Bad Intent

Chapter 28

“I only stopped by for some tapes Jack Riley left for me,” I said. My arms were full. I was trying to effect an escape from Lana Howard’s office without either a major spill or a commitment to a long-term employment contract. I didn’t have a hand for the door, and she wasn’t about to open it.

“Think about it, Maggie,” she said, whispered tones-a churchlike hush. “Office space, the best facilities, regular paycheck. Use of the letterhead.”

“I like what I’m doing, Lana. I have to admit that the money is a temptation, but a regular paycheck can be tighter than a noose.”

“I understand that. I understand how important it is for you to maintain control over your projects. But we both know that big world out there can get pretty cold. A regular paycheck can make a damn fine blanket.” She sauntered over to the burl-wood cabinet that held her wet bar; the office was opulent. She took out a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice and poured two glasses-two sparkly clean glasses-offered one to me. “What would it take to bring you in from the cold?”

I set down the tapes on a comer of her leather sofa to accept the juice. She was watching me, slow smile growing. I respected Lana, respected her judgment. All through this brouhaha I was involved in, she had shown me the best qualities I would want in a boss: flexibility and daring. It wouldn’t be hard to work with her on a regular basis.

A network job? I ran through the lists of pros and cons, but the heading over both sides ran something like, “You’ve already spent your advance check twice over, Casey’s tuition is due the fifteenth of every month and the money you’re being offered is obscene.”

Lana reached for my empty glass. “Maggie?”

“This is what it would take: I sign with you for two years, five months. Two two-hour projects a year on assignment, six short-subjects on topics of my choosing. I have full editorial control. If the network chooses, for whatever reason, not to air any of my projects as-is, the project reverts to me so I can sell it elsewhere. Beyond that, I want the network to rent and furnish my home office space for my use, and I want Guido Patrini hired as a consultant.”

Lana wrapped me in a big, blanket-like hug. “You’re going to like it here, Maggie.”

“That’s it?”

“I have to run it by the board, but I think we’ll come to terms. Welcome aboard.”

All I could think to say, was, “Damn.”

I gathered the tapes again and went upstairs where Guido was working with a staff editor.

“You’re not going to believe what I just did,” I said.

“That’s highly likely.” He was watching the time on a piece of LaShonda’s interview. “What now?”

“I got myself hired as a network slave.”

He jumped as if startled. “Say it ain’t so.”

“Got you a slot as a consultant.”

“I have a job,” he said, pausing the tape, turning to face me. “It seems to me it wasn’t so long ago we both burned out in a place that looks and smells a whole lot like this one.”

“Independent projects only,” I said. “And they’ll let you use the letterhead. That should help your love life.”

When he glanced at LaShonda’s face on the screen, his features went all mushy. “My love life’s just fine, thank you.”

I said, “You slut.”

“Mike called,” he said. “Thanks for reminding me.”

Guido didn’t know where Mike was, so I dialed his pager and left the number of the phone on the console beside me. Mike took almost a minute to call back.

“Etta’s been trying to reach you,” Mike said. “Said she’ll be home all afternoon.”

“I’ll go by and see her,” I said.

“Want company?”

“Always.”

“Thought maybe it was time to take a closer look at what it is you do.”

I felt suddenly all mushy inside, myself. “I’ll meet you at the new house in fifteen, twenty minutes.”

I gave Guido a lot of instructions and a big kiss, and ran out to the parking lot.

The South Pasadena house was getting new trim paint, including the front door. I walked through a maze of scaffolding and ladders to get inside where the dog, lying on his belly in the foyer, watched the ceiling painters. Old Bowse’s big brush of a tail was tipped in a combination of Desert Sunset, the color of the door, and Peaches and Cream, the color of the walls.

I grabbed Bowser by the collar and asked the painters above me, “Anyone seen Mike?”

In unison, “Backyard.”

I led the dog out and closed the doors behind me.

Mike and Michael were carrying an unfamiliar oak dresser along the walkway between the drive and the cottage. There was a U-Haul truck parked in the drive. With Bowser at my side, I walked across the lawn toward them.

“What’s this?” I asked, pushing in a dresser drawer that had fallen out.

“I’m moving in,” Michael said. “Go inside, take a look.”

“Yeah.” Mike was grinning like he was up to something. “Go take a look.”

Too nosy to listen to warning voices, I went inside. I don’t know exactly what I expected, hard rock posters maybe, or nudes on the walls. The cottage looked great, rug on the polished wood floor, desk and bookcases to match the dresser, a couple of chairs. And a very attractive woman around my age smoothing a new-looking spread on the bed.

“Hello,” I said, grabbing Bowser’s collar before he could give her his customary muzzle-in-the-crotch greeting.

She stood up, smiled while she gave me close inspection. “Maggie?”

I had to move further into the room so that Mike and Michael could wrestle the dresser through the door. They set it against a side wall and Mike, wiping his face, came up beside me.

“Maggie,” he said. “Meet Leslie. Michael’s mom.”

She offered her hand, smiling broadly. “I’ve heard a lot about you. And about Casey.”

Michael laughed. “Don’t worry. I only tell Mom the good stuff.”

“That’s a relief,” I said. It was so strange to look into this woman’s face; echoes of Michael’s face. I felt neither awkward nor competitive, as I had when Charlene showed up on my doorstep. Only curious. Leslie was, in several ways-in height and build, and in general manner-a darker version of me.

I said, “The cottage looks wonderful, Michael. After spending a week on the couch, the privacy should be a relief”

He looked around at his new quarters. “I don’t know. I got used to the company.”

“Couches,” Mike said, as if some switch had been hit. “The dealer Charlene works for has made an offer on all the condo furniture. Anybody want any of it?”

Michael said, “I don’t have room for anything else.”

I said, “No,” trying to make it sound like a casual no and not a thank God, get that gray shit out of my life no. I had already spoken to my old tenant, Lyle, about taking my furniture out of storage and sending it down.

“Les?” Mike said. “You have an empty room now. Want anything?”

She snickered. “Think about it, Mike.” Then she turned to Michael and draped an arm over his shoulders. “What’s left in the truck?”

“The dresser was the last of it.”

“Then, let’s go get your car, turn in the truck.”

“Where are you sleeping tonight?” Mike asked Michael.

“Thought I’d have a farewell run on the couch.” Michael gave his dad a hug, then, to my delight and surprise, came over and hugged me, too. “I’ll be home after dinner.”

Arm in arm, Mike and I walked out to see off Michael and his mother. As the truck backed into the alley, I said, “I like her.”

“So do I.” The way Mike said it didn’t bother me at all.

On the way down to Southeast, we stopped at a mall and bought Etta some gift certificates at a department store she had mentioned fancying. Welfare recipients are supposed to report any windfall they receive. I wanted to give her some share in my own windfall, but in a way that wouldn’t get her into a hassle with the county. Gift certificates was the best I could come up with.

“You mean they’re going to pay our rent?” Mike asked, scowling his disbelief as I explained Lana’s offer.

“A big part of it. You can start socking away more of your salary for retirement.”

His sly glance was a tip-off. “So, you do plan to stay put for a while. Every time I go home, I check the closet to make sure your stuff’s still there.”

“You do not.”

He didn’t seem very happy, so I didn’t press him.

It was about one when we got to Etta’s. There didn’t seem to be anyone home. I wrote a note telling her where she could reach me at four, and was tucking it into her screen door when I heard her call out.

“Look at who’s here.” Etta, dressed as for church in a flowered sheath dress, tottered toward us on her high heels. She had a beer can in one manicured hand. “Girl, I been tryin’ to get ahold of you for two days.”

“What’s up?” I asked. But she turned her attention to Mike.

“Won’t you give this lady some sugar, Sugar?” She pressed her impressive bosom against Mike. “Been such a long, long time.”

“You look nice, Etta,” I said, asserting my presence. “Where’s the party?”

She preened. “Party’s at Miz Rhodes’ house. Had the memorial for Hanna this morning after church, asked some of her closest friends to come by for a little lunch. That’s where I was when I saw you knockin’ at my door.”

“Is that what you called about?” I asked.

“No. I wanted to tell you I don’t care no more if that motherfuckin’ Pinkie gets out the jail or not. Tyrone copped him a plea. He’s goin’ to jail his own damn self so I don’t have to worry after him no more. He don’t need no father where he’s goin’. And he damn sure don’t need no Pinkie, neither.”

“What did he draw?” Mike asked.

“Much as he could. He’s goin’ to the Youth Authority till he’s twenty-five.” Etta finished her beer. “Hope he uses that time to turn himself around, finish school maybe.”

“I hope so,” I said, though I couldn’t imagine how growing to manhood in that hole could change the course he had set for his life.

Etta crumpled the empty can. “Don’t stand out here. Come on in and pay your respects to Miz Rhodes, get yourself a little refreshment.”

“I’ve been trying to reach Mrs. Rhodes. I want to talk to her about Hanna,” I said. “But maybe this isn’t the time.”

“No time better. I told her all about you.”

I took a camera from the back of the car, loaded it with a new tape and a battery fresh from the recharger, and passed it to Mike. “Best way to get a closer look at what I do is to look through the lens. Just remember that the camera has a slower eye than you do. If you make abrupt movements, you get blur.”

“That’s it?” he said, fiddling with the buttons.

“We’ll work on the fine points later.” I caught up with Etta.

Outside the Rhodes apartment there were a few guests sitting on folding chairs, holding paper plates heaped with food. They nodded to us, made low remarks to Etta that I didn’t catch and she ignored.

The living room held maybe fifteen more people, about half that number again in the kitchen and dining alcove. Etta parted the crowd and led us through.

“Miz Rhodes,” she said in mournful tones. “Look who’s come to pay respects.”

Mrs. Rhodes was a small, attractive woman wearing a simple black dress. She looked young to be mourning a granddaughter.

I started to say something like how sorry I was for her loss when she set upon Mike.

“Why, officer,” she said, her voice rising in pitch at the end. “You was such a nice lookin’ young man. How’d you get so old?”

“Hello, Mrs. Rhodes.” Mike combed his fingers through his white hair. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Not that long. What happened to you?”

He blushed. “Guess it’s my line of work.”

There was general polite laughter. Mike shook a few hands that were offered, exchanged greetings with old acquaintances, let himself be led to the buffet table.

Mrs. Rhodes took me aside. “Etta says you were asking about my Hanna. What was it you wanted to know?”

“About what she saw the night Officer Wyatt was shot.”

“Lot of people been asking me about that. Hanna was living with her mama back then, so I don’t know anything about it except what people talked about later. I don’t think you can trust in the truth of a story once it gets told over and over so many times. Do you?”

“Not usually,” I said. “Who has been asking you about Hanna?”

“Well, the police, of course. Someone came, said she was with the district attorney. Little tiny girl. I couldn’t figure her as a district attorney.”

“Was it Jennifer Miller?” I asked.

“Something like that. There was someone else from the district attorney, wanted to look through Hanna’s room, but Hanna didn’t have a room here. Then the other officer-not Officer Flint-he came by, too. What’s his name? I’m not thinking very clearly today.”

“Officer Kelsey?”

“Could be.” She nodded. “And some people came, said they were from the newspapers or the TV. Etta says you’re from the TV.”

“In a way. I know it’s a bad time to ask you for anything. But Hanna is one of the subjects in the film I’m working on. If you have any pictures of her, I’d like very much to see them. Maybe old school pictures, something more recent.”

“Mm hmm.” She puffed out her bottom lip, furrowed her brow and studied me. “Why?”

“I want Hanna to be more than a corpse on someone’s front steps. She was someone’s little girl once. I want people to know that.”

Mrs. Rhodes nodded while I spoke. “I lost all I had in a fire some years ago; that’s when I moved out to California to be near my daughter. But maybe there is something. Hanna left a little box of things with me when she went to prison. I don’t know what’s in it; private things, you know. I was going to look at it later, but you might as well see, too. It’s in the closet in the other room.”

I walked with her down a short inner hallway to her immaculate bedroom. The double-size bed was covered with handbags and hats, a few wraps-just like parties at my parents’ house.

Mrs. Rhodes reached up to the shelf of her small wardrobe and took down a carton that was about a foot square. She cleared a space on the bed so we could sit with the carton between us.

“When Hanna’s mama died, Hanna started using my address, but she never really lived here except for a day or two off and on.” She pulled off the brittle old masking tape that sealed the carton and pried up the flaps. “I had rules, you see, about the way a young lady should behave in my home. Hanna preferred the streets to my rules.”

Mrs. Rhodes lifted out a folded Girl Scout scarf and a few faded construction paper folders that looked like school projects. There was a blonde Barbie doll with matted hair and a few of her outfits, all of them frayed with use. And mementos: a pencil from Disneyland, some seashells, several movie ticket stubs, a candy cane reindeer with pipe-cleaner antlers, a matchbook from a Sizzler, a ceramic box with “Be My Valentine” painted on the chipped lid.

Mrs. Rhodes said, “When something special happens to a young girl, she likes to keep a souvenir of it.”

I found the small store of treasures to be very sad. Was this as special as it ever got for Hanna?

Cheap costume jewelry filled a coffee can. While Mrs. Rhodes sorted through what looked like report cards, I went through the coffee can. Plastic baubles, adjustable rings with colored glass jewels, dangly earrings all tangled together. I pulled them out in a mass, dragging out with them a long bead-chain, and started to separate them to keep my hands busy.

“Here are some school pictures.” Mrs. Rhodes laid out a handful of wallet-size portraits. “Hanna must have traded with her friends; I don’t know who most of these children are. This one’s Hanna. I would say maybe third or fourth grade.”

Hanna had a long, heart-shaped face, still a few front teeth missing in her cocky smile. Her hair was done in an asymmetrical Afro. I said, “Very cute.”

“Yes, she was.” Mrs. Rhodes had no tears. “She was a pretty little child. Not an exceptional child in any way, except to her mother and me. But she was pretty. Wild and pretty.”

“May I borrow the picture?”

“If you like.”

“And this?” I held up the disentangled bead-chain. There were five spent.38 shells, pierced and hanging on the chain like charms. The shells were stained with brown, as if rolled or dropped in a pan of paint. I could see fragments of fingerprints.

Mrs. Rhodes fingered the shells. “What is that?”

“A little souvenir, I think. Something special did happen to Hanna.”