If Tomorrow Never Comes (6 page)

Dull sunken eyes
shot spears through Margaret.
  

“May
I ask your name?
 
Of course, you don't
have to tell me if you choose not to.
   
I can give you a name myself if you wish.”
 
Supporting her chin with her thumb, her
pointer finger pressed into a spongy cheek, Margaret continued, “Now, let me
see, how about Cindy or Shirley?”

Horrible
names, Jordan fumed.
  
The fact that her
mother chose her name made it the only thing she liked about herself.
 
“Jordan,” came out so reluctantly, so quietly
Margaret barely heard.

“Jordan,
Jordan,” like a record, the name rolled softly off Margaret's tongue.
 
“How lovely, my favorite name in the whole
wide world.”

Deciphering
empathy in the strangers' eyes fanned the embers of Jordan's hostility.
  
Hissing between her teeth like an alley cat,
she countered, “I just bet it is.
 
You're
so old you've probably never heard it before.
  
You're no better than he is, you know, for allowing him to get away with
treating me like shit.”
 
Awaiting the
anger she was digging at, surprised when Margaret's features never wavered,
when her voice remained calm, sweet, and sickeningly tender, Jordan fell
silent.

A
faint smile tilted Margaret's mouth.
 
“Well now, you're a smart one. You're right, Jordan, I am old and I've
never heard that name before.
 
Still, I
like it.
 
I like it very, very much.
 
And whether you approve or not, it will be my
favorite name from now on.”

The
woman was a wise old coot Jordan scoffed inwardly. Suddenly she knew she wasn't
going to get anywhere with “Mary” herself sitting at the pulpit.
 
It was perplexing how her gaze fixed on the
intruders’ grandmotherly appearance, her pure white hair, shiny, each wave, and
curl meticulously tended her face round, the skin so well cared for, her cheeks
glowed.
 
Delicate color splashed her lips
accenting soft blue, global eyes that were hypnotizing.
 
The pastel floral housedress she wore washed
and pressed making Jordan imagine how beautiful Margaret must have been when she
was young, because she still was.

As
calm settled over Margaret's features, slowly, quietly, rather motherly, she
spoke again.
 
“Whether you want to admit
it or not, Jordan, we have something in common.
 
We're females, much smarter than the male gender.
 
From the day, we draw our first breath we
know how to manipulate an ability that convinces me we’d make a great team if
we joined forces.
 
Jake would be a
formidable challenge, don‘t you agree?”

Astonishment
made it impossible for Jordan to keep her lips firmly set.
 
Margaret saw them turn ever so slightly into
a trace of a grin, curiously bleak and yet, yearning.
 
“You look so lovely when you smile, my dear.
 
You should do it more often.”
 

The
tender words floating from Margaret's mouth abruptly altered Jordan's
mood.
 
Cynicism twisted her lips.
 
Cheek muscles twitched from grinding
teeth.
 
“I hate being a woman.”

Having
gained a smidgen of ground, Margaret desperately fought to keep it from
crumbling beneath her.
 
“Well, my
darling, you don't have to worry about Jake noticing your beauty, or the fact
that you're a woman for that matter, if that's what's troubling you, and
keeping you from being yourself.
 
He,
hates women, will not have anything to do with them.
 
Mind you, he's not gay or anything, a female
worked him over good once.
 
I think you
both have more in common than you’d like to admit, that is, you hating men, and
Jake hating women, of course.” With a quizzical lift of her brow, Margaret
added, “Are you about to admit that he's smarter than you?”

Despite
herself, Jordan was beginning to admire the old fools' cunningness, her
astonishing ease, and indescribable beauty.
 
Recalling Jake's previous coldness, soullessness, and ruthlessness, with
a look catlike in extreme, she replied, “No way!”
  

An
amused smile briefly lightened Margaret's expression.
 
“That's the spirit.
 
Just between us though, I must warn you
regardless of sex, Jake won't surrender.
 
Under protest, he may give a fraction of an inch here and there, but he
will never release you until he gets what he wants.
 
Remember, he's the law, so my hands are
tied.
 
Jake brought you here for a reason
and I have to trust that he knows what he is doing.
  
Now, have I made the picture clear,
sweetheart?”

Gag
me with a spoon, Jordan thought “Sweetheart!”
 
How dare the old battle-axe?
 
Just
as instantly, her mind switched to the topic at hand, so, Jake was his name,
and he hated woman.
 
Good, Jordan
decided, thinking how much she'd like to shake the hand of the female who put
him in his place.
 

Aware
of Jordan's spinning thoughts, Margaret decided to barter while she could.
 
“Have you ever heard of compromise?
 
Just maybe the two of us can get what we want
by working together.
 
You see I'd like my
old Jake back and, you'd like your freedom, right?”
 

Although
Jordan's frown deepened, and her brow's collided, her eyes took on renewed
clarity, gleaming like gold as she gave Margaret her full attention.
 

“Don't
look so suspicious, darling, trust me, Jake wasn't always mean.
 
It's a sad story, one I'd rather have him
explain someday.
 
Apparently, life has
done a number on both of you.
 
Why don't
we see if we can give it an old kick in the pants?”

 
The old coot was a nut case, Jordan decided,
or “Mary,” herself, how else would she know how bad she hurt.
 
One way or another, Jordan wanted out of this
prison with its roof over her head, the uncomfortable mattress, and the putrid
food.
 
Unable to think of another
plausible way to gain freedom, desperation erupted.
 
Crossing her arms and curling her lips into
the cutest pout, “What's the plan,” she asked.

Bingo,
Margaret gloated, still, she didn't want to make the mistake of counting her
laurels too soon.
 
Smiling inwardly, she
explained, “Why don't I tell Jake you'll cooperate with certain stipulations
for instance, when he asks something of you, insist that he does something in
return.
 
Simple, wouldn't you say?”

The
simplicity of Margaret’s plan robbing Jordan of coherent thought, jerked her
face toward her, “Like what?”

“My
dear, as I said before, women are rarely the, shy, retiring creatures we like
men to believe us to be.
 
We know exactly
what we're doing and why.
 
I'm positive
you'll come up with something.”
 

Having
planted a seed now was the time to allow it to grow.
 
Making her way to the door, Margaret
reassured Jordan, “I live downstairs and hear more than anyone knows.
 
Should you need help, stomp your feet.
 
Good luck, my dear.”
 
With a sly wink, she left.

The
scheme was almost complete, Margaret mused; a boiling sense of triumph
distending her breasts.
 
Now, another
person needed convincing before leaving the two alley cats at the others’
mercy.
 
Jake had a long overdue lesson
coming on how to get more with honey than with fists and guns.
  

Finding
him on the couch, futility and exasperation contorting his face, like a boulder
positioned in front of him Margaret stood. “I'm telling you right now, Jacob
Morgan, it won't work.
 
Believe me;
you've met your match.”

Vaulting
to his feet, he barked, “Well, we'll just see about that!”

Having
been already irritated to a screaming point, her temples throbbing, with the
palm of one hand, and surprisingly little effort, Margaret repositioned Jake
onto the sofa.
  
The force of her words
like static cracking in the air, “Now, you listen to me, Jacob Morgan some
people are cattle who require direction, who have to be told what to think,
what to believe, what to do, therefore they willingly surrender.
 
This girl is not.
 
With her, you'll get further with sugar than
vinegar.
 
You have no choice but to
compromise because that child is determined to be carried out of here in a
black bag.”

“Child,
like hell she is.
 
Tell her that,” Jake
sputtered, folding his arms across a massive, very virile, chest before adding,
“She probably drinks vinegar for breakfast.”

A
wave of pink engulfed Margaret's cheeks, her heart raced like a piston.
 
There was no time to pray for patience, she
was plumb out.
 
With her eye's poaching
Jake, she bellowed, “And you, Jacob Morgan, drink rattle snake venom.
 
If you'd allow that alcohol to evaporate from
your pea brain long enough, maybe you could think for once.
 
Be nice for a change.
 
She’s not the only one that smells.
 
Maybe if you cleaned yourself up, took out
the garbage, and . . . and . . . aired this place out it wouldn't stink so
badly.”
 

Like
a hurricane, Margaret reached the door, halting; she spun around, “Her name is,
Jordan.”
 
Hoisting her nose in the air,
she left in a huff, the banging door verifying her anger.
 
Leaning against the hall wall, still holding
Jake's gun Margaret inhaled much needed air.
 
Squeezing her eyes shut, making the sign of a cross on her bosom, she
said an enormous prayer.

What
was there about Margaret that made him feel as though he should bend at the
waist and kiss her feet, Jake wondered.
  
Her words had ripped through his heart like a dull knife.
 
She could be right he mused cringing at the
thought.
 
God, how he hated it when she
called him, Jacob, doing so meant she was angry, and it seemed that she'd been
angry with him for a very long time.
 
Dammit, why couldn't Margaret be a man so they could duke it out?

Like,
a dark foreboding cloud the room filled with smoke, ashtrays overflowed with
cigarette butts, on the floor six empty cans of beer before Jake cooled down
enough to attempt reasoning with Jordan.
 
In a black mood, he entered the bedroom to find her sitting in the same
position she'd been in for several days.
 
Reclaiming the dilapidated chair, he sat greatly relieved that her
glance did not find him, for surely her eyes would have disintegrated him.
 
Using what little will power he could muster,
he steadied his voice, and lowered the tone.
 
Staring at the ceiling he said, “Jake!
 
Jake Morgan.”
  

Moments
stretched as Jordan struggled with her retort, “Jordan.”

“No
last name?”
 

“Even
if I had one, I wouldn't be stupid enough to tell you.”

Leaping
to his feet, “That's it,” Jake screamed. “You're impossible.
 
This isn't going to work.”

“Fuck
you,” Jordan howled.

Unable
to bare the smell of her, moving to the window, with explosive strength, Jake
flung it open, the force shattering glass into a trillion pieces.
 
“Son of a bitch,” he shouted, loud enough for
all of Chicago to hear.
 
With one
trembling hand on his hip, the other angrily gripping the window casing to
support a quaking body, taking deep breathes, he counted to ten in an attempt
to steady what remained of his nerves.
 

“O.K.
dammit, what do you want from me,” Jake practically pleaded.

“Remove
these damn hand cuffs,” Jordan growled.

Raising
both hands into the air as if beseeching divine help, “Oh, sure, so you can
kill me?”

“Don't
tempt me.”

“I'll
only remove the cuffs if you take a shower and put on clean clothes.”

“Daaa.
. . I don't have any, you idiot.”

Knowing
she was deliberately digging at his temper, “There's some in the bathroom,” his
statement short and sweet.