Mary Clark - The Shadow of Your Smile

There’s something I do know is important, she mused, as she opened a can of crabmeat. The meeting at the Gannon Foundation has been set for Tuesday. I wonder if they’ll try to cancel it, with all this going on. We need the fifteen million dollars they promised us for the addition to the hospital. We need that new pediatric wing that’s going to be part of it. Isn’t it incredible that one of the Gannons is Sally’s father?

The salad and two cups of tea made Monica feel a bit better. She knew that her land phone was backed up with calls from her friends who had heard about the bus incident. With a pad in hand, she listened to the messages. They all ran in a similar vein, how concerned and shocked they were at her narrow escape from the bus, and was there any truth to that old lady’s story that she had been pushed? Three of her callers wanted her to stay at their apartments, in case she was being stalked.

Monica began to return the calls. She reached six of her friends and left messages for the others, and she declined several invitations to join them for dinner, even though she had no plans for the evening. When she was finished, she went into the bathroom, undressed, and got into the Jacuzzi. For forty-five minutes she relaxed in the soothing warm water and began to feel the strain ease from her bruised body.

She had planned to put on comfortable slacks and a sweater and take a long walk, but the almost sleepless night was taking its toll on her. Instead, she lay down on the bed, pulled the comforter over her, and closed her eyes.

When she opened them again the slanting shadows told her it was late afternoon. For a few minutes she stayed wrapped in the comforter, feeling more in focus. I’m glad I don’t have plans, she thought. I haven’t seen a good movie in ages-I’ll find one, go to an early show by myself, and grab something to eat on the way back. I really don’t feel like taking a walk anymore. But I do want to get some fresh air…

She pushed her feet into chenille slippers, walked from the bedroom to the kitchen, opened the back door to the small patio, and stepped outside. It was chilly, and the robe that had felt so comfortable was no match for the outside temperature.

A couple of deep breaths, she thought, and that’s it. Then as she glanced around, her eyes focused on the decorative water can that stood to the left of the door.

It had been moved.

She was sure of it.

She always left it placed on the one patio stone that was badly cracked. It was heavy enough so that even a strong wind wouldn’t move it. Now it was halfway onto the next stone.

But it hadn’t been like that yesterday.

Before I left for the funeral Mass, I came out on the patio, she thought. I’d slept so badly I felt groggy and wanted fresh air. I’m sure I remember looking at the can and thinking that I should get around to replacing the broken stone. Or, maybe Lucy moved it, if she swept the patio when she was here yesterday?

Suddenly shivering, Monica went back into the kitchen, pulled the door closed behind her, and slid the bolt into the lock position.

I always mean to leave the bolt fastened, she thought, nervously, but it hadn’t been fastened just now. Sometimes, like yesterday, when I go outside for a few minutes I forget to slide the bolt. I must have done that yesterday. After I finally fell asleep last night, I woke up so suddenly. Was it because I heard a sound that startled me awake? If I had been in a sound sleep and hadn’t turned on the light, would someone have tried to come in? Had someone been out there?

The incongruous thought ran through her mind that the reason she hadn’t slept well had a name.

It was Ryan Jenner.

Sammy Barber worked as a bouncer at the Ruff-Stuff Bar from nine p.m. till closing. The so-called nightclub was basically a strip joint, and Sammy’s job was to make sure none of the drunks got out of hand. He also had to protect the D-list celebrities and their hangers-on from being bothered by jerks who tried to get too close to their tables and slobber over them.

It was a job that had lousy pay, but it kept his profile low. It also meant that he could sleep late, unless he had been hired to do a hit job and had to tail someone until he got his chance to make that target disappear.

On Saturday evening Sammy was in a foul mood. The first bungled attempt to kill Farrell had left him unsure of himself for the first time in years. And the fact that the old crow had seen him push Farrell and could describe him was scary. In the last couple of years, he had bumped two people onto train tracks without anyone suspecting they hadn’t fallen accidentally. Then, yesterday afternoon, from the alleyway behind her house, using a long-distance lens, he had taken a picture of Farrell’s back door. When he developed it, he could see that the top half of the door consisted of squares of glass covered by a metal grille. The grille was a laugh. He could see that it would be easy to cut out the pane nearest the lock and reach his hand in to turn the knob. If there was a security bolt he’d just have to cut another pane to get to it. Simple stuff.

At three o’clock in the morning, he had gone through the alleyway, hoisted himself over Farrell’s joke of a fence, and had taken out his glass cutter. One minute more and he’d have been inside her apartment, but in the dark he hadn’t seen whatever it was that had caused him to stumble. It was heavy and he didn’t knock it over, but it almost made him lose his balance. His foot hit it hard and gave it a push, and it made a scraping sound on the patio. It was probably one of those stupid lawn statues.

Farrell had good ears if she had heard it, Sammy thought, and I guess she did, because the next thing I knew, a light went on inside the apartment. That was it for that plan.

Restlessly, Sammy began to consider alternate ways to get at Farrell, but then his eyes narrowed. The place was starting to fill up with the usual losers, but two guys in business suits were being led to a table. They’re cops, Sammy thought. They might as well be wearing their badges.

It was obvious that the waiter who seated them knew that, too. He looked across the room at Sammy, who nodded, meaning he’d spotted them.

Some jerk who’d been pretty loaded when he came in was staggering to his feet. Sammy knew he was heading for the D-list rapper, who was sitting with his groupies in the celebrity section. The drunk had been trying to get that guy’s attention for the last half hour. In an instant, Sammy was on his feet, and with quick steps, surprising for his bulk, was at the drunk’s side. “Sir, please stay right here.” As he spoke he squeezed the guy’s arm hard enough to make him get the point.

“But I just wanna pay my reshpechs…” He looked up into Sammy’s face and his vacant expression changed to a frightened stare. “Okay, okay, pal. Don’t wanna make problums.” He slumped back into his seat.

As Sammy turned to go back to his table, one of the two men he’d spotted as cops signaled to him.

Here it comes, Sammy thought, as he made his way across the room.

“Pull up a chair, Sammy,” Detective Forrest invited, as he and Detective Whelan passed their badges across the table to him.

Sammy glanced at them, then looked quickly at Whelan, remembering that he had been the lead detective on his case and a witness at his trial. He could still remember the disgusted look on Whelan’s face when he was acquitted. “Nice to see you again,” he told him.

“Glad you remember me, Sammy,” Whelan said. “But you always did have a way with threats, I mean words.”

“This joint is clean. Don’t waste your time looking for trouble,” Sammy snapped.