by Jack Kinsley
The first one: All is good in the hood.
And the second text: Scratch that last text. I never received the money for our new client, but he's supposedly still coming tomorrow morning.
Travis found his little black box on the dresser in his bedroom, and popped two blues. He watched TV in bed until the effects brought him down to a level where he thought he could think straight — and then he rang Ana.
The phone only rang once before she picked up. If he had Bella for the night, she'd answer immediately. If not, she'd never answer at all.
"Is everything okay with Bella?" She skipped greetings altogether.
"Yeah, we're both doing fine. Thanks."
"Then why are you calling?" She sounded irritable, as if Travis had interrupted her routine, and after looking at the clock on his bedroom wall, he was almost certain he had.
Ana wasn't a big drinker, but she loved her red wine (a particular red wine) and religiously followed her own bedtime routine. First she would put Bella to bed (most likely reading her a bedtime story since he was no longer there), then pour herself a generous glass of wine, leaving it to breathe on the kitchen island while she went for a bubble bath. After her bath, she would fix up a small plate of stinky cheeses, a few crackers, and sip her wine while watching terrible Romanian soap operas. She'd savor her glass to the very last drop, but always exercised restraint and never had a second (unless it was a holiday). Travis always felt slighted by this; as if she was trying to prove that her self-control was stronger than his, even though he'd never had a drink while they had been married. Unlike her, he knew he couldn't stop at one.
"I'm calling to tell you about a couple of beautiful paintings Bella made for me tonight."
There was a long pause. "I don't have time for this. Send them home with her tomorrow if you—"
"Well, one's torn," he interrupted, "and I'm not actually in either of them. So you can have them both if you want."
"What is it you want, Travis?"
"I'm getting there."
"Well, you better hurry."
The Valium had hit him harder than he had expected and he was feeling sluggish, not really on his game. He got out of bed and began to pace the room, trying to get his blood and thoughts flowing. It started working.
"You want to tell me about your plans for Bucharest?"
There was only silence on the other end.
"Look, Ana... I know you're planning a trip. Bella drew pictures of you, and her, and Grandma Nica. You didn't think I was going to find out?" Again, there was only silence, and again he felt forced to keep talking. "I won't allow you to take Bella with you."
There was another long wait, but he waited for a response this time.
"I want a divorce," she finally said.
"What?"
"I'm done, Travis. I don't trust you. I don't even know who you are anymore." There was long pause. "I don't know if I ever did."
"I'm the same guy who rescued you from that shithole of a country. That's who I am."
"No, you're not. You're nothing of the man you used to be." There was another long pause. "And I'm taking Bella to live with me in Romania."
"The hell you are!"
"We're going to live with Grandma Nica," she continued calmly, as if she hadn't heard him. "I'm selling the house and I want the proceeds so I can take care of Bella. I don't want alimony, I don't want child support, and I don't care about the business. I want nothing to do with it — as long as you promise to stay away from us."
Travis was stunned. He'd still believed there was a remote chance they could reunite as a family in the future.
"Well, I'm sorry...but that isn't going to happen. You're not taking Bella away from me!" The thought of it was worse than castration. "This is her home and I am her father. It's never going to happen, Ana. Never!"
He peeked out his bedroom door, thinking he'd heard Bella outside; no sign, all was quiet.
"You're dangerous to me and what's worse is you're dangerous to Bella. And you don't even know it!"
He could hear her crying; she was such an emotional creature. He'd been successful on many occasions in bringing her back to a reasonable state of mind. Now, when it mattered most, he tried again. "Look, Ana... I've apologized countless times to you about that night. I would have never hit you. Believe me. Please! And as far as Bella, she couldn't be in a safer place than with—"
"I can hear it in your voice right now," she seethed. The tears had evaporated and she was firing on all cylinders. "You're fucked up on those pills right now. When's the last time you took one? Did you at least wait until she went to sleep?"
This comment did, in fact, castrate him. It took the wind right out of him.
A wife always knows, he thought. Just the slightest deviation of routine, behavior, or tone in voice, and they're like a pit bull on a bone.
"You think you got it together," she kept at him. "But you're nowhere near in control. Not that night and not now. And Bella's over there with you now. Consider yourself lucky I'm not calling Child Protective Services on you. What would happen then? Huh? What would happen with Crystal Heights?"
"Don't you go there, Ana. Don't you threaten my business. It's what keeps a roof over your head, the bubble baths going, and the wine glass full. So you mind your tongue if you know what's good for you." He stood in front of the closet mirror; he couldn't even look at his own reflection.
"Screw you, Travis. I'm leaving and I'm taking Bella with me. She deserves better. I deserve better."
"Not going to happen. I'll come at you with—"
"It's going to happen, Travis. And you better not try and stop us. All I need to do is make one phone call, and you can say goodbye to Crystal Heights. I have the documentation. And don't think for a second I won't. I'll have the state inspector knocking on your door within forty-eight hours, and that'll be the end of your precious Crystal Heights." Then she spat, "I'll do it, Travis." And she hung up the phone.
Travis kept the dead phone up to his ear for another solid fifteen seconds. Her threat echoed in his head like the passing siren of an ambulance fading down the street — only to come back in his direction once again. He looked at himself in the closet mirror, wearing only a pair of old boxer shorts and a five o'clock shadow. He'd never felt so vulnerable.
Ana had worked for Crystal Heights for six months when she'd first arrived in California. Regrettably, he had shared every fear and confidential business secret with her; she was his wife and the mother of his child, after all. He knew what she had on him. And she was right — one phone call and she could ruin everything he'd worked for his entire life.
He pulled the top drawer of his dresser open and fished out a bottle filled with light blue pills. He popped the cap but then hesitated, noticing some red paint still under his thumbnail from Bella's painting. He inspected it, considered picking it off, but then left it. He tossed three pills down his dry hatch, chucked the bottle back into the drawer, and then shut it with an extra firm push. There was a framed, family portrait sitting on top of the dresser and it rocked back and forth, ready to fall face forward. He caught it, then studied the photograph.
It was the last picture they'd had taken as a family. It had been professionally done at their local park with a backdrop of a greenbelt and oak, but the print was in black and white. It was a great family portrait, very little retouching done on it — one of those magic snapshots that captured a timeless moment. Travis and Ana were side by side, both of them were smiling, and Bella was between them, also smiling.
He placed the picture frame back onto the dresser and then looked around the room. Earlier, he had undressed hastily, throwing his work clothes wherever they may land; his dress shirt hung off the edge of the bed, a pair of slacks hid halfway under it, and two black dress socks were on the floor, several feet apart. He picked up one of the socks, stretched it out to its full length, and then carefully draped it over one corner of the family portrait. It completely hid Ana from view.
&n
bsp; He stepped back and admired the picture. Only Travis and Bella remained.
Chapter 5 / Pattern Of Mayhem
A call from Crystal Heights woke Travis before Bella could sneak into his room and slap his face. She had seen this in a kid's movie once and for her it was the funniest thing — next to surprising her daddy with the garden hose in the yard. He didn't mind the slap or the hose, and was wishing he had one of them at this very moment.
He could barely understand what Sarah was telling him and had to turn up the volume on his cell. "Come again?" he said.
"Dallas Vallero is already here!" she screamed into his ear.
He turned down the volume. "Who?"
"The new client, you know, the meth addict, diamond guy." She sounded panicked, as if there was a nuclear mushroom forming over Crystal Heights.
"Already? I thought he was coming in later." His head was thick from all the Valium he'd taken the night before, and he had trouble getting out of first gear. "Did he pay already?" He sat up.
"He'll pay for two weeks, cash, and then arrange for full payment later. I just got the call. I'm driving in now. I need you there to help ASAP. I've got to complete the discharges for Jordan and Devon and I can't do everything."
"We need full payment before he receives any services." He laid back down and rolled onto his side so the pillow would hold his cell phone, freeing his already tiring arm.
"At the rate you're kicking out clients, we need the cash. I'm taking the money for the two weeks, and you can fire my ass if you don't like it."
It was her early-morning shove-it-up-your ass attitude, which she'd sometimes get when Crystal Heights woke up with a wet bed. We should change the name to Casino Heights, he thought.
"Okay, but let's not make a habit of it."
"Are you getting your ass over here or not?"
"Give me twenty," he said and hung up.
His first thought was, where had he left his Adderall? More and more, he was treating himself like a yo-yo on a string: Adderall to come up and Valium to go down — up and down, up and down — 24/7. His second thought was that he had to wake Bella and miss his morning breakfast with her. His third was that he had to face Ana, who was trying to steal Bella from him. His fourth was that he had no choice but to face Jordan before his exit — he didn't give a hoot about Devon...
His fifth was, why in the hell did he ever start a rehab?
Just as he sat up in bed, he saw Bella sneaking into his room with her weapon of choice (her bare hand) behind her back, ready to smack his face. He would have pretended to be sleeping if she hadn't caught him with his legs already hanging off the bed. She ran and jumped onto him, wrapping herself around him like the little lemur she was, still very warm from her bed. He carried her into the kitchen feeling like he could take on the world. The five thoughts he'd had just moments before vanished into the stratosphere. He didn't even remember wanting his Adderall.
— — —
Luckily, there was no further confrontation with Ana when he dropped Bella back home. He'd sent her a text letting her know he was coming early, and all he saw was the assurance of Bella slipping safely through the front door.
When he arrived at Crystal Heights, there were two taxis waiting out front. One of them was blocking the drive and Travis bounced a light fist off the center of his steering wheel for them to move. Before exiting his car, he popped a second Adderall to further counter the effects of last night's additional Valium, knowing damn well this was exactly how tolerance levels were unintentionally raised. There wasn't any water in the car, but he was getting used to the chalk caking his esophagus.
He quickened his pace as he entered the yard, imagining Bella in his arms. Instantly, he caught sight of Dallas Vallero — it had to be him. The man was cut like a diamond, and Travis could easily see the faceted prisms under his thin t-shirt. He sat on one of the loungers, his enormous shaved head in one hand. It looked like his cargo shorts were ready to split. Travis stood fixated, staring, in a moment of shock and fascination. There was no doubt in his mind this guy was on the gear, probably shooting juice by the syringe full; no chance this was from diet and honest exercise. Travis half expected him to turn green and rip the shirt from his back.
Dallas looked up and met eyes with him. It was like two high-powered lasers had shot out of his skull and held Travis two feet off the ground; his body wasn't following orders to walk over and introduce himself.
Just when the ability to move returned, Sarah called out to him from the front door and waved hurriedly for him to come over. Travis lifted a finger to Dallas to indicate he'd be right back.
Sarah held Jordan's discharge paperwork and started speaking to Travis in a hushed and impatient tone. "Are you sure about Jordan leaving? We have payroll in two days, and the business account is getting thin. Jordan would just as soon unpack and stay if you give him another chance. He even offered to pay some kind of penalty fee for his behavior." Her eyes were begging.
"That's never gonna happen, Sarah. Never," he told her, finding himself strangely back in the argument he'd had with Ana last night. "And besides, Betsy's coming in, so we should be okay." Travis knew it was more a last feeble attempt to try and get him to change his mind about Jordan, than about covering payroll.
Sarah narrowed her eyes at him, as though trying desperately to read him.
"And if we are short," he continued, "I'll cover it personally if need be." Then he remembered his personal account was also getting thin — very thin.
"Well, it definitely need be," Sarah said and left in a huff.
Travis wasn't sure she was telling him the truth about the finances — she would have made a hell of a poker player. The payroll at Crystal Heights was a shocking bi-weekly sum: seven days a week and twenty-four-hour care that ran up bills higher than the imagination could fathom: doctor fees, staff fees, independent contractor fees. That on top of all the other operating costs: licensing fees, electric and water, property maintenance, pool heating costs and services, gourmet food, cable and internet, company car leases, insurance, extremely high advertising costs, taxes — and not to forget the monthly mortgage on a multi-million-dollar property. The amount of money going out in one month could make any conservative accountant's head spin.
From an outsider's perspective, one could easily look at the insane prices the clients paid and allege price gouging or even taking advantage of the mentally ill, but one look inside the engine and all its intricate, expensive parts, and they would quickly realize just how much it took to drive it.
One more thing to worry about, he thought, and looked over at his new client — who'd only come in with half his expected payment.
Dallas was still waiting for him poolside. He sat sidesaddle on the lounger, supporting his large head with a fist under his chin and his elbow staked at his knee. He would have been the perfect silhouette of Rodin's Thinker, if the statue had been of a bodybuilder. It was apparent even at a distance that Dallas was a troubled man, enslaved by something eating at him from the inside out.
As Travis approached him, Dallas stood (an easy six inches taller than Travis) and held out a large calloused hand — definitely a gym rat who wore no gloves.
"Mr. Martin," he said curtly.
"Hello, Dallas, welcome to Crystal Heights." Travis shook his hand and forced himself to hold the man's gaze. Dallas's eyes were black as coal, small for his face, and seemed to asses and pass judgment within seconds. "I'm sorry for the wait. We were expecting you a little later."
Dallas stared into him a moment longer, holding the handshake uncomfortably long, and then sat back down.
Travis followed his lead and took a seat on an adjacent lounge chair. He was fixated by the man's bronzed, reptilian skin — a reddish mottled brown, translucent in some places. It wrapped and clung to his massive hairless head and diamond core like a thin worn sheet, bone and skull seemingly wanting to break free.
Dallas remained quiet with his bloodshot eyes squarely on Travis.
Behind the grey, marbled pair was an unmistakable tempest — an unsettling mix of repressed anger and violent history that left Travis almost speechless. His only coherent thought was trying to recall exactly when Helen Ross had said she was showing up.
"So, I understand we got a bit of a meth problem?" Travis asked, finally breaking the silence. He didn't feel the need to pussyfoot around, suspecting the giant wasn't accustomed to it and would certainly never refer to it as a 'personal challenge.'
"Yep...somethin' like that," Dallas replied and stared down into the mosaic of red brick under his feet.
It was apparent this would be the extent of their small talk. Travis sensed a vicious nightmare trapped inside the giant and knew what the man really needed to do was break into the story about what was really fucking him up. If there was ever a need for an emergency therapy session, this was it. Where the hell is Helen? Travis was no therapist and he did his best to steer clear of that road.
"Have they shown you to the room where you'll be staying?" He wasn't going to use term 'suite' with him, either.
"Yep, sure did. They're probably going through my bags right now. And let me tell ya, they're going to find plenty of shit in there, Mr. Martin," he said matter-of-factly. There was a hint of pride and amusement in his face at the confession.
"Call me Travis, please."
From the corner of his eye, Travis saw Lucy walking around the pool sheepishly into his field of vision, staring at him. She stopped when she was directly in his line of sight and waited there until he acknowledged her. Normally Travis would have let her suffer another minute, torturing her with the belief that she was invisible, but he was actually happy for the distraction. He raised his eyebrows at her and she waved him impatiently over. Dallas turned just in time to see her face go from panicked to a plastic smile.
"Like I said, Mr. Martin, plenty of shit."
"Can you excuse me for a moment? I'll be right back with you."
