The Red Hot Fix (5 page)

“How about some treats for your break?” she asked. Her fingers teased the longer hair at the nape of Oliver’s neck. “Raspberry filled, fresh from the oven.”

Oliver smiled up at her, his voice calmer. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Callie tugged his collar, nodded to Lydia, and headed back to the counter.

Lydia reached for her purse. “I shouldn’t have come.”

Oliver blocked her from rising with a hand on her arm. “What did you think? You disappear for over a year … not one of my letters acknowledged, let alone answered. I have no clue where you are … whether you’re alive even … all I know is you don’t want to see me. Did you expect me to sit until you decided you were ready?” The irritation in his voice subsided. “Are you ready? Is that what this is about?”

Lydia held Oliver’s gaze and wondered how those eyes would look in the face of a newborn child. She glanced back toward Callie, who was greeting the first of what would be a steady stream of end-of-workday customers.

“She seems lovely,” she said.

Oliver didn’t turn to look. “She is. Answer me, Lydia. Are you ready to explore what’s going on between you and me?”

Lydia allowed herself one long last look at Oliver. She reached out to touch his hand. “I wanted to thank you for your kindness after the shooting.” She pulled her things together and stood. “It was wonderful to see you.”

“Lydia …,” Oliver called as she walked away.

Lydia stepped aside for several women who hurried into the coffee shop, then headed out the door.

Lydia threw back her third shot of whiskey and watched the band return from break. The bar was filled with truckers, mechanics, dockworkers, farmers, and the ladies who loved them. Neon signs advertising domestic brews decorated cedar-paneled walls. In Olympia, lawyers, legislators, dentists, and business types sometimes dressed up in cowboy boots, took their freshly exfoliated women to specialty clubs, and spent an evening trying to look hip while pretending to understand the complex issues underlying the simple lyrics of country songs. But twenty miles
down the interstate, in Lewis County, Lydia knew she’d find the real deal. Here men and women sang along with every word. Not only because the songs were the constant soundtrack to hourly wage jobs or drives down county roads in F-150s, but because the lyrics told their story and the tunes were built for beer.

The dance floor filled when the lead singer began the set with a tale of a wife and her husband’s mistress conspiring to kill their two-timing man before driving off in two black Cadillacs. Lydia kept her eyes on a couple she’d noticed when she first arrived. They looked to be in their late twenties. He was tall and lanky. His face bore the weathered skin of someone who earned his money outdoors regardless of the weather. She was as tall as his shoulder and outweighed him by forty pounds. Her fleshy midsection and oversized breasts suggested she’d probably given birth in the past year, but that didn’t stop her from wearing an electric pink tube top or him from letting his hands explore every inch of it. Lydia imagined it was their first evening free since the baby arrived. She sipped her beer and watched while the two of them danced and sang as if this entire party was being thrown just for them.

“Hey, pretty lady.”

Lydia looked to her right to see six feet of denim and plaid leading to a grinning stubbled beard under a Seahawks baseball cap. Broad shoulders weren’t enough to draw her attention away from a silver-buckled belt straining to keep a beer belly tucked in. She turned her attention back to the dance floor. Mr. and Mrs. Newborn had shifted into a respectable two-step.

“You wanna dance?”

Lydia shook her head without looking at the man.

He leaned down, his mouth close to her ear. “I said, wanna dance?”

She inhaled the pungent perfume of cigarettes, MGD, and pork rinds and gave him a smile she didn’t feel. “No thanks. I’m just here for the music.”

He dragged a chair next to hers and took a seat. “If you’re lucky, I’ll let you buy me a Jell-O shot. We’ll dance the next one, how’s that?”

Lydia didn’t smile this time. “Look, I don’t dance. I don’t want you here. And I disappear at midnight. So leave now and we can both get on with our evening.”

“Oo-wee.” The man slapped his knee and inched his chair closer. “I like ’em ornery. You’re a twenty-pound salmon on a ten-pound line. I know how to reel ’em in when they don’t wanna.” He put his hand on Lydia’s shoulder.

Lydia spun and grabbed the man’s right thumb in her left hand and his left one in her right. She twisted hard and down, pulling his arms close to his side. He was speechless in pain as she tightened the pressure against his wrists. His head leaned in toward her and Lydia brought her mouth close to his left ear.

“I want you to think of your worst girlfriend ever. The one you would have sawed off
your dick with a rusty sardine can just to get away from.” She waited two heartbeats. “You got her?” She twisted his thumbs harder. He groaned, then nodded.

“Now I want you to think of her on steroids. She’s having the worst PMS ever, she’s had a fight with her boss, and her mother just called her a whore. Now multiply that times seven and figure she’s hopped up on cocaine. That’s me.” Lydia brought her foot over his instep and pressed down. “In one second I’m going to see if I can relax my grip, catch you again, and twist one millimeter farther to break both your wrists. I think I can do it. Wanna see?” Lydia relaxed her hold. Plaid-and-Denim shot out of the chair and scuttled away like a cockroach after the kitchen light comes on.

Lydia shoved the man’s chair away and returned her attention to the band. Mr. and Mrs. Newborn were wrapped in each other’s arms, swaying in time as the singer crooned a story about long-lost memories of home. Lydia sipped her beer, signaled the waitress, and ordered another shot.

A few songs later the band announced another break and the dancers shuffled back to their tables. Mr. Newborn looked at his watch. Mrs. Newborn sighed, glanced around the bar, and picked up her jacket and purse. Lydia watched them inch to the door, hand in hand. They stepped aside to let a young man in a parka and knit cap enter. He spoke to the bartender, who shrugged his shoulders. The young man stepped deeper into the bar and called out.

“Mrs. Bane?” He raised his voice and called again. “I got a cab for Mrs. Bane.”

Lydia took one last sip of beer and headed toward the Cinderella carriage she’d arranged to take her home.

Ingrid Stinson-Vogel crossed one leg over the other and smoothed a manicured hand over her raw silk skirt. “You saw the projected ticket sales?”

Allen Wilkerson, head coach for the Washington Wings, nodded. “I did. It’ll be nice playing to a full house.” Despite his lean frame, he struggled to fit his six-foot-seven-inch body into the club chair opposite Ingrid’s desk.

“The chance for a playoff berth is bringing people back.” Ingrid enjoyed watching the large men who filled her professional life struggle with her feminine furniture. “Will we get past Portland?”

“I don’t see it as a problem. They’re having a rough year.”

“Ours hasn’t been much better.” God, she hated the smugness of men. “We need to go deep in the playoffs, Allen. What are our chances against Los Angeles?”

“They’ll likely take the first game. Home court and all.” Wilkerson ran his hand through his thick hair. “But if LionEl’s on, we should split. Come home with the series tied.”

Ingrid shook her head. “Not good enough. I don’t want you or anyone else on this team thinking a first-game loss to the Lakers is acceptable. Have you seen the papers? Read the blogs?”

Allen shrugged. “Those opinions stink about as much as the assholes squirtin’ ’em out. I stay focused on the team.”

Ingrid stood and walked across thick oyster-gray carpet. Despite her five-foot-ten-inch height, she could wear four-inch heels and still look delicate. She closed her office door.

“Every sportswriter in the country is laughing at how we blew a nine-win start. We’re two-and-eight in our last ten games. Six straight losses. If we get past Portland, Vegas has us out in four straight.” She crossed the room and stood over him. “I’ve gotten you the best talent available. LionEl’s led the league in points and rebounds for the past three years. But he can’t rally the team. Does he understand Barry’s ready to take his place?”

“Barry’s a first-year rookie. Good but green. Why don’t you leave the coaching to me?”

Ingrid’s blue eyes flared. “I’ve been leaving it to you all season and we’ve been sitting on the bubble for weeks. I don’t care if you use a carrot, a stick, or a voodoo curse. Find a way to get LionEl playing up to the money I’m paying him.”

A knock on the door stalled Wilkerson’s response. Ingrid’s secretary poked in a timid head.

“What is it, Danielle?” Ingrid asked. “Coach and I are in the middle—”

Before she could finish, a six-foot-nine-inch black man with beaded cornrows plowed past the diminutive assistant. He wore a hand-tailored pinstripe suit, black silk shirt, and gold tie. A three-inch diamond “L” graced his left lapel.

“LionEl is here to see you,” the tall man announced. He was followed by two men the size of refrigerators whose looks said they’d prefer to yank your colon out through your throat than say good morning. “And he is not happy.”

Ingrid nodded to her flummoxed secretary. “It’s okay, Danielle. Mr. King is always welcome.” She turned a dazzling smile to the giant. “Coach and I were just talking about how making the playoffs is all up to you. You’re going to give the Lakers a show.”

“I don’t like what I read today.” The man Seattle sportswriters called “the Lion King” tossed a folded newspaper to the toes of Ingrid’s shoes. “Your husband says LionEl is getting old.”

She bent down, picked up the paper, and feigned surprise at the article she’d first read at five o’clock that morning. “I’m sure he was misquoted,” she lied. “Why don’t we let Danielle get your friends some refreshment while the three of us talk?”

“What other way might ‘I worry about the mileage on his knees’ work?” LionEl crossed massive arms over a brick-wall chest. “He speculates which will go first, LionEl’s back or LionEl’s ankles. Explain the misquote to me, boss lady.”

Wilkerson rose. “You’re upset, LionEl. We’d have a much more productive time if it was just us.”

LionEl’s face was a grim mask. He turned to his men and nodded toward the door. “Go let little Danielle spoil you.”

The entourage left the room. Ingrid asked LionEl to take a seat and she settled in behind her desk. Coach Wilkerson sat next to his multimillion-dollar point guard.

“Reinhart’s comments were, I’m sure, taken out of context.” Ingrid hoped she looked relaxed. “You know what he thinks of you. Remember that Kenyan tribal robe he got you last Christmas?” She gave her head a slow shake. “If you knew the trouble he had getting that through customs. I kept telling him to find another gift, but he wouldn’t hear of it. ‘LionEl is king of the lanes and he deserves royal robes,’ he said.” She watched his face soften. “You, more than anyone, should know how the press distorts and twists words.”

The tall man nodded. “Maybe.”

“And this isn’t where we need your attention now,” Wilkerson said. “This team is counting on you. You’re our Lion in Winter. How can we help you keep your head where it needs to be?”

Ingrid’s office door pushed open again. This time her husband strode in. She had a
moment to reflect that with his square shoulders, perfectly shaved and powdered head, and impeccable Saville Row tailoring, he cut as impressive a figure as he had on their wedding day. Her heart fluttered a nearly forgotten dance and for a moment she wished she didn’t know him as well as she did.

“I saw the side show in the reception room.” Reinhart crossed to LionEl in three broad steps. “This team needs to beat Portland. You planning on showing up for work?”

LionEl pulled himself out of the chair and stared at the man who’d just insulted him. “I don’t like black-or-white questions. I’m more nuanced than that.”

Ingrid rose. “Reinhart, please.”

Reinhart held the big man’s glare. “Thirty-four points in the last three games. I did the math. Seems I’m paying you about twenty grand a point.” He turned to Wilkerson. “Teams have him figured out, Coach. They’re defending him like he’s second string on the University of Akron’s girls’ team. So, either you’re out of tricks …” He turned back to LionEl. “Or you’re a dog too old to learn. Maybe eleven years in the NBA is enough for you.”

Wilkerson stepped next to LionEl. “I appreciate your concern, Reinhart. But if it’s all the same to you, you’re paying me to call the plays. Our star’s best moves are ahead of him.”

Reinhart glared at his wife and coach before returning his attention to LionEl. “They may ask what kind of silk you prefer them to use when they wipe your ass, but I’m a businessman. To me you’re a commodity. You perform, I hold. You don’t, I dump.” Reinhart seemed unfazed by the athlete standing in front of him clenching his fists and jaw. “Right now I’m leaning toward a fire sale. How you perform against Los Angeles will dictate whether I pull the trigger. And the road to L.A. starts with a win against Portland.” He took a step closer. “I need twenty thousand screamers willing to pay $67.50 a ticket in that arena at least through the semis. So pull your head out of whatever gangster pose you’ve got it in and get it in the game.” He turned away, shook his head at his coach, and looked at his wife. “I’ll be late for the Cancer Ball tonight. Take your own car. I’ll get there sometime after ten.”