James Swain - Gift sense

"Brother's Lounge," a man's gruff voice answered.

"Tell Frank Fontaine to leave me alone," she screamed into the receiver. "Do you understand? Tell him to stop calling me!"

"Frank's not here," the man said, his tone indicating he was used to such calls. "Wanna leave a message?"

"Yes. Tell that pond slime to climb back under his rock and leave me alone. And he can go fuck himself while he's at it."

"… 'fuck himself while he's at it'…" the man repeated, as if writing it down.

"And you can go fuck yourself, too," Nola exploded.

"… 'go fuck yourself, too'…" the man echoed.

Nola slammed the receiver into the cradle, then ripped the phone out of its jack. Comics. Las Vegas was filled with comics.

Off the kitchen was a closet she'd converted into a study by laying down a square of cheap carpet and sticking an Office Depot secretary in the corner. It was her private space, and Nola slipped inside the tiny room and shut the door, the sudden darkness calming her down like it always did.

She booted up her Compaq Presario, the darkness pierced by seven and a half inches of blue iridescence. Entering Windows, she hit the File button. The program had a function that let her view the last eight files that had been opened. Scrolling through them, she realized that the police had already been here. There wasn't much to see, mostly letters she'd never gotten around to finishing and her finances on a Lotus spreadsheet, but their invasion of her in cyberspace seemed the ultimate insult. She erased everything.

Exiting Windows, she logged onto the Internet through AOL and typed in her password.

"You've got mail!" an automated voice cheerfully announced.

Nola looked in her mailbox. One message had arrived dated this morning. The return e-mail address was unfamiliar. She took a deep breath. Who was looking for her now? Nola, Heard you got busted. Sorry (really). You've never been through this before. Here are some things you need to know. The police have bugged your phone. They have probably moved into an empty house nearby and are watching you right now. It doesn't matter that you are innocent. In their eyes, you are guilty, and since they're the law, you are guilty, unless you choose to do something about it. You need to act fast. I dropped a key in your mailbox. It opens a safe deposit box at the First American Savings amp; Loan near your house. Use the money to hire a good lawyer. I forged your name, so you have access. Love, Frank

She fell back in her chair. Love, Frank? Who did this shark think he was? And how had he gotten her e-mail address? It was a setup, plain and simple. Deleting the message, she shut down her computer.

She sat in the air-conditioned darkness and stared at the screen's muted afterglow. It faded slowly, a great metaphor for her own predicament. Fontaine was right about one thing. She was screwed. She'd been suspected of cheating, and in this town, that was enough to lose your sheriff's card. Without that little piece of laminated plastic, she couldn't work in a casino. And as sad as it sounded, dealing blackjack was the only real skill she had.

This is another fine mess you've gotten yourself into.

Yes, it was. Her inner voice was great at stating the obvious. Another sad chapter in the sorry life of Nola the Victim, an epic novel of stupidity and needless suffering. See Nola lied to, spit on, and treated like a human doormat, only to come back for more like a washed-up fighter who's grown fond of eating punches.

She needed some air. Going out the back door, she stepped barefoot on the patio and started dancing, the bricks hot enough to fry an egg. Hopping onto the grass, she crossed onto her neighbor's property. The owners, a husband-and-wife dance team called the Davenports, had retired to Palm Springs and left the house with Century 21. It had been vacant for months, and Nola put her face to a shuttered back window and tried to peer in, wondering if the police really were inside.

She felt the wall hum; something electric was running inside. Curiosity killed more than just cats, and she crept around back and retrieved the spare key from a rock in the garden.

Clutching the key, Nola contemplated unlocking her neighbors' back door and marching inside, just to see if the police really were there. Did she have the guts?

No, she decided, she didn't. Instead, she went to the Davenports' two-car garage, unlocked the door, and slipped in.

Parked inside was an unfamiliar Chrysler sedan. Nola pressed her face to the driver's window. A two-way radio was mounted to the dash. Cops. She shuddered. Score another round for Fontaine.

Inside the house, she heard a man talking on the phone, his voice gravelly and mean. Nola tiptoed across the concrete floor, remembering all the times she'd watched her neighbors practice their intricate routines, and stuck her ear against the flimsy particleboard.

"The fuck I know what she's doing. It's been silent since she made the call. Can you believe it? Home ten minutes and she calls a bar where Fontaine hangs out. Of course I got it on tape. The guy's got a twelve-inch schlong is what I think. She neeeeds him."

Nola brought her hand to her mouth. How in God's name was she going to convince the police she didn't know Fontaine now? The fact that Fontaine had called her first would be irrelevant in their eyes. She was doomed.

Okay, Frank, she thought, you win.

She slipped out the garage door and locked it. Retracing her steps, she went into her own house and marched down the hall. Opening the front door, she made a beeline for the mailbox at the curb.

Despite the heat, it was a beautiful day without a cloud to mar the bright blue sky. She worshiped the sun and fresh air and had stayed in Vegas probably longer than she should have because she got to enjoy these things every day. She would not do well in prison, if it came to that.

Her mailbox was jammed with junk mail. One envelope stood out. Her address was hand written, and there was no return address. She tore it open and a steel key fell into her palm-and with it, a note. Nola, This is how I signed your name.

She examined Fontaine's forgery. It didn't look anything like her signature, but that wasn't the point. It was written in simple script and would be easy to duplicate. As crooks went, he was awfully smart.

But why was Fontaine throwing her a life preserver? What did he gain by helping her prove her innocence? He was a hustler: There had to be something in it for him.

The sun was making her feel like one of the French fries she'd eaten for lunch. Back inside, she grabbed her keys and entered the garage from the kitchen, hopping into her Grand Am. She kept the garage air-conditioned, so the car was ice cold. For the longest while, she sat behind the wheel, thinking.

The conclusion she came to was a simple one. Like it or not, she needed a lawyer, a real good lawyer, one that could buy her time until she could straighten the police out. If the safe deposit box was filled with cash, then she was going to take it. What other choice did she have?

She fired up the engine and hit the automatic garage door opener. Sunlight flooded the interior. A sense of urgency overcame her, and she threw the car into reverse and skidded down the drive, barely able to see.

She braked at the curb to check for the neighborhood kids and saw the cops' Chrysler backing down the Davenports' driveway.

She did thirty through her development, the Chrysler fixed in her mirror. Braking at a stop sign, she watched the car pull up. Inside sat two dudes in their midthirties, one black, the other Hispanic, both wearing Terminator shades and hip street clothes. She wasn't fooled for a second.

She slowed down, forcing the Chrysler to hang back. The guard booth in front of her development sat vacant, just as it had since the day it was built. A quarter mile away was the entrance ramp for the Maryland Parkway. She spun the radio to her favorite station, classic rock for whining boomers, and with the Stones' "Satisfaction" pumping adrenaline through every vein in her body, punched the accelerator to the floor. The Grand Am let out a beastly roar and she blew past the empty guardhouse.