Fetish
Paul saw the blonde walk into the bar and stifled his urge to run. Her eyes caught his, and she tossed her long hair back and moved towards him, each step punctuated by the click of a stiletto heel. What the hell was she thinking, wearing black leather boots in the middle of June? Paul sat up straighter and finished his beer.
"Hey, kiddo," he said as she slithered into the booth opposite him. Her scarlet lipstick matched the shade of her clingy dress. She really should be wearing a bra, he thought, then blushed. It was getting harder to look at her.
"How many times have I told you to stop calling me that, Dad?" she asked. "I have a name, remember?"
"Sorry, Desiree. How you been?"
She snapped her purse open, pulling out an envelope and pushing it across the table until it sat midway between them. He'd be damned if he picked it up.
"I'm fine, Dad." Her soft, smooth voice was a stark contrast with her hard look. "What's new with you?"
He shrugged, aiming for carefree. "Not much."
"I still don't get what you see in this dump. You like hanging around Port Authority?"
"No one bothers me here. Except you." He gestured at the bartender, who waddled over, wiping his hands on an old rag.
"A Corona with lime, please," Desiree told him. He nodded, picked up Paul's empty glass, and retreated to the bar.
"Beer snob," Paul said.
Desiree rolled her eyes. "I wouldn't touch a glass in this place."
They were quiet until the bartender returned with their drinks.
Desiree took a sip. "I brought this for you, Dad." She nudged the forlorn envelope closer to him.
Paul wanted to drain his glass in one long swallow. No, he wanted a scotch. More like a triple. "I can't take money from you, kiddo."
"Of course you can." Her big blue eyes stared into his. "I know you're having a rough time. Let me help."
"I'm not a charity case. You're my kid. I should be giving you an allowance."
Desiree smiled, showing the cute little gap between her front teeth. "I'm twenty-four, Dad. I'm too old for an allowance. Not that you ever gave me one, anyway."
"Your mom and I were crappy parents, huh?"
She shrugged, a gesture Paul recognized as his own. "Think of it as a loan. To tide you over." She rubbed her temples with her fingertips, as if stalling a headache.
Paul sighed and pocketed the cash without looking at it. "It doesn't feel right." For the past couple of years, his daughter had ferreted him out wherever he happened to be drinking. Lately, she'd come bearing gifts of Grants and Franklins. Paul couldn't see why she'd bother. He'd been a lousy father and knew it. Paul had two sons, both doing time upstate. Desiree was his youngest and his pet, not that the honor had earned her anything. Still, she was the smart one, his little college grad. True, her degree was from some fancy acting school, which wasn't something Paul pretended to care about, though it probably explained those boots.
"Don't be difficult." Desiree took another sip of beer and held the bottle to her forehead. Beads of condensation dribbled onto her skin. "They need air conditioning in here."
Paul noticed something dark on her temple. Even in the shadows of the bar, the bruise shone like a beacon. "What the hell happened to you?"
"What?" she said, slapping her drink against the table with too much force. "I'm fine." She shook her head, making her hair tumble around her delicate face and covering up the mark.
"Kiddo," Paul breathed. With one finger he gently swept aside dyed strands. There was no doubt about it. That was a big bruise, blue and raw. She'd done a lousy job covering it up. "Who hit you?" he demanded, letting her hair fall back into place.
"No one. I fell."
She was sullen now, resentful. She'd been like that as a little girl, petulant when she didn't get her own way, or when caught in a lie. She'd been a sneaky little thing, but when she'd looked at him with those big, bluer-than-blue eyes, he'd never been able to punish her.
"Don't give me that."
She took an anxious sip of beer, eyes darting around the room. Paul looked around for the first time since she'd come in. Had someone followed her in here? He saw no one but the regulars who were normally slouched over the bar.
"Is it your boyfriend?"
"Don't go there, Dad. Leave Dillon out of this."
Dillon. That was the prick's name. A hulking mass of tattoos and steroids.
"Listen to me, kiddo. I want you to go to your mom's place and stay there a couple days."
"Mom and I don't get along. We never did."
"Never mind that now. Where do I find Dillon?" The question embarrassed him, because it showed how little he knew about his daughter. He didn't even have her address. Paul knew that she'd hooked up with Dillon last time he was upstate. Desiree was only seventeen then, and if Paul hadn't already been locked up, he would've strangled the bastard. But by the time he'd gotten out of the joint, Desiree was twenty and sporting a giant engagement ring. Still, four years later, she and her drug-dealing boyfriend hadn't married, which should've made Paul worry, he realized now.
"I don't want you involved in this, Dad."
"Look, if he's knocking my baby girl around..."
"Mom was someone's baby girl, you know. That didn't stop you from beating the shit out of her." Desiree stood. "Gotta go. See you later." She bolted.
Paul watched her, not realizing that he was clenching his hands in fists, until one of the regulars wandered over. "I'll be damned. That little gal of yours is all grown up."
Paul punched him in the gut and the man went down, the leering grin sliding off his face.
Worries about his daughter preyed on Paul's mind the next day, and the next. He phoned his ex-wife but she didn't answer. Finally, he went to her building, even though his ulcer burned all the way from his place at Tenth Avenue and 41st Street to Maureen's on Third near 61st. He stopped twice to buy Rolaids at bodegas.
It had taken Maureen years, but the bitch had made it to the Upper East Side. She'd divorced him while he was doing a stretch at Sing Sing. Maureen had been a private nurse for a wealthy woman, and when that woman passed away, Maureen snagged the widower. The musty old geezer had to be eighty by now, but he kept Maureen in the 10021 zip code range, her dream come true. Her building was an ugly pile of grey bricks, but it boasted a shiny-haired doorman in a crisp uniform. He looked Paul up and down, but kept his distance.
When Maureen came down, as Paul knew she would, he followed her into the corner store that was up the block. Maureen liked to play tricks with herself, refusing to keep candy in the house but then sneaking out to get her fix. Given how wide her ass had gotten, she'd been sneaking out a lot.
Paul sidled up to her. "Maureen."
Her eyes were hidden by dark glasses, but her hunched shoulders told him that she'd already known he was there. "What are you doing here?" she muttered.
"I been trying to call you. It's about Desiree."
"What about her?" Maureen reached for a pack of Twizzlers, thought better of it, and took two.
"I think she's in trouble."
"She's been nothing but trouble since the day she was born."
"That boyfriend of hers, Dillon. I think he's knocking her around. I saw her the other day and she's got a big bruise on her forehead."
Maureen took off her glasses and stared at him. Her eyes were slightly slanted now from too much cosmetic surgery. Paul wondered if she could fully close the lids when she slept. "Dillon? I don't think so."
"What does that mean?"
"Desiree broke up with Dillon. Last time I saw her—what, almost a year ago—she'd ditched him."
"Because he was beating on her?"
"She never said why. They've broken up and gotten back together before. I'm sure he'd never beat her. She's got him wrapped around her little finger. Just like she does with every man." Maureen scooped up a box of Junior Mints. "If someone hit Desiree, she probably deserved it."
That crack made Paul ache to slap Maureen down, but he could feel a dozen pairs of eyes on them. "Look, Dillon's a drug dealer," Paul's voice was a whisper. "Small time, yeah, but he's dangerous. Desiree needs to get away from him. Do you know where they live?"
"I don't think you should get involved. Desiree can take care of herself."
"Our daughter's been taking care of herself a long time when she shouldn't have had to. We need to help her if she's in trouble."
"Here's the thing about Desiree," Maureen said, grabbing a pack of Skittles before she faced him. "If she's in your life, it's because she has a purpose for you. If she's giving you a sob story about Dillon, it's because she wants something. She's a user who knows what buttons to press to get what she wants."
"She didn't tell me anything," Paul hissed. "I saw the bruise, she claimed she fell. Then she ran off. She's scared, Maureen. Do you know where I can find her?"
Maureen chewed on her lip. "I don't know where she lives, but she was working in a store last time I saw her. Shoebox. Told me she could get me great deals if I wanted." She shook her head and put her candy on the counter. "I never took her up on it, because Desiree's always got an angle."
Paul called three stores, all named Shoebox, before he found the one where his daughter worked—or used to work, it turned out. She'd quit six months ago. Paul hung up, but decided it was worth heading down to Murray Hill to check it out. He walked the twenty-five blocks down Third Avenue, ulcer burning but determined to get answers out of whatever clerk was unlucky enough to get in his way. But as he got to the glass-fronted store, he saw something inside that made him stop dead.
Desiree was inside.
Paul watched her through the window. She was wearing skinny jeans that hugged her ass and a white T-shirt that clung to her curves like a second skin. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she didn't seem to be wearing makeup—at least not the heavy eyeliner and red lipstick she normally sported—but her skin looked flawless, so she must've been doing something to cover up that bruise. She was trying on a pair of python pumps with a narrow strap over the toe and a heel that made Paul wince. Why the hell did women do that to themselves?
Desiree was talking to a heavyset man who'd squished himself into a chair, flab bulging around the arms. Paul could only see him from the side, but the man was maybe in his early 30s, with red hair and a flushed face. Desiree showed off for him, wiggling her ass as she showed off the shoes. The man nodded vigorously. A brunette obediently boxed up the python stilettos. The man stood, retrieved his wallet and pulled out a handful of bills. The salesgirl handed a big shopping bag to Desiree, reached down, and handed her another shopping bag.
When they came out, Paul stepped back, into a doorway.
"I've really missed you, baby," Desiree purred. "It's so hard to go without seeing you."
"I know," the man answered. "I hate all of this sneaking around. All the lies."
"Me, too."
"I'm going to have to tell her, sooner or later. Maybe she'll understand."
"Oh, Eric, odds are she won't," Desiree answered. "Then everything would get very complicated."
"You mean I'd be out on the street, suitcase in hand." The man tried to laugh, but the sound was hollow.
"Don't worry, baby. This will all work out somehow."
Paul watched Desiree kiss the man, and it made him queasy.
"Thanks for the shoes," she added. "I can't wait to show them off for you."
The heavyset man passed the doorway where he stood, and Paul held his breath. He knew Desiree would find him embarrassing. Even when he wasn't drinking, his eyes were bloodshot, and his graying hair was pulled back in a ponytail. His shirt was wrinkled and his jeans were frayed. But there was another reason he hid: he was disappointed in Desiree. Whoever that fat guy was, he wasn't Dillon. Suddenly, it wasn't such a mystery why Desiree was bruised up. There she was, shamelessly screwing around with a married man.
He watched his daughter hail a taxi, then flagged one down himself. "Follow that cab."
"You serious, man? Like in movies?" The driver had brown skin and a singsong voice that made Paul want to slap him upside the head.
"Do it! Go!" Paul yelled, and the tires squealed. They followed Desiree up Third Avenue, turning east before the Queensboro Bridge and pulling up in front of a redbrick building on First. Paul watched Desiree press a buzzer and go inside. He threw some money at the cabbie and went up to the building. There were no names on the buzzers, just apartment numbers. He reached out to press one but drew his hand back. What was he going to do, press thirty buzzers until he found his daughter? Hell, yeah...except how was he going to explain what he was doing here? Hey, kiddo, I was stalking you...
He stepped back. Was this where she was living with Dillon? It wasn't what he'd expected. Desiree should have had a big house with a green yard and a white picket fence. It sounded cheesy, but Paul thought it would be perfect for her. Someplace quiet, out of the city, where she could relax. She'd had to grow up too fast, with a mother who was jealous of her and a father who'd never really been there for her. She deserved better.
Paul retreated down the street and watched the building. He noticed that there were some beautiful girls going in. Some of them had big bags, others rolling suitcases. Paul followed a gorgeous brunette with a leopard-print rolling bag as she went up to the door. After she was buzzed inside, he pressed the same button. Inside the building, he took the stairs to the fourth floor. He heard laughter, tried the doorknob and froze as the door swung open.
Girls swarmed around the room, wearing nothing but little slips or bra-and-panty sets. The walls were painted red, and there were leopard-print couches and big plush chairs, all surrounded by shoes.
"I think you made a wrong turn, buddy," said a huge man at the door.
Paul didn't answer. All he saw was his little girl, now wearing a gauzy white slip that left little to the imagination. Her face was tarted up and her hair was voluminous like Farrah Fawcett's. She was reclining on a sofa, giggling, as a skinny man in a dark suit sucked on her big toe.
"Desiree?" Paul croaked. Both his daughter and her friend looked at him.
"Let's go, buddy," said the bouncer. Paul turned, seeing that the man was three inches taller than him and eighty pounds heavier, but he also took in his soft hands and unbroken nose. Paul could recognize guys who'd never been in a fight, ones who got by on being big like some fucking dinosaur.
"Door's behind you, buddy," the bouncer added.
Paul held up his hands in a gesture that looked like surrender, then struck with his right. No dinosaur was fast enough to block that. Paul kicked the guy's kneecap, bringing him down.
"I'm not your buddy," Paul said.
"Fuck you," sobbed the bouncer, blood streaming from his nose.
Someone grabbed Paul's arm. When he realized it was Desiree, all the fight went out of him. "Dad," she whispered, "get out of here."
"Who beat you up, kiddo? Your pimp?"
"Stop it, Dad!"
Everyone in the room was silent and staring. Her little boyfriend had retreated behind a doorway and peeped out, his face ghostly. Desiree, thin as she was, propelled Paul out of the apartment and into the hallway. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Trying to help you. I thought Dillon beat you. I didn't know you were whoring yourself out."
"Dillon did beat me!" she hissed. "But I am not a whore. Don't ever call me that."
"Then what are you doing here?"
"It's a foot fetish...a shoe party, Dad."
"A...what?"
"Men come here to lick our shoes. Don't give me that look. I know it sounds disgusting, but it's not prostitution. It's completely legal. There's no sex involved, okay? Just freaky guys and shoes."
"Grown men pay money to...to...lick shoes?" Paul stammered. "How did you get yourself into this?"
"Girls used to come in to the shoe store where I worked..." Before Desiree could finish, a red-haired woman stepped into the hallway. She was older than Desiree's mother but very thin in her dark suit. She wore flat shoes, and Paul doubted that anyone had ever willingly sucked on her toes.
"What just happened in there?" the woman demanded.
"Sorry, Mrs. Walker, but, um, it was..."
The woman put up her hand. "This is why I don't employ lowlifes, no matter what they look like. You're fired, Desiree. Now get out of here before I call the police." She stepped back into the room and shut the door.
"You need to go now, Dad. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"
"But she just fired you. What are you going to do?"
"She's a rotten bitch," Desiree whispered. "She fires me at least once a week. She's jealous because the clients all love me and because..." She stopped speaking and bit her lip. "She'll hire me back. I know you're worried about me, but it's okay. Just go."
"If you say so, kiddo." Paul wanted to hug her, but that seemed all wrong with his daughter wearing a see-through slip. He turned and started down the stairs.
"Daddy?" Desiree called. "Thanks. For caring about me."
She didn't call him the next day, or the one after that. Paul went back to that building on First Avenue, but no pretty girls came by. He talked to people in the building while crunching roll after roll of Rolaids. "Those foot fetishists," one outraged elderly lady said. "They have parties here a couple of times a week. Imagine paying money for the like of that. My husband never once, in fifty-one years of marriage, ever licked my feet."
Paul staked out the building again on Monday. Nothing. But when he got home, Desiree was waiting outside his apartment door, crumpled like a ball of used tissue.
"Kiddo?" he breathed. She had a black eye, and her face looked sunken and grey. Her body was hidden under a beige raincoat.
"I'm sorry, Dad. I wanted to call, but Dillon wouldn't let me." She put her head down and sobbed.
Paul knelt and tried to hug her. "Don't," she whispered. "It hurts everywhere."
When Paul unlocked his door, Desiree got to her feet and crept inside, collapsing on the sagging sofa. "Could I have some water, please?" Paul got it for her and watched her hand shake as she drank.
"Tell me what happened," he said.
"It's Dillon. He used to be so sweet. Then he started using." She made a little choking sound that might have been a laugh. "The drug dealer's commandment: Don't use your own product. But he started snorting coke, and then he was mixing it up with heroin. Now he smokes crack. He gets crazy and turns on me."
"How long has this been going on?"
"It started a year ago. I broke up with him, but we got back together and things weren't really bad until three months ago. It's the crack. He's a pit bull when he's on it. Sometimes he doesn't come home for days, and I'm so glad. But when he's there, I'm terrified."
"You have to leave him."
"I've tried, Dad. That's why he did this." She pulled the coat more tightly around her. "I thought he was going to kill me."
"You've got to get away from him."
"I was trying to save money." She was crying again. "Dillon found what I'd saved from my shitty foot-fetish job and he knew I was planning to leave him. Daddy, I'm scared," she said, turning her big blue eyes on him. "What am I going to do?"
"You're going to stay here while I take care of Dillon."
"No," she shook her head. "I need you to get me a gun. For protection. In case he ever does this again."
"Desiree, you can't stay with him. He's going to kill you."
"He promised to get clean. He swore he would." She got to her feet, moving gingerly. "I have to get back. I don't want him to know I was here. He'll think you're helping me get away from him."
"I'm going to help you do just that," Paul said.
"No! But if you could get me the gun...I'd feel so much better, Daddy. Can you do that for me? Can I trust you? I have some money left that Dillon didn't find." She reached into her bag and pulled out an envelope that was much thicker than what she normally gave him.
Paul couldn't remember the last time she'd asked for his help. It was like she was a little girl again, and part of him was grateful to be able to do anything for her. He wished he could turn down the cash and buy the gun for her, but he didn't have that kind of money. "I got a friend in Jersey. He can get me one in a couple days." He took the envelope from her.
"Daddy, I want you to write down my address in case anything happens to me, okay?"
Paul got pen and paper for her. "I can't hold a pen," she said. "You'll have to write it."
The address was in Far Rockaway. "It's a little blue bungalow. Used to be cute," she said. "Now, it just looks like a crack house."
"Don't you have anyone you could stay with?" Paul asked. "What about your friend who bought you shoes?"
Her head snapped around, eyes wide. "What are you talking about?"
"That guy who was with you at the shoe store. You know, the one with the wife."
"What?"
"Big, fat guy with bright red hair. You called him Eric," Paul said. "You were talking about his wife when you came out of the store. He was saying he was sick of sneaking around and lying. You shouldn't have anything to do with him. That's just wrong, kiddo."
The look Desiree gave him made him want to take a step back.
"Eric's not married," Desiree snapped. "That was his mother we were talking about."
"What's his mother got to do with your relationship?"
"According to her, I'm cheap white trash. She swears she'll disown him if he has anything to do with me."
"Oh." Relief washed through him. Desiree wasn't a home wrecker; he should've known better than to think that of her. "Well that wouldn't be so bad, would it? I'm mean, if you two really love each other..."
"Really, Dad?" She stared at him. "You're going to give me a pep talk about relationships?"
He felt, in that instant, the full weight of memory: the time he'd slapped his wife and cracked her teeth, the night he'd kicked her down a flight of stairs in a drunken rage. He'd drank and gone into rages, and then drank to forget the rages. He'd never beaten his kids but he remembered them staring at him, eyes wide and afraid, when he hurt their mother.
Desiree limped out the door without another word. Paul watched her, thinking that she looked like a woman of eighty instead of twenty-four. After she was gone, he called his friend in Jersey.
It took Paul four days to get the gun, partly because he changed his mind about what he wanted for Desiree. His first instinct had been to get her a .22, the traditional ladies' gun that didn't have enough firepower to take out a Chihuahua, let alone a pit bull. Paul pictured Dillon getting high and punching Desiree around, and he called his friend back, telling him he needed a .38 instead. When he went to Jersey City to pick it up, he knew he'd made the right choice.
What worried him was that Desiree seemed to have changed her mind about the gun. "Wow, that was fast. Thanks, Dad," she said over the phone. "I'll come get it soon."
But soon stretched into one week, then another. Paul took the subway out to Far Rockaway and found the bungalow, but it was empty. The street was derelict, and he guessed that squatters made up the majority of its residents. Desiree didn't come by the bar or his apartment, but she called him a couple of times, which was unusual for her.
"Are you picking up the gift?" he asked. "Want me to drop it off for you at your house?"
"No, Dad, things are going okay." Her voice was hesitant. "I have a question about the...gift. Is it loaded? I've never loaded one before."
"Don't worry, kiddo, it's easy," Paul promised. "I'll show you how." For a split second, there was something cozy and familiar, like when she'd been little and he'd taught her how to ride a bike.
There was nothing warm or cozy the next time Desiree called him.
"Daddy, can you hear me?" she whispered.
"Desiree? It's one in the morning. What's wrong?"
"I need the gun. Right now. Can you bring it? Please?"
"Where are you? Are you in your house?"
"I'm in the bathroom. I locked myself in. But I think he's coming back...I'm afraid, Daddy."
"Desiree! Call 911 now. Right now!"
"I can't. There are drugs all over the house. They'll lock me up forever."
"Desiree, listen to me..."
The line went dead. Paul pulled on his clothes, grabbed the gun and ran out to the street. Why hadn't he insisted on giving her the gun? Why hadn't he strangled Dillon with his bare hands the last time Desiree was beaten up? What the hell kind of father was he?
He was hot with shame, and the sensation only got stronger as he crossed the Queensboro Bridge in a taxi, hurtling towards Desiree's house. What if Dillon came back before he got there?
When the cab got to the right street, the driver paused, as if wondering which way to go. Paul threw money at him and jumped out, running the remaining blocks to the house. The doorbell was dead, so he pounded on the door.
There were heavy footsteps on the other side. "Who the fuck is it?"
"Dillon? It's Paul. Desiree's dad."
Paul heard locks turn and then Dillon was standing in front of him, blinking in confusion. He'd lost a lot of weight since Paul had last seen him. His face was gaunt and his eyes were big and buggy. Even in the low light, Paul caught the track marks on his arms, dug into the tattoos. Dillon scratched his chin. "What are you doing here?"
"What have you done with my daughter?" Paul tried to push his way in but Dillon pushed back, still strong for a junkie.
"She's not here," Dillon said.
"Where is she?"
"I dunno. She was supposed to be back hours ago."
Hours ago? The lying sack of shit. "Let me in."
"No! No!" Dillon yelped. "You can't! Now go away! You'll wreck everything! Desiree will kill me!"
Paul kicked Dillon's kneecap at the same moment the younger man struck his face with his elbow. Both of them dropped, but Paul scrambled to his feet first. "Desiree!" Paul yelled, but Dillon grabbed his legs and brought him back to the floor. There were used syringes lying there, mingled with wads of bloodstained cotton. Before he could get up again, Paul heard thudding under the floor, then a groan. Someone was in the basement.
"I had to kidnap her," Dillon said. "Desiree gave me no choice, okay? This is all her fault." He kicked out, catching Paul in the side, and Paul pulled the gun out of the back of his waistband. He shot Dillon twice, once in the face and again in the chest.
Paul ran for the basement, skidding down the stairs. When he got to the bottom, he saw a woman tied to a metal chair. Her mouth was gagged and her eyes were filled with terror, but that wasn't what got to Paul.
The woman wasn't Desiree.
Under the single bulb that lit the basement, the bruises on the woman's wrinkled face looked black. Her suit jacket was torn and her skirt was hiked up obscenely since her ankles were taped to the chair. She swooned, dropping her head down and moaning. Paul pulled the gag from her mouth.
"Help me," the woman rasped. "She's trying to kill me."
Paul moved behind the chair, digging into his pocket for his switchblade. He crouched to free her wrists, cutting through the duct tape slowly, careful not to touch flesh. "Who?"
"Desiree." The woman hissed, making the name a curse.
Paul's knife clattered to the floor. "You mean Dillon," he said, picking it up and continuing. "That bastard's dead. He's not going to hurt anyone again."
The woman gasped and convulsed in the chair. Paul held her shoulders, afraid she'd fall and hit her head. Instead, her body sagged forward. Paul moved to the side, cutting the duct tape to free one ankle, then another. Her stockings were shredded and under his fingers, the woman's flesh was already cold. Her touched her forehead and found it damp. She opened her eyes are stared at him.
"You're her father," she whispered. "You came in and beat our guard."
Paul realized then why the woman seemed familiar. What had Desiree called her? Mrs. Walker. The woman who ran those foot-fetish parties. But before he could get a word out, she continued.
"Are you here to finish the job?"
"I'm hear to help you," Paul said. "And Desiree. Did Dillon hurt her?"
Mrs. Walker's eyes went wide and her body shook. Something was seriously wrong with her. She looked like she'd been roughed up, but there were no broken bones. Her face had gotten the worst of it. Trying to be gentle, Paul carried her up the stairs. He set her on the sofa, figuring that, as filthy as it was, it was better than bumping up against Dillon's bloody hypodermics on the floor.
"Listen," Paul said. "I'm going to get you help. But I need to leave as soon as I call 911. You can do me a favor and not tell the cops I was here. Otherwise I'll be spending the rest of my life upstate for shooting the psycho who kidnapped you."
"I sent my son to California to get him away from her," Mrs. Walker rasped. "I knew Desiree was evil. I had to protect my child. My Eric."
Eric. The name sank into Paul's brain and suddenly he couldn't breathe. Eric Walker, that was Desiree's boyfriend. He was the one with the mother who thought Desiree was trash. The same woman who was dying in front of his eyes now.
"Hold on," he muttered, running again for the basement stairs. He collected the duct tape he'd freed her from and rubbed prints off the chair with his shirt. He ran back upstairs, looked for a phone and spotted a cell on the table. He lifted it with a rag and punched 911 with his knuckles. He turned to the sofa, intending to hold the phone up to the woman's lips for her to speak. But her eyes were open, her pupils fixed on some distant place. She was gone.
The voice of the emergency operator squawked. Paul dropped the phone and ran.
The cops showed up at Paul's apartment the next day. He knew they'd come. Even though he'd gotten rid of the gun, leaving behind a stray print at that death house in Far Rockaway could put him behind bars for good.
"Detectives Willard and Jenks," said the tall cop. "Can we come in?"
"You guys are funny," Paul said. "Make me a guest of the state for a while, so you think you can be guests in my home?" The words rolled off his tongue with an ease that surprised him. That was the scotch talking. He was deep into the first bottle he'd had in a long time, and he was still on the happy side of drunk. He stepped into the hallway and pulled his door behind him.
"Thought you might want some privacy, Mr. Lowther," the tall cop said.
"I got no secrets," Paul said. "So, what's up?"
"Are you acquainted with a Dillon O'Donohoe?"
"Sure. He's my daughter's ex-boyfriend."
"What about a Vera Walker?"
Paul cocked his head to the side. "Don't think so. Name's a little familiar, though."
"They were both found dead in a bungalow in Far Rockaway early this morning."
"Dillon's dead?"
"Dillon O'Donohoe was shot. Vera Walker was force-fed weed killer."
Paul's knees buckled and he sagged against the wall. His shock was genuine, even though he'd known she was dead. Weed killer.
"Your daughter..." the cop continued.
"Desiree?" Paul breathed. Even now, even with what he knew, he was afraid for her. "She hurt?"
"No, no, she's in Las Vegas. Her boyfriend, Eric Walker, is the son of the dead woman. We're trying to put together a jagged jigsaw puzzle here, Mr. Lowther. From what we can tell, Dillon O'Donohoe kidnapped Vera Walker, perhaps to take revenge because Eric Walker was dating his ex."
"Dillon was hung up on Desiree," the shorter cop chimed in. "His friends say he started using coke and heroin when she left him."
When she left him...Paul could still hear Desiree's voice, telling him about how violent Dillon had become with her. If it wasn't Dillon who was beating her up, it had to be Eric. Why the hell would she leave one man, even a scummy drug dealer, for another man who pounded her to bits?
The questions the cops asked, and his own answers, whirled around his brain. He had to find Desiree, whatever she'd done, and keep her safe. Las Vegas? If he had to go out there, he would. Then one of the cops said something that got his attention.
"Some inheritance this Eric Walker has got. His father's dead and he's an only child. Unless his mother has a will that says otherwise, he's a rich man."
"Inheritance?" Paul repeated. The reason Desiree would put up with this man was rolled up in that one word. The thought of Desiree being a murderer was awful, but it hurt Paul less than the realization that his child had played him for a fool. Suddenly Paul saw the webs of Desiree's plan. Have Dillon kidnap Mrs. Walker and kill her. Then have her father kill Dillon, to remove the only person who could have fingered her to the police. Genius, it was. Why, she was probably getting married right now in Las Vegas. Snag the mourning son before he got away. He wouldn't put it past her.
"Thanks for your help," the tall detective said as they left. "We'll be in touch."
But they weren't. Days turned into weeks, and then months, and Paul waited for them to figure it all out. He didn't hear from them again.
Paul was sitting in a bar one afternoon, staring into a glass and trying not to think about Desiree, when she finally walked back into his life.
She looked subdued. Her suit was black, and expensive, with a skirt that lay almost at the knee. She carried a crocodile bag, dyed olive green, and wore open-toed shoes that matched it. Her hair was dyed a more natural shade of blonde and was pulled back in a twist.
Paul didn't say anything when she slid into the booth opposite him.
"You don't have to pretend to be glad to see me, you know," she said. "What's that you're drinking? Scotch? You used to drink a lot of that when I was growing up. I thought you'd given it up."
The little bitch could still needle him, and it actually hurt. "Why are you here?"
"I need your help. Mike is up for parole in a week, and I want you to go with me to the parole board and speak on his behalf."
"Mike?"
"What, you've forgotten your eldest son?" Desiree raised her eyebrows. "Terry won't be eligible for parole for another two years, but I'm hoping they'll both come work for me eventually.
"Work...for you?"
"At the nightclub I own. Well, co-own," Desiree explained. "You've got to admit, having convicted bank robbers on the team may seem odd, but I think my brothers will be able to give me some great perspective on security issues."
Paul stared and Desiree smiled.
"Did you marry him?" Paul's voice was a whisper. "That man, the one who...you killed his mother. You wanted to marry him so much you killed her?"
"Oh, Dad, you're such a romantic." She gave him a coy smile. "I was toying with the idea of marrying Eric. That was why we went to Las Vegas, actually. But then he found out that Mommie Dearest had passed away, and he fell apart." She sighed. "Even after she died, every other word out of his mouth was about that bitch. Now we're just very close friends who share some business interests."
"You killed a woman for...that?"
"I didn't kill anyone. Dillon did. Mrs. Walker held her purse strings very tight when she was alive. But that's all behind us now." Desiree was all business. "Will you speak on Mike's behalf?"
"Go to hell."
"Mike said you wouldn't. You don't visit him or write. Anyone would think you don't care about your own family."
She started to slide out of her seat and Paul grabbed her wrist.
"Who was it?" he demanded. "Who hit you? When you came in here with that bruise on your forehead. It wasn't Dillon who did it."
Her jaw actually dropped. "Dad, are you serious?"
"What?"
"That was makeup. I thought you'd figured it out when you saw me at the foot-fetish party. That's why I worked extra-hard to make the black eye look realistic."
"You...you faked all of it. From the start. That was all part of your plan."
"I had to get you involved. I couldn't just ask you to get rid of Dillon for me when I was done with him."
"Why not?" Paul's voice was a rough whisper.
Desiree smiled, but her eyes were hard. "Let's just say that I learned you weren't Mr. Reliable early on. You'd promise me the sky and the moon, then go off on a bender." She twisted her arm free of his grip. "I'm done asking for anything."
She walked out of the bar, heels clacking on the floor. Paul stared after her.
His little girl was all grown up.
-END-
