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TRICK
OR TREAT
The witch is
missing three teeth.
She grins uncertainly, revealing the vacancies alongside two
huge front teeth that she'll grow into. The hairy wart attached
to her button nose, likely with spirit gum from a Halloween makeup
kit, threatens to let loose. She worries it and, apparently satisfied
that it's intact, holds open an orange plastic bag printed all
over with cats, bats, and tombstones. "Trick or treat?"
she says softly.
Shy, Jeff Talbot thinks as he studies her, dressed all
in black with a witch's hat nearly as tall as she is. He tries
to remember what grade he was in when baby teeth gave way to
permanent ones, but it's been too long.
"Treat, for being the prettiest witch in Seattle."
He hopes he can help her relax a little, enjoy the holiday. It's
one thing to be afraid in front of your class at school, another
thing altogether to carry your insecurities into every facet
of your childhood. She looks familiar, something about her large,
sad eyes. But he realizes that it's the shyness that gives her
the wide-eyed, anticipatory gaze.
With each costumed child, Jeff searches for one telling characteristic-something
that isn't part of a packaged costume. The boy who preceded the
witch in line sported a black right eye. He wore red satin prizefighter
shorts and matching red boxing gloves. He didn't need the makeup
kit.
"Did that shiner inspire your costume," Jeff asked
him, "or did you get in the ring with another guy because
of the costume?"
"I got the black eye playing football," the boy said,
"so Dad-" he jerked his head toward the man standing
behind him- "came up with the idea."
The man, dressed in a white shirt and black trousers, had a towel
draped around his neck, probably replacing the necktie from his
day at some downtown office. He slapped the kid on the back a
couple of times. "It'll make him tough."
Jeff winced slightly, as acutely aware as the boy that the father
has a heavy hand. Jeff's own childhood was a series of those
backslaps-both physical and psychological-from the stern grandfather
who raised him. He hoped the kid who stood in front of him would
grow fast and strong, and put to good use a sports scholarship
to college.
Jeff threw an extra handful of treats into the prizefighter's
sack.
He focuses on the witch poised before him, waits for her to ascend
the stairs. It's a banner year for little ghosts and goblins,
and kids dressed as their favorite superheroes and hip-hop stars.
Jeff reaches into the large stainless-steel bowl full of candy
that his butler, Greer, found to replace the huge yet now-empty
plastic jack-o'-lantern, and withdraws a large clump of individually
wrapped bubble gum, jawbreakers, and miniature candy bars. While
he's doing this, he wonders again about the girl's missing teeth
and whether her parents consider the effect that the sugar will
have on the remaining molars and bicuspids. (Her father, standing
two stair steps below his daughter, is dressed like Darth Vader
right down to the mask and boots, and sporting a lightsaber that
looks more like a mop handle in a nylon sheath.)
"Go on," Darth Vader growls as he nudges the girl-witch.
Jeff's chest tightens. Impatience will be the downfall of
America.
The witch advances to the next step.
For years after that fateful night, Jeff Talbot would ponder
the details, waffling between his own shortcomings (I should've
been studying the characteristics of the adults, not the
kids) and the use and abuse of children in this screwed-up world.
There would be no memory blackout, and he would recall every
movement as if he'd been outside himself, watching it play out
on the front porch of someone else's home.
He reaches toward the witch's bag, holding the fistful of sweets
in one hand and cradling the bowl against his torso with the
other, when two things happen simultaneously: Poe, released from
his birdcage on the porch by a kid who sneaks up and swings open
the door, flies screeching and flailing toward Jeff as Darth
Vader scoops up the girl-witch with his left arm and points the
object in the nylon scabbard in his right hand at Jeff's chest.
Instinctively, Jeff lifts the bowl as he twists to avoid the
panicked crow. Too late he sees a flash, followed by a puff of
smoke, then a spurt of flames licking the tip of the cheap nylon
sheath. Not a lightsaber, not a saber at all. A gun. The
bullet cuts through the stainless steel bowl with a resonating
ping and strikes him in the chest.
The large bowl flips into the air and showers the steps with
bright candies as the villain and his little witch flee. Two
boys dressed in Spider-Man costumes waiting behind the pair in
black, squeal and hit the floor, snatching up the goodies.
Jeff struggles against the catapulting force, watches the stainless-steel
bowl strike the porch boards-gong-then clang and warp its way
toward the pair of superheroes. Startled, they run screaming
down the steep stairs, followed by a string of frightened children.
It puts Jeff in mind of ribbons on a kite's tail, and the kite
disappears as he falls backward and for one light headed second
he thinks he's watching it fall from the sky.
He lands deadweight across the threshold. He tries to blink,
but his eyelids won't respond. Staring, he first sees Greer's
face, then the face of his wife, Sheila. An angel. He
starts to speak, but he can't breathe, he can't breathe....
Chapter
One
Sheila sucked
in air. "What are you doing here?"
Jeff Talbot finished jotting "Oct 11" in its appropriate
space on the blank check. He'd hoped his wife wouldn't walk past
the library he also used as his home office. He looked up from
the checkbook. "I live here, remember?"
"But you're not supposed to be back till six. And, even
then, you're under strict orders to go straight up the front
stairs and get ready. I've got all sorts of...things going on
for your birthday party tonight, and I don't want it spoiled."
Jeff looked up at his wife and faked a blank look. "Today's
my birthday?"
"Jeff Talbot, don't toy with me."
Sheila had been working on the plans for his official Over-The-Hill
Birthday Dinner for months, planning a gourmet meal for a small
group of friends, ordering decorations for the all-black theme
to commemorate Jeff's Big Four-Oh, even hinting that she'd ordered
a formal black gown to wear. More important, though, she'd given
him strict rules for the day, and he'd broken Rule Number One:
Don't.
He grinned. "Sorry, hon. Forgot my checkbook."
As Jeff finished speaking, Lanny leaned around the wing of the
large Queen Anne chair that faced Jeff's desk, and gave Sheila
a timid wave.
She started slightly. "Oh. Hi, Lanny. I didn't know you
were here."
"Sorry, Mrs. Talbot. I thought you could see me." Lanny-who
might just as well have been named Lanky-was, like Jeff, an antiques
picker. The similarities stopped there. While Jeff still looked
like an FBI agent much of the time (despite his attempts to dress
down and lighten up), Lanny looked like someone who slept in
a refrigerator box and warmed his hands over fires banked in
rusty barrels. His long brown ponytail splayed out from under
a well-worn black knit sock cap, and his scruffy beard helped
to offset his thinness and leave one guessing at his age. He
wore tightly woven gloves with the fingers cut out, and a pea
coat-vintage forties. His vacant gaze seemed to dissipate only
a little when he addressed Sheila, and Jeff realized that he'd
rarely seen it completely lift.
Jeff smiled at his wife. "Lanny found something I've been
interested in for awhile. His contact's holding it till the end
of the day. So you see, I had no choice."
Sheila gave him a look, which said everything, then turned her
attention to Lanny. "I wish you'd reconsider tonight's party."
Lanny looked down. "Thanks, but I'm not into crowds."
It was Jeff's turn. He gave Sheila a look, warning her not to
push it.
She said, "Well, come on by if you change your mind. Blanche
and Trudy will be here."
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."
Somewhere along the way, Lanny had learned manners. Jeff had
witnessed this for years. But as for a social life, Jeff suspected
that he didn't have much of one. Even as Jeff thought this, he
realized that he was stereotyping. Of course, everything he thought
about Lanny's appearance would be construed as stereotyping by
most. Jeff would argue, though, that he truly saw the advantage
of the look, having done a little undercover work during his
years with the Bureau. Likely, many stood in judgment of the
man, but Jeff considered his appearance useful. With the look,
Lanny could pass for any number of people: a fisherman down at
the piers that embroidered Puget Sound, an outpatient of a ward
for the terminally ill, one of the city's growing number of homeless.
Still, Jeff had to admit he wouldn't be surprised to learn that
Lanny had celebrated his latest birthday with a package of Twinkies
and a can of Coke in the shadows beside a convenience store.
Jeff didn't know the man's birthday, let alone his age, but he
guessed him to be in his early thirties. He also didn't know
the young man's last name or, actually, much at all about him.
The one thing he knew for sure, the only thing he'd ever needed
to know, was that he could trust the guy completely.
Lanny had been one of Jeff's informants back when he was an agent.
Jeff had marveled at Lanny's streetwise nature and wondered whether
the man had been on the streets most of his life. He seemed to
know how to disappear into the shadows, blend into the woodwork,
hide in a space no larger than a shoebox.
Jeff knew that Lanny wouldn't show for the party, and he knew
that Sheila knew it, too.
"Oh!" Sheila said. "Did Jeff show you the conservatory?"
"He did. It's astounding-the architecture, the size, the
stained glass. I couldn't believe it was there. I mean, from
the outside you can't even tell."
Jeff thought, He doesn't know how much it helps that he said
that.
"Did Jeff put you up to saying that?"
"No, ma'am." Lanny looked bewildered. "I-it's
just-well, it's huge when you're standing in it, but, well, like
I said, it's totally hidden from the street."
Sheila shot Jeff a look. He raised his hands in defense. "I
didn't say a word, Sheila, I swear."
She arched a brow, accompanied by an expression that belied complete
relief, then sat kitty-cornered from Lanny and clasped her hands
at her knees. "It's great, it isn't? I just have a few more
things to do to it, a few more pieces I want to add."
Opening the Victorian home's conservatory had come about by circumstance.
Sheila, an accomplished chef, had become so irritated when she
couldn't lay hands on a particular fresh herb for a new dish
she wanted to try, that she had blurted out, "I wish there
were some way I could grow my own!" Seattle's climate didn't
offer much hope for indoor plants that required a fair amount
of sun, and, although Sheila was gaining ground in her struggle
with agoraphobia, she hadn't yet advanced to the stage of leaving
her home.
Quite by accident, Greer had found a solution. While reviewing
old ledgers on the home itself, in order to check early records
of maintenance, the butler had located the original architectural
plans and had suggested opening up the old conservatory.
Jeff had forgotten all about that segment of the Queen Anne home.
The glass walls were obscured on the outside by walls of ivy,
evergreens, and hearty antique roses that had somehow survived
Jeff's bachelor years without attention. The French doors leading
from the drawing room to the anteroom and subsequent beveled-
and stained-glass conservatory had been totally concealed by
a massive Rococo armoire pressed into service as a coat closet.
Jeff glanced from Lanny to Sheila and back. Fortunately, Lanny
gave no indication that he was in on acquiring one of the special
pieces Sheila wanted for her new decorating project. Even if
he had, though, she was clearly too excited to notice.
"What do you think of my feathered friends?" Sheila
asked.
Lanny said, "They're cool. Did you have them before?"
"No, but they seemed like a logical addition. The crow is
named Edgar Allan Poe-Poe for short-the African Grey is Bargain
Basement, and the Amazon parrot-that's the multi-colored one-is
Morty."
Jeff made no secret of how he felt about the birds. "The
squawking at night is keeping me awake. I feel like I'm living
in the boarding house in The Ladykillers-the original,
not the remake. You ever see that one?"
Lanny nodded. "That's why you drape their cages in the evening,
to tell them it's bedtime."
Sheila grinned sheepishly. "I know I'm supposed to, but
that seems cruel, somehow."
"Look at it this way," Lanny said. "They need
their sleep, just like you do. You'd be doing them a favor."
"I hadn't thought about it like that. Thanks." She
turned to Jeff. "Patience, okay? While I give that a try?"
"Sure, as long as you don't get a bird large enough to fit
the Jurassic Park terrarium." That was Jeff's nickname for
the long-empty Wardian case they'd found in the center of the
conservatory's floor.
Sheila responded, "That's for plants, and I almost have
enough now to fill it."
When they'd first gained access to the conservatory, they found
that it contained several Victorian birdcages in various sizes,
and an assortment of rusty cast-iron urns, fountains, and garden
furniture. Along the edges of the large, octagonal room with
its domed ceiling topping out at two stories high, was a jumble
of stacked jardinieres, and when Sheila first discovered them,
she set about ordering aspidistras (because they could survive
with very little light), along with ferns, fuschia, heliotrope,
fragrant orange trees, white jasmine, poppies, and Jeff wasn't
sure what else.
"My culinary studies included plants and flowers,"
Sheila said. "You don't want the perfumes of your centerpieces
to overwhelm the aromas and tastes of the meals you've prepared."
"And," Jeff said, "you don't want to poison your
guests by mistaking edible flowers for inedible ones in your
recipes."
Doctor Jen had been right, convincing Sheila that the light would
help lift her spirits by increasing her seratonin levels-hard
enough to obtain during fall and winter in Seattle. The conservatory,
which was on the west side of the home (clearly to take advantage
of any afternoon light), was separated from the drawing room
by an anteroom. Nothing more than a glass-walled corridor, it
posed one of the biggest challenges for Sheila. But Greer had
arranged for gardeners to come in and strategically sculpt the
vintage plants that had overtaken the exterior, making sure to
leave plenty of foliage so that Sheila didn't feel exposed.
It had taken a solid week for five of them (Jeff and Sheila,
along with Greer and their twice-a-week housekeepers-spinster
sisters Lucy and Polly Wing) to scrub down its interior, rid
it of the dank smell, and make the glass sparkle.
That's when Sheila discovered the Wing sisters' talents as designers
and seamstresses. She hired them to cover cushions for the wicker
and bamboo furniture in barkcloth depicting palm fronds and tropical
colors.
Sheila said, "The Wing sisters helped me decorate. Do you
know them, Lanny?"
"No, ma'am."
"They're the ones who suggested acquiring the birds from
Liem's Pet Shop in the International District-as long as I didn't
get one named Polly."
"It's a good place," Lanny said.
Jeff sensed that Lanny had reached his saturation point for socializing.
He said, "We'd better go, if you're going to close that
deal today."
Sheila stood, and Lanny followed suit. "Good luck with...everything,"
he said.
"Thanks. I'm afraid I tend to get carried away. I hope I
didn't keep you too long."
"Not at all." He bowed slightly.
Jeff looked at Sheila. "I'm giving Lanny a lift back downtown."
"Just make sure you leave through the front door. I've got
your party decorations all over the kitchen and dining room."
She pointed a warning finger at him, told Lanny good-bye, then
disappeared down the corridor.
When she was gone, Lanny said, "She seems okay now."
"Yeah." Jeff let out a deep sigh. "It was rough
going after she was kidnapped, and I was afraid her agoraphobia
would get the better of her for the rest of her life. But she's
gained a lot of ground since then, found a doctor who's done
wonders-obviously-or she'd never have been able to tackle the
conservatory. It's been a big step for her."
"Hard to believe that was two years ago. The kidnapping."
"Yeah, but thanks to you, we got to her before...Well, I
don't want to think about what would've happened if you hadn't
helped find her."
"Don't go advertising it. I like to stay under the radar."
This Jeff knew, and had never pried. But a window had been opened
a couple of inches, so he reached inside. "Any particular
reason?"
Lanny scratched his neck. "Keep people guessing, I suppose.
I've always liked my privacy. Now, with all the trouble over
identity theft and credit-card scams, I'm glad I've kept things
close to the vest."
"It's getting harder to do, though, isn't it?"
"Nah. I've got my systems and sources. And, a mattress stuffed
with cash, of course."
Jeff caught the slight, and rare, glint in Lanny's eye when he
smiled noncommittally, but Jeff couldn't read whether or not
the guy was telling the truth. No matter. Lanny could have a
mattress stuffed with nothing but cash, and Jeff wouldn't care.
The picker/informant had always played fair, always been reliable,
and Jeff owed him his life. He had been instrumental in finding
Sheila after her kidnapping, and had provided valuable information
about Seattle's underbelly several times over.
Jeff said, "Are you sure a check won't be a problem? We
can swing past my bank, get cash instead." Although the
two men had worked this sort of deal many times before, the amount
had been smaller and Jeff had always given Lanny cash.
"I don't live that far under the radar." Lanny
waggled a finger at the checkbook. "Make it out to John
Smith."
John Smith? Why hadn't Lanny mentioned that before? Perhaps,
because it sounded so...alias?
"What?" Lanny said innocently, in response to Jeff's
raised brow. "I've even got an ID that says so."
Jeff thought he detected Lanny's mouth twitch slightly but he
did as asked and scribbled "John Smith" on the pay-to-order-of
line. He didn't care if the guy's ID read "Lanny Shmanny."
He wasn't going to quibble.
Jeff ripped out the check and led the way out of the house.
After they'd gotten on the road, Jeff said, "Where to from
here?"
"Just head toward Pioneer Square." Lanny brushed his
fingers along the wood-paneled door. "You sure keep this
car in good shape."
Jeff started to bemoan the bucks he'd poured into the '48 Chevy
woodie but guilt stopped him. Last he knew, Lanny's ride was
held together with wire and wishes. He said, "She's built
tough, I suppose."
Lanny nodded.
"Still got your pickup?" Jeff said.
"Sure, but she needs a lot of work. I'll be able to get
new tires, stuff like that, after today." He stole a glance
at Jeff, then added, "Thanks."
"What for? You're doing me a big favor."
"Yeah, but you could've just as easily found this set."
"Not true. I've been working a lot over around Spokane,
Moses Lake, that area. I'm usually gone three or four days at
a time. Good majolica's not that easy to find." Jeff didn't
tell Lanny-and hoped he didn't suspect-that he left the local
trade for the young picker, assuming that it was more of a challenge
for him to finance the farther jaunts.
"Having much luck?"
"Oh, some. I don't like the early mornings at the estate
sales, though." Jeff drove down Second Avenue, watched the
stale green light at the corner, and anticipated its change to
yellow by letting up on the accelerator. A couple of girls, chatting
as they walked, stepped into the street without looking.
Jeff squashed the brakes. The woodie's tires squealed, echoed
by the girls, who froze.
The light turned yellow, then red, and the tide of pedestrians
carried the stunned pair across the intersection.
"Here's good." Lanny extended his hand. "Thanks,
man."
Jeff shook it. The fingerless glove's palm was well-worn, the
fabric pilled and nubby.
Lanny opened the door and crawled from the car as he said, "I'll
call you when I've got it." He didn't look back.
Jeff watched Lanny brace himself against the raw wind that blew
from the Sound and glued baggy, threadbare carpenter jeans against
his stick legs. Lanny drew his shoulders up around his ears and
disappeared around a corner. Jeff hoped the profit Lanny would
make from this deal might do more for the young man than simply
buy tires. Much more.
(End
of Chapter One)
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