Kick (The Jenkins Cycle Book 1) (20 page)

“Yo,” I said.

“Hello? Mr. Cantrell?” a lady with a Hispanic accent said.

“That’s me.”

“Mr. Cantrell, my name is Sheila Vasquez and I am friends with Enrique Diaz, the man who worked for you on Sunday. Do you remember this man?”

“Yeah, I remember—he was, uh, a young guy, buzz cut? Is this about the check? Did he go to the bank?”

Sheila hesitated before continuing.

“No, Mr. Cantrell,” she said. “He is afraid. He does not have permission to be in this country. He will not go to the bank.”

I felt like an idiot—of course he was afraid. What did I expect? That he’d just walk up with no identification, present a check for $20,000 and they’d hand over a big stack of hundreds, just like that?

“Hold on,” I said. “What if I just went to the bank myself and got the money and met you somewhere?”

Her voice grew anxious.

“Mr. Cantrell, thank you. That is a lot of money for you to give him, and he should not just keep it in a bag or something. It will get stolen.”

“What should I do?”

“I think if you want to help him you could send something to his family, but I am afraid to ask.”

“That’s a good idea. How would I do that, and uh, will it take long?”

I felt like a jerk, bickering about how long it would take to dole out charity. The thing is, Erika and the wedding threatened to kill any time I had to enjoy myself. I shook my head—this trip had gotten complicated really fast. Also, my pancakes were getting cold.

“Mr. Cantrell, we always send money home at Western Union. I hate to ask you to do that because you are being so kind.”

“Sheila,” I said, trying to sound like a nice person, “I’m the one who offered the money. You just tell me where to go. I’ll head over and we’ll wrap this up. Did you want to meet me, or do you need me to pick you up?”

“I can drive there,” she said. “Can you go to the Giant supermarket? Do you know where the one is on Saint Germain Drive?”

“I know where it is. Did you want to head over now?”

“I can go now,” Sheila said. “I will meet you there, ok?”

“Is… uh, Enrique or, uh… Esteban? Are they going to be there?”

I hoped she’d say no. I’d thought that simply writing the check concluded my small part in their lives. Not that I had anything against them. Far from it. Honestly, I felt embarrassed. Spontaneous philanthropy is one thing, but willful, scheduled charity to someone in need made me feel like a schmuck for some reason.

“Mr. Cantrell, I’m sorry. That man, Esteban—he was a bad man. He tried to take Enrique’s check and we chased him off. I don’t know where he is.”

“Really? What did he do, try to beat up Enrique?”

Laughing from the other end.

“No no, he is too
old
. He just tried to steal it. Anyway, I hope it is ok, but Enrique is working and only I will come. Is this ok?”

“Sure, that’s fine,” I said. “So, uh, who is Enrique? How do you two, uh—”

“He is my cousin,” Sheila said.

“He seemed like a nice guy.”

“He is very sweet. He has a daughter, her name is Elsie. She lives with her grandma.”

“Oh,” I said, and wondered how the poor guy managed up here away from his daughter. “I’ll see you at Giant?”

“I think so. Thank you Mr. Cantrell. I am leaving now.”

“Me too.”

We hung up.

I threw the pancakes in the trash.

Feeling self-conscious about the expensive Ferrari, I took the SUV and got there in ten minutes.

Sheila had no way to distinguish me from the other shoppers. Unlike her, I had an idea of who to look for, and it wasn’t the mixed bag of aging snowflakes creeping their way in and out of Giant for their morning prescription pickups. I saw her standing patiently near the entrance. Approaching from the side, I noticed she was young, pretty and lightly tanned, with a poised sense of purpose about her. She wore jeans and a white, short-sleeve blouse, with her hair collected in a braid on one side, revealing her in profile. Just then, I was struck by a feeling I’d lost something precious to me. But then she saw me, and before I could lay my finger on it, time sped up again.

“Mr. Cantrell?” she said, uncertainly.

“That’s me,” I said, nodding.

“Hello, I am Sheila.”

When she shook my hand, her eyes widened fractionally as I held on a shade longer than could be considered normal or proper. Then she smiled at me.

Deep down where I keep such things, a rare, unfettered smile of my own clawed its way to freedom.

“Nice to meet you, Sheila. How are you?”

“I’m fine. It’s such a nice day, but it will be hot later.”

Looking around, I stopped for a beat—it did seem nice out.

“Shall we go inside?” I said, with showy spontaneity, garnering a good-natured laugh from her.

Besides the laughing and general smileyness going on, the encounter felt awkward and transactional, akin to dropping off luggage at the airport. I wanted it to be over. Sheila appeared unbothered, but she had to, didn’t she? Rich, pasty-face gringo dispensing miracles on a whim because he could. I hated it.

She led me to the customer service counter, clerked by a worn-out, fifty-something white lady with moles and stringy graying hair.

“Hi,” I said. “We would like to make an order or a—”

I looked to Sheila.

“Money transfer,” she said.

“Money transfer.”

The lady looked at me, then at Sheila, and it took me a moment for it to register. I knew that look. It was contempt. For whatever reason, this stranger had decided to hate us. I could read it from the cardboard way she handed me the form. Or rather, as she placed a Western Union form on the counter for me to pick up, lest anything resembling a human connection take place during the exchange.

“Thanks,” I said, watching her carefully as I said it.

Not biting, she responded with a tightening of the lips and a slight raise of the eyebrows that meant:
To avoid going so far as to incur a complaint to my manager, I’m acknowledging that I was present at the time that you said something.

“Let me help you, I’m good at it,” Sheila said, somehow oblivious to the hatred steaming our way from the malevolent lifeform at the register. I admired her attitude, so I made sliding her the form and pen into a signing ceremony, which got a polite little laugh from her—and an eye roll from You-Know-Who. I almost said something, but wanted to finish the transfer first.

Sheila made quick work of the form, showed me where to sign, and then said, “You can send only ten thousand dollars, not twenty like the check. The government says so. I think you can again next month, but Mr. Cantrell—you don’t have to.”

“It’s no problem,” I said automatically, not completely tracking, my attention split between the Western Union form, Sheila and the mole woman.

Despite her attitude, the woman spared no efficiency getting us out of there. She processed the transfer quick as you please, slid the receipt in our direction and then began adjusting the cartons of cigarettes in the rack behind the counter. She still hadn’t spoken to us. I imagined her having a raspy and abrasive voice, like she gargled with cheap whiskey from a plastic bottle and breathed more smoke than clean air.

Sheila tugged my shirt, pulling my gaze from the woman’s back. She wanted to leave.

On exiting, she said, “That lady always makes trouble for me. It is good that you are with me. I hate to come alone when she is working.”

I looked at her and then back toward the entrance.

“That woman back there? What does she do?”

Sheila shrugged.

“It is no big deal.”

“What’s no big deal?”

Shaking her head, getting nervous, Sheila said again, “It is no big
deal
.”

“It’s ok, trust me—what does that woman do when you come here to send money?”

She went quiet for a second, then looked at me in a way I hadn’t seen yet. It was an honest look, not that anything she’d said or done so far was dishonest. Well, not precisely. Rather, she’d been polite. I couldn’t blame her. But now that the money had been transferred, she didn’t have to worry I’d suddenly change my mind.

“She is just a
bitch
,” she said at last. “She makes it so difficult.
We have no more forms. Come back tomorrow. I am on my lunch break.
Nobody I know likes her, so we do not come when she is working. But it is ok, what can I do? I am here legally, yes, but my friends are not, so I just come when she is not working so she does not cause problems.”

Again, she shrugged.

“It’s not ok,” I said. “You don’t deserve to be treated that way—nobody does.”

I started to head back in, but her hand stayed me.

“If you say something she will not change and she will make it worse later. Ok? Please?”

I looked at her, but I wasn’t seeing her. I’ve always hated bullies. I wanted to go in there and do something, though I didn’t know what. Whatever I did, Sheila would have to live with it, not me.

I shook my head and laughed.

“What is so funny?” she said, smiling and squinting into the sun behind me. I moved over a little to block the glare.

“Well, I was wondering if you’d do me a favor.”

Her smile faltered, and something like the Berlin Wall sprang up between us. Her face didn’t turn hostile, exactly, but it looked like it could any moment. I couldn’t blame her. Ten thousand dollars from a stranger, and no strings? If I were her, I’d be suspicious too.

Pretending I hadn’t noticed the change, I said, “My wedding is this Saturday. I was wondering if you and Enrique would like to come.”

Chapter 24

On Tuesday, Erika called to say she was flying back to Chicago to do bridesmaid stuff with her sisters until Friday, when they’d all fly back together. I pretended to be sad, said how I’d miss her, and told her not to cheat on me or my people would find out. She remarked that I was cute and I told her she was both beautiful and wise.

I held off whooping for joy until after we hung up. I’d gotten back some time!

Only one other time had I been even close to this wealthy—in the body of a seventy-year-old poisoner terrorizing his retirement home. I’d eaten swimming pools of Jell-O that trip, played whole dictionaries of Scrabble and endured a lot of condescension from the young, pill-popping staff. In the end I’d poisoned myself—early, just to get the hell out of there. But Nate seemed different. He didn’t seem like a monster. And Erika liked him. Rob and Tom liked him too, and Rob had seemed normal enough on the phone. Plus there were all those charities he gave to. I needed to do another sweep of the house, but I was beginning to think the Great Whomever had mixed up his naughty and nice lists this time. Either that or he was moving in ways ten times more mysterious than usual.

I plowed through Nate’s computer again, looking for something incriminating. I spent an hour of serious hunting and learned that he spent a lot of time researching mountain bikes. Not wanting to give up, I carefully scrutinized all his papers, and that’s when I noticed something interesting: he received a surprising amount of correspondence from the Virginia Lottery. They were actively pursuing him, trying to get him and previous winners to appear in a commercial together.

Well I’ll be damned. So that’s why he’s so rich.

This guy was beyond lucky. He was Midas with a better attorney, or the owner of a Monkey’s Paw version 2.0, or Richard Cory on Prozac. He had Erika, youth and looks, and lots of money to play with for the rest of his life. But somehow, he’d picked up me along the way.

Tramping down the stairs with a feeling of wasted effort, I noticed I was running into a problem with my work ethics. The problem, which should be obvious by now, was that I didn’t have any work ethics. Usually I established a ride’s guilt within a few hours, a day or two tops, through the inertia of a life already in motion. But this case was starting to become a pain in my well-muscled ass. What next, rip through the walls? Dig up the backyard? I’d have to buy tools and stuff.

Leaving the house, I glanced at Erika’s boxes stacked in the dining room. I’d tasked myself earlier with looking through them for clues about Nate, but again, I was in the throes of a work ethic problem. I figured there’d be plenty of time for that later.

There’s an important lesson to be learned here: never screw around with foreshadowing.

***

I began the following day at a coffee shop I’d frequented on my last pass through Centreville. This time, I experienced something that had happened only once before: I ran into someone I recognized from my previous life.

Despite his appearance, which had changed considerably, I still recognized him. He’d chosen one of the cozy chairs I enjoyed so much and from which I frequently rubbernecked the culture one body piercing at a time while sipping coffee and doing my morning reading. He wasn’t sitting in my chair, thank goodness. I’m a strictly right-handed coffee drinker and like it when the table’s on my right. That seat was empty so, without asking, I sat down.

A covert glance confirmed that if he’d noticed me, he didn’t care. He was too busy making sure everyone who walked in saw he was about twelve pages into his book,
War and Peace
, by Leo Tolstoy, a famous Russian typing enthusiast whose 1,300-page behemoth sits respectably on some of the finest walnut, cherry and mahogany bookcases in the world. With my flawless memory, I can attest that every copy I’ve ever seen had a perfectly intact, crease-free spine. Not feeling nearly grandiose enough for Tolstoy, I’d brought along
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
, which I’d picked up the day before.

Leaning toward him, I said, “Wow, and I thought my book was big.”

That shook him from his herculean task, giving him the excuse he needed to lower his burden and let the blood flow back into his hands. Then, in flawless diction, spoken precisely enough to be obnoxious in even tiny doses, he informed me, “Actually, I’ve read it before, but it’s always good to revisit the works of the masters.” He said this with a compulsively judgmental glance at my own book.

I felt a strange, nostalgic thrill that he still loved to begin his sentences with the word “actually”—a rhetorical trick he used to place himself in a position of authority in any conversation. His voice had deepened fractionally more than I remembered it. Older, more worn. I wondered if he’d gone on to become the English professor he always said he would.