Another lost child, Tess thought, and this one doesn't even have a name. She couldn't imagine where to start.
"Will you do it? Will you help me find my baby?" Jackie had dropped her detached, professional tone. Her voice was urgent, almost pleading.
"I don't know. What you're asking is pretty hard. Truthfully, I wouldn't even know where to begin."
"There's this Adoption Rights group that meets in Columbia every other week. We could go there first, learn some strategies."
"It's not just the ‘how' part that bothers me. After all, I could give it my best shot, earn some money without worrying I was bleeding you dry. I'm still not sure I want to work for you."
"Why?"
"Because you tricked me, you jerked me around. Okay, you got burned by some other detectives. But there were other ways to figure out I'm legitimate. I can't shake the feeling you liked that whole elaborate game, that you really got off on your Mary Browne disguise. I feel like a little mouse, batted back and forth in some cat's paws. Besides, you're bright, you must have connections if you worked for politicians. You can probably find out as much as I can, even more."
"It's true, I'm successful—more successful than you, for a fact."
"Why, thanks for pointing that out," Tess said dryly.
"But when it comes to dealing with people who have power over me—especially white people who have power over me—I lose it. I either get all bashful and tongue-tied, or I start screaming lawsuit. Neither approach is particularly effective."
Tess had a strange sense of déjà vu, as if she knew exactly what Jackie meant. The principal at Gwynn's Falls Middle School, taciturn Keisha, Beale's uncooperative neighbors, even the Nelsons. They had thwarted her, been less helpful than they might have been, and all because of her race.
"Okay, quid pro quo," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"I'll take your case, but I want more than money from you. I want your help, talking to people who won't talk to me, on another case I'm working."
Jackie's look was contemptuous. "You mean poor black folks, don't you? What, do you think there's some secret language I speak that will get me by? That some poor black kid is going to talk to a sister, who happens to be driving a Lexus and wearing the kind of clothes I wear?"
"Maybe. I am willing to bet you can convince a middle school principal that you're a particular kid's next of kin, which is something I can't pull off. That's a start. We'll see how it goes from there."
Their entrees arrived and Jackie attacked her pompano en croute with a ferocity Tess found admirable, even familiar. She was bent over her meal with the same intensity. But Jackie could concentrate on her food without losing her train of thought.
"So, if I help you on this other case, do I get a discount?"
"Nope," Tess said cheerfully. "The wages of sin, for not being straight with me from the beginning. Consider it a fraud surcharge."
Finally, Jackie smiled, but it was a cool smile, even a little supercilious. "Good for you. You've already learned one of the cardinal rules for the small businesswoman. Don't give it away—unless you have to."
"Did you ever give it away?"
"No. But then I was good from the very beginning."
Chapter 9
They drove into the city together, although it would mean a long trip back for Tess, who had left her car at Jackie's apartment. But she needed to brief Jackie on the names of the children she was looking for, the block where they had once lived, the questions to ask. She also liked the unaccustomed luxury of Jackie's car, the pampered feeling of being chauffered, although she didn't mention this to Jackie.
It was the hottest part of the day and Tess took a perverse pleasure in sending Jackie off to work Fairmount Avenue in her high-heeled shoes. "I'd go with you, but it would defeat the purpose," she said. "If they see you with me, you'll automatically be less trustworthy."
"I guess so," Jackie said. "What will you do while I'm out?" Apparently Jackie had not achieved her early success by tolerating, much less welcoming, down time.
"I'll think about how we're going to handle our next fact-finding mission," Tess assured her.
She then spent the next hour trying to teach Esskay to fetch, tossing pencils into the corner opposite her sofa. By the time Jackie returned, favoring her left foot as if she might have the beginnings of a blister, Tess had enough pencils stacked in the corner to make a small bonfire.
"I'd forgotten how hot those rowhouses get in the summer," Jackie said, taking the can of Coke Tess offered and holding it against her neck and brow before she opened it. "And how nasty some of them are. People who can't believe the way folks live in Third World countries ought to try a tour of East Baltimore some time."
"Did you find any leads on the kids?"
"In fact, I did. Not much, but something." Jackie smiled, pleased with herself. Why not? She had succeeded so quickly where Tess had failed. That's why Tess had recruited her, yet it still needled, this sense of barriers, of places she could not go, people to whom she could never really speak. She turned on her computer and opened up Luther Beale's file. There wasn't much there, just the notes from their initial interview, and a record of yesterday's futile interviews with Keisha, et al.
"Tell me what you've got."
Jackie recited her findings as she might have outlined a fund-raising plan for one of her clients: quickly, efficiently, with few wasted words. "Two of the kids were dead-ends. Salamon Hawkings and Eldon Kane. The neighbors don't recall seeing them around here since the shooting, no one knows what happened to them. But the twins, Treasure and Destiny, never really got away. Officially, they're in the care of an aunt somewhere over on Biddle Street, but the neighbors see them around here all the time. The supposition is that they're actually living here."
"Their own place? Who rents an apartment to two teenagers?"
Jackie looked at Tess as if she were too stupid to be believed. It was the same smug expression she had worn when Tess showed up on her doorstep in Columbia that morning.
"They don't pay rent," Jackie said. "They're squatting in a vacant house. Their aunt shows up from time to time and makes them go home. Sooner or later, they're hanging out here again. Treasure has a taste for crack. He's on the circuit."
"The circuit?"
Another look. "He gets his meals at the soup kitchens in the area. Beans and Bread; Bea Gaddy's on the days that Beans and Bread is closed. Destiny doesn't go for that, though. She's a car girl."
"What's that?" Maybe if she admitted her ignorance of things, Jackie wouldn't be so quick to condescend.
"Sort of an apprentice prostitute. A guy comes along, offers her a ride. It's understood that he's asking for sex and she'll get something out of it, but she's not really a pro. Destiny has a taste for Versace, the neighborhood ladies tell me, and fancy leather pocketbooks. But she's got some come-and-go steady boyfriend who provides her with the big-ticket items. The car dates are more for walking-around money. And drugs for Treasure, I'd bet."
"Versace? How does her boyfriend afford Versace?"
"Why, I believe he's what we call a pharmaceutical entrepreneur," Jackie said, raising one eyebrow. "No one seemed to know his name, but they wouldn't tell me even if they did. I don't care who you are, people around here aren't going to go naming names when it comes to the local dealers. People die for that."
"How did you get the neighbors to open up as much as they did?" Maybe Tess could learn something from Jackie.
"I didn't bullshit them. I told them I was trying to find the kids who used to live in the group home, the one where the little boy was shot all those years back. It's funny—people get shot and killed around here every week, but everyone remembers the night Donnie died. I'll tell you this much, they really hate the old man who shot him."
"Luther Beale? What do they say about him?"
"They say he's stuck up, which is about the worst thing you can be in these parts. He thinks he's better than they are, and he makes no
secret of it. People will forgive you for a lot, but not for that. Whatever you do, you can't let people know you want more from life than they do."
It occurred to Tess that Jackie might be speaking from firsthand experience.
The school day was almost over by the time they headed out to Gwynn's Falls Middle School. Again, Tess coached Jackie along the way. Telling the truth was an okay system, as far as it went, but it had limitations. The tough-cookie principal wasn't going to divulge the whereabouts of her former student, Salamon Hawkings, just because Jackie was a straight shooter.
"I'm to say I'm from Arena Stage?" Jackie asked, puzzled. "I thought I was going to be a relative. If I'm going to make up a story, why not say I'm from the School for the Arts? That's much more plausible."
"Uh-uh. Another school, even one in a different jurisdiction, could track down a student in a single phone call. So you're from Arena Stage, and you're putting on an original work next season, with this really talky part for a teenage boy, reams of dialogue to memorize, and you've heard this Salamon Hawkings is a gifted public speaker."
"What's the name of the play?"
"The name? Jesus, I don't know, Jackie. Improvise."
"I prefer to plan things in advance," she said primly.
I bet you do. "Okay, the play is called—" Tess glanced to the side of the road. They were near the lot where an old amusement park once stood and, just beyond it, the place where her mother had bought produce from a truck farmer in the summers. He had graduated from his truck to a small shop, then added seafood. The store had burned to the ground in a mysterious fire a few years ago, and the family had simply disappeared. Now a small cinderblock church stood in its place. But Tess still remembered the hand-lettered sign that had hung over the fish in their icy beds.
"The play is called ‘Fresh Lake Trout.' It's an August Wilson-style drama about a local family scraping by with a produce stand. Lots of tension between the father and son, over whether he's going to stay and help the business, or go to college. How's that?"
"Not very original, but I guess it will have to do. So Arena Stage is putting on ‘Fresh Lake Trout,' and it needs a teenager who can handle lots of dialogue."
"Right, and you remember hearing about Salamon Hawkings from one of your cousins, whose daughter competed against him in the state finals."
Jackie looked as if she didn't know whether to be impressed or disgusted. "This is what you do for a living? Make shit up?"
"The truth may set you free, but it doesn't get you much in the way of information. Trust me, when we start looking for your daughter, you're going to appreciate what the right lie can do."
Children were pouring out of the tired-looking school. Tess scrunched down in the passenger seat of Jackie's car, waiting. She didn't want to risk being seen by the principal, who was sure to make good on her threat to have Tess arrested. As it was, the woman was sharp enough that the Arena Stage story might not fly. Tess wished she could be at Jackie's side, ready to provide the additional lies such a situation might demand. Despite the elaborate ruse Jackie had used on her, she didn't seem to have any innate ability for spontaneous prevarication. Successful lying required a certain amount of joy in the act itself. If you focused only on the results, you missed the hang-gliding sensation of simply getting away it. You were out there, high above the landscape where most people lived, feeling the wind on your face. Besides, the Arena Stage story was one of Tess's more inspired lies; she would have liked to deliver it herself.
Fifteen minutes had gone by. The school had emptied quickly and now seemed desolate. Jackie had parked in the shade, but it was hot in the car, the leather seat stickier than a cloth one would have been. Tess rolled down the window, stuck her head out, and panted a little bit, imitating Esskay. She had wanted to bring the dog with them. After all, she had to go all the way back to Columbia to pick up her car, and she could have used the company on the ride back. But Jackie had been appalled at the idea of a dog in her pristine car. Tess wasn't sure she was that keen on having her in it.
"That's attractive," Jackie said, coming up behind her.
"I think dogs are on to something. I actually feel a little cooler. How'd you do?"
Jackie walked around the car and slid into the driver's seat. "It was so easy, it was embarrassing. I stayed and chatted with the principal just to ease my conscience about fooling a perfectly nice woman. Turns out Salamon Hawkings got himself a scholarship to some ritzy private school, the Penfield School, up in Butler." She paused. "I'm not even sure where that is."
"The heart of WASP country. You can tell because Butler has exactly two businesses, a saddlery and a liquor store. All the WASP needs."
"What's a black boy doing in a place like that?"
Tess shrugged. "These private schools do care about diversity. Every one I know has at least a few inner-city kids on scholarship. And if Salamon really is a good public speaker, I bet several schools came after him."
"Or maybe they just needed a little black boy to stand at the end of the driveway and hold out a lamp, like one of those old lawn jockeys."
They were passing through Woodlawn, caught in the first waves of Social Security traffic. Tess wished she had noticed what route Jackie was taking; she would have steered her away from this daily snarl of traffic and onto the empty ghost road known as I-70, one of the few interstates in the country that came to a dead-end. People who didn't know Baltimore's shortcuts and back roads made her impatient.
"You still see those jockeys in some parts of Baltimore, I've noticed," Jackie continued. "They painted the faces white, as if that fools anyone."
"Yeah, and you still see ceramic kittens scampering up brick houses. There's one over there. Oh my God, call PETA."
"It's not the same thing," Jackie said stiffly.
"It is in the sense that it's not worth expending energy. Some people are idiots. At least the ones with those lawn jockeys announce themselves to the world. You know what kind of moron you're dealing with up front."
"According to that logic, you must support the special license plates for Sons of Confederate War Veterans. Or do you think that's a freedom of speech issue?"
"I think it's trivial. It's like getting upset over those truckers who have the mudflaps with those big-breasted women on them. What am I going to do, take them to court for hurting my feelings?"
"The state didn't issue the mudflaps."
"Maybe they should. They could make a lot more money than they did on the Confederate tags. Look, Jackie, you're my client, I'm your employee. I don't want to argue over stuff I don't even care about."
"I wish I had the luxury of not caring, but I don't. It's my life, it affects me."
Tess sat quietly for a minute. There were a lot of things she wanted to say, a lot of things she was scared to say. Jackie was a client, after all, even if they had acted as partners this afternoon. Besides, such conversations were dangerous under any circumstances. No one, not even best friends, had ever had a truly honest conversation about race. Tess decided to play possum, tilting back the passenger seat and closing her eyes. Reality overtook the pose, and the next thing she knew they were in the parking lot at Jackie's condo. It seemed as if weeks had passed since Tess had arrived here this morning, feeling so cocky about tracking down one Jackie Weir, née Susan King.
"The Adoption Rights group meets Monday night," Jackie reminded her, as Tess stretched, stiff from her nap. "You're going with me, right?"
"That was our deal. What kind of person would renege after all you've done for me today?"
"You'd be surprised at what kind of people don't honor their promises." Jackie sounded almost dire. If it were someone else, Tess would have thought the comment an odd joke, but Jackie had made it clear that humor was not her strong suit.
"Another tip for the small businesswoman?"
"A tip for life. One I've known for a long, long time." With that, Jackie was gone, still favoring her left foot in its white high heel. A white high heel that
had managed to cover much of East Baltimore without picking up so much as a single smudge.
Chapter 10
Even from across the street, it was obvious that something wasn't quite right when Tess and Esskay arrived at the office the next morning. The door seemed to sway a little in the summer breeze. Not open, but not quite shut either.
Upon closer inspection, it turned out the lock had been picked. Gouged, really—the deadbolt clawed and hacked from the wood with something sharp, then tossed aside.
"You should get a metal door," said Luther Beale, waiting in the chair opposite her desk.
"Did we have an appointment this morning?" Tess asked, examining the hole where her lock used to be, while Esskay stepped around her and headed for the sofa.
"No, but I thought I would stop by and see if you had made any progress. The door was like that when I got here."
Tess propped a phone book against the door, so she wouldn't end up air conditioning the street until a locksmith could arrive. She had been in good spirits, feeling virtuous about her impulse to stop by the office and do little tasks on a Saturday, before meeting Tyner for a workout and late lunch. But the broken lock had drained all the day's potential. She would be stuck here for hours.
"I didn't do it," Beale added, in the defensive way of a man used to blame.
"I never thought you did," Tess said, looking up her landlord's number in the Rolodex on her desk. She hoped he would have to pay for the new lock. Perhaps she should call the police and make a report first, then summon the landlord, who could file an insurance claim. A tiny, wizened man, he had known and apparently envied her grandfather. He had a way of bringing every conversation back to the fact that he had prospered over time, while her grandfather had failed after a more spectacular start. "Slow and steady, slow and steady," Hiriam Hersh liked to counsel her. "Your grandfather was a hare, I'm a tortoise. You could learn a lot from me." No, she definitely wasn't in the mood for Aesop according to Hiriam Hersh.
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