Good Girl

by Alan Lee

  This annotated oil painting was framed and remained on the wall permanently. Large and prominent. Below the note about not panicking were functional suggestions about the best way for him to cope with this fresh news and get started with the day.

  Jeez. I scrubbed at my hair, battling intense but brief claustrophobia. Imagine waking up to that every. single. day. Each morning a dizzying sensation as you read the news for the first time. Again.

  Now that I thought about it, he might need to read this painting several times during a twenty-four-hour period. Wow.

  A little whiteboard hung adjacent, on which Rose wrote notes. For example, she was grocery shopping at three and would be back by four-thirty.

  Below that, another painting. Framed but smaller. This one had less dust on it, probably because it was taken off the wall occasionally, due to company.

  My dearest Ulysses,

  You and I are in love. Sometimes you remember this but usually you do not, and that’s okay. The gap in your memory begins a few weeks before you proposed.

  You remember me most often as Rose, the housekeeper, a woman you love in secret.

  But in reality, between us there are no secrets. I am the woman who adores you most in the whole world. And you loved me before the car crash you’ve forgotten.

  We will never get married.

  But we will be together forever.

  Come find me in the house! I look forward to seeing you every day.

  I love you. Always.

  Rose.

  A Polaroid was taped to the frame, the two of them kissing. She wore an engagement ring. Looking younger and carefree.

  The impact knocked my knees out. I sat heavily onto the floor. She was the mysterious woman, obviously.

  I should have known. And I had on some level.

  But I had NOT known that Ulysses had proposed.

  He’d proposed, but then the accident, and…

  And she stayed. She stayed with a man who didn’t remember he loved her.

  For half an hour I couldn’t find the strength to get up.

  I sat in my car later that day. Unable to turn the ignition, still numb from the evidence of unconditional love in the face of constant pain. Rose Bridges, my new hero.

  My phone rang. Marcus Morgan calling.

  I shook myself free of reverie. One does not ignore calls from the local cocaine lord.

  I put it on speaker.

  He said, “Got a call from Tom. You remember Tom.”

  “Tom Garrett. One of the Kings, looks like Mr. Rogers, runs identify fraud. Big fan of mine.”

  “That he is. Got a call from Tom. He did a little digging into the, ah, windfall from your gladiatorial endeavors.”

  “I won the Gabbia Cremisi in Naples and now I’m rich.”

  “You half right. But fuckers say they keeping your winnings,” he said.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “No?”

  “I broke out of their cage and killed their guards and burned down their billion dollar hotel.”

  “Manny the Marshal burned it, matter fact. He set the fires. I know cause I was there and I wasn’t in no damn cage.”

  “Maybe so but I’m taking credit. No one hit him; they all hit me,” I said.

  “This ain’t a world of legal recourse or justice. They say they keeping it, they keep it. Their eyes, you broke the deal.”

  I snorted. “The deal.”

  “A gentleman’s world running on deals and relationships. Only problem, the gentlemen be gangsters.”

  “Your first book, Marcus, should be titled The Gentlemen Be Gangsters.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “So if I want my money—”

  “Hafta go take it. Kill’em all. Might start a war with the whole damn Camorra,” he said.

  “Nah. I like what I do and I’m dating an attorney.”

  “Thought you might let it go. Ain’t yo style.”

  “You killed What’s-his-name, so who’s running the show in Naples now?”

  “Don’t know, don’t care.”

  “Well, tell Tom they can keep the money long as they build a museum for children and erect a statue of me out front.”

  “Yeah. Fo’sure I’ll tell him that.”

  “Out of curiosity, if I demanded my money and started a war with the Camorra, would the Kings back me up?”

  He sighed loud enough for the receiver to distort the sound. Took another moment before answering. “A good damn question, August. Winning the tournament? That’s a big deal. Made the Kings proud. Now the council running the thing slights you, means they slight the Kings too. You as famous as The Prince, remember him? But, be that as it may…you ain’t exactly the Kings’ golden son. So…I don’t know, August.”

  “I’m not gonna push the issue.”

  “One more thing. The sale of Veronica Summers’s property is finalized. I already got a handle of the wholesaler issue. But it’s creating waves with specific individuals.”

  “Like Darren Robbins? And the men who love Ronnie? And the men who fear us both?”

  “Who else. Think they gonna go away quietly? Cause they ain’t. Just letting you know. You got this weird status among people who matter. Half of them love you, cause of the tournament. Other half? Well…let’s just say, I still got an ear to the ground. Cause the issue is ongoing.”

  “Understood. And I appreciate it.”

  “No thanks needed. Couple of us made a small fortune betting on you.”

  “How nice,” I said.

  “We got wealth, you got a free tattoo.”

  “Wasn’t exactly free. But Ronnie likes the design.”

  “All that matters.”

  I was in my car, within sight of Ulysses’s house. And Rose’s house.

  I said, “Yeah. You’re right.”

  30

  Ronnie and Kix came home at six as I was feeding Georgina Princess. Ronnie had taken the afternoon off, collected Kix, and spent several hours in a whirlwind downtown—Kids Square, boutique shopping, transportation museum, food and treats, more boutiques, more food and treats. Kix toddled my way, unsteady steps, huge smile, not far from an insulin coma.

  I collected him and wiped his face.

  Ronnie kissed me and went for white wine. We weren’t on bad terms. We were on weird terms. Two oxen, yoked together and realizing the other traveled at a differing speed.

  Miles Davis played on the speakers and the heat was set at seventy-one to keep out the January chill.

  I said, “Good afternoon?”

  “The best, Mackenzie. The best. Kix and I are Bonnie and Clyde, and I love him to death. He had a milkshake and a hotdog and cookies and ice cream, and I got some pashmina.”

  “You’re spoiling him. Professional boxers are never spoiled as children.”

  “Boxer? Ick. One day he’ll take over my practice, the handsomest attorney in Virginia.”

  “And the fattest?” I said.

  “It’ll add to his boyish charm.”

  Kix ignored us, eyes on Georgina Princess. I set him in his playpen where he wobbled sleepily.

  Ronnie said, “Don’t feed me. I’m stuffed. On the way here, guess who called?”

  “Ruth Bader Ginsburg. She needs you to take her seat on the bench.”

  “No, but I debate getting a RBG tattoo. Lynsey called.”

  “Who?”

  “Lynsey. No D. The prostitute.”

  “Elton the felon’s girl.”

  Ronnie lowered onto the kitchen stool and sipped wine. “She said Elton hasn’t hit her the last few days. And even told her to take a day off.”

  “Well, well.” I got my bottle of beer off the counter and toasted her. “Look at us, forming a more perfect union and establishing justice and ensuring domestic tranquility.”

  She clinked my glass. “Are you quoting the Constitution?”

  “Botching it.”

  “But really, Mackenzie. This burns inside me. The need to protect these gir
ls. And I think we can do it. Men like Elton need rules and direction and consequences. So do the girls. Plus safety and counseling, and…that’s what I’m using the money for.”

  “You haven’t spent it all?”

  She poked me. I liked it. “I gave the money to my finance guy. First I opened up retirement accounts for each of us. Hefty ones. And I kept some more cash. But still, there’s over a million and a half being put into a fund I’ll use to build the shelter.”

  “When you say shelter, do you mean brothel?”

  “Of course not,” said Ronnie. “Maybe. I should ask my counselor about the idea.”

  “That poor woman, you’re going to kill her.”

  “You don’t like the idea of a brothel, I can tell.”

  I drank some beer and codified my thoughts. “You recognize the reality that prostitution is here to stay. It’s better to deal with reality than fantasy. And I like your instincts to protect the girls. But you becoming a madam? I don’t like the idea.”

  “I’d be the madam with the best legs.”

  “You’d be great. You’re a wounded healer. But I’d rather not visit your legs behind bars.”

  “You break the law all the time, Mackenzie. For the greater good, I realize. Why can’t I?”

  “My crimes are minor. And though I know you have the best intentions at heart, the prosecutors will book you for sex trafficking. Not minor.”

  “Maybe I should stick with being a defense attorney?” she said. She finished the glass of wine and crossed her legs. “Let’s change the subject. I’ve been waiting all day to hear about yours. Last I heard, you suspected Alex might have been driving her father’s car when it crashed.”

  “She was in fact.”

  “I knew it.”

  “You’re good at this.”

  She said, “The saga continues. Did you make her cry?”

  “Not intentionally.”

  “Mackenzie.”

  I never loved my name so much as when uttered between those lips. I said, “It was a bad night. All I did was jog her memory.”

  “Poor kid, she was in a rough spot.”

  “Some fathers ask too much of their daughters,” I said.

  “Don’t I know. What else?”

  “The mysterious woman at the crash? His caretaker. Rose. No big surprise there, probably should’ve guessed. But the current circumstances will make your hat fly off. Ulysses proposed to her before the accident. Probably within a few days of it.”

  Ronnie gasped. Her hand went to her mouth like a pinup girl, eyes round. “He can’t remember, can he?”

  “He cannot.”

  “Ho. Ly. Shit. How does that work? It’s not like they can get married. Right? He’d forget it every morning. He’d forget the wedding a few hours before it began.”

  “It’d be close to impossible.”

  “That’s horrible. So…she just…what? She stays and works? And hopes?”

  I said, “I haven’t spoken with her about it yet. I think they daily exist in a state of romantic nascence. Not a bad place to be, but there’s no deepening resonance.”

  “Because daily he has to remember he’s not still married to What’s-her-face.”

  “In his mind, he’s still married to Colleen. He constantly expects the divorce to be finalized soon. Even though it was several years ago.”

  “And Rose, how does she manage?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “She just…loves him,” said Ronnie. “That’s, I—I don’t have words. Loves, like the verb. She just does it?”

  “Without ever getting back enough affection or appreciation in return.”

  Ronnie stood. Took her wine glass to the sink and walked to the door. Slipped out of her shoes. Her eyes were far away.

  Georgina Princess watched her from her spot on the rug. Watched her without moving her head.

  Ronnie said, “Is it romantic or is it hell? I can’t decide. But I’d watch a cheesy movie about it.”

  “I’d read a Grisham book and hold your hand while you did.”

  “So is the case closed?”

  “Almost. A final detail to confirm and then I present Ulysses with my results.”

  Ronnie bent at the waist to get her hands on Kix. She lofted him from the pen and onto her shoulder. He’d fallen asleep. Probably wake up in the middle of the night with a stomach ache.

  “I’ll put him to bed.”

  I said, “Thanks.”

  “Not needed. I claim partial ownership.” She paused on the second step. “They never exchanged wedding vows. Ulysses and Rose.”

  “In sickness and in health?”

  “But she stays. And cares for him.”

  “So far.”

  “You’re right,” she said and resumed her ascension. “That’s enough to make my hat fly off. Whatever the hell that means.”

  I finished my beer. Tossed it into recycling. Put away her wine glass. Sat on the rug next to Georgina Princess and scratched her near the ears.

  My phone rang and I checked it.

  Made a hmmmm sound.

  How about that. Coincidence?

  I let it ring, considering the caller ID and formulating a plan. The best place. A plan worthy of Sherlock Holmes himself.

  I answered. “Mackenzie.”

  “Mr. August? I hope you don’t mind the phone call. This is Colleen Gibbs? Do you remember? I was married to Ulysses.”

  “Of course. Currently you’re married to my pal Gordon.”

  “I am.”

  “You made me coffee in your kitchen”

  She laughed. Maybe a little too hard. “I did. And we talked in your car afterward.”

  “How can I be of service?”

  “Do you have time to meet with me? Tonight? If it’s too late for you, tomorrow in your office. I need advice. My daughter called and asked if we could talk; she never does this, and I’m curious if it’s related to your investigation.”

  Wheels turning. Plans altering. Winds shifting.

  “Um,” I said.

  “Please.”

  “I can’t tomorrow.”

  “Oh. I’d like to see you soon.”

  “Let me update you now on the phone about the investigation.” I closed my eyes. Winced, brainstorming. Smoke about to come out ears. Might work. I kept talking but I removed the phone from my ear and opened up a map on screen. “So Gordon was right. The dog, Georgina Princess, is worth a lot of money. A fortune.”

  Colleen caught her breath. “You’re kidding. A fortune? How so?”

  “Hard to explain. There’s…” I zoomed in on the map and waited for it to refresh. “…there’s a house. Near the crash sight. I’m going there tomorrow. Afterwards I’ll have more specifics.”

  “Did you say fortune? I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t fully either.” If this plan didn’t work, I’d hate myself. The image on screen snapped into focus. “But tomorrow morning I should have the money.”

  “The money? You’ll have it? I’m so confused, Mr. August.”

  “I’m getting it tomorrow. Morning.”

  “At the house? Where is it? And who owns it?”

  “Near Ulysses’s crash site. Bottom of Bent Mountain. On…” I squinted at my phone. “On Whistler Drive, off 696.”

  She said, “Wow. Whistler? Never heard of… Where did the money come from? How does the dog…I’m lost.”

  “Me too,” I said honestly.

  “But—”

  “One last thing, Colleen?”

  “Yes?”

  “Remember, Alex is a kid whose entire world crumbled in a matter of months. It’s important not to blame her for the mistakes of her parents.”

  “I’m sorry? Are you—”

  I hung up.

  31

  Georgina Princess and I rented a truck from Enterprise and headed toward Bent Mountain. She rode in the passenger seat, watching me. Her ears were short but not clipped and they flopped forward; reminded me of a girl’s pigt
ails. A thin sliver of white hair started at her nose and ran up between her large brown eyes. Though happy, her forehead wrinkled with concern.

  Once this is over, what will happen to me?

  I scratched her under the chin. “Once this is over, what would you like to happen?”

  I will be happy anywhere.

  “Are you happy with us?”

  Yes, oh yes.

  “Were you happy with Ramona and Ronald Cohen?”

  Yes I was.

  “Do you think you might be the best dog in the world?”

  Yes, oh yes, I am, you’ll see.

  “You don’t really shed. I mean, you do some. But the hairs are so short, and Timothy hasn’t complained once.”

  I am low maintenance and loving and obedient, and I love heating vents and also Kix and also Timothy.

  “The problem, Georgina Princess, is that the house is empty most of the day. You’d be bored.”

  Oh I will protect the house. You will see.

  We went south and west. Into the country and I watched my rearview.

  No yellow Hummer.

  If this didn’t work, I was a huge ass.

  The day looked colder than it was. The farther into the county we drove, the more fog we encountered and I kept the wipers on low and the defroster pumping. We reached the base of the mountain and turned off on 696—a small road twisting through fields and trees under the watch of looming peaks. The trees were bare and the grass dormant and yellow.

  A quarter mile up the road, I passed a private trail. After I passed, a bronze Ford Ranger rumbled out from the private trail and tailed me at an innocuous distance.

  “Ah hah!” I told Georgina Princess. “I knew it. This is going to work. See those dummies behind us? They are dummies. My instincts were right. Tell your friends.”

  Yes, oh yes I will.

  We kept going.

  An abandoned farmhouse sat lonely and pitiful off Whistler, near the foothills. Once grand, now forgotten and leaning inward. The surrounding fields were wild from neglect—the grass long and brown and choked with dead wildflowers. I rumbled up the pocked gravel drive. A herd of deer, shaggy with winter coats, inspected my ruckus with irritation. I braked near the porch and climbed out, GPS on leash.

  The trailing Ford Ranger gave up its innocent pretense and gunned the engine. The deer bolted, tails raised and flashing white—they executed a series of graceful jumps and vanished into the bracken. The Ranger mashed brakes and slid to a stop, shoveling gravel piles under each tire.