Malice (16 page)

She was wearing the dark blue dress when she visited him, because she'd been out looking for work all day, and her feet were killing her from the high heels she was wearing.

“Can I help you?” he asked, looking puzzled, but intrigued. He was sure that she had come to the wrong office. But he was glad she had. He was happy for the distraction.

“Mr. Marquez?”

“Yes?” He gazed hungrily at her, unable to believe his good fortune. And his eyes grew wide, as she reached into her handbag and pulled out the familiar forms for probation. He glanced at them summarily, and then stared at her, unable to believe what he was reading. “You were at Dwight?” She nodded, looking calm. “That's a pretty heavy place,” he looked really startled. “How did you manage that for two years?”

“Very quietly.” She smiled at him. She looked very wise for her years. In fact, looking at her now in the dark blue dress, it was hard to believe she was only twenty. She looked more like twenty-five. And then he looked even more surprised when he read the file notes on her conviction.

“Voluntary manslaughter, eh? You have a fight with your boyfriend?”

She didn't like the way he asked her that, but she answered him very coolly. “No. My father.”

“I see.” He was enjoying this. “You must be no one to mess with.” She didn't answer him, and he was taking her measure with his beady little eyes. He was wondering just exactly how much he could get away with. “You have a boyfriend now?”

She wasn't sure what to say, or why he was asking. “I have friends.” She was thinking of Luana and Sally. They were her only friends in the world now. And of course David, far away in California. She still felt Molly's loss terribly. They were all her only friends. And she didn't want him to think she had no one.

“You have family here?”

But this time she shook her head. “No, I don't.”

“Where are you living?” He had the right to ask her those questions, and she knew that. She told him the name of the hotel, and he nodded and jotted it down. “Not much of a neighborhood for a girl like you. Plenty of hookers. Maybe you noticed.” And then with an evil glint in his eye, “If you get busted, you're back to Dwight for another two years. I wouldn't get any ideas about picking up some extra money.” She wanted to slap him, but prison had taught her not to react, and to be patient. She said nothing. “Are you looking for work?”

“I've been to three agencies, and I'm checking the papers. I have some more ideas. I'm going to check them out tomorrow, but I wanted to come here first.” She didn't want to be late reporting in, or he could make trouble for her. And she had no intention of going back to Dwight. Not for two years, or two minutes.

“I could give you some work here,” he said thoughtfully. He'd love having someone like her around, and he was in an ideal situation. She'd be scared to death of him, and she'd have to do anything he wanted. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. But Grace was too smart for that now. She wasn't falling for the Louis Marquezes of the world. Those days were over.

“Thank you, Mr. Marquez,” she said quietly. “If some of my opportunities don't pan out, I'll call you.”

“If you don't find work, I could send you back,” he said nastily, and she forced herself not to answer. “I can violate you anytime I want, and don't you forget it. Failure to find work, failure to support yourself, failure to stay clean, failure to follow conditions of parole. There are plenty of grounds to ship you back there.” Someone was always threatening her, trying to spoil things for her, wanting to blackmail her into doing what they wanted. And as she stared at him unhappily, thinking of what a pig he was, he reached into a drawer in his desk, and handed her a plastic cup with a lid. “Give me a specimen. There's a ladies’ room across the hall from my office.”

“Now?”

“Sure. Why not? You been getting loaded?” He looked evil and hopeful.

“No,” she said angrily. “But why the specimen? I've never been in trouble for drugs.”

“You been in trouble for murder. You been in the joint. And you're on probation. I got a right to ask you for anything I think is called for. I'm calling for a urinalysis. Okay with you, or you gonna refuse? I can send you back to the joint for that too, you know.”

“All right, all right.” She stood up, holding the cup, and headed for the door to the hallway, thinking what a bastard he was.

“Normally, my secretary would have to watch, but she left early today. Next time, I'll have it observed. But I'll give you a break this time.”

“Thanks.” She looked at him with barely hidden fury. But he had her by the throat, just the way everyone had for years, her parents, Frank Wills, the police in Watseka, the guards at Dwight, even bitches like Brenda and her friends, until Luana and Sally had rescued her. But there would be no rescuers now. She had to rescue herself, and hold her own against vermin like Louis Marquez.

She came back five minutes later with a full cup, and balanced it precariously on his desk, with the lid barely closed. She was hoping he would spill it all over his papers.

“Come back in a week,” he said casually, eyeing her again with obvious interest. “And let me know if you move, or find a job. Don't leave the state. Don't go anywhere unless you tell me.”

“Fine. Thanks.” She stood up to leave, and with a leer, he watched her slim hips and long legs disappear out of his office. And a minute later, he stood up and poured her urine out in his sink. He wasn't interested in doing a drug test. All he wanted to do was humiliate her and let her know that he could make her do anything he wanted.

Grace was steaming when she took the bus back to her hotel. Louis Marquez represented everything she had been fighting all her life, and she wasn't going to give in to it now. She wasn't going to let him send her anywhere. She would die first.

She checked the Yellow Pages that night for all the modeling agencies in town. She had liked the woman's suggestion to try them, but not for modeling. She thought maybe she could work as a receptionist, or someone in the office. She had a long list of places to try, and wished that she knew which one was the best one. But she had no way of knowing. All she could do was try them.

She got up at seven the next day, and she was still in her nightgown and brushing her teeth when she heard someone pounding on her door, and wondered who it could be. It had to be a hooker, or a john, maybe someone who had the wrong room. She put a towel around her nightgown and opened the door, with her toothbrush still in her hand, and her dark coppery hair cascading past her shoulders. It was Louis Marquez.

“Yes?” For an instant, she almost didn't recognize him, and then she remembered.

“I came to see where you live. A probation officer is supposed to do that.”

“How nice. I see you got an early start too,” she said, looking angry. What did he think he was pulling? It was her father all over again, and just thinking about that made her tremble.

“You don't mind my coming by, do you?” he said smoothly. “I wanted to be sure you really lived here.”

“I do,” she said coldly, holding the door wide. She was not going to invite him in, or close the door behind him. “And whether or not I mind depends on what you have in mind to do here.” She looked at him without flinching for an instant.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Why did you come here? To see where I live? Fine. You've seen it. Now what? I'm not planning to serve breakfast.”

“Don't get smart with me, you little bitch. I can do anything I want with you. And don't you forget it.”

But the way he said it made something snap deep inside her, and she took a step closer to him, and put her face close to his with a look of fury. “I shot the last man who said that to me, and tried to act on it. And don't
you
forget that,
Mr.
Marquez. Are we clear now?” He was fuming, but he was also out of line, and he knew it. He had come here to see just how much he could get away with, and how scared she was of him. But Luana had taught her well, and she wasn't buying.

“You'd better watch what you say to me,” he said in a malevolent tone as he hesitated in the doorway.

“I'm not going to take any shit from some little punk kid who shot her old man. You may think you're tough, but you won't know what tough is till I send your skinny little ass back to Dwight for another two years, and don't think I won't do it.”

“You'd better have a reason before you try, Mar-quez, or I'm not going anywhere, just because you show up at my hotel at seven o'clock in the morning.” She knew exactly why he was there, and so did he. And she had just called his bluff, and he knew it. Actually, she had surprised him. He had thought she would scare more easily, and he was more than a little disappointed. But it had been worth a try, and if she ever looked like she was weakening, he was going to pounce on her just like a little cockroach. “Anything else I can do for you? Want me to pee in a glass for you? Happy to oblige.” She looked at him pointedly, and without saying another word, he turned and hurried down the stairs of her hotel. It wasn't over yet. She was stuck with him for two years, and he had plenty of time to torment her.

After he left, she put on the black suit with the pink collar and she was particularly careful when she did her hair and dressed. She wanted to look just right for the modeling agencies. She wanted to look cool and sure and well dressed, but not so flashy she competed with the models.

The first two agencies told her they had no openings, and they hardly seemed to notice her at all, and her third stop was Swanson's on Lake Shore Drive. They had a luxurious-looking waiting room and big blown-up photographs of their models everywhere. The place had been designed by an important decorator, and Grace was more than a little nervous when they called her in to one of the offices for Cheryl Swan-son to meet her. She met all their potential employees personally, and so did her husband, Bob. There was a definite look to the Swanson employee. Their models were the best in town, for runway and photography, as well as commercial. And everything about the agency suggested success and high style and beauty. Looking around the office where she waited for Cheryl, Grace was particularly glad she had worn the little Chanel knockoff.

And a moment later, a tall, dark-haired woman walked into the room with a long stride, and a neat bun at the back of her neck. She wore huge glasses and a sleek black dress. She wasn't pretty, but she was very striking.

“Miss Adams?” She smiled at Grace, and sized her up immediately. She was young, and scared, but she looked bright, and she had a good look to her. “I'm Cheryl Swanson.”

“Hello. Thank you for seeing me.” Grace shook her hand across the desk, and sat down again, feeling her asthma start to fill her chest, and she prayed she wouldn't have an attack now. It was so terrifying walking in cold, asking for interviews, and then trying to talk them into hiring her. She'd been at it for almost a week, and so far there was no hope yet. And she knew that if she didn't get a job by the following week, her probation officer really would give her trouble.

“I hear you're interested in a job as a receptionist,” Cheryl said, glancing at a note her secretary had given her. “That's an important job here. You're the first face they see, the first voice. Their very first contact with Swanson's. It's important that everything you do represents who and what we are, and what we stand for. Do you know the agency?” Cheryl Swanson asked, taking off her glasses and scrutinizing Grace more closely. She had good skin, great eyes, beautiful hair. It made her wonder as she looked at her. Maybe she was just trying to get in the back door. Maybe she didn't even have to. “Are you interested in modeling, Miss Adams?” Maybe that's what this was all about, and it was all a ploy, but Grace was quick to shake her head in answer to the question. That was the last thing she wanted, guys pawing all over her, thinking she was easy because she was a model, or photographers chasing her around in a bathing suit, or less. No, thank you.

“No, I'm not. Not at all. I want a job in the office.”

“Maybe you should look beyond that,” she glanced at her note again, “Grace … maybe you should think about modeling. Stand up.” Grace did, reluctantly, and Cheryl was very pleased to see how tall she was. But Grace looked like she was about to cry, or run screaming from the office.

“I don't want to model, Mrs. Swanson. I just want to answer the phone, or type, or run errands for you, or do whatever I can … anything but model.”

“Why? Most girls are dying for a modeling career.” But Grace wasn't. She wanted a real life, a real job, a real family. She didn't want to start her new life chasing rainbows.

“It's not what I want. I want something … more … more …” she groped for the right word and then found it,“… solid.”

“Well,” Cheryl said regretfully, “we do have a job open here, but I think it's a terrible waste. How old are you, by the way?”

Grace thought about lying to her, and then decided not to. “Twenty. I have an AA degree, I can type, but not very fast. And I'll be good, and work hard, I swear it.” She was begging for the job, and Cheryl couldn't help smiling at her. She was a sensational girl, it was just such a waste to have her answering phones behind a desk. But on the other hand, she certainly set the right tone for what Swanson had to offer. She looked like one of their models.

“When can you start?” Cheryl looked at her with a motherly smile. She liked her.

“Today. Now. Whenever you like. I just came to Chicago.”

“From where?” she asked with interest, but Grace didn't want to tell her that she was from Watseka in case she had heard of her father's murder two years before, nor did she want to say she'd just come from Dwight, in case she knew about the prison.

“From Taylorville,” she lied. It was a small town two hundred miles from Chicago.

“Are your parents there?”

“My parents both died when I was in high school.” It was close enough to the truth, and vague enough not to get her in any trouble.

“Do you have any family here at all?” Cheryl Swan-son asked, looking worried about her. But Grace only shook her head.