Chapter Five

As Tyrone gathered ingredients for dinner in his penthouse kitchen, Bobby’s number flashed on his phone. He picked it up.

“Tyrone here.”

“Jack called. Says he has something for you. Thinks he might have a picture of an accomplice working with Baker.”

“He thinks, huh? Doesn’t mean much. I want to meet with Jack.” He hung up the phone after setting a time and date. He sat at the table stroking his face.

Tyrone didn’t like squealers, and Andrew Baker was his least favorite. The man was a fly on his seared filet mignon. Tyrone shuddered.

“What’s the matter, Daddy?” Hazel asked. Tyrone couldn’t believe this blonde beauty was his daughter. She sat across from him at the dark ebony table searching for decorations for her wedding on a tablet. Next to her sat champagne lists, a caterer’s menu, and one bakery pamphlet. Plus, she had fabric samples, names of musicians, florists’ quotes, and pastry chef recommendations. She carried all of this in a designer tote to show him.

Tyrone sneered at the clutter. “You’re nearly thirty. Do you have to talk to me like you’re four?”

“What shall I call you? Master?” She arched an eyebrow at him.

Tyrone sniffed a little and stared out of the view of the city. It was a gray day. Yesterday was sunny, not a cloud in the sky. Today was rainy. Weather in St. Louis was inconsistent. He loved it. Not too much of one thing.

“You didn’t answer me,” she said, glancing at him over her brochure she consulted. “You’ve obviously got something on your mind.”

“Business. Doesn’t concern you.”

“Daddy this isn’t the Dark Ages. Women run businesses all the time.”

“Not my business.” He said this over his shoulder.

“You are so archaic.”

He leaned toward her in his chair. “You want to know what plagues me? People keep squealing. Accountants, workers. I’ve got leaks all over the place. Am I an incompetent plumber? I had to terminate someone at the casino this week. I hate it when they make me do that. I didn’t even get to do it myself.”

He stood and crossed to the fridge and pulled out the raw chicken carcass. “But worst of all. Worst of all is Andrew Baker.”

“Who Daddy?”

“A journalist.” He set the chicken on the counter.

“If he were my enemy, I’d call out a hit on him.”

Tyrone faced her. “You’re not supposed to know about those things.”

“You can’t keep shielding me forever. You think I don’t know what goes on here?”

“Plan your wedding,” he said, pointing at her stuff with his chin. “The only planning you’ll get to do.”

For dinner, he was making poulet aux quarante grosses d’ail, a French dish of stewing forty cloves of garlic with a whole chicken, a favorite from his days at the École de Cuisine in Paris. If only his father had allowed him to become a chef instead of taking over the family business.

He slid a meat cleaver from the knife rack. Holding it near his head, he dropped the knife. The cleaver sliced through the breast, the sound of bone cracking. A prickling sensation enhanced his senses, energizing him.

This time it was personal. He wanted Baker to get the message loud and clear. St. Louis was Tyrone’s city. He would order the hit himself.

Baker would get the message.

****

Hugh led Andy to the parking garage where his Porsche was parked. Andy crossed her arms, studying it suspiciously.

“They gave this to me to do undercover work.” He grimaced as he clicked the doors open. No beat cop could afford one of these unless he had a rich grandmother who recently passed away. He should’ve chosen a different car. It might give him away. But he loved his Porsche, the hum of the GT3 Cup R engine and the sheer power of V8.

Andy rolled her eyes. “Not very inconspicuous.”

Hugh grunted, wanting to change the subject. “Now, you’re probably safe to go up to your flat and get whatever you need. I doubt Imperium has identified you yet. But if you’re worried, I’ll go with you to check it out.”

Once at the apartment, Andy trembled a bit as she punched in numbers in the security pad as they stood on the cement stoop. “I have to get the spare keys from the concierge.”

“This is your place?” Hugh asked, gazing at the brick multi-level rising on a wooded street, in a safe but older part of South City. He pointed to the keypad. “Security.”

“Yes,” Andy said as she opened the door. “But Mrs. Wheyland lets people in. She’s just being nice and holding the door. A coded entry might keep out small time punks.” But not the Imperium and trained killers. They got the spare key. She hesitated as they climbed the stairs to her apartment.

She slid her key in the lock and waited.

“Want me to go in first?” he asked.

She nodded.

After he opened the door, Hugh glanced around then shouted, “Somebody’s broken in and ransacked the place!”

Clothes spilled from everywhere, dinner plates on the couch. Shoes of varying styles lay overturned in the front foyer, papers scattered on every flat surface. Andy, behind him peeked in, panicked, then blushed deeply. She was rather cute.

“Har, har!” Letting out a nervous laugh, she hit him on his bicep. “This is how my apartment always is.”

“You should probably be cleaner. You could attract pests.”

“Well, I was planning on coming home right after dinner last night and cleaning up.”

She rushed about tossing stale breadsticks in the overflowing trash can, stacking the reusable plastic containers to wash.

“So many take-away boxes,” he said, tsking his tongue. She glared at him.

Still, he continued poking his head around every nook and cranny of her place, while Andy thought she was being sneaky by picking up clothes and tossing them on the couch behind Hugh’s back as he investigated her apartment.

“So, we’re here to get your bag?” he asked as he stepped over a few shirts and plates with bits of pizza crusts hardening on them. He wrinkled his eyebrows at a Chinese carton dripping sweet and sour sauce all over a shoe.

“No,” she said. “We’re here to get dressed up so I can get my bag.”

“You know,” he said glancing around. “Your Baker’s Dozen stories were actually quite well written.”

Andy stopped cold, holding the pantry open, her hand on the door.

“How did you know I was Andrew Baker?”

“Your campus rape culture one was perfection.”

“DNA all the way. If you can get DNA, you can get a conviction.” She eyed him. “How exactly did you figure out I’m Andrew Baker?”

He shot her a smile, opening the fridge. “Oh, my. Do you ever go grocery shopping? This thing is so empty someone could’ve been hiding in here.” He picked up a half-gallon of milk, inspecting it. “And it smells rotten. What’s the expiry date on this carton?”

“You’re evading my question.”

He replaced the carton, feeling weary. So many secrets. “Well, you made one big mistake.” Andy paled. He continued. “You wrote about your college campus.”

“So?” She shrugged. He hated crushing her spirit.

“When I created an analytical map of where Andrew Baker worked, I noticed a pattern.”

“Oh?”

“He sniffed out political corruption in the city, helping senior citizens and teenagers, all within one square mile.”

Andy breathed out audibly, her eyes widening.

He reveled in her shock. “I cross-referenced college records from those years with everybody who lived in this square mile. And guess whose name showed up.”

Andy trembled as she closed her eyes.

Hugh could tell she was really upset. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’d have to be some really great hacker to be able to discover your information.”

“You did.”

“We’re on the same side.”

“But the bad guys could find it, too.”

“Not likely.” He had to reassure her without exposing all his secrets.

“And why not?”

“Because they are not as smart as I am.”

Andy wasn’t at all reassured, but he couldn’t tell her how he actually got the information without revealing his sources.

Andy paused beside the second bedroom. “Just wait right here, will you?” Andy said as she unlocked and slipped in the door of a second bedroom. So secretive. His curiosity was piqued. But when she was gone longer than a few minutes, Hugh began to worry.

“Hey, where’d you go?” Hugh opened the door. Andy stuck her head out to stop him.

“No.” She clutched the knob, closing the door farther, speaking through the frame and the door. “This closet-room is kind of my biggest secret. You have to pinkie-swear to be best friends for the rest of our lives. Seeing this part of my life is like seeing me naked.”

A wide smile played across his lips. She scowled.

“What? You were the one who said it.” Hugh couldn’t help smirking.

She held out her pinkie. “Do you swear?”

“I swear to someday see you naked.”

“Hugh! It’s a part of me no one has ever seen, not even Conner. And I’m sharing it with you. Because we’re”—the words were hard to say—“working together.”

“Okay, I swear I’ll be your best friend or whatever you want.”

He stuck his hand between the door and the frame. They locked pinkies.

She opened it a bit and paused. “And no wise-cracks.” The door fully opened to let him peek in.

“No, nothing but pure admiration.” He stepped over the threshold in awe, gazing at the double rungs encircling the room.

Where rest of the apartment was in disordered chaos, her closet room was precise organization. All around the perimeter were closet rails full of different types of clothes, hipster, youthful, old ladyish. In the center, stood more free-standing garment racks, each laden with costumes, doctor’s scrubs, uniforms, graduation gowns, unitards, overalls. And one wall had rows of wigs, labeled make-up jars, and jewelry hanging from stands, scarves, fake nails, and prosthetics. “You collected all of this on your own?”

“Yup.”

“No help from anybody?”

She shook her head. “I mean the lady at the thrift shop helped me find some things. And Carla paid for maybe half of it in exchange for the nitty-gritty details.”

He raised his eye brows in admiration and nodded his head approvingly. “Andy Baker you are amazing. You don’t mind if I call you that, do you?”

Andy was in her element, searching through things for just the right stuff, gathering it. He didn’t expect her serious concentration. “No, but as you are now part of my secret you must help me.”

She handed him a cup.

“What’s this for?” he asked.

“When was the last time you peed? I just went.”

“Wait—you want me to…” He couldn’t finish the thought let alone the sentence.

Pointing into the mouth of the cup, she finished for him. “Pee in the cup.”

He tilted the cup in his hand, examining the outside label. “Is this for a drug test?”

“Should I test you?” She raised an eyebrow. “I have one.”

He held his hands out, puffing out his chest. “I’m clean.”

“Urine. I need it. Hopefully you’re dehydrated.” She rummaged around underneath hanging clothes. “The smellier the better.”

“You are one odd girl, Andy Baker.”

“It’s all in the details.”

He smiled slyly. “At least you’re not asking for any other types of body fluids.”

She glanced over her shoulder and blinked at him innocently. “Oh, like your blood?”

He stepped back. “You are so scary.”

“I hope so.”

When he returned from the bathroom, she’d found a double-bagged sack. She unwound one of the red twisted ties, allowing the smell to escape.

“Woah, your bag stinks,” Hugh said, handing her the cup of yellow pee.

“Vinegar, vodka, soured milk, garlic, cumin—which I find always smells like body odor—stale smoke”—she paused for effect—“and a shot of urine.” She tossed the warm plastic cup of yellow liquid after dashing it into the bag, wincing as she tied.

“Sounds like a terrible recipe.”

“The recipe for overnight hobo smell. It’s hard to fake months of no showering, but this is the best I can do.” She mashed the bag together. “Gotta take it to the laundromat, stick it in the dryer to set the smell. There’s one next door.”

His eyes grew big. “Remind me never to use public laundromats again.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t.” She hefted the sack, hoping to throw it over her shoulder, but Hugh caught it.

“If you’re going to have to wear it, the least I can do is take it to the dryer for you.”

“Thanks.” She handed him a fistful of change she dug from a box on a vanity. “Quarters. While you’re doing laundry, I’ll get my hair and makeup done and teeth in.”

“Teeth?”

Several sets of dentures sat on her table, one with gaping holes, others with large gaps, or big horsey tombstone teeth or small pointy teeth. “I won’t ask for your secrets. Just do your thing.”

When Hugh returned, he almost didn’t recognize Andy. Tangled hair covered her face. And her face, covered in who knows what, was filthy, leathery instead of smooth. In place of her beautiful teeth, a rack of yellowed broken choppers launched from diseased gums.

“Repulsive,” he said.

“Thank you.” Even her voice eked its way out of her hideous mouth. “Rancid olive oil sprayed in my hair. Do you have my clothes?”

“Yes.” He handed her the bag.

“Ah, the sweet smell of stench.”

“Do you want me to leave so you can change?”

“No need.” As she opened the bag, she suppressed the gag reflex. “You are an angel to take this to the dryer.” He shrugged.

As she lifted the jacket over her head, she gagged. “Well, at least I’ll have a little bit of you to go with me. Man, this reeks.”

She slipped the skirt over the top of her ratty leggings and filled pockets within the skirt with lock picks and other oddities. When she tucked a canister in her jacket pocket, Hugh raised his eyebrows.

“What are you pocketing?” he asked.

“Hexachloroethane and zinc for smoke screen. Just in case. I’ve never faced the mob before.”

Her fingers trembled as she slid on a jacket, hat, and several sweaters. Padding in the shirt. Gloves with fingers missing. A ratty scarf.

“What do you think?” Andy asked him, smugly satisfied with her appearance.

She was so unprepared to face the mob. He wanted to stop her and tell her he’d take care of it. But some part of him wondered if she could do it.

“You’re really going to go through with this?” he asked.

“I have to.”

He leaned closer. “What is on your face?”

“Glue.”

“Glue?”

“Yes, just dried school glue with bronzer and charcoal.” A briquette laid on the counter.

Amazing. He examined her makeup job. The smell kept him from getting too close. Age spots, freckles, even white over the lips from wind burn or dehydration. He absorbed every detail, her hands, the hair. Only the eyes were Andy’s. They were still bright and attractive. And focused on him, laughing, enjoying her success in such an utter transformation. He leaned nearer, holding his nose in blatant mockery. Maybe she could pull it off. He’d be watching close by just in case.

“It’s amazing up close. Although I don’t know anybody who would stay close.” She had transformed into a hideous hag, but he couldn’t help admire her for having the guts to do this, the knowledge. But she hesitated.

“I’m still scared,” she said, her expression serious. “They killed Brad, and they will have no problem killing me, if they catch me. Before I was always in control. I could out-man any of those guys. They may have done bad things. But they weren’t bad people. These guys are bad. They kill and they don’t care.”

“If you want, I can go instead.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “You are much too big to be a homeless man. No, I am the one who has to go. I am the only one who can go.”

“You can leave it. You can buy all your stuff again.”

She paused. “You’re right. I could but it’s not just the stuff. Brad gave me some information about Tyrone. It’s in the bag. I have to get it if we want to continue. And I have to prove to myself I can do this.”

Hugh nodded. He understood. He just hoped it worked.

****

Jack waited by the side of the abandoned warehouse. The river gurgled to his left, the sounds of the city murmured to his right. Cold blew through him, and he stomped his boots a bit, waiting. He hadn’t eaten much the last few days, and the cold bit his body like a beast.

Maybe after tonight, he could eat like a king, drink imported beer, and get him a girl. Best way to get the last girl out of the mind—a new girl.

How was he going to bargain? He had what they wanted, didn’t he? He glanced at the picture. They should be the one to pay him. Like all those spy shows. Those who had the information had the power.

He checked the time. A little past seven. He said seven, didn’t he? Maybe he got the dates mixed up or the wrong warehouse. This was the old Hodgekins coal supplier building. Boarded up. Used to be quite booming, loading and stashing coal for years into the brick seven-story building until the trains out-pulled the steamboats.

The sound of crushed gravel alerted Jack. The limo made his heart flutter. He’d only seen them around town and at his high school prom. He’d never hoped to ride in one. The door of the sleek limo opened, and though all was dark inside, he climbed in, feeling the warmth and smelling something foul.

“I’m glad you didn’t leave,” Tyrone said as Jack crawled into the seat.

Jack situated himself into the leather seats, sizing up the man across from him. He’d never met Tyrone before. His coal-black eyes leaked liquid, as if crying. Jack couldn’t for the life of him figure out why he was crying. No. Not crying. Tyrone had no other tells of emotion.

The smell overpowered his empty stomach, and the overwhelming heat made his stomach lurch as the limo returned to the road.

“So, you know something of this Andrew Baker?” Tyrone asked.

Okay, so Jack lied on the phone when he’d called. He only knew what he had. A picture of his girlfriend.

“Yeah, well, you know.” Jack couldn’t remember the story he’d rehearsed. He flipped the phone in his hand. He hadn’t expected Tyrone to be so stern and confident. It made Jack lose all courage, as though the man read his thoughts. Tyrone unfolded a white handkerchief and wiped his watering eyes.

Jack trembled like a shirt on a clothes line.

“So, what do you have for me?” His voice grated Jack’s ears, like tires across gravel.

“Well.” Jack ran his finger along the leather stitching of his seat.

“Please tell me you did not waste my time.”

Jack couldn’t speak. Tyrone’s voice sent serious tremors under his skin. He was a man who did not waste time.

Jack winced a bit. “There was this girl.” He fidgeted in his seat when the man with the weeping eyes, stared more distinctly into his own. “She really was a sweetheart.” He smiled like a schoolboy admitting to his first crush. “I don’t think it was her. But she was being awfully friendly with a guy the night before the story broke. The beginning of my bad luck.”

Jack hadn’t a chance to tell anyone about his broken heart, first the girl left him on his doorstep, although he didn’t remember how or why. He hadn’t had too much beer. Then the story. Then social media lit up like a bonfire. The phone calls. The police interrogation. The lawyers. It was too much. This man before him was the least likely person to listen to his heartbreak. Maybe he was getting revenge because he didn’t like the way Mary Lou flirted with the man at Ronney Dell’s.

Tyrone wiped his eyes again but remained as stoic as ever, perhaps even a little bored, like Jack was wasting his time. But Jack continued on. He didn’t care if he had an attentive audience, it just all tumbled out.

“I called her, but her phone number was disconnected.” Tears stung his eyes. “I swung by her place where I always met her before, and they said they’d never seen or heard of her. She disappeared.”

“Interesting.”

Eager to have a listening ear, Jack began to blather forth about all his troubles.

Tyrone stopped him. “Yes, so this girl. How did you meet her?”

“Who?” Tyrone’s expression made Jack focus. “Oh, Mary Lou? It’s kind of a funny story. She dropped off her car. A nice one. BMW 7 series.” When he thought about it, why was a girl like Mary Lou driving such a nice car?

“At the shop?”

Jack nodded, pleased he was interested. “She flirted with me pretty hard core. Even asked me out.” His chest puffed a little, remembering how flirtatious Mary Lou had been when they first met. Boy, she came on hot and heavy, and it pleased him.

“Do you have a picture of Mary Lou?” Tyrone asked.

“Yes, it’s not a great one. But you should be able to recognize her.”

Seeing Tyrone was interested, Jack grew bolder. “But I want money for this. Lots of it.” Jack couldn’t remember the exact figure he’d planned.

“Oh?” Tyrone’s gaze shifted from the phone to Jack.

“I know how this works. The man with the information gets paid. He gets what he’s worked hard for.”

Tyrone leaned forward and plucked up Jack’s phone. “Oh, don’t worry, you’ll get what you deserve.”

Jack leaned back, satisfied with his bargaining. He’d managed to score big. This guy must have millions. Jack relaxed even when they parked at an abandoned warehouse. This must be where they keep their money. Perhaps he could score himself a woman tonight.