by Julie Hyzy
“Should I smile?”
“Please.”
I did as she snapped a shot, then gestured for me to turn sideways. Mug shot time.
“You have a boyfriend?” she asked. The tone was conversational but I sensed the weight of the question. And it occurred to me that a boyfriend in this business could be a major hindrance. For a split-second, so quick I could almost pretend it didn’t happen, I thought about William. And his turn-my-knees-to-jelly smiles.
Then I remembered Dan and gave a half-laugh. “No.”
“What’s so funny?”
Sticking with the truth, I grinned at her. “I just broke up with him.”
“Feel bad?”
Total truth. “God, no.”
“No reconciliation in your future then?”
“Not a chance.”
“Take a deep breath and straighten up for this one.” I did and she nodded, popping another flash at me. “You look better … prettier, when you hold your shoulders back like that. Let’s take another one.”
Hold my shoulders back. Hmm. Seemed what she was trying to tell me was to thrust my chest out.
Lisa finished posing me this way and that. She took a handful of shots, some close-ups, a couple full-length, but I had to admit, they made me feel uncomfortable. I didn’t like the idea of my image being passed to sweaty-handed men, with money in their pockets and lewd thoughts on their minds. Men like creepy Emil.
I pushed my discomfort aside. “So, do I get the job?” I asked.
Her eyes raked over me and I caught her squinting one more time. Looking over the Polaroids she spread across the desk, she ran her tongue over her lips. “I can probably find a place for you temporarily. After that, we’ll see how it goes. Fair enough?”
Chapter Twelve
Dan’s message on my voicemail at work first thing Tuesday morning asking me to dinner was a shocker. I’d left him a quick message Sunday, reminding him that I still had his keys. I planned to drop them off at his station by mid-week unless I heard from him otherwise.
I expected that he would want to meet for the exchange; Dan was particular about his keys. I had no problem with that, but I also didn’t want to go out of my way to return the things, either. I figured he’d make a quick stop by my office on Monday or Tuesday and that would be that.
I punched in his number and sat back, waiting for his voicemail to pick up on the fourth ring, like it always did. This morning, my office window gave me the kind of view I live for. From the azure sky with picture perfect clouds dotting the expanse, to the sharp focus of the buildings and the river, it was a sight that made me, for just a moment, pretend that the window was a painting on the wall instead of a glimpse into the real world outside. I’d like to have been able to freeze the moment, take a snapshot, and use that as my view on days I needed a boost.
He answered the phone himself, on the third ring. “Dan?” I said, sitting up. Even I heard the surprise in my voice.
“You were expecting someone else?”
I sat back again. “I expected your voicemail.”
“Well, then I guess it’s your lucky day.”
I rolled my eyes, wishing he could see me. “Yeah.”
“So, how about it?”
“How about what?”
“Dinner, tonight. Say, seven o’clock?”
A knock at my office door interrupted. “Hang on,” I said, then called, “Come in.”
William walked in, opening his mouth as if to speak, but he stopped short when he noticed I was on the phone. I invited him to sit down with a hand motion toward my chairs then turned my attention back to Dan.
“I can’t. I have a wake to go to.” Matthew’s. And I didn’t think I’d be able to just make an appearance and run at this one. “Why don’t you just stop by the office after work and I’ll have them for you. Or I could leave them with the receptionist.”
He was silent.
“I promise to put them in a sealed envelope.”
He wasn’t amused. Or so I gathered from the grunt on the other end of the connection. I shot a quick smile over to William to let him know I’d be right with him.
“What about lunch?” Dan asked.
“I’ve got another hair appointment this afternoon,” I said, “and my schedule’s packed.”
Dan was quiet. So quiet I could almost hear the gears working in his brain. He wanted something. Otherwise he would have taken any excuse to pick the keys up without having to ‘visit.’
“Where’s the wake?”
I glanced at the notes in my calendar. “Why?”
“I thought maybe we could have dinner afterward,” he said. Then, as if the thought just occurred to him, asked, “Who died?”
“A friend’s brother.”
“Sorry to hear it,” he said without conviction. “Maybe we can meet for drinks afterward?”
Oh, now that appealed to me. Just what I wanted to do after an evening of mourning the dead. Go out for drinks with Dan.
“We can make it quick,” he said, perhaps sensing my reticence. “I have something I want to talk to you about and I’d rather do it in person.”
I felt energy drain out of me. “Fine,” I said. I didn’t want to go traipsing back downtown after a long day, so I told him he’d have to meet me at a neighborhood restaurant near the funeral home. “No drinks, though,” I cautioned. “The strongest thing they offer there is coffee. Let’s make it around nine, okay?”
“Great.” The absent-minded tone of his voice told me he was writing the address down. “Whose funeral did you say this was?”
“Gotta go,” I said. “See you then.”
William brought his attention back from looking out my window as I dropped the receiver into the cradle with a bang. “Hi,” I said, massaging my temple.
He shot a glance toward the phone, giving me the impression he was curious about the call, but he got down to business right away. “How did your interview go yesterday?”
“I start next week.”
He gave an appreciative nod. “You’re good.”
I laughed. “Let’s just hope I don’t get myself into a situation where I have to prove that.”
Ooh. Slightly bawdy remark on my part. Slipped out. His grin and raised eyebrows told me he’d caught the humor, and my instant flush of warmth was less from embarrassment than from his smiling reaction to it. What the hell was up? I was finding myself attracted to a man I barely knew. Very unlike me. Time to start squashing these instant physical responses to his presence.
Yeah, like I had any clue how to do that.
The blue eyes staring at me turned serious again. “I’ve got most of what I need on the hair care story. You’re getting some impressions today from that salon where Angela Cucio got her ear sliced, right?”
“I’m scheduled for noon. Only time I could get in, and only because of a cancellation. The place books weeks in advance.”
“Nervous?”
Movement outside my window pulled my eyes that direction. The Michigan Avenue bridge was rising to allow passage of a tall-masted boat. Late in the season, but maybe they pushed their luck while the weather was good. “A little, I guess. I’ll make sure they only use scissors on me.” I grinned. “See that bridge? I never get tired of watching them raise and lower it. And I must have seen it happen a hundred times. Amazes me every time.”
William walked over to the window to watch. I got up and stood next to him, marveling at the elegant sweep of the pavement as it moved to point skyward. Both upper and lower Michigan Avenue moved together, the only real time they were in sync. Back in place, in their ordinary roles of providing passage over the river, business-suited commuters and tourists strode along its length in the sun. Directly underneath was reserved for vagrants, the homeless, and the smart drivers who knew the secret of avoiding traffic snarls above.
Yellow flashing warning gates and clanging alarms had cautioned pedestrians and cars to halt at the bridge entrances both directions. Until the bo
at cleared and the streets were lowered, the noise and lights continued. I pointed.
“You see right there? I guess some woman got her car stuck in the mechanism once. She went too far forward and when the bridge came down it squashed her hood. Closed down the Magnificent Mile for hours.”
William turned to me, “Did you get to see it?”
My eyes were just a trace higher than his shoulder. Nice height. I tilted my head up, suddenly realizing that in my enjoyment of the show, I stood closer to him than the concept of “personal space” generally dictated. Not that I minded. But he might.
“No, unfortunately.” I moved back to my comfy chair, warning bells still clanging from the street below. “Missed it when I was out on a story. But I would have loved to have seen it,” I said, then amended. “Nobody got hurt, you understand.”
“I figured, from your level of enthusiasm.”
Running my fingers through my hair, I thought about the story again. “I’m hoping for some background on the shop. I plan to ask a few pointed questions. See if anyone there knows what happened. Not that the girl who did a number on Angela’s ear would still be there.”
“About the other story. The prostitution ring. Any idea how big? How far-reaching?”
“No. This Lisa’s pretty close-lipped.”
“If she thinks you’re unemployed, how come the delay? Why not start sooner?”
“You’re gonna love this,” I said.
Pleased with the mirth in his eyes as I said that, I continued. “I have to go for a physical.” I waited a beat for the import to sink in. “To be a shampoo girl. She insists that I get a clean bill of health and told me not to be concerned with the emphasis of the exam on sexually transmitted disease. How did she phrase it? ‘You may not realize it now, but this can be an intimate business. I want to be sure my clients feel safe in our hands.’”
“She said that?”
“Her exact words.”
“Nothing like a double meaning, huh?” William expelled a breath of disbelief. “We’re going to nail this story quick, aren’t we? Before things heat up for you?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said with gusto. “I don’t plan to find myself in any compromising situations. No story’s that important.”
“Good.” He gave a short nod. “Well, I was just checking in. You let me know if you need an assist on anything, all right?”
“Sure,” I said. It was an automatic response, but the offer had surprised me. Tony had never volunteered help on my end of the story. I investigated. He wrote. And never the twain shall meet, or however that saying went.
“Good,” he said again as he stood. “This one’s just begging to be followed. I’m looking forward to working with you on it. And, hey, thanks for the show.” He lifted his chin to indicate the window. Back in place, the bridges again allowed passage of walkers, bicyclists and traffic. “My view is … a wall. But it’s an attractive wall.” He smiled again and I deliberately fought the whump that resounded in my stomach. He gave my office a once-over, and despite the mountains of files on every horizontal surface he said, “This is nice.”
My brain screamed to say something clever, to invite him to visit anytime his little heart desired. Something like that. Instead I cleared my throat. “Thanks.”
* * * * *
I dragged open the restaurant door and took a deep breath of its aroma. I smelled food. Burnt coffee, unidentified fried meat, late-night scrambled eggs. Yum. The day had run away from me and I hadn’t had a chance to eat since I grabbed a bagel and coffee in the morning.
I was starving.
It didn’t matter that the scent of kill-all-germs-in-the-radius-of-a-mile disinfectant wafted from the adjacent bathrooms into the dining area. My stomach responded to the availability of nourishment with an anticipatory growl.
Pausing for a moment at the cashier’s stand, I recognized the back of Dan’s head. With business slow at nine o’clock at night, the woman in charge of seating patrons had taken a perch near the kitchen, leaning one ample hip against the tall counter as she spoke in a foreign language to a sweaty man behind it. They kind of matched one another, in a middle-aged, swarthy sort of way.
At my appearance, she boosted herself to a standing position until I waved her back. I’d find my way over to Dan without interrupting her yak session. She pointed to the stack of plastic menus, then settled back against the counter and winked at me as I grabbed one, not stopping her conversation the entire time.
Dan looked up with alarm when I slid into the booth opposite him. The place was fairly quiet. Three or four occupied booths out of about thirty. And only one person at the long Formica countertop nearby, an elderly fellow reading the paper and smoking a cigarette. I noticed the ashtray at our table.
“Why didn’t you ask for non-smoking?” I asked.
Dan seemed confused. He looked at me for a half-second longer than the simple question warranted and shrugged. “Didn’t think of it.”
I grabbed my menu again. “Let’s switch over to the other section then,” I said.
“Nah, I kind of like it here. Less crowded.”
I shot him my “what are you, nuts?” look and turned my coffee cup over for the swarthy hostess-turned-waitress to fill, which she did almost immediately.
“Nice hair,” he said.
The remark might have even been sincere. Today’s trip to the salon where Angie had gotten her ear whacked, had been a win-win situation all around. The girl who styled my newest “do” hadn’t been around the place very long, but the woman at the next station, had. I asked a few innocent questions about things going awry in salons, and admitted, in a conspiratorial whisper, that I’d heard about a woman who lost an ear there.
The older stylist, Luanne, was only too happy to repeat the tale for the three of us rapt listeners: me, the younger stylist, and Luanne’s client. I got plenty of background that would add flavor to the story William and I were building.
A protracted squeak alerted me to the door to the women’s bathroom opening, sending another gust of hyper-disinfected air my way. A blond woman emerged, carrying a laptop and a purse. Dressed like she just stepped out of a power business meeting, I watched her make her way toward a far booth in our section, digging a cigarette out of her cunning designer purse. Looking out of place in a neighborhood dive like this, she had an air about her that roused a pang of envy. I wished I could look that polished this late at night. Right now I felt run ragged from the events of the day, and it was a sure bet I looked it, too.
I’d snuck out of the funeral home before the end of the wake. Sophie had plenty of friends there for support and while I could tell she was touched by my presence, she still had so many mourners to greet, that I knew she wouldn’t notice if I left.
Having gotten there around seven, I’d been eager to get out of there when, at eight on the nose, Father Bruno made his bulky appearance. I altered plans, making an instant decision to stay. The guy intrigued me. Priest, confidant, protector of poor eager immigrants, he had all the right qualifications to be a saint. But I wasn’t quite sure I liked the guy.
Maybe it was just me, I reasoned, and I decided to stay and see if I couldn’t muster up grudging respect for him.
Sophie latched onto his arm the minute he showed, breaking out again into the soft sobbing rhythms that had punctuated each guest’s arrival. He patted Sophie on the back and spent a long moment kneeling next to the casket, head bowed, eyes clenched.
Rising with the grace that a lifetime of carrying excess weight bestows on a man, he became the shepherd of the flock, surveying the gathered mourners in slow motion. Lifting his chin, he called out in a louder voice than necessary, “Please be seated.”
Within moments, amid creaks and mumbles, the room fell silent and everyone had a seat. I perched at the edge of a brocade couch. One of four matching ones that lined the walls, it was close to the rose and carnation arrangement with the fake clock in its center, to indicate Matthew’s time of death. I wondered
how the sender had decided on eleven-thirty.
Bruno gave the crowd a smile. In appreciation for the immediate response to his request, I guessed. His eyes seemed to take in every person in the room. Opening the little black book that looked somehow insignificant in his hands, he cleared his throat and led us all in prayer for the next half-hour.
After the service, drained from the boredom of repeating identical words en masse, I stood up and made a show of checking out the flowers. Why not take a quick look at who was thoughtful enough to send them? My close proximity to Matthew’s coffin also gave me a great vantage point for watching Father Bruno interact with those who came up to talk with him, to touch his hand, and look up at him with trusting eyes.
Sophie was still holding the priest’s arm, her gaze directed at Matthew’s tranquil form. “He look like he is sleeping, no?”
Bruno had glanced up and we made eye contact. At Sophie’s question, he turned his attention back to her. “He looks like an angel, Sophia, because now your brother is an angel.”
I couldn’t help but think that it sounded so … scripted. To the man’s defense, he no doubt attended many more wakes and funerals than the average lay person, and I was sure he had to rely on a cache of comforting murmurs to help the bereaved get through their heartbreaking ordeal.
Sophie’s face crumpled in on itself, reddening as she tried in vain to stem the tears again. Helena took her by the shoulders and Bruno extracted his arm in a smooth movement. He turned to me and smiled, effectively cornering me into conversation.
“Alexandrine, isn’t it?”
“I’m surprised you remember.”
“You were a friend to Sophie when she needed you. It would be more unlikely that I would not remember.”
“I know Sophie is happy you were able to come, Father,” I said. “She hoped you would.”
“I’m certain your presence here is as welcome as mine. How are you? Everything going well in your life?”
