Games of the Heart (Crimson Romance) (20 page)

That might be true, I didn’t know, but I did know that he squinted and a crooked smile came on his lips when he asked questions, a smile only a fool would trust. He winked. “Can you talk to Cheney? And tell me what she says. You could be all girlfriend like. It’s your moral duty.”

Girlfriends with Delta? I think not. “My moral duty?” The same words Tom Morales threw at me last evening. What is it about men in Vegas? Who are they to tell me to join their moral squad?

“Will you?” He bent over his briefcase and pulled out a red folder. “Here’s a file of what I know about Cheney. Everything looks aboveboard. That’s the scary part. Everyone has something concealed, skeletons in the cupboard and phobias and stuff, right?” He looked at me and smiled. “Everyone, including preachers.”

“Including preachers.” Did he know about Bob’s dirty little gambling secrets? What else did he know? Had he intended to bribe Vera with the two-pound box of Sees Candy, from the shop on Sahara, and I know the place, that was sticking out of his briefcase? Then again, what did Vera and Carl have going? I grossed myself out on that one, but stranger things happened in real life. I accepted the folder and wondered if this was one of the stupider moves in my life. What would I owe Carl? Would Tom expect me to share this information? How many women had been sold into slavery to produce unwanted babies while I was standing there bewildered, muddled, and in deeper excrement than any preacher should be?

• • •

By the time Vera came back, VBS was over, the kids had gone home, and the teens were heading for pizza or the mall or their afternoon jobs on the church campus. The allergy pills made my head swim, but I wasn’t so dizzy that I left the scarlet-colored folder that Carl had given me anywhere that Vera might question it, because I’d shoved it under my T-shirt and crossed my arms to keep it snug near my bosom. I asked if she’d had a good time, and she modeled neon green stilettos. With glitter inside the plastic heels.

“Get out of here, Jane.” She reapplied lavender lipstick, tucked her curly gray hair behind her ears, and took off her shoes to rub her heels, which already showed blisters.

“About Pastor Bob, Vera. Is he distracted? I don’t know him well.” The folder slipped; I held my bountiful chest tighter.

“Yeah, distracted. Nice word for it. Freaky might be better. If you want my two cents, the guy’s always been a sandwich short of a picnic basket. You met his missus? Prudence Normal is the poster girl for a church lady, buttoned up and pinched lips.” Vera proceeded to reach inside her blouse to adjust the cleavage, plumping the girls up. Then added, “She’s gone to the East; their daughter’s having twins. Course, it’s none of my business, but if they wanted privacy for a blowout fight, they should have had it at home.”

“Here in the office?”

She settled back to spill the beans, with relish and joy. “Throwing stuff. Thought she was going to kill him. Told him what he could do with himself in anatomic detail and that she was heading home to pack her bags.”

I sat on the corner of her desk. The cold pills must have suddenly kicked in, because I could think. “So you heard their, um, conversation?”

“The root of all evil. Money. Me and the hubby? Not close to being suited for each other. The man sells cleaning supplies. But I stay amused, even if he isn’t exactly Mr. Romantic, if you get my drift.” She wiggled her shoulders, and the cleavage looked like jiggling Jell-O.

I did not want to get her drift. Step away. Too much information. I didn’t want to know any of the intimate tidbits of Vera’s sex life, thank you very much. “The Normal’s have separated?” Everyone under the sun seemed to think it was my moral duty to ask nosey questions, so I’d do it, steering clear of the above-mentioned drift into Vera’s sexual encounters.

“Didn’t know Prudence had it in her, always working on teas and missionary stuff. She makes my skin crawl.”

If she was crawly with church stuff, why did she stay at Desert Hills? I didn’t ask, as my thoughts were off in another direction. “How is Pastor Bob handling it?”

“It?” Vera crossed her legs, inspected the calves for the need of a shave. “He’s hardly here anyhow, but do you mean has he changed?”

I nodded. Anyone who owes casinos roughly a quarter of a million might be an itsy bit distracted. I certainly am when I don’t return a grocery cart to the store or if a library book is late.

“Changed? No more than I would expect for a man leading a double life.” Satisfied about her legs, Vera swiveled and flicked on her computer.

“Say again?”

“Yeah, he does counseling for couples who are scheduled to adopt through PSA.”

Pastor Bob Normal might seem idiotic, comical, and a bit slick, but he definitely did not seem a fool. There had to be more.

Vera gave me a squinty look. I didn’t know if she had more to tell or if what she’d told me was only half truth. The money part made sense since I’d seen with my little eyes the end result of Unlucky Bob Normal.

“I have a few personal calls to make so, hey, Jane, get out of here for a while, will ya?”

“Okay, now off to the PSA.”

She squinted through the rhinestone cat’s eye glasses, if possible looking more suspicious than usual. “Getting some extra money with counseling work?” Her well-lined eyebrows went skyward.

“I’m looking into their adoption process.” Which was the Lord’s truth. And I was thinking about illegal and immoral adoptions, moral duties, and asking Delta some questions, one of which was not for a date this Friday night. I pulled the folder from under my shirt, tucked it beneath my arm, blotted a gob of snot teetering on the brink of my left nostril, and headed to my office.

Vera hummed as she punched in numbers and then whispered into the phone. I knew the world didn’t revolve around me, but I had the feeling she was telling someone I was going to adopt through PSA. Whoever gossips to you will gossip about you, and Vera knew secrets to share.

• • •

I drool over babies like some women get mushy over appliances or shoes; wait, I do that with shoes. I’d considered adopting, but it’d never happen with PSA. Delta Cheney might be innocent as vanilla ice cream with white chocolate sprinkles, but the buck stopped with the CEO. Looking to point a finger? In my book, it’ll be directly directed to Delta Cheney. Hence, I prayed she’d go down with that ship when the truth surfaced on deserting children, abuse issues, and the baby mills. As sure as I was burning my backside getting into the SUV, I’d get to the bottom of what was happening. I might end up looking like an idiot, and Pastor Bob and Delta might be pure as the driven snow; however, the odds as they were stacked were not in their favor.

I put the car in reverse, only to slam on the brakes. I’d nearly flattened Vera. She didn’t seem to notice and handed me a green leather purse. “Jane, one of the women, Judith, who takes lunch to the mission, forgot this. Told her you’d drop it.”

Best plans of preachers and mice go astray, so rather than off for a shower before my appointment with Delta, I headed downtown to the Daily Bread Mission. Cars jammed the street, and construction crowded it more, so I parked where I could and hiked the blocks to the mission, a big empty store with chairs, folding tables, and a soda machine. As I walked in, the “lunch ladies” were cleaning up, and I returned the purse to Judith and grabbed a leftover chocolate chip cookie.

Inside the mission, kids played Twister and board games, like the affluent ones at VBS. Four women huddled around a scarred coffee table, flipping through tattered magazines. A man yelled orders to himself, jumping up and sitting down, saluting to no one in particular. A clerk, eyes glued to a computer monitor, mutely moving a mouse while playing Solitaire. I bought a diet iced tea from the vending machine, finished the cookie, and sat with the women. While I was hot, sweaty, and germ-ridden, I was immediately pegged for just another do-gooder. They knew it; I knew it.

“I’m Jane.” I sipped the drink, held the can next to my cheek. “Are some of those your children?” I nodded to the group of girls, toddlers to early teens.

One tossed down
Real Simple
and picked up
Vanity Fair
. “Yeah, their kids,” said one woman, the tank top showing more muscle in her arms than I had in my entire body. Her face said, “Don’t you give us trouble.”

Another smiled, a child herself. “Too hot outside for ’em to play.”

“Good place here,” I agreed.

“You looking to convert the unfortunates? The homeless? You’re a preacher, right? I seen you here before. You come to tell us about how we’s all sinning?” asked another.

“Always drumming up business for God,” I said and smiled. It wasn’t returned by anyone but the child/mother. “But I wondered if any of you might know anything about a little boy, a blond little boy who limped? Here yesterday.”

She with the muscles shrugged, snorted, and walked toward the restroom.

Another said, “My girls made friends with him. He didn’t look good. Wouldn’t talk to them.”

She looked worried, and I replied, “He’ll be in a foster home soon. Did you see where he came from?” It was a long shot.

“Not me,” said one and another shook her head.

“Nope, me neither.”

“I saw them,” said the child/mama.

Muscle Lady was at my elbow. She smelled ripe, but so did I. She turned on the group. “Don’t need to tell that woman anything.”

The young mother’s face softened as she looked my way. “Yes, them.”

I walked away from Miss Massive Muscle Ratio and sat next to the other young woman. “Who did you see?”

“The boy and two people.”

“When?”

Muscle Plenty skidded a plastic chair next to us. She growled, “It works this way. You pay us, we tell you.”

I kept my eyes squarely on the mom who had spoken up. “Are any of those kids yours?”

“Why?” Her eyes blinked.

“What if I told you that child had been sold into slavery after being taken from his mama in Poland and/or he was brought here to be sold to people who could afford to adopt a blond and blue-eyed boy? But he wasn’t good enough so they threw him out on the street?”

“How do you know that?” Child/mama closed
Martha Stewart Living
and looked at me, brown eyes wide. Maybe she’d been abused or deserted.

I could see it in her gentle face and said, “He was dropped off in the city, and the people who left him didn’t care if he lived or died on the street.”

The child/mama twisted a corner of
Martha
and said, “Ignore her.” She pointed to Muscle Madam. “I don’t want money. The men dropped the boy about three blocks from here. There’s a park, and I was sitting there on Thursday evening, watching my girls on the playground. We’s sleep here at the shelter, but we gotta be out after dinner while they’s set up. I gave the little guy a juice box, and he did the darnedest thing.”

I waited and watched. The saluting man now marched up and down the sidewalk shouting commands we could hear, but chose not to. Muscle Woman grimaced as if she’d just taken a big bite of rotten cheese; I didn’t give her the opportunity to speak. “What? What happened?”

“He cuddled close to me, right under my arm, and fell asleep. I just brought him along when we came to the shelter that night.”

“Did you see the people who left him? Could you tell what they looked like?”

“The car was gray, nice car, but they’s lots of nice cars in Vegas. They opened the door and pushed him out. He tumbled on the pavement. Then one man said something like ‘do widen’. But didn’t know what had to be widened. Crazy thing, yelling at a boy who was lying on the road.”

I sat back. “Could it have been
do widzenia
?” Could the man have said, “good-bye” to Mikel in Polish?

“Yeah, that was it. That’s what he said.”

I dug into my purse and came up with a twenty. We both looked at the bill, and I swear I could feel She With the Muscles inch closer. I moved my hand toward the mom.

“Nah, I have all I need here. My girls are happy and healthy. We have food, and I’m going to college in the mornings to get a degree so I can work in a daycare center. Not easy but it’s good. You see, we had a home until the baby, Yolanda, in the blue T-shirt there, she got sick. My husband left cuz he didn’t want to be a nursemaid, he said. The landlord kicked us out of the trailer. My car gave up the ghost, as my mother would’ve said. We had no other place to live. But then I heard about this shelter. They helped me to get in a program. We’ve got all we need. So you keep your money. You need it, too. I know about the preaching business. My grandpap was a preacher in Alabama. He and Mama are gone now ten years, God rest their souls.”

“Thank you for your generous spirit,” I replied and started to get up, but the Muscle Maiden had my arm. I sat down. She sat down. And let go.

The woman cracked her knuckles one slow knuckle at a time. When number ten was complete, she pushed away a greasy lock of hair that fell over her shoulder and said, “Okay, church lady, let me ask you some questions. This religious stuff, the free food, like that is good. Lots of us be hungry if not for that. What you doing to help these kids? Do you have a God only for the folks who live in those nice houses with bank accounts and jobs? What about us who lives here? Yeah, us, right here and on the streets?” A muscle rippled in her jaw. It was not attractive. She put a hand, like a vise, on my shoulder.

My friend of just a moment before disappeared, as did the man issuing orders to an unseen battalion and the clerk who’d been clicking long fingernails on the computer’s keys.

There was no doubt that Muscle Mama understood life on the streets. I had a few clues after serving in South Central L.A., but I’d never huddled in an alley or begged for spare change.

Our eyes met and I stared. “You’re waiting for me to fail, to be some church-talking charlatan. I can see it on your face. I might be a lot of things, and there might be a lot of me, but I am no stinkin’ hypocrite,” I said and straightened my spine.

She stared. Still, her words echoed in the empty building. “When I was little in South Carolina, my mother yanked us kids to Vacation Bible School. You make one here.” Her hand swept around the mission. It was an order.