by Woods, T E
“I’m going to need that tape,” she said.
A few seconds later a CD case was tossed from the darkness above. The Fixer walked a step, bent over, and retrieved it.
“Five hundred thousand dollars goes to PETA before I fix this.” She tucked the CD into a jacket pocket.
“That’s a lot of money, Ms Carr.” The Boston-accented man again.
“And I’ll need to see you. Now.” The Fixer stood in the center of the spotlight and waited.
“I’m here, Ms Carr.”
The Fixer whirled around. No electronic emission. No distortion. A male voice from behind her. She squinted into the dark and shifted her feet into a combat stance. “Step closer, Jones.”
A tall thin man stepped into the circle of light. The Fixer estimated his age somewhere south of thirty. Sandy hair. Jeans. Radiohead t-shirt. Indistinguishable from the thousands of grad students who filled the U-district coffee shops. He shrugged skinny shoulders and put out a pale arm. “Do we shake on this, or what?” His real voice was a nasal whistle.
“Give me your driver’s license.” The Fixer held out her hand.
“What? No. I mean, you can’t know…”
“I can’t know who you are, Mr. Jones?” she interrupted. “Give it to me or I walk.”
The lean young man hesitated before he reached into his back pocket for his wallet. Struggling with shaking hands, he managed to pull out his license and hand it to the terrifying Goth.
“Are you going to turn me in?” he asked. “Oh, God. Please tell me you’re not a cop.”
“Mr. Jones.” She scanned the license. “I should say Mr. Buchner.” She looked at the license again before tucking it into her jacket pocket. “Your name is Walter? Wally, it is my purest intention that we never see each other again. This license puts me next to you if you break any of our rules. Am I clear?”
His jaw quivered as he nodded his head.
“I’m leaving now, Walter.” The Fixer glanced up to the rafters. “I imagine you have some cleaning up to do.”
Chapter Eleven
“Why am I getting these numbers now, Carl?” Meredith Thornton threw the data printout onto her desk. She wasn’t concerned about containing her anger. “We’re a Level One-A research institution. Four straight years of increased funding. I’m the university president, for God’s sake. And I’m finding this out now? After the mid-term funding season?”
Carl Snelling took a step back. Meredith loathed her Executive Provost’s spinelessness.
“Answer me, Carl.” She toyed with the long rope of pearls draped from her neck. “When did you first learn this?”
Carl shuffled through the duplicate printout he held. “Is it really that bad, President Thornton? This economy leads to cuts everywhere. I heard rumors NIH wasn’t funding anything below the upper three percent.” He leaned toward her and whispered. “I’ve got a little birdie at Johns Hopkins who tells me even their grant funding has been slashed.”
Meredith had no interest in Snelling’s gossip. Her own house was on fire. “Thirty-one percent below last cycle?” She pushed a wayward strand of ash blond hair behind her ear. “Nearly fifty million dollars. You tell me, Carl. Is it really that bad?”
Meredith paced her office and punctuated her steps with icy stares.
“How many research assistants will we lose? How many graduate students or support staff? My God, a loss like this could cost us faculty members.” She marched straight toward him and enjoyed his subtle flinch. “These people have families, Carl.” She stood two inches from his nose. “Anyone wondering if this kind of loss is ‘really that bad’ doesn’t deserve to be standing in an executive office.”
Carl’s voice faltered. “I’m sorry, President Thornton. I didn’t realize the funding shortfall would be this great.” His lower lip quivered. “What would you like me to do now?”
Meredith’s withering gaze suggested he was a gumball ring trying to pass as a diamond. “That question is about three months late, Carl. I’m tired of fixing your failures.” She pivoted on a black suede pump and punched a button on her phone. “Angela, can you get me Bradley Wells, please? Use his private number.”
Her stomach lurched as her Executive Provost slithered out of the room.
Chapter Twelve
“Is there some reason we’re not at Smitty’s?” Jim De Villa slid into the leather banquette and admired the sailboats moored outside Richard’s On The Bay’s expansive windows. “I can hear my credit card being declined already.”
“Drinks are on me.” Mort took his place across from his friend. “Today’s too special for a cop bar.”
Jim’s face wrinkled before he shook his head in recognition. “Sorry, Buddy. November eleventh. Remember how she used to call it ‘railroad tracks’?”
Mort smiled. “Eleven-Eleven. I wasn’t in any shape to mark the day last year.”
“I’m honored to be included,” Jim said. “Things getting better?”
Mort shrugged. “Most days I can’t believe she’s gone. I expect to pick up the phone and hear her chewing me out for working late. Maybe see her sitting in the dining room paying bills when I get home.” He signaled for the waitress. “But I haven’t smashed anything in six months.”
“I’m calling that progress.” Jim smiled at the blonde taking his order. “Whiskey and a beer, please. Something local, in a bottle.”
Mort ordered scotch rocks.
“How’s Robbie adjusting?” Jim helped himself to the salted cashews on the table. “Must be tough, him being so far away.”
“He’s got Claire and the girls.”
“He working on anything interesting?”
Mort nodded. “Branching away from insider trading and fraud. Remember Gordon Halloway? Robbie’s working a hunch the asshole was murdered. Hired hit.” Mort let his pride show. “He might be on to something.”
“And another Grant man falls victim to the seductive lure of homicide,” Jim said. “What’s he got?”
Their drinks were delivered before Mort could answer. They each lifted their glass.
“To Edie,” Mort said. “Happy Birthday, Baby Girl.”
“To the classiest woman I’ve ever met. Why she married you none of us will ever know.” Jim took a sip of whiskey. “So. Robbie and his hired hit.”
Mort settled back and brought his friend up to speed on his son’s theories. Jim reaffirmed Mort’s concern that a hired professional might leave him with no story at all.
“Might as well try to nail the wind,” Jim said. “But if he’s anything like his old man, that’s not going to stop him.”
The perky blonde came back carrying a bottle of Laphroaio and two crystal tumblers. She smiled as she set the fifteen-year-old scotch in front of them. “From the gentleman.” The waitress nodded to a thin man flanked by two barely dressed women at the end of the bar. “He asks that I tell you he appreciates the quality of your work.”
“Are you shitting me?” Jim moved his hand to the small of his back.
“Hands up top, Jim.” Mort smiled at the waitress. “No offense intended, Miss, but we’d prefer you returned this to that cockroach.” Mort shifted his focus to the bar. The man who sent the bottle kissed each woman full on the mouth before heading toward Mort and Jim’s table.
“Beat it, Junior,” Mort said to the jerk in leather jacket and jeans.
The man who liked to call himself Satan brushed aside the waitress clearing the scotch. “Leave it,” he said as he tucked a fifty dollar bill in her collar. “These poor schmucks are going to learn the joys of a two hundred dollar bottle of liquid gold.”
The waitress shot Mort a frightened look and hurried away.
Satan turned toward Jim. “Where’s your little doggie? I thought he was part of your act. Officer Numbnuts and his trusty pal. Doing tricks for treats.” Angelo Satanell, Jr. laughed and glanced around the bar. He looked disappointed that no one was paying attention. He focused on Mort. “And Detective Quick Draw, too. This place h
as lost its standards.”
Mort fixed a cold gaze on Satanell and lifted his own glass for a taste.
“You drink that swill while a bottle of heaven sits in front of you?” Satanell turned back to look at his women and grinned. “Your pay grade has warped your taste buds, my friend.”
“We don’t need your booze, Junior,” Jimmy said. “And we don’t need your shit, either. Now be a good little boy and go spend Daddy’s money on your whores.”
Satanell grinned at Mort. “You still pissed at me about that cello player?” He leaned forward, both hands on their table. “Little girls play with fire, they get their asses burned.” Satanell dropped his voice to a near whisper. “Miss Allie knew that, didn’t she, Papa?”
“Step back, Junior.” Jim slid closer to Mort. “Unless you want to see how fast I can have you in cuffs.”
Satanell glanced again to his women. He seemed pleased they were watching and tossed a wink before turning back to Mort. “Your cunt of a daughter knew what to do with top shelf liquor.”
Mort’s sudden lunge sent Satanell shuffling back in reflex. Jim grabbed Mort with both hands and shoved him back into the booth.
“Go ahead, old man.” Satanell was yelling now. “Touch me. Put a hand on Satan and wait for the fire.”
Jim struggled to keep his friend seated. “Save it, Mort. Time will come to deal with this piece of shit. Save it.”
Angelo Satanell, Jr. tipped a two finger salute, grinned, and swaggered back to the two women feigning concern for their man.
Mort waited until his breath was close to normal before shrugging off Jim’s hold. He watched Satanell and the women leave the bar. “He thinks he’s bullet proof.”
Jim shook his head. “Daddy being Daddy and things being things, he just may be correct.”
Mort reached for his glass and drained his scotch in one swallow. “Correct doesn’t make it right.”
Chapter Thirteen
Lydia Corriger got to work early the day before Thanksgiving. She defied the rainy gloom by clicking on two table lamps and settling behind her desk with her coffee and newspaper. The front page led with the city council’s debate regarding earthquake standards for homes. A photo of local food pantry volunteers filling charity bags reminded readers there was still time to donate. Lydia made a mental note to take the game hen she purchased for her own Thursday dinner out of the freezer.
The national section had an article on the latest finger-pointing in Congress. Lydia shook her head at a silly photograph of the president pardoning a turkey and moved on to an article about a significant donation to the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. An anonymous donor had given half a million dollars to the organization. No strings attached, according to the beaming chief executive.
She finished the paper and checked her schedule. She was booked every hour, straight through to Savannah Samuels at six. She unlocked her office at 7:55 and her first patient walked through the door three minutes later.
Mary Sullivan was 54 years old. Overweight. Greasy hair. Baggy sweat pants and a dirty red down vest. Mary’s employer had contacted Lydia. Despite her talent with children, parents were complaining and Mary was in danger of losing her job as a pre-school teacher.
Mary didn’t bathe.
She didn’t shower. She didn’t brush her teeth. She didn’t shampoo and she didn’t wash her clothes.
Mary stank.
Lydia ushered her into the office. Mary chose the sofa and Lydia was glad it was leather. She watched Mary pull folders out of a large canvas bag and set them on the coffee table.
“I made copies for you,” Mary said. “Here’s my chart from Dr. Roth. He’s my prescribing doctor. I’ve been seeing him for nine years. There’s an updated list of my medications on the inside flap.” Mary pulled a three-ring binder out of her bag. “This is a copy of my chart from Dr. Reschke. He was my talking doctor. I only saw him for three years.” Mary looked up at Lydia with rheumy brown eyes. “I wore him out. He didn’t know what to do with me.”
Lydia took her seat across from the malodorous woman. She counted seven files and binders on the table. And Mary’s bag wasn’t yet empty.
“I’ll begin with an overview of my mother.” Mary pulled out an expandable legal folder. “All the doctors agree she’s the root of my problem.” She snapped the elastic band open. “Now, my earliest memory is..”
“Stop.” Lydia held her hand up. “Just stop.”
Mary froze mid-movement.
“Put the folders down, Mary.” Lydia kept her voice quiet and firm.
“I want to tell you about my mother,” Mary said.
“And I want to hear it. But not today. Today we’re going to talk about why you’re here.”
Mary blinked several times. “But you’ll need to understand about my mother.”
Lydia leaned back. “How did you get here today, Mary? Not why, but how.”
Mary balked. “I drove. I don’t see the importance of…”
“A car?” Lydia interrupted. “You drove yourself here in a car?”
“Of course.” Mary set the folder aside. “Where are you going with this?”
“Mary, do you understand the physics behind an internal combustion engine?” Lydia feigned amazement. “I mean, think about it. There’s a fire going on inside your car’s engine. Doesn’t that freak you out? A fire…inside your engine.”
Mary’s eyebrows shot up.
Lydia leaned forward. “I’ll bet you don’t understand internal combustion. I know I don’t. And yet you were able to manage your car sufficiently to get here, is that right?”
“I…I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Lydia smiled. “I don’t want you to say anything, Mary.” She pointed to the stack of files and binders overwhelming the coffee table. “Look at this stuff. You’ve been trying to understand yourself for years.”
Mary nodded. “I’ve been in therapy since I was 22.”
“Then let’s stop doing what hasn’t been working.” Lydia tossed the folders off the coffee table, leaned back, and replaced them with her feet. “Now tell me. Are you afraid of water, Mary?”
“But my mother used to..”
Lydia interrupted again. “We’re not talking about your mother today. Answer my question. Are you afraid of water?”
“No. No, it’s my lack of motivation. My mother always said…”
“Soap?” Lydia tilted her head to one side. “Shampoo? Deodorant? Afraid of those?”
Mary shook her head. “Of course not. I have lots of potions and lotions.”
“Great.” Lydia swung her feet off the table and grabbed her notebook. “Then let’s set up a schedule for the rest of your morning.” She smiled at her confused patient. “Mary, you’re going to take a shower today. And you’re going to call me when you’re done.”
“But my mother…” Mary’s voice lost its volume.
Lydia interrupted with a gentle insistence. “Your mother’s not here. And you’re about to lose your job.” She leaned closer. “I will never lie to you. Nor will I sugarcoat things. Mary, you stink. And we’re going to fix that today.”
“Just like that?” Mary’s smile was tentative.
Lydia held her gaze. “Just like that. Now I know you’re on suspension. So,” Lydia began writing. “If you left here at nine and drove straight home…”
“With my internal combustion engine.” Mary interjected.
“That’s right.” Lydia gave her a big smile. “What time would you get home?”
“About nine forty, I assume.” Mary’s voice hinted at co-conspiracy.
“Great.” Lydia allowed her enthusiasm to build. “You go straight to your bathroom. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Strip off your clothes and you’re in the shower by ten til ten.” She glanced up at her patient. “Your bathroom’s clean enough for this?”
Mary nodded. “It’s just me who’s dirty.”
“Bingo. We’re going to fix this, Mary.�
�� Lydia returned her attention to the notebook. “First you’ll shampoo. And when the bottle says ‘lather, rinse, repeat’, I want you to do that twice, okay?”
Mary smiled again. “You’re not the typical shrink, are you?”
Lydia winked. “Mary, you’re not going to talk your way out of this pickle. You’re not going to think your way out or understand your way out. You’re going to do your way out of this. Right?”
Mary stared at Lydia for several heartbeats. Lydia held her gaze. Mary let out a hearty laugh.
“No one’s ever done this,” she said. “Do you know how many doctors I’ve been to? Not one of them has told me I stink and need to go home and take a bath.”
Lydia leaned back and smiled. “I don’t like to dally, Mary. If there’s a way to fix something, I don’t like to waste time. Are you with me?”
Mary chuckled and a boa of fat jiggled beneath her dingy sweatshirt. “I’ve got some really fancy face cleanser I’ve been dying to try,”
“Brilliant. Next comes the body wash….”
Lydia’s day marched forward in one hour segments. John McKenna wanted help finding meaning in the recent cancer death of his nineteen year old son. Alexander Quinton couldn’t shake his conviction he would die in an airplane crash before his fiftieth birthday. Marilyn Martinella discovered when her youngest daughter left for college that she hated her husband.
Her four o’clock was Jackie Vincent, a single mother of a 17 year-old gangster wanna-be. This was her second visit. She came saying she needed to develop skills for coping with what she described as her “headstrong and spirited” child.
“He called me a mother-fucking bitch last night.” Jackie sobbed into her lace handkerchief. “Why would he do that, Dr. Corriger? I give him everything.”
“What did you do when he called you that?” Lydia asked.
Jackie’s shoulders racked with her sobs. “I went to my bedrooom. Then, when I thought his mood was better I made some popcorn and we watched a scary movie together. It was nice.”
“How old was he the first time he called you a name?”
