Devine's Providence: A Novel Page 20

  Again on cue, the waiter delivered our drinks. As Chelsea’s hand rubbed mine, I suddenly felt unusually comfortable, there and then. Like I could just talk with her forever. I hadn’t felt that way with anyone since my marriage ended. I hadn’t exactly gone looking for anyone to talk to, either, but now I couldn’t help but open up.

  “I was still on the force, and we were still reeling from our daughter’s accident. I spent every waking hour either working or at the bar. I couldn’t stay home. Too many memories. Even the good memories hurt…still do. I couldn’t even look at Susan. Not without seeing her. Seeing Riley. I know now…I should’ve been there for her. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”

  My voice cracked as I attempted to maintain my composure. It was a strange feeling, like I was unburdening myself from a heavy load.

  “Anyway,” I went on, “I had the boys on the job and the bar regulars to lament with. Susan didn’t have anyone. All alone in the house, all day, every day. It’s no wonder she went down the path she did.”

  Chelsea’s grip tightened on my hand, but she stayed silent. It had been many, many years since I had even said my daughter’s name out loud, much less pour my whole heart out like this. I didn’t want to be doing it now, but the words were coming out faster than I could stop them. The floodgates were open.

  “She got mixed in with some…bad actors. I remember the first time I found the needle. I hadn’t even been around enough to notice she was high as a kite most of the time. I was furious. I lost it on her. For the record, that’s not a great way to confront an addict.”

  “No,” said Chelsea. “But a natural reaction.”

  “I all but dragged her into treatment. But all the rehab in the world won’t stick if they’re not ready to help themselves, you know?”

  “All too well,” Chelsea nodded with a frown.

  “I took complete control of our finances. I figured she’d have to stay clean if she couldn’t buy the drugs, right? If only it were that easy.”

  “If only,” Chelsea repeated. She drank half of her bourbon in one long sip.

  “The group she was hanging with…I don’t even know how she had met them, probably ran into them trying to get a score…well they got the bright idea to knock over a pharmacy. Grab whatever cash and pills they could. She was just supposed to be driving the getaway car…they figured no one would suspect a minivan with a ‘Proud Mom of a Soccer Star’ sticker on the back. But they needed to pin the ‘gang leader’ role on someone, so when they got caught, they all turned on her. Overnight she went from another junkie just looking for a score to a criminal mastermind behind a Walgreen’s heist. And the wife of a cop, with a tragic backstory to boot. The courts ate it up like candy, and she was all set up to be made an example of.”

  “She’s still incarcerated?”

  I nodded. “Eligible for parole soon, though. Early next year. Zachetti tells me she’s clean now. I haven’t talked to her since the divorce papers were signed. I would say that it ruined me, but I was already pretty ruined. It began affecting my work.”

  I swallowed hard. As much as I was opening up, there were still some things I couldn’t say out loud. So I wouldn’t even try.

  “I…resigned from the force,” I continued. “I couldn’t take the stares, the whispers behind my back. I didn’t know who to trust anymore. Susan used to be my best friend, and she turned into someone completely different right under my nose. Now I live every day with…nothing. I have nothing. Except the guilt that I fuck up the lives of everyone I touch.”

  A stupid tear started to run down my stupid face before I could reach up and wipe it away.

  Gee, hope my date audition is going well.

  “Harry,” Chelsea said softly. “You can’t blame yourself. You were grieving, too. Addiction is an incredibly powerful and dangerous force.”

  I exhaled loudly and composed myself.

  “That’s why,” I said, gesturing toward her nearly-empty glass, “I seem over-cautious.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” she said. “And I am so sorry for what you’ve had to deal with. But I can slay my own dragons, I promise. Besides, I’m not your responsibility.”

  “I know,” I said, patting her hand. “But still, I care.”

  “What about you?” she asked. “You ever think that maybe you have a problem?”

  “The only problem,” I said, “is that the rest of world is always three drinks behind.”

  Chelsea laughed. “I like that. Very poetic.”

  “That’s a Bogart quote, I believe.”

  “Of course it is,” she said. “What’s with your obsession with Humphrey Bogart, anyway?”

  “Obsession? I’m not obsessed. Just a fan.”

  “For the record,” she said, “The remake of Sabrina is wonderful.”

  “I’ve actually never seen it,” I said quietly, taking a long sip.

  “Are you kidding me? How can you know you don’t like it, if you’ve never even seen it?”

  “Listen,” I said, “If you’ve been through forty-some years of people learning your name is Harrison and the response being ‘oh, like Harrison Ford!’ every single time, you’d find reason to avoid his damned movies too.”

  She laughed, a sound that I got blissfully tangled up and lost in.

  “It could be worse,” she said. “You could be named something awful…like Humphrey…”

  We shared a smile. We were still holding hands across the table, and I had completely lost myself, forgetting that we weren’t the only two people in the world, and we were actually there to work.

  I winced as the noise of the room intensified in my ear. Our mic packs had turned back on. I tapped my ear and Chelsea scurried to replace her earpiece.

  “Guys, what the fuck is going on in there?” said Zachetti.

  “Huh?”

  “Terry’s gone dark. I haven’t been getting any response from her. Haven’t you been listening?”

  “I, uh, guess we got distracted,” I said. I looked up at the bar, but both George and Terry were gone.

  “Shit,” I said. “They’re not here. What happened?”

  “You’re asking me? I’m in the back of a fucking van. You’re within spitting distance of them!”

  “Did they get a table on the other side?” asked Chelsea.

  “They were sweet-talking for what seemed like forever. To be fucking honest, I zoned out for a bit, until I realized I wasn’t getting anything from her mic.”

  Then came the unmistakable, groaning, breathy sound of Zachetti standing up as he got out of the van to look around.

  “They’re not out here,” he said.

  I stood up and walked sideways through the crowded bar to the dining room side. Every table was full, but there was no sign of either George or Terry.

  “Not here,” I said.

  A passing waitress heard me talking to myself.

  “Can I help you with something, sir?”

  “Restrooms?” I asked.

  “Good idea,” said Chelsea’s voice in my ear. “I’ll check the ladies.’”

  “On the bar side, sir, in the back” said the waitress, “First door on the left.”

  As I approached the corridor to the bathrooms, I saw Chelsea trying to make her way through the crowd toward me. She had been stopped by a group of middle-aged businessmen who each thought they were entitled to the unwavering attention of such an attractive woman.

  Jesus, I leave her alone for two seconds…

  I ducked into the men’s room, but it was completely empty. I was starting to panic now.

  Why hadn’t I been paying attention instead of pouring my heart out?

  There was an emergency door at the end of the corridor. It didn’t look to be alarmed, so I pushed it open and stuck my head out into the alley behind the restaurant. A startled r
at scurried out of sight, but there were no other signs of life.

  I returned inside. “No luck in the gents’ or out back,” I said.

  “Fuck,” said Zachetti.

  I headed back through the bar to ask the bartenders—I’m sorry, mixologists—if they had seen where they had disappeared to. I passed Chelsea, who had finally broken free of the pack of hyenas vying for her attention.

  “Sorry,” she said as we passed, “Couldn’t get through all those swinging dicks. I’ll check the woman’s room.”

  I tried to flag down the nearest mixologist, but there were too many people who looked like they had more money than me waiting on their crafted concoctions, so I had to be patient.

  In my ear I could hear the swinging of the ladies’ room door as Chelsea entered.

  “Anyone in here?” she called out. “Terry?”

  I stood up straight as Terry’s voice came through over Chelsea’s mic.

  “Oh, uh, I’m in here! Everything’s fine! I’ll talk to you later, dear!”

  “What’s going on?” asked Chelsea. “Is everything okay? We’ve been worried…”

  There was another sound of a swinging door, what sounded like a stall door, and then Chelsea gasped.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “I’m… so sorry…I…excuse me.”

  Terry’s voice now came in as a whisper.

  “Didn’t you hear me? I said not to follow me.”

  “No, I…sorry,” said Chelsea.

  “Jesus,” said George’s voice. “They really need better locks on these doors. Friend of yours?”

  “Work associate,” said Terry, her voice getting smaller as Chelsea scurried out of the bathroom. “Now where were we?”

  “What…what the fuck is happening in there?” said Zachetti.

  Just then, I noticed the waiter at the table closest to the restrooms pouring some white wine. He paused before returning the bottle to the standing ice bucket. He reached into the bucket and pulled out a mic pack by its long wire—Terry’s. He stared at it in confusion.

  By this time, Chelsea was back by my side, laughing to herself.

  “What the hell?” I said. “Is she okay?”

  “I’ll say,” said Chelsea. “She’s fine.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Zachetti. “Did she…she didn’t think she had to…did she?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Chelsea. “She was very clearly not under any duress.”

  “Oh, brother,” I said.

  Chelsea leaned on the bar next to me.

  “Care for another drink while we wait?” she asked. “Or have you cut me off yet?”

  “I could use another one after that,” I said. “Just waiting for a mixologist.”

  “Actually, just call us bartenders,” said a guy behind the bar with a Snidely Whiplash mustache. He had just appeared out of seemingly nowhere, like a genie from one of the bottles. “‘Mixologist’ is soooo pretentious.”

  He said this while checking the time on his pocket watch.

  “What a fucking comedy show,” said Zachetti.

  Chapter 16

  KISS THE BLOOD OFF MY HANDS

  The rest of the night went by without incident. Terry wasn’t able to pump any more information out George about Temple’s plans for SmartPark, but she was able to secure a second date to further discuss her potential contribution. She accepted a ride home from George, and gave Chelsea a sly wink as she passed us to leave.

  Chelsea and I piled into the back of Zachetti’s surveillance van and erupted into laughter.

  “I’m glad you’re both finding this so fucking amusing,” said Zachetti. “Guess I’m the only one taking this whole thing seriously.”

  “Oh, come on, Jake,” I said. “We got some good intel. At least we know what SmartPark is all about. Mostly, anyway. And we’re getting closer to the Temple connection.”

  “Is it too much to ask,” said Zachetti sharply, “for you to stay fucking sober for one night?”

  “You sound like you could use a drink,” I said.

  Chelsea giggled. Zachetti looked at her sideways.

  “Oh Christ,” he said. “Not you too?”

  “Take it easy, Lieutenant,” slurred Chelsea. “You had us sit around a bar for a few hours. Of course we were going to drink. We had to play the part. Besides, I’d call this mission a success.”

  “So would Terry,” I said. We both erupted into laughter again as Zachetti rolled his eyes.

  When he dropped us off in front of Terry’s store, I felt as if I was walking Chelsea to her front door after a date. That is to say, nervous as hell.

  “So,” I said, “Did I pass the audition?”

  She smiled. She’d been doing that a lot lately. Surely, that’s a good sign.

  “You’re delightful,” she said.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I had a very nice time with you tonight,” she said. I figured that was as good as I was going to get.

  “Likewise,” I said.

  We stood there smiling at each other for an awkward amount of time. I was looking for a signal, a sign, anything to indicate what I should do or say next. But despite my interrogation experience, her face offered no clues. Visible to me, anyhow.

  How I wish she would grab my hand and lead me inside…offer me coffee, or a nightcap perhaps? Even if it was really only for an actual drink, or worst case scenario—egads!—coffee. Just to spend more time with her.

  “Well then,” she said finally. “Goodnight, Mr. Devine.”

  “Goodnight, Ms. Woodstern,” I said half-heartedly.

  Blew it again.

  She went in to go down to the War Room and I climbed the stairs to my office. I wouldn’t bother going home to sleep. My bed at home was more comfortable than my office’s sitting room couch, but it had the significant disadvantage of being not here. Score one for the couch.

  I put on a John Coltrane album and collapsed onto said couch, fully clothed. It pulled out into a bed, but I couldn’t be bothered with the effort. I was just starting to drift away to sleep, with visions of Chelsea dancing in my head, when a knock on the door jolted me upright.

  My heart started racing until I calmly reminded myself that an intruder, most likely, would not have the courtesy to knock.

  Unless that’s what they want me to think.

  I had another second of panic as I tried to remember where my gun was.

  Oh, right. I have no freaking clue.

  I kept the lights off and cautiously opened the door. Chelsea was standing on the landing. My heart leapt into my throat.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked quickly.

  “You were supposed to invite me up for a nightcap,” she said, pushing past me. “This’ll count against your audition, of course.”

  Entrapment!

  “Please,” I said. “Won’t you come in?”

  She was in the sitting room. She had already flipped on the lamp, thrown her leather jacket on the sofa, and was pouring two glasses of Scotch. I closed the door and joined her.

  “My apologies,” I said, “I didn’t want to be too impetuous.”

  “You could do with some more impetuousness now and then,” she replied. “A little spontaneity would do you wonders.”

  “I’m trying,” I said. “I wore an untucked shirt in public tonight, so I’d say that’s something.”

  She handed me a glass. We clinked.

  “To baby steps,” I said.

  “Indeed,” she said.

  I sat on the sofa, hoping she would join me, but she kicked off her heels and ambled over to my vinyl collection instead.

  “What is this you’re listening to?”

  “Coltrane,” I said.

  “I’ll admit, all jazz sounds pretty much the same to me.”
>
  “When you really listen to it, the beauty is that none of it’s the same at all.”

  “This one’s so brooding and melancholy.”

  “That’s the point.”

  “It suits you, I suppose,” she said. She turned her back to be and began flipping through the records.

  I snorted a laugh.

  “You’re something else,” I said.

  “Damn straight,” she said.

  There was something markedly different about her now than just minutes ago when I had left her downstairs. All of her actions, all of her words were very…deliberate. As if she were putting on an act. She wasn’t the raw, vulnerable Chelsea I had been catching glimpses of. Her shields were up, but she knew what she wanted and she was here for a reason. I could only imagine what that reason would be.

  Don’t get ahead of yourself, buddy.

  She bent slightly over the records, one foot hovering low in the air for balance. My eyes made their way up her slender legs, noticing how her jeans hugged every beautiful line. A swath of pale bare skin on her lower back was revealed from her t-shirt riding up as she bent over. I drank it all in, savoring it like a vintage Macallan. My mind started to wander a bit too far.

  Easy, Harrison. You’ve had too much to drink. She’s just looking through your music. She doesn’t have any idea what she’s doing to you.

  She looked at me over her shoulder and winked, before returning to the records.

  …Does she?

  Even if it was all completely deliberate on her part, she was becoming more irresistible by the second.

  Snap out of it, Harry.

  “There’s no Beethoven in there, if that’s what you’re looking for,” I said.

  “I’m more of a Bach gal anyway,” she said.

  “Yeah…you’ll find none of that either. It’s like jazz is to you: all classical music sounds the same to me.”

  “Bach has a way of tunneling into your soul.”

  “I will say, I never would’ve pegged you for a classical music buff.”

  “Before my husband died,” she said casually, “I played with the Los Angeles Philharmonic. Principal cello.”