by Amey Zeigler
The tattooed man slapped his hand on the counter and leaned toward her, pointing to a sticker on the bag of chips. “The price tag says two forty-nine, not three forty-nine. Are you stupid or something?” he said.
The young clerk’s face flushed red as she realized her mistake. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure how the mix-up happened. Let me void the transaction.”
She fumbled through the keys at the computer. The man sighed and set his foot down heavily.
“I’m sorry,” the cashier said again. She squinted at the screen, fully absorbed, her fingers unsure, as she typed on the keyboard.
While the clerk was distracted, the man lifted a pack of gum from below the counter and slid it into his pocket. “This is taking too long. Just forget it,” he said. “I don’t need the chips.”
“I got it,” she said at last, tossing a strand of hair behind her ear and ringing up the chips again. “It worked.”
“About time,” the man said, plopping down some cash.
The clerk handed him his change.
“Idiot,” he said, not quite under his breath, as he left.
When Hugh stepped up to the counter, he laid down his two hot dogs. “Want him to pay for that?” he asked.
She glanced up from ringing up the hot dogs, her face still red. “For what?”
“He just stole a pack of gum. You want him to come back and pay for it?”
The clerk smiled and nodded her head. “Yeah!”
“I’ll be right back.”
“Who are you the police or something?”
But Hugh was already out the door. He approached the man as he opened his car. “Hey, you going to pay for the pack of gum?”
The man opened the door and arched an eyebrow at Hugh. “Excuse me?”
“You lifted a pack of gum inside. And I think you owe the clerk an apology. You were rather rude.”
“Not going to happen.” The man ducked into his red Camaro. Hugh caught his door before he could close it. The man yanked at the door.
Hugh held firm. “You will go in, pay for the gum, and apologize to the store clerk.”
The man jumped to his feet and puffed out his chest as he faced Hugh. “You gonna make me?” He whipped out a gun from his waistband. He pointed it four inches from Hugh’s nose.
Hugh smiled slightly, amused. “A gun? You think you’re going to shoot me? I only asked you to do the right thing.” In a flash, Hugh knocked the gun from the man’s hand and joint locked his arm, forcing him down, immobilizing him. Still controlling the man’s arm, Hugh trapped his face against the black tar of the parking lot with his foot. “Are you going to apologize?”
Before he could answer, sirens blared and blue and red lights of two police cars splashed over Hugh and his captive. The store clerk approached him. “I didn’t know what to do so I called the police,” she said.
“Brilliant,” Hugh said under his breath, lifting the thug from off the ground.
“What’s going on here?” the first cop asked, approaching with caution unsure who was the good guy and who was the bad guy. Hugh released the thug to two officers but a third grabbed Hugh. The clerk hurried over, talking fast.
“The other guy pulled a gun on this guy,” she said, pointing first to the man and then to Hugh.
“Yeah?” the officer said. He opened a pad of paper and wrote down what the clerk said. “Why’d he threaten you with a gun?” he asked Hugh.
Hugh sort of shrugged, still held by the officer.
“He was a real hero,” the clerk continued with shining eyes. “First, he spotted the man shoplifting a pack of gum, but then when he confronted him, the other guy pulled out a gun. This guy disarmed him completely.”
The officer turned to Hugh, eyebrows raised. “He lifted a pack of gum, and you were going to stop him?”
Hugh gave him a short nod.
One of the other cops interrupted the questioning after they cuffed the man and escorted him to the back of the police car. “Looks like we picked up a winner. Driving a stolen vehicle, has four warrants for his arrest here in Missouri. Two in Illinois.”
The interrogating officer returned to Hugh. “I guess we owe you some gratitude for stopping him. But you shouldn’t have confronted him. You never know if you’re going to come across a hardened criminal like this guy. Still, I am glad no one was hurt. Next time leave it to the trained professionals.”
“I’ll remember your good advice, sir.” Hugh glanced over to a man in a suit watching outside his car. He had a huge grin on his face.
The clerk slipped Hugh his hot dogs. “They’re on the house,” she whispered to him. Hugh remembered his hunger and grabbed the now cold dogs.
“Thank you,” he said to the girl with admiration shining in her eyes. He bowed to the officer. “Am I free to go, sir?” he asked.
The cop arched an eyebrow at Hugh. “I want your number in case we need to ask you further questions.”
Hugh nodded and gave him a number, then joined the man in the suit who had his elbows resting on the roof of his Mercedes and an open car door. Antonio laughed at Hugh as the cop cars departed, lights flashing, sirens whupping.
“You sow chaos wherever you go,” Antonio said, with a slight Italian accent, shaking his head, his lips drawn up in a smile.
“The man stole a pack of gum.” Hugh stuffed a hot dog in his mouth and chewed.
“You can’t let anything slip by you, can you?”
“And he was rude to the clerk.”
“Double jeopardy.”
“You would’ve done the same.”
“No, I would’ve let him have the pack of gum and done nothing. It’s like you want to be discovered or something. You’re lucky they didn’t ask for identification.”
Hugh didn’t say anything until the police and the clerk finally dispersed. “You have my laptop?”
Antonio smiled and ducked inside the car to retrieve the computer. He held it to his chest. “Don’t break this one so fast. It’s got to last a long time.”
“Or not so long.” Hugh held out his hand for the laptop, but Antonio smirked and shook his head.
“Why are you so eager to leave? Are you planning on retiring at twenty-eight?”
“I have some unfinished business to attend to. I’m just here to hone my skills. ‘Baoshí méiyou mó guang, méiyou mósun, ye méiyou rén wánchéng méiyou shìyàn.’ ”
“Say what?”
“Chinese proverb: A stone isn’t polished without hits, or something.” He was grateful they hired him on with his special circumstances. “Can I have my laptop now?”
“You have, how do you say in English, a grinding ax?”
“I think you mean an ax to grind.”
“Ah,” Antonio said, nodding. “Why volunteer for this case?”
Hugh shook his head.
“You are such an enigma. Secretive about your past, yet you jump to bring justice to a man most people thought arrogant and pompous.”
Hugh didn’t reply for a few seconds. “You’re not going to give me the laptop until I tell you, are you?”
Antonio smiled again, this time showing white teeth. “I just want to know why a man like you volunteered to take this mission.”
Though they’d worked together for the last year, sometimes Hugh wanted to wipe Antonio’s charming smile off his face. Hugh could totally take him. But punching a superior was out of the question. And he liked Antonio. Most of the time. “The victim knew my parents.”
Antonio didn’t speak, but arched an eyebrow.
In a flash, Hugh snatched the laptop from the Italian. “He also offered me help when I was at a real low point in my life. He may have been arrogant, but he was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die.” Hugh popped open the laptop on the car’s rooftop and clicked a few strokes to login.
“And have you found justice for him?”
“I’m getting close.”
“You made contact with the girl?”
“Contact, yes. But no qu
estions.” Hugh remembered her arms grasping around him when she fell.
Antonio shrugged. “Maybe she’s not important.”
“Maybe. Something keeps me coming back to her. She’s more than what she appears to be. I’ve been keeping tabs on her on and off for the last year. I have a theory about her. Her POI report is really intriguing.”
Antonio leaned in, his eyes shining in mockery. “Sounds like you are interested.”
Hugh glanced up from his screen. “It’s not like that. You know it’s not.” Her Person of Interest report filled the screen. “I’m going to catch her at work. It should be in here.” He scrolled to find it. “White Fang Dojo. Says she’s a master. Impressive. My interrogation will be all the more fun.” Hugh smiled as he clicked the lid down on his laptop. “I’ve always wanted to learn Japanese karate.”
Chapter Two
Andy’s heels and wig disappeared into her bag before the long, but fast-paced, hike to retrieve her ten-speed at Ronney Dell’s. Wearing sensible shoes and a baseball cap unearthed from her bag, she biked in haste to her place, dodging obstacles, jumping curbs like a BMXer. Deadlines were deadlines.
Once inside the door, her phone rang. She knew who it was. Mr. Hershal. Her editor. Andy chewed her finger before answering.
“Amanda,” he said, unusually calm.
Andy’s heart plummeted. “I know, I know! I’m almost done. I’m typing it up as we speak.” As Mr. Hershal droned on about deadlines, Andy peeled off the remaining essence of Mary Lou, threw on some yoga pants and a t-shirt. “I’ll have it in before the deadline.”
“It’s due in ten minutes.”
“I know. I had something ugly come up in my schedule.” In the kitchen, she poured herself some water and knocked it back, swallowing hard. “Really ugly.”
“I want it now. You have a contract.”
“It’s all written, I just have to—”
“If it’s not here in ten, I’m putting in Hansen’s column instead.”
“The foodie? He waxes on about the texture of bisque and the lusty thump of French bread.” What a waste of cyberspace.
“Send me the piece.” He clicked off.
Andy opened the lid of her laptop, fingers flying over the keyboard. Before hitting send, she paused, reading it one last time to ensure proper vindication for Mrs. Wheyland’s sabotaged car. Satisfied, she hit send. She shifted the desktop to the Internet, then headed to the kitchen for a snack.
From the freezer, she grabbed a quart of ice cream. She needed a calorie boost after her crazy ride from Ronney Dell’s. She threw three auto mechanic books from the couch before falling into it, spooning chocolatey goodness into her mouth. Every girl deserved chocolate after a breakup.
When the phone rang again, Mr. Hershal sounded more cheerful. “Cutting it close, Amanda. But it was brilliant.”
The compliment gave her a burst of energy. “I always come through.”
“Yeah. Just like your old man. Finding the stories other journalists were too afraid to investigate. It takes guts to go undercover like this, Amanda.”
“I only use it for self-preservation. Andrew Baker makes a lot of enemies. Thanks again for letting me use my father’s pseudonym. I owe you a lot.”
“Just as long as I don’t get sued for libel.”
“My father always taught me, ‘Seek truth to uphold justice.’ ”
His voice turned somber. “He was a great man. Never had ambitions to be some well-known Pulitzer Prize winner. He just wanted the simple truth.” He coughed. “Did you get the bigger story? The one you begged me for an extension for?”
Andy’s stomach tightened. Mostly she was angry at herself. Caving for the ride when she just should’ve sucked it up. “No. It didn’t work out.”
“Disappointing. But at least all the auto shops in the metro area will think twice about tampering with cars. You’ve empowered consumers. We’ll run it through copyedit tonight for your blog posting tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
“Ok, then. Until next month. Don’t cut it so close next time.”
With a half-smile and a shake of her head, Andy hung up the phone.
Now to scrub Mary Lou.
She positioned four pay-per-use burner phones in front of her and placed a pile of SIM cards on the coffee table. Prying up a scoop of Rocky Road, she stuck the spoon in her mouth and held it there while she removed the SIM from the cell phone she used to call Jack, labeling it “Mary Lou” and adding the date. In a few months, when he’d given up, she might try using it again.
She needed a new project. She glanced at her list on the laptop. On the screen was the website for CIA application. She’d forgotten it was still up. Sighing, she changed desktops to her list of problems to be solved.
Mr. Hershal suspected his mother’s nursing home was skimming money off their food budget and pocketing it. Or she could track down the group of masked purse-snatchers who stole one of Carla’s designer bags.
Andy flipped back to the CIA tab. She studied it for the zillionth time. Then closed it.
Removing the spoon for another bite, she picked another SIM card from her pile, the name Cindy was scrawled in black sharpie. Her heart squeezed a little when she remembered Cindy. The time right after the breakup with Conner. One year ago.
With a fresh bite, she slipped the SIM card into her phone. She set it down and waited for her phone to initialize. She scooped up another bite while the phone dinged.
Andy peeked to count how many. Thirteen messages.
There’d never been so many before. Curious, she played back the messages.
A deeper voice said, “Hey, Cindy, this is Ian.”
Oh, Ian. A portly clerk who was “helping” the Honorable Nechler receive gifts for turning a blind eye when the defendant was young and nubile. Persistent guy, Ian was. He was the reason she had to leave the card out longer than the normal few months.
Most of the messages were from him.
“Cindy, this is Ian, call me, please, we need to talk.” Skip.
“I’m having kind of a bad day. The Judge has been arraigned. I hope it doesn’t go to trial.” Skip. Andy’s heart shuddered. What mess of lies, sex, and bribery.
“Cindy, I’ve testified in exchange for a plea bargain.” Skip.
The DA was interested in bigger fish than the clerk.
Andy continued to listen to the other messages.
“Check your credit—” Skip.
“Get out of debt—.” Skip.
“This is Juan Martinez—” Andy didn’t remember him. Perhaps a telemarketer or stalker. One advantage to having multiple phone numbers. Skip.
“Andy—” She recognized Bradbury’s voice. “I, uh, just wanna talk. This was the last number you called me on. Sorry it’s been so long. Anyway, call me.”
Andy checked the time stamp. Yesterday at eleven forty-five p.m.
She raised an eyebrow at the cryptic message. No guy, not even a stepbrother, just called late at night to talk. “I wonder what’s up,” she whispered, dialing his number. “Hey, Brad-berry!” she said when he answered. “How’s it going?”
He laughed at her use of her pet name for him. “You’ll never stop calling me Brad-berry, will you?” he asked.
“No way. Too much fun!” Andy sat into her couch, curling her legs under her. “Sorry, when my dad and your mom were dating, I honestly thought Sandra said your name was Brad-berry. Give me a break, I was only three.”
“I’m pretty sure my mom named me after Ray Bradbury.”
“She does have a whole stack of his books on her coffee table.”
“I know. She’s such a hoarder.”
“Don’t be mean. She practically raised me.” Andy paused, waiting for him to speak. When the silence lengthened, she continued. “So, I can’t even remember the last time you called. What’s up?”
Brad’s end fell silent for a few heartbeats. “I’m having a little trouble at work,” he managed to get out.
“
You? Mr. Perfect SAT scores? Class Valedictorian? The man with the perfect job? Your mom isn’t worried about your future. She’s worried about mine.” As far as Sandra knew, Andy only had a dead-end job teaching karate at White Fang Dojo. And Andy planned on keeping it that way. “So, what’s going on?”
“I’d rather tell you in person. Wanna meet for dinner tomorrow?”
“Sure. Class ends at six.” She began searching through her clothes.
“Meet me at seven?”
“Sure.” Andy laughed, fingering a fuzzy shrug lying on her couch.
“What are you planning?”
“You’ll have to find me.”
****
Early in the morning, Michael J. Tyrone’s board meeting for Imperial Energy was interrupted with a rap on the glass doors of the Executive Suite in the high-rise T-Building. Several men and two women all dressed in dark suits sitting in leather chairs faced Bobby Sharp. From the head of the table, Tyrone waved him in.
“Excuse us, gentlemen of the board, and ladies,” he said, dismissing them.
The board filed out, leaving Tyrone and Bobby alone. Leather squeaked as Tyrone leaned back, scrutinizing Bobby. Someone must have told him brown was his color. Hazel probably, because he always wore brown.
Tyrone stared hard at Bobby keeping his face calm. Bobby was the only man Tyrone allowed to interrupt his board meetings. “It must be very important.”
Something was wrong. Bobby’s gaze was low. His eyes didn’t meet Tyrone’s. Bobby nervously lifted one lanky arm to rub his morning five o’clock shadow. Bobby drew out his phone from his suit pocket.
“Baker’s been to Jack’s shop. Story’s in the news.” He tossed the phone on the sleek surface of the table.
Sitting up, moisture fell from Tyrone’s squinted eyes. He hated these sneak attacks. One day, business as usual. Next day, bang, social media flared, and another of his fronts bit the dust. Andrew Baker disgusted him. “Another one?”
