Donald and Julie Bleaker weren’t elderly, but they had plunged into their sixties with unbridled abandon. They now seemed to be in some sort of mad scramble to pass go, collect their two hundred dollars, and settle in to a daily routine of sucking boiled sweets while yelling at the kids in the neighborhood. Every time David spoke to Don nowadays, Don would adopt a sombre tone of voice, talking with this condescending assumed wisdom of age. Time and again, Don and Julie had made it abundantly clear that they didn’t approve of David’s lifestyle, his parenting skills, or his yard work. It was just who they were though, and at least their disdain was not reserved exclusively for those outside of the Bleaker household. Julie would routinely talk about her husband with caustic sarcasm, pantomiming to anyone who cared to listen (and many who didn’t) the whispering of completely audible insults from behind the barrier of her plump hand, while her husband flushed with dismay and embarrassment.
David pulled the screen door aside and knocked on the front door with heavy fist, and heavier heart, but moments later, that weight was lifted when the front door was flung open by Stephanie. She ran through the doorway, threw her arms around his back, pressed her head against his stomach, and yelled, “Daddy, you look terrible.”
David laughed, grimacing at a pain which coursed through his body, seemingly from everywhere simultaneously.
“Thanks hon.” He patted his daughter’s back, his eyes gravitating naturally towards Don’s stern expression as he arrived in the hallway behind Stephanie. Miserable prick, thought David, but the words that came out were more congenial, “And you Don, thank you. I really can’t thank you enough.”
“Mhmm. Hannah called the school, gave them some cock and bull story about this one being ill.”
He nodded his head towards Stephanie, “Truancy is no laughing matter Dave.” His eyes flickered, jumping about David’s clothes, his hands, his mussed up hair, then he continued. “I guess you’ve got a lot on your plate.” He waited awkwardly for David to talk, then in a softer tone, he offered, “Look, any time. Stephanie’s no bother.”
David smiled appreciatively, and hugged his daughter tighter, “Thanks Don.”
The moment the door closed on Don Bleaker, David patted Stephanie’s shoulder, “Pack a back pack honey, we’re going on a road trip.” She glanced over her shoulder, squinting with dumbfounded glee.
“Where are we going?”
David thought about New York, the madness of the assassination, the crowds crushing in about them.
“It’s a surprise … Go!”
Stephanie launched herself at the staircase, and made straight for her room. By the time she’d finished packing her little back pack, she was bouncing off the walls. She didn’t want to say anything, too afraid to ask her father what was going on, because that might burst this magical bubble that seemed to be growing around her. She pulled the straps of her backpack over her shoulders, and felt the weight of her hard backed Les Misérables pressing against the small of her back. She looked at the pile of clothes on her bed.
“Dad!”
Within seconds, her father appeared at the bedroom door looking panicked.
“You okay? What’s wrong?”
Stephanie pointed at the clothes, “I can’t fit any more.”
David nodded, smoothed his hair back, then nodded again, swooping towards the bed and bundling all of Stephanie’s clothes in his arms, “I’ll handle these, just make sure you’ve got your toothbrush, and your inhaler.”
Within minutes, David was throwing his duffel bag and Stephanie’s backpack into the back of the Toyota. He leaned against the back of the car, waiting for Stephanie to finish up inside. His head was starting to throb now, pain spearing sharply around the front of his skull, as if his temples were being crushed. He leaned into the back of the car, pushing his chin over the rear seats, straining to see the clock on the dashboard. Four hours before he could take any more pain killers. He climbed back out of the tailgate, just in time to hear Stephanie close the front door of the house behind her. David reached up to close the tailgate, the pain coursing through his body forcing him to close his eyes for a long second.
His hands aching as he grasped the wheel, his right ankle in agony as he applied pressure to the accelerator, David pulled out of the driveway and set off towards New York.
The pain kept David alert for the most part, and when the pain took over his senses, the driving assists prevented him from rear ending anyone. A couple of times, he had nodded his head at stop lights, and woken up in a panic, mind twisted from a surreal dream, hands lashing out desperately, while his foot mashed at the brake-pedal. Once he reached the interstate, he sharpened up, embracing every ache and pain, eyes flicking from car to car, rising paranoia fueling his hazard perception.
They were coming up on exit twelve on I95 when Stephanie’s voice piped up from the back seat.
“I want tacos.”
David felt an immediate sense of relief at the thought of some brief respite from tension.
“Not burgers?”
“No. I really want tacos dad.”
“Not … pizza?”
“Dad!”
Stephanie’s obvious exasperation brought a smile to David’s face.
David didn’t have to drive far off exit 12 to find a Tex-Mex joint. The place was clean, well-staffed, and smelled right, but none of that mattered much to either David or Stephanie. They had eaten from some truly unwholesome taco stands over the years, and had rarely been disappointed. He sat Stephanie at a table with six hard tacos, six soft tacos, and drinks, then asked one of the servers if they minded watching her while he used the restrooms. By the time he got back to the table, Stephanie had already eaten two soft tacos, and was gleefully raising a hard taco to her mouth, sour cream and salsa dripping down her chin.
“Stephanie Beach, you’re a disgrace.”
She tipped her hand, trying to angle the taco so that she could take a bite, spilling half of its contents onto the plate in the process. She nodded, rocking back and forth, giggling cheese and black beans into her hand.
“Good!” she exclaimed, giving a messy thumbs up.
David sat down, plating himself a couple of soft tacos, taking a long swig of his drink.
“You know you’ll get a stomach ache if you eat too fast.”
Stephanie glowered, “Daddy, I never get stomach aches.”
David nodded. She did, although she had a willfully short memory for such things.
“Where are we going?”
“I told you, it’s a surprise.”
“We’re going to New York aren’t we?”
David wiped salsa from his mouth with the back of his hand, “It’s a surprise.”
Stephanie shrugged, “The way we’re going, I wouldn’t be surprised if we ended up in New York.”
David laughed warmly, dropping his taco onto the plate in front of him. He could hear Hannah sometimes when Stephanie talked, probably more than himself. She was sharp, and he knew that he often didn’t give her enough credit for just how much attention she paid to what was going on around her.
“Okay, we’re going to New York. You okay with that?”
“Sure. Hot Dogs, pizza, spaghetti, squids, steak and burgers.” Stephanie checked off an imaginary shopping list on her fingers, grinning a lettuce and tomato smile. “Why isn’t Aunt Hannah coming with us?”
“She has classes.”
“I have classes”
David leaned forward, slumping his head against his hand, “Honey, there’s some things I’m not going to have answers for okay? You know I’d tell you if I could, but I don’t know everything at the minute. There’s a lot of things going on.”
Stephanie felt the confusion filling her eyes. Confusion did that sometimes, like sadness, or too much laughter. A mouthful of cheese and overcooked beef brought clarity.
“You didn’t tell me about New York.”
“Last time we were in New York, a lot of bad things happened.”
> Stephanie shrugged, “That was pretty pacific.”
“Specific?” David asked, correcting her.
“Are we going to see the president again?”
“No.”
“Can I have hot dogs, and steak?”
“Sure.”
Stephanie smiled and forced a small fistful of taco past her teeth.
Stanwick Thrass sat alone in her Pontiac watching the entrance to the taco dive. She didn’t know where David Beach was heading, but she had a good idea what had prompted him to bolt so suddenly. She hadn’t been watching him as closely as she should have. She’d arrived in time to see him drive off in the surveillance van that morning, which had struck her as particularly bizarre. Physically Beach was a pretty average guy, and there was no way he could have had the wherewithal to dispose of two federal agents, at least not without waking the neighbors, and certainly not agents Carmichael and McMahon. Stanwick had watched those two, almost as much as she’d watched Beach recently, although she’d known of them for much longer. She wondered if perhaps she should have taken more time with them, but they weren’t her responsibility, not now, if they ever had been.
She hadn’t followed Beach, because she knew he’d return to his home, although she was surprised to see him turn up almost three hours later, limping, and wrecked. She supposed now that he was heading to New York. He was definitely on the right path, and she couldn’t figure out where else he could be heading. New York … As she watched the entrance to the restaurant, waiting for Dave to come out trailing his daughter behind him, she wondered if he was even dumber than she’d given him credit for. He certainly wasn’t cut from the same cloth as his father.
Charlene held two boxes up for West’s inspection, “Which one?”
West raised a hand and tapped the glossy lid of the box bearing the title “Ebony Forest.”
Charlene read the description of the dye, which suggested that it would give her hair a complete beauty makeover, with visible glimmer and high shine. She knew hair dye, or at least she used to, but it had been a long time since her hair had been anything but silvery white and she was concerned that going so dark would be too dramatic a change.
“Really? You think I could pull this off?”
West couldn’t tell the difference between the two shades of hair dye, so he shrugged and nodded in response, “Of course you can, have you seen yourself recently?”
Charlene smiled and returned the box marked “Midnight Rogue” to the shelf, “You know, I was naturally a redhead …”
West’s brow furrowed as he tried to cast his memory back so many years, “You were?”
Charlene smiled at him and raised an eyebrow as she walked down the aisle towards the checkouts, “I was. I always suited darker hair though. It was still a little outrageous to dye your hair when I was a teenager. I never would have admitted to it at the time. It was something ‘loose’ girls did.”
She put the box down on the counter and looked towards West, batting her eyelids coquettishly. He smiled, pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to the cashier.
“You got anything smaller?” she asked sullenly.
West rolled his eyes, “If you can crack a smile you can keep the change.”
The girl grinned and raised her eyebrows, “For real?”
“Sure,” West replied, “You honestly deserve it more than me. I don’t work one day in twenty.”
West didn’t wait to see her response, he took Charlene’s hand in his and headed out of the store.
“Is that true?” Charlene asked, tugging West’s arm in the direction of a lingerie store she had spotted.
“It depends what you call work really.”
Charlene pointed to the lingerie shop, “Do you mind if I step in here? My wardrobe leaves a lot to be desired.”
West laughed politely, “You want me to wait out here?”
“No, if you’re not embarrassed. I haven’t taken any pleasure in shopping for lingerie for quite a while though, so I don’t intend to be rushed.”
West knew that it would be some time before David would arrive in New York, even if he didn’t make any rest stops. He opened the door for Charlene, and followed her into the store, “Take as much time as you need.”
Charlene was offered assistance immediately by two of the three female store clerks, and for once, she was quite relieved to have the help. She informed them that she hadn’t been fitted for a bra recently, and yes, she would like to be fitted. She was noncommittal on the issue of cleavage, and she would accept their guidance. One of the girls reached behind Charlene’s back and brought a nylon measuring tape around her front, taking the measurement under her breasts, then reaching her hands back she lifted the tape and took the measurement around her bust line. The girl stepped back and smiled, “Okay sweetie, you’re a thirty-two B. Is that close to what you’re wearing right now?”
Charlene touched the girls arm, “Dear, thirty-two is about how many years it is since I paid any heed to this sort of thing.” The girl smiled awkwardly and glanced towards the other assistant. Charlene caught their interaction just in time to laugh it off, as if she was just toying with them. The girl smiled more naturally, and tried not to look at West as she asked Charlene, “Now are you looking for something sexy, or just day to day wear … casual sort of thing?”
Charlene shrugged, “I don’t know really …” she also avoided looking at West, leaning her head close to the girl, as if she was in on some great conspiracy, “I suppose I ought to get a mix. I’ve just had a major wardrobe clear out …”
“I could do with that myself … pare everything down to like, a capsule wardrobe.” The other girl laughed, “Sure, a time capsule maybe.” The first girl pouted and touched Charlene’s shoulder, “Ignore her, she’s jealous. Let’s see …” she led Charlene towards an alcove in the store which was stocked wall to ceiling with racks of bra and pantie sets.
West hung back, and the second assistant took a couple of steps towards him, “Is there anything you want to look at while you’re here? We have a wide selection of colognes … Or perfumes for your lady friend perhaps?”
West stroked his chin, wishing he could remember the feeling of his stubble, certain it was a sensation he had enjoyed, “I don’t know, I don’t tend to bother with cologne.”
“Would you like to look at what we’ve got? There might be something that takes your fancy?” The girl was polite, not too pushy, and West thought that she at least deserved his attention, even if he didn’t intend upon buying anything. He smiled and walked towards her, and she gladly took the cue to lead him towards the token men’s section. She picked a small clear glass bottle from one of the shelves, along with a tester card. She pumped the spray action, wafting the card in the air for a second as she explained to West, “This is one of our newer colognes, ‘Coiled Tryst.’ It’s infused with artemisia, cumin and bergamot,” she held it towards West’s nose, “there’s an undercurrent of orris and sandalwood. This is probably our most popular cologne at the moment.”
West sniffed and closed his eyes. He knew better than to allow himself to be carried away by scent memory. Sandalwood held so many associations for him and it was this scent which stood out most prominently to him. He opened his eyes and nodded approvingly.
“You like it huh? Like I say … real popular at the minute. We’ve got it on special too, so if you buy anything above three ounces, you get the matching face lotion.”
West tried to imagine what misfortune might prompt him to need face lotion. On the other hand, the girl was doing her job, and doing it well, so he figured he might as well buy a four-ounce bottle. Coiled Tryst, he thought to himself, toying with the letters in his mind … city oldster … dirty closet …
The girl stepped behind the till and rang up the transaction, “That’ll be one hundred and twenty-six eighty with tax.”
West reached into his pocket and pulled out his money clip. Handing a couple of bills over to the girl he smirked
, “Tried … costly.” The girl looked confused by his non sequitur, so West elaborated, “Your employers obviously have a sense of irony. Coiled Tryst is an anagram of tried costly.”
The girl smiled as she put the cologne into a small paper bag and reached into a basket to get one of the little tubes of face lotion, “You know I doubt they were being ironic, Tryst is one of the cheaper colognes we sell.”
West returned to browsing the colognes, boxes of men’s briefs, boxers, y-fronts and socks. He spent forty minutes in this activity before he noticed Charlene walking towards the cashier’s desk, her arms laden with a multitude of items. West took great pleasure from seeing how happy all of this made Charlene. He watched the cashier ring up the purchases and he kept an eye on the dollar total, counting off hundred dollar bills from his clip.
“That’ll be six oh five ninety-six.”
West put down seven crisp hundred dollar bills, and looping the corded nylon handles around his index finger, he picked up the three small bags into which the other assistant had neatly placed the clothes from the glass counter top.
The assistant started to count out change from the register, but West waved his free hand in the air, “Please, keep the change, you girls have been wonderful.” He nodded his head towards Charlene, “Look at the smile on her face; that’s worth every penny.”
West was sure he heard one of the girls mutter the word ‘chauvinist’ as the door closed behind them.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Saving Mr. Beach
David Beach didn’t enjoy Manhattan traffic, and to be experiencing it again set his nerves on edge. He’d had a narrow miss crossing 35th at Dyer Avenue, narrow enough that he was pretty sure that the car behind him had been clipped by oncoming traffic, although neither party stopped to exchange details. As Mr Yestler had instructed, he finally pulled into the parking lot on 30th, his hands trembling to the extent that he almost dropped the keys in the process of handing them off to the valet. David lugged two large suitcases out of the trunk, and looked Stephanie over to make sure she had her back pack. He checked his pocket for the apartment key which he had been given that morning, and having assured himself that the key was safely located, he thanked the valet and took the parking ticket from him.
Histories of the Void Garden, Book 1: Pyre of Dreams Page 12
