Nemesis (13 page)

Gritty eyestrain had begun to blur her vision, as always happened when she'd spent too many hours staring at the screen on her Mac. She rubbed her eyes clear, yawned, logged off and shut down, yawned again, picked up her purse, and dragged her booty out of the chair.

And the phone screeched at her.

Now what? New or old client, she hoped. Even a wrong number or a misguided telemarketer would be okay. Just no more bad news. She'd had more than enough of that for one day.

She picked up, gave the agency's name. And a familiar voice said, “Tamara? Good, I caught you in. I thought you might be working late when I didn't get an answer at your home number.”

A feeling both cold and hot flowed through her. She didn't say anything.

“It's me, Tam,” he said. “It's Horace.”

 

12

Horace.

Out of the dead past, like a voice from the grave.

“Tam? It's been a long time—”

“Yeah.”

“—and I know you're surprised to hear from me after the way things ended with us—”

“What you calling for, man?”

“I'd like to see you, talk to you.”

“Talking now, aren't you?”

“No, I mean in person.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. About as much chance of me coming to Philly as flying to the moon.”

“Not here. Out there.” Plaintive note in his voice. Working her for some damn reason? “I'll be in S.F. next week.”

“No,” she said. “I don't want to see you.”

“Tam, listen, it's not what you think. It's not a business or pleasure trip. And I'm not looking to hit on you.”

“Wouldn't do you any good if you tried.”

“I'm moving back,” he said.

Blink. “Moving back. Why?”

“Got nowhere else to go, now.”

“Yeah? What happened to your gig with the philharmonic?”

“Lost my seat. Little over a month ago.”

“Screwed it up somehow, I suppose.”

“No, it wasn't my fault.”

“Nothing's ever your fault, right?”

“They liked my playing, but the conductor decided to go with a more experienced cellist from New York. I tried to get on with another orchestra back here, but none of them are hiring.”

Tamara was silent.

“There's a chance I can get on with the S.F. Symphony,” Horace said. “If not … well, my other options are better out there and San Francisco's home. You know I never did like the East Coast much.”

I don't know anything about you, she thought. Not when we were together, not now.

“Besides, I can crash with Charley Phillips for a while. You remember Charley?”

“Married and has a kid.”

“There's a rec room in his basement he says I can use for a nominal rent.”

“Ought to be real cozy for you and what's her name, the violinist you hooked up with back there.”

“Mary and I aren't together anymore.”

That funny cold-and-hot feeling went through her again. “No? Last time we talked, two of you were all hot for each other and getting married.”

“We did get married. It … just didn't work out.”

The old Tamara would've been pleased. But the news just rolled off her now. “Well, you won't be alone for long,” she said. “Not you. But don't get any ideas about crawling back with me. Ain't gonna happen. Dump me once, you don't get a second chance.”

“I wasn't thinking that way. I know how badly I hurt you—”

“Like hell you do.”

“Tam, we all make mistakes and leaving you was the biggest of my life. I know that now, and I know it's too late to do anything about it. But can't we just sit down together and talk when I get back?”

“Got nothing more to say to each other.”

“I don't believe that.”

“Better believe it. No more rapping now, I'm busy. Good-bye, have a nice new life.”

“Wait! Don't hang up.”

She waited, but she didn't take her finger off the disconnect button.

“I'm going to need wheels,” he said. “Mary got the car we had here and I can't afford to buy even a junker out there. I hate to ask you, but … I'd like to have my old Toyota back.”

“You bastard. So that's the real reason you called.”

He said, quick, “No, no, don't misunderstand. It's just that I'm in a pretty bad financial bind. I don't want to keep my car, just use it until I find a job and can afford—”

“
Your
car? You damn well gave it to me when you took off for Philly.”

“… I thought we agreed you'd take care of it for me until I needed it again.”

“That's not the way I remember it. ‘Keep the car, Tamara, I won't need it anymore.'”

“When did I say that?”

“Last time we talked, when you told me about falling in love with Mary from Rochester. Three years and not a word since, and now you need the frigging car again and I'm supposed to just hand over the keys when you show up.”

Wheedling note in his voice now. “You've got a good job, you're a full partner in that agency—”

“How'd you know that?”

“I've kept track of you, I never stopped caring, whether you believe it or not.” Pause. “You can afford to buy another car, can't you?”

“I already did, six months ago,” she lied.

“Good, good. Then you won't mind letting me have the Toyota.”

“Not if I still had it.”

“What? But you couldn't have sold it, it's registered in my name.”

“Was. You're forgetting something, man.”

“Forgetting what?”

“You signed the pink slip over to me.”

And she jabbed the disconnect button before he could say anything more.

*   *   *

It was nearly eight o'clock when she keyed open the front door to her flat and dragged her tired ass up the stairs. The flat took up the entire second floor of a refurbished Stick Victorian on Connecticut Street, six rooms plus bath and attic—too big for one person, really. Scooted around from room to room like a mouse in a maze. She'd loved it at first, considered herself lucky to snag digs like this for what, by city standards, was a reasonable rent. But it hadn't been the same since Antoine Delman busted in and tried to kill her. She'd
really
been lucky that night—lucky to be still alive.

All the damage had long since been repaired, but Tamara couldn't go into the dining room without feeling a chill, and she stayed out of the attic entirely. Delman hadn't died here, but it was as if his ghost haunted the place just the same. She'd have moved by now, except that it would've meant breaking the lease. Landlord was still pissed at having to replace the insulation and the dining room ceiling and wouldn't cut her any slack, so she was stuck here until the lease was up.

For a while after the Delman nightmare, being alone here at night gave her the willies. Not so much anymore. Most of the time now the ghost didn't walk and the place was almost as comfortable as it'd been in the beginning; she could relax and sleep without waking up and listening for imaginary bumps in the night. The flat was the nicest place she'd ever lived outside of the folks' home in Redwood City. A whole lot nicer than the apartment on 27th Avenue she'd shared with Horace, then occupied by herself when he split for Philadelphia.

Horace.

Another damn ghost come back to haunt her.

Cold in the flat tonight, even though she'd left the furnace on at sixty-five. She turned the thermostat up to seventy, tossed her coat on the couch, and went into the kitchen. She'd been hungry before Horace's call; wasn't hungry anymore. Poured herself a big glass of wine, all she wanted now. Took it into the bedroom, then into the bathroom after she undressed.

She felt better after a long, hot shower had loosened some of the kinks in her neck and shoulders. While she was toweling dry, she caught a glimpse of herself in the steamy full-length mirror. Rubbed the glass clear for a better look. Not bad. Kept the promise to herself not to put back any of the weight she'd lost; food just didn't interest her much anymore. Not exactly a hard body now, but as slim and trim as she'd ever been in her life. Thirty pounds less than she'd weighed when she'd been with Horace—

Horace again.

He'd love the way she looked now. Wouldn't be able to keep his big hands off her boobs and the rest of her.

“No way, baby,” she said aloud. “Never gonna see or touch
this
naked body again.”

She put on her robe, finished her wine, went to the kitchen to pour another glass. Too quiet in there; she put on a CD without paying any attention to what it was. Sat on the couch with the music swirling around her and the wine warm in her throat and belly.

Damn Horace. Why'd he have to lose his seat on the Philadelphia Philharmonic, have his marriage to Mary from Rochester bust up? Why couldn't he just stay away from San Francisco?

He wouldn't leave her alone; foregone conclusion she'd hear from him again. Bug her about getting together. Bug her about the Toyota when he found out she'd lied to him about selling it. And he would find out, somehow, some way. Another foregone conclusion.

God, she hated that car. Thirteen years old now, red paint job starting to fade and crack, engine needing work more and more often, brakes wearing out, tires out of alignment again. A frigging hand-me-down with that stupid
MR CELLO
license plate. She'd been promising herself for a long time now to trade it in on a new ride. Why hadn't she done it? Could have real easy; he
had
signed the pink slip over to her, no lie there. Well, it wasn't for any sentimental reason that she hadn't sold it. Too busy, too lazy. And now it was too late.

No, it wasn't. Go right out tomorrow and trade the Toyota in on something new or at least newer. He couldn't stop her. Serve him right, for what he'd done to her, all the crap he'd laid on her long-distance two years ago. She still remembered every word of that conversation, also delivered to her while she was at work.

Hardest thing I've ever had to do is make this call … hate to have to hurt you, I'm so sorry … didn't want it to happen, neither Mary nor I did … wish to God it could have turned out differently for you and me … never stop loving you, Tamara, want only the best for you …

And tonight, more of the same.

Maybe she ought to just let him have the Toyota. It was
his
piece of crap, after all—he deserved to be stuck with it. She could afford to buy a car of her own. Give him what he wanted and then he'd go away and leave her in peace, wouldn't he?

Not necessarily. Not old horny Horace, on the prowl now that he was divorced or getting divorced. One thing they'd always had together was good sex. Oh Lord yes, great sex—best she'd ever had, no use denying that. There were times when she—

Knock it off, girl. None of that kind of thinking.

You don't want him back, not for any reason. You wouldn't take him back if he crawled all the way down Market to the Ferry Building to beg you.

Dead, you and Horace. As dead as you and Antoine Delman.

More important things in your life now. Much more important. The agency and how you've made it grow and prosper. Crazy clients and potential lawsuits. You don't need a love life right now—it's the last thing you need. Too many complications. Wouldn't even want a relationship with a quality dude like Vonda's Ben. And Horace sure as hell isn't a quality dude by any stretch. Was once, maybe, but not anymore. Not anymore.

Quit thinking about him!

 

13

The next two workdays were quiet. Verity Daniels didn't show up at the agency or call on the phone or bug Jake anymore. Horace didn't call again. Things ran smoothly, in a normal routine. Nothing happened on the weekend, either. Tamara spent part of Saturday in the office, left earlier than usual because Vonda and Ben had invited her to a party and she figured she might as well go. Too much time alone just wasn't good for her mental health, especially now with the personal and professional hassles still unresolved.

The party was okay. Mixed group, black like Vonda, white and Jewish like Ben. Couple of unattached guys looking for dates, one of each color, the black dude paying more attention to Tamara than any of the other singles. He wasn't bad looking, seemed nice enough, but he talked too much about himself and his job, something to do with industrial chemistry that he thought was fascinating and she didn't. Sure no chemistry between them, and that was just as well. She just didn't need another potential complication in her life right now.

Sunday she drove over to Golden Gate Park, spent the morning wandering around Stow Lake and then the Academy of Sciences, and that would've been okay, too, except that while she was eating lunch in a restaurant on Irving, a brother dressed like a pimp kept trying to hit on her. Men. All the same when they spotted a woman alone and got a whiff; you could almost see this dude's nostrils twitch. He even followed her out and tried out his sorry-ass line again on the sidewalk. A real jerk. So then she went home and used up the rest of the day and evening reading and napping in bed, glad to be alone again.

Back in the office bright and early Monday morning, looking forward to another quiet, routine day. And that was just what it was, until eleven-thirty. Then it all went to hell.

The guy who walked in was in his twenties, a smiley-face in a suit and tie and carrying a briefcase and a manila envelope. Didn't look like a potential client, and wasn't. He said, “Ms. Corbin? Tamara Corbin?” and when she admitted it, he handed her the papers, said, “You have a nice day now,” and left her standing there with her mouth open.

Process server.

Daniels's lawsuit threat was genuine.

Tamara sat down in her office and waded through the papers. The lawyer's name was Hansen, Philip Hansen, nobody she'd ever heard of; his address—Green Street, low number, which put it near the Embarcadero—didn't tell her anything, either. She skipped most of the legalese, looking for the gist of the complaint. There: plaintiff seeking damages for grievous personal distress owing to negligence, incompetence, and slander in the sum of … holy Jesus!… $250,000.