Michael, Antoinette, and Me

 

Part 29

 

Willford Peterson looked to be a million hard years old with his snow-white hair ratty to his shoulders, pale complexion dotted with brown splotches, frail hands, dull blue eyes. “What do you want?” he called from the door, Shawn and I roaming the yard.

The building was relatively small, half the size of my house on Newton, in need of repair of everything.

“Pastor Peterson?” Shawn called back.

Shrouded in a thick black bathrobe, he stepped onto the landing, pulling the collar tight. “Petey’s good. Everyone calls me Petey, Father Petey if you must.”

“Rich Serling asked us to take a look at your roof.”

“Serling! He knows I don’t have the money. He’s got an angle, always does.”

I stepped in front of Shawn, looking up from fifteen paces away, taking Peterson’s eyes. “Tell me, Father Peterson, what do you do?”

“Eh, what do you mean?”

I half shrugged, looking around. “What is it you do, here.”

“It’s a church, child,” he said more aggressively than he intended.

“Don’t child me, Father Peterson. It’s disrespectful. Toby, Miss Blanc if you must.”

He bit his lip. “Toby.” He looked to the sky. “Sunday worship. You know, it’s a church. I read a little Bible. Sometimes a wedding, sometimes a funeral.”

I watched, waited.

“People come, have questions about life. I comfort, listen. Got an informal addiction meeting Wednesday night. Mostly drunks looking to dry out. I can’t much give advice, you know.”

“I don’t.”

“I’m not that grand. I listen. It helps some people.”

“You live here?”

“I have no place to go.”

“Shawn.”

Shawn stepped to my shoulder. “Toby.”

“Let’s get this roof done this week. The back room is fallen in. The roof isn’t safe.”

“I’m not sure they’ll be available –”

“Offer whatever bonus you must.”

Mr. Peterson shook his head, narrowing his eyes. “Hold up, eh, Miss Blanc. I can’t afford a roof.”

“You can’t afford not a roof. We commonly help out nonprofits. Obviously, you’re nonprofit.”

“The church congregation, mostly old people, mostly poor. Like me, they don’t have any other place to go. I’ve never been one for asking for money.”

He pursed his lips, maybe a man once too proud to accept charity. “Would you like to come in?”

“That won’t be –”

“We would love some tea,” Shawn said over me, making notes.

“Tea it is.”

 

“I can’t do as I used to,” Peterson said as apology for the disastrous condition of the church interior.

Shawn found her way around the small kitchen, Peterson and I at the small dust covered table in the basement, the entire building stinking of mold and mildew.

“The building is beautiful.”

“My eyesight is bad, but not that bad.”

“I can see things for how they were, how they can be.”

“Ah, a dreamer.”

“More realist than you could ever guess.”

“Not a believer, huh.”

“In?”

“God. Faith.”

“I am not.”

“Me, neither.”

My face asked the question.

“Faith and God are for those who need it. That’s what I help people with. The war murdered all the faith I could ever have.”

“I guess faith, God, and murdering people are incompatible.”

“Many a war across human history has been fought to curry God’s favor.”

“If there’s a favor to curry, I’d think feeding hungry people, maybe putting a new roof on an old church, would do it better than dropping bodies to the ground.”

“I can see you’ve not read the Bible.”

“Actually, I have. The Bible god wouldn’t be my first choice of deities if I suddenly felt the need for a deity.”

“You’re much too young to be this jaded.”

“I have receipts.”

Our tea arrived, Shawn sitting, rolling her eyes. “Toby always goes on and on with her dark and gloom girl.”

“He started it.”

“I’m going to drop a trash container in the parking lot likely tomorrow.”

“Eh, OK,” Peterson said with a nod.

I produced the paper from my back pocket. “Let me get your opinion on something.”

Peterson took the paper, struggled his glasses from his pocket, reading. “You’re a witch.”

“I’ve been called worse. A lot worse. My mother calls me –”

“Toby, that’s not what Father Petey means.”

He waved the paper. “Who wrote this?”

“I did.”

His face challenged the statement.

“Really. I wrote that. Will you do it? I mean, for me?”

“Of course, I’ll do it. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I’m marrying a woman.”

“So?”

“I’ve been thrown out of a church for holding hands with a woman.”

“Assholes.” He waved the paper again. “If they got wind of this, you could have been burned at the stake.”

“Drown in the pond. Witch burning wasn’t as big as most people think.”

“So, you are a witch.”

“Father Peterson. I have no idea what you go on about.”

“Time not a time! Place not a place! That’s Circle. That’s sacred space.”

I swallowed hard. “As a child, I was terrorized at home. Both, drunks. I’d run to a secret place in the woods, there in my place far removed from reality. A place not a place in a time not a time.”

He stared at my paper. “Incredible.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Are you a witch?”

He glared at me as if not understanding the question. “Of course not.”

“Why of course not?”

“I’m a man.”

“So?”

“OK, you’re not a witch.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “Witchcraft is known as the first religion.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“Mine is not to lecture on the topic.” He swiped at the air. “I died in the war.”

“I know the feeling,” Shawn said.

“I mean died, dead. Left for dead. Mary Constantine, lived on the hill outside the village. Found me in the field. Breathed life back into me. Nursed me back to health.”

“She was a witch?” Shawn asked with wide eyes.

“Yes, she was.” Again, he waved the paper. “She spoke things just like this in a prayer over me.” He leaned forward, narrowed eyes behind his dirty glasses. “You kind of look like her, those eyes.”

“She read you stories.”

“Yes!”

I worked to my feet. “This is going to be a long day. Thanks for the tea. You’ll do it?”

“It’d be my honor!”

“First, the roof.”

 

“That was weird,” Shawn said to the windshield. “Maybe we should get you a black pointy hat, a broom.”

“Maybe I’ll turn you into a frog. Drop me at the apartment. I’m packed, ready to go. I wanted to have the tent set up by now.”

“Wesley Riley can’t handle this.”

“Who?”

“My father’s boss. I mean, they can do the job.”

“You don’t want to be at a disadvantage, him knowing you need the job done right away. I understand. Him with a dick, you dickless, it’ll always be a struggle.”

“He’s not going to take me seriously in the first place. I have to meet with him about Thomas’ roof, other jobs, as it is. I think on this job, I’ll let my fingers do the walking.”

“Fuck and double fuck.”

“What?”

“Head for Philly. Let’s see how our restaurant project coming along.”

“Huh? Oh. Really? I can handle it.”

“I really need to get to The Pines.” I made a promise.

 

Rich Katz met us in the parking lot as we were getting out of the blue Toyota, plastic hard hats in each hand.

“I wish you’d call ahead,” he greeted, tucking the blue hard hat under his arm, taking my hand. “Toby.”

“Rich.”

He took Shawn’s hand. “Shawn.”

“Hi, Mr. Katz.”

“Call me Rich!”

“OK, Rich.”

“First thing. Did I tell you Shawn’s my number one?”

“You did not. Consider it told.” He nodded sharply to Shawn. “You’re the boss. Is the second thing about the front loader on Saturday? I’m more excited than I should be.”

“We need a favor, actually,” Shawn said.

“Your wish is my command!”

“Small church.” She passed an index card. “Needs a roof. Complete rip off, I’m guessing forty percent sheeting, beams in the back. I measured from the ground.”

He nodded hard. “Simple enough. When?”

“Yesterday?”

Looking to the sky, he said, “I’ll pull half a dozen guys. Be on the job by lunchtime. Be done by tomorrow dinner. Maybe a late dinner. Is that yesterday enough?”

Shawn chuckled. “Let’s hang new gutters, too.”

“Let’s! Are you touring today?”

“I wish,” I said.

“Anything else?”

“Not at the moment,” Shawn answered.

“I look forward to working with you.”

“Me, too!”

“I’d like an invoice.” I provided a business card.

He narrowed his eyes. “We can just fold it into the restaurant.”

“I’d like an invoice. Saturday, too. It’s a tax thing.”

“Oh, I get it. Tax things make me glad I’m a builder and not an accountant.”

Shawn took his hand again. “Thanks for being who you are, Mr. Katz.”

“OK?” he answered.

 

“Grab your stuff,” Shawn said, “I’ll drive you down.”

“I wasn’t planning on biking it. I’m good. I’ll walk up, grab a cab.”

“I’ll drop you. I was planning couple hours there before mowing those two lawns this afternoon.”

“I can postpone.”

“I’m good, Toby.”

 

Pencil in his right hand posed over the log, Butch Falcon struggled with the microphone. “Thirty-two. Where are you?” he asked, annoyed.

“I’m on top,” the radio answered.

“What’s that mean?”

“That means he’s picking up the fare,” Shawn said. “Out of the chair, Butch.”

“Fucking-A gladly. I have a new greater respect for Jane.”

Shawn dropped on the chair, scanned the log, and engaged the microphone. “Thirty-two. When you drop, grab Homer’s for me.”

“Drop and Homer’s, roger, Shawn. Good to hear your voice.”

“Twenty-one.”

“Thank God, Shawn. Dropping on Elderidge.”

“Got it.” She marked the log. “Get me 39 Garfield. Let me know when you’re on top. I’ll call them down. You’re going to the airport.”

“Lucky me. Any word on Jane?”

“I just walked in the door.”

Shawn sat back, looking at Falcon. “Where’s Jane?”

“That was going to be my question.”

Falcon looked from Shawn to me and back. “I stopped in to drop the check off.”

“You could have mailed it.”

“I know, Toby. I like to put my eyes on things. These two men are leaving, Jane’s on the floor. Ralph was here.” He watched the ceiling for an entire half-minute. “Ralph said they muscled Jane pretty good. Something about her cutting into their business.”

“Jane can’t be intimidated.”

“Ralph said she made that perfectly clear.”

“I bet there was crutch swinging,” Shawn said.

“According to Ralph, yes. Ralph said he got between them, pushed to the floor, Jane came at them, got pushed, hit the desk with her head on the way down.”

I let out a sigh that should have stopped the twelve-inch clock on the wall. “Is she dead?”

“We’re waiting to hear from the hospital. Not being related –”

“Shawn, you OK here?”

The radio said, “Got my airport.”

Shawn keyed the microphone. “Give me a shout when you’re back on the Whitman.”

“Roger. Shout back on the Whitman.”

“Sure, Toby.” She scanned the log. “I’ll have a cab back in maybe twenty.”

“I may have a black heart, Shawn. It’s still a heart. Butch and I are going to the hospital.”

“Because I’m driving.”

“It’s like you can read my mind, Butch.”

 

Up the three tiers, Falcon pulled the glass door open for me. “I’m really OK, Butch.”

“I have nothing to do.”

“I was thinking you pull down a hefty salary for what little you do.”

“I can never tell when you’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

Halfway across the spacious lobby, I caught and held Sister Rebecca’s eyes as if the fate of universe hung in balance on what I was about to say to her.

“I should scoff. I do a lot –”

“I know you do, a lot of shit I don’t know about. I trust Jessica. That unconditional trust extents to you.”

Keeping the nun’s eyes through the window, I said, “Sister Rebecca, I am a very good friend of Pamala Edwards. I have been known to read about elephants.”

“I have to come around.”

“I know.”

An eternity of a cupful of seconds passed. We embraced as a mother might a lost child found after months, swaying as she had hugged Pamala.

“She’s OK? Pamala.”

We stood back, keeping hands.

“Jane Wilkins.”

“My gosh, child. When we first had her, I’d go to the chapel every night after shift, cry until I had no more tears.”

“I know the story. The entire story.”

“Have you come to read again?”

“I know – on her first visit, her family disowned her.”

“Drew more tears from me. Some people –”

“I imagine they didn’t take your calls. If they did, the language would make the angels drop to their knees, weeping bitter tears.”

Her right palm came gently to the side of my head like the subtle touch of a winter breeze. Her sharp blue eyes owned me. “Child.”

For the dimmest shutter of a blurry star fading out of existence against a black sky, I knew what being a child felt like, like when I curled up into Pamala on the front seat of her car.

“I am here, Sister Rebecca, to be Jane’s spiritual and material mother. I will take full responsibility for any and all expenses. If you have her on a ward, put her in a private room, just for example. If you feel extra staff is needed, I’ll cover the cost.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“I expect to be kept abreast of her condition.”

Sister Rebecca drew a short breath.

I narrowed my eyes.

“Of course.” She leaned close. “She had a nasty fall. Concussion, slight brain bleed, which should correct itself. We expect a full recovery.”

“As full as Jane can recover.”

“Yes.”

“Butch.”

Falcon came to my shoulder.

“You heard?”

“I did.”

“Sister Rebecca, Butch Falcon. Mr. Falcon represents me in this matter.”

“Understood,” Rebecca said.

“Butch?”

“Oh, eh, yeah, understood.”

“You may walk me out, then come back, get any paperwork out of the way that needs paperworking. If a lawyer is needed, call Miss Reeves.”

“Oh, I like Miss Reeves.”

“Everyone likes Miss Reeves.”

 

Just out the door, Falcon said, “I’ll drive you back.”

I pointed. “Train’s a couple blocks that way. Who?”

“Who?”

“Whose business is Jane cutting into?”

“I think it was more accidental than intentional, the assault.”

“Butch, they fucking put a crippled woman on the floor. I have no problem negotiating protection, doing asshole business with assholes, but they fucking put a crippled woman on the floor. Something’s got to burn for that.”

“Toby –”

“Yell Serling as loud as you can.”

He did. Down the three tier concrete steps, across the yard, across the walk and the street, the 1968 beige Cougar pulled off the street to a stop.

“Who?”

“Cubby Home Taxi Service.”

“Cute. I bet they have reliable airport service.”

“For now.”

I took two steps, Falcon opened the door, I turned back. “Mr. Falcon.”

“Toby?”

“Make no mistake who it is you work for.”

“Aye, aye, Toby. As of our first meeting, there was never a doubt. Sometimes, well, I need dance a little jig to sooth the insecurities of others.”

“Understood.”

 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Richard Serling greeted as I dropped onto the passenger seat. “Your Mr. Hightower.”

I accepted the file. “Any surprises?”

He pulled into traffic. “Everything OK?”

“Specifically?”

“The hospital. Falcon.”

“Taxi Jane got mugged. Seems we’re cutting into someone’s business.”

“Whose?”

“Our next candidate. Cubby Home Taxi Service.”

“You’re just fucking with me now.”

“Huh?”

“Page three.”

“I think the universe is fucking with the both of us. He owns a lot of nickel and dimes. You think he drives a cab when not playing high stakes gambler?”

“It’s money laundering, Toby, just like Toby’s Grass whatever.”

“Tony’s Lawn Service.”

“I know.”

I puzzled at the page. “I need more information so I can reasonably conjecture who ordered the two men to visit Jane.”

“The two men?”

“I’d like to know who they are, too. I think they could come looking for me. Speaking of. Did I mention Forde wanted to hire Artemis to kill me?”

“The mob lawyer?”

“He didn’t want to involve the mob. I think he’s embarrassed a child beat him so soundly. Bancroft signed over the Newton property, and I doubt the idea was solely Bancroft’s. French asked Artemis to look into me.”

“Wow. We need a long sit-down, go over everything.”

“You need to profile Cubby Home Taxi Service so I can determine a proper retaliation.”

“Give me a couple days.”

“6 o’clock. Today. 1 Bread.

“Who put a bee in your bonnet?”

“The two assholes who put Jane in the hospital, everyone involved in the decision, and I’m supposed to be sitting blissfully in The Pines right now watching these puffy clouds flow over the treetops.”

“I guess Petey’s roof can wait.”

“Petey’s roof, with new gutters, will be done by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Fuck. 6 o’clock. I’ll have all the profiling you’ll need. I can rearraign my day.”

“What did you have planned?”

“Nothing. Did Petey tell you the story?”

“He did. Kind of romantic.”

“I never took you for a romantic.”

“In the slip of moments between night and day, I believe.”

He chuckled. “I’m so sorry, Toby.”

“About?”

“I hoisted Willford Peterson on my back and carried his sorry ass a mile and a half under gunfire. The medics couldn’t believe he survived. Petey was pretty fucked up. The king had good horses and men. He got sent home, me back to the war with a commendation coming later.”

Serling piloted the Cougar to the curb six spots west of the cab stand.

“I looked him up when I got back. Still in the hospital.” He rolled his eyes. “Six years? It was he’d lost the will to even get out of bed. He was being housed, bed panned, rolled over now and then. It’s not like we were friends.”

“I guess you carry a man on back a mile and a half.”

“Under fire. All that, and he just laid there. I told him who I was, saw that spark in his eye. He told me the story.”

“Woman dragged him off the battlefield. Nursed him back to health.”

“They fell in love. Did he tell you?”

“No. That was implied.”

“I vowed to find her, to bring her to the States.”

“If he got out of bed.”

“I knew he made up the story. I went back to France anyway. I thought I’d left something behind. Maybe my soul. Maybe my humanity. I needed to stand in one of those places. The field where I found Petey was as good as any.”

“I know you didn’t find your lost soul. Did you find her? Mary Constantine?”

“I did.”

“Really?”

“Rather, her grave, more like a shrine.”

“A demon.”

“Some stories say. Local legends. She still had a small following in the village, people speaking in whispers, meeting at the shine in the middle of the night.”

“Women.”

“Young and old.”

“So, she was alive to save Petey from the battlefield? Maybe the bombs rattled your brain.”

“Oh, the bombs rattled my brain alright. I’ll never be right. However, Mary Constantine died over four-hundred years ago.”

 I shrugged. “Maybe they met in a place not a place, in time not a time.”

“Sure, a healing witch –”

“Or demon.”

“Or demon, who appears in what? Dreams?”

“I like to call it the mindscape.”

“You know this?”

I shrugged again. “I’ve read the entire library and every magazine imaginable.” I rolled my eyes. “News reports. I’ve yet to find any peer reviewed articles on the topic in credible publications.”

“Yet, something has to explain why he didn’t die.”

“He didn’t die because he didn’t. Antoinette Blanc died at eight years old because she did. Jane Wilkins was beaten and raped by a gang of men, dumped in an empty lot were a gang of children raped what they thought her dead body for days. She’s not dead because she’s not dead.

“Sterling. Life’s a crap shoot. There just may be a meteor rock with my name on it hurling toward the planet as we speak.”

“Is that really true, then? What happened to Jane?”

“Yes. I’ve pulled a few newspaper accounts.”

“I’ve been focused on how the three asshole-teers, Jacob Bancroft, Gus Avery, and Alexander Forde fucked her out of the settlement.” His right eye twitched.

“I have files, locked security at 1 Bread. Because they’re minors, the newspaper didn’t name the children. I’m thinking since people like to talk and so much time has passed, I can nail down the second set of rapists.”

“I’ll get to work on the first gang.”

“Do you think if I put a help wanted in the paper for psycho killers, I’d get any responses?”

“What’s it pay?”

I wiggled a list free from my back pocket.

“What’s this? I see a name we already know.”

“You’re sharp. That’s what I like about you. I have an inside man. Bryant, if that’s his real name.” I spelled it. “Fortyish. Well-kept. Educated. Let’s look hard into him. I’m assuming French assigned Bryant to tend my every whim. This list could be a trap, but I doubt it.

“Bryant warned me off Blanc, implying Blanc’s an abuser of women.”

“Blanc was there? Like, your father Blanc?”

“He was. Took a run at me, too. I asked Bryant for a list of the men he’s heard rumors about.”

Out of the car, I turned back before closing the door. “Mary Constantine.”

“What about her?”

“Did you get her photo?”

He rolled his eyes. “She lived over four hundred years ago.”

I rolled my eyes back. “Jesus’ picture hangs on the walls of many living rooms.”

“I didn’t see anything like that.”

“In you spare time, I’d like you to type out a full report.”

“Mary Constantine?”

“Yes.”

“You got it.”

“That Greg Brown on the list.”

“Yes?”

“That’s Father Greg Brown. He’s the man who threw me out of church and gave me the shake down.”

“The world gets smaller and smaller.”

“That it does.”

I almost stepped away, turning back again. “Do you think hanging a dead man on an oversized suffering Jesus statue overlooking the room he raped a girl would be too much?”

“Sounds like a lot of work when you can just take out a half page ad above the fold in the newspaper to send the same message.”

“Practical. Just one of the many things I like about you.”

“It’s best they never find the body.”

“Not for the victims.”

Serling held my eyes for five eternal seconds. “Have a nice day.”

 

I rolled my eyes at myself, pushing the door open, entering as if running a sprint, crossing the room, my red suede bag coming to the desk with a thud, looming over Shawn.

“Twenty minutes,” she told the telephone, making a note on the log. “Joey called out.”

“Why are you still sitting down?”

Shawn scurried to her feet. We melded, stealing ten entire seconds from the universe.

“Thanks. I needed that. Who’s Joey.”

“Night dispatcher.”

“Ringleader of the private cab company.” I shrugged.

“Looks like it’s going to shake out that way.”

“Fire him. Along with the we know you’re stealing from us, please stop it note posted, kicking Joey’s sorry ass out the door will send a clear message. He squawks even just a peep, set up a meeting with Officer Martin.”

“Jane?”

“Sister Rebecca said Jane should recover.”

“That’s good news. How soon? I don’t know how long I can double shift.”

“Oh.” I went to the back wall, taking in the schedule. “Don’t do it over the radio. See if Ralph won’t take tonight. Offer the shift to Hank. He won’t take it. Offer it anyway. Tell Rex Townson I need him to take night dispatch until we get things straightened out. He’ll snap a sharp salute. Let’s hire three more drivers.”

“We don’t have the cabs –”

“We’ll buy more. I want to get at least one of those clunky Checkers. They’re kind of cool.”

“There goes my business plan.” Shawn busied with the telephone, the log, and the radio. “Piece of cake. I’d rather mow lawns. Anything else. Cab? The Pines?”

“If Ralph takes the shift tonight, suggest very strongly to Michelle that she bring him dinner around 2 AM.”

“You’re such a romantic. I’ll let her use my car. Burgers from Homer’s.”

“She’s got her license? The Tower is better.”

“Almost. Close enough. I agree.”

Taking her by the hand, I turned Shawn’s arm to see her watch. “I’m off to knock down those lawns because I’d rather be mowing grass and I can.”

“You could just look at the clock on the wall.”

I blushed, just a little. “Another hug.”

We managed ten more stolen seconds.

“Want me to bring lunch?”

Shawn returned the blush. “Lauren’s got it.”

“Now, I’m jealous.”

“Of whom?”

“Both of you.”

She opened my bag, peeling a few bills off one of the bundles of money. “I may need to pay out some bonuses.” She shook my bag. “What the fuck do you have in here?”

Fishing, she came out with my six-inch rebar. “Oh, I want one.”

“I had to get two inches trimmed off. I do have a carry permit. This is quieter.”

“Kind of clumsy getting it out of the bag, though.” She employed a mocking tone. “Please wait, Mr. Attacker, while I get this out of my bag.”

I smirked. “It doesn’t have to get out of my bag.”

“I want one.”

“Ask Rich Katz when you see him.”

“I really love Rich Katz. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t blink. Treats me like I’m the boss.”

 

Mrs. Richardson shadowed my sun. “You do so much, Toby.”

I sat back on my knees. “I like a well-groomed lawn, a well-tended garden.”

“I know you won’t accept money.”

“The garage is a blessing, more than you can imagine. A deal is a deal, and this is a good deal.”

“Come. Wash your hands. I made iced tea and sandwiches.”

 

“If you don’t like –”

“You took the time to make a sandwich just for me. Liking the sandwich is predetermined.”

“You’re always so serious.”

I displayed my sandwich. “Ham, cheese, crustless white bread, touch of mayonnaise. Perfect. Brings to mind a quiet afternoon, moments with someone I love very much who I don’t see often enough.” I sighed.

“You should find a way to make that time.”

“I should. Maybe the next rainy day.”

“Did you know our papergirl?” Mr. Richardson grumbled.

“Steve,” Mrs. Richardson said as if a warning.

“I did not.”

“It’s not gossip,” he snapped at his wife.

“Yes, dear.”

“She lived three blocks from here over on Newton. That house is cursed, cursed I tell you. Cursed. You read the papers, right?”

“I know of the story, yes.”

“She died in a fire.”

“I had heard something like that.”

“Her family moved, like thieves in the night.”

“Thieves in the night? Oh, my.”

Mrs. Richardson snicker into her hand, Mr. Richardson, of course, missed my sarcasm.

“I think they were embarrassed, though some people believe they were in on all those shenanigans.”

“Those gangster shenanigans.”

“Yes, but that’s not the point.”

“Which is?”

“Which is what?”

“The point.”

“Oh, yeah. The people who moved in on Newton. Real –”

“Steve,” Mrs. Richardson warned again.

“Let’s just say they weren’t the kind of people we like to see living in the neighborhood.”

“Witches?” I teased.

“Lord, no.”

I shrugged.

“Last night, someone kicked the door in, dragged a pile of their belongings to the center of the street, setting them on fire.”

“I guess someone agreed with you about them living in the neighborhood.”

“I guess so. Chief Meyer and Officer Martin finally showed up. This you’re not going to believe.”

“OK.”

“The people didn’t even own the house.”

“Get out. Maybe someone should have complained.”

“I think they did. Meyer didn’t care.”

“Great lunch.” I stood, offering a bow to Mrs. Richardson. “And a great story, Mr. Richardson.” I winked. “Though I think there may have been some gossip in there.”

“There’s a fine line between news and gossip!”

“That there is.”

 

I don’t want to say my Newton house was as bad as Bill Locke’s house. “The greatest invention of mankind is the toilet. All these assholes have to do is keep them working.” I assumed the Avery menagerie infested the property soon after we left in November.

Like my mother’s apartment, the trash had never been taken out, which was the source of much of the smell.

Most our furniture: sofa, TV, beds, dining room table, dining room hutch, kitchen table, were pretty much where we left them, buried under bags of trash. I opened the upstairs windows, secured the front door with nails and hammer I found in the basement.

A dozen healthy pulls brought my old lawnmower to life, beating back the front lawn.

“Front loader,” I said, still not sure why I wanted to own the property.

 

I rode my bike to the apartment, apologized to my over-packed backpack, didn’t bother to shower, denim bibbed coveralls, tan work shirt, smelling of sweat, cut grass and dirt, I caught the train up three stops.

Queen’s Highway, besides hosting my bike shop, the Owl’s Nest, and Chanticleer, an upscale sandwich shop, had many shops with fine clothing. I thought Charlotte and I could train up on a summer day wearing sundresses and big hats, browse the shops, laugh sipping iced tea on a sidewalk veranda.

I struggled with the door, finally opening. The room was dim for midafternoon. “Hi.”

“What do you want?” Christian Cubby Hightower demanded. Hightower was obviously the much younger brother, bursting out of his clothes, a blue flannel shirt, pants unbuckled, jowls flapping below his chin, brown eyes sunk into flesh like raw sugar cookie dough.

I glanced behind me out the window, two cabs parked at the curb one new, the other old. “You do have taxis, no?”

“Yes, of course!”

I looked out the window again, turned back, narrowing my eyes. “Why so angry?”

“Angry?” He scoffed. “You want a cab or not?” He dropped a pen to the log.

I provided the church address. “It’s about eight miles, wait, return to the train.”

“I know where that is. This is a cab company.” He eyed me up and down. “The likes of you, I’m going to need payment upfront.”

“No meter?”

“I’ll flat rate it, just for you.” He considered the ceiling. “Forty bucks.”

“That’s some flat rate. Eight-buck throw, two bucks a mile.”

He narrowed his eyes at me.

“Maybe I’m from Weights and Measures.”

He instinctively pushed back in his chair. “Are you?”

I chuckled. “I need to get to church. You’re a thief. I’ll allow it.” I fished two twenties from my bag.

“I am well within my privy –”

“You are not, Mr. Hightower.” I gracefully swung an arm to the window. “Which cab should I take.”

“The one in back!”

I struggled with the door again, out, half closed, Hightown grumbled, “Snotty little cunt.”

Pushing the door open again, I answered, “I’ll be seeing you real soon.”

 

The 1963 light blue Ford Fairlane station wagon instilled me with a greater appreciation of our fleet as I dropped onto the back seat.

“Flat rate, thirty bucks,” Joe Merckle said, twisting around, pen to the clipboard. He was a pleasant man, soft spoken, in his forties, in need of a shave, dark brown hair.

“Mr. Hightower said forty. I paid him already.”

“Oh, that Cubby.” He keyed his microphone. “I must have misheard you, Cub. The lady says it’s $40.00.”

The radio crackled. “That’s what I said.”

“Right, right, roger that.” Noting on his log, he pulled from the curb. “We get a piece of meter. Cubby’s always trying to pull a fast one.”

“How much?”

“How much what?”

“Piece of meter.”

“Oh, thirty-five percent.”

Glancing the rearview mirror, he saw me rolling my eyes. “Well, he doesn’t take a piece of my tips like other companies do!”

“Overcharges me, underpays you. Mr. Hightower must be some kind of business genius.”

“I get that, actually. He wants to make the company profitable. Family business. He wants to prove himself.”

“Seems there’s better ways to do it.”

He glanced me in the mirror. “You didn’t hear this from me.”

I pulled a muscle not rolling my eyes. “OK.”

“The company doesn’t have to be profitable, if you know what I mean.”

“I do not.”

“They’re taken care of.”

“Like a rich person owns the company, like as a tax write-off or something? They’re supposed to lose money?”

“Eh, not really like that.”

“I guess, else they’d pay you fifty percent of meter, huh? Maybe buy new cabs, actual cabs and not converted old used cars. I saw the new car.”

He found me in the rearview mirror, holding my eyes. “They’re owned by the mob.”

I laughed, barely not a giggle. “The mob doesn’t seem very good at choosing investments. Stamps would be better.”

“That’s the thing.” He did roll his eyes. “The mob, you know, criminals, make money illegally. You follow?”

“Yes, I follow.”

“So, they own Cubby Home Taxi Service, deposit the illegal money into the cab company as income. Follow?”

“Cubby’s rolling in money?”

“Well, the company is.”

“Why are you only paid thirty-five of meter, then?”

“I said. Cubby wants to make the company profitable. He wants to be a successful businessman.”

“To prove something to somebody by squeezing Miss Liberty until she cries.”

“Who?”

“She’s on the dime.”

Rich Katz opened my door as the cab pulled to a stop in the parking lot. “Toby –”

“Maybe by the time we open, I’ll have my own car and driver.”

“Slum around in those pretty dresses.”

“That, Rich, is my dream.”

“Anything particular or did you miss me?”

“I have a pathological need to check on things.”

He swept behind him. “As you can see –”

“I can. I’m impressed.”

“Good people, Toby. That’s the key.”

“Theodore Avery.”

He pursed his lips. “Nasty business.”

“He told you?”

“Well, after that visit. I believe the young man is not capable of lying.”

“That can be a liability.”

He narrowed his eyes. “In some circumstances. I figured if you let him off the hook –”

“I don’t believe in jamming a good man up just because his uncle is an asshole.”

“If I were in your spot, I don’t think I could do that. As it is, though, Uncle Gus stormed my jobsite looking for Ted.”

“Is Uncle Gus under a footer wall?”

“We weren’t pouring that day. I did tell him if he ever went near his nephew again, I’d break his legs. Uncle Gus and I came to an agreement.” He winked. “I like the kid.”

“Good people is key.”

“It is.”

“Very long story, way too short.”

“Not that either of us has time for a long story.”

“Not today, anyway. I mow lawns for a living.”

“I did that as a child.”

“I’ve kind of backed into doing other things.”

“Like church roofs.”

“Like that. Much far less ambitious, too. Handyman stuff. For starters, I need a doorjamb repaired, maybe replaced.”

“Address? I’ll have a look.”

“Oh, Mr. Katz. You and I are much alike. I was thinking Ted could have a look.”

“I don’t think he’s ever –”

“I figured out sash cords by myself.”

“Let’s not cut this baby in half. Ted and I will have a look. He doesn’t have a car, anyway.”

“Does he have a driver license?”

“Yes.”

“You know this for a fact?”

“I’ve put eyes on it.”

I waved back to Ted on the roof. “1317 Newton, over in Edgewood. I just came into the property. No patch job, fix it right.”

“Consider it done.”

“Give me your opinion on the property, too. Should I fix it or take the front loader to it.”

“I suspect your preference.”

“You suspect correctly. I’ll talk to Ted. Maybe I’ll steal him from you, at least parttime. I’ll have to get Shawn to sign off.”

“I like Shawn.”

“So do I.”

 

I wondered whether my brother saw me like Cameron Hightower saw his younger brother, Christian, like Mark Hastings saw his younger brother, Jerry. My brother, Mark, obviously thought I lived in his shadow, seeing me as barely a human being, me an object to project his frustration on.

Joe the cab driver gave me the wide eyes as if I’d dropped a duffle full on money on him instead of a twenty-dollar bill. Cubby and Joe both affirmed Cubby Home Taxi Service was not a business threat to Royal Taxi and Limousine Service. However, Cubby, being a man saddled with chronic feelings of inadequacy looking to prove himself to a universe that didn’t care was very much a threat.

I mindlessly pondered whether I’d get blood on my red suede bag taking someone's head open as I watched the six boys half a train car down from me. Unlike on the platform the other morning, they sat quietly, almost pensive, staring out the windows, rocking in unison with the sway of the train.

Like when my brother and his friends raped me, the harassing on the platform had nothing to do with me. I was incidental, a prop for whatever drama they played. When the train came up for the stop at my platform, I could easily kill one of the boys on my way out, him playing a prop to my drama, the five boys puzzled, wondering what just happened as they stared at me, the train chugging away.

On the raised platform thirty feet above street level, I turned back to the train, keeping the boy’s eyes, the boy who could have been just as easily dead. “Getting blood out of suede cannot be easy.”

 

Shawn let herself into our secure room a 1 Bread, coming around the table. “Don’t make me ask.”

I stood. “Thanks,” I said in her ear.

“Oh, ears. Stop that.”

I sighed.

“Long day?”

“Still, far to go.”

“Jane’s out of danger, resting. Ready to come home. Butch said he’ll pick her up.”

“Hank. Limo. I’ll ride along.”

“8 o’clock in the morning.”

“I can rearrange my schedule.”

“What did you have planned?”

“Nothing. Maybe burning something to the ground. Still gathering facts.”

“Whatever you’re burning, I’m in.”

“Count on it.”

Ralph’s covering tonight, Rex – what a doll, did exactly as you said. He’ll be taking the overnight, Ralph will be talking day.”

“Two of our three limo drivers.”

“I’ll be filling in.”

I took her hand, twisting, looking at her watch.

“You don’t have to pretend to have to see the time to hold my hand.”

“I’m corny that way. Serling’s going to be here soon.”

“To determine what’s getting burned to the ground?” She picked up the calendar, narrowing her eyes. “You have to mark off the lawns you did, mark them paid or not paid.”

“I know –”

“The accounting is a nightmare enough without me rolling up on a lawn you’ve already done.”

I dropped to my chair, elbows on the desk, head in my hands. “I need The Pines.”

“Go, now. I’ve got this.”

“We’ve got this, Shawn.”

Shawn cocked her head. “We need a buzzer.”

“I like those real bells.”

“I’ll put that on my list. Catch up my grass list. “I’m coming,” she answered the hello.

“I’m Karen, this is my brother, Jack, Junior,” found me as the door clicked shut.

“I’m getting a bit tired of this small world bullshit.” I slapped the Tony’s Lawn Service logbook shut.

 

“Hi,” I greeted, taking a hand, “Toby.”

“Hi!”

I took the other hand. “Hi.”

“Jack, Junior. I was just saying, I’m friends with Donna Webber, well not actually with her. I know her boyfriend. We were at a kegger the other night –”

“Kegger?”

“Toby doesn’t get out much,” Shawn said.

“Eh, it’s a party.”

“With beer,” Karen added. “Beer in a barrel, which is called a keg.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Just how old are you not?”

She blushed.

I gave her my palms. “Sorry, I’m certainly not your mother.” I turned to Jack. “Just how well do you know Mark?”

“You know Mark?”

“I know Donna.”

“I know him to say hi.”

Not well enough to rape girls with him.

“Oh, fuck,” Shawn said, barely not a breathless whisper.

“Let me make this perfectly clear,” Jack said. “Mark is not the kind of person I hang with.”

Karen nodded.

“What kind is that?” Shawn asked.

“I’d rather not say. Mom’s always said if you can –” Jack started.

“The kind of boy who likes to give his girlfriend a good smack just to keep her attention,” I suggested.

“It’s really none of my –”

“What if Karen’s boyfriend failed the Friday algebra quiz and decided smacking Karen around would make him feel better?”

“Toby.”

“Karen?”

“It’s like you said. We’re not her mom.”

“Maybe we should be.” Shawn swiped at the air like shooing flies. “Social norms and social culture aside, what can we do for you?”

“Shawn, that was brilliant.”

“Thank you, Toby. I’ve been thinking.”

“About?”

“That’s the whole statement. You and Pamala have given me permission to think.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So, Karen and Jack. We can continue the Symposium another time. What can I do for you today.”

“I’m not blushing. It’s hot in here.”

“Something about standing in the water, getting wet.”

“Stop it, Shawn.”

“We heard you were looking for volunteers,” Jack said. “It doesn’t matter where we heard it.”

“Oh, Jack, Junior, I like you,” I said.

“I’d rather have a paying job for the summer, but Karen is very persuasive.”

Shawn looked at Karen. “How old are you?”

“Twelve going on fifty,” Jack answered.

“Driver license, social security card?” I asked.

He scrambled for his wallet.

With a quick examination, I passed the documents to Shawn. “Can you answer a phone, read a map?”

“One of my many talents is I can refold a roadmap.”

Shawn sat, writing, not looking up. “How would you like to be our knew overnight dispatcher? Royal Taxi and Limousine Service. Right up the street. You could walk to work.”

“Ironically so.” He examined the ceiling. “That will cut me off from most keggers, maybe even socially isolate me. What’s it pay?”

“You’ll like the package,” I said.

“When do I start?”

“6 o’clock in the morning. You’ll be training – that's paid training, with me. Karen.”

“Ma’am?”

“Don’t ma’am me. Shawn is fine, Miss Beedle if you must.”

“Miss Beedle.”

“Can you look human suffering in the eye and not flinch.”

“Shawn?” I asked.

“Shut up, Toby.”

“She cries a sappy movies.”

“I can. I have. Our neighbor. I watched her die. Took her meals, cleaned for her. Fed her when she couldn’t any longer.”

“I think it was harder for you that she didn’t want your help,” Jack added.

“Perfect,” Shawn said.

“We heard there was an accident. You’re talking about Crippled Jane, right?”

Karen glared up at her brother.

“Everyone calls her that!”

Shawn stood. “I call her Taxi Jane, and sometimes friend.”

“You’re talking about Taxi Jane?” Karen asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh, Miss Shawn, I so volunteer.”

Fishing in my bag, I stepped to the desk, placing a one-hundred-dollar bill on the edge near Karen. “You do understand, Karen, as a volunteer and being twelve years old, we cannot pay you.”

She crumbed the bill into her right hand, keeping my eyes. “I understand.”

“I think I’m going to love my pay package,” Jack said, stifling his excitement.

Shawn stood again. “Wander up to the taxi stand sometime in the morning, Karen. I’ll have details for you.”

Jack narrowed his eyes at me. “You kind of look like her. I mean, my other sister.”

“Jack,” Karen said. “You and Dad. See her everywhere. Toby looks nothing like her.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Shawn said. “Oh, I live up the street from you. I remember.”

Karen nodded.

Jack wouldn’t turn from me. I didn’t want to point out he was being creepy.

“Are you my boss, then?”

“I am not. Shawn is.”

Three minutes to 6 o’clock was announced by Richard Serling’s entrance, Serling loaded down with files. “Oh, it’s a party.”

“They were just leaving.”

Without introductions, they did.

We locked 1 Bread from the inside, shut the lights off, and squirrel away in our safe room. Serling circled, examining the walks. “Nice. Like a murder wall.” He turned, looking down on Shawn. “Detectives set up walls like this to illustrate connection in a case.”

“How’d you do?” I asked.

“Toby, Toby, Toby.” He looked at Shawn again. “She’s asks how’d you do.”

I put my elbows on the table, my chin resting on my fists. “I do like when you get cocky.”

“What’s not to like? Cubby – he was a cub scout for three weeks. The nickname stuck.”

“Cubby?” Shawn asked.

“Christian Cubby Hightower,” I answered. “Runs, but doesn’t own, Cubby Home Taxi Service.”

Serling dropped to a chair at the table. “What the fuck do you pay me for? You, Miss Smarty-pants, may have the floor.”

“I’m just playing backup, Serling. I wanted to check them out, close up and personal.

“I’m half kidding, anyway.” He pulled a folder from the stack. “The financials. It’s up for a best fiction award for 1970.”

“Much to my shock and surprise, money laundering.”

“Cubby actually came out and told you that?”

“Joe, nice guy, one of his drivers.”

“What I didn’t get, likely you know, is since the business is set up to launder money, why be so concerned with taxi competition that you mug a woman on crutches?”

“Butch suggested the mugging may have been unintended.”

“Shall we say it together?”

“We shall.”

I counted down with fingers, Serling and I almost singing, “Fuck that,” in unison.

“You two are creeping me out a little,” Shawn said.

“They own it, Shawn, the mugging,” I said.

“Even if Smith and Smith intended to just deliver verbal harassment, as soon as Jane’s head bounced off the edge of the desk, they owned it.”

Shawn nodded, pursing her lips.

With wide eyes, leaning in, I said. “You got them.” I gave him the give me hand, snappy fingers. “File, now.”

“They’re brothers. Do a corny joke. When you address one as Mr. Smith, the other say, Oh, that’s me, you mean Mr. Smith.”

I opened the file. “Twins, or is this the same photo?”

“Twins. Butch said he was certain.”

“You saw Butch?”

“Dropped in the hospital.”

“Oh, you’re sharp. Are they assassins or just muscle?”

“Overpaid knee cappers. Intimidation.”

“I think I shall kill them.”

Shawn nodded.

“Toby!”

“They bounced Taxi Jane’s head off the desk, Serling. What do you suggest? I scold them? Who gave the order?”

“I think Cubby must have called, used his name, asked a favor.”

“Good conjecture. Cameron Hightower wouldn’t bother. Cubby’s got this idea if he can make Cubby Home Taxi Service profitable, somehow his brother is going to love him. Sure, that’s conjecture I’m going to assume true.”

“The makes Cubby dangerous.”

“Being a man with no power or influence thinking he has both makes him dangerous.”

“Kill him, too?”

I caught Shawn’s eyes. “Oh, I love when you get excited over projects. We need to go over that artwork for the ads.”

“You’re going to love it. Andy does great work.”

“Now, you two are being creepy.”

I shrugged. “Smith and Smith. I need more information. They could get just a scolding. Cubby, well, we’re going to play gangsters. Blood for blood.”

“Bounce his head off the desk.”

“He has a new cab. I think that would hurt more.”

 

“Cassandra was livid,” Shawn greeted me as I dropped down beside her in the blue Toyota long before the sun Tuesday morning.

“My memory of her is much kinder than the person I know today.”

Shawn pulled from the curb. “She likes children much better than adults. I told her what happened with Jane. Asked her to cover my classes for a couple of weeks. Maybe I shouldn’t have laughed at her when she threatened to fire me.”

Watching the predawn world pass by coated in a fine mist, I sighed. “Rain. The building’s for sale. Undervalued. Mr. Thomas has it on the table. I want to make time for sanctuary today. I could buy it, dump Cassandra out on the street. Do you know enough to run your own dance studio?”

“Toby.”

“Shawn.”

“Put it back in your pants.”

“Just a thought. Ralph?”

“Michelle’s still there.”

“I wondered, her out all night.”

“He’s showing her dispatch. Said hanging a couple of hours wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Michelle. Dispatch. Terrible idea.”

“I think she’d be good at it.”

“Ralph has a crush on her. The way she blows through boyfriends –”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Cassandra?”

“I’ll make my classes, somehow.”

“Mark them on the schedule first, work everything else around them.”

“She canned the teen dance thing.”

“Over this?”

“She figured with all my shenanigans with you, the teen dance lessons would be something else I’d start, then she’d have to cover.”

“OK. Let’s rent Expressions Dance Studio once every two weeks for an underage dance party.”

“Call the party the no-kegger.”

“Like you can read my mind.”

“Funny, those two walking into 1 Bread last night.”

“That’s just the way the universe works sometimes. I’ll talk to Jane when I pick her up. About Karen.”

“Don’t get hit by a crutch.” Shawn slowed the car. “Oh, pretty Aspen wagon. I bet it still has that new car smell. I’d not have gone with the cream, maybe a deep blue.”

“That’s where it was parked yesterday. I bet he doesn’t even put it out on the road. Likes to look at it out the window all day.”

Up twenty yards, Shawn pulled around the corner, parking.

“You got this?” I asked.

“Oh, Toby, I so got this.”

Exiting the car, we met on the sidewalk. “I wish this rain wasn’t such a tease.”

Shawn squinted to the sky. “Dark, driving rain.”

“Lightning, thunderclaps. Oh, how things should be.”

“Like walking through a graveyard.”

“People in this town are hoity-toity. They sleep in. Never up before the sun.”

Shawn stopped. I entered Cubby Home Taxi Service, offering a cheery, “Good morning, Mr. Hightower.”

“Eh, you again,” he grumbled.

I approached, my thighs against the desk, looking down. “Don’t be so angry. Rain is great for business. If this ever becomes actual rain.”

He sat straight, pushing back from the desk instinctively. “I’m not mad. What do you want? A cab? All my cabs are out right now.”

I smiled softly, puzzled why I intimidated a man three times my size.

“I’m going to talk. You’re going to listen. When required, you’re going to nod.”

Five seconds crept by. “This is one of those times you nod.”

He nodded, annoyed.

“Jane Wilkins. Royal Taxi and Limousine Service.”

“Who?”

“Ut.” I shoved a palm at him. “You listen. Now nod.”

He nodded.

“Smith and Smith bounced Jane Wilkins’ head off her desk, putting her in the hospital with a concussion and brain bleed.”

My palm stopped his interruption again. “Miss Wilkins is on crutches. She’d be in a wheelchair, but she can’t bend her legs.” I looked toward the ceiling. “Miss Wilkins is a testimony to the fortitude of the human spirit. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Well, I –”

My rebar traveled a full circle coming down on the edge of the desk with a dull thud, bouncing the phone, log, his coffee, and the microphone. “Nod. Now.”

He pushed back more, nodding.

“Have you heard the expression Blood for Blood?”

“Eh.” He stopped himself, nodding.

“I should rap you in the head a couple times, send you to the hospital with a concussion and a brain bleed. Blood for blood.”

Terrified, he nodded, his hands fisted to his chest.

I waved a hand behind me.

Across the dim office, on the other side of the window, Shawn offered her Charleston smile and bow, returning erect, presenting a gasoline can as if she were a television game show model.

“Ut.” I pointed at Hightower with my rebar.

He fell back to his chair.

“Isn’t she lovely?” I turned, glaring at Hightower.

He nodded, watching. Shawn, bent at the waist watching us, emptied the gasoline can through the open front window of the Aspen.

“Cracking your head open like a coconut is still an option,” I warned.

Shawn theatrically tried to light a match, failing in the damp. Putting her fingers to her lips, feigning exaggerated puzzlement, she then in mime fashion indicated she had an idea, producing my Zippo. Two flicks, she put flame to matches, matches in the car.

“Try to have a better day, Mr. Hightower,” I offered in a pouty voice, swinging around, the door opening to my approach.

Shawn looped my arm as we casually put sidewalk under us. “Not too corny?” she asked.

“Oh, Shawn, if we had time and lockers.”

She opened my door. “I suspect we’re never going to have enough time.”

Behind the steering wheel, she bit her lip. “I have to.” Employing a U-turn, we returned to Queen’s Highway. Hightower struggled with a fire extinguisher.

“The time to figure out how to use those things is before you have to.”

 

Hank and I stood stoic outside the emergency room entrance. “Do you think they tried to put her in a wheelchair?” Hank asked.

“Required, I hear. No. They had her in the first time. They know her.”

Sister Rebecca and I locked eyes as soon as she came in line-of-site, not releasing me.

“Excuse me,” the aide said struggling with the gurney on uneven pavement.

Fuck off, Mom. “Just stop. Stop what you’re doing.”

“Huh? What?”

“You lack compassion. You’re in a hurry. Just step out while you still have a job.”

“Toby?” Sister Rebecca greeted me, wrapping me up. “Thank you.”

“I don’t want that woman anywhere near Jane.”

“Toby?” my mother asked.

“Hank.”

Hank took my mother under the arm, escorting her back to the hospital.

“I’m not going to ask how you’re feeling,” I told Jane.

“Good. I’m feeling grateful, though. The best limo?”

Sister Rebecca rolled her eyes back to the hospital, whispering. “We do need to watch that one.”

“She has an addiction problem. She needs help, not scorn. In the meantime, I want her nowhere near Jane.”

“Understood.”

Hank came to the gurney. “Oh, Jane. Must you?”

“They pushed Ralph to the floor. That shall be answered!”

“Men,” I said.

“Men,” she repeated, a fist to the sky.

Hank cradled Jane.

Rebecca pulled me away by the elbow. “Toby. Pamala has said a great deal of things about you.”

“She is my biggest fan. I hers. She helped me find my humanity.”

“Seeing your actual work is different than hearing stories. Jane, for instance. Who is she to you, if I may ask? She says she works for you.”

“Jane and I share an experience. We meet out there beyond time, beyond where words can go. We see each other and we see ourselves. Sister Rebecca. Our relationship is beyond friendship, beyond family, beyond words.”

“You share an experience. I’m so terribly sorry for that.”

“I can’t curse the fire that forged me, if the path has brought such people into my life.”

 

“Shawn has engaged a young woman to visit, help with things.”

“I like Shawn. I don’t like that idea. I don’t need any help.”

The condition of her apartment said otherwise.

“Well, fuck, Jane. You think everything is about you. Karen is one of these children who feels worthless if she’s not helping someone.”

“Little shit.”

“Right? So, to help her out, she’s going to be visiting. You can help her out, right?”

“I guess.” She waved, lounging across the small sofa. “Over on that table. That key. Give the little shit that key so I don’t have to run to the door to let her in. Little shit.”

“Could you please not call her little shit to her face. She’s not little for her age.”

“I know that much!”

Half out the door, I looked back. “Funny thing this morning. Cubby Home Taxi Service?”

“They’re the littlest of the little shits!”

“Their brand-new cab caught fire and burned, totaled.”

“Would you imagine that, Toby. Would you imagine that.”

 

“To rain or not to rain, that’s so annoying,” I said to sky, climbing from my Ford pickup. I surveyed the house and grounds from the sidewalk. “I bet there’s a fine line between an estate and a house.”

The door opened. Me, deer in the headlights.

Olivia Abner’s hair was the color of coconut shell, waving around her face down on her back and chest, her flesh a perfect pale ochre, eyes the color of the back of a doe’s ear in winter’s sunlight.

Silk. It had to be silk.

My height, built more like a woman than I, her cheek on the open door, blue silk robe teasing open revealing her white silk slip, her nipples teasing the material, just like I enjoy doing.

She asked three times what I wanted, finally asking, “Are you OK?”

I looked to my boots. “Sorry. Yes. Um. I mean, I’m fine.”

“You smell like cut grass.”

“Eh, well –”

“Observation, not a criticism.”

“I do that, not, eh, criticize. I do that, too.” I took a long, deep breath. “I was passing by. I do grass for a living. You have grass. I mean, your grass needs cutting.”

She chuckled.

“I’m actually rather articulate. I’d do better with a blindfold. You are surreally beautiful.”

She laughed. “I get that a lot, without words like surreally. Normally, it’s hubba, hubba, wolf whistles.”

“To my credit, I’m not a man.”

“My god, you’re adorable.” She looked to the curb. “You work alone?”

“Mostly.”

“I have a thing Thursday night. Do you think you can do me?”

I’m confident I could open a window wide. You’d see God.

“Sure. Right now.”

“I had to let my last grounds keeper go.”

“Too much hubba, hubba-ing, not enough grass cutting?”

“Sadly. Men. Sometimes they see an act of kindness as an invitation to other things.”

I dropped to my right knee, my right arm extended to the side. “My Lady. I assure you. I can appreciate, even worship great beauty without feeling the need to fuck it.”

She laughed again, a song that would have angels dropping to their knees, weeping tears of joy.

“I’m glad you stopped by. I was just now looking in the yellow pages. Thursday, you know.”

“Thursday. I’d tip my hat if I were wearing one.” I was finally able to look at her. Vienna Rhodes has nothing on you.

“Olivia,” she said, offering a hand.

“Toby. My hands are dirty.”

“I don’t care.”

Our eyes tethered, I took her hand, confident I’d met my first Siren.

 

Olivia, white sleeveless knit sweater, black form fitting slacks zipper on the side, two-inch heeled silver sandals, no makeup I could tell, hair in a high ponytail, met me at the truck, leaning her butt on the tailgate.

“You do really good work.”

“Secret’s keeping the blades sharp.”

“How do you come to do landscaping?”

“I like a neatly groomed lawn.”

“Really.”

I looked up from the mower. “When I was a child, I lucked into a paper route.”

“A girl paperboy.”

“Lucked into. I took over a route when a boy I knew broke his leg skiing.”

“Let me guess. Some boy was jealous you were the best paperboy at the drop and made the paperboy authorities aware of your criminal impersonation.”

“I don’t know how the paper found out. That sounds reasonable. Since the boys weren’t inclined to want to fuck me, they had no reason to like me.”

“Oh, you have a mouth on you.”

“I like using succinct, proper words.”

“I didn’t mean that as a criticism. So, you get fired for being the best paperboy at the drop.”

“I got fired because I’m dickless.”

She gave me the wide eyes and open mouth laugh.

“He said as much. Mr. Charming. I remember the name because charming was the furthest thing from what he was. He literally said, We call them paperboys for a reason. Obviously, the reason is they have dicks.”

“Harry Carming.”

“Who?”

“His name was Harry Carming, and you’re right. Far from charming.”

My face asked the question.

“My family is in the newspaper business, far back. I started running copy, a girl copyboy.  I do features now. I should feature you.”

“Under the radar.”

“I’ll respect that.”

Information reeled across my mindscape like the buildings out the window of the highspeed train. “Olivia Carter. You’re a great storyteller. Why Raymond?”

“Do you mean why is Ray, my older won’t-let-me-forget-it brother, in the chief chair and not me?”

“He’s a hack. Phoning it in. Yes, both criticism and observation. I’ve been reading the newspaper every day since before I could walk.”

She chuckled. “Him, not me, because –” She raised an eyebrow.

“Alas, he has a dick, you, sadly, dickless.”

“Here you are. Best paperboy in the world, you get fired.”

“The neighbor across the street was too old to start his mower. I not only started the mower but mowed his lawn in exchange for use of his mower.”

“And, the rest –”

“As they say –”

“Is history. I’m glad you knocked on my door, you know, just driving by.”

“That’s the way the universe works sometimes.”

“You really like my work?”

“Not that my opinion matters at all –”

“You being under the radar.”

“I feel the Herald Post could be greatly improved by allowing girls to be paperboys, kicking Raymond Carter to the curb, or maybe put him on updating obits and pumping up stories off the wire, you taking his chair, if you’re really opposed to doing hard work, stay where you are, drop Chase Hastings in the chair.”

“I like Chase.”

“Great at research, great writer. She’s underutilized because she’s dickless. Mrs. Adler, you’re in a good position to pull Chase up behind you.”

“How’d you know my name? Are you who you say you are?”

I shrugged. “Driving by. Saw the neglect. Didn’t want to knock on the door blind, so I talked to some neighbors I saw walking their dogs. I am pathologically terrified of blind encounters.”

“I was like that, when younger. You can imagine. The attention. My parents said I was shy. I was terrified. Of strangers.”

“Men strangers.”

“Specifically men strangers.”

“It’s those hungry eyes, the smacking the lips. The, Why what a beautiful child, bullshit.”

“Go give your grandfather a big hug.”

“Sit on Uncle Percy’s lap.”

“Even before I knew what rape was, I was terrified of being rape. They called me shy. Thank God I was never raped.”

I finished scraping out the mower tray, standing. “I was.”

We faced each other, Adler’s lower lip quivering. “Toby.”

“I’m dirty.”

“I don’t care.”

She wrapped me up, clutching fists full of my hooded sweatshirt, sobbing quietly. “You were a child.”

I nodded, clutching back.

“He beat me, raped me,” vibrated in my ear.

“Your husband.”

“Yes.”

Last stop, Reginald Abner. I’m punching your ticket.

She pulled away, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Sorry, that just came out.”

“You are too rich, too beautiful. You have no trusted friends.” I took her cheeks in my palms. “Saying the words in a safe place to a trusted friend can unshackle us so we can breathe again.”

“Will you be that kind of friend to me?”

Risking spontaneous combustion, I put my lips on hers, like a butterfly on June’s warm air above a tranquil lake.

“Toby.”

“I cannot, Olivia, be that kind of friend to you.” I am your destroyer, not your savior.

I stepped back, assured of her non-divinity, dropping to my mower.

“I feel better,” she said. “I really do. Not just the lawn.”

I smirked, wrestling the mower onto the truck bed. “Watch who you confess to. People, you know. I confined in a priest once, and he used the information against me.”

“Oh, you can’t tell anyone about, you know, my husband.”

“Who am I going to tell? Chase Hastings?”

“We have a legal agreement.”

“That you don’t talk about rape and assault?”

She feigned looking over the property. “Great job. I’m pleased. Before you say how much you want, I bet this is more.”

She put $200 in my hand.

I shrugged. “Very generous of you. Thank you.”

 

I often don’t have the opportunity to watch a better liar than me at work. Olivia Abner was a front loader, people houses.

 

“I’m dirty and I smell,” I greeted Charlotte Clift.

“I don’t care!”

We held onto each other as the planet kept spinning.

“I’m in love with Jennifer, and you do smell.”

“We all love Miss Reeves.”

“I mean, you know, not in that way.”

“You mean not in four bourbon Manhattans way.”

Her blush lit up the room. “Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“Need a dress, casual but dressy. Pamala’s graduation. Green and white school colors. I’m thinking white mock shirt top, wide tartan fake suspenders with ruffles, flair green tartan skirt.”

“Huge gold buckle somewhere. I got the idea, Toby. For Friday?”

“Two weeks from Friday.”

“I’m so used to you wanting it right away.”

 

“Rain, I’ll go to sanctuary,” I said to the windshield, pulling onto the crowded parking lot.

I waved Richard Katz to stay on the roof, unloading my mower, grabbing my hedge trimmer. Onto the second azalea, Katz appeared beside me anyway, dangling keys.

“These haven’t been cut back in years.” I pocketed the keys. “How’d he do?”

“Did good. I mostly watched.”

“Can he work on his own, without you mostly watching.”

“I believe so. He lacks experience. He’s smart, though.”

“I have to talk to Shawn. Can he do a material takeoff?”

“Can you? I’ll hire you!”

“Shawn can. Newton Avenue.”

“As much as I’d love to see you hit that house with the front loader, the structure is basically sound. Basement is wet. I’d recommend sealing the foundation on the outside, dropping a perimeter drain, sump pump.”

“We could take it down anyway, right?”

“Well, we could.”

“Sealing the foundation. That would require one of those scooping tractors.”

“An excavator.”

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

“By us, you mean you.”

“I was toy-deprived as a child.”

“There’s a lot more to it than just digging a hole.”

“See if John Goldman won’t have one of those children in his office draw up detailed plans. Then, I’ll see what this lots more is.”

“OK.”

“Tell Mr. Goldman he’s not to do it himself.”

“Mr. Goldman is much like you, Toby.”

“More than you know.”

“Why am I not surprised?” a voice intruded from behind.

“Inspector Joe Bradley,” I answered. “Do you know Richard Katz?”

As they shook hands, Bradley said, “I do now. You in charge?”

He snicked. “When she lets me.”

Bradley straightened, pen to pad, and in his formal voice, asked, “Yesterday morning, did a girl arrive in a taxi, leaving in the same taxi,” as he shook his head no.

Katz looked at me, then back to Bradley. “Not that I recall.”

Bradley spoke each word as he wrote. “Not that I recall.” He nodded sharply. “Thank you for your full cooperation in this matter, good citizen.”

“Eh, you’re welcome.”

“Is he OK?” Bradley nodded to the retreating Katz.

“We’re like family.”

“Others may come looking to track you down.”

“By others, you mean the comedy team of Smith and Smith.”

“I didn’t have their names.”

“Not taxi drivers. Knee cappers. I figured this would fall into the not worth pursuing file.”

“Well, it is a car fire.”

“Another case of carelessness smoking.”

Bradley mock-read off his notepad. “Got the call. Hightower frantic. You have a female sidekick now?”

I shrugged.

“Then within the hour, his brother got involved.”

“That would be Cameron Hightower, who owns the Cubby Home Taxi Service through a blind LLC.”

“Not owned by Christian?”

“Barely a cab company, which is why Cameron doesn’t want anyone eye fucking the business, prompting him to make the phone call moving –”

“The case to the not worth pursuing file.” Bradley nodded. “Whatever did Christian do to you? Did he piss in your Cheerios?”

“Firstly, eww. Secondly, ever heard of Jane Wilkins.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Multiple rapes, dump in a field –”

“To again get raped by minors. I’ve seen the file. That poor woman.”

“I want those files, with the original notes.”

“Huh? Why?”

“Jane is a friend of mine.” My right eye twitched.

“Toby.”

“Cubby Hightower ordered Smith and Smith – twins, if you can believe that – into the Royal Taxi and Limousine Service where they bounced Jane’s head off the desk, putting her into the hospital.”

“Why?”

“Who gives a fuck?”

“Jane’s in a wheelchair?”

“Crutches. She can’t bend her legs.”

Bradley eyes went wide as he blew out his lips. “And you only torched a car.”

“The car was nice. Brand new.”

 

Part 30