Time's Up (17 page)

“Negative.” The glee was unmistakable in Lince's secretary's voice. “The Traffic Enforcement Bureau will not remove a boot without payment. There is no protocol for mistakes.”

“That your boss?” Poppa Dozen said. “Damn, girl. You need a new job.”

He laughed. “You'll be looking for one tomorrow, that's for damn sure.”

“You, too, smart ass.”
Talk about a crash-and-burn.

Poppa Dozen twirled the switchblade between his fingers and looked down at the tire. “What if I punch it—let the air out? I can change a tire in two flat.”

“Nope,” I said. “The jaws are tight and the plate's secure—no access to the lug nuts.”

“Bitch, I'm sticking my neck out for you, and this is what you give me? Negativity?”

“Seriously? Try moving the car next time, Mr. Save-the-Environment.”

“You got no mofo idea—”

“Ohmigod! Ohmigod! I can see him coming through the glass doors!” scream-whispered one of the mini-Mafia.

“Spread out,” the little one ordered. “Pay attention to where you are, and don't break the visual plane! No cross-cut angles.”

Out of the glass doors and from between the marble pillars of City Hall, strode His Honor, Mayor Talbott Cottle Coles. The new breed of politician—slim, six-foot, one-sixty-five, blandly attractive with a
Zoom!
white smile and salt-and-pepper hair.

Coles's hair-trigger temper and penchant for quoting
The Untouchables
made him a media darling. Bluster and attitude are always embraced when it's for the
correct
side. Otherwise he'd have been tarred and feathered while they wound his guts out inch by inch on an intestinal crank.

He started down the flat stone steps, safely surrounded by his staff of Brooks Brothers–and J.Crew–suited clones, trailed by two goons in black. The little Italian girl juked her way to him like Walter Payton and blocked his path on the first landing.

“Hiya. I'm Allegra Luciana Maria Gaccione from Westwood College, and I'd like to interview you about the increasing tuition costs of junior college,” she said in less time than it took a Southerner to spit.

Coles shot a look of irritation at one of his aides, then smiled down at Allegra. He turned to face the smartphone camera Allegra's friend was recording them with. A consummate professional, he waited a moment and said, “Hello, Westwood College. Talbott Cottle Coles here, and where there's a will there's a way. Westwood's a place where
you
can succeed.” He gave a thumbs-up.

A small crowd formed around the mayor's latest camera-op flirtation.

“An interview, please!” Allegra said.

“I like your moxie, young lady.” He snapped his fingers at a woman in a navy pantsuit with an idiotic retro droopy bow. “Give her ten minutes, next week.”

The aide, a fake smile plastered on her face, opened her date book and tried to wrangle Allegra off to the side.

“How'm I gonna know you won't back out?” Allegra said. “I got some pretty tough questions.”

“You wound me.” Coles clutched his jacket at about his heart. “No faith in your humble public servant?”

The crowd, growing larger by the second, hooted and clapped, eating it up.

“But, Your Honor, sir,” Allegra said. “Can't you just answer a couple a questions right now?”

Again, he looked directly at the camera instead of Allegra and said, “I'd love to, Ms. Gaccione, but I'm on my way to a very important meeting.”

Instant name recall.
The Red Bull gurgled loudly in my stomach.

“Nice.” Poppa Dozen nodded toward my midsection. “Your belly knows it even if your brain don't.” He closed the blade, swapping it in his jacket for a cell phone. “You on your own.” He walked away toward the front of the vehicle, phone at his ear.

Allegra sidestep-shuffled to stay in front of Coles. “If ya don't mind me askin', who's so's important, you don't have time for your constituency?”

“Just between you and me?” He gave Allegra a spirited wink. “How about the vice president of the United States.”

“Yeah, okay,” Allegra stepped aside, nodding. “For him—I'll take a rain check.”

The crowds parted as the mayor of Chicago and his minions came down the steps. I stood in front of the limo, reflective Loogie vest blazing shamelessly in the sun.

Coles eyed me curiously. “And who do we have here?”

“Agent McGrane, sir.” I stepped to the side.

His mouth opened at the sight of the orange boot, color flushing his cheeks, before he caught himself mid-frown. “Okay. I get it.” He nodded and grinned, looking for the TV cameras. “Hot meter maid. Boot on the limo.” Coles chuckled and turned to his staff. “You punk'd me. Funny.”

Punk'd
? That show's deader than mesh trucker hats.

“I'm afraid not, sir,” I said.

He approached me and laughed again, a big, brassy laugh, and got in too close. I could smell Dentyne that almost but didn't quite cover the garlic falafel he'd had for lunch. “You get that thing off my limo immediately, or you'll be out of a job before the end of the day.”

I hit my radio. “Dispatch? Jaysus, Obi. It's the mayor of Chicago. Call in any goddamn favor you can.”

“On it, McGrane. Already en route. Twenty minutes out.”

I turned to the mayor and raised my palms in an apology I actually did feel. “I'm sorry, sir.”

“I'm going to be late for the vice president of the United States, and you're
sorry?
” Coles's face darkened to brick. He reared back and said in a second-rate De Niro doing Capone, “You're nothing but a lot of talk and a badge! You hear me? You're nothing!” He reached out and ripped the PEA badge off my vest and threw it at me. “Nothing!”

The crowd broke into wild cheers.

“I get it,” I said. “You're the mayor. But even an elected official isn't entitled to block a fire exit, hydrant, and two handicapped spaces.”

“You overzealous, mall-cop impersonator,” he said, playing to the crowd in a polished public speaking voice that seemed to carry for blocks.

The crowd began to chant. “Coles! Coles!”

“Seeing as you're the man who personally doubled parking fines to raise revenue for the city,” I said, mildly, “I figured you knew better.”

The crowd quieted a fraction. Make that a fraction of a fraction.

Coles held up his fist, sideways, thumb extended. He held up his other hand palm-up. “What say you, Chicagoans?”

The only thumbs not pointing down belonged to the mini-Mafia girls, whose fingers were clenched around their smartphones, recording every second.

“The people have spoken,” he said and turned his thumb down. “You're fired.” Talbott Cottle Coles clasped his hands together and waved them by his head like some old-timey prizefighter, to the crowd's applause.

Four bright blue–helmeted police officers on shiny white motorcycles pulled up in front of City Hall.

“See that, bluebird?” Poppa Dozen returned to my side and pointed. “Tha's our mutherfucking motorcade.”

“Maybe one of them has a sidecar,” I said.

Coles stiffened but kept up the show and signed a few autographs. Waving, he turned, and before I could move out of the way, he put his hands out and gave me a short, sharp shove, hitting the bruise under my sternum with a horrible, unerring accuracy.

I stumbled back, falling hard against the limo and burbled up a throat-full of Red Bull vomit water. It trickled down the front of my reflective vest.

Poppa Dozen snorted a muffled laugh that dissolved into serious throat clearing. He knew his was coming.

Coles glared at me over his shoulder, brown eyes victorious. “Nobody likes a meter maid.”

 

Moments later, Poppa Dozen drove off in one of the mayoral staff's commandeered non-environmentally conscious Cadillac Escalades from the parking ramp, taking Al Capone Jr. to meet the vice president.

There'd been plenty of rage behind the mayor's badge snatch. A large flap of reflector material hung loose on my vest. While Coles didn't have the outright authority to fire me, it wouldn't take more than a phone call to make it happen.

And it was going to happen.

Niecy and I waited around silently until the removal crew showed up an hour later. I eased out of the Loogie—the water-repellent reflective vest held up pretty well, considering—and got into the Interceptor.

“Talk about going to hell in a fast car,” Niecy said.

“I prefer to travel by SST.” The pooch was officially screwed. Six ways till Sunday.

“What the eff is that?”

“Never mind.” I started the Interceptor. “Let's get out of here.”

“This ain't little, McGrane. We gotta powwow with Leticia.”

“Not me. I've had enough.”
And I think I finally did. Have enough.
Nothing was going to save me from Talbott Cottle Coles's wrath. “I'm going home.”

To be alternately coddled and teased beyond bearing by my family that loves me.

That was that.

No sense in getting all het-up over what happened. Nothing to be done but take it as it came.

I turned off the car, hit the garage door opener, and got out. Deep pain in my upper abdomen radiated through the middle of my back and up into my shoulders. All I wanted was an oxy and a shower.

The second day was always the worst.
Hooray. Something to look forward to tomorrow.
I hauled my carcass into the house.

An enormous collection of dense blossoms took center stage on the kitchen counter.

Creamy dahlias, white Lisianthus, bone-colored roses, and ivory hydrangeas skillfully arranged in a thick glass rectangle the size of a large shoe box, inset with another glass, slightly smaller rectangle, smooth white beans pressed between the two vases, hiding any trace of the stems.

Pure art. Transcendent and beautiful even in its decay.

“They're gorgeous,” Mom said, coming into the kitchen. “Thierry already took pictures.”

I lifted the flap of the thick ivory envelope and removed the card.

I grinned, not quite sure what to make of it—his intention, no doubt—and that pleased me just as much.

Mom picked up the envelope and examined the brown script on back. “The Dilly Lily. The man has taste.”

I handed her the card. She read it and smiled. “And a sense of humor.” Her brown eyes flickered over my stomach. “How badly does it hurt?”

“Bad enough.”

“You called to let him know about your bruised pancreas.”

I cringed, only half-kidding. “Texted.”

“Coward.”

No argument here.
“Seriously, Mom. One cannot maintain a relationship based on pity alone.”

“A three-hundred-dollar floral arrangement doesn't exactly scream pity
,
baby. You make your brothers look like Mensa versions of Dr. Phil,” she scoffed. “My God, have I taught you nothing?”

“I know, I know, I know.”

“You may think you do.” She stroked the spiky petals of a fist-sized dahlia. “How was work?”

“Horrific and exhausting.”
And not without impending repercussions.
“Yours?”

Mom went to the fridge and took out a bottle of Pinot Grigio. “Not quite that good.” She poured a balloon glass almost to the rim. “Take this up and have a soak.”

Icy-cold white wine and a hot bath. Mom's favorite cure-all.

Throw in a couple of oxys and it works pretty well.

 

“Maisie?” Mom's voice came through the phone intercom. She refused to have people yelling back and forth. Not when our house was so large, there were so many of us, and she did so much work from home.

I picked up the phone next to my bed. “Yes?”

“Mr. Bannon's on line two.”

The second of four light-up buttons was blinking. I clicked it. “Hello?”

“How you feeling, Scout?”

“I've been better.”

“I'm sure,” he said in a serious voice that had me wanting to hang up. Caring commiseration would destroy my fictive dream. My current survival strategy was taking a page from the TV show
I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant
. One hundred percent denial.

“Thank you for the flowers,” I said. “They're amazing. Spectacular. . . And undeserved.”

“I don't know about that.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “You made me look good in front of the mutts.”

I laughed.

“Maisie?” Mom hesitated over the intercom. “Leticia Jackson is on line three.”

“Uh, Hank? That's my boss.”

“I'll hold.”

“I'd rather you didn't.”
Well, that came out about as wrong as anything could.
“I mean, I'm afraid it's going to be a long, unpleasant conversation.”

“Sure,” he said, as unreadable as ever. “Take care.” He hung up.

I took a deep breath and clicked line three. “This is Maisie.”

“Where the hell you live, McGrane?” Leticia said. “Some kinda office building?”

“Hey, Leticia—”

“Don't you ‘hey, Leticia' me. Not when you bring a shit storm like this raining down on our heads—”

My cell phone chirped. A text from Ernesto. I let Leticia vent on speakerphone and opened the message.

 

Ernesto:
Chica. What's up?

I think I got fired by the mayor today
.

Ernesto:
No shit? Guy's a complete prick

Ernesto:
WTF? Ur not kidding!

Ernesto:
Ur on Ch. 5.

“Leticia?” I interrupted. “Are you in front of a television?”

“I'm in my damn home, McGrane. Of course I'm in front of a TV.”

“Turn it to Channel Five.”

Local TV news—twenty-two minutes consisting of fourteen teasers for stories that were shorter than the tease itself, a semi-accurate weather report, sports scores, and Mike's Moan, an Andy Rooney–style segment where Chicagoans called or wrote in with their gripes about anything and everything Illinois.

Looking like an obese version of Daniel Tosh sporting a thick mustache and glasses, Mike always wore a Chi-town sports team jersey. “Lately you've all been moaning to Mike about the highway robbery known as city street parking. But what comes around, goes around.”

The TV cut to a series of stills of the orange-booted limo.

“Even our own Mayor Talbott Cottle Coles can't escape the boot of anguish.” The picture changed to a clip of PR video of Coles waving in front of the American flag. “Nope,” Mike said. “No one's free from the ticket tyrants. The meter fascists. The heartless harlots.”

“But get a load of this,” Mike said to the camera. “Saint Ditka be praised, even the meter maid didn't feel too good about sticking it to our mayor.” Up flashed a still of me sliming my vest.

“That's all from Mike. Go Bears. Go Bulls. Go Sox. Go Blackhawks. Go home, Cubs.”

The TV cut to commercial.

“Humph,” Leticia said. “This is worse than I was considering. You best take tomorrow off, McGrane. Let me see how the land is lying and shit.”

“Okay. 'Bye Leticia.” I hung up.

The cell chirped again. Ernesto.

Ernesto:
Chica. Want me to come over?

Ernesto:
Ha. Ha. Tomorrow nite?

Ernesto:
Just checked ch. 2 and 7. Only talked about the boot. No video. @) - - , -- x12

 

Talk about a sign things were circling the drain. Ernesto was texting me flowers.

 

Ernesto:
Xo xo

 

I woke up Friday morning, wondering how I was going to get fired. I went downstairs, where Thierry was making liver and onions and French fries for me for breakfast. I took a seat at the bar.

“I hear you are a TV star,” he said. “I make liver for the bruise, yes?”

And because I adore it.
“Thanks, Thierry.” He set a glass-bottled Coke in front of me. “Anyone else around?”

“
Non.
”

I sighed in relief.

Thierry flipped the liver in the pan. He glanced over his shoulder with me and ducked. “Enough are coming tonight, that I stay and cook.”

“Add me and one more.”

“You bring Hank, yes?” He set my plate in front of me. Heaven. Beef fat–fried shoestring fries with sea salt and a side of seasoned mayonnaise took half the plate while the rest held liver with a butter-blackened crust and caramelized onions.

“No, just Ernesto.”

“You will want the ketchup?” He moued in resignation.

I nodded.

Shaking his head, he placed it in front of me. In the bottle—so I could feel his disappointment.

“I make pizzas tonight.” Thierry's pizzas were cooked in the wood-fire oven Mom had expressly commissioned for him. He tossed the crust and everyone loaded their own. No matter what, it was a night that always turned rowdy. And hell, if anyone deserved a party, it was me.

“Perfect,” I said and tucked into my heavenly breakfast.

Afterward, I took a long shower and wasted the early afternoon cute-ing up while watching David Niven in
Stairway to Heaven
on TMC and then redoing my eye makeup after crying through the entire second half.

“Maisie?” Thierry said on the intercom. “Jennifer Lince is telephoning you.”

 

I drove downtown to the TEB building and parked in the $11.50-an-hour ramp.

I threaded my way through the fleeing corporate stream and spent the elevator ride hoping I wouldn't have to sit and sweat the mandatory half hour in reception before getting fired.

I'd never been fired from anything. Although I guess expelled from the Police Academy probably counted. Well, at least after Jennifer canned me, I had something to fire back—
Golly gee, I'm so sorry that Cash won't be able to make it to the Dhu West Gala after all.

Jennifer Lince's secretary was waiting for me when I stepped off the elevator. “This way, Miss McGrane.” She led me back, all polite smiles and seriousness, and opened the door without knocking, closing it before I got all the way inside.

A good-looking man, late forties with blond hair slicked back, excellent caps, and a manicure waved me in. He was sitting behind Jennifer's desk, Ferragamo-shod feet propped on top, right next to Cash's eight-by-ten. “So this is Agent Maisie McGrane.”

Jennifer sat on the edge of her seat, chipmunk-tense, an enormous frozen smile on her face. If she'd had whiskers, they'd have been bristling with excitement.

The man twirled his finger. “Let me get a look at you.”

Jennifer nodded at me so hard I thought her head might fall off. I turned around in front of him, feeling ridiculous.

“She's cute,” he said approvingly to Jennifer. “Tight. Fit. Not just attractive but actually pretty.” He smiled and spoke to me. “Attractive's code in my business for ‘not Quasimodo,' but it doesn't guarantee much more than a step away from the freak show.” He dropped his feet off the desk and sat up. “I'm Sterling Black. I run public relations for the Dhu West Corporation. And you, Maisie baby, have gone viral.”