Paloma: A Laurent & Dove Mystery (11 page)

She chewed the inside of her cheek.

“Having second thoughts?” said Frank.

Paloma stepped over to her bag, pulled out five ones, and laid them on the table. “Piece of cake.”

Frank went for his wallet and slammed down a ten spot. He looked at his friends. “You guys in?”

They planted down five bucks each.

Paloma, confident they’d never find out she couldn’t make the bet, tossed in the rest of her money. She returned to the opposite side of the table and chalked up. She took a different stance and reminded herself of the golden rule she’d learned from the Black Widow: Prepare, Decide, Picture and Trust. Hunkering down with her chin to the cue stick, she spread her two fingers, crooked her thumb and took aim. Slowly she reeled back the stick, then hit hard, dead on center. The kick shot was solid and smooth. It bounced off the rail then careened across the felt, first sinking the nine, then the twelve.

Straightening up, she looked at the three young men. Their snickering faces suddenly dried up.

Frank stepped forward. “Lucky shot.”

“Double or nothing?”

The two kids behind Frank shook their heads, backing off.

“Double or nothing for what?” Frank said.

“Your call.”

Frank’s eyes darted across the table. “Seven and six.”

Paloma crossed to the other side of the table, stooped down and considered the challenge. Like politics, pool was about angles, speed, and spin. “You’re on. Seven and six, two corners.”

She positioned herself behind the cue ball and focused into the critical space between the seven and six, then popped the cue ball between the eyes. The seven dropped into the pocket. The six took a leisurely roll across the table, teetered on the edge, then sunk.

Frank pulled out his wallet.

Paloma walked over to him. “Put your money away. Let’s own the table tonight. You, me and your friends. We’ll play partners, opponents and bet accordingly. See if they’re interested.”

Frank stepped back and huddled with the other two.

A minute later, the three of them approached Paloma.

“We’re in,” Frank said. He turned and made introductions. The kid with glasses was Norm, the innocent, Jimmy. “And your name?” Frank asked.

“Tía,” Paloma said. “Just follow my lead. One of us always has to be in play. The others will rally bets. I’ll let you know which way the wind’s blowing.”

They looked at her with fear in their eyes, but agreed. 

She handed Frank the cue stick. “Let’s start with a little cut-throat. It always draws attention and the three of you can play.” She racked up the balls.

No one stepped up. They looked lost.

Frank said, “What’s cut-throat?”

Paloma laughed, then did the open break and walked them through the basics. They caught on quick. An hour later, the bar was rocking. Fives and tens were being tossed around like confetti. Soon they were cruising, sometimes winning, sometimes losing, but always making money. By midnight, she walked with them to the door. Each boy had made fifty, she, triple that.

“Need a ride, Tía?”

“No thanks. The bartender called a cab.”

At the doorway, Frank said, “Thanks for the pointers.”

“You have talent,” Paloma said.

“Think so?”

“Sure do. Just stay low and keep practicing shots until they’re solid.” 

“I will,” he said. 

Once outside the three young men high-fived.

Paloma smiled. Winning and youth were the pinnacle of glory.

Five minutes later a cab pulled up. Settling into the back seat, she told the driver. “Take me to an inexpensive hotel.”

Chapter Ten

The following morning, Paloma woke in a fog. She’d been dreaming of refugees, rivers of people trudging through dust. On the edge of sleep, she understood their plight – put one foot in front of the other, and the other, and the other.

Pale sunlight filtered through the lone, grimy window. Where was she? Of course, the Villa Cannes, a misnomer if there ever was one. What was the day, the date? Her jumbled mind couldn’t come up with an answer. Her glance darted to the door. It was still chained. Her thoughts began to form. It was Sunday, she was in Buffalo, a man was after her, and she hadn’t undressed or bathed in the last twenty-four hours. She kicked her feet, unraveling the tousled sheet, and headed to the bathroom.

As the lukewarm water drizzled out the showerhead and onto her shoulders, she carefully removed the patch of gauze from her stomach. A scab had formed. She pressed around checking for tenderness. The wound was healing nicely. In another week, there’d be no reminder. At least none she’d see. 

She considered the day’s activities. The bank and library were closed, the churches open. But the God-fearing woman she’d been had long since left the flock. Besides fearing God was meaningless. It was man one had to fear. Which reminded her – she had to make a call. Once showered and dressed, she rushed out the door with plenty of change for a pay phone.  

At a Stop’N Go on Huron and Delaware, Paloma punched in Daisy’s number and loaded coins into the slot.

On the second ring, the phone was picked up. “Hello?”

“
Hola
.”

“Paloma, thank God you called. Where are you?”

“On the road.”

“I’ve been waiting to hear from you, worried something may have happened.”

“I’m okay. How about you?”

“I’m a wreck. First Mamá, then that guy.”

“What guy?”

“Your friend, Max.”

Paloma took a deep breath. “That’s why I’m calling. About Max, did you manage to get more information from him?”

“He was talking a blue streak. Him and his insinuations.”

“What do you mean?”

“Paloma, he thinks I killed my own mother!”

“What?”

“Oh, yeah. And that the police are on their way. I’ve been sitting here since Friday night too scared to do anything. Should I call the precinct myself, maybe go down there and make a statement? But I’m innocent. Do innocent people make statements? Or should I wait for them to show up at my door? But then they’ll think –”

“Daisy, slow down.”

“How can I slow down? I haven’t slept. Mamá’s funeral is tomorrow. And…”

Paloma heard sobbing on the line.

“I can’t take it.”

Paloma felt helpless. “Mamá was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Whoever did it was after me. We’ve already talked about that.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Daisy, I’m so sorry. Did you get a chance to ask him questions about me?”

“Yes, just like you told me. I asked him where he knew you from.”

“What did he say?”

“That he met you during some police brutality case. Is that true?”

“Yes. What else did he say?”

Daisy’s voice quivered. “Let’s see. He said he’s retired from the FBI.”

“Retired? You mean he doesn’t work for them anymore?”

“Yes.”

Paloma felt her shoulders relax. Finally some good news. If he wasn’t an agent anymore, he’d have a harder time tracking her down.

“There was one odd thing,” Daisy said. “He asked about your interest in books.”

Paloma’s heart began hammering. “Books? How could he know?” 

“
No sé.
I changed the subject. So what now?”

“How long did he stay at your place?”

“Not long.”

“Wasn’t he supposed to have dinner?”

“Yes, it’s just that…”

“Daisy, what?”

“After he said I could be a suspect in Mamá’s death, I told him that someone was after you, not Mamá. Then he demanded to know how I knew that, and I said I had spoken with you and that you were in the hospital. I didn’t mean to tell him. Honestly. I was so upset and he was accusing –”

Paloma slumped against the wall. So that’s how he’d tracked her to the hospital. “Daisy, forget about it.” 

“Did he find you?”

“No.”

“Paloma, what’s going on?”

Paloma tried to keep calm. “I don’t know. Listen, don’t go to the police, just wait and see what happens. If I have to speak with them, I will.”

“Okay. But how can I get in touch with you? What if the police come and take me away?”

“If something like that happens, leave a message on your answering machine.”

“What kind of message? That I’m in jail? What about my customers?”

“No, no. Say something about going out of town.”

“And then what?”

“I’ll track you down. Do whatever I have to. Don’t worry. By the way, where’s your boyfriend, Brandon? Why isn’t he around to help you through this?”

A sniffling sound came through the wire. “He stayed one night then had to go back home.”

“To the wife, right?”

“Now, I’m not sure about that. He says he loves me though.”

Paloma shook her head. “You’re a big girl, Daisy. Just don’t get hurt.”

“I won’t,” she said quietly.

“I haven’t forgotten about the letters. I should have one more in the next couple of days. Daisy…”

“What?”

“I’m so sorry I can’t make the funeral tomorrow. We’ll have a memorial service as soon as I get back.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll get through this. I promise,” Paloma said, hardly believing it herself.

Daisy’s voice remained weak. “You’ll keep in touch?”

“Yes, of course.”

“
Bueno, chica.  Cuidaté
.”

“
Tu también.  Besitos.
”

After hanging up, Paloma felt flushed. Max. What the hell did he want? And the books. How could he know about the books? He’d always done this to her – disrupted her life, and she hated him for it. Enough! She lifted the receiver off the cradle, dialed information and asked for his number. After tossing in more change, the line rang. With a racing heart, Paloma listened, ready to pounce. On the sixth ring, he answered with a groggy, “Hello?”

She slammed the phone down. 

***

After his heavy-handed drunk, Max was woken by the phone. “Hello?” Waiting for a response, he tried rallying his senses. The phone line clicked. “Hello?” he said again. Getting no response, he hung up and turned a listless ear to the droning television. CNN was reporting record heat and drought along the west coast. Fires were raging in the Rocky Mountains. Meanwhile, his head pounded and his throat felt like he had swallowed shards of glass. Unsure about the time of day, he looked at the corner of the TV screen – 11:45.  

The meanderings of the previous evening were distant but coming into focus. Agnes. That’s right. It was time to move on. At least emotionally. But what about her safety? He owed her that much, didn’t he? But if she didn’t want his help, what then? He needed someone to talk to. Someone who had some sense. 

Thirty minutes later, Max skirted a tricycle and several toy construction trucks on Curtis’s front lawn. The boys could be heard through the open windows. Rather than ring the bell, Max walked over to the screen and peered through. “FBI here, open up!”

Michael and Satchel immediately stopped chasing each other and looked in Max’s direction. Michael yelled out, “Mom, Uncle Max is here!” And the two boys rushed to the door. By the time the door flew open, Max had his wallet out, showing his driver’s license. “FBI,” he said again, pretending to show ID. “I’m here to investigate a kidnapping.” Max stooped down and faced Satchel. “It’s a highly sensitive and potentially explosive issue.”

Satchel’s eyes grew. 

“A teddy bear, brown and furry, was last seen crossing state lines. Where were you yesterday at dinnertime?”

Satchel shrugged. 

“Not gonna talk, eh? Well, I’ll have to take you in.” Max picked up the child and lifted him high. “Still not talking?”

The boy shook his head.

Max pretended to drop him, then grabbed him tight and tossed him into the air.

The child laughed with glee. 

After five lifts, Max’s arms weakened. He set the boy down and gave Michael a high five. “Any new handshakes you wanna show me?”

Max attempted to mimic a series of moves only a baseman could follow. The shake ended with elbows touching, and a snap of the fingers. “How’d ya figure that one?”

Michael said, “You either got it or you don’t.”

“You sound like your old man.”

“Don’t let Curtis hear that.”

Max looked up. Layla stood inches away. Her long neck reminded him of a gazelle. “Hear what?”

“That he’s an old man,” she said.

“Yeah, sometimes the truth hurts. How you doing Sheba?”

A blush rose to her cheeks. 

Max called her Sheba after they first met. Although born and bred in America, she was an African beauty, tall, statuesque with the most remarkable face and a smile that lit up the sky. 

Layla leaned toward Max and kissed his cheek. “What a nice surprise. Is Curtis expecting you?”

“Actually no. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by. Is he around or at the firehouse?”

“He’s in the den. Come on in.”

Curtis was sitting at the computer. His eyes twitched toward Max amid the clicking keys. “Max?”

“Surprised to see me?”

A quick smile came to Curtis’s lips. “Well, um. No, of course not.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

Curtis laughed and stopped typing. “Sorry, I was just in the middle of something. How you doing?”

“Great. Yourself?”

“Ditto. Have a seat. How about a cup of coffee?”

Max shook his head. “No, thanks.” His glance settled on a family portrait that hung on the wall behind his friend. “Boys are growing up.”

Curtis swiveled in the chair. “Sure are.” He turned back around. Concern played on his face. “Max, you okay?”

“I look pretty ragged, huh?”

“I wouldn’t say that. Maybe a little tired.”

“Hung over actually.”

Curtis laughed. “Still drinking Hennessy? Stuff will rot your gut.”

“Yeah, you may be right.”

“So, what’s up?”

Max drummed his fingers on the desk. “Not sure where to start. Looking for some advice.”

“Advice from me? You sure you want to go there?”

“You’re the most together person I know.”

Curtis smiled. “Scary thought.”

“Anyway here’s my dilemma. Say you have a friend in trouble and you want to help. But that person doesn’t want your help. What should you do?”