Paloma: A Laurent & Dove Mystery (7 page)

“Your name?”

Paloma stopped short. Would she be able to say it? She blurted, “Agnes. Agnes López.”

“One moment,” said the operator.

A ringing followed. Her heart fluttered, anxious to hear his voice.

“Hello?” 

“A collect call for Curtis Mays from Agnes López. Will you accept the charges?”

“What! Did you say López? Hell, yes.”

The operator said, “Go ahead Ma’am.”

“Curtis?”

“It’s really you?”

Paloma gave a nervous laugh. “It’s me all right.”

“What a great surprise! Where are you? ”

“Curtis, you’re paying for this call. I don’t want to spend your money –”

“Money? What are you talking about? Man, it’s great hearing from you.”

“That’s sweet of you Curtis… Remember you once told me I could call you if I ever needed anything?”

“Sure do. Anything you want or need. You can count on it.”

“Well, there’s one thing.”

“A hundred things. Shoot.”

“I mailed you a package earlier today. It was registered and insured. You’ll have to sign for it. I had to leave where I was living in hurry and I couldn’t manage everything. I hope that’s okay.”

“No problem. So you’ll be coming to pick it up?”

“Yes.”

“Man, wait till I tell my wife. I’ve talked so much about you. And you can meet my kids.”

“You have kids?”

“Yeah, three boys.”

“Curtis, that’s great. How’s your mom?”

“Ma died last year.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Man, Agnes, she would have liked to have seen you again.”

Paloma felt the tears coming, but she couldn’t let it show in her voice. “She was a terrific lady.”

“The best.”

Paloma stalled for a moment, reluctant to open old wounds. “By the way, what’s the scoop on the Catonis?”

“You don’t know? Tony’s been out a long time. Joey was released two, three years ago. They still run the donut shop.”

“What about Max? Do you still keep in touch?”

“Yeah, we see each other now and then.”

“Has he ever talked about me?”

“Sure does. I ask him all the time about you. He never goes into details, but always says you’re doing fine.”

“He tells you I’m fine?”

“Yeah, aren’t you?”

Disbelief swept through her. Max wasn’t supposed to know she was alive. Damn him. “Does he say where I am, what I’m doing?”

“No. Isn’t that supposed to be confidential?”

“Yes, it is. We’ll talk when I get into town. Can I ask one other favor?”

“Of course.”

“Please don’t call or speak to Max about me.”

“Yes, but  –”

“I’ll explain when I see you. Okay?”

“Fine. When will you be here?”

“If all goes well tomorrow night. Will you be home?”

“Sure thing. You flying? Why don’t I pick you up?”

“Thanks, Curtis, but that won’t be necessary. I’m looking forward to seeing you again.”

“Can’t wait to see you too.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

“Bye for now,” she said.

Not wanting to cut off his assuring voice, she listened until the line disconnected. After hanging up, she leaned against the wall. Talking to Curtis was like being thrown a lifeline. Now all she had to do was get to Buffalo, but that would take money and identification. She glanced down the bar.  

Two men, one old, one young, sat huddled together. Overturned shot glasses were lined up in front of them. At the older man’s elbow lay some bills. Would she be able to pull it off? What choice did she have? She left the phone area and walked behind the row of stools. Not surprising, a wallet was outlined in the back pocket of the younger man’s trousers. With all systems go, she followed a neon arrow that lit the way to the ladies’ room.

Standing in front of a wavy mirror, Paloma peered at her face. Ugh. Death warmed over. She unzipped her bag and rummaged for lipstick and mascara. After putting some color on her face, she fluffed her hair and stood back. The red lipstick and smoky eyes were an improvement. As for the hair, it would have to do. Before leaving, she draped a sweater over her unzipped bag.

Returning to the bar, Paloma slid between the two men. “Excuse me,” she said to the bartender. “Could I have a glass of water?”

“Want ice in it?”

“Yes, that’d be great.”

Stepping back, she smiled brightly. “I’m sorry, were you two talking?”

The older man grinned. “Don’t worry about it. When ya got a thirst, nothin’ can stop ya.”

Paloma agreed, then bobbed her head as if trailing a lost dog. She turned to the men. “Have either of you seen a man with a Mets hat?”

The younger man, the one whose wallet she had noticed, shrugged. 

“What does he look like?” asked the older guy.

“I’m not sure. It’s the first time we’re meeting.”

“Blind date?”

Paloma nodded. “Maybe he saw me and walked out.”

“Naw, he wouldn’t do that. How do you know him?”

The bartender placed a large tumbler of ice water in front of her.

“On-line.”

“Does he know what you look like?”

She reached for the water. “Only by my description.”

“Maybe he’s running late.”

With the glass in hand, Paloma gauged the distance, the timing. All she needed was a distraction, perhaps the slam of a door, a shout. She nodded. “Yes, that’s possible.”                         Suddenly, the front door was pulled open and a shaft of sunlight filled the room. She jerked around, ostensibly to see who might be entering, when, loosening her grip, the glass of ice water became airborne and crashed to the floor.

The young man jumped from the stool. “What the –” 

 Paloma reared back in feigned disbelief. The man’s pant leg was soaked. “Oh no, I’m so sorry.”   

 “Damn,” he said. 

She pulled a stack of cocktail napkins from the bar. “God, I’m such a klutz. Let me help,” and pressed the wad against his leg. A stroke here, a pull there. In seconds his wallet was in her open bag.

He slapped her hand aside. “I can handle this.”

“Calm down, Lennie,” said the older guy. “It’s only water.”

Paloma shifted around and cleaned the spill on the bar, moving the stack of money from one spot to another. “I’m just so nervous.”

“Just get the hell away.”

“Hey, Lennie,” the older guy said. “Give the lady a break. It was an accident.”

“I’m really sorry, sir.” 

The young man reinstalled himself onto the stool. “Whatever.”

Holding the soaked napkins, she called out to the bartender. “Where can I put these?”

“Leave ’em on the bar.”

Paloma placed the wet clump down, apologized again and headed for the door. Crossing the room, her heart pounded. With deliberation, she walked slowly. A scampering thief was a dead giveaway. About to push the door that led outside, a voice called out, “Hey, lady.”

Blood whooshed inside her head. If she had two good legs, she would have busted out. Instead, she held her breath and turned. “Yes?”

The older guy was walking toward her. “Show me your hands.”

“My hands?” Internally, she recoiled but held them out. 

He reached over and placed some bills into her outstretched palm. “Get yourself something nice.”

Her wrist shook. “No, please. I couldn’t.”

“Sure you can.”

Paloma froze, uncertain what to do. Sudden guilt parried with the desperate urge to leave. The desperate urge to leave won out. “Thank you,” she said and rushed into the summer evening.

Later on a crosstown bus, Paloma opened her bag and checked the loot. The man with the wet pants was Leonard Cronnin, age thirty-nine. His New York State driver’s license and bank card were tucked in leather slots. A fifty, six twenties and a couple of tens were neatly aligned in the bill compartment. Plenty for a motel and one-way trip to Buffalo. Digging through the bag, she then counted the cash gift. Ones, fives and a ten added up to twenty-eight dollars. An unexpected bonus. Maybe her luck was changing. With the money issue settled, Paloma thought about her next move. Where she went was less important than where she had to go. Three stops later, she hurried off the bus.

On the other side of the security scanner at a twenty-four- hour drug store, Paloma picked up a red plastic-webbed basket and sauntered down the first aisle. Shelves of analgesics, stomach remedies, salves for burns, bad backs and arthritic joints were mind-numbing. Continuing, she found shampoos, hair sprays and coloring. She stopped and yanked a box from the shelf – light ash blond. But she had been blond at the airport and it hadn’t worked then. She put the carton back. There were other ways to change her look. Resuming her slow pass, she finally got where she needed to be – school supplies – and began filling the basket: pens, colored pencils, utility knife, glue, laminating sheets, ruler, white-out, magnifying glass and, just in case, a child’s kit of watercolors. Done, she headed to the check-out.

As she waited in line, her attention was drawn to a carousel of cards, her obsession. Cards for every occasion, cards she’d buy and never send. She reached for one –
To the Graduate –
and ran her fingers over the gold embossed lettering. The smoothness was like a child’s cheek. She opened the fold.
Congratulations, I’m very proud of you
. Paloma smiled. This had been her exact sentiment in Chicago, where, days earlier being bolder than ever, Paloma attended Maddie’s graduation, sneaking into a single seat just rows away from the stage. Was that her daughter, so tall and elegant? The dark hair was Paloma’s but nothing else, not the long neck or slender ankles or brilliant smile. Her daughter was a swan born from an ugly duckling. Paloma felt deliriously proud as Maddie held out her hand and accepted the diploma. And when Maddie descended the stage, Paloma’d never been so close, just an arm’s length away. How desperately she wanted to whip off the wig, the silly glasses and see if, for a moment, her daughter would recognize her. How crazy was that?  Paloma sighed and angled the card back into the spot.

“You ready to check out?” the cashier said.

The next occasion would be Madeleine’s birthday in September, almost three months away. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to get one now. “One moment,” Paloma said as she looked for anything purple, Maddie’s favorite color. A card with butterflies flying in a field of swaying lavender caught her attention. She pulled it out.
Mariposas.
Yes, this would be perfect and dropped the card into the carrier. 

At the check out, she emptied the basket. 

The cashier swiped the items across the scanner. “Find everything?”

Paloma skimmed the wall display behind the counter. “I’d also like that Polaroid camera behind you.”

The woman turned, slipped it from the hanger, then raked it across the scanner. “My kid loves this. Has pictures of his friends all over his room. How old’s yours?”

Tongue-tied, Paloma didn’t know what to say. Having a daughter was never verbalized, admitted to. The smiling clerk waited for a response.               

Paloma glanced around. Nobody. Should she say it out loud, take the plunge and dive from the board? No longer able to contain her pride, she blurted, “Seventeen.”

Back on the darkening street, waiting for a bus, Paloma felt giddy, lightheaded. It was so much easier than she’d expected – finally admitting to another human being that she had a daughter, that she was a mother. Somehow the world was a gentler place.

The bus swerved to a stop. Before boarding Paloma called out to the driver, “Is there a motel along this route?”

The driver nodded. “I’ll call you when we’re near one.”

And another leg of the journey began.

Twenty minutes later, having drawn the curtains and chained the door, Paloma settled into a room. She wanted to crash, lay her weary head down and forget the last two days but was afraid that if she put her head on the pillow, she’d lose her edge, get soft. The only light was next to the bed. She adjusted the shade then slid a chair to the small bedside table. Putting aside the phone, she carefully arranged the materials in order of use. Centered among it all was Leonard Cronin’s driver’s license. With a ruler and magnifying glass, she made measurements of the composition of the photo, its background, positioning, proportions. Then with camera in hand, she looked around for an appropriate backdrop. 

The room’s curtains were patterned, too busy and geometric. Her best shot was in the bathroom. She posed in front of the white plastic curtain and snapped the picture. Thirty seconds later, a likeness surfaced. 

With the utility knife, she cut out Mr. Cronnin’s picture and replaced it with her own. Methodically she continued to work, measuring, cutting, gluing, coloring. As the minutes passed, the day’s trials receded in her mind. It was a long time since she had done an ID. With computers and scanners, her services were no longer needed. Years ago she had a great business using official documents as templates then adding bogus names, dates of birth. But then she had to diversify. She had forgotten how the work comforted her. A child’s pastime never outgrown. It began at age seven, after the polio hit. Confined to bed for months, she’d practice the alphabet and copy anything she could get her hands on. In the evening Mamá, unable to read, would climb into bed where Agnes would teach her the letters, first printed, then written. After her recovery, fascinated by scripts and fonts, she continued to write. Little did she know where this would eventually take her.

With the cropped photograph in place and most of the lettering completed, Paloma puzzled over the name. It had to be similar to Leonard Cronnin, but female. With the white out, she carefully dabbed, erasing tiny sections of lettering. Then with the colored pencils, she reconstituted the blank parts. Soon an alias formed –
Eleanor Rennin
. She sat back. Given the conditions she was working under and the basic materials used, her new identification was passable. The New York State driver’s license was now from North Dakota. Whether this license bore any resemblance to a real one wasn’t important. Few people from the east coast would know the difference. But something was unsettling. The tired looking woman in the photograph coupled with a fake name, made her cringe. Who was this person? A shell, a facsimile but of whom? Over the years of reinventing herself, she had blotted out the girl, the woman, the mother, she once was. And for what? Testifying against the Catonis had done nothing. They continued to live, as everyone else adjusted. Paloma cleared the slips of paper away. God, she hated feeling sorry for herself. Get a grip. As long as she was alive there were options. She had managed to stay underground for almost fifteen years. She could do it again.