by Amey Zeigler
“Exposed.”
“Did they mention any money laundering?”
“No. But Jack ain’t wise.”
Tyrone leaned across the desk, taking the phone. On the display was Baker’s Dozen, a once-a-month squealing blog. “Why does he pick on me? This is the sixth shop he’s closed in the last few years. And he ratted out our judge.”
Tyrone scrolled down the screen, scanning the words but not reading them. He swore under his breath. From his inside suit pocket, he slipped out a pin-tucked handkerchief, a navy monogrammed MJT on the corner.
Bobby averted his gaze. Tyrone wiped his eyes, smearing white puss-filled tears across the white cotton. He folded it back and tucked it into his pocket. Pollution irritated his eyes.
Bobby continued. “Jack did some tinkering of his own. Triggered the investigation by Baker.”
Heat flashed at Tyrone’s neck. Wasn’t anyone an honest crook anymore?
Tyrone threw the phone. It fell to the floor, shattering the screen. Bobby bent to retrieve it, but Tyrone grabbed him by his collar, drawing him nose to nose. “I want Andrew Baker,” he said, feeling his hair displaced by the rough action.
“Nobody knows who he is.” Bobby fidgeted. He had a weak bladder. Tyrone had made him piss his pants a few times. “Uses different aliases. Maybe has a whole army of people working for him.”
“What about the Times?”
“Checked before. Works freelance. Has a registered agent and an LLC with automatic deposit to some bank in Texas. This guy’s smart. No one knows who he is.”
Tyrone grit his teeth. “Pressure the editor. Somebody has to know.” Tyrone dropped the stringy man. “And I need a conference with Jack.”
Bobby nodded. He knew what conference meant.
Tyrone wiped his hair back into place. He sat in his seat, sighing. Then he glanced at the phone on the floor. “Go buy a new one.” He sat for a moment. “Please don’t tell Hazel.”
“Never.” Bobby shrugged. “Business don’t concern her.”
“How are the wedding plans?”
“Outrageous. What’d you expect? Talked her out of filling the pool with champagne.”
Tyrone twisted the ring on his right pinky, the one from his wife. “Hazel is costing me a lot of money with her plans.”
Bobby laughed. “Not as much as she’ll cost me after the wedding.”
“But someday you’ll inherit all of this.” His arms swept wide. Bobby scowled. Eyeing him from the corner of his lid, Tyrone gave him a fleeting smile. “Good thing I like you so much.”
“Good thing I know so much.”
Tyrone huffed a bit deep in his diaphragm, a sound like the beginnings of a chuckle. But he didn’t want to give Bobby the satisfaction of making him laugh. Tyrone waved his hands.
Bobby nodded at his cue to exit. On the way out, he bent to pick up the phone. “Don’t worry. We’ll find Baker.”
****
Sweat dripped down Andy’s brow as she tucked into a corner of the dojo to undress from her Master’s gi at the end of class.
“Thanks for a great session,” Carla said over the din of kids preparing to line up on the mats. “Going for dinner?”
“I have something to tell you,” Andy said when she had finished tucking her pants into her bag.
“You finally applied for the CIA?” Carla’s deep brown eyes lit up. Her dark skin contrasted with her white uniform. Only Carla could still be feminine in a gi built for a block.
“No.”
“How far did you get last time?” Carla asked, admiring her luminous black hair in the wall of mirrors behind a row of chairs surrounding the perimeter of the dojo.
“I decided on careers I was qualified for and placed them in the Job Cart. But that’s not what I was going to tell you.”
“Next time, hit the Apply button.” She smoothed her soft curls with the palm of her hand, her perfectly placed lipstick unsmudged by her physical exertion. “Hey, when do I get my BMW back? Was it in the sting op for that car repair shop? I read your blog this morning. Amazing.”
“Thanks,” Andy said. “Yeah. Sadly, it’s no longer in perfection condition. Jack jimmied with the powertrain; the drive shaft is broken. It’ll probably get confiscated as evidence, now.” Andy wrinkled her nose. “It was my fault. I got a ride instead of insisting we go to the shop. Sorry.”
Carla shrugged. “Daddy will buy me another. Scott wrecked the McLaren 650S he got for graduation, and he didn’t even get into trouble. But of course, he is the golden child so he gets away with everything,” Carla said, still focusing on herself in the mirror. “Now, what did you want to tell me?”
Andy leaned closer as Carla faced her. “Somebody detected my disguise,” she whispered.
Carla’s glossy lips parted in surprise. “Nobody recognizes you, ever. You even fooled Sandra.”
Andy smiled remembering her first test run. Dressed as a FedEx man, she delivered a package to Sandra at work. Disguised in a short red-headed wig and prosthetics, Andy had a fifteen-minute conversation with her about begonias. Sandra never suspected. Andy was that skilled.
“Who was it?” Carla asked, her perfectly shaped brows gathered in a furrow.
“Some guy,” she said, tugging her yoga pants over her spandex.
Carla leaned close. “Was he cute?”
Andy didn’t reply. She wrapped up her belt and stuck it in the bag, slipping on her shoes.
Carla continued through Andy’s silence, giving her a sly smile. “What scares you more? A guy noticing you or him seeing through your disguise?”
“Carla, this isn’t about guys. This is about my safety. My disguises are my Maginot line. If it’s penetrated, I’m done for.”
“Did you just say penetrated?” Carla cast her a wicked smile. Andy frowned. “And you shouldn’t compare yourself to failed foreign policy.”
Andy nodded, throwing her bag over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“When are you going to start dating again?” Carla asked, her gaze roamed to the black belts shouting their reps of push-ups.
“I’ve dated.”
“You mean José? Your Latin lover? Scott was jealous you were seeing his bodyguard.”
Andy rolled her eyes trying to hide her blush. “We weren’t seeing each other. We just trained together.”
“Some of those punches steamed up the room. What happened with him?”
Andy shrugged. “Nothing.” Andy wasn’t sure if it was because of her or him. “He returned to Mexico. But he did say to look him up if I’m ever down there. So that’s something. And Scott was not jealous.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. My mom wants you to call,” Carla said, following Andy to the door.
“Right now?”
“It’s an emergency, she claimed.”
“Everything is an emergency with your mom.”
Carla laughed. “True.”
Distracted, Andy opened the door, digging in her bag for her phone. Instead of finding it, Andy glanced up, startled to find him standing outside.
“Hello,” Hugh said. Andy immediately straightened, wishing her face was not so red.
Carla thrust out a manicured hand, never missing a beat to meet a hunky guy. “I’m Carla Vehemia of Vehemia Manufacturing.”
Hugh shook her hand, introduced himself, then turned to Andy. “Actually, I was hoping you could help me.”
Carla glanced at each of them, then she perked up, as if hearing a cue. “I think I forgot my black belt inside,” she said, opening the door to return inside. “Call me.” Andy got a text from her a heartbeat later.
—Cute guy. Don’t forget to call my mom.—
“I was pretty impressed with your work in there.” Hugh’s eyes glowed, burning into hers. He edged toward her. The dimness of the street lamps accentuated his chiseled features and his scar was bright white in his eyebrow. Even the shadows could not hide his penetrating blue eyes.
The phone call was completely forgotten.
�
�You shouldn’t be so easily impressed,” Andy said, but she hid a smile, basking in the glowy light of the compliment. She reminded herself to never completely let her guard down. Hitching her red weekender bag over her shoulder, she sized him up. She could take him. “You said you needed something?” she asked.
“Two weeks of your time. Private lessons. To master karate.”
“Two weeks?” Andy scoffed. “I studied for years to master karate.” She pointed to herself. “Black belt. Sixth degree.”
“Is that what all those stripes mean?” he asked.
“You don’t know much about karate, do you?”
He smiled. He licked his lips as if savoring a funny joke or crème brûlée. “I’d better not mess with you then?” His eyes shone with amusement, his lips curved at the corners of his mouth.
“Not unless you want to get hurt,” she said with a toss of her chin. She was tough, and she knew it. He was supposed to be intimidated. This was not going the way she wanted. Or was it? She couldn’t decide.
He held out his hands in protest. “I don’t want to get hurt.” He glanced sideways at her, with a sly smile. “Maybe I do. Just a little.”
Andy caught him winking at her. She focused straight ahead again. “I accept you as a pupil just because I pity you. Meet me here tomorrow at six.”
He bent low in a sweeping bow. “I will be eternally grateful. For two weeks. I can tell we’re going to get along great.”
“So, do I know you? I mean, what were you doing at Ronney Dell’s?”
“Funny. I was going to ask you the same thing.” His eyes twinkled when he asked her.
“None of your business.”
“You had quite an outfit.”
Andy returned to the original subject. “Have we met before?”
“We have.” He smiled. His lips, the perfect contrast to white teeth, were enough to make her forget anything else. She struggled to remain in control, to keep from softening. Even if he had a nice smile. And twenty-inch biceps. “Hugh Donaldson. You really don’t remember.”
He was right. And Andy was bugged. She never forgot a face. As a journalist, remembering people was essential. How could she forget him? He was certainly memorable.
“It will come to me.” Already her mind raced with scenarios, cocktail parties, yacht clubs, bars, conferences. In one month alone, Andy attended at least ten functions each as a different person, snooping, gleaning snatches of conversations while hobnobbing with mayors, governors, lobbyists, state workers, union men, and oil execs.
In her line of work, exposing law-breakers made few friends. In fact, she probably made more than a few enemies. Anonymity was not just a protection against lawsuits, it was protection for her life. If this one man could detect her, track her down, she was not safe.
“Shall I give you a hint?” He caught up to her, keeping stride beside her. “Last May…” He gazed at her with anxious anticipation. “Forest Park.”
Andy stopped. Her mind shot with as much speed and heat as lightning to Forest Park, last year. What an amazing coincidence.
The night of her breakup with Conner. She had expected a ring. She got dumped instead.
“The Foreign Film Festival,” she murmured. Andy didn’t want to relive that day, but visualized it in her mind. “After a really crappy day—a huge misunderstanding—my stepbrother invited me to watch my favorite movie with Bruce Lee and Chuck Norris.”
“The Way of the Dragon. It’s my favorite as well.”
Andy noted his response with interest.
Pausing under the dimmed street lamps now, Andy scrutinized Hugh. She noticed how much more attractive he was now than a year ago. “You sat next to us,” she said. “You laughed at a part no one else did.” She had always wondered why. Brad acted uncomfortable when Hugh spoke with them.
“You do remember,” he said, his lips parting in a smile. “As I said, we’re not complete strangers. We even like the same movies. I was thinking about catching up over a taco tonight, if you wanted to get reacquainted.”
At the mention of dinner, she remembered Brad. “Oh, no!” She checked her phone. “Sorry. I’ve got a previous engagement. Right now.” She quickened her pace.
“Later?”
“I’m going to be late.”
“Can I at least escort you home?” He kept up with her.
“I’m fine.”
“In this neighborhood?” His skeptical glance swept the tall, run-down buildings. This neighborhood wasn’t the safest part of town, but the rent was cheap.
Andy stopped. “Did you miss the part of me being a black belt?”
He stepped closer, lowering his chin, giving her a deep stare. His eyes had a depth Andy had never seen before. Knowledge and understanding and something else in those pupils.
“Your black belt won’t always save you, you know.”
Andy turned away. He continued to follow her.
For some reason, his persistence irked her. She thrust a hand to his chest. Rock solid. “Don’t. I could take you down if I had to.”
“I’m sure you could.” A cocky grin started at one side of his mouth, before spreading to the other. “Goodnight, then.” With a salute to her, he marched backward. When he rounded the corner out of sight, Andy found her phone and dialed Carla.
“What did the guy want?” Carla asked.
“Karate lessons.”
“Are you sure? I think he was into you.”
Andy changed the subject. “What did your mom want?”
Before Carla answered, two men in rubber masks rushed Andy, sliding up beside her, grabbing her phone and purse. She immediately let go of the burner phone, but her tote! Everything she needed was in there.
She was not giving up her bag without a fight.
Spinning, Andy halted, the cold barrel of a gun pressed against her forehead.
The shorter, wider thug with a distorted Daffy Duck mask tucked her bag under his arm. “Thank you,” he said.
The taller of the two, with a sagging exaggerated Bill Clinton head, continued to press her with the gun. Andy almost laughed at his bulbous nose flopping around.
“Let’s go,” the shorter said, his voice muffled through the grinning duck.
Bill Clinton tilted slightly. A distraction was all she needed.
In a flash, she hit Bill, knocking the gun from his grip. As it clattered to the ground, it fired. Shocked, but not thrown, she lifted her leg in a sidekick, knocking Daffy down. Pain shot through her foot and leg. She re-injured her ankle. Not bad, but it needed some rest. She hopped on her uninjured foot to retrieve her bag from the fallen Daffy, kicking him once more for good measure.
Breathing deep, she swallowed her pain as Bill Clinton snatched at her bag again, knocking her off balance. Holding his shoulders, Andy balanced on her good foot, kicked him in the crouch with the pained one, then kneed him in the chest, finally finishing by stomping on his insole.
Just when Daffy had roused, ready to help Bill Clinton, the sound of footfalls echoed behind her. Hugh appeared, sizing up the situation. Though he must have run half a block, he wasn’t even winded.
After elbowing the former president, she smashed her fists into the neck of his bent form, still hopping on one foot. “Grab the gun!”
“You’re doing great without it,” Hugh said.
Andy assumed he would nab it, but instead, he kicked it into a pile of trash in an alleyway just as Daffy threw Andy to the street. Andy held on, taking him down with her fighting over the tote.
Hugh shouted, “Let it go. It’s just a bag! It’s not worth it.”
“You don’t understand,” Andy said. The man held tight but still she persisted. “It’s my life, my everything.”
“Girls and their purses… I was talking to the duck.”
Daffy managed to stand, still holding the purse. Andy was too slow to return to her feet, but Hugh jumped into action. Andy had never seen anyone so agile. He grappled the Daffy around his neck, then crashed him into his k
nee. Andy recognized the Russian Sambo technique. Even with the rubber mask, the wallop hurt. Daffy probably had a broken nose.
Andy stood still. This was the same man who asked for karate lessons a few minutes before?
Holding his nose, Daffy ran with Bill from the alleyway leaving the tote. Andy retrieved it from the sidewalk.
“What were you doing?” she asked.
He shrugged. A bit of blood trickled from his lip where the attacker got in a lucky punch. He cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t you have a date tonight?”
Hugh wrapped his arm around her, helping to stabilize her. Andy stiffened. He dodged her question.
He continued, “I’ll call the police and report the attempted theft. Not much they can do anyway. I can’t give them facial descriptions.”
Shaking, she couldn’t figure it out. A man who wanted karate lessons twenty minutes ago just executed a Russian Sambo tactic. Flawlessly. There was more to Hugh Donaldson than he was letting on. She stared at him.
“You’re still a little ruffled.” He found a scrap of paper and a pen. “Here’s my address and phone number if you need it.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, pocketing the information without even reading it. “I have to go.”
Andy headed toward her apartment, a nagging feeling in her gut.
****
The man in the tailored brown suit was out of place in the filthy bar full of people like Jack, men who didn’t wear suits, even to funerals.
Jack noticed the lanky man, who was a little too tall for his suit, when he lifted his head above his bottle. Jack hadn’t showered the last three days and smelled as greasy as Mel’s bar kitchen. He glanced up to his reflection in the mirror across from his seat. The dim lights of the bar accentuated the deep lines in his face, the circles under his eyes. He hadn’t slept well. He needed refuge. To drown his sorrows in booze and loud music.
The man stood next to Jack and waited. Jack just stared at him. Finally, the man spoke.
“Boss isn’t happy,” he said.
Jack had worked with the man before. Somewhere out of his foggy brain he managed to pluck out his name. Bobby. Bobby Sharp.
“Screw Tyrone.”
Bobby tsked. “Not nice to talk to someone who takes care of you. Who could’ve made you rich, if you wouldn’t have gotten greedy. Very rich.”
