See Jane steam. See Jane with scowl. See Jane wonder how many days until the regular youth minister returned. Or would that be unnecessary to count since the District Council would be bringing in a replacement? Had Pastor Bob, old Ab Normal, called for them to come since he wasn’t man enough to give me the boot? I simply couldn’t ask.
I sighed and he yammered on. “Yes, I suggest you pray about this. I have a forgiving heart. Jesus knows that,” he prattled on until a scream rose in my throat, which I thought I could contain.
No luck. Yet the high-pitched blast didn’t change Pastor Bob’s once more droopy face. I took a few hundred deep breaths, counted backward from 25,000 and managed, once the scream subsided, to say, “Your new driver is Arthur Miller, Harmony’s father, one of the teenagers in our youth group who is currently my foster child. Want him to pick you up tomorrow morning? What time would be good? Or should I call a taxi to take you to the hospital straight away to get that ankle attended to?” Okay, the medical bill would come out of my salary, of that I was certain.
Pastor Bob cleared his throat, and a sermon was approaching, like a thunderstorm.
I pulled the door lever and swung my legs from the car, about to slam the door when he said, “I want him at my home, you know the address, no later than 7:00
A.M.
tomorrow. I have a breakfast meeting with Ms. Cheney. It wouldn’t do to be late.” He started backing up before I let go of the door handle.
Luckily, from that coffee, my reactions were razor sharp, or I wouldn’t have fingers today. I shut the door and jumped back. I even did the courteous thing and waved. He never looked my way again and took the first corner at a speed unbecoming a minister. Then his Lexus fishtailed, brake lights flashing, which made sense because a police cruiser was coming down my street, with the oh-so-delicious Captain Tom Morales in the driver’s seat.
• • •
Only in my fantasies is pizza delivered by a fine-looking man in a snug police uniform. As Tom commented, getting out of the car, “I get quicker service than you could, and now the pizza is hot. You shouldn’t have to cook tonight, and you’re dressed just like a woman should be.”
I swear, if he thinks I’m hot in a T-shirt and shorts, this guy is a keeper. I fanned myself and grabbed the pizza.
While Gramps and Tom bonded over ESPN, I went through the motions, while having an out-of-body blast from the past. Throughout dinner, I had emotional flashbacks. Not combat. About Collin, which at times in our short, stormy marriage could have been called the same thing. We were oil and water, pink and neon green, vinegar and baking soda. I don’t dwell on it, but that’s the whole truth.
After he was killed and I moved home to be with my grandfather, returned to school and then seminary, life was orderly, quiet, and dull. Gramps’ place felt like a hotel, and our housekeeper even folded the end of the toilet paper into a triangle just like she did when she worked in a Hilton. I grieved for Collin, but more than that I grieved for what I had perceived a perfect future might include, with those 2.5 little rug rats and a bungalow in the suburbs.
Now we sat around the empty boxes and paper plates, water bottles and soda cans piled on top, watching the Dodgers and the Mets slug it out. The weird thing? It felt as natural as my bare feet. I sighed and returned to Planet Earth, Las Vegas style.
“Walk me to the cruiser, Jane?” Tom said, dusting pizza crumbs off his chest at the seventh inning stretch.
“Sure. Don’t want cookies or sorbet? Hey, thanks for dinner,” I said, having sense enough to put on sandals. I followed him, closing the front door after me.
Tom started to speak, looked at his boots, stopped and, finally moving back to the shade of the entryway, said, “I heard something. No need to comment. Code of clerical secrecy stuff. But do you know anything about a young woman named Petra Stanislaw?”
“Why?” I looked away, and apparently he got the answer. Then I huffed, which was like admitting it, “Why would you even think to ask me?”
“Hunch, actually, you being a buttinski and all.” He grinned, and I felt my harebrained heart flip. “You know why she’s here in Vegas?”
“Why?” I bent down to the flowerbed, snapping off faded buds on the few coral-and-white striped impatiens that weren’t fried.
“What’s with the PSA?” Tom stuck his hands in his pockets, which emphasized his broad chest and a stubborn streak that matched it.
“Why?” I tried to make it sound noncommittal.
“You clamming up, or you don’t know anything?”
“Tell me why you’re asking.” Would he?
Ask and you shall be given
, says the instruction book I live by, so I did. “Are you going to tell me?”
“Your pastor is involved with the PSA and those folks who offer adoptions from Poland. Petra is Polish. Remember how I filled in for another detective the other night? Looking through some paperwork, I saw that she has a restraining order out against her to stay away from Cheney’s office and home. Did you know that? Petra is the name of the dance teacher that Henry’s raved about all during the fifth inning. Coincidence?”
“Ah, no.” Didn’t know the little gal was dangerous, because heck, even in my checkered past, I never had one of those against me.
“Listen, Jane, this is bad business.”
“I know what Petra told me, know she’s grandfather’s ballroom dancing instructor and his friend, maybe my friend too, but it’s too soon to tell.”
“But she’s confided in you?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Is this official, Tom? Because if it is, you’ll have to take me into the station. I’m not at liberty to discuss spiritual matters I’ve learned or discussed with others unless someone is breaking the law or in harm’s way.” I stood taller, or hoped I did, pulling my shoulders back. I wouldn’t be bullied by a cop, especially this one.
“When you were doing your gymnastics workout earlier today, remember I got a page from the Chief? She wanted to see me because I’ve gotten a promotion.”
“Hey, Tom, congratulations.” I patted his arm, okay, and let my fingers linger longer than patting required. He didn’t smile. “Is this a bad promotion?”
“Yeah, well, it’s a special unit, newly organized to uncover exploitation of children and aliens in Vegas.”
“Children I understand, but aliens? We’re not talking about Area 51, are we? We’re not too far from there, I hear.” Could this actually have anything to do with the story Petra had told me about the much-bespangled Cheney woman?
“Wish it could be. No, these are undocumented folks, and this is a human trafficking division. Your Petra has a Polish passport, on a study and work visa. It’s legit. The stuff I’ve been assigned to check out could have ramifications, big ones. Guess only you can decide if this trouble is worth the trouble.”
“You expecting an amen? Or are you warning me off? Or are you being my big, strong protector?”
“Never would attempt that.” He touched me, his fingers now lingering on my bare shoulder, or it could have been lustful thinking — even though I was still ticked for being told what to do, other parts of me quickly ignored it.
“If you hear anything that needs to be brought to the authorities, can I depend on you to call me? Day or night?”
“That’s a big promise, Tom, knowing I’m a minister.”
“Just say you’ll consider it.”
We locked eyes, of course, I had to look up to do it. But do it, I did. Almost as if I were waiting for him to flinch, and he may have, but Gramps’ voice bellowed from the open door. “Jane, baby, Wayne Newton is on the phone.”
“Gramps, just tell the caller to wait,” I screamed in a melodic voice and turned to Tom, “If you hear anything that could negatively affect Harmony or my church, will you tell me?”
“We got a deal.” He took my hand; I held my breath. “Thanks for the family time. Back to finish some reports.”
It was Wayne Newton. Honestly and truly and it was because Monica, she I had formerly called Cruella, had asked him to call me. The woman was a treasure, a jewel, a joy. Wayne — yes, he asked me to call him Wayne — came straight to the point.
“I can’t sing — not that I
can’t
, but I’m under contract to only perform at the casino,” he said in that golden voice and then explained that he’d show up, even dance. “I’m not much of a ballroom dancer,” said the legend, “but I’ll try if you’re gentle with me, and if you’ll give me a few pointers.”
I blubbered and sputtered and spittle sprayed as I tried to sound somewhat intelligent. I also forgot to get his phone number or how to contact him. Gramps is a legend, too, in the world of rock and roll and with Baby Boomers, so I’ve met my fair share of celebrities, but somehow
the
Wayne Newton, as much of a legend as Elvis, turned the sensible side of me into mush.
I threw my precious, petite head back for a good, old-fashioned, honking laugh, then picked up the phone again to pop in Petra’s number. Life was good and would be a whole bundle better once I cleared up a few loose ends, such as if Petra would teach Mr. Newton to dance and why she had a restraining order against her. I was so tickled pink that at that second I didn’t even think about Pastor Bob and his issues with forgiveness, or what he’d done to need that kind of forgiveness.
I sure as shootin’ should have.
• • •
I left a message on Petra’s voice mail and paced the condo watching Gramps teach Harmony to play a few chords on Bertha, his guitar, as the little dog cooled his belly on the kitchen’s marble floor. I might never be totally a dog person, gaga over the ball of fuzz, but there was no doubt in my mind that the pooch was doing good for Harmony, even though heaven only knew what the landlord would charge me for having a mutt in the family.
Jeopardy
was on. I hollered, “I’ll take Polish Black-Market Babies for a thousand, Alex.” Alex didn’t answer, didn’t even look smug.
I called to my household, “There’s a report I have to finish at church. See you later,” but only his Royal Tuffster looked my way as I headed out the door.
The church parking lot was packed with cars. The Community College of Southern Nevada held senior fitness in the rec room, and I dodged a gaggle of grandmothers practicing their kickboxing grunts as I blitzed around a corner, colliding smack dab into Delta Cheney. We jumped apart, cooties coming too close. Apparently even though Monica and I were bosom buds, Delta and I were not. Fine by me.
Bracelets clanged. “What are you doing here?”
“Good evening to you, too. I work here. Remember?”
“Shouldn’t you be home with your husband or boyfriend or something like that?”
My dateless, unmarried state of living was none of her darned beeswax. Besides, she reminded me of those girls in high school who always ridiculed us social outcasts. I held my sharp little tongue and let just a little bit of venom out. “How nice of you to remind me.” Then, out of the blue, I leaned closer to her, smelling White Diamond perfume, and whispered, “Delta, do you have a few minutes? I’d like to ask something. Didn’t want to say anything in front of Monica or Pastor Bob. It’s personal.”
One thing girls knew growing up — if there was anything snobby high school social types loved it was getting the dish on us creepy geeks. Even though it had been nearly a quarter century since I’d been in high school, my inner nerd was alive and well. For once, it was useful. Delta slipped a hand in the crook of my arm, all girlfriend like. Apparently cooties were a thing of the past as she said, “I have a few minutes.”
We got to my cubbyhole. “Please. Sit down. Well, you see, I’m not married.”
“Better sometimes, honey, don’t kid yourself,” she said, pushing ten of the forty bracelets back up toward an elbow.
“My husband Collin died about five years ago. We wanted children, but … ” I waved my hand. This was cutting close to my heart, and while I wanted truth from her, there was just so much this girl was willing to share. “I understand PSA arranges adoptions.”
She placed her palms on each side of her face, and her mouth turned into a red heart shape that smacked a kiss. Disgusting. “You want to adopt one of our precious bundles of joy?”
“You understand I’m not married, nor are there any prospects on the horizon.”
“Jane, you’re educated, you are financially secure, and as a person of the cloth, you’re a pillar of the community.”
One out of three wasn’t bad. I wasn’t currently penniless. I didn’t owe anyone anything much if you disregard the recent charges at the plus size sections of Victoria’s Secret, Macy’s, and J. Jill on my Visa. A summer sale cannot be missed — it’s the code of a true shopper. As for a pillar of the community, well, don’t ask the police in Los Angeles or San Diego, because they’d tell you my nose has a way of getting into trouble. And after my meeting with the representative from the District Council come Friday, I might be unemployed, but gee, as for educated, I’m good.
“So there are babies?” I squinted, hoping this added a gooey dollop of glimmer to my eyes and a goofy smile.
She extended a bebangled arm and patted my hand. “PSA is the largest and most respected faith-based, not-for-profit-adoption service in the country. We’re proud of our work placing Polish babies and children with families who are not blessed with offspring or are doing God’s work by bringing more children into their homes.”
She pushed a yellow diamond, something like I’d just seen on
Antiques Roadshow
that bagged bundles of bucks, around her index finger, straightening in a way that if the sun were shinning directly on it, it would have blind me. She could have inherited money, some folks do, although I’ve personally never known any. I’ve continued to harbor a grudge against my great-grandparents because they weren’t filthy rich, but that aside, she smiled. I did, too.
“I’ve just been hearing a lot about the PSA, Delta.”
“Because we’re connected with orphanages, babies are ready for adoption without American parents flying all the way over to Europe for pickup. Our mommies and daddies simply don’t have that much extra time. And time is money, isn’t it?”
“I’m beginning to see,” I agreed. And I felt creepy.