Lucky Stuff (Jane Wheel Mysteries) (12 page)

She thought about offering him a ride, but by the way he looked over her shoulder at every footstep in the hallway and his glances at the clock on the opposite wall, she knew he was already expecting someone.

Jane did however plaster on a secretarial smile and ask what she hoped sounded like an innocent question prompted by curiosity, rather than an investigative follow-up.

“You said someone tampered with your case, but was your EpiPen actually touched? Because if it was, that would be…”

“Yeah, it would, wouldn’t it?” said Sluggo. “Let me guess, Lucky hired you for your brains, right?”

Jane managed to keep her smile intact until she turned away. His answer might have been an nonanswer, but one thing that it clarified? Sluggo Mettleman’s personality would attract more enemies than friends.

In the elevator and through the corridor on the way to her car, Jane kept an eye out for anyone in a Lucky cap or a Lucky jacket but she didn’t see anyone making their way up to Sluggo’s room. Then again, she wasn’t sure the teamsters, the drivers, and caterers, and other members of the production all wore the heavily logoed apparel that she now kept seeing everywhere around town. Slipping behind the wheel, she peeked into the mirror on her visor. How would she look in a Lucky baseball cap?

*   *   *

The large brick building on Water Street was always referred to by people who lived in Kankakee as the old brick factory, as opposed to the old paint factory or the old hosiery factory or the old battery factory. Whenever Jane asked her father about any building in Kankakee, he seemed to know its history, when it opened, when it closed, what was made, who worked there. But this old building, long closed and vacant, was simply the old factory on Water. No one ever offered what kind of factory it had been. It was across the street from a small park that had a playground, a concrete slab with a basketball hoop, a few picnic tables and benches, and a sloping bank that slid down into the Kankakee River. It wasn’t a particularly scenic park, filled with old growth trees and flower gardens and the old stone picnic shelter like Cobb Park, Jane’s childhood haven, but it was a nice little green space off of a busy street.
A pocket park
is how Jane always thought of it. This small patch of green space was always a convenient spot for the neighboring residents to bring their kids for a swing and a teeter-totter, or for someone to simply take a seat on the bench and stare at the river.

Jane couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone using the basketball hoop until today. Jane had to park all the way down on Hawkins Street and walk to the factory where trucks were parked nose to tail around the entire two-block area. The basketball hoop was being used by four young men, all wearing
LUCKY 4 YOU PRODUCTIONS
T-shirts. Jane stopped to watch. They were enthusiastic amateurs, talking trash and giving attitude, but sinking very few shots, Jane noticed. She laughed when one of them yelled out that the player who had just missed what looked to be an easy unguarded lay-up shot like a writer. Must be the Hollywood version of shooting like a girl.

“Wanna play?” asked one of the guys and Jane had to turn and look around to make sure he was addressing her.

“No, thanks,” said Jane. “I probably shoot like a writer, too.”

“I had you figured for hair and makeup,” said the guy.

Jane, ready to bristle at what was surely going to be a sexist remark asked why.

“All you stylists are so pretty you don’t wear any makeup, then you come in and work magic on mooks like Lucky and them. Also,” he added, pointing to the giant leather tote bag, her daytime just-in-case, “you all carry a pretty big bag of tricks.”

Jane smiled and waved, continuing on to the heavy double doors at the factory’s entrance. Tim Lowry was standing, pointing to his nonexistent watch and shaking his head.

“If you don’t wear a watch, you can’t tell me I’m late,” said Jane. “Besides, I—”

A yell came from the basketball court followed by a string of expletives Jane would put up against anything she had ever heard from an EZ Way Inn customer. The player who had been accused of shooting like a writer had gone down hard, crashing all on his own, twisting his ankle. He sat on the court, rocking back and forth, insisting on an ambulance.

“I don’t want you guys carrying me,” he said, his voice wavering. “It’s too painful.”

“Jeez, Tommy, that’s what you get when you try to play like a driver instead of the writer that you are,” said another one of the four.

“Very funny, you asshole,” said Tommy. “Get me to a doctor.”

The player who had invited Jane into the game came over to her. “Don’t worry about Tommy. He gets injured all the time. He’ll be okay. I’m Sal.” He put out his hand. Jane nodded and introduced herself and Tim.

“You’re the new set stylist,” he said to Tim, “I heard your name from Maurice. Doing the table setting for the roast, right?”

Tim nodded and began, “And Jane Wheel here is going to be my—”

“I’m filling in for Brenda as Lucky’s personal assistant.”

“Welcome aboard, Tim, and to you, Jane Wheel, I offer my condolences,” said Sal, bowing his head.

A young woman ran out of the factory and over to Sal, crying. She laid a hand on his arm and tried to catch her breath.

“Slow down, Fran. Tommy just has another sprained ankle. Won’t put us behind schedule or anything. You bean counters can get pretty emotional over—”

“It’s not Tommy. It’s…”

Jane dug into her bag and found tissues, and offered the woman the whole package.

“Thanks,” she said, mopping her face and wiping her nose. “I’m really doing the big ugly here, aren’t I, but it’s just that he was such a jerk sometimes and still when something like this happens you feel like maybe you liked someone more than you thought you did, you know?”

“No idea, honey,” said Sal. “What the hell you talking about?”

“Lucky just got a call. And I—”

“Will someone get me to a doctor, for Christ’s sake? Sal? Some help here? Just because your boyfriend dumped you again, Fran, is no reason to—”

“Shut up, you baby. He’s dead and you’ve got your fifth sprained ankle of the year. Big whoop.”

“Who’s dead?” asked Jane. When the girl looked at Jane and shook her head, still wiping her eyes, Jane added,” Jane Wheel, just coming to meet with Lucky about a temp job filling in for Brenda.”

“You don’t know him, then,” said Fran. “He’s one of the drivers.”

“Oh shit,” said Sal. “Oh no.”

“Sluggo Mettleman,” said Fran. “We just got a call. Sluggo Mettleman died.”

10

Screaming Tommy quieted down when he heard about Sluggo and allowed himself to be half carried inside the factory to get his ankle taped. Fran, the messenger, stopped weeping long enough to explain that Sluggo had signed himself out and come down to the street entrance to the hospital to wait for one of the drivers to pick him up. When Mickey got there, Slug got in the car and something happened to him, he started choking like he did at the Steak and Brew and Mickey turned the car around and headed back to the hospital. By the time they got there, Slug, according to Fran, was already gone.

Jane and Tim had followed the basketball players and Fran into the factory, but because of the hustle and bustle inside, found themselves on their own just inside the building.

“Feels weird, huh, to be here in the middle of all this, just when this guy we don’t even know died,” said Tim, running his hand over the vintage Steelcase chairs in the waiting room. “Think these were here when they took over the place?”

“I knew him,” said Jane, looking around at the narrow space. Jane could see that at one time there were offices that ran the length of this side of the building, but more recently, the walls had been taken down and the space resembled an art gallery. High windows fronted the street side, but the back wall was all a soft yellow brick. Jane pictured paintings hanging the length of that wall, illuminated by unobtrusive track lighting. In the center of that wall was a large arched doorway that led to the main body of the old factory. Since no one was sitting at the front desk, a heavy oak relic of the twenties, Jane sat in the wooden swivel chair. She reached into her bag and pulled out a notebook and started writing down everything she could remember from her conversation with Sluggo Mettleman.

“Seeing the guy on the floor at the Steak and Brew doesn’t mean you knew him, Jane,” said Tim. “And what’s this about you filling in as Lucky’s assistant?”

“Sorry, seems like everybody wants me for an assistant these days … you, Lucky, Don and Nellie…” said Jane. “And I did know Sluggo. I visited him at the hospital.”

Jane sent a quick e-mail to Detective Oh with a few questions. She was managing the tiny keyboard better these days, but she’d never be Nick, whose thumbs could fly across the tiny face of the phone. Looking up at Tim who was trying to decide whether or not she was serious, she nodded.

“I’ll tell you all about it later. Right now, we need to go get started on our new jobs. And Timmy, be careful who you pal around with here.”

Tim raised his eyebrows into question marks. Jane started walking through the doors to the main factory floor and, without fully turning around, quietly told Tim over her shoulder, savoring the opportunity to utter the phrase, “Might be a killer loose.”

*   *   *

Lucky was on the phone when Jane found him on the “set.” Basically the building was one giant factory floor. It had been meticulously cleaned and the wide wooden floor planks glowed. Although she could eyeball how perfectly a Pembroke table could fit in front of someone’s dining room window, Jane wasn’t great with large area measurements. Jane did know, however, that the factory building with its brick walls and six large skylights covered at least half of a city block. Cables and lighting subdivided the space further, defining the actual taped off set located in the rear of the building. Two wooden tables were pushed together, set up with a dozen or so chairs. A large-scale monitor hung behind the tables. A few nooks and crannies along the side walls were set up as mini-offices and Jane saw at least two makeup and hair stations. They had turned the old factory into a working studio. Who would have guessed?
It’s amazing what a little hard work and thousands of dollars can do,
thought Jane.

“Sweetheart, hand me a pen and paper from over there, huh?” said Lucky, from one of the larger alcoves along the side of the main room. He gestured to her with his cell phone, waiting for someone to get back to him. “When I hired you, I had no idea how much I was going to need you around here, I just … yeah, I’m here, shoot. Okay, got it and send a shitload of flowers, okay? Oh, they don’t? Find out what the kid’s family wants, and send it. Yeah. Oh yeah, she’s here. I’ll tell her.” Lucky hung up the phone and nodded to Jane.

“Brenda says she’s available if any questions come up, you can call her. She also said to tell you not to be too good at your job, since she plans on being back next week.”

While Lucky was finishing up his call with Brenda, Jane had scanned the large folding table that appeared to be serving as a second desk. Loose script pages and DVDs were piled on top of food wrappers. Several dirty coffee cups were stacked in one corner. Two laptops were open on the table, their cords crisscrossing over the rest of the debris. When did Brenda leave? How could Lucky have trashed his office space this quickly?

“What exactly do you need me to do?” asked Jane. “I’m not totally sure I’m the assistant type, but I do have some questions for—”

“You’re my girl, all right,” said Lucky. “Nellie’s daughter is exactly who I want working for me.”

Jane had remained standing, wanting desperately to close a door so she could talk privately with Lucky. She had to settle for pulling the makeshift curtain that surrounded the table and chairs as if it were a hospital bed in a double room. She supposed it was set up for the time this area would become a dressing room.

“What? Time for my sponge bath?” said Lucky, unlit cigar firmly planted between his teeth.

“Time for some honest answers,” said Jane, thinking a beat too late that if she wanted to be considered as a writer for this show, she could have said
time to come clean.

Lucky’s eyes, for just a moment, Jane noticed, seemed to dart around the space, Looking for an escape? Trying to come up with a quip or a lewd remark that would get him out of any serious answers? To Jane’s surprise, he removed the cigar, took a long drink from a water bottle, which Jane hoped contained water, not vodka, and leaned back in his chair.

“Okay. Just so you know, I just had a driver die over at the hospital. He and I share the same affliction—allergy to peanuts. So you got me in a serious mood. Let’s be serious.”

Jane flipped through all of her questions.
Why Kankakee? What was the point of this special? Why would Sluggo Mettleman say someone, probably Lucky, was trying to kill him? Why was Nellie so suspicious of him? Where did the money come for this “special”?
Jane flipped over all the cards.

“Who’s Boing Boing?”

“Right for the jugular, just like your mother,” said Lucky. He actually smiled and dropped his voice low. When he wasn’t talking with a cigar in his mouth, his usual growl turned into a normal speaking voice. He pushed some loose script pages off a book on his makeshift desk. Sliding the book over to Jane, he said, “That’s what you and me and the author of this book are going to figure out.”

RECOVERING LOST MEMORIES … recreate the journey and recapture your life.

Jane glanced at the book, but quickly looked back at Lucky’s face to see if this was some kind of joke.

“I’ve had every kind of addiction in the world, Jane Wheel—you name it. I’ve had problems with drugs and gambling and alcohol. Sex,” he paused and sighed, before continuing, “although I’m not sure I’d call that the worst addiction. I’ve been agoraphobic, had panic attacks, anxiety issues. I’ve broken out in rashes. Lost my voice once for five months. People say I’m a hypochondriac, but that’s just because the docs can’t find out what’s wrong with me. I’m a fucking mess, Jane, but you know what? I’m getting close to getting better because I finally found someone who knows what’s wrong. My therapist wrote that book.” He pointed to the volume in front of Jane. “She thinks I got some things I repressed from my childhood that are haunting me. I got whole chunks of time I just can’t remember, see? And she thinks if I can figure them out”—Lucky paused and took another long pull of water—“I’ll be right as rain.”