No Offense

by Francesca D'Armata

  “Maybe his gut is bothering him.”

  Nick pointed at Jason. “You need to do two things. Find out why Keaton is overpaying you. And get the clubs.” Nick got out of the car and slammed the door.

  Chapter thirteen

  The Pecan Valley Church pantry had two sides—one for food and the other for clothing. Virginia, a widow who ran the place, befriended Steely as they prepared weekly sacks filled with some of her favorite nonperishables.

  “Hi, Miss Virginia,” Steely said, entering. “Do you have any good news?”

  “Hi, princess!” Virginia waddled around the counter, wrapped her marshmallow arms around Steely, and squeezed.

  “Well? Are you getting married?”

  Virginia covered her giggle with a hand. “We’re just going to stay friends. He has his, and I have mine.”

  “Kids or money?”

  “Both.” Virginia opened a cabinet. Passed a loaded sack to Steely.

  “I guess that keeps things simple.”

  “I’m sixty-six years old. I’m not doing complicated.”

  Steely set the sack by the door.

  “I got in the pajamas and new suit you wanted.”

  “That was fast.” Steely followed Virginia to the next room, where it appeared the church could clothe all four million people in Harris County, if needed. The room was a mini department store. Racks of clothes lined the walls. Tables in the middle of the room held folded items.

  Virginia pointed at two pairs of silk pajamas. “Like them?”

  “Very nice.” Steely cuddled them in her arms. “So soft.”

  “Hold on to them.” Virginia lifted a suit off a rack, holding up the timeless white jacket and skirt, already pressed and covered in plastic. She checked the tag under the right sleeve. “She’s a two, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Steely said timidly.

  “I wish I was a two,” Virginia teased. “I have to add a zero. Now, you don’t go telling anyone.”

  Steely shook her head. “They couldn’t drag it out of me.”

  “I don’t think I have anything to worry about. You don’t gossip, do you?”

  “Not on purpose. Sometimes things just slip out.”

  Virginia handed Steely a shoe box. “Words just flow out of me.”

  Steely lifted the lid to view the white pumps. “They’re like new.”

  “Sure are! We’re not spreading any fungus around here. We clean and disinfect our things. I don’t even want to think about what some people have growing out of their toes.”

  Virginia popped open a brown paper bag and packed up the shoes and pajamas. She kept the suit on the hanger and passed everything to Steely. “How about I fix you up for Easter?”

  “I’m good. I need to be going. Mom will be worried.” Steely headed toward the door. “Thank you so much! These are really going to make Mom feel better.”

  Virginia asked, concerned, “Is she still sick, dear?”

  “She was getting better. I think she had a relapse. You know, like when you have a cold and then you overdo it. She’s been trying to find a job. She’s a really good mom.”

  “You do a good job taking of care of her.”

  “We take care of each other. Who knows what I’d be doing without her.”

  Virginia muttered, “Probably sharing your food with the indigent.” She held the door opened. “You come see me anytime you need anything. If we don’t have it, I’ll find it. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thanks, Miss Virginia!” Steely lifted one of the bags in an effort to wave and then scurried off.

  Steely shoved a hip at the unlocked and slightly open front door of the house. Sometimes her mom stood at the threshold for a few minutes and looked out to see what she was missing.

  The television was off. “Mom!” Steely set the groceries in the kitchen. “Mom!” She wasn’t in the living room or the kitchen. The bathroom down the hall was empty. “Mom! You sleeping? Wait till you see what I got you!”

  Steely turned the corner. As expected, her mom was there in bed. She burst in the bedroom at full speed.

  “Look, Mom! Look at these beautiful things!” She spread the pajamas and suit across the bed. She rearranged them to give her mother the perfect view. The shoes were hidden on the floor, in preparation for surprise number two. “I don’t know if I want to give you these pajamas.” Steely rubbed them up to her own face. “You might not ever want to get out of bed!” she said, giggly.

  Steely moved closer, rubbing her mother’s back. “Mom, are you OK?” Steely gently patted her back but received no response. “Mom?” She felt her mother’s face. “Mom?” She tugged on her robe. “You’re freezing.” Steely slightly shook her. “No!” she screamed. “Mom, wake up! Wake up!” Steely pulled on her mother’s robe, ripping off a piece of the pocket.

  “Mom, please!” she cried. “It’s time for Easter, and I’m going to graduate in a few weeks. You said you’d go with me. Please wake up.” Steely grabbed the phone from the nightstand, accidentally knocking off an empty medicine bottle. She hit three simple numbers.

  An operator answered, “Is your emergency police, fire, or medical?”

  “I need an ambulance for my mom. She’s not breathing.”

  “Are you at 5750 Saint Ambrose Avenue?”

  “Yes, please hurry. My mom is all I have.”

  “Go open the front door. A unit is only a few blocks away.” Steely dropped the phone, tore out of the room, and threw open the front door. The sirens already faintly blared.

  In fewer than two minutes, three paramedics, saddled with equipment, were inside and ready to work. They laid her mother flat on the floor and placed two large paddles on each side of her chest. The medics shocked her multiple times, propelling her several inches into the air. They waited a few seconds each time for a response. When there was none, they hit her again with an electronic force strong enough to jump-start a car. Each time her mother’s body leaped off the floor.

  One of medics looked up at a shaken Steely. “Are you here alone?”

  “Yes,” she sniffled. “Is she going to be OK?”

  The medic tilted his head at his associate. “We’re taking her in. You can ride with us.” They packed up her lifeless mother, placed her on a stretcher, put an oxygen tube across her face as if she were breathing, and lifted the gurney into the ambulance. Sirens blasted all the way to the Northwest Regional Hospital.

  Steely curled herself into a chair in the crowded emergency room, holding tightly to the fragmented cloth from her mother’s robe.

  A nurse dressed in blue scrubs approached her. “Honey, would you like to go and wait with your mother until the coroner comes?”

  Steely’s nose ran. Her eyes dripped. All she could do was stand to indicate assent.

  “Come with me.” The nurse directed Steely down a hall to her mother’s room. There was no heart monitor attached to her mom; the machine stood powered off beside the bed. No oxygen mask covered her mom’s face; it hung ready for use on the wall above her. Her mom’s silver cross dangled around her neck. She lay peaceful, never to be in pain again.

  Steely climbed onto the bed. This was her last chance to lie beside her mother, rub her face, hold her hands, and tell her how much she already missed her. She didn’t know if her mother could see her from heaven or not. But she felt somehow that her mother knew she was there.

  A week later, Steely stopped by the pantry. Virginia cried more than Steely when she told her that her mom didn’t wear her new suit to the Easter service as planned. Mom did better than that. She wore it to heaven.

  When Steely was leaving, she heard music coming from the sanctuary. Inside, several musicians stood on a platform, practicing for the Sunday service. She peered in an open door and proceeded to a back pew. She lay on her side, tucked her hands under her head, rolled up, and closed her oversized eyes. The musicians practiced for an hour. Then they packed up their instruments and left a few candles flickering on a table up front.

&n
bsp; Steely wasn’t sure how long she had slept. Maybe an hour—maybe two. She dropped to her knees and put her head down. “Father, it’s me, Steely, again. I still call for Mom every time I get home. It seems like I can’t get it in my head that she’s gone. I know she’s not there, but I keep calling for her. Took me over a year to stop calling for Dad. The house feels so empty. Why were their lives cut short? Mom was just getting better after what happened to Dad…I’m just trying to understand. Maybe I never will. Just like Mrs. Yost’s daughter. She never understood it. I’m sure if I needed to know, you’d tell me. I trust you, Lord…Good night for now.”

  She rested back on the pew. Time no longer mattered. No need to rush off. There was nowhere she needed to go. No one waiting for her to get home. Thoughts about her parents ran through her mind like she was watching a video. But she no longer felt anxious. Her heart no longer tried to beat itself out of her chest. She lifted her head, went down the aisle, and skipped down a dozen steps in the front of the church before a striking thought caused her to slow at the last one and then abruptly stop.

  What am I going to do now?

  Chapter fourteen

  Curley’s Bar started to crowd up at dusk. Many of the same vehicles parked in the acre-sized lot daily. Steely recognized the stickers on bumpers and the stuffed dice and beads hanging from the rearview mirrors. Going by there to spy on the customers made her feel that she was doing something worthwhile. It got her mind off of her mom’s death but back on her dad’s. Her mom’s passing wasn’t something she was ready to absorb. And there wasn’t a Curley’s Bar to ponder at for her mom. Or to wonder why people lied about her. Her death was just what it looked like—an accidental overdose. Nothing more to understand or do. Just to miss her.

  But that was not the case with her dad. His death was no accident. It was intentional and purposeful.

  Every time the door swung open, she leaned out of the car to see inside. She’d have gone in if the beer-bellied man standing outside in a Curley’s T-shirt wasn’t checking IDs. Underage kids using fake IDs had caused so much trouble; they’d almost lost their liquor license. Steely wasn’t there to cause trouble. She wanted to find out what caused her dad’s trouble.

  She pushed the gear out of neutral and stirred up the loose gravel while getting to the road that took her home. The short drive wasn’t long enough to get her mind back on track. It made it worse. Her garage didn’t help either, since it was exactly how her dad had left it. And everything in it was a reminder of him. She cut the ignition and thought about everything she knew about her dad’s death, which was practically nothing.

  Right after Fred had passed, Steely went through every drawer, cabinet, shelf, and box, anything she found that might have led to information about what he was doing besides shredding paper. She didn’t know what she was looking for then and still didn’t know now. But she was certain what happened to her dad was somehow connected to his business. And what was left of his business was stored in the garage attic.

  She unlocked the door leading from the garage to the kitchen. It was hard for her to go in. The house felt chilly, just like outside. Mom’s bedroom door was shut and would remain that way until she was ready to open it. The sheets had been stripped and thrown away. There was no need to go in that room ever again.

  Steely fired up the furnace, changed into a gown, tossed a pillow and blanket on the sofa, and crawled under it. Physically she was done, but the whys and the whats would not let her rest. Why would someone want Dad dead? What drew him to that bar?

  There wasn’t going to be any sleeping until her thoughts stopped swimming around in her head. She pushed the blanket aside and went back to the garage.

  It was time for a second look. Maybe she could catch something at eighteen that she hadn’t seen at fourteen. She picked up a hammer and then went up the ladder created by nailing two-by-fours to the studs. Then she gave the plywood floor a couple of whacks with the hammer, staying in position to hightail it down if she spotted a rat. She paused, heard nothing, and then pounded the floor again. Paused again. Then she crawled up onto the floor, stood, and stared at empty cabinets.

  Most of the attic was covered with plywood. Where it ended Steely balanced herself on two-by-fours crisscrossing above the sheet rock stuffed with insulation. The ceiling sloped as she moved deeper into the space where two sagging cardboard boxes were tucked away. She scooted toward them and dug through the contents. The boxes held the papers she thought were most prevalent to her dad’s business but hadn’t yet told her who wanted him dead.

  For the next two hours and twelve minutes, she reexamined the contents of the boxes. Nothing seemed odd enough to catch her attention. Fred’s business of secure shredding for corporations was low stress and certainly should have been low risk. He had no employees. He never had a complaint from a customer. If something was amiss, Steely wasn’t recognizing it.

  She repacked the boxes and pushed them back in place. She carefully maneuvered her way out. One misstep on the boards could send her through the sheet rock and plopping down on the car. She made a few cautious moves on the plywood—before she slipped. Her hands groped for a rafter, keeping her weight on one foot while balancing and trying to get herself back in place. But when she stepped down, she hit something that was not insulation. She knelt to brush away the fluffy stuff, uncovering a metal utility box.

  The box was locked. There was no key anywhere near it. Shaking the box did nothing more than shuffle its contents. Tugging and pulling on the latch didn’t help either. The box wasn’t opening. She stared at it for a few seconds. She thought about pitching it on the driveway and running it over with the car but wasn’t sure if that would damage what was inside. Struggling with a metal box wasn’t what she wanted to be doing in the middle of the night. She tucked it back in place, flipped off the light, and headed downstairs. She hesitated on the first step, took a second look, and then hurried down the ladder. She picked up a screwdriver and crawled right back up.

  The screwdriver was narrow enough to wedge into the lock. The lock popped when she hammered it with a fist. Inside were bank statements. She quickly flipped through them. Looked like a few hundred of them—all from different LLCs. Fred had hidden the first page of each account.

  Steely lined up ten pages along the floor, examined them, searching for a connection. Then she repeated the process and dug out another stack. All different account numbers. The only common factor was all accounts were in Saint Stephen’s National Bank in Saint Stephen’s Island—213 accounts. The last page in the stack was quite different from the rest. It was a photocopy of a cashier’s check for $273,042.18 payable to Flash Away, LLC. The check was the amount her dad had withdrawn from the Paupher family checking account. Flash Away apparently was his biggest client. Copies of invoices to Flash Away were in a corner box. It hadn’t meant anything to her until now.

  Dad gave the money back.

  Steely choked up. She was relieved but still puzzled. The check answered some plaguing questions, but it also created new ones. Whatever happened between her dad and Flash Away was serious enough for him to sever the relationship and return the money they had paid him.

  Steely put the statements and the copy of the check back in the box and covered it back up. She scampered down the ladder, lifted the garage door, and drove off. Nobody was there to stop her from doing something she knew was irrational. Waiting until sunup wasn’t an option. She wasn’t sleeping tonight anyway. Armed with a name and an address, she was going to find Flash Away.

  It was a quarter till one when she drove to the back of the two-story brick warehouse near the Houston ship channel. Her headlights illuminated a wooden dock where semi trucks could back in and load or unload their contents. The building appeared abandoned. A couple of trucks were parked at a similar warehouse a few doors down. The inside of the building seemed to be as dark as the night sky. Her cell provided enough light to locate a side door, which she opened and went in.

  There was
nothing in the facility except thirty to forty bulky plastic trash bags, piled up against a back wall. Those bags would have all gone home with her if she could’ve stuffed them in her car. Since that wasn’t going to happen, she started at one end of the room and began digging. She’d stay there all night if she could find anything significant. She rummaged through the first twenty bags fairly quickly. They contained nothing but real garbage.

  The search was uneventful until she reached the end of the wall, where several bags were stacked higher than the rest. Pulling the three bags down, she uncovered a three-foot-high gray bin. She pushed more bags away, revealing Fred’s markings on the front side. Her dad had been there. She gripped the container with both hands as if it might take flight on its own and disappear.

  Then the front door opened.

  She quickly dove in between the bags.

  A man entering shouted, “Make one more misstep, and you’re a dead kid.”

  Steely hoped he wasn’t talking to her. She took shallow breaths and froze in place. A sliver between the bags gave her a visual of two people but only the backs of their heads.

  “I just want to quit and go back to school,” the boy pleaded.

  The man was not yelling at her.

  Just sit tight. But what if he hurts the kid?

  “Go back? There’s no going back. I own you. You do what I tell you to do.” The man took out a gun and pointed it at the boy’s head. Steely ruffled a bag. Maybe the boy could run. She didn’t want to see him get his brains blown out.

  The man yelled, “Who’s there?” Then he rushed toward the bags. The boy didn’t try to escape. He followed the man to the back.

  “You start in the middle,” the man said. “I’ll get the other side.” The man kicked several bags around from left to right. The boy worked his way to the end.

  They shoved bags around, getting closer with every one. There was no way she could run. The man unlocked the gun’s safety. He could fire off a round with nothing more than a low-pressure squeeze. She wasn’t going to die stuffed into trash bags like a dead cat. There was a back door.