Was there still hope? Maybe. But right now, today, it was at the end of a long, dim tunnel and, even though she squinted hard, Jessie could barely make it out as it danced just beyond her sight in the summer breeze.
***
Chapter Eleven
The Downtown Eastside of Vancouver was a section of the city where Jessie was very comfortable, although most folks who knew the area were not. This was the poorest section of town, the area Jessie gravitated to when she first came to Vancouver. She lived there, mostly on the streets, for two years. Despite the fame and success that Jessie still found so strange and surreal, she kept up a lot of old friendships, often buying meals and clothes for acquaintances and pals. Now she needed a favor in return.
She parked the Mustang near the shelter she and Dee founded, where Terri lived before Deuce had likely gotten his mucky hands on her. Jessie was proud of the shelter and the number of young women it helped. Her autumn fundraising concert tour was a tremendous success, and as a result Dee was busy throughout the winter coordinating the building of new shelters in other cities. Jessie participated when she could, and she and Josh flew to the various cities on long weekends to see how things were coming along. They generally didn’t travel with Dee, since the older woman was less than kind to Josh most times. Most of the shelters would be ready to open in the fall. This was something Jessie was very much looking forward to, but as of today she was no longer looking forward to much of anything. She ran a hand through her unruly hair and pulled the pale yellow cardigan around her belly. She became aware of some stares and noticed people pointing, and it was only then that she realized she was still in her dance outfit, and that she’d skipped out on the rest of rehearsal. Priya would be livid, and Kayla would be curious, although perhaps by now Josh had texted his sister to let her know that Jessie was upset, which would explain her absence. Dee would also be aware, although she was in Chicago at the moment, checking up on the Windy City’s new shelter.
Jessie laughed inwardly. She wouldn’t be surprised if Dee suspected Josh of slashing his own tires. She couldn’t put her finger on Dee’s animosity towards Josh. But then again, Deirdre Keating was a confident, intelligent woman. She was also the kind of thinker who analyzed situations and then deduced a response from the data she’d gathered. She was not driven by emotion. Likely she just needed time to process Josh.
Opening her trunk, Jessie grabbed a camouflage-green zippered hoodie and pulled it on. She always kept a few extra clothing pieces in her trunk, since she was often away from home for hours on end and, in Vancouver, the weather could change in a flash. Besides, in this crazy life of hers, sometimes a girl just needed some smokescreen. She yanked the hood up over her head and waved to an old hobo guarding a shopping cart nearby.
“Hey, Frank,” she mumbled in a cracked voice, but didn’t stop to talk, leaving the dirty, grizzled old man without the fifty dollar bill she usually handed him. There were some folks down here today whom she didn’t know, and Jessie didn’t want to linger. Besides, she had other things on her mind.
She made her way a few blocks down Hastings to a derelict red brick apartment building. Some of its windows were cracked, and bricks were smashed and crumbling here and there, mostly within reach of a good strong pitcher’s arm. The perimeter at street level was garishly graffitied with fire-eating dragons and the odd expletive. She stepped up two concrete risers and pulled on the glass door. Entering a little vestibule, she crinkled her nose in disgust. What was it about street people that they insisted on pissing wherever and whenever they wanted? In the old days she had occasionally needed to do the same, by times, but she usually at least found a treed park or shrub, and that had always been a last resort. It was apparent that someone had recently relieved himself here. It was revolting, and she could barely keep her already acidic stomach from emptying itself on top of the faded yellow urine patch in the corner. As the putrid acrid stench stung her nostrils, it wasn’t lost on Jessie that even the smells today seemed to be a reflection of her current tormented state of being.
She reached a manicured fingernail up to the list of names next to their corresponding little rectangular black buttons. Finding Sylvester, A, she hesitated a moment and then pushed the button. It was just after 12:30. He’d likely be home, but would he be awake and responsive? Seconds later, a scraggly tired voice came over the crackling intercom.
“What? You better have a good fucking reason for waking me up.”
“Arnie.”
It was all she needed to say. She was the only one who called this guy Arnie. He had taken her under his wing when she first arrived on the streets in Van, and he was one of few men in her life who had not tried to get into her pants. She trusted him implicitly; he adored her, and was proud of her survival, much less her success. A harsh buzz jarred her frazzled nerves. Jessie pushed open the inner glass door and ran up the six steps to apartment number 201. He opened the grungy green door just as she arrived on his landing. Wearing a threadbare plaid blue and green housecoat over a pair of pajama pants, bare feet peeking out from below ragged hems, he let her in and stood back, taking in Jessie’s dance clothes and the fear he read on her pale face.
“Spill it,” was all he said before holding out a hand to lead her into his tiny living room. She lowered herself onto a camel-brown couch covered with a warm yellow and blue afghan sporting a few noticeable holes. One swoop of his arm and the tattered covering was unceremoniously shoved out of the way.
“Fight with the old lady,” he muttered apologetically. “This ragged thing is pretty comfortable when you’re drunk and tired.”
“Is she…”
“Nah, she’s off to work. She’s at a new Indian restaurant at the food court in Tinseltown Mall. Been there a few months now. She’s doing well, actually, Jess, which…” he studied her, “I’m not so sure I can say about you. What brings you down to my digs on a Saturday? I’m sure you have better things to do than share a smoke and a drink with an old friend.”
It was a bit of a dig but at his friendly smile Jessie relaxed a little. Then she reached out and took a smoke out of the pack on the nearby glass coffee table, which was surprisingly clean. In fact, the whole place was in better shape than when she’d seen it last, when it was littered with chip bags and liquor bottles. Funny what pride did for people. Give Arnie’s old girl a job and suddenly she cares about her environment again.
Curious, Arnie ran a hand over his chin whiskers, made a mental note to shave later, then picked up his lighter and helped hold Jessie’s cigarette steady while he lit it for her. Something was wrong. Even in the old days, she rarely smoked.
“Okay girl,” he said kindly, concerned. “Speak. Your new boyfriend hurt you or something? You need revenge?”
Jessie hauled deeply on the cigarette and then sat back and closed her puffy, tired eyes. Even Arnie had it in for Josh. After a moment she dared a peek and looked up at her old friend. He had the kindest eyes, a luminescent blue that just exuded gentleness. Those eyes were what had convinced her to trust him in the first place, all those years ago. Despite his two-day whiskers, he had chiseled cheekbones and short, spiked dark hair that made him seem younger than his fifty-six years. He was fairly fit for a guy who worked the streets; she knew him to box regularly at a local gym, where she’d often gone and watched, and sometimes even took a few lessons, depending on his mood as well as hers.
“Arnie,” she started, between deep pulls on the quaking cigarette. “I am only going to say this once, so listen carefully. Josh Sawyer is the nicest, sweetest man on this planet. He has not hurt me, he will not hurt me, he will never hurt me. Understand?”
Arnie sat back on the couch, and then reached out for his own cigarette and lit it.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “If you’re with him, then I know he must be a good guy, Jess. I didn’t mean to fall into that crowd mentality.”
“He’s the best, Arnie. I mean it. And it’s more like mob mentality, if you ask me.”
&n
bsp; They sat quietly and smoked for a moment, because Jessie still didn’t have her emotions under control after her big cry on the mountain earlier. Plus the cigarette was giving her dizzying head-spins. Talking about Josh just brought it all home. She could feel her heart literally breaking.
She finished her smoke and ground out the butt in the glass ashtray her old friend provided for them.
“I need a gun,” she suddenly told him, looking into those caring blue eyes. He could have been a star himself, she caught herself thinking. For an older guy, he was strikingly handsome.
Arnie had lived on East Hastings for a lot of years. Nothing surprised him anymore. He finished his own smoke, and then nodded at her.
“Okay,” he said. And then, uncharacteristically, a question. “Why? You have your own security.”
“Arnie,” was all she said. There was a code. No questions. That was why she came to him.
“All right.” He pulled himself up slowly on sore knees, wincing, and crossed the room to a battered oak desk from which he retrieved a rather new MacBook Pro, which didn’t surprise Jessie. Arnie liked his electronics - that was where most of his earnings went. There was also a 52-inch plasma television in the room, complete with a surround sound system.
He placed the computer on the coffee table in front of them and poked the power button. He left it to warm up and went into the tiny kitchen, returning with two glasses of water. When the Mac was ready, Arnie opened up Safari and typed in NAA Guardian .380. An image of a small short-barreled pistol popped up on screen. Arnie pushed the laptop towards Jessie so she could lean forward and have a better look.
“This would work for you. It’s got enough wallop to kill somebody, but it’s small enough to carry in an ankle wrap.” After a moment he added, as if it mattered, “I might even be able to find one with a pearl handle.”
He watched her study the gun. A chill ran down his hardened spine, then switched gears and peppered his belly with hard pricks, doubts. Arnie had procured a lot of illegal guns for people over the years, but they weren’t like Jessie…sweet, kind, famous. They were generally hardened individuals who had no recourse but to resort to deadly weapons. Jessie should have no need of a gun. Straining his brain to think of what he’d heard on the news about her lately, he couldn’t find a thing except a general public animosity towards her new boyfriend. Maybe she was researching a part for an upcoming film. Arnie shook his head as if he were clearing the cobwebs out of it. Whatever. It’s her business, not mine.
“When can you have it?” she inquired evenly, taking a drink from the glass of water and marveling at the little wavelets her trembling fingers caused.
“Tomorrow,” he said, lighting another smoke and offering her a second, which she took. “Be here at five p.m. No later, because the old woman gets off work at six, and she doesn’t need to see Jessie Wheeler here buying a gun. And wear something a little less…noticeable, okay? You look too fucking good. You don’t want to be seen, you want to blend in.”
He hoped she would open up to him, but she didn’t. They smoked in silence, and then Jessie got up to leave.
At the door, Arnie studied her troubled eyes.
“Jessie,” he implored. “Whatever the hell this is about, I’ve got your back, okay?”
She nodded. Jessie couldn’t speak because of the damn lump in her throat. How she wished she could tell him. But she didn’t want to get Arnie mixed up with Deuce McCall any more than she wanted Josh or Charles or Matt involved. After all her success, the only thing she felt she had left to give any of the people she loved was total protection from the dangerous McCall. And that could only come by omission, by not telling anyone anything, at least until she had this terrorist under control. But still, on some level, it was good to know that people like Arnie were in her corner, even if it was just by finding her a gun.
Inadvertently, overcome by emotion, Jessie reached out and gave Arnie a big squeeze.
“Thanks,” was all she managed to whisper, and then she slipped away.
Arnie went back inside and watched her from his living room window as she made a hasty exit down Hastings, her head down, identity only partially covered by the hoodie.
“Jessie Wheeler,” he muttered curiously. “Who the hell have you gotten yourself mixed up with?”
Then he set about showering and shaving. He’d better get to work if he wanted that gun ready for Jessie tomorrow. He nicked himself shaving and, as he fingered the blood, for the first time in many years of procuring weapons for people, he wondered whose blood would flow this time around.
***
Chapter Twelve
Deuce had promised her two weeks. She had fourteen days to convince people that she and Josh were through. The timing wasn’t bad because the shooting of Drifters season two would be ending at the same time as McCall’s deadline. Jessie had already gotten Dee to start the paperwork on season three, which had just been announced. But she knew now that it wouldn’t be an option. She had to maintain as much distance from Josh as possible, at least until she figured out how to control or destroy Deuce and any probable minions. And who knew when that might be? She would have to play McCall’s wicked little game for a while first, until she could figure out the best time to strike, and how. She wasn’t worried about Dee’s reaction to her sudden change of mind regarding season three. Jessie’s manager would be over the moon.
So. Two weeks. Every second would count, as painful as that might be. Jessie would have to reach deep inside herself to find a character she could play so as to remove herself from Josh and her friends with a modicum of planning and persistence. She did not want to give anything of her new horrid reality away. She went to her condo for the rest of the afternoon, ignoring everyone’s texts and calls, and she Googled the new gun. She was pleasantly surprised to find that it was the same ankle handgun that Grace Hanadarko had carried on the television series Saving Grace. Jessie had watched the series twice - three seasons of it. She could identify with Holly Hunter’s character - sexually abused, belligerent, scared of attachment, a woman with her own walls. Jessie would channel her. That would help. Occasional drinking would help. Smoking. Maybe weed. She didn’t need to think about it. Jessie would need at least some anesthetic to summon up the courage to use to get her through this challenge.
Later in the day she sent the text to Josh that resulted in him firing his phone across the room. A half hour later she got a summons from the concierge in the lobby of her building.
“Miss Wheeler, Josh Sawyer is here to see you. Shall I let him up?”
Jessie groaned. She had picked up cigarettes and Baileys on the way home from East Hastings, and as a result she was feeling spinny and sick, but she would have to face him at some point.
“Okay,” she responded despondently.
A few minutes later, a quiet knock energized her to get up from her comfy place on the outside chaise. Still wearing her dance leggings and tank top, Jessie pulled open the interior door to the condo. Josh was standing there, as divine and sexy as ever in faded jeans, black boots, a black t-shirt, and a rust colored western style fringed hip length suede jacket. Around his neck, soaking up his warmth, was the stylized J pendant that she’d given him for Christmas. Leaning against the doorjamb in true Josh fashion, one ankle turned over, he was a picture of confusion and fear. He didn’t speak.
Jessie moved out of the way and let him in. He edged into her living space and then turned to her in bewilderment when the harsh cigarette smoke accosted his nostrils.
“What the hell, Jessie?” he asked, baffled.
She looked at the man she had to hurt to love, and then pulled up her inner irascible Grace Hanadarko.
“What?” she asked. “A girl can smoke if she wants to.”
His dark questioning eyes spotted the Baileys bottle on the counter.
“Look, Jess,” he said, following her outside and sitting on the loveseat on her balcony as she teetered against the railing, facing away from him, yet another
cigarette in her nicotine stained fingers. “I know you’re freaked out from all this. But we agreed. We said we’d get through it. Together.”
She glanced down at the people wandering the sidewalks many stories below. So many ants, so little purpose. Little did they know the only thing that really mattered in life was love.
Turning to face Josh, Jessie put her best Hanadarko out there. She even had Grace’s boots on, dusty brown with pointed toes. “I don’t know if I can do it, Josh,” she said, a hopeless cast pervading her voice. “Maybe all this is putting me over the edge.”
He felt as if the knife from the tire slashing suddenly and ruthlessly sliced open his heart. This was the real deal. She was afraid. There was a chance that he was losing Jessie. What could he say to fight back, to give her a reason to hang on, to convince her that they were survivors?
“Jesus,” was all he mustered as he dropped his head into his hands. He thought he was going to be sick. “Don’t do this, Jessie.”
Hanadarko dove in further. “Look, I’m not saying it’s over, we still have to work together for a few more weeks. Let’s just chill out and see what happens, okay? No pressure.”
He looked miserably up at those sad eyes with their absence of light. Who was she, and what the hell had she done with his Jessie? The pitfalls of loving an actor, he thought. He wasn’t stupid. Josh knew Jessie. In his breaking heart he understood that she was playing some kind of game in order to protect herself. What he failed to understand was that she was playing some kind of game in order to protect him.
This sucked, but it was real. Something heinous was happening, something he couldn’t grasp. He had about two weeks until they were done shooting Drifters, until she could easily get wrapped up in her shelters and concerts, and he in the feature he was shooting that summer in Arizona. But he wasn’t as stubborn as Jessie. Josh would go for help. But to whom? Charles and Dee would be thrilled to get him off their radar. Jonathon was a great producer, but he was all business, even though sometimes Josh felt a closeness he couldn’t explain towards the great man. Steve and Carter and the girls…they were the ones he needed to talk to about this, and…maybe…Charlie. Charlie, who had stayed in touch with Jessie, and who would likely be thrilled about a potential break-up between the two. Charlie, who knew her and loved her and would be concerned about a new Jessie who smoked and drank and removed herself from her friends.
Promises Page 13
