RAZZLE DAZZLE

by Lisa Hendrix

  With visions of that extra twenty-five a week going down the tubes, Sproat hit the button for his lights and siren and gunned the car down the street. He whipped in next to a TV truck and, hand on gun, hopped out of the car and hustled over toward the railing. “Hold it right there, all of you.”

  “Cops,” shouted someone. The guys on the roof turned loose the balloon ropes and dove for a trapdoor that one of them yanked open. As they dropped out of sight, Sproat looked at the plank that ran out to the roof and cursed. No way was he going out there. Up the street, the poster rippers vanished between buildings. The streets echoed with running feet and revving engines. Below, the security fence rattled. Sproat glanced over the retaining wall just in time to see the guys from the roof climb the fence to make their getaway.

  Shit. Where were the cops and his backup?

  Sproat was left with only the blonde and her wide-eyed friend. Technically, they hadn’t even been on the site, but they were better than nothing. “You’re under arrest, ladies. You oughta get braver friends.”

  As he spoke, a truck from KOMO roared up and a girl with a camera piled out and started filming.

  “Oh, geez,” said the blonde. She looked like she was going to either start bawling or lose her breakfast or both. And then, right in front of him, she snapped out of it. She brushed the tears out of her eyes and faced the little mob of reporters.

  “If you all are ready, I’d like to make a statement before the police arrive.”

  “Rainey, keep your mouth shut,” whispered the brunette. “We weren’t doing anything they can charge us with. We’re just innocent bystanders.”

  “You stand by. Our options are shot. I’ve got to salvage what I can out of this mess.”

  The photographer waved and a reporter crawled out from behind the wheel of a car across the street, looking like she’d slept in her clothes. She dodged a couple of cars to cross over with her skinny reporter’s notebook, and pulled a black pen out from behind her ear. “Shoot.”

  “Speaking of shoot,” the blonde said, “after I’m done, please make sure you all get some good tight shots of the Going Out of Business signs we put up.” The photographers nodded.

  The blonde smoothed her hair and adjusted her clothes, then stood up straight and faced the cameras like she was some D.C. politician at a press conference.

  “My name is Raine Hobart,” she said clearly. “I’m the leader of FUSE, the group responsible for this action, as well as for last week’s construction of the mock Berlin Wall on the same site. We are here to make a statement against the design of the proposed Canal Place

  development.”

  As the reporters scribbled and the cameras clicked and whirred, Sproat sucked in his gut and posed for a record of his first real arrest.

  Nadine would be proud.

  *

  Newspapers. Television crews. Mug shots.

  Raine had her picture taken more times Wednesday morning before nine than she had in the previous five years of her life. If there existed a photographer in the Seattle Metro area who hadn’t shot her picture by the time she was led to the holding cell, Raine didn’t know who he or she was.

  It was all for the cause, and once she had resigned herself to the arrest and what it meant, she’d played it for all it was worth. They’d certainly gotten the publicity she’d once wanted and, unless she missed her mark, she’d be making the midday news on at least two stations and the five o’clock broadcast on all three majors. Of course, that created a real problem: even if she could manage to post bail, she’d never make it out of the state by the time Mason found out. She’d really like to be out of the state.

  The cell door slammed shut behind her. Raine looked at the dozen or so hookers and other miscreants who were lazing sleepily on the benches and bare bunks, and raised a hand in halfhearted greeting. “Hi.”

  A couple of them grunted back at her.

  She hadn’t even had time to settle in when Zoe showed up. As they hugged, Zoe scanned the cell with a critical eye.

  “If they think I’m going to pee in that, they can just forget it. It’s disgusting.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell the sergeant,” said Raine. “What are you doing here? I thought you were just an innocent bystander.”

  “You didn’t really think I’d let you take the fall by yourself, did you? I told them I was your publicity officer. They weren’t too happy about that, considering how much publicity we just got.” Zoe tapped the foot of a blowzy redhead who was taking up a whole bench. “Excuse me. Can we sit down, please?”

  “Sure, honey.” The woman sat up, and Raine and Zoe joined her on the stainless steel shelf.

  “Thanks,” said Zoe. She turned back to Raine. “You okay?”

  “I’ll survive.”

  “All you have to do is tell the cops what Arne did to you. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Yes, it was.” Raine pulled her feet up on the bench and hugged her knees. “I started the whole thing, and then I let it get away from me. Arne was just doing what he thought I wanted.”

  “Arne did what Arne wanted, and then he bailed on us. And I plan to tell anyone who’ll listen what a hypocritical little chicken-shit he is. As soon as it gets out, all of Fremont is going to be behind you, you know, even with the posters. You’re a martyr for the cause now.”

  “Oh. That’s why I feel like I’m tied to a stake with a lot of wood piled around my ankles.” Raine swung her feet to the floor, then got up and paced the width of the cell and back. “God. If I’d just talked to Mason like I said I would. I had chances, Zoe. I really did. I just didn’t take advantage of them because I let myself get distracted by him and his family and the shopping and the dancing and—”

  —by what came after the dancing. Her cheeks flamed and she covered them with her hands and leaned against the graffiti-covered wall.

  “He’s going to despise me. He probably already does.”

  The tears that had first welled up out there on the sidewalk when the security guard had busted them, finally spilled over her lashes and down through her fingers. She slipped to the floor, put her head in Zoe’s lap, and bawled like a baby.

  *

  “They came back.”

  “I’m in the middle of a production meeting, Scott,” Mason said into the phone. He nodded toward his senior VPs. “Who came back?”

  “Those FUSE people. They raided the warehouse again, and floated some balloons with a big banner off the roof. Plus they apparently papered every window for blocks with Going Out of Business signs that accused Canal Place

  of killing the neighborhood.”

  “And why precisely does that make you sound so cheery?”

  “Because we got them. At least a couple of them.”

  “Good. How the hell did they get on the roof in the first place? Where were the security guards that were supposed to keep them out?”

  “The security guard was in transit between properties, and he’s the one that caught them. The leader of the group and their publicity officer are in police custody as we speak. Jake Kreutzmiller is seeing that the maximum charges are pressed.”

  “Fine.” Mason grabbed a pencil out of the cup on his desk and scribbled a few notes on a pad. “What’s the PR fallout look like?”

  “That’s the bad news, although I’ve already called Ben Pratt, and he’s working on it. Reporters were on site for the arrest, and their Fearless Leader—I swear to God, that’s what they call her—managed to give a very detailed statement before the police arrived. It sounded pretty convincing out of context. On top of that, the banner they floated was, ahem, a photo op in itself. We’re probably going to take a pretty good hit on this. And I’m afraid they implicated you personally.”

  “Just what was on this banner of theirs?”

  Scott cleared his throat again. “Among other things, you wielding a bloody knife. About ten feet high. It was actually a pretty good caricature.”

  The pencil between Mason’s fingers snap
ped in two. “It had better be down.”

  “Yes, sir. We reeled it in as soon as the police finished their evidentiary photos. It’s been impounded, although the men who actually trespassed to put it into place all escaped.”

  “I’m not sure it matters, if we have their leader. I’ll talk to Kreutzmiller.” Mason found a new pencil and made another note. “Fearless Leader, eh?”

  Scott chuckled. “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s this terror’s name?”

  “Let’s see.” Scott shuffled paper. “Here we are. The two women arrested were Zoe R. Levine and Lorraine M. Hobart. I’m not sure which is which.”

  Mason heard each individual beat of his heart, as though his pulse were being played on the office sound system. “Run those by me again.”

  Scott repeated the names.

  “Thank you,” Mason said mechanically. “I’ll talk to you later.” He’d heard it right: Raine, and the friend Zoe she’d mentioned.

  He hung up and turned to his production people. “I’m going to have to ask you to move this meeting to the conference room. Greg, you’re in charge. Here are my notes of topics to be covered.” He pulled a thin sheaf of papers out of his portfolio and tossed it down in front of Greg. “I’ll expect a report on my desk tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The men and women looked at each other in confusion, then gathered their papers and quickly filed out of his office.

  In the silence they left behind, he turned and stared out the plate glass wall behind his desk. The day was cloudless, perfect; the water in the Sound shone glassy blue. He’d been in exactly this spot, on a day as perfect as today, when the lawyers had served him with divorce papers. The sense of betrayal had been exactly the same.

  He did the same thing he had that day, almost the same thing he had done, come to think of it, the day Raine had walked out on him after he’d made love to her: he turned and hammered his fist down on the desk.

  The door opened, and Chris poked her head in. “Are you all right, Mr. Alexander?”

  “Get me five thousand dollars cash from my personal account,” he said without answering her. “And then I want Kreutzmiller on the phone.”

  “Yes, sir. Right away.”

  He closed his eyes.

  The bitch. When it came to using people, Elizabeth had nothing on Raine Hobart.

  *

  The wheels of justice freed ten out of twelve hookers and replaced them with two DUIs before Raine heard her name called.

  She glanced at Zoe, then stood up. “Here.”

  “You’re with me,” the policewoman said. “Levine? You’re with Officer Talley, here.”

  Raine followed her officer down the hall and through the doors. “Are we being arraigned already?”

  “No, ma’am. Charges have been dropped.”

  Raine glanced back over her shoulder. Zoe was giving her a thumbs-up.

  They were processed out separately. Raine received the numbered envelope with her personal items and was pointed toward a door. She started toward it and was fishing around inside the envelope for her watch when she happened to glance up and see Mason through the glass in front of her.

  Her reactions were as confused as the circumstances, a mix of outright joy and the desire to ask if going back to the cell might be an option.

  Her fingers closed around her watch, and she took the time to put it on. It gave her a few seconds to remind herself that their relationship was employer-employee, not lover and beloved.

  “Wow, is that Moneybags?” asked Zoe, coming up behind her. She carried an identical envelope. “He’s gorgeous.”

  Raine nodded.

  When the watchband was tight on her wrist, she resealed the envelope and walked through the door. There was no visible change in Mason’s expression when he saw her, while she stood there with her heart in her eyes.

  “Mason. I’m sorry.”

  “So am I, Miss Hobart.”

  So it was that way. Four feet away, and as distant as if he were on Mars.

  “Are you the one who dropped the charges?” Zoe asked.

  “Yes,” said Mason.

  “Thanks for thinking of me.”

  “I assure you, it wasn’t done out of kindness.”

  “Mason, I—”

  “I’d appreciate it if any further discussion could wait until we have some privacy. The car is outside. We can talk there.”

  She nodded. “Zoe—”

  “—can wait with Paul. My driver,” he added for Zoe’s benefit. “You won’t mind, will you, Miss Levine? We won’t be long.”

  “Of course not.”

  Of course not, thought Raine. It never took long to say goodbye.

  She followed him to the car, clutching her envelope, which was already growing soft with the sweat off her hands.

  “Paul, this is Miss Levine. Please keep her company for a few minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.” Paul steered Zoe away toward a shady spot under a sweet gum tree.

  Mason stayed with Raine. He was polite to a fault, holding the door, standing aside while she got in the car, then climbing in beside her. It would have been easier if he’d been rude, outwardly angry, but he just sat there like a lump of bronze—cold, hard, and unyielding.

  She couldn’t stand it. “Say something, please.”

  “I was going to send my attorney,” he said. “But I wanted to see for myself. Was there some mix-up? Were you arrested by mistake?”

  “No. I’m the leader of FUSE. We—”

  He held up a hand to stop her. “I’m not interested in what FUSE has to say. Did you agree to this … arrangement between us knowing who I was?”

  “No. I knew your name. I didn’t know you owned MMT.”

  “When did you find out?”

  She swallowed. “The next day. When I read the newspaper.”

  “And you said nothing.”

  “I know it looks bad but—”

  “Looks bad,” he echoed. “I think I used similar words Monday when I was apologizing for making love to you. I can appreciate now how hollow it sounded, or rather, how hollow it would have sounded if a real apology had been necessary. I must compliment you on your dedication to the cause.”

  “Don’t be a bastard, Mason. You don’t have to hurt me to make me go away.” She reached for the door handle.

  “Wait.” He touched her arm.

  A tiny hope flared, then died as he reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat. He pulled out a thick, plain white business envelope and held it out to her.

  “This is a letter stating that no charges will be filed against you or any of the other people who were with you today, provided FUSE ceases any and all action in regard to the Canal Place

  development. There is also the five thousand dollars I owe you, in cash.”

  “I didn’t finish the job.”

  “To the people of Fremont—and soon all of Seattle and environs, if the press does what I suspect they will—I am now a knife-wielding maniac. I’d say you’ve done a pretty thorough job, actually. I hear the likeness was extraordinary.”

  “Fred’s very good,” she said. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t know anything about that banner until this morning when it was already up. I was trying to get them to take it down when your rent-a-cop showed up.”

  “If that’s true—and I doubt it—you’re a lousy leader.”

  “I wish I could disagree with you.” She popped the door open and stuck one leg out, then changed her mind and turned back to face him.

  “You know, you’re a real hypocrite. You talk about rationality and how important it is, but you run on pure emotion just like the rest of us. Your feelings are hurt, so you won’t even listen to what I have to say about today or about the building or any of it.”

  “I might have listened, if you had approached me like an adult instead of throwing what amounts to a public temper tantrum.”

  “Approach you? I couldn’t even find out who you were.”<
br />
  “The ownership of MMT is a matter of public record.”

  “Yeah, right. Buried under umpteen layers of subsidiary corporations and evasions. I tried to do it your way, Mason. I wrote letters. I went to the meetings last winter. I tried to be rational. Your stooges blew me off like I was”—she searched for an analogy—“Samantha’s age.”

  “I never saw any letters.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. You’ve got so many vice presidents and lawyers and personal assistants and public relations people between you and us out here that I’m surprised you even know where Fremont is. For God’s sake, you’re so out of touch that you think marriage is about stock options and cash flow. How many layers does it take to make you that smug, Mason?”

  She climbed out of the car and stood in the open door. “Keep your money and your letter. The design of that building is a disaster waiting to happen. I can’t let you put it up without a fight.”

  He started to open his mouth, but she slammed the door in his face as hard as she could. “Come on, Zoe. Let’s find a phone so I can see if I still have a job.”

  Zoe was deep in conversation with Paul—flirting, probably. Raine went over and grabbed her by the elbow. “Come on, you’re ruining my grand exit.”

  “Sorry.” Zoe took a couple of steps with Raine, then stalled to look back at Paul. “You’re really cute. Are you taken?”

  Paul nodded. “Yes, miss. I’m afraid I am.”

  Zoe sighed. “Oh, well. No harm in asking. Come on, Rainey. Grand exit. Stage right.”

  *

  Eighteen

  « ^ »

  Angus stood back and watched Lyle Tucker drop a putt for an eagle on the eighteenth. “Beautiful shot. Too bad I whooped your ass anyway. That’s three you owe me.”

  Laughing, Lyle pulled out his checkbook and wrote the check for three thousand dollars right there on the green. “I don’t understand it. The better I get, the better you get.”

  “It’s pure cussedness.” Angus slipped the folded check into his pocket and handed his putter to the caddie. “Let me make up for it by buying you a drink.”

  They tipped their caddies and hit the locker room, and a half hour later were at a table in the clubhouse bar winding up a discussion they had started on the fairways, about how Wick Technologies might be able to job out some work to one of Tucker’s subsidiaries.