Rubbed Out

by Barbara Block

  “This thing is such a mess.” I rubbed the back of my neck. I could feel a headache coming on.

  “Here, let me do that,” George said. He drove with one hand and massaged my neck with the other. “That good?” he asked.

  “Much better.”

  “Naturally. I’m the best.”

  “Not to mention humble.”

  A short time later we pulled into my driveway. George took his hand off my neck and pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked like a man who needed to sleep for twelve hours straight, get up, have something to eat, and go back to bed for another twelve.

  “I’ll see what I can find out about the Russians,” he said.

  “Maybe something you turn up will lead us to where they stashed Manuel.”

  “Maybe,” George said, but he didn’t sound convinced. He leaned his head back on the seat.

  I lit another cigarette. The smoke swirled in front of my face and vanished—just like Manuel had, while I ran down my to-do list for George.

  “I’ll talk to the daughter and the art dealer again. Maybe I can shake loose something from one of them on what Janet Wilcox did with the money.”

  “You think the two hundred and fifty thousand could be down in the City?”

  “I have to assume that’s the case.”

  “She could have mailed it somewhere.”

  “The idea has occurred to me.”

  For all I knew, Janet Wilcox could have buried the money in the middle of the rose garden in Thornden Park, but that wasn’t a productive line of thought and I wasn’t going to follow it. I stubbed my cigarette out, cracked the window, and tossed the butt into the snow.

  “I don’t know why I keep smoking these things.”

  “Because you’re an idiot.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Any time.”

  I watched one of my neighbors pull into her driveway and carry her miniature poodle into the house.

  “The Russians probably found out about Manuel from Paul,” I said.

  George shifted his weight around in his seat. “It seems like the most logical possibility,” he allowed.

  We sat in silence for the next five minutes, neither of us wanting to get out of the car.

  Finally I blurted out what I couldn’t get the little voice inside my head to stop whispering in my ear. “Truth. You think Manuel’s still alive?”

  “Truth? Absolutely,” George said. “Nothing is happening to him until you get them their money.”

  “And then when they have it . . .”

  “Adios, muchacho.”

  “And muchacha, I’m thinking.”

  George smiled. It wasn’t a reassuring sight. “That’s not going to happen.”

  “I hope not.”

  “I won’t let it.”

  “Good to know.” I opened the door. The cold air rushed in. “Give my regards to Natalie,” I said as I got out.

  George grunted. “Lay off, will you.”

  “I was just being polite.”

  “No, you weren’t. You were being bitchy.”

  “Okay, Dad. I was bitchy.”

  I watched George pull out of the driveway and go down the street. When the taillights of his car vanished, I went inside my house. I hadn’t put the bottle of Scotch George and I had been drinking away. It was still on the dining room table. I grabbed it and one of the glasses and went upstairs. I peeked into Manuel’s bedroom on the way to my own. Bethany and Zsa Zsa were cuddled together in his bed. I tiptoed in and straightened out the comforter. Zsa Zsa opened her eyes, woofed a soft hello, closed her eyes, and went back to sleep.

  I clicked on the light in my bedroom and poured myself a drink. I sipped the Scotch while I got ready for bed, but it didn’t help. That click in my head that turns everything off didn’t come.

  I kept tossing and turning as I thought about Paul and the drinks we’d had together in his office and how I’d believed what he’d told me. Some women had no luck with men. I wondered if I was one of them, and then I wondered how the Russians had gotten hold of him and how long it had taken him to die. Then I started thinking about Manuel and where he was and how scared he must be feeling and how when it came down to it this whole thing was my fault and how the clock was ticking away.

  Finally I couldn’t stay in bed anymore. I threw off the covers, got up, retreived a yellow legal pad and a pencil from the drawer of my nightstand, and wrote down everybody and everything that I knew about the case. I wrote down Quintillo, Paul and Walter and Janet Wilcox and their daughter Stephanie, as well as Alima, Calli, Dirk, Dirk Junior, and the Russians.

  Next I drew arrows connecting people together and wrote down every piece of information, no matter how insignificant, I had about those connections. There was something there. Something that would point me in Manuel’s direction. There had to be.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t see what it was. It was like having a name on the tip of your tongue but not being able to remember it. Finally, I put the pad on the bed beside me, turned off the light, and closed my eyes. Maybe if I relaxed, it would come to me. It didn’t, but eventually I fell asleep anyway.

  I woke up the next day feeling worse than I had when I went to bed. Around nine, after I’d walked Zsa Zsa and talked to Bethany, I started making phone calls. I couldn’t get hold of Quintillo, but I did connect with Stephanie’s roommate, who told me Stephanie had come back to Syracuse to sort through her parents’ belongings.

  “Wow,” the roommate said to me. “Are things weird these days or what?”

  “Very weird.” And I hung up.

  I could have called Stephanie, but face to face is always better, so I drove over to her parents’ house instead. A quarter-sized patch of blue sky was visible in the east. The tree branches were wearing little caps of snow. The asphalt on the main streets was grayed out with salt. As I made a turn onto East Genesee, I spotted a black-and-gray tabby cat gingerly treading its way between two garbage cans, halting every ten steps or so to shake the snow off its paws.

  I stopped at the nearest Mini Mart to get some coffee and a doughnut. When I got back in the car, I turned on the radio. The announcer was yammering on about how if it continued snowing the way it had been, we were going to hold the record for the most snow for this month of all the Upstate cities. What a thrill.

  From the expression on Stephanie’s face when she answered the door, she felt the same way about me that I’d felt about what the radio announcer was saying.

  “I don’t want to speak to you,” she informed me. “You bring bad luck.”

  “That’s a new one.”

  “It’s true.”

  “You don’t believe that, do you?”

  Stephanie pursed her lips and looked away.

  “I thought not.”

  The black turtleneck sweater she was wearing made her look haggard. I’d be willing to guess she’d lost at least five more pounds since the last time I’d seen her.

  “I think you might be interested in what I have to say.”

  She sniffed. “Doubtful. I’m busy. Now go away.” And she tried to slam the door in my face.

  But I had my foot jammed in the door already, so she couldn’t. Doc Martens definitely have their uses.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do that,” I told her as I pushed it open and stepped inside. “There are things we have to talk about.”

  “What things?” Stephanie asked. She seemed a little more uncertain now that I was in her house.

  “Your mother, for one.”

  “I have nothing to say about her.”

  “I think you do.”

  “I’ll call the police,” Stephanie threatened, but I could tell from the quaver in her voice that she really didn’t mean it.

  She was holding herself rigidly, as if she was afraid she’d shatter if she took a wrong step.

  “Go ahead.”

  I walked into the living room. Stephanie followed behind me. A black leather suitcase sat in the middle of the room. Other than
that, the place looked pretty much the way it had the day I’d found her father.

  “Did you just get in?”

  “About half an hour ago.”

  “You must have left the City early.”

  Stephanie looked at me, then looked away. “I haven’t been sleeping well lately.” I could tell that even that simple statement cost her.

  “Join the club. You staying here?” Given what had happened, I knew that I wouldn’t want to.

  “It’s just for a night or two.”

  I indicated the room with my chin. “It must be hard to come back to this. Why aren’t you staying with your friend?”

  “She’s away. What’s it to you anyway?”

  I favored her with one of my dazzling smiles. “Tell me, how come you wouldn’t stay with your Dad when your mom left, but you’re willing to stay here now?”

  Stephanie flicked a piece of lint off her sweater. “You’re the detective. You tell me.”

  “Did you dislike your father that much?”

  Stephanie leaned against the wall and folded her arms over her chest. “Why do you care?”

  I looked around some more. “I’m just trying to understand.”

  “Understand? There’s nothing more to understand. They’re both dead.”

  “I know.”

  “So what do you want with me?”

  “I was wondering why you came up.”

  “The same reason anyone would. To straighten things out.”

  “I think maybe you had another reason.”

  “You’re right.” Stephanie tapped her nails on her upper arms. “I enjoy the snow. Can’t get enough of that stuff.”

  “Yeah. You look like a skier.” I ran a finger along the back of one of the chairs. “You been upstairs yet?”

  Stephanie swallowed and shifted her weight from her right to her left foot. “I’m planning on sleeping on the sofa.”

  “So you know what happened.”

  “The police told me . . . They told me some. I didn’t want to hear all of it.”

  “That was smart.” I unzipped my parka.

  Over the years, I’ve come to realize that truth can be an overrated commodity. There are some pictures it’s better not to have rattling around inside your head.

  Stephanie hugged herself. “I had to go down and identify my mother. I’ve never done anything like that before.”

  “Most people haven’t,” I said gently.

  “She called me the morning before she died, you know.”

  I stayed silent, waiting for her to continue.

  “But I wasn’t home. The message on my machine said she needed to talk to me.” Stephanie bit her lip. “I should have called her back, but I just didn’t want to deal. She was nuts, you know. Really crazy. It was like my mother was different people, and you never knew who you were going to get. I should have called, though. Getting a caterer for the Nelsons’ anniversary party could have waited.”

  Stephanie walked over to the sofa, picked up one of the cushions off the floor, and put it back where it belonged. “Not that it matters now. She didn’t give a shit about me. I don’t know why I should care about her.” She was about to replace the second cushion when I heard a noise.

  “Are you expecting someone?” I asked.

  Stephanie shook her head rapidly from side to side.

  A moment later Alima waltzed into the living room. I noticed she was holding a key in her hand.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “Who the hell are you?” Stephanie demanded, as she took in Alima’s piercings, her skin-tight black leather pants, fire-engine-red sweater, red boots, and fake leopard jacket. “How did you get in here?”

  “The normal way. Through the door.”

  “It was locked.”

  “No shit. Your daddy gave me a key.”

  “Why would he do that?” Stephanie asked, her voice a study in confusion. “Are you the cleaning lady?”

  Alima put her hands on her hips and curled her lips up in a sneer. “Cleaning lady? Do I look like a cleaning lady to you?”

  Stephanie took a step back. “I’m sorry. I just can’t think of any other reason you’d have a key.”

  Alima looked at her, then looked at me and grinned. She had sharp canines, something I’d never noticed before. I wondered if she’d had them filed.

  “You want to tell her or should I?” she asked me.

  “Why don’t you?”

  I was interested to hear what she was going to say. Besides, I didn’t have the heart.

  “Fine. I will.” Alima swept her hair off her face with the back of her right hand and paused to fix a barrette, building the tension. “I was your father’s friend,” she said to Stephanie.

  “My father’s friend?”

  “You know. The reason your mother left.” For all the expression in Alima’s voice, she might as well have been talking about the weather.

  For a second I was sorry I’d let Alima do the talking. It was like watching a lynx getting ready to eviscerate a rabbit. I could see the muscles in Stephanie’s throat working as she swallowed, trying to take everything in.

  Alima tipped her head to the side and fingered her nose ring in an absentminded way. “Your father said your mother told you about me. I guess she didn’t, huh? You two couldn’t have been very close.”

  “How old are you?” Stephanie asked, looking at Alima carefully for the first time.

  Alima tossed her hair off her face again. “Old enough to get what I want.”

  Watching her, I remembered what it had been like to be that sure of myself, of my sexual power.

  “I can’t believe my father would go out with someone like you.”

  “Someone like me?” Alima raised an eyebrow. The ring through it moved as well. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I’ll just pretend you didn’t say that.” Alima held out her hand. Stephanie ignored it. “Perhaps another time,” Alima said putting it down by her side. “In any case, since I was driving by I decided to stop and meet you. I thought it was about time. Especially since we’re going to be doing business together.”

  “Business? We’re not doing anything together. Get out.” Stephanie pointed to the door. “Get out right now and leave the key to the house on the table.”

  “I don’t think your daddy would want that.”

  “I don’t give a damn what he wanted.”

  “You should.”

  “All I know is what I want, and what I want is for you to get the hell out of here. Now.”

  Alima looked about as concerned as a cat did upon hearing the word no. “You don’t mind if I take a quick look around the house, do you?”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

  “Yes, but I have a cleaning crew coming next week, and I want to make sure the to-do list I’m giving them is complete. Of course, if necessary, I suppose I could postpone them for another week or so, but then I’d have to get a different painter in. I’m sure you understand.” Alima turned to me. “I think this place should bring a good price after it’s put back together, don’t you?”

  “What are you talking about?” Stephanie demanded.

  Alima’s eyes widened. She put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God, you mean your father didn’t tell you?” she asked in a fake concerned voice. “He left the place to me.”

  I felt like slapping her.

  “That’s impossible,” Stephanie said. She held out her hand and steadied herself against the arm of the chair.

  “No, it’s not. Call the lawyer.”

  “My mother wouldn’t have let him do something like that.”

  “Janet had nothing to say about it. The house was in his name.”

  Stephanie shook her head. “No. You’re lying.”

  “Am I?” And Alima took her cell out of her bag, hit the power button, and dialed. “Here,” she said, holding her StarTAC out to Stephanie. “Talk to the lawyer in charge of probat
ing your father’s estate. Ask him. Go on,” she said when Stephanie hesitated. “You want to know, don’t you?”

  Stephanie’s hand was shaking as she took the phone and walked into the kitchen. I could hear her saying, “No, he wouldn’t. He didn’t,” over and over again. She looked sick when she came out.

  “Told you,” Alima said, retrieving her phone from Stephanie’s hand.

  I don’t think Stephanie even noticed.

  “How could he have done something like this?” she asked as she sank into the sofa and buried her face in her hands. I noticed she’d bitten her nails down to the quick.

  Alima took it upon herself to answer.

  “Simple,” she said. “He was in love with me. I made him feel important. Not like you or your mother.” She put out her hand and studied her nails. “You can fight this in court. But it’s going to cost you money. If I were you, I’d settle for the money your mother stole from your father and let it go at that. If you can find it.”

  Stephanie lifted her head up. Her eyes were dull with shock. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

  As I watched Alima weigh Stephanie’s answer, I wondered, if you act like fifty when you’re eighteen, do you act like eighteen when you’re fifty?

  Finally Alima said, “I can’t believe you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “I don’t. You’re just saying all this stuff to confuse me.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Alima leaned forward slightly. “Tell me,” she said, “what do you think your father did?”

  “He was a lawyer.”

  “He was a lawyer for two Russian mobsters.”

  Stephanie’s eyes widened. Two small red dots appeared on her cheeks. She jumped off the sofa and strode over to where Alima was standing and shook a finger in front of Alima’s chest.

  “You’re lying,” she cried. “I don’t know why you are, but you are. I know what he did. I used to spend time in his office. He wrote wills for little old ladies and did house closings and handled divorces and did stuff like that.”

  Alima shrugged. “Maybe that’s the way he started off, I’m not saying it isn’t, but people who handle wills for little old ladies don’t die the way he did.”