“It’s okay. I think I’m holding Erik—anyone, really—at bay because of the…injuries…from the hurt, the losses.”
“Quite likely. But that isn’t necessarily bad. If those injuries keep you from fulfilling a loving relationship, one you would truly like to enjoy, then they’re getting in your way. If you use those injuries merely as a measure to help you avoid disaster—for example, someone who is ultimately harmful for you—then you’ve learned lessons from your troubles and applied those lessons, which is part of the process of gaining wisdom in life. Did your juvenile history come up in therapy?”
“I stumbled when she asked me about my relationships and whether I had any fault in their failures.”
Niesha sat fully upright, a stern look in her eyes. “She asked you that, in those words?”
“Not exactly, but close.” Lishan shifted in her seat. “She was mildly inappropriate—the first words out of her mouth, recapping why I was there, did seem disparaging.” Lishan paused, thinking. “I stumbled when I remembered Lucas. All I said was that I had a relationship when I was in juvenile hall, but I regretted mentioning it afterward. I know she told the editor, Jerry, because I got called into the HR director’s office, asked about whether I had a felony I didn’t list on my employment application.”
Niesha’s anger flashed to the surface, but Lishan pushed her way forward.
“The publisher, Elizabeth Walker, got involved. When it was apparent they had no proof, because there was no felony, and that Jerry and the therapist were in collusion, the publisher became quite furious with them. She gave me a day off. By that time, I had already called the therapist’s office, saying I wouldn’t be needing her ‘help’ anymore.”
Niesha’s anger subsided somewhat, but it was still in her veins. She decided to move past it, to the personal side, for Lishan’s sake.
“Lishan?”
“Yes?”
“Do you want to be with Erik? I know—at least, I believe I know—that he’s sweet on you, and he’s a nice-enough guy. Also, if I recall correctly, you go a little wiggie at the mention of him.”
“Wiggie?”
“Yes, wiggie. Deal. And?”
“We don’t sleep together.” The restrained exasperation in Lishan’s voice was evident. “Yes, I know he likes me. And, no, well, yes, I do go a little wiggie about him, and I have hesitations as well. Goodness, Auntie. What else?”
Niesha smiled an understanding smile. “Backing up a step, do you have a gut feeling about being with Erik?”
“If I only knew. At times, I think so, that I would like it. But he gets so jealous, flying off the, what…handle.”
As the conversation about Erik wound down, it turned to Lishan’s safety.
“How safe do you feel it is to stay in your apartment?”
“I’m thinking I’m okay there. If that changes, I won’t hesitate to leave.”
As Niesha dropped Lishan off at the apartment complex, she insisted her niece keep her apprised of development. “Promise?”
“Yes, Auntie.”
- - -
At last, Lishan said to herself as she entered her apartment. She was exhausted. Two voicemails had triggered her answering machine. She was one of a dwindling number of people who still liked having a landline and voicemail machine at home. Sometimes, she just didn’t want to give out her cell phone number.
The first message was from Erik, just checking in, ensuring she was okay. Her face brightened, knowing how much he cared. She also felt a quiver of anxiety, wondering as to his jealousy. Rafael sleeping on her couch did seem to wrinkle Erik’s brow.
The second brought fresh images. It was Beck.
“Lishan, hi. This is Beck. First of all, thank you for last night. You’ve gotten through to me where others did not, or didn’t care to.” He paused before continuing. “I’m conflicted about what to tell you, but I believe helping you is the right thing to do, my best next step in life.” Beck paused. “I have two names for you. A Conner bouncer—Johnny Mazzini. Goes by Mazzini. He feels ‘Johnny’ is too, in his words, queer. And Fatima Habiba. Thought you should know. Before I began doing detective work for Conner, I was a production manager for one of Conner Foods factories for a while. Did I tell you that already? In any case, Fatima, an employee, was injured due to Conner’s testing one of his trans fatty additives in the factory’s lunchroom. I hope your phone isn’t tapped. Or mine. No, they wouldn’t. Would they? Get in touch if and when you feel like it. Take care.”
Lishan could hear Beck’s uncertainty. She appreciated his attempts to make change in himself. As she had shared with him, it wasn’t always easy.
The third. Jerry, ah, Jerry. So predictable. Lishan laughed as the message began, “Where in the hell are you this time, Princess Lishan? I’m deducting this from your pay. I hope you’re not…” Pressing delete always felt good to Lishan, whether Jerry’s message was finished or not. Especially when it was not. She’d deal with it tomorrow. Soon enough.
The hot shower felt lavish, washing off the remnants of travel. Flashbacks of Beck formed on her body as the water caressed her.
The top shelf of her closet bore a pile of neatly folded shorts. She contemplated a loose-fitting khaki pair but decided she was staying in. Pajama bottoms were in order. A dark pullover t-shirt, wide at the neck, finished the job. She never did like that tight feeling against her neck.
She decided to have that cup of coffee—an espresso from the small home system she purchased several years back. It had never failed to cheer her up or spur her on, whichever was in need. While making the espresso, she was reminded of two stories from her past. Six years ago, she’d talked her close friend, Robert, into getting an espresso. Robert was an Italian cowboy, raised on a Northern California ranch, riding rodeos before turning hairdresser. He loved coffee of his own making but had never tried an espresso. “This tastes like burnt coffee,” Robert said after his first taste. The downturned expression of Robert’s mouth made them both laugh. Then there was a sign Lishan had heard about from a hippie friend, a sign in an old coffee house in the seventies. Espresso was new to the area. On the chalkboard displaying the café’s menu, below “Espresso,” it read: “If you don’t know what it is, you don’t want any.” She smiled at the memories.
“Erik, hi. This is…”
“I know. Did you get my message?” His voice had a distinct edge to it.
“If you mean the voice mail asking how I am, yes. If it was something else, no.”
“You writers. So specific. Are you at home?”
“Yes. I arrived back several hours ago.”
“Back?”
“From upstate New York. I didn’t tell you?” It wasn’t a question as much as a realization.
“No, you didn’t. Are you okay? I’ve been worried about you for three days. You’re in danger, and you just leave without letting me know?”
Lishan was quiet. She had no argument. “Yes. I, uh, can understand how you would feel. I’m truly sorry, Erik. No question.”
Erik softened, to a point, but followed with more abrasion in his tone. “Did you go away with someone? Is he there?”
“No. No one is here. I didn’t go away with anyone. I was following a lead on Conner.” She knew she was avoiding the subject of Beck. “Look, can I come over. This is all done so much better in person.”
“Sure. Come on by. But I don’t know what you mean by ‘this is all done so much better.’”
Lishan sighed to herself, knowing it could be a rough visit. She said she would be there in a few minutes.
After they attempted to settle in on his couch, he got straight to what was on his mind.
“Did you sleep with someone? I just need to know.”
Lishan raised her voice. “Why do you always relate my life to having been with someone?”
“Let’s see. As of late, there’s the studly former work associate who stayed over the other night, then whoever you met this weekend. You did sleep with someone new, am
I correct?”
She was silent at first, unsure of what to say. “Erik, I…
“My point, exactly. James, Rafael, Miles from a year ago...”
“Got it, got it, got it. Look, I went to New York to follow a lead on an author who’s in prison for writing about food and corruption. More specifically, about Jack Conner. I was being followed by this PI guy, Beck. I had to stay two nights in a motel. The second night he came by. I had no plans to sleep with him, or anyone for that matter. I guess I just got a little afraid to be alone, given the poisoning.”
More silence.
“He’s a private detective for the vice warden. Just checking me out.” Why the hell did I say that? “I did get my interview, but the vice warden didn’t make it easy. I had to stay an extra, unplanned night.” She stopped. “Are you jealous?”
“Yes and no, all rolled into one messy concoction.”
“Can we just start fresh, Erik? No, actually, I want to know. Do you think I was wrong to sleep with this guy? You and I aren’t having sex. So I miss it. I’m not bad for it.”
“No, I suppose not. I just felt…wounded.” Erik’s tone softened.
Lishan’s breathing slowed a little, but she still needed to press a point. “Why do you get angry, then? You’ve done this before. Blue skies then wham, the tempest—usually unwarranted, in my opinion.”
Erik stood, feeling caged. “Look, it’s who I am.”
“That’s it? Your reason, your excuse, is that’s who you are?”
Erik quieted, as though a switch had flipped. “You know, you’re right. I should never treat you badly. I was just jealous.”
Lishan felt the drawbridge lower, the tension ease. She wanted to please this guy she had feelings for. She cared, but she didn’t want to lose herself in the process. Then she smiled—not too bright, but still a smile.
She pointed to a calendar on his wall. “Listen, do you see this day? It’s today.” She hesitated, finding her thoughts, her words. “The month is half over.”
She turned the calendar to the next month, pointing to a Friday night. “It’s the thirteenth. In olden times, thirteen was a lucky number, until the church cranked up the oppression against women. So, the thirteenth. It’s a powerful day.” Her voice was not loud, but it was strong, obdurate. “We now have a date for that day. Don’t forget it.” She drew something next to the date.
He looked at the calendar, the muscles in his face loosening. “A heart?”
Lishan managed a smile and then kissed him on the cheek. They both seemed to feel lost for a moment. Erik spoke up and broke the spell.
“Hungry?” Erik went to his kitchen, returning with chips and some guacamole he’d made earlier.
“Lishan, you—we—can no longer ignore that your life might be—no, is—in danger.” He sat next to her on the couch, his knee pressing against her thigh. Taking both of her hands, the lover and caregiver in him came through. “Lishan, you know I love you…as a friend…all right, as a close friend. Considering who Conner is, your epitaph isn’t far off, and I can’t let that happen.”
He stopped, asking, “What can I get you to drink?”
“You like cab, don’t you? Got any?”
Erik smiled. He wanted to be in Lishan’s good graces. “It’s been in the fridge. I’ll pour two glasses. While it breathes, I’ll break out some Gouda if you like.”
Their comfort level returned to what they had always known. Perhaps five minutes later, Erik continued.
“Okay. Should we seriously consider that Conner wants you muffled? Euphemism aside—dead or otherwise silenced."
Lishan told him what JoJo had said about Conner's clients pulling out.
“I can see that touching a nerve in someone of Conner’s caliber. Say, where’s that book I gave you…you know, the ‘propaganda’?”
Lishan retrieved it from her bag. They spent the next hour under its hood, hoping to uncover anything additional that would help Lishan’s case.
“What’s this? Who’s Johnny Mazzini?” Erik was pointing to a name that had notes penciled next to it.
“He handles tough customers for Conner.”
“How do you know of him?”
Lishan swallowed. “For one, through the private detective.”
“Oh.”
“He also gave me info on a woman named Fatima Habiba, who I need to look up. She’s an employee of Conner Foods, and she apparently has some dirt on him. Look Erik, the P.I. does work for the prison, but he took a shine to me because I stood up to his bullshit. I think his guilt has gotten to him, so he’s playing counter-intelligence for me.” Practically muttering, she added, “I wonder how they would react if they knew?”
“I’m glad he’s helping. Just keep him out of your bedroom. I can only handle so much.” Erik laughed, but it was stinted.
“Do you have any vacation or sick time to burn up?” Erik added.
Before she could answer, Erik continued with a plan. “This would give you the time to uncover your answers. Beginning in the morning, we can find out why this Mazzini is important. What has he done? What do you think?”
“Yes-s-s.” She drew the answer out, persuading herself in the process. “I’ll arrange for a couple of days, at least.”
“Okay. I’ll bet you would enjoy some sleep, some quiet.” He gave her a hug and a brief kiss on the lips. “See you in the morning. Say, I should have your phone disconnected, don’t you think? Privacy laws won’t stop these guys.”
The thought of her privacy being readily compromised gave Lishan pause. “Yes. Okay. What about my cell phone?”
“Get another one. A burner. Someone else’s name. Easy enough.” As he closed the door behind him, he whispered, “Oh, and don’t use your car for now. You don’t use it that often, if I remember correctly. I’ll move it to a friend’s house, nearby, if you don’t mind. In fact, don’t use it at all until this thing gets settled. Use well-lit public transportation, or I can rent a car for you. We have to do this right. Use the back entrance. Disguising your looks would be in order. Take this seriously. Good night, Lishan.”
“Good night, Erik.” Her answer was distracted as he left. Her life was truly in danger. How could that be? She was a reporter. Did I ever hurt anyone? That last thought was troubling. Maybe she did.
Sleep was laborious. After the first hour of restlessness, she took a three-milligram melatonin supplement. It always worked for those red-eye flights. Why not now? Beck was calling to her for help. Pleading. Beck and Erik being subdued by Rafael—a jealous descendant of de Sade.
28
Beck was finally home, settling in for the evening after a provocative weekend. It was Monday evening. The penthouse condo he purchased six months ago on State Street, in Albany’s Center Square neighborhood, was perfect for him—comfortable, suited to his taste, his lifestyle. The blend of eclectic coffee houses and boutique shops nearby, amidst an array of taverns, felt like his former home in the Village.
Life is good, he said to himself.
He poured a glass of Saratoga Winery Cab, 2008.
“California’s got nothing over us. New York rules,” Beck would say when down at the local market. He had some cheese as well—Washington County Cheese, Camembert-style.
Beck felt smug when snubbing the popular establishment. This was his evening ritual—the wine, cheese, imported crackers, all before he took his evening shower. Beck felt extravagant, and he loved it. Then he remembered Lishan. Fear overtook him as he recalled the crack in his loyalty to Jack Conner. But Beck just shook it off, convincing himself it was nothing. The smile returned.
After the hors d’oeuvres—as he liked to refer to his snacks—he slightly opened the door to the balcony, enjoying the coolness in the air. He thought he heard his floor creak behind him, but turning quickly produced nothing. Just jittery, he thought. Nothing to be concerned about. Jack won’t find out. We just talked. It’s not as though I jumped ship, or divulged anything I shouldn’t have. Or, did I?
&nb
sp; He tried to shake the feeling. Pouring another few ounces of wine, he looked around his condominium. Everything was in order. Beck felt a sigh of relief and proceeded to finish the wine and head toward the shower.
Just in case, Beck thought, as he put his .38 and holster on the vanity. He knew Conner all too well.
With the warmth of the shower running down his body, a sweet waterfall from his elephant showerhead, he finally lost track of time and worry. After the final rinse of the Brazilian Citrus conditioner from his hair, he opened his eyes and thought he saw the flicker of a shadow on a living room wall.
Probably just the lights, he thought.
As he looked down, turning off the shower control, he heard something hit the inside of the shower, just above his head. Then he felt a squirming at his feet.
Beck looked down in horror, afraid of what unknown, unthinkable thing he would find.
There was a cobra at his feet.
Beck screamed, breaking the glass door out of its frame as he attempted to free himself from danger. But the cobra was too quick for Beck, protecting itself by inflicting its venom into Beck’s left thigh. In the melee, Beck slipped and hit his head with full force on the bathroom floor. He stopped moving, though he still breathed.
Mazzini quietly stepped around in view of the bathroom. The cobra was on the floor next to Beck. Mazzini—with full combat boots, leggings, and a bulletproof vest on under his suit—reached in front of the snake with his gloved left hand, gently waving it slowly back and forth, flat palm facing the snake.
“Naja,” he called to the snake. “Naja, Naja, Naja,” he said over and over, soothing the snake. With his right hand, also gloved, he quickly grabbed it behind its head and put it in a sturdy, dark bag. “There, there, my pet. You’re safe, now.”
Mazzini looked one last time at Beck, whose breath was slowing.
“Not much longer, my friend,” Mazzini said. Then he left as he had come—through the front door, with lock-picks stowed in his pocket and sixty-inch tongs in case Naja was unruly.
Silence Her Page 16
