Paloma: A Laurent & Dove Mystery (15 page)

The contents remained neatly bundled, just how she had left them. She grabbed one stack of thousand dollar bills, licked her finger and counted out fifty. That should cover it. Setting two bills aside, she then lifted the hem of her skirt, pulled the elastic waistband away from her body and placed the rest of the money into her makeshift security pouch. With finances taken care of, she returned to the box and considered several manila envelopes, each with names of potential identities, printed in bold black marker.

Paloma Dove
was out of the question, at least for now. That left three others, each one blander than the next. Should she become a Mary, a Jane or an Ann? It made little difference. She removed the envelope,
Ann Brown
, opened the flap and dumped the contents onto the table. A birth certificate, social security card, driver’s license fell out. She reached for the license and looked closely at Ann
.
She had red hair down to her shoulders and a bright smile. The resemblance to present day “Ann” was distant. There were no circles around the eyes, no haggard desperation in her steady stare. Paloma gave a rueful smile. Poor Ann would need some touch-up, a quick scan and reprint. Paloma flipped the top closed, locked it, and tapped on the door to be escorted out. Before leaving the bank, she stopped at a teller’s window and broke the two thousand dollars into smaller bills.   

Before catching the first bus out of town, she needed to make two quick stops. Starting from scratch in a new city was hard enough. Here, she knew where to get the essentials for her business. Walking down Court to Main, Paloma eased to the right and walked along the buildings where her vulnerable side was reduced by half. At Main, she boarded the Metro that traveled along the pedestrian walkway. Before the train went underground, Paloma stepped off and headed north to Hiram’s Art Store, located forlornly on a deserted stretch of Main Street. 

As a young girl, Paloma had walked down this part of Main Street arm in arm with her mother. Small shops, restaurants, specialty stores for shoes, fishing tackle and magic tricks had drawn them in. But all that was left now were a few secondhand stores sandwiched between vacant storefronts with soaped up windows. Beneath her feet Paloma could feel a rumbling. The subway. It was supposed to bring thousands into downtown. Ironically, it had done just the opposite. How had Hiram’s survived? Thankfully, there was always an exception to the rule.

When she crossed the threshold, a buzzer sounded. A young store clerk at the far end was talking on a phone. Her voice reverberated down the aisle. “So I told him…” 

Paloma sauntered down heaving, creaking hardwood floors. She loved Hiram’s. If ever there was such a thing as a comfort store, this was it. Her eyes swept the displays. Mallets, hole punches, edgers, gougers, pliers, charcoal sticks, palette knives. So many tools used to create, to express, to explore. She stopped and considered the paintbrushes – flat, round, oval, some made from stiff camel’s hair, others fashioned from the finest sable. She had thoughts of becoming a painter, not of people or of landscapes, but like O’Keefe, of flowers. But after years of trying, she had given up. Her eye was too literal, her representations too flat. A floral painting, should be different from life, an exaggeration, a fusion of color, an otherworldliness. Her attempts were dismal.

She passed down the aisles and gathered what she needed – a protractor, a small can of polyurethane. She then sashayed to the rear of the store. Inside a display case, a wide selection of pens rested atop beds of tufted satin. There were Monteverdes, Yard O Leds, Mont Blancs, sleek barrels made from stainless steel, tortoiseshell, pearlized resins, all fitted with clips and trims, some of silver, others with vermeil or gold. She bent down and inspected the nibs. Fine engravings swirled on their tips. She had used each of them over the years, balanced their weight in her curled hand, but her absolute favorite had been a Conklin, and there in the lower corner of the display case sat a beauty. It was an Endura made of marbleized acrylic in sunset hues.   

“Do you want to see something?” came the salesgirl’s voice.

Paloma looked up. The girl still held the cell phone close to her ear.

Paloma pointed at the glass. “Yes. This Conklin.”

The young girl spoke into the phone. “Gotta call you back. Got a customer.” After disconnecting the line, she bent down, slid open the back panel of the display case and reached deep.  

Placing the box in front of Paloma, she said, “It’s a fountain pen, doesn’t convert, gotta use ink.”

Paloma picked it up. “How much is it?”

The girl turned over the box. “Three hundred and fifty.”

The weight was perfectly balanced. “It’s beautiful,” said Paloma.

“For that money I’d rather have a leather jacket.”

Paloma glanced at the girl. She had liquid brown eyes. How old was she? Maddie’s age? “I’m afraid I’m too old for leather.”

The girl laughed. “Don’t be silly.”

Paloma gazed at the girl. Her jagged hair and short-cropped shirt were somewhat boyish. But that’s how young people were these days, androgynous, blurring the lines between the sexes. Paloma handed the pen and the two other items to the cashier. “I’ll take it along with these things.”

“Will you be needing ink?”

“Oh, yes. Thanks for reminding me.”

An easy smile flitted on the girl’s face. She then pivoted and went through a darkened doorway behind her. Paloma never remembered being young and carefree. Was that possible? Hopelessness always seemed such a part of her. Maybe it was the polio and her parents’ saddened faces that always reflected back. 

The girl returned to the register with two small bottles. “I have black or blue ink.”

“Black, please,” Paloma said.

“Basic black, can’t go wrong with that. Content should be more important than medium.”

Paloma smiled. “Are you an artist?”

“Me? No way.”

“Going to college?”

“Nah. Just got out of high school. Taking a year off. I’m in a band, write music.”

“That sounds exciting. What kind of music?”

“Garage folk.”

“Hmm.”

“Sort of like Difranco but edgier.”

Paloma nodded but didn’t have a clue. “By the way, I’m looking for a high school graduation gift for a girl. Have any ideas?”

The girl glanced around the store. “Let’s see…A journal with a calligraphy set is nice.”

“Yes, that does sound good.”

“Want me to pick one out?” 

“Could you do that for me?”

“No prob.”

“And get what you like. Don’t worry about the price.”

The girl left her perch and bounded down the aisle. Paloma thought how nice a string of pearls would be around Maddie’s neck or maybe a filigree ring on her finger. But she could never give Maddie anything. 

Moments later the girl returned and showed Paloma what she’d selected. “This journal has a leather cover.” The girl laughed. “Well, you know how I feel about leather. And the paper is linen, thick and substantial. Ink won’t bleed through, you know.”

Paloma looked deeply into the girl’s warm eyes. “I understand exactly.”

The girl leaned forward. “Even though we sell a lot of the calligraphy sets, they’re really crap, so I chose a Chinese lacquered pen.” She held it out.

Paloma pinched the pen and drew it close. The intricate workmanship was beautiful. A red scaled dragon and tiny lotus flowers swirled around the shaft. Slender lines of gold ink highlighted the flowers as if the piece were cloisonné.

The girl said excitedly, “No two are alike. They’re hand-painted. Oh, and I got another bottle of ink. What do you think?”

“Lovely.” Paloma handed back the pen. “Could you please put the gift in a separate bag?”

“Sure thing.”

The girl’s nimble fingers were long and tapered, a young woman’s hands. She wrapped the purchases and rung them up.

“That will be four hundred thirty dollars and ninety-three cents.”

Paloma paid her, then gathered the bags. Feeling for the journal, Paloma slid the package toward the girl. “These are for you.”

The girl blinked. “Huh? You’re giving me this?”

“They’re to write your music.”

The girl’s eyes shimmered as if tears were welling up.  

Paloma felt queasy. Was this effort to please backfiring? “I’m not upsetting you, am I? It’s just that –” Paloma stopped cold. She wanted to make Maddie happy, show her how important she was. But this poor girl wasn’t Maddie.   

Suddenly, a blazing smile broke across the girl’s face. “No, I love it. Sorry to get so emotional. I guess I’m in shock.”

“Honey,” Paloma said, feeling the word wrap around her heart, “I’m sure you get lots of gifts.”

“Not really.”

“Then I’m especially glad. Besides it’s just a token for helping me out. There’s only one small string attached.”

The girl looked expectantly.

Paloma’s voice cracked. “Just follow your dreams.”

Nodding solemnly, the girl said, “I will. I promise.”

Now it was Paloma’s turn to see the room through a watery haze. She turned and headed out. Substituting the girl for Maddie and believing this was a real conversation between mother and daughter was insane. 

But insanity never felt so good.

Chapter Thirteen

Shortly after noon, Max climbed the stairs to Chutney’s, a high scale restaurant located in a brownstone. Chutney’s was a Buffalo landmark, not so much for its historical significance, but for its private parties. Three stories of discrete dining areas lent themselves well to trysts of varying degrees of intimacy. Classical music played endlessly, as fireplaces, seven in all, tossed off flickering amber light regardless of the season. On Saturday night, tables with white linens and crystal were repositioned in long rows to accommodate the families of district court judges, city officials, and sport’s team owners, who, during the week lunched with young attractive women, clearly not their wives. Chutney’s, to Max, was a source of amusement. While he was neither a blue blood nor a high roller in either clout or cash, he knew many of the players, who always sent drinks his way. Max credited good-cop movies with his ersatz fame. 

Once his eyes adjusted to the darkened restaurant, Max saw his friend anchored at the end of the bar. Fifteen years previous, Tank had played center for the Buffalo Bills. While he still liked his meat rare and his women inventive, other vestiges of his previous life, the wild drinking and drugging, had fallen by the wayside. It was a year after a crushing injury, not on the field but in a Porsche hitting a wall at warp speed, when Tank had signed up to be an agent. Tank’s internal compass, finely tuned from growing up with nine siblings and having a mother who worked three jobs to send all her kids to college, was solid and unerring.   

Tank gave him a wide smile. “Yo, bro.”

Max shook Tank’s iron grip. “Thanks for meeting with me. What you drinking?”

“Since lunch is on you, I’m going top shelf.  Glenfiddich.”

The bartender wiped a glass. “Mr. Laurent, what can I get ya?”

Max looked at the fresh scrubbed kid. “Tom, right?”

The kid beamed. “You got it.”

Max’s headache was still in full force. “Water’s fine for now.”

“On the wagon?” Tank asked.

“No, still searching for it.”

“Yeah, you look dogged out.”

That was an understatement. Max turned and peered into the dining area. Only two tables were occupied. He led Tank to a distant corner table.

Settling in, Tank said, “Man, I envy you.”

“Why’s that?”

“No timetable.”

Max wanted to say “be careful what you wish for”. He missed the grueling hours at the Bureau, the paperwork, even the inside politics. “So how’s the Big Dick?”

Tank laughed. “Has us filling out time management forms.”

“For what purpose?”

“Who knows, but Kowalski won’t stand up to him.”

“You keeping up?”

“With the forms? Hell, no.”

Max smiled. Both Kowalski and the Big Dick had their cross to bear. Slapping Tank’s back, Max said, “You go dawg.”

“Someone has to fill your spot. Why not me?”

A cute blond waitress headed in their direction. “Good afternoon,” she said as she approached.

“Hey Sugar,” Tank said.

She smiled and handed over two leather bound menus.

“I already know what I want,” Tank said without taking his eyes off her.

Max braced himself. 

“We’ve met haven’t we?” Tank said.

The girl gave Tank a blank stare.

“At the car show. You were with your husband. The three of us were checking out the Beemer.”

“No, that couldn’t have been me. I’m not married.”

A lecherous grin spread across Tank’s face. “Really? Come to think of it, you’re much prettier than her.”

The young woman blushed.

Max shook his head. In record time, Tank had found an unmarried, interested woman.

She readied her pad and pencil. “What would you like?” She then stammered, “To order, I mean.”

“I always defer to the woman,” Tank said. “What would you suggest?”

She wrapped a strand of hair behind her ear. “The Fettuccini Alfredo’s good.”

“Creamy and rich?”

The girl’s blue eyes looked boldly at Tank. “Very,” she said. 

A pregnant paused followed.

Max smiled. It was like the French Open. The lobbing double entendres were making his head spin. Returning to the task at hand, Max said, “I’ll have the steak, rare, with a Caesar salad.”

The waitress tore her gaze away from Tank and scribbled on the pad.

“Double that, Sugar” Tank said.

After she finished jotting down the order, she reached for the menus. Tank rushed to pick them up. Teasingly, he held them out but didn’t let go. Their eyes met. “I’ll be sure to order the Fettuccini next time,” he said.

She beamed. “Promise?”

He loosened his grip. “Scout’s honor.” 

After the young woman walked away, Tank leaned toward Max. “What do you think?  Natural blonde?”

Max shrugged. “Odds are against it.”

“Yeah, you’re right. A lot of two tones running around. Still, it’s all good.”