Foxy Roxy (9 page)

Arden did as she was told, and after he’d closed the car door and was walking around to the driver’s side, she put her palms together and gripped her shaking hands between her knees. Trying to distract herself from all the crap that was suddenly raining down around her, she sat looking at the grounds of the house. What had been lost in the fire?

One thing she’d spotted already, of course. In the little glen near the swimming pool, the sculpture of Achilles should have been keeping watch. But he was gone.

When Quentin climbed into the car, she nearly asked him. Had someone moved Achilles after the fire? Or had Monica made off with him before all that? Had she sold him? Or given him to a museum?

Instead, she said, “Is Mummy coming home? For the funeral?”

“No. She needs to work on her treatment.”

“Of course.”

Drug addiction, Arden knew, was hard work. At least, that’s the way it was with her mother. Which was why Arden kept good track of her own medications. She didn’t plan on ending up like Mummy, living all the time in a spa with a locked gate and a lot of awful people.

Quentin started the car. “Where to, honey?”

Arden gave him the address of the salon in Oakland where she knew people. If her father talked about anything on the drive, she could muster only humming noises of agreement. The hum seemed very loud in her head. But ten minutes later, she gratefully walked through the door of the nearly deserted salon. A college student was getting a noisy blowout at one station. Another student sat waiting, leafing through a limp magazine as tufts of hair blew along the floor. Things hadn’t changed much.

Jody was doing her own nails at the counter. She looked up, unsurprised to see Arden after a year. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Arden put her slouchy bag on the counter and leaned on it. “Busy?”

Jody blew on the wet nails of her left hand. “Need something?”

“You still in business?”

Jody twisted her lips. “I wouldn’t be sitting here if I wasn’t. What do you want?”

Arden paid with traveler’s checks and took her first bump in the salon lavatory. Just a little. Oh, it had been too, too long. The drug felt like stardust in her system. She tucked the rest of the cocaine in her bag—enough to survive a week with her family.

7

On Sunday people in Pittsburgh went to church and then watched football. No murder case could supplant the city’s obsession with the Steelers, not even a billionaire who got himself shot. Roxy watched the game with some musician friends at a bar. They drank beer, ate hot wings, and held a sloppy rehearsal afterward.

Early on Monday morning, she walked a couple of blocks over to the Rite Aid store for a package of Lorna Doone cookies and a pocketful of Slim Jims. Then she stopped at the corner coffee shop.

Unfortunately, the coffee shop had changed hands again, and this time it was two nice Russian ladies running the place, and they didn’t sell coffee. Or speak English. After some chattering and a lot of hand gestures, they made her a cup of tea, though, and Roxy bought a newspaper, too. She walked back to her house reading the headlines about Julius Hyde.

His photo made him look noble. Quotes from his friends made him sound like a saint. Well, that’s the way things worked in his tax bracket.

The paper made his pyromaniac wife out to be Lady Macbeth and Annie Oakley rolled into one.

Roxy’s current neighborhood was a section of the city called the Mexican War Streets for reasons she still hadn’t figured out. The narrow two-story houses—jammed together with no space between for lawns or even clotheslines—were in various states of repair, ranging from a palatial renovation recently completed by a couple of gay lawyers, to a crack house on the corner. A few months back, Roxy had purchased three dilapidated houses with the idea of flipping them. But she’d run out of money. So she had moved into one place herself and put a couple of tenants in the others to prevent less law-abiding neighbors from dealing drugs in them.

On one side of her house lived Dolores, who made her living by prostitution and needed a place to hide from her bullying shithead of a boyfriend. Roxy rented the house on the other side to Adasha Washington, an ER doc who worked at the nearby hospital.

Roxy finished her breakfast, put on her sneakers, and ran once around the park. She found Adasha stretching her hamstrings on a park bench. Adasha was still wearing her hospital ID on a lanyard around her neck over a scrub shirt and a pair of shorts that showed off legs that had surely caused attention deficits in her anatomy class.

“How was the night shift?”

Adasha stood up and tried to mash her hair into a ponytail. “Two gunshot wounds, a baby delivery because the father fainted in the parking lot, and assorted cases of viral infections, common colds, sprains, and a broken leg sustained by a robbery suspect whom the police officers refused to unchain even while we set the leg. Oh, and an infestation of lice that would make an ant farm look deserted.”

“Delightful. You ready to burn off some of that resentment?”

“Let’s go.”

They took off jogging at an easy pace, but as soon as they were warmed up Adasha quickly accelerated. She’d been a track star back in high school, a state champion distance runner, and Roxy only hoped she could keep up for the first couple of miles. After that, there was no use trying.

When they reached the river, running smoothly in the same rhythm, and started on the path upstream toward the old Heinz food plant, Adasha said, “I had a patient last night who could use your special brand of TLC.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“A girl whose live-in boyfriend beats her up. She needs a fresh start. A place to live for a while, maybe some help getting a new job.”

“Why didn’t you call Social Services? Sounds like a case right up their alley.”

“Her boyfriend’s another doc. He could snoop the records and find out her whereabouts. I think he’s liable to go after her again. The present situation is toxic, and normal channels just don’t cut it. So I thought maybe you could find her an apartment—a place she could hide until she gets her shit together.”

“How much time do I have?”

“Five days is my best guess. Plenty of time, right? She’ll be in ICU for two, on a step-down floor for three or four days after that. Maybe longer if we find previous injuries that require care.”

“Jesus. What did he beat her with?”

“A crockpot to the head, then a meat tenderizer to the bones of her face.”

Roxy quelled the emotion that roiled inside her. It was the kind of story she should be used to by now. “He in jail?”

“Hell, no, he’s some kind of hero in orthopedics. Rescues professional athletes from career-ending injuries. We wouldn’t want a Superman like that to spoil his reputation, now would we? His girlfriend, on the other hand, is expendable as far as the bosses can see.”

“I think I know a place she could crash for a while. And one of the neighbors is a nurse. Meanwhile, somebody needs to end his career.”

“I’m working on it,” Adasha said, and she sprinted ahead to a footbridge on the path.

Roxy sucked in some air and chased after her friend.

When they reached the opposite end of the bridge, Adasha settled into a slightly faster pace than before. Her breathing seemed no different when she asked, “How was your night, sister friend? Anything you want to tell me about?”

“Nope.”

Adasha laughed. “Who was the guy? Anybody interesting?”

“Nobody you know.”

“C’mon, honey, you gotta give me some vicarious sex. Was he hot? Good in bed? Don’t hold out on me. I haven’t had a man in over a year. My best lover requires double-A batteries.”

“The guy was no good at all last night, as a matter of fact.”

Adasha shot her an amused look, still running easily. “A game player? Wounded cowboy and strong Indian maiden? I know you hate that stuff.”

Roxy didn’t answer. She pretended she had to catch her breath instead. She wasn’t sure what she’d been looking for when she paid the visit to Trey Hyde last night.

After another couple hundred yards in which Roxy decided what to say, Adasha spoke again. “I know you, Rox. When you don’t talk, you’re off the bead. Things getting weird again? No longer going to bed with guys just for the fun of it?”

“I’m great. Everything’s great.”

“Shut up,” Adasha said without malice. “What’s wrong? Flashbacks?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

Adasha snorted. “You think you can handle anything. But I know better. I was there, remember? When your family imploded? So don’t play the tough lady with me. I don’t need my stethoscope to hear there’s something wrong inside your heart.”

“I’m okay, Dasha.”

“Sage?”

The mention of her daughter’s name made Roxy grin. “She’s great.”

“How’s your business?”

“A little slow.”

“You broke?”

“You bet.”

“I could lend you a few bucks.”

“You’ve got the scariest student loans I ever heard of,” Roxy managed to say. “So forget it. Jobs come in cycles. I’ll come up with something soon.”

“Oh, boy. Something like doing another little favor for your uncle Carmine?”

Carmine Abruzzo was the guy you called when you needed an arsonist to torch your failing but well-insured used-car dealership. But sometimes he needed jobs done that were a little less felonious—like asking for repayment of debt or settling disputes among other employees. Those things Carmine didn’t like taking care of personally.

“I’m not that desperate,” Roxy said. Not yet, anyway.

“Okay,” Adasha said. “But let’s get together soon, all right? You need somebody to talk to besides Nooch. You keep him around because he doesn’t ask any questions. Just lets you alone. Not me. I’m going to push your buttons till you give it up, girlfriend. I have a couple of days off next week. Let’s do some shopping. Surely you need a new pair of jeans, right? Or maybe it’s time to buy yourself some girl shoes? Heels for once?”

“I need heels like a fish needs a bicycle.”

Adasha laughed, sounding relaxed at last. “C’mon, Rox. Let’s get some real exercise, what do you say? Ready to start running?”

Roxy begged off and let Adasha go ahead, probably headed for a ten-mile run that would allow her to sleep through the day until her next shift. Roxy turned around and jogged back to her neighborhood.

As Roxy stepped through her front door, her cell phone rang. She grabbed it off the newel of the staircase and opened it.

Her daughter’s voice was loud and clear. “Mom, hey, can you come over here today?”

“Why aren’t you at school?”

“I’m home sick.”

“Senioritis?”

Sage said, “I don’t need the third degree. I just need you to sign a permission slip.”

“In high school, you still need my permission?”

“Can you come or not?” She sounded testy. The constant mood of the teenager.

Roxy said, “Sure. I have to stop by the yard first. I’ll bring lunch.”

Sage disconnected without saying good-bye, which meant Roxy was in the doghouse again. What her latest parental infraction was, she couldn’t guess. She closed the phone.

Parenthood had come to Roxy early. She’d been seventeen, pregnant, and the size of a cow at her own high school graduation. When Sage was born, they were both lucky to have Roxy’s aunt to live with. Even now, Sage lived at Aunt Loretta’s place, and Roxy moved in and out, depending on the houses she renovated. Maybe the three of them together were a family therapist’s dream team, but the arrangement worked most of the time. Adasha came around now and then to spread some calm if things got tumultuous.

Roxy ran up the stairs. Her current house was a construction site. Her furniture consisted of a bed and a tattered Salvation Army armchair, plus a couple of Tupperware storage containers for her clothes. As usual, a heap of library books was piled on the floor around the bed, their late fees growing daily.

She showered, threw on her jeans, a camisole, a T-shirt, and a couple layers of sweatshirts, then drove across the river. Chewing on a Slim Jim she sang along with Gracie Slick on WDVE. Nobody could rock and roll like Gracie Slick. Except maybe Aretha, but that was another stratosphere. At the first commercial, she flipped from classic rock—the traditional music of everyone in the construction business—to an all-news station. The headlines hadn’t changed. Julius Hyde, philanthropist, shot and killed.

Some pathetic homeless guy was the suspected shooter. The police had found a gun in his nest behind the Hyde garage.

Roxy turned a corner and saw Nooch waiting nervously at the gate of the salvage yard.

Behind him, a rattletrap squad car sat in the middle of the yard, the idling engine sending up a noxious cloud of blue smoke.

Nooch hustled over to the truck before Roxy shut off the engine. His eyes were round with anxiety. Through the window, he said, “It’s the cops. They want to talk to you. What did you do?”

Roxy killed the engine and climbed out of the truck. “Walk down the street and buy us some bagels. Some of those pecan-flavored ones. Take your time.”

She handed over twenty bucks. Nooch grabbed it and obeyed, glad to get away before any trouble started. He glanced over his shoulder as he went.

Roxy slammed the door of her truck and crossed the gravel, still humming the old Jefferson Airplane.

Bug Duffy got out of the passenger side of the cruiser, balancing himself on two crutches. In high school, Bug had once punched Roxy, but he had since matured, gone to college, worked as a substitute teacher in the city schools for a while, then joined the Pittsburgh police force and worked his way up to detective. He didn’t seem to regret punching her, though.

“You deserved worse than a fat lip,” Bug said after they’d shaken hands. “You called my mother names.”

“You were picking on Nooch, remember? You almost knocked out my front teeth. One’s still crooked, see?” She showed him the damage.

Bug gave her teeth a closer look, grinning. “You took care of Nooch, even back then. What’s he doing for you now?”

“Heavy lifting.”

“What did he lift out of the Hyde mansion a couple of nights ago?”

Roxy eyed Bug sideways. “Nothing I didn’t tell him to. What? You missing something? Or do you think Nooch killed Julius?”