It took a while to convince Heather she wasn’t cursed. That she never was, and that the curse would never be back. “Pari told me that you aren’t from this world,” Heather said when we were alone.
“Part of me is.”
“She said you’re from another dimension.”
“Part of me is.”
“She said you’re like a princess there.”
I could live with that. “Kind of.”
“I wish I could see your light like she can.”
I shook my head, grateful that she couldn’t. I thought of Beep, what she would go through growing up so different. While I’d never wished to be anything other than what I am, it was not easy growing up with such an ability. “I’m glad you can’t. And Pari talks too much.”
Heather’s illness all came down to an unusual flu that had been going around. She would be fine, and I had to admit, the excitement Nurse Rizzo showed when Heather showed up warmed my heart. They did see the kids. Maybe not all the time, but they did see them.
I gave hugs all around, and then Pari and I went to our cars. “You look like you’ve been hit by the truck of despair,” I said to her.
She shrugged. “I kind of liked having her around.”
“Me, too. Hey, maybe they have, like, a Big Sisters program where we can come hang with the kids.”
She brightened. “You think so?”
“Never hurts to ask.”
“You’re right.”
Without another word to me, she all but ran back inside to talk to the director.
23
I was ready to take on the world,
until I saw something sparkly.
—T-SHIRT
I left Pari in the hopes of finding Osh’ekiel somewhere in the great vastness. But Cookie called before I got very far.
“Charley’s House of Lederhosen.”
“Can you talk?”
“I think so. I might slur my words a bit. Didn’t get much sleep. Otherwise, I’m good.”
“Gambling.”
“Oh, hell, yeah. Vegas. Blackjack. Male strippers.”
“Mr. Adams.”
“I guess he can go, too, but he has to get his own room.”
“That’s why all his business ventures failed.”
I stopped midstride. “Are you trying to tell me Mr. Adams has a gambling problem?”
“A huuuuuge one,” she said. “He is buried in debt. And not the good kind.”
Was there a good kind? And now for the $20,000 question. “Who does he owe?”
“All I could find out is that his bookie is Danny Trejo.” When I didn’t say anything, she said, “Sorry, I saw Trejo and got excited. His bookie is Umberto Trejo.”
“No way. Surely that’s not the same Umberto Trejo I went to school with. And where did you get this information?” I was totally impressed.
“I have my sources.”
“Mm-hm. Uncle Bob?”
“Yeah. Seems they’ve been looking into Adams, too.”
“I thought he didn’t know anything about the case.”
“He hears things. That’s what he said.”
“And he shared this with you after he threatened to have us arrested because…?”
“I promised him a very special date night.”
“Cookie,” I said, sniffing. “You’re growing up so fast.”
* * *
With my plans to hunt down Osh thwarted once again, I made a couple of calls and headed to a dive on Mitchel called the Dive. According to my sources, that was where Umberto conducted his business. And if he conducted it there, I had a feeling I knew who he worked for, a seedy lawyer who had his hand in more mold-infested cookie jars than a corrupt congressman.
I walked in to find several men strewn about the place. Almost every man there turned toward me, their paranoia rearing its ugly head. It had to suck being a criminal and suspicious of every person you saw. There were less stressful ways to make a living.
The only person who didn’t turn toward me was a short beefy guy who was going over notes in a memo pad. I strolled over to him, all cool nonchalance.
“If it isn’t Zumberto.” We used to call him that because he zoomed everywhere. Couldn’t sit down for more than a few minutes at a time. He could have been the poster child for an Adderall ad.
Shocked, he looked up at me. “Charley Davidson?”
“All day, every day. How have you been?” I sat three stools down from him, closer to the door and freedom should I need to bolt. All eyes were still on me, way too tense, way too ready to torture me for information. Or to just torture me. This was a seriously paranoid lot.
He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. “Fine. What’s up? I heard you were working for the cops.”
“And I can only imagine who you work for.”
“No one. I own this place.” He indicated the small building by lifting his chin in true gangster style.
“Let me rephrase. Who you keep books for?”
He pressed his mouth into a noncommittal smirk and shrugged. “No idea what you’re talking about. And you might think about leaving—now.”
I moved one stool closer. “I’m here on official business. I’d hate for this place to get raided.” I tsked and took it all in. The dingy wood and dingier mirrors. The floor that sloped north. The pool tables in serious disrepair. “I’d hate to see you lose this gem.”
“It serves its purpose. Why you threatening? We were cool in school, right?”
“Yes, we were.” I dared to say we were friends. I always liked the class clowns. “But that was before you started keeping books. Do you collect on the debts, too?” That would explain the muscle hanging out at such an early hour.
“Davidson, what do you want me to say?”
I moved another stool closer. Umberto waved a man off who was coming over to strong-arm me. “You can tell me what the deal is with one of your clients.”
“Do you talk about your clients, Miss PI?”
“So, you’ve been keeping track of me.”
“Nah, man, I only know ’cause you helped out my cousin.” He dropped the charade and softened. “He was up for kidnapping and obstruction or some shit. You proved that crazy-ass chick set him up. You an absolute badass, Charlotte Davidson.”
“No way.” I sat at the stool next to him. “You’re Santiago’s cousin? I used to have such a crush on him.”