The Red Hot Fix (10 page)

Lydia watched the overhead lights go dark inside Bane & Friends. She was parked on a side street and had full view of the coffee shop. It hadn’t rained all day and the flowering crab trees splashed color on the mild spring evening. Her pulse quickened when Oliver stepped out onto Capitol Boulevard. He waited for Callie. She saw them laugh as Oliver locked and double-checked the front door of his establishment. They turned north, walking hand in hand, pausing to admire a shopkeeper’s window. Lydia started her ignition just as they disappeared from sight.

Stopping had been an impulse. She’d caught a morning ferry in Clinton and spent the day at her home on Dana Passage. The once-familiar haven seemed foreign after more than a year away. She’d been pleased to see the grass and gardens were well tended. Lydia had used the same lawn-care company since she bought the place seven years earlier. A faceless corporate operation to whom she was merely a standing set of work orders. More often than not it was a different person tending her property every other week. As long as she paid her bills on time, their only contact with her was an annual calendar.

Inside, her house felt sinister. She walked through the entire space assaulted by memories of its violation. She ran her hand down the front door, replaced when Private Number’s minions burst through to leave his deadly instructions. She remembered snowy boot prints tracked across her slate entry. She clicked on the kitchen lights and tried to force a recollection of the joy she had planning the space, only to have it shoved aside with a flashback of roses congratulating her on what he thought was her most recent kill. She walked down the hall to her bedroom, stepped to her nightstand, and pulled open the top drawer.

Her revolver was still there, with the small pink sticker Private Number had added. His message to her that no place in her home was off-limits. She belonged to him.

She regretted not having pulled the trigger that ripped his throat wide open.

Lydia spent a half-hour in her home before she called a moving company, offered double their usual rate for immediate service, and spent the hour before they arrived gathering every rifle, handgun, automatic weapon, and Taser. She locked them and sixteen boxes of ammunition downstairs. She packed two suitcases with clothes and shoes and tossed them and a beloved book of poetry into the backseat of her car just in time to direct the large van down her driveway.

“Everything goes,” she told them.

Three men with shoulders enough for six exchanged glances as they walked into the exquisitely furnished home.

“Paintings?” the tallest one asked.

“Everything,” Lydia answered.

“This stuff, too?” The one with the bulbous nose and shaggy moustache opened kitchen cabinets and drawers.

Lydia turned to the third mover, the one with the cigarette tucked behind his ear. “How about you?” she asked. “You got any trouble understanding what ‘everything’ means?”

He scratched his chin and grabbed a floor lamp. “Not me, lady. I’m the brains of this outfit.”

Three hours later Lydia signed off on the work order and handed each mover a twenty-dollar bill.

“First round’s on me,” she said.

“They gonna be expectin’ us down at the Salvation Army?” Brains ripped off Lydia’s copy and handed it to her. “Can’t say as I recall them ever getting a load this big.” He yelled for Bulbous Nose to grab the dollies. “Or this much high-quality stuff. You wanna follow us to get your receipt for tax purposes?”

Lydia’s gut told her an escort for a van filled with designer furniture and original art was warranted. “I’ll follow you, but I want this donation to remain anonymous. As far as you know, you don’t know where it came from.” She handed him a fifty and watched him slip it into his pocket before his cohorts could see.

“My lips are sealed.”

Lydia locked up the house, mindful to have Brains watch her set the alarm. She followed them into town and waited until she saw the look of surprise on the faces of two volunteers when the van’s back door was opened. She drove away, fully intending to catch I-5 north and the ferry back to Whidbey.

But she headed for Oliver’s coffee shop instead.

Lydia kept Oliver and Callie in sight, thankful Olympia’s twenty-minute rush hour let her drive slowly enough to follow them as they walked. They were headed for Percival Landing. As they lingered along the boardwalk, pointing to the sailboats and tugs moored in the marina, Lydia pulled into a parking space. She crossed the grassy expanse and lingered in the shadows of shops and restaurants while Oliver and Callie purchased ice cream cones. She watched Oliver wipe a drop of strawberry off Callie’s chin as they settled onto a bench.

Lydia sat on a knoll twenty feet behind them. Oliver draped his arm across the back of the bench, forming a protective circle behind Callie. Lydia waited for him to touch Callie’s hair or rest his hand on her shoulder. Callie turned and offered him a lick of her cone. He shook his head and Lydia wondered if he might be allergic to strawberries.

He didn’t extend a reciprocal proffer of his chocolate.

The light lowered into dusk. Lydia wondered what the couple talked about. Did she regale him with funny stories about the day’s customers? Was he asking her to join him for a candlelight dinner back at his home? Were they planning a future together?

Did he ever mention her?

Oliver gathered Callie’s napkins and tossed them in a trash can. The two of them walked south this time, away from the mountains and the water.

Away from Lydia.

She watched them disappear into the streets of Olympia. It was darker now. The lights of the Landing shops glowed in the twilight. Sounds of cheerful voices and warmhearted laughter drifted past her. She sat on the knoll and observed people buoyed by the warm, dry evening head off to waterfront restaurants. The mountains faded into darkness and she scanned the skies for a star. Finally, she got up, crossed to the ice cream stand, and ordered a chocolate cone before heading to her car.

L. B. Johnson straightened his three-hundred-dollar tie, leaned back in a chair groaning under his weight, and leveled his best don’t-fuck-with-me glare at Coach Wilkerson. “Explain why I spent two hours yesterday convincing LionEl it wouldn’t be in his best interest to come down here and rip off your head.”

“L.B., we’re in postseason play.” Ingrid was tired of angry men invading her office. “If we keep playing like we did against Portland, LionEl will have ample opportunity to showcase his talent.”

“LionEl doesn’t need to showcase shit.” Johnson stabbed a finger at Wilkerson. “And don’t try any corny bullshit about how it takes a team. You’re in postseason because of LionEl and you yank him out?” His attention came back to Ingrid. “Maybe it’s not LionEl you should pull. Maybe it’s time to go looking for a new coach.”

Wilkerson’s hands tightened on the back of her chair and Ingrid reached up to stop him from lunging, bored that every conversation between men boiled down to a pissing contest. “You saw what happened, L.B.” Ingrid ran her eyes deliberately down his rolls of flesh. “Your client’s arrogance has alienated him. When Coach put Barry in, we saw a leader more interested in the team’s success than his own.”

“He’s a rookie,” Johnson said. “Rookies get lucky. You need a seasoned pro against Los Angeles. LionEl reads the papers. Every column’s about the young buck saving the day. Not one mention of LionEl’s contribution. You think that makes him eager to throw elbows with the Lakers?”

“I can’t help what they write.” Ingrid smiled. “And I’d be careful with any threats.”

Ingrid wasn’t afraid to play chicken. Twenty percent of LionEl’s contracts and endorsements made L.B. a wealthy man. But L.B.’s only qualification for being an agent was having a star in his pocket. Ingrid knew, as did every basketball fan in the country, the legend of the two friends. Both boys raised in the heart of East L.A. LionEl’s mother in and out of jail and rehab, leaving the grade-schooler alone for weeks at a time to fend for himself. L.B.’s mother, Tawanda, was a lifelong activist who named her only child after her civil rights hero. Ingrid knew how L.B., the brightest student in their blighted public school, watched out for LionEl, sharing his lunches and walking him through his homework. In return, LionEl became L.B’s champion, keeping the short fat kid from falling prey to the gauntlet of bullies lining the school hallways and sidewalks home. When LionEl’s mother was sentenced to a seven-year prison
stretch, L.B. moved the thirteen-year-old into his bedroom. L.B. and his mother attended every high school basketball game, and for the first time LionEl had someone to give his family tickets to.

When college scouts called, they dealt with Tawanda, with LionEl insisting any school who wanted the California High School Player of the Year needed to find an academic scholarship for his brother/friend. The boys shared a dorm room at the University of Memphis and L.B. forced LionEl to stay focused on the NBA prize and clear of any groupies looking to ride the conference scoring leader all the way to the bank. And it was LionEl who helped L.B. through his grief when the university chaplain visited their room one Monday in January to tell both boys Tawanda had been killed by a stray bullet that crashed through her living room window while she sat on her sofa watching her favorite gospel hour. LionEl went pro after his freshman year and L.B. negotiated his contract. The closeness of the two men had been the cover story of every major sports publication. Poster-sized prints of L.B. and LionEl graced the cinder-block bedroom walls of housing projects from Baltimore to Compton.

Though she admired their friendship, Ingrid knew L.B. was a lazy and stupid agent. A dangerous combination in the moneyed world of the NBA. She didn’t know if it was his arrogance or his paranoia that kept him away from any number of experts waiting to advise him. LionEl wanted the money and L.B. got it for him. But his refusal to get a pro to negotiate the contracts left LionEl vulnerable. His talent was enough to let L.B. bargain for top-drawer annual salaries. But he didn’t know about back-end payments, injury guarantees, or franchise-purchased insurance policies. As a result, LionEl’s contract with the Washington Wings was only good for the fourteen million per year they paid him. If for any reason the contract was broken or expired, LionEl was on his own. And his contract expired at the end of this season. L.B.’s taste for custom-tailored clothing, limited-edition automobiles, and houses in three states left him living large paycheck to large paycheck. If LionEl didn’t play to the level that demanded a pricey contract extension or if there wasn’t a bidding war in free agency, both LionEl and L.B. would be left to haggle for whatever teams might be willing to pay for a point guard with the clock ticking on his knees and shoulders.

Barry Gardener was a significant threat to LionEl’s playing time and a monumental bargaining chip for Ingrid. She watched L.B. struggle with that reality.

L.B. broke his stare and turned to Wilkerson. “I want your guarantee LionEl starts against the Lakers. I want him out there at least thirty minutes.”

Wilkerson took a seat. “I make the decision who starts and how long they play. Those choices are mine alone.”

L.B. Johnson’s chins wobbled as he chuckled. “Yours alone?” He crossed his heavy legs and slapped his knee. “The entire viewing audience saw you get a call. You hung up and put
Gardener in. Now, what I want to know is who was on the other end of that line.” He focused on Ingrid. “Was it you, Miss CEO?”

Ingrid glanced away and hoped her irritation didn’t show.

“It was Reinhart,” Wilkerson whispered.

L.B. drew in a deep breath. He interlaced his fingers, but not before Ingrid noticed his hands shake. “Well, then,” he said. “At least now I know who’s to blame for this mess.”

Reinhart Vogel liked the crowd of shoppers he saw when he made his way through Rainy Day’s flagship store. He smiled humbly each time he was complimented on the Wings’ entry into the playoffs. “We’ve got a great team,” he assured well-wishers. “I just stay out of the way and sign paychecks.”

Near the rear of the store he stopped at the sight of a small, gray-haired woman standing at an unattended checkout counter, craning her neck in search of a salesclerk. Reinhart stepped up behind her.

The sparrow of a woman held up a small package. “Know anything about socks? My grandson’s off to climb some mountain like the crazy person he is. Said something about wicking.” She eyed Reinhart’s six-foot-three-inch frame. “You look like the kind of fella who could get me some answers. Am I right?”

He clicked his heels and bowed. “I am, indeed, madam. One moment, please.” He stepped behind the counter, reached for the phone, and pressed zero-zero. “Michelle, put me through to the president, would you, please?” He winked at the tiny woman before he spoke again. This time his tone wasn’t as solicitous. “Pierce, I’m at station nine. The loveliest lady is with me, eager to spend some of her money. Sadly, there’s no one available.” Reinhart hung up and leaned down. “My guess is you’ll have more help than you’ll ever need very soon.” He watched four clerks scurrying in their direction. Reinhart leveled a warning eye at each of them. He bowed and tapped the package the lady held. “Those will work on day hikes. If he’s climbing Rainier, he’ll need something heavier.” He turned to the clerk nearest him. “Make sure she gets a dozen of our best, will you, Ray?” He extended his hand to the customer. “Please accept the socks as apology for wasting your time.”

Reinhart left the happy woman to the bevy of clerks, climbed the stairs to corporate headquarters, and marched straight to the corner office. He found the president of Rainy Day talking with an attractive young woman.

“Bird!” Pierce rose from his chair and came around his desk. “Sorry for the screw-up downstairs.”

“This isn’t going to become a habit, is it, Pierce? I built this company on unparalleled customer service. Don’t make me regret turning the reins over to you.”

“I’m confused.” The woman in the chair stood and turned her smile to Reinhart. “You always told me you built this company on superior product.”