Jail Coach

by Hillary Bell Locke

  “So, just sort of accept things?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.” I tried to pinpoint what I was saying, exactly. “Certain things we can control. When your unit gets into a scrap you can shoot or take cover or run. That you’ve got control over. What the overall plan is, whether there’s enough troops in-country to make that plan work, whether you’ve got decent armor or pot-metal on your vehicles—those things you can’t control. So you don’t worry about them. Focus on the choices you do have, and make the right one.”

  “You know what’s funny?” Trowbridge was panting a little now, and he had to mop streaming sweat from his face. “Katrina said almost exactly the same thing just before I came back here. Not in those words. She said a lance corporal told her once that the life of a Marine grunt is tactically rational and strategically random—so get the tactical part right.”

  “Good advice. Speaking of which, I’d better get back to mid-cabin and start deterring recreational drug-use again. If Ms. Thompson gets a whiff of pot near that little girl of hers, she’ll probably take a powder as soon as we land.”

  “You go deter all you want to.” Trowbridge said this with his grin back in place at full wattage. “But I wouldn’t work up too much of a sweat about it if I were you. Saul put the word out: This little junket is a clean and sober operation. What they do in their hotel rooms is between them and their rabbis, but if they indulge on the plane they’ll never take a meeting west of Reno again.”

  So as we flew over flyover country, I was feeling pretty good about things. Saul Levitt hated Trans/Oxana’s guts but he was scared of us—not a bad combination. Proxy had told me to stay overnight in Nashville and then fly from there back to D.C. Tuesday morning. Trans/Oxana charges eight-hundred-dollars per day against her budget for my services if I’m working on one of her matters. So I wouldn’t have to put up with this too long.

  Two hours or so into the flight, after Trowbridge had a shower—they’d rigged up the plane with one of those, too—the make-up person started doing his or her magic and made Trowbridge look like a People magazine cover. We landed in Nashville just before three. This was a charter flight, so no jetway. We’d land and stairs on wheels would roll up to the door. Trowbridge would do a star stroll down the stairs and across the tarmac to a limo with a couple of lucky local reporters waiting for him in the ample interior. He’d do sound bites flogging the upcoming flick while the limo took him to the biggest Nashville TV station, get some face-time with the on-air talent, and hit his hotel in time to watch himself on the tube.

  Everything went according to script. Tons of people and plenty of cameras waiting on the tarmac. Plane taxis to within twenty yards of the limo. Stairs roll into place. Door opens. Trowbridge comes out, grins, waves, basks. The cameras start translating Trowbridge into digitized pixels and sending them who knows where. When Trowbridge is three steps down the stairs, the publicist appears on the scene, carefully inconspicuous and staying three steps behind Trowbridge as he descends. Yep, everything was perfect.

  Then Thompson and Lucinda came out. All those cameras kept right on humming and snapping. And I didn’t think a thing about it.

  Chapter Ten

  “It sounds like Thompson is good for Trowbridge.” Weather between Hartford, Connecticut and Alexandria, Virginia made Proxy’s voice sound a little tinny over my mobile phone. “But the flip-side risk is Trowbridge becoming psychologically dependent on Thompson, like people sometimes do on their shrinks.”

  “Why ‘risk’?” I slam-dunked three pairs of pink satin panties into Rachel’s suitcase, which lay open on my bed. “Dependent would be fine with us, right?”

  “Until something goes wrong. Then it wouldn’t be fine with us anymore.”

  “Little Mary Sunshine strikes again.” I scooped a bunch of crap in plastic tubes into a small, quilted bag and tossed the bag into the suitcase.

  “You sound like you’re panting, Davidovich. You’re not sneaking in an Elliptical workout while we’re talking, are you?”

  “I wouldn’t have an Elliptical on the end of stick. I’m packing Rachel’s bag. She missed her check-out time from my apartment this morning.”

  It sounded like Proxy was munching on a celery stalk or something while she thought that over. I probably should have called her on it after the Elliptical crack, but I believe in having only one female pissed off at me at a time. She politely swallowed before she talked again.

  “Okay. For now I can live with the idea of letting Thompson do her thing and hoping for the best. But where is the tour supposed to be by Friday?”

  “Omaha. Why?”

  “Because New Paradigm is holding a major test screening for Prescott Trail on Thursday. If it tanks you’re on your way to Omaha.”

  “Understood. I can stay with them until they get back to LA. Should have a pretty tight idea by then about whether the Thompson idea is tenable.”

  “Is somebody on the tour keeping you up to speed between now and then?”

  “Levitt’s dog-robber is supposed to give me a call every night.”

  “How much is that costing me?”

  “Nada. Levitt knows which side his bread is buttered on.”

  I stuffed a curling iron, a pair of size-seven Nike running shoes, and two of those cute little anklet socks with balls on the heels into Rachel’s suitcase while Proxy thought things over. I was zipping the thing closed by the time she was ready to converse again.

  “In case the jail-coach thing falls apart, what’s Plan B?”

  “Plan Bs are for pessimists.”

  “Cracks like that are for people who don’t have Plan Bs. I get paid to be a pessimist. Think about it and call me tomorrow.”

  “Will do.”

  After re-holstering my mobile phone I pulled Rachel’s bag off the bed and headed for the bedroom door with it. Rachel had made the bed that morning, with military corners as tight as any I’d managed on active duty. At the same time, she’d left clothes and cosmetics and other chick-shit scattered all over the room. Which meant that she’d thought she was going to be sleeping in it again tonight. Which she wasn’t. I waited until I had the bag in the bay of my Ford Explorer and was halfway to the house before I punched Rachel’s speed-dial number on my mobile phone.

  “Now, Jay, you can’t be mad at me. I just had to get in a run this morning and I didn’t have time to pack after my shower before I left for work.”

  “I packed for you.”

  “Plus…I was kind of hoping I could stay there one more night.”

  “That would be no. I’m betting you didn’t get the locks changed, either.”

  “Not yet. I mean, I have a life, you know?”

  “Also okay. I’ll just pick up your extra key from whoever. Nick, is it?”

  “Please don’t hurt him, Jay. Please. I mean, about three months ago you almost broke Denny’s nose.”

  “He hit me first.”

  “But you hit him back harder than he hit you.”

  “That’s my policy. I’ll need Nick’s description and his three favorite bars.”

  “I have a picture of him at the house. That’s where you’re going, right?”

  “No, I thought I’d drop your suitcase off at the Air and Space Museum.”

  “Jay, I just hate it when you’re sarcastic. Doctor Keefe-Atkinson says it’s a verbal form of domestic abuse. It’s very hurtful.”

  “Three favorite bars, Rachel.”

  “I’ll text you.”

  She hung up. Just in time, too, because five seconds later I pulled into her driveway—which used to be our driveway. I still had a key, so less than a minute later I had her suitcase stowed in the front hall and was looking on the mantle for Nick’s picture. Let’s see: ballerina-Rachel in mid-air, lithe and supple as a dream; ice-dancer Rachel with one of those glorious, s
leekly muscled legs at almost a ninety degree angle to the other. Even smiling Rachel next to Jay in digi camis and black beret. No Nick. Then I heard a peevish voice from the kitchen.

  “About time you got back. You about done with the psycho bitch number?”

  “I’m guessing you’re Nick,” I said as he strolled into the living room holding a tumbler of orange juice and a lettuce-and-something sandwich on brown bread.

  He hadn’t combed his curly brown hair yet, but aside from that he looked about as good as a guy can look when he’s still in pj’s at eleven o’clock in the morning. He had a good six feet on him and a pretty trim build. Plus he sported that I-enjoy-being-a-goy cool that southern boys are so good at. As soon as he saw me, though, his eyes went to roughly the size of TV test patterns.

  “Shit! Oh, shit!”

  Yep, definitely Nick.

  He high-tailed it back into the kitchen. I followed, in no particular hurry. I heard the back door slam as I stepped from hardwood onto linoleum. Pulled up a chair at the butcher’s block kitchen table that Rachel and I had spent five bloody hours shopping for together, and took out my phone. By the time Nick remembered that he didn’t have clothes, phone, car keys, or options, I’d gotten through the entire morning’s worth of corporate communications. I looked up when I heard the distinctive squeak of the back door re-opening.

  “I’ve called the police.” He stayed just inside the door so that he could bolt again if I got too adventurous.

  “Sure you have. Tell you what. Sit down. We gotta talk.”

  I could tell from his twitching upper lip that he wasn’t too sure about that. Then I guess he decided that he’d better switch into show-them-no-fear mode. He came over and sat down across from me.

  “Congratulations, Nick. You got the crazy chick.”

  “Look, Rachel said you were separated. She—”

  “That’s right. We’re separated. Plus, it’s not the first century BC, so she can hop in the sack with someone else without getting stoned to death.” I waited two seconds. “She says you beat her.”

  “Bullshit!” A seriously indignant expression blasted across Nick’s face. “I just smacked her a coupla times, to calm her down. No real rough stuff.”

  “Okay, here’s the deal, Nick. You can fuck Rachel if she wants you to. You can sponge off her and play house with her and smoke pot with her when she’s channeling her inner earth mother. That’s all fine. But you don’t get to hit her.”

  Nick looked like he was having trouble processing this information. I didn’t think it was all that complicated, but I wanted to move things along so I explained it to him.

  “The reason you don’t get to hit her, Nick, is that I love her. Period. End of issue. I love Rachel. Therefore, you don’t get to hit her. No matter what she does. Whether she’s having a bad case of all-about-me or whining like a spoiled eight-year-old or playing head games or doing any other Rachel shit, you don’t get to hit her, No punches on the arm, no slaps across the face, no smacks on the fanny, no grabbing her and pushing her onto the floor. No hitting. We got that, Nick?”

  “But, man, she hit me!”

  “She will do that, dude. That’s her Ukrainian blood for you. But that is not a loophole. Not an exception to the rule. The rule is, you don’t hit Rachel. Period.”

  I could sympathize with Nick. It isn’t an easy idea to grasp. The stakes were high, though, especially for Nick, so I decided to hammer the point home.

  “Tell you what, Nick. Take a swing at me. Hit me as hard as you can.”

  Terror filled his eyes and total fear bleached his face.

  “This isn’t a setup, Nick, I promise. If I wanted to crease you up you’d already be on your way to the hospital. Just take a swing at me.”

  Give him credit. He found the guts to do it. His right fist shot toward me as he half rose from his chair. Had some meat to it, too. I snapped my left arm up. His fist was still a good half-inch from my face when the outside of my left forearm smashed the inside of his right forearm. I should mention that the outside forearm bone is roughly four times bigger than the inside forearm bone. His arm flew sideways and upward as he grunted in pain. He brought the arm down onto his lap and hunched over it.

  “Jesus H. Christ! That hurt! Jesus!”

  “Well of course it hurt, Nick. I’m harder than you are. Just like you’re harder than Rachel. So when Rachel takes a swing at you it’s okay to block the punch. She’s a smart girl, and after you’ve blocked a couple she’ll find other ways to dump shit all over you.”

  A glimmer of understanding brightened his eyes. Time to close the sale.

  “Lemme tell you about a boyhood experience of mine, Nick. True story. Josh, and I are out shopping with mom. Josh being my younger brother. I’m, what, maybe eight. Josh does something that annoys me, so I clock him one. Unfortunately for me, mom sees me do it. She grabs my right hand and pulls my arm out to full length. This is in a shopping mall, right in front of everybody. She smacks the back of my hand three times. Not slaps, smacks. I mean I felt it. With each smack she says, ‘Don’t HIT. Don’t HIT. Don’t HIT.’ All three smacks landed at the precise moment I heard the word ‘HIT.’ Kind of ironic. Are we communicating here, Nick?”

  After a couple of seconds he managed a nod. I glanced at my watch.

  “Let’s say twenty minutes. At ten minutes of noon, I want you down here, dressed and packed and ready to go, with your key to this house in my pocket.”

  “But, man, this is where I live, man.”

  “Yeah, I can see where that would be a problem. But you’ve gotta get Rachel comfortable again with the idea of living under the same roof as you before you can go back to doing it. I’d suggest groveling, abject apologies, ‘I am so, so sorry, I’ll never do it again, I promise’—that kind of shit. She’s a Jewish girl, very big on atonement. If you’re convincing enough, maybe she’ll give you the key back. Or not. Personally, I could give a shit. Bottom line, though, no way I’m turning my apartment into a battered women’s shelter.”

  While Nick went upstairs I texted Rachel not to bother with the list of bars.

  Chapter Eleven

  On the East Coast you think of Omaha as—actually, on the East Coast you don’t think of Omaha at all. At least I didn’t. Warren Buffet lived there. That’s about ninety percent of what I knew about Omaha. So what I saw out of the MD-80’s window surprised me. Not sure any of the buildings qualified as skyscrapers, but some of them were pretty tall. Houses spread all over Hell’s half acre. Had to be something between half-a-million and a million people living there.

  The test-screening report shook Proxy, so I was rejoining the tour. Even so, I wasn’t feeling too bad about things. Had a couple of leads for Plan B in the jail-coach department. More important, I’d gotten last week’s expense report in. To me, expense reports are a profit center. The Trans/Oxana meal money per diem is $35. If I spend more than that, I put in for $35 and the rest comes out of my pocket. Fine. But if I spend less—I always spend less—then I still put in for $35 and the rest goes in my pocket. I mean, I like the symmetry. Plus, I call the close ones in my favor. Also the ones that aren’t close. I call those in my favor too.

  Jeff Wells, the Levitt flunky who’d been giving me nightly updates, picked me up at the airport. I liked the nightly updates, because either he was a twenty-four carat bullshit artist, or Thompson was getting the job done.

  “Trow thinks she walks on water,” he told me as we hit Interstate whatever on the way downtown. “Last night one of the roadies toked up in the same area code as the little girl, and Trow said he was almost fired.”

  “Man, that is strict.”

  I glanced out the window of the comp car Wells was driving. Some local Ford dealer had provided three loaners to Trowbridge and company for their twenty-hour Omaha stay. Just short of four in the afternoon and we we
re moving at a cool sixty-two miles per hour. This would not happen in metro Washington, D.C.

  “How is the tour going over all?”

  “The locals all seem thrilled. Interviews get monster numbers. But does that mean butts in seats? No idea, man. Uncharted waters.”

  “Sounds exciting.”

  “Korvette’s theory is, no dream-factory bullshit. He’s into regular factory bullshit. What can’t be measured can’t be managed. A movie is a product. A product is supposed to make a profit. If it doesn’t, people are accountable.”

  We pulled into the semicircular driveway of something called the Hotel Devo XV in downtown Omaha. I spotted the guy before the car stopped. He was standing in the smoking area, not smoking, looking everywhere. His body hardly budged. But his black eyes moved constantly, scanning the area around him. His face—nut brown and smooth under a bald head—showed nothing.

  I made it a point not to look at him as I climbed out of the car. Wells traded the keys for a piece of stiff brown paper and gave the valet a five-dollar tip. Pity the poor schlub from Kansas City who blows in here next week and thinks he’s a big shot when he hands the car caddy two bucks.

  “Is that a Levitt boy over there? The one who looks like a cop?”

  “I don’t see any cops.” Wells swiveled his head like a farm kid getting his first look at Broadway.

  “Skip it. But if Levitt has some private heat on this thing I need to know.”

  “I’ll ask.”

  In the lobby, Wells gave me a mini-envelope with a key-card in it and a room number written on the inside flap. New Paradigm was allocating me a room from its block-booking package for the tour and billing Trans/Oxana directly.

  “Where’s Trowbridge?”