No Offense

by Francesca D'Armata

  “Come see, Miss Priss.” Bea marched Steely to the bedroom that she didn’t like to go in. Bea’s assessment was correct. The cockroach was dust. “I blew him away,” Bea said, proudly.

  Steely looked intently at the half-dollar hole in the wall. She shook her head. “Miss Bea, two squirts of roach spray—that’s all you need: two squirts.”

  “That guy could guzzle that spray, burp, and keep on going. It wouldn’t even make him drowsy. He wasn’t going to get the best of me. This was personal between me and him.”

  “Personal? With a cockroach?”

  “He’s been tormenting me ever since I got here. I smashed him with a broom three times. He flipped me a leg, crawled a wall, spread his wings, and glided down after me. One night I woke up, and he was sleeping on my pillow!” Bea angled a foot toward the bug and proudly stated, “I won the war! He won’t be tormenting me again.”

  Steely opened the drawer beside the bed, set the gun inside, and closed it. “Miss Bea, you can’t shoot at anything again unless it’s a life-threatening situation. A cockroach is nasty, but not life threatening. You have to follow the rules, or I’ll have to take the gun away.”

  “Huh.”

  “The only time you can shoot is if someone breaks into the house. Don’t shoot if someone is in the yard. Or if they knock on the door. You don’t shoot. Only if they break inside the house. Then you can shoot. OK?”

  Bea followed Steely to the den, grumbling.

  “If Mrs. Yost was home, HPD would be knocking on the door. They’re arresting you next time.”

  “That nosy old woman needs to mind her own business. What is she, a hundred?”

  “She’s your age.”

  “Huh.” Bea shuffled to the kitchen.

  Shaking her head, Steely went back outside and picked up the bag and the bin.

  “That girl thinks she’s the boss of me,” she spouted.

  “I can hear you,” Steely yelled back, coming inside.

  “Good! I hope you didn’t buy any more of that stale bread.”

  “It’s not stale. It’s only a day old.”

  “It tastes like it’s a month old.”

  “We can toast it.”

  Steely placed two loaves of bread and two blocks of expired cheese on the table. She placed the recycle bin beside the wastebasket.

  “Listen here, I don’t care if you recycle. But don’t be buying me any of that recycled stuff,” Bea said. “I want new.”

  “Why? It’s good for the environment.”

  “People let their dogs poop on newspapers. I’m not wiping my tush with anything recycled with dog poop.”

  “Miss Bea, I would imagine they want only clean paper.” Steely coughed. “What’s that smell?”

  “I fixed blackened chicken.”

  “You cooked food?” she asked.

  “I used the chicken tenders you bought on the highway. Sit and eat.” Bea set a plate on the table.

  “You made me a plate?”

  “I do plenty of things for people, Miss Priss. I’m a nice person.”

  Steely unwrapped the foil from the dish and jabbed a fork into the meat. She examined the dark specimen, lifted the fork, and sniffed.

  “Don’t forget to say your prayers.”

  Definitely not telling her today. I might end up like that roach.

  The meat was dark even before it was fried to a crisp. Almost 90 percent of the protein that entered Steely’s digestive system was chicken. This wasn’t chicken. She was certain of that. And Bea’s smeller was broken. They had ten packages of the meat in the freezer. The rancher they bought it from, along the highway, did not sell them chicken. But whatever varmint it was, they were eating it. She chomped down on a slice. “It’s nice and chewy.”

  Bea leaned back against the sink. “Maybe it’s the stuff they’re feeding chickens these days.”

  “What stuff?” Steely held her breath and attempted to consume another chunk.

  “You know, all that organic stuff and then letting them run around.”

  “You mean free ranging?”

  “I bet they’re feeding them tofu. Roaming around with tofu in their belly. That’ll make a chicken taste funny.”

  “How much was this meal?” Steely poked at the gamy texture.

  “I figured from the stickers you put on everything. Tofu chicken, ninety-nine cents; peas, fifty cents; carrots, thirty-five cents; salt, five cents; flour, twenty-five cents; cayenne pepper and other spices, twenty-five cents; sugar, ten cents. I didn’t put it in a calculator.”

  “Two forty-nine. We’re under budget. I like tofu chicken.”

  “I bet you do, cheapskate. This brings back memories for me. It’s what the poor people in my family used to eat.”

  “I doubt they ate this.” Steely snickered.

  “Well, you better get used to it—since we’re poor.” Bea turned on the faucet, rinsed out a rag, and wiped the stove. Then she plugged up the sink with the rag. She turned on the water and squirted in liquid. Bubbles formed.

  “What’d you do today?”

  Steely didn’t answer.

  Bea shut off the water, turned around, and stared. “I asked you a question.”

  “What did you do today?” asked Steely.

  They stared at each other for a few seconds.

  “What’d you do?” Bea said sternly.

  Steely stretched over the table toward Bea. “What’s that around your neck?” It wasn’t Bea’s standard pearls.

  Bea lowered her chin.

  Steely leaned in. “What is that?”

  “This place is a fleabag.” Bea tossed another rag into the water. “I have to use protection.”

  “You’re wearing a flea collar?” said Steely in a high pitch. “They’re for animals, not people.”

  “Huh.”

  Steely watched her affluent mother-in-law, in a muumuu, wearing a flea collar matching the one Fur Ball wore daily. Beatrice Hunter didn’t know it, but she didn’t have flea bites. There were no fleas in the house. Unless Bea rolled around in the front yard for hours at a time, she wasn’t getting fleas. What Bea had was a nervous itch.

  “Are you going to tell me what you did today? Why is it sometimes you won’t shut up, and sometimes I have to drag stuff out of you?”

  “I found a job. I started working today.”

  Bea glared. “You pouring coffee again?”

  “No.”

  Stern-faced Bea said. “Is this job legal? I’m not bailing you out of jail.”

  “Miss Bea?”

  “Don’t act like that’s a silly question.” Bea leaned back on her arms. “You have a shady résumé, little girl.”

  “It’s legal.”

  “Then they’re desperate.”

  “They’re not desperate.” Steely bit into another piece of meat.

  “You can’t adequately process a prospective candidate that fast. You need time to check personal references, job history, testing…Then comes a background check, drug test. Takes a couple of weeks at least.”

  That screening was her idea. “That’s what they said at first.”

  “I don’t care what they told you.” Bea pitched a wadded paper towel into the trash. “I wouldn’t trust them.”

  “I’m working as an executive trainee.”

  “Huh, you won’t make a plugged nickel for six months.” Bea turned back to the sink, dunked a dish into the water, and scrubbed.

  Steely set her fork on the plate and then took it to the sink. “I’m working at JHI,” blurted Steely. “I’m getting paid.”

  Bea twisted around.

  Steely braced for her reaction. “Are you OK with that?”

  Bea paused and then said, “JHI?”

  They were silent for a few seconds.

  “What do you think?” Steely pressed. “They’re paying me a great sign-on bonus.”

  “Is it two hundred seventy-five million dollars? ’Cause that’s what Harry Keaton owes me.”

  “It’s a
little short of that. Nick Dichiara forced them to pay me. We had lunch today.”

  “I sure like that boy. I need to call Nancy. She must have called a dozen times.”

  Bea snickered. “I wonder what Benita said about Nick’s breaking the rules.”

  “I don’t know, but she sure thinks you could run the place.”

  “She’s the most intuitive woman I’ve ever met.” Bea pulled the rag out of the sink, draining the water. “Come on. We need to get you fixed up.” She tossed her apron on the table and pushed a chair toward the bathroom.

  “Wait. What? You’re excited about me working with Nick? You weren’t this excited when I married your son.”

  “You’re not marrying my son. Now get moving! First thing, I’m giving you a hot-oil treatment for that ratty-looking hair.”

  “My hair’s not ratty.” Steely weaved her fingers through her locks.

  “Then you’re getting a facial and a mani-pedi.

  “A pedi? You’re touching my toes?”

  “No daughter-in-law of mine is going around looking raggedly. I’ll fix you up, and then you’re off to bed for some beauty rest.” Bea jammed the chair into the bathroom. “Get in here!”

  “It’s still daylight.” Steely squeezed in the chair, wedging her legs between it and the vanity.

  “Sleep is as important as makeup. We have to get rid of those puffy bags under your eyes.” Bea trotted off to her bedroom, grabbed a flowered zipped bag, and laid the contents out on the counter.

  “I don’t have bags.” She felt her face.

  “I’m patting those down with guacamole.” Bea took off for the kitchen. “Stay put.”

  “Can I have some tortilla chips, please?”

  “Nope!” Bea brought back a small bowl of guacamole and pushed in behind Steely. Nobody was getting out of there in a hurry.

  Steely dipped a finger in the bowl.

  “Quit eating that!” snipped Bea.

  “Ah! It’s got a kick to it!” Steely fanned her mouth with her hand. “Miss Bea, I didn’t know what you would think about me having lunch with Nick. Sure didn’t think it’d get a makeover.”

  “You didn’t cheat on my son, did you?”

  Steely twisted her head up at Bea.

  Bea turned her back around. “Do you think my son is in heaven eating PB and Js?”

  “I don’t think they eat—”

  Bea whispered, “Did he kiss you?”

  “Of course not. He’s not like that.”

  Bea flung her head back. “We might have to have one of those talks.”

  “Oh no, we don’t!”

  “Well, I don’t know…”

  “I’d have sense enough to know if it was a date.”

  “Did he hold your hand?”

  Steely wrinkled her nose.

  Bea straightened up. “Let me explain. Hand holding is a crossover.”

  “A crossover?”

  “From a no-touch business meeting to a date. We had our first date.”

  “We?”

  “From now on, the way you look should be your top priority. You’re a woman, aren’t you?”

  “I’m a serious, well-educated woman. I don’t need to manipulate someone with the way I look.”

  “Don’t you understand marketing?” Bea wiped Steely’s face with a moist cotton ball.

  “Yes, actually I minored in marketing.”

  “Huh! A kid with a lemonade stand has enough sense to know it’s all about the presentation. When was the last time someone came up to you and said, ‘Awww, look at that beautiful brain? Steely, you’re so smart. I just want to help you’?”

  “Where’d you learn this stuff?”

  “Common sense.”

  “I don’t think—” Steely felt her face.

  “Stop!” Bea screamed. “Don’t touch your face. There’s bacteria on your hands!”

  “It’s my bacteria.”

  “You want to look like you’re going through puberty?”

  “It’s my skin.”

  “And you’re going to be the only one looking at it if you don’t stop.”

  Steely moved her hands safely to her lap, where bacteria didn’t matter. Bea scrubbed up to her elbows. Steely knew better than to smile. You didn’t smile when Bea was serious.

  “Would you like my medical history and insurance card?”

  “Be quiet or I’ll hurt you.” Bea dabbed a cotton ball, soaked in pink liquid, around Steely’s face and repeated the process with three different solutions, clearly killing every speck of unwanted bacteria.

  “Where’d you learn how to do this?”

  “The Grey Canyon Beauty Shop. I was running it when I was twelve.”

  “You got a job at twelve?”

  “Started at ten. The beauty shop was attached to my parents’ general store. I’d go every day after school. It was fun.”

  “This makes you happy, doesn’t it?”

  “Will you quit moving your mouth?”

  Beatrice Hunter cleansed for the next forty-two minutes. Steely just listened, since moving her mouth was forbidden, while her face was slathered in mayonnaise. Bea rattled on.

  “Everyone worked. Nobody gave a flip about your age. Rich, poor, and everyone in between. If you planned on eating, you worked. You played too. But you worked first, so you could play and eat.”

  Steely finally had to chime in. “You get fired here if they find out you’re a day short of sixteen.”

  “Quiet.” Bea patted her face back down. “It’s a shame. The only people hiring kids now are criminals.”

  Steely stared blankly at Bea in the mirror. How’d she know that? Bea flew around from making ludicrous assumptions to wise statements and everything in between.

  “Harry Keaton has been a thief since he was five. We had to watch him every time he came in the store. He’d stuff his pockets with sodas, candy, anything else he could get away with. Older kids would get him to steal for them, so they wouldn’t get caught. You can’t compare that to what he’s done now. One day he’s going to get back all the trouble he’s caused. You watch and see.”

  Steely hoped that was the case. This was not the time to add accelerant to the disdain Bea had for Keaton. Informing her about a connection to the accident might cause her to drop dead right there on the bathroom floor. Or load up the gun and do something that would put him in the grave and her in lockup.

  She did as ordered and kept quiet.

  Chapter forty-six

  The whites of Nick’s eyes were now red. He’d never had eyestrain before, not even when pulling all-nighters in college, studying for exams. He printed out the transactions for the day, stopping at twelve dozen pages and carefully spreading them across his desk. The daily wires were multiplying. Every transaction was automated. Preset, in motion. That was the only way someone could float that many wires in twenty-four hours. And it happened every working day. Monday through Friday. The assets went from JHI to Saint Stephen’s to Geneva. Some leaving out JHI and going straight to Saint Stephen’s and then off to the Swiss slopes.

  The company did not need to send that many wires. JHI was a wholesale operation. Only large sums in fewer transactions should be transferred, not all the nickels and dimes shifting around, like they were a retail establishment. And nothing should be going to Geneva.

  But there were bigger questions: Whose assets were coming into JHI? And whose assets were going straight to Saint Stephen’s? The company was the pinnacle of success. It’d take some funny math to say they earned revenue of $213 million per quarter. This was money laundering on steroids. A small-time hoodlum couldn’t do this. Certainly not anything Keaton could navigate. He was a pawn.

  Keaton had been questioned before. He couldn’t explain anything in a language anyone could understand—because it didn’t make any sense.

  Nick no longer cared. He was backed into a corner. And he sure wasn’t going to stay there. The only thing he could do was take a risk that was much more life threatening than
interrupting a robbery in an alley in the middle of the night. This time he had more than grit. He had account numbers and pass codes.

  He grabbed the phone, checked the time, and then set it back in place. The banks had closed hours ago.

  Pressed and dry-cleaned, Jason came in and positioned himself into Steely’s chair. He propped his loafers on Nick’s desk. He’d apparently torn himself away from his cappuccino maker long enough for a visit with his battered pal.

  I’m going to knock that “all leather” stamp off the bottom of his shoes.

  “Nick, let’s grab some dinner before everything closes.”

  “Not yet,” Nick said, refusing to look up.

  Do I start with facts or speculation? They’re probably the same.

  He gripped the papers between his fingers. “Not one subsidiary formed in the last ten years has ever been profitable. Not one. Then suddenly they all have a positive cash flow. How do you explain that?”

  Jason dropped his feet. “Profits are good. Don’t have to explain it. Stockholders don’t fire CEOs because they’re too profitable. Nick, don’t let your career go down the toilet over this.”

  “The wires are spreading like a plague.”

  Jason scanned the room. “Maybe this dust is getting to you. More revenue is not a plague.”

  “I found two hundred thirteen million dollars in two hundred thirteen accounts unknown to Mr. Denison.”

  “You did what?” He stirred, swishing his arms back and forth. “Bet we’re getting bigger bonuses this year.” He calmed.

  “Jack didn’t know about these accounts. How does your CFO not know about them? There’s never been a transaction, except for the initial deposits opening the accounts about a year ago. These were our reserves. Moving assets without a detailed explanation is a big fat no.”

  “This is a huge company. Assets are moved around from one sub to another all day long. It’s standard business practice. You’re overreacting, as usual.”

  Nick walked around his desk, rubbing his head. “My limbic system is about to blow a fuse. Sending two hundred thirteen million to accounts your CFO didn’t know existed is not an acceptable business practice. It’s misappropriation of funds. What are we doing sending thousands of wires? Then he lumps them together and diverts a million here and a million there.”

  “I don’t know anything more than what I’m told. Transfer the assets. I tap a few keys and keep it moving.” Jason motioned toward the door. “Come on, let’s get a burger. What’s that burger place you like?”