Dead Ringer (2 page)

She picked up a pot roast, turned it over in her hand, studied it with a remote detachment.

“
Got you!” a voice boomed at her.

“
What?” Maggie dropped the roast into her cart. Goosebumps peppered her arms. It was high noon and hot outside, but it was Alaska in the frozen foods section.

The man blocking the aisle was huge, with hammy hands, a flat face, flat nose and black eyes, almost crossed. He wore new jeans and a white T-shirt that almost looked starched, with a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his left sleeve, like Marlon Brando or somebody from one of those old black-and-white biker movies. His hair was going to grey and he had a five o’clock shadow. He seemed slow.

“
You’re in my way.” She started to back away, but he grabbed her cart. “Let me by,” she said. But the man didn’t let go.

“
Saw you in the newspaper.”

“
What are you talking about?” She tugged on the cart, but it was no use.

“
Leave the woman alone, Virgil,” a squeaky voice coming up behind the big man said.

“
It’s the one you showed me, Horace. The one in the paper.”

“
Shut up.” Horace slapped the big man on the arm with a magazine. His sportcoat was hanging loose. It parted and Maggie saw the shoulder holster underneath. A policeman. A plain clothes detective.

He turned to look at her. He was short, wiry with a face like a ferret. Close, squinty eyes. Long, thin nose. Scrawny mustache. Hair slicked back, covering his ears. He wore a silk shirt under the sportcoat tucked into baggy pants that just touched spit shined loafers. His thin lipped smile was false and his eyes went wide when he saw Maggie. He looked like a ’50s movie killer. There was danger there, policeman or not.

“
It is, it’s her!” Virgil was still holding onto her cart.

“
It’s not. Let her go!” Horace grabbed one of Virgil’s wrists and squeezed. Virgil winced and let go of the cart. Horace was stronger then he looked.

“
Thanks.” Maggie started to back away.

“
Has he been bothering you, ma’am? He can’t help it.” Horace’s stare was as cold as the meat she’d just dropped in the cart.

“
No, it’s okay.”

“
Pretty women remind him of his mother.”

“
I see.”

“
He’s harmless.” He shoved Virgil aside, so she could pass.

Maggie pushed her cart on by, turning at the end of the aisle. She passed a Pepsi display, stopped the cart and walked away from it. The big man had unnerved her and that Horace character had sent cold worms curling up her spine. She didn’t want to cook dinner anyway. They could eat out.

For a second, she toyed with the idea of telling Nick about the baby over pizza at Armando’s, then rejected it. No matter how much she hoped Nick would say he forgave her, that they’d raise the child together, it wasn’t going to happen. He’d feel betrayed. He’d want a divorce.

She stepped through the electronic door out into the noonday heat. The temperature was in the nineties, without a hint of breeze, rare for the beach. Normally she’d jump in her air-conditioned Mustang and be on her way, but Nick’s ancient Mercedes was in the shop and he’d never dream of walking. Besides, he’d said, she was the fitness nut.

She started to walk home, stopped. She was supposed to meet Nick in a couple of hours at the Menopause Lounge. If ever she needed a drink, now was the time. She headed east, toward Second Street.

Shouldn’t drink, she thought. Bad for the baby. Oh what the hell. It’ll be dead in two days time.

A bus stopped in front of the Safeway, Nick’s smiling face plastered on its side, an advertising banner for the Eleven O’clock News.

She put on her Ray Bans, Horace and his friend Virgil gone from her mind as she turned on Second Street, strolling on the shady side. She loved the Belmont Shore section of Long Beach—the college kids, the beach, the ritzy bars, the trendy restaurants, the holiday atmosphere. But not even the Saturday buzz could take her mind away from the baby she carried.

“
Hey, Maggie.” It was Stacy, waving from behind the counter at Yoghurt Heaven. Maggie gave a half-hearted wave back. She knew people here, had friends. What would they think if they knew about the baby? If she kept it, she’d have to move away. She couldn’t imagine ever leaving.

She caught her reflection in a bookstore window, frowned at the reflected lettering on the UCLA book bag she used as a purse. She hated missing work and she was going to be out for a week. Her T-shirt, peach colored and oversized, would have made a good maternity smock. Would have. It was wrong, but what could she do? Keep the baby and lose her husband? She watched herself start to cry.

If only she hadn’t done it. How stupid. She covered her stomach with her hands, as if she could protect the life inside. She couldn’t. She thought of Conner, tried to picture him behind her in the window mirror. Would the baby have his brilliant green eyes? His jet black hair?

She pushed the sunglasses onto her forehead, wiped her eyes with her fingers. Time for that drink. She turned away from the dismal reflection and pulled her sunglasses back on to hide her puffy eyes. A few minutes later, she took them off and dropped them into her shoulder bag as she entered the dimly lit restaurant.

She saw Nick straightaway, but what was he doing here so early? Three o’clock every Saturday. Three to whenever. Nick was never early. Golf was his religion, Saturday his Sabbath.

He was sitting at the end of the bar. Where else? It was where he greeted his fans. Nick was the local celeb, the Menopause Lounge his hangout, that barstool his throne. He was talking to a redhead young enough to be his daughter, his hands moving as fast as his lips.

Maggie checked out the redhead as she approached. Early twenties, tanned, years younger than her. Cascades of orange hair down her back. Breasts like cannons. Nick liked long hair and tits. But Maggie didn’t mind, because he never touched, only looked.

She sighed.

“
Maggie,” Nick said, “this is Stephanie.” She looked like a Stephanie, Maggie thought.

“
Hi,” the redhead said.

“
I’m starved,” Maggie said.

“
I’ve gotta go. See ya.” Stephanie jumped from the barstool, wiggling her ass for Nick when her feet hit the floor.

“
Kinda young,” Maggie said as the redhead flowed out the door.

“
Journalism student at Cal State.” Nick gave her his sloppy smile, ran a hand through his shocking white hair.

“
Pretty,” Maggie said.

“
She has the fire.”

“
What do you mean?”

“
It’s like she’s totally focused, energy all flowing in one direction and Heaven help anyone who gets in her way.”

“
And where’s all this energy flowing to?”

“
A network anchor desk someday. I’d bet on it. But right now it’s flowing toward a group of high school kids who are selling big time drugs over at Wilson High School. She’s gone undercover to make a drug buy. We’re doing the story this afternoon, filming the bust live.”

“
How come you didn’t tell me?”

“
I didn’t want to worry you. I was going to tell you later, after it was over.”

“
You were gonna stand me up?” She looked into his eyes.

“
Gordon’s coming in at 3:00. He was going to keep you company till I got back. I’m sorry you came in early, I wanted to surprise you with the story on the idiot box up there.” He pointed to the flat screen mounted above the giant mirror behind the bar.

“
Surprise?”

His cell phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket. “Nesbitt.” He listened for a few seconds, then, “I’ll be right there.” He slid off the barstool.

“
You’re leaving?”

“
Gotta go. I’ll be back to watch the Six O’Clock with you. Don’t dance Gordon’s legs off.” Then he was out the door.

“
You two not fighting, are you?” It was Richard McPartland, AKA Skinny Dick, the bartender. He was a wisp of a man, thin but wiry, strong the way ex-cons are. He was bald, with saucers for eyes and a smile that opened up under a thick white mustache. He was sliding into sixty and had spent most of his adult life behind bars for this or that, he’d say, but he’d been going straight for the last five years and was the best bartender on the Coast. Ask him, he’d tell you.

“
No, we never fight.” Maggie climbed up on the barstool Nick had vacated.

“
The usual.” He set a rum and Coke in front of her. That’s what made him so good. He remembered you, remembered your drink. You didn’t have to order here, Richard knew what you wanted before you did and he had it down on the bar before you could raise your hand for his attention. He knew your limit, too. No drunks allowed in the Menopause Lounge.

“
You read my mind.” Maggie picked up her drink.

“
I got a good shoulder if you need it,” he said.

“
I’m okay. I’m just gonna nurse this and wile away the time till Gordon gets here.”

“
Alright, but you wanna talk, gimme a shout.”

“
Thanks, Richard, I’ll remember that.” She sipped at the drink and Dick went to wait on a guy in a three piece suit who had just come in and sat at the opposite end of the bar.

She set the drink down, fished her iPhone from her bag and tapped on a contact.

“
International Off Road Magazine,” Ron Cook, her boss, answered on the first ring.

“
Somehow I knew I’d catch you there.”

“
Maggie, you never call in on Saturday. What’s up?”

“
I need some time off. A week, maybe two, starting now.”

“
Kevin and Mike are both still on vacation, that’s gonna make it kind of rough around here.” Ron had a whine in his voice. He never said no, he just whimpered and acted hurt till he got his way. He didn’t want to give her the time, not now, and Maggie understood.

“
I’ll do the Sara Hackett piece when I get back.”

“
Enjoy your vacation.” All of a sudden he was Mr. Nice Guy. He’d been after her for over a year to do a story on Sara, till now she’d resisted. She hadn’t been ready, she still wasn’t, but she couldn’t hide from her fear, from Sara, forever.

“
Thanks, Ron.” Maggie hung up.

She felt faint. She went into the restroom, splashed water on her face, then faced herself in the mirror. She closed her eyes and all of a sudden she was back in Borneo, the green jungle grabbing at her as she drove, foot on the floor with Sara shouting, telling her the road went left. Maggie cranked the wheel and saw the boy. She jerked the car to the right, lost control and the car slid into the child, killing him instantly. And she’d come apart. That was her last race. She’d walked away from the sport and now Sara, her navigator, was famous, one of the top drivers in a worldwide sport dominated by men, while Maggie worked at a magazine that wrote about it.

Nick, who at first loved the idea of being married to a race car driver, was glad she’d quit. He confessed to her that toward the end he’d been worried sick every time she shipped her car off to some exotic location. Well, he didn’t have to worry on that score anymore. Since that day, she hadn’t even driven above the speed limit and she probably never would again.

She’d told Ron racing was wrecking her marriage and he’d hired her on the spot. Her writing was good and she got along well with everybody at the magazine. They were a family, but at times she envied Sara. She’d been putting off doing the interview, not wanting to admit to herself that Sara was the star now, but those feelings didn’t seem to matter anymore, not with the baby coming.

Back at the bar, she saw Richard drop a couple of Buds in front of a young couple who looked like they’d just come in off the tennis court. They were sitting close, touchy feely, the way young lovers are. It had been a long time since she’d been like that with Nick in a public place.

Nick, what was he up to? He was an anchorman, not an investigative reporter. Maggie pictured the redhead. Nick said she had the fire. What did he mean by that? Maggie sipped at the drink. Bacardi Select, like butterscotch floating in Coke. Then she looked up, saw her reflection in the long mirror behind the bar. God, she looked awful. She fought tears. What in the world had she been thinking? How could she ever have doubted Nick? She was the one who’d had the affair. The one who got pregnant. The one who was going to kill her baby.

* * *

Horace Nighthyde saw the sign above the door. “Millie’s Coffee Shop.”

“
Come on.” He squeezed Virgil’s elbow, pointed him to the door. “We can’t stand out here forever.” The woman had just gone into the restaurant type bar across the street. They could sit and watch from a window table. Horace needed time to think, time to deal with Virgil, time to get himself together.

Inside the coffee shop, he took a quick look around. The place had an early American decor. The kind of restaurant that served biscuits and gravy for breakfast, more at home in New Orleans than Long Beach, but here it was, complete with waitresses in red gingham dresses. He saw a vacant booth by the window and went to it. Virgil slid in opposite him.

“
Can I help you?” The waitress dropped menus on the table. Her silver hair was tinted with a blue rinse.

“
Coffee,” Horace said.