At Risk of Being a Fool (22 page)

“She filed the papers,” said Rosalie, tear-choked, “She did this morning.”

“Who filed what papers?” Jeanie said.

“Her. Her and that social worker. So’s I don’t get Dominic no more.”

The foster mother, Jeanie realized, had pressured social services into filing for termination of parental rights. She pulled into a grocery store parking lot, parking in an unused section under a tree. She lifted the cat carrier into the front seat, and got into the back next to Rosalie. “Honey, listen to me. Mackie told me that she didn’t have a case. You didn’t abuse him, or abandon him. You’re under treatment, and doing well. The fact that she filed them doesn’t mean she’ll win.”

“The judge, he don’t like me.” She curled over Corrigan, rocking him up and down. “Never no more. My baby, my little doll, I’ll never get him back.”

“Rosalie—” Rosalie wasn’t listening. She tilted sideways, as if accidentally. After a moment, Jeanie opened her arms, and Rosalie fell into them, Corrigan and all. Jeanie tucked Rosalie’s head under her chin, and rocked her back and forth, murmuring nonsense words, as she had with her small sons, countless times. She opened her eyes and found Sorrel staring at her, expressionless.

~*~

Jeanie dropped Rosalie off at Esperanza, with a brief explanation to Linda. The crack, in an innocuous prescription bottle, rested in her glove compartment. Kherra would know what to do with it.

Sorrel, who’d been silent for the last half hour, finally spoke. “Don’t speed or nothing. If the cops catch you with that, we’re gonna be in deep shit.”

“Okay.” She didn’t explain that no police officer would ask if Jeanie had crack in her glove compartment, much less search her car. Jeanie had gotten half a dozen traffic warnings in the last ten years, but never a single ticket.

“Where we going? You gotta go south on Commercial, don’t you?”

“Not yet. We’re doubling back to the school.” She checked her watch. Four thirty. “I hope we get there before he leaves.”

“Who? If you’re going looking for Corky, that’s a shitty idea.”

“Not Corky. But you said he was Silvio’s man, down from
Portland
, right? Rosalie’s local. She’s the only one of you who’s lived here most of her life. How would she know to find a newly-arrived drug dealer unless someone told her? And if he happened to be right here in this neighborhood, that sort of narrows down our likely informants, doesn’t it? Especially since I saw Silvio’s phone number on a certain business card. Oh good, he’s still here.”

“Who—” Sorrel saw the motorcycle, and her eyes flamed. She jumped out of the car and ran after Jeanie. She caught up to her on the stairs. “That son-of-a-bitch—”

Jeanie held up one finger. Sorrel glanced at her. “What—”

Jeanie opened the office door, and shoved it back with a bang. “Mr. Kemmerich,” she sang. “Oh there you are, how opportune.”

Oscar Kemmerich looked up from his computer keyboard, leaving two fingers poised in the air. His jaw dropped. His office was a one-room affair. Sorrel figured he’d gotten the furniture at thrift shops. It had that look about it, surface pretty, but wedged up with cardboard. Framed certificates lined the wall. Sorrel squinted her eyes at one. “Future Farmers of America gratefully acknowledges your gift of $25.” Probably had his third-grade citizenship award up here somewhere.

Jeanie smiled as she leaned on the edge of his desk.

“I believe you have an acquaintance with a gentleman by the name of Corky. A recent transplant from
Portland
. Perhaps you represent him. Is that so? No, no, forgive me; he’s still out and about. You must represent his
Salem
partner. Now who could
he
be, I wonder? Possibly someone named Silvio, whose phone number I coincidentally managed to acquire. Now, I have a small legal question for you, Mr. Kemmerich. Let us suppose that a lawyer with a drug dealer as a client was in the habit of passing the names of alternate suppliers to young girls. Do you suppose that might be inappropriate? Possibly even illegal?”

Mr. Kemmerich shut his mouth and rose to his feet, facing Jeanie across the table. A vein stood out in his forehead, pulsing rapidly. With a visible effort, he leaned over the desk, nearly nose to nose with Jeanie. Sorrel bristled at the aggression, and stepped forward, only to find Jeanie’s outstretched arm blocking her. She stopped, mesmerized by Jeanie’s fixed smile.

“Let the man talk, dear. It’s not polite of me to hog the conversation.”

“You, madam, are committing slander—”

“Hardly. This is a private conversation. I suggest you refer to your law books.”

“The young lady in question is a liar. I did no such thing. I merely offered her a little private advice, since she obviously needs guidance.”

“Which young lady is that? How do you know who I’m talking about?”

He flushed. “My client records are confidential. I’m sure you know that much from Court TV,” he sneered. “You have no evidence—”

“Imitating Bill Clinton, are you?”

“You,” he snarled, pointing his finger at her chest, “had damn well better watch your tongue. I don’t appreciate your aspersions on my character, and neither, let me tell you, will my clients. You try sharing these little opinions, and it will be slander. Publish them, and it’s libel, too. Won’t be much of your retirement savings left then, will there? So watch yourself.”

Jeanie sighed. To Sorrel’s amazement, her anger seemed to have evaporated, replaced with a vast exasperation. She raised her hand, put the palm of her hand on Mr. Kemmerich’s forehead, and shoved him back.

“Sit down, you dimwit. Now listen to me. If you tell Silvio what I said, odds are high that his first rage will be with you. No doubt, he’d get around to me, but you’d be first on his list for involving him in a situation that is larger than you know. My little Rosalie has a wide range of affectionate supporters, and some of them likely resemble, in character, your mythical Silvio. While Rosalie is easily tempted, the results of her temptation may be considerably more than you are willing to live with. Certainly, it would give your client headaches he doesn’t need. Do you understand me?”

Mr. Kemmerich sank into his seat.

Jeanie’s face softened. “You’re young, Mr. Kemmerich. You need to find an experienced lawyer to take you under his wing, and teach you wisdom. I doubt you’ll do it, because you’re not the type to heed advice. I want you to realize one thing. I am the perfect enraged protective mother, and the fact that Rosalie is not my daughter is irrelevant. I’ve no doubt I could interest the press, and publish my story on the Internet well before you could get a court date. You will keep your hands, mouth, eyes, actions, and influence well away from my students. Every single one of them.”

Jeanie straightened. “Do we understand each other?” Silence. “I’ll take that as an affirmative. Good day to you, Mr. Kemmerich.”

Sorrel followed her out to the car. She watched Jeanie as she put the car in motion. “Are you okay?” she asked, finally.

“I guess so. I don’t know that I accomplished anything. If he was more experienced, I’d never have gotten away with that. On the other hand, if he was more experienced, he’d never have contacted Rosalie directly. It was stupid. I just hope he knows it, now.”

“You’re not going to tell anybody on him?”

“Of course I am. If he’d do that to Rosalie, he would to anyone else who looked susceptible. I suspect Silvio has a considerable client list. I’ll tell the police about Corky, too, but they probably already know. They’re a lot sharper than you think.”

“I won’t talk to the cops,” said Sorrel.

Jeanie smiled. “Did you think I’d involve you?”

“No. What’s going to happen to the lawyer when you tell on him?”

“Nothing at all. There’s no evidence. He’ll know that when he recovers. Mackie might be able to shame him into giving free legal services, but actually, I don’t think he’d mind that. It would give him access to a wider client base.”

“Could he really put you in jail for writing stuff about him on the Internet?”

Jeanie cocked her head. “I don’t know. That’s an interesting question.”

“Don’t get stuck in corrections,” Sorrel said, her voice low and intense. “It’s the pits.”

Jeanie grinned at her. “I don’t know. It might be interesting. I might make a few friends there. What do you think?”

Sorrel was quiet for several miles. As Jeanie parked at Oriole’s Nest, she spoke.

“You probably would.”

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

Vic Dunlap settled his ample posterior into the driver’s seat and turned on the overhead light. He reached in the glove box, put on his reading glasses, and pulled over the clipboard with its list of addresses. He checked his watch, noting the time next to the convenience store’s address. Right, time to see what was next. He ran his finger down the unmarked lines. Six left, and then Danny’s site; that made seven.

He opened the lunch pail and pulled out his grandson’s collection of many-sided dice. His visits were supposed to be random, and random they would be, with a little edge for his good friend Danny Rivera. So what, if it chewed up a little more gas, getting from this spot to that one across town? If he drove a little faster and made forty visits instead of thirty, who was he hurting? It put a little interest in a boring job. Let’s see, here it was. He’d kind of thought Brad had a seven-sided die. Okay, so what was the roll? Hmm, well, by golly, looked like Danny hit it lucky again.

Vic turned the paper back to the one underneath.
Call Ernie
, he wrote with careful jabs of his pencil. He underlined it twice, flipped the paper, and set the pencil under the clip.

He double-checked the door locks and threw the car into gear. This was a nice job, as long as it was only for a month or two. He liked being an on-call security guard. “On call.” It made him feel useful. The extra money would be handy, too. He could finally afford to take Debbie to
Hawaii
. She was fussing some, said she had no figure for a bathing suit.
No problem
, he’d deadpanned
, you won’t be wearing it for long.
After all these years, he still loved her smile.

He’d have to remember to call Ernie, though. Working the extra shift three nights one week, four the other, was a bit tiring for a man his age. He’d just slide Ernie to Saturday afternoon, so he could catch a little more sleep. He nodded to himself cheerfully. The kid was working out fine, Ernie was. They mostly did. It was a good idea of Debbie’s. He was glad he’d taken it up. Boys liked cars.

For thirty years now, he’d generally had an old car in the garage in some state of disaster. He relished tinkering with engines, new filters, studying how they worked, and fixing up the dents. Over the years, the cars had changed and he’d had to get a bunch more tools, all that electronic stuff. He’d buy a wreck, fix it up, and sell it. He tried to cover his costs and tools, and he managed it mostly.

Back when Debbie was in that social service job, she’d run into boys who got into a lot of trouble. This one boy, Hiroshi, she’d took a liking to, and she brought him home for a few hours. In no time at all, the kid had his head under the hood of Vic’s old Chevy sedan, asking questions, poking around. They’d pulled the whole engine block that day, and made a hell of a mess. Vic had a blast. Hiroshi grew up, moved on, and Debbie found another one. After that, it was a habit, having a kid around every Saturday, some weekday evenings, working on cars. He never paid ‘em anything, but they didn’t care. Well, a few of ‘em did, but those didn’t stick around long. The ones that just loved cars, like him, they’d come by for months, even years. He’d had about a dozen of them, he figured, who’d stuck with him. He’d learned as much as he’d taught.

A few still kept in touch, called him, or stopped by to see what he had in the garage. A couple of them were in prison. He regretted that. A few had turned out well, like Danny Rivera. Old Danny, now there was a success story. He’d had real trouble—Dad gone, mother a drunk, fights in the gangs. Several of Vic’s boys had had records, but he didn’t care. They had their problems and he had his, and they never talked about personal stuff, just cars. God knew, there was plenty to say.

Danny’d been with him, off and on, for two or three years. Then he went to the trade school and got some kind of a certificate. It wasn’t in cars, though. It was in construction. He was deputy foreman on some nice jobs now, and always had a kid in tow.
Mentoring
, they called it now
, job experience.
Danny was following in Vic’s footsteps. It filled Vic with a sort of astonished pleasure. A man couldn’t hope for a better thank you.

Vic and Danny talked about the kids sometimes. Danny got into their home lives more than he did. Danny was some worried about this new one, Quinto his name was. Funny name. When all the kids wanted to be Numero Uno, it struck him odd hearing a boy called the Fifth One. Short for Joaquin, Danny said, but he frowned about it. Then Bryce got hurt, and Danny got discouraged. Damned pipe bomb. It was hell, what people got up to nowadays.

Vic couldn’t stand seeing Danny so down on himself.
Get back in there
, he’d urged.
Get your boy back, or find a new one. It makes you feel good, don’t it?
He’d stopped there, and they grinned at each other, embarrassed as all hell. It wasn’t the kind of thing you talked about.