Natalie's Revenge

by Susan Fleet

  “Armed robbery in progress at Walgreen's, corner of St. Charles and Jackson.”

  “I’m on it.” He dropped the handset on the passenger seat, slammed the car into gear and said to Kelly, “Gotta go. Armed robbery at a Walgreen’s.”

  “Ah, geez. Be careful, Frank.”

  “I always am.”

  “Liar. Call me when it’s wrapped.”

  “I will.” He turned onto St. Charles and hit the lights but not the siren.

  Three minutes later he slowed at the Jackson Avenue intersection. Walgreen’s was across the street beyond the neutral ground with the streetcar tracks. He hooked a U-turn and parked. The store was closed, but the drive-up window was open so people could fill prescriptions.

  He unholstered his weapon and crept to the front window. The front of the store was dark, but lights were visible in back near the pharmacy window. He edged along the front of the store, stopped at the corner and took a quick peek. And saw the scruffy black guy straddling the fancy bike at the drive-up window. He was holding a gun on the clerk inside the drive-up window.

  “Police!" Frank shouted. "Drop the gun and get on the ground!”

  But the guy didn’t drop the gun. He whirled and shot at him.

  _____

  Nashua, New Hampshire

  At two o’clock she took a taxi to the Super Stop & Shop near the highway exit closest to the Massachusetts border. Last night she’d found the car she needed on eBay. The owner lived in Billerica, 20 miles from the New Hampshire border. After some haggling Bobby Oakes had agreed to sell his metallic-brown 2002 Ford Focus to her for $3,500 in cash. He'd just finished his junior year at U-Mass-Lowell and needed money to pay his tuition in the fall. She'd promised him an extra $100 if he would drive to Nashua to complete the transaction.

  Bobby wasn't due until two-thirty, but she wanted to be there when he arrived to make sure he didn't look dodgy. She bought a bottle of iced tea in the Stop & Shop, went outside and sat on a shaded bench in front of the store.

  The parking lot was jam-packed with cars and shoppers wheeling grocery carts out to their cars. An elderly woman with wispy white hair pushed a cart out of the store and sank onto the bench beside her. “Pretty soon I’ll be eating Alpo meatloaf. I swear they raise the prices every week.”

  She nodded in commiseration. “It does seem like it.”

  The woman smiled at her. “What a cute hat. Where did you get it?”

  Earlier, she’d bought the broad-brimmed beach hat at a Dollar Store. “Thanks. I got it at Hampton Beach. Have a nice day.”

  Unwilling to get into a conversation lest the woman remember her, she rose from the bench, went inside and stood at the community bulletin-board by the front window, pretending to read the flyers. A minute later a yellow taxi stopped in front of the bench. The elderly woman got in the cab and the driver loaded her groceries into the trunk. As the taxi drove away a metallic-brown Ford Focus entered the lot, trailed by an ancient yellow VW Bug.

  The Ford pulled into a space near the Stop & Shop marquee and the Bug parked beside it. A pudgy kid in cutoff jeans and a Red Sox T-Shirt got out of the Ford Focus and looked around.

  She left the store and walked over to him. “Hi, Bobby?”

  “Yes, are you Angela?”

  “I am. Thanks for driving up to meet me. Do you have the title?”

  He waved an envelope. “Got it right here. You got the loot?”

  “Yes, but I’d like to see the title first, to make sure it’s in order.”

  She reached for the envelope, but he jerked it away. “Show me the money.” A wide grin spread over his pudgy face. “Man, I love that line.”

  Irritation gnawed at her stomach. She had no time for this. She had too much to do and too many things to worry about. “This isn’t a movie, Bobby. Come on, I’ll count out the money for you.”

  She went to the trunk of his car, took out her wallet and peeled off 100-dollar bills. “There’s the 3,500 for the car, plus the 100-dollars I promised you for driving up here. Show me the title.”

  He showed her the title but kept a firm grip on it. “I deserve 200 for driving up here. Gas is expensive. I hadda fill Jimmy’s tank to get him to follow me here and drive me home. Besides, you won’t have to pay sales tax if you register it in New Hampshire.”

  She had no intention of registering the car in New Hampshire, but he didn’t need to know that. “We made a deal, Bobby. An extra 100. That’s what I brought.”

  “But 3,500 only covers tuition. Textbooks are expensive.”

  “You’ve got your problems and I’ve got mine. Let’s do a walk-around.” She circled the car to check for damage. The driver’s side had a few dings, nothing to get excited about, but the right front fender had a big dent and a long scrape where the paint was missing.

  She gave Bobby a stern look. “You didn't mention the dent and the scratched paint on the phone last night. Take the 3,600 and give me the title and the keys.”

  Avoiding her gaze, he called, “Jimmy, take the plate off my car, will ya?”

  Jimmy, a string-bean with a long dark ponytail, got to work on the plate. Bobby counted the money again and handed her the title. “The car runs great, Angela. I just changed the oil a week ago.”

  “That's good, but I need keys to drive it.”

  “Oh yeah, I almost forgot.” He handed her the ignition key, took a spare key out of his jeans pocket and called, “Are we set, Jimmy?”

  Jimmy held up the license plate. They climbed into the yellow Bug, and drove off. She climbed in the Focus and cranked the engine. The car reeked of cigarette smoke, and the gas gauge was riding on empty. Thanks a bunch, Bobby. She’d better fill the tank. Another chore, one of many on her Do-list.

  Be prepared. Leave nothing to chance. She pulled a rectangular piece of cardboard out of her toteher makeshift temporary plateand placed it in the rear window, hoping a cop wouldn’t stop her on the way home. Her condo complex had a large parking area to accommodate visitors, and the metallic-brown Ford Focus was innocuous-looking. That's why she'd chosen it. The Ford would be just another car among many.

  _____

  4:30 p.m. New Orleans

  “What do you mean, just a scratch? Jesus, Frank! You could be dead!”

  “Yeah, but I’m not.” Rather than call Kelly from his office, he’d gone out to the cruiser and used his cell. Booking the robber had taken a while and he'd promised to call so she wouldn't worry. But when he told her what happened, she'd pitched a major hissy fit. To lighten things up, he said, “Can you believe it? This old guy pedals a stolen bike to a Walgreen’s drive-up window and tries to rob the place. You can’t make this stuff up.”

  “Don’t joke, Frank. He had a gun didn’t he? He shot at you, didn’t he?”

  So much for humor. “Yeah, well, I was scared shitless for a second, but he only got off one shot, a wild one at that. The slug ricocheted off the building and a piece of brick hit me in the face.” He peered into the rearview at the Band-Aid on his cheek. “It’s fine, no stitches, nothing. Hell, by the time I see you, there won’t even be a scab.”

  “Well,” she said, somewhat mollified, “if you say so. Damn, I am sick of this hurricane shit. Sick of working the overnights, too. I can’t sleep in the daytime.”

  “I can't either. It screws up your body clock. When I get off at midnight I’m too wired to sleep." Like a lot of cops, he often had trouble sleeping. Working homicide he'd get calls in the middle of the night, work twenty hours, nap for three and go back to work. He slept fine at Kelly's house though.

  "Damn, I miss you.”

  “I miss you too. Now that I know you're okay I better catch a few winks before I go to work.”

  “Where are you patrolling tonight?”

  “Gentilly and the St. Bernard Housing Project area.”

  A tough neighborhood. He rubbed the jagged scar on his chin, a habitual gesture when he was worried. “Be careful. All the gangbangers come out after midnight. That’s when
they do their dirty deeds.”

  “I know, but I’m riding with Ben Washburn. He’s tough. We’ll be fine.”

  A rugged black man with plenty of street smarts, Ben was an experienced cop, fifteen years with NOPD. But that wouldn't protect Ben or Kelly, from the ‘bangers. The drug dealers carried heavy fire power.

  “Be careful,” he said again. By now this was their ritual term of endearment, meaning I love you and I don’t want anything to happen to you.

  “I will, Frank. You be careful too.”

  NATALIE

  1998 2000 Paris

  Living in Paris was scary at first, but like Mr. Carlson said, I'm a fast learner. New Yorkers think they live in the greatest city in the world, but Paris has many cultural attractions too, and people seemed to appreciate them more. They weren't gaga over sports and TV shows and pop stars, and most of the women wore stylish outfits with chic accessories and high-heels.

  The day I arrived Lin picked me up at the airport and drove me to a flat they'd rented for me on the Left Bank. "Near the Sorbonne where many students live," Lin said. We passed dozens of outdoor cafes and bistros and clothing stores. I couldn't wait to explore them. Lin said I could take a nap if I was jet-lagged, but I was too wired to sleep, so he gave me a Metro map and showed me the nearest stop: St-Michel.

  Then we drove to the 16th Arrondissement. The Service had a gorgeous office there, a suite of rooms on the fifth floor of a high-rise. The National Theatre of Paris was only blocks away. I couldn't wait to see a performance, but I first had to finish my training. They said my French needed work.

  It sure did. People in Paris spoke so fast I could barely understand them. A tall elegant-looking Frenchwoman named Monique took me to Yves St. Laurent to buy clothes. Monique paid. That surprised me, but I didn’t say anything. She wouldn’t let me speak English, only French. Then we went to Vera Wang and bought four silk scarves, a pair of sunglasses and two fancy purses, one silver, one with black sequins.

  “You can buy more when you start working,” Monique said.

  My pay was in US dollars, which they wired into the bank account they'd set up for Laura Lin Hawthorn in Switzerland. They gave me French francs for spending money. When I got back to my apartment I fell into bed, exhausted. Even so I tossed and turned most of the night.

  In the morning I went to a cafe and had a Café Grande (a large coffee with milk) and two croissants. Then I walked to Shakespeare’s Bookstore, the famous shop that sells books in English. It smelled musty, and I had to squeeze through aisles packed floor-to-ceiling with books.

  I bought two paperback thrillers and kept walking to Odeon, a big square with many movie theaters. Some films were French, but most of them were American. I missed seeing movies with Gabe and Darren. But I was too tired to watch a movie. That night I slept like the dead.

  The next day Monique asked me what I wanted my specialty to be. I figured she meant sex. My disgust must have showed because Monique smiled and said, "The Service has a high-class reputation. All of our girls are cultured and well educated." Then she asked what my special interests were.

  This reminded me of Mom's calendar with the Vermeer paintings. One for every month. The Girl With the Pearl Earring was on the calendar when Mom was murdered. I decided this was a sign. Mom loved art and Paris had a zillion art museums, so I said art.

  For the next week a little Frenchman with a pencil-thin mustache taught me about art history. He was a great teacher and very patient when I asked him to repeat things (because he spoke French so fast). I learned a lot.

  Monique took me to museums to test my comprehension. We went to the Musee d’Orsay, the Rodin and Picasso museums, the Pompidou Center, the Modern Art Museum and the L’Orangerie for the Impressionists. The Monet murals on the curved walls downstairs were unbelievable. Monique said if I liked them, I should take a train to Giverny to see Monet's flower gardens and the arched bridges over the lily pads.

  Early in March, Monique said I was ready for my first client. That scared me. When she said he was from Uganda, I freaked out. For my high school social studies class I had written a paper on Uganda. What I remembered most: Idi Amin had been Uganda's military-dictator president. He was big and fat and rumored to be a cannibal. He wasn’t president of Uganda anymore, but that didn’t make me feel any less terrified.

  My client was a diplomat, a huge black man, and fat like Idi Amin, but he seemed pleased with me. When we met, he took my hand and said, “So happy to meet you, Laura Lin.” In English.

  He had an unpronounceable name, so I called him Honey. When he asked what my interests were, I said art, but that was the end of that conversation. He went on about politics in his country and how difficult his job was. I smiled and said I understood. This was while we had dinner at L’Arpege, a ritzy restaurant. The food was fantastic and so was the wine, but I could barely eat. I was too worried about what would happen when we went to his hotel.

  We didn’t get there until midnight. Right away, he asked if I’d mind taking off my clothes. I smiled and said, "Of course not, honey," and took off every stitch.

  He gazed at my body but didn’t take off his clothes.

  “Come here,” he said. When I stepped closer he said, “Would you mind if I touch your breasts?”

  I said, "Of course not, honey." Be what they want you to be.

  That’s what Madame taught me. But I was thinking: If this 300-pound giant jumps on top of me, he’ll crush me.

  Then I remembered what Ann Bancroft told Bridget Fonda in Point of No Return: If you run into a problem, just smile and say: The little things never bother me. That’s what Bridget did when Harvey Keitel killed her helper. She smiled and said: The little things never bother me. And Harvey didn’t kill her.

  Little things? No problem, but men built like Idi Amin?

  But then the strangest thing happened. He petted my breasts and ground himself against my crotch and came right away. Sort of like a standup lap dance. “You are so beautiful, Laura Lin. When I come back to Paris next month, I would like to take you out for dinner again.”

  I said I would love that and told him to arrange it with The Service. Then I went home. The girlfriends never handled money. Clients paid The Service directly. I don’t know how much my Uganda client paid for five hours of my time, but they said he added a $500 tip to show his appreciation. All together I made $2,500. They wired $1,500 into my bank account and gave me the rest in francs. They also said I would now be responsible for buying my own clothes and paying the rent on my apartment.

  The next day I signed up for lessons at a taekwondo studio. I couldn't believe how rusty my skills were. The teacher must have been disgusted, but he made a polite face the way Asians do. Even so, I knew how out of shape I was. From then on I went there three times a week to work out.

  All my clients weren't as easy to please as the diplomat from Uganda, but every time I got home from a "date" I added up the numbers in my bank account and reminded myself why I was doing this. To avenge Mom.

  But first I needed to find out who killed her. I knew it would cost a lot, thousands of dollars, according to the PI in New York. And after I found out the killer's name, I would have to figure out a way to punish him. That would cost money too. A lot, probably.

  I accumulated several regulars—generous tippers—who saw me three or four times a month. In my spare time I went to movies. Parisians were gaga over Hollywood movies and my French clients loved to discuss them. I used Pariscope, a weekly magazine that lists what's happening each week, to choose which films to see. Early on I figured out that vo in the listing meant Version Original, meaning it was in English with French subtitles. I always saw the vo version. Most of the subtitles were idiotic.

  To celebrate my twentieth birthday on April 15th, I sent Gabe a coded email: P is fantastic. E-tower is great. I love you, IRS. I was sure Gabe would figure it out. I missed him a lot, but I didn't miss Pecos. I wondered how Ellen was doing now that Randy wasn’t around to make her g
ive him blowjobs.

  One day in the office I met a girl and we got talking. Her name was Amanda Lin. None of us ever revealed our last name. Amanda was tiny, only five-two, but she had a gorgeous face and big boobs. We went to a café and chatted in English over a Café Grande. We didn't talk about our previous life, so I don't know where she's from.

  I hoped she’d be my girlfriend like Val in New York, but Amanda spent her free time with her boyfriend. Now and then we went out for lunch. Her specialty was jazz. When I said mine was art, we swapped information. Being au courant in two areas was better than one. Some clients just wanted a pretty girl to talk to at dinner and have sex with afterwards, but many of my clients were wild about jazz.

  I started going to jazz clubs and fell in love with the music. It made me feel free, the way I used to feel when I was in New York, dancing in the dark.

  Every day I watched the news on TV to keep up with current events. That's how I found out about the Columbine shootings. It happened April 20, 1999, five days after my twenty-first birthday. Two high school kids brought guns to school and killed several of their classmates; then they killed themselves. It reminded me of Randy and his football-player friends in Pecos.

  I wished I could talk to Gabe about it, but I didn't dare call him.

  When I felt lonely, I'd go to an upscale bar just to be around people. I liked hearing their murmured conversations. Sometimes I'd fantasize that I was with a man, but then I’d give myself a dope-slap.

  Forget romance. I had to avenge Mom’s murder. I shall be a champion of freedom and justice. Justice for Mom, then freedom for me. Freedom to live my life however I wanted. Which didn't include working for The Service.

  One day I went to the Pompidou Center. The modern art collection is fantastic. Afterwards I went to the gift shop and stopped at a tall carrousel that displayed many postcards. I spun it around. When it stopped, my heart jumped into my throat and my hands got cold as ice.

  Facing me at eye level was a photograph of the gargoyles perched on the facade high above Notre Dame Cathedral. They were hideous, gaping mouths, angry eyes, long sharp talons gripping the cement facade.