And When She Was Good (18 page)

2005

V
al was proud of Helen. There it was, she had said it, and—she was going to admit this to herself, too—she felt something warm and powerful in his pride. She knew enough about the rudiments of psychology, as almost everyone does in our modern age, to realize that this was bound up with her feelings about her father, who had seldom complimented her on anything, and then it was never meaningful, a grunt of thanks for bringing him a beer or finding the remote control when he had left it somewhere unfathomable. (The glove compartment of his car, for example.)

Val at least admired the things for which she wanted to be admired: her mind and her appearance. She tried not to put too much stock in her looks, realizing that placing all her self-esteem behind that asset was like putting all one's money into a beautiful boat with a small but unfixable hole. One day that asset would be lost to her. All the more reason to make it pay now.

In prison Val cared even more about her beauty. Where once it had generated income for him, perhaps inspired envy in other men—poor Jules—now, when she visited him at Supermax, her beauty redounded to Val in a way she had not anticipated. The pretty redhead was the subject of much speculation, a legend. No other inmates saw her, but many described her, based on the guards' gossip. Val never said anything about her at all, fueling the interest.

“The latest rumor,” he said when she settled in for her bimonthly visit, “is that you're a former model. One guard swears you were Playmate of the Year fifteen years ago.”

“Fifteen years ago? Fifteen years ago I was sixteen. I like to think I look good for my age.”

“Oh, don't be sensitive. He's black.”

Helen looked at Val, even more confused.

“Black people, they're not fooled by white people's ages. It's the damnedest thing. It's like they've been looking at our skin in a way we don't. They see the most subtle signs, even in a very well-kept woman such as yourself.”

Helen filed this away, as she filed away every interesting insight about human nature, even when unsure if it was true. Could this be? She knew that the obverse was true, that African Americans aged better. “Black don't crack.” Of course, that wasn't the obverse exactly, but a corollary, she supposed—

“You seem like you're somewhere else,” Val said, annoyed. Her visits were supposed to be focused on him.

“I ran into—” At the last minute, she declined to say Bettina's name. She knew that Val wanted Bettina dead. And heading here today, Helen had every intention to set things in motion, to see if Val would take care of Bettina for her. Besides, it would be helpful for her to know if Val could do such a thing. If he couldn't . . . well, then she would be safe, too. A win-win.

So why did she say, “Mollie. I ran into Mollie”?

“That cunt.”

“She's fat now.”

“I saw that coming.”

“Really? How?”

“She was greedy. Nothing could fill her up. She was big as a bucket, inside and out. She still working?”

“No. She hooked some poor sap who met her while she was working as a florist. Older man. She thought he was rich. He's not.”

Val laughed, pleased by Mollie's fate. “More than she deserves. You know, I sometimes wondered if she ratted me out.”

This was territory they had covered before. Helen decided to push past it.

“I ran into her at the grocery store. She says if I don't pay her ten thousand dollars, she'll tell all my neighbors what I used to do.”

“She used to do it, too.”

“But she doesn't anymore.”

“Does her husband—the jerk she lassoed, does he know?”

“Probably not.”

“Well, there you go. That's dynamic tension, baby. You've got as much on her as she's got on you.”

“But if she poked around, she might figure out I'm still in the business. I have more to lose.” She could not mention Scott, her primary concern, so Val didn't have any idea just how much she had to lose. If he did—maybe she should have introduced the idea of a child earlier, claimed to have gotten knocked up a year later than she did? No, Val had seen her almost every month since Scott was seven weeks old. Even if she had tried to fake a pregnancy, he would have figured it out immediately, put together her absence during his trial, known that the child was his.

“Look, she could make things hot for you, but you could ruin her life. You can move, mix things up. All she has is the meal ticket. You know what? You should fuck him. The husband.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. I just think that would be funny.”

“It would only make Mollie angrier.”

“Yeah, you've got a point. Maybe have one of your girls do him?”

“I don't want to do that. I think he's a genuinely nice guy who's in love with Mollie.”

“Those two things can't be true. If he's a genuinely nice guy, he's in love with an idea of Mollie, a fake person that she created to land him.”

Helen had to marvel at Val's intuition about people. Even with some key details fudged—Mollie instead of Bettina—he was on top of the situation. “She was a horrible person, out for herself,” Val continued. “I bet she gave you some great bullshit line about why she needs money.”

Helen felt naïve, a feeling no one enjoys, ever, despite the fact that we often pretend it's a virtue. Naïveté is just a euphemism for ignorance. “She says she needs money for fertility treatments.”

“Like she would ever be a mom, wipe someone else's ass. She probably does want a kid, though, to anchor the guy. She's feeling insecure about him, take my word. Make it clear that you'll take the husband away, and she'll get lost. Scare her, Hel. You don't have to
do
anything if a person is genuinely scared of you. TCB, like Elvis and his gang used to say.”

“TCB?”

“Taking care of business, that's all it is. Taking care of business.”

A silence fell. Helen thought about Martin and wondered if Val was thinking about him, too. Of all the people in his life, Val had failed to make this most unlikely young man scared of him, or at least scared enough so it would last through the buzz of cognac and a winning streak. Helen doubted that Martin was the only person Val had killed in his life, but part of his success was that he used violence sparingly. He was a bad daddy, and a bad daddy kept everyone in line by erupting only now and then.

She pressed her fingertips against the glass and thanked him for his insight.

Supermax was near downtown Baltimore, right off the Jones Falls Expressway. As she headed out that afternoon, she checked her watch, calculated if she had the time to take a literal trip down memory lane. She drove east, to the house on the water that had been her world with Val. It had been sold. She was unclear if the state had seized it as one of Val's assets or if it was owned by someone who'd sold it for him and funneled the proceeds to him, to the offshore accounts maintained by Val's lawyer, the same accounts to which she made deposits every month. Legitimate people lived there now. It was a beautiful house—why shouldn't a more traditional family want it?

Did they know? she wondered. Did they know about the weird family that had lived here, the murder, the way it had ended? Had they found all the hidden places—the safe in the wall, the tunnel to the dock? Val had believed that if the police came for him, he would have enough notice to walk out through the tunnel, get on his boat, and head for the bay, take it all the way down the eastern seaboard to Jamaica or the Bahamas. The boat was kept ready, shipshape. The only flaw in the plan was that Val never learned how to pilot it himself.

That was one of Martin's jobs. Besides, the day the police came, Val didn't take it seriously, didn't think he had anything for them to find.

She was home in time for Scott's supper, bath, and bedtime, as usual. She tried to take no more than two evening gigs a week. They paid the best, being longer, but there were plenty of lunchtime engagements, and besides—she got a cut of everything. Because she hired smart girls, there was inevitably a moment when they asked themselves what she was really providing. Couldn't they leave and take their clients with them? She didn't argue with them. She let them go, and yes, some of them managed to take her clients.

They promptly got busted, too, after she tipped off Tom. Word spread. It happened less and less.

Maybe she knew more about TCB than she realized. She called Tom, asked if he wanted to come by. Poor guy, he always did. She wished he didn't love her. She told him that all the time, was very up-front about the fact that she didn't love him and never would.

“I want you to pay a visit to someone for me.”

“A competitor?”

“Not exactly.”

Tom went to Bettina's house, which wasn't even two miles from Helen's. He showed her his badge, asked for a cup of coffee, said he needed to talk about the old days. He said some things were best forgotten by everyone. He told her to go on with her life and let others get on with theirs. He stayed until her husband came home, then said he was a Baltimore County detective and he was worried about some break-ins in the neighborhood, was asking stay-at-home types like Bettina to keep their eyes and ears open. “You're a lucky man,” he said. “And while I guess it's not politically correct, I think it's nice that you have a wife who stays at home, even without kids. I like an old-fashioned girl.”

He never mentioned Helen's name. He didn't have to. The message was clear:
If you come near anyone in my life, your life will be exposed, too.
Bettina could have the satisfaction of destroying Helen's life, but she'd have to take her own with it. Val was right. Bettina had something to lose, too. It was a game of chicken, and Helen kept her foot on the accelerator while Bettina swerved.

That Sunday, Helen began studying the real-estate section. She also began researching how to change her name. She was stuck with Lewis, because it was the name on all Scott's legal documents, and he was already too inquisitive a child to accept a new surname without multiple questions. She couldn't really start over, but she could paper over what she had, make it look shiny and new. She thought of her mother, doing the Jumble in the afternoon paper, devouring the advice columns, never noticing that her daughter, more than anyone, needed some sound advice. Ann Lewis? Too plain. Abby Lewis—ugh.

Heloise Lewis. That worked.

W
EDNESDAY,
O
CTOBER
26

S
he is
exactly, precisely on time for her lunch date with Terry, which is probably a
mistake, but her internal clock is finely calibrated. It was a good technique to
learn when she was starting out, something that allowed her to end her tricks at
exactly the right time without stealing glances at clocks or phones. The
tendency for most new girls, the ones who work by the hour and not the act, is
to short their customers—an hour is actually quite a bit of time when it's just
(just) sex. Meanwhile, some customers are always trying to steal a little extra.
One man actually suggested a punch card—one free date for every paid ten. He
owned a chain of sandwich shops that made such an offer, and he argued that
almost no one actually collected on it, so it was a good way to appear
customer-oriented without having to outlay that much.

But Terry is late, and Heloise feels
self-conscious, although she is often alone in public and doesn't think twice
about it. But then, she's never in the position of doubting that the other
person will show up. She doesn't have a book or anything to occupy her, although
there's always her phone. She checks e-mail, looks at her schedule. The weekend
is thin in terms of work, top-heavy with things for Scott—

“I'm sorry,” Terry says, and he looks truly
distressed at his lateness. “There's a terrible accident on Route 50, but I
don't have your number, just your e-mail—”

She slides her phone into her purse. Corresponding
with Terry has been too much fun. She doesn't want to start talking to a
disembodied voice, not yet. She wants him to continue to write, explain himself
to her.

So far he has told her that he grew up in Northern
California, the only child of two professors. His household sounds like
Heloise's fantasy—full of books and art, attending theater and even opera when
he was younger than Scott is now. Scott is not a reader, much to her regret, and
she can't imagine what he would do if she tried to take him to an opera. Still,
it sounds appealing, Terry's family.

He also has volunteered that he's twice divorced,
which is daunting yet also endearing. Certainly no one would lie about that.

He had described the two relationships as two
starter marriages.

“How does one have two starter
marriages?”
she wrote back.

“By learning nothing from the
first one,”
he replied.

She was, by habit, less free with information about
herself. She mentioned that she was widowed but did not bring up Scott. She said
she had grown up in a small town but managed not to add the state and the fact
that her mother was a nurse. She did not say her mother was dead, as she usually
does. She didn't say she was alive either, just left it alone. When her half
sister, Meghan, was living in the same neighborhood, Meghan thought it was
hilarious that Heloise had “killed” Beth, said she was going to start killing
all sorts of useless people in her life. It had seemed funny. Then.

“So,” he says. They are in that odd state of
knowing so much yet knowing so little about each other. They have agreed, by
Heloise's initiative, to avoid the “What do you do?” discussion as long as
possible.
“I'm not what I do,”
she wrote him.
“Besides, it's really boring.”

“So,” she says. “There's something I should tell
you, I guess. There just never seemed to be a right moment. But I know it
matters.”

“Maybe not to me.”

“Maybe. I have a son.”

“Actually, you did tell me. The first time we met,
in the grocery store.”

“I did?” How strange. She has no memory of this.
But then, she immediately put him on that side of the ledger, the one with
teachers and neighbors.

“In passing. How old is he?”

“Eleven. Twelve in a few months. On New Year's Eve,
actually, poor guy. It takes a lot for him not to get lost in the shuffle of
holidays.”

“That's a great age, eleven. Where's his dad?”

“Out of the picture. Gone before he was born.”
Great, now she's having trouble killing Val.

“Gone as in—”

“Dead. Car accident. He didn't even know I was
pregnant.”

“Wow. So whatever you do—that thing you are
not,
as we agreed—you must be doing well. Nice car, a
house out here—”

“I never told you where I live.”

“I just assumed it was somewhere nearby, since you
had a kid. I bet you wouldn't want to go too far on what is technically our
first date. And I guess this means I have to lure you back to my place.” He
laughs, for which she is thankful, but suddenly she does want to go back to his
place.

Instead she orders lunch and picks a dish redolent
with garlic, something she seldom has when out with a man. Terry is as easy to
talk to in person as he is in e-mail, and he tells her more stories of his
magical childhood. It's easier for her to imagine Harry Potter's life than it is
to believe in Terry's stories, where everyone is sweet and charming and
loving.

She doesn't have similar stories to share, so she
talks about Scott. She finds herself sharing an anecdote about his only truly
bad act, shoplifting a candy bar when he was seven, how she made him take it
back and apologize to the man at the pharmacy.

“You're an honorable person,” Terry says. “I think
that's what I like best about you. I can tell, even with our limited knowledge
of each other, that you try to do the right thing.”

She loses her appetite for the lamb stew, delicious
as it is.

W
hen
can I see you again?” He has waited until the parking lot to ask. “This
weekend?”

“Weekends are for my son. I work so much.”

“Okay, then Monday.”

Monday is good, Monday is slow. So many of her
regulars start the week pretending that this is the week they won't call.

He gives her a polite kiss on the cheek but strokes
her arm in a way that's undeniably sexy. Promising. This is a man who will take
care of her, if she lets him.

“Monday,” she repeats. Thinking,
By Monday I could be as honorable as you think I am. I might
not be able to make a clean breast, but I can do the right thing. I can do
it right now.

L
uckily, Bettina still lives in the same house. Heloise wouldn't know
how to find her otherwise. It seems as if a thousand years have passed since
their encounter in the Giant, but it's really only six. Heloise knocks, but no
one answers. So she waits in her car, hoping Bettina will return soon. Before
she loses her nerve.

A ditty runs through her head.
One of these things is not like the others.

Bettina's not in the life, hasn't been for a long
time.

Two of these things are kind
of the same.

Shelley and Heloise were in the same business. She
was probably kicking back money to Val, too. Lord, for a man with no real
expenses, he required a lot of tribute.

But the photo was of Shelley and Bettina, arms
wrapped around each other. Who was the photo for? Why had it been left
there?

One of these things is not
like the others.

Shelley is dead.

Two of these things are kind
of the same.

Shelley was threatening to tell police something
about Val. Why did he care? He can't do
more
than
life. Did he think he had a shot of being released, did he worry that Shelley
would complicate that for him? All the disallowed evidence in the world won't
mean a thing if there are eyewitnesses willing to testify against him. Yet Val
believes that Bettina is the person who put him in prison. And that's Heloise's
fault. She never meant to hurt anyone else, only to save herself, protect her
child.

She has to warn Bettina. She has to do the right
thing.

A Ford Explorer pulls up, Bettina at the wheel.
When she gets out, she looks much older than the woman Heloise saw six years
ago, perhaps because she is thinner, which hasn't been good for her face. But
she looks happy, content.

That—and maybe the thinness, come to think of
it—can be explained by the blond toddler she lifts from a car seat. Children can
wear a woman to a nub like nothing else.

Heloise rushes up the walk, “Bettina, it's—” Even
as she pauses, making the mental adjustment necessary to use her real name,
Bettina is backing away from her wide-eyed, anxious, fumbling with her keys.

“Leave me alone,” she says. “I haven't caused you
any trouble. You have no right to cause me any.”

“I'm not.” She thinks guiltily of Tom's visit, made
with her approval. “That's not why I'm here. Bettina, something has happened.
Something for grown-up ears.”

The boy is large; she can't judge his age. He looks
up at the word “ears,” pulls his own, laughs.

“Bettina, it's important. To you.”

“Jesus, you make it sound life-or-death.”

“It very well could be.”

The house is a museum devoted to two
works—photographs of the little boy and a much older girl, presumably the one
whose wedding landed Bettina her husband. She steers the boy to the television,
then invites Heloise into the dining area.

“You have a lot of nerve, coming to me for
anything.”

“A woman was murdered a couple of weeks ago. The
madam, out in Howard County?”

“Yeah. I heard something about that.”

“It was Shelley. From back in the day. She was
using the name Michelle, but it was really Shelley.”

“You know, I thought that might be her, but she
really changed, didn't she? She got old. I mean, I know what I look like, but
she really looked like hell.” A bitter glance at Heloise. “You've managed to
keep it together pretty well. Money
can
buy some
things, can't it?”

“There was a photograph left with the body. A
Polaroid picture of her—and you.”

Bettina looks dubious. “I didn't hear anything
about that, and no one's tried to talk to me. How do you know?”

“The police showed it to me, thinking I might help
them.”

“Why?”

Heloise is still leery of Bettina—the woman, after
all, tried to blackmail her once. “They found out I had a connection to Shelley,
thought I could tell them something. I couldn't. And I didn't tell them I knew
the other woman in the photograph. I figured it didn't matter.”

“Oh, but now it does. Look, we are not well
fixed—”

“I'm not here for money.”
I'm
not you.
“I think Val had Shelley killed. And I think he might come
after you next.”

“Why would he care about me? He threw me out. Best
thing that ever happened to me, although it didn't seem like it at the
time.”

Here it is. Heloise has to confess what she did.
“Right, he threw you out. Everyone assumed you'd live on the street until you
died. You were pretty messed up, Bettina. I forgot, I guess, that people can get
lucky, that anyone's life ever changes for the better.”

“Yours did.”

Heloise decides to try to appeal to her through
their strongest mutual bond. “I got pregnant, Bettina, and I decided to tell a
police detective what I knew about Martin's death, where the murder weapon was
hidden. But I was terrified of even being a confidential informant. I didn't
think Val would let me live if it came to light—and, like I said, I was having a
kid. A cop friend of mine had a CI who was dying of cirrhosis, had nothing to
lose. He agreed to be the cover, to say he heard about the shooting and where
the gun was hidden from a girl who was there that night. No one ever said your
name,
ever.
”

Ah, but that's a lie.
She
said it. Heloise rushes on, as though she can outrun her
mistakes if she just talks quickly enough.

“There were three of us there that night. Plus the
Georges. But Val always thought it was you, for some reason.”

It takes Bettina a beat to absorb this. She never
was the brightest girl, and even being drug-free can't make her sharp. But she
sorts things through and says, “You bitch.”

“I'm really sorry, Bettina. You should go to the
police, say you were a friend of Shelley's, that she once saw a murder. They'll
show you the photograph, maybe, and you can identify yourself, tell them what I
suspect about Val—I'm sure they'll give you protection—”

“Yeah? Why don't you go tell them all this?”

“I can't, I just can't.”

“Because you're still a whore, aren't you? Oh,
yeah, I added that up, especially after that vice cop came over to talk to me.
And now you want me to put everything in my life at risk so you don't have to
risk yours.”

“You're a respectable citizen. Married to a nice
man, beyond suspicion. The police will protect you. Val won't be able to get to
you once they know. He doesn't know where you are, isn't even sure you're alive.
He can find me.”

“You're amazing.” She draws out the syllables as a
teenager might. A-MAY-zing. “You come over here like you're doing me a favor,
but you're still trying to pin this on me. Here's my suggestion:
You
go to the police,
you
cop to what you did, and
you
deal with the fallout.
Leave me out of it.”

“I can't. I would if I could, but I can't unring
this bell. Please, Bettina, go see Detective Alan Jolson in Howard County. I'm
sure he'll be discreet.”