The Very Thought of You (12 page)

Molly began the steep climb to 3C. Midway up the first flight, she met Mrs. Z on her way down.

“Ah, thank God, it's you and not … ” Mrs. Z, her gray hair coiled in a bun and clothed in a black dress and laced-up black stout-heeled grandma shoes, squeezed Molly's arm.

A second wave of guilt sprouted like a poisoned weed in Molly's chest. Who else but Nick could Mrs. Z mean? Had he found out about the meeting? He knew about the tenants' association. She glanced over her shoulder and half expected him to burst through the door and accuse her of sedition.

“We're nine tonight, including the big troublemaker from last time. You use your Parliament to keep him in line.”

Parliament?

“Oh, what we talked about earlier. Sure.” Molly felt strong misgivings, and not for the first time. She never intended to aid in fomenting a revolution. Nor did she consider it her place to act as a mediator in the dispute between the tenants and Nick. On the drive down the block, she'd decided to adopt the role of neutral observer and to limit her contribution to keeping the meeting on track and civil. With luck, that wouldn't prove any more difficult than riding a unicycle. Backwards.

“They're waiting in the apartment.” Mrs. Zamoulian, who kept a claw-like grip on Molly's arm, led her up the steps. “Watch where you walk. The whole staircase is ready to fall down — God forbid — and maroon us up there. I told my husband — he should rest in peace — rent something on the ground floor. No, he wanted the exercise.” She shrugged. “Now I climb instead.”

At the second floor, she paused. “I need to find my breath.”

“Take your time. Would you like to sit down?”

“What sit?” Mrs. Z waved away the suggestion. With her tiny stature and beak-like nose, she reminded Molly of a sparrow, its eyes alight with fire. The woman must be at least seventy-five, if not more, but was still feisty.

Another flight led to the final landing. A skylight threaded with chicken wire beamed in enough filtered light to keep alive a small jungle of potted plants. Someone had clearly made an effort to improve the ambiance. Probably not Nick since he intended to tear the place down.

Mrs. Z announced a return to normal breathing then grasped Molly's hand. They proceeded to her apartment. The door to it stood open. Raised voices escaped into the hall.

“You're a crackpot, Duncan.”

“And who are you? Albert Einstein?”

“If you continue to threaten Mancini, he'll have the cops haul you out of here on your ass. You might even end up doing time.”

“Says who?”

“Says the guy you're threatening. Go on and give him a good reason to kick us all into the street.”

“I tried to move this thing along. If he thinks we're a bunch of patsies, he'll rip the roof off right over our heads. Then you'll all be beggin' for his lousy buyout. We gotta show him we're tough. Either he caves or else. So whadda ya care, ya big doofus?”

“I still live here. That's what I care. Watch who you call a doofus.”

Oh, great. A pre-meeting rumble.

Molly entered the apartment on the heels of Mrs. Z. A dark purple plush sofa festooned with white crocheted doilies, two overstuffed matching armchairs, and four straight-back wooden ones of the kitchen variety pretty much filled the small living room. An ivy plant sat atop a wrought iron stand and occupied one corner. In another, an electric floor fan circulated dead air through the room. Pictures of bucolic hunting scenes hung on the walls. She wondered if Mrs. Z was the one who'd gussied up the landing with plants.

The occupants, five women and three men, stared at Molly from their respective seats. A couple of the women offered a weak smile.

Mrs. Z rattled off a bunch of names, rendered mostly unintelligible by her accent. Molly recognized a few people who patronized the clinic and remembered them mostly by their ailments.

“Come, sit.” Mrs. Z proffered the lone empty chair. “Then we start.”

Molly settled into the close-knit circle and couldn't help rubbing shoulders with the man on her left. Was he the crackpot or the doofus? His dark hair was pulled back in a straggly ponytail and he wore a T-shirt extolling the virtues of Kentucky bourbon. The ripped-out sleeves gave him an excuse to expose Mr. Universe-sized toned muscles. He could probably dismantle the entire building if he wanted to. She pegged him as Duncan, the intimidator.

“Okay, I make agenda.” Mrs. Z held aloft a piece of lined paper. “First thing we do — ”

“I won't settle for no twenty-five grand.”

The speaker was one of the two other men in the room. He'd been to the clinic twice over the past year. Hemorrhoids.

“Me neither.” A woman Molly recognized as having arthritic knees chimed in.

“What are we? Suckers?”

“No shittin' way.”

“I say we get a lawyer.”

“Yeah, and who's gonna pay 'im?”

Mrs. Z, who'd either run out of chairs or didn't want one, stood over her little flock and waved her agenda.

“We can discuss … ”

“Screw 'im … ”

“ … ten ways to Sunday.”

Molly's head swiveled from person to person. This might be the time to introduce her
Parliament
, as Mrs. Z referred to it. She cleared her throat.

“ … arrange a little accident.”

Accident?

The man sitting beside her, who'd made the threat, could add thug to his resume. Molly frowned. “That's not a very good idea.”

Nine pairs of eyes latched onto hers, their gaze so intense it made her feel as if she crashed a local coven.

“What's your stake in this here thing?” Her seatmate, who looked more than capable of arranging an accident, spoke directly into her face. It didn't help that he'd eaten something garlicky for dinner.

Molly twisted away from him. “Mrs. Z invited me to attend.” She addressed the other members of the group. “I'm only here to keep the meeting on track.” As if it bore any resemblance to a meeting and not a free-for-all. “It would help if, before you spoke, you raised your hand so the chair can recognize you.” Was it possible they had any clue as to what “chair,” in the context of a meeting, meant, other than somewhere to park their rear ends? “Just don't all speak at the same time.”

“Thank you, dear.” A woman, who only last week limped into the clinic for a follow-up visit for a severe case of gout, nodded. She always insisted on paying five dollars.

“I hear your frustration.” Molly almost choked on the understatement. “There are more productive ways to address your situation than engaging in a physical … ah … encounter with Mr. Mancini.” It felt strange to defend Nick when she agreed with the tenants about not accepting his niggling offer. However, bodily harm? To be fair, he had the law on his side. Legally, he wasn't compelled to make an offer. The whole thing had become way too complicated.

“Says who?”

“Mr … ” Molly craned her neck so she could look at the nemesis to her left without actually having to move any closer to him.

“Serk. Why don't you call me Duncan?” By way of invitation, he made a clicking sound with his tongue.

“Mr. Serk, it might help your cause if you adopted a more conciliatory attitude. If you showed a willingness to negotiate in good faith, perhaps Mr. Mancini might show more generosity.” Nick hadn't seemed receptive to bumping up his offer, but it might rein in Mr. Serk if he thought it possible. Was there some way to warn Nick about Serk's threats and that trouble might be headed toward him — maybe even violence — without admitting she'd met with his tenants?

“I knew Molly would understand,” Mrs. Z announced. “She can teach us all about negotiate.”

“There's really not much to learn. Just present your side in a calm, clear manner and let Mr. Mancini present his. Perhaps you should consider inviting him to your next meeting.”

“No damn way.” Duncan Serk stamped his foot so hard the whole apartment seemed to shudder.

“It sounds to me like a very good idea,” the arthritic lady chirped.

That garnered several nods of approval.

“What are you people anyway, stupid? You think the army gives away its attack plan to the enemy?” Serk, who possessed the eyes of a ferret and the demeanor of a rhino, glared at the people sitting around the room. No one contradicted him.

Would Serk's “attack plan” land Nick in the clinic, this time as a patient? “Perhaps you might form a negotiating committee. Two or three of you. You also might consider being a bit more flexible.”

“What is this flexible?” Mrs. Z asked.

“It means you bargain. Both sides are stuck in their groove right now. You should try to reach some sort of agreement. Be pleasant when you speak with him.” The last remark was meant for Serk, but she didn't dare direct it at him for fear of becoming his proxy punching bag.

Mrs. Z nodded. “Just like in the saying, ‘You catch more bees with honey. You don't need gun.'”

“Talk ain't gonna get us no hundred grand.” Duncan Serk sprang to his feet and pushed through the small opening between his chair and Molly's, almost knocking her off her seat. He stalked toward the doorway. “Talk never got no one nothin'. Only these.” His beefy hands curled into fists. “Next thing, you'll be bakin' the asshole cookies. What Mancini deserves is to have his nose mashed into his face.” He did a little shadow boxing, then stomped out and headed toward the stairs.

The room fell completely silent.

Nick pulled his car in behind the van and cut the motor. Across the street, his construction project sat behind the temporary security fence he had erected to keep out the curious and anyone else who had no business on the site. The area no longer resembled a giant black hole. The remaining façade of the corner warehouse had been removed without difficulty and the foundation reinforced. The guys had worked hard to get the ground floor and framework started. Same with the third parcel. If he settled with the tenants in the next couple of weeks, he felt confident he could bring the whole project in without a major delay.

Thinking about the tenants brought his gaze to the occupied building. Of the ten units, only two — 1A and 3C — showed any light. That struck him as odd. He checked his watch. 8:47. At their age, most of them should be home watching TV. Two younger men, both security guards, rented apartments on the second floor and worked the night shift. So did the guy who rented the basement apartment. He'd driven by a couple of evenings the week before, and the front of the place had been pretty well lit up. He disengaged his seat belt and exited the car. Someone had parked in the space beside his trailer. Either they were hunkered down in the dark and sleeping, visiting in the building, or otherwise up to no good. Maybe the guy in the van he hired to keep an eye on his construction site had noticed who commandeered his spot.

He walked over to the van and peered through the driver's side window. He expected to see someone inside. Instead, the front seat was unoccupied. Curtains covered the side windows. Even angling his head three different ways, he couldn't see into the entire rear compartment.

Two weeks ago, someone had begun ongoing sabotage of his condo site. Holes had been drilled in exposed studs, building materials destroyed or stolen. A fire had consumed part of the framework of a ground floor unit. The guy who ran the motel had called it in to the fire department. Nick couldn't remember anyone bearing him a grudge, so it seemed natural to focus on some of his tenants.

He assumed the older ones were retired or lived on social security. Or maybe collected small pensions or disability checks. A couple of the younger guys looked rough. He hadn't a clue how they made the rent, but since they did, they must work. Or got money another way, which he didn't like to think about.

He went around to the passenger's side of the van and knocked on the glass. No response. Shit. He'd hired the guy with the expectation he'd stick with the job. When he'd checked last week, the man had binoculars and two cameras, each with a telescopic lens. Now he was AWOL and only two hours into an all-night shift. Nick rapped again. Nothing. He smacked the window hard with the palm of his hand.

He returned to his car and pulled a flashlight out of the glove compartment. He crossed the street and pulled aside an edge of the windscreen and shone the beam through the chain link into the construction site. Building materials, bundled and ready for future use, and a pair of steel beams sat at the far end of the ground floor.

Satisfied everything seemed in order, he moved over to his trailer. He turned the beam on the rear end of the car parked beside it — a Chevy — and illuminated a California license plate. Below it, on the bumper, a sticker read KEEP AMERICA WORKING. Nice touch. He was sure they were grateful in Detroit. However, he doubted the sentiment belonged to anyone bent on sabotage. Buying a domestic car in a market flooded with foreign makes might appeal more to someone like Molly.
Molly.
Driving American seemed to go right along with the way she thought.

He tried to remember what kind of vehicle she'd arrived in when they met on Sunday morning. He'd only become aware of her when she'd approached his car. Once she'd settled inside, he didn't think about what make or model she drove. Now, while he stood here in the dark playing detective, her eyes, her lips, her lithe, slender body flooded his mind. If the car belonged to Molly, she was inside the building —
his
building — and probably pushing a million-dollar agenda at another association meeting.

He snapped off the flashlight and backed up for a better view of the apartments. He scratched off 1A as the meeting place. Raised shades provided an almost unobstructed view of the living room. Empty. That left only the top floor apartment: 3C. Sound escaped through the open windows, but not loud enough for him to clearly distinguish any words. A couple of women sat with their backs to the street. Neither had Molly's style or shade of hair. That didn't mean she wasn't there, leading a seminar on extortion. Maybe he should just crash the meeting. He could give his own pep talk on the ethics of sucking up money when you hadn't earned it.