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Chapter Nine by Zalika
Several months ago:
Downtown Seacouver was emptying out as the late night dinner crowds went home. But even after midnight when most storefronts were darkened, the bars were full of customers. And across the street from the Seacouver Cineplex, in Hailey's Gourmet Café, a confrontation was taking place.
"A blood latte! Coffee and blood. What don't you get? It's not that difficult of a concept!" Alexandra stood at the counter, smelling strongly of whiskey and yelling at the frightened girl behind the cash register. "Bad enough the bar won't give me any to go with my liquor, because they're a bunch of stingy bastards who think they can tell me when to leave!" she said, turning towards the door to yell the last part in the general direction of the nearest bar.
"I'm I'm sorry," the girl stammered. "But we don't serve blood. Perhaps if you try somewhere else..."
"No! I need it now!"
Just then, a man wearing a Hailey's uniform with the word "manager" embroidered on the shirt pocket appeared from the back section of the store and with a surprisingly composed tone addressed Alex and the café employee. "Is there a problem here?"
"Yes there's a problem!" Alex said, turning around quickly to glare at him with threatening blue eyes. "What is a vampire supposed to do to get a drink in this city? This is a pathetic excuse for a blood latte!" She pointed at a plain latte sitting on the counter.
"I'm terribly sorry about that..." the manager began reflexively before pausing. "A vampire, you said? You're telling me you're a vampire?" "Yes, that's what I'm saying. An immortal, blood-drinking vampire! Like in Dracula! The House of Frankenstein! Van Helsing! The Return of Dracula!"
"That's very interesting," the manager told her, not believing a word of her rant. "But we simply don't have any blood in stock right now. There's nothing I can do."
"Oh, I think there is," Alex replied coldly, suddenly much calmer than she had been only moments before.
The manager and Alex stared at each other for a few seconds as they stood on opposite sides of the counter, giving onlookers the impression of a silent standoff between a housecat and a cornered mouse... each waiting to see if the other will make the first move.
During Alex's rants the majority of café patrons had decided to take their grande double mocha extra-caffeinated French roast espressos "to go", leaving the coffee shop nearly empty. But by the time of the manager-crazy person face-off, the last of the customers were realizing it would be a good time to get out before a bad situation got worse.
As they faced each other from their respective sides of the counter, Alex broke the silence by snarling and suddenly clambering over the counter, knocking the rejected latte to the floor in the process. As soon as she was on her feet, she grabbed the manager and bit him on the base of neck. The manager's scream of surprise and pain were accompanied by the cashier's screams of terror. As the manager shoved Alex off of him, three Seacouver police officers arrived at the café, having been called by one customer who had been in the store and saw the beginning of the attack.
A few minutes later, two of the police officers subdued Alex, while one checked on the condition of the café manager. "Do you think you need to go to the hospital, sir?" the officer asked.
"No, I think I'm fine," he replied, removing the hand he had clamped over his neck and checking for blood. The reddened teeth imprints that marked his skin were already starting to turn black and blue. "I don't think she broke the skin."
The manager watched as Alex was led out of the café by the police. Seeing him watching, she called back, "Next time, add blood to the coffee!"
Chapter Ten by Madison
“This is NOT a floral center piece!” Madison looked up from the morning reports Riccio had copied from the computer in the office and brought to the kitchen for her approval. “That is a damned casket spray.” Madison pretended to search for a file as she surreptitiously watched the party planner, Marcelo, pull out his cell, flip it open, and punch a series of numbers, never once losing eye contact with man who steadfastly refused to take back the garish flowers sitting on the dining room table. “Rebecca? Marcelo... Fine... Look, Rebecca, the flowers you sent me are all wrong. This is a quiet neighborhood soiree, see? It’s not the latest Trump wedding, ok?... Right, knew I could count on you, babe. See ya.” The smile Marcelo wore as he handed the phone to the now frowning delivery man had just the barest trace of triumph. “She wants to talk to you.”
Leaving the phone with the loudly protesting delivery man, Marcelo walked into the kitchen and poured himself a mug of the coffee Riccio managed to never let run dry. Turning, he leaned against the counter, took a slow sip, and looked at Madison thoughtfully. “You know, when the caterers get here, they’re going to need this kitchen and that table. Maybe you could pretend to work in the dining room for a while.” He set the cup on the counter and stood up straight. “I’m sure you’ll be able to watch me from there.”
Madison flipped through a stack of papers. Without looking up, or acknowledging Marcelo’s comment, she spoke to her Executive Assistant, who was typing into a lap top and speaking into a head phone. “Riccio, I don’t seem to see the profit/loss analysis from MegaSoft here. Is it still in the office?”
Riccio fingers flew across the keyboard of her laptop. “It seems we haven’t received that report yet this morning, Ms. Harris.”
Madison frowned. “Damn. I need that post this morning. Please make some calls and find out which butt needs kicking, and then kick it.” She looked around at the milling workers and then, significantly, at Marcelo. “Down in the office, so we don’t bother the caterers.”
“Right” Riccio folded her laptop, gathered her ever present papers, and quickly left the room.
Marcelo watched the middle aged, sensibly dressed, model of efficiency walk by and stood silently until everyone else was out of earshot. Then he turned to face the woman who was now standing just out of arm’s length. He forced a smile that, nevertheless, seemed to come easily. “Alone at last.”
The smile was not returned. “Nothing is going to ruin this party.”
Marcelo held his hands up, palms out. “Hey, I’m here to do a job, nothing more. My job is to give you the perfect party; the best damned party this neighborhood has ever seen. In fact, if I do my job correctly, you shall go down in Seacouver history, right next to the Tannebaum Tupperware party of 1962.” He lost the smile, and his voice became serious. “I’d rather skip any other activities, if you don’t mind.”
Madison stood quietly and regarded the man before her. She had been watching him since he arrived this morning and she had first felt the tell tale buzz of another immortal. Physically, he was tall, maybe 6'2", and he seemed to be well built, though it was hard to tell with his choice of jeans and oxford shirt, worn untucked. He moved with an ease of body that spoke of good physical and mental training. Madison had been impressed with the authority and precision with which he worked and wondered if, in another lifetime, he had been in an army. Even now, as she held his gaze, he didn’t flinch. Instinctually, she felt she could trust his word. “Agreed.”
The easy smile was no longer forced. “Good. Now that’s settled, let’s discuss where we should set up the buffet. Actually, I was thinking maybe we should have two: one in here and one out on the ...”
“Hello?” Both immortals looked to the foyer, to find a petite, well turned out, blonde stepping happily into the house. “The door was open. I hope you don’t mind.”
Madison wasn’t really sure what the appropriate response was here. This wasn’t a good time for a visit, yet this was the one neighbor with which she had anything even coming near to a relationship. “Well,” she began, uncertainly. “I do have some work I have to...”
“I just thought you might need some help with the party.” She walked into the dining room, looked at the display of flowers that still sat in the middle of the table, and touched one of the petals, just to confirm that they were real. “Not that you wouldn’t do just a wonderful job, but, I do have lots and lots of experience with this kind of thing.”
“Well, ummm yes, I’m sure you do.” Madison had the uncomfortable feeling that she was about to make the world’s biggest faux pas. “But, see, I’ve hired Mr. Trinidad here.”
Ruth looked at the dark haired man that joined them by the table, eyes and smile growing large. “Not Marcelo Trinidad?”
Marcelo took the hand Ruth offered in a firm but gentle grip. “I’m sorry, Ms...” He stopped and flashed a slightly embarrassed smile. “Have we met?”
“Oh, no.” Ruth enthused. “But I have heard of you. I just loved the work you did at the library fund raising dinner and the party to welcome the new polar bears to the zoo. I attended both of those and, well, everything was just beautiful.”
“Thank you, Ms... I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Please, call me Ruth. Anyway, you do beautiful work, just beautiful.” She looked back at the flowers. “Although I would think that a neighborhood party, might be something a little different than you’re used to.” Ruth peered hopefully into the kitchen. “I suppose you might need a little help.”
Marcelo looked at Madison, who was obviously wishing that she had just stuck with the paper work. Suppressing a smile, he turned back to the eager woman. “You know, Ruth. There is something, but I hesitate to ask. You must be very busy.”
“Oh, no.” Ruth exclaimed. “I mean I’m never too busy to help a new neighbor.”
“Well, I did just speak to my caterer, and it seems that he forgot the finger sandwiches.”
Ruth’s barely audible gasp showed that she knew just how serious this could be. “I would be happy to bring them.” She gave Madison a reassuring look. “Don’t worry. We won’t let a little thing like that ruin your party. I’ll just call Bambi,” Looking back to Marcelo, she explained. “That’s my daughter. And we’ll get right on it.”
“Thank you, Ruth.” Madison said, sincerely. “I really appreciate it.”
“Oh, no trouble at all.” Ruth looked at her watch. “Oh, I really must be going if I’m going to make enough finger sandwiches for this neighborhood. “I’ll see you both tonight.” There was about five minutes of goodbyes after that, but at last Ruth left, in search of just the right groceries.”
As she closed the door behind Ruth, Madison turned to Marcelo. “Well, I guess I should get back to work.” She paused for a moment, and then added. “I’ll just be down in the office if you need me.”
Marcelo turned to see the delivery man pick up the floral display and stomp out of the sliding doors that led to the driveway where his van was parked. “Don’t worry, Ms. Harris. Everything is under control.”
Chapter Eleven by Historygirl with Bladegirl
Author’s note: Thought we should remind everyone that all the posts at this point have taken place on a Friday, although perhaps not ordered entirely chronologically. The post that follows, however, takes place on Thursday night.
ooOooOoo
“Omigod, that’s Gary O!”
“He is so totally HAWT!”
“His hair!”
“His eyes!”
“Omigod! He’s coming over here!”
The two girls, no more than sixteen years old, added some bounces to their running commentary extolling the many virtues of “Gary O” as Kimberly Farrell leaned against the wall watching them. Her short red hair, simple t-shirt, jeans and hiking boots set her apart from the leather bedecked, mostly angst-ridden crowd; her smirk indicated she had left those teen years behind.
“Omigod, he’s here! Maybe he wants me to go backstage with him!”
“No way! He wants me!”
“Shut up!”
“You!”
“Gary! Gary! We love you!”
Kim straightened from the wall as the object of teen adoration waved to his fans as he walked by, security not far from him. Her smirk became a grin as she stepped into a tight hug. Over her shoulder, she could hear the gasps of the teen queens.
“Kimmie, it’s so good to see you.” Her grin got even wider as she listened to him speak. Under the all-black uniform of alternative rock, up to and including the eyeliner, he was still Gary, Bambi’s kid brother who had followed them around for years.
“Missed ya, kid,” she whispered in his ear, squeezing him before leaning back to reach up and ruffle his hair. “I see they didn’t talk you into finishing off the look yet.”
“Nah, I like being blond. Makes me stand out.” Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, Gary started to walk deeper into the backstage area. They hadn’t walked more than five steps when an anguished voice cried out.
“Omigod! He’s taking her?”
Kim didn’t miss a step, turning to speak over her shoulder, “No, I’m taking him … up against the wall, in the shower, on the floor, maybe even on the couch.” Spinning back, she grabbed the front of Gary’s t-shirt and dragged his body against her, grinning at the chorus of “Ewwwws” she heard behind her. Pretending to nibble a path up Gary’s jaw, she whispered in his ear, “Kids today.”
Sliding his hands over her hips, he leaned in to whisper back, “You’re lucky Marco isn’t here to see this. And you and Bambi were just as bad as them, from what I remember.”
“Nah, we were never that bad,” Kim responded, threading her fingers into his hair, about to ask who was Marco.
Breath tickling her ear, Gary said one word, “Oasis.”
“Omigod, the Gallagher brothers, they were so ho—,” Kim pulled back to smile at Gary.
“Gotcha!”
“Oh yeah? Well, hang on tight, smartass.” Using both hands, Kim tugged Gary into a wet, messy kiss in full view of the backstage area. Just as she felt his cheeks beginning to burn with embarrassment, her ultimate goal, a searing pain ripped through her head. Pulling away, Kim pressed a palm to her forehead above her right eye, and grabbed Gary’s hand. “Room, now!”
As the two almost ran down the hall, Kim tried to scan the area for new faces, ones that might come with a sword attached to them, but the further they moved, the less she sensed the presence of the other immortal. Thanking whatever gods might be smiling upon her, she crashed through the door and flopped on a handy couch.
“So, who got who, kid?” she asked, managing a small grin.
“Oh man,” Gary groaned, still beet red, “Marco’s gonna kill me.”
ooOooOoo
Marco Marconi walked wearily off the stage, the last of the sound equipment finally being loaded onto skids to go in the truck. Normally he would have waited, but the gear was going into storage for three weeks until the band’s next gig in LA. He was hoping to get things wrapped up quickly so he and Gary could leave early in the morning to make the drive from Portland to Seacouver. Gary had balked, but Marco knew it was time to tell Gary’s family.
The sound of the usual groupies hit him before he turned the corner, then a clear voice rose above the din. “No, I’m taking him.” Curiosity piqued, Marco moved a little faster. Stepping into the long hallway, he saw a fairly fit (if the rear view was anything to judge by) redhead hanging off of … “Gary?”
Marco started moving again; two steps later it hit him, the sense of another immortal. Watching carefully, he saw the woman (and he could see she was a woman, not one of the usual girls who hung around trying to get backstage) thrust her palm against her forehead then drag Gary down the hallway.
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Muttering to himself, Marco headed for his bag, and his sword.
Chapter Twelve by Zephyr
“Miranda, could you set an appointment for Mrs. Tisdale on next Fri…day?” Donald had come to the front desk expecting to find the pretty young blond filing her nails, or reading a magazine, as so many of his other temps had done between phone calls and clients. He was pleasantly surprised, however, to find her standing before his files with an armload of folders, carefully slipping them into their places…..actually working. What a novel concept, he thought wryly.
Turning around, she flashed both doctor and client a dazzling smile as she stepped over to the desk and seated herself before the computer screen. “Of course, doctor. When would be most convenient for you, ma’am? Morning or afternoon?”
Donald smiled to himself as he watched her cheerfully chatting with the mousy Mrs. Tisdale while handing her the appointment reminder card through the open glass partition. Idly, he picked up the stack of correspondence that she had apparently finished typing before starting on the files and thumbed through the pages. Nice, he thought, silently pleased, not a typo in the whole lot…..and she corrected my grammar to boot!
As Mrs. Tisdale hugged her purse to her breast and hurried out into the late morning sun, he said to Miranda, “You certainly seem to know your way around an office.”
“Thank you,” she said, flashing that radiant smile again as she went back to her filing. “I have a lot of experience in clerical work.”
“You must,” he nodded appreciatively. “If you don’t mind my asking, what on Earth are you doing working for Manpower?”
“Well,” she began slowly, choosing her words carefully, “I move around quite a bit, and temping gives me the flexibility that I need. I just moved here from L.A., in fact.”
“Ah…I see.” Yes, he saw all right, the one fly in the ointment…she wouldn’t be in Seacouver long enough for him to convince her to stay on permanently. Oh well, he thought, As long as I’ve got her here, I’ll enjoy her…er, um, use her…no, wait, that’s not right either….
Suddenly feeling the blood rush to his face, but thank God, nowhere else, Donald cleared his throat and said the next inane thing that came to mind. “L.A.? Judging by your accent, I would have thought you just moved here from Georgia.”
This time her smile was wistful when she replied. “You aren’t far off, doctor. I was raised in the Sea Islands of the South Carolina Lowcountry.” Then her mood turned mischievous as she directed a stern grin at him, saying, “Just don’t ever ask me to say ‘y’all’, okay?”
“Gotcha,” he grinned back at her. Then, getting back to business, he said, “Oh, yes, I agreed to squeeze in a new patient today for a colleague of mine, so I won’t be taking a lunch break, but feel free to go whenever you can get away.”
“Thanks,” she answered, “I’ll go at about 12:30, and bring something back for you if you’d like.”
“That’d be great,” he said, relieved that he wouldn’t have to rely on a pack of crackers and a coke for his lunch. “You can take some extra time if you need to.”
Nodding her agreement, Miranda went to the window to greet Donald’s next patient, a nervous little man who peered out at her through immensely thick, round glasses. Donald took the man’s chart from her and opened the door to admit him himself. “Hello, Mr. MacGillicuddy…..how are you today?”
Listening to the two men exchange pleasantries as they disappeared down the hallway, Miranda mused that the warm and friendly Dr. Oz was very much like the man who had raised her as his own child many, many years before on the wild and untamed barrier island she called home.
--------------1806, Summer-------------
With golden pigtails flying, a little girl danced out onto the long wooden pier that reached across the salt marsh to the deep water of the Chechessee River. At the end of the pier, tying up a small wooden boat, was a man with kindly eyes as blue as the Carolina sky.
“Papa! Papa!” the child sang out, laughing happily, “Mother has baked a cake for James’ birthday dinner! It has white sugar frosting, and looks ab-so-lute-ly delicious! Little Sister and I have been busy all morning making presents for him! It will be so much fun! You must hurry!”
His mood suddenly lightened, Jonathan Parker laughed out loud at the girl’s palpable excitement. “Elena Miranda Parker! Slow down before you give yourself the vapors!”“Papa! You know I don’t get the vapors.” Taking his arm, the little girl feigned indignation, but quieted anyway. After a few moments, however, she asked a question that gave him pause. “When is my birthday, Papa?”
“Why, it’s July 18th, Elena,” he answered, “you know that.”
“No, Papa,” she said quietly, looking up at him with the darkest brown eyes he’d ever seen, “my real birthday. When was I born?
Jonathan stopped, and turned to face the child asking the question. Child or no, he decided this was not a time for pretty fairy tales and nursery rhymes, She was nearly eleven years old and wanted honest answers… and she should have them. “You were born sometime in the summer of 1795, that much I know, Elena,” he said. “As for an exact date, I’m sorry.”
A long moment stretched by, until at last, the child suddenly brightened, and spoke again. “Tell me again how you found me, Papa!”
Relieved that the serious moment had apparently passed, Jonathan took his daughter’s hand. As they made their way up to the large house overlooking the wide expanse of emerald green marsh grass along the river’s edge, he told her again how the great hurricane had swept across the islands that summer of ’95, washing many of the people living on the islands into the churning ocean.
Pointing across the water toward a tiny stand of stunted trees and undergrowth surrounded by the shallow waters of the salt marsh, he finished the tale by saying, “We found you on that hummock, yonder. You were near buried under fallen palmettos, and screaming to the heavens. We tried for many weeks to find your kin, but with so many families washed away in the storm, it was a hopeless task.”
“Don’t fret, Papa,” she said lightly, reaching up to kiss his cheek. “Perhaps I had no kin. Perhaps I was left in the palmettos by elves, or the fairy-folk.”
Jonathan laughed. “Perhaps, Elena, perhaps.” With that, the pair climbed the steps leading up to the wide porch and entered the welcoming atmosphere of home and brother James’ birthday celebration. The subject of her parents was never raised again.
Chapter Thirteen by Ronlemagne
The alarm sounded for the tenth time before his hand found the switch to shut it off. He blindly fumbled around the nightstand for his watch. It was an old habit, never trusting a clock he didn't set himself. He trusted his watch; he followed it because he knew it was right, and he knew it was right because he followed it.
Right then, it was telling him that he had slept far too late. He could not afford to sleep the day away; he had plans, places to go.
He had people to meet; well, he had a person to meet. Okay, truthfully, he had a person to find, stake out, follow, with, perhaps, some surreptitious stalking thrown in.
He had spent the entire previous day searching for this person, with no results. Seacouver was not a small city, and searching for a person who likely did not want to be found among several hundred thousand people was no mean task. There was no way to know what name he would use, and he had only seen photos (very old photos) himself; so recognizing him on sight was not remotely guaranteed.
Yes, he certainly had a hard job ahead of him and probably another long day.
Absently rubbing his eyes, he slid his legs out of the bed and mentally gathered himself. He allowed himself a moment to take a sidelong glance at his tin of cherry tobacco and to wonder what the penalty would be for tampering with a hotel smoke detector before going into the bathroom. Deciding against it – he did not want to use his currently-assumed name in the future just to discover himself fined for vandalism – he walked to the bathroom to start his day. He shaved, showered, and emptied his bladder with the oblivious pace of the sleepily absent-minded.
Reemerging from the bathroom and remembering the business of the day, he walked over to the phone and dialed the front desk.
"Yes," he started after the clerk finished his generic greeting, "this is..." He paused for a moment, trying to remember the name he'd used to check in; people tended to trust a person who would give out his name. "Mark... Mark Williams, in room 204. I'm looking for... an old friend who lives in the city, and I was wondering, do you know of a good way to try to find him?"
He missed the days when you could just hand a clerk a C-note and tell them right out you needed to find someone who knows everything going on in such-and-such a city. Every city had one, and a person like that is always useful for finding someone, for any reason.
"Well, Sir, have you tried the phone book?" Wonderful, just wonderful, he wouldn't get any useful information out of this clerk.
"He wouldn't be in the book, thanks," he said, and hung up halfway through the too-enthusiastic apology.
He threw on his clothes, cursing his luck and the long day of searching ahead of him. He grabbed his bag and pulled it off the bed. It caught on his pants leg and he turned, knocking over the lamp on the nightstand. Time slowed as he watched the lamp teeter and finally lose the fight against imbalance and fall. Dropping the bag, he reached for the lamp, practically diving. He saved the lamp, but knocked over the nightstand in the process. The drawer lay as he had left it, half open, its contents spilled out onto the floor. There on the floor lay two books, a burnt-orange Bible – “From your friends, the Gideons” – and a bright yellow phone book.
He decided that it would cost him nothing to pick it up, so he did and found that it was inexplicably opened to the M section.
"Macduff, MacGriff...” He paused, barely able to believe his eyes. The day before flashed through his mind – being drenched by endless torrents of rain, receiving countless blank stares in reply to his inquiries, nearly being run over by not one but two taxis – an entire day of misery when the answer was right in between MacLeod, David and MacLeod, Frank.
“I'll be damned," he said, "MacLeod, Duncan… right here in the book. I can't believe it."
Chapter Fourteen by Madison
“No. No. I insist. This one is on you.” One of the two Wall Street warriors, still wearing the well pressed power suits of the front line, gestured to the waitress who smiled and headed off yet another round. “I’m not the one who just got the big promotion.”
It actually would have been hard for the handsome young broker type to have been the one to get the promotion. After all, you actually have to work for a firm in order to go up the corporate ladder. Cory Raines worked for no one but Cory Raines, and he was working right now. He had been carefully cultivating his friendship with this lap dog in broker’s clothing for almost a month. Cory had spotted him early on, and picked him as his man. He was likable, ruthless, smart, and way too full of himself. He was going to go far.
When the waitress brought the drinks, Cory rewarded her with a large tip and a wink. In return he got a smile that carried a promise. He reluctantly turned his head back to the table after watching the woman retreat to the bar. Ah well, business before pleasure. He grinned and raised his glass. “To Maurice Flanner, Broker Extraordinaire.” Both men took large drinks and slammed their drinks onto the table ceremoniously. “So tell me Maury, what is like up there in the ivory tower of Digate, Richardson and Klein? You get all the best life can offer, the golden key bathroom, the corner office with a view, the big time clients.”
“Yeah. All of that and more.” Maury gestured broadly. “I have it all. I even met with old man Klein himself today. He filled me in on my new clients.” He took another drink, shook his head and giggled a little.
Cory fought the urge to shout “Pay dirt!”, and instead laughed knowingly. “Oh yeah? Get some good ones, did you?” He watched as Maury used his straw to stir the ice cubes in his whiskey, obviously fighting between newly won responsibility and an incredible need to dish the dirt. Cory gave him just a little push. “We all know that the really rich ones are all, what’s a polite way to put this... crazy as hell.”
Maury laugh fairly exploded as the desire to gossip burst through. “Oh my God, Kevin, you would not believe these guys. I only have five clients, you know, so they can all get my personal undivided attention. Three of them, well, they’re just your ordinary billionaires, you know. But I got this one, with him I’ve got to make sure that everything is presented to him in terms of cowboys, and oil wells, or whatever, because he is all about Texas. He won’t hear anything that isn’t somehow connected to the Lone Star state.”
Cory made a mental note. Finding the name of Maury’s clients would be no problem. A quick flirt with a secretary should do it. Then it was just a matter of putting quirks with names, and the scams could begin. “Well, he sounds... interesting..” He gestured to waitress and pointed to his friend’s drink. He took a sip of his own designer beer. “But I guess if that’s the worst you have to deal with, it shouldn’t be too bad. You should see some of the lunatics I have to deal with.” Cory knew that this guy would have to one up himself, just so he could win the “I have it worse” contest.
Maury frowned. “You know, I have this one client. Really old money, richer than God, and one of the most aggressive investors we have. She’s really odd. No one’s really ever seen her. She does all her communicating with us through this tight-haired woman we only know as Riccio. Anyway, you’d think someone like her would be living in a mansion or in some Park Avenue penthouse or something, right?”
“Yeah.” Cory leaned forward. The hairs at the back of his neck began to rise as he felt the incredible closeness of opportunity. It was almost as strong as the feeling he got near other immortals, but infinitely more enjoyable. “But she doesn’t, right?”
Maury’s eyes shifted as he searched the far corners of the room for corporate spies. “No, see that’s the weird thing. We’re sending all the hard copies of things to some address in Seacouver of all places.”
“Really. That is kind of odd, isn’t it? Do you think she’s hiding out?”
“Who knows?” Maury shrugged. “Klein seems to think it’s just the latest in a long line of eccentricities. We’ve been working for this family through I think it’s something like four, maybe five, generations; always with a matriarch with some odd name like Dakota or Frisco or Virginia or something.”
Those hairs were now so erect they threatened to jump right off his neck. “Did you say Frisco?”
“Yeah, I think that was the Harris before this.”
Cory smiled slowly. “Frisco Harris.” Now there was a name he’d have a hard time forgetting.
Maury’s eyebrows rose. “You know about her?”
Without missing a beat, Cory changed the smile to a laugh. “No. It’s just an unusual name for a billionaire.”
“Yeah. I guess.” Maury looked around for the waitress and the drink he really didn’t need. “But that’s the point. The whole family is crazy.”
“They certainly are,” Cory said, thoughtfully. Before Maury could ask what he had said, he was standing. “Look, Maury, it’s getting late, and we peons down on the floor have to get up early.”
Maury looked confused, but nodded fuzzily.
Cory left quickly, humming happily. He had some calls to make.
ooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooO
Who would have thought some mid-sized city in the American northwest would be such a font of opportunity? Alejandro had arrived in Seacouver nearly nine months ago, looking for a quiet place, maybe on the ocean, to just sort of rest and relax. After nearly 80 years of plying his trade, he deserved a break. As it turned out, however, Seacouver was practically a haven for the upper middle class, Type A workaholic. This meant that there were lonely, bored and needy housewives everywhere a person might want to go. It’s not like he was looking for work, but work just seemed to find him.
It started when he decided to attend the opening of the new big cat habitat at the Seacouver Zoo. It was a huge charity ball, held outside, at night, with the now more freely roaming tigers and lions in the background. Alejandro had gone just to see the rare white Siberian tiger, Zeus. Running into Felicia Montrose-Belker had been an accident. Sure, he knew that she was running the event, but really, what was the likely hood that they would bump into each other. If conversation just happened to drift toward the fact that charity balls were all she had to look forward to with her husband, realtor Harry, If we don’t have it, you don’t want it, Belker, always so busy with work, he could hardly be blamed. And when, in the course of things, arrangements for a better hotel and a place on the social A list were made, well that was only natural.
So, here he was, through no fault of his own, attending a planning meeting for the Dine for the Dolphins dinner, wearing new clothes, surreptitiously checking his new watch, smiling at his new friend Tricia Cramer, wife of Sam, the Sofa King, Cramer, whose motto, "I'm Sofa King crazy", was known far and wide in the Greater Seacouver metropolitan area. According to the plan Tricia had set, at exactly 11:03, he was to stand, announce that he had forgotten about his chiropractic appointment and then ask if someone could possible drive him so that he wouldn’t be too late. Then by 11:07, he and his concerned “friend” would be making their way through mid-town traffic, heading for the Bayside Motel, where at exactly 11:30 they would register under the names Mr. and Mrs. Willis. Obviously, Tricia had read one too many spy novel while waiting for her husband to return from late night work sessions, but she was kind and funny, and all the subterfuge made it sort of like a game.
It was now 11:02, and Alejandro tightened slightly, preparing to jump up in sudden remembrance, when his new cell phone rang, causing him to jump, albeit in complete surprise. When his heart found its regular beat again, he looked at the text window and swore quietly. Leaning into Tricia’s ear, he whispered apologetically, “I really have to take this. It’s a family matter.” Tricia’s smile didn’t waver as she nodded. He saw the disappointment and slight hurt that her eyes couldn’t hide, however, and inwardly swore yet again. This had really better be important. Excusing himself and heading out the side door, he finally answered the phone that had kept vibrating, somehow seeming angrier with each passing second.
“Hello, Cory.”
The voice on the other end sounded jovial but was obviously irritated. “What took so long, Buddy? Were you... busy?”
Alejandro squinted his eyes against the noon day sun reflecting off the ocean, and wondered if, if he threw hard enough, he could manage to get the phone into the ocean, where some sea lion could swallow it and carry it far from him, separating him from any one who ever called him “Buddy”. He hated that name, always had. “As a matter of fact, I was in the middle of something.” He knew even as he said it, that this would make no difference whatsoever.
“Well, drop it, and her. I have a real opportunity knocking here, and I need you and your special talents to make it open the door.”
“What are you talking about, Cory?” Cory was Alejandro’s oldest, maybe his only, friend, as well as his first teacher, yet, even after all this time, he still had a hard time making out what this guy was all about. It was like he was always talking in riddles, always scamming, even with his closest friends. Alejandro had a much more straight forward approach to life. He even saw his work as a sort of business transaction, a sort of even trade deal. The women got a companion who really listened, cared and was responsive to their needs, something they did not get at home, and he got a nice place to live, and those things that made living worth while. The way he saw it, everyone got what they needed. Really, it wasn’t so much different from what he did in his first life, as a store clerk. It was an exchange of goods.
“Are you familiar with a woman named Madison Harris?” Cory’s words were brimming with excitement. Alejandro could practically see him sitting on the edge of his chair.
Thinking for a minute, Alejandro finally answered. “I think I’ve heard the name. If I’m remembering correctly, she’s having some sort of party tonight. I think a friend of a friend is her neighbor or something.” Tricia had mentioned being disappointment that her friend Ruth was giving up the dinner in order to go to the housewarming of a neighbor, some nobody named, he was pretty sure, Madison Harris. “It’s nothing important though. There’s a much bigger dinner happening on the coast.”
“Oh, believe me, Buddy, Madison Harris is far from a nothing.”
Alejandro suppressed the impulse to throw the phone down and stomp it to death. “My name is NOT Buddy.” His voice was still, somehow, genial. He really owed Cory everything, and he could not forget that. “I’m guessing you would like me to get to know this Ms. Harris, is that it?”
“That’s right... Alejandro,” Cory laughed, irritatingly. “And I want us to be at the party tonight. I’ll be in town at 7:00. You can pick me up at the airport, and then you can do that voodoo that you do so well.”
“I can’t just walk into a party and start romancing a complete stranger, Cory.” Alejandro sat on a bench and stared out into the sea. “It just doesn’t work that way.” He breathed in deeply, allowing the fresh breeze coming off the way to relax him as much as it could. He really hating discussing the specifics of his profession.
“Fine.” Cory was not about to be deterred by the professionalism of a colleague. “What do you need to know?”
“Details.” Alejandro shrugged, what he really needed to know is what this woman needed, and how he could fill that role, but on a conscious level he didn’t understand that, he just did it. “Tell me something about her, so that I can find the connection.”
“Oh, okay.” There was silence as Cory thought this out. “She’s rich. She’s crazy and kind of volatile. She doesn’t like attachments. Oh, and she’s one of us.”
“Immortal?” Alejandro quickly looked around to make sure no one had heard. “I don’t know, Cory. I don’t see what she gets out of this deal.”
“She doesn’t get anything.” Cory took on his best I’m your older and wiser teacher voice. “Look, Bud... kid. This Harris, she’s an odd one. Flies below just about everyone’s radar, you know? Nobody really knows her, at least no one that can still talk about it, if you get my drift.”
Alejandro frowned. “She’s a hunter?”
“Well, let’s just say, no one would be too sad to see her taken down a peg or two.” There was a slight pause. “You know, like what Redford and Newman did to Duvall in that movie.”
Alejandro thought this over. When you thought of it that way, it seemed almost noble, not a scam, but a duty. “Okay, Cory. I’m in. I’ll pick you up at the airport at 7:00.”
After saying good-bye, Alejandro closed and pocketed his phone, and returned to the meeting. If they hurried, he and Tricia could still get back on schedule. He didn’t even notice that he returned a waiter’s smiled greeting with a flick of his nose.
Chapter Fifteen by Bladegirl
Colin and Louis left the Oz house in a state of freshness usually associated with the start of the day rather than near-afternoon. Louis had showered after his morning run and looked camera-ready in his crisp blue polo shirt, gray microsuede jacket, and khakis. Colin was free of oil and driveway grime, but in his faded black hoodie and blue jeans, he probably looked like the guy hired to photograph the good-looking stylish dude.
Didn’t matter to him. They’d always had radically different styles, but usually saw eye-to-eye on the important stuff.
Like cars.
“So?” He stood beside the Mustang, which glimmered in the sunlight from a recent waxing. He loved showing off the restoration he was gradually performing (as quickly as he could afford; original parts were not cheap), and had been looking forward to letting Louis drool over it.
“Hey, looks pretty good.”
Huh. Maybe they drooled drier up in Seattle. “Yeah, been doin’ a lot of work on it. When I can, you know.”
“Yeah, I wish I had more time for stuff like this myself, but with work…” Louis stopped looking at the car and looked more intently at Colin. “So, guess you’ve had time to catch up on stuff like that since you went on leave?”
“Keepin’ busy.” Apparently Louis wasn’t up for a drooling over the Mustang yet. Maybe a nice little ride would prime that pump. “C’mon, let’s get coffee.”
“We could take my car.”
Colin laughed. “Right.” He had the door opened and his butt hovering in the black bucket seat when he heard the chirp of the remote unlocking device from Louis’ vehicle a few feet away. Apparently, he’d been serious. Who knew? “Um, thanks, but I just changed the oil. Be good to take ‘er out and make sure everything’s cool.”
“No problem.” Louis aimed his remote and re-locked his car, then unceremoniously got into the passenger seat beside him.
Colin started the car, smiling a little as the engine woke up with a roar. He glanced at Louis – his crunchy electric car sure couldn’t sound like that – but his pal was busy adjusting the seat to accommodate his height and fastening the seat belt. With a sigh, Colin pulled out of the driveway and headed into the street.
“Everything okay?” Louis asked.
Colin glanced toward the passenger seat in surprise. “Huh?” He quickly brought his attention back to the road. Whoever had designed Quiet Springs had apparently been aiming for realism, rendering the streets of the subdivision like so many meandering streams. You couldn’t take your eyes away from the windshield for a full second, unless you didn’t mind the prospect of giving an unexpected ride to a pedestrian, her yorki, and her open cell phone on the hood of your car. “Yeah. Why?”
“You just seemed a little put out.”
Colin opened his mouth to protest that he emphatically was not “put out”—that in fact, he was pretty sure there would never be a time that he’d describe himself as being “put out”—and said instead, “I just can’t believe you didn’t want to ride in my car.” Damn. That was a pretty sucky example of a protest.
Louis just laughed. “I never said I didn’t want to ride in your car. I just offered to drive.”
“Dude, this is a ‘68 Mustang.”
“I know.”
“A 1968 Mustang fastback, nearly restored to mint condition.”
“I can see that. It’s very nice.”
Nice! This gross understatement called for a vigorous slap upside the head, but Colin had to negotiate a winding turn at that moment, and the transgression went unpunished. He had to content himself with shaking his head in disgust. “But you wanted me to ride in your toy car.”
“My ‘toy car’ happens to be an SUV.”
Now it was Colin’s turn to snort. “A Ford Escape is not an SUV. It’s a glorified go-cart in SUV clothing.”
“It’s a state-of-the-art hybrid. It’s good for the environment.”
“Whatever.”
Louis shrugged, unfazed. “Where I come from, that kind of thing matters.”
“You come from here.”
“You know what I mean.”
Colin let that hang in the air a good few seconds. He wasn’t really sure what Louis did mean. Three years living and working in Los Angeles had certainly brought on a lot of changes in Colin, most of them good, some bordering on great, but he still felt like he was “home” when he came back to Seacouver, and that was almost entirely because the people who had made him feel like he’d mattered while growing up were either still here, or still considered this place “home.”
The little time he’d spent around Louis since he’d arrived yesterday didn’t really qualify Colin to make a judgment, but given that they’d gradually lost contact over the past two years and the fact that Louis rarely came back despite his living fairly close to Seacouver, Colin strongly suspected that his childhood pal now felt a lot more comfortable back in Seattle, where his career and his current social circle resided. Colin knew he didn’t really have a right to expect them to just pick up where they’d left off, to be as easy with each other as they’d once been, but it was downright freaky to feel like they might be closer to strangers than friends at this moment.
And now that they’d finally gotten a chance to be in the same place for a couple of days, the idea that Louis might be counting the hours till he could get back to his “real” life carried a sting, as though Colin had lost something important to him a long time ago but was just now finding out about it.
“So… you wanna talk?” Louis said.
Colin frowned. “Sure. ‘Bout what?”
“Well, you’ve been on leave for a while now.”
With relief, Colin steered the Mustang through the exit of Quiet Springs subdivision. “Finally! So, where to? The Groundskeeper?”
“When I came in town, I saw there’s a Starbucks now three blocks from here. Let’s just go there.”
”Starbucks! You gotta be kidding me.”
“It’s three blocks away, compared to three miles.”
“Well, the distance from home never used to bother you.”
“It’s on the campus, and I was already there most of the time. Besides, distance from home was a selling point in those days.”
Colin relaxed a little as both men snickered at unstated but vivid shared memories of high school and college antics that would never, ever find their way to the ears of the Oz parents, if there truly was any kind of God. “C’mon. You can get the Starbucks experience anywhere in the country these days. Maybe the world. But how often do you find a place like The Groundskeeper?”
“Maybe in certain third world countries…”
“Oh, it was never that bad.”
“The health department almost shut the place down four times the year I graduated.”
“The key word there being ‘almost.’” Colin kept the friendly arguing and reminiscing going all through the drive toward the campus, right up until he found a parking place on the street just a few doors down from the coffee shop.
Louis took in with obvious amusement the fading overhead sign bearing a now barely distinguishable steaming coffee cup, the peeling peach-colored painted trim around the windows, and the failing neon window fixture declaring The Groundskeeper to be “O EN.” “Good to see they’re not wasting money on capital improvements.”
“That’s what I’m sayin’. It’s all going into the coffee, and the ambiance.”
“Right. Because weak lighting, chipped furniture, and grime are so expensive to maintain.”
“Hey, the coffee was always great.”
“True.”
Once inside, they were obliged to stand still for a few seconds to let their eyes adjust. “Did I say ‘weak lighting?’ I should have said ‘nonexistent.’”
Colin was already moving further into the dark shop. “C’mon, let’s feel around for an empty table.”
“Maybe we’ll find Jimmy Hoffa while we’re at it.”
“Nah, dead men drink no coffee.” Now standing at the counter, Colin gazed up at the menu board. He was disappointed to note that the mottled old chalkboard had been replaced by a moderately more modern board with professionally printed lettering, but other than that, everything was pretty much as he remembered it. The countertop was even the same chipped peach-colored faux marble.
“Hey, guys. What can I get you two?”
Colin looked down from the board into the eyes of a young woman with chin-length dark hair – no telling what actual color in this light – decorated with artful pale streaks. She wore street clothes of some dark color and a lighter-colored apron, and a name tag that said she was Leesa. The apron covered the interesting parts of her chest, but none of the buttons on the visible portion of her top were actually buttoned, and the point of the “V” that surely was there somewhere was probably a long way from the collar.
He folded his arms and leaned against the counter. “Now, that’s a good question,” he told her. “Tell me, Leesa – what do you recommend?”
She leaned forward as well, confirming that the point of that “V” was indeed well below “see” level. “I recommend, Fred, that you order before my shift ends in five minutes, or else Darrell will be the one putting the foam in your cup.” Behind her, a male barista looked up from wiping a surface behind the counter and nodded.
Colin grinned at her. “My name’s not Fred.”
“Darrell won’t care.” She stood up straight and shifted her eyes to Louis. “What about you? You need advice too, or are you ready to order?”
Louis put up a hand in surrender, smiled, and said, “Oh, I’m ready. I’ll have a grande café mocha latte.”
Colin shook his head and twisted to look up at his friend. “Give me a break. You can’t just order coffee?”
“That is coffee,” Louis said imperturbably. “Although, now that you mention it…” He took a couple of seconds to look at the board some more, then told Leesa, “Tell you what. Make that a tall chai latte, no whipped cream, please.”
Colin shook his head. “Hopeless,” he muttered.
“I like a man who isn’t afraid to expand his horizons,” Leesa said, grabbing a tall paper cup and favoring Louis with what Colin would have to classify as a really cute come-hither grin. With obvious reluctance, she turned back to Colin. “Got a handle on your own desires yet, Fred?”
“There’s too many to name. But for now, I’ll settle for a tall espresso.”
“No imagination, but at least it’s a decision,” she sighed, and left to make the drinks.
They paid Darrell for their orders and moved toward the order pickup area at the end of the counter, Colin looked to his friend. “Did I order that coffee with extra snark?”
“I think it came at no extra charge.”
“She’s cute.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“What, you don’t think so?”
“I just said I did.”
“No, you said, ‘mm-hmm,’ which is not exactly brimming over with enthusiasm. What’s the matter – not up to your famous high standards?”
Louis rolled his eyes. “As opposed to your ‘come one, come all’ policy?”
“I’m especially proud of the ‘come all’ part.”
“Still addicted to exaggeration, I see. They don’t frown on that at the L.A. Times?”
“Hey, what I do on my own time…”
“Here you go,” Leesa’s voice interrupted. Colin turned to see her holding out a steaming sleeved brown cup.
“Mmm,” he sighed, his eyes on hers. “Looks and smells delicious.”
Ignoring any and all subtext, she smiled up at Louis. “And here’s your chai. Lids and stuff are on that counter over there. Here, you might want a napkin.”
“Hey, don’t I get a napkin?” Colin pouted.
But Leesa was already turning away, fiddling with the tie on the back of her apron. “There’s more on that counter with the lids.”
Louis was fitting a lid onto his chai. The napkin she’d given him was folded neatly in the hand steadying the cup.
“She gave you her number, didn’t she?”
“Yes,” Louis said, keeping his voice, and head, down.
Colin grinned. He’d forgotten how much fun it was to mess with Louis about his appeal to the ladies. Reaching out, he plucked the napkin away and unfolded it to look at the phone number. Even Leesa’s handwriting was cute.
“Give that back,” Louis hissed, snagging it from Colin’s hand, and stuffing it into his pants pocket as he headed toward a corner with a couple of thrift-store armchairs and a rickety round coffee table.
“You’re gonna call her?” Colin asked, more than a little surprised.
“Of course not. I don’t have time to date women who live in Seattle. I’m certainly not going to lead this girl on.”
“Then why’d you take back the napkin?”
“Because she gave it to me,” Louis sighed, brushing off the seat of a maroon velveteen recliner. Tiny dots Colin had assumed were part of the upholstery pattern danced and were brushed off before the taller man sat. “If she’d wanted you to call her, I’m sure she’d have written a napkin for you. Just because I’m not interested in her doesn’t mean I’m going to hand out her number to anyone who asks.”
Settling into a threadbare armchair done in a color Colin always thought of as puke green, he frowned in feigned contemplation. “Hmm. This must be what they call, um, what’s the word…”
“Decency?”
Colin snapped his fingers. “Chivalry. By the way, that’s a historical term. Means it’s history now. So, no time to date? Work keeping you too busy, or are you keeping yourself too busy with work?”
Louis drank from his cup, looked appreciative (although how he could, who knew; chai is tea, for God’s sake!), and nodded. “The job takes up a lot of time, if you’re doing it right.”
“And you always were a guy who likes to do things right.”
“I imagine it’s the same for you at The Times.” This second mention of the paper by name caught Colin’s sharp attention, and the two men locked eyes. “Isn’t it?”
“You bet,” Colin answered, taking a swig of his espresso. Somehow it wasn’t as good as he remembered it. Maybe the shop had a different supplier these days. “I sweat day and night to make sure I get those obituaries just right. Sometimes I work fifty, sixty hours a week on that alone.”
“They still have you writing those?”
“Yeah. Once in a while, they throw me a bone. Let me write a column-filler piece from a press release, and then usually they wind up cutting everything but the lead. Real satisfying.”
“I thought you said they’d started using you as an investigative reporter.”
Colin took another drink. “Well, yeah, but turns out that’s not exactly a full-time thing. Lots of competition for the investigative stuff. I don’t get those assignments as often as I’d like.”
He saw Louis look past him with a smile, and Colin turned his head to see Leesa walking by in an unzipped denim jacket. The “V” formed by the eventually buttoned shirt was no longer as low as when it had been camouflaged by the apron, but Colin still found it to be a damn good letter. She waved to Louis, smirked at Colin, and strutted out the door in her hip-hugging jeans. With an appreciative sigh, Colin turned back to his companion and sipped more coffee. “I used to think that the wheel was the greatest invention of all time. Now I understand that stretch denim really holds that title.”
“I would have said electricity.”
“That’s the thing. Stretch jeans have been known to actually generate electrity.”
“Please tell me The Times does not ever have you checking facts.”
“I can honestly say that they never have, and never will.” Standing up, Colin drained the last of his espresso and said, “Guess we should head back.”
Louis seemed taken aback briefly, but said, “Okay,” and stood as well. “What are you doing?”
“Leaving a tip.” Colin had grabbed a fresh napkin, pulled a dollar from his wallet, and was now writing, Thanks for the great service, Leesa and his cell phone number on the napkin. He signed it “Fred,” wrapped it around the dollar, and stuffed it into the tip jar.
Louis said nothing about it as they left The Groundskeeper. In fact Louis said nothing the whole time they were walking back to the car, and nothing while they were getting in, and more nothing for about the first mile on their way back to the house.
“All right, what’s the problem?” Colin demanded. “You said you weren’t going to call her, so I took the initiative. It’s not like I used the number she gave you, even though I can still remember it, and—”
“I couldn’t care less about that girl, Colin.” The voice Louis used was flat and cool. He had his arms folded and kept his eyes forward as he spoke.
“Then what—”
“Just stop. I know the truth, okay?”
“You know The Truth. So, the path to enlightenment runs through Seattle?”
Louis still stared through the windshield. “I gave you opportunity after opportunity to level with me, but you just kept up the charade.”
Just like that, Colin’s enjoyment of the outing, of the gradual resumption of their easy rapport, went right out the window. He was too proud to let his shoulders sag, but inside he felt wilted, beaten. “How’d you find out?”
Louis’ lips tightened and he shook his head in fresh disgust, as though part of him had hoped that he’d somehow be proven wrong. “I tried to call you at The Times about six months ago. They said you hadn’t been working there for nearly a year. Did you get fired?”
“No.” Colin’s initial defensiveness faded quickly. Might as well come entirely clean now. “Well, I was probably about to be, but I quit before it happened.” He waited for Louis to ask another question, but when he didn’t, Colin continued. “I was so damn bored, Lou. Writing obituaries every day has gotta be worse than actually being dead. But then they started giving me some small assignments here and there, nothing huge, but better than stupid press-release jerk-off stuff, you know?
“And I did well enough that they eventually tagged me to assist one of the big-name investigators on this story he was working on. A big city construction project was way over-budget, and I was helping to follow the paper trail to try to find out why. One of the documents I came across led me to think that one of the more well-connected city council members might be somehow involved. Stanford, the guy I was assisting, told me to blow it off, keep looking, but I was really sure I was onto something. So I kept digging. When Stanford found out, he kicked me off the story, and the city editor buried me back in obits again. I stopped caring about things like morning start times and reasonable lunch breaks, and they seemed to take issue with that.”
“How’d you hook up with Modern Times?” Louis asked, still not looking at him.
Colin gaped. He hadn’t thought anyone outside of L.A. would have heard of the edgy underground weekly he’d been working for since he’d left The Times. Certainly not his old friend he hadn’t spoken to more often than six or seven times in the last two years. “The editor, a guy named—”
“Josh Gold.”
“Uh… right. Anyway, a friend of his who works at The Times apparently told him about my incident. The one where I wouldn’t stop investigating the councilman after being ordered to. He took me to lunch one day, said I sounded like the kind of reporter he could really use, and offered me a job. I went back to The Times and gave my notice, effective immediately.” He frowned at Louis. “How’d you know the editor’s name? How do you even know about Modern Times in the first place?”
Shrugging, Louis answered tiredly. “When The Times told me you hadn’t worked there in about a year, I Googled your name. Eventually, I found an article you’d written for Modern Times. I went to their website and read all the online back issues from the previous year, then bought a subscription to the paper itself. Since then, I’ve been following your work for them every week.”
Colin cleared his throat uneasily. “Wow. Uh, you know, if MegaSoft doesn’t work out for you, you might have a future as a reporter. Or, you know, a stalker. It didn’t occur to you to maybe just call me up and—”
“Of course it occurred to me!” Louis had finally turned to look at him, finally lost the flatness to his tone. “But given that the last time we’d talked, you’d told me all about your exciting promotion to investigative reporter for The Los Angeles Times when you hadn’t been working there for months, I somehow had the feeling that you wanted the change to be a secret. And actually, I was worried about why you had lied to me. Thought maybe you were in some kind of trouble.”
“Trouble? Like what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you’d developed a drinking problem, or a drug problem, or a gambling problem…”
Colin couldn’t help it; he laughed pretty hard at that. “So basically, you went down the list of popular addictions to figure out what you should be worried about.” He’d been feeling kinda bad about the deception, but this… This was so Louis. He found himself laughing again.
When it dawned on him that Louis wasn’t laughing with him, he forced himself to stop. “Sorry.”
“Yeah. Glad I was able to be a source of amusement.”
“Oh, come on…”
“No, really, the fact that you find levity in this is very gratifying. I’ve spent months worried as hell about what was going on with you, trying to figure out what could be so awful that you felt that you couldn’t even tell me that you’d changed jobs. Then when Mom told me you’d come home on a prolonged medical leave…” Louis rubbed his forehead and sighed. “Anyway, you can stop the pretense now. At least with me. That must come as a relief.”
Okay, so it was back to feeling bad again. The more Colin thought about how Louis must have felt when he found out about all this, the more like a jerk he felt. The thing to do now would be to first try to explain why he hadn’t told his best friend what was going on, and then apologize.
“Lou, I’m sorry.”
Or maybe just skip to item two.
He made the turn into the entrance to Quiet Springs. “I was an asshole to lie to you, okay? I should have just told you the truth from the start, I know that. Somehow, I just didn’t, and then I couldn’t seem to find a way to come out with it later on, and then… I’m just really, really sorry, man.”
The Mustang purred into the Oz driveway, and Colin reluctantly cut the engine. “Really, really sorry,” he repeated. He glanced at Louis hopefully. He wondered if he needed to add another “really.”
Louis was looking at him warily. “If you’re thinking of trying to hug me, think again.”
“Oh, thank God. So, we’re good?”
There was an iffy moment during which Louis heaved a sigh. Then, with a slight smirk, he inclined his head toward the house. “I’m gonna get some lunch. You hungry?”
“Always. You oughta know that by now.”
“I was asking on the off-chance that your metabolism had matured.”
“Maturity is a dirty word, dude.” Colin yanked the key from the ignition, tossed them into the air and caught them, and opened the door to leave the car, grinning.
Chapter Sixteen by Bladegirl
Bambi stood at the kitchen counter looking very much like a little girl waiting for the school bus for the very first time. A school bus full of flesh-eating monsters. Driven by a pedophile. On its way to a David Spade film festival.
She looked at her mother with obvious trepidation. “Really, Mom – isn’t there something else you’d like me to do? Like, maybe, go out for supplies or something?”
“I already told you, I have everything we need,” Ruth said briskly, sorting the items they needed for their project. If she noticed her daughter’s discomfort, she hid it beautifully. Her mother did everything beautifully.
Bambi sighed quietly. This was not how she’d planned to spend her afternoon off. Even though she’d not been looking forward to this party her mother insisted she attend, she’d at least had a strategy for making it less stressful – a nice relaxing bubble bath at her apartment, a soothing glass of wine, some of that honeysuckle body lotion… all over. Then she would have dressed at her leisure in her new red Capri pants with the sleeveless red and white top, swept up her hair in a casual knot, and arrived at the party feeling put-together and ready for anything.
Instead, she was standing in her mother’s kitchen, staring at celery stalks, onions, cans of chunk ham and crushed pineapple, bags of pecans, and a large jar of mayonnaise. These were the building blocks of her mother’s favorite finger sandwiches.
She knew from experience that this would end in disaster. She’d never once managed to survive these mother-daughter kitchen-based events without one. Things like that just didn’t change; at least, not for her.
There was but one avenue of safety: chopping the pecans. Using the nut-chopping doohickey was the one task she could perform that would be beyond reproach. Yes, if she were to be forced to participate in this endeavor, then she would make the pecan-chopping last allllll afternoon. Reaching for a bag of pecans she began, “Well, I’ll just start with ch-” Her hand froze in midair and her voice halted with it. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no…
“You bought chopped pecans this time?”
“Yes, they were on sale, so it just made sense. But you can start chopping up the veggies. Here, start with the celery, please.”
Like a woman marching to the gallows, Bambi slowly pulled the stalks toward her and reluctantly picked up the knife. Positioning the first stalk, she prepared to begin chopping. “Bambi, they need to be washed first, sweetie.” Right, forgot the washing. Obediently, Bambi took the stalks to the sink and began carefully washing them.
“You did wash your hands first, too, didn’t you, dear? You work with animals, after all.”
Naturally her mother wouldn’t assume Bambi was sufficiently competent to make sure her hands were free of poop, urine, fleas, cat hair, and dog stink. “Yes, I washed my hands several times after work, Mom. And again as soon as I got here.” When her mother said nothing, Bambi sighed and washed her hands yet again before rinsing the celery. Good thing Bambi hadn’t decided to become a surgeon – she could totally see Ruth rushing in, bumping the scrub nurse out of the way, and taking over the act of scrubbing her daughter’s hands before she entered the O.R. She kept this line of thought to herself, however. The last thing she needed was a discussion about her choice of veterinary medicine over human, and especially not one that led to much sighing over her failure to finish even two years of study.
Returning to her place at the counter, she waited briefly for a sign that her celery-washing technique hadn’t been satisfactory, but getting none, she began to chop, nervously at first, but soon falling into a rhythm. It was going fairly well, and she began to gain confidence. You know, maybe she really was getting the hang of –
“Bambi, honey, slow down. You’re going to chop your finger off.”
Tensing up again, Bambi slowed her chopping. Dismemberment was something to be avoided in food preparation. All the best cookbooks said so, she was sure.
Beside her, Ruth was opening the cans and dumping the contents into a very large bowl. Glancing at the bits of celery, she remonstrated, “Oh, Bambi, no, sweetie! Those are just a smidge too large. Chop them up a little finer, please.”
Finer, sure thing. What could be finer than chopping celery for her mother, while retaining all ten of her God-given manual appendages? Bambi proceeded to re-chop her already-chopped pile into smaller bits. When that was finished, she started in on the rest of the stalks, concentrating on making the new bits just as fine.
Having mixed the ham and crushed pineapple together in the bowl, Ruth grabbed a bag of pecans and poured them in. “Next, you can chop up that onion. It… good Lord, are you still working on that celery? Honey, we have a lot of these to make. You’re going to have to work faster.”
“Sorry.” Bambi’s voice was as breathless as though she’d been running. Running for her life. From a stalker. A celery stalker, ha ha. She began to hurry her chopping.
“What are you planning to wear tonight?” her mother asked casually. Bambi opened her mouth to describe the new red Capris, but Ruth was already continuing. “Remember the party the Stephenses threw last summer for Laura when she graduated from law school? She looked so darling in that little outfit she had on. Of course, she looks darling in anything, always did. And her hair was cut in such a cute style, very chic and short. I can’t remember a time when that girl ever seemed to have a hair out of place. And smart! Well, you know, to make it through law school, she’d have to be – Bambi! Honey! Oh, my God!”
Shocked back to awareness by her mother’s tone of alarm, Bambi looked down to find half of her left hand covered with blood. A good portion of very finely chopped celery was basking in a ghastly red marinade. Panic and horror caused her to jerk reflexively, and blood spattered the untouched onion, the mixture in Ruth’s bowl, and Ruth’s white cotton top. Ruth grabbed the bloody hand, took one look, and cried out, addressing the ceiling as though calling to God Himself, “Louis! Louis, Bambi’s cut her finger off!”
Further horrified by this news, Bambi frantically scanned the countertop for a disembodied digit. Had she mistaken it for a celery stalk and chopped it up? If she had, reattachment was definitely out. She wondered how much harder it would be to smooth on honeysuckle body lotion now.
“Let me see,” said Louis in a calm, firm voice, having arrived at the kitchen and immediately taken charge. He took Bambi’s bloody hand from Ruth’s trembling one and scrutinized it with an air of concerned competence.
“Well, all the fingers are still there,” he said, winking at his sister, “but I can’t quite see the cut for all the blood.” He led her to the sink and ran cold water over her hand, which was finally beginning to hurt like hell.
“Hey, what was the yelling… Shit! What the hell happened here?”
Bambi turned her head to see Colin staring at the bloody scene on the countertop with a look of horror. He’d been a pretty rough-and-tumble kid growing up, and she’d never seen him react this way to blood before. Not only that, but her mom hadn’t chastised him for cursing. Dear God. Maybe she’d lost a really large amount of blood! Maybe she was dying! She swayed a little, and Louis tugged her arm firmly to steady her.
“Colin, hand me a paper towel,” he said briskly. Bambi saw Colin shake his head slightly as though breaking out of a trance, and he tore off a paper towel square from the dispenser.
Using the towel, Louis dried Bambi’s hand. She was surprised to see that the cut was smaller than she’d imagined. As they watched, it was already pumping out more blood, as though it had a production schedule to maintain.
“Looks like you shaved several layers off the side of your knuckle and forefinger,” said Louis. There was the sharp sound of something hitting the ceramic-tiled floor, and both Louis and Bambi turned around to see what had happened now.
Colin picked up the cordless phone a very pale Ruth had just dropped. “I don’t think we’re gonna need 911,” he told her gently, snapping into place a piece of the plastic housing that had come loose on impact. He placed the phone back on its base, still looking a little pale himself.
Her eyes were wide and scared as she looked into Colin’s. “Are you sure?”
Louis answered immediately, earning a look from Colin that might have conveyed annoyance.
“Yes, Mom. I’m sure.”
“Oh, well… that’s… That’s good,” she said. Clearing her throat, Ruth straightened her clothes and regrouped. The color was coming back to her face. “But I think she should at least go to the emergency room.”
“No, no, I don’t need the emergency room,” Bambi said. She had no intention of spending two or three hours waiting to be seen, only to be told what she already knew. “It’s not deep. It just looks that way because it’s bleeding so much.”
“You’re not a doctor,” Ruth informed her. “It could be worse than you think.”
“Mom, she’s right. It’s not a deep cut. She doesn’t need stitches – just a good bandaging.”
“Well, all right, if you think so.”
Ruth’s unflinching acceptance of Louis’s reassurance suddenly infuriated Bambi. Helloooo, she thought. HE’S not a doctor, either! But at least she wouldn’t be making a pointless trip to the ER.
“Come on, Bambina,” Louis was saying, “let’s get you up to the bathroom. We’ll see how much of my Boy Scout first aid I can remember.”
“I’m guessing all of it,” Colin said dryly, “and in excruciating detail. Prob’ly put an EMT to shame.” Bambi snorted quietly and the two of them shared a snarky look.
“Yes, you get her all taken care of, dear, and I’ll get started cleaning up in here,” Ruth said. As Louis wrapped another paper towel around her hand, Bambi looked around at the bright red mess she was leaving behind. That her prediction of disaster had proven one hundred percent accurate failed to give her any sense of triumph. She supposed that scaring one’s mother into a mild state of shock and contaminating party food with bio-hazardous material kind of took the fun out of being right.
“I’m really sorry, Mom.” If she hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn it was the voice of an eight-year-old.
“It’s all right, sweetie,” Ruth said, but her mind was obviously already on how much more she now had to do.
Colin followed the two of them up the stairs to the bathroom. “You know, I’ve seen some desperate avoidance tactics in my time, Bam, but…”
“Shut up.”
“Your throne awaits,” Louis said, lowering the toilet lid with a flourish. Bambi dropped onto it sullenly. Already he was applying antibiotic ointment to the cut.
“I mean, I knew you hated to cook, but to resort to self-mutilation…”
“I said, shut up, Colin.”
“Hold still,” Louis said gently as he began expertly winding gauze around her hand.
“At least I didn’t almost faint at the sight of blood.”
“Huh?” Colin wore an elaborate look of puzzlement. “I didn’t almost faint.”
“Tell that to someone who didn’t see your face.”
“I was just surprised. Never saw anyone give her life in the service of sandwich-making.”
“I would’ve thought you’d seen worse stuff than that, Mr. Big-Time Reporter.”
Colin’s expression became hard to read as he said cryptically, “Every night.”
Bambi started to ask what the hell that was supposed to mean, but just then Louis said, “Okay, that should do it. How’s it feel? Not too tight, is it?”
She gazed appraisingly at her hand, now neatly trussed up in pristine gauze and thin white tape. Louis really did know his first aid stuff, she had to admit. She held out her hand like a game show spokesmodel. “This should be a stunning accessory to my party outfit,” she said glumly.
“Oh, what are you worried about?” Louis teased, putting away the first aid materials and cleaning up what little mess he’d made. “Who’s going to notice a bandage on the hand of a pretty girl, anyway?”
Bambi snorted. “Yeah, right, they’ll be too bowled over by my beauty to see it. The people at the party will be our neighbors, Louis.”
“No, he’s right, Bam,” Colin said from his perch on the edge of the bathtub. “They’d be more likely to notice if you didn’t have a bandage, since they know you and everything.”
Bambi desperately wanted to secretly flip him the bird, but Louis was on her right and would make with the disapproval, and her left hand had temporarily lost its wings. She settled for the far more juvenile sticking out of her tongue. Then she sighed. “Guess I should go help Mom with… whatever.”
“Good girl,” Louis told her, completing his self-portrait of clueless dorkiness by adding a patronizing pat to her shoulder.
“Nah,” Colin told her. “She’s still cleaning up, and then she’s going out to buy more stuff.”
Bambi felt herself reddening. “Right. Guess I ruined all the food, didn’t I?”
“It was just bad timing,” Colin replied seriously. “Now, if this would have been a Halloween party…”
Louis shot him a mild glare before planting a brisk kiss to the top of Bambi’s head. “Don’t worry about it, sis. Why don’t you go on home for a while? Take some Tylenol for the pain and rest up before the party. I’ll go help Mom.” He left the bathroom and trotted gracefully down the stairs. A local sportswriter had been much parodied years ago because he was unable to resist overusing the term “poetry in motion” to describe her older brother’s athletic exploits, but while his every movement might not qualify as poetry, it never really sank below the level of economic but elegant prose, either.
Next to him, Bambi felt like a collection of sentence fragments. Non-sequitur sentence fragments. With no punctuation and bad spelling.
Colin threw an arm around Bambi’s shoulders as they, too, descended the stairs at a less enthusiastic pace.
“You know you try too hard,” he said simply.
“Because I never get it right.”
“Because you try too hard.”
“No, because I’m me.” Colin was sweet, but he really didn’t get what it was like to be Bambi. Heck, even she didn’t understand it. Opening the front door, she said, “Well, see you tonight at my next performance.”
“Bam?” She turned and looked expectantly. “You know, ‘finger sandwiches’ is just a name. You’re not really supposed to put actual fingers…”
Bambi’s right hand demonstrated its fluent bird-flipping skill.