Spy Mom (35 page)

“Life is full of mystery.”

“And if I don't give it to you?”

Blackford leans back in my lovely kitchen chair and closes his eyes. He's troubled. I wait.

“I know where you live, Sally. I know the secrets you are keeping. Isn't the lily worth holding on to this life you've created?”

After all this time, he's blackmailing me. How demeaning. It's not fair, but blackmail seldom is. And I don't think Blackford cares.

“I don't have the flower,” I say. “It's in a safe place. Meet me at the Point Bonita Lighthouse tomorrow, three
P.M
., and I'll give it to you.”

“Sally, as much as I'd like to indulge in a scenic-wonders-of-California tour, now is not the time. I need the flower. Hand it over now and I will disappear into the night. And I promise you will never see me again.”

“You're supposed to be dead,” I remind him. “Your promises are not worth very much to me, to be honest. And like I said, I don't have it here.”

“You have not learned to be a better liar in the intervening years.”

“In that case, why don't you kill us all, tear apart my house, and find it, if you are so certain?”

As he steps closer to me, I hold my position, but not without effort.

“Because then again, with you, I'm never quite sure.” He rolls back on his heels. I exhale.

“Tomorrow. Three
P.M
. At the lighthouse,” he says. “And Sally?”

“Yes?”

“Don't turn this into another one of your disasters or you will regret it.”

“Sure,” I say. “Like always. Now please get out of my house and understand that it's nothing personal, but if I find you in here again, I will not hesitate to kill you.”

Blackford smiles at me as if we are quarreling lovers. “Understood.”

As soon as he is gone, Nanny Pauline starts to overflow.

“He appeared out of nowhere, at the table. I was getting Theo a snack and all of a sudden he was sitting there, exactly where you found him. I didn't hear a door open, nothing. I have no idea how he did it. I mean, was that really Ian Blackford, the actual man? I had no idea he was so … so …”

“Gorgeous?” I offer.

“God, yes.” She almost swoons but catches herself when she realizes I am less than pleased.

“From now on, you and Theo come with me,” I say.

“I'm so sorry,” Nanny Pauline stammers. “I really screwed up. Are you going to tell Simon?”

Simon? Probably not. I'm still mad at him for authorizing his men to fire at Blackford while he was using me as a human shield. It seems that's the sort of grudge you can safely hold for a day or two without anyone accusing you of being overly sensitive.

“No,” I say. “When Blackford wants something, there is not much you can do to stop him. You should be glad he didn't drug you and lock you in the bathroom.”

“What?” Nanny Pauline looks confused.

“Never mind,” I say. But she is not done.

“In these situations, Simon always says to stick to public places, preferably with a full bar. The lighthouse seems so random.”

Seems random
, I want to scream. How about
is
completely random, the first place that popped into my head. There is no logic here, no well-thought-out plan. There is just me, flying once again by the seat of my pants.

What a mess.

Nanny Pauline starts to pick up the toys scattered liberally around the kitchen floor. It is hard to take a step without crushing a maraca or a Thomas the Tank Engine. And let me tell you, there is nothing like stepping on Thomas the Tank Engine with a bare foot to put things in perspective.

I am sitting at the kitchen table, sipping my coffee, running over exactly how I am supposed to proceed. Do I give the lily to Blackford and play the odds that whatever they are cooking up will fail? Do I refuse and hope he's in a good enough mood not to toss me headfirst into the Bay? By the time I get to the bottom of my cup, I'm convinced I don't actually have any choice. I have to give Blackford the flower. It is the only way I can be sure of protecting Theo and Will. I will make the trade.

Pauline sits down at the table next to me. “Is he as bad as they say he is?” she asks, still reeling from her brush with greatness.

“Worse,” I say. “Do yourself a flavor. Trust no one. I know it's cliché, but in this case, it's absolutely appropriate.”

I scoop up Theo from under the table and carry him into the living room. We read
Olivia, Flotsam, Clifford the Big Red Dog
, and
Winnie-the-Pooh
, the one where he inexplicably learns about gravity. Weird.

“Mommy, who was that?” Theo asks.

“Nobody. An old friend of Mommy's. Why do you ask?”

“He was scary.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“No. But he wanted my dolls. The rattling one. But I don't want him to have it.”

“I know, baby. We won't give it to him.”

“Okay, you have it now? It's itchy.”

What? “Theo, where is the rattle doll?”

With that he starts to wiggle and squirm. Reaching down into his Superman underwear, he pulls up the smallest doll of the set and hands it to me.

“I hided it,” he says, full of pride.

A chip off the old block.

The next morning, after dropping Theo at school, I sit in the Java Luv and mentally write my obituary. Here lies Sally Sin, it will say, or whoever the hell she was. She was an okay mother and a lousy cook and clearly suffered from caffeine addiction. Pathetic.

“You don't look like your usual perky self today, Lucy,” Leonard says, laughing at his joke. “Get it? You? Perky? That's a pretty good one.” With a damp rag, he wipes the same circle on the counter over and over.

“Do you know,” I say, “that I used to be a spy? I once got thrown off a boat in a hurricane.”

He does not consider even for a second that I might be telling him the truth.

“Bullshit. Nobody is really a spy. Will you call me if anyone comes in? Need a smoke to take the edge off.”

Off of what? I am the only customer in the place and, if need be, I could go around behind the counter and make my own coffee.

“Good God, Leonard,” I shout after him. “If you can't take it, what is going to happen to me?” The only sign of him is a sweet drift of smoke floating out from the back room.

I stare absently out the window. The cherry trees are losing their leaves, which blow softly in the breeze. The cars at the intersection idle, waiting patiently for their turn to cross. A young couple, one in a wool hat and down vest, the other in shorts and flip-flops, are intertwined, hoping for a number 32 bus any minute now. I feel a sense of relief in the familiarity of this place. I've never stayed anywhere as long as I've stayed here, and it feels good. Maybe, just maybe, I'll get lucky and it will all work out.

And then I see him. The thing I've been waiting for, the person who is not supposed to be there, closing in on Theo's preschool door.

I leap up, upsetting the bistro table. The ceramic cups and my water glass crash to the floor. I grab my bag.

“Hey,” says Leonard, running in, coughing, “are you okay?”

“Sorry about the mess,” I say, already halfway out the door. “I have to go.”

Behind me I hear “Jesus, you really are crazy.” I speed through the intersection; cars kindly swerve to avoid running me over. The drivers are screaming, cursing through rolled-down windows. I dash up onto the sidewalk and race toward the Blind Monk, approaching Theo's preschool. He turns toward me as I launch myself into the air and tackle him. We go down hard on the sidewalk, but we don't stop there. The mass of our combined weights, mostly his, gives us momentum, and we tumble over the edge of the sidewalk barrier and down a steep embankment. The sticks and rocks and debris stab as we roll over each other on the way down. The Blind Monk smells like incense and mothballs and, despite all that is happening, I want to sneeze. We come to a sudden stop at the bottom of the incline, with me on top. I reach around for my Colt but it has fallen out on the ride down. The Blind Monk takes advantage of the momentary distraction and, as if I am light as a feather, tosses me off him. His forearm comes down with punishing force on my throat. I gag. He leans. I see stars and rainbows and fireworks. Just as I think I'm going to black out, my fingers brush a fist-sized rock. I grab it and, with all the force I can muster, I smash it into the back of the Blind Monk's head.

He slumps over on top of me. Using both hands, I heave him off to the side.

“Did you really think you could get to me through my kid?” I snarl into his unconscious face. I want to continue to smash him with the rock, but I don't because if I arrive at pickup covered in blood, someone is bound to notice. Instead, I give him a good hard kick in the kidneys. Something for later.

I climb down the ravine and tumble out onto someone's driveway and onto another sidewalk. Quickly, I make my way back up to the preschool.

I have a few minutes until dismissal so I sit on the steps outside of Theo's school, trying to catch my breath and picking twigs out of my hair. Some of the other moms show up, and we talk about the storm the other day, the upcoming class trip to the baseball stadium, and the best way to get a child to eat broccoli. Not one of them asks why I have dirt stains on my elbows and knees and plant matter in my hair. They're nice that way.

At exactly noon, the kids spill out of the school. Theo jumps into my arms and takes a deep breath of my hair.

“Mommy,” he says, “we painted flowers with glitter glue today.” His face is sparkling with tiny bits of red and green and silver.

“I can see that,” I said. “Should we go inside and get your coat and things from your cubby?” Theo nods and leads me by the hand back into the school.

Teacher Wendy is standing at the center of a swarm of preschoolers, with a serene look on her face. I don't know how she does it. She gives me a big warm smile, like I'm four years old.

“Hi, Lucy. How are you today?”

Honestly? You don't want to know.

“Fine,” I reply. “How was Theo's day?”

“Wonderful. Today Theo really demonstrated what a good team player he is becoming. We're learning that when you work together, things get done faster and better.” Sounding like she is reciting the script to a PBS kids' show, Teacher Wendy leans toward me to pick some dried leaves out of my hair.

“Were you gardening?” she asks innocently.

“Not exactly,” I say.

“Mommy, I'm a good team player,” Theo pipes up, tugging on my pants.

“Of course you are, sweetie. You're fabulous. Let's get your things.”

We bend down together to excavate the contents of Theo's cubby. Out comes his jacket, several toy cars, the glitter glue picture, some spin art, and something unidentifiable made out of clay.

“These are beautiful, baby. Can I hang them up when we get home?”

“Yes. Me and Max worked together doing teamwork and made the lion,” he says, pointing to the lump of gray clay. “We're best friends. We do the same stuff.”

The same stuff. The same goals. Teamwork. Together. One taking the high road and one doing the dirty work. Squatting in front of Theo's cubby, zipping up his yellow Windbreaker, I realize that Ian Blackford and the Blind Monk are now playing on the same team and maybe have been for some time. The Blind Monk is not here to take his revenge on Blackford. No, he is here to do Blackford's bidding, which appears to involve getting rid of me. And while Blackford may have a problem killing me, I never remember him promising he wouldn't hire someone to do it for him.

Theo sits in the backseat, playing with a contraband Elmo See 'N Say, taken out from under the bed only when Daddy is at work. Elmo's squeaky voice keeps yelping out random words like “sea” and “truck.” I can feel my right eyelid start to twitch with every new turn of the dial. Nanny Pauline sits next to me, spine perfectly aligned, hands folded neatly in her lap like a recent graduate from the Miss Manners School of Etiquette. She stares straight ahead. She is still smarting from her interlude with Blackford. Ten minutes with the guy can take weeks to wear off. This I know from experience.

“So when we get there, you are going to drop me off and drive into Sausalito. Stay in public places. Buy Theo an ice-cream cone and don't come back until I call you.”

“And if you don't call?”

“I will call. Not calling is not an option.”

“Okay. Sausalito. Ice cream. Easy. This is going to be bad, isn't it?”

“What gives you that idea?” I ask.

“Well, you know, that whole thing with the hotel and things,” she says, suddenly sheepish.

“The Grand Event?” I ask, surprised. “What do you know about the Grand Event?”

“Oh, there was stuff. Stories, mostly, about you and Blackford and the Blind Monk. And a really great dress.”

What the hell?

“Jesus, Pauline. You've been holding out on me.”

“No, I haven't. I figured you knew all the stories. I mean, you were there!”

“All the stories? There is more than one?”

“Yeah, about how that Cambodian was murdered by the Blind Monk right in front of everyone, and you tried to save him, but Blackford ended up having to save you. And you were wearing some crazy dress that made you look like Wonder Woman or something.”

“Wonder Woman didn't wear a dress,” I point out. “She ran around in a strapless bathing suit with high-heeled boots and magic bracelets. And Blackford never saved me.” At least not that I can confirm beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Pauline shrugs. It's all the same to her.

“It was nothing like you are thinking. And remember what happened next? Big explosion. Lots of smoke? Dead people? So keep in mind that is the sort of horror Ian Blackford willingly creates. Don't go falling in love with him. He is not a romantic hero. He's a lunatic and he will not think twice about dispatching you to your maker if you inconvenience him.” I hear in my words an echo of the Old Timers. They'd appreciate that I've taken their lessons to heart. “This is not a game. At the end of the day, it is about survival.”