That was worse.
I’d take a whole month worth of pitying looks from Charlene Wright over the telephone call I got from Peter McLeod twenty minutes later.
“It’s going to be how much?”
“Turns out that engine my buddy had was hot,” Peter said, “and not just from the firebomb you unnerstand. Heh.”
“That’s not my problem, Peter.”
“Well then, what you ’spect me to do, Rafferty? I’m jus’ tryin’ to help you out, gosh darn it. Spent three hours on the phone yesterday—time I don’t got to waste—finding another motor for ya, and I know I ain’t gonna get paid for that time. I did track one down, but it’s gotta come all the way from Georgia. Was another’n in Mobile, but I don’ trust the guy, he’d tell me it’s perfect then it’d get here and I’d find it’s got a twisted crankshaft and then we’re both up shit creek.”
That was the most words I’d heard Peter say in one conversation for a lot of years. While I did trust his judgment, my bank balance hated his commitment to doing things right.
“Tell me again, Peter. Slowly this time, and I’ll make sure I’m sitting down.”
“Well, it ain’t done, the motor ain’t even here yet, but with the extra cost of this one and the shipping, I figger closer to two grand than I firs’ told ya. Plus tax, a’course.”
“Of course,” I parroted. Shit and damn. That’s not money I had laying around, not even close.
“You want me to tell the guy in Georgia not to bother, come ‘round and pick up your car?”
No, but then neither did I want to be on the hook to Peter for another two thousand bucks. It’s just a car, I told myself, but it was handy for driving over things and not caring too much while I went about it.
“Hells bells, Peter, I really don’t have an option here. No, go ahead and get it done. But. Nothing fancy, I just need it workable, no more.”
“I know, I know. Boy, you make deadbeats look like the last of the big spenders, you know that?”
“It’s a gift. And speaking of gifts ….”
Peter let loose a big sigh. “Shoot Rafferty, I’d love to let you put it on the tab but … Aw hell, now you got me stuck between a rock and a hard place. I don’ wanna say no since it’s you but it’s alreddy too high and I can’t afford to carry it forever.”
“It’s not forever, Peter. I paid you three hundred last month.”
“It was only two hundred, Rafferty. And it was two months ago. And it was nowhere near making a dent in what you owe me.”
“Huh.”
“You know, I appreciate the work you done for me and the family over the years, Rafferty, but I gotta look after meself, too.”
Sounded like neither of us had anything more to say.
Peter sighed again.
“Tell you what I’ll do, Rafferty. I’ll get the motor in, and I’ll do the work, so it’s all ready for ya, but I’m gonna have to keep the car till you can pay. I’ll carry the rest you got owing, but I’m gonna need this job paid for.”
“Fuck, Peter. I can’t be without a car, and I sure as shit don’t have the money laying around. I’d pay you if I did.”
“I know, I know you would, and I’m not gonna leave you without a car. I’ll keep the ‘Stang till you can pay for it, and you can use the Pacer in the meantime.”
“The Barnum & Bailey clown-mobile?”
“Best I can do.”
I knew Peter was doing me a favor, but I still didn’t have to fucking like it.
“Okay, Peter. I get it.”
“And don’t worry, I’m not gonna sell your car out from under you. Wouldn’t do that to someone with such fine taste in vehicles. You know, I was only thinking the other day I couldn’t recall why I took your business in the first place.”
“The way I remember, it was after I tracked down that guy who had stopped returning your calls for him to pay his overdue bills. You were so overcome, you practically begged me to work on the Mustang.”
“Hmmm. That don’t sound exactly right, but you did do a good job, I’ll give you that. Now get the hell back to work so you can pay me. I’ll call ya when it’s done.”
Peter rang off, and I looked around the office for some of that work he spoke of.
Must have been hiding. I never did find it.
But at least I got interrupted while I was searching with a call from my landlady, Mrs Jorgenson. She took time out of her busy day to tell me that my latest rent check had bounced. Wasn’t that thoughtful?
Hilda called not long after that.
Looked like it was turning in to a red-letter day for Southwestern Bell.
“Hi, Ugly.”
“You sound bright. I assume good news with Steve?”
She harrumphed at me, but there wasn’t any oomph behind it. “His name’s David, silly. And yes, good news. In the end he came back up to my price. I shouldn’t have been worried, he just likes the game, that’s all.”
“That’s great.”
I heard the smile drop from her face.
“What’s wrong, big guy?”
“Wrong? Nothing. What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“Don’t even try, Rafferty. I know you too well. Is it the shooting?”
“No not that.”
“Ah hah, I was right, though. You’re moping about something.”
“Au contraire, ma cherie. I’ve never moped in my life and I’m not about to start now. I wouldn’t even know how to start.”
“Sure you do. You just won’t admit it to yourself. So tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s not that anything’s wrong. It’s just that ….”
And I relayed my cheery afternoon phonecalls to Hilda, found myself sounding far too whiny while I did, and so found a way to feel even worse about the day so far.
“Is that all?” Hilda laughed. “This is just about money? Rafferty, with what David paid me today, I can give you whatever you nee—”
“It’ll be fine. I’ll work it out,” I said.
“There’s no need to get all huffy and defensive, babe. Let me loan you the money so you can get your car back.”
“I said it’ll be fine.”
“Okay then.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
For the second time that day, I was stuck for words on a phonecall. What the fuck was happening?
“Rafferty, I’m about to head home and leave Ramon to shut up the shop. If you wanted to get your head out of your ass and drop by, that is.”
I did, want to drop by that was, but had very little idea how to commence the cranial extraction Hilda suggested.
I oozed the Pacer to a stop on Hilda’s driveway just as her garage door was closing.
By the time I got to the porch, carrying a six-pack of Samuel Adams and a chilled chardonnay, Hilda was waiting at the open front door for me.
She held the door with one hand while she finger-combed her black curls with the other. Gave me a smile that asked a whole series of questions, none of which I had answers to.
“Beware the stranger bearing gifts,” she said. “Don’t I remember that from somewhere?”
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “Beware too long though and I’ll sit out here and drink all this by myself.”
“Sure you will. You hate white wine.”
“Not enough to stop me making a point.”
“I’d better let you inside, then.”
“I thought we’d save that for later, babe, but if you want to skip the foreplay and go right to the main event, I’ll play along.”
“You wish, Ugly.”
“Yeah.”
We kissed, but it was awkward while I was still carrying the booze, so I walked to the kitchen. Hilda slapped me on the ass as I squeezed past. I dropped everything on the counter, turned and pulled her close.
The kiss was better this time and I lifted her off the ground to nuzzle her neck and lose myself in that delicious area where her neck flowed into her sh
oulder and picked up the delicate sweep of her clavicle. She clasped her hands behind my neck, hooked her stockinged feet behind my knees and let her head sag back, eyes closed.
I kissed, nuzzled, and nibbled. She sighed and I wanted the world to stop.
“Tough day, big guy?” she whispered.
“Shhhh.” My lips fluttered against her skin.
“Mmmmmm.”
Despite my yearnings, I placed Hilda back on the floor, kept my hands around her waist. She looked up.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“The wine’ll be getting warm,” I said.
“Uh huh.”
“It seems more macho to say that than to admit I was gaining significant momentum towards that main event of which we spoke.”
Hilda laughed, placed a hand on my chest. “I love you, Rafferty.”
“You too, babe.” I kissed her forehead and went to pour the drinks.
We sat on the love seat near the fire. Not that it was burning—too warm for that—but the hearth and mantle and stacked logs made a nice focal point. I was sitting at an angle, with my right foot hanging off the far end, while Hilda sat between my legs and leaned back against my chest.
I sipped beer and listened to Hilda swallow her wine.
She had a loud swallow which belied her physical presence, and I thought about her multitude of wonderful contradictions.
She had a formal, soiree-ready smile which would have been de rigueur at a Swiss finishing school, but if she ever got laughing hard enough, she would snort. This, in turn, would get her laughing even harder, and lead to more snorting. She’d been known to keep this cycle up for several minutes once she got going.
Dressed in a serious business outfit, she could hold court with the well-to-do while she talked antiques in words they understood. Later the same day, she could peel off that business outfit, and run me ragged in the bedroom using language the same well-to-do would definitely not admit to understanding.
And, not that I was an expert in the matter, but I’d bet my oldest blackjack that she’d forgotten more about antiques than most people would ever know. Despite that wealth of knowledge, I’d watched her speak with clients who didn’t have a clue what they were talking about—those members of the ‘like to hear my own voice’ club—and seen her weave the right information into the conversation without making the over-confident and uninformed client ever feel wrong.
I was one of the few people lucky enough to see these different facets of her. I reminded myself yet again to never take it for granted.
“… hear that the DA has called for a Grand Jury?”
I kissed the back of her head and didn’t reply.
She knew me well enough to not repeat the question and we sat in silence for a few more minutes. I found my thoughts and answered.
“Yeah, I saw that, too. Gonna be the quickest Grand Jury in history.”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Trust me on this. There’re enough people in this city who want to see the kid fry for what he did. Won’t take long at all before DA Hernandez gets the go-ahead to prosecute.”
“Maybe you’re right. Monica’s latest piece about the protestors all over the family’s home was scary to read. I feel for the boy’s mother.”
“That was the other half of my day. Having to head off Charlene Wright and her lawyer, hell-bent on wasting my day with incessant pleas to help her son.”
“What’s she like?”
“Who? The kid’s mom?” Hilda nodded. “Not what I expected, that’s for certain.”
“How?”
“I figured her to be aggressive, belligerent even. You’ve seen some of the things written about the parents of those other two asswipes.” She nodded. “I was expecting much the same from her. Not even close. She’s strong, I can tell that, but reflective, measured. Rational. Not the least bit a reflection of her son.”
Hilda wiggled around to stare at me.
“What?” I said after she didn’t follow the stare with words.
“How would you know what her son was like?”
“Huh?”
“You said you expected her to be a reflection of her son.” I raised my eyebrows. “How do you know who her son was, Rafferty? You didn’t say more than half a dozen words to him, then chased him in front of a bus. You couldn’t possibly know what her son was like as a person.”
I needed to move so I stood up, avoided Hilda’s outstretched hand, and faced the fireplace.
“Honey,” she said. “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t mean for him to get hit. That’s not what I meant.”
I drank. Heard Hilda get off the love seat and come stand behind me. Felt her arms slide around my waist and her head nestle against my back.
“You think I’m upset because he got hit by a bus?” I said to the mantle.
“Uh huh.”
“Because he’s in a coma and it’s not clear whether he’ll pull through?”
“Umm, yeah?”
“Not even close.”
“What?”
I turned around, held Hilda by the shoulders, and looked her in the eye. “Boy, you missed that one, babe. I’m not upset. I am pissed off that he’s in a coma, but only because that means that Ed and the DA can’t get up to full speed in prosecuting him yet.”
Hilda’s eyes were moist.
“I watched him, Hil. I stood there and watched the three of them stalk around the schoolyard with guns. I watched while kids died, and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. I will never get those images out of my head. I’m pissed off that the other two assholes took the coward’s way out and I’m pissed off that Bradley Wright is not wearing an orange jumpsuit right now and sitting on a concrete bench waiting for a jury to tell him he has to take the long walk.”
I wanted to wipe away the tears in Hilda’s eyes, but I was too wrung out, afraid of trying too hard to erase the pain, rubbing too roughly.
“I’m pissed off that because I let him get away we all—the whole fucking city—have to wait to see what happens, when if I’d just been able to keep a hold of … of him … then we … we could … could … and I’m also mad as hell that I don’t have any other work to do while I sit on my hands and wait.”
I was breathing heavily by this time.
“But I am not—not the slightest bit—disappointed or upset that he tried to headbutt a Greyhound bus and lost that particular contest!”
I stalked to the kitchen, slammed my empty bottle down on the counter, wrenched open the fridge and knocked the top off another beer, drinking half of it while leaning against the bench. I could feel my pulse and stuffed my left hand in my pocket to stop it trembling.
Hilda backed her way to the couch and sat.
Fear glimmered behind her eyes and I was reminded again just how much of an imbalance our relationship could be. She was a strong woman, one of the strongest I’d ever met, but if I ever lost control of the rage inside she could be in a world of hurt real fast and I’d be no better than any one of thousands of wife-beating men across the country.
Or an angry schoolkid with a rifle.
I upended my beer and placed the bottle down next to its brethren. The glass made the barest sound as it kissed the countertop. Looked up at Hilda.
“I’m sorry, hon. This thing must have me more riled up than I know.”
She nodded. Leaned against the back of the couch and studied me.
“It’ll be better once the DA can get moving,” I said. “We’ll all start getting some satisfaction, rather than being left in limbo with nothing to do other than wait. Bring on the Grand Jury, I say.”
She nodded again. “If you think that’s what it’ll take.”
I grabbed wine from the fridge and refilled Hilda’s glass, snagging another beer as I put the bottle back. She watched me carefully throughout the whole process, still wary.
I risked it and sat on the couch.
Hilda’s voice was low. “You do know that it’s not your fault Bradle
y’s in a coma. Don’t you?”
I shrugged. It really didn’t matter, and there wasn’t any point going through that again.
Hilda continued. “I guess I just don’t understand what it is about the shooting that has you so much on edge. Is it one of those arcane male honor codes again?”
Thought about that while I swallowed. If being pissed off about failing to save innocent kids from dying stupidly—wastefully—was an honor code, then I’d be happy to cop to that. But.
“That’s not it,” I said. “It feels like I’ve fucked this one up. Without actually doing anything. Very unlike me, I know.” Hilda smiled and I saw the sun break through the colors in her eyes. “I couldn’t save any of the kids on the day of the shooting. I was close enough to watch them die, but not close enough to protect any of them.” The smile dropped and the tears came again. “And now, Bradley Wright can’t pay for what he did, because I couldn’t keep hold of his skinny ass on the day.”
I drank beer for punctuation.
“Oh my god, Rafferty,” Hilda said. “You feel responsible for them. Oh, honey.” She shuffled along the couch, wrapped her arms around me and whispered into my neck. “You’re not responsible for any of this. Not one little thing.”
“Hmm,” I said. “Never thought of it like that.”
She leaned back, looked me in the eye, and punched me in the arm. My beer almost spilled. It’s lucky I’m so strong.
“Bullshit,” Hilda said. “You’re thinking of it exactly like that. But, it’s true. You’re not responsible for any of it; what those boys did, or the kids who got hurt. You did what you could on the day and that’s enough. You told Ed about Bradley and that made a difference. What’s going to happen now will happen anyway, no matter what you did or didn’t do.”
“Hell of a pep talk, babe. Would have been perfect for your typical desk jockey who spends all day worrying about everything. I, on the other hand, am—”
“A big ol’ softie who won’t admit it. That’s what you are.”
I started to bristle, then she leaned forward and her tongue did things in my ear that made me forget what I was bristling about.
Wright & Wrong Page 9
