Helen Hanson - Dark Pool (6 page)

“I imagine you’ve had your share of compliments over the years.”

“As a black woman in a court room, I’ve heard it all. Some men try to demean you with their comments. Objectify you. They aren’t particularly artful.” She gripped the arms on her chair. “Odd to say about a man who steals you blind, but Patty was a gentleman.”

While Vonda Creevy and her husband suffered at the hands of Patty O’Mara, their lives would change little. Only a portion of their holdings had been in speculative investments. Yet even with their loss, she could still assess the man responsible with a cool clarity matched by few he’d ever met. She was special. The fact that she looked like Angela Bassett was a definite upside.

“Did you keep the things he sent you?”

She considered the question. “You know, I did. He always sent them to my office. The gifts are there. I filed the letters like any other paperwork.”

“Did your husband see the correspondence?” Kurt straightened a pant leg.

She shrugged, her palms turning toward the ceiling. “He might have at the office. I don’t know. I didn’t bother taking them home because there wasn’t anything that seemed relevant to our account. The messages seemed rather chatty for a fund broker. Would you like the files?”

“I want everything you have from O’Mara.” He thought a moment. “Were any of the items mailed from unusual locations?’

“Let’s see. There was Grand Cayman. Lovely place. Roger and I spent our twentieth anniversary there. Switzerland. Oh.” Her face stilled.

She was an unusual woman. Smart. Kurt liked Vonda Creevy.

“And Uruguay.” Her mouth turned down. “Isn’t Uruguay also known for its offshore banks?”

 

 

Chapter Eight

 

 

The clock in the living room chimed three. Travis was hanging over at Javier’s. After six months apart, they had some catching up to do. He promised to be home before four when Maggie’s shift started. Her only clean blouse needed ironing, and Dad still needed his dinner. She dropped some generic Advil, got dressed, and prepped a simple meal of leftovers for him—baked chicken, steamed rice, and carrots. She sat the ceramic plate on a TV tray in front of the worn leather couch.

 

“I brought your dinner.”

He wore jeans and an oxford shirt tails-out. He sat upright on the couch and stared at the silent television in front of him. His hand gripped a smoothed piece of soapstone. The dark veins on the back of his hand bulged with each flex. She took his hand into hers, unfurled each bony finger, and removed the rock.

“Open your mouth for a pill.” Maggie placed the yellow tablet on his obedient tongue and let him erode it a bit before handing him a glass of water. His hand closed around a wad of play dough she dropped in his palm, his fingers quickly greeting the old friend.

Her lips brushed his cheek, and she smoothed the stray, peppery hairs away from his tanned forehead. British Sterling filled her to the brim. “I need to go to work now.”

His head lifted to her. His eyes twinkled as if he knew a funny joke and wanted to tell it, but his lips wouldn’t cooperate to smile.

“I’ll be home around midnight.” She rubbed the back of his hand. “I love you.”

Maggie grabbed her pack and went out to their mailbox. A dark, fit man directed movers from the driveway across the street as they hauled a workbench down the ramp of a van. A Siamese cat threaded through his legs marking him as its owner. With a single hand gesture, the workbench disappeared in the garage, and the cat, into a juniper bush.

A woman bounced from the shadows wearing a white-flowered sarong and excessive make-up. Her blonde stopped two inches shy of her roots. A pretty face but not a happy one. She bore the countenance of constant disappointment. She said something to the man in a language that Maggie didn’t recognize. Maggie slipped into the car with the mail before she was obligated to make any introductions. If they’d been around last night, they wouldn’t be anxious to meet her either.

She drove her old Subaru to her waitressing job on Highway 1. A haute-Japanese influenced eatery du jour, Osakane bustled nightly with makers from the city in search of an opulent food fix on the beach. She parked in the employee section near the dumpsters.

The Fender family mail sat in the passenger seat. She rarely scanned the envelopes anymore. It merely prolonged the agony. Like a Band-Aid, just rip it off.

The first envelope presented her with a past-due notice for Dad’s medical care. The winch in her stomach ratcheted a notch. Ah, but she already had this bill at home. The amount due had merely shifted to the even-later column.

The second envelope brought news of a tuition hike at school. She barely scraped enough for the last round. She could take less units, but that delayed graduation another semester. Graduation was supposed to equal real money. She needed real money.

Her throat closed when she saw the third envelope from Barston Mortgage. Vibrations from her hand made the letter difficult to open. The page fluttered as she read the headline—Notice of Default.

Foreclosure hovered over their home like a sharpened scythe. Expecting this letter to arrive didn’t lessen the impact. She forced herself to breathe.

The notice was a preliminary step for the bank. They couldn’t kick the Fenders out of the house. Not yet. She’d have to meet with the loan officer. An article on the internet said they worked with people to come up with a payment schedule. She still had her job. That was something to be thankful for.

She counted the remaining envelopes. Shit. Three to go.

Even Russian roulette only offered one bullet.

She opened the rest of the mail. PG&E power bill, another nasty-gram from the phone company, and an invoice from a bank for a safe deposit box. Her father didn’t even bank there.

Not a single piece of good news. She understood why dogs liked to bite mailmen.

Her sour attitude decayed to righteous self-pity before a face filled her window, all dark chocolate and smiles. Denesha’s smile had a homemade ice cream quality to it that generally made you want seconds. But, Maggie wasn’t hungry for happy. Denesha rapped on the window.

Maggie stuffed the mail in her backpack and got out of the car. Maggie, slim and tallish, hovered over tiny Denesha. They both wore starched white blouses and crisp black slacks.

“Hey, girl! You back here already? How’s Travis?”

Maggie’s cloudy mood shrank a little in Denesha’s effervescent company. Being surly with her was on par with kicking a baby bunny. “Hey, yourself.” Maggie threw her pack over a shoulder. “He’s glad to be out. And glad Dad’s not in.”

Denesha tossed some braids behind her back. “Say what?”

“We had a little trouble last night.” She told Denesha about the body they’d found and the trip to the police station.

“Haven’t you had enough nonsense?”

“Tell me.” She locked her car. “Who’s on shift?”

“I don’t think Peter’s working tonight.” Denesha answered Maggie’s ulterior question. She yanked open the door to the employee entrance. “The man does not treat you well.”

Crossing the threshold, their demeanor changed like a rock band taking the stage. Three hours before the dinner rush and a cacophony of kitchen sounds arose as the staff hopped to the orders of the owner and Chef de Cuisine, Taki Murakami. The scent of honeyed ginger and oranges reached Maggie before the olfactory tsunami left her with no discernment for individual aromas. All culinary elements morphed into a single unified smell—delicious.

Maggie reviewed the specials with the wait Captain, Joe Potter, a man brusque and gruff to everyone beneath him except Maggie, until she turned him down for a date. From the service alley behind the dining room, she checked on her tables. Patrons sat in clusters around the spacious dining room.

Maggie caught sight of Peter helping a bejeweled, elderly woman into a seat at one of Maggie’s larger tables for the night. Under Peter’s spell, the woman was all smiles. Maggie stopped and turned back, slamming directly into Benito. The bus boy dropped the tray he carried, shattering two wine glasses on the maple wood floor. Remains of red and white wines splattered the melon-colored wall like a Jackson Pollack.

“I am so sorry.” She reached to help the young man. “Say ‘behind you’, so I know you’re there.”

His narrow face pinkened at her attention. “No, no. You wait tables. I clean up.” He pulled a towel from his apron and subdued the mess.

Maggie stooped to reload his pile of dishes. Management tolerated minimal breakage from bus boys. Benito had enough strikes against him without her help.

She stood and dusted her clean clothes and glanced at her table. She had expected Peter to be gone by this time. He saw her and continued his conversation. Dawdling in a restaurant was a greater sin than murder. Her incisors clamped down on her lower lip. She lifted her chin and strode to the table.

What was his damage, anyway?

“Good evening. My name is Maggie, and I’ll be your server tonight. Though I’m sure Peter has been treating you well.” She smiled his direction and hoped her teeth didn’t crack under the stress.

The patron’s smile washed away. Concentric strands of pearls framed her fleshy face.

“Well, she isn’t the worst waitress you could get tonight.” Peter touched the lady’s bare shoulder. Milky, brown eyes sparkled with his touch.

Maggie felt an undertow from the currents. “I understand the rest of your party is en route. Can I get you anything to make your wait more comfortable?”

“Honey, Peter and I are getting along famously.” She patted Maggie’s hand with fingers so cinched from diamond rings they looked strangled. “I’d just as soon he stays with me if you don’t mind?” They all knew it wasn’t a question. Customers ruled. Another round to Peter. The punk.

Maggie reported back to Joe but didn’t bother to tell him about the incident. Peter was an effeminate-looking guy with sun-blond hair and a sprayed-on tan. He schmoozed customers like a real estate agent at an open house. His charm and civility poured over those from whom he stood to gain. With anyone else, he didn’t bother. Eddie Haskell’s malicious twin.

And for Joe, it just wasn’t a problem. He assigned her another smaller, less desirable table; it always generated less tips. She calculated how much further behind she would be in paying off the late notices, and what she might do about it, when the greeter seated a group of four at one her tables. No time to waste. Waitresses couldn’t afford revenge.

The night fell into rhythm, and toward the end of the shift, the pace finally hit neap tide. Three tables remained under Maggie’s watch. The restaurant no longer received new guests. Whether over dessert, or wine, or conversation, all three parties lingered. She attended to the tables sparingly as they needed nothing save a reason to go home.

She tallied a customer’s final bill at the computer screen in the alcove off the kitchen. Benito trudged toward her with a pan full of dirty dishes. Peter came up from behind him as Benito smiled her direction.

Peter caught Benito’s foot with his own.

Benito tipped forward and lost his grip on the heavy dishpan. It thudded to the floor. Unfinished drinks sprayed the walls. Glasses smacked down into rubble, their shards launching like tiny scuds. A mushroom cloud of food scraps spewed into the air. The accident created a mess that transcended floors and walls to reach ceiling-height. Benito fell face-first on the maple planks to avoid shrapnel.

Joe lumbered into the alcove. Peter’s smirk receded back into his thin, mean lips.

“Dammit, Benito,” Joe tried to suppress a screech. “That’s the fourth time this week.” He threw a towel onto the counter. “We spend more on dishes than we do you. Pack it up. You’re fired.”

Maggie stepped in front of Joe. “If you’re going to fire him let him earn it.”

“Stay out of this, Maggie. The kid’s not worth it.”

“This wasn’t his fault. Peter deliberately tripped him.”

Peter rocked back on his heels and crossed his arms. “Phshh. Maggie’s full of it. I didn’t trip him.”

Joe looked around the gathering crowd. “Did anyone see him trip Benito?”

“I’m the only one who saw it. He made sure of that.”

“Look Maggie, I know you and Peter don’t get along, but it’s your word against his.”

Benito rose from the floor, red spreading from his face to his neck, “And me. I don’t know who, but I got tripped like Maggie say.”

“I don’t think Pedro gets a vote, he’s just trying to save his own neck.”

Disgust lapped at her throat. “His name is Benito.”

Peter’s smirk returned. “Plus, he’s hot for Maggie. He’s been panting after her since day one. He’d say anything to get into her—”

She fisted her right hand and popped him straight in the nose. She didn’t hear the snap, only felt it. Peter collapsed to the floor, cradling his nose as it pooled with blood.

“Are you crazy?” His white shirt bloomed with crimson stains.

Joe stared at Maggie. “What the hell?”

“You fire her! Or I’m gonna sue!” Peter mispronounced the words, but everyone understood him, and no one was surprised.

“Shut up, Peter. You’re not suing anybody. But, Maggie. What the hell?”

“Fire her!”

“Shut up!” Joe leaned against the wall. “Maggie. I know the man’s a joke, but what the hell?”

Her hand still clenched. All eyes stared at the crazy woman.

He swiped his wet brow with the back of his sleeve. “Morgan, get out there and take care of our customers. Sammy, go make an ice pack. Denesha, get this jackass a bandage. Maggie and Benito, follow me.” Joe glowered down at the bleeding waiter. “When are you going to learn to keep your stupid mouth shut?”

Fifteen minutes later Joe escorted Maggie and Benito out the back door. With final checks in hand, he abandoned them in the parking lot.

“I am sorry, Maggie.” Benito meant it.

Maggie was also sorry. Sorry she lost her job. Sorry her brother spent six months in jail. Sorry she was the only one wearing her burdens. “It needed to be done. I just didn’t need to be the one to do it.” Another day, further down the hill.

He nodded. “You’re nice lady.” He put his hand out for her to shake. “Vaya con Dios.”