Michael, Antoinette, and Me

 

 

Part 23

 

I rolled my eyes at myself pushing my mower on the second lawn of the day, my dream of quiet days reading, lounging on my fake Laz Z Boy dashed on the rocks of reality. I needed to replace my bicycle. I didn’t feel like dancing with Mr. Fishman, possibly leaving him dead in the basement of his bicycle shop.

“Maybe he’s just a kindly man who happens to enjoy spending time with teenage girls,” I argued with myself. Without having the desire to tie them up in the basement.

At my touch, the mower fell silent. Yardwork had been almost sanctuary-like, getting lost somewhere beyond objective reality then The Bat fucked that up invading my personal space.

“Detective Serling,” I greeted, dropping to the bucket seat of the cream Cougar. “How’d you find me?”

“Miss Blanc.” He nodded. “I’m a detective, which is not actually a title you need to address me as. I know you know you can call me Rich.”

“Sure, Serling.”

“That will do, Blanc. Are you familiar with the Dew Drop Inn?” He presented a business card.

“That’s so fucking corny, I still wish I hadn’t.”

“Seedy joint, rooms by the hour. Coffee’s still a dime in the coffee shop and terrible. Over on Route 63 just north of Bumfuck.”

“I get the picture. Maybe we should meet there instead of at the Nook.”

“We can wear trench coats.”

“On dark, stormy nights.”

“Speak in harsh, low tones. This is Jacob Bancroft?”

I accepted the 8 x 10 photograph. “Yeah. Nice shot. Nothing in color?”

“Given the nature of my work, I do all my own processing in a closet. Is this enough?”

I barely glanced the additional photos. “Just enough perfect. I can’t see her face.”

“You said to keep the diddled out of it. The photos clearly show not his wife. I usually wait until they’re naked, kick the door in. In the movies they’re always under the covers, not true in real life.”

“You’re a cliché, Serling.”

“We have a training manual we work from.”

“I’m sure you have others?”

“Yes, with the diddled recognizable. Securely on ice.”

“It’s like you can read my mind.”

“Oh, Toby, wait. There’s more.”

“I’m I going to like this more?”

“One of our candidates, no?”

“One of our candidates, yes.”

“I was camped out, waiting for the diddler to get done with the diddled, snap them coming from the room.”

“Thorough. I’m going to use that word on our promotional material. Blanc and Serling: We’re thorough.”

“He rolls up, checks in, goes up to a room alone. Diddler takes longer than I expected. Normally, they're in and out like a boy on prom night.”

“He makes phone calls.”

Serling nodded. “Target one and diddled get in their cars. No final embrace, barely a glance. I felt sorry for her, obviously means nothing to him.”

“I avoid conjecture.”

“Oh, me, too. I was just thinking, you know. She’s a beautiful woman, and –”

“Dinner, maybe flowers? Dancing before he fucks her in a hurry, his pants around his knees. Don’t let my overabundant innocence fool you. I do know the difference.”

“Never fooled, not for a minute.”

“So?”

“So, indeed. I’m waiting for Bill Locke’s company to arrive.” He nodded to the photo. “She comes out of his room.”

“Surprise.”

“She walks the second-floor balcony conspicuously conspicuous in her attempt to not be conspicuous.”

“At least you got her good side.”

“I didn’t think she had a good side.”

“You like them young like Lauren, huh?”

“I did not mean that at all.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.”

“She returns to the room. I burn two hours waiting to see what happens.”

“That was what happened.”

“Oh. Oh!”

“Great heads-up work, Serling.”

“Him and Borrows own at least a dozen properties through Hemingway Associates. Why the motel?”

“The seedy motel. He’s terrified people will find out. Have you inspected the properties?”

“I’ve been sitting on them as time allows, which hasn’t been much, mostly just drive-bys, quick ganders for any hints of activities. So far, all appear vacant. I have a log if you want to see it.”

“OK. Good. My first impulse is to kick all the doors in.”

“I was impulsive like that, too. When I was a child.”

“You are among the few people in the world who I allow to fuck with me like that.”

“That is a recognized honor and a privilege.”

“I’m up for some stealth breaking and entering.”

“That may not be a bad idea. Let me work out some details, profile the properties.”

I received an 8 x 10 envelope. “Artemis Grimes. I like it.”

“I thought it fitting.”

“Holy fuck, Serling. Is this a real driver license?”

“Like your Antoinette Blanc identity, it won’t pass if you apply for government top secret clearance, too many red flags, but it’s pretty solid.”

“I’m twenty-two. As in years old?”

“You did that in your head that quick?”

“I’m good with numbers. I was born in Steubenville?”

“I thought you’d like that.”

I shuffled through the papers. “A carry permit?”

“Has a picture I.D.”

“Maybe I should get a Derringer. It’s what all the femme fatales have in the movies.”

“A Derringer won’t do much damage.”

“Style and cliché, Sterling. This package must have cost you –”

“This caper has a big payout, if we produce. Saturday?”

“What is?”

“You going in.”

“Camera?”

“Not yet. These people are dangerous. Be charming. Lose some money. I’ll stake you –”

“I’ve got that. I don’t plan on losing more than pocket change. I see Artemis Grimes as a woman out to have fun, fuck around, laugh a lot and at nothing, drop a bet here and there, blow on men’s dice, wise crack during a serious poker game. Everything I’m not. A presence in the room to be accepted then overlooked, maybe even dismissed.”

“Perfect.”

I narrowed my eyes at my new birth certificate. “Does Steubenville even have a hospital?”

“Two, actually.”

“Was there an Artemis Grimes? I mean, am I taking someone’s identity?”

“Why?”

“My past is troubled enough without taking on someone else’s”

“She’s an invention, a fabrication.”

“Happy birthday to me.”

“This is just for the caper –”

I shrugged. “You paid so much for this, and this is really nice work. I just may keep her in a desk drawer, pull her out when I need her – short of applying for a job in the White House. Who owns the Rambler?”

“Fake license tag.”

“That’s rude. Two and a half blocks down, on your left. He sat on my first job today, followed me here. He’s got my address, which is a clue. I assume he’s waiting for the perfect opportunity. I thought I’d aimlessly wander out into the street. When he speeds down on me,” I revealed the eight-inch rebar from my left sleeve, “I’d take a shot at putting this through his windshield, maybe his forehead.

“I bet it’ll do more damage than a Derringer.”

“My God, Toby. Beautiful and crazy. Marry me.”

“Serling. At my age, that’s illegal in all but for a couple southern states, and besides, I’m gay.”

“Damn my luck.” He eyed the sideview mirror. “I’m going to make a big circle around a few blocks, see if I can’t box him in, have a conversation.”

“If he rabbits my direction, I’ll slow him down for you.”

“You just stay away from the street.”

“You be careful.”

“I knew you cared.”

 

The gray Rambler sped by followed by Serling returning to the curb.

“I don’t do highspeed chases,” he greeted.

I nodded, leaning in the passenger window. “I bet they never end well.”

“Rarely.”

“I make him twentyish. Stocky. Shorter than me.”

“How could you know that?”

“He struggled to see over the steering wheel. Dirty blonde, hair just over the top of his ears, bangs like a sheepdog.”

“Not bad for just a glance. You may not need a camera.”

“Easier to gather up details when I’m not rolling over a windshield.”

“I’ll sit on you the rest of the day.”

“I’m going to wrap up here. Things to do. I had him where he thought I’d not noticed him. You blew that.”

“I didn’t –”

“Fact, not a criticism. Don’t worry about Rambler. We’ll try something else. Fake tags? Be specific.”

“In what way?”

“Expired? Stolen?”

“Oh, forged. The number never existed.”

“Good.”

 

“Mr. Thomas,” I greeted.

“Toby. I have –”

I accepted a sheet of paper. “List of houses for sale. I’ll ride by, let you know if I want to see any.”

“I have that, too.”

I waved the paper. “I thought we already established I’m way smarter than you. You’ve inflated his actual investment by at least twenty percent.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“I get that a lot.” I retrieved a marking pen from my bag, put the paper to the desk, and wrote a number in two-inch letters. “I’ll pay this, cash money.”

“You act like someone making a profit is wrong.”

“Oh, I’m all for people making a profit. It’s the American way. I oppose arrogant assholes thinking they can fuck me. I find it annoying.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Go ahead, Mr. Thomas. Challenge me. Ruin your day.”

He shuffled around his cluttered desk. “Six properties in that neighborhood.”

“Thanks. The dead Indians?”

He squirmed uncomfortably on his chair, looking everywhere but at me. “Deal.”

“Should I be looking for another realtor?”

He caught my eyes. “Em, no. It’s just –”

“I’m catching up quickly on how business in America works. Let the buyer beware. I’m not going to curse the mosquito for trying to suck my blood. I’m not going to curse the rain for getting me wet. I’m not going to curse you for trying to cheat me.”

“Understood.”

I nodded toward the door. “Motor shop a few blocks down. Store front next to it. Smaller than this space. I’d have to go outside just to change my mind.”

“What? You want to rent it? What for? You going to sell candles, maybe nicknacks?”

“Maybe notions.” I rolled my eyes. “I need an address. Specifically, a commercial address.”

“What for?”

“Aren’t you the nosey church lady.”

He shrugged, digging in a drawer. “It’s not nosey church lady – which is funny because it fits – if I’m going to be your landlord.”

“Long story short. I want to buy dinner for children in the neighborhood who just may go without a good meal too often and too long. I’ve been advised to do that, I need to register a business. To register this kind of business, I need a commercial address.”

“I don’t think that’s exactly true.”

“Thus my long story short. It has to do with soliciting businesses for information on their clients and the desire for them to be shielded from liability.”

“Huh?”

“Mr. Thomas. I don’t know where the poor children live.”

“Oh, oh, I follow you. You’ll need to file nonprofit status –”

“I don’t mind paying taxes. I enjoy the benefit of, for example, not having to build or repair roads myself.” I rolled my eyes. “Besides, as a sole proprietor, taxes will be paid on net income, not gross. At this point, I see operating in the red.”

He bit his lip, pen to paper, writing. “Here’s what I’m going to do because I love the idea. I’m going to defer the rent, year’s lease. You can consider it your first donation.”

“I’ll have to double check. I’ll have to declare that as income. Just thinking aloud. Don’t you dare inflate the number to cash in on a write off.”

“Wouldn’t think of it, Toby.”

He printed my name on the top of the form. “We need a DBA. That’s –”

“I know what a DBA is.” I hesitated, not for long. “1 Bread. That’s the numeral 1.”

 

“Officer Martin,” I greeted coming out of Thomas’ office.

“Miss Blanc. I thought I told you not to take the truck out on the highway.”

I inspected each direction for eavesdroppers, finding none. “I didn’t. Didn’t much feel like walking. I had a mishap with my bicycle, which is the next topic I wish to discuss with you.”

He duplicated my inspection. “I wanted to talk to you. Saw your truck.”

“You go first.”

“You’ve become a legend.”

“You don’t mean Antoinette Blanc.”

“I don’t. Stories are bouncing around.”

“People.” I rolled my eyes. “You’re worried.”

“Not actually. I’ve given it a lot of thought. There’s what? Six people who know you’re her.”

“Maybe closer to eight.”

“That’s the thing. I feel honored to be one of them.”

“Yeah, OK.”

“Of all the myths and legends, I want to know the real story.”

“So you can smirk at the people talking shit.”

“Exactly that.”

“It’s not a short story. Maybe we should meet up in a seedy motel. You can change clothes. Have a girl’s night out.”

“If only. I’m taking college classes at night. Often go to the library.”

“How about Wednesday? I’m meeting with the Indians, eight o’clock.”

“Indians?”

“Well, the historical society concerning the property along the river.”

“The whole family died in that fire.”

“Some say the ghosts of the Indians drove the family mad.”

“I heard that!”

“Sarcasm, Officer Martin. I can’t imagine what stories are being told about me.”

“One is that you’re not dead, ran off with Bill Locke.”

“People.”

“Wednesday, then.”

“Seven o’clock.”

“Your bicycle?”

“Someone tried to kill me. I bounced off the windshield, found my bike three blocks away.”

“My God, Toby.”

I shrugged. “The car has fraudulent tags.”

“Wait. How do you know that?”

I shrugged again. “Gray Rambler, like a box. Likely a cracked windshield, front end damage. My height, maybe shorter, blonde mop on his head, hanging in his eyes. He was stalking the two jobs I worked today. I didn’t let him know I saw him.”

“I’ll need a report on the hit and run.”

“We can’t get him for that. My word against his, he’s got a dick, I don’t. However, you can get him on the fraudulent tags. Arrest him, tow his car, right?”

“Something like that.”

“Then, you can let me know who he is.”

“Eh –”

“Officer Martin. I need to know who he works for. If I don’t dispel misconceptions, nip a bud or two, I’m going to get murdered.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ll see you in the stacks tomorrow.”

 

I knew Lauren’s underwear had to be white, cotton, a full brief, unlikely, maybe still stinking of Jacob Bancroft’s semen. She lit up when I entered Colling’s Nook, her hand batting at the air like a pennant in the wind.

“Lauren,” I greeted with feinted familiarity.

“Toby, so good to see you. Please join me.”

I imagined Lauren lived with her parents, forever begging for her father’s approval, which he doled out with an eyedropper, her substituting fucking Bancroft as a nod from Dad.

“Gladly,” I said, sliding in across from her and her small bowl of cottage cheese. “Always so nice to see you.”

She blushed. “You make my Friday.”

“I always choose your line, even if I have to wait.”

“I’ve noticed that!”

Shawn cleared her throat.

Keeping Lauren’s eyes, I said, “Since we’re not allowed, pretend I’m hugging you.”

Shawn and I closed our eyes for a full thirty seconds.

“I’d like a lonely hotdog, single piece of bread.”

“The Toby lunch special,” Shawn repeated, fading.

“Not allowed?”

“The owner finds my enthusiasm about the staff disruptive.”

“I could understand that at my work.”

“You rushing around the windows to hug me when I come in? That would be better than a toaster oven when opening a new account.”

“If you open a new account, I’d rush around the windows and hug you.”

“I’ll be in this afternoon, as soon as I file my business paperwork with the county.”

“Really?”

“I won’t hold you to it. I wouldn’t want to get you fired.”

“Toby,” came from above with my hotdog and coffee.

“Shawn,” I answered.

“I got this really great tip today.” She fanned two tickets. “Will you go with me?”

I took a ticket. “Fashion show in the city. Wow, what would I wear? Yes, sounds great.” I narrowed my eyes. “Darn, Shawn. I have a meeting with my lawyer scheduled.”

“Can you change it?”

“You don’t know lawyers.”

“Lauren?” Shawn asked.

I relayed the ticket.

“Really?” Lauren asked in the tone of a woman who felt she didn’t deserve such attention.

“I would be pleased as punch if you accompany me to this event.”

“Thank you, Shawn, thank you.”

Lauren closed her eyes, Shawn followed.

I snickered.

 

I came close to an anxiety attack seconds after the high-speed train went underground. I’d taken the bus if not for the bus running once an hour, the train every twenty minutes. I was in and out of the county office, “Like a boy on prom night.” I snickered, staying on the train beyond my stop on the return.

“Mr. Fishman.”

“Why, hello,” he greeted, coming from behind the counter, looking at the door.

“Eh, had a mishap. Need a new bike.”

“With an oversize rack?”

“No. Normal size is fine.”

He dropped a bicycle from the wall. “I think you can go a size up. You’ve put on a couple of inches.”

“I guess I have. The secret is to start the day with a good breakfast.”

“Good advice. Color OK.”

“Who doesn’t like red?”

Wheeling to the back of the store, he put the bike on a stand, working through the gears.

“What kind of mishap? You know I fix bikes.”

“I had an argument with a car. The damage was well beyond any repair.”

“Cars will win every time. You don’t look any worse for wear.” He checked the tire pressure.

“Bruised ego. Never saw it coming.”

“You never see the car that hits you.”

“I never miss much. I’m still kicking myself.”

He set the bike between us. “I’m not what you think.”

“I should hope not,” Mr. Fishman.

He held my eyes. I did not look away.

“It’s just, well, I don’t much care for people.”

“Given half a chance, people are assholes.”

“Sometimes they show up like that. Children are easier.”

“By easier, you mean children are conditioned by society to appreciate positive attention from an adult.”

“I never looked at it that way.”

“Like you are conditioned to be overtly friendly to your customers, even if doing so makes you uncomfortable.”

“Customer service requires –”

“My dark Grimm Forest path that so intrigues you is people have hurt me. Maybe I think zebras when it’s only horses too often but too often when I don’t, I miss a car racing through a stop sign.”

“I saw that.”

“When you took hold of my duffle bag.”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I apologize. That was a terrible, arrogant mistake on my part. I didn’t mean to come off as a threat to you. I wanted to explain, demonstrating the opposite instead.”

“You not liking people, particularly adults, you just may not be aware of this. That’s a cliché move. Men blocking my path thinking to hold my attention.”

He accepted my cash. “Thank you.”

“Thanks for the service.”

“Lunch?”

“I think not, Mr. Fishman. I was never a child.”

“I was thinking maybe you could be my first adult friend.”

I am simply not that magnanimous.

 

I think the first two miles on my new bicycle was one long sigh reminding me I needed time in sanctuary to dance. “Maybe a camping trip.” I could almost hear the whisper of The Pines calling me back. I locked my bike to a street sign.

I sat on the stool in front of the counter at Maple Printing, Joe’s aged eyes watching me eagerly.

“Simple enough,” I said. “Address along the bottom, simple, small text. A cartoon slice of bread smiling on the left taking up seventy percent of the space, 1 centered in the space to the right, Bread under the 1, also centered.”

“Cute. You a baker now instead of lawn care?”

“I have hobbies.”

 

Holy fuck, I thought at the triple mirrors, not sure whether the feel of the gown or my appearance excited me more.

“Just enough to show off your calves,” Charlotte said, standing.

“I’m thinking my silver, three-inch.”

“I’d like to see you in your army boots.”

“Seriously. That would draw some attention.”

“You. Entering any room. In this dress, will draw all eyes.”

I grabbed my chest, kneading. “I really don’t need this extra padding.”

“That extra padding is for function, not vanity.”

“Oh. I kind of like my nipples hinting at a room.”

“I do, too. Not the way you’re thinking!”

“I assumed you meant you can appreciate a thing of beauty without having the need to fuck it.”

Charlotte blushed the blush of blushes. “Yes, I meant it that way.”

 

I led with my county paperwork to avoid the question of my age, Steven Handy looking down on me from behind his well-appointed desk, his ill-fitting dark suit obviously from the same rack Michael pulled his suit.

“I like your tie,” I said flatly. I didn’t, particularly, thinking a touch of Sally-ing due.

“My mother.” He fidgeted with the blue tie. “It’s her go-to every Christmas, three ties.”

I feinted a blush. “My mother is famous for her unmentionables. Every year, it’s the same thing.”

“Toby.” Lauren’s hand came to my shoulder. “You forgot this.” She placed my deposit slip on the desk.

“Thanks.”

“I owe you one. A real one. Not the closed eyes.”

I glanced up and behind. “For opening the account?” I really had no desire to bring Lauren into our circle. I didn’t think I was going to have a choice much hinging on how things panned out with her and Shawn.

“OK.” She retreated.

“Oh,” Handy said. “You already have an account with us.”

“Three. Personal savings. Personal checking. Business checking.”

He lined up forms on the desk, applying his pen. “That makes it easier.”

“This will be doing business as 1 Bread. That’s the numeral 1.”

“1 Bread?”

“Yes.”

Steve Handy’s face was strong, rectangular, hair the color of fall maple leaves jutting straight up an inch from the top of his forehead, his eyes dark, penetrating, inquisitive. He projected arrogance, mistaking his job as prestigious.

He annoyed me.

“What’s 1 Bread?”

I hurt myself not rolling my eyes, engaging my inner Sally instead. “I’m so glad you asked. I’m barely out of the planning stage. 1 Bread is going to be an organization providing meals to people in poverty, focusing on children.”

He scoffed like a pig at a trough, writing on a form. “There’s plenty of work available – for people who aren’t too lazy turn off the TV and leave the house.”

“Maybe so. Children should still not go hungry.” My response would have been much different if I didn’t require Handy’s cooperation.

“Still –”

“Still what, Mr. Handy?”

My tone steered us back to a professional transaction.

 

After hoisting my new bicycle into the back of my pickup at the high-speed train parking lot, the memory of doing the same with Locke’s pickup truck flooded over me. “What a journey it’s been,” I said with a long sigh, surveying all I could see.

I wondered if the Ramble crossed my path, how far I could push the car with my pickup. Like with 1 Bread, my plan was vague. Firstly, uncover who hired Ramble Man to kill me. Secondly, eliminate the threat with reason and conversation. With that likely to fail, put my rebar through his forehead.

Or something like that.

 

“Michelle,” I called, leaning my bicycle against the wall.

“Toby? Hi,” she said, coming from the hall.

I went nose to nose.

“Toby?”

“We’re the same height. How’d that happen?”

“You grew, I didn’t? I’ve been wishing I don’t grow any.”

“Anyway. Sit.”

We sat at the table.

“What are you doing home so early?”

“Bob has me a short day on Tuesday.”

“Everything good, with the job?”

“It’s better than raking out gardens.”

“I don’t like ceilings.”

She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t mean it that way. Sometimes when it gets crowded, I feel I’d rather be outside, too.”

“Honest evaluation. How did you do in the auto shop? I mean, how was your work?”

“What do you mean?”

“Asshole said your work sucked. He kept you on because you were fun to fuck with.”

“Asshole is right. I was doing great, better than a couple of the other guys, which pissed them off. Ask Keith. He’ll tell you, unless he’s still mad at me.”

“He misses you, or so he says. Would be interested in a date.”

“Or a blow job.”

“I asked him that, actually. I thought you might have had your fill of relationships that amount to blowing each other.”

“Shawn.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“I mean Shawn’s shown me what it’s like to have a real friend. Keith, though great at sucking my dick, was never a friend, never even tried to be. You’re right. It’d be great to have a good friend who sucks a great dick.”

“Well, if you even like Keith, he might be willing to have a real date, to do something together that doesn’t involve dick sucking.”

“I’ll give it some thought. There’s Ralph. I really like the way he likes me. I like his Franklin Institute date idea. And, Lenette. I’m going to call Jessica, see about taking her to Michelangelo’s. I’ll bring money this time.”

“Do you even like Ralph?”

“Huh?”

“You’re stuck in a loop. You should go out with people you like, not go out with people because you think they like you. See what I’m saying? You told me you don’t like boys in that way yet got all caught up in the Levy thing because Levy and his family liked you.”

“Yeah, but –”

“Then, Keith. You were diddling knobs before you told him you were a girl.”

“Two-way knob diddling was nice for a change.”

“We talked about this girl thing, you taking it seriously.”

“You think I don’t?”

“I think you should think real hard about it before you roll over anyone else’s life again.”

“I think you asked for a girl roommate, and that’s what I am. I don’t see who I date is any of your business.”

“It’s really not.” I took a deep breath. “I do have a couple of things.”

She sat up straight, hands folded. “OK.”

“Mable.”

“Neighbor across the hall.”

“Have you spoken to her?”

“About?”

“She tried to kill me.”

“Huh?”

“I’d left the door open, the phone ringing. She came at me with her cane.”

“That’s almost funny.”

“Almost. I asked her not to try to kill me until after she spoke to you.”

“Huh?”

“She has the misconception I’m going to corrupt that nice girl. I think she meant you.”

Michelle rolled her eyes. “That’s me. The nice girl.”

“Talk to her?”

“Yeah, I got this.”

“Next up. Thursday.”

“The funeral. I’m covering Pamala so she can go.”

“Thursday evening.”

“Oh, that.”

“Pamala and Shawn are taking Rachel. I want you to go, too. Kerney’s going to take your blood. I talked to him on the phone.”

“No can do.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You can lose that expression. Last time you hit me in the face with it, cost you more than you can even guess.”

“Huh?”

“December. I called in a favor, asked Mr. Edwards to give you a job. You said No can do because blowing Levy was more important. There was a lot riding on you stepping up and being responsible.”

“I remember that. You never explained to me what hung on that. My answer would have been different.”

I doubt that. “So, then, Michelle. Allow me to pontificate. I’ll give you a dozen articles to read. You’ve been taking so many loads from so many different directions –”

“It’s not that. I understand I’ve been, eh, careless.”

“I don’t want to see you passing anything along to Ralph, or Lenette or whoever.”

“I don’t want that, either! It’s Rachel.”

“What about Rachel?”

“What she’s doing is wrong.”

“What the fuck are you taking about?”

“She’s killing her baby.”

“Boy, I did not see that coming. No one is asking you to suck the fetus out of her uterus.”

“It’s just, you know, going along, being there.”

“You go in, get the blood drawn, wait in the car. I don’t give a fuck, but you’re going. Along the way, if you can’t say something supportive, keep your mouth shut. Deal?”

She hesitated. “Toby. Everybody has a right to their life, even Rachel’s baby.”

“Whoa, Michelle. Those can’t be your words. Next thing I hear is you saying nonsense about souls and God.”

“It’s obvious –”

“It’s not. We grow up in an environment where proclamations pelt down on us like a harsh winter rain. We can’t stand in the rain and not get wet. Too often we internalize bullshit we hear repeatedly, and too often, we repeat that bullshit as if we feel it.”

I showed Michelle my palm. “What was it you said that day in the snow, in the woods? I feel you’re too smart to believe all that bullshit.”

“This is different.”

I rolled my eyes. “You assert Rachel is killing her baby. We can go to the library and for eight hours, I’ll show you science book after science book demonstrating clearly a fetus is not a baby. All you’ve got is someone told you so, likely your father repeatedly in his religious rants.”

She nodded slowly. “The fetus will be a person.”

“Every load you squirt in your sock is millions of potential persons.” I shrugged. “I’ve come across an army of persons who don’t deserve life so that’s not a good argument. I bet, just as an example, I could kill my mother with the casualness I swat a fly simply because the fly is annoying me. Or even my brother and not because he raped me, but because he’s a bully, sticking your head in the toilet.”

“Whoa at you, Toby. I don’t know what to make of all that. I will have to give it some thought. My father’s voice. That’s scary fucking stuff.”

“Let me put it this way. You’re doing it. Let me hear you say OK.”

She looked at the table. “OK.”

“I’ll call Mr. Edwards. Pamala and Shawn will pick you up at work.”

I wasn’t worried about Ralph and Lenette. I’d watched Michael and Shawn dance.

 

Because I do live is cliché, Officer William Martin and I stood close each with an open book in the back of the second floor hidden in the labyrinth of bookshelves.

“I really like that dress,” he said, cutting me off in the middle of my woe tale.

I wore a straight cut cream sundress with a blue flower theme, spaghetti strap, my black army boots, white knee socks. “I knew we should have gotten a room.”

“Toby!”

“I mean, you’re distracted.”

“Sorry. You were saying?”

“I was saying, if I had listened to myself, I would have gotten out of the apartment before they raped me.”

“You didn’t take it to the authorities, why?”

“I never once considered that a choice. I thought no one would believe me and if anyone did, they’d dismiss the gang rape as a boys will be boys things.

“Anyway, here comes Bill Locke with a vacant property. I talk him into hiring me as a house sitter. Looking back, I think Locke was looking for a way to put me in the house, so that worked out. Until he raped me. At least he didn’t tie me up, keep me prisoner, murder me, bury me in The Pines.

“My mistake, like with my brother, I was a step too slow getting out.”

“You knew nothing of the criminal enterprise?”

“I’m not stupid. I simply chose to be willfully ignorant. I needed a place to live. I never entertained or considered anything beyond that.”

“The rumors have you a major player.”

“Yeah, all fifteen years old of me.” I rolled my eyes. “They set me up as the major scapegoat. My Houdini trick spoiled that plan. I don’t know the details. I think without me, the prosecutor’s case fell apart. I’m guessing, and this is pure conjecture and I hate to conjecture anything, the fallback scapegoat was Bill Locke. Mary Locke wasn’t hearing any of that. Mary Locke is a major player.”

“This has got to be the least amazing of all the tales I’ve heard.”

I shrugged. “Your turn.”

Martin bit his lip. “Theodore Avery. Know him?”

“I do not.”

“We impounded the car.” He narrowed his eyes, tilting his head back. “A person can’t be driving around with phony paperwork.”

“I assure you, Officer Martin, my paperwork is just fine.”

“Cracked windshield, front grill damage, like you said.”

“I can’t. That’s a hard push uphill, even if my face imprint were on the windshield.”

“He doesn’t have a driver license. Inexperienced driver. Could have just been an accident. He faked the paperwork because he said he needs get to and from work.”

“Do you believe him?”

“No, not that it matters. His uncle is some kind of big shot. I never heard of him.”

“I really need to meet this chief of yours.”

“Chief Meyer. It’s a small shop. I think he’s working toward retirement.”

“Thus the handing off to County all the time.”

“You’ll let me know if –”

“I will, definitely.”

His attention shot up behind me, down the rows of books. “My God, what a beautiful woman.”

I glanced. “Want me to introduce you?”

“You know her?”

“She’s my lawyer.”

 

I introduced Officer Martin as my friend William.

As they shook hands, Reeves said, “I’m not actually a lawyer. Legal assistant.”

“For our purposes tonight, Miss Reeves is my liaison to my lawyer’s office which makes her my de facto lawyer. I stand by my introduction.”

“All of fifteen.” Martin rolled his eyes.

“Every day of it.”

“I’m first year, night classes, law,” Martin said, almost as a boast. His posturing surprised me.

“Third.”

“If you don’t mind, Officer Martin.”

“What? Oh, right, dead Indians.”

 

Jennifer Reeves rolled her eyes as Martin moved off. “Thanks.”

“He’s married. I wanted to cut him off before he embarrassed himself asking you out.”

I knitted my eyebrows. “Do you feel that’s what got you hired?”

“I like to think it was my school record, teacher endorsements. I didn’t much care what got me in the door.”

“You work on the Royal Taxi and Limousine Service file showed me you’re not just a pretty face.”

“I appreciated the opportunity. Many, maybe most people in the office can’t see beyond the eye candy.”

I smirked. “I bet Mr. Stenholm gave that infamous smirk of his.”

“Infamous dismissive smirk. I gently suggested he not make me have you call him.”

“I am a busy girl. Did he read you in completely?”

She took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Good.”

“Mr. Stenholm figured going forward, I was going to be your primary liaison to the law firm. I might even get my own office.”

“Damn, Miss Reeves. Your sarcasm is undetectable.”

“The skill is developed over years.”

“Toby?” came from behind me. “Are you Toby? It’s the boots –”

Turning, I caught eyes the color of mine sunk in a pleasing ochre face, sculpted eyebrows, hair to her shoulders the color and wave of that of a cocker spaniel, my height, similar build twenty pounds heavier, ten years older.

“Thanks for coming. Chase Hastings, Jennifer Reeves.”

As their hands joined across me, Hastings said, “I’m with the Post – the Herald Post.” Stepping back, she addressed me. “You're welcome.”

“Hard sell?”

She rolled her eyes. “Editor snickered at me. I’m here on spec.”

“It was that dinosaur series two years ago, ran consecutive Sundays. Tying in that 1854 discovery.”

“I didn’t think anyone read that.”

“I told you on the phone I’m a fan. Good, solid work. Zero percent conjecture. I like that in my journalism.”

“I’d blush if I did such a thing.”

“I knew I was going to like you.”

“I did a piece, was supposed to be a series –”

“Last year, on the Lenape. I bet we can resurrect your series.”

“The thought did cross my mind.”

Reeves cleared her throat. “This all may be a bust. I can find no reason to believe or evidence of any burial ground on that location.” She opened a file folder.

“I know.”

“Huh? How can you know?”

“Miss Hastings?”

She cocked her head.

“The Lenape didn’t employ graveyards.”

“That’s right! But, isn’t that conjecture?”

“It is. Still confirms what Miss Reeves didn’t find. We’ll keep this to ourselves.” I handed single sheets of paper from my own folder to the women. “Here’s my proposal. You have three minutes, Miss Reeves, then you’re presenting.”

“Me? Oh.”

 

Mr. Maynard Rollings was Fred and Barney old, gray hair osprey nest sloppy, white complexion, dark acorn brown eyes. He had an annoying habit of waving his frail right hand to punctuate each sentence.

I had barely gotten the lot number out, when Rollings cast adrift.

“The house. That house. An abomination. My grandfather would take us walking in those woods. Well, those woods aren’t even there anymore. Gone, all gone. Houses. Houses everywhere.”

He glared at Chase Hastings. “I know, personally, Raymond Carter. Known him since he was a pup. Well, he’s not on my Christmas list or anything like that, but you ask him, he’ll tell you. Even with all that, I couldn’t get a reporter out to cover a meeting. How are you here?”

“Mr. Rollings,” I said.

“Eh?” He narrowed his eyes at me.

“Lot 405. The Indians.”

“Right, right! Where was I?”

“Your grandfather taking walks in the woods.”

“His grandmother was an Indian princess. I’m part Indian, don’t you see. He told us walking in the woods, Old Jaramiah Rollings. There was a great battle, well, not so much a great battle as a disagreement over the land by the river. That’s when it happened.”

He paused, time leaking into a dark void. I expected everyone in the room to ask in unison, Oh, Maynard, what happened?

“The settlers murdered six of my family, well, my Indian family. Then, the settlers were so repented for what they’d done, they gave the six Indians a Christian burial, right there on the hill by the river.”

I shrugged with all the dismissiveness I could pack into my shoulders, staying any contradictions Reeves or Hastings could offer. Sister Sophia, the history teacher from Pamala’s school, shared a subtle wink.

“I feel, Mr. Rollings, you mistake my intentions. Miss Reeves?”

Reeves worked from her chair, clocking the ten faces around the table. “We are in the process of obtaining title to lot 405.”

“I got a handshake this afternoon,” I said to no one in particular.

“Who are you?” Rollings asked bitterly.

“Jennifer Reeves. I represent the legal interests of Archetype LLC, an independent investment portfolio. The reason I’m here, is because the proposal involves you, the historical society.”

“In what way?”

“If I may work through this.”

Rollings waved his hand.

Reeves circled around the table, dropping the proposal to each person. “We’re going to buy the property, clean up the property – specifically remove the debris of the house, landscape the property keeping it natural, provide and install benches.

“In about the center, we’re going to install a monument: Life size bronze Lenape woman and man atop a granite pedestal, the pedestal with a plaque, bronze. You have copy on the paper I handed out.”

“Did you write this, Toby?” Hastings asked.

I shrugged. “Rough draft.”

Samantha Sullivan, the only other child at the table, 16, built more like Pamala than me, brown sugar hair flowing down her shoulders, soft brown eyes, assertive, said, “Nothing about Indian princesses?”

Kyra Sullivan, the librarian, gave her daughter the cold, narrowed eyes.

“I appreciate sarcasm more that you know, eh?”

“Samantha. Andy.”

“Other than lacking princesses?”

“It’s good, factual, down to earth. Captures the culture well avoiding glorification or conquer bias. The statue. May I do some sketches?”

“Man on a rearing horse with a spear?”

Samantha rolled her eyes. “I see what you mean about sarcasm. I’m thinking farmer hunters. I’ve imagined so much.”

I scribbled on my notepad, ripping off the top sheet. “My architect.”

“Toby?”

“Mrs. Sullivan?”

“What’s our catch.”

“Oh, right. I want to lease plot 405 to the historical society for a dollar a year. The property is yours as long as you maintain the property. I have a list of minimum requirements spelled out.”

Dasey Longardner leaned her right elbow on the table. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

“Beyond my conversation with Cassandra?”

“Well, my aunt’s property.”

“See me after the meaning. I don’t want to hold up Miss Reeves or Miss Hastings.”

“I have no place to be,” Hastings said.

“Good, I want to see you after the meeting, too.”

“Questions? Comments? Criticisms?” I asked all the faces at the table, “Concerning this proposal.”

“I’m going to need to see the contract,” Kyra said.

“I’ll messenger it over by noon,” Reeves answered.

“We don’t meet again until next month.”

“I think we can decide, tentatively anyway, tonight before we break up,” Sister Sophia said. “How’s it sound to you, Maynard?”

“You won’t get me pulling weeds.”

Sister Sophia giggled. “Of course not, Maynard.”

 

“Tough room,” Reeves lamented at the library entrance.

I shrugged. “You made it easy.”

“That’s why you asked me.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“I thought Mr. Stenholm was exaggerating.”

“About?”

“You.”

I shrugged again. “You’ll get this all worked out, then.”

“Tweek some boilerplates. Why?”

“Why, what?”

“This whole deal. I could have set the town council on fire and had Mr. Goldman break ground by the end of next month.”

“That story was almost comical. That was the basis for them thinking it’s a burial ground?”

“Something close to that is in the council minutes. So, why?”

“You don’t like Indians?”

“Toby.”

“I’m stealing the property not unlike the settlers stole it from the Indians. Can you imagine what that property is going to be worth in thirty years? It’s an investment.”

She nodded. “Thus, the very liberal standard by which you can void the agreement.”

“I’m going to give your phone number to Hastings.”

“Eh, OK. Why?”

“Sometimes a journalist needs legal background or to fact check legal bullshit. I bet she has someone now, but not someone who takes her seriously.”

“Gosh, Toby.”

“It’s a two-way street. Having a reporter’s phone number and attention can be a great resource.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Is this entire puppet show nothing but a charade to develop a reporter as a resource?”

“Everything is an investment, Miss Reeves.”

 

Donna Weber bounced around like a pinball. “So sorry about my dad. He’s a dad, you know.”

“We’re going to take a table by the window,” I answered. “Coffee?” I asked over my shoulder.

“Sure,” Chase Hastings answered.

“With two coffees.”

“I’m going to make a new pot, just for you!”

We dropped in the booth across from each other.

“She’s enthusiastic.”

“Crazy enthusiastic. Sometimes, I want to throw a bucket of cold water on her.”

“Also, she seems much too young to be working this late on a school night.”

I smirked, narrowing my eyes. “Her father owns the place. She’s my age.”

Hastings looked at as if seeing me for the first time, dropped and opened her notepad to the table. “First question: Who are you?”

“First answer: I wish to always remain anonymous.”

“Not because you’re shy. Will you tell me the real answer?”

“Maybe someday, but that day is not today. What do you make of our dead Indians?”

“I like the story, as for Carter, I don’t know.”

Our coffee arrived with a bowl of French fries in gravy. “Dad wants to talk to you. He asked me to ask you.”

“About what, Donna? I don’t want to make him cry again.”

“I love you so much! You're funny. Something about the food thing.”

I glanced Hastings, Hastings shrugged.

“Sure.”

I held Hastings’ eyes. “Carter. Your boss?”

“Yes. Raymond Carter.”

“I’ve seen his work. I’m not impressed. He’s a good mechanic. Nothing more. If you think he won’t like your dead Indian story, get a person with a penis to pitch it.”

“I’ve thought of working with a front person.”

“A person with a dick.” I looked toward the ceiling. “Open with the tragic house fire, jump to Grandpa Crazy’s story quoting from the town council meeting, slipping into the actual history of the Indians of his era, getting their land stolen and all.”

“What council meeting?”

“Oh, there was meeting. Miss Reeves has the minutes.”

“I like the human-interest story: An individual takes it upon herself to preserve history and land.”

“That’s nowhere near as sexy as dead Indians haunting a family.”

“Hi, eh –”

“Toby, Mr. Weber.”

“Sorry for the misunderstanding.”

“Happens.”

“What was it you had in mind?”

“Once a week, likely Saturday, I plan to provide a good meal to children who otherwise don’t get one. When you ambushed me, I didn’t have much of a plan. My question to you is this: How much leeway would you require if I wanted to pick up let’s say thirty meals.”

“Meals. As in?”

“Let’s say for example meatloaf, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn. I can work up menus in advance. Each meal gets a single slice of bread.”

“Even a pizza dinner?”

I rolled my eyes. “Men, always looking to jump out with an exception. Yes, a single piece of bread even with the pizza dinner.”

“Let me work up a price.”

“The question was, eh –” Hastings started.

“Weber. Allen Weber.”

“The question was, Mr. Weber, how much leeway do you need to produce that many meals on a Saturday afternoon. Implied in the question is: Are you able to do that?”

“Of course, I can do that. Two days.”

“Good, Mr. Weber. Thanks for your time.”

 

Donna poured more coffee, rolling her eyes. “Sorry he’s so difficult.”

“I’m shopping now. The Nook is convenient.”

She rolled her eyes again, bouncing on her right foot. “I can help, I mean maybe we could help, me and my friends Julie and Sam. We like doing stuff like that, can cook in my kitchen at home.”

“That, Donna, is a great idea. Think about this, though. Coming up soon, I have a property that needs some serious yard work.”

“Oh. Sounds like fun!”

Hastings watched Donna dance away. “You’re making this up as you go.”

“Pretty much.”

“Why?”

“Why 1 Bread?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to make you cry.”

“Please, Toby, make me cry.”

“I wanted to talk about you, journalism.”

“I said I have no place to be. I have a busy day tomorrow, but it’s not an early day. We’ll get to that. Tell me a story.”

I sat back, rolled my hair behind my ears, and said, “Then, Miss Hastings, a story it shall be. Allow me to pontificate.”

“Please, pontificate away.”

“In the lost myths and tales told of me as a child, I say myths and tales because I was never a child, is the tale of Thanksgiving, my mother and father stupid drunk, yelling at each other. To win the argument, my mother violently threw the entire dinner: food, plates, bowls, pot, pans, into the trash.

“She slammed a plate in front of me with a single piece of bread in the center, so I wouldn’t have to go hungry, she said.”

“Oh my God. How old were you?”

“Eight.”

I’d held Hastings’ eyes, aware Dasey Longardner had entered, aware she was hovering.

Hastings’ eyes watered. “You want to reach back in time and give that child a second piece of bread.”

“I so fucking do.”

Longardner cleared her throat. “If I could have a moment.”

I may have growled. My fist came to the table, my head swiveled like a tank turret. “For a psychic, you sure can’t read a room. What the fuck do you want?”

“Spiritualist. And, I’d thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head. I told you I wanted to talk to you after the meeting.”

I held my breath for five seconds. “Oh, hi, Mrs. Longardner. Sorry I missed you after the meeting. My lawyer had things to go over and, well, Miss Hastings and I are working on the story for the newspaper. I’d made a mental note to catch up with you tomorrow.”

“Well, child, this is important.”

Dismissing the child, I did the nod and hand presenting. “Well, Mrs. Longardner, important away. You have my full attention.”

“Harriet Stiles has a stipulation in her will that you clean up the property, including what I feel is a very generous compensation.”

“How are you the executor.”

“I didn’t say I was the executor.”

“But you are.”

“Yes.”

“How?” I glanced Hastings. “Would you please stop writing?”

She shrugged.

Longardner looked to Hastings, then back to me. “Sorid tale, which surprised even me.”

I gave her my please, go on face.

“It seems as much as she hated who I am, I’m the only one she felt would carry out her wishes.”

I smirked, “With no compensation other than that provided by prevailing law.”

“Aunt Harriet did know how to make a point.”

Plopping my red swede bag on the table, I said, “My first inclination is not only to say no, but fuck no, and that’s with me keeping a civil tongue in my mouth.” I handed a business card. “Fax over a copy of the codicil –”

“The what?”

“Addition to the will,” Hastings said.

“Oh.”

“I imagine the codicil is handwritten in Old English calligraphy. Let it be known, and all that.”

“It is.”

“If it’s not notarized –” Hastings began.

“It is,” I said.

Longardner narrowed her eyes at me. “Do you know why?”

I laughed. “I bet she even noted why, without keeping a civil pen in her hand.”

She returned a snicker. “You may have gotten along.”

“She was labored down with too much Dark Age thinking for me to have taken her seriously.”

“You think that of me, too?”

“Fax the codicil over to my lawyer. I’ll have her work up a contract, look it over, and get back to you. I want to say no. I also don’t want to see you get bogged down caught in switches that’ve been in play since long before you were born.”

I waved at the air. “It doesn’t matter if you understand that or not.”

“Why are you still sitting?” Pamala asked.

Standing, we embraced as if the world were ending.

“Having a party with me?”

“I wish,” I whispered in her ear.

Pamala gathered Longardner up in a full body hug. “Any friend of Toby’s. I know who you are.”

Longardner blubbered.

Tossed aside like yesterday’s newspaper, Longardner nodded to me.

“I’ll be in touch,” I called after her as she moved off.

Pamala watched down, her arms out at the sides. “Everyone gets hugs, Chase Hastings,” she said, almost sinister.

Hastings complied with hesitate enthusiasm.

“Pamala Edwards,” Pam said in her ear. “Toby’s wife as soon as she figures out the paperwork and I have no doubt she can make that happen.”

Blushing, a bit flustered, Hastings dropped to her seat. “Eh, OK. Em.”

“I felt the same way the first time she hugged me,” I said. “Sorry for the interruption.”

“You’d better be talking about the witch and not me.”

“Well, I am.”

“You’re much better looking in person than that awful photo of you on your stories.”

“Thanks.”

Pamala looked to me then Hastings. “Should I go?”

“No, no,” Hastings said. “We were just talking about 1 bread.”

“1 Bread?”

“Something that happened today.”

“Today?” Hastings asked.

“Well, the idea has been simmering a long time.”

“Hungry kids?” Pamala asked. “Did you tell the Thanksgiving story yet?”

“I did, yes.” I rolled my eyes. “Cassandra has that weekly dance class for children, some of whom don’t have means.”

“You thinking the world owes you a living, just blurt out that you want their names, addresses, maybe even the family profiles.”

I shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

“I bet Cassandra told you why not.”

“She did.”

“So, you need a real business and a name.”

“1 Bread seemed fitting.”

“It’s perfect.” She looked to Hastings. “Shouldn’t you be taking notes?”

“Toby told me to put my notebook away.”

Pamala laughed. “Anyway. Do go on. Don’t mind me.”

Hasting bit her lip, taking my eyes. “I got the 1 Bread. I wanted to ask a personal question.”

“Sounds ominous. You may ask me anything in front of Pam.”

“Are you, eh, schizophrenic? I may not have the right word.”

The answer is: obviously. I suspected she was asking the wrong question.

Pamala laughed again.

“You’re thinking of my shift in persona, the two different ways I dealt with Mrs. Longardner.”

“Fuck,” Pamala said. “Fuck. She came out, didn’t she?” She turned to Hastings. “My God. You got to see her.”

I blushed, looking at the table. “Not the subject for now.” I looked toward Hastings. “Schizophrenic is not the word you’re looking for. You mean to ask whether I’m split personality. The answer is no.”

“I’d never considered it. Maybe you-know-who is split personality?”

“Maybe you’re taking a weekend in Crazy Town.”

Pamala half turned to me, offering an exaggerated wink. “Did you ask her yet?”

“Now I feel like I’m being stalked.”

“It’s the smell of ether, isn’t it?” Pamala asked.

“Don’t run for the door. Yet.” I let out a long sigh. “I’ve said, I like your work.”

“I’ve felt flattered, even impressed by your familiarity. I didn’t think I had any fans out there. One of the factors in me getting my job is my family.”

“I want to know, Chase, what do you want?”

She closed her eyes. “Nice house, car, family, job I love all would be great.” She opened her eyes. “I want to be listened to. I want to be heard. I want to be taken seriously.”

“Chase.”

“Toby?”

“Add without reservation No matter what to that.”

“Fuck, Toby, what are you thinking?”

“I’ve heard you say fuck nine times in my life, Pam. Three of those times have been tonight.”

“Toby.”

“Chase?”

“I want to be listened to. I want to be heard. I want to be taken seriously. No matter what.”

“Know this, Chase: Nothing is a single strand of thread. It’s a tapestry.”

“Like a newsprint photo. A picture is made up of many individual dots. Where do we start?”

“Shouldn’t there be a disclaimer somewhere concerning the possibility of getting murdered?” Pamala asked.

“Disclaimer. I’m not fucking around. I have knowledge that can get you murdered.”

She took a moment to decide whether I was kidding or not. “Where do we start?”

“Indians. We need to work it up, we need to find the angle where Raymond Carter takes an interest.”

“Have you thought of having a man present it?” Pamala asked.

Hastings smirked at me. “I get the feeling you have something in the works that’ll put me in Raymond Carter’s chair.”

“Don’t show a lack of ambition, now.

“Pamala.”

“Toby?

“How would you like to be the CEO of 1 Bread. You’re a bunch more photogenic than me.”

“Can I be the founder, too?”

“Yes.”

“Then, yes.”

“1 Bread will be story two.”

“I’m going to be putting a lot of effort into stories that’ll never be published.”

“I’ll buy them for a dollar, put the name Shawn Beedle on the byline, send them out of the wire with a contractional agreement that the ownership reverts to you when they get bought.”

“I’m not sure that’s legal.”

I shrugged. “We’ll make an agreement that’s legal.”

“Why not just do it all yourself? Keep me out of it?”

I shrugged again. “I don’t want to be a journalist.”

She presented her notebook. “OK?”

I shrugged.

“Pamala Edwards,” she said aloud, writing.

“That’s with an a, not an e,” I said.

“Hi, kids,” Shawn said, dropping next to Hastings, passing a stack of papers across to me. “I thought you’d be here.”

She looked to Hastings, offering a hand. “Shawn Beedle.”

Hastings took the hand. “Chase Hastings. Pleased to meet you.”

“Chase. Cool name.”

“My great grandfather. Very proper English.”

“I won’t hold that against you.”

I worked down the front page, marking corrections. “Miss Hastings is that newspaper reporter I may have mentioned.”

“You didn’t. Newspaper reporter, huh?”

“I’m primarily a fluffer.”

“Do tell?”

“Stories come in to us from around the world. I see if I can give them a local angle, punch them up, put them on my editor’s desk where they generally die.”

I marked up the tenth page. “I bet most them are better than what makes the paper.”

“We only have so much space for stories.”

“I do understand that.”

“What are you doing?” She plucked a sheet.

“Proofreading my archeology paper.”

“Shawn is really great – I mean really great with the big picture.”

“I suck at the basic shit.”

“You’re doing much better than the first paper I looked at. I like to think I’m not editing your work. I’m teaching you to be a better writer.”

“I don’t see myself as a writer, ever. I’d like to teach – ballet. Maybe general dance, too. I could land back in high school, who knows.”

Hasting passed the page back. “You edit like a newspaper person.”

“For a college paper? Sure. Just the facts. Avoid modifiers. Never use very and actually.”

“Have you taken any classes?”

“I read the paper every day. Read a book or eight.”

“Do you know how to format news copy? You could write the first draft. I could polish it.”

Pamala laughed.

“What’s so funny?’

“Toby doesn’t know how to type.”

“I don’t.” I passed the manuscript back to Shawn.

“It’s all repetition and muscle memory,” Pamala said. “I have my old typing book around. I’ll teach you.”

I shrugged. “I proofread. Shawn types.”

Shawn slid from the booth. “The sad reality of life is I may not be with you forever.”

“Impermanence sucks.”

“That, too. Whatever that is.” Shawn took Hastings’ hand again. “Really nice to meet you, Chase. Be very careful. Toby collects beautiful women.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Shawn Beedle.”

“Memory trick?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m going to type this – again,” Shawn said. “Meet here for breakfast before the funeral?”

“I think I’ll cook. I feel good cooking for everyone.”

“Sold, you silver tongued devil.”

“Funeral?” Hastings asked.

“Jody Demarko,” Shawn said hollowly, college paper to her check, looking down at Hastings.

“The child who died getting lost in The Pines.”

“I have to get this typed up.” Shawn turned.

“I’ll go,” Pamala said, kissing me quickly, sliding out.

“Thanks.”

“You knew her?”

“Shawn’s cousin.”

“I’m covering the funeral. It’s a nothing assignment. I got it because no one else wanted it. I did a piece on forest safety this past winter, of course, never ran.”

“Can I see it sometime?”

“Sure.”

“The blizzard over Easter? I was camping in The Pines for almost two weeks.”

“My God. That sounds like a story.”

“It isn’t. I was prepared.” I put a gravy-soaked fry in my mouth.

“Sure. It’s not like you wandered off from a group of friends with nothing but the clothes on your back.”

I held her eyes, soft eyes like mine, into an uncomfortable silence. “Neither did Jody.”

The silence enveloped us again for at least a geological age.

Chase Hastings revealed a blank page, writing Jody Demarko on the top. “Toby. This is the story?”

I bit my lip, nodded subtility.

She gave me her well, go on face.

“Not today, Chase. Dead Indians. 1 Bread. You’re going to have to learn to walk before you get your Pulitzer.”

She pursed her lips.

“There’s a place, Miss Hastings, hidden in the shadows far behind this facade we call society – social culture, where horrible, terrible things happen. When a girl may get her face bounced off the concrete steps, for example. I’m at a loss to explain why so many people simply look the other way.

“Can you imagine how many people have to be involved, to cooperate, to push the Jody fairy tale on us?”

“I didn’t work on the original story.”

“It’s a cotton candy piece.” I waved my right hand in front of me like dispersing smoke. “Here’s what you need do, Chase: Think carefully about all I’ve said. Imagine what I have. Decide whether you wish to take my hand, walk into the dark Brothers Grimm Forest with me.”

Hastings closed her eyes for a long moment, then opened them. “You’re not fucking around.”

“That’s what I said.”

 

Halfway to my apartment, a black Impala rolled up on me. “Not a good night, Inspector Joe Bradley.”

“I don’t particularly care. Get in.”

“Do I need a shovel?”

“No.”

“Isn’t this April’s car?”

“Company car. Get it.”

 

“Are you trying to get April killed?” Bradley asked the windshield.

“She wasn’t supposed to say anything to you.”

“She didn’t. Knowing what I know, picking up on what she was doing was easy. I knew you had to point her in that direction.”

I shrugged. “I figured when it comes right down to it, Inspector April Mathers is the one going to be doing the killing. She’s got that spark in her eye, that fire in her belly. She knows what people are capable of.

“I’d like to become the kind of friend to her where she feels comfortable telling me the story.”

He piloted the Impala through the cemetery gates, made two turns, up a rise, rolling to a grave site.

“You’re an asshole, Bradley.”

“You’re going to like this.”

As we climbed from the car, Bradley called out, “OK, boys.”

With the assistance of a backhoe, the casket was drawn from my grave.

“Told you I’d take care of it,” Bradley said.

“Huh?”

“House fire, three towns over. What to come along? Plant evidence with me?”

I did.

 

Part 24