“I’ll get them by Monday. They’re good. I wasn’t lying about anything . . . well, not that. And I’ve never really lied. Not since we made our bargain, and not much before that, either.”
If he said anything right then, he knew it would come out sounding funny, trying to get around the lump in his throat that had just appeared. So he nodded and, though he wanted to touch her, to reassure her, he didn’t. He heard the doorknob twist and the swish of the door opening. Carly sat back down, her face giving away none of the angst he knew must be running through her.
“Here you go, John.”
He accepted the cup of coffee. “Thanks, Father. Carly’s decided she’d like to go to Mary Immaculate.”
Mike’s shoulders sagged as he sat back down. “Good. That’s good. You know the bus will pick you and the other students up out front here, right? If it’s cold or raining, most of the kids wait in the vestibule. I’m usually around then, so I can introduce you on Monday, if you want.”
Carly seemed to consider this. “Yeah—I mean, yes, Father, I’d like that.”
“Uh, Father, we’ll have her records for the school by then . . . don’t you worry.”
“Everything is set, then. It’s a good school, Carly. I think you’ll really like it. The kids are good kids. . . .” He let his voice drift off and sat there, looking at Carly.
“Well,” John put down the coffee cup, stood and indicated she should, too. “Thanks for your help, Father.”
“Yes, thank you, Father Mike.” Carly tilted her head as she looked his way. Color rose in Mike’s face under her scrutiny.
“You’re both welcome. Anything else I can help you with?”
Carly shrugged. “I don’t think so.”
John put his hand under her elbow and moved toward the door with the kid. “Thanks again, Father.”
Mike gave him a tight smile. “See you at Mass, John.”
John let out a laugh. “Yeah, someday soon.”
The sun chose that moment to come out and shine through the window at the priest’s back, giving him a rosy glow, an eerie aura that, if John were a superstitious man, he would have thought God had deliberately caused for some weird sign. What was it with all this religious stuff all of a sudden? He’d never believed in signs or miracles and wasn’t about to start now.
He got Carly out of there as fast as he could.
She was awfully quiet on the walk back to the office. John wondered what was going on in her head but did not dare ask for more information than he already had. They walked the two blocks, huddled in their coats against a pre-spring breeze from the ocean. Along the way, John stopped at a newsstand and picked up a copy of the Times. The old man behind the counter gave the kid the once over, then asked John for an introduction.
“Carly, I’d like you to meet Curtis Cleveland. He’s a fixture around Asbury Park. He also does a little work for me now and then. Curtis, this is Carly, my . . . client. She’ll be around here for awhile. If I send her down for the Times, you’ll know it’s for me.”
Curtis smiled at Carly. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Carly. John, I got that other information for you. Wait here, I’ll just be a second getting it.” He disappeared toward the back of the newsstand and returned with a sand-colored envelope. “Here y’are. I think this will help with that thing from the other day.”
He winked.
Carly laughed.
John took the envelope and was about to leave when he turned back to Curtis. “How’s your oldest, Curtis?”
The black man smiled with warmth and pride in his eyes.
“Kind of you to ask. He was workin’ hard at those midterm exams, I think he said last time he called home. His mother fair bust open when we got the grades. Straight As.” His chest puffed out a little and he stood straighter.
“That’s good. Real good, Curtis. Next time he’s home, have him come ’round. I want to hear all about it—from his side.”
“He’ll be home around Easter time, he said. He promised his mother he’d take her to church Easter Sunday. I’ll be sure and tell him.”
John nodded good-bye and walked briskly back to the office. Carly called out to him to wait up.
He slowed down. “So, what do you think?”
“About what?”
He tried to appear nonchalant. “Oh, everything. A new school. Curtis. Father Mike.”
“I’m cool with going back to school, but I’m maybe a little worried . . . about fitting in and all.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” She paused, then continued. “I like Curtis. What’s this about his son?”
They crossed the street in front of the office. “Oh, he got in a little trouble awhile back. Curtis sent him to me to . . . I don’t know. Talk to him about stuff. I did. We’ve been friends since then and he always stops by when he can. He goes to school in Virginia and it isn’t easy for him to come home much.”
“Oh.”
John stopped her from opening the door. “Look, Carly. I have to do some work. Will you be all right here alone?”
She gave him a small smile. “Sure. I’m going to help Liz with the lunch crowd.”
“I don’t know when I’ll be back. You okay with that?”
“Sure, I can find something to do.”
“Okay, then.” He fished a few bills out of his wallet. “Take this. I talked to Liz and she said she’d help you buy some clothes later, after the luncheonette closes. I don’t suppose you like shopping, though, do you?”
The look she gave him was worth a good laugh.
No one could be as dumb as she thought he was, not from the look on her face.
He laughed all the way to his Jeep.
Carly disappeared inside, went up the stairs, into the office and sat down at the computer.
She had work to do.
Chapter 9
“So, are you tired yet?”
Liz brought her hand to her brow with deliberate drama. “Not quite done in. But I don’t think there are any more stores for us to scour.” She smiled, but the kid had to realize her heart wasn’t in it.
“Is there any money left?”
That made Liz chuckle. “A little.”
“Enough for us to get a taco or something?” As if on cue Carly’s stomach growled on empty. “But not a cheeseburger.”
With a smirk of agreement, Liz nodded. She’d made enough burgers to last a lifetime already. “I think there just may be enough for a couple of tacos and something to drink. And when we passed the taco place before, that delicious smell got to me, too.”
Carly and Liz juggled the packages then made their way toward the food court. Between them they balanced a tray covered with wrapped food and one with soft drinks. They both sighed as they sat down at an empty table.
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?” Liz asked.
Carly stretched, then settled the packages beneath the table. “Shop like that. I mean, I’ve never spent three hours straight shopping. Without stopping.”
“It’s not easy, but haven’t you ever done this before?”
Carly’s expression turned wistful. “I always wanted to, though . . . shop until I dropped with lots of money at my disposal. I never had that before.”
Intrigued and somewhat surprised, Liz leaned forward, her taco held tightly in her hand. “So, your Uncle John decided to treat you. That’s great. Has he always been your favorite uncle?”
“Uh.” The kid paused.
Was she trying to come up with a good story ?
“I only just met him the same day you did.”
The minute it was out of her mouth, she clamped her lips together.
Oh, ho, she must have realized she’d let loose too much information.
Liz choked slightly then sipped at her drink. “You never met him before?”
She had to hand it to the kid. Whatever else was going on, Carly was going to keep it to herself for now. Did it matter? What did she care about
John Preshin? Even if it looked as if the kid wanted to say more, Liz wouldn’t press. It was none of her business. Don’t get involved, her little internal voice shouted.
Carly cleared her throat, apparently having made a decision. “My mother is dead. She knew John real well. I thought I’d look him up while I was in the area.”
Liz didn’t buy any of this.
“Look, Carly. My grandmother says John is a good guy. I’m sure your mother thought so, too. And I admit, I have no right to ask you so many questions other than the fact that I’m nosy. He’s a strange man . . . oh, I don’t mean bad strange, just difficult to read. You must have picked up on that already.”
Carly giggled and sat closer to the table edge. “Have I ever! The first time I ever saw him, he opened the door, just wrapped in a towel with this huge strip of duct tape across his chest! Nearly freaked me out! But wait, there’s more,” she paused at Liz’s guffaw. She joined in, then added, “He has this huge scar on his shoulder, right or left I can’t remember just now, but it looks like he got shot. Can you imagine?”
Liz sobered. “Gram told me about that. He did get shot. You know he used to be with the FBI, right?”
Carly put her fist on her lips. “Uh, no, I didn’t. We haven’t had that much time to, you know, actually talk much.”
Liz let that pass. “But that awful duct tape? I bet there’s a good story behind that.”
Sipping from her soda, Carly dithered then continued. “I’m not sure I really want to know about that. But I was the one who found out how to get it off.”
This just kept getting better and better. Liz asked, “How did you do that?”
Carly chewed on her taco before answering. “I went online and found out that you need this stuff to spray on it. He said he knew where he could get some, so we went all the way to his parents’ house and he brought it back here.”
That tidbit made her eyebrows arch. It was too easy picturing John’s chest. Broad and nicely muscled . . . don’t go there, her inner voice warned, louder this time.
Liz wiped a napkin across her lips, noting she’d removed most of her lipstick as she did. “So, did you meet his parents? What are they like?”
Nodding, Carly’s face brightened. “His mom’s real nice. She fed me and gave me this huge package of food to bring home for later. John said she’s like that to everyone she likes.”
“I’ve never met them myself, but Gram likes them. She’s met them a couple of times, she told me. What’s his father like?”
“He’s funny. He looks all sorrowful and sad. John’s sisters moved back home with their kids and he’s crowded out of his house. He doesn’t look like John, he’s shorter. I think John looks more like his mother, only she’s tiny and has gray hair already. But she sure can cook. I’m invited there on Sunday for dinner.”
Liz bit into her taco precisely and chewed slowly. Thinking. He didn’t act much like a family type guy. But according to Carly, he was. Hmm. She had lots more questions for Carly but didn’t dare appear to be pumping the kid.
“It must be getting late. Maybe we’d better get a move on,” Carly ventured.
Liz sipped at her drink and nodded. “Yes, it’s after four. You’ll want to get all this stuff unpacked and hung up. And we have to stop for some groceries, don’t forget.”
“Thanks for bringing me here, Liz. I’ve never shopped like this in my whole life.”
“Anytime,” Liz replied and found she meant it. She’d had fun shopping with the kid. Carly, not the kid.
Everything she’d tried on looked great on her, one of the incredible bonuses of being young and built just right and extremely pretty. Liz remembered she’d been that way, too, but it had all seemed so very long ago. This fact was brought home vividly when Carly had thrust a beautiful soft brown and blue outfit at her and insisted she try in on “for fun.”
The skirt and top looked really good on the hangers, but to Liz’s chagrin, when she’d reluctantly gone into the dressing room and actually put them on, she’d been shocked to see that the outfit looked better on the hanger than draped over her body.
Boutiques were not for thirty-somethings. God! Mutton dressed as lamb. Three different views of her backside and none of them looked properly . . . proper.
The low cut top showed way too much top. And any more leg and she’d be showing her panties. Maybe ten years ago, but not now. Maybe in California, but not in Jersey. People were allowed to get older in Jersey.
And her hair! Good Lord, when had she last had it cut? And tamed? She honestly couldn’t remember. It needed help badly, but it wasn’t beyond hope. Not yet.
She turned the steering wheel, stepped on the accelerator and let Carly chatter, trying to pay attention but failing. Thankfully, Carly didn’t require more than one word answers. Not now.
Mutton dressed as lamb? Wild woman hair?
She’d gotten a good look at herself in that boutique. While she still had a relatively good body, her life on the left coast had taken its toll on her.
And it bothered her now that she’d seen what she’d allowed to happen to herself. She hadn’t really cared about her appearance in a very long time. But she should. She still had some good years left. Plenty of ’em.
Maybe it was time to start over for real.
If she wanted to, could she attract a man? One like that arrogant idiot upstairs for instance? Hmm. She got a little rush at the thought, like the old days on the boardwalk, playing fifty-two pick-up.
Maybe she shouldn’t be so negative.
Changes could be made.
Chapter 10
Georgie Hahn occupied the third barstool from the back of the shabby tavern, right where his wife said he’d be. His voice had a sharpness to it and he kept putting his hand on the arm of the guy sitting half off the stool to his right. The guy looked ready to book. John approached, gave him a knowing nod and the poor guy eased off his perch and left the bar after sliding some bills at the bartender.
Georgie looked blearily up at John. After a few seconds, his face broke into a watery grin.
“Bourbon John! You old sonovabitch! What brings you to Linden? You know, the place—”
“Where men and oil are crude?” John responded, unable to keep himself from laughing. The old joke was still funny. He waited for Georgie to finish the ritual.
Raising his glass of beer, he drained it, belched and continued, “No, lad, where men and oil are refined.”
John slapped him on the back. “Good to see you, George. Been a long time.”
“That it has, old son. That it has.” Looking John up and down, he added, “You’re lookin’ good, for a government employee.”
John’s shoulder throbbed in quiet response. “Not any more, I’m not.”
Brows raised in surprise George turned from his attempt to get the bartender’s attention. “What, you say? I don’t believe it. You were always so set on being FBI. What the hell happened?”
Rolling his shoulder, John gave his stock answer. “I’m out on my own . . . have my own investigation business.” Thus neatly avoiding awkward answers to bullshit personal questions.
His former friend, mollified and too inebriated to remember his initial question, let it go. Instead, he gestured for John to sit in the vacated stool and flicked his hand again to the bartender. This time, with new blood to serve, the man came over and took the order. “Another for me and a shot of Wild Turkey for my friend here.”
John wanted to wave his hand to signal not to bother, but he couldn’t risk offending Georgie. He had questions that needed answers.
“Just club soda with a twist, thanks. Long drive.”
After watching Georgie down half a glass of Rolling Rock and sipping tentatively from the cloudy glass, John felt his body relax. The hassle of driving up the Parkway and into Route 1 to Linden forced old memories back on him, memories he wanted buried forever. Georgie . . . shit, his hair was going, his teeth were stained yellow from the Luckies he still smoked as eviden
ced by the open pack in the pocket of his faded shirt.
The vague taste of lime trickled down his throat, lubricating it enough for John to start on Georgie.
“Hey, Geo . . . do you remember that summer we all lived together in Belmar?”
A grin appeared, changing his friend’s expression to one of bliss. “Oh, indeed I do. That was the summer I got laid every single night.”
A shudder rattled down John’s back. The taste of metal replaced the sweet citrus taste inside his mouth. Shit. He turned to face George Hahn, looked him in the eyes and tried to read the truth in them.
Georgie was probably too beered-up to lie.
John pulled the photograph from his breast pocket and handed it slowly to the other man.
“What’s this?”
John turned his attention on the bottles lining the back of the bar. His own face looked mottled in the dirty, marbleized mirror behind them. Christ, he looked sick. But he kept his voice calm, professional.
“Recognize this?”
“Shit, yeah. That’s all of us. Even your ugly mug.” He ran his hand over his balding head. “God, I had so much hair!” He smirked and brought the photo closer. “Who the hell took the picture? We’re all here. You, me, Dutch . . . Francis Xavier. Stuart and good ol’ Pasquale.”
“I think Dutch’s sister or brother came down for the day and took the picture. His brother. Yeah. Goofy-lookin’ kid who had just turned twenty one. Wanted to celebrate. He had his camera and took this just before I left for work.”
Georgie seemed lost in another time as he stared at the picture. John let him look long and hard without saying anything . . . waiting. He’d been trained to wait, to let people do the talking instead of asking outright for what he needed to know. It would come soon.
“Those blondes. Wow, they were somethin’, weren’t they? I used to pop one or the other nearly every night.”
“Spare me those gory details, Geo. I wasn’t around most nights, remember? And as for your sex life—well, I bet you don’t even remember their names, do you?”
Shoving the picture back at John, George wagged his finger, his face flushed with indignation and Rolling Rock.
Glory Days Page 8
