Further Adventures of Carlotta Carlyle (6 page)

Dee and I have long shared a taste in men: tall, bone-thin, and musically inclined. Ron, in his early forties now, and Cal, my ex, shared enough superficial similarities to pass as a pair of matching bookends.

Ron was buttoning a purple silk shirt over his skinny torso, tucking the shirttail into tight jeans. The jeans disappeared into high snakeskin boots. His guitar lay across a countertop. I brushed a string to get his attention.

He glanced at my reflection in the mirror, sank into a hardbacked chair.

“Carlotta,” he said, both grin and voice forced.

“Don't bother smiling for me, Ron.”

“No bother,” he lied. “Long time.”

“I've had a talk with your boy, Clay.”

He fumbled for an answer, an excuse. “Clay doesn't know shit,” he said, after a long pause. “Clay's not my ‘boy.'”

“He knows who hired him, Ron. He's real sure about that.”

“You don't fuckin' understand,” the lead guitar player said, slamming his fist down against the countertop.

“I understand that you love Dee, Ron. I understand that's hard.”

He nodded, so slightly it was barely perceptible.

“I mean about Clay,” he said. “There's no understanding Dee. I've given up on that. But with Clay, it got out of hand, Carlotta I never meant it to get ugly.”

“Ugly, Ron? You're talking about scaring somebody half to death. You're talking about a stalker. You're talking about a guy who tried to kill me last night.”

“Shit.” He split the word into two syllables, just like Clayton Fuller.

“Did you tell him I was coming?”

“Only reason I did was to scare him the hell off, Carlotta. Told him Dee'd hired a pro, somebody who'd nab his sorry ass. I figured he'd split. He's changed, you know? People fuckin' change on you.… He's somebody from the old days. Guy I played football with in high school. That's all.”

“Hazlehurst,” I said.

“Hazlehurst High, yeah. He was a tough guy then. Still is.”

“You send for him?”

“He came to a concert. Out of the blue. We went out for a drink. He wanted me to introduce him to Dee. That's what every guy in the fuckin' country wants, an intro to Dee.”

“So?”

“So I told him that Dee and I were … together, but we were having our troubles. You know, like we always had.”

“Trouble staying faithful, you mean?”

“You know her.”

I folded my arms under my breasts, gave him a look. “Whereas you were always a saint. Ron, I remember that.”

“I only care for Dee. If she'd—”

“Did you ever ask her to marry you?”

“I always ask. Says she doesn't want kids, so what's the point?”

“And she likes men,” I observed.

“Probably sucking some guy's dick right now,” he said without skipping a beat. “Celebrating 'cause Clay didn't show.” Ron's voice sounded dead as an urn full of ashes. “Wanna go check? It's not like I never walked in on her before.”

“Let's not change the tune here, Ron. It's not illegal to sleep around. It is illegal to threaten somebody's life.”

“Honest to God, I tried to stop him. Carlotta. Everybody in the band'll tell you that. He was like a hound on the scent, out to do me a favor whether I wanted one or not.”

“You should have called the cops.”

Ron swallowed. “I thought about it. I told him it'd gone too far. He kinda laughed, then he said he'd cut my hand, cut the tendons, so I'd never play again. He swore if I turned him in he'd tell everybody it was my idea from the gel-go.”

“Wasn't it?”

“Carlotta, I
love
her. I might have said something to Clay, probably did after I'd downed a few shots. Like, you know, I wish to hell she'd stop screwing around. Clay took it real personal. Said he'd been through two divorces and every time it was his wife cheatin' on him, bangin' this guy or that guy while he's out earnin' bread for the table.”

“And you believed him?”

Ron stared at his boots. I noticed a deep scratch across one toe. “I reckon if his wives ran off, they had good reason. I knew a girl he dated back in high school. She'd look at another guy, he'd smack her 'cross the mouth. She moved away, didn't tell anybody where she was headed. What I understand, one of his wives, at least, has got a restraining order out on Clay, maybe an arrest warrant. He told me he can't see his kids, called his wife a castrating bitch. Really got off on it, how wicked she was. Couldn't tell me enough about that evil woman.”

Good, I thought, hoping for the arrest warrant. I wanted the bastard locked up, but not at the expense of involving Dee. She didn't need the tabloid coverage. She didn't need every jerk who could read the
Star
or the
Enquirer
getting the idea that stalking Dee Willis might be a fine way to pass the hours.

“Did she sound evil to you?” I asked Ron. “The wife?”

He shook his head. “Sounded like she didn't like gettin' the shit kicked out of her. Sounded like she'd had enough and wanted out.”

I repeated. “You should have called the cops.”

He faced me directly, stared at me with ice-blue eyes. His voice sounded low and raspy, exhausted. He shook his head, kept shaking it slowly, side to side, as he spoke. “I thought he'd stick around a few nights, maybe make her realize a true thing, Carlotta. Like it's not how it used to be out there. You know it isn't.”

“How'd it used to be, Ron? I forget.”

“You could get crabs, Carlotta. Maybe the clap. Shot of penicillin. Big fuckin' deal.”

“You afraid she'll bring home AIDS? Stop sleeping with her Use a condom.”

“You think I'm just worrying about myself here? Goddammit, I love her.”

“So you hire some jerk to scare her to death. What's he supposed to do for a finale? Kidnap her? Rape her?”

“I'd never—I only thought he'd keep her home nights. I thought she'd turn to me, for help, for protection. Instead, she called you.”

The way he looked at me, I could tell Dee's cry for help, for
my
help, had been bitter medicine. Yet another injury to his pride.

“And just what was Clay going to do to me, Ron?”

“I dunno,” he said studying the linoleum like it was a work of art. “Man's a fool. I guess he figured he could scare you.”

I thought about my time in the trunk. Especially the few moments when I hadn't known whether Clay would open it or walk away.…

He'd done his job.

Ron was speaking. “I think Clay's way past thinkin,' about me, Carlotta. I'm afraid he really wants Dee. I'm scared he'll hurt her.” He swallowed audibly. “I guess I'm ready to go to the cops.”

I said, “No reason to, Ron. I've taken care of the cops. You're going to do something harder. Tell Dee. Every nasty detail.”

“No.”

“Then pack your bags and update your resumé, because she'll fire your ass. You know she will, if I tell her.”

He didn't say anything, just stared into the mirror like he was saying good-bye to the best part of himself.

“Do it, Ron. Apologize. Stay with her.”

“She's never loved anything but the music, Carlotta.” he said, his Adam's apple working. “She doesn't love me.”

“She comes back to you, Ron.”

“She comes back.”

“Maybe that's her kind of love. Maybe that's all the love she's got.”

“I don't know if I can live with that,” he said.

I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or to the pale skinny man in the mirror.

“Two days, Ron,” I said. “You have two days to tell her, or else I will.”

I flagged a cab and went straight to the airport. No trouble changing the tickets. Fly first class, they give you leeway.

Dee called late the next night, woke me from a sound sleep. I suppose Ron will always be her lead guitar.

Miss Gibson arrived via messenger. I've stroked her, held her, but I can't bring myself to play her. I try, but something keeps me mute. When I touch the strings, finger a chord, I'm overwhelmed by a sense of awe.

Maybe fear. With that precious battered guitar in hand, I guess I'm scared that I've come as close to the magic as I'll ever get.

Stealing First

Skip the Fenway franks, the mustard squished underfoot circa Opening Day 1912, the peanuts, the stale beer. If you're after the aroma of game day at Fenway Park, go for the scent of hope—frail hope, fervent hope, pent-up hope.

Diluted by failure, sure, but never despair.

The two-story Coke bottles try to steal the show, but the Green Monster dominates, along with the single red-painted seat in the bleachers that marks Ted Williams's 502-foot home run.

You see everybody at Fenway. The suits go for the skyboxes and the 600 Club, the Joe College types aim for the bleachers, alienating the beer bums. There are always out-of-place delights, the cotton-haired lady swearing her lungs blue in the bleachers, the scruffy misfits in the rich seats.

Some seem familiar, but only because you've seen them at the park before. Me, I semi-recognize a lot of guys, and often it's because I've arrested them. I had that itchy feeling a couple of times waiting in line at the entry gates on Yawkey Way, but none of the faces screamed a warning, and nobody stopped to schmooze. The gate was jammed and noisy, edgy the way it is when the hated Yankees are in town, jacking each game up to playoff intensity.

I gave the man my ticket and pushed through the turnstyle.

Section 27, Row 12, Seat 14, a terrific seat, third-base side, donated by a grateful client. I tried to tuck my legs behind the seat in front of me, a hopeless task for a long-legged woman. The sun beat down on two nearby kids as they fought over a “K” card, each hoping to loft it triumphantly 27 times—27 strikeouts for Pedro, the beloved ace. A woman wearing a Derek Jeter number two jersey drew a round of boos, then a round of cheers. I settled in and sipped a beer but found I couldn't concentrate on the game, maybe because I hadn't had a client, grateful or otherwise, in too long.

Instead of keeping score, I found myself obsessing about crime and money and how I could deal my way in. I had only one iron in the fire, an evening appointment with Chan Liu, a Chinatown coin dealer.

Liu's New York partner had sent him a shipment in the traditional manner, but it never arrived. The courier got robbed at a roadside rest stop, the handcuffs joining him to his briefcase severed with a hacksaw. The crime fit a pattern, but Liu might not be aware of it, because the previous victims had been diamond merchants, not coin dealers.

I knew that the cops had dealt with four similar cases in the past six months, that diamond dealers were currently sending paired couriers via devious routes. Maybe the precautions were so effective that the gang had shifted to a different target.

The cops had pegged the first diamond heist as an inside job, but as other cases piled up, that possibility paled. Instead, it seemed that a gang had taken to cautious surveillance and patient tracking. They were opportunistic, smart, and, so far, lucky. Diamonds are small and light, easy to conceal. Coins are heavy, bulky …

A roar brought me back to the game. Ramirez at the plate, two on base, and 33,311 rose as one, anticipating RBIs. When Manny flied harmlessly to shallow center, the crowd wilted like a deflating balloon, and I realized my two beers had caught up with my bladder.

I excuse-me'd my way down the row, fans popping from seats like corks to let me pass, and took my place at the end of a long line of women and kids. I should have gone during the home half of the inning, but who leaves with men on base? I could have gone to the smaller ladies' room on the third-base side, but even though the central corral is the most crowded, I always stop by to say hi to Florrie Andrews.

When I was a cop, everybody wanted Fenway detail work. Being bottom of the pecking order, I rarely got it, but when I did, I learned to appreciate Florrie's skill. She's the number caller.

Here's how it works: Each stall has a number over the door, must be 30 of them, and presiding over organized chaos is a woman who weighs 250 easy, sitting in a rickety chair, listening to Sox radio, doing intricate hoop embroidery, and calling out the number of the next free stall with speed an auctioneer would envy. All this without seeming to glance up, ever, as though she could tell the number of the empty stall by the unique sound of its toilet's flush.

They all sound the same to me, but Florrie's a pro.

I was watching a woman in front of me switch her feet from first to fifth ballet position when I felt a tug at my sleeve and put a name to a face I'd glimpsed at the front gate.

Moochie.

“Hey, Carlotta, do me a favor here.”

What he really said was “Ey, Cahlodda, do me a favah heah,” in a voice that was pure gravel.

“Hey, Moochie, this is the wrong line for you.”

The right line for Moochie would have ended in jail and been reserved for hairballs and losers. Moochie was a drunk and a petty thief when I ran him in. His ambition was to rob a bank so he'd get respect in stir. Never considered getting away with it.

“Hey,” he went on. “My li'l girl heah, my niece, couldja taker in wit yas?”

“Is she hot?”

“Whadja mean?”

“You steal this kid, Mooch?”

“Ginny, baby, who'm I?”

“Unkah Mahty.” Her frilly white blouse stopped well above baggy red pants, exposing a pudgy belly. She wore four gold bangles on her left wrist.

“C'mon, a favah.”

The line was moving, and the women and kids behind me shuffled restlessly. Little Ginny gazed up at me with sky-blue eyes.

“Where should we meet you?”

“I'll be right here, waiting.” That's not how it sounded, but you get the idea.

“Twenty-seven. Sixteen. Thirteen's wide open!” We were getting close enough to hear Florrie's deep voice.