And Sometimes I Wonder About You

43

While Celia used dead Josh Farth’s money to purchase our good-bye from Paulie DeGeorges, I made a call. It was over before she returned to the table.

“What he say?” I asked when she was seated again.

“That you had a reputation for being rough,” she said. “That he only half believed that people were really after me until you found him. He said that his friend had told him to stay away from you if he could.”

“Did Paulie give you the same advice?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He said that if it was you looking for me then I probably needed the help of someone like you.”

“He’s a puzzle, that Paulie. Usually the only thing you could expect from a guy with a record like his is to pick your pocket and then ask for a loan.”

“Donald said that without Paulie he would have never made it in prison. He said that if you respect him Paulie will do anything for you.”

“When’s the last time you ate?” I said.

“Yesterday.”

“What can I get you?”

“I’m not really hungry,” she said.

“You have to keep up your strength to be able to outrun the people Dame Gray’s gonna put on you.”

“I don’t want to run anymore. I’m willing to tell her where the book is without any money,” Celia said. “All I need is for you to tell her that.”

“You could have called at any time and said that,” I countered. “But you haven’t because you know that it’s not the letter but what the letter says. It’s what’s in your head that puts you in a sling.”

Celia actually started to cry.

“You still need to eat,” I said.

I called Bug while Celia ate a concoction called granola-oatmeal along with a chocolate croissant and a glass of factory-squeezed orange juice.

“Hello, LT,” he said. “You talk to Zephyra yet?”

“I’m calling you, Tiny,” I replied, using his lesser-known nickname. “You make any headway on that satellite connection?”

“Yeah.”

“I’d like you to meet me at Hush’s house in an hour so we can talk about it.”

“No.”

“No?”

Celia was eating lustily. Sometimes hope gives you an appetite.

“I’m not going to that man’s house,” Bug said. “Not ever.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to know where he lives or what he looks like.”

Bug was a genius. Of course he didn’t want to be familiar with a hit man that the president of the United States was willing to give license to.

“Okay,” I said. “Where then?”

“You know that place on Christopher called Smokers?”

“Two hours from now,” I said and disconnected the call.

“This is good,” she said, and I found myself hoping that she’d live to eat ten thousand breakfasts more.

“Hey, Pops,” Twill said.

He wore coal-gray slacks, a teal T-shirt, and a light jacket that was such a dark red that it almost ran purple.

I could see in Celia’s face what everyone saw when first encountering my son. He was beautiful, willing, and there was something about him that reminded you of Bible stories about great and sometimes evil men that stole hearts that never wanted to be returned.

“Son,” I said. “Pull up a seat.”

Twill kindly asked our nearest neighbors if he could take their extra chair and then pulled it close to Celia.

“Hi,” he said to her, holding out a hand. “I’m Twill, this old guy’s son.”

“Celia,” she said, shaking with one hand and wiping her mouth on a paper napkin with the other.

“Some people would like to talk to Celia here,” I said, “and I’d like to make sure that doesn’t happen until the time is right.”

“Uncle Gordo’s?”

“He still owes me a favor or two.”

“Okay,” Twill said, hunching shoulders. “The more the merrier.”

“Don’t you even want to know why?” Celia asked Twill.

“If he’s hiding you then it must be some kinda mayhem,” Twill said easily. “That’s how LT rolls.”

“My son is a detective in training, Ms. Landis,” I said.

Then I went into the story of her difficulties without revealing the secrets of the letter. I kept this secret for Celia’s sake, not my son’s.

“So should we go there now?” Twill asked.

“First I’d like to ask our friend here a question,” I said.

She looked at me. Her light brown eyes all attention.

“Why would you ever try to steal from and extort anybody, especially a woman as rich and powerful as Evangeline Sidney-Gray?”

I could see the question furrow in her brow. She had asked herself the same thing many, many times.

“My parents died when I was eleven. Donald took care of me and he helped me with my schoolwork. He kept me fed and safe. I’m not very good with money so I’ve never really been able to help him. And so when I saw that letter I just thought that that rich kid could pay for what he’d done by helping Donald.”

“Sounds like just the right move to me,” my son chimed brightly.

Celia smiled and I knew, and so did she, that I had left her in the right hands.