Chapter 29

Performance Review

Patrick walked through a maze of carts, including personal favorites Sorry Hips! Hamburgers and You’ll Love Our Yule Logs. The food cart pod oozed with a quaint Portland charm; the casual observer would never have guessed its darker purpose. The five towering Douglas firs that lent the pod its name gave the space a lush, forested feel despite the urban location. Hipster families sat at picnic tables and around a large firepit with their designer doodles, pugs, and labs. As he walked by, a leggy Great Dane started barking urgently, pulling at his lead. Several other dogs followed suit, struggling against their leashes and ignoring commands from their embarrassed owners to quiet down.

Patrick slunk by them. He assumed the dogs were barking at him, aware with some ancient animal instinct of his guilt at lying to those he held most dear.

He spotted Sheila’s vintage Airstream at the far end of the pod nearest the fir trees. It was tucked just behind the Prussian Pierogi cart. A large heavily tattooed man looked out the cart’s window. His face lit up when Patrick glanced up at the menu and sniffed. This must be Boris, thought Patrick.

Boris rushed out his pitch. “How about a pierogi? I use my grandmother’s recipe. God bless her dear departed soul, she died making them for me. She set down the plate then dropped dead.” He paused. “It was unexpected.”

Patrick wasn’t sure how to respond. “I’m sorry to hear that, man.”

“No. It’s all good. I hope I’m that lucky when my time comes. I don’t want to linger, you know what I’m saying? Now I make pierogis fresh every day in her memory,” said Boris solemnly.

“That’s really sweet, but I can’t order anything right now. I’ll definitely come back though. Smells delicious.” Patrick stepped past the cart and headed toward Sheila’s trailer.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” Boris suddenly looked ready to leap over the counter.

“Nowhere dude, just checking things out.”

“That cart is off limits.”

Jamie’s voice came through the earbuds. “Everything all right?” she asked.

Patrick whispered back, “Sure, if the three-hundred-pound gorilla in the pierogi cart doesn’t tackle me.”

Suddenly the door of the Airstream popped open, and Sheila appeared. “It’s all good, Boris. He’s expected,” she called out.

Boris looked placated, but concern still wrinkled his massive brow.

“All right, Sheila. If you need anything, you just give a holler.” He glared at Patrick and pointed two fingers at his eyes in an “I’m watching you” gesture.

Patrick stepped through the open door of the trailer, squeezing past Sheila. Her elegant black pantsuit from last night had been replaced by skin-tight yoga clothes. Similar to Sue’s outfit this afternoon, thought Patrick.

Sheila leaned back out the door. “Boris, see if you can do anything about the dogs. What the hell are they barking at?”

Patrick heard him yell back, “On it, ma’am.”

Sheila closed the door, which muffled most of the noise. “Don’t mind Boris. He’s loyal, but dumb as a stump. He brings by a few pierogis every day. Would you like one?” she asked, pointing to a soggy paper plate of pale brown doughy lumps.

“Any good?” Patrick asked.

“No, they’re terrible. Just terrible. I don’t have the heart to tell him to stop.” She dropped the paper plate into a small garbage can. “It’s tough finding good help in this town.”

“He works for you?”

“They all do, the whole pod.”

“Even the chicks in Double D?”

“Even those two tons of fun.”

Jamie’s voice came through Patrick’s ear pods, “That’s great, Patrick. Now ask her about Victor Smith.”

“Cool, yeah. Sheila, I wanted to ask you about something. Or actually about someone that George mentioned when I made my delivery earlier. He said that he saw you and Victor Smith talking at the party. How do you know him?”

Sheila scowled. “What do you care about Victor Smith?”

Patrick swallowed. His mind had gone blank.

Jamie’s voice whispered through the ear pods. “Tell her you rent one of his apartments.”

“He’s my landlord,” he said with a shrug he hoped looked nonchalant.

“Yeah? Well, he’s my boss, and our conversation at the party is none of your business.”

“I just wondered if he wasn’t part of this whole thing. You know. The food cart drug cartel.”

Sheila raised a plucked brow. “Food cart drug cartel? A bit of an exaggeration, but it has a nice ring to it. And aren’t you the curious cat asking about Victor.”

“I guess.”

“Mind if I smoke?”

“No, that’s cool.” He figured that covered his instructions from Ellen and Theo. He’d asked about Victor, now it was time to hand over the DVD so he could get out of there.

While Sheila was busy pulling a pack of cigarettes from her purse, Patrick quickly tapped his phone to end the call and the recording. He knew Lisa would freak out, but he didn’t have a choice. Patrick pulled the Die Hard DVD out of his messenger bag and held it out to Sheila. “George said to give you this.”

“Did he?”

Patrick gasped.

Sheila held a small silver pistol in her hand, pointed at Patrick’s chest. “I talked to George’s wife after my yoga class this afternoon. Sue mentioned George and his new drug dealer were getting cozy and watching Die Hard. How sweet.”

His heart pounding, Patrick took a step back and reached for the Airstream’s door. He wondered at the karmic retribution of George Green’s wife ratting him out to Sheila.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Sheila asked.

“I didn’t watch it, I swear.”

Her face darkened. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a worse liar.”

“I’m serious. I’m just doing what George told me.”

“I’ll have Boris take care of you. He’s a pro. You won’t feel a thing. George though, he might need to suffer a bit more,” she said, shaking her head in disgust. “I gave the DVD to that idiot last night for safekeeping. I told him not to watch it, and of course he does the first chance he gets. God, that man. I feel bad for Sue. For some reason she still loves him, but she’ll be better off once he’s dead.”

As much as Patrick hated George, he didn’t want the man killed. “Fine. I watched it,” Patrick confessed, “but George wasn’t even in the room. I don’t think he has any idea what’s on it.”

“Sorry, kid. I can’t take that chance.” Keeping the gun level with his chest, her eyes never leaving his, Sheila picked up her phone.

“Please, stop.”

“Why should I?” she asked.

Patrick’s heart beat faster. “Because I’m Victor Smith’s son.”

She laughed. “Bullshit.”

“I’m not lying.”

She rolled her eyes. “Prove it.”

“I grew up at nine five one Westshore Drive in Lake Oswego. My mom’s name is Anne. My dad’s yacht is named Dorothy. There are three elk heads mounted in his home office named Don, Vito, and Corleone. He’s never eaten soup. He hates live music and I used to have to sneak out of the house to see bands. He gave me this for going to a Weezer concert when I was fourteen.” Patrick pointed to a cigarette burn on his left arm. “And he’s afraid of rabbits. Should I keep going?”

Sheila glared at him and lowered the gun. “I thought you looked familiar. Victor’s son,” she said, shaking her head. “Well that complicates things. You close?”

“No,” he said. “I haven’t talked to him in years.”

She nodded.

Patrick held the DVD out to her. “I promise I’ll just forget the whole thing. No one ever needs to know I saw the video. Just tell me what happened that day.”

“You’re making demands now? Like father like son.” Sheila lit a cigarette, took a drag and exhaled, filling the small space with smoke. “Oh, what the hell. I was working at one of Victor’s parking lots downtown and got caught stealing credit card numbers. Victor said he’d do me a solid and not call the cops if I did him a favor. He asked me to block off one of the floors and kill all the security camera feeds. Only, I left one on by accident and caught that little gem,” she said, nodding at the DVD still in Patrick’s hand. “I’ve been using it as a bargaining chip, to get a bigger piece of the—what did you call it again? ‘Food cart drug cartel.’” She paused and gave him an appraising look. “Maybe I should give you a more prominent role. Interested in a promotion? Me and you versus big daddy?”

“No,” said Patrick, shaking his head. “I’m not interested in any of that. I just want to know why my dad shot the mayor’s husband.”

“Oh, that’s all,” said Sheila sarcastically.

“He must have had a good reason, right?” Patrick was surprised by how desperately he hoped it were true. He knew his father wasn’t a great guy. Patrick had more scars than that one cigarette burn to prove it. Victor could be cruel, yet there had also been moments when he’d shown Patrick real affection. Despite everything, Patrick loved his father. He loved Lisa too, and he knew that she and Ellen deserved to know the truth. Right now, though, his loyalty was to a father who likely didn’t deserve it. He knew his hope and fear were all plainly written on his face for Sheila to see, and she looked back at him with pity. As he waited anxiously for her answer, Patrick noticed the barking dogs outside had gone quiet and absently wondered what Boris had done to silence them.

Someone knocked sharply at the door. “DEA, open up,” said a gruff voice that Patrick recognized as Theo’s.

“What the hell! Are you a narc?” shrieked Sheila.

Dammit, thought Patrick. He’d never get an answer from Sheila now. He shoved the DVD back in his messenger bag.

Theo knocked on the door again. “Open up. This is your
last warning.”

Sheila swung the gun away from Patrick and toward the door. She yelled, “Back off. I have a gun and a hostage.”

Patrick saw his chance. He knocked the gun out of Sheila’s hand, and it clattered to the floor. Sheila shoved him out of the way, scrambling for the weapon. Quickly, he stepped toward the door to open it for Theo, but before he could reach it, the Airstream suddenly heaved back and forth violently, and Patrick dropped to his knees.

“Hey!” he yelled at Sheila, thinking she must have tripped him, but then he saw that she’d fallen as well. The Airstream continued to shake, causing cabinet doors to fly open and the few dishes and utensils contained inside clattered around the small space.

What on earth is Theo doing? thought Patrick.

Just as suddenly as it had begun, the shaking ceased and the trailer righted itself.

“Did we just get hit by a truck?” asked Sheila. She’d managed to retrieve the gun, but Patrick saw that her hand was trembling.

Another tremor violently shook the Airstream. Patrick’s left shoulder struck the prep counter. He screamed in pain as he fell, landing heavily on his back. Finally, everything was still. Relieved, he assessed his situation. Though his left arm and shoulder ached horribly, he otherwise seemed to be in one piece.

Outside, alarms and sirens wailed. The dogs had restarted their frantic chorus, and people screamed for help. Suddenly, he heard a deafening crack, a sound both primeval and ancient. Fear seized Patrick as he remembered the five colossal Douglas firs that towered over Sheila’s Airstream. He looked at Sheila and she stared back, her eyes wide with terror. They both desperately clawed their way toward the Airstream’s door.

An unearthly screech of ripping metal rent the air, and for a moment Patrick could see the sky. Then a dark rush of falling branches engulfed him.