Brambleman (63 page)

“Oh, that.” He introduced his date to the
hostess. A couple entered and Aimee turned to greet them. Dana’s
dark eyes darted about. Was she casing the joint? Recalling the
outcome of the GQ photo shoot, he kept a grip on her arm. When he
regained Aimee’s attention, Charlie asked, “Is Redeemer here?”

“No, unfortunately. The cancer.”

“Oh, no. That’s terrible. Last time I saw
him—I was fixing the door on his church—he wasn’t doing well.” He
didn’t mention that Redeemer seemed to be on a bender at the
time.

Her face grew long. “Do you know him well?”
She took a confidential tone, as if asking Charlie to admit he was
a liberal.

“Oh, sure,” Charlie said breezily. “I
interviewed him for
Flight from Forsyth
, and spent
Thanksgiving washing pots and pans at the Hunger Palace.”

“Ah, a man of many talents.” She laughed.
“Feel free to help out in the kitchen.”

He gave her a wry smile.

“He really is in a bad way,” she said. “I
don’t think he’ll march again. Of course, that’s not what I’m
fundraising for.” She gave him a little laugh that he found
disturbing. He wondered if Redeemer had any intention of setting
foot in this place, regardless of his health. These were not his
people.

“Wouldn’t bother me if it was.”

“This is for the
homeless
,” she
chided. “Not that reparations thing.” She waved her hand to dismiss
the thought. “Thank God that bill in the legislature died,
right?”

Charlie frowned. Something sounded wrong
about the way she’d said that, even though he was even more
thankful for that outcome. Before he could respond, Dana chimed in.
“Charles is making a contribution, aren’t you, sweetie?”

Aimee pointed to a basket sitting on the
table beside the book. “Put it there.”

Charlie pulled out his checkbook and wrote a
check for $1,000. Easy come, easy go. This was the sort of thing
wealthy people did, he supposed. Still, this strengthened the
feeling he had that Dana Colescu was one very expensive person to
hang with.

Aimee stood at his shoulder. “To Redeemer
Wilson’s—”

“Holy Way House and Hunger Palace
Foundation,” Charlie said. He really did almost know the man.

Aimee slid away once the money was in the
basket.

“Let’s vork the room,” Dana whispered in
Charlie’s left ear. “By the vay, her gown’s a Kabertigan. As a
writer, you should know.”

“She’s wearing enough diamonds to keep an
African civil war going,” Charlie observed.

They drifted into a large, crowded parlor
buzzing with conversation. Expensive colognes and perfumes vied for
Charlie’s attention. Near the front window, a tuxedoed black man
played a Cole Porter tune on a grand piano. Charlie recognized
several African-American partygoers as members of the city’s
political elite. The look was semi-formal: Many men wore suits, a
young Indian woman wore a sari, and an older Japanese man also wore
a tuxedo.

The event was half charity ball, half trade
mission. Welcome to Atlanta.

“I’m famished,” Dana said, moving toward the
food table. “Vould you get me gin and tonic?”

Charlie ordered Dana’s drink, along with a
Diet Coke for himself. The green-eyed black bartender gave
Charlie’s scar an appreciative glance. While Dana ate finger
sandwiches from a plate, Charlie served as her drink caddy and
watched men steal glances at his date when their wives weren’t
looking, even though plenty of women were also checking out
Dana.

When she finished eating, Dana grabbed her
drink and said, “I’m going to mingle and try to sell some
paintings. Vy don’t you find your next true crime story?” She
laughed lightly as she glanced around the room. “Looks like here
there are plenty of evildoers,” she said, savoring the last
word.

Left on his own, Charlie stepped out onto the
patio, returning seconds later, coughing, his eyes stinging from
cigar smoke. After that, he gave himself a tour of the house—those
parts that weren’t cordoned off. He paused at the top of the wide,
curving marble stairs to gaze down on Atlanta’s elite. He suspected
they’d all done something similar to Pappy’s misdeeds—or at the
very least, inherited their grandfathers’ ill-gotten gains. In any
case, he was looking at the result of nearly 300 years of
affirmative action for white folks.

Aimee looked up from the foyer and beckoned
him to join her. Then she called out to a distinguished-looking man
in a gray suit: “Pitts, come here, you rascal you.” She introduced
the two men, though Charlie recognized W. Pitts Scudder from
countless photos in the newspaper. He was the CEO of Susan’s bank.
In fact, Scudder had interviewed Susan for her first job in Atlanta
many years ago, when he was a lowly VP. Charlie saw no point in
mentioning their connection, however.

“Ah, Sherman!” Scudder said, rolling his eyes
as he shook Charlie’s hand. “You’ve certainly got things stirred up
in Forsyth. What’s the latest on the development of the Cutchins
land?”

“Minerva Doe’s attorney filed a lawsuit
Friday.”

Scudder shook his head. “That’s going
nowhere.”

“I don’t know about that. She has a strong
claim. There was extortion.”

Scudder gave him a stern look, then broke it
off with a scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous. Be a shame if that got any
traction. I know the developer. Good man. Played a round with him
just last week. I’m sure he’ll survive any so-called
exposé
.
Or should I say, airing of a family’s dirty laundry?”

Charlie grinned. “There’s always that chance,
isn’t there? Next time you two go golfing, tell him to settle.” He
patted the banker on the shoulder for good measure.

The banker gritted his teeth at the
patronizing gesture. Aimee said, “Let’s change the subject.”

“Good idea,” Scudder said. “Aimee, did you
know this muckraker’s wife—or is it ex-wife?—is one of my
employees? She’s testifying for the bank in an upcoming
class-action case. Charming woman. Always liked her. I don’t think
she shares Mr. Sherman’s views on affirmative action.”

“What case is that, Pitts?” she asked.

“It seems one of our African-American
employees didn’t get a promotion and decided to involve all her
friends. They’ll lose, of course. Perhaps Mr. Sherman could share
his royalties with them. That’s the way you liberals work, isn’t
it? Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He bowed to Aimee and turned his
back on Charlie as he walked off.

Charlie opened his mouth to say something
witty and scathing, but Aimee was already drifting away. Just as
well, since he could only come up with profanities. Scudder joined
some friends across the room. Charlie saw the glint of contempt in
Scudder’s eyes as the banker glanced back at him and gestured over
his shoulder with a thumb. He said something Charlie couldn’t make
out, but if he’d lip-read correctly, Scudder had just bragged about
fucking “that asshole’s wife.” His buddies guffawed.

No. It couldn’t be.

Charlie knew he had to get out of there.
“Excuse me,” he said, squeezing past two gossiping doyennes in a
hall on his way to the kitchen. He found Dana chatting up the
caterer. He felt a pang of jealousy and a sense of dread,
suspecting that screwing the help was just her way of doing
business. He whispered, “This party’s gone south. We need to go
before I kick somebody’s ass.”

Dana took the caterer’s business card and
walked with Charlie to the foyer. There they saw Charlene Guy
laughing merrily, her arm interlocked with that of her escort, a
handsome blue-eyed man in a tux with a rim-collared shirt. Charlene
gave Charlie a purposefully nasty glare. She looked like she was
going to pull a microphone out of her black clutch purse and
continue the disastrous early-morning interview they’d conducted
earlier that week. Charlie pivoted away, dragging Dana behind.

When he found Aimee, Charlie said, “Wonderful
time. Gotta go.”

“But it’s so early!” Aimee protested.

“Sorry,” Charlie said. “I have pumpkin
issues.” He left her laughing.

Once out the door, Charlie breathed a sigh of
relief. At least Dana was still with him.

“I have come to the conclusion,” Dana said as
Charlie pulled her along, “that those vere not your people.”

“No, they’re not. Then again, I’m not even
sure I have people.”

“They’re not mine, either,” she confessed as
they got to the car. “I only came to try and separate them from
their money. Vot is your excuse?”

“I guess I just wanted to see how the other
half lived. I’d rather wash dishes at Redeemer Wilson’s soup
kitchen than party with these folks.”

“Vell then, you should.”

“I should.”

The drive to Castlegate seemed to take
forever, due to Charlie’s anticipation of a happy ending to the
night. As soon as he parked in the garage, Dana popped out of the
car, laughing gaily. “Come on! I’ve been vaiting for such a long
time. When I saw you looking like burly truck driver at Jean’s
coffeehouse, I said to her, ‘I
vant
to taste that.’”

And he
vanted
her, too. Once they were
inside the vestibule, she pressed the elevator button insistently.
The doors opened to reveal a stranger in a suit. “Which floor?” he
asked.

Before Charlie could step inside, Dana dug
her fingers into his arm and pulled back.

“Aren’t you getting off?” she asked.

The man smiled and said, “Of course.”

After he exited, Charlie and Dana stepped
inside and the elevator door closed. “Let’s go to your place,” she
said.

“I thought you wanted—OK.” Charlie pressed
the button for his floor.

As the elevator rose, Dana gave Charlie a
tight-lipped smile.

The doors clanked open and Charlie looked
down the corridor. He stepped out, and Dana followed a half-step
behind. Suddenly Charlie was staring down the barrel of a pistol.
From the corner of his eye, he saw another armed man grab Dana’s
right hand as she reached into her purse. He pulled her thumb back,
hard. She shrieked in pain, and a black Glock automatic flew from
her hand and hit the floor. The man cinched her waist from behind
and lifted her off the floor.

Charlie was about to go for the gun pointed
at him—multiple attempts on his life had made him fatalistic—when a
badge holder flopped open in front of his face. “FBI,” the man
said. A rumble of footsteps came from the stairwell. Seconds later,
a SWAT team burst through the exit door into the hall. With a dazed
expression, Charlie looked around, his hands in the air. A
half-dozen helmeted men in body armor pointed assault weapons at
him.

Dana would not go gently; still held from
behind, she reared up and kicked a SWAT member in the helmet with
both feet, knocking him to his knees. Two other men grabbed her
legs. She was hogtied in mid-air, hair disheveled, spitting and
spewing foreign curses, her right breast exposed and flopping.

“Rodika Arcos, we have warrants for your
arrest,” said a stocky white man with bristly gray hair—FBI Agent
Brisco, who looked like he’d neglected to shave his head for a
week.

“Rodika Arcos? There must be some mistake,”
Charlie said.

Four men carried the writhing, screaming
woman to the open elevator. Charlie, stunned and shocked, remained
passive as an agent pressed his face to the wall and cuffed his
hands behind him. A door opened and a neighbor peeked out, then
disappeared.

“Am I under arrest?” Charlie asked.

“Not yet,” said Brisco. “Come downstairs with
us.” Not that there was a choice with a SWAT member holding each
arm. Charlie walked down the stairs under his own power, thereby
avoiding Dana/Rodika’s rough treatment. Once outside, Brisco called
Charlie over to a spot on the sidewalk in front of the bakery while
three SWAT members stood nearby, their assault weapons pointed in
the air.

Dana got special treatment. A black SUV
roared up the street and squealed to a stop in front of the garage.
As she was stuffed into the back seat, she shouted, “Cancel my
dentist appointment!”

“What’s that about?” Brisco asked
Charlie.

“I have no idea,” Charlie said as he watched
the SUV speed off, even though he did.

As it turned out, Brisco knew who Charlie was
and treated him with a modicum of respect. He uncuffed the writer
for a sidewalk interview that convinced both men Charlie didn’t
know much about Dana/Rodika, except that she was incredibly hot.
Brisco then released Charlie without telling him why she’d been
arrested, though Charlie was sure the charges would be exotic,
since that’s how she rolled.

Back in his apartment, Charlie fretted. Why
couldn’t they have busted her in the morning, after he’d spent the
night with her? And should he, as a gentleman, post bond? Nah. She
was a flight risk. Based on her travel habits, a frequent flight
risk. Still, he owed her some consideration in exchange for what
she’d done for him when he’d been shot. He dug up the bill for his
root canal and cap and called the dentist’s office. He realized
that his phone might be tapped, but at this point, what did it
matter? The voicemail message gave him an emergency phone contact.
When he called the second number, a woman answered. “Buna
Zeewa.”

“Doctor Blaga, please. It’s an
emergency.”

A moment later a man said, “Hallo. Who iz
thiss?”

“A friend of Dana Colescu. Or Rodika Arcos.
The FBI arrested her about an hour ago and took her … I don’t know
where, actually. She asked me to call you and cancel her
appointment … whatever that means.”

Apparently, Charlie had said too much.
Foreign curses filled his ear, and the man hung up.

After a few minutes of moping, Charlie
remembered he needed to check on something. He went downstairs and
bought an early edition of Sunday’s paper from the rack in front of
the bakery. Atop the front page: “Sherman’s March Through Forsyth.”
The subhead: “Do Author’s Character Defects Mar Books?”