The Lights of Tenth Street (57 page)

“Thanks for dinner, Mr. Turner—um, Doug. That was great. I didn’t know men could cook so well.”

There were some chuckles around the table, and Ronnie looked around, discomfited. Had she just made another faux pas? “Well … I didn’t.”

“Glad to surprise you, then,” Doug said. “I enjoy cooking, though I don’t get to do it that much. Sherry usually tries to have dinner ready by the time I get home so I can eat with the kids.”

Sherry stood and began to pick up the dirty dishes. “Did your stepfather never cook, then? I know you said he wasn’t a particularly domestic sort.…”

Ronnie gave a grunt. “He only set foot in the kitchen to get his beer out of the fridge. Cooking was woman’s work. I sort of thought every guy felt that way.”

“Some guys, maybe.” Vance Woodward stood and began helping Sherry clear the table. “Not all, by any means.”

“You all are really strange, you know that?” Ronnie said. “Doug cooking dinner, Vance cleaning up. It’s just … odd.”

“Odd to you, maybe, but pretty normal to lots of people,” Doug said. “It’s just a matter of helping and serving wherever you see the need. There’s this passage in the Bible that says we’re supposed to treat others as we would want to be treated.”

“That’s the Golden Rule.” Ronnie gave him a funny look. “That’s from the Bible?”

“Yep. It’s the way we try to live. Jesus said we should love God with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength, and love our neighbor as ourselves. Helping cook—or clean up after dinner—is just a small example of treating someone else the way we’d like to be treated.”

Ronnie sat still for a minute, then jumped to her feet and picked up a few plates. These people were really religious—and kind of corny—but she suddenly felt light-hearted for the first time in months. She could feel a silly grin breaking out on her face as she ferried dishes into the kitchen and began slotting them into the dishwasher.

“Then this is the least I can do as thanks for a great meal.”

Marco sat at his desk, staring out his window at the club floor. He turned a pen over and over in his hands, not even noticing that it was uncapped, the blue ink streaking a line across his hand with each turn.

What was he doing? He watched the stage as Sasha did her thing, her eyes smoldering at the men around her. She was playing them, masterfully. Just like he had
played her and all the others. He pictured all of them—Sasha, Ronnie, the others—destroyed in some accident, some innocent-seeming tragedy.

Oh well, the police would say, what a shame. And they would close the books on another senseless accident, another death, without looking too closely. After all, they were only strippers … only prostitutes. Their lives were cheap.

Marco heard the knocking on his office door, the questions from his staff, but he couldn’t rouse himself to respond. He continued to stare out the window, the blue pen twirling in his fingers, leaving streak … after streak …

He looked down, detached, at the ink staining his hands. It should be red, he thought.

“Marco!” Tiffany pounded on the door. “You in there? You have a question from the private party in room two!”

She made an exasperated noise and collared Maris on the fly.

“Whaddaya want?” Maris was busily writing on an order pad. “I ain’t got all night. What?”

“Do you know what’s wrong with Marco?”

“Whaddaya mean, dearie?” She checked her watch and noted a time on the order slip. “He sick?”

“I don’t know. I think he’s in the office, but he won’t answer the door. It’s locked. Private room two has a question for him.” Tiffany was fairly dancing with impatience. “And I’m supposed to be meeting Wade in a few minutes. I’ve got to finish with them and get going.”

Maris glanced up and tore the order slip off her pad. “Hang on a second. Stay right there.” She vanished into the kitchen, her voice raised as she hollered the order.

Within seconds she was back at Tiffany’s side.

“Private room two, you say? Okay, I’ll get him and send him along. Go on back to your money men.”

Maris knocked on the door and tried the knob. “Marco! Marco, you in there?”

She pressed her ear against the door and heard only some muttering.

She looked up and down the staff hallway, then reached into her cocktail apron and pulled out a thin metal shaft. She inserted it into the lock. Two clicks right, one left, and the doorknob turned.

“Marco?”

He was sitting in his chair, his back to her.

She advanced toward him, leaving the door open a crack. “Boss, you okay?”

He slowly turned to face her, and Maris gasped at the mess he’d made of his hands, his shirt. Covered with blue ink.

“Boss?”

Marco looked at her dully. “Hey.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I can’t do it anymore.”

She could feel a faint prickle of hope. The first crack in the dam. She went to his side, searching for the right words, every fiber aware that she had to get this right.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m in over my head.” He waved a lethargic hand. “You wouldn’t understand.”

She took a deep breath. “Yes, I would.” She crouched by his chair, fixing him with her eyes until he returned her gaze. “There’s another way, boss. A way you can get out of this mess you’ve gotten into.”

She reached into a concealed pocket sewn inside her apron and pulled out a business card. She handed it to him and watched his eyes widen with shock. He opened his mouth to say something, when they both heard a noise at the door.

Maris crossed the room in two great strides and opened the door all the way. Tiffany was standing there, a strange look on her face.

“He’s okay,” Maris said. “I was just sending him along. You need something?”

“Uh—I forgot to tell Marco that I had to knock off early and meet Wade tonight. He’s at a bar with some of the ad agency people.”

“I’ll tell him. And he’ll be over to your private party in a minute.”

“Okay.” Tiffany found the door being closed in her face. How odd. She replayed the overheard conversation in her mind.

“
I’m in over my head. You wouldn’t understand.
”

“
Yes, I would. There’s another way, boss. A way you can get out of this mess you’ve gotten into.
”

She finished her set with the private party and was leaving just as Marco arrived. He seemed distracted, but otherwise okay.

“You all right, Marco?” she said.

He nodded and pushed past her, his brusque demeanor resurfacing. “Maris told me you need to leave. I guess it’s okay. We’ve got enough girls on the floor.”

“Gotta keep Wade happy, right, chief?”

Marco merely nodded and vanished inside the private room.

Tiffany changed and hurried to meet her man. At the bar, Wade and his two advertising agency colleagues rose to greet her. As usual, she gave him a passionate kiss, and as usual he seemed to appreciate it.

He held her chair and she slipped into the seat, giving his colleagues a big wink. She could play them, too, after all. He asked about work, and the small group listened as she amused them with a description of the night—leaving out the details of her dancing for other men, of course.

“The oddest thing happened just as I was leaving, though.”

“How’s that?” Wade was distracted, signaling for the waiter to bring another round of drinks. “What sort of thing?”

“I think Marco’s having a nervous breakdown or something.” She relayed how odd Marco had acted all night, how he finally went into his office and locked the door. She repeated the snippet of conversation she’d overheard.

“And then I could see Maris handing him some kind of business card. Isn’t that weird?”

Wade shrugged and Tiffany brushed it off. “Anyway … whatever.”

She blinked her eyes at him and asked about his day. She hardly noticed that his two colleagues were sitting rigid in their chairs, talking in low voices to each other as Wade caught her up on the doings of the day.

After a minute, one of them put a hand to his belt. “I’m being paged.” He checked the cell phone, which looked dark and silent to Tiffany. “Hold on, I’ll be back.”

He left the table, weaving his way through the crowd and out the front door. Tiffany could see him through the window, talking on the cell phone, his body language stiff with urgency.

He returned and gave them a polite smile. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to leave you for the evening. Something has just come up.”

“Sorry you can’t stay.” Wade stood and shook their hands. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

“Great.” The first man looked at his partner, jerked his head, and the two of them vanished out the door.

Across town, Tyson clicked the cell phone shut and swore, tempted to throw the thing across the room. Then he shut his eyes, willing himself to calmness, to clarity.

He punched in another cell number. When the voice on the other end answered, he barked out one word.

“Status!”

“Just finished the car. We’re in the next lot over. Waiting for your signal.”

“Give me five minutes, max.”

He hung up and dialed another number, activating a second team. They would be there in less than half an hour.

Finally, he made the third call, waiting, impatient, through three rings until it was answered.

He put on his best hectic voice. “Marco …?”

Marco put down the phone with a growl and looked at his watch. Why did they have to call an emergency meeting just when his night was heating up? His little nervous breakdown had put him behind. Not to mention the new idea rattling around in his head, breaking his concentration on the job.

He hadn’t made a decision, hadn’t revealed anything, hadn’t promised anything. But it suddenly sounded good.

He pulled on his jacket and went in search of Maris.

“I have to go to a quick meeting off-site. They promise it’ll only be twenty minutes—well, thirty counting the drive. Can you hold down the fort for half an hour?”

“No problem, chief. Seriously, it’s not that crazy tonight.” She hesitated, lowering her voice. “This anything you want to tell me about?”

“Who knows?”

Marco hurried to his luxury sports car, pulling out onto Tenth Street and then taking the ramp onto the highway. He looked at the clock and floored the accelerator.

Two men followed a few car-lengths behind him. One fiddled with some equipment sitting on his lap, pointing an antennae toward the flying car in front of them.

Suddenly, the sports car swerved, tires squealing, only to veer back into its proper lane a moment later. The two men glanced at each other and grinned, backing off just slightly. This was going to be fun.

Marco gripped the wheel hard.
What was that?
The wheel had seemed to lurch left of its own accord, the car veering dangerously close to the median wall before he’d pulled it back. His mind raced. He’d had the car tuned up and inspected just a month or two ago. Surely they would have found problems in the steering or tracking systems—

“Aaaaah!” The steering wheel lurched again. Marco hauled with all his might and pulled the car back under control.

He wiped some sweat out of his eyes. This was crazy. He eyed the wide, welcoming shoulder on the highway and pressed on the brakes.

Nothing happened. The car continued to race at more than seventy-five miles an hour. Marco stomped on the brakes. Nothing. If anything, his speed was increasing. He pumped the brakes, stood on them, pleaded with them. The speedometer inched upwards. Eighty miles per hour … eighty-five … ninety …

Marco swerved to miss slower traffic, his mind racing, concentrating on not hitting anything. If the steering wheel veered just one time at this speed …

Suddenly, he grew still, cold, the utter certainty of his fate staring him in the face. This was planned. He was disposable.

The lights on the highway grew thicker as he fought to keep control, flashing past other travelers as if they were standing still. He was heading toward the most populous area of downtown; no way could he hold it for long.

The speedometer inched past one hundred miles per hour, and his thoughts grew somehow slow, somehow perfectly clear. He could see it all unfolding before him—the approaching stretch of highway congested with holiday travelers, the mass of red taillights indicating a traffic jam in progress; an impenetrable wall for a speeding bullet.

He had only seconds to decide. Only seconds.

Where was that music coming from? The music of that night, of Christmas Eve, was playing clear as a bell.

Was that the music the angels sang? Singing of a baby born in a manger. Born, the priest had said, as good news of great joy to all people … a savior … Christ the Lord. Born to die on a cross … crucified … suffering … for us.

Who are You, Jesus?
He had never asked that question before, never prayed before. But he sensed it was the right question. The light was growing brighter. But not the red lights of the cars in front of him. Another light. Awesomely close.

I am the One who created you, who loves you, who has called to you for long years. Come to Me
.

But, Lord, I’m not worthy. You are so clean. And I’m so dirty
.

How could he approach the purity of that light, that loveliness? He began to sob, his heart breaking with longing. He had no words to express the fullness of his feeling, only the cry of his heart.
You know what I am, what I’ve done
. The tears blurred his eyes.
O God, what have I done?

He watched as the light grew warm, tender. He sensed a hand reaching out to touch his brow, to wipe the dirt away. His heart broke at the touch of that hand.

Jesus, I’m not worthy. I’m only getting what I deserve. But if there’s any way … take me
.

Today My child, you will be with Me in paradise
 …

The squealing of tires shocked him back into reality, the sense of other cars close, too close, innocent people before him and beside him, red taillights looming in the darkness.

Lord, help me
 …

He sensed the wheel turning on its own, one last time, pointing the car directly into the highway wall at one hundred miles per hour. Then the darkness was gone, vanished into the whitest of light in the blink of an eye.