Getting Sassy (14 page)

I wondered if that was worse than getting your leg mangled, imagined the warm-cold sensation of melted chocolate and vanilla ice cream and thought that maybe it was.

I assisted in assembling two of the treats on each plate, placing a scoop of vanilla ice cream on each crust, covering it with the other half and then let Mick apply the finishing touch with the melted chocolate.
My mouth was watering as he led me out onto an enclosed porch off of the family room. It was small with a couple of chairs crowded by a three-level ferret cage, a virtual playpen, outfitted with ramps, benches and toys. Fredo, long and squirmy with pale whiskers, sniffed my hand, and Mick said he’d take him out after we had dessert.

As we settled into the chairs, Mick said, “You always have a dog?”

“No. Bix is my second.” I slid my spoon into the ice cream. “When I was a kid,” I said, “my mom finally broke down and let me get a dog. Wyman—my stepfather—wanted one too, so that helped. Rochester was a dachshund. He barked a lot, but he was a neat little guy.”

“Your mom doesn’t like dogs?”

I shrugged. “She doesn’t dislike them. They get in the way and they’re dirty. She just doesn’t see the point in pets.”

“That’s too bad,” he said, and I nodded in agreement.

Dessert was better than the meal, which was saying something, but I didn’t tell Mick that, figuring that admitting to a ravenous sweet tooth showed a weakness I didn’t want him to know about. I did praise it, however, and, once again, the food distraction let my guard down.

We’d been having an innocuous discussion regarding his backyard and its three maple trees, when, after a few moments of silence, he said, “You want something from me, and I can’t figure out what.”

I swallowed a bite. “You’re the one who asked me out. Remember?”

“Yeah—”

“And don’t tell me you just happened to be driving down Forest Lane when you saw me walking with Bix.”

“What?” He cocked a grin. “You think I’m stalking you?”

“I wouldn’t use that word, but—”

“You’re the only reason I might be driving down that street?”

“Well, when you put it that way...”

“Damn right,” he said, but I could tell from his twitching grin that he found this exchange amusing. “You do remember that I’m a financial advisor.”

“Yes, but—”

“So you probably figure you’re not the only person I advise.”

“Well—”

“And despite my reputation, I’m not a guy who makes little old ladies roll down to my office in their wheelchairs.”

I stopped, a spoonful of chocolate-drenched ice cream inches from my mouth. “You were making a house call?”

“Sure.”

Sure he was. I stuffed the spoon into my mouth.

“Speaking of old ladies,” Mick said, “how’s your mom doing?”

I glanced at him, puzzled but relieved by the abrupt change of topic. Whether it had been wise or not, I had invited Mick into this part of my life. “She’s as well as can be expected, given her age and deteriorating mind.”

“That’s tough.” He nodded, as though to himself. “You gonna move her?”

“I don’t want to.” I paused. “I’ve got a couple ideas.”

“Like?”

I shrugged and then went with the only legal idea I’d managed to come up with. “I thought I’d write a book. Real fast, you know. One of those topical tell-alls that’s written and published in a month. If I keep cranking out a book every month or two, I’ll have money to put away.”

“Yeah, right. I can see you doing that,” he said in a tone implying he didn’t believe me for a minute.

I wasn’t sure whether I should be insulted or flattered. “Maybe not,” I said. “But I have ghosted a book. I can write one on my own. I just need a good subject.”

“And that’s why you’re here?”

“Okay,” I set my plate on the table. “I admit I’m fishing for a story. Maybe a book. Being a jockey—the whole horse racing industry— that’s something that would be interesting to write about.”

He nodded. “You weren’t after a glimpse of Bull’s Blood just because you had a crush on horses when you were a kid.”

“Well, not exactly. But I wouldn’t be pursuing this subject if it weren’t for that ‘crush.’”

He nodded. “So you’re using me.”

“Very gently.”

He regarded me with, I thought, dispassion, but then reached over and wrapped his hand around mine. With a slight squeeze, he said in a soft voice, “So what am I gonna use you for?”

I resisted the impulse to pull my hand away. “Why is it—just when you start being appealing, you get a little...” I sought for a word other than “creepy” and settled on “... sinister.”

He sat back, taking his hand with him. “Hmph. Nobody’s called me ‘sinister.’ ‘Shifty,’ yeah. But sinister?”

I shrugged, but couldn’t imagine legions of women rejecting Mick’s offer to show them his ferret.

“What are you going to write about? I mean, horseracing is a pretty big subject.”

“I’m not sure,” I said in all sincerity. “I’m thinking something about the relationship between horses and their owners.” I had no idea where that came from.

He looked at me as though he could tell. “What kind of ‘relationship’ do you think they have? One runs and the other pays for its hay.”

“I mean, why do some people go into racing?”

“The money.”

“That can’t be the only reason.” I shook my head. “There’s lots of easier ways to make money.”

With a sigh, he shrugged. “Yeah, that’s for sure.” He gave it a few moments. “It’s exciting. At least from the outside looking in. And a horse—especially a stallion like Blood. He’s...” He trailed off.

“An extension of Bull’s manhood?”

Mick chuckled. “Yeah. Something like that.”

I figured a guy with the nickname of “Bull” and a namesake stallion had serious manhood issues.

The buzzing echo of a katydid accompanied our silence.

Finally, Mick said, “How about I take you to meet Bull’s Blood. Tomorrow? Severn’s having a cookout at the farm.”

If I’d had a football, I’d have spiked it. “Sounds good,” I said.

In the dim light I could see him nod.

“But you’re having a good time?”

“I am,” I said, eighty-five percent truthful.

“So,” he said, canting his head, “you ready to meet Fredo?”

The August heat had begun to build when Bix and I went for our morning walk. At seven thirty, a sepia film covered the cloudless sky, and sweat prickled my skin as we circled the block. A cool front was headed this way, and there was a good chance we’d get a storm in the late afternoon. I hoped it would hold off until Mick and I had been out to Bull Severn’s farm.

I felt, deep down where my feral inclinations resided, that this trip would give me an idea—some way to take back from Severn what he’d taken from my mother. For my part, I didn’t consider it theft anymore. Reimbursement. Of course, I couldn’t ignore the very real possibility that I would be caught at whatever crime I decided to perpetrate. Probably jailed. And my mother would find herself in the first empty bed available in a state-run facility, preferably near Joliet, or whatever state-run facility I landed in.

But I couldn’t let fear, no matter how reasonable, deter me from my mission. And, today, I was confident that an opportunity would present itself. I believed this mission was righteous.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t muster this confidence for my planned encounter with Erika. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I needed to reconsider my objectives. So while Bix stopped to mark every sapling along the way, I attempted to put together a new scenario.

My original intention was to show up, unannounced, at the Psychic Place and see if I could either bully or bullshit Erika into telling
me how she’d engineered those knocking sounds. The further I was from the séance, the more I was able to convince myself that it had been an elaborately staged ruse. But now I realized that what really mattered was how Erika had known about Robert and the money— who cared how those sounds were made?—and I wanted to know what else she knew about me. And why had she bothered with the ruse? It may have been as simple as wanting to set up a reporter, hoping for a convincing article, and since I was the stringer who did these “Welcome to Fowler” articles, I was the one she’d researched. That made sense. But even if it was as simple as that, I wanted to know what else she’d dug up about me.

But that didn’t explain why Robert had shown up at the séance and mentioned money. If it was all based on Erika’s research, surely she would have come up with something more concrete. I began to wonder if Erika had known my father. If that were the case, there was a lot I wanted to ask her. But I needed some background information before grilling her. The only source I could think to tap was my mother, and I wasn’t sure I was up to digging into her secrets again. Yesterday had been painful for both of us, and we needed a break from each other. But after examining my options, I conceded that I didn’t have much choice in the matter.

I found her in her room, watching John Wayne in
Rio Bravo.
I’d given her a collection of his movies when I bought the DVD player for her. Wayne had always been her favorite, and now his work seemed to hold her attention more than most of what television offered. Still, it was hard to know how much she got out of these movies, with her nodding off and fidgeting. But he could still make her smile, and every now and then she’d comment on his manliness in relation to today’s “cinematic sissies.”

I did so much tongue-biting when I was with her that it was a wonder I hadn’t bled out.

When I walked into her room, she perked up, hands clasping the padded arms of her chair in edgy anticipation. I knew what was coming.

“Did you bring my cigarettes?” she asked with the eager anticipation of a child expecting a present.

I let her read my answer in the glare I aimed at her. Then I added, “You know what we agreed on. You do not smoke here.”

She sighed, her thin chest deflating. “That’s right.” She folded her hands, obedient, as though I’d snatched away her last ounce of pluck.

I’d never had children and never been the boss of anyone, so I had no practice at being the bad guy. I didn’t care much for the role.

“I’m hoping you can help me with something, Mom.” I took the remote from her table and muted the Duke.

With a sharp glance at me and then at the TV, she heaved a sigh, signaling her defeat, adjusted her position so she faced me and said, “And what is that,
dear?”

I couldn’t figure how to broach the subject, so I just blundered into it. “Do you believe in psychics?”

“Do I believe in them?” From the puzzled look she gave me, the question had caused her some confusion. “Well, I suppose they exist.”

“No, I mean do you believe they can do what they claim they can do—communicate with the dead, see into the future? Things like that.”

“Oh, all that’s ridiculous.” She dismissed the entire field of parapsychology with a wave of her hand. Then she peered at me and said, “Why are you asking me about this?”

“You know I often do interviews with new businesses in town. For the
News and Record.”

“I believe you may have told me that.”

“Well, the night before last I interviewed a psychic.”

“A psychic in Fowler?” She considered that briefly, then sniffed. “I knew this was a strange town.”

“A lot of people use psychics. I imagine they had them in Westch-ester.”

“A psychic would’ve been run out of Westchester.”

Not wanting to wander off track, I conceded, “You’re probably right.”

“That’s very generous of you.” She added a faint, tight smile.

I hurried on. “Okay, let’s say they’re all charlatans. But they do know things—I mean they find things out about people so they’re able to make these people believe what they’re being told. It’s all part of the con.”

It took a minute for all that to compute, but finally she nodded slowly and said, “Perhaps. And, so?”

“Well, this woman knew something about Robert.”

She sat forward. “What did she say about him?”

“It wasn’t what
she
said so much as what
he
said.”

“He spoke to you?”

I shook my head. “No. I’m sure he didn’t. But I was supposed to think he was talking to me.”

“How did he sound?”

“Well, he wasn’t talking really. Knocking. He was one of those knocking spirits.” When her expression didn’t change, I added, “You know—one for yes, two for no.”

“He believed in that sort of thing,” she said, almost to herself.

“He did?”

“Yes. He did.” A little smile curled the corners of her mouth as though she were reliving a pleasant memory. “He used to say that we get a second chance after we die.”

“Robert said that?” The little I knew of Robert, especially what I’d most recently learned, didn’t make him sound like the kind of guy who’d given this much thought. At least not while my mother was in his life.

Her gaze wandered back in my direction and then she started as though she’d just noticed I was there. She crossed one leg over the other and smoothed the pale blue fabric of her pants before cupping her hands around her knee. “But it’s all silly, of course.”