Bentleys Buy a Buick (That Business Between Us Book 5)

by Pamela Morsi

  “Okay, okay,” he told her, teasing, as he patted the place beside him. “I’m off the porn. You can sit with me. I’m just checking email.”

  “Your emails are all about cars, too,” she stated correctly, and she flounced down next to him. She rifled through the paper. He knew she was looking for the crossword. She always did that first.

  Tom read through the answers to a couple of parts inquiries. Some were good, some bad. He was surprised to see a message from Cliff. If he was late for work, Cliff might send a text, but usually if he had anything to say, he’d just call. Tom clicked on it. One sentence, short and to the point.

  “If anybody asks, I was working late last night.”

  “Damn,” Tom whispered under his breath.

  “What?” Erica asked, glancing toward the laptop.

  Tom slammed it shut. “Nothing,” he answered, before immediately realizing that he needed some explanation. “It was...uh...Cliff. He’s going to be late this morning, overslept I guess.”

  Erica looked at Tom as if he’d lost his mind. “He can’t have overslept. It’s just now time to get up.”

  Tom could have cursed himself as an idiot. “He...uh...he got to bed late and he’s...uh...he’s planning to oversleep.” “Good grief, Tom,” she said. “I know he’s your friend, but you really shouldn’t let him get away with that.”

  “No, no, of course not,” Tom agreed, secretly wishing that if his friends were going to draw him into lies that he was actually a little better at it.

  Chapter 10

  ERICA’S IN-BOX PILED UP with charts faster than she could open them. There must be some kind of flu epidemic for the hospital to have ramped up its patient load. Surprisingly, the harried hustle and frayed tempers normally associated with maximum capacity seemed to be missing. Everyone seemed to be behaving normally. Still, she was working as fast as she could but getting further and further behind by the minute.

  So when Letty called and wanted to go to lunch, Erica resisted.

  “I’m so busy you would not believe it.”

  “You’ve still got to eat,” her sister pointed out. “And I’m in the neighborhood.”

  Erica’s computer made a tiny ding sound indicating new chart arrivals. She glanced up to see five more in her in-box. There was no way she could finish by the end of the day. She sighed in defeat.

  “Okay, I’ll meet you at Cha Cha’s in ten minutes, but we’ll have to be quick.”

  “Trust me, I can talk really fast,” her sister assured her.

  Erica was hungry, and she didn’t exactly look forward to the silence at her departmental lunch table. Dr. Glover hadn’t ventured back into her territory, but the storm he’d stirred up was still churning. Erica was both ignoring it and waiting for it to blow over.

  She logged off, grabbed her purse and headed out. Erica exited from the hospital’s service entrance and cut across the green area of jogging trails between the University Hospital and the Audie Murphy VA. The air had turned cool, reminding everyone that it was autumn, even if there was very little color in the trees to indicate it. Students were out in jackets and running shorts as if they couldn’t decide which season to dress for. Erica welcomed the crispness in the air. It reminded her of football games and pep rallies. Memories of Halloween also came to mind, and she started thinking about a costume for Quint. She’d have to remember to ask his preference. Last year he’d been a ninja, and the year before that he was a superhero. She wanted him to choose, something she had never had a chance to do. Every Halloween of her childhood, Erica had been a witch and Letty had been a princess. Those were the costumes easiest for Ann Marie. She’d go to her closet and pull out her black “funeral dress” for Ericaand one of her out-of-date cocktail gowns for her sister. Not that those were bad memories. Her mother never seemed as overwhelmed by trick-or-treat traditions as she often did at Christmas and Thanksgiving. And there was plenty of laughter and good feelings as she painted their faces and found just the right headgear, a rhinestone tiara for Letty and a floppy black hat for Erica. Then the girls would get their paper grocery bags and head out into the neighborhood.

  Ann Marie gave only one admonition. And it was not, “be careful,” “look both ways before crossing the street” or even “be home before ten o’clock.” Anne Marie simply said, “Erica, take care of your sister.” And she always had.

  The traffic on Babcock Road was typical enough that Erica felt a bit as if she was taking her life in her hands as she sprinted across. She had not quite reached the restaurant’s front door when Letty drove up. She beeped the horn announcing her arrival, but Erica would have noticed anyway. Her younger sister’s car was one that attracted attention whenever it passed.

  Her aging Fiat was kept running by Tom’s goodwill as a brother-in-law and, it could, by some definition, be called a Classic Car. But most people spotting it would have more likely described it as some version of rusted junk heap. The much-dented rattletrap body was missing the front bumper. Although the car had at one time been blue, it had one orange door. And the one next to it was festooned with silver duct tape that secured the plastic where a window had once been. Their mother said it was an eyesore. Student chic was how Letty described it.

  Erica preferred her sister’s description, and she loved how Ann Marie’s emphasis on appearances had apparently made no impression on Letty at all.

  Letty parked the car in the lot and emerged from behind the wheel. She was dressed in tight jeans and a faded T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Sensible shoes just added to the air of I-look-this-good-without-even-trying.

  “I can’t decide which makes me more jealous,” Erica announced to her. “Your skinny jeans or your skinny genes.”

  The two sisters embraced.

  “I bet we weigh exactly the same,” Letty said. “I think Tom would say you’re like a compact and I’m station wagon. I’ve got a lot longer wheelbase, but we’re cruising around with the same engine.”

  Erica laughed. “If we go with that analogy, does that mean I’m now running around with junk in my trunk?”

  “You are exactly, and it seems to me that Tom likes you just that way.”

  Erica wrapped her arm around her sister’s waist.

  “I’m glad you dragged me out here,” she said as she pulled open the door. “I needed a break.”

  Cha Cha’s was one of San Antonio’s signature Tex-Mex restaurants. The decor was all twinkle lights and Talavera pottery, and the food tasted as good as it smelled. Scores of doctors, nurses, med students and the neighborhood locals had been getting their carb ration there for decades.

  The hostess seated them in the little fake arbor secluded by webs of silk tree branches and gave them menus. Erica wanted to order her favorite, camarones de ajo—shrimp in garlic sauce—but thought perhaps she shouldn’t since she was going back to work.

  “It will keep your coworkers at bay, for sure,” Letty told her.

  Erica chuckled. “I don’t need garlic for that,” she said. “Unless maybe I’m wearing it around my neck.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s up?”

  With a rueful sigh, Erica quickly got her sister up to speed on the current Medical Records soap opera.

  “So this Callie person thinks you stole her man.”

  Erica nodded. “Ridiculous, huh?”

  “I don’t know how ridiculous it is.”

  “What? You know it’s completely nuts.”

  “I mean, yeah, sure, you’re not very likely to go after some guy at work when you’ve got such a great husband at home,” Letty said. “Still, just because he’s not what you like doesn’t mean you wouldn’t be his cup of tea.”

  “Thanks, I think,” Erica answered. “Honestly, I’m hoping the two of them get together and walk hand in hand into the sunset,” Erica said. “Of course the craziest part of it is the ‘warning’ from Melody that Callie is out to get me. I mean, besides not being my BFF at the lunchroom table, what else is she supposed to do? Ban me from ch
eerleading practice?” Erica laughed at her own little high school hijinks analogy. Letty tutted and shook her head. “Just because this Melody person is one taco short of a Fiesta Platter doesn’t mean she isn’t right about Callie being dangerous.”

  “Dangerous? How could she be dangerous?”

  “Oh, come on, Erica. Even somebody who’s been in mommy-mode as long as you have can still remember that there are always women who see girl-on-girl retaliation as almost an art form.”

  “Well, yes, but that’s kid stuff. By our age that kind of thing ought to be all over.”

  “Operative word ought," Letty said. “I don’t think you can count on that. She could be very vindictive. And whether you’re guilty or not guilty won’t change a thing.”

  Erica considered that thoughtfully, remembering the story about the woman from Admitting.

  “It’s all nonsense,” Erica concluded. “Just office gossip ginned up to soap opera status.”

  Letty nodded agreement. “Still, keep your eyes open and your guard up,” her sister told her. “Either that, or call me over. You’ve fought off the bullies for me all through childhood. I’d love to return the favor.”

  Erica ate her lunch as quickly as it arrived and, after a goodbye hug from her sister, hurried back to the hospital and the charts that were continuing to pile up. She worked as quickly and efficiently as she could, not taking time for so much as a sip of water or a bathroom break.

  Just before quitting time, Mrs. Converse stepped into her cubicle, the computer generated production tally in her hand.

  “What’s going on?” she asked without preamble.

  Erica could feel the heat of embarrassment stain her cheeks. She knew every coworker within earshot was listening.

  “I don’t know. I’m plowing through this stuff as fast as I can,” she defended herself. “I’ve topped my best count, but I’m not going to be able to get my chart queue totally clear today. How long do you think this crowding will go on? I sure hope the patient load gets back to normal the next few days.”

  “The hospital isn’t crowded,” Mrs. Converse said. “Somehow the random sorter program is screwed up, and the rest of the department has practically had the day off.”

  “What?”

  Mrs. Converse showed Erica the day’s tally. Almost all of the EMR charts had been routed to her in-box.

  “How can that happen?” she asked.

  Mrs. Converse shook her head. “I hate glitches, and there is never a good explanation for them.”

  She turned out toward the passageway. “Callie? Callie Torreno?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Converse,” Callie answered as she emerged from her cubicle, wearing her jacket and with her purse already on her shoulder, obviously on her way out the door.

  “Do you still have that friend who works in IT?”

  Listening and watching, Erica was startled by the devious explanation that suddenly occurred to her. Deliberately she searched Callie’s expression for signs of guilt.

  “Javier? Uh...I think he still works here.”

  “Well, get him on the phone before you leave,” Mrs. Converse said. “I want this routing mess fixed by the time the department opens in the morning.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Callie said, without making eye contact. She hurried back to her desk.

  Mrs. Converse turned to Erica. She shook her head and chuckled lightly. “Well, you have certainly had a busy day. Trial by fire, I suppose. And you did well.” She leaned forward and added with a whisper, “If this many charts had shown up in Lena’s in-box, she would have been crying in my office in five minutes.”

  Mrs. Converse straightened immediately. She was all business, and there was not a hint of the wink she’d just shared. “You’ll certainly be able to catch up tomorrow.”

  Callie came back into view.

  “Did you get hold of IT?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Javiar said he’d get right on it.”

  “Good,” Mrs. Converse said. “Have a nice evening, Callie, Erica.”

  “You, too.”

  “Good night.”

  As the older woman walked away, Erica looked straight at Callie. Had she somehow arranged the routing glitch? There was no clue on her face.

  “Good night,” Callie said simply, politely. There was nothing but cool civility in her tone. No hint of payback or triumph.

  Still Erica couldn’t quite shake her suspicions.

  At the shop, mid-October turned crazy and more than a little frustrating. Cliff was sneaking off every time Tom’s back was turned. Tom had tried reasoning, pleading, threatening, finally even docking his pay, but his best buddy and longtime employee seemed determined to screw up his life and had no problem making everyone at Bentley’s Classic Car Care suffer as he did it.

  The extra work and upheaval Cliff caused affected each of his fellow workers differently. Gus seemed to think that if Cliff didn’t have to work, he didn’t, either. He showed up on time and never left a minute early, but somehow he wasn’t getting much accomplished for the eight hours he was putting in.

  Hector was even worse. With Cliff and Gus leaving so much to be done, the pressure began to build. And Hector handled that pressure the same way he always had. Hector decided it was time to go on a bender. His meek little wife called with the bad news.

  “I am so sorry,” she told Tom.

  He could hear the disappointment and fear in her voice. He couldn’t do anything else but reassure her.

  “I hired Hector knowing he had a drinking problem,” Tom said. “Get him dried out and back to work as soon as you can. I’ll hold his job open as long as I’m able to.”

  Tom had been busy enough handling the customers, the billing and locating parts. Adding most of the mechanic labor for the business just put him over the top. He didn’t know how or when anything could get done.

  In the past, when things were busy, he’d simply take home most of the paperwork. He still did that, but he couldn’t take home a muffler installation for a Camaro. He needed to do that in the shop. So Tom began working late.

  Which was why Tom was doing a brake job on a Mark VII at eight o’clock at night.

  “Do you want me to bring you a plate of supper?” Erica asked him the first night he called home with an excuse.

  He thought of what that would entail. Erica would have changed into her hanging-around clothes and would be padding around in slippers through the house. She was undoubtedly tired from her own day on the job. And she’d want to have some quality time with her son. Instead, she would have to pack up the food, drag Quint from his favorite game or TV show and drive up to West Avenue. Tom wouldn’t have any time to talk to either of them, so they’d just have to turn around and drive home.

  “I’ve still got most of what you packed for my lunch,” he said. “When I get hungry I’ll just finish that up.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Don’t work too late.”

  “I won’t,” he promised.

  But he did.

  The late nights became a very regular thing. In the mornings, before he left the house, he’d check the contents of his dinner bucket. He would add whatever extra food would fit and then plan to put in a ten-or twelve-or sixteen-hour day.

  “We’ve just got a lot of work coming in,” he told Erica.

  Even to his own ears it sounded like a lame excuse. He wanted to tell his wife what was going on. But he had never been good at lying. He was especially not good at telling half-truths. If he started to explain what was going on, the facts about Cliff would come out. And the fact that this had been going on—and he’d kept it a secret—would also come out. He didn’t understand a lot about how Erica’s mind worked. But he knew enough to know that she would not find his loyalty much of a virtue in this situation.

  Trish and Erica knew each other. At first that had been reason enough not to come clean. He wanted to give Cliff a chance to straighten up without Trish ever knowing how bent he’d gotten. Tom had become convinced, however, that Trish
finding out was just a matter of time.

  Now, it was all about how Cliff was behaving and how Tom was handling it. Tom knew he should fire his friend. And if Erica found out what was going on, she would agree with him. The last thing Tom wanted was to appear in his wife’s eyes as less than competent, as less than a responsible businessman. Erica believed in him when no one else really did. He didn’t want to disappoint her. She set her standards very high. And he set his own to what he imagined she expected of him.

  Tom examined the rotor for corrosion and warp. It looked surprisingly good for a twenty-year-old brake, undoubtedly the reason Lincolns had a reputation for a smooth ride. A warped or scarred rotor transferred its vibration all the way to the steering column. That kind of rattle not only put age on a car, but it compromised safety. This time, thankfully, Tom decided that replacing the disc pads would do the job.

  I’ve got to let Cliff go, he thought to himself. That was what a businessman had to do when an employee was flagrantly taking advantage of a friendship with the boss.

  It wasn’t about moral judgments versus boys-will-be-boys. In fact, Cliff cheating on his wife didn’t even add into the equation. Cliff was not at work when he was assigned to be there. Not showing up or sneaking off were both termination offenses. He’d been warned. He should be fired.

  Tom’s head was clear on that. But his heart, not so much. Cliff wasn’t just an employee. He was a friend, his oldest friend. The two had met at Job Corps a dozen years ago. Cliff had been sent there by his working-class mom and dad to straighten him out. And Cliff had been determined not to let that happen.

  For Tom, Job Corps was a dream come true. From the moment he’d volunteered himself as a ward of the state, he’d been looking for a place to fit in. That just hadn’t happened in foster care. Tom was too big and too blunt not to stand out. He’d worked hard at being polite, at being agreeable, respectful. But it didn’t come naturally to him. And he knew he looked scary. At sixteen he was already six-three and 190 pounds of pure muscle. The scarred, broken nose had been acquired when attempting to stop a fight, not start one. Still, people saw what they saw. And most thought he looked like trouble.