Yesterday's Stardust (25 page)

“Sorry. Rolled in?”

“Fighting. Some gangs make the guys fight the leaders, or a couple members at a time, to prove themselves. The Sevens don’t fight unless we have to. We’re more about taking care of each other. Protection, you know? As long as a guy can prove he’s got something to offer the family and he doesn’t have any bad connections, he’s in.” Rena traced the path of a drop of water along the side of her glass. “I’m actually one of the Sevens’ Sisters. We’re the SS.”

Dani cringed. “So the girls actually have a separate…group?” She wasn’t up on the lingo.

“Yeah.”

“What do you do?”

“We hang out. Sometimes we run…errands.”

Did the girl have any idea how much she gave away by what she
didn’t
say? “How do the girls get in?”

“There are two—I guess you’d call them levels—with the Sisters. To get in the first level you just have to know somebody.” Her gaze fastened on her glass. “To hang with the guys there’s an…initiation.”

“So if I want to take this further I can get in because I know you.”

“There’s one other prob.”

“What’s that?”

“Hafta live in da ’hood, girlfriend.”

“O…kay.”

“You could move in with me.” She grinned. “And my bro.”

“Right. We’ll work on that one. So, if you’re one of the Sisters, and you want to get out—”

“You can’t.” She looked away. Another subject closed.

“Tell me about Jarod. What attracted you to him?”

This was the point where a smile should have brightened the tired face. It didn’t. “He’s confident. I like that in a guy. I see how my dad pushes Nicky’s buttons, and it makes me mad that Nicky lets him. Jarod doesn’t let his dad control him.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty.”

And you’re a minor.
Dani filed the information away. “What else? How do you feel when you’re with him?”

Rena shrugged. The straw wrapper snapped.

“You didn’t finish your sentence earlier. You said if you lived somewhere else you might be going out with a guy who played basketball and went to church instead of what?”

Dark bangs slid over one eye. “You know, like we talked about before—Jarod’s not the kind of person who wants to let you in.”

“How did you meet him?”

Rena stared out the window. “Last year I was walking home after school and a guy grabbed me and pulled me between two buildings.” Her voice shook. “All of a sudden, just when the guy was… Jarod showed up and pulled him off me.” Something close to a smile curved her mouth. “Love at first sight.”

“But things are different now?”

“I guess I’m not exactly what he was looking for.”

“Does he ever talk about breaking up?”

“No. I’m still…useful.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. Muscles bulged at her jawline.

Fingers tightening around a clear glass mug, Dani listened to echoes of the advice she’d given to China—words thrown back in her face to blame her for someone’s death.
You’re worth so much more than this.
“Are you paying him for protection, Rena?”

Face expressionless, Rena stared straight ahead. “Yes.”

Afraid she’d break the glass, Dani pulled stiff fingers away from her mug and clasped them in her lap. “Does Jarod sell drugs?”

“I don’t know.”

Dani leaned in. “There’s a door in the side of the garage building.”

Rena nodded.

“What is it?”

“Why?” Rena tapped her foot. A telegraphic beat beneath the table.

“Jarod threw something into it.” She analyzed every twitch of the girl’s face as she waited for a comment.

Rena rolled the edge of her napkin for several seconds then her chin jerked up. “Did you tell Todd?”

“No. What does the door lead to?”

“Nowhere. It says C
OAL
on the door, so I guess it’s an old coal chute, but it doesn’t lead anywhere. It’s just a room.”

“Who owns the building?”

“Nobody. It’s abandoned.”

Then the city owns it. Still trespassing.

“Nicky told me about it. He hid in it once when he was a kid, but he was scared of the dark. I’m not.”

“What was Jarod hiding?”

Rena scooted to the edge of the booth. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

Dani reined in her sigh, pulled out her phone, and flipped through her contacts for a listing she’d labeled F
OR
R
ENT.

This is insane.
Mitch’s words argued with her common sense—
“I think you were gutsy. I like that about you, Danielle.”
And then Nicky entered the conversation in her head. He’d used the same word for Francie, and Dani had replied,
“Gutsy is good.”
His reply rang in her head.
“Not always.”

Silencing Nicky, she dialed the number and requested an application then worked on her next few words. They weren’t going to be easy.

Rena came back, sat down, and picked up her soda.

“What would happen to you if you broke up with him?”

Storm clouds roiled in dark eyes. Rena looked down at the time on her phone. “I have to get back.” She shoved her glass aside. Soda slopped onto the table. “Jarod’s waiting.”

March 29, 1927

Opening her desk drawer just enough to see the mirror on her compact, Francie retouched her lipstick. With lips the color of maraschino cherries, she went back to typing invoices.

When Tag had made her apply for the job, she’d assumed she’d only be here a few weeks, but nothing had happened yet. She wasn’t complaining. Her evenings were free to watch Franky.

She’d started as a clerk, learned to type at night school, and worked her way up to secretary. Tag had already told her to set her sights higher.

He’d also promised he wouldn’t make her steal anything and said she’d be out of the way when something went down. She believed him. Tag had a distorted code of honor when it came to women.
“I may own you, babe, but you’ll never end up behind bars.”

After each invoice, she allowed a moment to look around the room and out the window. As the light changed throughout the day, it caught new facets of the pieces on display. Emeralds set in gold, pearls surrounded by silver. Rubies, sapphires, diamonds. She paired each one with an outfit that walked past the window.

Wabash Street was a never-ending source of couture inspiration. The warmer it got, the more color was displayed. The thermometer outside the break room window hovered in the low sixties today, and the stick-thin woman walking past the storefront wore only a fur scarf over a champagne-colored dress that appeared to be silk. The skirt had godet inserts of deep, rich brown.

“Swanky.” Doris, the other front desk secretary, chewed on the end of her pen as she stared, starry eyed, at the dress.

“I could make it for you.”

“For how much?”

“For nothing.” Though he disapproved, Tag kept her well supplied with fabric for her “little hobby.” “I think blue looks best on you.”

Doris put her hand to her collarbone. “You’d do that?”

“Of course.” Francie picked up a pencil and sketched on the pad next to her typewriter. “But I’d make the neckline like this and make a scarf out of the same fabric as the skirt inserts. That is, unless you want mink like she has.”

“You slay me,” Doris deadpanned. “You got a sugar daddy or something?”

Her phone rang, giving her a reason not to answer. “Good afternoon. Walbrecht Jewelers. This is Francine, may I help you?”

“You do that so, so well.” Tag’s laugh filtered through the receiver. “You just say what you gotta say to make it look good, okay?”

“Yes, sir, I believe I can do that for you.”

“I heard a rumor today.” He laughed. “Actually, I started the rumor. Mr. Walbrecht’s personal secretary is giving her notice soon. She doesn’t know it yet, but she is.”

Francie’s hand went to her throat. Harriet Jones was the sweetest person. If Tag did anything to that woman— “Yes, sir.”

“You’re going to take her place. But first you gotta make yourself known a little bit. So here’s the deal—the big guy has lunch at Berghoff’s every day. I want you to bump into him and ask his advice about something. A pair of earrings for your sister, something like that. And you be real friendly, okay?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll make out that order immediately.”

“You do that, doll.”

E
van crouched beside Dani’s desk on Monday afternoon, resting his chin on the corner. Absurdly sad eyes stared up at her.

“Any room in your packed social calendar for an old friend?”

“Hmm.” Dani arched one brow. “It depends. Can you compete with Tuscan shrimp bruschetta and a ride in a cruiser?”

“As a matter of fact, I can.”

She sat back in her chair and folded her hands on her lap. “You have my full attention.”

“I offered to help one of the guys in my study paint his house.”

“And you want me to help.” She pressed her fingertip to her chin. “How thoughtful, knowing I love to paint and all.”

“Yes. I want you to help.”

“I was kidding.”

“I’m not. Hush up and listen. It’s an old house. Brick, layers of paint.”

Dani tipped her head toward her shoulder. “If you think you’re feeding me clues, it’s not working.”

“Hang on a minute. I was over there Saturday morning and staring at this huge brick wall…”

“A blank canvas.”

“You’re catching on. So I left there and went back to the beach and found the guys with the goofy names.”

“Who love to paint.”

“Exactly. And I asked them if they knew anyone who’d had experience painting street art.”

“You’re good.”

“Not so good at first. They didn’t happen to know anyone.” “Until you said there was money it.”

“I might have mentioned a small stipend for helping me with my project.”

“You’re really good. And they agreed?”

“Once I assured them they wouldn’t get arrested, though I’m guessing that concern has never stopped them before. They’re going to meet me there on Thursday afternoon, and I thought, if you could possibly rearrange your calendar, you might like to join in.”

“Join in—as in paint with them?”

“I thought it might give you a little ‘inside’ feel.”

She’d had enough ‘inside feel’ to last her a long time. “I’ll be there. This’ll be good. We know at least one of them will talk. I need to get some emotion out of them; find out why they do it or if they’ve ever gotten caught, and what the consequences were. If all I have is a how-to on defacing property, it might not be so great for sales.”

“We’ll make ’em talk.” He used his best
gangsta
voice. “A little food, a little dough. They’ll talk.”

Dough.
Her brain drew a short line to Nicky. Her stomach rolled as she glanced at the time on her monitor. In two hours he’d pick her up, and she’d spend the evening trying to ask more questions than she answered.

“What’s your story about this week?”

“Young entrepreneurs.” She curled her lip. “I interviewed two dog walkers this morning.”

“How cool to be you.”

“It was fascinating. Really. But what’s wrong with me that a story about what motivates someone to paint gang signs on overpasses gets my adrenaline pumping but talking to really nice, enterprising kids is boring?”

“Maybe you’re living vicariously through the trouble makers. Deep down you really want to rage against society, but you won’t allow yourself to break the rules.”

Usually.
“You may be onto something.”

Evan groaned as he stood. “Well, I’m off to capture the artistic beauty of a bunch of sweaty bicyclers gearing—get it?—
gearing
up for the International Cycling Classic at Library Park. Bet you didn’t even know that was coming up.”

“Sorry. No. But how cool to be you.”

Finger on the elevator button, Evan looked back at her. “That’s not always a bad thing.”

“What?”

“The rage against society. Jesus was a rule breaker.”

As the elevator door closed, she tried to focus on the dog walkers in their matching pink jackets embroidered with “Fuzzy Friends,” but the words slipped away like sand through her fingers. She wanted to write about Jarod—the kid whose face had haunted her all night. Gaunt, scared—raging against something. He’d come into this world a blank slate, just like the girls in the shiny pink jackets. At what point in his life could something or someone have intervened and made a difference?

That kid needs a Nicky in his life.
The old Nicky—the one who cared enough to make a difference. She wanted to meet that Nicky.

She stared at a picture she’d taken this morning. Not Evan quality, but not bad. All feet—two pairs of pink sneakers in the middle of a jumble of dog paws. The girls had been giggly but articulate. Smart kids. Innocent kids. She’d asked what they did with the money they made. They both had savings accounts. The rest went to clothes and makeup.

At their age, she’d gone to Haiti on a two-week mission trip and come home embarrassed by her home, her clothes, her parents’ jobs. The food they ate. The food they threw away.

Two weeks after the trip, the team got together to swap pictures and to support each other in the reentry process. The leaders reiterated the things they’d taught in the airport debriefing before leaving Haiti.
“People won’t understand. Don’t judge them, teach them. Don’t lose what you’ve learned. Let the images and the memories shape who you become, how you relate to the world, and how you respond to Jesus.”
They’d stood in a circle in the church basement and prayed while a slideshow of wide-eyed children with distended bellies played on the cement block wall. All she’d wanted at that moment was to go back. To build schools and dig wells and feed babies. To make a difference.