Wheels (Tabor Heights Year Two)

by Michelle Levigne

  When Natalie got the go-ahead from America's Voice to cover the handicap awareness campaign sponsored by the Mission and the Arc Foundation, she had dived into her research. She learned everything she could about her childhood crush, what he had done with his life since her family left Owens Forge.

  Would he remember her, recognize her, when she approached him for the first interview? She had contacted the Mission about the story, and her plan to participate all week. However, she hadn't told them she was coming to the comedy gig tonight, after she found out on Tommy's blog that he would be here. She wanted to watch him in action without him knowing she was there.

  Correction -- he knew she was there. They had made eye contact enough times through the evening, to the point that he singled her out for attention. Natalie grinned, her face warming, as she remembered that little flutter when Tommy called her "babe," and waggled his thick eyebrows at her. Just like he had in elementary school.

  The question was whether he recognized her as the skinny, awkward girl who sat in the bleachers for every single baseball practice.

  "No time like the present," Natalie muttered as she reached the end of the hallway. Old habit and caution made her pause on the threshold and actually look outside before stepping into the parking lot.

  Three men stood by a van with a handicap license plate and a parking placard hanging from the rearview mirror. Definitely Tommy's ride. Natalie glanced back and relaxed infinitesimally when she saw she stood in shadows and the nearest light was four feet to the right, on the outside of the building. Her version of "spidey sense" definitely tingled, and she strained her ears to listen and her eyes to see.

  They couldn't be trying to steal Tommy's van, could they? Not standing under the parking lot lights like that. Besides, they were talking, not trying to jimmy the lock. Two stood in profile to her. They looked like the type of small-time hoods who got their wardrobe hints from Hollywood's idea of criminals. Glossy black shoes, dark sport jackets, tan trousers, pastel shirts, open at the collar. Natalie wasn't close enough to see if they wore thick gold chains or heavy gold watches.

  The third man didn't fit with them. He wore a pale green Oxford-style shirt, faded jeans and sneakers, and looked like he hadn't seen the sun in years. Pale skin stretched over sharp bones, long nose, longer chin, hair that looked nearly white under the parking lot lights, and pale eyes. She couldn't tell from ten feet away if they were gray or blue.

  "You have got to be kidding," he said, as Natalie pressed against the wall inside the doorway, trying to flatten herself to be invisible. "It's crazy."

  "Crazy, he says. What kind of gratitude is that, huh, Chuck?" one of the fancy-dressed hoods said. He sounded like he couldn't decide if he was from Brooklyn or the Barrio. He slapped the skinny man on the chest, grinning. "It'll be easy, Franky. The perfect cover. Who would ever think of searching a wheelchair?"

  "I would," Franky said.

  Yeah, me too, Natalie silently echoed. Her stomach dropped when she thought of Tommy being used to smuggle something. That had to be what they were discussing. That, or she had been reading too many over-the-top military romance novels lately.

  "You're just paranoid. Nobody else would suspect a thing."

  "No. Not in a million years."

  "You owe us. Me and Simon, we been good to you," Chuck said.

  Well, now Natalie had all their names. Other than a suspected connection to Tommy, she didn't have much. The question was what she would do with what she was hearing. Or if she should do anything.

  "For what?" Franky said, his voice cracking.

  "Keeping your butt out of trouble, old buddy."

  "You two always got me in trouble. I'm clean and straight now. I ain't messing it up."

  "See," Chuck said, leaning in enough to make Franky take a step backwards, "that's the thing about guys like us. It's hard to convince anybody we're clean and making good. So what's the use? All it takes is one snitch, telling them what you're up to. Even if it ain't true. And bingo, bango, bongo, you're out on the streets again."

  "Yeah, well, that might be true where you guys went, but the people I'm working for now--"

  "They're what?" Simon sneered. "Religious folks, they're just like everybody else. Except maybe a little more stupid and trusting. So what? It takes two lies, instead of one, and you're back on your own, and your parole officer breathing down your neck twice as bad."

  "We don't have to lie, even," Chuck added. "We can just go to that church where you're working and put a good scare into those people you were having dinner with the other day."

  "You stay away from the Hunters! They're nice people."

  "Yeah, especially that cute little girl. Really cute, Franky, pushing the kid on the swing. Get you brownie points with her mother? Quite a hot number there. What you got going with her?"

  "You stay away from Claire! She's not like that."

  "Church dames are all like that -- they just don't want to admit it." Chuck snickered.

  "You two ever go near Claire, I'll--"

  "You'll what?" Simon said. "You got nothing on us, old buddy. We got everything on you. How'd you like it if we told that cripple you're hauling around what you used to do for a living?"

  "That wasn't a living." Franky's voice shuddered and he backed away from them until he came up against the side of the van. "It was killing me, and it'll kill you."

  "Bet you hope it will, old buddy," Chuck said.

  "We were all doing pretty good until you got scared and ran out on your pals. You ruined it, so now, you owe us," Simon added. "Or we tell them. Everything. Pretty nasty bed-time story for the little girl, ya think?"

  "They already know," Franky said.

  Natalie wished she had brought her digital recorder. Or her iPad -- she could have used it to get audio as well as video, to hand over to the police. Or would it have caught anything? Was the light good enough?

  "Bet they don't know enough," Chuck said.

  "You're kind of close with that cute little kid. You don't want her to get hurt, do you?" Simon added.

  "Sammy's got nothing to do with this," Franky blurted. "Besides, I just started working there."

  "You're driving the cripple around. You're friends with the family, close enough they let you play with the kid. That's close enough."

  "You have no idea what you're asking me to do," he said, his voice losing the trembling and sounding more tired than anything else.

  Natalie ached for him, even as another part of her wanted to grab him by his collar and shake him until he got a backbone.

  "We know," Chuck said. "We aren't asking -- we're telling."

  "If I agree--"

  "You got no choice," Simon said. "The sooner you get that through your head, the better for all of us."

  "I want you out of my life after this. You hear me?"

  "Yeah, we hear you. Doesn't mean we're listening, but we hear you."

  Natalie heard a door open behind her. She glanced down the hallway and saw the emcee head down the hall. He paused with his hand on the doorknob of a room two doors down from the bathroom. Natalie wondered how long the conversation she overheard had taken place. How long for a guy in a wheelchair to use a bathroom?

  "Hey, Lois Lane," the emcee said, beckoning with a jerk of his head. "Donnelly's back this way. Thought you wanted to talk to him."

  She fought the temptation to look out into the parking lot. Natalie tried for a casual stroll as she headed down the hall, when the prickling down her spine screamed to run for her life, that the bad guys were coming up behind her.

  No, she didn't dare press her luck. The club owner -- certain that none of the comedians wanted to be bothered by a "lousy, bigoted, lying member of the so-called free press" -- had insisted she wait until after the entire show was over. Meaning sitting through all the comedy acts, the raunchy, loud ones. Tommy had a reputation for being clean, forcing people to use their minds to get a laugh, instead of appealing to the lowest common denominator. If he had
a reputation for being clean and using intelligent humor, why would he want to hang around at the club until the end of the evening, and listen to filth?

  The emcee had walked through the room two or three times while she was trying to convince the owner to let her talk to Tommy after his part of the show. Now it seemed he had noticed her and knew she was a reporter. No, she definitely didn't want to press her luck and get herself thrown out by moving too slowly.

  Or maybe this was more than luck? Natalie didn't have much experience rubbing elbows with people who thought God moved them around like chess pieces, but she had picked up enough information, talked to enough people to be convinced that God did get involved in their lives. Enough to feel a little jealous. Enough to build up the courage to complain -- a little -- in her morning devotions, and ask God to let her know He was watching and maybe give her some hints about what He wanted her to do with her life.

  After what she had overheard, Natalie wasn't too sure she wanted to believe in luck. Trusting in a God who knew her name felt a whole lot more comforting.

  The emcee hooked his thumb at one of the half-open doorways and headed down another hall. From the smells winding through the air, she guessed it ended up at the kitchen. Her stomach chose that moment to growl. Maybe she could get on Tommy's good side by offering to treat him to a late dinner? She shoved her hand into her pocket, checking what she had scooped out of her purse before she hid it in her trunk. No credit cards. A handful of change, her key ring, and what felt like three bills. If they were fives, she could take him to McDonalds. If they were tens, maybe that Friday's she passed on the highway. If they were ones… well, he could have two from the dollar menu and she would take one.

  Natalie tapped on the door once before nudging it open. Tommy slumped at a table, eyes closed, a can of ginger ale open in front of him, resting between his hands. They were big hands, making her think that if he could stand up, he would tower over her. One step into the room, the floorboards creaked, and she muffled a chuckle. Everywhere else in this converted warehouse was painted concrete floor, so how did she luck out going into a room with an actual wooden floor, and a noisy one at that? Tommy opened his eyes. He blinked, his eyes widened. For a moment, she thought he did recognize her. She didn't still look like that skinny, freckly girl with curly ponytails on top of her head, did she?

  "Reporter," she said, and waved her notepad. Too bad she had run out of genuine America's Voice notepads, with the nifty stars-and-stripes logo, to give her some authenticity. "I'm not disturbing you, am I?"

  "I'm always disturbed." Tommy rubbed at his face, visibly wiping away the weariness dragging his shoulders down, and grinned. He gestured for her to take a chair at the table, facing him. "Nothing can bother me after I finish on stage. What can I do for you?"

  "You are Tommy Donnelly, right?" Natalie muffled a groan as she settled into the chair. How much more stupid a question could she find to ask? Of course he was Tommy. She would have recognized him, just by that lopsided grin she had loved as a little girl.

  "Depends. Which Tommy Donnelly are you looking for?"

  "The world's greatest sit-down comic."

  "You see anybody else with natural four-wheel drive?" He hooked his thumb over his shoulder at a battered, forties-style fridge in the corner of the room. "If you're thirsty, help yourself. The club gives me my drinks free, since I won't touch the hard stuff. "

  "Thanks. Maybe if this takes a while."

  "The last time the PD interviewed me, they took about five minutes max. They must think gimp germs are catchy or something."

  "PD?" She spread her notepad out in front of her and wished she had brought an extra pen. Just in case she ran out of ink at the worst possible time.

  "Plain Dealer. The local big-time, seven-days-a-week paper."

  "Oh, I'm not with the them. I work for America's Voice."

  "Oh, okay. They're sending someone to cover the gimp-a-thon this weekend. You know Jenny Doran?"

  "Yep. I'm here because of Dani Paul and the guys in Firesong. Well, not entirely because of them. Dani told me about the handicap awareness campaign and the celebration for the finish of the accessibility renovations at the Mission."

  "And you are?" Tommy leaned forward. His eyebrows rose a little when she just stared into his big, chocolate eyes. "Sorry, but nobody told me a reporter was coming. I don't know who you are."

  "Oh." She wished she had taken him up on that drink -- she could have splashed it on her face, and maybe generated enough steam to hide behind. "Sorry. Natalie Schaeffer."

  "Right!" He leaned back, twisting sideways in his chair so he hooked his right arm over and behind the push-handle.

  "You know who I am?"

  Chapter Six

  "Gee, you look so young." He snorted when she shook her head, completely lost. "Natalie Schaffer. She played Mrs. Howell on 'Gilligan's Island.'"

  "You are the only person in the whole world who would remember something like that. But it is a different spelling, I must point out."

  "Picky, picky. There was this girl I knew when I was a kid. She made the same argument. I used to call her 'Lovey,' and sing the bars about the millionaire and his wife, and she would run away in terror. Gee, give a guy a complex. I was just a dumb kid -- how could I tell her I was passionately in love with her? It just wasn't cool for guys my age." Tommy chuckled. "That's off the record, right?"

  "Oh, absolutely. Why would I want to mortally embarrass you in front of half the country?" Natalie bent her head over her notepad, thankful she had written down a list of questions she wanted to ask him. Please, please, please, don't let him recognize me now, after he said all that.

  A warm glow shot through her. Tommy had been in love with her, all those years ago? She had been pleased and mortified when he teased her about her name. Maybe if she hadn't run away, she might have known? Then again, what good would it have done either of them, after her father took them to a new church, a new town, and a new state?

  "What a sec-- Nikki mentioned somebody named Nat was showing up tomorrow, to get ready to cover the gimp-a-thon, but sorry, I thought Nat would be a guy."

  "That's okay. A lot of people assume I'm a man. It helps me get through a lot of doors that would be locked otherwise. " She clutched her pen a little tighter, prepared to write. "So you were warned about me shadowing you?"

  "Shadowing? 'Nobody knows what evil lurks…'" He waggled his eyebrows and let out a deep, evil 'mwah-hah-hah' laugh.

  "Not that kind of shadow." She considered slapping him with the notebook, grateful he was making an effort to clown and help her relax.

  "Must be cool, tripping up people who make stupid assumptions about your name. Especially when it comes to the good old boy networks that still exist, huh? Yeah, I can just see it. You call some politician and pretend to be your own secretary to make an appointment. "

  "Hey, whatever works." She made a mental note to try that tactic, the next time she was assigned to interview a politician from a small town where time seemed to have stopped in the forties and fifties.

  "Yeah, my sister still pulls the same trick, when she has to work around the politicians and people who think they're more important than they really are. Legends in their own minds."

  "That's Claire, right? She's the administrator for the Mission, and co-chair with you for the handicap awareness walk this weekend."

  "Right." He settled back and looked her up and down. Natalie didn't really mind. Not now, when he hadn't figured out she was that Natalie, from elementary school. " Ah... not that I'm complaining, but what are you doing here, now?"

  "I want to get an early start on my story."

  "You must be desperate for something to write."

  "Don't you realize what a big story anything is, relating to the Americans with Disabilities Act and accessibility?"

  "I know some powerful people in town hate it. They were ticked when our church bought the old school and turned it into a daycare and senior center. But when Paul
-- that's my brother-in-law -- came to town and started all the renovations, and they realized that people were going to actually use the place… Whew!" He winked at her. "Ought to see Claire, now. She used to have hair as dark as mine. Now it's completely white. I keep telling her to sue the whole City Council, just to keep her in Miss Clairol for the rest of her life."

  "Seriously--" Natalie sputtered. She knew Claire's hair was wheat-colored, with strawberry highlights, nothing at all like the thick, almost blue-black mop that Tommy wore.

  "I am. Yeah, I know the renovations and our handicap awareness drive are big news. I know some major jerk-alerts in town don't want us around, but they can't stop us and they can't prohibit the walk, because it isn't 'politically correct' to fight the equal access laws. Doesn't mean they won't get in our way whenever they can."

  "Which is why you'll be the center of the series I'm going to write."

  "Series? Like, 'Life in the Slow Lane'? Maybe we could call in Charles Kuralt?"

  "With what? A ouija board? He's been dead going on twenty years."

  "No wonder he doesn't respond to my Christmas cards. Son of a gun!"

  Natalie stared at him, holding her breath, refusing to blink until Tommy lost that stunned-but-innocent look.

  He cracked first, sputtering, and leaning so far back in his chair he started tipping backwards.

  "Keep it up. I'll have to keep you on full-time. Aren't many people who can zip them back at me like that." He held out his hand to shake -- yanking it away just before her palm touched his. His hand under his chin, he waggled his fingers at her in a classic Three Stooges gesture.

  Natalie gave in to the giggles. "Dani warned me you weren't serious for long."

  "You think I'm joking?"

  "Sarcasm is a form of humor, the last I knew."

  "Uh huh. Knew it. You went to college, didn't you?"

  "Unfortunately. What does that have to do with anything?"

  "You sound like my prof in Psych 101. Okay -- serious. With the expanded access facility, we've made the Mission a place where gimps can get help, either counseling or equipment or find out how to protect their rights -- whatever they need. We officially open in two weeks, but Saturday is the first annual--"