You Don't Know Jack (3 page)

She downed the last of her drink, tossed a ten onto the table, and swept to her feet. "Look, kiddo, in my business it's performance that counts. Call me when you have some real evidence."

I wanted to tell her I needed more money, but I couldn't. I didn't feel I'd earned what she'd already advanced me. Damn. If only ethics paid my rent. Damn, damn, damn. I'd have to avoid my landlord, Ira Grouch, er, Couch. Again. I could picture Ira stalking my apartment even as I drove through downtown Renton toward it.

Life was not good.

Rain slapped the windshield. The storm that had been blowing in earlier had arrived full force. The gloom of the downpour matched my mood, fed my desperation to get something on Frankie that Dinah would pay for. I needed a new approach. A new plan. But what?

Hell, I was resourceful. I was clever. I could think of something. Something really good. With the help of chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate.

I live above a strip mall four blocks from the
Clip and Flip
. Far enough to maintain privacy. Close enough for those times when I feel the urge for the kind of maternal Ya Ya Sisterhood stuff that only my mom and aunts can provide.

The building, two stories of old used brick, has ten one bedroom apartments upstairs, seven on each side of the hall. Mine is an end unit with one and a half bedrooms, an open living and kitchen area, a large bathroom and a small walk-in closet. Five businesses make up the ground level, including
Sharkey's Tattoo Den
and
Cathy's Candy Corner
. I stood outside the latter, digging into my wallet, but I'd spent the last of my cash on the ferry. I delved the bottom of my purse. No loose change.

Didn't I have a candy bar in my other purse?

The more I thought about it, the more certain I was of it.

I collected my mail, bills and junk of course, and tiptoed to the top of the stairs, stealing a glance into the hallway. No sign of Ira Couch. Relief poured through me, even though I hadn't really expected to find him prowling this late in the day. He didn't like missing supper.

All the same, I hurried down the hall to number seven. Lucky number seven.
Were we feeling lucky tonight? Well, were we?
I took a quick assessment. I hadn't gotten a rejection from the New York editor. I hadn't run into my landlord. Two positives in a negative day were enough blessings to get me through. And maybe I would have a phone call from that editor.

"Ken, I'm home," I called as I entered and re-locked the door. Ken is my roommate. He still sat at the living room window where I'd left him, a deterrent to potential burglars and rapists, still wore jeans and a polo shirt, castoffs of Stone's. "If you were human," I told Ken. "I'd make you cough up your share of this month's rent."

He is, however, a life-size Ken-doll, a male mannequin one of my "grateful"
Cheatin' Hearts
clients, a seamstress, considered payment in full. Perhaps this explained why I struggled to meet my monthly bills.

"I should really start insisting my clients pay me in actual cash," I groused to Ken. "In fact, considering I've been waiting for weeks for a couple of "checks in the mail" I should also get that cash up front."

Yeah, I saw that happening sometime soon.

I headed to my answering machine. It was blinking. One call. My heart gave a hopeful leap that it might be
the call
. My hand even shook a little as I touched the
play
button. Lars.

A soft rapping at the door interrupted my string of curses and my heartbeat. I froze. God, don't let it be Lars. Or worse... my landlord. I crept over, silently lifted the chain — I wished I'd put on the second I'd come in — and peeked through the peep hole.

This was no gorgeous gay caballero. This was no cross-eyed grouch. This was a little old lady who looked as though she'd just come from the
Clip and Flip
, her hair freshly blued and waved. One of my neighbors, Mrs. Hurtz.

Fearing our landlord could have sent her, I debated whether or not to answer.

"Jack B, are you in there?" She rapped harder. "The mailman left something for you, dear."

The mailman? Perhaps one of those checks I was expecting? I yanked the door open with the expectation of someone saved by the skin of her teeth. Mrs. Hurtz startled back, her eyes going wide behind her smiley-faced glasses. It was then that I noticed the large brown envelope she held against her scrawny chest. The bottom dropped out of my stomach as I realized what it was.

My manuscript.

Returned.

Rejected.

I thanked her and hurried back inside before she noticed the tears burning my eyes, the likely chalk white shade of my face. The way my luck was running, she'd dash to her phone and alert the Crain Sisters that I'd taken ill and before I knew what had hit me they'd descend en masse, armed with chicken soup and unwanted advice. This time I put on the chain and leaned against the door, clutching the package to my breaking heart.

No rent money. No book deal. I dug through my spare purse. No candy bar. I tried the cupboards next. No chocolate. I called Apollo. "Come. Bring chocolate. Hurry."

As I waited for Apollo, I read the letter from the editor, not a form rejection this time, but though she'd personalized it, it was still a "pass." She liked my writing, but not
this
effort, not enough to buy. Like Dinah, she wasn't impressed.

I needed to step up my game. But how?

Apollo arrived in record time, dressed entirely in brown leather, his hair moussed to spiky perfection. He carried a sack from
Cathy's Candy Corner
in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. A true BFF. He took one look at my face and his thick brows collided like drunken caterpillars. "You look flatter than last year's perm. What's happened?"

I waved at the rejected manuscript.

He gasped. "No way. Ah, shit." He hauled out chocolate and stuffed some in my mouth, then took the letter from me, strutting across the room as he read. "You go ahead and cry, girl.
I
might cry, too."

"No crying. Tears won't get me published."

"True," he said, and this time went after the wine opener and glasses. "We need a drink."

"God, Apollo, what am I doing wrong?" I mumbled around a delicious, gooey mass of spirit-lifting fudge. "I mean, they like my writing..."

"They just don't
love
it, whatever that means."

Exactly. I sighed. My gaze wandered to my book shelves, to the yellow covered, hard back collection of Nancy Drew mysteries I'd inherited from the Crain Sisters. I was hooked from
SECRET OF THE OLD CLOCK
, the first in the series, on. My own mysteries have a heroine who is a beautician/detective. Write what you know, they say. "Do you suppose Carolyn Keene struggled this much to publish?"

"Wait a minute. Wait a minute." Apollo stopped pouring wine and shook the editor's letter at me. "It says here she'll look at something else."

"But my other manuscripts have all been rejected."

"By this editor?"

"Well, no, but whatever I send her next needs to be bullet proof. I can't risk her losing interest by continuing to offer manuscripts she can't buy."

"I see." He considered as he filled the glasses, then handed me one, looking as though he'd like to suggest something that he feared I'd balk at. I hoped it had nothing to do with Lars. He plopped next to me on my hand-me down Futon, took a sip of wine followed by a bite of chocolate. He handed me another candy, this one laced with nuts.

He said, "I heard about this former editor who is working as a book doctor for manuscripts. Maybe you should hire her."

"Hiring requires money. I have no money. Right now, I can't afford a book doctor. I can't afford my rent."

"Oh, dear." He stopped chewing. "Then you won't like hearing your landlord is in the hall with his collection book."

"At supper time?" Oh, God, no. He'd be more of a grouch than normal.

"You know
I'd
give you the do-re-mi in a heartbeat, girl, but my bank has my car payments on auto deduct, and I'm tapped until the end of the month. What about the Crain Sisters?"

"And prove to them I really can't make it as a writer?" Obligate myself to listening to the 'give beauty school another try' chorus until my ears ached. "Absolutely not."

"How about Sharkey?"

I grimaced. "I just paid him back for a loan on last month's rent."

We stared at each other, munching chocolate, neither of us wanting to say out loud what we were thinking. In the end, Apollo proved braver than I. "Maybe you should consider Lars' offer."

"No. Not if I stood at the edge of a cliff with no choice but to jump." I wouldn't cozy up to Stone to wheedle information out of him for Lars. It went against every principal I had. I would hate myself for it. Besides, I might fall off the wagon and never be able to get back on. No, I couldn't risk getting up close and personal with Stone. The mere thought sent myriad emotions flooding through me, the strongest two were fear and desire with desire edging ahead.

A grouchy knock landed on my door, followed by a grouchier, "Ms. Smart, I know you're in there."

Ira Couch, my landlord.

Apollo and I locked terrified gazes.

"Thelma and Louise time," he whispered.

"Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid time," I agreed.

Nothing left but the cliff. I swallowed hard, reached for the phone and dialed Lars' number.

I was doing a man.

One I'd sworn I'd never do again.

If distress tremors burned calories, the ones I'd ingested with the half pound of chocolate would have melted away by the time I'd gotten off the phone with Lars.

I was on my way to reaching my life's dream.

If excited tremors could block out those voices from your childhood, I wouldn't be hearing the Crain Sisters in my head — as I handed my landlord a post-dated check — screaming at me that Lars lied to me before and was probably lying now.

I'd have to cross paths with Stone Maddox.

If anxious tremors caused orgasms, I'd have no need for men in my life and wouldn't be in this predicament. Or any other of the predicaments I'd managed to land in over the years.

Apollo pulled the flowered throw pillows on my navy futon away from the arm rests and plopped them in the center in a row of three, both smaller ones abutting the large one. As he stepped back to assess the change I stopped pacing long enough to check it out and had to admit it looked better somehow.

His attention shifted to me and I began pacing again to avoid his nervous fingers. It would take more than Apollo's talent to adjust me out of this mood.

He said, "You've paid your rent, tomorrow your bank account will be bulging at the seams and before you know it that manuscript will be rejection-proof. So, what's got you frowning like an aging diva in need of Botox?"

Apollo didn't know the details of what I was investigating for Lars. Client confidentiality and all. But the one condition Lars imposed on me was that I hit
Club Jaded Edge
tomorrow night. Short of confronting Bruce, I had no idea how to find out what he and Stone were up to, and I couldn't tell Apollo that. So, I lied. "Spying on Bruce, of course."

Apollo grimaced. "There is that ick-factor. But to your credit, you didn't cave. You insisted Lars put his deal in writing. You insisted it be notarized. You insisted you get the money up front, first thing in the morning."

I had.

My new policy: no down payment, no inquiries.

But what if the Crain Sisters in my head were right? Though I couldn't imagine why he would, what if Lars
had
lied? "What if Lars doesn't show up in the morning at Sharkey's with the contract and, more importantly, the check?"

"Then we'll have Sharkey give him more to worry about than whether or not Bruce is cheatin'."

Peter Boldizsar gained the nickname Sharkey back in high school when he caught a great white off Puget Sound. Rumor at the
Clip and Flip
held that his catch was actually a dog fish, a tenth cousin of a great white, but to hear Sharkey tell it, the one in
JAWS
was his fish's baby brother.

The experience moved him to make his body a tattoo temple to the species. Sharks on his chest, his back, his legs, his arms, his neck... and places I imagined, but haven't confirmed.

Of Hungarian Gypsy descent, he stood over six feet with a mass of muscles, blue black hair lashed in a thong at his nape, and curly lashed ebony eyes that could be liquid as oil one moment, hard as dried pitch the next.

If I ever need
muscle
, I call Sharkey first.

And he comes. We're sort of family. His cousin, Endré Boldizsar — yes, my missing ex — disappeared on our wedding night, before consummating the marriage. Neither Sharkey nor I have seen or heard from him since.

Well, maybe
I
had.

Not that I wanted to. I'd only agreed to the marriage so he wouldn't be deported. Okay, the fact he was drop dead gorgeous and mysterious as hell, and roused the green eyed monster in Stone, had sweetened the prospect of being Endré's pretend-wife. But it was a really dumb move. Illegal even. Best not to dwell on that.