Wendy Hornsby - Bad Intent

“Look after Mike,” he said. “Because trouble is always looking out for him.”

“I do my best. We’ll have you and your wife to dinner as soon as we get settled in.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll take you both out.”

I kissed his cool cheek and pulled away. “Go home. Get some sleep.”

It was a good idea. Guido talked all the way back to the Valley, on and on about a new video disk recorder he was trying to get a grant to buy for his department. He must have memorized all of the support literature, because I heard so much arcane technical detail that, had I tended at all toward the suicidal, I would have done myself in long before we reached the downtown interchange. I knew he was taking the responsibility for filling dead air space, atoning for his earlier outburst. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Mike, it was that he wouldn’t have chosen Mike for me.

Guido declined my offer of breakfast when he dropped me off. It was still awfully early. I went into a quiet house, hoping for company. Someone was in the shower-I could hear the hot water pipes. There was fresh coffee in Mr. Espresso. But no one was walking around.

I put eggs on to boil, dropped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster, poured some coffee, and sat down at the table to look through the folder Hector had slipped to me.

Just as my toast popped, Mike came in the back door wearing running shorts and shoes and dripping with sweat.

He rubbed his salty, unshaven chin across the back of my neck as he looked over my shoulder. “What do you have?”

“Hanna Rhodes’s rap sheet.”

“Good.” He pulled out the chair next to me. “I asked Hec to run it.”

“And you asked Hec to come to the scene to watch over me.”

“Didn’t have to ask. He’s my old partner. He takes care of me.” He kissed my shoulder. “And mine.”

If I hadn’t been so tired, I would have challenged that “mine” remark. I wasn’t in the mood for an argument, so I began reading to him from the rap sheet.

“Booked under five versions of her name: Rhodes, Hanna S.; Rhodes, Hanna Sue; Rhodes, Hannah; Rhodes, Sue; Farmer, Demetria. The charges begin with possession of a controlled substance, detained and released for lack of probable cause.

One year later, arrested for petty theft and trespass: occupying property without consent. Convicted, sentenced to jail, sentence suspended. Two months later, arrested for burglary. Convicted. With a prior, Hanna went to county jail for six months. Another theft charge, robbery this time. With priors, given a year in jail. Out on probation, arrested for disorderly conduct: prostitution, solicitation. Pled nolo contenders, convicted, sentence suspended. Again, picked up for prostitution, plea-bargained sentence to time served. Four more disorderly conduct/prostitution charges, all of them bumped or plea-bargained for a total of maybe six months time in the slam. Finally, felony theft with a prior, sent to state prison for eighteen months, got an early release and hit the streets again last Friday. End of record. What does it tell you?” I asked.

“She was a junkie. Hooking, stealing to buy shit. She has a juvenile record, too. But it’s sealed. So, this paragon of veracity-if you believe the D.A.-has ten misdemeanor convictions and one felony over a six-year period. She’s out of prison three days and she takes one through the chest. I’d say the miracle here is that she didn’t take one a long time ago.”

“How did you know she took one through the chest?”

“Talked to Hector.” He pulled my by-now cold toast out of the toaster, buttered a piece, and began to eat it. “What bothers me is the timing of the shooting. I always have to look real hard at coincidence.”

“If it wasn’t a coincidence, who shot her?” I put in more toast.

“Hell if I know.” Then, just when my coffee was finally cool enough to drink, he drank it.

I took the little revolver from my belt and laid it on the table between us. With my hand over the gun butt, I said, “Don’t touch my eggs.”

He put the revolver in his shorts waistband and poured more coffee. “But I like your eggs. I even like the dark circles under your baby blues. I’m really happy to see all of you safely back in this kitchen.”

“Good,” I said. I crossed my arms on the table, rested my head on them, and fell asleep.

The director of dance at Casey’s new school executed a magnificent leap, a gold-medal effort. But it was the prize-winning zucchini in the front of his flesh-colored tights that held the freshman dancers in thrall. Casey, sitting on the practice room floor with a dozen or so other new classmates, dropped her jaw and stared.

Because of Casey I have been around a lot of ballet, have seen a lot of stuffed tights. You get used to them, as you do tutus and other archaic accoutrements of dance. What gave me pause as the director went through his routine was Casey’s reaction to his malehood: over the summer she had evolved from indifferent to awed. The change made me worry.

I looked around the practice studio at the other parents lined up against the mirrored walls. The attentive masks that had carried us through the boring academic portion of the school’s orientation had dropped away as the demonstration by the director, his gifted young faculty, and the senior students began.

They performed for a tough, critical audience; every parent there had already invested a fortune in time, emotional support, and cash to prepare their young dancers for the privilege of attending this school. The sacrifices that had brought them this far had honed their expectations. I tried to pick out the mouthpieces, the vigilant parents who always kvetch when they are displeased. Every school, especially private schools, has nightmare parent police.

As the director tour jete’d toward us, Mike leaned in and muttered into my ear, “Are we expected to tuck money in his jock when he dances over here?”

“Good idea.” I passed him the first quarter’s tuition check. “Any tips are up to you.”

He glanced at the check and his eyes widened. As he refolded it he said, “You’re sure this is what you want for Casey?”

“Casey is sure. Look at her.”

She had quickly gotten past the zucchini and was now fully concentrated on the dancers. I watched her hands subtly follow every movement because in her mind she was out there with the dancers.

The studio pianist ended with a showy arpeggio. The squeak and pat of ballet shoes on hardwood floors fell quiet. There was a moment of appreciative silence, and then equally appreciative applause. Before the applause had died, Casey had attached herself to one of the senior girls and persuaded her to demonstrate some movement from the dance she had just seen.

“We’ll never get her away,” I said.

Mike was watching Casey imitate the movements of the older girl. “She’s really talented, isn’t she?”

“Hard work and talent in about equal measure,” I said, distracted. I thought I had spotted a young man tall enough to partner her; a good sign. Casey’s height would always be a hurdle in ballet.

Casey pranced over, beaming. “Can I stay for a while? They’re going to do a workshop for the seniors and Mischa said I could stay.”

“Who’s Mischa?” I asked.

“Mr. Karpov,” she said, indicating the director.

Mike seemed dubious, but I asked, “For how long?”

“Until about five,” she said.

I looked at my watch. Until five gave us three hours to kill. “We had planned to house hunt.” I turned to Mike. “What do you think?”

“If it’s okay with you, let her stay. We can look around this neighborhood for a couple of hours.”

“We’ll be back at five,” I said to Casey. “Take care of yourself.”