The Kindness of Strangers (Skip Langdon Mystery #6) (The Skip Langdon Series) (18 page)

“Hey. I’ve got some real good stuff. Don’t tell me you’re so mad you don’t even want to hear it.”

“Submit in writing, please.”

He stormed over to Daddy’s office. “We got a problem. Langdon’s tight with our new boy, the press secretary.”

Daddy raised an eyebrow, unbelieving. “Treadaway? Who says?”

“Intelligence.”

“You sure about this? My press secretary’s a goddamn spy?”

“Why don’t we call him in here and ask him.”

Daddy nodded very slowly, very slightly, flicking his eyes toward the door.

Potter marshaled his whole wiry body of energy, knowing full-out aggression was called for. He strode furiously to Treadaway’s office, the entire thing an act. Actually he was cool as a cucumber.

“‘Treadaway!”

“Yes?” The press secretary couldn’t have looked more shocked. Obviously, this wasn’t a man who was used to being called on the carpet, especially by a mere “campaign aide.”

“Get into Daddy’s—Errol’s—office. On the double.”

He cocked an eyebrow but otherwise didn’t move. “Something wrong?”

He was arrogant. Way too arrogant. Probably a racist. “On the double.” Potter turned and stalked off. He was already seated, legs crossed, by the time the other man arrived, nervous but not wanting to seem intimidated. He had moved the other chair out of the way, so Treadaway couldn’t sit down.

Daddy didn’t give him time to get his bearings, even time to cock another damned WASP eyebrow. “Noel, we had you in here to talk about our little police problem. You listened to us and you didn’t even say anything.”

“I beg your pardon? Police problem?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” Daddy barked it.

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“What kind of press secretary are you, Noel? You can’t even remember a fucking talk we had earlier this week?”

“You mean the cop on leave? I wouldn’t call that a police problem, exactly.”

“Well, what kind of problem would you call it, Noel? You know more about it than I do.”

Treadaway shook his head. Potter had to admit he showed a certain amount of guts. “Errol, I’m afraid we’ve got off on the wrong foot on this one. It seems as if we’re speaking at cross-purposes.”

Daddy rose up out of his chair, his face threatening. “We’re not speaking at any cross-purposes, you son of a bitch. You’re lying ‘cause you’re scared shitless.”

Treadaway spread his hands, palms up. “Don’t you think you should tell me what this is all about?”

To his credit, he wasn’t scared and he wasn’t mad; he was detached. A thoroughgoing professional. Potter was impressed; knew he’d underestimated him.

“It’s about you being a goddamn spy in my camp. How could you have the motherfucking nerve?”

“Spy.” Treadaway nodded slowly and folded his arms, a man trying to get the hang of things. A damn good actor.

Daddy turned to Potter and nodded at him. Potter consulted a small blank piece of paper he had in his hand, a prop. “Where were you at precisely sixteen hundred hours, Wednesday, September eighth?”

He never hesitated for a second. “None of your damn business.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Daddy. “You were on my payroll at that time. I b’lieve it’s very much my business.”

“I said it’s none of Menard’s damn business.”

“Are you a racist, son? You’re a racist, aren’t you? That’s what’s wrong with you. You don’t want Errol Jacomine to get elected because that would be a victory for the black man. You’re working to defeat me. Right in the heart of my inner circle, and you’re a viper— a poisonous viper who will sting me unto death.” His voice didn’t rise; it got lower if anything, and more and more dramatic, yet resigned, as if this was what Jacomine expected.

“Look, Errol, I’m working for you. If you don’t get elected, it’s just as much a defeat for me as it is for you. I don’t see what you’re getting at.” Cool as a breeze off the river.

Daddy turned once again to Potter, who once again read from the fake cheat sheet. “At precisely sixteen hundred hours Wednesday, September eighth, Margaret (Skip) Langdon was seen entering your house in the nine-hundred block of Orleans Street, where she remained approximately twenty minutes, exiting at roughly sixteen-twenty hours.”

“Langdon? The cop?”

Neither he nor Daddy said anything.

“Omigod. I think I get it. Do you guys have a tape recorder? I want to call my wife, and I want you to hear the conversation.”

“Let’s use the speaker phone.”

“We can’t. She’s a therapist. She won’t talk if a client can hear.”

Daddy nodded at Potter, who got the recorder and attached it. Noel dialed, let it ring a couple of times, hung up, and dialed again. “Secret ring,” he said. “She’ll answer even if she’s busy.”

When they played the tape back, it went like this:

“Noel? Is anything wrong?”

“It’s not that kind of emergency. It’s about a client of yours. Skip Langdon.”

She drew in her breath. “How do you know about that?”

“She was seen going into our house. I’m asking you.”

“I saw her once a week ago. Then you got the job and I realized I had a conflict. When she came Wednesday, I told her I couldn’t be her therapist. But of course I couldn’t tell you because of confidentiality.”

There was a little more, in which they said conciliatory things to each other—he was sorry he’d interrupted, she that she couldn’t tell him—but that was the gist of it.

When Treadaway had played it, Daddy said, “Potter, what do you think?”

Potter prided himself on being able to admit he’d made a mistake. A true leader could do that and move on. He said, “I think it’s genuine. Mr. Treadaway, we owe you an apology.”

Daddy said, “If you ever, ever cross me, Noel Treadaway, you’re going to find out the meaning of sorry.”

* * *

Torian had almost gotten over her discomfort at having Sheila come over to her shabby apartment. Since she had told her about Noel, they’d achieved a new bond, almost of sisterhood. Nothing now could make her ashamed in front of Sheila, who was in possession of her deepest secret and therefore closer than anyone except Noel himself.

A pattern had formed. Torian had joined the campaign. After school, she’d go down to Headquarters in the Central Business District and work awhile, then come home and Sheila would come over. That was on days when she couldn’t see Noel.

It was boring, dirty work in a scroungy little office, an office where Noel didn’t work. That had disappointed her, and so had the work itself, at first—mostly phoning or stamping and stuffing envelopes—but she found it fulfilling. It made her feel as if she was doing something worthwhile, and people were getting to know her. They appreciated her efforts, and so did Noel. He had been so moved he had to sit down when she told him what she was doing. That alone was worth it.

Another benefit was that she could always tell Lise she was at Headquarters when she was really with Noel. Not that Lise gave a damn what she did with her afternoons, but on the rare occasions she was home, they had to play that game where she pretended to be interested; it was good to have something to tell her.

Lise was home more and more seldom, it seemed to Torian. She and Sheila had the run of the house. They could smoke as many cigarettes as they liked, and drink Lise’s booze if they were careful (though they didn’t have to be that careful; she drank so much it was easy to convince her she’d done it herself).

Torian loved having Sheila around—such a relief from Loathsome Lise. And from her own tiresome, melancholy self. Fresh from a golden afternoon with Noel, alone in the shabby apartment, Torian could sink into such a depression she could only lie on her bed and stare at the ceiling with the lights off, so that the street light, through her lace curtains, made a lovely design on the wall, which only depressed her more. It was so beautiful, so delicate, in the face of so much misery. It seemed to heighten the minginess of the apartment and of her life, rather than to enhance them, to show them stark and drab by contrast.

And so the more she lay there, the more depressed she got. Too depressed, certainly, to get up. Too depressed to cry. Way too depressed to do her homework.

With Sheila here, she was happy. It was almost better than being with Noel. “Call Uncle Jimmy and say you’re staying to dinner. We’ll order from the new place.”

Sheila could never resist. Her uncle made her eat pasta primavera and crawfish maque-choux and vegetable burritos—he was trying to turn her into a walking vitamin. At the new place, the place on Dumaine, they could get burgers and potato salad or po’ boys or even fried chicken; but that wasn’t the main attraction.

The delivery boy was to die for. Torian had discovered him, but Sheila’d developed a major crush.

Sheila hung up the phone. “Uncle Jimmy said, ‘Are you sure it’s okay with Lise, your hanging around there all the time?’ I had to explain that kids are much easier with two of us, so he said come over there, and I said we couldn’t because Lise was fixing something special.”

Torian snorted. “I think she did that once. She burned it.”

“I’m starving. Let’s order.”

“You just want to see Joe Eddie.”

“I do not.” Sheila’s cheeks flamed. “I want some mashed potatoes and green beans. And carrot salad.”

“Wait a minute. I thought you hated vegetables.”

“I like good vegetables.”

They ordered Sheila’s vegetables, and some potato salad for Torian. She hadn’t felt much like eating lately, but she could usually get down white things—potatoes or pasta.

Joe Eddie was sweating when he came to the door. “Hi, gorgeous. Hello, beautiful. Boy, are you girls lucky you don’t have to work. The humidity must be about four hundred and eight.”

Sheila said, “There’s going to be a hurricane.”

He looked at her. “That’s what my mama says. Says we’re not gettin’ off this year.”

Torian didn’t miss a beat. “Come in and cool off.”

“I got two more deliveries to make.”

“Big deal. No one expects anything on time.”

“I’m not going to cool off around you two girls.” Torian was sure he gave Sheila a wink. Her heart soared. She wanted everyone to be as happy in their love as she and Noel.

Joe Eddie had slicked-back blond hair and biceps that he must have had to work at. He always wore tank tops or some kind of shirt with the sleeves cut off. He had a smooth brown body, white teeth with one broken at the side, and a muscular, neat butt. A cobra was tattooed on one of his gorgeous biceps. That and the broken tooth gave him a raffish look. He was from Corinth, Mississippi.

He unpacked their food. “What’d you girls order? I’m hungry. Potato salad. All right! Mashed potatoes. Any meat? You girls religious or something?”

Sheila said, “We never eat anything with eyes.”

He hooted. “Yeah, I know what you mean. All those little animals, like in Fantasia, with their foot-long eyelashes. Be a shame to barbecue ‘em.” He dug into the potato salad with a plastic spoon.

“Bacon’s okay, though, ‘cause pigs are so ugly.” Sheila was leaning so close Joe Eddie had to lean away from her to keep his cool.

“I’m Torian. This is Sheila.”

Sheila blushed, perhaps realizing they hadn’t been properly introduced.

“I’m Joe Eddie.”

“We know. You told us last time.”

“I did? Well, I remember you two, too.”

Torian said, “I’ll be right back,” and went in search of cigarettes. She found them in about two seconds, and smoked one, giving the lovebirds time alone. Then she looked in the mirror, messed up her hair, and put on her glasses, making the statement that she wasn’t interested, Joe Eddie was Sheila’s.

Joe Eddie was just leaving. “You be sure and call me now,” he said, and she smiled to herself.

Sheila danced into the kitchen, leaping as she crossed the threshold, touching the doorsill with her fingertips. “Yes!”

“He asked you out?”

She leaped again. “Yes!”

“I told you he liked you.” She turned her attention to the food. “Oh, shit, he ate all the potato salad.”

“Have my mashed potatoes. I have to lose five pounds.”

“When are you seeing him?”

“As soon as he finds out his schedule. How old do you think he is?”

“Eighteen or nineteen.”

“Not older?” Sheila seemed hesitant.

“Maybe. Who cares?”

“Well, you wouldn’t.” They collapsed, giggling, and ate the rest of the mashed potatoes, then polished off the green beans, Sheila treating them as finger food, pretending to smoke them. She didn’t touch the carrot salad.

Torian foraged in the freezer for ice cream, and dredged up some chocolate syrup. Lise arrived to find her topping the sundaes with cherries. Her arms were full of groceries.

“For Christ’s sake, Torian, can’t I trust you for five minutes? You know you can’t have dessert till you’ve had dinner. What on Earth do you think you’re doing?”

Torian raised her voice to match her mother’s. “We’ve had dinner. We ordered from the deli.”

“Well, that’s fine. That’s just fine. You couldn’t even wait till I got home and fixed dinner?”

“Mother, I don’t even remember the last time you made dinner.”

Perhaps sensing an escalating scene, perhaps embarrassed already, Sheila mumbled something and left.

When she heard the door shut, Torian said, “Do you have to embarrass me in front of my friends?”

“I embarrassed
you
? You’re the one with the mouth like a garbage can. You can’t be trusted for anything, can you? You order junk food and invite your friends over whether you have permission or not.” She fanned the air. “It smells like you’ve been smoking in here.”

“What would you care what I eat? I wish I lived with my dad—at least there’s usually food in the house. Here I have to order because you can’t be bothered to shop, and you can’t be bothered to cook, and you certainly can’t be bothered to remember I’m here, because you’re out every night drinking and fucking your fucking overweight boyfriend who nobody would fuck unless they were fucking desperate!”

Torian stopped and felt herself suspended in midair for a fraction of a second, later knowing it was exactly the sensation that falling people must have, people who know they are about to hit the ground with a splat that will rupture their organs and splinter their bones, who know they have made an irrevocable, fatal mistake.