“Listen here, lady, if I get a ticket on this here vehicle I’ll be jeopardizing my job,” one of the deliverymen says as he chomps his tobacco and spits onto the grass. Gross. The other one stands menacingly, nodding his head in agreement. I suddenly grasp the fact that I’ve got to think of a plan fast or I can say sayonara to my cargo full of thrift store goodies.
“I’ve got a big tip for ya if you look the other way just this one time,” I say through gritted teeth. I smile as demurely as I can, when all I want to do is karate chop these morons. “Pretty please.”
“Aw, shucks,” says the menacing one and scratches his head. “Let’s do it, Orville.”
Orville?! I’m venturing a guess these two aren’t from around these parts and that there’s been some serious inbreeding going on back at the homestead.
Orville seems unconvinced and spews more tobacco juice thru the gap in his two front teeth as he considers me closely. “Well, all right, but it’s gonna cost ya,” he says with relish.
I nod and lower my eyes in a submissive way, as if to let Orville, the genius inbred know, that I realize that I am completely and utterly at his mercy.
Between the boxes, the grumpy movers, and the furniture placement, I feel like I’m at a tennis match, volleying questions and situations. Once it’s all sorted, everyone paid and tipped, and the living room brimming with a giant mound of cardboard boxes, I am in dire need of a frosty pint of Black and Tan (which is Guinness topped with another type of lighter ale).
Dirty, yummy, goodness.
Stuffing feet into sneakers, I pull my hair back into a ponytail and decide to explore my new neighborhood with the objective of finding a good, old-fashioned pub. I briskly make my way up to Commons Park and cut through. The sun is low on the horizon and it casts an amber glow, which makes everything within its wake look enchanted. Boston has no shortage of Irish pubs and after exiting the park I find myself stumbling into one called Emmet’s within moments. I grab a stool and belly up to the worn mahogany bar. There are nicks and scratches imbedded into the thick layer of polish and lovers’ initials painstakingly carved. A large brass bell hangs from a rope and the bartender (who looks like an aging starlet that’s had a few too many late nights) rings it each time she earns a tip. A group of middle-aged men wearing pea coats and skullcaps are scattered about the place and the faint smell of the sea lingers. Though the pub has an understated elegance, one still gets the vibe of hanging out in an old fishing village amongst the locals during salmon season.
I order my beer and as I take my first gulp I remember why I used to call it a “pint of meat” in college. It has a thick, robust consistency that squelches any signs of hunger pangs, like the ones that hit me on the walk over. I notice a lone man who arrived moments after me sitting in a corner with his back against the wall. He’s holding a newspaper but instead of reading it he appears to be staring in my general direction. I can’t really be sure though, since the pub is infused with a smoky haze from whatever it is that the cook burned in the kitchen. Smells like a cross between maple syrup and Italian sausage. The man looks somewhat out of place and has an air of money and dignity about him that seems to be otherwise lacking in this rough-edged crowd. He’s probably not staring at me at all, or if he is, he’s got a fetish for frumpy divorcées.
Either way, I’m not interested.
As I sit holding my frosty mug, swiveling my barstool from side to side, it seems that my senses are heightened. Everything suddenly looks clearer and brighter. It’s as if a curtain has been lifted, maybe all this time with Bernie I was just living behind a veil of ignorance. You know how they say ignorance is bliss? Well, it might not have been bliss, but it was kind of comfortable in the way a really worn, old couch can be. But then again upgrading to a new feather-filled slipcover might be the best thing for you, only you’ll never know it till you throw the old one in the trash and upgrade. I don’t know…I’m probably not making any sense. I’m beat. All the running up and down stairs I did today is finally catching up with me. I could use a long hot bath and my flannel PJ's. So I finish off my beer and conclude my barstool philosophizing for the night.
I push open the door and a gust of chilly air nearly topples me over. It’s turned downright cold since the sun went down, and my thin blue monogrammed windbreaker advertising “Mackinac Island” feels flimsy and inadequate now. My teeth chatter involuntarily in response to the biting wind, so I decide to take a shortcut to my new abode.
As I cross through the west end of the park, I feel a chill up my spine and all the hairs on my unshaved legs stand on end. I get the sensation that someone is following me. Damned spidey-sense. I turn to look behind me, but between the darkness and the lollipop-shaped maple trees, still dense with foliage, I can only make out a sliver of moon that barely brightens the cobblestone walkway. The lampposts are dim as I continue my walk, only a bit more briskly now. Behind me I can hear the dull click of well-soled shoes on the pavement. My heartbeat quickens and I can feel my pulse in my ears. The world around me takes on the dreaded Tilt-O-Whirl quality, so I guess I’m having another ill-timed panic attack. From my perspective everything looks like a carnival fun house. The trees seem to sway along with the sidewalk as the sound of tapping shoes gets louder and stronger, reverberating in my ears. I continue walking but feel almost frozen and my legs are like lead weights. The fear is so strong it’s almost metallic tasting; I can’t bring myself to turn around to see if whoever is following me is looming closer. My legs begin to feel rubbery until suddenly I hear someone shout from the brush.
“Hey, HEY! There you are!”
A homeless looking man jumps out of the shadows and towards me with his arms extended as if we are long lost friends. Out of a mixture of fear and relief I fall into the frail arms of the dark man who has only half his teeth. Abruptly the clicking of the heels stops. The homeless man whispers in my ear. “Just trust me and follow my lead.” His voice is warm and sounds like the kind that can sing.
He leads me through some bushes and a branch scratches my cheek as he pulls me through to the other side of the park where there is a clearing. He motions for me to be quiet and we stand wordlessly under a lamp post for what seems like an eternity. Until he smiles with half a mouthful of painful looking teeth and breaks the silence.
“Looks like someone wants to do you some harm little lady.” He gives me another toothy grin. “What you been doing to get someone chasin’ you like that?”
I shake my head. “I have no idea who could be following me, but I don’t think it was a fluke. Someone’s definately after me and I don’t know why.”
He studies my face for a moment and replies comfortingly, “I’ll walk you home then.”
We head for Walnut Street and turn left towards my place. His name is Eddie and he tells me a few things about his life and how he became “without means” as he politely describes it.
Pretty intelligent guy for someone living under a tarp.
He walks me up stairs and I offer him a 7 Up as a meager gesture of appreciation. One of the movers left it behind and it’s all I’ve got. “This is my favorite drink, so refreshing.” He takes a big swig and makes the signature ahhhh noise from the eighties trademark 7 Up commercials.
“Thanks for the escort, Eddie.”
He takes a playful bow. “My pleasure, Madame. And you know where to find me if you ever need a not so proper guardian to accompany you through the park again.”
We shake hands and say our goodbyes then I lock my deadbolt and contemplate getting another— or maybe three—and realize that I’ve made my first neighborhood friend. Better stock up on 7 Ups. I pick up my phone and instinctually dial Parella’s cell.
“Yo,” he mutters into the receiver.
“Nice greeting.”
“Oh, hey, doll, what’s shakin’? How’s the new joint treatin’ ya?”
“Fine, but somebody was following me through Commons Park.”
A beat of silence on the other end of the l
ine. “What happened?”
“Well, I lucked out. This homeless guy Eddie kind of ran interference for me and we managed to get away. He walked me up to my place.”
“So you’re home now? Alone? What’s the address, I’m coming over.”
My heart flutters. I don’t know if it’s out of fear or the idea of Parella and I alone together in my apartment.
“No, really, I’m fine. I don’t even know why I called you. It was dumb, really. I’m sorry…”
“Liza, don’t be a stubborn broad. I’m comin’ over.”
“No, Jack, seriously.” I don’t know why exactly, but I really don’t want him here. Though I’m not too keen on taking a bath in the apartment alone either. “But do you think you could maybe stay on the phone with me while I soak in the tub?”
He let’s out a snort. “Whatever floats your boat, Toots. It’s a good thing I’m not comin’ over, or you’d probably try and sucker me into giving you a sponge bath.” He chuckles. “And then you’d probably start weepin’ and get mascara all over my new shirt.”
“You’re all heart Parella. All heart.”
“Alright, Tootsie Pop. Go ahead. Strip and have your bath. I’m right here on the other end of the line and I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he says in a soothing voice.
I guess he’s all right…for an egomaniacal Neanderthal, that is.
75
These shoes are freaking killing me. I’ve been meaning to dress up more since Mamma’s last visit, but I think I’m going to have to draw the line at the four inchers while I’m strutting around town. I swear, a misogynist must have invented high heels. No one is supposed parade around on stilts for extended periods of time. Unless they’re a circus performer, of course.
The front door to Eye Spy is locked, and since I can’t wait another second to get these blasted shoes off, I opt to practice a little B&E. Pop, there goes the lock. Jack’s right, it gets easier every time. After a few seconds’ delay a red light begins whirling wildly, and a foghorn blows. I can only assume that this must be the not-so-silent alarm. Ooops. I fumble for the keypad by the door, pressing a bunch of buttons in frantic panic, as I hear Jack spouting obscenities. He rounds the corner, gun cocked. Spotting me, he stops mid stride, shakes his head in disgust, and sets the gun down gingerly on the counter.
“I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you’d break in here and set off every alarm in the joint!” he shouts as he defuses the blaring siren.
Sheepishly, I hold up the unreasonably high-heeled offenders that now dangle from my fingertips. “My feet hurt?” I say, with a guilty, tight-lipped smile.
Jack rolls his eyes incredulously. “I could either get real mad and give you a big lecture, or not. So, I’m gonna take the high road here, Toots.” He smiles. “In fact, I’m gonna do one better than that,” he states with self satisfaction as he takes a key off of the enormous ring clipped to the side of his jeans and slaps it on the counter. “Here. You should have this now since we’re officially workin’ a case together and you’re my ‘partner,’ so to speak.”
I don’t know why, but I find the gesture both moving and terrifying at the same time. I stare at the key blankly, unable to move toward or away from it. Jack waits a beat, then blurts, “Jeez Louise, lady, it’s a key to my place of business, not the key to my heart. And the alarm code is ‘rosebud’.”
I break out of the awkward haze. “Right…Thanks. Rosebud…Citizen Kane. Okay.”
“Alright, good. That’s handled.”
“Thanks for last night, by the way. I’m sorry it took me so long. The hot water and bubbles just felt like I’d died and gone to a really nice place.”
“Don’t worry about it, doll face. I’d listen to you splash in the tub anytime.”
I smile dopily at Jack. “Wanna see my place?”
His eyes go wide. “Does the Pope shit in the woods?”
“I have no idea what that means, you nut. Put the sign up and let’s go; and don’t get any ideas. Okay? This is strictly platonic,” I say, accented with a cocky flip of my hair as I turn and prance out the door. I catch Parella’s eyes appraising my backside and though Gloria Steinem would be gravely disappointed…I kind of like it.
76
Jack approved of the neighborhood, and the place, after he checked the locks, deadbolts, and windows for safety. He gave me a couple of obvious pointers—similar to the kind my dad gave me when he dropped me off at the dorms at B.U. I smiled and nodded because I knew it was all coming from his protective man place. And once he was satisfied that I understood the fine art of dead bolting 101, he excused himself to take “a leak.” Something about him marking his territory in my bathroom doesn’t feel too bad. The doorbell chimes and I literally shake that silly notion from my head, tousling my already tousled mane, as I open the door wondering, “who in the world it could be.”
On the other side of the doorway stands a young, thin delivery guy holding the most insanely oversized bouquet of peach roses I have ever seen outside of the Kentucky Derby.
“Whoa. What are these all about?”
The delivery boy, who’s sporting a nametag that says Raymond, gives me a goofy, lopsided grin and reads his clipboard. “They’re for a Liza Radley.” He looks down at the wedding ring on my hand and says, “Your husband must love you very much, Ma’am.”
Every inch of that sentence makes me cringe. From the fact that I’m still wearing my ring right down to the “ma’am” bit. I’ll never get used to that; makes me feel ancient. I sign for the flowers as Jack enters, still buttoning his Levis 501s. He glances at the pastel-colored monstrosity that’s being set down on my new-to-me, yet well-worn desk and exclaims wryly, “Well what have we here?”
Raymond seems unsettled by the scene, between my bed head, Jack’s button-flys —unflied—and the wedding ring, I deduct that good ole Ray must think he’s walked in on some sort of tryst. And that my poor cuckold of a hubby is the last to know.
Oh the irony.
I grab a couple of dollars from my purse and toss the tip at him as he beelines for the door. “Thanks, Ray.” I smile as I close the door and stroll over to the mysterious flowers, plucking the card as Parella looks on. He’s made himself comfortable on the chaise with hands clasped behind his head. He smiles tauntingly as I scan the card.
“Oh, do tell. The suspense is killing me.”
I roll my eyes. “They’re from a guy I went to high school with, okay? He’s flying out here to take me to the opera this weekend.”
Jack cocks a brow. “The opera?”
“Don’t start.”
“No, no. I’m impressed. Takes a certain caliber guy to take a dame to such a grand affair.”
I can’t tell if Jack is mocking the situation or if he’s sincere, so I just shrug and grab my purse. “Let’s go, bucko, I’ve got a hunch that Mr. Bentley is going to give us something today to break this case wide open.”
Jack hops up and heads for the door. “I love it when you do the private eye speak.”
I roll my eyes again and as I lock the door I know one thing for sure. I’m going to have to take care of this ring thing…later.
77
As we pull up to Bentley’s office, we notice his decadent silver automobile pulling out of the driveway. We barely slow down and fall in behind him at what I consider to be a safe following distance.
“For God’s sake, Liza, you’re tailgating the man.”
“No way.”
“Yes way. Slow down and put at least five car lengths between us.”
“You’re such an old lady.” I tap the brakes and put some distance between us. As we pull up to a four way stop sign, a huge raised Dodge Ram 4x4 merges into our lane, blocking our view of the Bentley. “Damn it, I can’t see a thing behind this monster truck.”
I crane my head out of the window and unintentionally swerve to the right. Jack grabs the steering wheel and the “oh shit” handle simultaneously.
“Liza, please. Yo
u’re a menace. I’ll keep a eye on our boy; you concentrate on not getting us killed.”
We swerve through traffic until the Dodge turns off on Elm Street, putting us directly behind the Bentley. It approaches the same working class neighborhood we visited before. It’s a bit more unsightly today as I notice more details. The houses have a rundown look with chain link lining the overgrown lawns. An early nineties Trans Ams sit on blocks in the front yard of one of the houses and the whole scene resembles something out of that Patrick Swayze movie Road House.
The elegant car pulls into the driveway of the pale blue house with the striped awnings once again. The house is oddly clean and kept in comparison to all the surrounding riff raff and has some lovely gardenias growing in the planter box. Its quaintness is reminiscent of the house I grew up in, only our place was substantially larger and manicured within an inch of its life. The garage door rolls up to our surprise and Mr. B pulls his car inside. Guess he’s planning on staying a while. Score.
“Bingo. Liza, I guess your instincts were right. Looks like the good doctor is planning an extended visit. You have a camera on your cell phone?”
“Yup.”
“Okay then, start snappin’. Get him walking through the front door, and I’ll go around back, and hopefully get some shots through the windows.”
I nod as Jack slinks out of the seat. Mr. B is now briskly making his way to the front door and lets himself in with a key. I manage to snap about seven action shots. That should do the trick. Watching Jack prowl around to the backyard, trying to look inconspicuous, I get a warm, visceral attraction toward him.
How annoying.
Something about the way that man moves makes me hot in my naughty bits. And certainly all semblance of rational thought goes flying out the window when he cocks his head to the side and smiles, which accentuates that faint dimple high on his cheek. I shake the flood of thoughts from my mind. Get a grip, Liza. He’s still a man after all.
Eye Spy Page 17
