FILLED BY THE BAD BOY: Tidal Knights MC

by Paula Cox

  “When’s the last time you went to a wax sculpture museum?” was the first thing she asked one day when she’d jumped into the seat next to me, her hair bobbing like a slinky down a stair.

  “When I was six.”

  “You’re kidding. You’ve never seen Portsmouth’s gallery of murderers?”

  “No. Didn’t know there’d been enough murderers in Portsmouth to merit a gallery,” I said and winced, thinking about her father.

  “Sure there is,” she said offhandedly. “Plus a gallery of torture. And a gallery of ghosts and the supernatural. Let’s save that for another month, for Halloween.”

  “As the princess commands.” She’d shot me a look that was supposed to indicate she didn’t appreciate the sarcasm, but I held on to it until it wilted and she turned away to strap the seatbelt in.

  We went to the gallery of famous murderers (and murderesses, Maya was quick to correct) and stayed four hours. Maya read every single plaque in the place, even the one about late nineteenth-century zoning ordinances under Mr. John Tweedy, who set out to dig the city’s main canal and ended up uncovering the seven dead victims of Miles Hendrick Carpenter A.K.A. the Barber of New England.

  “I feel like I’m on a middle school field trip,” I told her later. “I don’t think I’ve ever even been inside a museum before.”

  “That’s strange.” Maya had frowned with real or very well acted concern. “Where else do you go to be away from people?”

  “Parks, I guess. The docks. The places where people go.”

  “But then you have to walk around the entire time. The great thing about a museum is that you can just stand and do nothing. You don’t even have to look at anything or talk to anyone. You’re just there.”

  “That’s not much for advertising.”

  “Wasn’t trying to advertise. The more boring I make it sound, the better it’ll be for the people who go there and don’t want anyone else to be there.”

  “What’s next on the list, then?”

  “What are your opinions on modern art?”

  “Kirill’t have any. Is that where you want to go?”

  Maya brought up the seven-day forecast on her phone and saw that Thursday expected ‘light showers with the possibility of a thunderstorm later in the afternoon.’

  “Nothing better than being inside a museum during a thunderstorm.”

  “I don’t know another person in the world who’d agree with you.”

  “And this coming from a guy who hasn’t been inside one since middle school. Give it a try. You’ll see.”

  Maya marked the day in her calendar, along with several other planned trips to various parts of the city I’d told her I’d never seen before and, frankly, had no desire whatsoever to go and visit. The whole thing had this tourist in from out of town feel to it, and more and more I was discovering that a girl like Maya probably doesn’t get many opportunities to make friends. Unless you counted the guys her father saw. The Ceallaighs, for example—the old guys her father wined and whiskeyed and shared stories with about the days of war and anarchy.

  “Your father told me you and the Kroll guy used to be close,” I said once we were back in the car.

  “The horn kid? Like a rhinoceros?”

  “Oren Kroll,” I remembered.

  “Oh, sure,” she said. I waited for more, and when it became apparent that more was not coming, I pressed a little further. “Childhood friends or something like that?”

  “No, not like that. Ex-boyfriend.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why? It was a long time ago. I’m happy we’re not together anymore. He was crazy. Everyone knows that.”

  “Isn’t that something most girls say about their ex-boyfriends?”

  “Probably. I wouldn’t know. I don’t spend time talking with other girls about their exes. Guys are another story.”

  She looked out the window and flipped some hair over her eyes so I couldn’t see the expression in them. It was a bad topic evidently, and I didn’t care all that much, so there wasn’t any reason to go on with it.

  Thursday came. I got to the mansion at seven. We drove to some diner at the edge of town Maya swore by and had Eggs Benedict and coffee. The museum was back in the center of town, near what I knew now was Mr. John Tweedy’s murder canal. We got there right as the sun started to peak through the clouds.

  “It won’t last,” Maya said, meaning she hoped the sun wouldn’t last and spoil all her plans for a rainy, miserable day inside a giant cube of modern art. “This is Portsmouth weather. Give it ten minutes and the whole place is gonna be drenched.”

  We gave it ten minutes; finishing up the coffee we’d taken away from the diner. The sun got brighter, the air crisper. It was cool, late September weather and there were no more sudden heat spells, but a temperate refrigerated cool.

  “The hell with it. Let’s just go in. It’d better not stay like this the whole day.” She finished her coffee and clacked her heels through the double-wide glass doors I held open for her. The museum was super big and super modern. From the outside, it looked like a crumpled newspaper made out of glass. Inside was a space shuttle, with seven different floors full of exhibits. Maya read the plaque beneath the statue of the architect, Sigird Aethelred, which explained how the building had been designed completely without the use of right angles because why the hell not.

  “That’s cool,” I said.

  “You betcha,” she replied and waited near the drinking fountain for me to buy the tickets.

  I’d never seen a place so deserted. All seven floors, in every room of every exhibit: not a single person. Half the rooms didn’t even have security guards. Maya continued on anyways, not giving a damn. I couldn’t tell if she preferred it this way or if she was just being stubborn, or maybe a bit of both. She’d certainly be too stubborn to tell me how she really felt, so I didn’t mention anything other than a few offhand comments about the exhibits.

  We walked around for five hours hardly without saying much of anything to each other; she was buried in her headset with its commentary on the different artists and me doing whatever I could do to stay awake. She tried explaining a couple of the works to me, talked about lines and geometry and history: a whole lot more than I thought she knew about this stuff. She must have realized I wasn’t paying attention to any of it because pretty soon she stopped trying and went on by herself.

  The day got warmer. Up against the slanted wall near the main entrance where they kept the registers, the souvenir shop, bathrooms and museum maps you could see the sun getting brighter. The place was so quiet too that we could hear the people walking along the canal and the people who kept the little wagons filled with baubles, coffee mugs, and miniature Queen Anne-style houses you buy for cousins and friends for $39.99.

  At some point in the afternoon, Maya decided she’d give it one more hour—enough time to see the exhibit on mid-twentieth-century photography in Estonia. We stayed a whole ten minutes before Maya mentioned needing a glass of wine. Then we left.

  Thirty minutes and half a glass later, we’d found a patio in a fish and chips type joint near the canal.

  “Now just try telling me that wasn’t the most fun you’ve ever had. And don’t you dare lie to me. I can tell when people lie,” Maya said.

  “Do you really like places like that?”

  “They’ve got better stuff, usually. There was a whole exhibit on graffiti during the summer. Another on statues people had messed with—some guy had taken this old stone angle from Prague and put jets where its wings should have been.”

  “So you like art?” I asked.

  “I like everything.” She smiled. “All the stuff that’s good and interesting. If you ask, I might even sing you my song about all my favorite things.”

  “You have a song about your favorite things?”

  She dropped her piece of halibut and snorted. I couldn’t believe what I’d heard and raised my eyebrows.

  “Kirill’t give me that lo
ok. I may look girly-girly, but that’s not the whole story, bud. Sometimes I like putting my elbows up on the table.”

  She set them both on the glass table. One. Two. The silverware clattered. Then she opened her mouth and munched her fish with big, slow bites.

  “I got it.”

  “You’re sure? I think I can burp too if you just give me one second.”

  “No need. I got it.”

  “Good. But c’mon—you know the my favorite things song, right?” She frowned when I drew a blank. “From The Sound of Music? The Mary Poppins lady?”

  I shook my head.

  “Geez.” She took her elbows off the table and scrubbed the grease from her fingertips and the corners of her mouth before she sat up straight. All of a sudden, she looked like a princess again. “Classic American cinema. Right up there with The Big Heat and Casablanca. And I thought I was the one living under a rock. Then again, I’ve never been hired because I look dangerous enough to kill another guy with my bare hands. Maybe the rules are different for you.”

  “Maybe.” I finished my water. “So what’s next on the list?”

  There was still plenty of afternoon left, even with five hours spent in the museum. Maya offered to show me the Docks at the end of the canal where the water intersected with Ehpit Bay, a little land-locked puddle with a river flowing out that if you follow south long enough will lead you right to the Gulf of Maine. Fishermen keep their trawlers here because there aren’t rocks to worry about or winds to smash them up. The only problem is the water levels. When they dug the bay they made it a little higher than the river, I guess for issues with tide and overflow and so they’ve got this big cage-like thing rigged up at the mouth of the river that raises and lowers the water levels for the boats coming in and out. It’s a big tourist thing to watch the water come up and down, and there’s a crowd standing by watching someone take his yacht in. Like people have never seen water move before.

  Maya goes right up on the bridge that goes from one side of the cage to the other and pushes her way to the front so she can see better. I stay behind to comb through the people. No one here I couldn’t handle if it came to hand-to-hand. No Items from the looks of things. Everyone’s shed their coats because of the weather, but they’ve got them tied around their wastes so you can’t exactly rule out the possibility that someone’s got something stashed in the back of the belt, like me with the glock. The water rises and I can see the boat crowning up with the family on the deck waving to the onlookers.

  “Quinn!” Maya waves me over, but I’ve got a good spot of surveying the crowd from where I’m standing so I just wave but don’t go any closer. She keeps on waving but then she gets annoyed that I’m ignoring her and stops and turns back to the yacht.

  The water’s fully up at this time, and people are taking videos, and a few are starting to walk away which puts me on high alert. The thing about crowds is it doesn’t matter where you are or who’s in them—little old grandmothers or Chinese men with their pants lifted up to their sternum or two-hundred-pound bodybuilders with noses broken so many times you don’t know what the original shape is anymore. A crowd’s a crowd, and there’s nothing more dangerous in security than a crowd that starts to break up.

  The red alarm button starts to go off, meaning the water levels are equal. I give the comb over to each person who walks by and put my hands on my hips, so I’ll have a closer reach for the Item on my belt. And I’m so focused on each of the guys coming back from the gate that it takes me a second to realize someone’s yelling.

  I look up and see it’s coming from the guy on the yacht. He’s making these rapid X’s in the air with both arms. And then I notice he’s making them at Maya because the boat’s trying to pass through the bridge, which is going to separate any second now, and she’s holding her cell phone up and taking a video of all this going on like she’s not apart of any of it.

  “For Chrissake.” I have to run over to the bridge because I’m worried about that alarm, and there’s Maya who still hasn’t noticed a thing. I get her by the arm and reel her away, counting all this time to myself. One second. Two seconds. On three the bridge parts, more or less exactly where she was standing. The yacht glides through like it was skating on ice. The captain or whoever it was who was yelling at Maya waves at me.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know exactly what I mean. Why didn’t you move? You trying to drown yourself or something?”

  “I was taking a video,” she says with this hard glint in her eyes. “I still had time to get off. It was all of, like, three feet.”

  “Bogus. You’d be swimming if I hadn’t grabbed you. What the hell did you think you were doing?”

  The glint gets softer. The little cut of Maya’s mouth gets fuller. I think she’s going to smirk which would just about put me over the edge. But it’s not that at all. Only an embarrassed, little smile.

  “I didn’t hear the alarm,” she says a lot meeker than before. “Really. Honest and truly. Actually, I thought it was my ringtone going off.”

  “And the guy yelling at you?”

  “What guy? I was watching the bottom—they had all these vents that were recycling the old water. It was cool.”

  I feel like shaking her, like telling her she’s an idiot and saying something really ugly to her, but for some reason, I don’t. That little smile gets me. The I’m-sorry-but-hey-we’re-all-still-here-so-let’s-have-a-drink-or-something sorry, which girls like Maya learn by habit for situations just like theses.

  “Just don’t scare me like that again,” I say, letting go of her arm. It feels stupid to be angry anymore. “You got it?”

  She shrugs and rubs her left shoulder where maybe I shouldn’t have gripped so hard. “Whatever you say, Daddy. I’ll be a good girl from now on.”

  She curtsies and does a little dip with her head before she turns on heel and whips me on the back with the umbrella she’s been lugging around all day. I feel I ought to say something else that doesn’t sound like a lecture, but when I try to find something to say, there’s nothing. Part of me hates her, but the bigger part of me just thinks Maya Butler is too damn cute.

  Chapter 8

  Two months into the job and I’m waiting outside the club Maya told me to pick her up at when I get a call from Palmer Glass.

  “Yeah?”

  “Jesus. You are alive,” Palmer says.

  “I told you I’ve got a gig. What’s happened?”

  “You in mob country still?”

  “What’s up?”

  I can hear the click of Palmer’s lighter over the line. “No one’s dead, if that’s what you mean. We want to know when you’re coming back.”

  “When the job’s done.”

  “It has been months. Got any idea when that’s gonna be?”

  “No,” I say. “I don’t. Might be a year. I’m shadowing the guy’s daughter. Thought I told you that.”

  “Shadowing? Where?”

  “Wherever she feels like going. Five G’s a day. Things could be worse.”

  “I’ll say.” Palmer puffs down his cigarette so loud that the sound comes through like wind blowing. “My sister used to babysit. Twenty bucks a night but she had to cook the brats’ food and clean the house. Hope you’ve got it better.”

  “She’s not a brat,” I say a little defensively. “So far so good. She goes to museums and the docks. You ought to see the shit they keep in these galleries.”

  “Jesus, Quinn.” Palmer laughs. “You’re gonna be a cultured motherfucker by the time you cash your last check.”

  “I’ve never been so bored in my life,” I say because that’s more of the kind of thing Palmer expects to hear.

  Palmer and I go way back, thirteen years or thereabouts when he was a punk shoplifter everyone thought was on dope because of how thin he was and how pale his skin was. I was sitting in his room once, and we were listening to “Kind of Blue,” which he’d just lifted fr
om the record store when his dad kicked down the bedroom door and made him show him his veins. He was drunk as hell and didn’t give a shit that I was there watching them—he’d just got it in his head that his son was on heroin and nothing was gonna stop him from checking. Almost twisted Palmer’s arm out of his socket. Palmer slept over at my place most nights after that, and we’ve been brothers ever since. The guy’s still pale and thin, but he’s never touched hard drugs in his life.

  “Listen, princess, sounds like you’ve got a good thing going there, so I’m not gonna waste your time with anything too sappy. Frankly, we don’t give a damn that you’re out raking in the good stuff. Just promise us you’ll keep a lookout.”