Yesterday's Stardust (22 page)

Would I be interested? I don’t know. Is this social? Professional? Are you asking me out on a date or to pick my brain about Miguel’s death or to appease Lavinia or warn me about Nicky?
The last possibility intrigued her. The guy probably knew Nicky better than anyone. But how do you ask a guy about another guy you’re interested in if the guy is asking you out because he’s interested in you? “That sounds fun. I’m just on my way home, but I don’t have plans for the rest of the evening.”

“Great. Oh, and just to put your mind at ease, I promise I won’t be asking a single cop question, okay?”

Cross that one off the list. “I appreciate that.”

“And I think it might be best not to mention this to Lavinia. She gets a little…”

“Intense. I know.” Check two. That left actual interest, or a warning.

“I know we’re ‘practically neighbors,’ but where do you live?”

She gave him the address.

“I’ll pick you up about quarter after six then. We usually wrap up around nine, and then I thought maybe we could go out for pizza. If that’s not too late for you.”

“I’m a night owl. That sounds good.”

“What do you like on your pizza?”

“Everything but anchovies.”

“Great. Me, too. I’ll call ahead and let Nicky know to have it ready. Bye.”

“Bye.” She croaked her closing word and turned off the phone.

Did everything lead back to Bracciano? She closed her eyes, picturing a ridiculously long piece of spaghetti. One never-ending snake of linguine entangling every piece of her life.

Dani sat at a table with three of Todd’s friends. Until the music started, they’d sipped iced tea and chatted over popcorn and trail mix. When the lights dimmed and soft guitar chords lured them into worship, all talk stopped. Todd’s drumsticks tapped out the opening rhythms of “He Reigns.” A keyboard and three guitars joined him.

Dani sang to the beat vibrating in her chest. At the next table, a girl with short bleached hair nodded in time to something other than the music. Something in her spirit. Dani imagined China in this place, arms raised, grateful tears streaming down her face.
Lord, she needs you.

As always, the song birthed a picture of the earth from outer space. Millions of voices rising in a grateful choir from every continent, praising God in thousands of languages and dialects, all blending in one glorious song of joy. This time, as the chorus filled the room, she imagined China, Rena, Jarod, Scope, Broom…maybe Nicky…standing mute on the sidelines. Without a song to sing.

Her chest ached.

The song ended. Another one began, more piercing than the first. Matthew West’s “My Own Little World.” Dani brushed away a tear. Todd caught her eye and nodded. Not to the beat of his drums.

The tightening of her chest, the pressure behind her eyes, was a familiar sensation. When Jesus’ disciples healed a lame man, the man went away “walking and leaping and praising God.” People saw him and were filled with wonder. Curling the edge of a napkin, Dani let conviction wash over her with the words of the song.

When it ended, Todd set his drumsticks down and pulled the mic close to his mouth. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but that song always makes me question what I’m doing to make a difference. In my job I see abuse and addiction, rage and loneliness daily. I’ve had to harden myself to a lot of it just to be able to do what I have to, but the faces haunt me sometimes, especially the innocent ones, the victims. I could do so much more. What are we—the church, the hands and feet of Jesus—doing to bring light into their darkness?”

He picked up two black-handled brushes and began a soft, hushed cadence. His eyes connected with hers. “Lord, show us the greater purpose so we can start living it out.”

Dani nodded and mouthed
Amen.

“You’d be amazed how many life lessons you can squeeze into a game of horse or one-on-one.” Todd eased the car to a stoplight. “A kid who would never answer a direct question if you were sitting face-to-face will open up with a ball in his hands.”

“I made an appointment to tour the Boys and Girls Club. Can I get some insider quotes from you?”

“Sure.”

“Does Nicky ever join you?”

Todd clicked his tongue. “This is going to sound rude, but every time I hear or play ‘My Own Little World,’ I think of Nicky.”

“Why? Is he really that self-focused?”

“Yes.” One shoulder shrugged. “Maybe self-protective is a better word. We used to get games together with the kids in the neighborhood. They loved Nicky. He was good with them, but something happened four years ago that changed everything.”

“What happened?”

“You should ask him. He needs to talk about it. Maybe your reporter skills can draw him out. Someday something’s going to crack that wall. Once in a while I can distract him, and the old Nicky comes out—funny as all get-out, and man, what a way with the women. That Italian charm just knocked ’em dead.”

She wasn’t sure she could handle meeting the old Nicky.

“If we’re working on his car or I get him out on my uncle’s boat, he forgets for a while. Hey, you don’t want to hear about Nicky.”

Actually…

A boy in sagging jeans sidled through the intersection, holding his pants up with one hand. Todd tipped his head toward him. “That kid right there needs somebody to care enough to spend time with him. He needs a Nicky in his life.”

“The old Nicky.”

Todd nodded.

“So you really believe the face time makes a difference.”

“I’m seeing it. Kids join gangs for a lot of reasons. They’re bullied into it, or they want protection, but the bottom line for most of them is a place to belong. If they don’t feel wanted at home, they’ll find a place where they are. Give them a good place that feels like family and lets them just be kids with the right kind of people watching their backs and they thrive. I mean, it’s not that simple. There are so many influences on a kid, but I see it working all the time.”

“What can you tell me about the Sevens?”

Todd shook his head slowly and sighed. “They aren’t much of a problem yet. Just a neighborhood gang, but we’ve seen some changes. A few of the smaller gangs have merged. I picture the whole Midwest like a big sticky web with Chicago right in the middle. Like a black hole. There are a lot of wannabes around here, kids who wear the colors, talk the talk. A lot of them are taggers—they get involved in graffiti wars, but nothing else. Most of them will probably break away and lead decent lives, but the ones who really scare me are the kids who don’t fit in anywhere. They’re so desperate to belong they’ll do whatever they’re told. It’s like those kids walk around with targets on their backs. Leaders watch for loners and suck them into the system. I see that look of desperation in a kid, even if he’s only nine or ten, and I know I’m going to be putting cuffs on him someday.”

“That’s so sad. But you’re doing your part. You’ve found your greater purpose.”

“For now.”

“I envy you.”

He turned to her and smiled. “I know that kid we just saw. You tell people his story, and you’ll break their hearts. You’ll move them to move, to do something about the problem. Can’t you see God’s hand in that?” He turned a corner and Bracciano came into view.

Dani’s pulse skipped.

Todd parked behind the restaurant. As they walked along the side of the building, he grabbed her arm. “This way.” He nodded toward the side door.

Her stomach doubled over like a slab of just-punched bread dough. “Here?” she squeaked.

“Sure. The rush is over. We can eat in the kitchen.”

With Nicky.
Her knees stiffened. Did Todd know she had plans with Nicky on Monday? Did Nicky know who Todd was bringing to share his pizza? Were they competing or clueless?
Speaking of clueless.
She pressed her hand to her right eye.
It’s not a date, Nicky. Todd and I just came from church. It’s not a date, Todd. Nicky and I are just doing research. Over tapas and candlelight.

October 7, 1926

Franky was asleep. Tag didn’t need her. Strange to be home on a Friday night, but then everything about the week since Tag had caught her with Albert had been odd. She was sure he was having the house watched. She’d seen the same car parked three doors down every day. Twice she’d seen a man in a suit get out, lean against the car, and smoke a cigarette. She hadn’t bothered to check the back. There was probably someone out there, too.

Strange, also, that it barely fazed her.

Francie tucked her legs beneath her on the pink chenille rug. Leaning against the ruffles of her bed skirt, she dog-eared another page in McCall’s. She couldn’t decide if she liked the spring green silk chiffon with the tiered petal skirt better than the black net with the handkerchief hemline. Both had beading, which she loved to do. “Black for evening, green for day.” She clicked her tongue to add finality to her decision. “When in doubt, choose both.”

But where would she wear them? Out with Albert? She laughed to herself. Tag didn’t like it when she wore her own creations. Made him feel cheap.

Her mood was quickly becoming as stale as the room. She jumped up and opened the window. A cool breeze rustled the curtains and turned a page in the magazine. It opened to an advertisement that caught her attention.

W
ASH
A
WAY
F
AT

AND
Y
EARS OF
A
GE

WITH
L
A
-M
AR
R
EDUCING
S
OAP

She brought the magazine closer to her face. “‘Results quick and amazing with nothing internal to take. Reduce any part of body desired. No dieting or exercising. Be as slim as you like. Money back guarantee.’” She bent another page corner.

Why hadn’t she been born into her mother’s era where rounded actresses like Lillian Russell were the epitome of beauty? Suzette ate like a farm hand and still had the body of a twelve-year-old boy. Life was not fair. And neither was Tag.

She’d pored over the stack of books on her nightstand the way Mama used to read the Bible. She’d combined the grapefruit and melba toast of the Hollywood 18-Day Diet with the slow chewing and daily enemas of Dr. William Howard Hay’s Medical Millennium Diet and had lost the weight. Keeping it off was a killer.

In response to her thoughts, her stomach growled. She stood and took a long drink from the water glass on her vanity. Water cleansed and flushed and could fool your body into thinking it wasn’t hungry.

Standing sideways, she appraised the figure in the floor-length dressing gown. “You’re one foxy lady, Francie Tillman.” She said it in a low voice, imitating Tag’s. Her lip curled, and she sank onto her vanity stool. She’d transformed herself into the woman Tag wanted her to be. But inside she was just an eighteen-year-old farm girl, transplanted but not at home in the city.

She opened a drawer and pulled her diary from beneath a stack of hankies. As she wrote the date with a gold-nibbed fountain pen, a gift from Tag, the words on the pen registered in her mind: S
HEAFFER
P
EN
C
O
./L
IFETIME
P
EN.