Ms. Simon Says

by Mary McBride

  The two of them were like day and night—literally. Round little Hattie’s skin was dark mahogany and she dressed in large, long, and darkly exotic dashikis that she ran up on her ancient Singer sewing machine. Long, tall Lena’s skin, in contrast, was white as the snows of her native Vladivostok, and she always wore blue—dresses, slacks, whatever—along with some kind of sweater or wrap, even during the hottest days of summer.

  They had met about a hundred years ago when they worked as lunch ladies in the cafeteria at Lawndale High. After retirement they’d apparently struck some sort of pact to serve and protect each other in their sunset years.

  In his two years in residence here, Mick had never seen one without the other. Hattie and Lena were inseparable, joined at their mismatched hips, black and white Siamese twins who pulled their shopping carts to and from the market together every Monday and Thursday, who went to Mass at Saint Jerome’s every day and played Bingo there every Tuesday night, and who seemed to consider their downstairs neighbor a soul-in-jeopardy, someone in desperate need of their prayers.

  Hell. He probably was, but what he didn’t need right now was for Hattie and Lena to delay his mission of getting Shelby Simon quickly and safely out of town.

  “Ladies,” he said, approaching the little triad on the sidewalk.

  Hattie wrapped her fleshy arms around him. “Let me hug you, sweet boy. Let Hattie hug the daylights out of you.”

  “He looks tired forever,” Lena said in her perpetually thick and dour accent. “He looks like he never sleeps. You will get sick, Mikhail, I warn you, and then where will you be? You’ll see.”

  Mick rolled his eyes in Shelby’s direction. “My mother hens,” he said, somewhat sheepishly.

  “I can tell.”

  Lena pointed to Shelby. “This is lady in picture on bus. Ms. Simon Says. No? Only without the mustache.”

  “No,” Mick replied. “She just looks like the lady on the bus. This is my sister.”

  All three of them looked surprised, Shelby most of all. Her light brown eyes opened wide.

  “Your sister!” all three of them exclaimed.

  “Honey, you never said anything about a sister.” Hattie stepped back, then stared from Mick to Shelby and back again. “She don’t look nuthin’ like you.”

  “Half sister,” Mick corrected himself. Half ass was what he was thinking. All he was trying to do was maintain a low, even invisible profile for the woman he was protecting, so he’d said the first thing that came into his head. Stupid. But he was stuck with it now. “Different fathers.”

  Shelby was looking at him as if he’d just dropped fifty or sixty I.Q. points. He could only hope she’d instinctively know why he’d lied—for her own good—and that she wouldn’t dispute it.

  “So,” Lena said to her, her pale Russian eyes growing slitty with suspicion, “you two have same mother, then.”

  “Um. Well. Yes,” Shelby answered. “The same mother. Yes, we do. Good ol’ Mama. Bless her heart.”

  With a deep sigh of brotherly relief, Mick grasped Shelby’s arm and turned her in the direction of his car. “Come on, sis.”

  Hattie stopped them with an insistent “Hold on now. Wait a minute. Don’t you be rushing her off that way. There’s something I want to say to this sister of yours, Mick.”

  He halted. What? What now? “Okay. But we’re in a hurry,” he said, hoping to speed the woman up. Hattie tended to be pretty long-winded if given the slightest encouragement.

  “What hurry?” Lena demanded.

  “We’re...uh...we’re late for...uh...” Shit. His mind went blank all of a sudden. He probably had lost a dozen or so I.Q. points over the course of the past few hours.

  “For a family reunion,” Shelby said, coming to his rescue with a level voice and a totally straight face.

  “Family is good,” Lena said, nodding sagely.

  Hattie, however, was not to be denied. “This won’t take long,” she said. She practically ripped Shelby’s arm out of his and marched her up the sidewalk, near the building’s front door, where she appeared to launch into a multigestured harangue. Mick couldn’t hear what she was saying, nor could he even imagine what the woman felt so compelled to tell his “sister.”

  “Family,” Lena murmured as she, too, watched the animated monologue taking place several yards away. “Family is good. Important. You have pretty sister.”

  Sometimes Lena sounded so much like Natasha, of Boris and Natasha fame, that it was all Mick could do not to laugh, but he limited himself to a smile while he looked at Shelby Simon. She was more than pretty. Aside from her shiny dark brown hair, and those long legs, and the suggestion of Victoria’s Secret breasts beneath her tailored white shirt, there was the sparkle of intelligence in her whiskey brown eyes and a suggestion of confidence and inner strength in her posture. She was probably five feet six inches, give or take an inch, but she stood as tall as any WNBA player.

  Not that her looks mattered, he reminded himself. Still, if he had to spend a significant length of time with an endangered female, it was nice that she was fairly easy on the eyes.

  Hattie walked her back down the sidewalk and turned her over to him with a wave of her hand.

  “I said my piece,” she announced. “You children go on now and have yourselves a big ol’ time at that reunion.”

  After several fleshy hugs from Hattie and a warm but stoic handshake from Lena, Mick finally got Shelby inside the Mustang.

  “To Michigan,” he said, pulling away from the curb. “To Michigan,” she echoed, not too enthusiastically. He turned east, toward the Interstate. “Maybe you should give me a general idea of where. It’s a pretty big state.”

  “Just head in the general direction of Grand Rapids for now.”

  “Right.” That would take care of the next four hours or so. He wouldn’t need to ask for more specific directions until close to sunset. He wouldn’t need to talk at all. Only...

  “So, what did Hattie have to say?” he asked. Not that he cared. He was simply curious.

  “She said you drink too much, stay out too late, don’t eat right, live in a pigsty, hang around with the wrong people, and don’t go to church. In a nutshell, Callahan, she said you’re on the fast track to hell in a handbasket.”

  “Sorry I asked.”

  “I’ll bet. So? Is she right?”

  “Well...”

  He glanced toward his passenger, who had one shapely eyebrow raised and a funny—cute, actually— quirk to her mouth. Hell, if he had to be saddled with a woman at all, it was definitely better that she had a face that could stop traffic.

  “Yeah,” he said. “She’s right.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.”

  He chuckled, which wasn’t really like him. Usually he either yelled or growled. But the sound that had just come out of him was such a reasonable facsimile of genuine laughter that it startled him. “You’re not going to start giving me advice, are you, Ms. Simon?”

  “Who me?” she exclaimed. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Callahan.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Traffic wasn’t too terrible, and Callahan had a lead foot and an aversion to staying in one lane for more than thirty seconds, so after about forty-five minutes the ancient Mustang had roared across the state line into Indiana. Shelby stared out the passenger window at the smokestacks of Gary while she contemplated her current, pitiful, sorry-ass plight.

  How had this happened? From the moment she had opened her eyes this morning, her life had been spinning faster and faster out of control, and now here she was— jobless, homeless for all practical purposes, threatened, and speeding north in a smelly car with a maniac at the wheel.

  The last thing the maniac had said to her, maybe ten minutes ago after he’d talked once more to his supervisor back in Chicago, was that the authorities wanted Shelby to make a list for them of possible enemies. Enemies! She didn’t have any enemies, for heaven’s sake. She barely had any friends these days, given her incredibly
busy schedule. She hadn’t had time for a luncheon get-together or a girls’ night out in more months than she could remember. It seemed as if E-mail and cell phones had pretty well replaced any face-to-face contact with her pals lately.

  “Enemies!” she muttered. “How about you, Callahan? Do you have enemies?”

  “Plenty,” he answered without elaboration and without taking his eyes off the road.

  Well, no surprise there. His neighbor, Hattie Grimes, had painted a fairly vivid picture of Mick Callahan’s lifestyle. Of course, the woman didn’t know that he was a cop working undercover, but she seemed to have a fairly good handle on his comings and goings. “Late to bed and late to rise” in her words. “That boy’s got one foot in perdition already, I’m telling you here and now, sister girl. You help him. You hear me?”

  Help him! Ha! She apparently couldn’t even help herself at the moment. As for her proclivity to tender advice, Callahan had already made it clear that he didn’t want any.

  Fine. Great. For once in her life, she’d keep her mouth shut. Anyway, she was the one who needed advice right now. Shelby tilted her head back against the seat, closed her eyes, and composed a letter to herself.

  Dear Ms. Simon,

  Help! Somebody’s trying to kill me. I’ll bet you think shit like this only happens in movies or in cheesy melodramas on TV. Ha! A lot you know. The thing is, though, it feels like it’s happening to somebody else. The danger just doesn’t feel real. And to make matters worse, there’s this guy who’s supposed to protect me, and instead of being grateful and cooperative, I’m being a bitch, which really isn’t like me at all. I’m a nice person, dammit. None of this makes sense.

  Signed,

  Edgy in Indiana

  Shelby sighed quietly. In twelve years of writing her column, she didn’t think she’d ever gotten a letter from someone under duress of one kind or another who wasn’t scared out of his or her mind. Women wrote in all too frequently about husbands who’d threatened to kill them. Sometimes it was children in mortal fear of a parent. Once an elderly man sent her a long, shakily printed letter about his suspicion that his wife of fifty years was lacing her meat loaf with ground glass.

  In such instances, Ms. Simon’s advice was usually a variation on a single theme. Get help. Tell someone. Alert your local police, your minister, your teacher, a neighbor, somebody. Just get help. And get it now.

  She opened one eye and took in her helper’s profile. He really was good-looking, despite his perpetually furrowed forehead and the sour slant of his mouth. His chin was strong and his jaw pleasantly angular. He hadn’t shaved today, she noticed, but the stubble on his cheeks and chin had a certain appeal in a Miami Vice kind of way.

  The hands that gripped the steering wheel were tan and strong, with blunt fingers and surprisingly nice nails. At least he didn’t bite them as far as Shelby could tell. His legs...Well, all she could see at the moment was the suggestion of hard-muscled quads beneath their faded blue covering of denim. That was nice...

  She closed her eyes again, reminding herself that Callahan’s looks, good or bad or indifferent, weren’t important. Was he good at his job? That’s what mattered.

  Dear Edgy,

  It’ll be okay. Ms. Simon says so.

  It would, wouldn’t it?

  Mick’s passenger had been asleep for almost two hours when they neared Grand Rapids. How could she sleep? he wondered. Either she had a lot of confidence in him or she’d taken a tranq at some point or she still didn’t have the slightest comprehension of the danger she was in. Maybe all three.

  Nah. He didn’t get the impression that Ms. Shelby Simon had any confidence in him at all. Why would she, especially after good old Hattie’s keen observations and dire predictions?

  He did drink too much, keep unhealthy hours, and all the rest, including no doubt having one foot already planted in perdition, but Shelby Simon didn’t necessarily know that. All she really knew about him was that he lived in a crappy apartment, drove a dark green beater, and wasn’t the most cheerful guy she’d ever met. Oh, yeah. And then there was that “student of military history” thing.

  Don’t start thinking about that again, he warned himself. Then, for further distraction, and because he hadn’t eaten all day, he took the next exit and quickly located a fast-food drive-thru.

  His passenger stirred, stretched, and blinked. “Hungry?” he asked her.

  “Mm. Starving.” She peered out the window. “Is this the place with the Double Whammy burger?”

  “This is the place,” he said.

  “Well, if you’ll order me a Double Whammy, fries, and a large diet cola, I’m going to go inside to the rest room.”

  While she spoke she was rummaging through her handbag. She came up with a twenty, and then handed it to Mick, saying, “My treat, Callahan.”

  His first instinct was to decline her offer. What? Did she think he couldn’t afford a couple burgers? But then he decided he was being a macho jerk, so he took the bill and said, “Thanks. Keep your eyes open inside, okay?”

  She laughed and her eyes widened in mock fear. “Ooh. You mean there might be a letter bomber lurking in the handicapped stall in the ladies’ room?”

  “I mean just be aware of your surroundings. That’s all.”

  He watched her walk to the front door of the building as much to make sure that no one accosted her as to enjoy the way she moved. Her stride was smooth and long, and there was a beguiling sway to her backside. Not a come-and-get-it wiggle. Nothing overtly sexual. Just a pleasant, eye-appealing motion. She walked with just the right amount of confidence. Fearlessly. Probably too fearless for her own good, he thought.

  Still, he’d been aware of the surrounding traffic when they’d left Chicago, and he’d switched lanes often enough to ditch anybody who might be on their tail. He doubted that the guy was close. Letter bombers struck from afar. It was their M.O. At least that appeared to be this guy’s opening gambit.

  Or not. Right now speculation was only good for covering all the bases in order to keep her safe. Which he had no doubt that he’d do even though it wasn’t his usual work. Five or six years ago he’d assisted a federal marshal while he baby-sat serial killer Joe Earl Moffett during his month-long trial. Mick had been bored out of his skull, hanging out in the courthouse day after day, forced to listen to Moffett’s continual Bible quotes and sick jokes. Compared to that, baby-sitting Ms. Shelby Simon was going to be like a vacation at Club Med.

  He drove ahead to the pickup window for their order, and then parked where he had an unblocked view of the restaurant’s front door. The delicious fumes from the French fries wafted out of the bag, making his mouth water and his stomach growl, but he decided it would be rude to start eating without his companion, especially since she was the one who’d paid.

  How much did a syndicated advice columnist make? he wondered. Plenty, judging from her place at the Canfield Towers. A hell of a lot more than a lieutenant with nearly seventeen years on the job, he was sure.

  His fingers drummed on the steering wheel. Why couldn’t women just take a piss and leave the bathroom? Over the years, he’d probably spent a total of two or three days waiting for Julie. “I’ll be right back” translated to a guaranteed ten minutes, often fifteen or twenty if she did the whole makeup repair and hair brushing routine. He’d always groused at her, but in truth he hadn’t minded all that much. It was nice, seeing his wife coming out of the john looking so pretty and pleased with herself, watching heads turn as she walked in his direction.

  He caught himself smiling, and immediately adjusted his face to its normal, antisocial mein just as Shelby Simon came strolling out the restaurant door. End of day sunlight streaked her long hair with tones of red and gold. She waved when she spotted him, and started toward the car when all of a sudden two women rushed out the door behind her and raced in Shelby’s direction.

  Mick was out of the car already, his hand on the gun stashed in his waistband, when he realized the women w
ere simply enthusiastic fans who wanted autographs. They were laughing and waving pens and copies of newspapers in the air. Then, while the famous Ms. Simon graciously smiled and schmoozed and signed her name, Mick breathed deeply to dilute the adrenaline that had flooded his system and to coax his heart back to a regular beat. He got back in the car and slammed the door.

  Dammit. He kept forgetting what a celebrity this woman was with her face in scores of daily papers as well as slapped onto the sides of buses. That notoriety certainly didn’t make his job any easier. If anybody bent on doing her harm wanted to locate Shelby Simon, it wouldn’t exactly be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  Maybe he should convince her to wear some kind of disguise, at least until he had delivered her to the safety of her parents’ place. He tried to picture her in thick black glasses with bushy eyebrows and a bulbous false nose. Or maybe a platinum blond wig and big wax lips. Even so, the woman still looked pretty good in his imagination.

  Finally, after shaking hands with her happy little fan club and bidding them farewell, the famous Ms. Simon sauntered toward the car. “Oh, God. Those French fries smell so good,” she exclaimed, barely in the seat before she plunged into one of the paper sacks and came up with a handful of greasy shoestring potatoes.

  “Knock yourself out,” he said.

  She did. He’d have thought she hadn’t eaten in a month the way she attacked her Double Whammy, wholly oblivious to the Secret Sauce that was running down her chin, and all the while making little orgasmic mews of pleasure so distracting that Mick could hardly swallow his own burger and fries. When her tongue peeked out to catch an errant crumb in the corner of her mouth, he felt the unsettling turn of his appetite away from food in the direction of more visceral pleasures.

  He gulped three-fourths of his large soft drink to put out the sudden and unexpected flames, then finished his meal staring straight ahead out the windshield without a single sidelong glance at the woman in the passenger seat, tuning out her sensual little noises as best he could. When he was done, he pitched his empty cartons in the backseat and started the car.