Trouble Under Venus

by Autumn Piper

  Stunned, I watched his bandanaed head as he bent over to retrieve his leather jacket from the couch. His fine ass disappeared down the front hall and then the door banged shut behind him.

  “Steer clear of guys like him.”

  My mouth was hanging open, so I snapped it shut. “What?”

  “Don’t know what Arizona is like, but Miami is full of douche bags like Miguel, who make a living running drugs or doing anything else for money. For all we know, he could be a junkie.”

  I’d never seen a junkie in such prime physical shape. Never.

  Dennis must have taken my shock as disbelief. “Take it from somebody with way too much experience, Drew. Guys like that can and will fuck up a girl’s life, big-time.”

  God, he looked positively wretched when he said that. And then he started mixing himself another drink. Only there was barely any orange juice left, so he ended up with a glass of faded orange vodka.

  This subject obviously hurt him. “It’s possible you’re not entirely responsible for everything that went wrong,” I soothed.

  Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after taking a long drink, he stared at me like I was nuts. “What?”

  “Your relationship with your…” I had to cough as I was about to choke on the word daughter, “…little girl’s mom. There are two sides to every story.”

  He stared back at me for several seconds, and then chugged the rest of his yellow vodka. Shaking his head, he put his glass in the sink. “You sure are innocent for a woman your age.”

  Not the age comments again! I was so sick of him treating me like a senior citizen. “I am not old! I’m—”

  “You’re a trip, Drew.” Oh. He’d been teasing. “Did Ma show ya where the extra blankets and stuff are?”

  I nodded and he tweaked my nose on his way out of the kitchen.

  “Good night, Cuz. Sleep good.” Down the hall, he mumbled something about “….fuckin’ guy’s got no hair on his arms!”

  Dear Randi,

  Oh God in heaven. I swear, if I get thrown in prison, ca. 1980 and can never get back to the future, it will be for murdering a certain FBI agent. I was just dozing off on Grandma’s couch when the back door squeaked open oh-so-creepily. It could have been anyone—a run of the mill burglar, somebody sent to cap dear old dad, Ted Bundy…

  But no. Just as I was about to start my Jamie Lee scream, Mr. Goodbody blinded me with his standard-issue crime fighting flashlight.

  It seems he managed to unlock the back door—unnoticed by me or my dad—when he was here earlier.

  He gave me hell for still not turning on my TTR. But really! How would I explain it beeping or ringing or whatever it does, to 1980-ites?

  And then he asked me if I was still “toting around that diary”, which, of course, I vehemently denied. A girl needs some privacy!

  He tried to intimidate me into returning to the future—alone!—and letting him solve my mystery for me, plus his own case. Whatever. So far, the best thing about him turning up is that I won’t have to attempt solo time travel again. He threatened to have me hauled off to HQ. Thank God Dennis was more passed out than sleeping, because I was certainly not whispering when I told Mitch where he could shove his threats. But it seems Agent Goodman has some priority status here, after having the current FBI director sign certain letters in our time. These papers seem to get Mitch anything he wants. Including smack-dab in the middle of the baddest drug cartel Miami has ever known. He still won’t tell me what his mission is, exactly. But I can tell he’s looking for someone. Someone he wants pretty bad, because he finally agreed I might help his case if I gave him a full report of everyone and everything I see each day I’m here. Only, now that I think of it, he totally manipulated me! My “helping him with his case” now amounts to me checking in with him via the TTR morning and night. So there goes my freedom to relax and blend in. Now I’ll be slipping furtively off to the bathroom to make secret calls on an as-yet uninvented radio to a guy who could quite possibly help put my father away for life, in a year when I’m technically not old enough to put on my own shoes.

  Shit.

  Signing off now, and hoping for at least a modicum of sleep to come.

  Randi

  Chapter 17

  I woke to the sound of a tool clanging on the driveway outside the living room window. A string of colorful curses made me smile, despite my aching head.

  Since the rest of the house was quiet, it was safe to assume Grandma had not yet returned from Stu’s. Perfect opportunity to make a clandestine check-in call to Mitch.

  A little devil dared me to defy him and skip the morning check-in. The practical side of me knew such behavior would likely cause him to show up in order to check on me. That wouldn’t be good. Right now I had my father all to myself and didn’t want any intrusions.

  No matter how much I’d like to see Mitch.

  Besides, I was still irritated with him. The best way to avoid another confrontation would be to follow our plan and make the call. After I’d showered would be soon enough.

  A quick peek out the window showed me Pop’s legs sticking out from under the Cadillac, surrounded by greasy rags and an assortment of wrenches.

  I postponed my shower in favor of moseying outside for a chat.

  Since he didn’t seem inclined to greet me after I’d been pacing beside the car for several seconds, I opened the conversation with, “Routine maintenance, or repair?”

  “Oil change. This weekend, anyhow.” A grimy hand fumbled beside his knees and grasped a Fram box—oil filter?—then disappeared with it. “This hulkin’ piece of shit seems to be broke down most of the time. Keep tellin’ Ma she’s got to unload it on some Cuban who doesn’t know better, and go get herself something reliable.”

  “Yeah, it looks like maybe it’s seen better days. But I guess she has to, like, make do with what she’s got.”

  “The hell—hey, hand me that crescent by your foot, huh?”

  I did, feeling pleased with myself that I’d gotten the right tool.

  “Thanks,” he grunted. “No, that’s bullshit, is what it is. She won’t spend the time to go pick out another car. Too busy fuckin’ around with Stu.” The wrench landed with an ungentle clank beside him. “Meantime, I spend my time off tinkerin’ with this rusty shitbarge.”

  “You seem pretty mechanically inclined.”

  “Hmph. Hey, do me a favor and get me a refill?” His fingers waved toward a greasy-fingerprinted coffee mug near the tire.

  When I returned with his coffee, he rolled from under the car, looking rumpled.

  “Thanks.” He sat up and took the steaming mug. “You didn’t want any?”

  Considering how thick and dark the coffee in the pot had been? “Nah, not a huge coffee fan. Cappuccino once in a while is all.” My head was screaming though, and some caffeine would have been fantastic. “But I’d just about kill for a Red Bull.”

  “Red Bull? That some kinda cocktail?”

  Oops. “Er, somethin’ like that.” Saying energy drink would probably confuse him even more.

  “And what the fuck is a catchapino?”

  Of course, 1980 was before the coffee revolution. “Um. Coffee. Sorta. Italian.”

  “Arizona sounds like a whole other country, man.” He drew his brows down and half-glared at me over his cup, though, as if he thought I was loony, rather than from a different state.

  “So. Is Grand—I mean, Aunt Bea, um, coming home later on?” I seemed to remember her saying something about Sunday dinner.

  Dennis set down his coffee cup and began wiping his hands on the least-oily rag at hand. “She’s wanting to cook fried chicken and shit. But we got a run to make.”

  I coughed. “We?” Fried chicken sounded mighty inviting. I’d much rather hang out with the lovebirds over an old-fashioned Sunday dinner than be an accomplice to another drug run.

  “You’re good cover, Cuz.” He quit wiping his hands and raised his eyes to meet mine. “You scared, or what? I
told you, I never get caught.”

  “Then why do you need a cover?”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Such a smartass.” He took another slurp of his coffee, then scowled back down at his hands. “Rico likes me to have a cover. And Rico ain’t an easy guy to tell no. Not a real reasonable guy. He’s more like one of them tapeworms.” Both of his hands fisted as he explained, “Finds a way inside ya and then uses ya, so he can get bigger.”

  The silence between us grew as I realized for the first time, that no matter the cool act Dennis put on, he was trapped. In too deep with a man far more powerful than he.

  He blew a raspberry and opened his hands, scrubbed his palms down his jeans. “Good damn thing tapeworms aren’t smart, huh? I never met a more stupid Cuban.” That winning grin lit his face, and I could tell he was up to something. “So. You ridin’ along tonight, or what?”

  “Um. Sure.” No fried chicken for me.

  He nodded as if he’d expected as much. “Four o’clock, I’m due at Conga. I better go study some.” After tossing his rags and tools into a milk crate, he headed off to the house, all the while whistling the chorus of Joy to the World.

  The hairs on my arms stood up. One of the few things I’d known about him, was his favorite song. Unbelievable. I was standing in Miami in 1980, listening to my dad whistle his favorite song. Joy to you and me! Unbelievable, but good.

  * * * *

  Only three black sedans were parked in the lot behind Conga when we arrived. A large Latino looked accusingly at his watch as we approached the door.

  “Rico waits,” he rumbled.

  Dennis sidled past him, waving me toward the bar.

  I felt a foolish surge of warm familiarity when I spied Ramón behind the bar, this time wearing a tight turquoise sequined shirt with sleeves unbuttoned and rolled above his elbows.

  He paused in his task of polishing a beer mug. “Ah. Buenos tardes, señorita.” His smile was nearly as wide as the opening in his shirt. “Un mojito?”

  “Por favor,” I answered. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “For you? No trohble at all.”

  I took my first satisfied sip and sighed, relaxing back in my chair.

  One corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. Without a word, he resumed his work.

  After a few seconds of watching two sports announcers discuss the upcoming summer Olympics in Moscow, I transferred my attention to the brilliant cartoon fish painted along the top of the bar. I’d actually reduced myself to counting the spots on a yellow and orange angel-looking fish when Dennis stormed into the room.

  I turned in time to see him call over his shoulder, “Nah, fuck it!” On his way to the front door, he motioned me to join him. “C’mon Drew. I’m taking my talents elsewhere.”

  “Um?” I muttered, fumbling in my pocket for cash to pay for my drink. Where was that ten I got back as change on my shopping trip this afternoon? Had I paid the cab driver with it? No, I’d given him two twenties. Oh. I must have left it with my ID, back at Grandma’s. Oh well.

  I placed a twenty on the bar, wondering whether Dennis would wait for me to get change.

  From the darkened back hallway, a soothing male voice with a Cuban accent said, “Keen. Come, we talk some more.”

  I looked back near the entrance, where Dennis stood with his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his face scrunched in a scowl. He looked from the door to the form in the hallway and back toward the door. With a quick crick of his neck, he signaled me that we were leaving.

  Maybe he’d finally had his fill of Rico. Was this falling-out the cause of his future disappearance? Would Rico retaliate and have Dennis “taken care of”?

  I hurried toward the door, where the bouncer’s body seemed to be blocking Dennis’s exit. This was not good. My father had finally decided to end his career as a drug-runner and he was going to be physically intimidated! I’d all but decided to join him in any necessary tussle in order to make our escape, when the bouncer turned away from us to address someone behind him.

  “Is there another way out of here?” I whispered to Dennis.

  He grinned in answer, and winked.

  “All right, Keen,” said the calm—but slightly grudging—voice in the back hallway. “You win. Perhaps we compromise.”

  Keen wiped the grin from his face before facing his opponent. “My price is my price, Rico. Don’t waste my time taking me to your office and trying to get me for less.”

  I turned and squinted in Rico’s direction, curious to see the infamous mob boss.

  Rico’s chuckle, more hiss than laugh, raised goosebumps along my arms and legs. Though I could hardly make out his rather thin body in the shadows, his eyes seemed to glow, look directly at me. “You see? He uses black magic to see the future, and takes my money for it!”

  Magic?

  To my surprise, Keen answered with a chuckle of his own. “Yeah. Can it, Rico. It’s my magic to profit from.” With a reassuring pat on my shoulder, he brushed past me toward Rico.

  That was weird. It was almost like Dennis wanted to keep working for Rico. But hadn’t he led me to believe he wanted out? I struggled to hold back my anger; surely Dear Old Dad wasn’t yanking my chain. I couldn’t be naïve beyond all reason.

  As the last bit of his KISS t-shirt faded into the darkened hallway and even Gene Simmons’ tongue disappeared, I shook my head. No, I had my eyes wide open and I would get Dennis Keenan figured out. That was my mission, after all.

  First things first: I really needed to use the ladies’ room. Another hallway, lit a bit better than the one apparently leading to Rico’s private office, had to be the way, judging by the traffic I’d seen running up and down it the night before. As I headed down the hall, it sounded as if the bouncer was asking Ramón about whoever he’d been keeping out.

  This part of Conga was decorated as flamboyantly as the rest. In fact, the pay phone was a fluorescent pink flamingo, the receiver consisting of the bird’s neck and head. I couldn’t resist stopping to gaze in wonder at it. Like a traffic accident, it was really quite awful but captivated my interest. How much would it bring on eBay? Fifteen cents, the sign read. Oh, for the day. Last I’d noticed, a payphone call would set you back about a buck fifty. My fingers suddenly tingled with the possibility…

  For a mere fifteen cents, I could call anyone, and they wouldn’t have caller ID. I could call my mom, if I wanted to. Maybe even hear myself, a toddler, singing or chattering in the background. Or my grandma in Colorado. My heart ached with the thought of hearing her speak once more, as I pushed from my thoughts the memory of her in a casket, face stiff with an undertaker’s lame version of her smile. I forced myself to think of her in her garden, where she was happiest. Or curled up on her couch with a tall bottle of Dr. Pepper, watching Dallas.

  There couldn’t possibly be any harm in placing the call.

  Fumbling in my pocket for change, I deposited the requisite dime and nickel, then followed the operator’s directions and dropped in more coins for the long-distance call.

  One ring. I trailed nervous fingers along a flamingo wing. Two rings. Down a yellow porcelain leg above the coin-return slot. Three.

  “Hello?”

  Grandma! It was my Grandma, speaking on the line. Alive. The flamingo went blurry before my burning eyes. “Um?” I choked. “Um? Is this Jenny?”

  “Yes. Who’s calling?”

  Silence on my end as I tasted the tears, but could make no sound.

  “Hello?” Grandma sounded worried, maybe a little freaked out.

  “I—it’s okay. It’s okay. I—um, sorry. Wrong number.” As quietly as possible, I hung the receiver up before she could say anything else. My forehead must have rested somewhere against the flamingo’s tail feathers as I let the tears run.

  And from behind me, “Here I thought you didn’t know how to use a phone!”

  Mitch. Shit. I’d forgotten to check in with him. Snuffling, I turned to face him and apologize. “I’m—”
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  “Irresponsible?” he supplied. “Inconsiderate? Or just plain rude?” His artificial-brown eyes narrowed on me with considerable venom.

  I felt my neck and face get hot; it wasn’t as if I’d meant to forget! “Look,” I said, trying to remain calm, “it wasn’t intentional. I got…busy. And forgot.” My chin lifted defiantly, my apologetic mood had passed.

  “You seem to do that a lot,” he snapped. Oh, how like him to bring up my postponing that phone call to my mom, which brought the FBI to Sedona. “And at the expense of my case.”

  I let out the closest thing to a growl a grown woman can make. “Oh, Jesus! Everything comes back to your case, doesn’t it? Is that all you freaking care about?”

  In contrast to my outburst, Mitch lowered his voice, pointing his thumb over his shoulder toward the bar area. “If it was all I cared about, Drew, you’d be in protective custody right now.” Despite his lowered voice, he seemed to get more angry, advancing toward me until I took steps backward. “And I wouldn’t have spent an entire afternoon searching for your ass!” Another step back and I bumped against a door, which seemed to give against the pressure. “You know how many times,” he said, as I pushed harder against the door, still not sure what room we were entering, “how many times I drove past that house and then parked down the street and slunk through the bushes to come look in the windows like a common Peeping Tom, just to fucking check you were okay?”

  The last of the door’s resistance gave way and I all but fell into a restroom. A furtive glance around showed no urinals, so I let out a small sigh of relief.

  Mitch walked in far enough to let the door close behind him, then leaned against it. He closed his eyes and the back of his head hit the door with a little thud. His eyes merely squeezed shut tighter.

  He’d been that worried about me? Maybe an apology was in order, after all.

  “And then.” His eyes opened as he spoke, but he stared at the ceiling, rather than meeting my eye. “I see the Big Yellow Taxi pull up and out you climb with your arms full of shopping bags.”