the change from his wallet. In the end, after counting out his last penny, he had to climb out of the van and chase down the three bills like a moron.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” The kid smirked as he lowered the phone receiver and finger-walked Floyd’s bills under the bullet-proof glass separating the kid from sudden death.
Floyd’s head pounded and his teeth ached like he’d been chewing on tin foil. When the yellow gate finally lifted, he peeled out, leaving the kid in a tunnel of burning rubber and a fart of exhaust. By the time he spiraled up six flights to find a parking space, Floyd’s pain had receded and his nerves were calm. He knotted a tie around his neck, smoothed back his hair, and put on the linen jacket he’d bought at the thrift shop.
And if ye lend to whom ye hope to receive, what thank have ye? For sinners also lend to sinners to receive as much again.
TEN
A hog at slaughter…
Floyd strutted through the plate glass door of the Bank of America office and was greeted by a bitch who was black as sin.
“You don’t have an appointment, Mr. Clontz.” She frowned when he introduced himself. “But I’ll be happy to process your application, if you’re willing to wait.”
No way would he work with the colored woman. “I want someone else to help me.”
She lifted her glasses, gave him an uppity glare of disapproval. “Suit yourself. Please take a seat over there.”
Ignoring her attitude, he pushed through a swinging gate to where a young white man slumped behind his desk. Floyd helped himself to a chair. When the man ignored him, Floyd reached out and tapped his shoulder.