Body Movers Page 7

  Tick wagged his fat head. “Nope. Must have been someone else you owe.”

  Wesley couldn’t tell if he was lying—but then, did it really matter?

  Then the man’s eyes grew mean. “So like I said, where’s the money?”

  Wesley reached into his backpack. “After yesterday, three-sixty was all I could get together.”

  Tick laughed. “You’re shittin’ me, right?”

  Wesley extended the money and, as he hoped, Tick lurched to his feet to count it. “This ain’t enough, Wesley. Father Thom gave me strict orders not to leave here with less than a grand. You don’t want to get me in trouble with my boss, do you?”

  Wesley swallowed. “No. But you can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip.”

  Tick grinned. “Sure I can.”

  “Wait a minute,” Carlotta said, her voice trembling. “Nobody’s going to squeeze blood out of anybody. I have the money.”

  Wesley and Tick both looked at her. “You do?” they asked in unison.

  Wesley frowned. “How?”

  “Get it,” Tick said. “I’m beginning to lose patience with you two.”

  Carlotta pushed to her feet and dropped the newspaper into a chair, then marched out of the room toward her bedroom.

  Tick watched her leave and sucked his teeth. “Your sister’s got a smokin’ bod.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Wesley said, clenching his fists.

  The big man looked at him and laughed. “I guess if my sister looked like that, I’d be stupid about it, too.” Then the man sobered. “But you are stupid if you think that Father Thom won’t go after her if you’re late again. Remember that real hard, little man.”

  Wesley opened his mouth to say something foul but stopped himself when he heard Carlotta’s footsteps. “Here’s the other six hundred forty,” she said, extending a stack of cash to Tick, her expression tight. “Now, please leave.”

  The big man took his time counting the money, then shoved it into his pocket and smiled. “See how easy that was? Do this every week and pretty soon, you’ll be debt free, just like all those commercials on TV promise.”

  “Get out,” Carlotta said through clenched teeth. “Or I’ll call the police.”

  Tick laughed. “Yeah…right.” Then he looked at Wesley. “Remember what I said, little man.”

  Wesley’s throat burned with bile as he watched the man walk heavily toward the door. At the last second, Tick turned his head and glanced at the aluminum Christmas tree in the corner of the room.

  “Merry fucking Christmas,” he said sarcastically before banging the door shut behind him.

  They were both quiet for a few seconds. He almost couldn’t bear to look at his sister. When he did, her eyes were stormy, her arms crossed, her back rigid.

  He gave her his best little-brother smile. “Where did you get the money?”

  “A cash advance on my credit card,” she said quietly. “My last credit card.”

  “Well…thanks,” he said. “I’m sorry that had to happen here. I was going to take care of it—”

  “Shut up, Wesley!”

  He blinked.

  “You. Have. To. Get. A. Job.”

  “I’m supposed to upgrade two of the Sheltons’ computers this week.”

  “I mean a real job,” she said, walking toward him slowly, stabbing her finger in the air, “with a paycheck and maybe even something as radical as health benefits. And you’re not allowed to work on computers, remember? You’re on probation for computer tampering! And that toad Lucas told me that if you violate your probation, he’d nail your ass to the wall. Is that what you want, Wesley? To go to jail?”

  “Relax, sis,” he said, raising his hands and backing toward the door.

  “Relax?” Her dark eyebrows drew together and her finger started to shake. “Listen to me, Wesley, and listen good. The free ride is over. Get a job and start taking responsibility for your debt, or—” Her throat constricted. “Or get out.”

  Wesley reeled as if she’d slapped him. He blinked rapidly as she picked up her purse and walked past him and out the front door. He heard the dull hum of the garage door going up, and the growl of her car starting. When the garage door came back down, he exhaled.

  Maybe it would be better if he slept on Chance’s couch for a while. Maybe Carlotta would be better off without him. And maybe it would give him the space he needed to look into his dad’s case.

  He returned to his room and tossed a few things into a duffel bag. Chance wouldn’t mind him crashing there for a while—his friend was stoned most of the time anyway. Einstein would be fine for a few days. Outside on the stoop, he locked the door and was heading down the sidewalk toward the Marta train station when a black Cadillac pulled up to the curb and the passenger-side window zoomed down. A man’s face came into view, and Wesley’s knees weakened.

  “Hey, Wesley, where you going?”

  Wesley shouldered his duffel bag higher. “Nowhere, Mouse.”

  “Really? Looks to me like you’re trying to skip town.”

  “Nah, Mouse, I was just going to visit a friend.”

  “You missed your last payment,” the man said pleasantly.

  “I know. I ran into some trouble with the police.”

  “I read the papers,” Mouse said. “Thought I’d give you a chance to get square with The Carver before you go to jail.”

  It occurred to Wesley that it was probably The Carver’s guy who’d jumped him in the courthouse john. “I got probation,” he said, trying to sound upbeat.

  “Good for you,” Mouse said. “So you’re going to make your next payment on time?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Terrific,” Mouse said, nodding amiably. “Because I wouldn’t want to report back that you got the money to pay that crook Father Thom and not us.”

  Wesley considered lying but decided to remain silent.

  “Don’t be a stranger.” Mouse nodded toward the town house. “We know where you live.”

  The car window buzzed up and the car pulled away from the curb. Panic curdled in Wesley’s stomach as he stood watching the taillights, weighing his options. Stay and continue to expose Carlotta to the dangerous men he’d gotten himself involved with…or go and leave her at home alone where she might be even more vulnerable.

  8

  “T hanks for shopping with us,” Carlotta said, forcing a smile for the guy who had made countless innuendos while selecting a skimpy red teddy.

  He took the shopping bag and grinned, still leaning on the checkout counter. “I’d like to call you sometime.”

  She swallowed her distaste and nodded toward the bag. “I assumed this was a gift for your girlfriend.”

  “No, my mother.”

  “You bought your mother a red teddy?”

  He laughed but didn’t have the decency to look sheepish. “You got me there. Okay, it’s for my girlfriend…but it’s a breakup gift.”

  “Ah. Well, thanks anyway, but I’m not available.”

  He stared at her chest and made a rueful noise. “Too bad.”

  “Yes, well, have a nice day.”

  He took his time peeling away from the counter, looking back as if he just knew she was going to change her mind. Carlotta averted her gaze and busied herself straightening the counter. What an oaf. Were there any good men left in the world? She smirked, thinking of her friends’ comments about her aversion to men. Would she recognize a good man if he crossed her path?

  Then she sighed. Even if a great guy dropped into her life, who would want to sign up to share her problems? Fugitive parents, a delinquent brother, a mountain of debt—it didn’t exactly make her the most eligible woman in Atlanta, not unless the guy had a laundry list of his own problems.

  Take Detective Jack Terry, for instance. The man wasn’t bad-looking if one could look past his ghastly taste in clothes. But even dressed in a Paul Smith suit, Jack Terry would still be a swaggering, arrogant, annoying pain in the ass. Oh, sure, he’d tried to help Wesle
y yesterday in the men’s room, but now she knew it was only because her father’s case had been reopened and he was trying to cozy up to them for information.

  In her pocket, her cell phone vibrated. Since there weren’t any unattended customers in sight, she pulled out the phone, hoping it was Wesley. She felt horrible about yelling at him this morning. Resentment toward her parents had never been stronger. She waffled between hoping the detective found them so she could tell them all the hateful things she’d been saving up for ten years, and hoping he didn’t find them because their return would wreak so much havoc on Wesley. Better that he romanticize their plight than to know with certainty what she knew: that their parents didn’t give a fig what happened to them.

  But the caller ID read Hannah Kizer. Carlotta smiled and punched the call button. “Hi, are you back?”

  “Yeah, I’m back. How did things go yesterday in court?”

  “He got a fine, community service and probation.”

  “Wow, no jail time? His attorney must have been good.”

  Carlotta thought of Liz Fischer, frowned and changed the subject. “You’ll be proud of me—I told Wesley he had to get a job.”

  “About damn time. Maybe now he’ll be too busy to get into trouble. Have any of his thugs been around?”

  Carlotta glanced around to make sure no one could hear her. “A guy forced his way into the house this morning, demanding money.”

  “You’re kidding. What did you do?”

  “Wesley had a little cash, and I’d gotten an advance on my credit card, so we had enough to pacify him.”

  “You should have called the police.”

  “Considering my family’s history with the police, I didn’t think that was such a good idea. Besides, the police would only make things worse.”

  Hannah sighed. “You’re probably right. But you need something to protect yourself.”

  Carlotta pursed her mouth. “You mean a gun or something?”

  The sound of someone clearing their throat made Carlotta turn her head. Her general manager stood there, frowning.

  Carlotta’s pulse spiked. “Gotta go.”

  “No, wait—I called you about a cocktail party tonight at the Four Seasons. Want to crash?”

  Lindy was walking away, so Carlotta relaxed a bit. “I told you—I’ve sworn off party-crashing.”

  “Oh, come on, I’ll let you in through the kitchen, so you don’t have to worry about a counterfeit ticket. You’re ready to clock out, aren’t you?”

  Glancing at her watch, Carlotta said, “Yes, but I really don’t feel like going home to change.”

  “It’s one of those business mixers for the upper crust, so the dress is business casual. Come on, it’ll take your mind off things.”

  Carlotta wavered. She’d worn a rather conservative black suit and striped button-up shirt, so she would probably blend.

  “I’ll meet you at the kitchen entrance in an hour,” Hannah said.

  “Okay,” Carlotta relented. “Just this once.”

  She disconnected the call and hurried to wait on a customer, who took up the time remaining on her shift. Afterward, she freshened her makeup in the employee break room. Michael Lane came in and removed a brown paper bag from his locker.

  “Hot date?” he asked, cracking open a can of diet soda.

  She smiled. “No.”

  “Hmm, I was hoping the reason you’ve been avoiding me is because you had a secret man in your life.”

  A pang of remorse struck her. She’d been avoiding Michael because he’d no doubt read about Wesley’s arrest and she didn’t want to discuss it. She and the gay man were friends, but she wasn’t sure how much she could trust him where the gossip mill was concerned.

  “I’ve just been busy, that’s all.”

  “I understand,” he said, his expression gentle. “Is everything okay at home?”

  “It’s getting better,” she said evasively, hoping it was true.

  “Let me know if I can help.”

  Gratitude swelled in her chest. “I will. And thanks again for the Angela Ashford commission last week.”

  He shrugged. “Everyone who works here knows she’s your customer. You deserved it.” Then he frowned. “So what’s the connection between the two of you anyway?”

  She married the only man I’ve ever loved. “Uh…we went to high school together.”

  “Oh. Was she a bitch then, too?”

  Carlotta laughed. “In training.”

  “So what are you up to tonight?”

  “I’m meeting Hannah at a party.”

  He frowned. “The vampire?”

  “She’s not a vampire. She just likes to dress…weirdly.”

  “Whatever,” he said. “You’ll never land a man if you keep hanging out with the likes of her.”

  She closed her locker door and swung her purse to her shoulder. “I’m not trying to land a man.”

  “Uh-oh,” he said. “That’s when it happens.”

  “When what happens?”

  “Love. Just when you make up your mind that you have no intention of falling for someone—whammo!”

  “I get hit by a truck?”

  Michael stuck out his tongue. “Make fun, but mark my words—your Mr. Right is close at hand.”

  The door opened and the head of security walked in, looking all of a hundred pounds in his uniform, his pants gathered around his thin frame with a wide black belt, his nonexistent chest puffed up like Barney Fife.

  “I came to do a routine check of your loading dock,” Akin said, then looked at Carlotta and blushed furiously. “I want to make sure everyone here is safe on my watch.” Then he saluted and strode out the double doors leading to the loading dock.

  Michael looked at her and burst out laughing.

  “On that note, I’m out of here,” she said, waving goodbye.

  She laughed at Michael’s nonsense on the short drive to the Four Seasons Hotel. Despite her hesitation when she had been on the phone with Hannah, her chest clicked with anticipation as she parked her car—there was no money for valet service tonight—and walked toward the hotel entrance. There was nothing quite so exciting as fudging her way into a party where she wasn’t supposed to be. The difference was tonight she wouldn’t be incognito; if she ran into somebody she knew, it would be fun to see them stutter and fumble while trying to figure out how someone like her could afford the requisite two-hundred-fifty-dollar ticket that these events usually boasted.

  She checked her watch as she walked into the hotel. Right on time. She rode up the elevator and when she alighted, turned away from the velvet-roped entrance where a hostess was taking tickets and headed down a narrow hall that led to the restrooms and to a set of stainless swinging doors marked Service Personnel Only. The door opened and Hannah, dressed in standard white culinary garb, her striped hair bound in a hairnet, thrust a folded garment into Carlotta’s hands. “Put this apron on.”

  She did as she was told, crossing the long ties in front before securing them in back, then frowned. “You didn’t tell me you were working the party. I thought we were going to hang out.”

  “I’m only standing in until someone else gets here, then I’ll find you.”

  “Okay,” Carlotta said sulkily.

  “Cheer up,” Hannah said, handing her a tray of mini quiches to carry through the kitchen. “I think I saw Gladys Knight. Didn’t you say you wanted her autograph?”

  Carlotta nodded, glad she’d put her new autograph book in her bag. “But why would she be here?”

  “She’s a businesswoman, has investments in town—including a tasty little restaurant in Midtown.”

  Considerably cheered, Carlotta followed Hannah through the kitchen maze, trying to look busy and intent as she balanced the tray on her hand. As soon as they cleared the doors into the hallway leading to the party room, she handed the tray to Hannah and removed the apron with lightning speed. “Thanks,” she said, smoothing her hand over her hair.

  “Hav
e fun,” Hannah said. “I’ll see you as soon as I can get away.”

  Carlotta turned to the crowd, scanning for the singer of “Midnight Train to Georgia” among the preppily dressed, one-hand-in-their-pants-pocket crowd, and spotted her standing in a corner, sporting her signature dazzling smile and, fortuitously, signing an autograph. Carlotta made a beeline for the woman before she tired of autograph hounds. She stepped up and introduced herself, then explained that she’d once had the singer’s autograph, but that her autograph book had recently been ruined and she was hoping to get a replacement. Ms. Knight was gracious and obliged, writing her name with a flourish in the new pink leather autograph book—the first among its blank pages.

  Carlotta watched, starstruck, imagining all the glamorous, wonderful things the woman had done and seen in her lifetime and visualizing all of that luck and energy pouring into the bold signature that she would take home with her. “Thank you so much,” she gushed when the singer handed the book back to her.

  She turned, happy beyond words to begin filling another book with celebrity autographs. In the months since her last book had been destroyed, she hadn’t realized how much she missed lying in bed and reading the names of famous people she’d met, if only for a few seconds.

  “I’d know that smile anywhere,” said a deep male voice.

  Carlotta snapped the book shut, looked up, and froze. Peter Ashford, looking even more handsome than he had ten years ago, stood smiling at her.

  9

  C arlotta’s heart stood still. “Peter. Hello.”

  His dark blue eyes turned wistful. “It’s been a long time, Carlotta.”

  “Yes,” she managed, wishing for something to lean against to keep from falling down.

  “You look great,” he said, sweeping his gaze over her. “The same…only better.”

  Obligatory chatter. She remembered his comment about recognizing her smile anywhere and was suddenly self-conscious of the gap between her front teeth that she’d never had corrected. She took him in—his dark, sun-kissed skin, his blond hair clipped in a trendy style that made the most of his cheekbones. He was still tall and lean but had filled out. What had once been boyish was all man, and she had to stop herself from reaching out to pull his body against hers, to breathe in the cologne on his neck, to knead the muscles in his back.