Project Produce (23 page)

I decided to turn around and come back tomorrow when a movement caught my eye. A little girl crouched by what had to be her brother as they shared a half-eaten hot dog that looked like it had come straight out of a trash can. For every bite she took, she fed him two. Little kids probably had a harder time sleeping when they were hungry.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. Back in Cutesville, we didn’t have homeless people. If someone needed a hand, they got it. I’d never witnessed actual families with children who were homeless. Suddenly my life didn’t seem quite so bad.

The Brat Pack had agreed to help me, but only if something good came out of my payback episodes. At the time I’d thought it would be a pain, but now I just wanted to do something. Anything. These poor people needed help much more than I needed to retaliate. I took a deep breath and shuffled over to the children. God, why hadn’t I thought to bring some blankets?

People began to stir, and soon, I’d managed to wake just about everyone.
Good going, Cal
. An old man, carrying a bottle of wine in a paper bag and wearing a moth-eaten, undoubtedly flea-ridden coat, even scurried away into the shadows of the warehouse.

“I’m not here to hurt anyone, I just want to help,” I said as I looked into the wide eyes of the dirty faces scrutinizing me. Which ones were homeless and which ones were the phony cronies the Brat Pack had put in place for my protection? I couldn’t tell, so I addressed them all.

“Y-You want to help us?” asked the brown-eyed little girl. A shred of innocence lingered in her young eyes, thank God. Maybe she still had a chance of making it.

I knelt beside her, and a woman about my age with dead eyes pulled her close. Other than that, the woman showed no emotion. She didn’t look as though she had felt anything for a very long time. My heart went out to her. I doubted I could be that strong for anyone. Then again, I didn’t have a child to think about.

“Yes, sweetie. I really do.” I set my sack of groceries on the ground, so glad I’d gone back for that pack of cookies. Yes, I included lots of produce. The
real
kind of produce. But this child probably hadn’t had a cookie since before her baby teeth started to fall out. “I have something for you.” I looked around, and a few more bodies stepped out of the shadows, drawing closer. “For all of you.”

“What do we have to do to get it?” asked a hard-looking man with a beard that didn’t quite cover his gaunt cheeks. He stood closer to the woman and child as he added a small piece of rotting wood to the fire. The fire snapped, and a stream of black smoke trickled into the air. Several pairs of hands shot out and hovered over the trash can, until the measly flame grew to a pathetic flicker once again.

“Nothing,” I answered. The man’s face remained rigid, but when I looked at the woman and repeated, “Absolutely nothing,” a spark of hope ignited in her lifeless blue eyes. At one time she might have been pretty, but hard times had obviously taken a toll on her. Her fingers clenched and unclenched as her gaze darted between the grocery bag and me.

“Go ahead. Take it, please.” I nodded, stepping back.

“Can I, Mama?” The little girl, engulfed in what had to be her mother’s coat, hat, and gloves, stared up at the woman with the biggest brown saucers I’d ever seen, as though I’d just given her the most valuable present in the world.

In a way, I guess I had.

The mother nodded, and I swallowed another lump. The little girl carefully opened the paper bag and pulled out the cookies then gasped so loud it echoed off the warehouse behind her. The woman stared at all the food for a long moment, her brow buckling, then she stepped back and softly called to the others. “It’s okay. Come get your share.”

She didn’t take a single item for herself, even though her tattered, threadbare clothes hung from her haggard frame. She had to be hungry and cold, but still she stood back, letting others go first. Whatever had happened to her had to be so much worse than being used by a man and embarrassed by naked pictures of herself on the Internet, yet she hadn’t grown mean or selfish. She’d kept her family together and found a way to survive.

My troubles were insignificant in the grand scheme of things. I pulled off my hat and mittens and handed them to the little boy, who snatched them out of my hands and ran away as though he thought I would change my mind. Then I slipped off my Eskimo parka and wrapped it around the woman’s shoulders. She hopped nearly a foot and then blinked furiously but not enough to stop a single tear from rolling down her cheek.

“Th-Thank you,” she said in barely more than a whisper.

My own eyes filled, and I gave her a wobbly smile as I hugged my middle, shivering slightly in the February night air. “Y-You’re welcome. Now if I had a pitcher of Bahama Mamas and some mac and cheese, I could really show you a good time.” I chuckled, but my laugh sounded forced to my own ears.

“Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no Labamba Ramas, but I’ll take that bag of dried fruit,” a bag lady said, scratching her head under a tattered cap as she snagged the fruit. “Need some meat on my bones for my man over there.” She jerked her head in the direction of a cardboard tent housing the wino in the moth-eaten coat. “Gotta keep warm, ya know.” She shot me a toothless grin and then shuffled off to crawl under the tent and snuggle up to ‘her man.’

I couldn’t help grinning back.
Hey, whatever works
, I thought, amazed that even someone in this bad a situation could find someone to snuggle up to.

The hard man added another piece of wood to the fire. I started to walk away, almost forgetting why I was there in the first place, when the brief flame illuminated something shiny over by the warehouse. I changed directions, edging closer to the entrance, when a paper bag with a wine bottle sticking out caught my attention. Only the hand holding the bottle had brown spots and wrinkles, and black leather encased the arm attached to the hand. Dylan’s black leather. But that wasn’t Dylan.

I blinked. So he
had
seen me leave my apartment and followed me just as I’d suspected. Then another thought hit me. If Dylan gave his coat to Mr. Wino, then what was he wearing, and who in God’s name was Ms. Toothless Bag Lady snuggling with?

I blinked again.
No way
. I spun around and studied the tent closer. The pointy tip of one monstrous snakeskin boot poked out from beneath the end of one smelly, flea-ridden coat.

Snort!
Priceless. Absolutely priceless. Lack of sleep
and
flea bites. Things had turned out better than I’d expected. Now that I’d done some good, I felt perfectly justified over the turn of events.

“I’d say that’s enough payback for one night, wouldn’t you?” whispered a male voice beside me.

I jumped and then looked into the face of a dirty bum. Not Dylan, but a face way too full and healthy to be a real bum. The phony crony winked, and I grinned wide, feeling a whole lot better now.

“It’s a start,” I said. “Just a start.”

***

Riiiiiing!

“What, who?” I pried one eye open.

Riiiiiing!

“Who, what?” I pried the other eye open.

Riiiiiing!

I uncrossed my eyes and focused on the clock. Six A.M.! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, who called at six A.M.?

Riiiiiing!

“Oh, shut up, already, I’m coming.” I struggled out of bed, checked the caller ID, then snatched the phone off the counter in the kitchen. “What.”

“Good morning to you, too,” came a sexy male voice over the phone, followed by a scratching noise. “Get up on the wrong side of the bed?”

“Dukeypoo, what are you doing, calling me this early?” I collapsed onto a chair and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. If you could call two measly hours sleep.

“Just a friend checking in to see how you’re doing before you head off to class.”
Scratch
.
Scratch
. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t dare assume we’re anything more.” He sounded cool, obviously still ticked over the distance I’d put between us after that kiss on the ice. Well, that made us even, because I was still miffed over his siccing the Brat Pack on me.

“At six A.M.?” I croaked in my not-used-to-talking-this-freaking-early voice.

“Figured you were getting ready for class.”
Scratch
.
Scratch
. “And I have an early doctor’s appointment.”

“Anything serious?” I asked. “And what’s that scratching noise? Did you get a cat?”

“No.” He grunted. “Got into a little scuffle while working and then woke up this morning with a rash on my... anyway, I’m having it checked out.” He cleared his throat. “So, is everything okay? Any more crazy things happen I should know about?”
Scratch
.
Scratch
.
Scratch
.

I tried hard to stifle my laughter, but a little snicker slipped out as I pictured him scratching at flea bites while fighting off gummy, toothless kisses last night. “Nope. Everything’s fine, other than a sudden case of insomnia.”

“They’ve got pills for that, you know.”

“I don’t like taking pills, and I’ve never been one to just lie around when I can’t sleep. Gotta do something to tire myself out.”

“Try reading and drinking a glass of warm milk like most normal people,” he mumbled.

“What was that? I didn’t quite catch the last part?” I grinned, enjoying this. And that was the only reason I was grinning. It had absolutely nothing to do with hearing his voice again. Nothing at all.

“I said, try reading a book and drinking a glass of warm milk.”
Scratch
.

“Hmmm, fresh out of books.”

“Just try the warm milk next time, okay? Or call me. I can’t sleep lately, either.”

“Why’s that?” This ought to be good.

“Just a pain-in-the-ass case I’m working on.”

“Really. Then why bother?”

He hesitated, then sighed. “Because there’s something strangely appealing about this case. I’m hoping it will be worth it in the end, if I survive.”

“Oh, well....”
What could I say to that?

Scratch
.
Scratch
. “Christ, I gotta go.”

Snort
. “Good luck with your case and the doctor.”

“Thanks. I’m beginning to think I’ll need all the luck I can get. Stay out of trouble, would ya?”

“I can’t promise anything. Trouble seems to follow me around lately. Don’t know why.” I stifled a giggle.

“Just try.”
Scratch
.
Scratch
. Curse. Dial tone.

I hung up the phone, sang the lyrics to Cat Scratch Fever, then burst out laughing, suddenly wide awake and exhilarated. Who said payback was a bitch? I was having the time of my life, even if Dylan wasn’t.

Note to self: Always wash produce thoroughly. God only knows where it’s been
.

***

Episode Two: Mean Mama cleans up Fisherman’s Wharf at three A.M.

I stabbed another piece of trash with a metal poker and put it in the nearly-full trash bag I carried. Still no sign of Dylan.

“If you don’t show, I’ll give you more than Cat Scratch Fever, Zuc,” I grumbled, then yawned, nowhere near awake, even after I’d consumed a whole pot of coffee. These episodes were killing me.

A cold sea breeze blew into the harbor, carrying with it the smell of dead fish, and I shivered. I couldn’t afford a new coat. Wouldn’t need one soon, with spring right around the corner, so I’d opted for layers. Only now, I wish I’d added another fleece.

I walked down the dock a bit further, searching for more trash. This had to be one of my worst ideas to date. What if the Brat Pack forgot to set the stage with their phony cronies? I looked left, then right, but didn’t see anyone. Then again, that was the point. Still, what if the mob hung out here? I took a step back, my heart imitating a bass drum. What if Professor Butthead had connections and had hired a hit man to off me because he’d found out I’d called him a pickle?

Cement shoes, here I come
.

A boat’s horn wailed right beside me. “Ahhhhhh!” I jumped a foot, dropping the trash bag and poker. Jeesh, I had to stop watching the Sopranos.

I turned around and ran smack dab into a smelly sailor, and the stench of whiskey blasted me in the face. The bass drum in my chest turned into a whole percussion section as I raised my fists and danced on the balls of my feet. My insecurity bounced right along with me as I jabbed left, left, right at the air. “Back off, buster. I know ka-ra-tay.”

He stared at me with heavy-lidded eyes and slurred, “But you’re boxing.”

“Uh, right.” My mind raced for a plausible explanation. “It’s kinda like kick boxing, only it’s called karate boxing.” I sliced the air furiously, looking more like I was making the sign of the cross, then I threw a right hook. “Ye-haw!”

The drunk swayed at just the right moment, and I missed. “Don’t you mean hi-yah?” A goofy grin spread over his face.

Stupid, stupid, Callie
. “Where I come from we say ye-haw. It’s the country version of karate boxing.”

“Got it.” He opened his half-closed eyes, for just a moment, and winked then slurred in a loud voice, “Whatcha doin’, pretty lady?”

Another phony crony, thank God
. He had me worried. I relaxed and dropped my fists, then I raised my voice to match his. “Just trying to do my part in serving the community. Not sure it’s working, though.” I stared around the docks. Maybe he’d seen Dylan.

He nodded. “Oh, it’s working.” He tipped his head slightly in the direction behind him. So that’s where Hot Britches was hiding. “Well, I’m part of the community, honey. Why don’t you come serve me?” He reached out three times before he snagged my arm and pretended to try to pull me over to a dinghy by a big dumpster.

I freed my arm and took a step back. “Laying it on a little thick, there, aren’t you pal?” I whispered.

“Just trying to get a rise out of Detective Cabrizzi. He moved over by the dumpster,” he whispered back. “The dumpster full of fishguts.”