Thicker Than Blood

by Penny Rudolph

  The silence drew out like a spider’s silk thread.

  Rachel cleared her throat and went on. “An old family friend hired a wheeler-dealer attorney who got me off on a technicality. It seems that I was so drunk I had not understood my Miranda rights.” The drizzle of tears she’d been holding back escaped, leaving a wet path down her cheek.

  The woman beside her barely stirred as she spun out the rest of the story. When she finished, Rachel wondered if her companion was asleep.

  But after a moment, “That’s a reason, all right,” the black woman said laconically. “But it ain’t good enough. Unless the cops are still wanting you for something.”

  “No, it’s over now, but they don’t forget. You ever take a look at some of the gorillas they call cops at Rampart? Would you trust them?”

  The woman raised her chin. “I guess I would.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m just putting in time evenings with the Maids, waiting till my number comes up for the Academy.”

  “The Police Academy?”

  The black woman nodded solemnly. “When I was a kid, I never owned a doll. Not one diaper-wetter, not one Barbie. Nope. My brother Marcus and I played cops and robbers. He was older and bigger, so most of the time he made me be the robber. He never let me have the hat or the holster or the badge. He went to the Academy soon as he turned twenty-one. Now I plan to get me a badge of my very own. I know some cops are thugs, but most are decent like Marcus. And you got to ask yourself, what if someone killed you and the one person who knew it wouldn’t say anything?”

  Rachel had been twisting the hem of her tee shirt. She gazed at the wrinkled fabric in her fingers, then dropped it. “Maybe it was just a genuine hit and run. What if the person who was driving didn’t mean to kill him and is just too scared to say anything?”

  “I guess that’s possible. But you got no call to protect such a one.” The woman glanced across the street. Six or eight people were milling about the sidewalk. A boy was crossing the street toward them. “They’re done. They’re waiting on me. Got to go.” She heaved herself off the bench.

  The boy, when he arrived, announced happily, “All done! Done. Done.”

  Rachel peered at a face as round as a doughnut, the eye sockets narrow, the brows close above them. Chinese, she thought. Chinatown was only a few blocks away.

  “This here is Peter,” the woman said.

  “Nice to meet you, Peter. I’m Rachel.”

  Peter’s head bobbed up and down energetically. A smile all but split his jaw from his face. “Pleased. Pleased.”

  “You go on back. I’ll be right there,” the black woman told him. “Look both ways,” she called after him. “There’s cars all night long in this city.”

  She turned back to Rachel. “They’re re-tards. Sweetest people in the world. Today they call them ‘special people’ or ‘de-velopmentally disadvantaged,’ or some such high-sounding words. But they don’t mind the word retard. They don’t understand the other words. It’s just so much noise in their ears. They know they’re different. They’re simple in a good sort of way. They don’t keep trying to pretend they’re something they’re not, like the rest of us do.”

  “They clean offices?”

  “Sure do. The ones the Community Foundation decides are ready. Good workers, every single one. They love earning their own money.”

  Rachel gave her a weak smile. “Well, thanks for listening—I don’t think I caught your name.”

  “Don’t think I threw it.” The woman chuckled. “Friends call me Goldie, it’s okay by me.”

  For the first time in many hours, Rachel’s mouth made a real smile.

  Chapter Eight

  Rachel snapped wide awake and cranky with the first rays of the next morning’s sun. “Three hours sleep is worse than nothing,” she grumbled to herself.

  She kicked off the covers and padded to the kitchen in bare feet only to find the can of Folgers empty. Exasperated, she flung it into the trash and opened another. The jagged lid caught her right thumb, and her elbow hit the newly opened can, spilling the coffee to the floor. She banged her fist on the countertop, which made the blood bubble up in the cut on her thumb.

  Gritting her teeth, she went through the motions again. The wait for the aging Mr. Coffee to brew seemed interminable.

  She took a sip, then set the mug on the counter and studied it. “China,” she muttered. “I like pottery.” Unsure whether she meant “China” literally or figuratively, as Bruno had described it, she took another sip of coffee, leaned back, propped her bare feet up on the counter, and stared blankly at the place where the wall met the ceiling. You’re losing it. Lucky someone decent found you on that bench.

  Suddenly, her weary body shot past the merely awake state and revved up with tension. She sat for a while drumming her fingers on the arms of the barstool, then decided that running might help.

  Five minutes later, in shorts, tee shirt, and a bright purple sweat band, she shoved a bagel into the toaster, fidgeted until it popped up, then jammed it between her teeth and headed for the door. She was still licking the crumbs away when she reached the ground level.

  A light was on in the booth. Inside, Lonnie was slumped over the desk. Normally, he opened the garage for her at seven.

  Swallowing the urge to slap him senseless, Rachel opened the booth door and gently shook his shoulder. “What are you doing here at this hour?” She was answered by a gurgling snore. “Lonnie! Wake up.” She shook him harder.

  “Whaa—!” He came awake, eyes wide with surprise. Pallid cheeks shone through a day’s growth of beard.

  “Look,” she said, taking both his hands in her own and peering into his blank, foggy eyes. “I know what you’re doing and you have to stop. Like now. This minute.”

  He stared at her a moment. “No, you’re wrong.”

  “Lonnie, I’ve been there. I know the signs.”

  He shook his head. “Honest to God, Rachel. I just couldn’t sleep last night.”

  “Neither could I, but it wasn’t from using and boozing.”

  He glanced away from her, ran long, narrow fingers through hair that stuck up every which way. “How come you’re always hounding me?”

  Rachel had gone to high school with him. They’d been from two different worlds, had not known each other well. But four years ago, when she had plumbed the depths of her problems, he had recognized the signs and dragged her to AA. When he was struggling back from his own fall off the wagon, she had given him a job.

  “I’m your conscience. I’m supposed to hound you.” She knew that wasn’t true. Hassling only makes a drunk or an addict withdraw further or get angrier.

  Lonnie lifted eyes filled with sincerity; oddly, they now seemed clear and sharp. “Look—I swear to you—I’ve been feeling sort of rotten, sure. The damn finance company repossessed my car.… Okay, I admit I’ve been wanting some stuff real bad. But I haven’t done it. Really.”

  “Your car? When?”

  “Last week.”

  “Then how have you been getting around?”

  “Burt loaned me one of his.” Burt was a thin, totally bald man who chewed an entire box of toothpicks during every AA meeting.

  “How much do you owe on the car? I’ll advance you the money.”

  Lonnie shook his head. “No, really, I can handle it. Sorry if I’ve been a jerk lately.”

  She leaned both hands on the desk. “Lonnie, I care about you.”

  “I know, I know. If it weren’t for you, I’d still be lying in the gutter where you found me.”

  He had helped her begin her own recovery from booze, then two weeks after she had opened the garage, she found him sprawled unconscious in a corner, his nose scarlet and dripping, his breath reeking of cheap wine. Rachel had put him in her car and driven him to AA.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, hoping he was telling the truth now, but not believing it. “So what can I do?”

  He gave her a steady gaze. “You can
believe me when I tell you I’m clean.”

  She dropped her eyes. “Okay. If I’m mistaken, I apologize.”

  He noted the scuffed pair of Reeboks on her feet and mustered a thin grin. “Now go on and run. You haven’t been exactly laid back lately, yourself. I’ll open up.”

  333

  The dry bed of the Los Angeles River was not the best place to run but it was nearby, fairly flat and safe from traffic. As Rachel ran, the snarled string of thoughts in her head began to unkink and fade. A knot of people peered at her from the rim of what had been the river. There were, she knew, several settlements of homeless folk along the railroad tracks and beneath the freeway underpass.

  There, but for the grace of AA and Bruno.… She was beginning to sweat. She dropped her pace to a walk for a few dozen yards, then began a slow jog. Ahead, a couple of boys were shoving each other about. She slowed, but they scrambled out of sight. She was picking up her pace again when something hit the center of her back with the force of a cannonball. Gravel bit into knees and elbows as she hit the ground.

  Someone grunted, grabbed her arm and jabbed a hand into the pocket of her shorts.

  Chapter Nine

  “Stand up. Slowly.” The voice was that of a calm and confident woman. Rachel thought it was speaking to her and tried to rise.

  The hand withdrew from her pocket.

  “Move away from her. Put your hands on top of your head.”

  “What’s that, a toy gun?” a young male voice sneered.

  “No. It’s small, but believe me, it’s deadly.”

  Rachel heard the sound of feet running, but they didn’t belong to her assailant. “Bullshit!” The boy spat. “That fucking thing is for babies,” he jeered, but he was moving off and didn’t look back.

  Hands were gently moving over Rachel’s legs and arms. “You okay?”

  Gingerly, Rachel sat up. “Just knocked the breath out of me, I guess.”

  The woman sat back on her knees. Long black hair hung about fragile features that would have suited a dark-eyed Dresden doll.

  Rachel swayed slightly.

  The woman steadied her. “Head still spinning?”

  Rachel nodded. “I think I hit it on something.”

  “You don’t have a weapon? A can of mace? Nothing?”

  “Not exactly bright, is it?” Rachel managed a half smile. “I knew the homeless were here, but they’re harmless enough.” Wanting to stand, but not sure she could manage it, she put her arms about her knees and hugged them to her.

  “Your legs got scraped up. This is not exactly a great place to jog.”

  The woman was wearing what looked like Sports Chalet’s latest in running apparel. The shoes alone would cost well over a hundred dollars. She read Rachel’s look. “But I am armed.”

  She bent over to slip the small gun into the leg warmer on her right ankle. “And I have a reason for running here. It reminds me daily of what has been done to this state’s rivers.” A frown sharpened her delicate features.

  She straightened and held out her hand. “Alexandra Miller. With Protectors of the Earth.”

  “Rachel Chavez. I own the Park-Rite garage.”

  “Across from InterUrban? Don’t you love the rest of their name, Water Authority. Nice touch. Makes it sounds like a God-given right.”

  Rachel struggled to her feet, wincing at a sharp pain in her ankle.

  “You okay to walk?”

  “I guess. Haven’t been up for two hours yet but I can tell you I’d like to cancel this day and cut to tomorrow. Thanks. I sure appreciate what you did.” Rachel turned to hobble back the way she had come.

  Alexandra matched Rachel’s limping pace. “My past few days have been awful too. Terrible, the way we live these days, all tied up in knots.”

  “I can’t think of any good alternatives.” It seemed to Rachel that every halting step she took carried her further into a cave.

  Alexandra said, “My grandmother knew some alternatives. She was a full-blooded Mojave.”

  A headache broke through the fog in Rachel’s brain. “Communing with nature is nice, but I have to make a living.” She wished the woman would go away. She didn’t want to make inane conversation.

  “Don’t we all.” Alexandra glanced at Rachel. “You don’t look so good. Are you dizzy again? Maybe you’ve got a concussion. You should sit down.”

  Rachel grimaced. “No, no. My ankle hurts a little, but I’m fine.”

  Alexandra looked up at the skyscrapers. “We were never meant to live this way.” She halted, frowned, eyes seeming to see something else.

  Rachel tried putting weight on her injured ankle and made a face at the pain.

  “Have you ever flown?” Alexandra asked. “I mean in a small plane.”

  More interested in her ankle than anything else, Rachel grunted, “Nope. Can’t say I have.”

  “Suddenly you’re lighter than air. It’s wonderful. You come down a new person.”

  Rachel forced a polite smile. Maybe it was fun, but she didn’t have time to spend aimlessly cruising about the sky. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had any fun. For some reason, she was suddenly close to tears.

  They were nearing the garage. A car honked, and a hand waved from a green Mustang.

  Alexandra pointed down the cross street. “My office is over there. If you’re sure you’re okay, I’ll turn off here.”

  “I’m fine. Really.” Rachel realized she was using the same words Lonnie had used earlier, and the same tone of voice.

  Not wanting anyone to see her scraped up and looking like some derelict, Rachel went up the side stairs to her apartment, stripped and scrubbed herself in a warm shower, then dabbed at the lacerations on her arms and legs with a cotton ball and peroxide.

  Freshly dressed, hair still damp and curling on her forehead, she got into the elevator to go down to work. Her hand hovered over the button marked C. Was the car with the dented fender still there? She pressed the button.

  The garage was full. A lone latecomer was circling, looking for a space. Rachel walked along the bumpers, counting the spaces; she could see there were no empty slots, but the car could have been moved and another parked in its place. Her arms began to tingle as she approached space C-19. She hoped the Caddy would be gone. Then the matter would be out of her hands.

  Afraid she might be seen as unduly interested in that particular car, she only slowed her pace as she approached. It was still there. She flicked her eyes toward the dented fender as she passed. Someone was coming toward her down the line of cars on the other side. Rachel pursed her lips, frowned, and turned back the way she had come as though she had forgotten something.

  She had almost reached her office when a voice called out, “Dear girl, dear girl!” Irene, the woman who had tried to foist a tarot reading on her, was just outside the main entrance, waving her arms.

  Rachel waved back and turned again toward her booth.

  But Irene was not to be shrugged off. “Come, come, dear girl. Come out in the sun. It’s bad for the eyes and the complexion, to say nothing of the heart, to be always shut up in such a gloomy place. Come. I must introduce you to someone.”

  Irene’s companion was impeccably dressed in a suit the color of yellow pansies. A rather odd couple, Rachel thought. Looking down at her own faded blue tee shirt, dirty sneakers, and the knee of her jeans where the denim was wearing thin, she decided she would fit right in.

  Unable to think of a polite alternative, she joined the two women on the sidewalk.

  Irene took Rachel’s arm and patted it, her eyes almost disappearing behind the round red cheeks. “This is Charlotte, dear girl.”

  Rachel nodded distractedly, realizing that Charlotte was one of the executives from the water authority to whom she had handed keys.

  “A very important personage, I’ll have you know,” Irene was saying. “Chairman of the biggest board of directors in the state, and not a whit less. I have just done her horoscope and she has even g
reater things in her future.”

  Charlotte, Rachel saw, was not as young as she first thought. The hair was white, not blonde, and she was one of those women who were never quite as beautiful in youth as they became in older age.

  “Yes, I think we’ve talked on the phone. Irene did your horoscope?” Rachel was unable to disguise her surprise.

  “She did indeed. I’m not sure I’m a true believer, but I like to hedge my bets.” Charlotte had the easy geniality of those born to public office. There was a suggestion of a wink from her clear, pale blue eyes as she nodded again to Rachel and departed.

  Irene beamed. “Chairman of the board of directors. Imagine that, imagine that.” She waddled off.

  The rest of the day Rachel did what she hated most: bookkeeping. She wished she were more orderly and often tried to make up for weeks of tossing invoices and receipts into a cardboard box with a penance involving a day or two of intensive ledger posting. She was stunned to see it was already dusk by the time she finished. She had worked right through the dinner hour.

  She was giving the ledger a final examination when a voice at her shoulder said, “So now you’re fraternizing with the enemy.”

  Rachel jumped, startled. “Beg pardon?” Hank Sullivan’s broad, pleasant face was grinning down at her. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Only half an hour.”

  “I don’t believe it.” She closed the ledger. “What do you mean, fraternizing with the enemy?”

  “You were jogging this morning with Alexandra Miller.”

  She remembered the Mustang, the waving hand. “We hadn’t been jogging together. She—” Rachel stopped. Why mention the mugging? “We just happened to meet. She seems nice.”

  Rachel swiveled the stool to face him, but he suddenly seemed too close. Standing, she turned her back to him, and put the ledger away. “So what’s that got to do with some enemy?”

  “Alexandra has made it her goal in life to bring down InterUrban. According to her, our one abiding desire is to rape and pillage Mother Nature.”

  “Seems a little dramatic, doesn’t it? Raping, pillaging, enemies?”

  “Maybe.”