by Julie Hyzy
With a protracted downward glance, Bruno pursed his lips, gathering his poise, it seemed. A smile twitched at his mouth before he raised his face to look at me again. “My apologies. I’m sure you can tell that I care deeply about these young people and that I am passionately concerned for their well-being.”
I wanted to laugh in his face. My back straightened and I sat up, restraining myself from spitting an argument back at him. Realizing I’d learn nothing by fighting him, I waited, every nerve in my body taut, wound like a spring ready to attack.
“You’re a woman of good character, Alex. I can tell these things.”
“You can.” I said. Not phrased as a question.
He ignored me. “I know you would be a woman of your word. Am I right?”
A web began to spin around me, but I couldn’t find a way to prevent it. I gave a reluctant nod.
“Good.” He smiled a genuine smile for the first time since we’d met at the door. “You and I are in a position to help one another.” His voice had lowered. There was no way anyone else in the restaurant could hear him. I had to bring my face closer to the table to catch everything, myself.
“Do you know what would happen if you run your television program?” He wasn’t looking for me to answer, so I kept silent. “Sophie, who escaped the harshness of destitution in the old country, would be deported.” He squinted at me. “In an instant. Her life would be ruined. Do you understand? Ruined.”
“But you’re sanctioning—”
“Alex. Listen. Jesus forgave Mary Magdalene. What you’re suggesting is that one of my children is committing sins as grave as hers.”
“You obviously haven’t paid attention to all the news programs lately,” I said with some enmity. “Mary Magdalene wasn’t a prostitute after all. She’s of royal descent.”
He heaved a theatric sigh. “Oh yes, all that. The big Catholic Cover-up.” He rolled his eyes. “My point, however, is still valid. Jesus forgives. Who am I to second guess Jesus, if indeed any of this is true?”
“It is true. You know it is.”
“I know that Sophie is a good Catholic. I also know that she works hard in her job. There’s nothing I can do to stop her from pursuing other means of support when she’s out of my sight.”
“But Sophie trusts you. I’m sure all the girls trust you. You could be their champion.”
“All the girls?” he asked and I couldn’t decide if the surprise on his face was genuine or an affectation.
“Yes, all the girls. The girls you placed at Lisa’s salon. If you would confront Lisa Knowles, it could make all the difference to them. It could change their lives.”
He stared at me for a long moment, with eyes I couldn’t read. “You think you have a story here, don’t you?”
“I think a lot of innocent people are getting hurt.”
He heaved a sigh. “You aren’t listening with the right attitude. You don’t know Sophie the way I do. I know what’s right for her. All I’m asking is for you to look the other way. Just for a little while.”
“You must be joking.”
“No,” he said drawing the word out.
“I can’t do that.”
“Like I said earlier, Alex. We are in a position to help one another.”
I shook my head, not understanding.
Bruno reached down, pulling a slim manila folder from his briefcase. He placed it on the table between us, his fingertips poised atop it like a spider as he pressed it firmly in place. The message was clear. “Don’t touch.”
“I’ve done my homework on you Alexandrine Szatjemski. And I’ve been able to pull some strings. Some very important strings.”
I waited.
“I would be willing to hand you this folder, right now, if you give me your word that you’ll kill the story.”
I had to know. “What’s in the folder?”
He gave a long, slow smile. “Just a few pieces of information.” Picking it up, he opened it so that it formed a wall between us. “Let’s see here … Your date of birth is November eighteenth, correct?” I felt my mouth open as he continued. “I have that right here. And a couple of names. Mother, father, attending physician. Your real name.”
I heard, more than felt, the sharp breath rush into me. Surrounding lights and noises dimmed and a rush of blood shot to my brain, sending sparks of fear, anticipation, and hope ricocheting through my body like knives, making tiny cuts as they flew.
“I have contacts with Catholic Charities, to answer your question. It took some effort, but when I assured the administration that this was of the utmost importance, they took me at my word. And I will take you at yours, if you give it to me.”
His stare bore into me, as he took his time before speaking again. The fact that I sat speechless did not deter him. The part of my mind that tenaciously tried to remain objective understood that I was giving him the precise reaction he’d expected.
“As I said, we are each in a position to help the other.” Closing the folder, he placed it on the table again, this time using his smoke-stained fingertips to inch it closer to me.
I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Inside were all the answers I wanted. My mother’s name. Who she was; who my father was. The questions I’d had for decades, questions I’d suppressed. All the answers were right there. Within my grasp. All I had to do was look the other way where Sophie was concerned. And how simple that sounded right now, how very easy.
My hands gripped each other tightly in my lap, but I couldn’t tell if they were working together to prevent grabbing the folder or if they were pained in anticipation. I didn’t know anything.
“Alex,” Bruno’s voice was soothing, like a lullaby, as I stared at the answers to my dreams on the table before me. “You’ll be helping Sophie, you’ll be helping all those she cares about. If they’ve chosen their path, their eyes are open. And they’re hurting no one. Would you strip from them the very lives they’ve created? Just to exploit their stories for the nation to see? For your own need for recognition and accolades? Think about it, Alex. What will happen to them, if they’re exposed? Even if nothing of what you claim is true. Their lives will be forever tainted by your actions. Can you live with that guilt for the rest of your life?”
My mind tried to catch up with my emotions. I ignored the shots of adrenaline that raced my heart so hard and so fast that I swore it would burst. I knew I should refuse. I knew that. I tried to distance myself from my own desires. To analyze the situation. But, like a dream where you’re being chased by a shadow, and your feet are suddenly frozen in place, I struggled against an unseen force.
Concentrate, I told myself. Don’t react. I conjured up enough chutzpah to say, “It isn’t just Lisa’s … organization.”
He raised an eyebrow.
I took a deep breath. But I had to know. “Milla,” I said. “And Matthew. Were their deaths—”
He held his hands up, positioned eerily like priests’ are during the blessings over bread and wine. “Alex.” His voice was low, warning. “Don’t.”
“Why?”
Once again, the kindly priest mask settled over his features. “Because you are a news investigator. You see connections that don’t exist. You’ll bring more to the forefront than belongs there, all in the name of exposing the truth. But there is nothing there. We may all be sinners in the eyes of God, but there is no one more devoted to protecting the sanctity of life than I am.”
I wanted to believe him. For Sophie’s safety and for my own. But I had to know.
“If I refuse?”
His face hardened, for a brief moment. He pulled the folder from the Formica tabletop, in exquisite slowness. My heart wanted to reach out and grab it from him before he tucked it back into his briefcase. “If you pursue your story, I will use whatever means necessary to prevent the segment from airing. I have many important contacts in the city, and I’m confident I’d be successful.” He paused a long moment. “With that in mind, why not take advantage of my offer and
make it easier on both of us?” He shut the briefcase with a tiny double-click and eased himself out of the booth. Tapping the table in front of me he smiled in a way that made my stomach squirm. “Think about it.”
Chapter Nineteen
The very last time my parents took us to the drive-in theater, we’d gone for the requisite double feature. Kid movie first; some Disney offering, as I recall. Grown-up film following. The arrangement worked like a charm as far as my parents were concerned. Dangling the carrot of a drive-in before us ensured our angelic behavior for at least half the day leading up to it. A perfect family outing. Especially since, at drive-ins, no one complained about Lucy’s incessant chatter.
Once the kid-friendly movie finished, my parents expected us to go to sleep, pajama-clad in the back seat, like we always had in the past. They collected our empty candy and popcorn containers, let us take one last sip of our sugary pop, and settled us in during the peppy, animated intermission.
Lucy complied, snoring softly, in three minutes flat.
That time, for some reason, I couldn’t. And though the idea of sneak-watching a grown-up movie held allure to my ten-year-old sensibilities, I quickly found it boring. My parents, engaged in the talky drama, didn’t notice me doing what I liked to do best, which was, even at that age, watching other people.
The young couple in the car next to us, very close, were engaged in some heavy petting, though I didn’t realize it at the time. I kept my head low, peering over the edge of the door. Half-open to allow for air movement, my window made a nice place to rest my forehead as I watched. I kept having to ease my sweet-sticky fingers up to smear away my breath’s condensation, but I moved in stealth, knowing without knowing why, that my parents wouldn’t quite approve of whatever this couple was doing.
I vividly remember trying to figure it out. Obvious to me that these two weren’t interested in the flickering movie either, they seemed instead to be moving their bodies in unnatural gyrations. He sat facing forward, in the back seat. She faced him, looking to be perched on his lap.
I found it curious, fascinating. Little did I know. Judging from their faces, I decided that whatever the activity, they both found it enjoyable. And they kissed a lot.
When he pulled her shirt over her head, exposing her bare chest, my attention was riveted. I couldn’t drag my eyes away, no matter how much I knew I should. I watched them smile and kiss and rock in increasingly quicker motions until she arched backwards, letting out a high-pitched moan that grabbed my parents’ attention from the screen.
Within seconds Dad looked at them, looked at me, threw the big old metal speaker out the window, and slammed the car into gear.
My parents never spoke about the incident, and didn’t answer Lucy, even when she raised her groggy head to ask, “What happened?”
Never went to the drive-in again.
And a little bit of my innocence was lost.
That memory popped up now as I sat with Bass in the night’s darkness, with a silver-framed plasma screen set between us. The slight scratchiness of the audio, the closeness of the car’s interior, and most of all, the anticipatory feeling of voyeurism transported me back to that moment. At once I felt eager, guilty, and uncomfortable.
We were across the street from the Romantic Voyage motel. Its amber sign blinked in loud precise buzzes, advertising four-hour naps available round-the-clock. Cicero Avenue had plenty of traffic, but we’d picked this particular establishment because a quiet parking lot across the street afforded us opportunity to watch the place while William’s encounter would be recorded. The shrub-shaded lot we sat in now had no overhead lighting. Tall yews and the dark night guaranteed our near-invisibility to the traffic zooming by. This parking area butted up to a squat brick animal clinic—office hours over since noon.
I’d driven my Ford Escort, at Bass’s pointed suggestion. His roomier Lexus SUV would have been a better choice, but he claimed car problems and insisted we use something “more dependable.” Known forever as a car-babier, I suspected he simply didn’t want his precious vehicle involved in the undercover operation for paranoid reasons of his own.
Tech-Jeff walked us through the process earlier. He was a handsome man, over six feet tall, not a spare ounce on him. Ten pounds more would have been a smart investment, in my opinion. Men need a little bulk. His full head of dark hair had the monochromatic sheen of dye. Long, slim fingers worked the gizmos he’d demonstrated, and I swore that his nails were manicured and polished. He went over each step of the taping process with clear explanations and caveats. From our perspective, things were easy. Bass and I would sit in my car, watch the monitor, and whisper the occasional direction to Jeff via our walkie-talkies. But only if necessary.
Jeff had parked in an adjacent lot a block down; the van he drove had a number of odd gizmos attached to it, and we didn’t want to attract undue attention by parading it along busy Cicero Avenue. Should the need arise, we had a code word, “Voyager,” that would bring him front and center to help out.
When we first arrived, I left Bass in the car long enough to take a quick walk around the place, to get a feel for it. As “nap” motels went, the Romantic Voyage did a nice job of keeping the cheap looking clean. Faux-classy, the white-washed, two-story structure had red trim and pink doors that boasted gold room numbers against wooden red hearts. The light from the flashing neon sign, thirty feet tall, washed over the building in blinks, causing it to alternate in color between cool night-white and a sorry shade of yellow. The parking lot, surprisingly free of litter, even boasted two small plantings of shrubs that someone cared enough to trim. William’s car sat to the far right of the lot. He’d rented one. In case anyone bothered to check, he would appear to be merely a traveling businessman.
William had gotten to the motel a short while before we did. He and Jeff had set up four tiny cameras in strategic places around the room. We watched William now, on the plasma screen squeezed in the narrow space between our two laps, the color display split into four views. Jeff had a similar set-up—with one notable exception. From his screen, wires led to a busy recorder, filming events as they took place.
Watching William wait for his date made me irritated, the same way I feel when my hands are dirty, or my clothes are too tight.
He paced the motel room. Tiny, utilitarian, it had one bed—large, though not king-size. The orange floral spread was short on one side, fitting unevenly so that a corner of a beige blanket hung out the end, an extended rip along the hem. A television perched, suspended from the ceiling—stationary on a solid metal bracket. Two chairs, that neither matched each other nor the bedspread, straddled a small table by the draped picture window. A far door at the rear of the room led to the bathroom. William walked toward it and turned on the light, giving it an up and down glance before shutting the light back off. He looked our way again. “It sure ain’t Buckingham Palace,” he said.
Up to that point, he’d been silent in the white noise, and it jarred me to hear him speak. He shucked his jacket, dropping it near the pillow end of the bed, and shook his head with a look up to the camera that I knew was meant for me. My heart gave a little lurch.
Silent, Bass and I watched him pace the motel room floor on the different viewpoint monitors. The effect was strange. As he walked away from one camera, he walked toward another. If I shifted my attention from right to left, and back again, and timed it just right, it appeared that he was walking away from me, over and over and over again. Both cameras were capable of zooming in and out. Jeff worked the controls from his location, while Bass snapped orders, pestering him to test the effects before our quarry arrived.
The fourth camera, a wide-angle mounted atop the suspended TV, provided a bird’s eye view of the entire room. Unless either William or the girl went to the washroom, they would be in our sights the whole time.
I checked my watch and in periphery, noticed Bass do the same. Just ten o’clock now.
At a knock, we all reacted. William’s attent
ion shot up toward the camera. I watched him square his shoulders before he strode to open the door. He couldn’t see us, of course, but I still smiled encouragement at him. Bass yelled, “Wider, wider,” to Jeff over the phone, so loud that I found myself shushing him like a kindergarten teacher reminding a child to use his “inside voice.” Evidently the message went through loud and clear, because the close-up shot from the first monitor widened abruptly, but not before I caught William’s look. I bit my lip.
She was both exactly and nothing at all what I expected.
When she walked in, my heart went out to her. Petite and blond, she carried herself like a young girl, a tiny bounce in her hesitant steps. “I am Candy,” she said, in heavily accented English. She canted her head. “You are John?”
William nodded and stepped far enough away from her that we were able to get the full effect of her appearance. We would cover her face in post-production, but her clothing would be clear. Wearing a short black and white zebra stripe skirt, and a fluffy white coat that came to her waist, she looked the part of a hooker. Right down to her spikey heels and the small pink purse clamped to her side like a security blanket.
“You bring money?” she asked.
William pulled out several bills from his back pocket and handed them over.
Candy counted them, twice, tucked them into a zipper compartment of her purse and shot William a tiny smile when she finished.
Pulling the fuzzy coat off, she draped it over her purse, along the back of one of the two chairs. I shivered at the skimpy spaghetti strap top she wore on a cold night like this one. Bright pink and shiny, it clung to her body like a glove. No bra. When she drew away from the fuzzy coat, something caught her attention and she moved back for an instant, rearranging it so the sleeves wouldn’t rest on the floor. A possessive move, made all the more poignant by the fact that this coat had been out of style for decades.
Patting the garment with affection, she turned to William, as if asking him to take the lead. When he smiled at her, she nodded, reached back into her purse, and pulled out a condom, “I bring. Is okay?”
