Utterly Charming (5 page)

He also believed that he had the ability to do real magic, if only someone would teach him how.

She still couldn’t believe how much she missed him. He’d only been dead a year, and sometimes she still felt him beside her, laughing and pointing out the beauty in the world. He was the one who taught her to look at sunsets. He used to drive toward the end of rainbows, searching for gold. All his life, he never lost that belief, that childlike belief, that there was more to the world than most people could see.

Oh, how she needed him now. He would have listened to her stories about this afternoon. He would have had suggestions.

But she was on her own, with only his memory for company. Somehow that had to be enough.

Nora opened the car door and heard a clang. She frowned, wondering if she had hit the car next to her. She looked over and saw that it wasn’t a car. It was a brown and orange VW microbus.

Sancho, or whatever his name was, crawled from under her door. “Man, am I going to have a headache,” he said, one hand cradling the side of his face.

“What’s going on?” she asked, wishing he hadn’t come, wishing he had taken that damn vehicle somewhere else.

“You don’t want to know,” he said, then murmured something in a language she didn’t understand, rubbed his temple, and added, “Better.”

The bruise that had been forming on the side of his face had completely disappeared.

“I’m supposed to know,” she said, gathering her purse and her briefcase and pretending she hadn’t seen anything unusual. “Blackstone said I’m supposed to help you.”

“Let’s go to your office,” Sancho said.

She wriggled out of her car, nearly beaned Sancho again with her briefcase, and then used a hand to wave him forward. He wasn’t covered with anything. His T-shirt, the cigarettes missing, was as white as Blackstone’s had been, and his tiny jeans looked new. Only his shoes seemed out of place. When she really looked at them, she realized he was wearing cracked leather shoes that buttoned instead of tied.

He walked through the garage, his arms swinging fiercely like he was punching imaginary (short) opponents. She kicked her door closed with one foot and followed him, feeling dirty and short of breath.

When they got into the elevator, she concentrated on the door instead of looking at her reflection in the mirror. Even then, she saw, through the corner of her eye, that her blond hair had gone streaky brown, her normally clear skin looked like it had been finger-painted by five-year-olds, and her clothing was coated with gray ash. She tried to brush some of it off, raising a dust cloud. Sancho began coughing and only just managed to croak out an offended “Hey!” before she stopped.

The ash was still billowing when the elevator door opened and, for the first time since she had taken the office, there were people in the corridor. They stared at her as she led Sancho down the hall, most of them shrinking back as if getting close to her would contaminate them as well—which, if she were being fair, it probably would.

She opened her office door, and Ruthie shrieked.

“Ms. Barr! Ms. Barr! Are you all right? When you said you knew about that mess on the west side, I didn’t know you meant you
really
were there. I mean,
actually
. You know, I—”

“You mean literally,” Sancho said. “That’s what you mean.”

Ruthie looked at him as if she was seeing him for the first time. “All right,” she said, her voice as cool as his. “I mean literally, whatever that means.”

“It means—”

“Ruthie,” Nora said, not wanting to hear any more of this discussion. “Can you get me a Coke? Would you like anything, Mr.—?”

“Pan-za,” he said slowly, as if he were speaking to a particularly dumb child. He waited. She didn’t repeat the name. “And no, I’m not thirsty.”

Nora rolled her very dry eyes and walked into her office. It looked as it did when she had left it, cluttered but clean. She turned. She was tracking gray dust behind her. Sancho was avoiding it as he followed her.

She went to her desk and sat down, knowing she would have to clean the chair afterward. She didn’t touch the desk’s surface or anything else. Sancho climbed into the chair he had used before.

“I won’t do anything for you,” she said, “until I know your real name.”

He stared at her for a moment, his eyes an icy blue. Then he rolled to one side and pulled a swath of paper from his back jeans pocket. Until that moment, she had thought the pocket empty.

He placed a birth certificate, a Social Security card, a passport, and a driver’s license on her blotter. She leaned forward, careful not to brush the desk, and stared at the papers. They all showed his name to be Sancho Panza, and the driver’s license and passport photos confirmed that the name belonged to him.

She put her index finger against the edge of the blotter and shoved it toward him. “I don’t deal in fake IDs,” she said.

“Neither do I,” he said, shoving the blotter back toward her.

She looked at the papers again. She couldn’t tell if the birth certificate and Social Security card were real, but the driver’s license had been done on the special paper that the DMV used to discourage forgers. She picked up the passport, getting gray fingerprints all over the blue leather. It was four years old, with several stamps inside, as well as the raised stamp specially done by the State Department. If his identification was good enough for several governments, including this one, it was good enough for her.

“I still don’t believe it,” she said, because she didn’t.

“You don’t have to.” He settled in his chair. “Just help us.”

“I already got a defense attorney for Blackstone.”

“Fine,” Sancho said as if he didn’t care. “The most important thing is the glass case.”

“Yes.” Nora was amazed at how calm she sounded. So Rick the Morning News Anchor had been right. There had been a glass case. “I understand it levitated out of someone’s garage.”

“How he got it isn’t your concern,” Panza said. “Helping him with it is.”

“I don’t deal in stolen property,” Nora said.

“It’s not stolen,” Panza said and stopped as someone knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Nora said.

Ruthie entered, carrying two cans of Coke. She too avoided Nora’s gray footprints. “Want a glass?” she asked.

Nora shook her head.

“I suppose you want me to call the cleaning service.”

Nora smiled. At last, Ruthie was thinking on her own. “Please.”

“Good,” Ruthie said, “because I sure as hell don’t want to clean up this mess.” And with that, she let herself out.

“Nice secretary you got,” Panza said.

“You get what you pay for.” Nora grabbed a can and pulled the ringtop. “Sure you don’t want one?”

He wrinkled his nose. “Ever since they removed the cocaine, it hasn’t been the same.”

She gave him a flat-level look. “I don’t appreciate drug jokes in my office.”

“You don’t appreciate much, do you?” Panza said. “I thought you had more sense than that. Maybe I misjudged you.”

“Maybe,” Nora said. She crossed her arms. “Your choice.”

He stared at her a moment. “You’re not that ruffled by the events of this afternoon.”

“I’m a good actress.”

“Not that good.” He nodded. “We can proceed.”

She wasn’t sure she wanted to. “I don’t mind if you find another attorney.”

He grinned. The expression made him seem like a ferocious twelve-year-old. “Naw. You’re perfect.”

“Have you checked my credentials?”

“Enough,” he said.

She took a long, long drink from the can of Coke. The sweetness helped bring up her blood sugar, and the liquid felt cool against her dry throat. She would eventually need water—she was probably dehydrated—but this would do for now.

The movement gave her a chance to plan and take control of this interview.

“Why did Blackstone destroy that neighborhood?” she asked.

“He didn’t.”

“Someone did.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Panza said.

“I have to worry about it.” She ran a hand over her face, felt the soot flake off. “People make jokes about lawyers having no ethics, but that’s not true. I can’t help him and stay true to myself if I know he destroyed a neighborhood.”

“It was a diversion.”

“Really?”

Panza nodded.

“Blackstone would destroy people’s homes and kill a woman just to divert attention from—what?”

“He didn’t kill her,” Panza said.

“She looked dead to me.”

His eyes narrowed. “Well, she wasn’t. He just knocked her out.”

“The EMTs thought she was dead.”

Panza shrugged. “It’s amazing how susceptible some people are to the power of suggestion.”

“I’m not,” Nora said. “And I am not sure I want to represent someone who performs wholesale destruction as a means to an end.”

Panza clenched a fist, hit the arm of the chair softly, and then shook his head. “What if I told you everything would be fixed?”

She laughed and felt its bitterness. “That can’t be fixed. Not in the way I would want.”

“And that is?”

“To make it seem as if today never happened. But people don’t forget. Even if everything were made better, people would remember and—”

“Say no more.” Panza stood in the chair. She was constantly amazed at how small he was. “We can do that.”

“Sure,” she said. “And pigs fly.”

“Not without help,” he said, and he seemed perfectly serious. “Now. Assist us.”

He wouldn’t go away. And no matter how ethical she got, the images wouldn’t go away. She might as well see what Panza wanted. “Tell me what you need.”

“I need you to store the microbus,” he said.

“You can do that.”

He shook his head. “We can’t know where it is. Only you can know. You’ll store it for us, and then when we come and get it, everything will be safe.”

“It doesn’t sound legal.”

“It is. All you have to do is find a garage, rent it, and keep the microbus there. We might not come for it for years.”

“Years?” Nora asked.

“Years.” Sancho reached inside the breast pocket of his T-shirt (she hadn’t realized there was a breast pocket until he did that. Didn’t most T-shirts come
without
breast pockets?) and removed an envelope. The envelope was four times the size of the pocket. “This should cover rent for the next fifteen years, plus your fees and time, based on the estimate you gave Blackstone when we first met. There is also a periodic cost of living adjustment factored into the amount. I’ve included a worksheet so that you can see how I came to the enclosed figure.”

She took the envelope. It was too thin to be holding cash.

“Of course,” he said, “if it takes us longer to come for the van, we will send more money.”

“Of course,” she murmured as she used one short fingernail to slit the envelope open. Inside she found a very ornate check made out for a huge amount of money. More money, in fact, than she had ever seen in one place in her entire life. If she thought about that, she would start trembling again and lose any advantage she might have in this interview.

Sancho was watching her, a bemused expression on his face.

“I’ll have to verify funds,” she said, using the primmest tone she could muster.

“Of course,” he said, echoing her earlier words.

She took the check and walked to the front office. After the door closed behind her, she let out a deep shaky breath.
Please let the check be genuine
, she prayed to any god that would listen.
Please
.

Ruthie was watching her as if she had grown a new head. She probably did look strange, still covered in soot and ash, carrying a check and shaking as if she had won the lottery. Which, if this check were valid, she had.

She made herself swallow and focus on the piece of paper in front of her. The check was issued by Quixotic Inc. and signed by Sancho Panza. His signature was as ornate as the check.

“Ms. Barr?” Ruthie asked.

Nora shoved the check toward her. “Verify this,” she said.

Ruthie took the check, and her eyes grew wide. “Holy shmoly,” she said. “What does he want you to do?”

“Not much,” she said and sat down because she was shaking so badly.

“This is a lot of cash for not much,” Ruthie said. “What’d you do? Quote him the rate for billionaires?”

“No, actually,” Nora said. “Just the standard fees.” Then she grinned. “The standard fees for troublemakers.”

Ruthie held up a well manicured hand. “All right. I don’t want to know.” She shoved the phone between her ear and her shoulder and dialed with a pen. Nora took several calming breaths while Ruthie verified that the check was valid. Then, for good measure, she asked about another check, making up the number, for an equal amount of money.

When she was finished, she hung up and whistled. “These guys are
loaded
,” she said.

“You didn’t have to do the second,” Nora said.

“Actually,” Ruthie said. “I used to work for a debt collection agency—”

“I know,” Nora said.

“—and they always made you do that,” Ruthie continued, “so that the check you had wouldn’t bounce if someone took $5 out of the account. It also gives you a sense of how much a person is worth, you know, by how much he keeps in his checking.”

For the first time, Nora didn’t regret hiring Ruthie. “Thanks,” she said as she took the check.

“Does this mean I get a bonus?” Ruthie asked.

“The money goes in escrow,” Nora said. “This isn’t a debt collection agency.”

“Obviously,” Ruthie muttered.

Nora ignored her and went back into the office, tapping the check against her hand. The little man was still standing on the chair. He was watching her. She closed the door and leaned on it, thinking only a second too late of the smudge she was making against the presswood’s veneer.

“Here’s what I’m willing to do,” she said. “I’ll take your money and put it in a special account. I will have the rental for the garage removed from that account, as well as my monthly fee. I will keep the keys here, and I will not inspect the microbus. I will not touch the microbus after I take it to the garage, and I will not relinquish the keys to anyone but you.
Ever.
Is that clear?”