Steely kept her head down, using a hand to conceal her identity. She went straight for the ladies’ room, where there were three stalls. All, with half-opened doors, appeared to be empty. She chose the last one in which to roll up in the fetal position and wail.
Ten minutes later, she stood facing a chipped mirror over a sink. Her face was ruby red. With her eyelids hugely swollen, she folded some paper towels together and ran them under the water spigot. Then she gently laid them over each eye. She leaned against the wall for a few minutes before swabbing the remainder of her face. Another look in the mirror showed minor improvement. She still looked beaten up and feared she might never look normal again. At least not tonight. But she was ready to get out of there.
She peeked out the door. Six giant steps, one leap, and she’d make it if she ran like crazy. She squeezed out the door to get a clear view of her exit. Then, right by the door, at the video games, she spotted him. Any other time, she would have planned for an opportunity to run into Nick Dichiara. But not tonight. There was no way around him. He was flapping pinballs under glass next to the exit.
Her only choice was to lower her head and take off. But she underestimated who she was eluding. She could have worn a mask and put on stilts, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He blocked her path, situating himself between her and her escape.
“Steely, are you all right?” he asked.
She acknowledged by nodding and hoped that would be the end of it.
He bent closer, examining her face. “Are you sick?”
“Nick, really, I’ll be fine.” She tried unsuccessfully angling around him.
“Steely, you don’t look fine to me.” Nick was a detailist with a photographic memory. He’d be the best eyewitness a trial lawyer could put on the stand. He pressed her. “Steely, what’s going on?”
“Really. I’m fine now.” She gave him a half smile. It was the best she could do.
“Then why aren’t you at Erin’s party?” In just one shot, he’d hit the bull’s-eye, leaving her no wiggle room. Even if she didn’t answer, he’d figure it out in a matter of seconds.
She took a deep breath. “I wasn’t—”
He held up a hand. “Hold it! You came from that direction. What did Erin do this time?”
Steely shrugged, hoping he’d heard enough.
His face reddened. His ears turned purple. “Never mind.”
His mother picked up two boxed pizzas from a counter a few feet away. “Nick, are you ready to go?” Mrs. Dichiara’s voice was mighty, like her stance. Her gray hair tightly tapered around her neck. Her chest size included triple letters.
Nick said, “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.” He hurried to his mother and whispered into her ear. She nodded. Then she fired a few words off in Italian that didn’t need translation. They paired up and descended upon her.
“Steely, we will take you home.”
“No, please. I can walk.” Steely wasn’t certain what to think of Nick’s mother. But she didn’t seem the way Cricket described. “Really, I’ll walk.”
Nick ended the discussion when he took off his jacket and wrapped it around her wounded heart. Mrs. Dichiara apparently wasn’t one to argue. When she spoke, there was no dissension. She put an arm on Steely’s shoulder, as though they were old friends. “Honey, you look like a wet puppy. We’re not about to leave you here.” She passed a box to Steely. “Take this pizza home for you and your momma.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dichiara.” Steely choked up for the second time that night.
“You’re welcome. Nick, drive us, please.” Mrs. Dichiara tossed the keys in the air. Nick snatched them on the way down.
“Steely, you’re going to love my driving!” he boasted.
“Son, make it uneventful,” his mother said.
“Mother, I’ve been driving for—”
“I don’t care how long you’ve been driving; I almost got whiplash on the way here.”
“Mother, really?”
“My head bopped around every time we stopped and started.”
“Mother, you’re going to scare Steely.”
“My brains were doing the cha-cha.” Mrs. Dichiara winked at her.
Mrs. Dichiara’s dry sense of humor wasn’t what Steely had expected. She struggled to contain her laughter. Nick grinned, holding the car door open for them. The rain had stopped. The ground glistened. The tears had ceased.
Steely hopped into Mrs. Dichiara’s back seat, wrapped up in her son’s jacket, feeling like family with somebody she had just met. She didn’t really understand it. Maybe it was because she knew Nick. And she could see him in his mother. Caring. Concerned. Handing her a twenty spot, ordering Steely to take her mother to see a movie. Steely smiled effortlessly on the short drive home. She didn’t allow Erin’s party to drain her of another ounce of emotion.
Later that evening Steely and her mom sat on the living-room floor eating pizza and laughing at fifty-year-old sitcoms. It was the best night they had spent together in a long time. Shortly after midnight, Steely went to bed right after her mom. She rested quietly in her bedroom, reliving the five-minute ride home. She laughed again at Mrs. Dichiara’s brains doing the cha-cha. She had drifted off for about twenty minutes when her phone rang.
It was Jenny Dix.
Chapter eleven
Steely stirred, squinting just enough to see who was calling before picking it up.
“Hey, Jenny. I had the best night ever. Nick’s mother bought me a—”
“He’s after me!” Jenny’s voice was partly drowned out by cars and blaring music. “I’m afraid he’ll kill me.”
Steely squeezed her eyes together and sat up. “Slow down. Did you say kill?”
“Yes!”
“You better get out of there!”
“Please come and pick me up. I’m too scared to move. The boss has a gun.”
Steely flew out of bed and flipped on a light. “Where are you?”
“Greenville Boulevard at McCaney,” Jenny whimpered.
Steely threw a sweatshirt over her gown and pulled on her jeans. “McCaney?” She stepped into her shoes. “I don’t know where it is.”
“Head out Eastside Road and call me.”
“Got it!” She tiptoed to the kitchen and scooped the car keys off the kitchen counter. It was impossible to move a ring of keys without making noise. She wished she’d left them in her pocket the night before. In another few seconds, she’d be outside and in the car. But opening a seventy-two-year-old door was noisier than an alarm system.
“Going somewhere, dear?” her mom yelled from the bedroom.
Steely exhaled. Climbing out of a window might have been the better choice. “Guess your hearing is still keen, Mom.”
Draped in a terrycloth robe, her mother rushed out of the bedroom. “Answer my question, please.”
“Just giving a friend a ride. Go on back to bed. I’ll be right back. No need for you to lose any sleep over this.” Then she pulled the door open enough to get outside.
But her mom stood firm. “Who needs a ride at this time of night?”
Jenny’s terrified voice resounded in Steely’s mind. Running out the door was a thought, but not an option she was willing to take. “Just a friend who needs a ride home. Mom, I really need to go. I told her I was coming.”
“Steely, this isn’t a difficult question. Who is this friend?”
“Jenny Dix. She needs me to pick her up.”
“From where?”
“Corner of Greenville and McCaney.”
“I see. Guess you’re planning on walking there, since you only have a provisional license. I sure haven’t given you permission to drive at this time of night.”
The door was open. The car was in sight. Jenny was waiting. “Please, Mom, it’s an emergency. She’s in trouble.”
“Did she call nine one one?”
Steely shook her head.
“Didn’t you tell her what Sergeant Donovan said?”
Steely ind
icated she had.
“She didn’t listen to you, did she?”
“She will now.”
“You’re not going.”
“I can’t leave her there alone.”
“You’re not going.”
“Mother, please. Her life is in danger.”
“Mother? We’re suddenly formal. Steely, sit down and call Sergeant Donovan. He can get someone there faster than you can drive.” She pulled out a chair from the kitchen table.
Steely reluctantly planted herself in it and called Donovan from her cell.
He answered on the first ring. “Donovan here.” He was awake.
“Sergeant Donovan, this is Steely Paupher.”
“What is it, Miss Paupher?”
“Jenny Dix is in trouble. She’s at Greenville and McCaney. She’s running from a man with a gun.”
Her mom’s face expressed concern.
“She wants me to pick her up.”
Donovan became anxious. “You’re not there, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. We have officers on the way. Shots were fired in the area. The description of the victim fits Miss Dix.”
Steely choked.
“Steely, there are some people we can help, and there are some we can’t. I’d hate it if anything happened to Miss Dix. But we warned her, just like we warned you, to stay away from there. You listened.”
Her mom held her hand.
“Sergeant, she was desperate.”
“Desperate?” said Donovan unsympathetically. “Well, thank God, most of us would rather starve to death, live under a bridge if we have to, than destroy another person’s life selling drugs. I have another call. But don’t leave your house tonight. For any reason. Don’t leave your house.”
The shooting dominated the morning news. Jenny Dix never had a chance. Six point-blank shots blew her heart right out of her back. She died on the corner seconds after she called Steely.
The police discovered that a customer had complained that his order was short by ten grams. The boss took his dissatisfaction out on the courier. Within hours, Donovan arrested a forty-three-year-old college professor, but he was not the shooter. After one night in lockup, he was ready to spill his guts. But he could only rat out Sling. And Donovan needed more than a two-bit Sling to obliterate the person really responsible. He needed the boss. But no one seemed to know any more than his street name. The boss.
Chapter twelve
Nick shifted the coupe in reverse and maneuvered his car out of the driveway, avoiding his mother’s SUV. He kicked up a little dust, staying within the speed limit but arriving faster than anyone else. The midnight-blue two-seater with pitch-black leather was an oddity. There had been only twelve in production in the last year. He couldn’t maintain that baby at just any grease shop. Every part was a European special order. There were only three dealers in the United States. Fortunately for Nick one was in the Bayou City.
Jason Wilkerson flagged him down from a corner. “Nick, stop!”
He screeched to a halt at the curb. A neurotic driver behind him sat on his horn and zipped past him, shouting things he might not have been so brave to shout if Nick’s windows had been down. He pressed a small lever to scroll down a window. Jason lifted his shades and leaned in. “How about a ride?”
Nick unlocked the door. “Come on, before someone else wets their pants.”
Jason situated himself inside. “Where we going? Not that I care. I’d go anywhere in this beauty.”
“Golf.” Nick shifted, getting them moving again. For a few seconds, the G force restrained them tighter than a seatbelt.
“A game?” quizzed Jason.
“Don’t have time. You want to hit a few?”
“You bet.”
“In a suit?”
“One sec.” Jason tossed his jacket into storage behind the seat, followed by his tie. He rolled up his sleeves, lowered his shades, settled into the concord seat, used his hands to rearrange his hair, a few spikes up, and he was set. He briefly shut his eyes, envisioning a pilot saying, “We’re cleared for takeoff.”
More pressure on the accelerator sent the ground hugger slicing through the wind. Nick’s mother claimed the car crawled around the ground like a cockroach. His father pulled a muscle the first time he got out of it. If the aerodynamic coupe were any tighter, he’d have to ride with the top down.
Jason gawked at the dash. “You taking this to Lubbock?”
“No. I’m keeping it here to use when I’m in town. I had to skip the summer session. Trained all summer with Mr. Hunter. Just flew in to meet with him. Didn’t you start at UT this summer? Why are you still here?”
“Job hunting. I was going to call you today. I’m transferring from UT to UH.”
“Didn’t you get the scholarship money for tuition?”
“Yes, but there wasn’t much time for fun.”
“They kicked you out?”
“Recommended that I depart. They have no hospitality.”
“At least they didn’t press charges—hacking into their server like that. Was it that much fun e-mailing half the faculty that they were terminated and not to set foot back on campus?”
“Not anymore.”
“How many didn’t show up the next day?”
“Eight. Forty-three called to check. They should’ve known better. Everyone else went.”
Nick glanced over at Jason, who was looking out the passenger window. “You’re a software expert. You’ll find somebody who doesn’t care about your transcript.”
“Looks like Mr. Keaton doesn’t care.”
“Mr. Keaton at JHI?”
“Yep. He wants to hire me permanently.”
Nick veered toward a curb and then straightened back up. “Doing what?”
“Wire transfers. I worked all day yesterday setting up a series of transfers.”
“Doesn’t he know how to wire money?”
“I guess it was too cumbersome for him. The company sends hundreds of wires every day.”
“To where?”
“I don’t know. I set them up, and Mr. Keaton inputs the account and routing numbers. Easiest grand I ever made. I guess they pay more for contract work.”
Nick swung his head at Jason and then back straight ahead. “They paid you a grand to send wires?”
“Yeah. Can you believe it? Mr. Keaton keeps the account information in a folder locked in a safe. I told him I could put it on a jump drive. He could just plug it into his computer. He didn’t go for it. Hey, guess who gave him my name? Cricket, of all people.”
Nick looked puzzled. “Cricket? She despises you.”
“Guess she came to her senses. She probably has a crush on me.”
“How does she know Keaton?”
“Her step-step-step-step-step-father had a business deal with him. By the way, Nick, is it true?”
“You mean working in Saint Stephen’s Island at Christmas at break? It’s true.”
Jason fiddled with his sunglasses. “Put my name in if you need an associate.”
Nick turned the car sharply to the left, sending them right. “You’d have to take a pay cut. Mr. Hunter wants me to check out our subs there.”
“If I get this job working with Mr. Keaton, I’m going to be the best at whatever he asks me to do. This is my big chance. I just can’t fail again.” He snapped his head toward Nick. “Mr. Keaton is ticked you’re in his biz. But what Mr. Hunter wants, he gets. Why’d your dad do the legal work on Saint Stephen’s Island instead of Mr. Thibodeaux?”
“He isn’t familiar with international law like my dad.”
“It’s one of the biggest projects in JHI history.”
“This deal is small potatoes, less than one percent of the operating budget.”
“People wonder about Mr. Hunter’s shooting a nineteen-year-old to the top of the executive ladder—before you even graduate college. How does that look?”
“Like you better quit whining or I’m dropping you
at the next curb.”
Jason glared at Nick. “Can’t we have a discussion?”
“I’m making twelve fifty an hour until I graduate. You want me to tell Mr. Hunter you want to be treated like me?”
Jason squeezed his brow together. There was silence for a few seconds before he changed the subject. “Do you think Mr. Hunter will sell the company? I’ve heard rumors.”
“Anyone would sell anything for the right price.”
“To Mr. Chevoski?”
“Never. Mr. Denison showed me Chevoski’s proposal. His offer was an insult.”
“I heard he thinks Mr. Hunter is his papa bear.”
“What? I never heard that.”
“You ever met him?”
“No. And don’t care to.” Nick approached a corner, took a right, and sent them left before careening back in place. “Something’s not right with that guy. His business is obscure. He claims he represents investors. Mr. Denison doesn’t think he has any investors.”
“What do you think about Mr. Keaton pushing to take the company public?”
“You sure know a lot about what’s going on, for a contract worker.”
“Rumors.”
“Hunter will never give up controlling interest.” Nick shifted down, turning into the Pecan Valley Country Club. He rolled in between two white lines and cut the engine. “I’ll get the balls. You get the clubs.” Nick had one leg out the door and paused. “Congratulations on your job, Jason. But you better be careful about what Keaton asks you to do. He and Qualls are the two in senior management that I can visualize in handcuffs.”
“You’re not fair. You have nothing on him. Do you?”
“No. But I can feel it in my gut.”
“So I shouldn’t work with the guy just because of your gut?” Jason smirked.
“You’re a smart guy. You need to think about why Keaton paid you a thousand dollars for a job he can get a clerk to do.”
“It’s not any different than Mr. Hunter propelling you to the executive office. He’s hiring the person he wants to train, just like Mr. Hunter. I’m sure Mr. Hunter’s relationship with your dad was a factor. But he wants you, Nick. Now Keaton wants me bad enough to pay me a chunk of cheese. What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s peculiar. Mr. Hunter seems uneasy. He won’t say why. But I think it’s the reason he’s chasing after me.”
No Offense Page 6
