by Jenna Rae
“Try not to break anything while I take my ten. And remember to push the white lace thongs. We got six boxes of the stupid things.”
Fortune scurried out of the store and into the mall, jangling the keys with every quick step. Brenda trailed after her until they were outside, following her into a heavily littered concrete cove that clearly served as a smoking area for mall employees. She watched Teresa Fortune light a menthol cigarette with shaking hands and a frown of concentration.
“What’re you hassling me for, cop?”
She didn’t react but watched Donnelly’s girlfriend suck in smoke and awkwardly shift her insubstantial weight from high-heeled foot to high-heeled foot. Each lurch was accompanied by the sound of keys sliding past one another on her key ring.
“You wanna know if I knew Mark was doing all that stuff. If I was in on it.”
She shrugged. With her emaciated body and nervous gestures, Fortune looked like a relatively functional junkie. She would talk to fill silence.
“Yeah, well, if I was in on something like that, I sure as shit wouldn’t be working at the panty shack, would I?”
She shrugged again. Fortune shook her head and groaned, pressing a thin, pale hand against the side of her head. She launched into sudden, hysterical laughter that died as quickly as it sprang to life. “Fuck me. I see where you’re going with this. You think I been using the store to launder money.”
“And?” Masking her surprise at Fortune’s comment, Brenda waited to see what else she might reveal. Was Fortune’s panicked conjecture based on some actual money-laundering activities or was the addict trying to misdirect her?
Fear flashed across Fortune’s face, but she shook her head and offered a wry grin. “This place don’t make enough money to be any good for that. It’ll be outta business in six months.”
“And then what happens to you and the other employees?”
Fortune shrugged as though the question was moot. She rubbed her bony hip as though it hurt. “There are plenty of places that need experienced shift managers. I’ll just find someplace else to pay me like shit and work me a million hours a week with no overtime. Like, twenty feet away. Hell, it might be a different store in the same damn spot!” Another burst of wild laughter shook her narrow frame, and Fortune nearly lost her balance. She steadied with grave care and pursed her lips.
Brenda nodded, a sympathetic expression drawing down her features. “Why are you working here if your boyfriend was making a bunch of money? Didn’t he share the wealth?”
Fortune rolled her eyes. “They’re saying he made a whole pile of cash, but he didn’t spend it on me, that’s for damn sure!”
The brittle woman shot an assessing glance at Brenda, who kept her face blank. She wondered how much Donnelly and any possible partners had made in the extortion scheme and what Teresa Fortune considered a lot of money.
Meth offered a relatively cheap high, but the cost of maintaining a habit could escalate astronomically, depending on how much an addict was using. Fortune wore gaudy costume jewelry, knock-off PVC stilettos and drugstore makeup. She drove a twelve-year-old Buick and had no kids to support. If she had any money at all, it was probably funneled directly to her dealer.
“Fuck it, ’cause like I said, don’t look at me. Whatever he was pulling down, he wasn’t spending it on me. Sure as shit he was spending it on that titty dancer, Staci or whatever. The bitch with the kid.”
“Oh?” Brenda wondered if the woman was fishing for Staci Smith’s name or testing to see if Brenda knew it. She also wondered if Fortune’s jewelry box—or the pawn shop nearest her apartment, or the pawn shop nearest her dealer’s apartment—featured high-value gems like the ones Brenda had found in Smith’s place.
“So he didn’t buy you a lot of gifts?”
She launched into a tirade of complaints about Mark Donnelly, to which Brenda half listened. Fortune’s tone turned whining, and her words rode out on a cloud of sour smoke and spittle.
“He wasn’t like the love of my life. The cheapskate took me out maybe once or twice a month, threw me a few bucks now and then when I was running low. Me and him were mostly just fuck buddies, you know? He was a laugh or whatever, and, honey, he had a great big dick. I liked to fuck him, and he liked to fuck me. That’s it. So don’t look at me for nothing.”
“How did you meet?”
She dropped her cigarette and used her red stiletto’s pointed toe to grind it into the rough cement with more force than was required. She’d touched up a crack in the shoe’s vinyl with a red marker in almost the right shade, and Brenda felt a stab of pity. Fortune pulled out another cigarette from the pack in her bra. Brenda took the lighter and lit the cigarette for her, taking the opportunity to get a closer look at Donnelly’s second girlfriend. Her eyes were bloodshot, her skin rough under heavy pancake makeup. The last yellowing of a black eye showed through layers of concealer, and several fingertip bruises in various stages of healing dotted her neck and arms. One cheekbone sported a greenish contusion poorly disguised by bright pink rouge. An angry-looking rash on her chest and neck was only highlighted by the body glitter she’d applied like spackle.
She also displayed wide horizontal scars on the insides of both wrists, each festooned with an illegible tattoo. The mass of keys had dragged down her skirt to expose several inches of bare skin, displaying a rose tattoo and the yellow-and-green edge of what looked like a large bruise. Had Donnelly been the author of these injuries, or was Fortune seeing more than one man?
Just looking at Teresa Fortune made Brenda depressed and angry. As she saw it, Fortune was the product of a sick society that undervalued its children, especially its little girls, and let them get twisted into receptacles for men’s anger, lust, selfishness, and indifference.
What had become of the child Teresa Fortune? Had there even been a time when the little girl dared to dream of being anything but pleasing? How long had it taken for her to turn into the brittle, bitter shell of a woman who stood shaking and twitching before Brenda now?
“How’d we meet? Mark just came into Silky one time, and we clicked, you know? He was nice. He came in to buy some shit for some girl, and he asked me what my bra size was. Guys do that all the time, you know that? They think ’cause I sell panties I’m like a hooker or something. I’m not, by the way.”
She nodded her understanding, wondering if Fortune was lying about how she’d met Donnelly. Had he busted her? “You work ten to six?”
“Why? You looking for a discount?”
She ignored this. “He worked evenings. I figure he came on his day off or before shift.”
“You figure, huh? You think you’re smart?”
“I wasn’t smart enough to see what he was doing.”
Fortune acknowledged this with a raspy chuckle.
“That looks like it hurt. Did he do that?” Brenda lightly tapped her own cheekbone.
“Nah. Don’t start thinkin’ that. He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t like that.”
Brenda murmured as though in agreement. “Miss Fortune—”
“Fuck that fake nice bullshit and get the fuck off my back. Listen, it’s not like we had some big love affair, okay? He was cute. I was horny. I was hooked on him, you know how it is with some guys.” Fortune gave Brenda a sly, sidelong glance. “Or maybe you don’t. No skin off my dick. Anyhow. Mark was classy, that’s all. Polite. He dropped like five hundred bucks on panties and shit. A guy spends money like that, you figure he’ll treat you right.”
She hoped her skepticism didn’t show on her face.
“Was I wrong! Asshole never spent more than fifty bucks on me! Believe me, sister, I know what I’m doing in the bedroom. It didn’t matter for shit. He was willing to buy me a burger, fuck me, whatever, but that’s it. Now he’s dead. I’m still stuck in this shithole, and that stripper bitch is sitting pretty. Whatever. It’s not like we were in love or anything.”
“Still, I’m sorry for your loss.”
At Brenda’s w
ords, Fortune began crying, thick black tears streaming down either side of her narrow scarlet mouth.
“You know what? Fuck you!” Fortune dropped her lit cigarette at Brenda’s feet. “Stuck-up bitch, coming in here talking like we’re best fuckin’ friends! I been worked by a hundred damn cops and you motherfuckers are all the same. I didn’t do nothing wrong and you can’t pin shit on me. Fuck off! Don’t bother me again!”
She spun awkwardly on her high heel, strode back to the mall entrance, yanked on the heavy door, and disappeared into the depressing shopping center without a backward glance.
A Watchdog guard came out from where Fortune had just stormed in, and he stalked toward Brenda. She hid a smile. The man had the red face, bandy legs and puffed chest of a rooster. He ruffled his arms as if they were wings, and she had to force herself not to focus on his appearance.
“Is there a problem here?”
“What kind of problem?” She kept her tone cool and her expression mild. She wanted to see what the guy would do.
“Teri’s crying! What’d you do to her?”
By now the guard was within a yard of her and he sneered. His breath smelled like candy, and his cheeks were flushed. His uniform was too tight and displayed sweat rings and dried salt from sweat that had dried in the uniform. The fabric clearly didn’t stretch or breathe, and she wondered why the company didn’t get better uniforms.
She also wondered if the guard was diabetic, given the dark, sweet scent of his breath. She felt suddenly sorry for him. He was trying to stick up for his friend, and he didn’t have the bandwidth to do so effectively.
She didn’t look much better herself, and she was supposed to be lying low. She faked nervousness and hugged herself. “I didn’t do nothin’ wrong. Her boyfriend’s dead, of course she’s crying. What do you want?” She employed a wheedling, ingratiating tone, and the guard practically laughed with satisfaction.
“That better be it.” He looked her up and down with disdain, and she wondered for the thousandth time at how easy it was to play a part and elicit the desired response from people.
“Leave me alone.”
“Why don’t you move along, lady? Unless you’re shopping, you’re loitering.”
“Yeah, I’m goin’.” She slunk away, wondering if there were any Watchdogs employees who knew how to interact professionally with the public. She’d never seen security guards behave like Dan Miller’s overheated ’roid patrol.
Tami Sheraton’s boyfriend, Mason, worked for the company, and she found it hard to believe Sheraton would be interested in a macho bully. With a moment’s reflection on the myriad women she had watched return to abusive boyfriends and husbands, though, she let go of the assumption. All kinds of people chose all kinds of people for reasons they seemed mostly not to understand or even examine.
Having met Teresa Fortune, she couldn’t help but compare her to Donnelly’s other girlfriend. She’d assumed it was Donnelly who’d bought the high-end jewelry for Staci Smith, and realized she should follow up on other possibilities. For all she knew, Smith’s family had money. Or she’d invested her income in jewelry. Or the pieces had been bought by some ex-boyfriend or admirer of Smith’s.
She was young and pretty and personable, and strip-club customers often liked to imagine they had relationships with the dancers. More than one young woman in tassels had received marriage proposals, cars and flashy baubles, real and fake. The pricey jewelry could have come from Dan Miller, who had apparently dated Smith at some point and was presumably amassing a fortune with his growing security business. Brenda wondered: who was Jessica’s father? Had the jewelry come from him?
Why did Donnelly and Smith stay in that cheap apartment in that terrible neighborhood instead of selling off some of the jewelry to finance a nicer, safer place? They’d been saving for a house, Smith said, but few cops would feel comfortable living in a Cracker Jack box in a crime-ridden neighborhood, even during the saving-up period.
She pulled out her cell phone while trudging back to her car through the parking lot. She called Dan Miller again and left a brief message following up on her earlier request for contact. She let her tone harden a little to prompt him to actually respond. She’d barely disconnected after leaving that message when her phone vibrated in her hand.
“Hey, Tori.”
“Yeah, I think I owe you an apology,” Tori said, her voice low and indistinct. “I’m a little worried about you.”
She made a noncommittal noise and got into the driver’s seat of the Caliber that still felt like a stranger’s car.
“I do think there’s something off about the whole thing. But hold on.” Tori put her hand over the phone and spoke with someone. She heard voices and wind and some faraway music, sounds that made her think of Green Rock Marina, where members of the exclusive yacht club Wharf Rats kept their overpriced vessels. Tori had always wanted to join, and apparently she’d finally gained access to the lofty circles. For a second Brenda thought about telling her the number of the slip that housed Tori’s boat. Tori must have seen it in passing and wondered whose it was. She clearly had no idea it had been purchased as a gift for her birthday months before.
“Listen, about earlier—”
“You want to dig up dirt on my friends.” Tori barked a laugh. “You were always jealous when I spent time with anybody but you.”
“That’s not true. And that’s not what this is about. Any one of the people you’re playing golf with or sailing with or drinking with could be involved in this.”
“Who, exactly, do you imagine is the mobster? Walton? Banks? Johnson? Trimble? The mayor? Maybe you figure the guys on the city council are on the take?”
“You’ve done a one-eighty, and I don’t get why.”
“We don’t live in some Hollywood movie where the perfect little town turns out to be a nest of vipers, Bren. Briarwood isn’t that mysterious a place. Walton spends too much on his haircuts, Banks plays millionaire playboy, I spend too much on shoes. You hoard cash like Ebenezer Scrooge. That’s all. Nothing more nefarious than acting like entitled Americans. I have to go. I’ll call you later. Be careful, okay?”
She swallowed a pang of pain and regret. When Tori started eyeing the upper reaches of the department’s ranks, she developed a strategic plan. She presented her case to Brenda and insisted they join the country club and take up golf. She demanded they start dining several nights a week at the half dozen restaurants on the waterfront, where a limp Caesar salad could cost twenty dollars and a mediocre glass of wine ten.
Tori also wanted to join Wharf Rats because “everyone who mattered” belonged to the pricey, exclusive yachting-and-sailing club. It was the sort of place that either excluded or exploited the people Brenda liked best. None of the officers under her command would ever be allowed in such a place, unless they were moonlighting as security guards. Maggie’s husband, Jorge, worked as a handyman at The Nest, the club’s lounge, and Brenda thought more than once that she’d rather have a beer with Jorge than hundred-dollar whiskey with anyone who belonged to the sailing club.
Tori wanted to be one of the fancy people. She craved access to the rarified air enjoyed by those in the upper echelons. She clawed and fought and charmed and invested and maneuvered her way to what she wanted. Whatever the price, it never seemed too high, and it worked. Tori was one of them now, and Brenda was exactly what she’d feared becoming, an ex on the periphery of Tori’s life.
Did Tori think of their relationship as a mistake? Sometimes it felt like that. She recalled all too clearly the months she’d spent feeling left behind. She remembered taking calls like the one she’d just gotten: Tori on a boat or golf course or in a bar somewhere, saying she was busy.
Every time it sounded like Tori was at sea, of course, it hurt all over again. The cruiser she’d fixed up for a birthday surprise sat berthed at Green Hand Marina, probably only yards away from where Tori had just embarked. Brenda was a terrible golfer, but she knew how to handle a boat, whether c
ruiser or sailing craft, and she’d hoped part of the surprise would be her ability to skillfully maneuver Tori’s birthday present, a beautiful thirty-four-foot cruiser.
More and more over the last months they were together, Tori drank overpriced wine and made small talk with the Briarwood power brokers and their wives on the west side of town while Brenda played den mother to investigators who chased down leads on domestic-violence assaults and rapes and murders in moribund neighborhoods on the south side.
Tori became enthused about all things expensively nautical. She began pricing luxury cabin cruisers and striped designer shirts, practicing knots and memorizing sailing protocols. She talked endlessly about Green Hand, the exclusive marina named for an algae-slimed rock.
“You know I want to learn how to sail. Why don’t we get a little boat?”
By the time Tori brought it up, Brenda had already bought the thirty-four-foot Seahorse Europa that was too old, too worn and too small to impress anyone. But she bought a newish replacement engine and hired a crew of restorers to work on the cruiser for her.
After months of expensive repairs and updates, the craft was deemed seaworthy. While smaller and less luxurious than her berth neighbors, she was a classic and just nice enough to make them the poor pier neighbors who nonetheless belonged. Brenda dipped into her long-accrued savings and spent far more than she should have to get one of the few small berths in Green Hand Marina. Nearly all of the berths were for boats in the fifty-to-seventy-foot range. The Sheratons had a slip, as did most of the commanders, Walton, the mayor, several dozen millionaire entrepreneurs including Dan Miller, and the richest ten or fifteen families in Briarwood. There was one row in Green Hand that held smaller, thirty- to forty-foot craft, and a ten-thousand-dollar deposit netted her a slip there, only one row away from Green Hand’s best.
