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Authors: Janey Mack

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BOOK: Time's Up
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Chapter 35
I jogged up the asphalt parking lot, past Interceptor 13248. Niecy's orange hair was mashed out into a frizzy halo as she rested her head against the passenger-side window.
I entered the back door of the building and paused in the back hallway.
What the heck?
High-octane Spanish rattled back and forth in a mini La Raza rally.
Niecy and I weren't the only early worms today.
Crap.
I skirted the break room and slipped into the locker room.
Jeez. Sanchez and her lieutenants have way too much time on their hands.
My locker looked like a ProActiv before ad. A couple hundred Dramamine tablets had been taped—no, scratch that—Gorilla Glue'd to the door. The five empty boxes were adhered above the locker, in case I didn't get the joke.
Quite an effort from a bunch of no-loads. Best hustle up.
A bunch of tablets disintegrated as I cycled the combination. I unsnapped the lock, dusting a few more, reached for the handle, and stopped.
With that much effort put into the outside of the locker . . .
I took a step to the side and slowly opened the door.
Nothing.
I peeked around the edge of the door. No Santería ripped-off rooster head hung dripping blood onto my clothes.
Whew.
I stripped off my jeans and T-shirt and yanked my uniform out, the clean pale blue shirt dragging through the Dramamine dust.
Groovy. If Niecy starts feeling a little green around the gills, she can always lick my sleeve.
I put on the black poly-blend PEA cargo pants and filled the pockets from my purse. Each click of the second hand was a drip of ice water down my neck. I locked the locker, turning another strip of tablets to sand and turned to leave.
Holy cat.
The single empty wall of the locker room was her
pièce de ré-sistance
. An über-enlarged photocopied mosaic mural. Me. Puking. A grainy screen-capture off YouTube, punctuated by a dozen cropped-in boob shots from my
Good Day USA
uniform appearance with nipples drawn in for extra artistic goodness.
For a split second, I considered ripping them down, but there was no time for a public bust and razz before Niecy and I started poaching. I poked my head out of the locker room. Sanchez's cadre of PEAs milled around the front door, anticipating my arrival.
The only avenues of escape: the break room or a fire-alarm armed exit.
I started across the empty break room and stopped at a single uninspired round of applause from behind me.
“Nuestro propio pequeño gringa vomitar.”
I didn't know what all of that meant, but the
vomitar
came in loud and clear. I turned around and blinked.
Cripes, that's one heck of a lot of makeup to be wearing in the morning.
Sanchez tipped back in her chair and kicked her work boots up onto the table. “You think you some kind of movie star or somethin' now?”
“No. I don't, actually.” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder toward the locker room. “Thanks for the hero's welcome, though.”
Her nostrils flared. “Stay the fuck off me and
ma chavas'
routes.”
“A girl's gotta do . . .” I said.
“The
mayate
's not here to save you,
puta
.”
“You say that like it's a bad thing.” I turned and started toward the door.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught something fly past and hit the wall with a
thwock
. A switchblade. Mid-blade deep in the center of the Employee Notices corkboard.
A menacing crackling sounded behind me. I spun.
Niecy held her Taser at the ready. A blue electrical arc danced between the electrodes. Her face twisted with scorn. “You're not really as stupid as you look, are you, Sanchez?”
“
Como chingas.
” Her waxy, over-lipsticked lips cracked as she bared her teeth. “You find out soon enough.”
I walked over to the board and jerked out her knife. “Yeah?” I closed the switchblade and tossed it into the garbage. “We'll be waiting.”
Niecy and I walked out, her rounded shoulders shaking, wheezing with laughter by the time we hit the doors.
“Thanks for that,” I said.
“Fudge nuggets,” Niecy said. “You didn't need me.” But she walked a little taller, just the same.
We climbed into the Interceptor. She flipped on the radio only to catch the tail end of Leticia's voice and then Michael Medved's as he cut to commercial. Niecy snapped the radio off. “Danged if that gal ain't leaving the TEB to become a radio starlet.”
“Why'd you turn it off?” I said.
“Jeebus. Don't you know anything? It's 5:58. Won't be back to Leticia until after commercials, local news, more commercials and traffic update. 6:06.”
Maybe if Leticia became a radio personality Niecy could be her producer.
I headed over to the dead zone known as our route to get it over with before we started hijacking tickets from Marie Tufford. At 6:04, Obi Olson radioed to inform me that I had a nine o'clock meeting with Sterling Black.
Crap.
Sunny, the blond showgirl, led me into Dhu West's black-and-gold conference room.
“Maisie McGrane.” Sterling got up, came around the desk, and shook my hand. “You were right. You are no public speaker.”
“Uh . . . thanks?”
He gestured toward a chair. I took it.
“Your brother's a slippery one. Almost got it away from us with Leticia. Almost.” He flashed his over-white caps. “Did you know Coles is polling even better than before the incident?”
America. The promised land of unjust reward for the infamous.
I shook my head.
“I knew he would,” he said.
“That's . . . great?”
You son of a bitch.
Sterling rolled a pen back and forth across the table. “So, Daddy didn't want his baby girl to be a cop, eh?”
Only a McGrane can mess with a McGrane.
I smiled sweetly. “No, that was my decision.”
“The video footage says otherwise,” he said, his posture relaxed but eyes intense.
I shrugged. “It wasn't the job for me.”
“Well then, you, Maisie baby, are in luck.” He raised his hands, thumbs to fingertips, Mafia style. “Dhu West wants you to be the face of the Traffic Enforcement Bureau.”
“Why not Leticia?”
“I'll pretend you didn't ask that.” He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “The Saudis want to downplay the idea they're foreigners taking over the city from within.”
“Isn't that exactly what they've done with the Traffic Bureau?”
“What ‘is' is irrelevant. Perception is reality, baby.”
I'm pretty sure I hate you.
“And what better way to help lose the negative stereotype of misogynistic, Jew-hating, towel-head terrorists than with a sweet piece of all-American apple pie?” He pointed at me with both index fingers. “We're talking a newer, happier campaign. Mostly print ads and a billboard or two. A line or two on video. Rehearsed. With as many takes as you need to get it right.”
My left eyelid began to tic.
“First photo shoot's tomorrow. You and the mayor hanging together on the streets of the Windy City.”
“I'm pretty sure my contract was up at the end of the
Good Day USA
interview.”
“Check the fine print. You are the chosen representative of the TEB's uniform contest, and you will fulfill your contractual obligations.”
“And if I don't?”
“Maisie baby, Dhu West has the will and the way to make your life a living hell. They live for this feuding insult shit.”
“Is that a threat?”
“I wish it was. See you tomorrow.”
 
I drove all the way to our route, unable to lay off a single boot. Niecy didn't seem to notice, twirling the radio dial to pick up Leticia, now on the
Hugh Hewitt Show
.
“
Don't get me wrong. I love me my
Star
magazine, but you can't be atrophyin' on the couch at home, waiting for the good Lord to make you not stupid.”
She chuckled.
“I took that free Hillsdale Constitution 101 class you always burblin' about. Best thing I ever did.”
She clapped.
“C'mon now. Aks me somethin'. I'm ready.”
Charismatic, genuine, self-deprecating. If Leticia kept on the way she was going, she might never come back.
Chapter 36
Looking like the ultimate tough guy in jeans, a white tee, and motorcycle boots, Hank leaned against the Super Bee, waiting. He opened the door for me as I got close. “You look like hell, Hot Stuff.”
Gee, thanks, honey.
I collapsed into the car, and he closed the door behind me. I was still wearing my standard-issue PEA; I hadn't seen the point in changing into the clothes in my bag while slathered in the confrontation monkey grease left over from Sterling's meeting.
Hank got in and turned on the car. “How was your day?”
“Wretched.”
“Don't hold back.” He gave a sardonic smile and pulled away from the curb.
I smacked my palm against my forehead.
“Forget something?” Hank asked.
Yeah. My entire upbringing.
July McGrane's Rules of Engagement Number Eight: No one falls in love with Complainey McBitchypants.
“No. I just need a couple minutes to hit even keel.”
He hit the video screen and said, “Siren mix.”
Julie London's smoky lilt began “Cry Me a River.” I put my head against the headrest and closed my eyes, unable to keep the curve from my lips. Nothing makes a girl feel more empowered than a torch song of heartache on the precipice of a new romance.
Not me,
you think.
Not this time.
I snuck a glance at Hank. Perfectly still, he had both hands on the wheel, arms relaxed but there was something . . . an unease . . . pulsing between us.
He blew by the exit to my house without a mention, just changed his grip on the wheel.
And instead of delight, panic fizzed in my chest like a packet of Pop Rocks in a bottle of Coca-Cola. Too much, too soon.
July McGrane's Rules of Engagement Number Nine: Never sleep over. Ever. If you like him enough to sleep with him, you should like him enough to want to do it more than once, so get up and go home.
And, as she so often elucidated, “You're not a child at a slumber party, and God willing, no child of mine will grow up to be an adult who attends sex parties.”
He pulled into the garage and shut off the car. “You okay?”
Frazzle frazzle frazzle. I am a human dry-cleaning bag. Smothering you with instant move-in neediness.
“Sure.” Extreme mental duress ought to cut me a little slack.
I can fix this.
I followed him into the house, gearing up into full salvage mode. The cell in his back pocket went off. He stopped and turned to me. “Excuse me.”
I nodded.
“Bannon. Go ahead.”
I took a step to the left to pass him so I could go to the guest room. So did he. I moved to the right. So did Hank. Blocking my path. He shook his head and pointed at his bedroom.
Test Number One for Pandora? Bring it, baby.
I went in.
“Not possible. I'm out of town the next week, maybe two,” he said into the phone, closing the door behind me.
I took a seat in the armchair next to the bed and waited. Now would be the ideal time to toss his room, but with my luck the place was rigged with pinhole cameras.
I drummed my fingers on the chair.
If Pandora sat another minute she'd cave.
I got up, went into his bathroom and took a shower. Wrapped in a towel, I opened one of the dark wood vanity drawers in search of a blow-dryer.
Oh no.
Wrong drawer.
Shiny black Chanel compacts were nestled in a Lucite tray.
Worse, she was tidy, too.
My makeup only looked that good for the thirteen seconds it took to get it out of the package. I closed the drawer and left the bathroom.
Let's not jump to conclusions.
I panic-yawned.
Don't overreact. Armor up. Borrow a T-shirt, remember last night, and get your game face on.
I went into the walk-in closet, turned right around and walked out.
Duh.
Makeup in his bathroom, of course there'll be girl clothes hanging in his closet.
I yawned and went back into his room. He's a man. A smokin' hot man. Of course, he's had a couple hundred girlfriends or so. I just hadn't considered he had one only recently dispatched.
Cripes, I hope she was dispatched....
I couldn't keep my eyes open.
I got the T-shirt and jeans I'd worn into work out of my shoulder bag, put them on, and lay down on the bed. A couple of minutes to clear my head and I'd be back in the game.
I awoke with the sensation I was being watched and cracked an eye open. Hank sat across from me in the armchair, brooding over steepled fingers.
I snapped my eye shut.
Please don't let me be drooling.
I ran a hand over my face—
dry, whew—
and then into my hair so it didn't look like I was checking. Pretty damp. At most I'd been out for maybe a hard ten.
I sat up. “Hey.”
“So, no?”
“What?”
“The clothes?” he said.
Huh?
He frowned. “What'd you think, Peaches?”
“I—I didn't think . . .” I went back into the closet. The sizes ranged from 2 to 6. Shirts, skirts, pants, and a couple dresses. All from Saks and Neiman Marcus, tags dangling.
Hank stood in the doorway. “Drawers, too.”
I opened one of the drawers next to the rack.
Lingerie, all my size. 32C and size three panties in all shapes and colors. A racecar-red negligee.
“Oh,” I breathed. “Oh.”
This was beyond sexy. We're talking heavy-metal medieval-style chivalry.
I rubbed my forehead. “Hank, there's, like, five thousand dollars' worth of clothes in here.”
He cocked his head. “Fifty-two hundred.”
“It's too much. I can't. I . . . I just can't.”
“Put something on and come to dinner.”
 
I went back into the bathroom, found a dryer and dried my hair. The makeup, in not one but two drawers of Lucite trays, was brand-new. Identical—even down to the drugstore lip balm—to the contents of my makeup bag.
I chose a taupe satin swing dress and my own Pliner heels, which, if I'd had a fraction more cool than an ant under a magnifying glass, I would've spied next to the rest of my things that had been unpacked in the closet.
One last shaky breath of half-exhilaration, half-terror and I went out to see how unmatched I was for Hank.
Completely.
Chet Baker crooned over the sound system. The dining room table was set. Candles, flowers—the whole nine yards. Hank poured two glasses of champagne in the kitchen, then twisted the bottle into the silver ice bucket.
“It's beautiful,” I said.
“You're beautiful.” He came around the counter and handed me a glass.
Sounds like a toast to me.
I clinked my glass to his and took a sip. So did he.
We stood there, smiling at each other, drinking champagne. Hank took my glass and set it on the counter.
“Maisie.” He took my hand in his. “For me, time is a finite and precious commodity. Right now, I have it.”
He can't possibly be serious.
“Hank, you can't just move me in here. . . .”
He cocked his head, waiting.
Letting me do the math. My family. Mom's rules, Da's laws, my brothers' ways, and where was I?
“Do you want to be here?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Then what's the trouble, Bubble?”
I started to laugh, really laugh. Giddy with the joy of it.
He grinned. “Dinner can wait.”
 
Naked, Hank stepped into his jeans. “You want dinner in bed?”
“No,” I said, pulling his T-shirt over my head. “It's too pretty not to eat at the table. Hank, the clothes and everything else—”
“The credit,” Hank disappeared into the closet, “belongs to Wilhelm.”
“Wilhelm?”
He reappeared in a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, unbuttoned. “He's an . . . er . . . spoil of war.”
Barefoot, we went into the dining room.
“Tell me about Wilhelm,” I said, while he got dinner.
“He butlered for royal relatives—ambassador style—in Colombia. A cartel took over the neighborhood, slaughtered the family, and kept Wilhelm as a valet for the drug lord. I found him on a housecleaning expedition, chained up in the basement. He's worked for me, sporadically, ever since.”
My boyfriend is cooler than liquid nitrogen at Ice Station Zebra.
“When do I get to meet him?”
“That's up to him. He's a solitary guy.” Hank set a plate in front of me. Beef tenderloin, lobster mashed potatoes, and tiny haricots verts. “Let's eat.”
BOOK: Time's Up
13.24Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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