“After that, maybe what you should do next will be a little more clear to you. But even if it’s not, love never fails, Salem. God’s word never fails. If you set out to love your mom, it won’t return empty.”
It should not have surprised me the next morning when the Bible verse from my devotional was the exact one Les had quoted to me the day before. But it did, a little.
Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails. 1 Corinthians 13:7 (ESV)
I rolled my eyes — prayerfully, of course — and said, “So, what you’re telling me is, every time I think something is pointless, you’re going to come at me with this verse?”
No answer from God, but I assumed he was nodding smugly. I sat back on the floor pillows and stared at the triple flames of the candle.
God and I had been round and round about my mom. I knew I needed to forgive her. And I had. With Les’ help, I had made the decision to forgive all her bad choices because I had made my own bad choices, and I knew what it was like to need forgiveness.
Maybe I had done it wrong. My forgiveness didn’t seem to stick. I hadn’t done it with love. Because love never failed. Or so I’d been told.
My phone dinged, putting prayer time to an early end. I ran back to the kitchen and picked it up, seeing that the call was (surprise!) from G-Ma.
“Everything okay, G-Ma?”
“I just want you to know that if I don’t make it out of this, I’m leaving the motel to you!” She shouted. “You be nice to the new girls, they’ll make you some good money.”
“G-Ma, what’s going on? What’s happening?”
“They’re here! The bandits. They’re here and they’re coming this way now! It’ll all be over in just a few minutes. I’m not going down without a fight, Salem.”
“Hang on, G-Ma, just hang on. Maybe it’s not them.”
“It’s them! I can hear them shouting in the next room. They’re probably going room to room, roughing up all the guests as they go. Animals! Oh wait.” She went silent for a moment. “Oh, I think that was just the TV in the next room.” She huffed out a breath. “Well, good. They turned it off.”
“Just the TV?” I dropped onto the sofa, wondering when my heart was going to catch and stop kicking into stroke territory every time G-Ma called.
We said goodbye and I hung up, lugging Stump onto my lap to cuddle while I waited for my heart rate to slow down enough that I could walk again.
I briefly wondered if I could work that “love never fails” thing into catching the High Point Bandits. Because I would love to put an end to these calls from G-Ma.
She immediately called back.
“Is it them this time?” I said when I answered.
“No, it’s your mom. I forgot to tell you, she wants us to go to a fancy getting-to-know-you brunch at her fancy new mother-in-law’s house.”
“Good grief. When?”
“Saturday.”
“But I work on Saturdays. I work every Saturday. Dog groomers always work on Saturday. It’s the law.” It wasn’t actually a law.
“You’re going to need to ask off. We’ll drive up early Saturday morning. We’re supposed to be there by eleven.”
I frowned. It really was a big deal to ask for a Saturday off at Flo’s. Saturday was our busiest day, and having one groomer out meant a harder day for everyone else. Plus, with me working on commission, that meant my biggest money day of the week was going to be a goose egg. And for what? One of Mom’s soon-to-be failed relationships? There was no point.
Love never fails.
I leaned my head against the back of the sofa and put my hand over my eyes, groaning.
“I know,” G-Ma said. “We have to go and let her play high-falutin’ with her new friends. All those Amarillo people who think their you-know-what don’t stink. I hope I don’t vomit.”
“Please don’t vomit,” I said, because I couldn’t put it past her that she would do it on purpose.
“Not making any guarantees. I’ll see you Saturday morning around nine.”
I twisted and lay down on the sofa, then looked at the ceiling. “You could send me a couple of things that are a bit easier to love,” I said.
As if on cue, Stump stepped on my stomach and plopped her chin down between my boobs, giving me a sympathetic look.
I scratched her ears, unable to keep from smiling. “Okay, point taken.”
My appointment with my probation officer was at ten, and I had planned to lie on the sofa and play with my new phone until time to get ready, but Viv texted me and said, “Come to my place a little before nine. I have something to show you.” So I hauled myself up with a groan and got ready for the day.
Viv’s apartment at Belle Court was always spotless because maid service was one of the many extras Viv paid for, but it looked even nicer today. Fresh flowers bloomed from a vase on the coffee table, candles glowed on a side table, and soft music played on her sound system.
Viv hurried into the room wearing a smart tan suit with dark red Louboutins. “Oh good! You’re here! I was afraid you were going to miss it.”
“Are you having a party or something?” I asked, a little dismayed at my jeans and t-shirt, and the portly dog tucked under my elbow. “I thought you were going to show me something about the robberies.”
“Oh, we’re going to be looking at pictures, alright. Do I look okay? I’m going for wealthy matron, but still kind of hot.”
I gave her the once-over and pretended to give this serious consideration. Then I gave her a thumbs-up. “You’re good.”
“Okay, good. Sit down. Wait. Maybe at the dining table?”
“What are we going to be looking at?”
“Salem, I am buying a car!” She grinned a manic grin and waved her fists in the air. “From home! The Cadillac guy is coming over and bringing his catalogs, and I’m going to order it sitting on my own sofa. Or dining room chair, I haven’t decided yet.”
I knew enough about Viv from our AA conversations to know that she’d spent plenty of time living paycheck to paycheck just like I had. Then a couple of her later husbands — who eventually became her late husbands — had introduced her to the world of money. For the most part, she seemed to have acclimated just fine. But occasionally something came along to make her go mad with the power of it all. This appeared to be one of those times.
I had to admit, though, this was pretty cool.
“Aren’t you uptown,” I said, plopping onto the sofa. “Oh, wait. Stump and I are going to ruin your entire scene. Do you want us to put on maid’s uniforms or something?”
“Don’t be silly. Every rich person worth their salt has eccentric friends. Now, don’t laugh when I play hard to get, okay?”
“Oh, I won’t.”
“He’s going to talk me into the top of the line model with all the bells and whistles. Just because I can afford it doesn’t mean I want to be ripped off. Back me up when I get snobby.”
“Understood. I’ll be the voice of reason and restraint.”
“You know that little old man with the white hair who lives down the hall?”
“Ummm…probably. Which one?”
“The little one. Cute. Looks like Mister Rogers’ grandfather. Wears bow ties.”
“Oh, yeah, him.” I wasn’t entirely sure who Mister Rogers was but I put together the “little guy with white hair” and “bow ties” and was fairly sure I knew who she was talking about.
“His nephew owns the Cadillac dealership! He sells to quite a few people up here.”
“Really?” I couldn’t imagine that there was a big pool of drivers to choose from. But what did I know?
Her doorbell dinged and she did this preteen girl squeal thing.
“Okay, sit down and look bored,” she said. She hurried to the door, then stopped, took a deep breath and smoothed her jacket, then stepped to the door. “Mr. Bernard! Come in!” It was more of an order than a welcome.
I glared at him whe
n he came in. Stump snorted and looked away.
Viv and Mr. Bernard sat at the table, and Viv brought us all a cup of coffee in her fancy coffee service. They made small talk wherein Mr. Bernard was condescending about everyone at Belle Court, and most particularly to his uncle (who was leaving him the Cadillac dealership, it turns out) in what he probably thought was a humorous way. Wasn’t it so cute how “active” all these old people were?! How they loved their cars they rarely drove and their water aerobics and bus trips to the casinos in New Mexico! So cute!
After the requisite small talk, Bernard brought out the catalogs. “What do you have in mind? Coupe, sedan, SUV?”
Viv shrugged and crossed her arms over her lap. “To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure I need a new car. I mean, mine is barely over a year old. Has practically no miles on it. And you know us old farts. We barely get above twenty just driving to the grocery store and church. It hasn’t even needed a car wash for six months.”
This was patently untrue. I had personally sat in that car as Viv barreled down rutted back roads, through mesquite thickets, and across at least one cotton field. But I kept my mouth shut and my expression one of contempt for this man and his obnoxious tie showing up here with the effrontery to assume Viv wanted to buy a new car.
“Well, that is not a problem, Ms. Viv,” he assured her. “You’re not committing to a thing today. We’re just looking at some pictures. If you don’t see anything you like, we don’t need to go any further. While I’m here, of course, I would like to get the keys to your car and take it in for an oil change, because according to my records it’s almost due. I can take care of that for you — it’ll take no more than an hour. I can drive it up to the dealership, get the guys to run it through, and have it back in no time.”
“Oh, I’m sure it doesn’t need it. I’ve barely driven it since the last oil change.”
Another lie.
“Well, we like to keep the oil changed even if it’s not driven, every three months or three thousand miles, whichever comes first. Around here all the dust in the air gets in that air filter even if it’s just sitting.”
She shrugged again as if it made no difference to her.
“So, do you even want to look at the catalogs?” Bernard asked. “I don’t mind leaving them here, if you just want to flip through them. I know you’re busy. My uncle tells me you’re involved in almost everything they offer here.”
“Well, that’s true.” She sighed and looked at the stack of glossy books in his hand. “Well, I guess there’s no harm in looking.”
“That’s the spirit,” he said as he handed her the first one. “Okay, these are the coupes. Three models to choose from, with a range of colors and options.”
Viv flipped through the pages with the expression of someone thumbing through a textbook on communicable skin diseases. “These aren’t as powerful as my car. And start at ten grand more.”
“Have you thought about an SUV?” Bernard asked. “Take a look at this one — it’s one of our most popular models. Four cameras, so you can see everything when you’re backing up. No more worries of plowing into someone not paying attention.”
I could have told him he’d lost that sale at “one of our most popular models.” Viv had no interest in doing what everyone else did.
“SUVs are obnoxious,” Viv said.
He nodded, unperturbed. “No problem, they’re fun to drive but not without their obstacles. Big, you know. Difficult to park.”
“Oh, I could park it just fine. To me, they’re just an expensive sign to show how wealthy and important you are. Attention-seeking.”
“Well, that just leaves the sedans, and right now we’re only offering this one. The LR8. Big V-8 engine, all the bells and whistles. Comes in eight colors, with four choices on the interior color. I have several of these on the lot and could get you one today, or we could order one custom and it would take about two weeks.” He opened the book and began to talk through the various points.
“What’s that?” Viv asked, pointing to the one catalog left in his hand.
“Oh, I didn’t even mean to bring that. That’s the racing model. I just picked this one up when I got the rest, but we don’t need to worry — ”
“Racing model?”
My heart stopped. A racing model Cadillac? If Viv had a kryptonite, surely this would be it.
Viv snatched the book out of his hand. “Command attention on and off the track,” she read. “These special models will be available at select dealers only.” She narrowed her eyes at Bernard. “Are you a select dealer?”
“Well, actually, yes we are. We’re representing everything between Dallas and Phoenix. But Ms. Viv. This is really a high performance vehicle. People drive it at driving school programs. It’s not meant for — ”
“On and off the track, it says. What, are you saying it would be illegal to drive this in Lubbock?”
He laughed. “Well, no, not illegal. Just…overkill.”
Viv’s middle name.
“Oooh!” she said. “Crystal White Frost limited edition. Only 99 made. Matte finish available in both the Carbon Fiber and Luxury Packages. What does that mean?”
He blinked and stammered. “Well, there are two different packages available — ”
“What if I want both?”
He blinked again. “Well…you can’t have both. Unless you get two cars.”
Viv looked back at the catalog as if she might seriously consider that option.
It was clearly time for me to step in with my reason and restraint. I stood and went to look over Viv’s shoulder.
“Seriously?” I said with as much disdain as I could muster, considering the thing was breathtakingly beautiful. “Crystal what? I mean, it’s white. Not even a shiny white. Crystal Frost, puh-leeze. Talk about obnoxious.”
“So, can you get me one of these or not?”
Bernard took a deep breath. “I think so. Last I heard there were a couple left. I’ll have to call — ”
“Then call, man, call!” She stood and pulled her phone from her pocket. “You can use my phone.”
He declined the offer, fishing in his trouser pocket for his own phone.
“Viv, can I speak to you in the kitchen please?” I said through my teeth.
“Yeah, in a second. I want to find out if I can get this car.”
“Viv, just for a moment, please. In the kitchen, please.”
“Salem, hang on. This is important.”
“This is not important, Viv. You have a car, you don’t have to act like this is the last one in the world — ”
“Holy cow, Salem, listen to this.” She lifted the catalog and read as if she were reading from a religious text. “Track, analyze and share. The available Performance Data Recorder lets drivers record their driving experience by capturing real-time video, audio and performance metrics. The front-view camera captures each curve and straightaway, and when parked, lets you watch and analyze your driving performance. Or you can save the footage on the SD card to watch or share your performance later.” She lowered the book and looked at Bernard. “What’s an SD card?”
“Ms. Viv, no offense but I think this might be a bit out of your depth...”
The room went silent. I felt my own eyes go wide.
“I’m sure you could handle it just fine, Viv,” I said hurriedly. I turned to Bernard. “Viv is actually quite a proficient driver,” I said, thinking that “drives a lot” could count as proficient, if “drives well” didn’t quite apply. “But Viv, these are bells and whistles you just don’t need.” I looked over her shoulder again at the screen shot of the software for driver performance tracking. Actually, it might be a good thing for Viv to get driving feedback from an unbiased source. The screams of her passengers didn’t appear to faze her. “You’re not actually going to be racing anyone.”
“What if the Hombres really do come back, huh? What about that?”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. The Hombres wer
e a very scary motorcycle gang that — we’d been told — were mad at us for killing their prize cockfighting rooster, and had a price on our heads. But the more time passed, the more I suspected that was a story that Bobby Sloan cooked up to punish us for showing him up again.
Bobby was a homicide detective with the Lubbock PD, and I’d had a crush on him through a major portion of my formative years. He was even hotter now than he’d been then. I didn’t want to still have a crush on him, but I kind of did owing to his extreme hotness. Said hotness was offset by his even more extreme annoying-ness, though. Bobby didn’t like it that Viv and I had solved not one but two murders before he did. That’s why I was fairly sure he was making up the story about the Hombres.
I still fought the urge to scream and wet my pants every time I saw a motorcycle, though.
“If the Hombres were after us — and it’s doubtful that they ever were — we’ve managed to evade them just fine in the car you have,” I pointed out. “This is one of those big decisions that requires some time to contemplate. You don’t want to rush into anything.”
She whirled in her chair. “Did you hear what I. Just. Said! Limited edition. Less than one hundred made! They could be selling the last one right now.” She looked again at the catalog. “Straight from the road to the track. Aggressive acceleration.” She spun again in her seat. “Salem! Aggressive acceleration! We need this!”
If Viv was able to accelerate any more aggressively than she already did, she was going to become airborne, with me in the passenger seat.
I took her bony wrist in my hand, tugging her to a stand. “In the kitchen. Now.”
I kept a tight grip on her wrist in the kitchen. “So much for playing hard to get!” I hissed at her. “Look at you! You’re like a kid crazed on too much sugar. You do not need a high performance vehicle.”
“But I do, Salem. I do!”
“How much is that thing?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, as if this were a minor consideration.
Caught in the Crotchfire Page 6
