Love After All (3 page)

“What do you mean, no, thanks? Where you gonna get a better offer? Oh, I see, you waiting on some Prince Charming to come in here and sweep you off your feet. Well, let me tell you something, sweetheart. He ain't coming down here, so you better take what you can get.”

Samantha rolled her eyes to the ceiling and shook her head. This was the last thing she needed after just putting in eight hours on the road. With added restraint, she exhaled and walked away.

“Hey, you hear me talking to you?” Darnell said nastily, then grabbed her arm to halt her retreat.

She stopped and looked down at her arm. His fingers, pale and clenched, were wrapped tightly around the arm of her leather jacket. She looked him in the eye. He let go and backed off instantly, looking around quickly, knowing that there were any number of men in the garage ready and willing to step to anyone who harassed her.

“You still think you too good for me, huh?” Darnell said, sneering nastily as he always did when he didn't get his way, which was more often than he wanted to admit.

“Yeah, something like that,” she answered plainly, barely focusing on his comments as she continued to walk away. Ignoring Darnell was the only thing known to deflate his oversized ego.

“You know it's because of me that you even got this gig. One word from me and you're gone,” he threatened openly. Being Clemet Osborn's son-in-law gave him a false sense of power.

“That's fine with me,” Samantha said easily.

“What, you think I wouldn't fire you?”

“Give it your best shot,” she said, calling his bluff, knowing that he didn't have any power to hire or fire anyone.

“You're gonna see me in a different light one of these days, Miss Samantha Lee,” he hissed. “You're gonna come to me begging me to take you out.”

Sexual harassment on the job was tolerable at times, although if Darnell ever became a real threat she knew she had options. There were plenty of men who saw her as either a hardworking, no-nonsense coworker, or had placed her in the younger-sister category and become instantly protective. But she had always preferred to handle her own business her own way. She hadn't reached that point yet with Darnell, but he was sure 'nough getting close.

She continued walking through the garage tossing her arm up, waving at cabbies as they entered and left. Then she stopped by Deacon Payne's alley briefly to get a quick rundown on the day.

Deacon was an ex-con who had been rehabilitated and been living on the straight and narrow for over ten years. He had been a gambler with a temper who'd served three years for assault and another three for seriously chastising another inmate for being a stool pigeon to a guard.

The moment Samantha met him four months ago, she felt an instant kindred spirit. Of the men who worked at Osborn's Cab and Limo Service—most on their second chance—he was her favorite. He reminded her of her father and her hope that one day he would have settled down and ended his long career on the other side of the law.

“Hey, Sammy,” Deacon said as he looked up on seeing her approach. She was typically rumpled and disheveled; her appearance, truly streetworthy, made a very pronounced
do not approach
statement, but he knew that she was a diamond beneath the tattered clothes, Negro League baseball cap and ill-fitting oversize jacket.

Samantha smiled brightly as soon as she saw him. Few men were given latitude to call her Sammy; Deacon was the only one she could remember in a long time. Covered in a fine sheet of oil and grease, he was bent over an open hood, arm deep in the belly of a cab's engine carriage.

“Little man giving you trouble?” he asked, spying Darnell glaring at her from across the garage.

Samantha looked over to where Darnell had retreated to lick his wounds and solicit one of the women from the front office. “Nothing I can't handle.”

“I'd be happy to tap his brakes or slam a hood down on his hands for you.”

Samantha chuckled, humored by the extreme nature of Deacon's idea of handling a problem. “No, thanks. I appreciate the offer, but he's all wind, no substance.”

“Yeah, I got that, but if you need…” He shrugged and chuckled to himself. She joined in the private joke. “So what's up? I heard you had a little problem out there.”

“Really, where'd you hear that?” she asked, leaning her back against the front grille as he continued to work on the engine, knowing of course that gossip flowed through the garage quicker and thicker than engine oil. She knew he had a way of getting information that rivaled most intelligence agencies.

Deacon laughed and shrugged with an innocent look, which was difficult since he was the size of a grizzly bear and oftentimes thought to be just as mean.

Samantha shook her head and waggled her finger at him, chastising him as she would a child. “You know better than to listen to these hyenas when they start chattering.”

He smiled, showing every one of his big, white, straight teeth. “Sometimes even a chattering hyena can get it right. You okay?” he asked, nodding then standing up straight. At six foot seven, he instantly dwarfed her average-size frame.

“Don't I look all right?” she asked, then placed the envelope intended for the lost-and-found bin on the car's front fender along with the brown paper bag. She opened her arms wide and dropped her backpack from her shoulder to her hand.

“Yeah, you look just fine. Make sure you keep it that way.” He reached up and touched her nose in a manner that reminded her of her father again.

“Before I forget, I picked this up for you,” she said, handing him the brown paper bag.

“What's this?” he asked, then took the bag and opened it. He stuck his nose in as soon as he smelled the sweet aroma wafting out. “Oh, man, this is perfect, I was just thinking about stopping by and picking up a couple of these.” He dipped his face deeper into the bag, then glanced up at her. The look on his face, a smile as bright and wide as sunshine, was pure heavenly delight. “You read my mind.”

“There're four in there, so pace yourself,” she joked.

Deacon laughed, as they both knew that he would devour all four sticky buns as soon as he had the opportunity. “Thanks, Sammy,” he said, hugging her dearly.

“You're very welcome, anytime.”

“I'm a save this for my next break,” he added after taking one last quick whiff.

“Good idea. So what's going on around here?” she asked casually, looking around the garage. A friendly card game was going on across the room, and several drivers a few feet in the opposite direction were standing around laughing and talking as a third driver vacuumed out the backseat of his cab.

“Nothing much,” Deacon said, taking one last look, then putting his brown paper bag on the high counter behind him.

Samantha, still looking around, spotted a man she didn't recognize standing off by himself across the room, reading a newspaper. New faces always caught her attention. He was dark, medium height with a scruffy beard and had a cigarette tucked behind his ear. His eyes were hooded and the newspaper was positioned over his face, yet she could tell that he was staring in their direction.

“Quiet, huh?” she asked.

“Yep, quiet just the way I like it,” Deacon said, smiling and wiping his hands on the already soiled rag in his pocket.

She glanced back at the man with the cigarette. Her gut instinct warned her off instantly. “You sure?” she asked, nodding to the man watching them.

Deacon picked up a hubcap and glanced in its reflection. The man with the cigarette behind his ear immediately caught his attention. He knew that was who Samantha meant. “Name's Kareem. He just got out. He did a nickel and a few for a B and E contract.”

“Five years for breaking and entering sounds pretty lenient.”

“He knows people.”

“Apparently,” she muttered, turning her back to him.

“Word is he was also up for a deuce and a tre on the back end of the nickel, something about breaking a couple of noses and a few ribs in a fight with two other inmates.”

“Sounds like he doesn't play well with others.”

“Self-control issues. I can relate.”

The lingo they spoke was a mixture of street and prison yard made up of codes and ciphered cryptograms. But they understood. “Lesson learned?” she asked.

“The line thinks so.”

She snickered, shaking her head knowingly with part pity, part annoyance. “The parole board would let the devil go free in heaven.”

“True that, but second chances and all, I guess he's straight for the time being. He's got to do the check-in thing. Why, you worried about something?” Deacon asked, sparing another glace across the room.

“Nah, just being thorough, that's all,” she said easily while leaning back to stretch her stiff muscles from the long shift. “I like to know who I'm working with, you know that.”

“You know that I got your back, Sammy,” Deacon said. They exchanged a knowing look that could only have passed between family. Deacon was an after-midnight person—at least, he had been at one time. And the moment they had met she knew it instantly. It was a look in the eye, a nonverbal communication that announced the presence of a kindred soul. You never con family.

Samantha exhaled loudly. “All right, I'm out.”

Deacon nodded. “Take care.”

“Always,” she walked over to the bulletin board with new listings for the week. The man with the cigarette came up behind her. She turned cautiously and looked up into his dark eyes.

“Hey,” he said, nodding. She didn't respond but instead nodded in return. They stood side by side for a few minutes until he spoke again. “Word is we have a mutual friend.”

“Is that right?” she asked, not particularly interested.

“Yeah,” he said. She didn't reply. “He said that if I bump into you I should give you a message.”

She turned, slightly more interested. “Who exactly is this friend?”

“Jefferson.”

“Sorry, never heard of him,” she said flatly.

Kareem chuckled. “He said you'd act dumb, lollipop.”

“What did you just call me?” she asked calmly.

“I see I got your attention. Good,” he said. “Our mutual friend said to tell you that a game is in play.”

The expression instantly sank her heart. Game in play was always her father's term for working a con. “Is that it?” she asked.

“No, he needs a favor.”

“What is it?” she asked coldly.

“You'll be heading to L.A. soon.”

“L.A., as in Los Angeles?” she questioned, feeling her heart skip a beat. L.A. meant California, and California meant flying. Something she avoided like the plague.

“Yeah,” he said, looking at her strangely, seeing her apprehensive reaction. “He said that he needs you to play a computer game for him and that he'll have a friend waiting to meet you. He also wants you to check this out.” He handed her a small disc. She took it and slipped it into her backpack. “Says that you should do what comes natural and he'll text you on this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small thin cell phone. “Here,” he offered.

She looked at the phone as if it were a poisonous snake. “Is that all?” she said, finally taking the phone.

“Yeah, that's it,” Kareem said, then turned, seeing Deacon looking at them together. “Have a nice day.”

“Hey, Sammy,” Deacon said as he approached the two standing side by side. “You forgot this.” He held out the manila envelope from the back of her cab. Then, seeing the hesitation on her face, he turned to watch Kareem as he quickly got into a cab and drove off. “What did he want?”

“Nothing, just talking, shooting the breeze,” she said playfully not wanting to alarm Deacon. “Thanks.” She took the envelope. “Take care.” She smiled easily.

“Yeah, you, too,” he said, not believing her nonchalance and fully intending to keep an eye on Kareem just in case.

The main office was empty except for Emily Osborn, a Bible-toting pastor of the All Saints Baptist Church four short blocks away and a friend of Samantha's family since she was a child. Her husband, Clemet Osborn, had suddenly died of a heart attack years ago and she took over running the company. She was considered the mother hen and kept a tight rein on all her chicks. Her special chick was Dorothy, her pet name for Samantha since she was a child.

Emily preferred to work at night and when she'd been informed that Samantha was coming for a while she was delighted. So as soon as Samantha showed up, she put her to work. The rule was, no one hung around the garage without working. So, for the past four months Samantha drove a cab and waited.

“You okay, sweetie?” Emily eyed Samantha, scrutinizing her face for the slightest blemish.

“Right as rain, Auntie Em,” Samantha said, handing her the cash bag and the log sheets from her clipboard.

Emily took the offered items, tossed them on the desk and continued her inspection. “You sure?”