Roll with the Punches (43 page)

I drank root beer and considered. Then I realized where he'd go.

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All Tuesday afternoon, I sat in the car in front of Nadja's place, rain plunking on the car roof, thinking about slow ways to torture and kill James. Then there was my black weekend. And Jeff Karrey. Wait, he was James's brother-in-law and as an editor, he could write. First, I still resented never having been introduced to him before. Second, could he be Reynard Jackson? Editors could presumably publish books easily and fast. But Jeff didn't need to write fast. He could just steal unsolicited manuscripts from the slush pile and buff them up. How would the authors know? What could they do? And no one else had ever admitted to meeting Reynard before. That was very telling. So then why had he needed to steal my stuff? It was late afternoon. Harley didn't answer my call. So I called Cathy and filled her in.

She said, "Shit. You angry? That shit makes me crazy-ass angry. Want to go sock some college students to feel better? I know where they hang out."

I smiled. "No, thanks. I just want to get my good name back."

Cathy smacked her gum into the phone. "But why would Jeff get James to steal stuff if he had a pile of that stuff on his desk already?"

I thought. "Maybe someone at the old publishing house got wind of his activities right when he needed another book fast. So he asked James for one. Maybe it's why Jeff moved to a new publishing house. Folks at the old one realized what he was doing and fired him. It all fits. I didn't send him my manuscript, but James could have done so when he fixed my computer."

"Can you prove he stole your work?" she said.

"My computer's been stolen, but James may still have proof on his computer. He must have files that link him with Sylvia, and maybe with me. I'm outside his sister's house now. Waiting until he comes so I can nail his butt to the fencepost."

"Oh, I'd love to see that, but I like have to work. Hey, I'll send somebody over there if you promise to come to our flat-track exhibition bout with the Veggie Girls at Orange Fair Mall at noon tomorrow. Free publicity for the league. But some of the girls can't make it there on their lunch hours. We need you, chica.”

Still wedged behind my steering wheel, I agreed. Then I broke into my Fritos and carrot juice as a light drizzle turned into another unseasonable downpour. And I waited. And waited.

James didn't show up all day. Neither did Cathy's emissary. I didn't knock on the door at Nadja's place, hoping to maybe surprise James when he showed up there. Twice, I drove down to Irvine and banged on Yvette's door. No one home. Had she and James left town? But that didn't feel right. James just had to show up at Nadja's again, and if he didn't, then I'd break into the care home and strangle them all to find out where he was.

I staked out Helena Street all night in the rain, writing plot points for my new book on napkins to keep me awake. I woke in the morning with a crick in my neck and drool on my shirt. And missing Dal's dark ponytail.

Mid-morning, a car pulled up behind me and Hippo stepped out, a pale Easter Island statue in jeans and a hoodie. She leaned on her car like a statue until the rain forced her back inside. Was this Cathy's idea of a joke? Hippo sat sullenly back there, staring out her window at the drippy day and scarfing down donuts while I listened to
Persuasion
on CD and got a sore butt.

Near lunchtime, Hippo tapped on my window. "Time to go to the bout.”

I opened it. "Thanks for—um—spending your day with me. But I can't go."

Disgusted sigh. "Just what I expected from you, bitch. I come here because Cathy says you have a serious problem and she won't sub for me when I go to Hawaii unless I come here. So here I am, and all you do is sit here in a dripping car for hours. Idiot."

"I'm waiting for the guy who stole my manuscript to show up."

"Jesus. How lame. Let's all sit around and wait all day for the bad guys to show up."

"But my book was published—"

"Well, my masterpiece was stolen, too," she said.

"Um, masterpiece?"

"Yeah." Her bulldoggy face closed in on mine.

I took her manuscript from the back seat, where it had been floating around for days, and shoved it at her. "I read it. It needs mega-work, Gina Johansson."

"That's Regina.”

I did a facepalm. "Perfect. R. J." The rain was coming faster, wetting the top pages.

Hippo wiped wet hair out of murderous eyes. "Where the hell did this come from? You thieving minx! You
were
in my house." Hippo pushed an index finger at me. "Book thief. Man thief." She hauled off and I rolled the window up just in time to block her punch.

A white face appeared at the window of the house we were in front of.

Hippo yelled at the face. "Fuck off, lady. Private argument." She raced to the other side of my car and got in before my wonky locking mechanism would perform. A hammy hand grabbed my forearm. Ouch.

"Spill. Now." Wow, few people could really pull off such a growl.

I surprised myself by calmly spewing a lovely load of fiction about Cathy taking me to Hippo's house and us breaking in as a prank, making Hippo's cats scatter and knock over the plant so we accidentally found the manuscript. "The tabloids are lying through their teeth. I'm a victim, not a thief. And Harley won’t admit it, but Dal met
me
first, and
he
chose
me
. Ask him.”

Hippo sat with her face inches from mine, her fist ready to strike.

I was amazed at my composure as I added the clincher. “You really think I’m a good enough writer to be Reynard Jackson? Seriously?”

She put her fist down and loosened the hand on my wrist. “No. But if I choose to believe you, then why's your butt glued to this street?"

"James. He stole my manuscript and published it. This is his sister's place. He should—"

"How's it gonna prove anything if he does show up?"

"I don't know!" Tears spilling down my face, I got out of the car and slammed the door. "That book was a year of my hard work! He took it and published it!"

She got out, too.

"Look, just leave me alone." I walked away, hunched against the rain, brushing rain and tears off my cheeks. Damn. Breaking down in front of this iceberg. The pits.

"Come on. Don't you have a job or something?" she said, catching up to me. Why was she suddenly being nice? "So this guy got you good. You can't really believe you'll get him back this way.”

"Then how? His phones are disconnected. He’s in the wind.”

"I don't know. Just go home." She turned back to her car.

I stood there, sodden. My cell phone beeped.

"Rhonda," Mom said, on speaker phone. It had been stuck on speaker phone for three days. "Your picture's on the MSN homepage. Not flattering at all. I was just checking on those Ladrona mudslides, and there you were, a plagiarist on page one. After all those Sunday school lessons, too. God. I'll never live it down. Is that why you haven't called me? Are you in big trouble?"

I'll say this for my mother. My sniffles dried right up. "No, Mom." I turned and slogged after Hippo, anger piling on top of my worry.

Mom said, "People keep calling here for you. I had to call your sister for this number. She's really worried.”

Great. "Look, Mom, I'm on Helena Street. How could you do this to Dad?"

Mom said, "Why are you there? He needs—"

"He was fine at home. We were doing fine.”

She said, "The Bible. He threw the Bible at me. What would he be throwing next, the dog? I've got a black eye and a huge purple bruise on my arm. Don't try to make me feel guilty. "

I got in the car, dripping wet. Hippo surprised me by getting in next to me again and wringing out her hair.

"Mom." My eyes brimmed. "He's going nuts in there. I could help him calm down, but they won't let me in." I set down the phone and blew my nose on my shirt. "I'll do anything if you'll get him out of there. Please."

Pause. "How long have you been there?" Mom said.

"All fucking night." I wiped wet hair from my face.
But not for Dad
I almost added.
For my damned book
. Or was I there for Dad?

"Rudeness will not help you, Rhonda. Nor will stealing things."

"I don't steal shit! That’s all lies. Thanks for your support!"

"Another thing. Yvette keeps leaving you weird, cryptic messages about knowing Reynard Jackson and someone stealing something. You should call her.”

"Yvette?" I said, wriggling out of my wet jacket.

"Rhonda," Mom said, all perky, "If she does know Jackson, Arlene and I would love autographed copies of his books. Boy, if you could write like him, you'd be rich. Have you entered that online contest to guess his identity?"

"Mom! We're talking about Dad here! Let me bring him home."

"What's your plan for his care?"

What could I commit to? I looked at Hippo. "I'll do anything. I'll stay at your house and take care of both of you full-time." There went my writing career and the condo.

"I don't know. Your care skills are pretty weak. You lost your father three times.”

I thought it had been four or five.

She went on, "Arnold Schwarzeneggar did a better job in that movie—"

"Huh?
Kindergarten Cop
?" The rain eased off outside.

"No the Terminex thing."

"The
Terminator
?"

Hippo grinned.

"There you go, challenging the sick person. You'll have to be nicer to us, if you're our caregiver, Rhonda. I heard about you pushing Dad into the flower bed."

"I was trying to get him to the doctor! At least I didn't commit him! Look, just get him out of here, Mom. Then I promise I'll do whatever you two need."

"You'll move back in with us and do round-the-clock care?"

"Dad might not need it if he has NPH," I hedged.

"He'll need it. And promise not to see that Indian anymore. He's bad news, stealing from old people. The worst kind."

"Mom, please."

"I'll only come and get him when you promise."

I smacked the steering wheel hard. Hippo sat staring at her manuscript. The sun had come out behind her. And there was blue sky.

"No." I closed the phone. Turned out there were things I wouldn't do, even for her and Dad.

Nadja's house door opened and Frank came out, pushing Joey in a wheelchair with a string of patients tagging behind him down the sidewalk like a bunch of baby ducks. Melody followed, squeezing herself into the blue van and driving away.

Hippo said. "This isn't really about James, is it?"

I shook my head slowly. Then light dawned. "Wait. My Dad's in there with just one caregiver." I got out and headed for Nadja's front door.

Hippo followed. "You're just gonna walk in and rescue Daddy?"

"No sarcasm, please."

"Jesus. At least go around back. Surprise attack."

"Why do you care? You don't even like my dad."

"He's irritating, but he's way better than my three stepfathers, all alcoholics. One was a pedophile." She led me through the back gate. "Who ended up with one less ball after he tried to mess with me."

"What about the bout?" I said. "Don't you need to go skate?"

"What about James? You'll never get him this way."

"Screw him. I'll never get my book back, either," I said. "But Dad is retrievable."

She grinned.

We entered the back yard and found the sliding door open, the family room empty. We stepped inside. As I started for the hall, Greta came around the corner. Quickly, Hippo grabbed her and put a hand over her mouth.

"We're taking Gerald Hamilton," Hippo said.

"Harold," I said, running toward the bedrooms. But they were all empty. I ran back. "Where is he?"

"Yeah. Tell us, or we'll flood the kitchen." Hippo squeezed Greta's ribs.

“Careful!” I barked.

Greta squeaked, "The other house. He was breaking everything. Don't blame me. He knocked me down, but I didn't move him!"

"Where?" Hippo held Greta's hand and pushed back on her long red fingernails.

Greta squirmed. "Somewhere in Ladrona. I don't know. They didn't tell me.”

Push, push. Greta's fingers bent way back.

"Stop that." I poked Hippo.

"What street?" Hippo growled.

"I don't know. Cactus? Yarrow?" Greta whined. Then two fingernails fell off and we all watched the bright red plastic ovals dancing on the tile floor.

"You're gonna pay for that," Greta said.

I got an idea. "Did James leave a laptop here?" I headed upstairs.

Greta, still in Hippo's iron grip, squeaked.

Hippo said, "Come on, Rhonda. Let's go whack some heads in Ladrona.”

"Wait." I hurried upstairs and looked around the bedrooms for my laptop, or any computer that might have incriminating evidence pointing at James as my book thief. I snagged the only laptop I found and we headed out, leaving Greta glowering at us.

Hippo drove us in her car and I called Cathy to say we'd be late. I asked her what the closest street name to Yarrow or Cactus Drive was in Ladrona. She didn't know.

I slumped. "I don't have any idea where we're going.”

Then bless her heart, Hippo pulled a Thomas Guide out from under her driver's seat. While I thumbed it, I said, "I don't get it. James stole that girl's manuscript and mine, too. So either he or his ex-brother-in-law must be Reynard Jackson. So why's he messing with Dad? Dad's way too much for this place to handle. Why not let me have him back?"

Hippo shrugged. "Maybe James doesn't know what these caregivers are doing.”

We looked at each other and chorused, "Not.”

I said, "It's so weird. I helped him write what I thought was his book, but wasn’t even his, for months. Then when he finally he asked me out, our first date was like a damned commercial for the six-bed place you just saw."

"Asshole." Hippo drove like a maniac, cutting drivers off and squeezing the fifteen-foot car into twelve-foot spaces. She and Harley must have had the same driving teacher.

"The Thomas Guide shows a Yerba Buena Drive and a Yucca Street. Let’s try those," I said. We went through a scrubby canyon on highway 133 toward the beach. "And the capper: while James was paying me all this attention, he
married
Yvette."