Temporarily out of Luck

by Vicki Batman

  “Tell me about it.”

  His line, the one he used when he “chatted” with persons of interest. I shouldn’t have been too surprised. First and foremost, Allan Wellborn is a detective.

  I did the best I could in retelling my version. I attempted to weave all the mish-mashed pieces together. I stumbled and bumbled and coughed over my abbreviated story of Miss A., the multiple hammers, and Jonson Leggett the Third’s death. “She left me trussed like a roped steer on the floor. And worst of all, she stole my Jeep. My car. My baby.”

  Allan raised his brow. “Uh oh. Which explains why we didn’t find your car in the lot.”

  “I’ll never forgive her. I told her how I scrimped and saved forever to buy it, and she still stole my…MY…car.” Hoping to disguise any forming tears, I stared at the view outside the window and recited the tag number.

  “Got it.” Allan wrote furiously in his notebook. “We’ll find her and your Jeep baby.”

  “She took mine because her Mercedes is in the shop—so she said. We drove the Jeep to the wedding convention in Smithville.”

  “Wedding convention?” He shook his head. “Spare me the details.”

  I studied my hands in my lap. “Can I leave the hospital in time for Tracey’s wedding?”

  “I think way before then. Want me to find out from the Dragon Lady Nurse who wants to get rid of me?”

  The unmistakable gleam in his eyes looked adorable.

  I ducked my chin and shook my head. “I’ll ask…later.”

  He slanted his head. “Fortunately, you aren’t too bad. The doctor's primary concern is making sure your lungs are clear. I’m sure he explained everything.”

  I inhaled and exhaled. “I feel like I’m breathing easier.”

  “Good.” He grasped my hands.

  I let the emotions exchanging between us consume me.

  Finally, he pulled back. “You were very brave, Hattie. You didn’t surrender. I don't know how you did all the rolling with fire about to incinerate the whole joint. You’re amazing. And your hair will grow.”

  My hair? I shot my hands to finger my hair and examined the ends for damage. If Allan thought I looked incredibly bad, he would have told me. I dearly wanted to go to the restroom and make sure I didn’t resemble a lunatic. Good thing I scheduled a trim before Tracey's big day.

  Collapsing against the pillows, I settled the oxygen tube into my nose and tucked the flannel-like blanket under my armpits. Resting my hands on top of my belly, I let my gaze meet Allan’s.

  Nothing was said.

  Everything implied.

  My heart thumped so loudly, I could hear it. By the grace of God, I lived through a nightmare and wasn’t charred toast. Water welled in my eyes with the remembering. I didn't want him to see me look so terrible. Embarrassed, I slid my hands over my face.

  “It’s okay. It’s over, sweetheart.” Allan tugged my hands down and dipped his head to stare into my eyes. “I called your mom and dad and Jenny. They’ll be here shortly. I have to go.”

  “Please…don’t—”

  “I have to, sweetheart. I must get the bad lady. She hurt my girl.” Releasing my hands, he stooped over.

  He kissed my forehead softly, sweetly, gently, and despite the eau de stink-ola drifting from me.

  I gripped his wrists, never wanting the moment to stop.

  Eventually, all good “hold yous” came to an end.

  Pulling away, Allan walked to the door. His hand lingered against the frame. Over his shoulder, he glanced at me. “I’ll be back.”

  A rushing consumed my entire being. I more than desperately wanted him to return. “P-Promise?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  His sweet grin comforted me.

  “Love you,” he said.

  “Love you.”

  But Allan departed before he could hear me say so.

  I stared at the television mounted near the ceiling, where a home improvement show blared and slowly smiled. The man I loved wasn’t a cartoon superhero. He was my man, my crusader. And he would be back because he loved me.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  After my lungs cleared, the hospital released me. I recuperated at the family homestead. But didn’t get the hovering I expected. Instead, Tracey and Stuart’s plunge into matrimony kept Mom preoccupied. She rushed around like a crazy woman to placate my sister and lift her spirits.

  To stay out of the way, Dad found refuge in puttering in the garage.

  After a few days of no tender loving care, I asked Dad to drive me to my apartment. I’d mended nicely. Jenny experimented with her homemade lasagna. Yum.

  When all the ruckus died down, I located another job, still not in my preferred employment as a retail buyer. I found work on my own as a highway department flagger.

  To say I knew the realities of what the job encompassed as a flagger would be wrong. I read the description on the website. The position sounded relatively easy with decent pay, and probably with minimal danger-danger element.

  Nor did I take the job because of the marvelous apparel—steel-toed boots, thick socks, industrial-strength blue jeans, and a white twill shirt. Over those clothes, the Highway Department gave me a yellow-green fluorescent safety vest with wide reflective bands in orange, and a hard hat, which, from the black scuffs, had long passed the days of brand new. Safety glasses became the preferred eyewear.

  Potholes magically appeared after the cold and rain, and the department kept them filled—our tax dollars at work. I was assigned to a crew working on a county road connecting the large cities which bordered Sommerville. In the chilly morning, I stood on the streets while the crew repaired-and-slash-or-replaced the roadway. I firmly gripped a STOP and SLOW sign-on-a-pole in one hand. I directed vehicles to bypass the equipment and the site. The drivers ranged from friendly wavers to kill-me strangers.

  The dust raised coated my body. Every evening, my hair required several shampoos to purge the gritty filth.

  Because the temperature was cold, I wore a T-shirt under the company shirt, then a hoodie over the whole lot, donning the safety vest last. Cheap knit gloves covered my hands, but in my pockets were hard-core leather ones from the home improvement store—just in case.

  Today, I motioned a car through which hit a pothole filled with the brackish, brownish water left over from an overnight rain shower. The spray dumped on my head and clothing. Everyone knew what the image of drowned rat resembled. I looked beyond drowned and rat. I wiped my face with a blue paper towel, purloined from the roll on the back of the service truck. Luckily, I’d tucked my knotted hair in the hoodie.

  While I brushed drops from my chest, I saw a car stop on the shoulder right next to where I stood. I looked over and locked eyes with Allan. Mortification flooded me. I shared with no one about my latest employment opportunity. And now…

  Allan tightly clamped his lips.

  A steely Clint Eastwood glint shaped his eyes.

  He didn’t like what he saw.

  Without a doubt, Allan would tell his mother who would tell my mother as they scrutinized artichokes at Super Saver Grocery while the Mothers Always Know Network convened.

  Allan fixed his hands on the steering wheel, flexed, and regripped several times as he stared out the window, collecting thoughts. The driver’s window lowered. A moment, two, and three passed. “Hattie.”

  I bit into my bottom lip. “Allan.”

  Staring out the front windshield, he drummed the steering wheel. He slanted his eyes toward my direction. The drumming halted. “Another job?”

  The STOP and SLOW sign pretty much gave me away. I shrugged.

  “Hey, mister,” my supervisor said. “Get a move on. Chat up the girl on your own time.”

  Allan waved and turned on his right indicator. He slotted the cop car deeper in the dead grass bordering the shoulder. He exited and stepped on the edge of the asphalt, closer but not too close.

  He crooked his finger. “Can we talk, sweetheart?”

&
nbsp; Oh boy. I turned to my coworkers and signaled between Allan and me. The youngest one who also worked the pole—aka Dickhead because he acted like a know-it-all—at the supply truck whose red hair stuck out all over, let his head drop to one side.

  Dickhead had already complained about how many bathroom breaks I took—a vast total of two. I didn’t know what he expected. No way would I ever, or could I ever, utilize an empty milk jug as the guys did.

  Blowing a sigh, Dickhead jogged over and jerked the sign from my hand. “Make it snappy.”

  I walked toward Allan and grasped his arm to redirect us to the weedy lot. “Talk fast. I have a job to do.”

  “Surprise. Surprise,” he said. “I didn't expect to see you on a road crew. Why?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I’m working. Bills to pay. You know, et cetera, et cetera.” I flickered my fingers.

  “More than obvious, sweetheart. The more important question is, does your mom know?”

  I snorted. A glance toward the road told me a large SUV turned our way. “Like I’d tell her. Besides, she’s too busy with Tracey and Stuart to care.”

  “I doubt that. I know your mother cares.” Allan overlapped his arms and relaxed his stance. “She’ll find out from my mom over eggplant at Super Saver, especially when I tell mine.”

  I squeezed my eyes into reptile slits. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Huh.” He stroked his chin. “Maybe I would.”

  “Traitor.”

  Allan smothered his grin with his hand. “Did they”—he jerked his head toward the work crew—“train you for this? It’s dangerous.”

  I didn’t answer him for a while, just scuffed the toe of my boot to loosen a dead weed twiglet embedded in the black goo.

  “The answer should be yes.”

  I lifted my left shoulder. “All right already. Yes. The basics of signage. Nothing else required.”

  “And how did you get here without a car?”

  I set my hands to my waist. “If the police would find my Jeep, I'd have a car.”

  “I think your Jeep is long gone.”

  A beat, two, and three more passed.

  “Sorry, sweetheart.” Allan dipped his head.

  “Not good news, Detective. And don’t call me sweetheart.”

  “An investigation takes thirty days before the case is closed. Then you can notify your insurance company so you can get a replacement. You have a couple of weeks to go. Are you”—he glanced at my co-workers—“carpooling?”

  “No. My insurance covered”—I pointed across the road where a small, barely silver compact sedan from a rental company rested in the shade of mesquite trees. So not my preferred ride. I avoided looking at or driving it as much as possible.

  Allan took in the cheap vehicle with a sizeable dent in the bumper. “Not…your…style.”

  “A lot you know.” I lifted a shoulder. “All I could afford.”

  “Hattie.” My red-headed antagonist waved vigorously. “Time’s up.”

  Kids these days. I scrunched a face his way. He didn’t retreat.

  Allan took three steps in Dickhead’s direction. His hands parted his khaki blazer to rest on his hips. “Excuse me.”

  Certainly, his gun showed because my co-worker shook his head and backed away with a “never mind.”

  I shifted from one foot to the other. “I need to get back to—”

  Allan returned to his place in front of me, his lips formed into a firm, seamless line. “God damn it, Hattie. You make my blood boil.”

  Yikes. I gave him my best “see-if-I-care” look. “Noted.”

  “I have more news.”

  I crossed my arms and arched a brow. “I’m sure it’s riveting.”

  “Maybe. We caught Miss A.”

  I gasped. “What? Where?”

  “Outside Kansas City.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes way.”

  “She’ll stand trial?”

  “Here and in Seattle. She’s gotta lot to answer for.”

  “But not my Jeep?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  I rubbed my forehead, then looked to my left. “Thank you. Anything else?”

  “Don’t move.” He went to the cop car and flung open the door. He rummaged for a while, scribbled, then slammed the door.

  With determined strides, Allan returned and thrust a rectangular piece of paper toward me.

  “Here.”

  I clasped my hands behind my back. “What—”

  “Just take it.”

  With a cautious and curious eye on him, I took the slip. My eyes rounded. A check. In fact, a check with the humongous number of five thousand dollars in the amount box.

  I rubbed my finger across my lips, then frowned. “Um, this check’s written for a big chunk of change. Why?”

  “For you. To use. To start your business. Time to quit jumping from one job to the next and get serious in your career. Open your own goddamn store.”

  I couldn’t take Allan’s money. I stuck the check inside his sport coat’s breast pocket and patted it. His piney soap scent found my nose. Pausing, I fought the urge to shut my eyes and fall into the fragrance of him. “Look, buster,” I said. “I know you mean well; however, I don’t take handouts. I can’t repay you. Thanks for the offer. Dickhead is getting impatient. Gotta go.”

  I turned, and as I did, I felt his grip on my bicep. I looked at his steady hand and didn’t try to shake him off. “Please, Allan. Let go.”

  “I will but listen first.” He shifted slightly and loosened his grasp. “You aren’t happy as a highway flagger, are you?”

  Shit no. I rolled my eyes. “What do you think? What matters is, the crappy job pays the bills.”

  “For now. What if you get hurt?”

  I pulled away my arm. “I was almost french fried at Wedding Wonderland, which everyone believed was a stupendous place to work. I’m willing to take the risk.”

  Allan took the check from his coat pocket and crushed it in my hand. “Take. The. Check. You don’t have to cash it. Just take it and think.”

  “Hattie!” Dickhead called.

  God, I hate this job. I looked at my slouched co-worker, staring with one hand on his hip. I learned early in the world of the highway department, flag duty was beneath him.

  I looked at my hands and unfurled the check, and possibly, my future.

  “Okay.” I lifted my gaze to meet his. “I’ll think. Now, I have to go.” And being my mother’s daughter, I halted long enough to say a very polite “Thank you, Allan.”

  “Oh”—he bounced his brow—“I’ll find a way for you to pay me back, like washing my clothes, pet sitting, cleaning my car.”

  Lordy. I’d signed on as his personal assistant.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  That evening, I slugged through my apartment doorway. I kicked off the boots and literally dragged myself to the kitchen. I threw the helmet on the island. I ought to hurry and shed my work clothes and hop in the shower before Jenny came home and discovered what I’d done. She would ream me out ’til Hades seemed palatable. After Allan's lecture, I didn’t need another one. I touched my jeans’ front pocket where I’d stashed Allan’s check.

  Think about it.

  I couldn't stop thinking about his check. I held the ridiculous pole with the absurd signs and daydreamed about owning my own business. However, all I seemed to do was think. Fanciful pictures of a cute boutique with large windows and the name in a black flowing script filled my head. I planned exactly what kind of inventory I could buy, too.

  Until one of the kill-me strangers laid on his horn and jerked me from the moment.

  Sigh. I dug Allan’s check from my pocket and set it on the kitchen counter. Although generous, I needed more to make my venture a “go.”

  I snagged a granola bar from the pantry, and just as I chomped into the peanuts and oats, I heard an “ahem.”

  I rotated slowly and found my good bud, Jenny, standing behind me. Then a colossal real
ization smacked me sideways—she came home early, and I hadn’t cleaned up.

  One big fat oops.

  “Nice outfit.” Jenny gestured toward the helmet. “Killer.”

  “Thanks.” I took a bite. “You know me, always prepared.”

  She slid onto a barstool. “For Halloween.”

  I popped open the trashcan and tossed the filmy covering of the granola bar inside.

  “Exactly when did you plan on informing me—or any of the Funsisters—about your job?”

  “Hey, I hadn’t got around to saying anything to anyone.” With my mouth stuffed with crunchy bits, I shrugged. “How I pay my rent is none of your concern.”

  Jenny passed me the “whatever” look.

  “Okay. Fine. I’m tired of the crazy temp jobs and found one with the highway department.” I thumbed my chest. “I’m a flagger.”

  Her brow lifted. “Hmm. You look as if you have been shoveling ditches.”

  I leaned against the wall. “A little road grime never hurt anyone.”

  “Don’t touch—”

  “I’ll clean it.” I found paper towels and a spray bottle of soap under the sink. I covered the spot with liquid and wiped the smear. “And abracadabra.”

  “Lovely. Now take off your shirt and pants and put them in the washer before you contaminate anything else.”

  Jenny sounded exactly like my mother when I worked at Amazing Adventureland theme park with my friend Maggie. A day of sunshine produced sweaty pits and stinky feet. I’d parked my Keds outside the garage to air them.

  I unbuttoned my shirt, toed off my socks, and slipped off my jeans when I remembered Allan’s check on the counter.

  Jenny dragged the paper closer. “What is this?”

  Uh-oh. “Pretty self-evident. A gift. From Allan.”

  “Interesting.” Jenny took the check and read. “And a whole lotta moola. What for?”

  I tossed the grimy pants in the washer. I stood in front of Jenny in my bra and panties, the ratty ones, barely covered by the unbuttoned shirt, exposed in many ways like the naked adventurers in the TV survival show.

  I overlapped my arms over my chest. “Allan said I’m supposed to—quote—think about it—unquote.”

  “Think about…what?”