Leann Sweeney - Shoot from the Lip

“Take yourself above the streets, above the bus stop you told Abby about.”

“Okay,” came Emma’s reply.

“Tell me when you’re there,” Kate said.

“I want to go slow. Slow is better.”

“Take as long as you want.” Kate had been leaning forward whispering to Emma, but now she sat up without taking her gaze off her subject.

I swear it took an hour, but was probably no more than a few minutes before Emma said, “I see the roof of the covered bus stop. See the streets and the tops of the cars.”

“Good. When you’re ready, float down until you see the people sitting there.”

“It’s better up here.” Emma’s voice sounded a little slurred, like she was talking in her sleep.

“Safer?” Kate said.

“Yes. Much safer.”

“Abby and I are watching out for you. You can look at the people’s faces. Nothing will happen.”

“Abby’s here. Kate’s here. On the pillow.”

“That’s right. When you’re ready, Emma.”

More silence as Emma rocked and rocked for another eternity. “I see,” she finally said. “It’s me, waiting for the bus, and she’s there, too.”

“A woman?” Kate asked.

“Abby. She’s on the bench sitting with me. We’re talking.”

I saw my sister’s eyes narrow, saw her shoulders tense. “Okay. What are you wearing, Emma?”

“The gray suit I found at Goodwill. Only cost me ten dollars.”

“You’re going to work?”

“Yes. Then I have class. Scott will have to cook dinner, and he hates that. But it’s okay. Abby says everyone has to pitch in sometimes.”

Kate leaned forward. “And what’s Abby wearing?”

Emma laughed. “That funny-colored uniform.”

I saw Kate’s shoulders relax and she almost smiled. “What else does she have on?”

“The black shoes with the thick soles. She says she’s on her feet all day. I’m lucky I don’t have to be someone’s maid.”

“She’s a maid?”

“You can tell she works really hard. Her hands are always chapped, and she looks tired, even though she’s young.”

“What else do you know about her?” Kate asked.

“She smokes, but when I sit next to her she always puts her cigarette out right away. I never ask her to. She just does. She cares about other people.”

“What color is the uniform again?”

“Turquoise. White collar. The letters on her pocket are white, too.”

“Are you close enough to see what the letters say?” Kate’s tone was even, her voice soft and soothing.

I wanted to get up, shake Emma and tell her to spit it out. This whole deal was like sucking peanut butter through a straw. But I had to give my sister props. I could never do this job.

Emma went into another long, agonizing silence before she said, “I need to get a little closer.”

“However long it takes is fine,” Kate said.

I wanted to scream, “No it’s not fine!” but I remained silent, sitting on my hands to keep them still.

At last Emma said, “Purity Maids. Those are the words embroidered on the pocket.”

I must have sighed audibly, because Kate held up her hand and gave me a look that would freeze a jaguar. I mouthed, Sorry.

Coming out of the trance was almost as slow a process as it took to get her to that pocket embroidery. Kate brought Emma back above the bus stop and allowed her all the time she wanted to return to reality. Even when she opened her eyes, she still seemed to be somewhere else.

“Turn the light back on, would you, Abby?” Kate said.

I pressed the switch at the base.

Kate said, “How are you feeling?”

“I could live in this chair.” Emma was smiling, her face content in the lamplight.

“I plan on having one like it for my new house,” Kate said.

Emma quit rocking, sat upright. “How could I have forgotten? The owner took your offer. You got the house, Kate.”

Kate grinned. “That’s great. When can I move in?” “Pending inspections and title searches, I’d say a couple weeks. Cash transactions really speed things up.”

“I think we’ve both had a good day-and Abby, too, right?” Kate looked at me.

“Yes. Do you remember what just happened, Emma?”

“Remember you in a maid uniform? I don’t think that’s an image I’ll ever forget.” She laughed. “But why didn’t I see the woman’s face, Kate?”

“The human mind will always seek to protect the psyche from harm-sometimes even in unhealthy ways-but that’s a whole other lecture.” Kate smiled. “By putting Abby’s face on this person, you felt safe enough to get close and to stay long enough in the trance to find what we needed.”

“I did it right?”

“There is no right or wrong in my office, Emma. There’s only your reality.”

Emma nodded, understanding. “Without the two of you, I-I don’t know where I’d be right now. Probably locked in a rubber room.”

“I doubt that,” I said. “Our daddy would have said you’ve got grit.”

“I have a feeling I would have liked your father,” Emma said. And then a sadness filled her eyes despite her smile.

I guessed any father at all for her would have been a bonus.

Once Emma left the office and I thanked Kate for her help, she immediately went into session with another client. I called DeShay after I emerged from the parking garage and told him we got the maid service name. He said he was glad to hear that, since they got nothing from the pimp except what a neat freak Fiona Mancuso had been and that he considered her stupid. All his girls had been stupid.

“I’m glad I wasn’t there,” I said. “You know how I shoot from the lip.”

“I’m certain you two wouldn’t have gotten along. Tell me the name.”

“Purity Maids.” I maneuvered around what had become standard fixtures on Houston city streets-orange construction cones.

“You can bet Fiona picked out a new name when she went straight. Can you work the maid angle? Try to find her?”

“Because you don’t want to scare her off?” I asked.

“Right. If you can get to her without telling anyone who you are, that would be great. We’ve already got one of Christine O’Meara’s friends in the morgue.”

“Don’t remind me,” I said.

“Quit with the guilt. You didn’t cut that guy.”

“That’s what Jeff said,” I answered.

“You probably won’t be able to reach me for a while,” he said. “We just got called out to a murder-suicide. I hate fucking Mondays. I’ve learned people are damn selfish. ‘I don’t want to go to work or pay my bills or make up with my wife, so I’ll kill myself-and maybe take someone with me so I won’t get lonely in hell.’ ”

“DeShay, come on,” I said.

“I know, I know. But suicide scenes are the worst. Usually messy, and then you got the crying relatives. Why do suicides have about ten times more relatives than other victims? That’s what I want to know.”

“Maybe that’s the reason for the suicide,” I said. “Too many relatives.”

“Yeah. There you go.” He laughed. “I gotta run. Keep in touch.” He hung up.

Ever alert for a tail, I’d driven home wishing there weren’t so many damn Ford Focuses on the road.

I sat back in my desk chair a half hour later, stroking Diva and wondering how to learn whether Fiona Mancuso still worked for Purity Maids. Seemed a safe bet, since Emma had talked to her two weeks ago. But I needed to be sure. A simple check of the yellow pages showed an ad that proclaimed Purity had been in business since I was three years old. They must be doing something right. But what if the recent publicity concerning the reality show that had come to town, not to mention the murder of her old bar buddy Jerry Joe Billings, had sent the woman running scared? If so, all I could do was try to pick up her trail.