Signwave (27 page)

I was at no-choice roulette. But I couldn't do anything with guesses—even if a couple might be good enough to bet on, none were a sure thing.

And there was only one way to get both zeros removed before the croupier spun the wheel.

—

R
honda Jayne Johnson wouldn't be the first whore to have switched gears when she found love, but that was one mystery that I'd never solve.

I didn't need to—whatever use she'd been to Benton was way past its sell-by date, but not her shares in his hedge fund.
Even if she didn't want the money, she wouldn't do anything that might make it seem she was a danger to him. Leaving her Web site intact wouldn't mean she was still working. And any hooker who worked off the Net would know all about minimizing risk. Today, pimps are for setting up Web sites.

Undercurrents
got a lot of angry e-mails about the “power play” that had been engineered in our area, but there was nothing to dig into—corruption was no stranger to this part of the world, and no “background check” on Benton would find anything he'd so much as lied about, let alone any crimes he'd committed.

There were plenty of “comments” in support, too. Some called it an “everybody wins” deal, some said it was “business as usual.” And some were outraged that this was taking public attention away from that disgusting logging road.

If any of those e-mails had gone into the
CONFIDENTIAL
bin at
Undercurrents
, the only thing that would have raised an eyebrow was a challenge to Benton's homosexual credentials. Around here, that would cause a stir. But he'd never actually
said
anything, just let people draw their own conclusions. For most, the fact that he'd never been married and lived with another man was enough.

And, really, so what? Being caught passing for gay in coastal Oregon might get you snubbed in some places, but it wouldn't bring out a lynch mob.

—

“S
ummer's over.”

“So what?” MaryLou said to me.

“I guess I thought you'd be going back to college.”

“For what?” the big girl said. “There's no money in women's softball. The pro league is a joke, and Olympic Gold
might
get me a few minutes of attention—big deal.”

“Remember when we went down to that college so you could score a yearbook?”

“Sure.”

“Well, wasn't that woman supposed to be getting some kind of advanced degree, so she could coach?”

“Yeah. But she wasn't an athlete. She was all about ‘monetizing.' You know, getting to be an agent, or a financial planner for some of the moneymakers who went pro.”

“Couldn't you…?”

“If it was representing females, they'd have to be real superstars to make any money. Males, I'd never get a shot. Anyway, that's not me. I'm not a negotiator.”

No, you're not
, I thought to myself.
It's not as if you tried to talk Cameron Taft out of using your little sister—you just shot him in the head
.

“Wouldn't a degree mean you could make more money, no matter what kind of job you wanted?”

“It would,” MaryLou said, her tone telling me that she'd thought all this through. “And it wouldn't have to be a degree from a softball powerhouse. I know the game, inside out. There's no reason why I couldn't coach. High school, not college.”

“You'd still—”

“I've only got the one more year left. I could finish that anywhere. Or I could take a year off, if I wanted.”

“I guess that's right. But would they hold your scholarship…?”

“They'd hold it for ten years, once they saw I could still bring it,” the big girl said. Not bragging, stating a fact. A fact that didn't seem to make her all that happy.

“You could coach here,” Mack said. “The high school would probably crawl through five miles of broken glass to get you.”

“Here? After…after what happened?”

“Why not?” Dolly said, in her “How far do you want to take it?” voice.

“Yeah. Why not?” Franklin finally spoke.

“I thought we were here to talk about Bridgette's shop,” MaryLou said.

—

K
haki was one hell of a scout.

The parcel of land Mack bought was slightly less than a half-acre, on a sloping, wooded hill. The owner couldn't wait to sell it: Mud slides are so common around here that insurance on the houses built on that hill is ridiculous. Plus, anyone fool enough to build there would have to walk up a hill to get to their own house.

The architectural plan Dolly got someone to do for her showed a tiny little house, with a “widow's walk” tower sticking out of the top. The whole place was six hundred square feet, so the tower would only take one person at a time—it looked like a long TV antenna growing out of the roof.

Bridgette was a jewelry designer. No shortage of those around here, but she'd built up a serious reputation already. Not just for her craftsmanship, but for the designing itself—there's nothing a woman likes better than hearing, “I never saw one like that!” about her necklace. Or earrings. Or bracelet…It didn't matter, because if Bridgette made it there never was going to be another one, ever. That's why she called the little shop One of One—everything she turned out was the ultra-max of “limited edition.”

The little house would be more than spacious enough for working on her designs, and propane could provide all the power easily enough. If anyone wanted to make the trek, they could see whatever was on display. And going to all that trouble would only add to the cachet—that's what Dolly said.

Bridgette could also do a showing whenever she had enough
pieces ready—there was always empty storefront space, and a month's rent would be better than waiting for someone to actually open up a business in most of them.

“We could do it,” Franklin said, more confidence vibrating in his voice than I'd ever heard. “A parcel that size, we'd have to cut a lot of timber, but it wouldn't go to waste. I know we couldn't get a truck up there, but there's a way to drag the wood out. You use chains, and make this kind of slide. Mr. Spyros showed me how to do it. We get a few jobs like that every year.”

“A slab foundation,” Mack said. “But it could be tricky, getting it all level.”

“Not that much trouble,” Franklin assured him.

MaryLou stood up and put her hand on Franklin's shoulder.

Dolly was smiling with deep, true pleasure.

I was thinking about what kind of intel Conrad could pick up from that tower.

—

I
figured on waiting a couple of months, so working on Bridgette's shop was perfect in a lot of ways.

Franklin could only work nights and weekends, but MaryLou was with me almost every day.

A couple of times, Mack walked up with a whole crowd of that “permanent homeless” crew of teenagers he watched over. Their leader, a redhead named Timmy, had already met me, and I recognized a few of his crew, so no tension there. And nobody asked MaryLou any questions, either because Mack had told them not to, or because the survival skills they'd been forced to develop had kicked in.

I guess half the town owed Dolly favors. People just showed up with their tools. There was an electrician, a plumber, four beefy guys with a sewage tank, Martin and Johnny harassing
Mack with questions about Bridgette's taste in plantings…they never stopped coming.

“She doesn't know about this?” Franklin asked Mack.

“Not a clue,” he responded. “It's got to be a surprise.”

“But…but what if she doesn't like it?”

MaryLou cracked him across the back of his head hard enough to cause brain damage in any of the awed teenagers. “She'll
love
it, you mope! When she sees what went into this, she'll get weak in the knees, I promise you.”

Franklin blinked a couple of times. Not from MaryLou's slap—that probably hadn't even registered—but from the thinking I could
see
him doing.

You get the message yet?
I thought to myself.

“Oh,
that's
the truth,” Dolly backed up MaryLou. Whenever I was going someplace for the day, I would ask Dolly if she wanted me to bring her back anything. Her answer was always the same: “A surprise!”

—

I
was sitting by myself on a big chunk of timber that would have to be cut a few more times before it could go down the hill, trying to work through all the possible outcomes before I moved.

“I wish I could do something like that,” Franklin said, taking a seat next to me.

“You just
did
something like that,” I told him, puzzled at the wistful note in his thunder-bass voice.

“I don't mean build something. I know I can do that, Mist—Dell. It's the…I don't know how to say it, exactly…the ‘surprise' thing. Mack, he's so excited to be doing this, right? Because it's going to make Bridgette real happy.”

“Sure…”

“See, making Bridgette happy, that makes
him
happy. If I could make MaryLou happy, it would make
me
happy. But I don't know anything I could do. Not like this, I mean,” he said, swiveling his head to take in the whole scope of the work everyone had put in.

“Franklin…Uh, you're talking to the wrong man about this. You think
I
knew that women love surprises before Dolly told me? No. How would I? Me, I don't like surprises. So how could I…?”

“Why don't you like surprises?”

The more I talk, the less I help
, I thought to myself. How could I explain to Franklin that when I was his age there was no such thing as a
good
surprise?

“I'm not sure,” I said, feeling my way. “I just don't. Never did.”

“You think it's because you're a man?”

“That'd be the easy way out, Franklin. But I haven't known enough women to say they
all
like surprises. I know Dolly does, because she said so. A million times. But…?”

“Like MaryLou just said to me, right?”

I just nodded. If Franklin was “retarded,” I'd hate to meet a genius. I guess he just fell into the role because it was an easier one to play. Maybe he was slower to
get
things, but once he got them, they were locked down.

I remember Franklin vehemently saying that MaryLou just
couldn't
be gay. They went to the prom together. He loved her. Case closed.

I cursed myself for a fool, but I knew I owed the big man a try. “Franklin, you know what I think? I think
some
women love surprises, but you can't be sure about any of them unless they find a way to tell you they do.”

“I know. I know now, anyway. But, see, Mack, he didn't only know his wife loved surprises, he even knew what kind of surprise she'd really like.”

“Maybe you do, too,” I said. “About MaryLou, I mean.”

“Huh?”

“Well, you know you can build a house, right? Not by yourself, but with everyone pitching in to help. Like we're doing now.”

“But how could I…?”

“Franklin, whatever you're about to say is wrong. All those permits and code-compliance things, Dolly knows how to get them. Or get them
done
, anyway. You think Mack wouldn't help you? Or even that gang of kids he brought along?”

“But even if they did…I mean, even if I could get a terrific house, why do you think MaryLou would like that for a surprise, Dell?”

“I think she just
told
you she would, my friend.”

I got up. Franklin stayed where he was. Probably had some thinking of his own to do.

—

“I
'm scared of guns,” Johnny said the next evening. “But Martin thinks we should have one, so we agreed…to ask you about it, I mean.”

I didn't waste my time with any “Why me?” stuff. They weren't wrong, and we all knew it.

“I think it's probably a good idea,” I said, picking my words carefully. “You live way out of town, and stupid people get stupid ideas.”

“What stupid people?” Johnny demanded.

“There's no shortage of them,” I said, catching Martin's nod out of the corner of my eye. “Especially with the coast becoming the meth capital of the country.”

“We've never had any—”

“You asked me if I thought it was a good idea. I said it was. I don't want to argue with you, okay?”

“That's just the way Johnny talks,” Martin said. “It sounds like he's starting an argument, but he's just making sure you understand before you go. We already agreed between us. That you'd know better than we would about this. And Dolly…”

His voice trailed off. I already figured this whole thing was my wife's idea. Not getting a gun, but settling a…disagreement between her two friends. Martin probably was dead-set on getting a firearm, and Johnny was probably not—it'd be just like Dolly to tell them to get some kind of independent arbiter. And nominate me for the job.

“You're talking about something for the house? For the store? To carry around?”

“Well, you're the expert,” Johnny said, just short of waspish.

“You'll never need a gun for the store,” I said. But even though Johnny was glad to hear that, he had to be himself, so:

“Why is that?”

“Because if someone wants to rob your store—during business hours, I mean, not some night-working burglar—the last thing you want to do is endanger your customers. It's just money. You can always get more money.”

“And we never keep much cash in the shop, either,” Martin said. “Most people pay by debit card, or a check. There's even an app if they want to—”

“Good,” I cut in, thinking,
That's one down
. “Carrying a gun doesn't make any sense, either. Nobody's after you, nobody's going to pull a broad-daylight carjack, not around here. That's for idiots who go out looking for an old lady driving a Lincoln. They don't have a plan, they don't even know what to do with the car. Or a fool so wasted that he points a gun at someone because he doesn't have the money to get a cab ride home.”