Time's Up

by Janey Mack

  I settled back in my chair and got comfortable. “He won’t get far with video evidence of aggravated assault with a side of battery. An open court case against the city’s top official probably won’t look so good for Dhu West’s parking poster girl.”

  Sterling’s eyes went opaque.

  Time for the heat. “I have eighteen months to press charges.”

  “But you won’t.”

  I knew why I wouldn’t. But why was he so sure? “Oh?”

  “Ah-ah-ah.” He wagged a finger at me. “I know you. An aggressive little up-and-comer.” He gave me a couple grooving nods. “And I’m digging the wide-eyed innocent routine. It’s cute.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “You’re scared. I get it. And hey, I’m impressed that you have the sense to look ahead—imagining the worst-case scenario and all that. Clever. But you won’t be going this alone. I’ve got your back.”

  Sure, you do.

  Sterling held out his hands, holding an imaginary bounty. “I’m offering you money, position, and the potential for more. A lot more. You can write your own ticket.”

  Cute. “What’s in it for you?”

  He ran a finger across his lower lip. “Let’s just say Dhu West has been a very close friend of the mayor’s. But there comes a time when a public separation is preferable to one or both parties. Dhu West feels that now is that time.”

  One sacrificial lamb, coming right up. You want Pepsi with that?

  “And let’s not forget who’s really at stake here.” His face drew into a good-looking frown. “All the other parking enforcement agents.” He shook his head sadly. “Your reviled, spat-upon sisters and brothers watch as one of their best and brightest takes it on the chin from an elected city official. Assaulted. By the mayor of Chicago, no less. Why, it practically screams ‘Come beat the shit out of us! Everyone hates us!’ to the general public, doesn’t it?”

  I could almost hear the theme song to Rudy playing in the background. I smiled as though it didn’t matter—could never matter—but of course it did. For me the job was the means to an end. Even now, I could leave it any time, take my chances with law school or whatever else I could think of. But Leticia? Niecy and the rest of those poor stiffs?

  It was their life.

  A small groan came from the back of my throat. Amazing really, how those who possess no conscience are so adept at pressuring those of us who do.

  “I do things two ways, Maisie. The happy way or the hard way. With the happy way, there’s space to adjust, make requests—everyone’s happy. The hard way’s exactly that.” He made a clicking sound against his teeth. “Hard.”

  According to Hank, there are more than twenty-two ways to kill a man with your bare hands. I know of a dozen. But bashing Sterling Black over the head with his MacBook Pro until his brains leaked out of his ears had an appealing sort of Zen symmetry to it.

  Sterling leaned back in the Swedish desk chair and put his hands behind his head. “Which way do you want it?”

  “Happy.” A little time was better than none.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “Enter,” Sterling said.

  In came his Charlie’s Angels squad of personal assistants—a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead all in tight short skirts and low-necked blouses. Twentysomethings with Bluetooth earpieces attached, walking that fine line between sexy and slutty and owning it.

  The auburn beauty faced down Sterling across the desk. The tip of her tongue slipped out and touched her upper lip, her green eyes alight. “The big three plus plenty of cable.” She put her hands on the end of the desk and leaned way over, giving him the cleavage shot. “Who do you want most?”

  Unaffected by what my brothers would deem a stellar rack, Sterling put his hands behind his head. “Who’s hungriest?”

  She beamed and said in a voice that hummed, “They all are, baby.”

  “Good Day USA.” Sterling turned to me. “Do you know what spin is?”

  “As in O’Reilly’s No Spin Zone?” I said.

  “That geriatric spaniel couldn’t spin his way out of a paper sack.”

  Sterling’s aides giggled on cue.

  He grinned at me. “I’m the top top, baby.”

  “The Caesar of spin,” oozed the brunette.

  I’d like to get off now, please.

  He turned to the blonde. “Contract.”

  She whipped out an iPad and began tapping and dragging on the screen with a slim black stylus.

  “Standard, one through sixty, add on 4 clauses A through F, rights clauses 35 A through R, print and video 75A through 78C,” Sterling said. The blonde clicked and tapped, then nodded at the brunette, who disappeared from the office.

  The redhead took the chair next to mine and said in a soft voice, “You have no idea how lucky you are to have Sterling.”

  The brunette returned with a thick stack of paper, secured with a black binder clip, and set it on the corner of the desk closest to me. Red Post-it flags marked with Sign Here were scattered among its contents.

  Sterling gestured for me to pick it up.

  “What is it?” I asked, not reaching for it.

  “Standard PR contract. Boilerplate, you know how it is.”

  Boilerplate. The single word that raised the hackles of any decent lawyer. “No, actually I don’t.”

  Sterling smiled. “You need representation at a higher, more specific level for this opportunity.” He uncapped an ebony Waterman pen and set it on the contract.

  I shook my head.

  “Can’t or won’t?” he asked, clearly tired of this.

  “There are three lawyers in my family,” I said. “I’m sure you can understand I don’t feel comfortable signing anything without one of them taking a look-see.”

  He raised a brow and nodded grudgingly. “Okay. Tomorrow morning. Here. Seven a.m. Signed or ready to negotiate.”

  Saturday morning? Seriously?

  Sterling picked up the contract from the corner of the desk and held it up. The brunette took it. The blonde held her stylus and tablet at the ready, while he put the cap back on the pen and replaced it in his suit coat pocket. “Remove A through F on 4 and add S through V on 5. Addendums 1.A through G and D include the fee-split with all the minis.”

  She tip-tapped his contract alterations on the iPad and nodded at the brunette, who left.

  Sterling may as well have been speaking Japanese, but I got one thing out of it. Ready to take advantage, he’d been even quicker to back down. Sterling Black wanted me for something more than the new face of the PEA, and that might just be my way out.

  Chapter 27

  Talk about an unpleasant development.

  I drove home with the contract screaming at me from inside my purse on the passenger’s seat and fourteen hours to figure a way out of Sterling Black’s media tar pit. Or else it’d be me on TV, accompanied by the hideous and final death rattle of my dream of becoming a cop.

  What campaign did Sterling envision? My Goodness, My Meter Maid? Got Tickets?

  And as if that wasn’t enough, our driveway was full of cars.

  Super-duper.

  I had to park on the street. I came in through the back garage door trying to rev myself up. A party, Ernesto, and the slim but real possibility that no one had seen the YouTube video yet.

  Chin up.

  At the moment, I still had my job and three top-notch lawyers who sure as hell should be able to get me out of Sterling’s stranglehold.

  I went through the mudroom, dropped my keys in the dish, and heard Allegra’s nasal voice-over from the family room.

  There is no God.

  They were all watching it. On the Sharp one-hundred-eight-inch screen LCD TV with Wi-Fi. Da, Flynn, Rory, Declan, Daicen, Cash. Howling with laughter.

  Declan, the devil, as was his specialty, imitated me to perfection as the Guerrilla News video rolled. The room was plugged to the gills with pure testosterone. Ernesto was there. So were Koji and sever
al other cops I’d known for years. All laughing so hard tears rolled down their cheeks.

  “Hi, M-m-m-meter Maid, M-m-Maisie!” Declan said in a stutter-blurp fake throw-up voice, making everyone laugh even harder.

  Except me.

  I dropped my bag and jerked my shirt up. “See this? It’s called a bruised pancreas. I had it before the mayor shoved me.”

  The laughing choked to silence at the sight of my gruesome torso-covering bruise, which had turned a spectacular mottled black and violet.

  “Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph,” Da whispered. “Who did that to you?”

  My five brothers stared at me in white-lipped fury.

  “I did,” Hank said.

  The whip-crack of necks almost audible as everyone jerked to look at him.

  He stood in the doorway from the living room, a beer in one hand, my mom on his arm. His black Gucci shirt was open at the neck, rolled up at the sleeves, and tucked into black pants with a black canvas military belt. All daunting sinewy hardness and cruel good looks.

  Breathtaking.

  “Hank?” I squeaked. For the love of Mike . . .

  “I stepped into a kick during training,” I said hastily, yanking my shirt back down. “I wasn’t paying attention. One hundred percent my fault!”

  Too late. The nine cops in the room giving Hank the eye had already decided it was a domestic and were wondering when the blanket party was.

  Thierry clapped his hands from the kitchen. “Are we making the pizzas or are we not?”

  Cash quit texting and sent his Italian music mix through the stereo—everything from The Godfather sound track to Ennio Morricone’s spaghetti westerns. Rory shot Hank a last suspicious once-over before heading to the kitchen, throwing his arms around two other guys, getting the traffic flowing.

  Flynn changed the input on the television to a ball game. I caught his eye and glanced at Da.

  He shook his head, then tapped his watch.

  He hadn’t told Da about the Clark case. Time may be ticking, but I’ll take as much of it as I can.

  Ernesto came over and got right in my face. “Where the hell you been, chica? I’ve been calling and texting you the last two hours.”

  “Dhu West. I turned my phone off.”

  His face crumpled in commiseration. “How’d it go?”

  “Not good,” I said. “I’m getting a promotion.”

  Across the room, Daicen joined Mom and Hank.

  Ernesto held up his empty glass. “You need a beer, my friend. And so do I.”

  “Damn straight.” We walked over to the wet bar. I put a glass under the tap. Thierry had changed the keg to Moretti in honor of pizza night. I took a sip. Icy-cold goodness. “How long has Hank been here?”

  “A while,” Ernesto replied. “We got here before the cops got off shift and showed up.”

  “We?”

  “I didn’t think you’d mind Hank tagging along. Not to mention, he’s not the kind of guy you say no to.”

  Hank. Here. In my own home. Talking to my mother. WTF? “I better go say hi.”

  “Hey,” Ernesto said, “gimme your phone, will ya?”

  I picked up my bag, tossed him my cell, took out the contract, and walked over to Mom, Daicen, and Hank.

  “Where’ve you been?” Mom said.

  “Dhu West.” I handed my brother the contract. “Sterling Black wants me to be the new face of Parking Enforcement.” I let that sink in and turned to Hank. “Could you give us a minute? I need a little legal advice.”

  “I don’t know, dear. Mr. Bannon may be able to provide some interesting insight into your situation,” Mom said. “Shall we adjourn to my office?”

  Once we were seated at the conference table, Mom asked, “What did Sterling Black say exactly, Maisie?”

  “The video is too tough to spin. Dhu West wants to publicly separate from Talbott Cottle Coles.”

  Daicen passed the first few pages to Mom. “Coles’s options are limited to a public apology and anger management classes.” He turned another page of the contract. “I’ve seen the video. The only thing in Coles’s favor is the fact that his member remained in his trousers.”

  “I don’t know.” Mom rolled a pen between her teeth. “Dhu West has been in bed with Coles since before his first campaign, and the Saudis want to dump him now? On the edge of reelection?”

  Maybe the Saudis were ticked the Bus Driver’s Union sell-off didn’t pan out.

  “If it is a setup, I don’t see it. Maisie’s as clean as they come. And this”—Daicen tapped the contract—“comes with handcuffs.”

  “I’m not going on TV.”

  “Why are you balking?” Mom said. “This could be a springboard to a new career.” A wily gleam sparked in her eyes. “What do you think about running for office?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said.

  Mom scanned another paragraph. “Dhu West seems to consider your refusal to participate as insubordination and thereby a firing offense. Your options are to appear or resign.”

  “I’m not quitting. C’mon, guys,” I rasped. “You gotta get me out of this. Please?”

  “Want a paper bag, killer?” Hank said.

  Cute.

  He ran a hand along the length of his jaw. “Requesting a veteran team member accompany her on set seems reasonable.”

  “Cogent, even.” Daicen’s eyes crinkled at the corners. He crossed his arms over his chest, dark eyes narrowed in thought. “Any ideas?”

  Mom smirked. “I vote for Leticia Jackson.”

  Great. Apparently no one in my twisted plane of reality was offering the blue pill today.

  Hank and I left Mom and Daicen going over the contract line by line and stepped out of the sound-baffled office into the hallway. The party was in full raucous swing.

  I led him down the hall into the study. I hit the remote and the art lights flanking the stone fireplace came on, as did the flat screen, set as usual to the Rat Pack music station.

  Hank leaned against the door frame, filling it. Uniquely able to make me feel tense and awkward.

  Impressive.

  “You’ve been playing at this meter maid thing for a while now,” he said.

  “I’ve got my eye on the prize.”

  “Yeah?” Hank moved in close. “You sure it’s not a case of ‘I have my own matches and sulphur and I’ll make my own hell’?”

  Always with the Kipling.

  “Going on a PR tour—with whatever scheme your murder of lawyers comes up with . . .” His voice turned husky. “No good will come of this.”

  “Clairvoyant, are we?” I said.

  “This is Chicago, Sweet Stuff. What goes over the devil’s back will be paid for under his belly, and Coles and Dhu West are riding in a continual loop.” He touched his forehead to mine, and, in spite of myself, warm happy spread throughout my chest. “Quit.”

  Why? A weird little buzz started in the back of my mind. Like a honeybee trapped in a jelly jar. I tipped my head back to look at him. “Are you asking me to quit?” I said, careful to keep the hopefulness out of my voice.

  “What if I am?” he said.

  Wow. Well, then . . .

  I pretty much almost might even consider it.

  Hank let go of me. I turned to see my father stride into the office, all Irish smile and hot eyes.

  There wasn’t enough Botox in the U.S. to keep my face from contorting into a twisted-up cringe.

  “Hank Bannon.” Hank held out his hand.

  My father shook it. “Conn McGrane,” he said in a friendly brogue. “You wouldn’t mind giving me a minute with me gel, eh, boyo? Seeing as you already kicked the living shite out of her and all.”

  Hank smiled thinly. “Of course.” He left, closing the door behind him.

  “Thanks, Da. That was cool.” Can’t anyone in my family act normal for once?

  Da flipped his fingers upward. “Show me.”

  I raised my shirt.

  “Nasty.” He whistled at the exp
anse of dark bruise. “What were you thinking, going to work like that?”

  I jerked my shirt down. “I’m on contract.”

  “Jaysus, Maisie.” Da dropped down onto the couch and covered his eyes with his hand. “You’ll be the death of me.”

  “You haven’t heard the good news yet,” I said, all sunshine and rainbows. “I’m Dhu West’s new face of Parking Enforcement. Neat, huh?”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “I don’t have much choice.” I sat down in the chair opposite. “Aside from the fact that my absence as good as declares open season on my coworkers, if I don’t go I’m fired.”

  “Hanging yourself over a half-assed job.”

  “A means to an end, Da.”

  “And what end would that be?”

  Really? You honestly have no idea? “Reinstatement. At the Academy.”

  “For chrissakes.” He rubbed his temples. “Wake up. You failed the demmed psych exam. It’s over.”

  A pale red haze coated my vision. “Maybe I can make a deal with Coles,” I snarked. “Tell him I’ll drop the aggravated felony battery if he gets me reinstated.”

  Holy cat! Did I just unwrap the Golden Ticket?

  My father’s expression turned to pure granite. “Stay the feck away from Coles.”

  Dropping the f-bomb? On me?

  “You have no idea what Chicago’s corruption machine is capable of,” he said, using his perp voice, making my pulse hammer like a sapsucker on a Scotch Pine.

  “I can guess—”

  Da was off the couch, looming over me before I could finish. “No, you can’t. Keep away from Coles.”

  He still wins for pretty much the scariest guy ever.

  “It’s my life, Da,” I said, jerkily.

  He nodded and glanced around the room. The words “is it?” unnecessary to speak. He stood up. “Why don’t you go find that roughneck you call a fella and ask him what you should do?”

  Chapter 28

  Hank lounged against a stacked-stone column in the foyer.

  The doorbell chimed. I ignored it. Ask me again if I want to go home with you.

  The doorbell rang again.