Diamond White

by Stephanie Andrews

  Dexter stood and put his phone in his pocket. He chuckled good-naturedly.

  “I’m sure you ladies will do just fine.”

  “I’m sure we will,” I said and, as he walked past me, I dropped the towel and stuck the needle through his shirt and into the fleshy part of the back of his upper arm.

  “Hey!” he bellowed. He slapped at his arm as if he’d been stung, grabbing the syringe and yanking it out. I turned my face away, because I didn’t want him to recognize me. He seized my arm in anger, beginning to pull me around toward him, but then his grip loosened as the drug made its way into his bloodstream. A moment later he was on the floor, unconscious.

  Park peeked her gorilla head out the door questioningly.

  “All good,” I told her, as Nick entered the hallway and bent down to check Dexter’s pulse.

  “Jesus,” said Nick, “who tuned him up? Negron?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. I had a feeling I knew who had done it.

  In the reception area, the front door opened and Don entered carrying a stretcher. Through the open door I could see an ambulance at the curb, lights flashing.

  “Subtle,” I said.

  He rolled his eyes at me, and then he and Nick rolled Dexter onto the stretcher, lifted together in synchronization, and walked Dexter out to the curb. The first part of Don’s plan had gone like clockwork.

  “I almost feel bad for the guy,” said Margaret. “First someone beats the crap out of him, now this.”

  “Yeah,” I grinned. “Really tragic.”

  Twenty-six

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Mr. Mayor. My name is Georgette Wrigley, I’m a civil rights attorney here in Chicago.”

  Panting breath. I’d caught him on his morning run.

  “How do you have this number, Miss Wrigley? It’s private.”

  “Is it? Well I had no idea. I’m so sorry, Mr. Dexter gave it to me some time ago.”

  “Jared?”

  “Exactly, and that’s why I’m calling you,” I pressed on before he could get too sidetracked on how I might have acquired his cell phone number. “I work with Mr. Dexter on the GRAD program, buying back guns to lowe—”

  “Yes, I’m familiar,” he said curtly. He clearly didn’t like his morning run interrupted. It was probably the only peace and quiet he got all day.

  “Well I’ve discovered some serious irregularities. Guns missing, or not being destroyed. New guns flooding in.”

  “Well, that does sound like a problem, but I’m afraid I must refer you to Mr. Dexter on this matter.”

  “That’s the problem,” I told him, anxiety in my voice. “Nobody can find Mr. Dexter.”

  “What? What are you talking about.”

  “Mr. Dexter is missing,” I said urgently. “Nobody at his office knows where he is. You don’t think he had something to do with this, do you?”

  “Wow, ah, I’m going to have to let you go, Miss—”

  “Wrigley, like the field.”

  “Miss Wrigley, so I can look into this immediately. I will be in touch when I know more.”

  He clicked off.

  Half an hour later the phone rang. A number I didn’t recognize, and who has my number these days? I answered, figuring it was the mayor.

  “Hello?”

  “I need those diamonds,” hissed Selena Salerno.

  I held the phone between my ear and shoulder, which used to be so much easier with a landline; iPhones are slippery. I was in my kitchen putting together a salad and smoothies for my lunch guests.

  “Selena! You’ve changed phones!” I said cheerily.

  “Yes, the one you gave me, it had some issues.”

  “Well, that’s too bad, it always worked well for me.”

  “You’ve got to stop messing in this game, chica. You are making your life in danger, and mine, too.”

  I reached into my new refrigerator, which I bought to replace the HAZMAT zone the previous tenants had left behind, and brought out some hummus and cherry tomatoes.

  “You have to trust me, Selena, and not get in my way.”

  “Me?” she almost shouted, incredulous. “In your way! Mierda!”

  “That visit you paid our friend Mr. Dexter, what was the point?”

  She growled on the other end, or what sounded like growling. Sometimes when I picture Selena in my head, what I actually see is a spotted leopard, pacing back and forth, ready to leap on something.

  “I was angry,” she admitted. “He blamed the lost diamonds on me, brought some tough guys along to ‘encourage’ me to recover the diamonds more quickly. As if you-know-who isn’t incentive enough.”

  “Voldemort?” I asked

  “Que?”

  “You said ‘You-Know-Who,’ as if Negron is He Who Must Not Be Named. You don’t have Harry Potter in Chile?”

  “The boy wizard, with the scar? Claro, of course.”

  “That’s what I meant.”

  “I’m lost,” said Salerno. “What were we talking about?”

  “Dexter sent some men to incentivize you. That must have gone poorly.”

  “For them, si.” For the first time in the conversation, I heard the playful smile in her voice.

  “Selena, please, stay out of the way. I’ve got a plan, and it’s going to take care of your problem as well as mine.”

  She snorted. “I know I underestimated you before, Red, but really, what can you do against Negron?”

  “That’s where we are different,” I told her. “You’re a lone wolf, and I respect that. In fact, I’m having trouble with attachments getting in the way.”

  “You’d be surprised how much I understand that.”

  “Yes, well. Lone wolf is great, but sometimes you need friends.”

  “I just need the diamonds,” she said, the humor gone from her voice.

  She hung up.

  “Okay,” I said, brightly, carrying the tray with the smoothies and the salad into the dining room. “Sorry for the delay. Old friend, important business.”

  They both looked at me when I entered. Sherry was in the middle of the room, standing staring at the giant framed Jackson Pollock print on the long wall. She seemed transfixed.

  She was wearing black leather boots and black jeans with rips all over them. A big black leather belt with a silver buckle, a form fitting tank top that only partially covered a black lace bra. Madonna, from a phase before Sherry was even born. Hell, does the world just keep repeating itself over and over and over?

  “Did you do this?” she asked, pointing at the print.

  “No, it’s a Jackson Pollock. It’s at the Art Institute.” She looked at be blankly. “The museum?” I continued. “Downtown?” She shook her head. “Not even on a school trip?”

  “Anyway,” she said, “it’s cool.” She said it in a tone that indicated surprise. I looked down at the white oxford shirt and beige chinos I was wearing. Gap ad with swing dancers. Another era, probably also before she was born. I must have looked like a soccer mom to her.

  James limped over from the bookshelf, where he had been perusing my Sue Grafton collection. Maybe trying to learn the alphabet. How long had I left them alone while I was in the kitchen? Well, there really wasn’t anything of value to steal. The place was still bare bones. He wore pressed black jeans and a black dress shirt with black buttons. His head was freshly shaved and there were multiple silver studs in both ears, a silver ring through his right eyebrow.

  He glanced at the food I had just set on the table, a look of distaste clear on his face.

  “I know I’m not your mom,” I told him, “but seriously, when did you last eat a vegetable? You look like I could snap you in two.”

  “I drink Kombucha every day,” piped Sherry, who came and plopped herself loosely in one of the mismatched dining chairs.

  “And?”

  “And so I’m healthy.”

  “I really don’t think that’s how it works.”

  She shrugged, and took a
cucumber slice from the tray and popped it in her mouth. James sat heavily next to her, his knee still clearly a source of pain.

  “What the hell are we even doing here?” he asked with derision. “Mrs. Right sees us, she’ll call the cops.”

  “You’re here because you owe me, and it’s time for me to collect.”

  “We owe you! Look what you did to my knee. I can still barely walk.”

  “It’s a job, and there’s money in it.”

  Sherry leaned forward eagerly. “What do we have to do?”

  “How much?” asked James at the same time.

  I took a big drink of smoothie, then set my glass on the table, waiting. I looked at Sherry’s smoothie, then pointedly at James’s. Sherry picked hers up and took a long drink, set it down and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  James rolled his eyes. “Jesus H. Christ,” he moaned, and took a gulp, his face screwing up at the taste.

  “Two thousand dollars each.” Both of their eyes widened. “Plus the two thousand in back rent that you owe Mrs. Right.”

  “What do we have to do?” asked Sherry between bites of salad.

  “In cash,” demanded James at the same time.

  “I’ll let you know in a few days’ time, when all the details are worked out.”

  “Are we robbing something?” asked James, his eyes squinting shrewdly. “Your boyfriend said something about diamonds when we was here before.”

  “No diamonds. No robbery. All you need to do is act tough and pick a fight. Do you think you can do that?”

  Sherry snorted, and looked up.

  “That,” she said, “is James’s specialty.”

  Twenty-seven

  I opened my eyes and blinked in the brightness of the spotlight. I squinted, trying to see past it into the surrounding darkness. No good.

  I looked down, assessing and testing my restraints. I was tied to a strong wooden dining chair, the kind with arms and a slatted back. My wrists were bound to the arms of the chair with clothesline. I leaned over but couldn’t get my teeth anywhere near the knots, because more rope wrapped around my chest and the back of the chair. My feet were likewise bound to the chair legs.

  I shook the long black hair out of my eyes and looked to my right. Al Hansen was similarly tied to the exact same style chair, but in addition, he was gagged. He looked sweaty, and was mmphing wildly behind the duct tape plastered across his face.

  Next to him, in the exact same predicament, was Jorge Alvarez. The gang’s all here.

  I looked to my left, and there, tied expertly to a fourth chair, was Jared Dexter. Jared Dexter was having a bad day. No duct tape, but he was trussed like the rest of us. He was also bruised and swollen all over his face. One eye was almost shut, and it looked perhaps like a piece of his ear was missing—the lobe was covered with blood-soaked gauze.

  He looked very unhappy.

  My attention was diverted by the sound of hard shoes on the concrete floor. A tall man stepped out of the darkness in front of us, stopping about ten feet away. He wore a white lab coat that glared brightly in the spotlight. Black pants and black leather shoes. He had abnormally white-blond hair and gold-rimmed glasses. Disturbingly, he was wearing black latex gloves.

  “Miss Wrigley,” he addressed me in a low voice. “You’re awake.”

  “What the holy hell is going on!” I shouted. “You can’t do this to me!”

  “You’ll notice you are not gagged, Miss Wrigley.”

  “I’m a lawyer, I will have you hanged—”

  “If you’d like to remain ungagged, I suggest you answer the question I have for you. Your life may well depend on it.”

  I closed my mouth and glared at him defiantly.

  “Excellent. Now, I have only one question, and I want you to answer it, without hesitation, to prove your worth to me.”

  I tensed against my bonds, but I wasn’t going anywhere. The ropes cutting across the top of my chest were tight, as were those on my wrists.

  He took a step closer to me, his deep brown eyes staring intently.

  “Who supplies the guns for your little start-up business?”

  “What are you talking about?” I spat at him. He reached out with a lightning hand and slapped me across the face. I could taste the talc from the latex gloves.

  “You are selling guns, lots of guns, in Austin, and Lawndale, other places as well.”

  I looked at him incredulously.

  “Are you nuts? We’re buying guns off the street! We aren’t selling them to anyone, that’s—”

  He slapped me again, which I was not enjoying in the least, though I was grateful that the slaps were not as hard as they could have been.

  “Silence!” He turned his back on me for a moment, took a few steps to my left. He reached out and pinched Dexter’s earlobe between his thumb and forefinger, causing Dexter to howl in pain. The torturer let go, wiped his fingers on his coat, leaving a red smear of blood, and looked at Dexter with a smile.

  “Now, who did this to you, Mr. Dexter?”

  Jared Dexter looked down and away, not meeting the madman’s eyes.

  “None of my people, I can tell. My people would never be so messy.”

  Dexter kept his mouth shut.

  “I bet it was somebody who wanted those diamonds...”

  Jared Dexter looked up quickly.

  “Oh yes,” the man continued. “I know all about the diamonds. I know you were supposed to launder them for your Mexican friend. I know he’s upset that they have gone missing, I know he is coming here.”

  “Listen—” began Dexter, but the inquisitor held his finger up to Dexter’s lips, causing Dexter to pull his head back in disgust.

  “Shhh. I am only interested in you answering the questions I have. And the question I have is: What is the name of your gun supplier in Mexico?”

  Dexter didn’t answer, so the crazy freak walked back over to me, pointing the gun at my chest.

  “Miss Wrigley, do you have an answer?”

  At that moment, Al Hansen worked the duct tape away from his mouth enough to speak.

  “She doesn’t know anything!!” He yelled. “She had nothing to do with it, neither did I!”

  “Well, in that case...” He winked at me, then swiveled from me to Al and shot him in the chest.

  I screamed, and so did Dexter. Hanson’s head slumped forward and blood rand down the front of his shirt in a dark river. Jorge mmphed behind his gag, sweat on his brow.

  “Igor!” The man called out over his shoulder, and another man came out of the shadows to stand next to him. He was wearing a black ski mask, black t-shirt and pants. Black Nikes. “Take Officer Hansen to the waiting room.”

  Without hesitation, the man in black walked behind Hansen’s chair. He tipped it back on two legs, making Hansen’s head loll back, and began to drag him backwards into the darkness. Blood trickled from the hole in Hansen’s chest, leaving a trail along the cement floor to the place where he disappeared into shadow. The sound of wooden chair legs scraping on concrete continued for another thirty or forty seconds.

  I pulled wildly at my bonds, as did the two other remaining captives. Dr. Frankenstein dropped the gun into his lab coat pocket and sauntered back over to me.

  “Sure you don’t have any information for me?”

  He leaned in close, blocking Dexter’s view of my face, and gave me another wink.

  “You’re too pretty to destroy,” he said creepily, standing back up to his full height. “I think I’ll save you for Igor to play with later. He pulled his left arm back, telegraphing his swing so I saw his open hand coming at my face. At the last minute I pushed hard off the floor with my right foot. This, combined with the force of the slap, tipped the entire chair over to the left, sending me crashing to the floor. I held my neck stiff to make sure my head didn’t hit the concrete, then let it slack, pretending I was unconscious.

  “Igor!” the man called again.

  Igor once again emerged from the s
hadows. As he approached me, he pulled a switch blade from his back pocket, flicking it open with an ominous “swick.” He bent down and cut the ropes binding my chest, wrists, and ankles, causing me to flop out onto the floor. He closed the blade, returned it to his pocket, then picked me up and slung me over his shoulder, the hair of the long black wig hanging down and blocking my face.

  We left the circle of light and stepped through a black curtain into a dimly lit hallway, at which point I reached down and grabbed Igor’s ass with both hands. He gave a little squeal at the goosing and quickly set me back down on my feet. He took my hand and led me through a door at the end of the hallway, then pulled off his ski mask to reveal the face of Nick Shelby.

  “Oh,” I said, in faux surprise. “It’s you!”

  “It’s me,” he agreed.

  “Igor?” I asked. “A little much?”

  “Talk to Don, he wrote the script.”

  “Shhh!” said Al Hansen, who was sitting at a long table watching a monitor. He had taken off his shirt and the squib apparatus underneath, and was wearing a fresh blue button-down Oxford. He reached forward and turned the volume up on the monitor.

  “I hope it’s clear,” Don was saying, “that I am not playing around. You have sixty seconds to tell me what I want to know.”

  “Wow,” I said quietly. “Crazy torturer Don is creepy as hell.”

  “I know,” said Nick, “he’s way into it.”

  “The bleached hair and the voice! He’s got a great Christopher Walken vibe going.”

  On the monitor, Jorge was mmphing and gyrating wildly while Don was giving Dexter the death stare. Finally, he turned and walked over, ripping the duct tape from Jorge’s mouth.

  “Antonio Negron!” the gang leader blurted. “His name is Antonio Negron.”

  “Excellent!” exclaimed Don with a big smile. “You get to live!” He turned back to Dexter. “And you do, too, Mr. Dexter, even though you have been incredibly unhelpful.”

  I could see Dexter’s shoulders slump with relief at the news.

  “Your Mr. Negron has been horning in on my territory,” continued Don. “Perhaps he doesn’t realize that. Perhaps you didn’t realize that. I hope you have gotten the message today. I’m sure your associates Miss Wrigley and Officer Hansen got the message.