by Linda Sands
He looked at Sailor. “Get me a cold wet washcloth and see if there’s a medical kit—smelling salts or ammonia.”
Sailor hustled to the rear of the apartment. She looked in two rooms before she found the bathroom. The place was neat and nicely decorated. It would have been a nice place to visit under different circumstances. She pawed through the drawers of the bathroom vanity. In the last one she found a first-aid kit and raced back to the living room.
Sailor handed the smelling salts to Reilly. He broke a capsule open and waved it under Shelly’s nose.
Shelly tossed her head, gagging, then scrunched up her face and opened her eyes. “What the fuck?” She pushed Reilly’s hand away. “What are you doing here?” Shelly looked around, focusing on her friend, then Sailor. “Who the fuck are you?”
Shelly pushed Reilly away, rolled over and tried to sit up.
“I don’t feel so good.”
Reilly scooped her off the floor and carried her to the bathroom.
Sailor paced the living room, and when she heard the shower start up she wondered if she should leave. There wasn’t anything else for her to do.
The blonde said, “I like your suit.”
“Thanks.”
Sailor sat next to the girl on the couch. “Were you here? When she? When it happened?”
“Yeah. I mean, I didn’t see it or nothing. I was in the other room with a friend.”
Sailor said, “Shelly’s lucky you were here,” and wondered where the friend was now.
“Yeah. I guess. She’s going to be okay, right? I mean, it was just some bad blow, not like it could…you know.” The girl looked away, still talking but not like she wanted to hear the truth.
Sailor knew how she felt. So she didn’t say anything.
Mutual interests suffer consequences from known opposition, offer opportunity for sacrifice before defeat. Vitriolic confrontation avoidable. D.
Sailor was sitting in Deluca’s office reading his email, copying some to a personal document and hiding it under some layers of spam. She was trying not to think of the morning, how the whole thing had felt surreal, when her cell phone rang.
“It’s Reilly, just wanted to thank you for this morning. I’m sorry about all that. You were great.”
“Me? You’re a regular Rescue Hero.”
“Not quite.” His voice softer, “I should’ve done more.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“I should have been there.”
“And what would you have done?”
Silence.
Sailor continued. “That’s right, there’s nothing you could have done. Not to stop her, not to change her, not anything. She—Oh God.” Sailor closed her eyes and shook her head slowly.
“What? Sailor?”
Reilly barely heard her when she said, “It’s just like my mother.”
“Your mother? Wait a minute. She died of cancer.”
“Yeah, my adoptive mother did. My real mother died of a heroin overdose when I was three months old.”
“Your real mother?”
Sailor sighed, then decided to tell him everything. “The Beaumonts adopted me through a Philadelphia attorney. He knew the girl’s—my Mom’s family. My parents never told me anything, not until Mom got sick. She said she wanted me to know, in case I ever wanted to find my family.”
“Did you?”
“No. They were my family. Besides, from what my dad said, my mother had been disowned. The family even refused to speak her name. What would they want with her daughter?”
“What about your father?”
“I never got the whole story. He abandoned my mother when she was pregnant with me. He married her, but it was all screwed-up from the start. Young black street punk meets upper-middle-class white girl. Add some drugs into the equation and you know the ending. I’m glad it was different for Shelly.”
“Sailor, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?’ Sailor wiped her eyes, sniffed. “You didn’t know, Reilly. How could you have known? Look at me, I’m no better than those whores we saw at Graterford.”
“Don’t say that. You’re amazing. You’re smart and kind and beautiful and I bet you don’t even own a trench coat.”
Sailor laughed, loved that he could make her laugh when she felt like shit.
When Sailor hung up, she couldn’t help thinking about her mother and wondering who had found her all those years ago, and where her father had been when her mother needed him most.
CHAPTER 16
It’s All in the Timing
TONY CIGARS and Billboard waved to the men in the tractor-trailer. Even from his vantage point on the hill, Berger heard the throaty rumble of the big engine, the shouts above it. Tony pointed to a stack of red-striped containers at the far end of the terminal yard. Berger peered through his binoculars and scanned the area around the pick-up point. Clean. Nothing gave him away. They’d never know what hit them.
A bearded man in a yellow T-shirt jumped from the truck’s cab then jogged to a forklift and set it in motion. The driver went around to the back of the truck smoking a cigarette and laughing at something Tony Cigars said. As they swung the big doors open, Berger lost them for a minute. The metal door obscured their faces, but he saw their legs, their shuffling feet. If only they knew this would be their last tango, they might have made a better effort. Berger smiled, then pressed the button in his left pocket.
It was all over the morning news. A split screen interruption ran on all the local stations: Dock Explosion. Several presumed dead. Ten wounded. Cause unknown. Investigators on the scene.
Reporters rushed to the site to see first hand what had shaken the Parker Avenue Marine Terminal. Producers wondered if they could use this coverage to segue into the growing union concerns. Would they still strike? Did the union have anything to do with the destruction of the Chinese electronics shipment?
Hiram Berger listened to the breaking news on the radio as he drove his Impala through the automated carwash and vacuumed the empty trunk. At home he clicked on the TV in his bedroom and watched the people scurry. Huge shipping containers had been reduced to piles of ash and twisted metal. Tractor-trailer parts were strewn across the terminal yard. One of the heavy rear doors had landed on the roof of a four-story building a block away.
Berger whistled on the way to the shower and grinned as the phone rang.
Reilly looked up from his keyboard only to notice he had typed the last three paragraphs in capital letters. He cursed under his breath, wishing he’d paid more attention in typing class.
When Banning came around the corner, all conversation stopped. There were only two reasons a partner would be found slumming in the cubicles, and the way this guy was all business, it wasn’t romance he was after.
Banning asked the first guy he came to, “Where’s Sailor Beaumont?’
The young man thumbed over his shoulder. “Back there.”
Banning found empty cubicles at the end of the row. Two were clearly abandoned, one neatly arranged and bearing the scent of violets. He stepped in and heard a familiar voice singing about large derrieres. He leaned over Sailor’s cubicle wall and saw Reilly typing like an accompaniment to the song. The girl on the computer in the adjacent cubicle bobbed her head and sang the words with him. “…my anaconda don’t want none, unless you—”
Banning said, “Reilly?”
Reilly looked up, fingers still on the keyboard. “Mr. Banning? What are you doing here?”
“I tried to call you—and Sailor.”
Reilly’s eyes went to his phone. The receiver was off the hook, half-buried under a stack of papers. He leaned over and fixed it, shrugged at Banning. The phone rang. Reilly didn’t flinch.
Banning spoke over the ringing. “We got the okay from Montgomery, and I’ll find out today if Judge Shanahan—Don’t you think you should get that?’ He tipped his chin toward the phone.
“What? Oh, sure.” Reilly answered the phone, then handed it to Bannin
g. “It’s Sailor.”
Banning told Reilly, “This is for your ears too,” then spoke into the phone. “Okay. This is where we are. Montgomery wants to move forward on Bentley, and Shanahan’s willing to meet with us. All we need is Neely. Preferably today. Hold on, I’ll ask.” Banning looked at Reilly. “Can you go to Graterford today?”
Reilly shook his head, “I’d much rather be in prison than typing.” The head-bopping girl across the way chuckled. “But I promised Mr. Scott I’d have this to him by five. There’s no way.”
Banning spoke into the phone. “He’s under the gun. Looks like it’s you and me. Meet me in half an hour.” He handed Reilly the receiver and started to walk away.
Reilly said, “What do you think his chances are?”
“Ray’s?”
“Yeah.”
“With this team on his side?’ Banning grinned. “How could we lose?”
Reilly thought, what team
Lou Gallo lay on the chiropractor’s table with his face in a padded hole. A tall blonde woman pulled on his left leg, jingling the change in his pockets. The door inched open. Bobby ‘White Shoes’ Pizelli walked in.
“Woah! Lou. You okay there, big guy? Jesus Christ. Looks like she’s going to tear your leg off! Easy, Sheena.”
Gallo directed his muffled comments to the man’s footwear. “Leave her alone, White Shoes. Unlike you, she is a professional.”
“Unlike me? What are you saying, Lou? Huh?’ Bobby squatted awkwardly by the table.
Gallo swung his arm. “Get out of here. What the fuck you doing here anyway?”
Gallo pulled his leg away from the chiropractor, rolled his beefy body over. There were creases on his cheeks from the paper-covered headrest.
Gallo was looking old. Lying on his back, his face was all sagging flesh and dark circles. His once tanned skin appeared sickly under the lights. Used to be Gallo could have his pick of broads wherever they went, NY, Vegas, Miami. Everyone wanted a piece of the powerful Lou G. He was fit, handsome, sexy, well endowed and rich. Now, he was mostly powerful, and rich. And sometimes angry.
“I thought you’d want to know about some recent transactions.” Bobby lifted his brows, indicated with a tip of his head that these business transactions may not be fit for the ear of the lady chiropractor.
Gallo held up a hand. “Doc. Give me a minute here, will ya?”
She made a final adjustment to his lower leg, snapped the ankle with a quick downward motion then rotated it and set it gently on the table. Bobby cringed. Gallo sighed. As the door closed behind her, Gallo swung his legs over the edge of the table and sat up. He ran a hand through his graying hair, pushed it back in place. “This better be good, Bobby.”
“Oh, it’s good all right. Somebody blew up our container.”
“What? Christ! Blew it up? What the hell happened?”
“We don’t know. Tony and Billboard went down there to meet the truck and put a little pressure on that shrimp, Vince.”
“Who was driving the truck?”
“What?”
“Who was driving the truck? Was it my nephew?”
“No, Lou. It wasn’t your nephew. It was two guys from Jersey. They’re dead, too. Cops found one of their shoes two blocks away, foot still in it.” He shivered. “That fuckin’ creeps me out.”
“Dead too? What the fuck?”
“Whoever set this up knew what he was doing. He rigged the container so it’d blow when they tried to move it. Killed them all.” Bobby crossed himself. “Tony Cigars, Big Ollie, the guys from Jersey, even some kid three blocks away. It’s all over the news. Where you been anyway? This is the third place I been looking for you.”
“Enough. All right? Enough all ready.” Gallo stood, twisting his back and wincing. “Let’s get out of here. I got some calls to make.”
Paris Kendrick adjusted her camisole strap. “Ted, that’s wonderful. Imagine the press.” She zipped her skirt then leaned across the rumpled sheets to kiss him. “You’ll be all over the news.”
“Yes, well, that was what I was thinking,” Ted said, suddenly interested in a ball of lint on the sheets. “I knew you’d understand.”
“Understand?’ Paris stopped buttoning her blouse. “What are you saying, Ted?”
He forced himself to look at her. “What I’m saying, is that with this much interest in our firm, nothing will be held sacred.”
“And you can’t afford to be seen slipping away for an afternoon with your mistress? Is that it?’ She hated having this conversation, especially now with her bed-tangled hair and make-up kissed away. Paris Kendrick was not pretty when she was angry, but there was no going back now. “Are you going to try to play the loyal husband role, again?’
Ted Montgomery said nothing. He threw back the sheets and walked naked across the room to the valet, his back to Paris.
That was enough for her. “You bastard. After all these years! You never really planned to leave her.” Paris threw her hairbrush. “Did you?”
Ted flinched as the brush hit the small of his back. He picked up his shoes and left the room with Paris right behind him.
“Don’t do this,” he said.
“What? Don’t do what? Cause a scene? Overreact? What, Ted? What should I do?” She grabbed his sleeve.
“Let me go.” Ted stood, one hand on the doorknob, avoiding Paris’s eyes.
“You don’t mean that.”
Her voice was now oddly calm; her words spoken slowly like a line in a newly delivered script. Paris, auditioning for a part she didn’t want. She opened her hand and felt the starched shirt fabric slide over her fingertips and out the door.
She stood in the foyer, fighting back sobs of self-pity. “You’re making a big mistake, Theodore Montgomery! You’ll…be…sorry.”
The words escaped in pieces, as broken apart as her heart. Paris collapsed against the door then slid to the cold marble floor.
“Just you wait and see,” she whispered.
Maria escorted the policemen to the entrance hall.
“We’ll do all we can.” The detective tapped the photograph of Stephan. “Thanks for this.” He slid it into his breast pocket.
Maria nodded. She was afraid to speak, afraid she’d start crying again. She hated how weak that made her look. She watched the cops drive away and stood on the porch for a moment with her face to the wind. She told herself, he’s fine. They’ll find him and bring him home. As if saying the words could convince her.
Sonja came to the porch door, phone in hand. “I’m sorry, Miss Chetta. The gentleman says, ‘It’s important.’”
Maria reached for the phone. Sonja hovered, hoping the news was about Stephan.
“Hello?”
“It’s Lou. I need you to do something for me.”
“Oh, hello.” Maria waved Sonja away. She followed the wrap-around porch to the ocean side and lowered her voice. “What do you mean, Lou? Do something for you? I did what you asked in Philly. Just like twenty-four years ago. I’m done. Leave me alone.”
Gallo laughed his fake laugh, the one reserved for jokes and circumstances that aren’t funny. It raised goose bumps on Maria’s arms.
“You ain’t done till I say you’re are done, babe. Boy, you sure are forgetting a few things about how life works. Your pretty boy chef was right about that.”
“Stephan? Do you have him? Lou, I swear to God if you so much as harm a hair on his head.”
“Maria. Maria. Just relax. The fag is fine. I think he even likes being tied up.”
Maria heard someone laughing in the background.
Gallo said, “I’ll give you an hour to rethink your decision.” The line went dead.
Maria clicked off. She caught her reflection in the window and moved closer. She drew a hand down her face to the gold chains at her throat. She looked like a hundred other rich women. Women who had sold out their dreams and bought into the world. She yanked the chains from her neck and dropped them over the railing into the sea oats. The ri
ngs on her fingers were more resistant.
Banning eased the Jag through the bumpy prison parking lot. Sailor saw the purple sports car. A thin film of dust covered its hood.
Banning had been quiet most of the ride, lost in thought. At he gate he said, “I think we should talk to them together. I’ll call Neely and put you down for Ray. Once the CO’s deliver them, we can sit at the same table.” Banning caught Sailor’s eye. “Let me open the conversation. I don’t want Neely to know how important his deposition is just yet.”
“Isn’t that why he came forward with the information, to help?”
“To help? To help himself is more like it. I don’t think Neely wants Ray to step up to the plate before he has his chance.”
By the time they reached the waiting room, Sailor was mentally exhausted. And they hadn’t even started. She picked up a day-old paper and passed part of it to Banning.
It might have been a nice moment, one in which two people could have shared the daily crossword, or laughed over the funny pages. Instead, they read of a pending dockworker’s strike, an economy in upheaval, unrest in the Middle East, local tragedy after tragedy—just the sort of news you expect when you’re sitting in a maximum security prison waiting to meet with a convicted murderer.
RHU was nothing like the regular visiting room. In the Restricted Housing Unit, you only got one-hour visits, no contact and the guard was always there.
“He’s dead?’ Sailor asked Ray, again.
Banning touched her arm, patted it lightly.
She was still having a hard time understanding what had happened to Stash Neely. She felt like saying, Okay, so now what, but realized that would be neither professional nor appropriate.
She watched Ray walk his fingers over his bruised jaw and up his swollen cheek to his puffy right eye. He winced at a tender spot, then told then how he’d carried the bloody arm to the hospital ward. How the COs wouldn’t let him in. How they just watched Stash die, and how he’d lost control and the COs took him down. Stash was dead and Ray was in the hole.
Sailor shifted uncomfortably on the hard chair. She glanced at the burly CO and wondered if he was the one with the happy fists.
