Hardware (The Carlotta Carlyle Mysteries)

by Linda Barnes

  “You don’t even know what I want, Sam.”

  “Carlotta, you don’t want to do business with this guy.”

  “But I do?” Gloria said, her eyes narrowing.

  Sam said, “How do I get into this shit? Why do you need a computer, Carlotta?”

  “Business,” I said. “Same as you. Maybe I could explain it better to your friend.”

  “Dammit,” he muttered under his breath.

  I sat in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, swinging my foot, waiting.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “When do you want to go?”

  “Now would be nice.”

  “The guy sleeps in,” Sam said.

  “Tomorrow, then,” I said. “I’m free tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow night?” he asked. “That way, maybe we could—”

  “Daytime,” I said.

  “You’re busy Saturday night?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Daytime,” he agreed angrily. And pivoted on the heel of one expensive loafer, and walked out.

  Gloria sent two cabs to opposite sides of the city, glaring at me all the while.

  “Carlotta,” she scolded, “how come you’re always making him so goddamn mad?”

  “I don’t know, Gloria. Why don’t you ever ask how come he makes me so goddamn mad?”

  Or why he doesn’t invite me out to breakfast? Or back to his place for a quickie?

  “Can somebody help me with this fan belt?” came a pitiful bleat from the grease pit.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’m in the mood.”

  Half an hour later I was back in the bathroom, using liquid Borax in an attempt to scour the oil and grit off my hands without removing skin. I’d located four hidden microphones without half trying.

  Like mice and cockroaches, there’s never just one.

  FOUR

  Saturday mornings, 8 A.M.—rain, shine, snow, sleet—I can be found at the Cambridge YWCA, playing killer volleyball for the Y-Birds on the old wooden gym floor.

  Fourth game of the match, we were up eleven-ten on the Boston Y. Boston-Cambridge is a traditional rivalry, always taken seriously. The first two games, both close, had split evenly: one apiece. We’d stolen the third so easily I suspected our opponents were playing possum, taking a breather, preparing to mangle us.

  So far, so good.

  We took possession after a long volley when one of their setters mis-hit and sent the ball spinning out of bounds.

  Rotate.

  Loretta, who is far from my best friend on the team, leaned close as I bounced the ball on the service line. “‘The score stood two to four,’” she recited, hand over heart, “‘with but one inning left to play—’”

  “Shut up,” I said firmly. I know I’m not the world’s best server. Rarely an ace from me. Whenever I go for broke, I skim it low and whack the net.

  Movement in the bleachers caught my eye. The ball cleared the net with two inches to spare. A short woman with a raggedy blond ponytail called for it and squatted into a terrific dig. Their middle blocker had half a foot on ours. No contest at the net. No point. Their ball.

  Damn.

  Net is where I live. I’m an outside hitter. Next rotation I could do what I do best: jump high and smash low.

  For the moment I settled into the back-row game. The rhythm was pretty basic: dig, set, spike, over. Dig, set, spike, again. Some games have a funkier beat, a skyhigh setup or a floor dive breaking the tempo. During long volleys I tend to hear song lyrics in my head. Blues or driving rock. I’d been moving to “Have a Heart,” with Bonnie Raitt doing that hoarse Janis Joplin moan on the high notes, for most of the match.

  I must have shifted to “Ain’t Gonna Be Your Sugar Momma No More” about the same time I realized the movement in the stands was Sam Gianelli, taking a seat next to my Little Sister, Paolina, my one-girl personal cheering squad.

  Everybody knows where to find me Saturday mornings.

  Paolina grinned up at Sam, and I felt tension melt between my shoulder blades. Paolina’s not a blood relation. She’s my Little Sister from the Big Sisters organization, my chosen sister, my meant-to-be sister.

  I wondered if Sam knew how rare Paolina’s once-plentiful smiles had become. I hoped so, hoped he fully appreciated it.

  Up till fifteen months ago, Paolina considered herself one of four kids fathered by Jimmy Fuentes, a lively Puerto Rican rover. The truth, uncovered by accident, hit her hard. She’s a half sister to her small brothers, sired by a different father, a Colombian, like her mother. A member of one of Bogotá’s finest old families, a leftist guerrilla by some accounts, a drug lord by most. A man I’d dealt with over the phone. A man currently sending bundles of dubiously earned cash to my home.

  My very own chance to do time in a federal pen for income-tax evasion. Maybe they’d have a good volleyball squad.

  I wondered if I’d subconsciously noticed Sam while still at the service line, switched tunes to suit him. Not that I’m anybody’s sugar momma in the financial sense. Sam would be more of a sugar daddy if I let him, but I’m not happy about where his money comes from. Most of the time we go dutch.

  Hypocrite, I scolded myself, almost missing an easy setup. You accept money from Paolina’s father, tons of money, and balk at letting Sam foot the bill for Chinese food!

  His head was bent low, close to Paolina’s. They spoke softly, using hand gestures for emphasis. It seemed an animated discussion, almost a heated one.

  I tried to focus on the game, but once the topic rears its ugly head, it’s hard to stop thinking about thirty-five thousand in cash. Thirty-five with three zeroes. And more to come. And what the hell to do with it.

  When I’d promised Paolina’s father I’d use the money for her education, I hadn’t expected so much so soon.

  The Boston Y’s server, thinking I might be napping, fired one at me. I dug it out, gave her a look.

  Maybe with the shooting death—call it legalized murder, assassination, fair fight, what you will—of the legendary Pablo Escobar, Señor Carlos Roldan Gonzales, the new alleged number-one gun in the Medellín cartel, now felt a certain urgency to provide for the daughter he’d never acknowledged, except to me, her Big Sister.

  The stacked and banded greenbacks, currently stuffed inside the tumbling mats in my tenant’s third-floor digs, haunted me. What was I going to do with all that cash? Roz knew about it. She’s honest. Say what you will about her—and you can say plenty, starting with her raunchy wardrobe and working your way toward her postpunk artwork—she’s honest.

  Sam, with his Mafia-underboss father, had probably learned money laundering at Papa’s knee. Sam would know!

  The ball came whizzing by my left elbow and hit the floor. A clean kill.

  “Can’t play while the boyfriend’s here?” Loretta snapped. “Get with it, Carlyle!”

  Goddammit, I felt like responding, it’s not sex. It’s money.

  I sucked in a deep breath and let the outside worries fly: Paolina, Sam, the cash, the bugs, the future. Concentrated on playing the point, playing each point as it came. Glued my eyes to that white sphere. Rotate. Front line. Up against the giant middle blocker.

  We made guarded eye contact across the net. Her towering hair, an arrangement of braided and beaded tails, made her seem exotic and enormous. Minus the do, she was still three inches taller than I, and I’m six one. I pushed damp hair off my forehead.

  She thought she could tip it over me. I read it in her eyes, in her stance. If I’d realized it was game point, I might have let it sail. I trust my back line. Damn good diggers and setters all. I’d lost count. I thought we were midgame, that a rush might put the Bostons off guard the way a net-charging tennis player spooks a baseline opponent. So I leaped with everything I had, movement before thought, my arm swinging, circling 360°, gathering speed, my fist tightening all the way. I caught the ball on the flat of my knuckles, reversed the arch of my back in midair. The ball crossed the net, angling straight down, cru
shed the floor, and bounced so high it almost took out a lightbulb.

  Pandemonium. Game and match!

  “Show-off!” Kristy, our captain, screamed in my ear.

  “Shit, Carlyle, I thought you were asleep,” Loretta sang.

  It was good-natured, so I let it ride, along with the glare from the woman across the net. We slapped hands and retreated to the locker room, where we kept our crowing to a minimum. The Y doesn’t run to separate quarters for winners and losers. It barely runs to hot showers.

  “Dunkin’ Donuts,” Kristy announced. “Carlotta’s treat.”

  “If I’d known it was game point, I’d have let you take it,” I protested.

  “Sure,” she said, lifting a thumb to her nose. “Nyahnyah. Show-off always pays.”

  I felt a tug at my waistband.

  “Hey,” I said, looking down at one of my favorite faces. Paolina’s chocolate eyes sparkled with excitement.

  “Felicitaciónes,” my Little Sister said. “Muy bueno.”

  “Gracias,” I answered, leaning down to give her a hug. We’d agreed to speak Spanish as much as possible, given my lousy command of the language, ever since her mom declared Paolina in danger of losing her Colombian heritage due to my gringa influence.

  “Can you come outside?” Paolina whispered.

  “Soon as I’m dressed, hon.”

  “Ahora mismo.”

  “¿Por qué?”

  “Sam,” she said, forgetting to whisper. “He’s really gotta talk to you.”

  Catcalls all around.

  “He can’t wait for it, babe,” Loretta shouted. “Sweat turns the man on.”

  Paolina looked uncomfortable. At twelve years old, she’s streetwise in some ways, painfully shy in others. Sam wouldn’t have sent her to fetch me unless he had good reason. Our computer appointment wasn’t for hours. He wouldn’t sit through a game to admire my spiking prowess.

  Shorts, kneepads, elbow pads still on, I hauled my soaked T-shirt back over my head, wrapped a towel around my dripping hair. Barefoot, I stepped toward the door.

  “She comes when he calls,” somebody hooted.

  “Does she call when he comes?” came the inevitable response.

  “Mind shutting up?” I replied, placing a firm hand on Paolina’s shoulder and guiding her back to the gym.

  “What’s in the bag?” I asked to break the silence. I already knew; the Brighams logo was a giveaway.

  “Jelly beans,” she answered with a conspiratorial grin. “Half a pound. No licorice.”

  “Sam likes you,” I said.

  “Want some?”

  “Maybe later.”

  She gazed at me with solemn eyes. “Should I have told him to wait? Did I do something wrong?”

  Paolina sniffs out disapproval like a bloodhound. Gets so much at home she expects it everywhere else.

  “You did exactly right,” I said. “Is that what you and Sam were talking about? Whether you should come and get me?”

  “No.” She clamped her mouth into a thin line and turned away. Demanding the substance of the conversation would have been futile. She didn’t intend to tell me, and if she doesn’t want to reveal information, she’ll refuse outright or lie convincingly.

  She’s twelve; she’s not a baby, I reminded myself. Somewhere along the path, recently, she’d lost the gift of openness. Part of growing up, part of separating herself from me.

  “Can I stay?” she asked tentatively.

  “Practice your serve, okay?” There’s a mother-daughter volleyball squad at Paolina’s school. I’m allowed to play in exchange for a little coaching and a written permission slip from Paolina’s mother.

  Sam was seated on a bench, hands clasped, staring straight ahead, feet eighteen inches apart, weight evenly distributed. Relaxed, at first glance; tense, ready to move, on close inspection.

  In full business regalia, he seemed out of place. Crisp white shirt, yellow power tie. Vested pin-striped navy suit. His black wing tips had the soft deep shine cheap cop shoes never acquire. A squat lawyerly briefcase occupied the floor beside him. I’d never seen him carry a briefcase.

  “Go get the ball,” I said to Paolina, ruffling her dark hair.

  “What’s so important it can’t wait till I shower?” I asked.

  Sam emerged from his reverie. “Good game. Good point.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I just dropped by to tell you: no computer today.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have to take a quick trip.”

  “I could go by myself,” I suggested. “Give me the address—”

  “No,” he said.

  “When’ll you be back?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Can’t postpone one lousy day?”

  “Nope.”

  “Family stuff?”

  “No way. Not family.” It came out vehemently, like the answer to the wrong question.

  “Okay. No big deal.”

  “Can we make another date?”

  “To pick out a computer?” I said. “Soon as possible.” I peeled off my right kneepad, started on the left.

  “For a date,” he said.

  “Sure. I’m easy.” Most of our evenings do not involve “dates.” They involve take-out food and bed.

  “Could you do me a favor while I’m gone?” Sam stared at his wing tips.

  I plunked both kneepads down on the bench, removed my left elbow pad.

  “What?” I had a vision of him pulling wads of cash from the briefcase, asking me to hide them. Long as I was in the business.

  “Don’t drive the night shift,” he said.

  I sat on the bench, towel-drying my hair, leaning over and rubbing vigorously so Sam couldn’t see my face.

  Don’t go computer shopping till I get back. Don’t drive while I’m gone. The man was starting to sound like my mother, not my lover.

  “I’m gonna die of sweat, I don’t get in the shower,” I said. “Probably nothing but ice water left by now.”

  He stood.

  “Be careful,” he said.

  “Sam, things happen. Plane crashes. Hurricanes. Kids get hit by ice-cream trucks.”

  “So throw yourself in the path and avoid the uncertainty.”

  “If I want to drive, I’ll drive,” I said.

  “Great,” Sam said. “And a special thanks for mentioning plane crashes.”

  He started to walk away.

  “Sam,” I said. “I need to ask you something.”

  He turned. “Sounds serious.”

  “It is. There are bugs at G and W. And I don’t mean the crawly kind.”

  “Jesus, you didn’t touch any of the mikes, did you?” Of all the things he could have said, that was the one I’d least expected.

  “You know about them? What the hell kind of a way is that to run a business? Does Gloria know?”

  “Carlotta, you don’t understand,” he said. “Promise me you won’t say anything to anybody. I’ll explain when I get back.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “I’m late, Carlotta. I don’t have two minutes for this, let alone an hour.”

  He stalked off without a farewell, much less a kiss.

  I watched Paolina toss and serve, a frown line creasing her smooth forehead. She’s got a decent underhand, but she wants to serve the way I do. Even though I’ve told her I’m no role model in the service department. No role model in the man-woman relationship department either.

  I showered quickly, spent eleven bucks and change on doughnuts for hungry teammates, vowing to keep better track of the score from now on.

  When I got home, Phil Yancey was waiting on my front porch.

  FIVE

  The old man gripped a walking stick. His crinkled, long-nosed face was familiar from photos in the Hackney Carriage News, a publication I subscribe to in order to learn what conventions are currently invading which Boston hotels. Conventioneers make good tippers.

  “About time
. I’ve been waiting long enough,” he said. The accent was pure Brooklyn, jarring.

  A black Lincoln Town Car lingered at the curb. If he’d chosen to loiter on my porch, that was his business.

  “Most of my clients make appointments,” I said pointedly.

  In defiance of Massachusetts law, the car’s windows were so deeply tinted I couldn’t tell if it held any passengers.

  “Would you happen to be the lady investigator Lee Cochran’s been shooting his mouth off to?”

  “No comment,” I said, digging in my handbag for keys.

  “You don’t have to ask me in,” he said.

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  “It might not look right to your neighbors, old coot like me and a sweet young thing like you, huh?” He was making a labored noise, his thin shoulders shaking underneath his dark jacket. Sniggering is the only word I can use to describe it. He found the situation so humorous that his dyed-pink carnation—my least favorite blossom—almost shook right off his lapel. I was surprised it hadn’t wilted from his cigar breath.

  “You must be the original trust-fund kid, huh, living this close to Harvard?” he said. “Cambridge, what a wimp of a town.”

  “Feel free to leave,” I said.

  “First, I want to talk about Lee Cochran.”

  “Lee Cochran,” I repeated.

  “Small Taxi Association.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “See, it all comes back. You know who I mean.”

  “I’ve met him,” I confessed.

  “Somebody phoned, said he’s been spreading lies about me—”

  “Did you recognize the voice?” I asked. “The person who called?”

  “Man tells me—”

  “You sure it was a man?” I asked.

  “Quit with the interrupting! I said a man, a low voice, hell, these days who knows? Some guy tells me this rumormonger’s been wagging his tongue in your direction. I figured I might as well drop by and set you straight.”

  “Don’t think I don’t appreciate it, but I have things to do.”

  “They’ll wait till I’ve had my say.” Phil Yancey banged his walking stick on the granite. It missed my toe by half an inch. He didn’t walk or stand like he needed a cane. Probably used it to whack dogs that crossed his path. Or old ladies.