The Mentor

by Rebecca Forster

  He glanced at her. He tugged at his tie once more, somehow displeased with the way it looked. Finally, he positioned it at his throat, stopped and let his shoulders sag. When he turned around, he leaned against the dresser, he clutched the end of his tie and his eyes were filled with tears of exhaustion. He took her hand and held it loosely in his own.

  “Lauren,” he said sincerely, “I miss Wilson more than I could ever imagine. Can’t you see how terrible I feel about all this? Oh, Lord, sometimes I don’t even want to get up in the morning and other times I can’t sleep at night. I don’t know how to live with this. You know that guy hasn’t got a clue how much salt he’s rubbing into the wound. You want to know if I have a gun. Fine. I have a gun. What else? What else do you want to know?”

  Lauren moved closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. She leaned her head against his, brother and sister, family at last. Allan reached up and took her arm.

  His hand was so large, her arm so small. She was so tiny. It occurred to him that he could snap her arm without much thought, and probably do the same to her neck. But that was the residue of the liquor in his thinking, nothing more he was sure.

  “Nothing. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I asked,” Lauren said quietly. She moved her head and felt how soft his hair was. It smelled fresh and clean. Eli Warner, who knew so little of what they’d been through, had managed to make her question the bond between Allan and her. Perhaps Allan had not sought her out, but she was equally guilty for not offering a shoulder for him to cry on. She had called to complain, but she hadn’t asked about him.

  “Allan, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I should have come to you right away when Eli started talking like that. Now you can talk about it. Just talk about those years he has questions about and get it all out. I’ll tell him what he needs to know, and then he’ll leave you alone.”

  Allan stiffened and, as he did so, his hand tightened around Lauren’s arm until she squealed in protest. Ever so slowly he pulled her in front of him. Lauren stumbled, disoriented as things changed. “Lauren, before I tell you anything, I have a question.” He stared at her, his voice low and threatening. “Did you come here to spy on me?”

  “Oh, God, Allan, no,” Lauren breathed. Her arm burned but she made no attempt to extricate herself. What he was saying pained her more than anything he could do to her physically. “Allan, don’t be ridiculous. I came here to let you know he had questions.”

  “Did you sleep with him, Lauren?” Allan let her go, and Lauren put a hand to her arm.

  “Irrelevant.” She stepped back, smarting but not intimidated.

  “And there are some things that aren’t any of your business,” Allan reminded her. “One of them is my relationship with Wilson. You know, you never figured out when to leave well enough alone. Warner thinks I maybe made Wilson miserable. Well, how about the way you made him feel? You’re the one that threatened him with a higher court on Stewarts’ standing issue. He sure felt great about that. Warner thinks I could have killed Wilson? And what about you? He made a fool of you in court. He was going to ruin your career if he let George Stewart go. Wasn’t that enough to kill Wilson for?”

  “No, and you know it.”

  “I don’t know any such thing. All I know is that I can make up a story given what I know about you and your relationship with Wilson the same way your boyfriend makes them up about me. If you can’t see that you’re being used, I haven’t got the time to teach you how to figure it out. I thought you were smarter than that, Lauren, but you really scraped the bottom of the barrel. He can’t do anything for you except bring you down.”

  “Funny, Allan, at this minute I kind of feel like Eli Warner might be a step up.”

  “You better watch what you’re doing and saying, sweetheart. You don’t have anyone to help you now that Wilson’s dead.”

  “Neither do you, Allan. Or have you forgotten you’re where you are because of Wilson,” Lauren reminded him.

  “I haven’t forgotten. The difference is, I’ve already arrived, and you still need someone to give you a push.”

  “I don’t think so, Allan. In fact, of the two of us, I might be in a better position,” Lauren drawled. “I may never rise as high as you, but you can fall a hell of a lot farther than me.”

  Allan glared. Allan didn’t move save for a tremor at the corner of his jaw. Lauren’s eyes narrowed. She was ready to counter anything he threw at her. Lauren wanted to hear exactly how much anger there was inside him, but Allan Lassiter wasn’t going to be that accommodating.

  “Get out, Laurie, and leave the key,” he said coldly. “Come on back when you know which side you’re on.”

  Lauren turned on her heel. She tossed his key on the hall table and didn’t look back. Eli was right about one thing. Something had happened between Allan and Wilson, and whatever it was, it wasn’t a good thing.

  “It’s a good thing,” Dr. Temple said, sounding like the physician’s Martha Stewart. “Come on. He’s awake.”

  Mark walked fast beside the doctor who seemed almost giddy with pleasure that Nick was on his way to recovery.

  “How long has it been?” Mark asked.

  “He showed some signs of coming out of it during the early morning hours, but we didn’t want to call you until we were positive there’d be a chance he could communicate. It’s not too late, is it?”

  “Too late? For what?” They took a hard left and followed a green arrow that pointed the way to Intensive Care. Mark could have followed it in his sleep.

  “For your investigation. I mean, if he can give you the information you’re looking for, are you going to be able to put these guys behind bars?”

  Mark smiled with pleasure. “Doc, I think they may be where we want them even as we speak. Nick’s going to be the icing on the cake. Believe me. Everyone responsible for Nick’s condition is going down. One of ’em already bit the dust, and now it’s just cleanup time.”

  A right and they went right by the smiling nurses and in to see Nick Cheshire.

  “Nick,” Mark said as he walked to the bed, only to readjust his volume when he got there. Leaning over him, Mark talked softly. “You’re looking good, buddy. Real good. Had me worried for a minute there.”

  Nick looked at him, happiness somewhere behind his eyes, drugs and pain still obscuring it. Mark could tell it was there, though, because Nick was trying to smile, too. There was still stuff around his mouth, wires in his jaw but Mark grinned back.

  “I know, man, it’s been rough. Don’t you worry. We’re getting them. Every last one. The kid’s going down today.” Mark tilted closer, trying to talk privately with his friend. There was so much to tell him, and Mark was excited. “Yep, old Henry’s being brought back to the fold. When you finger the rest, I’ll give you their heads on a platter. I swear I’m going to bury every single one of those militia freaks that hurt you.” Nick closed his eyes at the news and Mark grinned. Even in the shape he was in, Nick Cheshire managed to show his gratitude. That simple act spurred Mark Jackson on. He knew Nick still had a long way to go, but good news would help him recover. Closer still he went, until his lips were right next to Nick Cheshire’s ear. His hand grasped Nick’s fingertips. “Caufeld’s dead, Nick. He put you here with his damned deliberations and now he’s dead, buddy. I’m taking care of everything. We’re getting everyone who was even remotely responsible for what happened to you.”

  Nick’s eyes opened instantaneously, and his head jerked. Mark pulled up, terrified that he had done something to cause Nick pain. Nick was awake, his eyes wide and frantic with terror not pain. He was talking, but the words were garbled from behind his headgear. His fingers clawed at Mark’s hand as his eyes flipped back and forth in his head. Mark reached for the buzzer to call the nurse, but Nick managed a tug on Mark’s fingers, so Mark leaned down again. This time it was his ear near Nick’s lips.

  Painstakingly, Nick moved his lips beneath the wires. One eternal minute later, Mark Jackson patted Nick’s hand. He had t
wo names. It was enough.

  “It’s okay, buddy. It’s enough. You done good. I’ll check it out.”

  He walked purposefully from the unit and down the hall. Behind him, a nurse rushed in to check on Nick Cheshire. The monitor was going crazy. She took his pulse, she looked at his face, and she checked the readings. Her patient was agitated, no doubt.

  She spoke softly and soothingly, stroking his hand as she did so. The nurse asked him to open his eyes. He did so. There were tears in them. She eased his mind and finally he went to sleep. The nurse left when she was sure he was all right. Back at the desk, she made a note to speak to Mr. Jackson about upsetting Mr. Cheshire. His condition was still extremely precarious.

  On his way out of the hospital, Mark Jackson was having a similar reaction. His heart was palpitating, and he was upset. Slipping into his car, he wrote down the words Nick had managed to say. Little did anyone know that the situation was this precarious. How, he wondered, had the militia reached so far, and what, exactly, was he going to do about it.

  17

  Mark Jackson sat in the Soft Spot looking death right in the eye. He was tattooed on the bartender’s arm and the Grim Reaper was a stunning piece of work and the bartender was a woman. Grand flowing robes were etched from the lady’s shoulder to elbow; his scythe and hood were elongated to epic proportions. The look of it gave Mark the shivers, but nothing scared him more than the thought that he’d been drinking out of glasses this woman had touched. She said she’d been tending bar since she was a baby. She looked like she’d been raised from the dead and she loved to talk.

  Black hair streamed down her back and looked like something that had come from a river bottom. She was pale and fleshy. Her body was poured into horizontal strips of black leather: a black leather bra from which her huge breasts erupted, a micro-mini so tight at the waist that her gut grew up and out of it, so short at the other end that her bottom poked out when she reached for a brew. Black mesh stockings waffle-printed her legs and her feet rested in well-worn black boots. She had outlined her small eyes with black kohl and lined her fingers with big silver rings. She liked Mark from the minute he walked in. That’s why the place was called the Soft Spot. She only let people stay if she knew they would always have a soft spot in her heart. Her name was Wanda. She’d talked to him for an hour, giving him the lowdown on the regulars, telling him how much she loved a man who kept his hair and mustache neat. It was the sign of a man up on his luck. Mark made the appropriate responses and waited for the appointed hour. Just like Wanda said, at eleven the place started hopping and Wanda was too busy to give him her full attention.

  “Hey, baby, good to see ya.” She called to the woman who came in and slung a saddlebag on the bar. Wanda patted Mark’s hand, strutting away with the kind of apology she gave to those she favored. “I hate to run, baby. Be back at you.”

  “You won’t forget me, will you, Wanda?” Mark asked, with that smile he reserved for just such occasions. If his wife could have seen it, she would have died.

  Wanda turned and winked. Black mascara flaked onto her cheek, “I know who you’re looking for, baby. I gotcha covered.”

  Mark put another buck on the bar just so she wouldn’t forget. Wanda came cheap.

  She went her way, chatting up the newcomers. Mark downed his Cuervo Gold. That was number three. His limit. He rolled around on his stool, lifting his leg so his jeans wouldn’t stick to whatever it was Wanda had neglected to wash off the wooden seat. He lounged against the bar checking out the clientele listening to Wanda’s routine. Baby this, baby that, lean over the bar pushing her boobs forward. A kiss. Cheeks, lips, breasts, it was all the same to Wanda. Yeah, they loved her like a mother, ordered their poison and tipped her well. And she talked. Because Wanda talked, he knew exactly who he was looking for.

  “Hey, baby,” he heard one more time before he tuned her out and slid off his stool, heading for the juke box. He dumped in a buck. Three plays, it used to be four. Absently he pushed the buttons before surveying the scene again. Two at the pool table, three men at the bar. Two women, one chatting up the guys, the other by herself. That one would be alone until everybody got blinded then she’d go home happy with the guy with the worst optical problems.

  Mark settled himself at a table. The woman at the bar gave him the once over and didn’t bother to smile. She seemed to know she couldn’t convince anyone she was worth a second look, so she didn’t bother trying. He touched his mustache. He traveled across the worn floor one more time and blessed the dim light when he sat down next to her. A woman like her might have things to get off her chest.

  “Can I get you something?” His knuckles pointed toward her half-empty glass.

  “Not done yet.” She finished up. “Now you can.”

  “What are you drinking?”

  “Wanda,” she called in a voice that would have a hard time whispering sweet nothings. “Put a Black Russian on this guy’s tab.”

  Wanda cackled back, “No tabs here, baby, you know that. What’d you think the name of this place is soft touch?”

  Wanda brought the drink and collected the money. From his new angle Mark could see a serpent sneaking its head out from the middle of her bra. Nice touch. He put another five in her brassiere and the snake disappeared.

  “Baby, you are the sweetest.” Wanda turned to the woman. “Listen, Cory, this nice man here is looking for Udell. You give him the heads up when he comes in. I’m going to be busy tonight, baby.”

  “Yeah, sure thing.” The woman next to him sipped her drink and seemed satisfied. She talked to the glass. “You sure you want to talk to Udell?”

  Mark nodded. “I’m sure we’ve got something in common. Why shouldn’t I want to talk to Udell?”

  “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who’d be friends with that dude.” Half the Black Russian disappeared.

  “What do I seem like?” He was curious since she hadn’t looked at him for more than two seconds.

  “An accountant looking to get his head kicked in.”

  Mark laughed. “Naw, I’m not an accountant.”

  “What business you have with Udell?”

  “How well do you know him?” The vibes were heavy. If she wasn’t running interference, he’d cha0nge places with Nick. He glanced at Wanda. Could be a setup. Fine. No problem as long as he knew the lay of the land.

  “I know him well enough to know that Udell doesn’t have much in common with no one.” She flicked her eyes his way. “Didn’t see you on a hog so you’re no biker.”

  “Is Udell?”

  “Thought you had something in common with him. How can you have something in common with someone you never did meet?” She was facing him now, one hand on her hip, her other holding her glass like it was a grenade. “Cops cut their hair short like that. Could you be that stupid?”

  “You prejudiced or something?” Mark didn’t bother to sit up straight. She was drunk. He could take her even if she wasn’t. She wiggled her head, her shoulders stayed where they were, then she was half lying over the bar again.

  “No. Just careful. We take care of our own.”

  “Yeah,” Mark said darkly, “I heard all about how you do that.”

  The woman backed off, going rigid next to him. She slid off the stool. “Thanks for the drink. I think you’re going to be busy now.”

  “Baby, baby, baby!” Wanda was screeching. In the Soft Spot, that was the equivalent of dimming the lights in a theater. The man had arrived with his entourage. The crowd hushed. The curtain was rising on the first act.

  Udell was a big man. Udell was an ugly man. Tattooed from here to eternity, he was a walking advertisement for the US of A. Hoochie kootchie girls danced on his belly, Bugs Bunny wrapped around one bicep, the Marine logo around the other, fish and fauna from the Great Northwest trailed down his back and right in the middle of his chest, big as life, was the American flag. He showed off this splendor wearing nothing but a vest and chaps over low-slung jeans and steel-to
ed boots. A sweat-stained red kerchief was wrapped around his head Indian style. Two men trailed after him, splitting to check out the room for the right real estate. Mark didn’t bother with those bozos. It was the woman—a beautiful woman—hanging on Udell’s arm that fascinated him. Her silky blonde hair covered half her face, the eye in the other half was trained adoringly on her man. At the sound of Wanda’s last “baby” the blonde woman energized.

  “Fuckin’ A, Wanda!” she called back, slapping her thigh and heading for the bar.

  Udell pulled her back hard and she shook him off, pushing her hair away from her face at the same time. Mark Jackson’s insides turned over. That hidden half was the color of slime, a little darker right under her eye. Bruises in various stages of heeling ran from her forehead to her jaw. She must have looked like hell when the things were fresh; she didn’t look too grand now.

  “Baby, how’s that arm of yours?” Wanda said through lips that were pursed up with pity.

  The blonde slid onto a stool. Her jeans were tight, shredded just below her very fine cheeks. Her skin was beautiful, her legs long, her speech foul.

  “Fuckin’ doctor says it’s good as new. Damn prick Udell, couldn’t leave well enough alone. Look at this. I swear, one of these days I’m just going to knife him and leave him on the fuckin’ side of the road. Who’s going to convict me, huh?” She twirled around on the barstool and kicked out her long, long legs, laughing with a voice so smoky one word could have filled a Parisian cafe without lighting a cigarette. “Shit, nobody’d convict me for doin’ him.”

  “Nobody I know, baby.” Wanda perked up. “What’s it gonna be tonight?”

  “Udell! Udell! What are you buying me tonight?”

  “Beer,” he growled.

  The blonde turned back. “Shooters are cool. Tequila.”

  “You sure, baby? I’d hate to see you broken up again?”

  “Like I’m shaking in my boots. Did you see them scratches down his Old Glory?” The blonde gave her a look and Wanda raised an eyebrow. The blonde slapped the bar with both hands, drummed out a tune and reasoned. “Tequila, Wanda. He’ll be so smashed in an hour he won’t know what he’s paying for.” She giggled and that hair of hers brushed the bar. Mark wanted to lift it so it wouldn’t get dirty. She felt him thinking. She looked at him. She wiggled her behind and put her tongue between her teeth. Wanda, on top of everything, gave her a nudge. “He’s doing shooters, too, baby.”